Читать книгу Sheerly Irresistible - Kristin Gabriel - Страница 11

THE NEXT DAY, MITCH STOOD outside St. Luke’s hospital, wondering if he should have listened to his grandmother and entered the priesthood instead of pursuing a career as a cop. She’d worried about the dangers of police work, but Mitch had never suffered more than a few bumps and bruises on the job.

He only wished he could say the same of his partner, Elaine O’Brien.

Mitch had found excuse after excuse to avoid visiting Elaine since she’d been brought here by ambulance a week ago. He’d called almost every day, but he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing his partner confined to a hospital bed.

Because of him.

Mitch had replayed that terrible morning over and over in his mind. They were supposed to meet an anonymous informant who promised to give them a lead in the Vandalay case. Dick Vandalay, owner of The Jungle nightclub, was suspected of trafficking in illegal substances. Specifically, bootleg Viagra and various imported animal parts, like rhinoceros horns, that were purported to increase a man’s sexual prowess.

The Jungle had been struggling to stay in business, with singles’ bars becoming passé in this age of personal ads and Internet dating sites. So Vandalay definitely had motivation to cater to customers who were desperate for love. As well as the opportunity.

What the police lacked was hard evidence. They knew the stuff was flowing out of the nightclub, they just didn’t know how it was coming in. Vandalay’s record was squeaky clean, but he was still the most likely suspect. His family tree read like a Who’s Who of drug dealers and other assorted felons. Now they just needed to find the right limb to hang him from.

The informant had promised to do just that, the morning of June first. But Mitch had been late, thanks to a woman he’d met the night before. He rubbed one hand over his jaw, still unable to believe she’d turned off the alarm without waking him.

Elaine had finally given up on Mitch and gone on to meet the informant by herself. Only the informant must have panicked, because when Mitch finally arrived at the abandoned building that had been preselected as their meeting place, he’d found Elaine at the bottom of a staircase with a concussion and a shattered hip.

Now she was in this place, recovering from the hip injury that might keep her off the vice squad and tied to a police desk for the rest of her career. But Elaine didn’t know that yet and Mitch wasn’t about to tell her. She loved investigative work too much to give it up. That’s why she’d practically set up a command post from her bed, calling him with all the background information she’d gathered and any possible leads on the case.

Maybe she sensed it would be her last one.

He took a deep breath, realizing he’d been a coward long enough. Then he walked through the automatic doors of the hospital and into a booby trap—also known as the gift shop. He didn’t want to come into his partner’s room empty-handed, but his gift-giving record was pretty bleak. It had started when he was fifteen, the time he’d given his first girlfriend a pet rat for Valentine’s Day. She’d screamed, dropped the rat, and her parents had been forced to call an exterminator to catch it. Then they’d sent his grandmother the bill.

The first of many disasters.

Mitch turned in a slow circle around the gift shop, waiting for something to call out to him. A set of ceramic clowns? A jigsaw puzzle? A book of brain teasers?

“May I help you?”

He looked down to see a tiny silver-haired lady standing in front of him. She wore a salmon-pink frock and a pair of bifocals.

“I’m looking for a gift for a colleague of mine.”

“Male or female?” the woman asked with a toothy smile.

“Female.”

She motioned to the counter behind her. “We have some lovely potpourri.”

“You mean those bags of dead flowers?”

“They’re very fragrant,” she said, handing one to him. “This one is called Spring Blossom.”

He held it up to his nose. “Nice. But what are you supposed to do with it?”

“You can place potpourri in a bowl or other decorative container to give the room a nice, fresh scent.”

He scowled down at the price tag. Twenty bucks for stuff he could rake up in his backyard? “I don’t think this is what I’m looking for.”

“Well, we have some nice jewelry.” She pointed to another shelf. “Perhaps a bracelet?”

His last girlfriend had hated those glow-in-the-dark earrings he’d given her. Then his gaze fell on a small box shoved toward the back of the top shelf and he knew he’d found the perfect gift.

