Red-Hot & Reckless

by Tori Carrington

  She paused briefly in the doorway, then rushed in.

  With the click-click of an internal clock mingling with the sound of the housekeeper and her husband pounding on the downstairs bathroom door, she made her way to the walk-in closet, pushed aside the shoes lined up there, then pulled up the loose carpet.

  Bingo.

  There in a simple, easily breached lockbox, was the newly purchased Elsa Peretti-designed Tiffany jewelry in its original case.

  “You really need to invest in a proper safe, Mrs. Nessbaum,” she could virtually hear the police telling the woman when she returned home to find her new treasures missing.

  Ignoring the other significant pieces of jewelry—and there were several large-carat diamonds set in platinum and gold, along with a significant set of large black pearls—she slid the ones she was after into her own velvet pouch and pulled the silk cord.

  Done.

  She hurried downstairs, sparing a sympathetic glance toward the blocked bathroom door. She’d call and alert the doorman from a cab a couple of blocks away. She pressed the elevator button and glanced at her watch. Eight minutes from doorway to doorway. She smiled. Not bad. Not her best time, but not bad.

  And in five days Mrs. Nessbaum would find her jewelry sitting in her mailbox, cleaned, still in its original box and as good as new along with a small thank you card bearing no clues as to Nicole’s identity.

  Thankfully the doorman was helping an elderly woman bring in her many afternoon purchases. She spared him a wave, then stepped quickly up the sidewalk and around the corner where she lifted her hand for a taxi.

  One pulled up from where it had been parked across the street. She climbed in. She gave the driver an address, then turned to stare at the man seated next to her. She gasped.

  “Get the jewelry?” Alex asked, wearing a wicked grin.

  A SHORT BLACK WIG.

  Alex’s gaze traveled over Nicole’s maid’s uniform, thinking he would have preferred something a little more risqué. Something shorter, significantly tighter, with one of those skirts that had layers and layers of white lace underneath. But he could see where this would get the job done better.

  Where did she get all this stuff?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmured as the taxi pulled away from the curb and merged with the thick Manhattan traffic.

  “Mmm.” Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “What? I’m supposed to believe maid service is your day job?”

  The smile she gave him was by no means plain and unassuming. It was downright filthy and came very close to erasing the entire reason he’d left his office a half hour ago and headed straight to the east-side residence. The reason being to confirm or disprove his suspicions, he reminded himself.

  “Sure, why not? What, do you believe I think cleaning houses is beneath me?”

  Alex wished he was beneath her. Namely lying across his bed, her firm, hot bottom bouncing against his thighs.

  There must have been something in his eyes that gave away his thoughts because she relaxed against the seat of the cab and hiked up the long skirt of her uniform until the hem rested high on her thighs. With great, calculated flair, she crossed her legs. It was then he realized she had on fishnet stockings.

  His gaze flicked back up to her short wig. She twirled a silken strand around her index finger, then pulled it until she could suck on the end in a joltingly provocative way. With her other hand, she slowly unbuttoned the neck of the uniform, then tucked the material back until he could see the soft, tantalizing swells of her breasts in a red push-up bra.

  The taxi swerved and Alex moved to anchor himself. A glance toward the driver told him what he suspected. That the cabbie was watching Nicole as closely as he was.

  He knocked on the Plexiglas separation. “Hey, watch the road, buddy!”

  Not that he thought the driver would respect his request. A babe like Nicole climbed into the back of your taxi, you were bound to pay attention. Especially when she was offering up a primo show.

  Nicole’s husky laugh tugged Alex’s attention back to her.

  He held out his hand, palm up. “Cough it up.”

  She blinked at him in mock innocence. “Pardonez moi?”

  Mmm, French. The whole maid routine was beginning to grow roots in the dirty fantasy section of his mind.

  He dropped his hand, but instead of to the seat, he cupped a slender knee. He enjoyed her small gasp of surprise. “The jewels, Nic.”

