Kitabı oku: «It Should Happen To You», sayfa 2
2
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 curiosity—among 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 one—and she was trouble, I tell you—didn’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 do—work with the stars.
Every morning the schedule was the same, even if she came in late, which she was today. The great thing about research was that most scientists kept odd hours. Inspiration couldn’t be scheduled, nor could experiments that took three years to complete.
She turned on her computer and checked e-mail first. Empty. Next, just because she was a creature of habit, she checked to see who was online.
Chao: Unavailable.
Dr. Lindstrom: Available.
J.: Unavailable.
Yeah, Jessica was off having a honeymoon in China. Dejected, Mickey rolled back in her chair. Mountain climbing, which was about the silliest thing that Mickey had ever heard. Her ideal honeymoon would involve a trip to Geneva to see CERN and possibly some sightseeing. Then a long week in the hotel, with room service and HBO.
In lieu of actually having someone to talk to, Mickey started typing to herself.
“M, what’s up?”
She clicked Send and delighted herself when new mail appeared. Getting into the game, she hit Reply and started typing.
“M, glad you asked. What to do, what to do? I’m not a girlie-girl. I don’t want to be a girlie-girl. But I keep doing these stupid men things. Just like a girlie-girl. Does that make me an idiot?”
Then she clicked Send.
Magically, a few moments later, she had new mail. She started hammering away at the keyboard.
“M, no, you’re not a girlie-girl, because all members of the Coleman family—except your mother, and we’re not going to talk about that—are scientists. We use our brains to succeed where others have failed.”
Send.
“If I’m not a failure, then why am I being blackmailed with a sex tape? Why am I considering an affiliation with the mob? Why am I attracted to Dominic?”
Send.
“M, I lied. You’re a loser AND a girlie-girl. Get over it.”
Mickey stared at her screen and wished that the J-woman was back. Jessica wasn’t this harsh.
Maybe she should build Beth a computer and teach her how to use it. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow.
She took a quick look up to the front of the bull pen.
Damn, John was in. His Michael Crichton Sphere screen saver flickered eerily in the fluorescent lighting. Of course he couldn’t be sick today. Illness would be nice. Something vile and long lasting with symptoms that included pain-racked stomach spasms, huge bouts of nausea and perhaps a high fever, where he might be so incapacitated that he would simply hand over the tape.
She’d seen that on TV once.
When he walked into the room ten minutes later, he looked disgustingly healthy. Now, when she looked at him, her poor vision free of lust and alcohol, she could see the weak chin, the beady eyes that darted like a rat’s. Man, she had been so blind before. It was probably his golden hair that had blinded her to the rest of his faults. Yeah, definitely. The laughing blue eyes—that darted like a rat’s, of course—hadn’t helped.
Then he winked at her. Winked. As if she would be happy to see him. He was lucky she wasn’t working in the Tevatron. Proton collisions could be really messy. One false move, and zap—a human body could be transported to—well, everywhere, really. Just tiny Monihan particles floating in the air. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Oblivious to her degenerative thoughts, he lifted his Coke in greeting and strolled over. “Top of the morning, Miss Coleman. We on for this evening?”
She stared down at him over her glasses. “Go choke on a quark, Monihan.”
“I love it when you get feisty.” He pitched his voice an octave higher, “Oh, baby, yeah, right there…”
Had she really said that? Thank God she’d been too drunk to remember. She kept her eyes on her computer screen and whispered. “I got friends, Monihan. Friends that can really hurt you. I wouldn’t be so quick to make jokes.”
He leaned forward, the laughing blue eyes deadly serious. “You think this a joke? Not at all. Your career’s been shot into a black hole unless you cooperate. You know the presentation for Heidelman? I’ll bring the video.”
“I could go to Heidelman and just report you for sexual harassment.”
He looked intrigued. “Are you going to? A tough character-defining choice. Which is more important to you? Justice or your academic image? That’s how you know what you’re really made of. Which path are you going to take?”
Mickey looked up, close enough where she could see the true ugliness of his nature. “What has happened to you? You used to be nice, now you’re just a bastard. Have you ever seen what a positron beam can do to human flesh? I’d say that’s one directional splatter we’ve yet to map. What do you say, John? Want to go down in history?”
