Kidnapped / I Got You Babe

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “You’ll be wanting this, too.” Pixie handed Melanie a plastic-shrouded green dress that might have been spun by a spider. “I can tell it will fit, dearie.”

  Fine, stretchy mesh was punctuated by a few strategic patches resembling miniature doilies. Hal’s throat went dry as he pictured it clinging to Melanie’s curves.

  “I never wear dresses,” she said.

  “It’s been here for years,” explained the older woman. “Waiting for you. Hal will be happy to pay for it.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Well—thanks.” Melanie frowned at the dress as she took the hanger. “I guess I’ll find some use for it.”

  She could wear it tonight, Hal mused as he paid. It would throw the other gangsters off their guard. He refused to contemplate what it might do to him. “Ready to get some rest?”

  “Seems like I just did that” Melanie rubbed lightly at her beret. “But my head’s hurting again. And I am kind of tired.”

  As they strolled back to their room through nippy, moisture-laced air, Hal realized that he enjoyed taking a walk with Melanie. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and the sound of her silence, too.

  He had never especially liked any of his wives; he had always looked on marriage as a mutual-aid package. But the inescapable truth was that he did like Melanie.

  He wondered what it meant.

  5

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN her injury that made Melanie feel so light-headed. Or perhaps it was the stormy weather and the sense of isolation. Adventures usually happened under circumstances like these, and she was ready for one.

  In addition to feeling as if her feet might leave the ground at any time, she found herself enveloped in warmth. The way Hal had looked at her back there in the gift shop had set her pulse racing.

  She could tell he’d been picturing her in the dress. The realization that he wanted to see her in a revealing costume was the main reason she’d accepted it.

  Not that she necessarily intended to wear the garment Men were always ogling Melanie, and mostly she found them annoying. So far, she hadn’t found Hal annoying, though.

  He treated her like a lady. Not a sex object, not an acquisition, and not an intruder, either. Men who weren’t fawning over Melanie were usually pitching her out of places where she wanted to snoop. Thank goodness Hal hadn’t done that yet, but then, he didn’t know she was a reporter.

  With a yawn, she leaned against his firm shoulder. Somehow, she knew it would be in exactly the right place to connect with her head.

  When he scooped her into his arms and carried her to their suite, she nestled against him contentedly. Of course, she was going to get revenge on him for being Rita’s henchman. She would punish him by…by…well, somehow or other.

  If she could only keep her eyes open long enough.

  HAL DREAMED of swimming in a warm ocean, through an undersea castle that resembled one of Vegas’s more ornate casinos. Here and there he caught a flash of silver tail or a glimpse of flowing light brown hair, and realized it was a mermaid.

  From nowhere, she shimmered toward him, and slid against him with a fluid curling motion. He wrapped her in his arms and pressed his face against her hair, which smelled of herbal shampoo.

  In some portion of his brain, he remembered that people lost their sense of smell while asleep. Therefore, this could not be a dream. Therefore, he had better wake all the way up before he did something he would regret.

  Hal spiraled into consciousness and discovered that he was indeed holding a woman in his arms, although the hair was short and she had no tail. He also found that he was fully equipped for all the acts of which men are capable, and particularly for one act which would be difficult with a mermaid but not at all difficult with Melanie Mulcahy.

  Primal instincts, no doubt dating back to the aeons when his ancestors really had prowled the seas, vied for supremacy. Against the accumulated urges of millennia, what chance did the thin veneer of civilization have?

  Even as Hal reminded himself that Melanie was under his protection, his hips began to shift rhythmically against her derriere. His arms tightened around her and he nibbled at her neck.

  She responded by stretching like a cat. He traced his open palms along the front of Melanie’s body and felt her nipples harden beneath the circular pressure. As a low moan escaped her, he shifted her tighter against him.

  His entire midsection swelled with primitive need, and yet he could not, would not hurry this joining. Never before had the act of lovemaking and procreation flowed so naturally for Hal.

