She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  “Fine,” he said, his hopes for hot sex killed but his need for hot coffee renewed. “Then let’s go.”

  MORTIMER DID NOT LIKE BEING out of the loop. In all his years, he’d thrived on being part of every expedition, project or adventure he had instigated. And many of those he had not. He’d been on the front lines, leading the charge, battling his way through countless enemies or charming his way through an innumerable number of ladies.

  Now, however, he was helpless. Completely uninvolved. Unable to do anything but fret and wonder whether the plan he’d helped set in motion was proceeding to its desired conclusion.

  Not knowing whether his grandson was falling under the spell of the delightful young Miss Feeney was sending him mad.

  “Are you still sulking about not having Michael here to dance on your puppet strings?” Roderick asked as he entered the office Saturday morning, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. Their spot of strong English tea was a holdover of home that Rod had never let go, not even when they’d lived in Borneo.

  Mortimer would rather have had a brandy, but his friend was becoming more and more insistent about the doctor and his silly rules. As if Roddy truly believed an occasional tipple—even a morning one—would send Mortimer to his grave when half the German army had not been able to. “I merely wish I could find out what is going on.”

  “Your wicked spies haven’t updated you?”

  Frowning, Mortimer admitted, “I don’t believe the Feeney sisters parted on friendly terms with their niece. Whatever assistance I gained from them last weekend, like when Ida Mae let me know Jennifer would be walking home from breakfast last Saturday morning, is finished. Perhaps I could call Jennifer directly, just to say hello.”

  “You are shameful.”

  Mortimer gave his friend a sour glare. “And you have room to talk how, my matchmaking partner in crime?”

  That was the one positive about this situation—at least Roddy was along with him for the adventure. He might claim he was not a matchmaker, but, like Mortimer, he’d been entirely charmed by Jennifer Feeney and had agreed that she and Michael made a splendid match. The girl’s aunts agreed. Allie agreed. Everyone agreed.

  If only the two young people in question would realize it.

  “Stop worrying, he’s a smart young man. You laid the groundwork well. I am sure the boy has, what do they call it, ‘hooked up’ with her now that they’re both back in the city.”

  “Is ‘hooking up’ having an affair?”

  “Not always, sir. While I believe tapping that refers strictly to having sex, hooking up, unless I am mistaken, is the term the young ones use for everything from dating to heavy petting to sex without repercussions for either party.”

  “Don’t call me sir.”

  “Don’t call me a matchmaker.”

  “Agreed.” Matchmaker. “How do you know such things when I don’t?”

  Roderick shifted his gaze and cleared his throat. That meant he had no intention of answering truthfully. Mortimer almost laughed. His friend had a secret addiction to TV shows such as The O.C. and One Tree Hill, which seemed to abound with people hooking, tapping and scoring with their “baby’s” daddy. But he’d not let on, not wanting to embarrass the other man.

  “I supposed I’m more culturally aware,” Roderick said.

  “Bah. Culture. What, I ask you, was wrong with the old-fashioned terms? Court a woman, sweep her off her feet and into your bed, make passionate love to her and be done with it.”

  Roderick poured the tea and sighed wistfully. “True, true. Much more sensible. And romantic. But those days are over for both of us, I am afraid.”

  “Rubbish! You’re in your seventies, not in your grave.”

  Rod sighed, rubbing at his back, which had apparently been giving him some trouble. “Some days it feels as if I am. I just don’t have the physical capacity for romantic adventures anymore.”

  Mortimer reached for his cup, not letting his friend see his smile. Because although Roddy might think his romantic days were behind him, Mortimer happened to think differently. In fact, judging by the way the tips of the man’s ears had turned pink whenever he’d exchanged glances with Miss Emily Baker last weekend, romance was definitely still blooming here in Trouble.

  “Say,” he remarked, trying to sound casual, “have you seen that lovely Miss Baker lately? I do worry about how lonely she must be now that Allie’s young man has come back.”