He took a sip of cola, looking completely unfazed by threats of evaporation. “Does that mean we’re on for tonight? I’ve got to work late in the lab this evening, but for you? I’ll wait up.”
Wait up? He’d have to wait for hell to freeze, for time travel to be possible and for the discovery of Higgs Boson. “I have a hot date with my boyfriend,” she said.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, Mickey. Remember?”
She raised an eyebrow. Very Queen Elizabeth. “Maybe I do.”
“Yeah, right. Look, I’ll let you have your fun. Tonight you’re off the hook. And I’ll be nice and leave you the weekend free, but come Monday…” His voice trailed off, and he flicked a finger under her chin.
At his touch, she flinched, saddened that she’d actually had a pleasant carnal-knowledge experience with this creep. “You’re watching too many bad movies, Monihan.”
He walked over to his computer and clicked on his mouse a few times. Instantly the air was filled with moans and heavy breathing.
She slapped her hand down on her desk, welcoming the pain. “Shut it off.”
“Monday night?”
When the seventh quark was discovered, and not a moment before. Mickey shot him a dire look. “Whatever.”
IT WAS DARK OUT; the apartment complex was in a seedy part of the South Side. Thankfully, security lights were nonexistent. Mickey brought out her flashlight as they made their way to the side of the building.
“Ready?” she asked, whispering behind her.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” was Beth’s sole vote of confidence.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you do. Hire Dominic.”
“He’s too expensive. And besides that, he’s dangerous.”
“Well, yes. But expensive means that he’s good, and you live for danger.”
Mickey shone her flashlight in Beth’s face to see if she was serious. Not a trace of a smile. Sometimes Beth scared her.
“I can do this,” Mickey answered, just as she found the old fire escape. Bingo.
“And why do you think that?”
Mickey pulled at the ladder, and the whole world resounded with the painful creak. “I researched breaking and entering on the Internet.”
Behind her, she heard the sound of Beth rolling her eyeballs.
Now wasn’t the time for naysayers, though. She searched through her bag until she found the can of WD-40. There’s always another use. Little did the advertisers realize, it could also be used for B and E. One spritz and the ladder was as quiet as the lab on Sunday.
“Okay, Shifty, what do we do next?” asked Beth.
Mickey climbed onto the fire escape and got to the second floor. Quickly Beth scampered up behind her. Then Mickey shone her light on the wooden window frame. It looked just like the diagram on the Net. “We can lift up on this and slide it off its tracks.”
“I’ll take this side,” said Beth, positioning herself at one end.
Mickey put down the flashlight and grabbed the other side. “One, two, three. Lift.”
They heaved.
Nothing.
Mickey took a long breath. “Okay, we’re just not putting enough into this.”
“Excuse me. I was. I put everything into that lift. Aren’t you supposed to know how to do this? Can we just teleport it, or something?”
“Transport. And that only works in Star Trek.”
“I’m losing faith in you, Mickey. I didn’t think this was going to work, but I told myself, ‘No, if anybody can hypothesize her way out of this, it’s you.’ I was wrong.” Beth, when tired, got mouthy.
Mickey, who had no patience for tired, mouthy women, shot her a warning look. “Shh. One more time.”
They got in place again.
“One, two, three. Lift.”
Somewhere in the dark they heard a noise.
“What was that?” Mickey asked, her heart pounding wildly.
Beth looked down below. “A cat.”
“One more time.”
“Maybe we could just break it?”
Mickey cased the joint, considering the idea. Everything was too quiet. “Nah. Somebody might hear us.”
“Can we try the front door? Maybe it’s unlocked.”
“You have no imagination.”
“Logic, Mick. It’s called logic.”
Beth had a point. Mickey abandoned her short life of crime. “Okay.”
They climbed back down and entered the building’s lobby. John’s apartment was on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs. Mickey handed the flashlight to Beth and tried the doorknob.
Locked.
Beth stared at Mickey’s hand, her mouth open. “You’re wearing gloves?”
“I didn’t want to leave any prints.”
