"The sex."
"Just like Pamela Sue" Then Beth looked up, and her eyes got huge. "Oh and if you don't, he's going to put you on the Internet. Oh, man, I hope you don't look fat."
Mickey, who had never considered the fat aspect, shuddered in horror. "I've got an article to finish. I'm working the presentation for Heidelman. I'll be the punch line in every joke for the next decade, playing into every stereotype that exists for the little woman." She rammed her fist on the table, very un-little woman. "I've got to get that tape back."
"Can you buy it from him?"
"No. I already offered. Stupid jerk." She'd covered all possible aspects in order to salvage her career. Extortion, bribery, excessive pleading and murder. There was only one solution left. "I think I'm going to steal it," she announced. It seemed better to state it confidently, as if she thought this could actually work.
"You could get caught," replied Beth, pointing out the one elephantine flaw.
However, Mickey had already considered that. "That's why I need a professional." So Mickey wouldn't get caught .
" A private detective?"
Mickey glanced around, checking to make sure no big ears were listening. "Nah. I mean a professional criminal. You know, a real thief. Unfortunately, now I've got to find somebody. You don't meet many criminals in the lab."
"I know just the man," said Beth, quick as you please.
Amazed, Mickey stared at her with new appreciation. "You really know criminals?"
Beth lifted one eyebrow. "You meet people from all walks of life in a Starbucks. Come in tomorrow about ten. He hangs out at a table near the coffee-mug-clearance shelf in the back."
Mickey considered it for a moment. It was so tempting. "What do you think he's into? Drugs?"
Beth shook her head. "I don't think so. I think he's a made guy."
Huh? The foreign terminology made Mickey wonder at the sheltered life she had led. "What's that?" she asked.
"Part of the Outfit."
Her jaw dropped open. "No way. A mafia guy?"
Beth preened. "Yup. Right in my own Starbucks. Venti latte. Loaded."
Starbucks. It was a long way from The Godfather . Times had changed.
Mickey took another sip of the martini. The alcohol was beginning to make everything seem logical. "How do you know that he's one of Them?"
"I saw his driver's license once when he flipped open his wallet. Dominic Corlucci."
Mickey still wasn't convinced. "Just because he has an Italian name doesn't mean anything."
"Trust me, Mickey. A woman gets a sense about these things."
A scientist would be laughed out of the lab on hunches and womanly instincts, but Beth sounded so sure, even in the absence of any conclusive evidence. Mickey thought instincts ranked right up there with the tooth fairy, and could rationalize the whole thing away with logic and science when she wanted to. That she had inherited from her father.
It all sounded glamorous and possibly real. The Mafia. She took another sip of her drink. She'd always had a major thing for Pacino.
Still, the Mafia.
It wasn't exactly what she had planned. She'd been thinking of one of those penny-ante types that wore pants that were too short and hung out at the racetrack. In the end, did she really have a choice?
It was her career on the line. Her reputation as a professional and as an astronomer. No way were they going to take away her stars.
The mob ate guys like Monihan for dinner. That made her smile. It'd definitely be worth it. And worst case, she would lay even odds that the Witness Protection Program didn't have one astrophysicist in their ranks.
Yet.
"Beth. Psssssssttt. Beth."
Beth stared blankly, her face half-hidden by a cappuccino machine.
Oh, this was good. No recognition at all. The disguise was working. She'd had to leave her glasses on, because she was blind without them. Not that it seemed to affect the whole look. Mickey disguised as a bimbo had been a masterstroke. Who would suspect?
Mickey placed a hand on her hip, forming a nice isosceles triangle, just as she'd seen the other girls do.
"May I help you?" Beth asked.
"It's Mickey," she answered, twitching a little because the spandex skirt was hitting her butt in all the wrong places.
Beth emerged from behind the cappuccino machine and started to smile. "It's always been a big, fat lie, hasn't it?"
"What?"
