Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

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Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense) Page 17

by Jill Winters


  "Fine. So who is it?"

  Brett sighed with frustration. "Just forget it, man. I don't want to go there."

  "Oh, you don't? Oh. Okay."

  Relieved, Brett sank back in his leather couch. "Thanks, Brody. I knew you'd respect that."

  "Sure, no problem. Hey, let me know how it goes with the police." Rick stood to go.

  "What! You mean—"

  "I'm not helping you if you're not gonna be straight with me," Rick said, walking toward the door. "I don't need this kind of aggravation."

  "Wait, Brody, please! I need your help!"

  Rick paused and turned. He looked squarely at his brother, who seemed almost childlike, buried deep and small in his massive sofa. "I'm asking you a simple question. You ask for my help, you want me to try to find out who's after you. Well fine—"

  "You mean you'll help?" Brett said, hopefully, desperately.

  "If I'm gonna help, then it's gonna be on my terms. Period. Take it or leave it."

  A few beats passed.

  Then Brett expelled an overblown sigh, undoubtedly for the effect. "Fine. But I'm telling you, you're way off base here."

  "I just want her name, I'm not making any assumptions."

  "She wasn't even at the damn party! This is stupid."

  "I'm waiting."

  Brett paused, stalling. "You know, you're gonna feel pretty silly when I tell you."

  "I doubt that."

  Another pause. Brett tightened his mouth into a hard line. Then, sulkily, he told Rick her name.

  Rick furrowed his brows. "Kit Carmichael? Who's that?"

  "She's the director of Susanna's Kitchen," Brett explained. "Look, I'm not proud of it, but it just happened, okay? Last month at the Christmas party, I was looking around for Misty toward the end of the night, but I couldn't find her anywhere. Then I ran into Kit in the coatroom. I barely knew her at the time, but she was suddenly all over me, man. I figured she was just one of those chicks who gets all lovey-dovey and clingy when they're drunk. The next thing I know, she's shoving her hand down my pants and grabbing my dick—well, what can I say?"

  "Say no more," Rick said with a grimace. "I get the picture." But he didn't exactly need a play-by-play of his brother getting his cock jerked.

  "Well, you asked!" Brett remarked petulantly.

  "Fine, sorry."

  "So you'll help me then? You'll try to figure this out—just a little longer? And if we still come up empty, then I'll go to the police. I swear."

  "But what are you gonna do for protection in the meantime? I work for a living, in case you forgot. I can't watch your back indefinitely." Rick didn't say what else he was thinking, what he'd been feeling guilty about for the past two days: If he hadn't done such a piss-poor job of watching Brett's back up to now, a girl wouldn't be lying dead right now. It didn't matter that by the time of the party, both he and Brett had pretty much dismissed the threats as pranks. Rick wasn't letting himself off on a technicality. Anguish stabbed at his chest, but he kept it to himself.

  "I'll hire a bodyguard," Brett said, which was a damn good idea.

  "I'll just make up a reason for him being around me."

  "And you're gonna need to tell me more about the people who were at your party. At this point, I'm assuming we can safely rule out Emeril," Rick said dryly.

  With a faint smile, Brett said, "Yeah. I suppose. This time."

  Rick couldn't help but laugh. Rubbing his eyes, he accepted the situation and focused. "All right. But remember, I'm not a trained investigator. If I come up empty, you go to the police. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," Brett said.

  "I do have a question, though," Rick said. "If the thing with Kit Carmichael is no big deal, then why the big secret? Why didn't you just tell me?"

  "Well... she's kinda old. And she's not exactly hot." He said it like the sentiment was so obvious, so clear, made so much sense.

  Rick's grimace returned; he shook his head, and when he spoke his tone was resigned. "You know something, Brett? Sometimes you're really a dick."

  Chapter 18

  Susanna Tate was the key.

  It was Saturday morning, and Rick was still nursing the thought over his second cup of coffee. He had the newspaper cast aside, still folded. He'd thrown on sweatpants and a sweater and gone to sit outside on his porch, which was only a little wider than a phone booth and overlooked the quiet street ten flights below. It was still early. The air was ice-cold and crisp; it helped him wake up, helped him think.