“And what about me?”
Mickey had researched that, too. “Your prints aren’t on file. No worries.”
“What? You’ve been arrested before?”
“No. Anybody that handles plutonium gets printed and filed in the national database. Procedure.”
Beth got a little wide-eyed. “You really work with plutonium?”
“Nah. Just a little prison humor.”
Beth wasn’t amused. “Can we go now?”
A long beam of headlights lit up the window off the stairwell.
“Somebody’s coming,” Mickey said, and then took off up the stairs to the third floor. “Up here. If it’s John, he won’t see us.”
Beth followed right behind, a streak in black spandex and sweater. Very stylish. Silently they waited for the door to open below.
The door eased open and an old man creaked his way into the foyer. Mickey began to breathe again. “False alarm.”
“Look, this isn’t working. You need to hire Dominic.”
Oh, hell.
Mickey leaned against the rickety stair rail and faced the whole truth. Sadly, her life as she knew it was pretty much screwed unless she got that tape back, and Dominic Corlucci, mob guy extraordinaire, seemed the best answer.
Somewhere upstairs, a stereo cranked up. Loud, discordant and really, really bad music.
Mickey sighed. “Oh, all right.”
“Want to get a beer?”
“Soft drink for me,” she answered. She was still paying for the aftereffects of her last binge.
“I’ll buy.”
Mickey stuffed her gloves in her pocket and studied her own attire. Black sweatshirt and matching knit pants. Passable, but barely. “You think we should change?”
Beth shook her head. “Nah. Black is very in.”
3
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Mickey donned the long blond wig. She pulled the boots from her closet and searched for something remotely sleazy.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In disgust, she slapped her hand against the hard wooden frame and immediately regretted it. Swift, Coleman, very swift. She was going to have to do something about her wardrobe if she wanted to continue her disguise in front of Dominic Corlucci—which she did. Her alter ego was going to need some more clothes. She should talk to Cassandra about that. If there was one woman who knew sleaze—a tasteful sort of sleaze—it was Cassandra.
Dejected, she leaned against the closet frame. There was only one reason for this loss of steely self-control. Sex.
And one way to fix it. Never again was she going to have sex.
If Queen Victoria could do it, so could Mickey. Some little particle of double circled inside her, due mainly to the nighttime sightings of Dominic Corlucci in her dreams. Dreams that were starting to impact her sleeping abilities. But what harm was there in a little idle fantasizing? Mickey had always had a healthy fantasy life. And fantasies were allowed under the steely selfcontrol regime. It kept the lonely Saturday nights interesting.
She shoved off the doubts and started strategizing her dress code, the pragmatic Mickey returning. If Dominic ever knew the real Mickey Coleman, he wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less an interesting Saturday night, so fantasies were all she had.
Another hour later and she was at Beth’s Starbucks in full regalia—creatively inspired by a Victoria’s Secret catalog and utilizing underwear in a manner for which it was not intended. The black camisole turned heads, which she hoped was a good thing.
She ordered a latte and then settled herself at his table. Prepared for all eventualities, she pulled out the latest issue of Scientific American—discreetly tucked inside a Playgirl—and sat back to read.
Half an hour later, he showed. When he walked through the door, she experienced that extreme tickling inside her that seemed so odd. Again. What was it about him? Was it the long, lean body that moved so gracefully? Was it the hooded eyes that seemed as deep and dark as the blackest night sky? Whatever it was, it was powerful and scared the smegaroo right out of her. Mickey didn’t like men to have power over her. She was arrogant enough to think she could make her way to the top on her own merits. Everything would have been fine except for John Monihan. Except for Dominic Corlucci. Maybe she was just doomed to be stupid with men.
Oh, enough already. She took one last confidence-building sip of her coffee and then stood, electing to operate from a position of dominance. “You’re late.”
His eyes flickered with amusement. “If I had known you were so…anxious, I’d have come sooner.” He glanced over at the Playgirl and raised an eyebrow. “A little light reading?”
“For the articles only,” she said, and then winced when she noticed the front page, Seven Sensational Positions to Achieve the Ultimate O. She shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “We have a deal?”
