Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  It turned out he was right on.

  When he woke Bill Willerby a few minutes later, gently prodding his shoulder with the muzzle of his handgun, Willerby simply sat up, peered at him in the dim light, and said calmly, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your worst nightmare.” Nick was dressed in black, including the knit mask pulled down over his face.

  “I doubt it.” Willerby leaned back on his pillows. “You’re too big to be my first wife.”

  “A comedian,” Nick murmured.

  “Look, wise guy, I can hurt you more than you can hurt me.” Curt, cold, an unblinking stare.

  Nick raised his Walther PPK marginally so the blunt barrel pointed at Willerby’s gut. “And I could kill you if I want.”

  “Then you would have already.”

  Nick’s teeth flashed white in a smile. “You have a point. So, here’s the deal,” he murmured, figuring there was no sense in wasting time. “I want you to leave Zoe Chandler alone. Call off your lawyers—permanently.”

  “And if I don’t?” Willerby gave no indication of alarm.

  “You’re a cool motherfucker, aren’t you? Okay, listen up. This is a onetime offer. No second chances, no refunds. If you don’t leave Miss Chandler alone, first your wife will disappear. Her body will never be found. Then your son will disappear. He doesn’t matter to you according to local gossip, but he’ll be gone anyway and his body will never be found. Next, your grandson, who does matter to you, I’m told. You get the idea? You’ll be last. And I don’t care how many bodyguards you have—fuck with me and you’ll die. By the way, your wife is going into hysterics next door. She’s trussed up with duct tape. Be careful when you rip the tape off her mouth. Sometimes it takes the skin with it.”

  “What if I don’t believe you?”

  Nothing about his wife or grandson. Maybe the guy doesn’t give a shit about anyone. “Then go for it, but you’ll be having a lot of funerals in the family.”

  “You could be bluffing.” But Willerby’s former insouciance was shaken and a thin beading of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  Duly noted. “Suit yourself. But I’m standing in your bedroom in case you haven’t noticed, and no alarms are going off. So you should think about your future—however short it might be. And you might want to advise your wife not have her hair done anymore at Gloriosa’s or lunch at her favorite restaurants—Pierre’s or Cittanuova—or buy those Italian olives and marzipan cakes she likes at the Barefoot Contessa. Then there’s Jesus who runs your yard crew. Great guy, although you don’t treat him real well I hear. He said I could come work for him anytime I wanted. So here’s the way I look at it. You can be more or less imprisoned inside your residences until I come for you, always looking over your shoulder, or you can call off your pissing contest over this book.”

  Willerby had gone pale by now, his ashen color visible even in the darkness.

  “If you understand, you can just nod.” The man looked like he might be getting sick.

  Willerby opened his mouth, tried to speak, shut it again, and nodded.

  “Great. We’re both on the same page, then. One added suggestion,” Nick pleasantly noted. “You might think about offering to return your hot property. Why not give back all those stolen antiquities as a magnanimous gesture to the art world? You wouldn’t look like such a prick then, although I doubt that’s an issue for you. But I understand your current wife is concerned with her image. Think of all the good publicity you’d get. It’s just an idea, but I’d think about it if I were you.

  “Now you have yourself a nice night. And don’t bother trying to call the police. Your phone lines are down.” Nick patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got your and your wife’s cell phones— including the one in your desk downstairs. But if you have others, go for it. I’ll be long gone.”

  Three minutes later, he’d scaled the wall and was driving his rental back to Manhattan where he boarded an early-morning flight back to Minneapolis. He was home in Ely by supper-time.

  He had a good feeling about his little talk with Willerby.

  He figured when even a corporate hoodlum like Willerby went all white and pasty like that, he’d gotten the message loud and clear.

  Thirty-eight

  Nick had checked his security first on his return. Not that he was expecting any further incursions now that Harry was dead, but old habits died hard.

  Nothing was out of place. Tony had kept a good eye on things.

  He found a note from Chris in the workshop: Call me when you get back. I’m stuck on the inwales. But he’d been working on other things, Nick noted, taking in the fresh green paint on one of his old canoes.

