“I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my chair,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“But it’s not your chair,” he replied happily, swiveling to display a brand new, ergonomically correct office chair. “Your chair is over there –” and he pointed to a corner where her old thrift-store bargain typists’ chair stood sad and dejected. “The office supply people will be arriving soon with my new desk, so we’re going to have to do some re-arranging.”
“That’s not all that will get re-arranged if you push me any further.” She leaned forward, her hands braced on the desk. “Don’t start getting yourself too comfortable, Winters – you’re gonna be out of here the soonest. There’s no way we can make this work!”
But she’d lost him. She followed the direction of his gaze and grinned savagely. Winters’ eyes were fixed firmly on the glimpse of rounded breasts that peeked from the top of her scoop neck t-shirt, her cleavage accentuated as she leaned forward across the desk.
“Earth to Winters, Earth to Winters – never in your sweetest dreams, so forget it!” She had the satisfaction of seeing him jerk back to the present and blush. But then he gave her his most engaging grin and said: “Want to bet on that?”
Despite herself, Cíara grinned back. “I’d win,” she said sweetly.
“If you win, I’ll be out of your life.”
“Hold on, what are we betting here?”
“I win if you come to bed with me – before the end of the next month!”
She laughed outright then. “Do you always back losing propositions?” she asked.
“To show how confident I am, if I lose you get to keep the new office furniture, too!”
“Well, that’s that, then. Thank you very much – would you mind changing the color of that chair, I prefer green myself.”
“Don’t be so confident, Somers,” he declared, and reached across the desk to run a finger along the line of soft skin just above her neckline. Cíara jumped as if she’d been scalded, her pulses singing. Suddenly, she wasn’t quite so confident about this bet…
“Oh, no, you keep your hands to yourself – no copping a feel without permission!” she warned.
But he only grinned and asked what she thought of the new sign on the office door. She had to go back out and look, because she’d been too pre-occupied with Harry’s problems to see it the first time. But she returned to the office with murder on her mind.
“You can just take that right down,” she snapped, “Winters & Somers, indeed! My name should at least come first – and do you always jump the gun like this?”
“Oh, no, when the time is right, I can stay the course and my timing’s perfect,” he replied, with that sexy look on his face.
She rolled her eyes. Please God, I haven’t talked to you for a while, but just let me get through the next few weeks, get this man out of my life, and you’ll see me at early Sunday mass again!
Somehow they got through the morning, with Cíara biting her tongue to repress a nasty comment when the office supply people arrived with a shiny wooden desk for Winters that took up most of the room, two leather visitors’ chairs, and three wooden filing cabinets. They also brought a replacement chair in green for the one she’d complained about, and she couldn’t resist a smirk. Apparently, Winters’ wasn’t quite so confident about their deal as he gave out.
“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should do some sort of press release, you know, use publicity to drum up some custom,” Winters said after the office was straightened, the paperwork agreed, and the silent telephone had started getting to him.
“That’s a great idea,” she said sweetly, “Maybe we can include a photograph of you, and we’d have all those romantic ladies queuing up to have you search for their lost identities.”
“No photographs. I don’t do photographs,” Winters said sharply.
“Why ever not? A good looking guy like you?” He turned to look out the window, hands pushed into the front pockets of his suit pants, but she was sure there was a higher color on his cheeks.
“Nice of you to say so – is that a point to my side? But no, no photographs.”
Cíara just shrugged; content to know that her barb had gone home. Now, if she could only find out what sinister reason lay behind Mr. Winters’ fear of photographs….after all, she was a detective!
And I’m going to need any ammunition I can get to survive the next few weeks!
Finally, Winters announced it was time for lunch. Optimistically setting the answering machine, he invited her to join him. She was about to tell him to get lost – part of her campaign plan was to spend as little time with Winters as possible – when he added that her old friend Bill would be joining them.
He grinned at her evil smile. “Remember, revenge is a dish best served cold,” he murmured as he helped her on with her jacket.
* * *
Winters had chosen a small pub in the popular Temple Bar area for lunch and Bill was already seated when they arrived. He shifted nervously as he saw the mean glint in Cíara’s eye. “Before you say anything at all, I think it’s marvelously romantic, the way this guy wanted to track you down – and Sórcha backs me up on that,” Bill announced in a bid to pre-empt her temper tantrum.
Cíara was gob smacked. When she could string a coherent sentence together, she gasped: “Romantic?”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I told Bill that I’d only seen you the once, but that I knew we had a future together,” Winters said, straight faced, muttering a muffled ‘ouch’ as Cíara’s heel connected solidly with his toes under the table. Bill looked startled, but didn’t comment – probably glad to have the redheaded detective's attention taken off his own transgressions.
“Well, Bill, there’s good news – Cíara and I have agreed to go into partnership.”
“What! What happened to all your whining about how you have to be chained to the computer for the whole year for this special project…?”
“I needed some stimulus, and Cíara certainly provided that,” Winters replied, grinning. Her cheeks burned as she caught Bill's smirk.
“But what happens when your sabbatical is over and you go back to the States? Where will that leave Cíara?” Bill had the good grace to look concerned.