He crossed his powerful arms over his chest, his T-shirt clinging to muscles that made her mouth salivate in a purely Pavlovian response. “Yeah, but there’s one little thing I need.”
At this point, Mickey would have promised him anything. “What?”
“I need an escort. Somebody to fill in for a while.”
Anything except that. “Let me think about it for a minute. No.”
Then he shrugged a shoulder, nothing nonchalant about it at all. “The deal’s off.”
A lesser woman would have stamped her foot. Mickey merely adjusted her glasses. “You’re willing to walk away from two-thousand dollars because I won’t decorate your arm?”
Evenly he met her eyes. “Yeah.”
She pulled herself up to her full five feet eleven inches and stared down her nose. He was taller than her by half a head, but the effect was still good. “What kind of wise guy are you?”
And she had him. His eyes flickered, not a big move, but she caught it. His gaze slid over her, a look she was learning to recognize, guaranteed to drop her stomach three megaohms. Then he slowly shook his head, regret marking his expression. “All right. We do it your way.”
She didn’t feel like woman triumphant, only woman stupid, but determinedly she carried on. “It’s a business transaction, Mr. Corlucci. I’ll pay a quarter of your fee up front, a quarter after the first visit to Monihan’s apartment and the remainder upon delivery of the tape.”
“Very professional,” he said with a smile.
“It’s a job. Nothing more,” she answered.
“Certainly Ms…? You never gave me your name.”
“Jones. Foxy Jones.”
His lips quirked. Okay, so it was a sham name, but he didn’t have to think it was funny. “Can I call you Foxy, or should I just stick to Ms. Jones?”
“Use whatever moniker you choose. When can you get the tape?”
“Not tonight. I have a wedding tonight.”
“A wedding?” How oddly domestic. Still, Italian-Americans were very family oriented, so maybe it was cultural rather than some subliminal yearning to find his life mate.
“I need a date…Foxy,” he said coaxingly, his voice silky as sin.
Her heart tripped right over itself in its hurry to pump blood into her nether regions. “Oh, behave,” she said, as much to her heart as to him.
“I’m being honest. Anthony Testa’s youngest son is getting married. I was invited. Black-tie.”
“No, I mean don’t call me Foxy.”
“I thought that was your name?”
“It’s a nickname. Call me…Michelle.” Very few people knew that Michelle was her real name. Her father had insisted on calling her Mickey—after Mickey Mantle. He said that her mother liked the way Michelle had sounded. Fragile and feminine and silly. Everything that Mickey abhorred.
“Michelle,” he said, his mouth lingering on the first part and then drawing out the rest, making it sound fragile and feminine and…completely not silly.
“Don’t wear it out,” she snapped. “So, can you get the tape tonight?”
“Will your…friend be home this evening?”
Mickey didn’t want to know John’s schedule; she didn’t want to think about knowing John’s schedule. Now he just made her skin crawl. “How the hell should I know?”
“Do you know of a time when he’s usually out? It’ll make my job easier.”
“During the day, Monday through Friday. He works business hours.”
“So he’s at home at night? Looks like I’m off the hook tonight, then. You can come with me to the wedding, can’t you? Not a business deal, a date.”
She had to try one last time. When Dominic Corlucci looked at her, he scared her, and not because she thought he would stuff her into a trunk. Her fears were deeper. Her sensible, logical, rational nature was careening out of control. Her father would never approve. She slammed that door shut, the noise reverberating in her brain. “I don’t do ‘black-tie.’”
“I’ll knock five-hundred dollars off my fee. Forget the up-front payment. Go buy something…” his gaze moved up and down, over thighs, breasts, arms and legs “…nice.”
She fought the urge to cover herself. Think bimbo. “Only pretend,” she said, the best warning she could muster.
He looked offended, the dark eyes holding secrets that no man should know. “Your choice.”
She nodded briskly. “Don’t forget it.”
“Should I pick you up at your apartment?”
“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 tonight—sweet 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 looked—right. 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” were—knew 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 arrogance—and 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 money—but not too much money. “A couple of hundred.” That seemed safe.
“Go for the Hartington.”
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.”
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
