The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Mike interrupted, hoping to save her a speck of embarrassment. “That's all right with me. No appeals necessary."

  "There you go, being reckless and rash."

  "I'm never reckless or rash.” He glared over his shades. “I say what I mean."

  "It is entirely too soon for you to talk like that. Besides, I thought men avoided relationship talk at all costs. What's the matter with you, anyway? Why can't you just be normal?"

  "Normal?” Mike threw Gwyn a fleeting glance. “I never aspired to normality. I just happen to know what I want. And that, my dear counselor, is you."

  "Well, you've had me. There's no need to keep up the sweet talk."

  Mike's frustration mounted as he realized Gwyn was being obtuse just for the hell of it. “It's not sweet talk. I don't engage in sweet talk."

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Gwyn sitting stiffly with her hands folded in her lap. “I was only kidding about the life sentence, anyway,” she told him.

  His natural cockiness returned, he grinned. “Too bad. I was looking forward to a life sentence with you."

  "And what I think doesn't count?"

  "Gwyn, we have plenty of time. Let's just get out of the city, get you safe, then we can sort out our future."

  "Oh, really? I can't believe how arrogant you are."

  "Arrogant?” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Gwyn's argumentative nature could be damn annoying. The woman was a born attorney—she never took “no” for an answer and always had to have the last word. She probably came out of the womb arguing with the obstetrician.

  "You are. Just because you—"

  "Just because I what?” Mike interrupted, keeping watch for the entrance to I-278.

  "Never mind.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  "Counselor.” Mike gave an exasperated sigh. “Has anyone ever told you how infuriating you are?"

  "Infuriating?"

  He didn't respond. He'd just sighted the entrance ramp coming up too soon, and he was in the wrong damned lane.

  "Dammit. Here we go.” Flicking on the turn signal, he whipped into the correct lane, cutting off a taxi driver who lay on his horn. Smiling, Mike jammed a stiff middle finger in the air.

  Gwyn gasped. “And you're a lousy driver. You do know the way, don't you?"

  He threw her his most innocent smile. “Didn't you bring a map?"

  "A map? Where would I get a map? I don't even drive."

  Deciding he'd teased her enough, he confessed, “I don't need a map. I've driven this way a time or two."

  "Have you?"

  "Yes, counselor. Are we going to argue all the way to Virginia? Not that I mind—"

  "Are we arguing? I thought we were having a healthy discussion."

  "A discussion? How about some conversation? What were you like when you were a little girl?"

  Gwyn rolled her eyes, then grinned. “I took gymnastics until I was twelve and had this growth spurt. Eight inches in a year. Suddenly I wasn't one of those tiny dolls prancing around the mat in my leotard. Just a long-legged, gawky girl of five-ten."

  "Okay so your Olympic hopes for gold were dashed.” Mike shrugged. “What else did you do for fun?"

  "I rode horses for a while, but when mother discovered my raging crush on the instructor, she packed me off to boarding school."

  "Bummer."

  "Not really.” Her low laughter sent a thrill straight to his groin.

  "The school instructor was even better looking. We all lusted after him in our passionate little teenage hearts."

  Mike nodded. “I always knew...” His voice faded.

  "Knew what?"

  He winked at her. “'Bout the passion."

  "Oh, you!"

  * * * *

  No sooner had Mike merged onto the New Jersey Turnpike than Her Loveliness fell asleep, turning her pretty little nose up at the sun and leaving him plenty of time to think while the T-Bird ate up the miles between New York and Virginia.

  There was a certain matter he needed to tell her. But when? Maybe he should have checked an etiquette book for the best time to confess...

  No, explain was more like it. When should he explain how he'd fathered a son by a woman who wasn't his wife?

  Was it too soon?

  The one thing Mike knew without question was that the counselor didn't take him or his intentions seriously. Not yet, anyway. So why bring up the most shameful act of his past until their relationship was on stronger footing? Gwyn desired him—yes, without a doubt—but could she accept his son by a woman Mike had never loved, never meant to touch, much less make pregnant?