  Susanna Tate. He'd been considering this possibility ever since he'd gotten home from Brett's last night. Susanna was the one who'd told Brett to check his corporate e-mail last week—directing him right to the death threat that was waiting in his in box. And with her extensive culinary training, she would know about all kinds of exotic mushrooms. Maybe it was a stab in the dark, but it was the only lead Rick had right now.

  When he'd posed the idea to Brett, Brett hadn't resisted it, though he'd been unable to suggest any motive other than: Maybe she's upset 'cause she can never have me?

  Rick had humored him with that one, then asked if Susanna might view Brett as a professional rival—a threat, even. Reluctantly, Brett had agreed it was possible (though apparently not as possible as her being secretly in love with him).

  Now there was one way Rick could think of offhand to find out more about Susanna Tate: befriending her assistant. Gretchen Darrow. Damn, he liked that name; it rolled easily through his mind, even as it drove him crazy. She was sexy and voluptuous and clearly angling for a way to get to his brother. And at this point, why fight it? Especially now that Rick needed something from her, too.

  Not like he had a better idea. With Susanna Tate as his number one suspect right now, and Brett still too chickenshit to go to the police but still in danger, Rick had to try to figure this out.

  On Monday, he would stop over at TCN and see Gretchen. He didn't have to be at the firehouse till two, so he'd have some time to talk to her, to act interested. Fine, so he was a little interested—or attracted was more like it. When he thought about the feel of her body under his when they'd fallen together on the snow... It had been a perfect and erotic fit. Hot, sexy. She'd felt it, too, he could tell.

  There was something about Gretchen, this way of acting sweet... supple... kissable. Yet she was opportunistic, too, which was a complete turn-off. At least now he wouldn't worry about trying to make a good impression with her. It didn't matter if he was clean-shaven or even particularly charming; he had to figure that Gretchen would be sweet to him regardless—just as long as she thought it could get her closer to his famous brother.

  If he had to, Rick would even dangle that subtly in front of her. Gretchen was a big girl. She knew what she was doing. She wanted to use him? Fine. Let her use him. In fact, it would be interesting to find out just how far she'd go.

  * * *

  Gretchen couldn't think of many worse ways to spend a Saturday night than at a funeral. She'd just gotten home from Misty Allbright's memorial service. There was no body; she wasn't sure if that made the whole affair more or less disturbing. Susanna had urged her to come with her, for "emotional support." The service had been held at an elegant funeral home on the Upper West Side; it had been organized by Ellie Galistette, who seemed appropriately contrite during the entire night (except for the time Gretchen noticed her slipping her business card to one of the mourners). On the way back, Susanna had given Gretchen a lift home in her limousine, and she'd passed along the gossip she'd heard: Misty's body was being held in the morgue, awaiting autopsy. Gretchen didn't know most of the people at the funeral, so if Misty's family was there, Gretchen didn't know who they were. Maybe they were the people in the front aisle, but none of those people seemed that personally upset—just appropriately solemn.

  In any event, she was thrilled to be home now, turning the key to Marcia Rabe's luxurious sanctuary of an apartment. "Hello?" she called, tossing her keys on the front table and proceeding down the hall.
>
  "In here!" her cousin called from her bedroom.

  Gretchen poked her head in and found Dana and her friends, Lolly and Chantal, sitting on the bed, watching Suzanne Somers peddle something age defying on HSN. Both Lolly and Chantal were still in their Medieval Faire uniforms, while Dana had changed into pajama pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that read: BRUNETTES DO IT BETTER. (The shirt was Gretchen's—but it had been a gift from Dana.)

  "Oh, hey, guys," she said, smiling weakly. She was suddenly exhausted; providing "emotional support" to Susanna was a tiring task. Her feet hurt, her eyes were drooping, and the most sinful, decadent fantasy she could conjure at the moment was of collapsing into bed.

  "Hey!" Dana said enthusiastically, reaching for the remote to mute the TV: Her dark red hair was pulled up into a ponytail, making her look young and cute and like a quintessential cheerleader. To complete the overly simplistic high school metaphor, Chantal looked like a glamorous homecoming queen, and Lolly looked like a shy, pensive honor student. This was all from the neck up, of course. The medieval uniforms didn't exactly fit with the equation.

  "How did it go?" Dana asked.