"The whole 'I hate men' thing. Look at you," she said, her hand encompassing spandex, lace and thigh-high boots. "You just jumped from the latest issue of Sluts R Us."
Not exactly the look Mickey had been trying for. "Are you trying to make me feel better?"
Beth finished up the coffee she'd been making and put it on the wooden bar. "I'm not, huh?"
Mickey shook her head.
Beth grinned. "Well, girlfriend, you're going to be fighting the vice cops off with a stick."
When Beth started thinking she was witty, they were in serious trouble. "Where is he?"
Beth cocked her head in the direction of the far corner. "That's his usual table. He's not here yet."
"Okay." Mickey, who'd secretly been looking forward to mingling with the wrong kind, felt a little disappointed.
She practiced her walk over to the small round table. Hip to the right, hip to the left, thrust, thrust, thrust. There was a certain samba feel to it, not that Mickey had ever danced the samba, but if she had, it would have given her that same all-over body tingle that she had now.
Three espressos later, he walked through the door. Instantly she knew who he was. He moved with a sleek, lean grace, no squeaky tennies here. The kind of man who could kill you before you even knew he was in the room. His shoulders were broad, probably from lifting bodies. All in all, he was one dangerous hombre.
What scared Mickey was that, although Beth had told her enough that she would be able to recognize him, Beth had failed to disclose how a woman's body would react. A logical, intelligent, rational woman's body.
Mickey sat up straighter in her seat. Her back, her chin, her breasts all snapping into place. She'd taken a course in body language, she knew what she was saying.
Come on, baby, light my fire was the same in all languages.
Cold dark eyes scanned the room, settling on her.
Uh-oh.
The room temperature dropped ten degrees. In that moment, it dawned on her this was a really stupid idea.
He was going to kill her. He had the look of a man who carried a tommy gun in his pocket, or even worse, a garrote. Automatically, her hand covered her throat.
The next thing she knew, this cold-blooded killer was looming over her table. "You got three seconds to move your pretty little ass clear of my table."
My table . Her eyes narrowed. Nothing like arrogance to piss a woman off, especially Mickey. She had heard the tone before. Dr. Breedlove had tried it her rookie year at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. Her nuclei and elementary particles prof at U of C tried it, too, and both had been easily shot down. That's what happened when you could solve Maxwell's equation at the age of eighteen.
Mickey pulled at her tortoiseshell glasses until she could stare down her nose at him. "I'm here on business, so you might as well stop your gawking and sit your pretty little ass right down." She smiled innocently. "Sweet cheeks."
The coolness in the dark eyes heated. Damn, he was a handsome devil. Handsome in the ways of those Italian boys with high cheekbones and dark, brooding looks that said, "Casanova was my grandfather."
Not the sort of man that roamed the composite-floor hallways at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.
Not that she was noticing, or anything. Defiantly she raised her chin.
"Say what you want to say. It's a free country." Then he sprawled into the tiny chair next to her, his legs comfortably apart. A pose designed to draw attention to his well-muscled thighs and his well-muscled other parts.
Not that she was noti
cing, or anything.
Mickey tore her gaze away from his parts. "I want to hire you."
His reaction wasn't quite what she wanted. His legs closed, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes could've turned her to stone. "No."
"You haven't even asked what I want you to do."
He stared up at the ceiling, doing a fine job of avoiding her eyes. "I don't want to know."
This was not good. "I could pay you," she whispered. "Pay you well." The dark eyes flickered back to earth.
"I don't do anything illegal," he said, slow and quiet, in a tone that implied that he did things illegal on a daily basis.
Mickey took a sip of coffee. "It's not that illegal. I've got some property that needs returning."
"To who?" he asked.
"Whom," she corrected, now portraying the part of a bimbo grammarian. Focus, Mick . "To me."
"You got the wrong city block for drug deals gone bad."
"No drugs. It's a tape."
His dark eyebrows drew together at a perfect forty-five degree angle. "Who's holding it?"
