Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  She recognized his familiar palliative. “Therapy time?” she said with a grin, resting against the pillows.

  “Old habits,” he said, sitting at the end of the bed. “Want some?”

  “No thanks,” she said, moving her legs over to give him room. “I’m good. Temporarily, of course,” she added with a teasing smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “As if,” he said, leaning back against the footboard. “Cheers.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank a generous portion.

  “You can tell me it’s none of my business, but I have this strange compulsion to want to know everything about you; it’s a girl thing. Do you have a trust fund, a secret job, a benevolent mentor? You don’t seem to work.”

  “I build canoes.”

  “I see,” she politely said, not believing him for a minute. “Do you have family—mom, dad, brothers or sisters, aunts, uncles—do you like pizza or pasta, dogs or cats, Dostoyevsky or Dickens, Britney or Annie Lennox—tell me everything.” In the aftermath of extra-lovely orgasms with an extra-lovely man, like every female she wanted to know all there was to know, including his favorite toothpaste. So sue her.

  “It’s none of your business.” Like most men he didn’t feel like telling her.

  “Never mind then.” She’d settle for sex instead of conversation.

  He smiled. “It looks like you can be polite if you’re not hungry for sex.”

  “And you can’t, sexually or otherwise,” she said in more of a teasing voice than a serious one. “Mr. I’m-the-Fucking-Boss.”

  “Sorry. That was an aberration for which I apologize.”

  “Well, it all turned out excellently in the end,” she noted with a smile.

  “I noticed,” he drawled.

  “If I didn’t appreciate the incredible benefits, I might be pissed at your virtuoso skills.”

  “Why? They make you feel good.”

  “I don’t know why—okay?”

  “Fine with me. And to answer your questions,” he said, as if he hadn’t recently blown her off, “I don’t have any immediate family left. My mom and dad died in an accident when I was twelve, my grandparents are gone, too, and the reason I don’t work,” he added, “is because I sold the north end of Burntside Lake after my grandpa died. They’re not making anymore lakeshore in case you haven’t noticed. The developers went crazy.”

  “So you’re independently wealthy.”

  “Comfortable.” He lifted the bottle in her direction. “Feel like sitting outside for a while?” I’m done giving out information.

  “Sure.” She could tell he was done giving out information.

  He came to his feet, and offered her his hand.

  When she rose from the bed, she said, “Aren’t you getting dressed?”

  “There’s no one for miles. If you’re worried though, we can sit in the gazebo.”

  It turned out to be a heavenly venue for making love. The gazebo had two big chaises and a view to die for. With the cultivated grace Nick exercised more often than not, three orgasms later, he brought her out a lemonade and vodka, along with chocolate-chip cookies from his freezer—suitably zapped in the microwave.

  “You sure know how to charm a woman,” Zoe said, lounging back on her chaise, the sun warming her skin, a cookie in one hand, a drink in the other, and the man responsible for both her creature comforts and her sexual gratification lying on an adjoining chaise—close enough to touch.

  He turned to her with a really sweet smile. “Life’s good— no doubt about it.”

  A sudden hush fell.

  Ripe with tenderness.

  “Shit,” he muttered, a heartbeat later and lifted the Stoli bottle to his mouth.

  Zoe emptied her glass as if she needed a quick antidote to untoward feeling.

  A moment later, she calmly said, “Look at that lovely red-tailed hawk in that Norway pine over there.”

  He smoothly replied, “There’s another one over there by the dock.”

  They were careful after that to avoid comments that might be construed as overly emotional. They both understood that sexual craving was by its nature a physical manifestation.

  Despite carnal desire and lustful passions, however, neither was inclined to relinquish their avid pursuit of that pleasure.

  It turned out to be a memorable night in terms of physical gratification.

  As for their previous, impulsive tenderness, they both dutifully repressed any further embarrassment in that regard.