  Her eyes were pure seduction. “I can think of some other jewels I’d rather give you.”

  The taxi swerved again, this time earning the beeps of countless shrill horns.

  Alex took his hand away then settled back into his seat. “Play it the way you want, Nicole. But know this. During the time we’re working together? You do not steal from any of my company’s clients.” He leveled a stare at her. “You do not steal, period, do you hear me?”

  She dropped all pretence and made a face. “Or what?”

  “Or else I haul your cute little ass to jail.”

  8

  TWO DAYS LATER Alex was no closer to gaining control over Nicole Bennett. Worse, he increasingly felt as if he were on some sort of slippery emotional slope leading to Lord only knew where.

  He glanced out the taxi window at the passing businesses on Queens Boulevard, a familiar ride. Living in Manhattan, he didn’t own a car and didn’t have to, given the city’s transit system. But sometimes, like today, he idly thought about getting one.

  It was hard to believe it was Sunday already. In fact, recently he’d found it hard to believe it was any day like it had been a week before. Friday no longer seemed like a normal, run-of-the-mill Friday, and after having a little—okay, a lot—of unplanned nookie this morning, Sunday certainly didn’t seem like Sunday. Oh, yeah, traffic was lighter. It was the only day of the week when life seemed to slow down a bit in Manhattan, and more significantly in the surrounding boroughs, giving the manmade stretch of steel and concrete a sci-fi futuristic feel. In a city of seven million, it wasn’t unusual to wonder where they all were on a Sunday.

  He covered his face with his hands, almost swearing he could still smell Nicole’s sweet, musky scent on his fingers even though he’d had a shower after finally crawling his way out of bed and leaving her to sleep an hour ago. The differences between how he’d viewed life before last Wednesday and how he viewed it now were many. He didn’t need that cup of coffee anymore to wake up in the morning. Instead he got up in full throttle, ready to take on anything that came his way. Instead of scheduling for a central-air system to be installed in his loft, he found he enjoyed the feel of the rising temperatures. Liked lying in bed with Nicole all sweaty and hot and sated, nothing but the warm summer breeze blowing in the window and an old rattling fan to cool them.

  He’d never found the jewelry.

  He remembered their encounter two days ago in the back of the taxi, the same day he’d looked through the files holding recently issued policies and the one for the Tiffany jewelry had jumped out at him. He’d known with every instinct he had that she’d go after it. And when he’d gone by the auction house as she’d requested to find her gone, he’d decided to check out the Nessbaum place. He’d been surprised and disappointed when she’d stepped onto the street in the maid’s uniform, having already completed the job.

  Oh, he knew she had the jewelry stashed somewhere. He just hadn’t been able to figure out where.

  There were a lot of things he hadn’t been able to figure out yet.

  He already knew that she didn’t call any one place home. And after that first time they’d had sex and she’d allowed him a glimpse into her life, she’d quietly closed that door again, smiling at his questions, distracting him with her hot little body.

  Hey, he wasn’t complaining.

  Much.

  He found himself grinning. Oh, he used to wonder about men who allowed women to keep them. He’d watched friends from college go from player status
to married sap overnight. But only now did he remotely understand why they had done what they had. It wasn’t something he could verbally explain. Hell, he wasn’t sure what was happening. But it was like someone, namely Nicole, had flipped a switch on inside him. A switch that repeated over and over again some kind of subliminal mantra. “You only want me, you only want me. You can’t stop thinking about me. You can’t stop wanting me, wanting me…”

  Damned if he knew where the switch was. And even if he did, would he want to shut it off?

  There was something exhilarating about being under Nicole’s spell. A flicker of the unknown. It had made him realize that he’d gotten used to life the way it was, the day-in-day-out daily grind, that he always felt like he’d been there, done everything. Then there was her and—bam!—everything changed. Everything was new again. Unfamiliar. Exciting.

