In Bed With The Wild One: In Bed With The Wild One / In Bed With The Pirate

Emily scanned the page eagerly. Trick tried to sit up, but the pain in his gut was like a bucket of hot lead.

A few people drifted in, a few people drifted out, dishes clattered, coffee was poured, and life went on in the outlying areas of the Rest-O-Rant. Nobody passed near her, and Emily stayed intent on what she was reading.

“Damn,” Trick swore under his breath. He couldn’t pass out. Not yet. Not before he knew where Rico and the Ice Man had stashed the loot…

“You have to come up with the money,” a low, heated voice said fiercely. “Listen to what I say, Slab. We’re past desperate here. We’re right over the brink into disaster.”

Wait a minute. Slab? There was no one named Slab in this book. And that hadn’t been a voice inside her head. That was real. Out loud.

Confused, Emily looked up from the page, toward the source of the intriguing voice. Her gaze slid right through the gap between her booth and the next, snagging when it caught the face of the man who’d spoken. And what a face…

She swallowed. She felt her cheeks suffuse with heat.

Whoever he was—this man who was teetering on the brink of disaster—he looked amazing.

She didn’t know who or what he was, his name, what he was doing there, any of those important details. It didn’t matter. All she needed was one glance at that gorgeous, dangerous face, all hard angles and stormy shadows, the hint of stubble, the carelessly cut dark hair that brushed the collar of his battered leather jacket. And she knew him down to her bones.

She had an overwhelming desire to toss aside the adventures of Trick McCall, private eye, and toss herself over the divider into his booth.

“You pay up now, Slab,” he muttered, “or we’ll both be in too deep to shovel out.”

Pay up? In too deep to shovel out? This sounded an awful lot like the book she’d just been reading. How very exciting! Easing herself up and around to one side, trying not to make any noise, she craned her neck enough to get a glimpse of this Slab person through the shabby fronds of a plastic plant attached to the top of the divider. Holy smokes. She could see where Slab got his name. The man had shoulders the size of a minivan and a face like a hunk of concrete.

“But, Tyler, I ain’t got the dough,” Slab responded, sounding higher and whinier than she would have expected from someone that large. She couldn’t completely make out his next words, but it was clear he was offering excuses.

So the gorgeous one’s name was Tyler. First or last? Who cared? Tyler. She tried it on her tongue and decided she liked the feel of it.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t fork over some cash like yesterday, I’m the one who’ll take the heat,” Tyler returned. “You owe me, Slab. You owe me big-time.”

“I could knock over another bank,” the big lug offered cheerfully, and Emily caught her breath.

Knock over another bank? Who were these people?

“Keep your voice down, will you?” After that command, Tyler dropped his own volume as well, and Emily had to really concentrate to get any of their conversation. Darn it, anyway. This was fascinating.

Tyler said something about “the Feds.” Was it, you know the Feds are on our tail? Or, who knows if the Feds have the details? Good show the Feds let you out on bail? She chided herself for jumping to conclusions. For all she knew, he’d just said that Joe Fezz didn’t pay retail.

He added in an ominous tone, “You never know where they have wiretaps and informants parked. Let’s be smart about this.”

Okay, so she was right the first time. Slowly Emily slid as far down into her seat as she could go. She was only five-four, but she wasn’t taking any chances that they might catch a glimpse of her and take her innocent eavesdropping for something more sinister. Who knew what these two were involved in? Just because Tyler was a major babe was no reason to think he wasn’t a hoodlum.

She tried to remember what she’d heard so far. Let’s see…Tyler needed Slab to fork over some cash that was owed to him or dire things would happen. Slab didn’t have the money, but was willing to rob a bank to get it. And not just rob a bank. Rob another bank. And the FBI was apparently sniffing around.

If she had any sense, she would run, not walk, out of the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant. But she couldn’t help herself—she leaned in closer to the divider so she could make out more of their soft, tantalizing words. Slab mumbled something she couldn’t catch, but Tyler’s words came back fast and furious.

“Listen to me,” he whispered angrily, “don’t even think about any more bank jobs. You got caught the last two times, and that means you better retire already.”

Ooh, this was getting good. Slab had a criminal record but was none too bright and wanted to do it again, while the awesome Tyler was trying to keep him away from more criminal activity.