  Returning to the house, Nick opened a beer and sat down to call Zoe. He wanted to let her know that Willerby was no longer a threat. He’d thought about calling her from New York, but his libido had been whispering, Stop and see her in Chicago on your way home and he wasn’t sure the sound of her voice might not have pushed him over the edge.

  Zoe picked up on the second ring. “Hi. Where are you?”

  “Back home. I just got here and wanted to let you know that Willerby shouldn’t bother you again.”

  “For real? How do you know? Did you actually see Willerby or did someone else talk to him?” Someone like Alan who flew in with serious weapons.

  “I saw him for a few minutes,” Nick said, mildly. “He seemed willing to listen.” A measured understatement. “He might even return his antiquities to Italy, although I’m not sure about that. I hope that doesn’t screw up your book sales if he does.”

  “Not at all. I’m writing about the market for stolen antiquities. He happens to be a prime subject, but hey, I’m thrilled if he’s out of my life. I can’t thank you enough! It’s wonderful news! Absolutely wonderful! Thanks about ten million times.”

  “Zoe! Get a move on! We have hot men waiting for us!” Rosie yelled. Rosie wasn’t taking no for an answer tonight. Zoe had been putting her off for too long. “And I need a drink now, now, now!”

  “Sounds like you’re busy,” Nick murmured, Rosie’s voice coming through loud and clear. “I’ll let you go.” What the hell did you expect? A woman who likes to fuck isn’t gonna be sitting home.

  “No, I’m really not busy . . . not at all,” Zoe quickly said, not wanting their conversation to end. “Rosie’s just agitating for a drink. Say, I heard that CIA guy died in a car accident. Lucky for you.”

  “Yeah, real lucky.” He found himself getting pissed for no good reason.

  “Zoe, hurry!” Rosie hollered. “I’m in the mood for some hot sex and pretty soon all the good ones are going to be taken!”

  “Look, I gotta go,” Nick said. “See ya.”

  The phone went dead, and when Rosie appeared in Zoe’s bedroom doorway a second later, she took a step back. “What?”

  “Thanks for screwing up my life big-time,” Zoe muttered, glaring at her friend.

  “What’d I do?”

  “I was talking to Nick until you started yelling about getting some sex tonight. He said he had to go and hung up.”

  “That could be good. Maybe he’s jealous.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t want to talk over your screams about getting some.”

  “Call him back. I’ll apologize.”

  “It’s too late. That train’s already left the station.”

  Rosie shrugged. “Whatever. He could call back, too.”

  “Well, he’s not going to.”

  “Jeez, don’t go all pouty on me. I said I’d apologize to your Nick guy.”

  “He’s not my Nick guy.”

  “It sounds like you’d like him to be.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, okay?” She could still hear the change in his voice after Rosie’s shouts. But what would she say if she called back anyway? I don’t want to see other guys. I just want to see you. Yeah, as if that wouldn’t bring a dead silence. While the sex had been awesome, she didn’t think that counted when it came to a real relationship. And
let’s face it, she’d known him a grand total of six days, which was probably par for the course for him.

  “Hey, I really am sorry. Tell me what to do to make it better,” Rosie softly said, leaning against the door, looking penitent. Or as penitent as you could look in chartreuse fuck-me shoes and a color-coordinated little club dress that barely covered her boobs.

  “Oh, hell, never mind,” Zoe murmured, picking up her purse from the dresser and putting her phone back inside. “It’s not your fault. I overreacted.” She forced herself to smile. “So where are you taking me? I could use a drink right now.”

  “Yesss . . . that’s more like it. We can’t let a man fuck up our world—right?”

  Another fake smile. “Absolutely.” Zoe moved toward the doorway. “I don’t need a jacket do I?”

  Rosie wanted to say, Are you going in those shorts and that T-shirt? but having screwed up once already tonight, she said instead, “God, no. Not in the summer in Chicago. It’s probably still ninety out.”

