by Helen Conrad
“I can see that the place is a beauty. What I want to study now is the paperwork. Give me some facts and figures, man.”
He took them into the den, where he had books and files full of charts and graphs and an expensively printed prospectus. He and Michael went over interest rates and rates of return on investment and escrow fees and tax credit potential and all the other details while Shelley tried not to notice how the ceiling lights reflected off the top of the man's head.
Michael was so very good at this. He looked so eager and happy, just like a man who'd found the perfect way to make his fortune. She could hardly hold back a smile as she watched him. She wanted to reach out and touch his face. Everything he did seemed to grab at her heart. If this was love, so far it felt great.
Thinking about Michael, she glanced absently at Harry's head just in time to find his gaze on her, a slight frown showing that he'd noticed her obsession with his dome. She looked away quickly. That man wasn't wearing a hairpiece. He couldn't be.
“Well, Harry,” Michael said at last, rising from his chair. “I think you and I have got ourselves a deal here.”
“Wonderful.” The man fairly oozed satisfaction. “That's just wonderful. All we need to do is meet at my office in town to draw up the final papers and— heh-heh—exchange funds. And you two will be set to see your money go right out and make money for you, just like it was getting itself a job. Heh-heh-heh.”
They all laughed at his little joke, and he began to usher them through the house again, heading toward the front door.
“I'll call my bank in Tulsa,” Michael was saying. “I've already made arrangements to have my money available at a moment's notice. I can meet you in town by two o'clock.”
“Wonderful!” Harry fairly bounced with glee. “You'll find this to be a wonderful investment. People are lining up already to buy into the individual units. They're the best on the bay.”
Shelley found the man utterly annoying, and his joy set her teeth on edge. She couldn't resist saying something to deflate him a little.
“I guess people out here don't have much choice, do they? I mean, there are so many people and such limited housing available.”
He stiffened and she smiled sunnily. “These places are nice, of course, but hardly perfect. Why, look at this, H-Harry.” She was never going to be able to say that name again without stuttering and thinking of hairpieces and con men. She walked over to the window that looked out over the water. “The sun coming in through here is going to ruin this hardwood floor in no time.” She scuffed her foot along the polished surface. “You ought to get yourself a little rug and put it down. . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and she turned beet-red, looking out of the corner of her eye at where a nice little rug might have added some fur to Harry. She hadn't said that. Oh, please, why couldn't she stay away from the subject?
Now she was thoroughly ashamed of herself as she saw the poor man, looking puzzled, slowly lift his hand and pat the top of his head, wondering, no doubt, just what it was she kept staring at.
She'd been a complete failure at this undercover work, that was for sure. Michael had wanted a nice, suburban housewife and he'd gotten a feminist agitator. He'd warned her not to mention hair and she hadn't been able to stay away from the word. He must be really sorry he'd brought her along. This undercover work was a real strain, and she was incompetent at it.
She couldn't take any more. Mumbling something unintelligible that she meant for good-bye, she whirled out the front door, walking quickly down the path toward the car. But she hadn't taken many steps before she heard clearly what Michael said to the man, even though she was past the bushes that shielded her from sight of the doorway.
“Don't mind her. You know how women are.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Hair today,” he said as clear as a bell. “Gone tomorrow.”
Shelley stopped in her tracks. She'd only suspected it before, but now she knew she'd been taken. How could Michael have done that to her?
“Why you . . . !” She turned on him furiously as he came up behind her.
“Not now,” he said through a clenched smile. “Save it up for when we're out of sight.”
She wanted to belt him in the jaw, and she'd never hit another human being in her life. She got into the car next to him and stared straight ahead.
“Let me know when we're out of sight,” she said evenly. “I want to know when it's safe to kill you.”
“Just hold on to that thought,” he teased, “until we're totally out of the complex. I know a place where we can go to talk.”
She sat as tight as a coiled spring, furious. He'd set her up from the very beginning. Why on earth had he done that?
Michael drove them quickly through the security post and out onto the highway, then turned the car into a 50’s style drive-in. “I need a drink. How about you?”
She nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “I think I could use one,” she admitted, still holding back her slow simmer.
“Two super-size chocolate malts,” Michael told the girl on roller skates who came to the window of the car to take their order. “With a shot of chocolate syrup on the side.”
Shelley felt as though she were about to explode. She waited until the girl left the window before she asked the question she'd been waiting to ask for a very long time, speaking with careful, strained precision. “That man didn't have on a hairpiece, did he?”
Michael was forthright in his answer. “No, he didn't.”
She let out her breath in a long, angry sigh. “Then why did you tell me he did?”
He shrugged, all innocence. “I thought he might have bought one by now.”
“Michael Hudson, that is no answer! Why did you do that to me?”
“For fun. Wasn't it fun?”
“Not for me!”
“Well, it was for me. Did you see his face when you told him to get a rug?”
“Michael!” She leaned over as though to shake some sense into him and he took hold of her shoulders and kissed her, hard and long, until her anger faded and her response to him came seeping back into the forefront of her consciousness.
