The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Damico's man hit the grass with a thud. He didn't move. His lids fluttered, then closed.

  Mike rubbed his jaw. “Good choice, dirt bag."

  Forty-five

  Watching Mike in his man-with-a-mission mode, Gwyneth stood back and resisted the urge to run and throw her arms around him.

  He nodded toward the gunman on the ground. “Hicks, take care of that one, while Mr. Gianni Damico and I have a long talk."

  "Yeah, we'd better talk,” Damico growled. “If my man in the city doesn't hear from me in fifteen minutes, your little boy and his pretty mama are gonna meet with an unfortunate accident. I understand they live on the seventeenth floor. Long way to fall."

  Blood pounded in his ears; Mike grabbed Damico by his lapels and shook him. “You sorry piece of shit! If anything happens to my son or his mother, I'll rip your fucking heart out—"

  "And I'll fry it for breakfast,” Gwyneth finished.

  "You and who else, bitch?” he snarled.

  "Never let it be said I missed an opportunity like this.” Gwyn drew her foot back and kicked Damico in the groin again.

  Damico turned pale and wheezed, “Police brutality..."

  "I don't work for the police.” Gwyn favored her victim with the wide smile that Mike loved. “And I don't have to follow their rules."

  Mike clenched his fists. Was Damico bluffing about having someone ready to kill Adam?

  He had to be. Jerking the cell phone from his pocket, he punched in Rocky's number, his heart slamming against his chest like an Uzi out of control. Finally he heard Rocky's gruff voice, “Yeah?"

  "Everything all right? Damico said he had a man—"

  "Taken care of. Your kid and his brave mama are just fine."

  "You're sure?"

  "He's already been picked up."

  "Thanks. Listen, I've got to finish here, but you'll stay with them—just in case?"

  "Sure, no problemo."

  Mike disconnected and let out a sigh of relief. His son was safe.

  * * * *

  The security guards and newly-arrived sheriff's deputies rounded up the rest of Damico's men—those who were still alive.

  Detective McKenzie came limping out, her gun drawn. “Guess I'm a little late."

  "Are you all right?” Gwyneth ran over to her. “I was afraid—the fire—"

  "I'm fine. The sprinkler system kicked in. Can't say the same about the sheriff. The explosive device was closer to his position."

  "He's not...?"

  "No, but close enough. The paramedics have already taken him to the hospital."

  "What about everyone else?"

  "They're okay. That fancy panic room lived up to its reputation. Separate ventilation and electrical systems—I've never seen anything like it. Couple of casualties in security, but Dr. Morgan is handling those."

  "What about you? You're limping."

  The detective shrugged, her face twisting into half smile, half grimace. “Really, I'm fine. At least, I will be after I take a bottle of ibuprofen."

  * * * *

  Mike's gaze roved up and down Gwyn's body, pausing for a brief moment at the scrap of lace covering the blond curls at the apex of her smooth thighs.

  God, what a sight. Who else but Gwyn would strip to distract a gunman? “You're okay?"

  "Obviously,” she told him cheekily, “except for a slight draft.” She bent over, picked up her skirt and quickly fastened it around her waist.

  He grinned. “You didn't have to do that on my account."

  McKenzie cleared her throat. “Well, on that note, I guess I'll escort Mr. Damico here to the station."

  Mike nodded. “I don't suppose I could have a word or two with him before you take him in? There's something else I need to know. It's important."

  The detective shot him a suspicious glance. “You're not planning on extracting a little revenge on him, are you?"

  "Like he doesn't deserve it?” The corner of Mike's mouth drew up in a wry smile. “Just a couple of questions, that's all."

  "I'd like to ask him a couple of questions myself.” Gwyn advanced on the handcuffed mob boss.

  Damico's face twisted into an ugly snarl. “Keep that crazy bitch away from me!"

  "Hold on.” Mike snatched her by the wrist. “The detective doesn't want him damaged beyond repair."

  "I wasn't going to hurt him—not anymore that is.” She walked over to Damico. “How do you like it, Gianni? A little of your own medicine. Sylvia was right to leave you, you piece of dog shit."