  Zoe found that after two drinks, she was able to smile with less effort. Unfortunately, she also found that the men in the bar Rosie favored didn’t interest her in the least. It appeared as though no amount of liquor was going to change that. It wasn’t as though she didn’t try. She went through a good number of fruity summer drinks in an effort to gin up some interest in the various men hitting on her and Rosie.

  The problem was none of them looked like Nick.

  Which depressing thought required another drink; rebuking harsh reality couldn’t be accomplished sober.

  Shortly after, Rosie went off to dance to one her favorite songs and Zoe found herself cornered by a handsome, blond, intense man called Chuck, who would have been a stalker in any other venue but a bar. He’d managed to temporarily edge out the competition by waiting for her to come out of the bathroom.

  Stepping in front of her in the narrow hall, he tipped his perfectly gelled hair in the direction of the minuscule dance floor and murmured, “Wanna dance?”

  “Thank you, no.” She tried to walk around him.

  He shifted his stance and stopped her. “We could go somewhere quiet instead and have a drink. I know a nice bar down the street.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just getting out of a relationship,” Zoe said, wanting to get rid of him politely. “And I’m just not ready yet. But thanks.”

  “I could make you forget—real easy,” he whispered, bending close for a moment so his voice vibrated against her cheek.

  Instead of saying, Get the fuck out of my way, Zoe said, with more civility than she was feeling, “I’m just visiting for a few days. I’m leaving soon. Maybe some other time.”

  His eyes almost literally lit up. “Better yet. Two ships passing in the night . . .”

  Obviously, subtlety wasn’t working. “You know . . . I was just thinking. Are you the Chuck I’ve been talking to in the herpes chat room on Yahoo?”

  “Christ—there’s my friend Dave.” He did a fake wave toward the bar. “Gotta go. Nice meetin’ you.”

  Zoe actually smiled a real smile for the first time that night. Then she threaded her way through the crowd, walked onto the dance floor, and tapped Rosie on the shoulder. “I’m going back to your place,” she shouted over the deafening music. “I’ll see you later.”

  Rosie was clearly enjoying herself. She didn’t argue. She gave Zoe a thumbs-up. And then she went back to rubbing her body against a football player-looking guy who had smiling eyes and an even nicer smile.

  Really nice, Zoe thought, pushing her way through the drunken mob to the door.

  In another lifetime, she might have cared.

  But it wasn’t Nick’s smile.

  Jeez, of all the rotten luck. You run into a super guy who does everything right in all the right departments and he’s not really interested.

  She felt like writing sloppy, sentimental poetry about mountains high and oceans deep, about love and loss.

  As if, she snorted.

  Love and Nick. That’ll be the day.

  But she couldn’t sleep that night and whatever it was she was feeling for Nick Mirovic, it was sad and bittersweet and painful as hell.

  Damn. Who would have thought it could happen to her.

  Thirty-nine

  Zoe wasn’t the only one who wasn’t sleeping that night.

  It got so bad, Nick seriously thought about calling Lucy.

  And then it got worse and he did call her.

  The minute he opened the door and saw her standing there he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “Darling, I’ve missed you!” Throwing her arms around his neck, Lucy nibbled on his ear. “And I missed your gorgeous dick the most.”

  He unwrapped her arms from around his neck and took a step back. “Would you like a drink?” Can I get her drunk enough to pass out?

  “You know what I want, babykins,” she purred, moving toward him again.

  “I’m gonna have a drink,” he said, sidestepping her. “I’ve been traveling all day. I could use a little relaxation.”

  “I thought that’s why you called me,” she said with a dazzling smile.

  Crap. Am I up for a courtesy fuck? “Sit.” He waved her to a chair. “Tell me what you’ve been doing while I mix a drink.”

  “Nothing I’m going to tell you about,” she slyly murmured, slipping off her jacket as she moved to the chair. “Life is sooo boring, darling.”

  “You need a hobby.”

  “Would you like to be my hobby?” Dropping into a chair, she slowly crossed her legs so it was obvious she wasn’t wearing panties. “I think I’d like that a whole big bunch.”