  Twenty-four

  That same evening, in Virginia hunt country, in the bedroom of a small Tudor-style cottage—slate roof and all—the sound of gently falling rain outside the window was drowned out by Harry Miller’s harsh, breathless gasps. He was sprawled on his back on sweat-soaked Frette sheets, panting like a hound dog in a heat wave. His face was bright red, his paunch was shaking, and he was seeing blue spots before his eyes.

  Damn the bitch, she’d done it again. But he was smiling.

  The bitch in question was smiling, too, although a Miss Alabama would never be so gauche as to openly pant after sex. But the half capsule of Viagra she’d put into Harry’s scotch had done its magic. She’d finally had a chance to come.

  Much as she enjoyed Harry’s largesse and her life of leisure, Harry’s thirty-second fucks did on occasion require some personaladjustments. She deserved a mind-blowing orgasm every once and awhile, too.

  “I should cut your allowance,” he muttered, “for doping my drink.”

  “Harry, darlin’,” Abigail—don’t call her Abby—Cathcart sweetly murmured. “I only put in half a capsule. I’m always looking out for your health, sweetums. You know that. And admit it, you really got off.”

  He shot her a sideways look. “Fucking A.”

  She slid up on the pillows so her boobs looked better. “Then, see,” she brightly declared, “mission accomplished.”

  Harry half smiled at her obvious pose, although he liked that she didn’t have silicone boobs. “Bring your pussy over here, Alabama,” he gruffly murmured, running his fingers up his cock. “I still have a boner from the Viagra. We might as well make use of it.”

  Harry’s vulgar and crude, Abigail reflected with an inward sigh, but he is generous with his money. CIA money, she suspected. She’d found two suitcases full of hundred-dollar bills in neat packets in the back of the closet downstairs, a few of which she removed from time to time. Her Cayman Islands account under her cousin’s name was increasing nicely. “Do you want me to be the French maid or the lady steeplechase rider?” she whispered in a sultry contralto as she came up on her knees and moved toward him. “You jus’ tell little ol’ me what your little heart desires . . .”

  “Don’t worry about my heart, Alabama, just ram your cunt down my cock before I lose this hard-on. Or come to think of it, you can play my secretary, Emily. Say something stupid— something prissy like a tight cunt from Vassar would say if I asked her to suck my cock.”

  “Oh, Mr. Miller, sir,” Abigail replied in a little girl voice as she settled on Harry’s thighs, “what would my daddy say if I told him how disrespectful you were to me?”

  “He’d say let me suck your cock,” Harry said with a chuckle. “Lance Baskville and I have an understanding. I don’t out him and as chairman of the Intelligence Committee, he never questions my requisitions.”

  “You’re so very, very smart, Mr. Miller,” Abigail purred, raising herself over Harry’s hard-on and guiding it to her pussy. “Would you like me to stay after work and help you with any special projects?”

  “I’ve got a special project for you all right.” Harry grunted with satisfaction as Abigail slid down his cock. “You can ride my dick till I come and then lick it dry.”

  Eeewww . . . Harry is sooo gross.

  Most of the time she had to shut her eyes and think of Tiffany’s when she was having sex with him.

  If I had the nerve, I’d sleep with that hunk trainer from Merry-weather Stables who’s always ogling me a
t the polo matches. Those jodhpurs of his are a real turn-on. Every inch of his cock is out there for the world to see. And that cock I wouldn’t mind licking.

  But she valued her life.

  She’d overheard enough of Harry’s conversations to know that he gave his enemies short shrift. She didn’t want to be targeted by one of his hit squads. And really . . . her vibrator was excellent.

  Twenty-five

  The next morning, Tony personally unlocked the holding cell door in the basement of the courthouse. “You’re free to go,” he said, surveying his two prisoners, who were in need of a shave and a change of clothes. “A word of advice, though. Go back to wherever you came from and leave us alone.”