  He didn’t add a comment about his secretary’s relationship having been yet another matchmaking success for Mortimer. He and Roderick had had that conversation this week. He’d had it with Allie, too, who was blissful when a little more than a week ago she’d been heartbroken. Proof his methods worked.

  “I’m quite certain the lady has any number of activities with which to entertain herself.”

  There went the ears. Pink as a mouse’s tail. “Why don’t you call her up?”

  Roderick gaped. “C-call her up? Whatever for?”

  To think the man used to be so quick. “Well…to ‘hook up.’” Personally Mortimer thought it would be a good thing for Roddy to “tap that” and figured Miss Emily, being a spinster, would probably enjoy it, too. But, in this situation, baby steps were required. Besides, not being entirely sure of the contemporary lingo, he didn’t want to say the wrong thing or use the wrong terminology.

  Goodness, how much simpler terms had been when a mistress was a mistress and a wife a wife and never the twain would meet. As long as you were very lucky.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You’re saying you’re afraid? Of a woman? This cannot be the man who rescued a stolen harem with me.”

  Roderick’s expression grew wistful, then he slowly shook his head. “We’re much too old for those sorts of adventures, Mortimer.”

  “Nonsense. Had myself an adventure recently, didn’t I?”

  Grunting, his majordomo reiterated his feelings on that score. “Please, don’t mention those two, you’ll turn my stomach.”

  “They’re fine ladies.”

  “Ladies is not a word I’d associated with the older Feeney women. Miss Jennifer, I will grant you, does seem cut from an entirely different piece of cloth altogether. A good girl that one.”

  “As is Miss Baker,” Mortimer mumbled, sitting back in his chair and crossing his long legs out in front of him. The knees were acting up a bit today…. Must have been the pacing he’d done all week once Michael had gone back to the city.

  “Ridiculous. Impossible. I’m too old for romance.”

  “But you’re not too old to make a new friend,” Mortimer said, closing his eyes, reminding himself of those baby steps.

  “A…friend?”

  The tone held interest. Roddy was on the hook; Mortimer just needed to reel him in. Carefully. “Yes, indeed, the lonely lady could use one. With Allie soon leaving, taking the baby, that dear soul will be completely alone. At the mercy of anyone who might try to take advantage of her.” If he opened his eyes, he’d see Rod puffing up in his porcupine pose. But he didn’t dare.

  “That would be dreadful. She’s much too kindhearted.”

  “Yes, she is. I wish she had a friend to talk to. Someone upon whom she could depend. A hand reached out in friendship would be a beacon in her lonely life.” That was laying it on a bit thick, so he shut up, not wanting to tip his hand.

  His friend fell silent, but Mortimer could almost hear the wheels of thought churning in Roddy’s brain. He would bet his antique Egyptian pipe that he knew what was about to happen. Roderick would refuse categorically, then go away and stew on it for a while. He’d hem and haw, come up with a hundred reasons to forget the whole thing. Afterward, of course, he would do what he always did: exactly what Mortimer had suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” Rod finally said, slapping his hand on his thigh and rising from his chair. “No, indeed. That is quite enough talk of that.”

  Then he left. To stew. Which meant in about twenty-four to forty-e
ight hours, he would be calling on Miss Emily Baker. Upon that little fact, Mortimer would bet not only his pipe but his store of illicit Egyptian tobacco that went in it.

  His lungs couldn’t handle the stuff these days, anyway.

  “Eh, God, it’s not easy always being right about everything,” Mortimer mumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest. And while thinking about pairing off all the people closest to him—while he, himself, remained a determined bachelor—he drifted into a nice morning nap with a smile on his face.

  IF IT HAD BEEN A SUNNY Saturday morning, Jen might have turned around and gone back to her apartment right after she and Mike stepped outside. Even good Cuban coffee wasn’t worth being stabbed in the eyes by merciless sunlight. Fortunately, though, it was overcast and, with her sunglasses, almost manageable.