Mickey slid a piece of paper across the table. Slime-ball Intern's name and address were printed in twelve-point Arial type so that there were no mistakes. She'd seen that on Law & Order .
"How much are we talking here?"
"Two-hundred dollars."
The eyes closed off again. "Sorry, lady."
Quickly Mickey backtracked. The going rate for breaking and entering was not posted on CNN. "Two thousand." It would kill her savings, but for a career-sustaining insurance policy, it was worth it. She needed muscle, and she was willing to pay for it.
Again she caught the flicker of interest in his face before it disappeared. "No."
"Please," she said. It was about the closest she'd ever come to begging in her entire life, but she needed help.
"How do you know there's only one tape?"
Mickey closed her eyes. This was where things got tricky and moved into the realm of diplomatic finagling. "If there's more than one tape, then workof a more forceful naturemight be involved. You do any leg breaking? Whacking?" she asked, successfully imagining Slimeball Intern screaming in pain. She smiled.
"No," he said, and the screams in her dreams drifted away.
"Oh," she muttered softly, thinking it was probably a good thing that Slimeball Intern wouldn't get hurt. Secretly she was still disappointed.
"So you'll do it?" she asked, just as the door swung open. The bells on the top jangled, and a big man walked through. Big, beefy, with frown lines that were carved permanently into his face.
Mickey shot a quick glance in Beth's direction to see if she'd been watching, but right now Beth was missing. And where was moral support when you needed it? Off refilling the Frappuccino mix.
Slowly the big guy lumbered over to where she was sitting.
"We're done," Dominic said to Mickey, as if she were nothing more than a nanofly.
Sensing the other man was a business associate, in the haziest definition of the word, Mickey stood. "You'll do it?"
He didn't reply, just grabbed her and dumped her in his lap.
Whoa.
"What"
And he kissed her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God
An electrical charge fired everywhere he touched, and somewhere in her nether regions condensation began to form. What had she been missing out on by not kissing wise guys before? That was the last thing she remembered before her brain began to spark and fizzle.
Her body melted, draping over his in a nicely accommodating fashion. Another two nanoseconds and she'd be ready for sex.
He stopped before she really embarrassed herself, which was a good thing. Then he patted her bum and whispered in her ear, "You need to get out of here really, really fast. Meet me here tomorrow at ten. I'll help you, but don't say anything right now."
Like she was capable of speech. Ha .
For a long moment she stared at him, trying to read exactly what he was thinking. This time what she saw in his eyes surprised her. None of the "leg-breaking" coldness, nor the "Come to me, cara mia" heat, but instead there was justcuriosity. The kind that she saw everyday at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.
She blinked, and whooshit was gone and the cold was back.
"See you later," he said, in a husky tone that implied all sorts of carnal treats. He spoiled it all by giving her another pat on the rear.
She should have socked him, but that "later" part was still echoing in her head.
Then she glanced at the big Gonzo that cast a long shadow over the table. "Yeah, all right," she said, then pulled down her glasses, just so he didn't think he could boss her around. "Sweet cheeks."
* * *
Chapter Two
Dominic Corlucci had to work hard to keep the smile off his face. A woman like that? She could make a man forget a lot.
However, Dominic's memories were too well ingrained to forget anything. Self-preservation was his number-one priority now. The only reason he had kissed her was to stave off unnecessary questions; his companion saw one use in a woman and one use only.
Maybe that was his only reason, or maybe she aroused his curiosityamong other things.
He watched her walk away, an exaggerated swing in her hips that didn't look normal. He didn't know who she was, but he did know that something reeked of a setup. That worried him.
"So I was telling Louise, 'Louise,' I said, 'I'm not ready to settle down. If you're looking for a man to play house with, then you need to be finding greener pastures.'"
Dom turned his attention away from the puzzle of the retreating female and back to the job at hand. Namely Frankie "Lumpy" DeCarlo.
"Yeah, females ain't nothing but trouble," he muttered, trying to figure her angle.