  “Screw you! I’m suing your ass!” George Harmon snapped, bolting to his feet. Stalking through the cell door a moment later, Trevor on his heels, he said with a sneer as he brushed past Tony, “You’re fucked. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Actually I do,” Tony replied. “I did a little background checking. Nice families—both of you. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to them.”

  Both men spun around on a dime.

  A moment of shocked silence vibrated in the air.

  “Are you threatening us?” George softly hissed. Who the hell does this hick think he is?

  “I’m not threatening anyone.” Tony certainly didn’t look threatening. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a Burntside Lodge logo on it, and if not for the badge clipped to his belt, he could have been anyone. “I’m just pointing out,” he calmly noted, “that you may want to think about what your employer is asking of you. This—Willerby—that’s his name, right?—he’s asking you to put your and your families’ lives on the line. According to my sources, it looks as though he doesn’t get a lot of good press and that’s an understatement,” Tony said with a small smile. “Willerby also makes sure he never actually dirties his hands himself, although he expects others to. All I’m sayin’ is you gotta ask yourselves if the price Willerby’s paying you is worth the risk. Not that I’m suggesting there’s any risk,” he murmured, amiably. “But stuff happens all the time. Accidents, things like that.”

  George Harmon was about to respond with his usual intimidation and threats, point out to this nobody from nowhere that he and Willerby, in particular, had more power than God, but the words died in his throat at the look in the sheriff’s eyes. Fuck, that was one eerie look. Cold as ice, ruthless. Even Willerby at his worst didn’t strike such terror in him. Then again, Willerby wasn’t capable of snapping your neck like this man obviously was.

  Grabbing Trevor’s arm, George turned and hastily withdrew, hightailing it down the basement hallway full tilt. He didn’t even dare turn around to see if they were being followed, fearful of what he might see.

  Did we stumble into some North Woods version of Deliverance? George didn’t stop running until he and Trevor were standing in the sunshine on the sidewalk outside the Iron Range granite-sheathed version of a Palladian villa courthouse. Feeling more in command—in the full light of day, within sight of passersby, his pulse rate subsiding—he spoke in a close to normal tone of voice. “We’ll discuss what to do next with Willerby in New York, not here. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome in this burg.”

  Trevor gave him a jaundiced look. “You think? I’d say that was one helluva blunt warning.”

  “Sometimes these small town sheriffs have a Napoleonic complex,” George countered, more courageous now that he was removed from immediate danger. “There are ways to deal with a man like that.”

  “You have my blessing to deal with him any fucking way you want, but I’m opting out. You heard what he said about our families. Fuck Willerby’s art collection. His money can’t buy my personal security. And Sims and Sims has been wooing me lately. I’m taking their offer.”

  “You’re probably being sensible.”

  “No shit,” Trevor vehemently replied. “As if Willerby would go to the mat for me—or you, for that matter.”

  George Harmon knew better than to actually express his feelings. The world of New York attorneys was an incestuous sphere and gossip spread faster than it did in Hollywood. “I understand your position,” he said, neutrally. “Far be it from me to counsel you otherwise.”

  “Christ, George, do you ever say what you think?”

  “It’s been awhile.” He wasn’t sure he remembered how. “Let’s get the car.”

  Twenty-six

  Alan flew in early, arriving at midday.

  “I’ll help him unload and then bring him up to meet you,” Nick said, getting up from the table where they were having lunch as the plane was taxiing to the dock.

  Zoe looked up. “Is that a tactful way of telling me to stay here?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She smiled. “What if I do?”

  “Then I’ll have to be tactless. I have to talk business with Alan. Sorry.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute.

  He rolled his eyes. “I won’t be gone long.”

  He left by the kitchen door.

  She watched Nick run down the hill and surprisingly greet Alan with a hug. She wouldn’t have thought him so unrestrained; he was the prototype for machismo in so many ways.

  The men laughed over something, then spoke only a moment more before turning to the airplane and beginning to unload official-looking military green crates.