  With a tired sigh, Gretchen gave the abridged version of her night—how nobody seemed to know how or why Misty had become so ill, and how the memorial was packed with people, most of whom were strangers to Gretchen—except for Susanna, Brett, Abe, and Ellie. Though Ellie might as well have been a stranger; Gretchen had met her for only about five seconds at Brett's party.

  Interestingly, Misty's disgruntled ex-client, Ray Jarian, hadn't attended the service. Susanna had pointed this out more than once, and "disgruntled" was her word. She seemed to use it repeatedly. Honestly? Ray hadn't seemed all that disgruntled to Gretchen.

  But who was she to say? She barely knew any of these people.

  "And it was just kind of weird," Gretchen said now. "Misty's clients were all saying how much they liked her, but here I didn't even know her and she was so cold to me. And not just once, but twice. I still can't figure it out... granted I never will at this point, but still." She paused, pondering the mystery. "It was almost like she knew me somehow and really disliked me. Yet I know I've never seen her before in my life. I don't know. Does the name Misty Allbright mean anything to you, Dana?"

  Dana shook her head. "No. It's not ringing any bells. Maybe she was just a bitch. But it's not like she's gonna be bitchy to her clients, right? That's probably all there was to it."

  Reluctantly, Gretchen nodded. What other explanation could there be? Certainly none that she could think up while she was this tired. Slipping out of her heels, she yawned and said, "Well, I hate to be a major dud, but I'm going to bed."

  All three said good night, as Gretchen scooped up her shoes and drifted across the hall to her room. She heard Dana and Chantal begin discussing the wonder of Suzanne Somers; Dana explained that she was a beautiful goddess, while Chantal maintained that she was a shill in a good wig.

  Plunking down on her bed, Gretchen thought more about the memorial service. She couldn't get the night out of her head, as tired as she was. For some reason, Ellie's grief had seemed... almost insincere. There had been something posed about the whole affair. The cynic in Gretchen speculated that perhaps Ellie had intended it more as an opportunity to secure Misty's clients as her own than a true memorial. As she'd said at Brett's party, she wasn't Misty's assistant, but her "apprentice."

  But it wasn't just Ellie. There had been something stiff and unnatural about Susanna tonight. She'd been clinging and elbow strangling, per usual, but she'd seemed more nervous than she was sad. Gretchen wondered why.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, Gretchen was sitting in the office on the second floor that Susanna had bequeathed to her, doing paperwork, when the phone rang. It was Denise, telling her that there was someone waiting in the reception area to see her. Wait, what? That was strange. Who could it be? She hadn't had time to make any friends in New York yet. Oh, no! She hoped it wasn't Dana, tired of waiting for Gretchen to set her up with Brett. Was Dana taking matters into her own hands, showing up at TCN and demanding an introduction?

  No—her cousin was ballsy, but she wasn't that ballsy.

  When Gretchen went down to the first floor, she found Rick Pellucci sitting on one of the lime-green couches that lined the wall, perpendicular to Denise's domed, silver desk.

  Her jaw dropped. Her heart skipped a beat, as her mind buzzed, frantically wondering, What the hell is he doing here?

  "Hi," he said, smiling as he came to his feet. As though it were normal for him to be (A) smiling, and (B) here.

  It had been over a week since she'd seen him. The last time had been at Brett's house in the Catskills. Somehow the sight of him was like a blow to the chest—it stole her breath, knocked the wind right out of her. "Hello..." she managed, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes and studying him warily. "What did I do now?"

  With a laugh, Rick said, "Absolutely nothing—this time."

  She grinned in spite of her shock at seeing him and in spite of her residual annoyance with him for pulling away from their kiss. She'd succeeded in pushing memories of it from her mind, but it obviously didn't take much for the visceral longing, and subsequent disappointment, of that moment to flood her mind again. And her body, as she recalled the sexual thrill of his strong, heavy body on top of hers.

  "Actually, I wanted to take you for a cup of coffee or something," he said. "Any chance you could get away for about twenty minutes? I'd ask you to lunch instead, but I have to be at the fire station by two." He glanced at his watch. "Well, it's eleven now, so it's almost lunchtime. What do you say?"