  Always before, there had been distinct, almost disconnected phases: the courtship, in which champagne, chocolates and jewelry played a large role; the preliminaries, somewhat awkward until nature took over; the stimulation and release of climax; and then afterward, the hope that, this time, his wife had forgotten to take her birth control pills.

  Birth. Control. The two words rang unpleasantly in his mind.

  How could he have forgotten that unprotected sex led to children? Which he wanted, but did Melanie? And if his ex-wives had squeezed him virtually juiceless even without issue, how much more thoroughly could a wife take him to the cleaners if there were a little junior in the picture?

  Hal’s mind formed an image of Rita Samovar, raccooncircle makeup, raven-dark hair and all. It was not a stimulating sight, but a reassuring one, nonetheless.

  He had refrained from making a complete check of Rita’s financial assets, as this would not be a gentlemanly thing to do, but he had obtained a credit report. This showed that his intended wife made large purchases and paid for them promptly, supporting her contention that her inheritances had left her well fixed.

  Melanie, on the other hand, drove a car so beat up it was difficult to tell where the dents ended and the surface began. Melanie wrote poetry, a notoriously ill-paid profession. Melanie was beautiful and smart and fresh and bold, and she was the last woman on earth Hal would want to have to remove from the world of the living if she stiffed him.

  He must adhere to his original plan. He must choose a wife who would not need to skewer him with that most despicable of weapons, a divorce attorney. He must allow Melanie to go on living and breathing and driving her dented car, because he could not bear the prospect of doing otherwise.

  A kind of deathlike numbness settled over Hal. It felt as if he were coated with Teflon, and he could no longer touch or be touched by anyone.

  The drumming of rain on the roof came as a welcome counterpoint to his gloom. Nor did he mind when someone tapped at the door and the voice of young Chester Orion called, “Excuse me, Mr. Smothers? Could I talk to you?”

  MELANIE FINALLY understood all the hoopla about the tango. Now she knew why it had been the subject of numerous foreign movies, several championship ice-skating routines and an entire Julio Iglesias CD.

  The sensual rhythm set her spirit aflame. The heat of a man’s body percolated into hers, although oddly he seemed to be behind her, which must be some new variation. The voluptuousness of the dance ripened her breasts until they felt ready for harvest. Ah, the tango.

  Beneath its spell, she was even willing to disregard experience, which had taught her that surrender was indeed synonymous with defeat. But surely that would not be true this time, not when she was dancing with Hal.

  Then she woke up. Into cool air and a suddenly empty bed. Rain pummeled the roof, and Hal, wrapped in a white robe, was opening the door to Chet Orion.

  Melanie felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment Of course, Hal probably didn’t realize he’d had any effect on her. But she knew that she’d allowed herself a terrible moment of weakness.

  Life had taught her that she could rely on no one but herself. What if she got pregnant, and Hal left her? What if she ended up in a dusty shack in the desert like the one where she’d spent her childhood?

  Worse, what if Hal took over her life and treated her like a cosseted pet? If she could yield to one moment of weakness, might she not be tempted t
o accept a lifetime of captivity?

  During her junior year in high school, Melanie had answered an ad for a local beauty pageant with a fifty-dollar first prize. The couple sponsoring it were promoters looking for girls to appear in corporate-training videos and cable-TV commercials.

  Melanie, wearing a homemade prom dress, had marched with a handful of other entrants across the bleak stage of the local men’s-club auditorium, and she’d won. The couple offered to take her to Los Angeles, train her and pay her well.

  One of Melanie’s teachers made some phone calls and reported that these people appeared to be legitimate. They could give her a start on a modeling, and possibly, an acting career.

  She didn’t want to model. She certainly didn’t want to act. But the lure of earning money and getting away from Empire Lake at the age of seventeen had clouded her better judgment

  Melanie could still see her father’s creased, weathered face as he spoke to her that evening. “Honey,” he’d said, “you’re a good student Your teachers say you can get a scholarship. Hang in there one more year and go to college.”