  He tapped on the window. “You can let me out anywhere to the right here,” he told the cabby. He peeled off the amount of the fare and a tip, then climbed from the taxi, barely aware that it drove off as he stared at his parents’ house.

  He’d grown up here, on this quiet residential street with its old trees and neat lawns lined one up against the other. The first eighteen years of his life he’d known the three-bedroom house in Astoria as home. A place he couldn’t wait to get out of when he was eighteen and he went off to university with a bunch of pals. A place he returned to nearly every Sunday for family dinner. His father’s ten-year-old Caprice sat in the driveway, the only make of car he ever remembered Georgos Cassavetes owning. Every ten years he traded the old one in for a newer model, but the make remained the same. As did the navy-blue color.

  Alex was surprised to find himself standing at the curb, hands in his slacks pockets, reminiscing about the house he’d grown up in.

  He shook his head and walked up the driveway and let himself in the front door. The smell of cooking meat and the low sound of old Greek bouzouki music laced with clarinet drifted to him from the kitchen. He heard his mother’s voice as she said something, then stepped into the room at the back of the house to find her shaking a wooden spoon at his sister where she sat sorting through fava beans at the pine table.

  “You disappeared, Athena. For two whole days. Don’t ever do that to your mother again. You want I should die an early death? I’m fifty-eight. Too young to die.”

  Athena acknowledged Alex with a smile, then rolled her eyes to stare at the ceiling. “Mama, I’ve been back home for three days now. Will you stop already?”

  Helen Cassavetes had a white apron on that bore a needlepoint outline of the Acropolis across the bottom. She turned to shake her spoon at Athena again and spotted Alex.

  “Mama,” he said.

  “And you!” She shook the spoon at him instead. “How often do I ask you to help me out? Never. And you didn’t even call me back to find out your sister had come home.”

  Alex bent to place a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “You ask me for help all the time, Mama.” He looked her over. “Have you gotten your hair done? You look especially pretty this morning.”

  She whacked him in the arm with the spoon, but the slight color staining her cheeks told him she was flattered by the compliment. “Don’t give me that, you little kolopetho.”

  Alex chuckled at the mild rebuke and leaned over her to lift the lid on the large pan simmering on the stove. “Mmm. Smells good.”

  “What, you expected it should smell bad?”

  Alex hugged her, pausing for a moment to enjoy the moment.

  While his family had always been affectionate, he realized he’d always taken the gestures for granted. But for this one moment he savored the feel of his mother. The first person who’d ever held him. He breathed in the familiar scent of the powder she always wore on her neck. Felt the warmth of her skin from cooking.

  “What’s wrong, agapemou?” she asked.

  Alex grinned then kissed her on her still pretty cheek again. “Nothing.” He released her. “Where’s Papa?”

  “Where else?” Athena replied, scooping the beans she’d sorted through into a clean pan then discarding the others. “In the backyard trying to teach Pericles to sit.”

  Pericles was a dog. A blond pointer fifteen years old if he was a day. And every Sunday morning like clockwork, his father would take him out into the backyard and try to teach him tricks. And Pericles would ignore him. Alex stepped to the back door and spotted his father moving a chew toy under the aging dog’s nose then throw it.

  “Fetch!” George called, pretending to throw the bone again.

  Pericles dropped to a prone position at his feet, laid his head on top of his paws and gave a little whine.

  “Koproskilo,” his father called him a lazy dog in Greek, then patted Pericles’s head.

  Alex opened the door and stepped out onto the cement patio his father had laid himself twenty years ago.

  “Alexanthros!” George got to his feet and Alex kissed him on his right cheek, his left, then his right again, bracing himself for the hearty pats on the back that always went along with the traditional greeting.

  “Still trying to teach Pericles a few tricks, huh?”

  “Sit, sit.” His father motioned toward the chair next to his. “Damn dog. Not worth the food we feed him.”