  Damico's face turned red and twisted with rage. “Bitch."

  "I told you once. I don't like that word.” Gwyn rushed at Damico, fists clenched.

  "Gwyn, no.” Mike grabbed her by the shoulders. She turned on him, blue eyes blazing.

  "Let me go!"

  "Go inside and calm down. Let McKenzie and me take it from here."

  Gwyn turned and glared at Damico. “You get to live another day, dirt bag."

  "Dog shit? Dirt bag? Where did a fine counselor like you pick up such language?"

  "Too much television?” she sassed with a wide grin.

  * * * *

  After Gwyn had returned to the house, Mike turned to Damico. “All right. I want to know one thing. Did you put a contract on Gwyn?"

  The mob boss remained silent. His answer, a dead-eyed stare.

  "Come on. It's an easy question. I'm sure you're smart enough to understand it."

  "Lousy cop has-been.” Damico spat on the ground.

  "Yes or no?” Mike insisted. “Did you order a contract on Gwyneth Wells?"

  "No, but I should have. Damned interfering bitch."

  Standing to the side, her arms folded across her chest, McKenzie asked, “Why should we take your word for it?"

  "Okay, I had a man following her. She's my wife's lawyer. I just wanted to keep an eye on her so that if Sylvia took off, I could maybe find out where she was.” Damico leveled his steely gaze at Mike. “If I'd taken out a contract, she'd be dead."

  "What about your guy in the alley? He nearly killed her."

  Gianni shrugged. “Let's just say he misinterpreted my instructions."

  Mike's gut clenched. Gwyn had come so close to dying in that alley.

  He glared at the mobster. “Rot in hell, Gianni."

  Gianni glared back. “I'll be out in less time than it'll take'em to do the paperwork."

  "We'll see about that.” McKenzie turned him over to one of her deputies. After the mob boss was lead away, she turned to Mike. “What do you think? Did he put out a contract on Gwyneth or not?"

  "I'm inclined to believe him."

  "Who offed Klein? Like the wise guy for that?"

  Mike shook his head. “I doubt it. I think I know who did, and if I'm right, it'll lead to whomever's still after Gwyn."

  "That's what you were going to reveal tonight—before it hit the fan?"

  "You going to stick around for the fun?"

  "Yeah. Guess I ought to.” McKenzie nodded toward the house.

  "In fact, you'd better give some TLC to your lady. She probably has a real good case of the shakes about now."

  "Think so?"

  "I'm sure of it. Unless I'm mistaken, she's not used to helicopter invasions and shootouts."

  * * * *

  Inside the Carlton mansion, Gwyneth found the servants bustling around, clearing up the damage caused by Damico's explosive invasion.

  Approaching the housekeeper, she asked, “Is everyone really all right?"

  Millie stopped sweeping and stared. “Yes, no thanks to you."

  Gwyneth's mouth dropped open. “Me?"

  "This is all your fault,” the housekeeper replied with a sweeping gesture that took in the entire room. “This lovely house was a quiet retreat before you came on the scene. Now it's—"

  "My fault?” Gwyneth tamped down the ready response and closed her mouth. In a way, the housekeeper was right. Richard's death and Damico's attack would've never happened if she'd stayed
in New York.

  "I don't have time to gab. I have work to do, and I'd like to get to it.” Millie grabbed the broom and started sweeping in jerky, angry movements.

  "Of course.” Gwyneth backed away. Obviously, the housekeeper had taken a dislike to her, and there wasn't much she could do about it. Not that it really mattered.

  She walked into the spacious hallway and found Mike's mother directing the cleanup detail like a World War II general ready to charge a German-occupied hill.

  "Simmons, see what you can salvage of dinner. Our guests still have to eat."

  The servant nodded and rushed away to the kitchen.

  "Harris, see that the table in the dining room is set, and,” she turned to a third, “Thomas, get Millie in here."

  Seconds later, Millie ran into the hallway. “Yes?"

  "Call Dodd. Tell him to come ‘round and start repairing the damage done to the landscaping by those dreadful helicopters. And that terrible hole in the wall—it must be corrected tonight. Call that fellow who worked on the summer house.” Elinor paused. “Oh, yes, his name is Wilson. Call him."