  Good thing, too. Her new neighbor Mr. Jones apparently hadn’t gotten his “how to be a courteous apartment dweller in New York” lesson because even from here, on the street, she could still hear his icky eighties pop music blaring away. Weren’t old farts supposed to listen to Perry Como and Andy Williams?

  Silent and still in head-in-vise agony, Jen led Mike out of the building, which had once been a school in Chelsea. It had been renovated sometime in the past two decades, but barely touched since. Not that Jen cared. She loved the area, being right around the corner from the Chelsea Market and an easy cab ride away from her publishers or her agent.

  Best of all, there was a fabulous bodega on the block that served amazing coffee. Without asking, that was where she headed, eschewing the franchise shops in favor of good Cuban brew. She knew from experience it was strong enough to melt paint.

  When she was greeted by name as they entered, Mike said, “I take it you like their coffee.”

  “Their muffins are to die for, too, but today if anybody tried to make me eat one, I’d punch his lights out.”

  “Glad I brought bagels instead of muffins,” he replied evenly.

  The man did make her smile. Even though he tried to sound serious and strictly business, he had a sense of humor. He just didn’t let it come out to play very often.

  “Want to sit outside?” he asked as they got their coffee—black with three sugars for Jen—and walked out the door. If it had been a typical stifling hot August day in New York, she would have immediately said no. But the moisture that had been hanging over the entire northeast for weeks had provided another gray, drizzly day. Which suited her mood.

  That didn’t mean she was taking off her sunglasses, however. Not only did she want to keep light out, she also didn’t want to scare any small children walking by who might see her blood-red eyes and think she was a zombie.

  “So how’d you find out where I live?” she asked.

  He shrugged as he sat opposite her at a small café table. “I have some pretty good connections.”

  Very good ones. Though she was glad he’d found her, Jen went to a lot of trouble to keep her private information private. There were a lot of wackos out there. Some who wanted to scream at her, some who threatened to hurt her. Some who offered to change her mind about men by treating her the way a woman should be treated. Like an unpaid servant and sex slave, per one guy.

  Whatever they wanted, she didn’t want any of them to show up at her door one night with a copy of her book in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I do try to remain hard to find. There are some really twisted people out there. I’m sure you understand.”

  A thunderous expression she hadn’t before seen on his face made him go from an easygoing hot guy to a dark-and-dangerous one so fast it nearly took her breath away. And had her shaking a little bit in her seat.

  “Has anything else happened?”

  Wary, she asked, “Else?”

  “Grandpa said you were getting threatening calls and letters. Have there been more since you got back?”

  Someone had a big, fat mouth. Two someones—both of whose names started with the letter I and both of whom had crushes on Mike’s grandfather. “It’s no big deal. And I wasn’t stupid enough to think I wouldn’t be facing that kind of stuff. Publishing contract, smart-ass books, stupid men with inferiority complexes, all mixed together. Bad combination.”

  His shoulders didn’t ease, they remained rock-solid, as did his hands, which were fisted on the table. “Tell me everything.”

  “That’s all there is. Threats. Nobody’s touched me, nobody’s turned up at my door.” She purposely didn’t mention the recent hateful calls or the vague feeling she’d had about somebody being in her apartment. The last thing she needed to do was refuel his curiosity about whether she was nutty. “I bet Katie Couric gets a thousand times more icky mail than I do. It’s part of the package of being a celebrity, even if a very minor one.”

  That unflinching stare of his almost made her keep on babbling like an idiot. The man was good at that, silent-but-intense, the kind of guy who’d make a robber spill the location of his stash with a simple glare. But he finally eased up. The jaw unclenched; the fingers relaxed; he even leaned back a little bit in his chair. “You’ll tell me if anything else happens?”

  Not that he could do anything, but frankly, it was nice to think somebody was looking out for her. Somebody other than her girlfriends and an agent whose paychecks depended on her royalties. “Yes. Now, be honest, how did you find me?”

  Lifting his coffee to his mouth, he said, “I’m a cop.”