Mitch pointed up to it. “That’s what I want.”

The clerk stood up on her tiptoes, then her forehead crinkled. “Are you sure?”

He grinned, already imagining the expression on Elaine’s face. “Positive.”

Ten minutes later, he stood outside the door to her room, the gift bag in his hand and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hated the smell of hospitals. Maybe he should have bought her that potpourri after all. Mitch half turned, ready to head back to the gift shop, but he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. Raising his fist, he rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door open and saw Elaine seated in a chair by the window, wearing bulky gray sweatpants and a Yankees T-shirt. She was ten years his senior, but the freckles on her cheeks made her appear younger. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked thinner than she had a week ago. He forced his stiff lips into a smile.

Her green eyes lit up when she saw him standing in the doorway. “Hey, stranger!”

“You’re out of bed.”

“As much as possible. I make a lousy invalid.”

“You look good.” Then he awkwardly stuck out the gift bag in his hand. “I brought you something.”

“Please let it be a six-pack of Moosehead,” she implored, taking it from him.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to drink in here.”

She smiled. “Since when do you ever follow the rules, Malone?”

“Okay, I’ll sneak in some beer on my next visit.”

“Promise?” she asked, pushing the tissue paper aside and reaching into the gift bag.

“Promise,” he replied, waiting to see her reaction.

She stared at the box for a long moment. “A beach ball.”

“Inflatable. I thought it would be good exercise for you to bounce it around the room.”

One corner of her mouth twitched. “Gee, Mitch, I…don’t know what to say.”

“Want me to blow it up for you?”

“Sure.” She tossed him the box.

He removed the flattened plastic ball from inside, then flipped open the air valve and began to blow.

“So what’s new on the case?”

He lifted his head. “I’m working undercover as a bouncer at The Jungle.

Her eyes widened. “I thought the captain nixed that idea when we proposed it three weeks ago.”

“That was before you got hurt.”

She nodded, understanding the intense emotions that surfaced when a fellow officer was injured in the line of duty. Their captain was now committed to solving this case, no matter how much manpower or how many resources it took.

So was Mitch. He’d even temporarily sworn off women—his penance for letting himself be distracted by a pretty face. Although his resolve had certainly been tested yesterday with that hot little number coming onto him in the back alley of The Jungle. He could still see that snug white tank top she wore, damp with perspiration, clinging to her chest in a way that left little to the imagination. But he’d passed the test and was determined to pay more attention to his job and less attention to his hormones until they closed this case.

“Earth to Mitch.”

He blinked, then saw Elaine watching him. “Sorry.”

“What’s her name?”

He puffed a few more times into the beach ball. “Who?”

“The current dish on the Malone buffet.”

“I’m not seeing anyone.” He clamped his mouth on the rubber tube and blew until the ball was fully inflated. Then he pushed the cap in to seal it.

“How is that possible?” she teased. “Women have been falling at your feet since you took your first baby step. I’m married to a wonderful guy, so I’m immune to it, but I’ve seen the effect you have on the female population.”

And she’d paid for it, thanks to that damn alarm clock. He tossed the beach ball to her. “I thought we were talking about the Vandalay case.”

She caught the ball with both hands. “A case that’s been going nowhere. But that might change now that you’re working at The Jungle.”

Mitch nodded. “All we need to do is identify Vandalay’s supplier. Then we can nail the guy and bring the entire operation down.”

He made it sound easy, but Mitch knew all too well how complex a drug ring could be. Growing up on the streets of New York, he’d met his first drug dealer when he was six, and been recruited as a courier a year later. His parents were two of the dealer’s best customers. When they’d been arrested, he’d gone to live with his maternal grandmother. An arrangement that became permanent when his parents jumped bail.

They’d never come back.

Mitch assumed they were dead and he truly believed he might have been too if his grandmother hadn’t stepped in and helped set his life straight.