  Maybe it was because he’d called her “honey” for the first time in memory. Maybe it was because her father believed in her. Somehow, Melanie had found the strength to refuse the modeling contract, and she’d never looked back.

  Now, however, she felt the tug of temptation when it came to Hal. Not that she wanted to give up journalism, even if she did sometimes have to do temp work to make ends meet

  She didn’t want to be a gangster’s tootsie, either. Yet there were moments when Hal presented a tenderness that was almost irresistible.

  What if they made love, and he asked her to come home with him? Wouldn’t it be lovely not to have to keep moving her credit-card balance around to get the best rate and not to have to eat noodle soup three days running?

  He hadn’t offered her a cozy love nest, but he might Before he did, Melanie needed to shore up her resolve.

  She didn’t have time for self-indulgence or for romance, either, she told herself firmly. What she wanted was to get the goods on Rita, and, if Hal was involved in the heists, on him, too. Then she could earn her own money and spoil herself with no help from him.

  She sat up in the crisp air and saw young Chester’s eyes fly to her camisole. He turned scarlet and averted his face. “Uh, Mr. Iceman,” he said, “I need your advice.”

  “We will adjourn to the living room.” Hal stepped from the room.

  “Count me in!” Throwing back the covers, Melanie hopped out, grabbed her black jacket and followed.

  HAL WISHED that Melanie would get dressed. Her skimpily clad presence was distracting young Chet, not to mention the effect it was having on Hal.

  Then he remembered that her only choice of clothing lay between a sweater over leggings, scarcely more modest than what she wore now, and a clingy green confection woven by spiders. He had a feeling that would be even worse.

  “I think I should go home, don’t you?” asked Chet.

  “Unless home is somewhere on this island, no,” said Hal.

  The young man wiggled uncomfortably. “The truth is, I don’t have a home. My parents are dead and I was planning to live at Grampa’s Emporium, but I guess that’s not going to work out.”

  “I do not think you should write off your grandfather so quickly.” Hal wished he had a masculine relative who would dote on him as Grampa Orion doted on Chet. It hardly seemed fair that, by a mere accident of genetics, the boy should fall heir to love that Hal had failed to win in so many years of trying.

  He had believed, during the outpouring of good fellowship following his mother’s death, that Grampa saw him as a son. The first time he was given a murder contract, by “Uncle” Drop Dead, it had seemed like more of an initiation rite than a cold business deal.

  Gradually, however, Hal had discovered that he occupied an uneasy position with Grampa’s gang. Maybe he was a little too smart Or a little too efficient at getting rid of his targets.

  The men gave him contracts, encouraged him to buy a small casino and applauded as he built it into a large hotel. They still invited him to Thanksgiving dinner. But he felt as if he were always proving himself.

  Until this trip, Hal had believed that the gangsters simply were not sure how to classify him, because of his independence and the fact that he never revealed the details of his business dealings. Now he was beginning to realize that they feared and mistrusted him, and perhaps always would.

  But it was not Chet’s fault. In fact, Hal was finding that he liked the boy. It was also true that he had promised to bring the youth back to the conference room tonight, and that he did not wish to fail Grampa, whom he still regarded with great affection.

  “Robotics is my life,” Chet went on, carefully averting his gaze from where Melanie sat on the sofa with her long legs crossed. “It has great commercial possibilities. Why does Grampa keep trying to turn everything into a racket?”

  “When a man grows old,” Hal said, “he longs for the glories of his youth. Your grandfather yearns for the golden years of Prohibition, when gangsters ruled and reputations were made.”

  “But you’re not like he is, Mr. Smothers,” Chet said. “We should work together. With your investment capital and my know-how, we could make a fortune. If Grampa would help me, that would be fine, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. So I’m asking you to be my partner.”

