by Laura Kenner
Today, evidently, she’d decided to play the role of femme fatale. Will swallowed hard and played along because with Celia, there was no other option.
She leaned back in her chair with the grace of a lioness on the prowl. When she drew a deep breath, her dress slipped to artistically reveal a tantalizing bit of cleavage. It was no accident. Nothing Celia ever did was accidental. She looked up at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes and widened her intoxicating smile.
Will’s sense of caution went on full alert. “Forget it, Celia.” He shook his head. “I’ve had my shots.”
She released a husky laugh. “That’s what they all say.” She moved from the chair, draping herself across his desk as if it was a grand piano and she was a torch singer with a mission. “But no one is totally safe.” She pursed her lips, kissed her finger and ran it down his cheek. “You, of all people, should know that by now.”
Will stiffened. Given another time, another place, another woman, the sensation would be provocative, enticing, undeniably sexy. But not with Celia. Not anymore.
The cure to Celia had indeed been Celia, herself. After a very brief but torrid liaison, Will had discovered that beneath her Snow White exterior lay the manipulative heart of the Wicked Queen, herself. Always aloof, she seemed to derive her greatest pleasure from attaching the strings to a man’s heart as well as other parts of his anatomy and sitting back, watching her puppets dance to her own psychotic choreography.
Luckily Will escaped; or was released—he was never quite sure which. He’d recovered well enough to identify her innate abilities to adapt and had helped her channel those talents in a more acceptable vein. To his relief, she’d seemed thrilled to have a chance to work for him instead of on him. Her mission had become to “protect the women of America from the scumbags out to use and abuse them.”
And Will felt as if he owed it to the men of America to limit her firing range.
Celia traced the outline of Raymond’s photographed face with her delicate finger, licking her lips slightly. “He looks as if he could be quite a…challenge.” Her too-perfect smile deepened as she turned toward Will. “I do so love challenges.” She shifted toward him, displaying even more cleavage. “What does our quarry do for a living?”
He cleared his throat and studied the picture. “Remember the Curry case I told you about? The lady who owned the car dealership?”
She nodded. “I was so disappointed that he confessed to his little indiscretion before I had a chance to meet him.” She glanced at the photo again. “Is this Mrs. Curry’s prospective husband?”
Will pushed the rest of the file across the desk toward her. “No. Our ’quarry’ is Mrs. Curry’s divorce lawyer, Raymond Bergeron.”
“The divorce lawyer?” A glint of animation flashed in her eyes as she straightened. “How deliciously appropriate! The divorce lawyer gets a taste of his own medicine.” She rose gracefully from the desk and scooped up the file. “This will require a very special touch, you know.”
“That’s why I’m putting you on the case, Celia. He hired me to run a check on his fiancée and she found out. Now she wants to return the favor and test him, as well. Since he knows all about the process, he may be as suspicious as hell. You have to be twice as careful.”
“I’m always careful, sweetheart.” She tucked a manicured hand into her purse and pulled out a small nickelplated gun. “Always.”
The hackles rose on the back of Will’s neck. “Jesus Christ, Celia! What are you doing with that?”
She trailed her finger down the length of its shiny barrel. “Birth control?”
Will shuddered, then held out his hand. “May I?”
She handed him the weapon, grip first. “Nice, eh?” The first look of genuine expression crept into her face: pride. “It’s small but it does the job.”
He hefted the gun, feeling its weight, the sensation of the knurled handle in his palm. He slid open the chamber to find it empty. But when he pulled out the clip, it held a full load. Drawing in an uneasy breath, he debated the idea of confiscating the ammunition, but after a second thought, he pushed the clip back in place and nudged the gun gently back across the desk to her. “New corporate policy—if you’re on the clock for me, leave this at home.”
She reached for the weapon. “But—”
His hand closed over hers for a moment. “I don’t care, Ceil.” He pulled back, allowing her to retrieve the weapon. “You know the rules. You never put yourself in a position to need a gun. If it’s dangerous, get the hell out With this thing—” he pointed to the gun “—you’re putting your license in jeopardy as well as mine. I’m your employer, remember?”
Celia shrugged and returned the gun to its place in her purse. “You, William Riggs, have turned into an old sour-puss. Whatever happened to the guy who wanted to stay with me in the hot tub all night? Did your sense of adventure prune up with the rest of you?”
Will shrugged. The Celia he’d first met had been quiet, studious, strong, funny and caring. It turned out to have all been an act, a personality she had created to attract him because she intrinsically knew that was what he wanted in a woman. Her ability to perceive and then to morph into the ideal woman constantly amazed and repelled him simultaneously. From what he could determine, every time she triumphantly proved a man’s beastly infidelities, she was actually reliving the sense of revelation and control she’d never achieved with some erstwhile lover.
Cuckolding by effigy. Some people required such release.
He cleared his throat. “What was between us…all that is past history, Ceil.”
She leaned across the desk, coming so close to him that he could smell the delicate aroma of heated perfume rising from the neckline of her low-cut silk blouse.
