by Helen Conrad
The telephone rang, sounding muffled and slightly offended from underneath the bed.
“You see?” Michael said brightly as he dove for it. “They always call back.”
He brought the phone to the table, talking as he came. She thought at first it must be the Weekses on the line, but when he gave her a delighted wink, as though he'd made some sort of coup, she realized it must be someone else.
“Absolutely,” he was saying. “We'll be there in an hour.”
She mouthed “Who?” and he snatched up a pencil and wrote Mr. Big on a handy napkin.
“Sorry about hanging up on you before,” he was saying into the receiver. “But you know how it is. My little wife came for a surprise visit last night, and . . . well, we hadn't quite finished saying howdy, if you know what I mean.”
Shelley groaned and covered her face with her hands while Michael grinned at her wickedly.
“Sure thing. I'm just as anxious to see the property as you are to show it, believe me. And now that my wife is here, we'll be able to make a decision on the spot. Right. Right. See you soon.”
The receiver hit the cradle with a crash, and Michael let out a whoop that nearly split Shelley's eardrums. “Hook, line, and sinker!” He slapped the palm she stretched out in question like an athlete after a slam dunk. “We did it, Shelley! We got him.”
“Got whom? What are you talking about?” But she was laughing right back at him. He did that to her every time. His good spirits were contagious. “Who is this Mr. Big?” She shook her head. “Mr. Big. Honestly. More shades of Jimmy Cagney movies.”
He ignored her digs. “We got through to the top man in the organization. The Weeks are fronts; of course. They lure in the suckers. When they really feel secure, and think the plum is ripe for the picking, they call in the biggie.” He grinned at her. “Your arrival from Tulsa must have really added the touch of reality I needed. When Margery saw you sleeping like a baby this morning, she was convinced. She must have called Stickler right away.”
“And he called you.”
“Right. He'll meet us at the site at eleven.”
“Us?”
She could see by the look on his face that he had no doubt about her going along with this wild ride. “Of course, us. We make great partners, don't you think?” His smile might have seduced her on the spot if her mind hadn't been preoccupied. “He's expecting to see Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, and that's whom he’ll see.”
She frowned, not so sure about that. “Explain to me just what these people are trying to do.”
“Cheat me out of all my money.” He leaned back and looked at her. “They set up meetings at condominiums, posing as the owners. Or sometimes they really do own them. Then they take on buyers. When they've made enough money, they skip town and the poor buyers find out they've bought property that wasn't up for sale, or, as I think we'll find out in this case, they've paid for the same property five or six other people have paid for, and nobody has a valid deed. A lot of people lose their shirts, the money they were counting on for retirement.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't you like to put away crooks like that?”
Of course, she'd do it. She couldn't seriously contemplate a way out of it. She'd probably go out on the balcony and sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'” to the multitudes if he asked her to. But she needed a little time alone, time to think.
“I'd better hurry up and take my shower, then.” She stood up. “Oh, my gosh! What am I going to do for clothes? I can't wear your T-shirt to meet Mr. Big.”
“No problem.” He pointed out her suitcase, sitting on the case rack. “I called your roommate last night, after you went to sleep. She let me in to get your suitcase.”
Shelley gaped at him. She didn't know whether to be impressed by his helpfulness or incensed by Robin's lack of suspicion. “She did that? For all she knew, you could have been an ax murderer holding me hostage!”
“Are you kidding?” He threw her a scornful glance before sipping the last of his coffee. “Some women don't have to be convinced about me; you know. Some of them just know instinctively what sort of guy I am.”
“That's exactly what I mean.” She grinned at him. “And she gave you her blessings anyway. What a friend! But remind me to give her a call and tell her my plans for the day.” She started into the bathroom.
“Hold on,” he called after her. “I'm coming too.”
For once she put her foot down. “No, you aren't.” She closed the door until only a crack let her finish talking to him. 'This is one mission I plan to go on alone.”