  “Me?” It surprised Hal that the young man would single him out for such an invitation. Had Chet guessed that the Ice Palace Resort was merely a front for a legitimate computer-programming operation? How could he have divined such a thing, when Hal had worked so long and hard to hide it? “I am as much a gangster as the rest of them.”

  “Maybe more so,” added Melanie. “Certainly he’s never been accused of being overly charitable.” She seemed to be hinting at something, but Hal could not figure out what it might be.

  Chet’s shoulders slumped. With his hands clasped between his knees, he formed the picture of misery. “I won’t build getaway cars. And I can’t work with people who believe in mind-control rays. I need someone who knows what he’s doing, like you.”

  Hal agreed that robots might revolutionize society and could reap a huge profit. But if he stole young Chet away, he would break Grampa’s heart The man had shown Hal kindness, and he would not repay it with treachery.

  “It may be possible to make your grandfather see the light,” he said. “Many gangsters also operate legitimate businesses.”

  “Name three,” said Melanie.

  Hal eyed her suspiciously. The shrinking of her lump appeared to be having a deleterious effect on her personality. Perhaps Rita had been right about her, after all.

  In any case, he believed one example would suffice. “I myself have dabbled in the computer field from time to time. Although I would not wish the fact publicized.”

  “Why not?” Chet asked.

  “Yes, why not?” Melanie leaned forward.

  “It is a matter of loyalty,” Hal said. “I would not wish to embarrass my friends.”

  “You mean they’d be embarrassed to know someone honest?” asked the lady with the piercing olive eyes. “Never mind. No one can accuse you of being that.”

  Hal was about to protest that he had never been dishonest with her, until he remembered that he had in fact abducted Melanie under false pretenses. “What we must do,” he said instead, “is to develop a strategy for this evening’s conference. A way to make investing in a straightforward business palatable to Grampa.”

  “You think you can turn people with nicknames like Drop Dead and Bone Crusher into legitimate businessmen?” asked Melanie.

  “If anyone can do it, it would be someone called the Iceman,” replied Chet, perking up.

  Power surged through Hal as he took control of the situation. “I am willing to set myself up as the bad guy. To give the impression that I attempted to steal you away, but that you would prefer to work with your grandfather
.”

  “You don’t even want a piece of the action?” Melanie asked in surprise.

  Hal sighed. This could be a very large action. Bill Gates, too, had started with nothing but good ideas and a quick mind. What if robots proved as big a hit as personal computers?

  “Naturally, I would like some share of the investment,” he said. “But not if it requires alienating Chet from his grandfather.”

  Melanie’s lips clamped together. He could have sworn she looked touched.

  “I don’t like making you out to be the heavy, but if you think that’s a good plan, I guess it’s okay.” Chet’s face scrunched, which had the effect of making his ears stick out more than usual. “I owe Grampa a lot. But I’m not letting any of those thugs muscle in. They don’t know squat about running a business.”

  “Once you secure your funding, you can hire a chief financial officer,” Hal advised. “1 may have one or two recommendations, but we will leave the details for later.”

  “What if Grampa doesn’t go for it?” Chet asked. “What if his pals get ugly?”

  Hal doubted that Drop Dead could get any uglier. But he gathered the young man was referring to behavior, not appearance.

  “Well,” he began.

  Melanie stretched sleepily, which gave momentary prominence to her lovely breasts. Despite his determination to keep his mind on the subject at hand, Hal couldn’t help being reminded that she was nearly naked beneath the camisole. As for Chet, his eyes bugged out.

  “There,” she said.

  “There what?” Hal wondered if she had said something profound while shifting her body. If so, he had missed it.

  “You see what men are like,” Melanie replied. “If I wear that teeny-weeny green dress to the conference and things start to turn nasty, I’ll just kind of flash myself around. Not very feminist, but effective.”

  “Underhanded,” Hal said admiringly.