  A quick nod and Millie rushed to the telephone.

  Gwyneth took a deep breath. “Is there something I can do?"

  "Why, my dear, don't you think you've done enough?"

  "I'm so sorry. I know this would never have—"

  "No, no. You misunderstood. Make no apologies. One of the guards told me of your performance. It was quite daring of you. I would never have thought to distract a gunman in quite that way.” Mike's mother smiled. “But then I suppose these old bones wouldn't be very distracting, now would they?"

  "Well, I'm sure—” Gwyneth broke off, unable to erase the sudden image of Lady Elinor's stripping down to her knickers while held at gunpoint.

  "No need to answer that question, my dear. Although in my day...” Elinor Carlton's hazel eyes twinkled.

  "You were stunning. You still are."

  "Now I know my son must marry you."

  "But we barely know each other—less than a week."

  "Sometimes it doesn't take any longer than that."

  "Did you feel it that soon with Mr. Carlton?"

  "Oh, no.” Elinor shook her head, her eyes assuming a faraway expression. “It took at least two weeks with George and me. He was arrogant and so convinced of his desirability. I disliked him on sight."

  "But that's the way it was with Mike and me. Must be a family trait."

  "No doubt."

  * * * *

  After Damico and the last of his men had been carted away by the authorities, Mike strode into the house, marveling at the degree of order the well-trained servants had already managed. His mother's doing, he'd bet dollars to doughnuts.

  He discovered Gwyneth and his mother with their heads together, laughing.

  Hmm. Might not be such a good sign.

  "The two women in my life—and you're laughing. Should I be worried?"

  His mother flashed him a knowing smile. “Most assuredly, my son."

  Gwyneth slipped her arms around his waist. Desire flared and staggered him as she pressed against him.

  "Yes, we were discussing some traits you and your father share—from the gene pool, no doubt."

  "Gene pool traits?” Mike tried to breathe and settled for gasping. “Sounds serious."

  Gwyneth giggled, then tried for a serious expression. “Definitely."

  Mike inhaled the scent of his woman. “Mm, you smell so good. Feel good, too."

  "Mike, your mother's standing right here."

  She gave a dismissive wave. “Never mind me. I've matters to attend."

  "Before dinner, I still want everyone gathered in the salon,” Mike told her.

  She nodded. “I shall see to it."

  Once his mother had left them alone, Gwyn asked, “We're still going ahead with your plan?"

  "No time like the present,” He nuzzled her neck.

  She pulled back and pierced him with her level gaze. “Please be careful. The murderer is still here, and you could be in danger."

  "I'm more worried about you. You've already been attacked once today. I don't want you to be alone anywhere—with anyone, but my mother or father. They're the only ones I trust."

  "I think your mother actually likes me."

  "Good. She's hell-on-wheels if she thinks you don't measure up. But I wasn't worried. I knew she'd love you like I do."

  Gwyneth sighed. “How do you know you love me?” she faltered, then dropped her tone a notch. “I mean what do you love about me?

  Mike gazed into Gwyneth's shining blue eyes. “I just know."

  "That sounds awfully female, Mike. What do you know?"

  He grinned, stalling for the words that would make sense to this level-headed woman of his. “I know that you make me forget the mistakes I've made. You give me hope that I won't make more. You make me feel. That's your greatest gift. I'm alive again."

  Nestling against his chest, she murmured, “Aw, there's such a softy under that arrogant jerk I just met four days ago."

  "Watch it, counselor. This is all going to my head."

  "Yeah, and I know which one.” She pressed against him.

  "God, you are so—"

  Behind him, his mother cleared her throat, stopping his imminent attack of purple prose.

  "Shall we start pulling everyone into the salon?” she asked.

  Mike nodded. “The sooner, the better.” He pulled Gwyneth even closer. “Come on, counselor. Let's rid the world of some trash."

  Forty-six

  As Mike's official eyes and ears for the evening, Gwyneth took her place in a comfortable armchair while the evening's guests filed into the salon. Aunt Lilith came first, followed by her attorney, Paul Winston. Looking entirely too stylish, Detective McKenzie talked quietly to Mike. Neither of them seemed to be paying any attention to the gathering of suspects.

