"No!" God forbid he should know where she lived. Or what her name was. Or her real bra size . "I'll meet you at the corner of Canal and Jackson, in front of Union Station."
"Okay. Be there at five-thirty. I've got to buy a wedding present."
A wedding present? No way. No way. On a good day, she hated to shop. In two-inch heels, it was stilettocide. "You think I can be beneficial?"
Again he looked her over. "Don't know, but Anthony said something about Marshall Fields. I hate Marshall Fields. On the other hand, your sparkling companionship could get me through it."
Mickey turned away, turned away from the dark, compelling eyes. Turned away from that mobile mouth that seemed to be terminally amused. She was halfway to the door when she heard his low voice. Deep, sexy words that tickled their way down her spine, one vertebra at a time.
"See you tonightsweet cheeks."
The aisles of Marshall Fields were not where a virile, all-American man should be on a Saturday evening. It was embarrassing, emasculating and damned shameful. Still, Anthony's son needed a wedding present, and Dom was determined to find something appropriate, yet suitably tough, no pantywaist gewgaws from him.
"Maybe we should get a bottle of Scotch?" he suggested.
"Are they registered here?" Michelle asked, surprising him with what she knew.
It was one surprise after another with her. She had showed up in front of the station in a dress that knocked him in the gut. It wasn't her usual tacky outfit, not that it was demure, either. This dress smacked of sexuality. Some white silk thing that was cut short, so short it made a man itch to explore exactly how short it was. Michelle wasn't stacked, but nicely curvy up top. Again, she just lookedright. If he ever got her naked, he'd spend about two hours just memorizing all her lines.
He stopped so suddenly that Michelle crashed into him.
"Are they registered?" she repeated, as if he was a moron.
It primed his ego and made him want to act like the stupidity was a farce. As if "getting naked" thoughts couldn't get him dead. "How do I know if they're registered?" he asked, mentally undressing that long body once more.
He kept forgetting why he had wanted her here in the first place. To figure out exactly who she was.
She shrugged one elegant shoulder. "They just tell you."
Dom tried to remember exactly what Anthony had said about the wedding. "Don't know."
"We can check," she answered, and moved toward the china department as if she knew just where she was going. Who the hell was she? She walked awkwardly in her heels, looking as if she was unused to the usual busyness of every female he had ever met. Yet, damn, could she kiss. Still he could remember how she felt, how her lips parted so effortlessly. He shot a quick sideways look at her. Maybe somebody had brought out their big guns. One of those innocent-looking broads with the high-powered starters that knew men, and knew sex. Maybe "they"whoever "they" wereknew Dom's weak spot. Okay, it was every man's weak spot, but still
He followed her blindly into a demilitarized zone known as the bridal registry. As she walked, he found himself slowing, watching the swing in her hips, watching the long length of her legs. She was tall. Almost as tall as he was. Her bare shoulders emerged from the white silk. Pale, not tanned like a lot of the girls he knew. The blond mane had to be fake, but there was no disguising that face. It was lean, angular and the dark-framed glasses were a great touch. They gave her an air of arroganceand mystery. Dom had always loved mysteries. It always got him in trouble. That, and poor judgment.
Michelle stopped in front of the kiosk decorated in roses and bells. "Here we are. What's the bride's name?"
Dom thought for a minute. "Mona."
She tapped her foot. "Do you know Mona's last name?"
What did she think? He was doing time with Anthony's future daughter-in-law? "No."
"Perhaps you know the groom."
"Sure. Testa."
"Is that a last name or a first name?" she drawled.
Playing with her was starting to get fun. "Last."
He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, like a secretary or something. She sure as hell knew how to type. He was a hunt-and-pecker when typing was required.
"Here it is." With a single flourish of her finger, papers started flying out the hole in the bottom, and she handed him the list. "Crystal by Waterford, Dolmen, and china by Royal Albert. Hartington. Good stuff."
"Okay," he said, like he knew what she was talking about.
"Do you see a salesgirl?"
