Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation (12 page)

“Mr. Parker, what happened?
Can I do anything?”

He dropped a black leather gym bag by Sidney’s desk and pushed her aside. “Frank!” He stopped in Frank’s empty office. “Where is he?”

How she wanted to slap this man. “Mr. Driscoll’s out. I am also working on your case, Mr. Parker.”

“Sugar, I need a professional with experience. Dammit, why isn’t he here when I need him?”

Didn’t they teach common courtesy in business school?
“Mr. Parker, if you’ll sit down, we’ll assess the situation.”

Blake flung up his hands. “Fine. I doubt you can do anything, but what the hell.”

If ever someone needed a ruler across the knuckles
...

He rolled Sidney’s chair next to Giulia’s desk. “That bag was locked in my car all day. Whoever she is, she knows my keypad combination.”

“To your car?”

He rolled his eyes and shoved back in the chair. “Of course, my car. You don’t open a Lexus with a key.”

“I see.”
Count to ten. Keep counting.

“I play in the Businessman’s FC—football club. That’s soccer, not American football. Tonight when I hit the gym to change for our game, I found this in the side pocket.”

He pulled out a square jewelry-type box and thrust it at Giulia. Inside, a gold-painted padlock gleamed on a wad of silver tissue paper. It reeked, but not with “Passion.”

“Was there a note? Oh, I see.” She pried it out of the lid. “ ‘I arose to open for my lover, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles of the lock.’ ” She inhaled a combination of sweetness and spice. “So that’s what myrrh smells like.”

“Who cares?” He slammed a hand on her desk. “I’m paying good money to this company and I want results. When is Frank going to pin down the right one? I’ve had it with this psycho bitch and her obsessions. Thank God Pamela knows what’s expected of my future wife.”

Someday Giulia would be sending Pamela a sympathy card. “Mr. Parker, I’ll give this to Mr. Driscoll first thing tomorrow. How early may he call you at home?”

“At home?” Blake stood and paced the room. “I can’t go home. She got into my condo once already. She got into my car. What if she’s waiting there for me?” He leaned over Giulia’s desk into her face. “Frank has to find me a safe place. All my exes know the only type of hotel I patronize. I need someplace that none of them would think of. I have to show up to work tomorrow like everything’s perfect—I’m chairing a big cost-cutting meeting. I need sleep and peace of mind. Frank promised me, and he damn well better deliver.”

What should she do? Suggesting he undergo spinal insertion surgery would be a start. But he wouldn’t appreciate that, and anyway who was she to judge him? She was hiding in her apartment every night.

“Sugar, are you going to help me or do I have to find another PI in a real town? Pittsburgh, for instance?”

For a spineless pin-up he could sure fake the testosterone. The case might be hers to lose if she didn’t make the right decision.

“Please wait here while I make a phone call.”

“Good. Call Frank. Get some instructions. You got a bathroom in here?”

“Through that door. I’ll be right back.”
Jerk. Bully. Jellyfish.

She closed Frank’s door and dialed his cell. Half a ring, and “You’ve reached Driscoll Investigations. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to you.”

Of course. He turned it off for Yvonne.

She tried paging him. Another message. Now what? She had an irate client threatening to pull the business.

Ninety-nine percent sure it’s an empty threat.

What she really had was a scared spitless client in the next room afraid to go home... and a PI-in-training in this room afraid to walk from the bus stop to her apartment building alone.

...
It could work.
He could crash on her couch. She’d get safety in numbers. He’d get the comfort of using a nobody who couldn’t embarrass him socially or professionally.

And maybe a crick in his neck from the arm of the couch. Small price to pay?

What about her reputation?

Same deal: he couldn’t embarrass her. She had no social circle. Frank would file it under “general client assistance” and add the time to Blake’s bill.

It could work.

She dialed Frank’s cell again. “Frank, she left Blake another package. He doesn’t want to go home because of the break-in, so I’m taking him to my place for the night. Keep your mind out of the gutter—he’ll be on the couch. See you in the morning.”