  Elinor Carlton entered along with the sullen housekeeper, Millie. “Michael didn't tell me how long this experiment will take, but I think we should make ourselves comfortable."

  Gwyneth's aunt spoke first, “I think this is a ridiculous imposition. I don't care what kind of experiment he has in mind."

  "Have something to hide?” Gwyneth asked in an undertone.

  "Don't be ridiculous,” her aunt replied with a huff and toss of her long, auburn hair.

  Pretty Dr. Tara Morgan rushed in and sank into the chair opposite Gwyneth. “Am I late? Sorry."

  Mike turned to the new arrival, his smile a shade too luminous to suit Gwyneth. “Just in time."

  Maybe he was just being polite, but she wished he wouldn't smile so readily at every pretty woman he met.

  Mike's brow furrowed while he glanced around the room. Who was he looking for now? And why couldn't he just trust her with his game plan?

  "Where's your son, Mrs. Sand?"

  The little weasel—did Mike suspect him?

  "I'm here. Miss me, Mikey?” Edmund stood in the arched doorway with a wide smirk plastered across his baby face. “Quite a bit of excitement here today. Are your house parties always so much fun?"

  The caterer's man, Reggie, came up behind Edmund. “Bollocks! You should've seen the blighter. ‘E ‘id in the pantry and squealed like a little rat rooting among the veggies. Right amused, I was."

  Cousin Eddie drew himself up to his full, but insignificant height. “Liar. You're the one squealing for his mum when we were invaded."

  "Now ‘oo's going to believe a right prat like you?"

  Mike clapped his hands. “All right. If I may have your attention for a few minutes. In the absence of Sheriff Bauer, Detective McKenzie has allowed me some leeway in investigating two areas of inquiry."

  Aunt Lilith gave a theatrical groan. “Just once, I'd like to have dinner this weekend."

  "Dinner will be served shortly,” Elinor assured them. “I do appreciate your patience and cooperation."

  "I know you're all curious,” Mike continued, “why I've requested th
is particular group of people to be here tonight."

  Sighing, Gwyneth's aunt studied her long, manicured nails. “Not really—unless you're under some illusion that you're Lieutenant Columbo. Although, I don't see a tatty trench coat or a chewed cigar."

  "And here I thought I was more the Sam Spade type.” Mike stopped to give the witch aunt one of his most charming smiles. “Point of fact, I'm puzzled by your presence here this weekend. Is it just a coincidence that you sought an attorney who's one of my father's oldest friends?"

  "Paul came highly recommended."

  "Who recommended him? I would think that someone with your history of legal problems would already have counsel on retainer."

  "Well, if you must know, my last attorney recommended him for my particular problem."

  "Which is?"

  "A matter of inheritance."

  "From who?"

  "That is a very impertinent question. I don't wish—"

  "Very well, madam, you don't have to answer. I'll answer for you. First, you're angry that your mother cut you out of her will, then your sister—Miss Wells’ mother—followed suit."

  "There were some personal items that I thought I should have—things that I could leave to my son, Edmund."

  "More than a few items, I'd say. What about Gwyneth's considerable fortune?"

  "There was a bit of money—not that much."

  "Cynthia Wells’ estate was worth ten million dollars. Nothing to sneeze at."

  "That much, really?"

  "And people have a way of dying when they're around you, don't they?” Mike ticked them off. “First, your little sister, then two—or was it three—of your husbands, including your son's father."

  "And your point is?"

  "That you're a black widow. You've murdered more than once and wouldn't hesitate to murder again."

  "Supposition, Columbo, supposition. I thought this little gathering was about Mr. Klein's murder, not my poor choice of husbands."

  "Could be they're related. I don't believe in coincidence."

  "It's immaterial to me what you believe.” She turned to her still silent escort. “Paul, I want you to sue this-this upstart for slander and defamation."

  "Now, Lilith, calm down.” Paul Winston rolled his eyes. “Let's hear the rest of his presentation. I find him informative."