Dom looked around the empty store. "No." He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound echoed in the quiet corridors, and one or two shoppers poked their heads out to stare.
Michelle glared at him, and for the first time he realized her eyes were blue. A sky blue that was barely noticeable behind her thick lenses. Right now they were noticeable because she was staring daggers at him. Obviously whistling was not the right way to flag a clerk.
"Don't you ever shop?"
Dom shrugged. "Not if I can help it."
She turned on her heel and gave him her back. Whoever she belonged to, he must be loaded. She knew the right brand names and she walked around without looking at the directory. This was a place she was used to, so he supposed he should trust her taste. "What do you think I should get?"
"How much did you want to spend?" she asked, neatly rattling him even more.
Oh, that was a tough one. His budget was tight, and he'd rather spend his money on graft and corruption than dinnerware, but he needed to make an impression. And he needed to look like he had moneybut not too much money. " A couple of hundred." That seemed safe.
"Go for the Harrington."
An older saleswoman appeared, clad entirely in red. "May I help you?"
Michelle didn't even hesitate. "We'll take the gravy boat."
"Would you like that wrapped or delivered?"
"Wrapped," interjected Dom. He didn't dare show up without a gift, even if it meant being late. Bad move.
Michelle shook her head, the blond curls moving as one. "It's going to take a while."
If he was lucky, they'd miss the entire wedding ceremony. "We can wait."
"It'll take half an hour, young man. Our gift-wrapping service is quite comprehensive."
Dom checked the time. Thirty minutes was perfect. "'S all right. We'll wait." He turned to Michelle. "We'll get a cup of coffee."
After paying for the gift and making arrangements for the "proper" bows and crap, they headed down to the Walnut Cafe. The dining room was more a place for women who had too much time on their hands. Dom sipped his coffee and watched Mickey, wondering if this was her element. "So what do you do in your spare time?" he asked, his curiosity rearing its head once more.
"Read. TV. Movies."
Almost normal. Except for that reading thing. Dom couldn't remember the last time he had picked up a book. Course, most wise guys wouldn't be caught dead with a tome in their hands. "I like movies."
She smiled at him politely, as if to say, "That's nice, but not in your wildest dreams."
Damn she knew how to step right on a guy's more honorable intentions. Or maybe they weren't so honorable, but he figured if she was a plant, then she knew what was what. He would be expected to make a play for her. It was all about the game.
He just couldn't forget that it was nothing more than a game. She was fascinating, intriguing and just a little clunky, and the combination whetted his appetite like no woman he'd met in a long while.
The idea of spending long hours in her company, merely unwrapping her packageboth in the figurative and literal senseawakened something inside him, something that he'd kept dormant for a long time. Of course, that's probably exactly what they'd figured he'd do, pegging him for the horny bastard that he was. Undercover work was hard on a man's sex life. People really had no idea.
"Do you think you can try for the tape tomorrow?"
Ah, yes, the mysterious tape. It was always about the t
ape. To be honest, he wasn't sure it existed. "I'll go look on Monday when the scammer's at work."
"Maybe you could try tonight?"
"I thought your friend would be home tonight," he said, wondering if he was supposed to get caught breaking and entering. It was a stupid setup, but guys had been brought down by lesser slipups.
She crossed her legs in front of her, the skirt riding up exquisitely high. Once again her packaging was calling to him, parts of him responding right on cue. Damn.
"Probably," she said, all casual like. "Monday then. Here's a cell-phone number. One of those disposable jobbers that can't be traced, so don't even think that it's legit."
He cracked a smile. "Whoa. Looks like you've covered all the bases."
"Of course I did."
"Why's the tape so important?"
"It should never have been made."
That was new. "It was one of those foot or farm animal things? You're trying to be an actress, aren't you?" He hoped that wasn't true, because she'd never make it.
"An actress? What do you think I am? Some vacuous bimbo who can't do anything more? You men are all alike."
Dom hid his smile. The brain thing seemed to be a sticking point with her. "I've got a bad case of primordial regression."