“It's a nice big bathtub,” he said, his eyes large and a bit woebegone.
“You've already had two showers in the last twelve hours,” she protested. “Besides, I need some time alone.”
“Oh, no.” He groaned. “Don't tell me you need time to think over our relationship.”
“Well, what if I do?”
“Just don't think all the fun right out of it,” he grumbled, but he'd obviously given up on changing her mind. “And hurry up. It's boring out here without you.”
She expected to feel a sense of relief when she'd shut him out, but somehow it didn't come. “It's boring in here without you too,” she whispered, then shook her head. It was hopeless. She was crazy about him, and she knew it.
She stood under the stinging spray of the shower and tried to work out what she was doing, where she was going, but facts and feelings floated around her, solutions just out of reach, and she began to wonder if she'd lost all ability to reason.
She'd just made love, the most glorious love of her life, with a man she'd met first as a thief, then as a con man. He was doing both for legal reasons, but that didn't change the fact that he made his living, lived his life, based on fantasy. What part could she play in a dreamworld?
No part at all. Hadn't he made that clear from the start? You're the psychologist, Shelley. You figure it out.
She patted herself dry with the huge white towel, then wrapped it around her body, tucking in the ends, and stepped out into the room.
Michael had dressed. He wore the dark slacks and had put on a crisp white shirt. The cuffs and collar were still unbuttoned, and she stopped a moment, holding her breath, marveling at how handsome he looked, his dark hair and tanned skin set off by the snowy whiteness of his shirt.
He turned at the same moment, but he didn't say a word. The usual glint of humor was missing from his eyes as he stared back at her. The tension stretched between them. Shelley wasn't thinking in words, she was only feeling, and he seemed to be doing exactly the same.
Don't fall in love, Shelley Carrington. Don't be such a fool as to fall in love with this wonderful man. The warning blazed through her, but she knew it was too late.
He was moving toward her, and she had a sudden impulse to see what would happen if she met him halfway. Would he pull away her towel and hold her, heedless of his fresh clothes? Could she make him forget all about the appointment with Mr. Big? Tempting, very tempting to find out. But not her style somehow.
“Did you miss me?” she said quickly, turning and pulling open her suitcase before he could reach her. “What should I wear to meet this crime kingpin you're taking me to?”
His hand touched the back of her head as she bent over the clothes, fingers spiking through her shower-damp hair. “Just wear a smile,” he said softly. “That's all you need for me.”
Her breath stopped in her throat. She wanted more than anything else in the world to turn into his hand, into his embrace, but she steeled herself. “That may be all I need for you,” she said lightly, rummaging through her things, “but I think Mr. Big would be a little surprised. Don't you?”
“Maybe.” Suddenly he drew his hand away as though he realized what would happen if he didn't and knew he had to resist temptation. Then the humor was back in his voice. “But if he's as smart as I think he is, he'd never let on.”
He sat back on the bed and she pulled out a slacks set—white pants and
a sailor top—and held them out for him to examine. “Does this look like something Julie Daniels would wear?” she asked.
He nodded. “Looks fine to me.” A look of dismay crossed his face as she turned back toward the bathroom. “Hey, aren't you going to let me watch you dress?”
“Of course not.” She flashed a wary look his way.
He jumped up from the bed and beat her to the bathroom door. “You know, we're going to have to do something about this body fixation you have,” he told her sternly. “It's not healthy. What are you afraid of?”
You, she started to say, but she stopped herself in time. “Not a thing,” she answered instead. She wanted to push her way on into the privacy of the bathroom, but as she looked up into his eyes she hesitated. There was something so open about him. She almost felt she could tell him anything. Maybe he deserved more of an explanation.
“I'm not used to this, you know,” she told him, a little shy. “I—I don't do this kind of thing. I've never really lived with a man and I—” She shrugged. “I can't change quite that fast.”
His lopsided grin was delightedly disarming. “No problem.” His large hand cupped her chin and he beamed into her dark eyes. “We'll take it a step at a time. Just like—”
“The sushi.” She said it at the same time he did, and they grinned at each other.