“I’ll keep working from it on this end,” Elaine promised, breaking into his reverie. “It’s that or go stir crazy in this place. I can’t wait to get back out in the field.”

He couldn’t look at her. Not when he knew her career might never be the same again. It made him more determined than ever to bring Vandalay to justice. To do something, anything, to assuage this guilt roiling around inside of him.

“Hey.” She bounced the beach ball off his forehead. “You keep drifting off on me.”

He stood up. “Sorry. It’s been a long week. One of the bartenders at The Jungle quit, so I’ve been pulling double shifts until Vandalay hires a replacement.”

“The joys of undercover work.” She reached for a file folder on the table beside her. “The other employees at the nightclub check out, by the way. No felony records. No connections with any criminal activity.”

He nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I’d better take off. The Jungle opens in less than an hour.”

She shifted on the chair, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Absolutely,” he said, then waved to her before he walked out the door. Out in the hallway, he sucked in a deep breath of air. So far, this investigation was going nowhere. But Mitch refused to let his partner down again. He’d find a break in this case even if it killed him.

And if he had to resist the charms of another woman like the one in the tank top this afternoon, it just might.

TWO WEEKS AFTER HER arrival in New York City, Claire walked awkwardly into the living room of her apartment, teetering on the three-inch strapless black heels A.J. had lent her for the biggest night of her life. This was to be her first foray into The Jungle, on the hunt for volunteers for her research project.

“Wow,” Sam observed from the sofa, “Franco was right. Rose really is your color.”

Franco had done the girls’ colors a few days ago, announcing that Claire was a soft autumn and must wear rose, turquoise and jade from now on.

Claire glanced down at the rose silk camisole she’d bought on a shopping spree with A.J. this afternoon. They’d also found black skirts at Bloomingdale’s by a designer named Daryl that were identical to the one Sam owned. But Claire needed the real thing tonight, so she’d left her skirt in the closet and borrowed Sam’s, along with a pair of gold hoop earrings.

“Am I missing anything?” Claire asked.

“Birth control?” A.J. quipped. “After all, you are conducting a study of human mating behavior.”

“I will simply be an observer,” Claire replied, “not an active participant.”

“Speaking of mating behavior,” Sam chimed, “Mrs. Higgenbotham brought over Cleo’s appointment calendar so we can coordinate the walking schedule. Her poodle sees a therapist twice a week for canine intimacy dysfunction.”

“She also has to appear in small claims court,” A.J. added. “I’m representing her.”

“Mrs. Higgenbotham?” Claire asked, adjusting the waistband of the skirt. The fabric was oddly warm to the touch.

“No, Cleo. Mrs. H has been trying to breed her, but it seems the poodle isn’t interested in romance. When one of Cleo’s suitors got too amorous, she bit him in a…sensitive place.” A.J. grinned. “You might want to keep that strategy in mind, Claire, in case any of those men get too frisky with you tonight.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Claire said, grabbing her purse off the sofa. “Once I explain the reason I’m there.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t your research be more effective if no one at the nightclub knew you were watching them?”

“It’s not that kind of study,” Claire explained. “I’ll be recording general observations about The Jungle, as well as studying the dating habits of some of its regular patrons. I’ll need to schedule in-depth interviews and ask questions about the average duration of relationships, the elements of physical, sociological and spiritual attraction, verbal and nonverbal interaction…things like that.”

She saw Sam and A.J.’s eyes glaze over and a prickle of apprehension skittered down her spine. Even Claire was bored by the subject. So how could she possibly succeed?

Then Sam blinked. “Oh, I almost forgot! I finally located Kate Gannon’s e-mail address. It’s on a sticky note by your computer.”

“Who’s Kate Gannon?” A.J. asked.

“She’s the woman who owned the skirt before Sam.” Claire looped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I want to find out more about its origin for my next research project.” She took a deep breath. “But first I have to make it through this one.”