  Worried, he cast a glance at the slumbering beauty beside him, exactly as he'd imagined her—wheaten hair streaming in the wind, her pert nose turning pink from the sun. Romantic claptrap, he'd called it. Maybe it was, but her strength and intelligence spoke to him as loudly as the lithe curves of her body. And her goodness—in spite of her wealth, she wasn't greedy for more. No, she argued for those less fortunate than she and looked out for the innocents. All of that rolled up into what was, at times, the most irritating person he'd ever come across.

  Total insanity—it was the only explanation. But damn it, he would keep her from harm, in spite of her penchant for rushing headlong into the breach like a fool. After all, they were two of a kind.

  * * * *

  Lady Elinor Carlton glanced over the top of her reading glasses. “I think everything is coming together for this weekend. We'll have more guests than usual, and I see you've engaged extra staff from the bonded agency we normally use."

  "Yes, ma'am,” the housekeeper replied. “They've all been cleared by security as well."

  "Well, then, we should have quite an enjoyable time.” Elinor dismissed the young woman with a nod, then picked up a basket and her gardening gloves and walked out through the French doors into her garden.

  The flower garden, with its lush and haphazard growth reminded her of the garden in her country house in Sussex. It quite handily provided a much needed respite from her often ill-tempered husband. It wasn't wheelchair-accessible. She'd seen to that, arguing that removing the cobblestones and replacing them with the smoother surface of concrete would spoil the Old World ambiance. George could still enjoy the garden's fragrance and beauty from the spacious terrace, without worrying her with his petty complaints about the sun and buzzing insects—and Michael.

  She did so hope her husband would be on his best behavior with their son, who would be here soon—for the first time in several years—with his client. Was she truly a client or was she more? If she were more, it would prove quite an interesting house party. Pleased that her plans had come together so effortlessly, she smiled, while removing two buds of each three from her pride and joy.

  "There, that should do it.” The Lady Elinor, a white rose with pale lavender edges, was her own cultivar, one which she would enter in the local rose society contest—and win, of course.

  Elinor handed the basket of discarded buds to the head gardener, who had followed her down the path to the rose garden. “Well, Tanaka? What do you think?"

  "You will win this year, Lady Elinor.” Tanaka bowed, but not before she caught a glimpse of a tentative smile.

  "I shall be very disappointed if I don't.” She hastened to add, “But never fear, I shall blame only myself."

  "You are too kind."

  Her heart went out to the man. He hadn't been the same since his daughter, Tamiko, was killed, and Elinor was pleased to see him smile whatever the reason.

  His wife, a lovely French au pair, died giving birth, so it was only natural that the gardener had worshipped his daughter. Just as it was only natural that Michael and Tamiko had played together as children whenever the Carltons were in residence at the farm.

  George had been irate when Michael and Tamiko announced their engagement and apoplectic when they eloped. Only Elinor's insistence on keeping Tanaka had saved the man's position. Her husband still found it ironic that she, o
ne of Britain's upper class, was more understanding about a misalliance than he, a self-made man from America, who believed in equality for all.

  Rubbish. All she had wanted was for her only child to be happy.

  But then there had been that unfortunate bit of business with poor Marina.

  * * * *

  Gianni Damico had one soft spot in his hard heart for his nephew, Reggie Gruhn. Gianni's twit of a sister had fallen in love and run away with one of the Damico family's British contacts. Perhaps, he'd made a mistake by taking the lad into the family business ... The current assignment would tell. Finding Sylvia was a test. Whether or not Reggie succeeded would tell Gianni if his nephew could be trusted with any of the more subtle and complex jobs often necessary in the family's line of work.

  The private line rang, and Gianni snatched it up, anxious for a progress report. “Yeah?” he barked into the receiver.

  "'ello, Uncle Gianni. “'ow are yew?"

  "Cut the crap. What do you know?"

  "Just as we thought. Mama and Papa Carlton are in the country for the next week. I'm there now, and I used your contact in the security agency to wangle a position as one of the catering staff. Quite a neat bit of work for twenty-four hours, I'd say."