“Oh, Michael.” She snuggled into his arms, sitting on the brake and not caring a bit. “You really shouldn't have done that.”
“You're right.” His arms tightened around her, and he buried his face in her hair. “Actually I should never have taken you with me at all. It's against department policy to involve civilians in these things. And rightly so.” He sighed. “And I wouldn't have taken you if I'd thought there was any chance at all of danger. But I knew all about Harry. He's a slimy little weasel, but he doesn't like rough stuff.”
“So why did you take me?” she asked curiously.
He kissed her nose. “Because I didn't want you out of my sight. Now, sit up straight. Here come the malts.”
She sat up straight and drank her malt, but something lacking in his explanations still troubled her. “Why did you take the chance of setting me up that way about the hairpiece? What if the whole goofy affair had put Harry off, made him suspicious?”
He grinned at her like a boy in a baseball cap, hiding the ball that had just broken the plate-glass window behind his back. “It was a tame setup. It needed something to liven it up.”
“What?” She still wasn't sure she understood.
“It's a habit I've sort of fallen into lately. I do things like that when the going gets too routine. Makes life a little more exciting.”
A cold chill was working its way down her spine. “Do you always consider it boring unless you're getting shot at?” she asked.
His grin was as wide as a devil's swath. “Sometimes even then,” he admitted. “Come on, drink up. I've got to get to that meeting in town.”
She sat very still as they drove back to the hotel. Michael Hudson was a wonderful, sexy, thrilling man, Shelley told herself. She was a little bit in love with him. More the fool she. A man like this, a man so hooked on excitement that he ev
en upped the ante when he didn't have to, was never going to settle for a tame psychologist to round out his life. She felt a very empty hole where happiness had warmed her only hours before. It had been a wonderful vacation, but it seemed the holiday was almost over.
“I can't take you with me to the final meet in town,” he told her as they left the elevator for his room. “The boys from the department will be there when it goes down, and even a slimy weasel like Harry can get mean when he's cornered.”
“You mean, you're going to be arresting him?”
Michael nodded, inserting his key in the door. “We've got enough on this character to put him away for a long time. He didn't own that condo he was trying to sell us, and now I've got proof.”
Shelley walked slowly into the room and looked around. The maid had been in, and every bit of evidence of the night they'd had together—and the morning—had been obliterated. The bed was made up and looked square and uninviting. All the clothes were hung carefully in the closet. And the air conditioner was on full blast, chilling the room that had been so warm before.
Maybe that was why she felt cold. But somehow Shelley was afraid it had to do with more than the temperature. She walked to the sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony and stood looking out, arms folded tightly across her chest.
Michael was making calls on his cell phone. Shelley didn't pay much attention to them. She knew he was calling his department and coordinating with the police officers who were in on the operation. She watched the sailboats on the bay and tried not to think at all.
That, of course, was impossible. She was a thinking woman, after all. “Relationships don't exist,” he'd told her when they'd first met. “I can't afford to get too close to anyone.” He'd said his time was too short in any one place. That letting down emotional barriers would make him vulnerable.
She'd thought he needed counseling to confront his rationalizations of an avoidance syndrome. Now she was afraid that she was the one who was going to need help. But she was sure of one thing: This was the last she would see of Michael Hudson.
Michael's arms slid around her from behind and he pulled her back against his broad chest. “Let's go sailing tomorrow,” he said softly against her hair. “We'll take a picnic lunch and find a deserted beach somewhere.”
Despite her unease she chuckled. “Lots of luck.” Then the smile faded. She didn't want to answer his invitation outright, because she didn't want to get involved in an argument at this point. “Do you know how to sail?”
“Of course, I know how to sail. I know how to do almost everything.” His boast was so little-boy proud, she had to hold back her laughter. “And if I don't know how, I'll learn.”
He turned her, kissing her soundly and then looking down at her, his eyes shining with something—what was it? Affection? Humor? She wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it was irresistible.
“You're pretty cocky, aren't you?” she said teasing him. “You think you're pretty hot stuff.”
“I am hot stuff,” he shot back. “Want me to prove it again?”
“Not right now,” she answered. “Memories will have to suffice.”
“Only for a little while.” His face came down gently against her cheek, rubbing back and forth in a warm, sensual caress. “But it'll seem like forever. Be in bed when I get back. Okay?”
She ignored the implications of that request, looking up at him with surprise. “Are you going to be that late?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “It might be as late as four o'clock this afternoon.”
“Michael!” She laughed, caught again in the magic of his warmth.
“Can I help it if I want to make love to you again?” He kissed her neck. “And again and again. ...”
She sighed, closing her eyes. His touch was a bright piece of heaven.
“What are you going to do while I'm gone?”
Her silence had made him suspicious, she decided. But it was best not to come right out with the truth. He'd fight it. She wasn't up to that.
If she were brave and strong, she would tell him the truth right now. He deserved as much. But she wasn't strong, she was finding out. She wasn't strong and she might give in to his arguments. Much safer not to let him make them.