  “Must be nice,” Alan said, as each carried a box of rocket launchers to the boathouse, “having someone warming your bed up here in the bush.”

  “It wasn’t as though I had a choice. Not that I’m complaining. You’ll see when you meet her. She’s easy on the eyes.”

  “I have orders from Ginny to get the scoop on this babe. Serious, not serious, true love or just sex.”

  “She was more or less dumped into my lap,” Nick replied, not answering the question. “I still haven’t decided if Harry had something to do with her or whether I can believe her story.”

  “Which is?”

  Nick went on to explain about Willerby, the stolen art, the unfinished book, and the men who had threatened Zoe. “So,” he finished, “you know as much as I do about what’s true and what isn’t. She could just as well be Harry’s setup—like that deal in Kosovo when he sent in a female agent to zap the mayor of that town who was threatening to notify the UN about Harry’s strong-arm methods of interrogation.”

  “How do you find out what’s true?”

  “Wait and see I guess.”

  Alan’s brows rose. “That’s a little dicey.”

  Nick smiled. “But not without side benefits in the meantime. But look, it’s a waste of breath talking about this. I’ll find out about her soon enough when Harry makes his next move. Either she helps him out or she doesn’t.”

  “His hearing is next week.”

  “Then his hit squad should show up soon to see that he doesn’t get any bad press from me.”

  “Ginny’s keeping her ear to the ground. If she hears anything definitive, she’ll let us know. But you know how Harry’s off-the-record operations work. Most never see the light of day for obvious reasons.”

  “Understood. Which is why I needed extra firepower. Thanks for bringing me some high-class ordnance.” Alan had brought rocket/grenade launchers, some heavy-duty shoulder-fired missiles, two antiaircraft field pieces, and perhaps most useful, a small radar station.

  “Not a problem. I figure I need help some day, I’ll call on you.”

  Nick nodded. “Anytime.” The two men had worked together in Kosovo originally, although Alan had twice since called on Nick for some backup on arms deliveries to areas of the world where life was particularly cheap. Alan had been an Army Ranger when they’d first met, Nick had been chaffing at the bit under Harry’s reign of terror in the Balkans, and the two had drunk away the night on more than one occasion, trying to anesthesize themselves from the brutality of that particular peacekeeping mission.

  “I’ll gi
ve you a hand with Harry’s goon squad, too. You can’t do it alone.”

  Nick turned from setting down a box of ammo. “Don’t. Ginny wouldn’t appreciate it. I’ll be fine with the radar and this firepower. I can see them coming and take them out before they get close enough to touch me with the range on these weapons.”

  “Don’t give me any shit. Two’s better than one and you know it.”

  That’s a tough one to argue. “You sure?” Nick grimaced. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea, and for sure your wife won’t think so.”

  “Look, you’re leaving yourself open to have this woman wack you while you’re playing defense against Harry’s crew. You can’t watch your back when the shit starts flying. And I already told Ginny I was stayin’,” he lied, “so don’t give me any crap.”

  Nick didn’t answer right away. “I’ll owe you then,” he finally said.

  “Hell no, I’m still one behind after that Chechen deal. If not for you, we wouldn’t have gotten out of that war zone alive.”

  “Knowing local dialects comes in handy at times,” Nick said with a grin. He’d been able to hire a phalanx of unemployed ex-KGB to guide them in and out of Grosny for that particular transaction. The men were locals who had come back home: some were retired with government pensions that didn’t cover much, a few of the young guys had decided free-lancing paid better, and a couple turned out to be Chechen nationalists interested in liberating their country. They were more than happy to see that Alan’s high-tech missile launchers got into the right hands.

  “Knowing a dozen languages is fucking invaluable, too, my friend. I still have nightmares about the time only your fast talking got us away from that Serbian mob in Derventa.”

  “You saved my ass more than once. Including now. My hunting rifles wouldn’t have done the job these babies will,” Nick said, carefully setting down a box of rocket grenades.