“History?” she whispered. He caught the slightest whiff of alcohol on her breath. “I never made good grades in history,” she continued in a husky voice, her lips skimming his cheek as she spoke. “But biology? That’s my subject. Birds, bees…” She leaned closer. “Flowers, trees…” She nipped him on the earlobe. “Cross-pollination…”
He closed his eyes, not because his control was weakening, but because it was getting stronger. Three years ago, her proximity would have driven him wild, and her touch would have resulted in spontaneous combustion. Right then. Right there.
On the desk.
But after viewing The Black Widow’s methods and having literally survived her bite, he was forever immune to her charms, however provocative, however enticing. He sat perfectly still, determined to prove that his body wouldn’t betray what his mind had already learned to resist.
“Will?” Her hot breath left a thin layer of moisture on his cheek.
“Yes?”
“I hate men.” She waited a moment before continuing. “And sometimes I think I hate you most of all.”
He swallowed, momentarily remembering the loaded gun in her purse. “I know you do, Celia.” He pushed back in his chair so that they could face each other rather than remain nose-to-nose. “You hate me because I know exactly who and what you are.”
Her expression betrayed her, revealing how close he’d hit to the truth. He pressed his luck and continued. “And despite it all, I like you. And as much as you hate to admit it, you like me.”
Her bottom lip trembled for a second before her posture changed, eradicating all weakness from her face and body. “Of course, you like me. You’re a man. I’m a woman. It’s the nature of the beast.”
His imagination supplied the missing connector of logic: And all men are beasts.
Celia glanced down at the file and photo, gathering up both in one smooth motion. When she looked up again, their gazes locked and a thousand questions poured through Will’s mind. A majority of them concerned what kind of bastard could so thoroughly scar the psyche of an intelligent, beautiful woman like Celia Strauss.
As if in response, Celia placed a finger against her pursed lips and then pressed the same finger to his lips. “This guy, Bergero
n? Consider him snagged, bagged and tagged.” She shot him a perfect smile and turned, leaving a hint of expensive perfume in her wake.
As soon as the door closed behind her, a shudder coursed up Will’s back. Celia was wildfire. Capriciously consuming, controllable only with a lot of planning and hard work.
God help Raymond Bergeron if he had the merest proclivity to stray.
Will smiled, in spite of his professional need not to.
Chapter Five
Friday, late afternoon
“We need to talk.” Quiet desperation filled the voice on the phone.
“Why?”
“Because there are things I have to explain to you, Sara. Reasons why I feel the way I do. We really do need to talk.”
Sara swallowed hard. Be cool. Don’t jump at the opportunity…. “When, Raymond?”
“How about tonight?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Someplace quiet.” After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice sounding a little bit hopeful. “How about the Frisco? I can get reservations there. The owner owes me a couple of favors.”
It didn’t surprise her that he would select one of the finer restaurants in Georgetown. Even in the worst of times, he insisted on eating well. At least, she could be thankful he hadn’t suggested they return to The Judge’s Chambers; the last thing she wanted to do was associate her friend’s place with the phrase, “the scene of the crime.”
“Well…” She sighed.
“Please, Sara? It’s important to me. We’re important to me.”
Her grip on the phone tightened and she convinced herself that her sense of hesitation was nothing more than a theatrical pause. After all, she was supposed to make this sound convincing. “Seven o’clock. “I’ll meet you at the bar.”
“But I can come pick you up—”
No! Take control! “I’ll meet you there, Raymond. At the bar.”
The phone clicked, then she heard a dial tone that sounded suspiciously similar to the blood thrumming in her ears. It had taken a long time to gear herself up to call Raymond, to prepare her story, to gird herself to purposely set up a meeting for which she would fail to show. And now, to have him call her first and create the perfect opportunity was more than her nerves could take. Just as she thought she might give in to indecision, fate had marched in and carried through with her end of the plans.
Her hand shook as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. Leaning back against the headboard, she tried to adjust the pillow behind her. After a few halfhearted attempts, she snatched the pillow from behind her and buried her face in its flowered cotton case.
Once upon a time there was love, trust and loyalty, all hopelessly entangled just as they should be. But somewhere along the line, the three concepts had started to unravel.
When had trust become doubt?
When had loyalty become suspected perfidy?
And how could love survive without the others?
She ground her fist into the pillow. How long would she have to wait to find out how Raymond reacted? Sara glanced at the bedside clock: 4:00 p.m.
IT WAS 7:36 p.m.
Will turned his glance from his watch back toward his quarry, noticing how Bergeron squirmed on the barstool. Sara was right She’d predicted exactly what her fiancé would do—show up twenty minutes late for their date, expecting to find her waiting like a dutiful fiancee.
Once he’d discovered she wasn’t at the bar or in the restaurant, the attorney had experienced a variety of visible emotions over the next fifteen minutes or so: irritation, concern, frustration. In Will’s learned opinion, Raymond had slid past “concern” all too quickly.
Bergeron pivoted on his stool, turning away from the door. He ordered a second whiskey sour, again just as Sara had predicted. A few moments after being served, he looked up in surprise as the bartender returned with a cordless telephone, indicating that the attorney had a call.