  Whoa. Okay, this threw her. Just when she thought Rick couldn't be less interested in her, he did something to confuse her. And just when she'd finally muddled his face in her mind—his jaw, his eyes, his intensity—he appeared in front of her, he became real again.

  Well, he could forget making a fool of her again! Not this time; she was weak, but she wasn't so weak as to keep playing games with him. She was done embarrassing herself over a guy whose own brother described him as a major oddball.

  "Thanks for asking," Gretchen said, her tone even and polite, "but I can't."

  "Oh," he said with a nod. "Other plans?"

  She hesitated. It was only for a second, but it was enough to betray the fact that she had no plans other than catering to Susanna's wide array of neurotic needs. "I'm working," she said finally.

  "So take an early lunch then," he suggested.

  "I'm sorry. I can't."

  "What, they don't let you eat around here? That's kind of ironic," he joked. Clearly he was not flustered by her reluctance. Instead of borrowing a move from her playbook (i.e. doing a pivot turn and fleeing from rejection), Rick kept standing there, confident, assured, raking his blue gaze over her face.

  She swallowed. Damn, he was pushy—what did he want from her anyway?

  "I really have too much work right now," she reiterated, then paused thoughtfully. "Um, let me think..." Her voice drifted off as she contemplated what to do. Part of her wanted to call him out for his behavior, to ask him why he blew hot and cold with her. Another part of her wanted to cut him off at the pass and just rudely walk away.

  And yet another part of her was dying to go with him. "Should I take a seat again?" he asked.

  "Oh," she said. A laugh slipped out then, in spite of the awkwardness. "No, I'm sorry. I was just... wondering something."

  "What?" Rick asked, moving a step closer to her.

  She sucked in a breath, forced herself not to reveal how much his closeness affected her. "Why are you here?" she blurted. There. She'd done it. "I mean... what's the catch?"

  He stepped closer still, and her heart jumped into her throat. "The only catch," he said, his voice lower, "is that you have to come." Nervously, she wet her lips. Was it just her, or did the word "come" conjure up some graphic images? At least it did when Rick said it. By the casual expression on his face, though, she'
d doubt he'd intended it in a sexual way. "Listen, I feel like we've gotten off on the wrong foot, and I just want to make it up to you," he added. "No catch, really."

  "I really don't think it's a good idea. You and me, coffee... To be honest, you're not really my type," she lied.

  Unfazed by the comment, Rick took another step closer. "What type is that?"

  "Forget I said that," Gretchen amended quickly, not wanting to pursue this topic even though she'd started it—especially with Denise at the reception desk, pretending not to eavesdrop. "I just don't think it's going to work," she said.

  "It's coffee. Maybe a sandwich," Rick said. "How can it be that serious?"

  He had a point. She hesitated.

  "Gretchen." The way Rick said her name excited her. It was gruff, sexy. "I have no ulterior motive here. I just want to get to know you."

  "Okay," she said finally, and a smile broke on her face. "I could get away for a few minutes."

  "Great," he said, smiling, showing his straight white teeth. There was something wolfish about that smile—but inexplicably, in that moment, she trusted him.

  * * *

  They left the reception area, stepping through the entrance doors of TCN, into the warm, stone interior of the main building. It stretched out to their left—housing shops, vendor carts, an elegant bakery, and a small cafe.

  The gray stone floor and the narrow, cozy ambience always made Gretchen think of a medieval castle. At this time of day, the sugary aroma of doughnuts and pastries seeped through the walls of the bakery. Adjacent to it was an espresso place. They walked together in silence as Gretchen's mind softly warned her: Don't get invested in this, in him. Focus on your career. Infatuation is a distraction right now. And please, for the love of all common sense, don't get involved with a relative of the biggest celebrity at TCN. You'd think this kind of incessant prattle would have some effect, but Gretchen just shooed it all away and led the way to the espresso place.

  As he followed her, Rick furtively eyed Gretchen's butt; it was round and curvy. Her hips swung from side to side when she walked—with purpose, with the kind of feminine sexuality that could bring him to his knees. Damn, he'd love to get his hands under that dress. Run them up her legs inside her panties... She was wearing a simple black dress today—one that showed every curve of her body without actually being tight. As his eyes scoured her body, he had to jerk himself out of his trance and remind himself what she was really after.

 

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