The Wild Side

Unfortunately, any searching while she was gone would attract undesired attention to the Feds’ involvement in the case. Her place was being watched by the cops and Jake Allston, the crime boss who’d originally bribed Senator Mason with the portrait, and who wanted to keep it out of the hands of the police so it wouldn’t become crucial evidence in a trial against him.

Riley raised his head and sighed wearily. “Rose doesn’t know this guy?”

“Nope. They’ve never met. But her reputation must have preceded her. The guy was drooling all over the phone. You should have heard her work him. Man! She was something.” Slate put his sandwich down and crossed his arms over his chest, hands in his armpits—his characteristic gesture when something unsettled him. “Funny thing, though, I got the feeling that underneath, she’s scared to death. I’m betting Miss Rose is in this way over her head.”

Something in Slate’s voice snapped Riley out of his self-pity. He stared at his friend. “Oh? Why don’t you take this one, Slate? You’ve been in Maine for a long time. You must have gotten pretty lonely.”

Slate held up his hands in surrender. “Not me. You’re the one Captain Watson asked to do the job. The Feds want the police kept happy while they check out who’s leaking information to Allston’s men. Besides, you’re the international sexpert around here, if our time overseas was anything to go by.” He made a face and jerked his thumb to his chest. “I was the sucker with the girl back home.”

Riley nodded, shoving back the sympathy he knew his friend hated. Slate had been faithful in the face of endless temptation. Unfortunately, his girlfriend hadn’t seen fit to return the favor. Not surprisingly, Slate had taken it hard. His mother’s death over the past long year hadn’t helped. When he’d showed up on Riley’s doorstep the day before, thin and down, Riley had been shocked. Today was the first sign of the return of his humor and sense of fun—the perfect cover for the brilliant, ruthless operator he was. Riley had done well inviting him to be in on this case. The FBI wasn’t known for granting favors, but they’d let Slate in with a surprising lack of protest. Apparently Gemini’s reputation extended beyond the military.

“And I’ve got a hot date, too, with the real Tom.” Slate grinned around a mouthful of cold cuts. “To make sure he has lots and lots of other plans until this operation is over.”

“And then?”

“Then I get to kick back and be available. I might be useful, since I’m invisible as far as the cops are concerned.”

“And as far as Jake Allston’s people are concerned.” Riley resignedly pulled his plate closer and started on his sandwich. Unfortunately, he had to admit he was the right man for the job. The stolen miniature of Queen Elizabeth was the crucial link needed to prove Senator Mason’s involvement in Jake Allston’s corrupt empire. Allston had used it to bribe the art-loving senator in return for legislation favoring Allston’s business interests. With the portrait, the Feds could grant Mason immunity from prosecution in exchange for his testimony against Allston. Since Riley had been invited in by the police, his involvement would create a buffer zone between the Feds and the cops while the Feds investigated the leak in the force. All the pieces fit. Everyone was happy. Except Riley.

He felt as if he’d been assigned to seduce a viper. Not that Rose would need much seducing, unless she and Tom did have some master-slave thing to act out. In that case, he’d have to pretend to seduce her, while they both knew the entire scene was a bunch of crap. He swallowed a bite; the bread tasted like glue in his dry mouth.

Sex between a man and a woman was supposed to flow, to evolve naturally out of mutual desires and tastes. It wasn’t something you should have to program or teach. Experimenting was all very well; he’d done his share. But how much better to lie together and simply savor what all humans were born to do.

He washed down the glue with a swallow of milk. He’d have to try damn hard either to find the portrait right away, since Captain Watson and the Feds seemed so certain it was in Rose’s apartment, or be absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure it was somewhere else.

ROSE CRAMMED FIVE PAIRS of underwear, two bras, three T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, two mini-sundresses, deodorant, shampoo and a toothbrush into the largest purse she owned, her movements jerky and hurried. She wasn’t sure where she was going yet. Once she got to South Station she could decide. Her budget would only allow travel by train, but she couldn’t pass up this opportunity to leave.

Melissa would be in her apartment in an hour; anyone keeping an eye on the place would see a slender young woman entertaining a man. Nothing so unusual about that. Rose had been careful on the phone, with Melissa out of the room, to make it seem as if Tom would be meeting her tonight, in case her phone was being tapped. He’d sounded so eager and had accepted the “teacher” role so readily, she felt horrible leaving Melissa to face him. But they’d work it out. Or not. Either way, by the time whoever wanted her—or whatever he thought she had—found out she was missing, Rose would be long gone.

If things didn’t work out with Tom, Melissa would go back to her own apartment and her own life, and only wonder once in a while where her neighbor had gone. If things did work out, no doubt she and Tom would use Melissa’s own apartment after tonight. Melissa would be in no danger—of that Rose felt sure, or she wouldn’t be doing this.

She’d considered slipping a note under Melissa’s door, explaining the switch, but after seeing the horror of nerves on Melissa’s face when Rose announced that the date had been set, she knew her neighbor wouldn’t show if she thought Tom expected Rose herself. And Rose really needed Melissa to be in the apartment tonight. Just tonight. So she’d have a chance to escape.

She slung the bulging bag over her shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious that it contained more than the usual purse items. After one last look in the mirror to adjust her blond wig, check her makeup, fasten a sweater over her bare shoulders and flowered sundress, Rose let herself out of the apartment and slid her key under Melissa’s door as planned. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, she took the stairs down three floors to the basement and slipped out the back entrance.

On the way to the Harvard Square T stop, and on the ride from Cambridge to Boston, she channeled her nervous energy into looking happy and carefree—a woman out on a shopping spree, planning to return home tonight for a romantic assignation with Tall Dark and Handsome. She got off at South Station, checking as casually as she could for anyone else leaving the train who might seem unduly interested in her and where she was going.