“You’re going back to the States?” She didn’t know whether to be pleased at the prospect, or angry that he was trying to muscle in on her business when he wasn’t going to be around long-term.
Winters was silent. Bill studied each of them in turn. “You haven’t told her, have you?”
Winters rolled his eyes and suggested they order, but she wasn’t to be put off.
“I suspect there’s lots of things this bollox hasn’t told me, Bill, so do go ahead and enlighten me,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Jon, but she should know if she thinks there’s any long term arrangement in this. Jon’s only in Ireland for a year – less, now – because he’s on sabbatical from his job.”
“From his job?” She looked suspiciously from one man to another, “But I thought he was just a writer…?”
“Just a writer?” Winters squawked.
Bill grinned. “Well, he probably makes more money from his books than from his job, but Jon’s a police detective in New York. Homicide. That’s how I got to know him – remember when I did that year's exchange in the States? Anyway, they won’t let him take more time off, so it’s either go home, or resign at the end of the year. And he loves that job too much to quit.”
Cíara was silent, wondering at that funny tight feeling in her stomach, a feeling she didn't want to examine. Of course she wanted Winters out of her life. But knowing he was going brought up all sorts of complications for the business, if he won their bet and stayed at Somers Agency. She swallowed hard. Winters & Somers had such a ring to it. Maybe she could keep the name after he was gone…
“So that’s why you won’t have any photographs taken? You don’t want to give away your police identity!” Realization dawned.
“That’s righ
t – can you imagine the problems that would cause, both in investigations and in dealing with the tough guys?”
“To say nothing of the way his mates would josh him!” Bill added with a sly grin. Winters shot him a look of loathing. Then the conversation drifted off to other things, finally alighting on the Diamond Darling and the thefts that Bill was involved in with his detective team.
“We’ve hardly any leads,” he confided. “This guy’s a pro. Uses gloves, probably some kind of disposable coveralls because he leaves nothing behind. But he – or she – does know his stuff. Only the best for our thief, I can tell you. We figure he must be someone with some experience in the jewelry industry. We even sent a guy down to a jewelers’ convention in Waterford last weekend, just to see if he could pick up any clues.”
At the mention of the jewelry convention, Cíara tried very hard not to meet Winters' eye. She was certain now that he was her erstwhile rescuer, and her cheeks still flushed when she thought of the names Wallace had called her.
To say nothing of the hefty thwack of Grace Muldoon’s umbrella on the side of his head, for his troubles.
The bruise was still livid – and she imagined he’d be livid, too, if he recognized her!
To her horror, when she looked up from her meal, he eyeing her speculatively. But as soon as he caught her glance he looked away.
Jeez, don’t let him figure that out!
“But we got nothing. It looks as though he’s smuggling the goods out of the country, 'cos none of them have surfaced here and believe me, we’ve leaned pretty heavily on all the likely fences who would deal in this kind of thing,” Bill continued.
“Maybe he’s breaking them down,” Winters suggested.
“Even so, precious gems of this quality, I mean we really are talking the best stuff here, they’d be noticed. Besides which, some of the stuff he's taken would be more valuable whole, because of historical provenance.”
As their coffee arrived, Bill leaned down to the briefcase beside his chair and pulled out a sheaf of photocopies. “Maybe you could take a look at these – I shouldn’t really, but Jon is a police officer and I had the go-ahead to ask him to consult.”
“Darling, our first job,” Winters murmured in her ear, his breath tickling the delicate skin and making her shiver.
“Yeah, whatever,” she snapped.
Several minutes later, she commented: “The only thing that seems to be in common here is that all these victims say they held dinner parties just a few days before they were robbed.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But you should see the guest lists, all wealthy beyond our wildest dreams – except maybe you, Jon.” Bill grinned as the other man scowled.
“J.V.Winters as a suspect, how delectable!” Cíara exclaimed.
“Sorry, to disappoint you, love, but he’s too big. This thief is getting through tiny spaces, like bathroom windows the owners believe are too small to be a security risk. You have these huge, opulent houses with security systems on a parallel to Fort Knox – and they leave the bathroom windows open. Go figure!” Bill explained.
Bill left in a hurry then, in answer to a call from the station on his mobile phone. Cíara, who was dreading returning alone to the office with Winters, announced that she had a heavy date that evening and was going to take the rest of the afternoon off. “Besides, I have to pick my car up from the garage.”
“That’s not surprising, I bet that rust bucket spends a lot of time in the garage. And no wonder you can’t afford anything better. You won’t have much business, playing hooky like this. You can’t let your social life get in the way of work if you want to succeed,” he prodded her.
Cíara was fuming. If he only knew the extra hours she’d worked to make the money to start this business in the first place, to say nothing of the 16-hour days living, eating and breathing the job to try to get it on its feet!
Now he sat there looking smugly at her and she was, for once, lost for words.
“Go to hell,” was the best she could manage and she flounced off, getting some satisfaction from leaving him holding the bill.
CHAPTER NINE
She realized the danger just as soon as she saw them.