Whatever Sara was telling him, it elicited the right mix of emotions to increase the lawyer’s general sense of irritation, presumably at her. After he shoved the phone back in the bartender’s direction, he picked up his drink and downed it in one easy gulp.
In Will’s expert opinion, Raymond Bergeron was primed and ready to be taken on a little joyride called “Celia in Wonderland.”
And Celia, being the consummate professional vamp that she was, had also observed his emotional spiral.
She made her move.
For Will, it was like sitting back and watching a play—without being able to hear the dialogue. But the imagination supplied what couldn’t be heard.
“Excuse me, but is anyone sitting here?”
Bergeron almost said something curt without looking up, then he caught sight of Celia. His expression as well as his body language altered drastically, and he uttered something evidently witty. She replied with an enchanting peal of laughter, one of her specialties. After the proper amount of reflection, she perched daintily on the edge of the stool and ordered a drink from the attentive bartender.
Within twenty minutes, she and Bergeron had shifted from barstools to a table in a dark corner of the bar. Celia had already made the transition from reluctantly accepting a seat to gazing with undeniable attraction and rapt attention at her quarry. In the midst of one serious recitation, she reached out and touched Bergeron’s arm with a look of searing compassion.
Will caught Raymond’s lascivious reaction—a look of undisguised lust coupled with a slobbery knuckle-nibble—by immortalizing it on film, courtesy of his best camera, a telephoto lens and some professional low-light film.
Click: Bergeron whispering something in her ear.
Click: Celia throwing her head back in laughter.
Click: Bergeron making a play for her exposed neck.
Click: Bergeron pulling Celia into what might be construed as an intimate embrace. Were secrets passed? Acceptances made? Will couldn’t quite read it in their faces.
Click: Bergeron grasping her by the hand and helping her to her feet.
Click: the rear views of Bergeron and Celia as they headed out the door, arm in arm.
Crack: the sound of Sara Hardaway’s heart breaking.
Will tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he grabbed his jacket and headed out the back door, in hot pursuit and in cold dread. He chided himself; he knew nothing would go wrong. Celia knew the drill; she normally utilized the old “There’s something wrong with my heel” routine to allow him enough time to get around to the front of the bar and tail them on foot to the next bar or restaurant.
But by the time he stepped out of the alley, ready to follow them to any of the quieter Georgetown bars, Will spotted them standing beside a red Porsche.
His car? Damn it! Will ducked back into the shadows. “Don’t get in…don’t get in…” he chanted under his breath as he watched Celia rub up against Bergeron. He’d been very careful to explain to her that this wasn’t a case where they needed pictures of her leading her prey into the hotel room for a night of “Who’s on first?” She knew that at most, they needed only a couple more incriminating intimate photos to wrap the case.
Will’s imagination provided a conversation along the lines of what Sara needed to hear.
Celia would purr, “Maybe you and I can get together sometime.”
Bergeron would hesitate for one moment, then make his admission. “Although I’m quite flattered by your attention, I’m afraid…I’m in a relationship.”
“Oh, well…”
But the scene Will imagined bore no resemblance to the one being played out before him.
Actually, it would be hard to carry on any type of conversation when two people were playing a spirited game of “Your Tonsils or Mine.” Will figured Bergeron might have pulled his new lady love right into the back seat of his sports car for further medical inspection if a passing vehicle hadn’t illuminated their passion in a rather revealing beam of light
Will pushed back into the shadows,
wondering if this would be the moment when the man’s sense of loyalty would kick in. As Bergeron pivoted to deliver a rather inventive curse in the direction of the retreating car, Celia turned toward Will’s position and shot him her best seductive smile.
Then shot him the bird.
He lowered the camera. Aw, Celia…not now. Don’t go crazy on me, now!
He shook his head. Maybe he should have been expecting something like this. For all her strength, all her ability, Celia had a fragile side and unfortunately, it seemed evident she’d chosen tonight of all nights to let her control shatter. And without her self-control, Celia became one big rampant id, running amok.
Will felt the cold of the brick wall seep through his jacket. He could see it all so clearly now. For some inexplicable reason, her steady pilot light of hatred for men had suddenly been transformed into a Molotov cocktail and she was going to gleefully lead Raymond Bergeron down a primrose path. And it wasn’t just any old road—this one had been booby-trapped with mines by a professional demolitionist of love.
Before Will could make a decision on whether to put a stop to the whole case, Celia wrapped herself around Bergeron’s thigh and her hand disappeared inside the attorney’s jacket.
Bergeron responded with a smile and another expression, which said, “When you can’t be with the one you love…” His lascivious grin widened as he pulled her toward his Porsche.
From the look on Celia’s face, Will knew she was a woman with a mission: to demonstrate exactly how far a supposedly loyal man will fall.
And no doubt, Bergeron would fall—hard and fast
Will scrambled into his car, not really caring if his quarry spotted him or not. Bergeron might be a royal, pompous pain in the neck and maybe he didn’t deserve to snare Sara Hardaway—seemingly the last honest woman in America—but no one deserved to be the sole personification of Celia’s hatred of all things testosterone.