Giulia opened the door. Blake still paced the room like a caged lion. One of those pampered, raised-in-captivity lions they use in outdated circuses.

“Mr. Parker, I think I have a solution.”

“Spare towels are in
the bathroom if you’d like to shower. I’ll make up the couch for you.”

Blake’s top-of-the-line business suit didn’t belong in Giulia’s lower-middle-class apartment. Neither did Blake, and his pained expression showed it.

Giulia sniffed. Nope, nothing smelled bad in here. All in his imagination.

“May I put your bag in the closet?”
A “thank you” would be nice, Mr. Perfect.

His nose smoothed out, and he looked down at her. She watched his business training kick in and the gears crank a mechanical smile in place.

“Thank you.”

Before he closed the bathroom door, Giulia caught his sneer at the tiny proportions of everything. His probably had one of those whirlpool tubs, a marble sink, and a heated towel rack. He’d be roughing it big time tonight.

She flipped on the lights in the living room and her bedroom. At least her spare sheets were newer than the ones on her bed. Unfortunate that they had a roses-and-baby’s-breath pattern. Not quite the first choice of a star executive.

Three books lay open on the coffee table. Better straighten those. Should she offer to make coffee? Would that look like a come-on? Lord knows that was the last impression she wanted to convey. How far did hostess duties constrain her? She certainly didn’t want another half-hour of pretending interest in his job prospects and Pamela’s virtues. And serving him... she loved to cook, but not when common courtesy would be misinterpreted as the superior male’s entitlement.

By the time she stripped the extra pillow from her bed and stuffed it into the flowered pillowcase, he’d turned off the shower. She bent over the couch cushion to make a hospital corner, and the bathroom door opened.

“Sugar, I need the shorts and T-shirt from my gym bag, unless you don’t mind my sleeping in the buff.”

The man had an ego the size of Texas. “Your bag is in the hall closet, Mr. Parker. Right next to—” She stood and turned around and her brain seized up like an overworked engine.

Blake stood at the opposite end of the couch, one hand loosely clasping the ends of a towel around his hips.

The towel didn’t meet in front.

His tousled blond hair gave a boyish look to his square face. His chest hair curled around droplets of water that kept dripping off and rolling down his six-pack abs, down behind his hand, down into the curlier blond hairs above—

She snapped her eyes back up to his face. His soft grin had a cocky edge.
Bet you want this, sugar
, it said.
You’ll never have anything as good as me again. Say the word and a night of Blake Parker’s love is all yours.

He stepped toward her in the small space between the couch and coffee table. The heat from his chest touched her face—or was that bonfire from her own skin?

“Your call, sugar.” A husky baritone replaced the whine from his earlier demands for protection. The towel slid to the floor.

Her deep, calming breath trembled like a teenage girl contemplating a meeting with a favorite movie star.

She disgusted herself.

“Mr. Parker, Driscoll Investigations is professional at all times and in all circumstances. We expect our clients to act accordingly.” She backed toward the window and a breeze touched her sizzling skin.

Great.
The curtains were open. To her ground-floor apartment. At least they faced the excuse for a courtyard and not the street. No one hung out in that weed-fest.

“Your bag is in the hall closet next to the bathroom.”

The Perfect Male shrugged. “Your loss.” He draped the towel over one shoulder. His glutes didn’t jiggle once as he walked away.

_____

Giulia knelt beside her bed, bedroom door locked, curtains pulled. The breeze billowing them inward every few minutes made more sound than her whispered prayers.

“Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection...” The rote prayer fell from her tongue, leaving her mind free.

His ruffled hair. His muscled shoulders. His firm pecs, the nipples right at her eye level. That brief glimpse of his...

Someone on the other side of the courtyard was cooking Italian. Tomatoes and roasted garlic drifted in on the next puff of breeze.

The other one’s breath... garlic and pot... his long, hard penis stuffed in her mouth...