“Get in there and change,” he growled, patting her bottom, “before I tear that towel off and ravish you again.”
She did as she was told, but the glow he conjured in her didn't fade when she left him. Was this love? If it was, it was wonderful.
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Hot Stuff
“Have you ever met Mr. Big before?” Shelley asked as they drove along the bay, on the way to the condominium Mike Daniels was supposed to be thinking about buying.
The early-summer day was perfect, the sky crystal-blue, the sun as yellow as a California lemon, the ocean water slick and shiny. Expensive white yachts making toward the open sea took down their brilliant blue canvas coverings and hoisted rainbow sails. Pink geraniums bloomed from window ledges, yellow roses and red portulaca lined the road. Colors seemed to pop out at her everywhere she looked. Had it always been this beautiful here, or was there something special about the company?
“I think it's time we started referring to him as Mr. Stickler,” Michael answered, maneuvering the car skillfully through the heavy traffic. “It wouldn't do to slip up and call him Mr. Big to his face.”
“Think that might give him pause, do you?” she asked, holding back a smile.
“Could be. I don't think I'll chance it.” He glanced across the car at her. “I hate bucket seats.” He sighed. “When I was a teenager, I drove an old Chevy and I always had my girl right next to me.”
“One hand on the wheel and one arm around your baby, huh?”
“Absolutely. Keep those women under control.”
“Dreamer. That’s what seat belts are for.”
She sneaked a glance at him. She could see him as a teenager. Had he worn his hair slicked back, black-leather-jacket style? Or was he in a long-haired rock band? Or had he been strictly Ivy League? From what she knew of him, it could have been any of the above. Maybe all, one at a time.
“But you haven't told me about Mr. B—Stickler. What do you know about him?”
“Quite a lot actually. We've got a very thick file on the man at the department.” He pulled into a security area, lowered the window, and told the guard where they were going before turning back to Shelley. “Stickler is only one of many aliases. He's done time in Florida for real estate scams, and now he's trying his luck here.”
They turned down a side road and approached a row of gleaming new condos sitting at the water's edge. “He started his career in New York when he was pretty young, running numbers for the mob. But that action was a little too risky for him. Job security isn't what it once was. Besides, he wanted to strike out on his own. So he split for Miami.”
“White-collar crime is more to his liking than the rough and tumble of the street?”
“Exactly.” Michael parked behind a shiny Rolls-Royce. “Besides, the perks are so much nicer,” he said, nodding toward the beautiful car.
“Is that his?”
“I imagine so. It's the only other car out here.”
She looked at it, shaking her head. “Wouldn't you think he might be afraid his pigeons might get a little shaky seeing that car? I mean, it's obvious where he got the money to buy it. He's not exactly involved in charity work here. He had to make it out of the hides of his clients.”
Michael grinned. “But you see, pigeons, as you so eloquently call them, don't look at it that way. They see a man like Stickler as a successful businessman. They only want to get in on the action, to become a part of that success too.”
“So it's the old story that greed makes you into a victim of these creeps.”
“It often works out that way. Of course, a lot of totally innocent people get caught up in it too.”
She took a deep breath. “Anything else I should know before we go in?”
“No. Just be yourself.” He got out of the car and came around to her side to open the door for her. “They say he likes women,” he added as she rose to join him. “Charm him.”
“Oh, brother.” She gave him a look of disgust and began the walk up the flagstone steps alongside him.
“Oh, one more thing.” He stopped her just before the double front door, a hand on her arm, speaking in a low, careful tone. “Whatever you do, don't say a thing about his hairpiece. He's very sensitive about that.”
As if she would bring it up casually in conversation! What did he think she was, an idiot? Her mouth opened, but he didn't give her time to speak.
“In fact,” he whispered as he jabbed at the bell, “just to be safe, don't mention hair at all.”