"Good. As long as you understand."
"Sure." He stood, thought about helping her up, but she looked so militant, so determined to be on her own, he just watched instead. "Ready to head out?"
She uncurled her legs from the small table, and he felt a twinge of something that was probably sympathy. Whatever got her here, she wasn't happy about it. For just a second, her walk was brisk, no-nonsense, and then she glanced back.
He smiled at her open look of assessment.
The walk shifted, the hips swayed and he found himself watching once more. It wasn't pretty, but damned if he wasn't getting more than a little randy just by watching that eye-glazing swing. There was an odd rhythm. Just when you thought you had the beat, she gave it an extra ka-ching.
There couldn't be much harm in a guy noticing a woman's moves, could there? The voice that had kept Dom alive for the past two years had some objections, but content to watch the sway and pitch, Dom chose not to listen.
Mickey swore quietly to herself. The sandals were giving her a blister. She'd dressed nice tonight. Sexy, but nice. And every time she looked at Dominic, he was watching her with that speculative look, but she wasn't so stupid that she didn't notice the heat in the look, as well. And that was really ticking her off.
The clingy clothes and the long blond hair called into every male stereotypical fantasy. That fantasy was sooooo not Mickey, nor would it ever be. The other reason she was annoyed was thatwell, that she was annoyed. It shouldn't bother her. Nor should it thrill her. But it did and she wasn't sure which was worse nor, to be honest, did she really care. She just needed the tape, and then this whole charade would be over.
And she'd never see Dominic Corlucci again.
Which brought in a whole new wave of emotions, which annoyed her even further. She looked back over her shoulder, noticed the Saturday-night smile. "Can you hurry it up?"
"Sorry," was all he said, and they made it up the steps to the back of the chapel.
They had ended up at the church with about ten minutes to spare. Dominic drove a Honda, which seemed a little odd. She was expecting something bigger, something less fuel efficient. Not a Honda four-door that looked like it couldn't hold golf clubs in the trunk, much less a body. But what did she know? If you cut off the head and legs, the human torso really wasn't that long.
As they were rushed to some seats in the back, the sounds of the wedding march began, and everybody stood. It was a traditional Catholic wedding, striking up memories of Jessica's recent nuptials. At least Jessica would be back in another week, although Mickey had pretty much decided to keep most everything to herself. It was one thing unloading her mistakes to Beth, who seemed to think the whole thing was a spectacular adventure, but it was another to admit weakness to Jessica, who would never, ever let her forget it.
The bride looked gorgeous, happy and content. Really content. Mickey wanted to holler out to her, "You're marrying a wise guy. Is this what you're reducing yourself to?" but wisely she held her tongue.
Stubbornly she looked around the chapel, looking anywhere but at Dominic. He looked good in his suit. Better than she wanted him to look. Mickey always prided herself on focusing on more than just the outer faccedil;ade of the human appearance. A man's mind was more important than a great set of abs. It was an edict that was easy to believe in when you were exposed to receding hairlines and physiques that were less than ideal. Confronted with such godlike physical attributes, it seemed shallow and a full-frontal betrayal of all her principles to be filled with lust.
Careful not to get caught, she gave him a quick onceover. Yeah, definitely lust. Black was his color. When contrasted with the dark line of his jacket, his hair shone without color at all. The truest black that swallowed up all the light around it.
And his mouth . This man had a mouth that should have been feminine. Should have made him look prissy. Instead, that mouth made her stop breathing. Wide, full, expressive lips. He was always moving them. Smiling, frowning, smirking. Like he knew about his effect on women. The cad.
He almost caught her ogling him, but she covered and concentrated on the stained-glass window just on the other side of him.
The church was packed with dark-haired men, perfectly coiffed women and screaming kids. Every now and then, one goombah type or another would nod in Dom's direction. He'd send an answering nod, some sort of mob fraternity handshake.
Why couldn't she be afraid of him? It was a mystery that she wasn't going to solve right now, but as soon as she got home, she was going to sentence herself to six hours with Joe Pesci and GoodFellas .