“Knock ’em dead,” A.J. said as Claire moved toward the door.

“And tell us all the juicy details when you get home,” Sam called after her.

Claire just hoped there was something to tell. What if wearing the skirt had no effect on the men around her? What if they were all as oblivious to her as Mitch Malone had been? What if this research project was an abysmal failure?

Then the elevator doors opened on the main floor and Franco whistled at her.

“Be still my heart,” he cried, clasping his hand to his chest. “Damn girl, you almost make me wish I was straight.”

“So I look all right?” she asked, performing a slow twirl around the foyer.

“There’s only one thing missing.” Franco picked up a small shopping bag next to the door and handed it to her. “Here.”

Claire pulled out a rose silk scarf. “It’s beautiful.”

“The perfect finishing touch,” Franco replied, taking it from her and tying it in a jaunty knot around her neck. Then his gray eyes got misty. “I feel like Glinda the Good Witch, ready to send you off on the yellow brick road.”

“I’ll settle for a yellow taxi,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Franco.”

“Off with you now, Dorothy.” He pushed her out the door. “And watch out for those flying monkeys!”

MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.

He stood at his post near the front entrance of The Jungle nightclub, his eyes slowly scanning the large room. The place was filling up fast tonight, with the men outnumbering the women two-to-one. White wicker ceiling fans stained to a dull brown from thirty years of smoke whirled overhead. The slight breeze they gave couldn’t counteract the humid night air that blew inside every time the door opened.

Like most nightclubs, the lights in The Jungle were dimmed low enough to obscure facial features and the music was loud enough to prevent in-depth conversations. A few people danced on the wood parquet floor and the bartenders kept up a stream of steady business.

Mitch could sense the restlessness in the crowd tonight. Typical for a Friday, when everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long workweek. The man he’d been assigned to watch, Dick Vandalay, stood behind the bar training a new bartender. A young kid who looked like he might wet his pants if Vandalay yelled at him again.

A heated expletive shifted Mitch’s attention to the dance floor, where a scuffle had just broken out. By the time he got there, the two women had each other by the hair. The man they were fighting over just stood off to the side with a drunken grin on his face.

“Break it up,” Mitch said, pulling the women apart.

“Hey, keep out of this,” the man said. “I was just starting to have some fun.”

Both women lashed out at each other with skinny arms and bony fists. Mitch held them just far enough apart to keep them from doing any serious damage.

“If this is the kind of fun you want,” Mitch told the man between clenched teeth, “then go somewhere else to have it.”

The man took a step toward him. “Make me.”

The unmistakable challenge in his tone made both women stop struggling and shift their focus to Mitch. He let go of them and faced the man on the dance floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll just turn around and walk away.”

But Mitch knew there was little chance of that happening. This guy was like too many of the men he’d seen while living on the streets. Too macho to keep out of trouble until they were in it neck-deep. He glanced over at the bar and saw Vandalay nod.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a beefy fist shooting out toward his jaw. Mitch twisted just in time to avoid the blow. Then he delivered a swift kick to the back of the man’s knees, causing him to crumple to the floor.

Mitch’s early education in street fighting was only enhanced by the combat moves he’d been taught when he’d gone into law enforcement. This loser wasn’t going to win this fight. Mitch just hoped the guy would be smart enough to figure that out before Mitch really had to hurt him.

No such luck.

By the time Mitch had scraped the guy off the floor and dumped him in the back of a taxicab, the two woman who had been fighting were back on the dance floor once more, with two new guys.

Donna Cummings, a blond waitress with an eternal wad of gum in her mouth sidled up to him. “You look like you could use a drink, Mitch.”

He rubbed his knuckles. “I could use a night off, but I’ll settle for a drink. Make it the usual. In fact, make it a double.”

She grinned. “One grape soda coming up.”