“I'm not sure,” she told him. “I might write a letter.” That much was true. He didn't have to be told the letter was to him.
“Good.” He let her go. “Just as long as you're here when I get back.”
Luckily that wasn't a question and she didn't have to answer it. Instead, on impulse, she went up on tiptoe and kissed his lips. “You're a very special person, Michael,” she said, her voice husky. “I'm glad we ran into each other last night.”
And she was, too. Whatever painful residue she would carry away from this encounter, it had been well worth it. She would never forget him, or the time they'd spent together.
He looked a little surprised, but he didn't seem to sense the despair behind her words. “I'm glad too,” he said, stroking her hair. “You saved me the trouble of coming looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” She made a skeptical face. “Are you trying to tell me that was in your plans?” And yet why not? It had certainly been in hers. She'd gone looking for him, looking for trouble. What insanity had ruled her? Hadn't she realized how impossible it would be to fall in love with him? He'd warned her, after all. And still, she hadn't been able to stay away.
“Absolutely.” Something wavered in his bright blue eyes. “Well, not exactly,” he admitted reluctantly.
She didn't know whether to be hurt by the admission or flattered that he didn't seem to be able to lie to her. “Somehow I had a feeling it might not have been.”
His face took on an earnest expression that erased all the lines of humor. “You made a big impression on me, Shelley, right from the first. And when you responded with all that delicious fire in your office ... well, when I left you there, I had no intention of trying to see you again. I've told you before relationships don't mesh with this job. And after we said good bye at Mickey’s café, I was sure I would be able to put you out of my mind in no time at all.” He shook his head, his eyes dark. “But I kept thinking about you all week.”
He sounded surprised, as though he wasn't used to remembering women that way. She wanted to glow with the pleasure his words aroused, but she couldn't. She wished he hadn't started this exercise in candor. It wasn't going to make it any easier to do what had to be done. Somehow she had to turn this around and get them back on a light, breezy plane. If he said much more along these lines, she'd end up sobbing in his arms. Just to imagine him thinking about her all week. . .
“Well, they do say it's the thought that counts, don't they?”
It didn't take much to tickle his funny bone. The grin was quickly back. “It was more than a thought, really,” he said, tongue firmly in cheek. “You stuck in my mind like a sticky burr, prickly and annoying. You know what I mean? Like an itch I couldn't reach.”
“An itch, huh?” She cocked her head to the side, eyes bright and sassy. “What happens now that you've scratched it?”
His eyes blazed, and she jumped away, sensing the attack of a tickler, but he grabbed hold of her before she could escape, tilting her back until they both collapsed, laughing, onto the bed. “It turns out to be a serious rash. A terminal disease,” he growled, holding her down. “I'm going to need constant therapy.”
His hand slid in under her blouse, cupping her breast, and his mouth took possession of hers, lighting a fire with his tongue, his body moving against her with a growing urgency that started a twisting, writhing sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“This is therapy?” she gasped when he finally let her up for air.
“The very best.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I've only got time for a limited dose right now.” He shifted his weight, freeing her. “Duty calls.”
He touched her cheek with his index finger, slowly tracing a pattern while he watched, bemused, then he g
athered himself and rose from the bed. Turning away, he stripped off his sport coat and opened his suitcase. She sat up and watched, eyes wide, as he took out a revolver in a holster and strapped it to his shoulder, then put the sport coat back on again.
“Do you think you're going to need that?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“You never know. I've had to use it on occasion.” Then he saw her face and he stepped over to draw her up into his arms again. “Hey, no big deal. Believe me, I've been in this business for a long time and I've never been badly hurt yet.”
“Just a little hurt?” she asked in a quavery squeak.
He made a face. “Just a very little. A scratch. A skinned nose. Nothing worse. Really.”
“You swear it?”
He held his hand up in a Boy Scout salute. “I swear it,” he said solemnly. “And I'd never lie to you.”
The gun panicked her. She didn't want him hurt. The thought of someone hurting him made her feel very fierce, as though she would hunt down anyone who did anything to him and break them with her bare hands. And even that reaction stunned her. She'd never felt so strongly protective of anyone before. A whole new aspect of her personality to explore.
“Maybe I should come along ...”
“No.” He was coming on very domineering all of a sudden. “You can't. You wait here.” He let her go, and the look in his eyes told her his mind was already on the job ahead. “See you soon.” And he was out the door.
Just like that. “Good-bye, Michael,” she whispered into the empty room. “It's been nice.” She felt hollow, like a child the day after Christmas. It was over.
She walked slowly around the room, stopping to look at the clothes spilling out of his suitcase. A piece of paper had fluttered just under the bed and she pulled it out, ready to put it back in the case where it seemed to have come from. But she glanced at it first, and then stopped and read the whole thing. It was a funeral program, dated just days before, for someone named Grover Campbell—wasn’t Grover the name of Michael’s old partner? Yes. Yes, it was.