  Impressed, Gianni hid it. “You're on the inside already? Is the Wells woman there? What about the detective?"

  "Sonny boy isn't ‘ere yet. Same for Blondie. ‘owever, there is an ‘ouse full of people nearly tripping over each other."

  "Really?” Gianni's curiosity grew. “What sort of people?"

  "Very exclusive bunch, I tell you. Foreign executive with a wimpy daughter and her little boy, who might be an ‘oly terror, but I haven't decided about ‘im. Then there's your typical ‘igh-priced mouthpiece accompanied by a very choice piece of mature goods and her foul-mouthed weasel of a son."

  "All right. You've done good so far. But keep your mind on one thing. I want to know where they took Sylvia. If you can't get the blonde alone and talkative, call me. I'll send reinforcements."

  "M-may I make a suggestion?"

  "What?"

  "Why bother with ‘unting down a woman what doesn't want to lie in the marital bed, so to speak? Dump ‘er, I say."

  "Stuff your suggestions. I don't need ‘em.” Gianni slammed down the receiver. Damn. His reasons were his own. How dare Sylvia leave him? She belonged to him until he didn't want her anymore.

  Nineteen

  Mike wove his way through the Beltway traffic. The last four hours of silence had been a nice change of pace. He still hadn't figured out when he ought to tell Sleeping Beauty over there about his son. Sometime this weekend, he would tell her. He would find a private spot and explain everything. Then if she didn't write him off as a total jerk ... It was more than he had a right to expect.

  Gwyn groaned and stretched, arching her back. Her breasts jutted out nicely, a damn good view in Mike's eyes.

  "Are we there yet?"

  "Another hour."

  "Where are we?"

  "On the Beltway, just south of DC."

  "Mm."

  "Hungry? You slept through lunch."

  "Not especially."

  "You don't have one of those eating disorders, do you?"

  "Of course not,” she huffed and pinched the skin on her forearm. “Do I look like I have one?"

  Mike threw her a quick grin. “I think you look perfect."

  * * * *

  The chirping of his cell phone interrupted Richard from his task at hand.

  "Don't answer it,” the redhead beneath him gasped, never missing a thrust.

  "Shut up. It's business. And keep quiet.” Richard pulled out. He could always re-warm this little number he'd picked up in a bar. “Yeah?” he answered.

  "You told me to call when I had a feel for things here."

  "Give me your number.” He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his PDA. He waited until she rattled off the number and entered it. “How's the new position?"

  "Boring as hell, and the grand dame is unbelievably Old World. Veddy top drawer, don't you know. How long is this going to take?"

  "I don't know. There's been a complication."

  "You're not falling in love with that skinny bitch, are you?"

  "How could I? She's as cold as they come."

  "Very funny. You'd better be telling the truth."

  "You know I love only you. She's the means to an end."

  "So what's the complication?"

  "She's hired a P.I."

  "A P.I.?"

  "Yeah, and he's an ex-cop."

  "So he's a washed-up cop. Probably an alcoholic."

  "That's not the real complication. He's the son of your new employers."

  "Shit. How the hell did that happen in a city the size of New York?"

  "The P.I.'s father and Gwyneth's uncle were college roommates about a hundred years ago."

  "The good-old-boy network rides again."

  "Apparently."

  "I never understood why you wanted me to take this out-of-town gig in the first place."

  "Having you in the same city is too distracting. I just wanted you out of town. You're the one who chose to work for them. I'm supposed to be wooing Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, am I not? I can't do that and attend to your baser needs, can I?

  "I suppose not. But I'm warning you—end it soon."

  "I have to move carefully. Weren't you listening?"

  "I need to see you. I miss you."

  "It's patently impossible. Just hold on. It can't last much longer. I've got to go. I'm rather busy."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Working on a brief. You're interrupting."

  "When am I going to see you again?” she whined into his ear.

  "Soon, now let me get back to work."