  She almost fell out of her seat. Even though not thirty seconds ago she’d been thinking of what a good interrogator he’d be, she honestly hadn’t seen that answer coming. “A what?”

  “I’m a detective. I’ve been with the NYPD for six years, ever since I got out of college.”

  She did some quick mental math, surprised to realize she might actually be a year or two older than Mike. He certainly didn’t act like any twenty-somethings she knew. He was much more focused, which could have been a product of his upbringing, or merely a facet of his personality. Either way, it probably served him well in his profession.

  His profession. As in police officer. “Oh, hell.”

  Just how often had she threatened to kill her aunts in front of this man? Countless times, obviously. She was lucky he hadn’t hauled her in, locked her up and thrown away the key. No wonder he’d thought her a little dangerous at first—as a cop he was probably used to people carrying through when they made as many threats as she had.

  His disgustingly thick lashes lowered over his eyes, and if she wasn’t mistaken his lips quirked a bit at the corners. He was obviously aware of what she was thinking.

  “You know, I would never really kill anyone.”

  “I know.”

  That was it. No apology for not having told her sooner what he did for a living. Then again, she hadn’t been quick to tell him about her writing, either. His grandfather had done that.

  “I don’t work current murder cases, anyway,” he admitted. “I just transferred to headquarters and sit at a desk most of the time. Quite a change coming off three years in Vice, busting pimps, hookers and dealers.”

  Quite a change, indeed. But somehow, she could see Mike doing it. He was strong; he was tough. He could hold his own against any thug who happened to cross his path.

  “By the way, to answer your question, no, it would not be easy for someone to track you down, and I had to pull a string or two to do it.”

  That both pleased and worried her, since she’d been getting those annoying, heavy-breathing calls again ever since she’d returned from Trouble. She’d hoped the guy would get tired of his game while she’d been out of town and hated that her creepy caller was able to track her down as easily as a detective could.

  A detective. Wow. She thought for a second about asking him if he dealt with harassing phone callers. He’d almost certainly take them more seriously than the officer she’d talked to a month ago had. He’d told her to change her number and then had basically ushered her out the door.
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br />   But she said nothing, not wanting Mike to get all protective and cop-like. She enjoyed spending time around the relaxed guy with the tousled hair and those dreamy brown eyes.

  “To think I wondered if you were an artist.”

  His head jerked back and he looked at her in astonishment. He also looked a little insulted.

  “Sorry. Not that you look all lean and pale and artistic,” she quickly explained. “You just have a deep and intense streak that suited a moody artist type.”

  “I’m not moody.”

  Snorting at that whopper, she replied, “Buddy, sometimes you make a twelve-year-old girl look stable.”

  “Well sometimes you make your aunts look stable.”

  Her jaw dropping, she considered flinging her coffee at him for that one, which was a majorly low blow. Not that she’d really have done it, not only because she didn’t want to hurt him but also because she didn’t want to waste the fabulous coffee, which was already easing her headache. And there was the whole “assaulting a police officer” issue. Before she could come up with an alternate plan, she saw the lips twitch and out came that fabulous smile.

  “Lord have mercy,” she muttered. Two young women walking by their table on the sidewalk immediately swung their heads to stare. So did a prissy guy emerging from the bodega with his own coffee. “I can’t believe you hide that thing.”

  His brow went up. “That…thing?”

  “The smile. Those dimples.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  Maybe he wanted to think so. Jen knew better. Mike Taylor was the kind of guy who could stop traffic at Times Square—if he was on one of those huge underwear billboards, the city would come to a standstill.

  Umm. Mike Taylor in underwear. Someday.

  Obviously uncomfortable and wanting to change the subject, he said, “I read more of your book last night. It’s very clever. Where’d you get the stories?”

  “Readers. Friends.”

  “Your aunts?”

  Jen immediately stiffened, slowly lowering her coffee to the table. She managed to keep her smile on her face, but it grew tighter. How? How could he know that? She’d used no names. Besides, it had been ages ago. “What do you mean?”