  Jesus, not me—not even a little bunch. Although, what the hell, Zoe is out fucking someone. Why shouldn’t I? He tossed down the three fingers of malt liquor he’d poured into his glass, poured three fingers more, and finished that off before turning back to Lucy. Maybe it isn’t gonna be a courtesy fuck. Maybe it’s gonna be a get-even fuck.

  It turned out to be a dutiful, teeth-grinding, when-will-this-be-over fuck. And he felt like shit afterward. As soon as he decently could, he sent Lucy home. He even promised to take her swimming the next night to help speed her on her way.

  Returning to the bedroom, he stripped the sheets from the bed as if he’d engaged in some shameful depravity and had to dispose of the evidence. Carrying the sheets and some soiled towels out in the hall, he shoved everything down the laundry chute, then grabbed some fresh linens from the hall closet.

  Quickly remaking the bed, he picked up the handcuffs from the floor, tossed them back in a drawer, and suddenly came to a standstill, struck by the graphic memory of the time before last when he’d used them.

  He’d cuffed Zoe to the bed that night and fucked her so hard he thought he was gonna blow his brains out. Her orgasmic screams had kept his cock in top gun form for God knows how long.

  Shit. I need a drink. Or ten.

  Striding to the kitchen, he opened the freezer and pulled out his old standby. No way he was gonna get through the night sober. He lifted the bottle to his mouth.

  By the time the vodka was half gone, he was finding it increasingly difficult to resist picking up the phone and calling Zoe. The only thing that stopped him was the bitter thought that she was probably fucking some other guy about now. If that’s the case, he pissily thought, I hope she’s having as good a time as I had with Lucy.

  Christ, he was talking to himself now. Lifting the bottle, he eyed the diminishing contents, as if searching for an explanation for his outburst. He was going with the drunkenness defense instead of insanity.

  Although, let’s face it, he wasn’t out of the woods on that front either.

  Maybe it was time for his usual mental therapy remedy.

  He’d head up north.

  The wilderness had always been his refuge and salvation.

  He set down the bottle and got to work. Just as dawn was breaking, he gave Tony a call. “Sorry to call so early.”

  “Don�
��t worry about it. Everything go okay?” Tony had gotten a sketchy overview of Nick’s plans before he left.

  “Everything’s great.”

  “Because you’re loaded.”

  “Just sorta. Anyway, I’m heading up to my outpost camp on Trygge. Thought I’d let someone know. And if you’d give Chris a call and tell him I’ll be back in awhile, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem. You saw your plane? I brought it back.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I already packed it up.”

  “Well, listen to the radio reports. If I need to get hold of you, I’ll leave a message.”

  “Will do.”

  “You’re okay now, right?”

  “I’m good. I just need a little space.” From memories of Zoe, mostly. Although, after last night, he was also on the run from Lucy.

  Since Nick had needed space more than once since he’d come back, Tony didn’t ask any prying questions. He just said, “Keep in touch.”

  “Yeah.”

  Five minutes later, Nick took off into the morning sun and as the plane lifted from the water, he felt what he always did when he was on his way north. A demonstrable tranquility, a sense of regeneration, a common accord with nature. Like a modern-day Thoreau.

  He smiled at the mawkish sentiment.

  Then he smiled again.

  It didn’t really matter the reasons why.

  He was feeling better . . . good in fact.

  And the fishing at Trygge was always fantastic.

  Forty

  Zoe left Chicago a few hours after Nick flew north. Since Willerby was no longer a threat, she was able to return home and so she explained to Rosie, who was so infatuated with her football player she only nodded yes or no or smiled as Zoe talked; she wasn’t really listening.

  Later that afternoon, when Zoe arrived at the house she’d adored from the first moment she’d seen it five years ago, the familiar, heartwarming sense of safe haven failed to materialize. The modern rendition of a Cape Cod saltbox in a lovely weathered grey seemed inexpressibly empty as she walked from the garage to the back door. Even the grass was slightly yellowed, as though the summer was already waning. It turned out to be the result of a watering ban in effect she discovered after talking to the boy who took care of her yard. But her heavy heart preferred the more melancholy pathos of the passing of summer.