  The redhead on the other side of the bed giggled. Richard shook his head and motioned for her to keep quiet. Too late.

  "You're with a woman, aren't you? You son of a bitch!"

  "Don't be ridiculous, darling. I told you I was working.” He disconnected. He certainly wasn't going to listen to any more of her guff, not when he had a nice piece of action going.

  "Now then.” He turned his attention to the redhead. “Where were we?” No need for his main squeeze to know that plan A was already shot to hell.

  * * * *

  "Are we there yet? How far out do they live?” Gwyneth asked as Mike turned the car down yet another narrow, tree-lined road.

  "Counselor, you sound like you're five years old. Are we there yet?" he mimicked. “Don't worry. It's another mile or so."

  "Okay.” Scooting over closer to him, she rested her hand on his knee. “So tell me, who'll be there?"

  Mike shrugged. “Never can tell. All sorts. Mostly people they've met through my mother's connections from Great Britain or my father's diplomatic service. He's in a wheelchair now—had a stroke last year—but it's never boring, I promise you."

  "Well, that's something."

  "What was that?"

  "I was about to remark that at least I don't have to worry about being bored to death."

  "You're in fine form, counselor, but save your wit for my father. He's the one you need to impress."

  "Hmph. I don't feel a need to impress anyone."

  "Well, your feistiness is in your favor.” Mike slowed the car and turned onto a private drive. The estate, enclosed by a brick fence stretching in either direction as far as Gwyneth could see, seemed immense. A tall, ornate, iron gate barred the entrance. From where she sat, she could see two cameras. Mike's father must be a real nut about security, she mused, then decided she liked the idea of relaxing for a few days without worrying about someone trying to kill her.

  Mike spoke into the intercom. “It's me. Open the gate."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Michael,” came the voice through the intercom.

  The wrought-iron gate swung open. Mike gunned the accelerator and sped through as soon as he had clearance. “Just another five minutes to the farmhouse
and a bathroom.” He grinned at her, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I would stop, but there are security cameras everywhere, and I wouldn't want you to entertain the guards unnecessarily."

  "Cute."

  He glanced over at her and winked. “I know. Part of my charm."

  The car topped a slight rise, and the farmhouse came into view. To be precise, a three-story, half-timbered, Tudor-style mansion sprawled across the landscape. Not unused to wealth and its trappings, Gwyneth still found herself surprised. Mike just didn't seem the WASP-y type. She guessed her first impression of him as a smart-alecky, down-and-out P.I. still lingered.

  "Some farmhouse, huh?"

  "Not too shabby,” she admitted.

  Mike circled the T-Bird around the pea-gravel drive and pulled to a stop. “Wait, I'll get your door.” He flung his door open and hopped out of the car.

  "Oh, I see what's happening. You're going to be the perfect gentleman while we're here. I'm impressed.” She rolled her eyes to let him know she wasn't. He must put on quite a show for his parents. This weekend might actually prove interesting.

  "Now, counselor, don't be tacky.” He opened her car door and stepped back with a formal bow.

  Gwyn smiled up at him. “I promise I'll be on my best behavior, too."

  "Good.” He planted a light kiss on her forehead. “Let's beard the lions in their den."

  She was about to comeback with a snappy response when she heard the crunching sound of feet running on the gravel drive. She glanced around Mike's shoulder and saw a small, dark-haired boy running for all he was worth.

  "Daddy!"

  Twenty

  At the sound of his son's voice, Mike spun around in time to catch the boy as he vaulted into his arms.

  "Hey there, son, I didn't know you were going to be here this weekend."

  "Yes, it's s'posed to be a surprise, Grandmama's surprise. Mommy's here, too.” His son's dark brown eyes shone with excitement.

  Oh great. Mother's idea of a fun weekend. Mike straightened his shoulders. “Adam, there's someone I want you to meet. This is my friend Gwyneth. Gwyn, my son, Adam."

  Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes sparked like flint. “So I gathered."

  Gwyn turned quiet and polite and inside Mike cringed.