  Alex nodded and patted the dog in question when Pericles put his head in Alex’s lap. He knew his father’s words were just that, words. The truth was Pericles and his father were like two old best friends, always together when his father was home. It was going to kill his dad when the old mutt passed away. Athena was already talking about getting a puppy to help ease the pain.

  His mother appeared in the screen door. “Don’t get too comfortable. Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

  Alex sat back in his chair, enjoying the feel of the summer sun. His parents had probably gone to St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church for mass, and had likely dragged Athena there along with them if his sister’s dress was any indication. As was tradition, they enjoyed a midafternoon dinner on Sunday. It was just after 2:00 p.m.

  “I’ve been thinking about retiring,” his father said, surprising him. “You know, selling George’s Carry Out.”

  Alex stared at him. For as long as he could remember, the corner grocer had been his father’s life. “Oh?” he said, uncertain what else he should say.

  George grinned. “Yes.” He motioned with his hand. “Your cousin Niko, the little upstart, came by the other day and offered to buy me out.”

  “What did you say?”

  His father snorted. “I told him to get the hell out of my store.”

  Alex chuckled.

  “But I’ve been thinking…” He trailed off.

  Alex looked at him. Really looked at him for the first time in years.

  Georgos Cassavetes was getting older and the years were beginning to show. His once jet-black hair was now almost completely white. The tiny wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were turning into deeper grooves. And if Alex wasn’t mistaken, his father may have shrunk an inch or two over the years. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

  “I’ve been thinking that your mom and I should return to Greece.”

  Alex nearly fell off his chair.

  While they’d always tried to visit Greece at least every other year, he had never heard either one of his parents talk about moving back there permanently.

  His father squinted at him. “You know, before we’re too old to enjoy ourselves.” He absently rubbed his left hand where recently he had complained of some joint pain. “I’ve been back and forth with a Realtor over there and there’s a nice apartment outside Athens in Brahami. New. Affordable. Near where I grew up.”

  Alex cleared his throat. “And Mom? What does she think of all this?”

  His father sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t said anything to her yet.” He paused. “But she misses the place, you know?” He sat back. “We live our lives like we were still in Greece anyway. The way we eat. The fri
ends we choose. Hell, we even watch all the Greek channels on the satellite over here.”

  Alex leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, trying to take in the news. If he found it ironic that his father’s talk of changing everything came on the heels of his finally appreciating the sameness of their lives, he wasn’t going to admit it.

  “It’s nice over there. Beautiful country.”

  “It doesn’t suck here,” Alex said.

  His father smiled at him, then reached over to pat his knee. “No, it doesn’t. But here doesn’t have the waters of the Aegean. The beaches. Geez, I can’t even buy a decent fish here, while there I could eat my choice of fresh fish every day.”

  “I’ll bring you fish from the market in Manhattan.”

  A chuckle, then his father went silent.

  “Alex?” his mother called.

  He slowly tore his gaze away from his father to look at where she was standing on the other side of the screen door. She looked puzzled.

  “You have a visitor,” she said.

  Alex frowned. A visitor? Who would be visiting him here?

  He started to get up when the visitor in question opened the back door and stepped outside. He nearly fell headfirst into the grass.

  “Hi, Alex,” Nicole said.

  OKAY, MAYBE THIS hadn’t been such a great idea.

  Nicole fought the urge to toy with the wavy red wig she had on, and felt grossly underdressed in the tight faux leopard skin miniskirt, tiger-striped tank top and clunky costume jewelry she had on. She’d retrieved the tarty disguise from a Grand Central Station locker when she’d gone there to catch the train out to Astoria. Alex had told her that’s where he’d be going, and it hadn’t taken much to find the address. It was the first entry in the address book he kept in a drawer next to his kitchen phone.

  Her bracelet of large wood beads held together by a thin black rope clanked as she nervously toyed with her hair. Maybe she should have gone with the girl-next-door look instead. Yes, the plain brown wig and the flowery sundress would have been much more appropriate.