She jumped into bed. Her old cotton T-shirt rucked over her waist and she tugged it down before she pulled up the sheet.

Would this be funny if it were happening in a sitcom? Uptight virgin forced to share apartment with steamy male all too willing to show her the ropes.
Jock and Jill
. No.
Who’s Hot/Who’s Not
. No.
Bad Habits
. Yes. The towel scene would be sure to play to uproarious laughter.

They’d need married friends with a precocious kid. And a dog. A big black Lab with a brain the size of a walnut who’d steal the towel and run out the back door. The steamy jock would have a tomcatting father addicted to Viagra. Her character would have a nagging mother with a yappy little dog that made the Lab cower behind the TV.

How did her mind get so dirty? How could she be sickened by the memory of the rapist in the park yet aroused—aroused, there was no other word for it—by Blake’s equivalent attempt to use sex as power?

She didn’t know who she was anymore.

That was useful. Call the religion desk at the
Community News
. State the obvious.

Nine o’clock. It was going to be a long night. On the other side of the wall, her couch springs squeaked. A thump. Blake’s feet must be on her coffee table.

“Where’s the cable remote? The Man U game starts at nine.”

Every syllable carried with painful clarity. She never realized the walls were so thin.

“She doesn’t have cable. Where did Frank find this chick?” Another thump and his voice muttering. Then the television clicking on.

Giulia flung off the sheet and restacked several books on top of the bookshelf with a series of bangs. A laugh-track volume increased.

Maybe celibacy wasn’t that bad. Giulia and her plants. Like Miss Silver and her knitting.

That future was supposed to change when she jumped the wall. What was she doing wrong? She had a real job. She had friends... no. She had no one. She was alone, scared, and confused.

A smart, modern
Cosmo
woman would’ve ripped Blake’s towel off and wrestled his willing, wet body onto the area rug. So long, virginity; hello... what? Promiscuity? Guilt? Unemployment? The latter without doubt, once she compromised the professionalism of Driscoll Investigations.

Would sex get the specter of the rapist out of her head? Would Blake have pushed her onto the couch and tried to use her mouth like Pot-Breath did?

She had to get a grip. She was safe in her own bed, and a tower of masculinity lay on the other side of her locked door. A tower of willing masculinity.

So take him. Be the aggressor, not the victim. Choose what kind of sex you want.

And she’d deserve the slut label. She reached for her Bible. The Holy Card bookmark from her mother’s funeral caught her eye, and she opened to Second Peter. “They are blots and blemishes, reveling in their dissipation, carousing with you. They have eyes full of adultery, insatiable for sin.”

“I get the point.” She slammed the book shut and threw it onto her nightstand. The clock radio bounced.

“Sugar, you want to keep it down in there? Thanks.”

She flung off the covers and stalked to the bookshelf, tugging her T-shirt down when the breeze hit skin that should’ve been covered. Sherlock Holmes? No. She already had an arrogant male invading her space. Saint John of the Cross? No, she wasn’t in the middle of a Dark Night. Not yet. Italian fairy tales. Perfect. A million miles removed from real life.

The breeze puffed in, warmer than before. She kept the sheet off, propped her pillow, and rested the book on her knees.

Two sitcoms later, the television switched off. Amid much grunting and squeaking springs, the arrogant, sexy, annoying, lust-inducing Blake Parker settled in for the night.

Did he dream of the women he’s slept with? The women who refused him? What would sex with such a perfect physique be like? He’d kiss her with those full lips and put her hand on his firm butt cheek. She’d give it a tentative squeeze. He’d slide his hand under her T-shirt and knead her breasts—and then he’d make a snide remark about the scabs.

He was a narcissistic, superficial, drop-dead-handsome sexpot. If she gave up her virginity to him, he’d take it as his due and toss her in the trash like a fast-food wrapper.

Ten minutes later, rhythmic snoring floated through the wall.

Turn out the light, Giulia. You don’t want to sleep with the client.