Maybe he was some kind of counselor, she mused, like for some ex-con twelve-step program.

“Do you know how much you’re already into me for?” Tyler went on. “I trusted you, Slab. I know—that makes me every bit as stupid as you, but I trusted you. And now you need to do right by me. You said you could come up with the money. Or we both know I’m out on the street.”

That made no sense for a counselor. A loan shark, maybe? She ventured another glance through the slats. World’s best-looking loan shark?

But Jozette, the world’s crankiest waitress, chose that moment to come back. After stopping to refill the coffee at Tyler’s table, trading chitchat and good-natured insults and making it very clear they were old pals, she finally sauntered around to Emily’s side of the booths. Quickly Emily pretended to be absorbed in her book so that Jozette didn’t shout, “Hey, I think we got your FBI snitch right here!” or something equally scary.

As quietly as she could manage, Emily ordered the banana split she’d completely forgotten. She waited impatiently for Jozette to vamoose so she could go back to listening. Meanwhile, the men in the next booth were still arguing in the same hushed, urgent tones.

“Look,” Slab said finally, half-rising in his seat. “There’s only one way. I’m gonna have to get out of town.”

“Are you nuts?” Tyler retorted.

She felt sure she heard something about Slab not being allowed to leave the jurisdiction—or maybe both of them—and then the name “Fat Mike,” which sounded very familiar. A local mobster? Emily quickly added these clues to the others she’d already amassed. Couldn’t leave the jurisdiction…if Slab were out on bail and unable to leave the area, would that make Tyler his bail bondsman?

“I gotta do it, Ty,” the big guy continued. “It’s the only way! I gotta go to Frisco.”

“Slab, keep it down, will you?”

No, no, Emily wanted to plead. Talk louder! But no one cared what she thought.

Slab mumbled something about “real loot, plenty to make us even,” and then “stashed in Frisco.” That was followed by a string of words that went right past her, and Emily leaned her whole head into the plastic plant to try to pick up more of it.

“Money…stashed,” Slab whispered, as something akin to a wistful smile crossed his blunt features. “Sweet Shanda. Best time I ever had was with Sweet Shanda.”

Emily started to get excited. This was kind of like charades. And she thought she had it! Slab had hidden his money in San Francisco with an ex-girlfriend named Shanda.

Tyler’s next words were very low, but the intent was unmistakable. “If you go to San Francisco,” he said, “Fat Mike will kill you. And maybe me, for good measure.”

Emily shivered. Had he really said “kill”? As in, dead? Nobody would really kill someone who looked like Tyler, would they? And waste all that potential?

But the gigantic man shook his head, his voice rising as he argued. “I owe you, man. And Fat Mike will get off both our backs if I come up with the dough. I’m going, and I’m gonna get it.”

“Forget it—”

“Damn it!” Slab bellowed, pounding a huge fist on the table and making the coffee cups bounce. “I’m going to get my stash!”

There was a long pause from their booth, as Tyler seemed to bide his time before speaking. “Sit down,” he said finally, in a dark, curt tone that didn’t brook objections. Slab sat. Emily could feel the reverberations all the way over on her side.

Angry words went back and forth, a “get a grip” followed by “I gotta do what I gotta do,” with Tyler getting colder and Slab becoming more and more agitated. Leaning across the table, the big guy distinctly brought up “Sweet Shanda” again and then something about the money had better be where he left it or he would “tear her apart with my bare hands.”

Emily felt chilled to the bone. Eavesdropping on criminals was one thing, but when they started contemplating taking women apart with their bare hands, it was going too far.

Finally the big guy raised his entire bulk from the booth, pushing himself to his feet with some effort. “I know what I gotta do,” he bellowed.

After mumbling a few more things Emily didn’t catch, he stomped his way out of the coffee shop, apparently determined to assault some poor woman named Shanda in San Francisco in order to recover ancient ill-gotten gains.

Tyler sent a wary glance around the place, clearly wondering whether anyone had overheard the outburst. Emily noted that, except for her, the diner’s few patrons appeared to be very good at minding their own business. And unless Tyler happened to lean forward and look in just the right place, he wasn’t going to see her, either. There were some benefits to being small.