Walking back alone through streets of delectable shops selling everything a girl could ever want was obviously a dumb move, especially for a girl on a budget with a high-maintenance car to feed. But the stores really did have everything.
Including the sweetest, sexiest pair of strappy sandals with devilish ankle breaking four-inch stiletto heels.
Cíara pressed her nose to the glass as she stared, holding herself back only when she saw the severe glance of the store assistant. But the shoes called to her from the window where they were cunningly displayed. She answered the call, of course – what red-blooded Irish woman wouldn’t? And once she had them on her feet, there was no way she could leave them all alone in the shop. Even though the price tag made her wince and realize she’d have to give up lunches for a week – or two, three….
That evening found her concentrating carefully as she picked her way across the gravel of the Henley’s immaculate driveway wearing her new sandals. She’d picked up the beautifully polished and now mercifully quiet MG from a still miserable Harry and driven out to Meath during the evening city exodus, which had done little to improve her humor.
In fact, by the time she arrived, she was in a foul mood and looking for someone to take it out of. Preferably Margaret or Liam Henley. Or even the ‘lovely young William Dexter’ who had such a wonderful future ahead of him. Her erstwhile grandmother was matchmaking, and Cíara’s blood pressure notched up another few hundred points as she ground her teeth.
But she soon discovered she didn't have to search for someone to savage. Right there in the hallway, being greeted enthusiastically by Margaret Henley, was Jonathon Winters. To give the man credit, he looked just about as gobsmacked to see her as she did to see him, but he was the first to recover. Oily snake that he was!
“Cíara! I didn’t know you were among the guests tonight! Such a pleasant surprise!” Turning his best thousand watt smile on Mrs. Henley, he announced: “Did you know that Cíara and I are partners in her private investigations agency? Just tied the knot today!”
In other circumstances, Cíara would have been delighted to see her grandmother at such a loss. But right now, she was too taken up with fighting the desire to leap on Jonathon and beat the smile from his face. Or something.
“Darling, that’s wonderful – your grandfather will be so happy to hear that you’re getting the business off on a proper footing at last. What do you drive, Mr. Winters?” Mrs. Henley oozed.
“What do I drive?” Winters was suitably bewildered. Cíara ignored him.
“Since when does having a man as a partner mean anything?” Cíara growled.
“Well, it is rather a man’s business, isn’t it? You know, of course, Mr. Winters, that Cíara is—“
“--Really, really in need of a drink and I’m sorry, Margaret, but I really must steal Jonathon out from under your nose. I have a small business matter to discuss,” Cíara cut in. No way did she want her grandmother to spill the beans about her relationship to the fabulously wealthy Henleys. It would bring up too many questions in Winters’ mind – questions that she had no intention of answering. Then she had a sudden image of her grandmother hurriedly shuffling seating arrangements so that she would be condemned to spend the entire meal sitting next to her 'partner’, and hastily added: “By the way, I am so looking forward to sitting next to William Dexter at dinner!”
“Well, well, I never would have guessed that you move in such exalted and affluent circles,” Winters murmured against her ear as he escorted her to the well-stocked bar.
“Why? Because I drive a beat up old car and can’t afford classy office space? Or because I just seem like something the cat dragged in off the street?”
He gave her a long, lazy assessment, taking his time to scroll his gaze from her sexy, strappy sandals to
the minuscule red dress that covered the bare essentials and had been worn simply to give her grandparents social palpitations. “No, you certainly don’t look like something the cat dragged in,” he muttered, his hand slipping surreptitiously down the silky fabric of her dress to rest on the swell of her buttock.
“Get your hand off my bum, Winters, or I’ll cause a scene. I’ve told you, no copping a feel without permission!”
It was his turn to be embarrassed, mostly because he realized he’d had no control over that errant hand. In fact, standing so close to Cíara, breathing in her perfume, seeing the hectic, excited color on her skin, he had to fight the temptation to drag her off into a quiet corner and…
“Winters!”
My God, can she read my mind? He came to his senses at the sharp note in her voice, and rapidly backed off. “So, who’s this William Dexter then? The one you’re so looking forward to seeing?” He hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted her to know he was remotely interested, but the question slipped out anyway.
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. Why did he have to be so damned attractive? Even that bruise now gave him a rakish look, and she wanted to run her fingers gently over it…
“Why? Are you afraid of the competition?” she taunted.
Winters glared at her, and she gave him a sweet smile, aware that her grandmother was bearing down on them, William trailing in her wake.
For God’s sake, William, at least try and look like you could be competition to this man! she urged silently. But there was little chance of that. William Dexter, just under six foot tall and still sporting a youthful gangliness that made him look younger than his years, could never be considered competition to the undeniably handsome, undeniably male writer/homicide cop. But Cíara was willing to give it a shot, so she spent much of the cocktail hour giving a bemused and delighted William her total attention.
Then, as they sat down to eat, another guest arrived, profuse in his apologies for lateness. Cíara, immediately recognizing the long blond hair and slender frame of Anton Wallace, sent a prayer out to the Universe at least to let the floor open up and swallow her.
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