Nothing like a little blood and gore to put the fear of God into a female.
Finally the ceremony was over, and she could concentrate on more important things, like walking in her heels.
The reception was a few blocks away andof coursethey walked. He made a point of putting her on the inside of the sidewalk. A nice touch, but she really needed more help with the walking.
The dress and the shoes were Cassandra's. And while the dress was okay, the shoes were one size too small. She stumbled, and he grabbed her arm. It was only one touch. A polite, impersonal touch. But her body just responded with its own law of attraction. The force operating between two masses is equal to the two masses multiplied together, preferably in a carnal manner. Then the result was divided by the square of the too few inches between them. Lastly, the whole disaster was now multiplied by the Corlucci sexiness constant. Sadly, the constant was in triple digits.
For a moment she leaned in, using gravity as an excuse to get close. He looked into her eyes, and Mickey felt her flesh go even weaker.
"You doing okay?" he asked, as they entered the small hall, and suddenly they weren't alone anymore. Mickey straightened, focused on the pain in her foot and condemned all males to perdition.
Yeah, that was easy, she thought to herself, ignoring the little snickering from the peanut gallery in her brain.
The reception hall was lit with candles and roses. Except for the one-hundred or so mafiosi, it would have been really romantic. Two weddings in less than two weeks. Her life was cursed. She shot a sideways look at Dom, looking sinfully delicious, and decided being cursed wasn't without its rewards. He led her over to the bar and ordered two glasses of cabernet.
For a few minutes they stood, listening to the music, and she sipped her wine. He left his untouched.
Then the band kicked into a soulful version of "Speak Softly, Love," and Dom put down his glass.
"Want to dance?"
She didn't want to, her feet were killing her, and as much as she had flashed JUST PRETEND in front of his eyes, the look he was sending her was flashing another sort of signal. Sadly she shook her head. "I can't."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself, although it'll look weird if we're the only ones sitting out all the dances."
Then he stared ahead, his dark eyes sad and sorrowful, as if she'd stomped up and down on his favorite toy. Men.
"Oh, all right," she said, trying to convince herself that she just wanted to do him a favor. Yes, officer, that's Mickey Coleman aiding and abetting the mob. Why? He was cute.
But when she slid into his arms, the world drifted away. He didn't have to ask her to move closer, her body did that for her. He didn't have to ask her to press his cheek so close to hers. There wasn't a part of her that wasn't completely enveloped by the hard confines of his body, by the clean scent that he exuded, by the sure warmth of his touch. Around the crowded dance floor they moved, so effortlessly that Mickey forgot her sore feet, she forgot her common sense. For one dance, she would lose herself with him.
"It's not so awful, is it?" he asked, his mouth mere millimeters away from her ear.
And Mickey Coleman, woman of a thousand stars with a master's in astrophysics en route to a doctorate, an IQ of 175 and knowledge of more cosmic events than Superman ever dreamed of, began to purr.
* * *
Chapter Four
There are some women that a man is destined to distrust. Women who wear disguises for instance. Women who pretend to be one thing, but in reality are another.
Yet with Michelle in his arms, Dom found his distrust slipping away right in time with the music, one soft beat after another.
She was trouble, he knew it. But his brain just couldn't wrap itself around the logical facts. Possibly because his brain didn't seem to be working at all.
Right now, he wanted to be away from this place, alone with her, just the two of them. Something normal, rather than at a wedding reception that contained the vast majority of the Chicago Outfitincluding Vincent Amarante, aka the Boss.
Everyone here had nicknames and secret lives that no one knew about. Including Dom, including Michelle. And he hated that. For once he wanted to be normal, wanted to be alone with a woman, no disguises, discovering all the idiotic little bits of trivia that color the lines of someone else's life. These were the things that a man and woman did together when they were normal. And he couldn't because he was carrying a phony ID and an unregistered weapon, and she was wearing fake hair.
It Should Happen to You Page 4