Then she hurried up the escalator and lunged toward the turnstile, at the exact same moment as a distinctly male body wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry. After you.” The distinctly male body stepped back and gestured her through. She turned, looked up and met a pair of dynamite blue eyes under short, military-style blond hair. Eyes brimming with boyish humor, intelligence, warmth and a touch of something grim and steely that even in Rose’s near-frantic state fascinated her.

She smiled her thanks and pushed through the turnstile ahead of him, wishing it was some other day and that she was, in fact, on the mindless, infinitely cancelable errand she wanted everyone to think she was on. Then she could take time to delve into those eyes and what lay behind them. It had been awhile since she’d gotten to know someone close to her age.

“I’m Mike. Slater. Friends call me Slate. What’s your name?” He fell into step beside her, fanning the spark of her regret into a painful ember.

“I’m Rose. Just Rose. Friends call me Rose.” She sent him an I’m-only-teasing smile so he wouldn’t think she was making fun of him. Guys hated being made fun of. Their egos couldn’t stand it. Though this one seemed so natural and boy-next-door in spite of his incredible sex appeal, he might not have minded.

“Where you headed?”

“Train station.” Her smile grew wary. Even a natural, heavenly built boy-next-door could be a threat. Someone out to make sure she disappeared, one way or the other. Or someone trying to keep her from leaving.

Rose clenched her teeth. She hated this. Hated not being able to trust anyone. Hated that everything and everyone might be something other than they seemed. That this nice-looking guy might be about to drag her out to some deserted lot and threaten to shoot her for whatever he thought she’d done, or whatever he thought she had.

The sooner she was out of Boston, the better. Even by talking to this guy, even if he was innocent, she’d already attracted someone’s attention. Someone who could answer questions about her if he bumped into people who wanted to know. As much as she wanted to linger and listen and look, she had to get rid of him.

“What time’s your train?”

“I’m not…it’s not for a while.” Only a few dozen yards into the crowded main room of the station she’d be able to see the departure schedule and take her pick of time and destination. Why couldn’t he have waited to ask until then, so it wouldn’t be so obvious she had no idea where she was going?

“I’ve got a long wait, too. I’m meeting a friend. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t think so, thanks.” She quickened her pace; he kept up easily.

“I just want to buy you a drink, that’s it. Juice, milk, soda, whatever…doesn’t have to be booze.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“I don’t mind. There are some decent places here.” He gestured toward the assortment of eateries in the station.

Rose stopped and turned to face him, struck again by the depth and complexity of the expression in his eyes. “Are you always this persistent?”

“No.” He grinned and crossed his arms, hands shoved into his armpits. “Usually I don’t even ask in the first place. So I guess I don’t want to start off a career of asking strange women out with a dismal failure.”

She couldn’t help a small smile. This guy would probably be a lot of fun. Damn the timing all to hell.

“I’m sorry. I just have to be so careful.” She bit her lip. “Everyone has to be careful these days.”

“Okay, no problem.” He held up his hands and backed away. “Nice to meet you, Rose. Have a good trip.”

He grinned once more and strode off toward the food court. She took a quick, deep breath. Stupid as it sounded, and as much as she had been anxious to shake him off, now that he was gone, she felt terribly alone.

She pulled herself together, scanned the departure board, chose a train to D.C., so she’d have the most stops to choose from, bought her ticket and a newspaper, and settled down to wait.

3

MELISSA SAT ON HER discarded-outfit littered bed, hands tucked under her thighs, knees pressed together, feet pressed together. She had a good view in the dresser mirror opposite her, so she could see firsthand what she looked like when she was panicking.

Not a pretty sight. Her eyes were huge, her face so pale that the makeup she’d put on looked like it was trying to bring her back from the dead. Her jaw was so tight her teeth were starting to ache, and when she brought her hand up to tuck her hair behind her ears, forgetting her hair wasn’t long enough to tuck anymore, her hand was shaking. In fact, her entire body was shaking.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. In ten minutes she’d go across the hall and do some shaking there. Seeing as guys were always late, at eight-fifteen this Tom person would waltz in. He’d be overly handsome, with tufts of chest hair that poked all the way up to his Adam’s apple. He’d have several gold necklaces glinting through the unbuttoned opening of his rayon shirt, and he’d make that horrible gun with his fingers and pretend to shoot her in greeting. Which was a damn strange way to be charming, now that she thought about it.

No way. She couldn’t do this. She was not a sex goddess. She belonged with someone dependable and a little dull, someone like Bill. She should be married, cheerfully and gracefully pregnant, glowing with peace and good health, helping her husband make their bed in the morning.

She shuddered. Ick. Not yet. Not until she was thirty, anyway. She needed this time to explore, this last chance in her life to check out the wild side. Each of her relationships had lasted longer than the previous one, and she had a feeling Mr. Right would show up soon. So what was wrong with something before then? A little stopgap? Better to screw around now than do it after she was married. Or wonder the rest of her life what a fling would feel like. Right? Right.

She glanced at the clock again. A little sideways flirt of a glance, so that maybe if she took only the tiniest look, time would slow down a little, or maybe stop, and she wouldn’t ever have to go in there and meet him.

Tom would hook his jacket over one finger on his shoulder and wink at her as if she was a cute child. He’d be too huge and musclebound, the kind of guy who’d have to turn sideways to fit through the door, and who’d have no spit at all and kiss her with a dry mouth that he used special lip weights to keep young and firm. The kind of guy who called women he was trying to impress “kid” or “babe.”