There was no time to ask any questions. The door was opening, and she steeled herself to play the part of the perfect suburban housewife, while at the same time remembering to avoid looking at the man's toupee.
“Hello, hello, welcome, come right on in. You must be the Daniels, right? Please, come right in.”
Mr. Stickler was a few inches under six feet, a slightly paunchy, olive-skinned man in a light plaid suit, with snapping black eyes, a perpetual smirk, a bushy mustache, and no hairpiece that Shelley could see.
His hair was quite thin on top. In fact, he'd combed a few strands in such a way as to pretend there was more hair there than he could really muster. But that wasn't a hairpiece. Was it?
He didn't look like a crook. But then, who did? She smiled mechanically, acknowledging the introduction and shaking the man's hand, but her gaze kept straying to the top of his head. If that was a hairpiece, they were making them strangely these days.
Don't even mention hair, Michael had said. That seemed a little extreme. Why would she be likely to mention hair anyway?
“Lathe and plaster,” Mr. Stickler was saying, marching them through the rooms. “You can see the quality in every inch of the place.”
They were nice units. There was a complex of ten of them, grouped around a common courtyard and built so that every one of them had a nice view of the bay, and even of the jetty, looking out to the open sea, from the two best ones. They were newly built and still unfurnished. Two bedrooms with loft. Just right for upper-level corporate executives from Los Angeles who wanted a weekend retreat at the beach. The whole complex was obviously an ideal investment if the money was right.
Mr. Stickler was still selling like crazy. “Look at this workmanship. Look, look here at these built-in shelves. We had real craftsmen working here, not your regular construction crew that someone hires out of the local bar. These men were imported from Europe. Every man was a master in his field.”
“No women?” Shelley saw Michael glance at her in surprise, but she didn't care. He wanted a real Julie Daniels, he was going to get one. Why couldn't Julie be a homegrown feminist?
“
Women?” Mr. Stickler was looking at her as though she'd asked how many Martians had been represented.
Shelley smiled a bright, Julie Daniels smile. “Yes, Mr. Stickler. Women.”
A cloud passed over his face, then his hustler-style charm took over again and he bristled his mustache at her, giving her what he would have called a smile. “Call me Harry, little lady. No need to be formal.”
“H-Harry?” Don't even mention hair, Michael had said, and now the man's name turned out to be Harry? For just a second she smelled a rat.
She stuttered over the name, glancing sharply at Michael, but his face was all wide-eyed innocence. There was no time to think it through. Maybe he hadn't known the first name the man was using. She'd still avoid saying the word hair, and she'd avoid looking for the hairpiece that didn't seem to be there. And in the meantime she'd better push on ahead with the feminist persona she'd started and ignore the rest.
“There are a lot of women in construction these days, H-Harry. And I say, more power to them. After all, who would know better about how to lay out a house than a woman?”
Harry didn't like feminists. That much was clear. He'd lost his smile, and his mouth had taken on almost a sneer. “There's more to a house than the kitchen,” he said, obviously still trying hard to be jovial and finding it very difficult.
Shelley wasn't sure why she'd gotten into this discussion, but she'd started it and now she couldn't think of a graceful way out. All she could do was go on with it.
“Oh, come on now, you're splitting hairs,” she said, then blanched. She hadn't said that. She couldn't have said that. It wasn't a phrase she'd ever used before in her life. She swayed slightly, staring at Mr. Stickler, and there was Michael behind him, waving at her furiously, as though to remind her not to mention hair.
I didn't, she wanted to shout. That wasn't me. But all she could do was gape at Mr. Stickler, wondering about his hairpiece, and finally Michael stepped in and saved the moment.
“You’ll have to excuse Julie,” he said smoothly, coming alongside her and taking her arm. “She does get on her soapbox when she gets the chance.” He hugged her and gave her a nauseatingly condescending kiss on the forehead. “She's so cute when she gets worked up over something.” Then he dropped her like a hot potato and turned back to Harry.