"Amen. Who's the legs?"
"A potential sheet warmer. Need to try her on for size." He cracked his knuckles for effect.
The big man considered it for a moment, rubbing his chin. "I'd do her."
Dom stretched in the damned little seat, all casual, a man having a cup of coffee, nothing more. "You seen her around before?"
Frankie scratched his head. "You know, she looks a little like Big Jake's ex, but that oneand she was trouble, I tell youdidn't wear no glasses. Odd look, the glasses and all."
Definitely odd. Dom didn't trust anybody. A man got real dead, real fast that way. "Yeah, but it's kinda cute, don't you think?"
"Me, I like my women stacked. A man needs something to hold on to."
Dom gave Frankie a sideways look. "I bet you have all the women panting after you."
Frankie gave him a palms-up. "All my problems can be attributed to slow horses and fast women. I'm a veritable babe in the woods compared to you lothario types."
Dom kept silent. It helped his image when he didn't talk about women; he just smiled mysteriously every now and then. Made everybody wonder. He smiled now, the smile of a man remembering his last good lay.
"I haven't seen Johnny C. around lately," he said, casually changing the subject. "Where's he gone? Sold us out for those guys back east?"
"Don't know. Vinny's been keeping quiet lately." Frankie looked around, watching the other people in the store. "Let's go to Dilly's place."
Dilly's place was a good sign. Dom hadn't yet been invited to the more sacrosanct confines, and if he was getting an invitation now, that meant Frankie was starting to trust him.
That might be the perfect time to pitch his ATM scam. Nothing obvious or too eager. Cast the floater out and then just skim the line back and forth over the surface.
Dom uncurled his legs and stood. That was the bitch of these little places. A tall man needed a place to stretch out.
He caught the eye of the street cop that walked in the door. Badge 271. They'd been in the Academy together. Dom shrugged into his jacket, keeping his face turned away. The cops didn't worry him as much as the attorneys. Cops knew to keep their mouths shut. But an attorney? Slimeballs who were paid to yap. Still, as he
walked past 271, he kept his face firmly in the shadows. Big Frankie didn't notice at all.
Mickey caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, just as she hit the highway to Batavia. She had forgotten to rub off her eyeliner. Not that anyone would notice. Nobody really noticed her looks except when she was dolled up, either as a bridesmaid, or a bimbo.
Neither of which was her.
No, guys like Dominic Corlucci would never notice Mickey in the world that she lived in.
He was the polar opposite of Slimeball Intern Monihan and a hell of a kisser. Her lips were still tingling from the effects, and if she closed her eyes she could still recall the centrifugal force that was buzzing between her legs.
Times like this, a woman could be glad that the man was a gangster. It made him oh so easy to resist.
Definitely trouble. In fact, by the time she'd made it to the triple-axe sculpture that bridged high over the entrance to the lab, she had made up her mind. No point in endangering her loins or her life. She could just forget about Dominic Corlucci altogether.
I'm not going to be disappointed about it, either , she thought sternly to herself and to all body parts that reverberated whenever his magnetic field snapped its fingers.
She slid her badge into the front-door locks and went inside the long narrow corridors. Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. This was her home. Sometimes it still overwhelmed her. Quarks, tau neutrino, hell, even the Internet was conceived of here, contrary to what the politicians thought. These were the discoveries that rocked the world.
These discoveries were the very building blocks of the universe. People never appreciated the simplicity of the atom and all its components. Such a small, simple body, so powerful yet so overlooked.
And Mickey knew just how that felt.
Her sneakers squeaked as she walked down the halls where Lederman had walked. The seventh floor of the high-rise was where she did her work, and she found her way to the small, functional desk in the back of the pen.
She worked on the Sloan Digital Sky Survey, which she considered her own personal heaven. Mapping out the cosmos with pictures and light. That was all Mickey had ever wanted to dowork with the stars.
It Should Happen to You Page 2