Mitch walked back to his post at the door, sensing that it was going to be another long night. He’d rather be watching a Clint Eastwood marathon on television. Anything but hanging around a bunch of lonely, desperate people trying to find love.

What really disgusted him was that he used to be one of them. Trolling the bars for women had been one of his favorite hobbies. His friends had joked that he must be related to Sam Malone, the famous womanizer on Cheers. But in the last year or so, that lifestyle had lost its appeal.

He’d successfully avoided the flirtations and not-so-subtle invitations of the women patrons of The Jungle during his first two weeks on the job. By now most of the regulars knew he was off-limits. Although Donna, recently married and ready to confine everyone she met to that institution, still tried to play matchmaker.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him a drink. “Did you see the blonde at the bar? She’s cute.”

“Too skinny for my taste,” he said.

“You’re too picky,” Donna said. “Why don’t you try to find a nice woman, Mitch? Someone who can make you happy.”

“Women are like potato chips,” he said with a smile. “I can’t stop at just one.”

She rolled her eyes. “Potato chips?”

“Maybe I should have said M&M’s.”

“Maybe you should quit trying to con me, Mitch Malone. I think you’re one of those old-fashioned romantics, the type I never see in this place anymore. You actually want more from a woman than her body.”

Mitch shook his head. “Donna, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m a connoisseur of the female body. The only reason I work here is because of the view.” He motioned to the scantily clad women on the dance floor. “I get a great show every night.”

Donna folded her arms across her chest. “Then why don’t you ever take one of them home?”

“I would, but my place is a mess.”

She laughed. “As if any woman in her right mind would care. You’re a romantic, Mitch, just admit it.”

“I plead the fifth.”

She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

Time to go to work. “Hey, that’s better than desperate. Actually though, I hear this is the place to score some help in the romance department. Some of the guys I’ve talked to come here to pick up bootleg Viagra, hoping to boost their…vitality.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Who?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t get any names.” Then he grinned. “Why, does you new husband need a boost?”

“Hardly,” she huffed, then smiled. “I have no complaints in that department.”

He nodded, then looked around the bar. He was walking a thin line, trying to gain information without arousing suspicion. “I may have to give the stuff a try sometime. See what happens.”

Her brows rose. “Couldn’t that be dangerous?”

“Exhausting, maybe. But not dangerous.”

“Still, it’s illegal. No silly drug is worth going to jail.” Then she turned and walked back to the bar.

Mitch mentally crossed Donna’s name off his list of suspects. She hadn’t taken the bait. He didn’t like deceiving her or the other employees of The Jungle. But if he wanted to succeed in his investigation, subterfuge was part of the job.

Still, he stuck to the real facts about his life as much as possible. He’d told people he’d grown up on the streets, raised by his grandmother after his parents abandoned him when he was nine years old. He admitted that he’d gotten into some trouble as a juvenile and received his Graduation Equivalency Diploma. What he left out, though, was the cop who had been his boxing coach, a man who had steered him into a career in law enforcement. But absolute truth was simply a luxury Mitch couldn’t afford right now.

The sound of a glass breaking broke his reverie. He looked toward the bar and saw a beer mug laying in pieces on the floor. A sudden stillness came over the room, though music still blared from the jukebox. The lights from the disco ball glittered over an empty dance floor. Most of the patrons were staring at the door. He followed their gazes and saw an eerily familiar woman standing just inside the room.

He stared at her and swallowed hard. His gaze took in everything at once. The long toffee-brown hair, the big brown eyes, and the modest curves that shouldn’t make a man stare—but they did. His eyes fell to the short, tight black skirt that revealed a pair of incredible legs. He blinked and looked again. The skirt was so sheer, he could damn well see through it! Heat kindled low and spread through his body like a brush-fire.

It was the woman from the back alley, though he couldn’t remember her name. Hell, he could barely remember his own name. But he knew what to call her as soon as she started walking toward him.

Trouble.