Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (14 page)

“Sorry about hanging up on you before,” he was saying into the receiver. “But you know how it is. My little wife came for a surprise visit last night, and . . . well, we hadn't quite finished saying howdy, if you know what I mean.”

Shelley groaned and covered her face with her hands while Michael grinned at her wickedly.

“Sure thing. I'm just as anxious to see the property as you are to show it, believe me. And now that my wife is here, we'll be able to make a decision on the spot. Right. Right. See you soon.”

The receiver hit the cradle with a crash, and Michael let out a whoop that nearly split Shelley's eardrums. “Hook, line, and sinker!” He slapped the palm she stretched out in question like an athlete after a slam dunk. “We did it, Shelley! We got him.”
 

“Got whom? What are you talking about?” But she was laughing right back at him. He did that to her every time. His good spirits were contagious. “Who is this Mr. Big?” She shook her head. “Mr. Big. Honestly. More shades of Jimmy Cagney movies.”

He ignored her digs. “We got through to the top man in the organization. The Weeks are fronts; of course. They lure in the suckers. When they really feel secure, and think the plum is ripe for the picking, they call in the biggie.” He grinned at her. “Your arrival from Tulsa must have really added the touch of reality I needed. When Margery saw you sleeping like a baby this morning, she was convinced. She must have called Stickler right away.”

“And he called you.”

“Right. He'll meet us at the site at eleven.”

“Us?”

She could see by the look on his face that he had no doubt about her going along with this wild ride. “Of course, us. We make great partners, don't you think?” His smile might have seduced her on the spot if her mind hadn't been preoccupied. “He's expecting to see Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, and that's whom he’ll see.”

She frowned, not so sure about that.
 
“Explain to me just what these people are trying to do.”

“Cheat me out of all my money.” He leaned back and looked at her. “They set up meetings at condominiums, posing as the owners. Or sometimes they really do own them. Then they take on buyers. When they've made enough money, they skip town and the poor buyers find out they've bought property that wasn't up for sale, or, as I think we'll find out in this case, they've paid for the same property five or six other people have paid for, and nobody has a valid deed. A lot of people lose their shirts, the money they were counting on for retirement.”
 

He raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't you like to put away crooks like that?”

Of course, she'd do it. She couldn't seriously contemplate a way out of it. She'd probably go out on the balcony and sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'” to the multitudes if he asked her to. But she needed a little time alone, time to think.

“I'd better hurry up and take my shower, then.” She stood up. “Oh, my gosh! What am I going to do for clothes? I can't wear your T-shirt to meet Mr. Big.”

“No problem.” He pointed out her suitcase, sitting on the case rack. “I called your roommate last night, after you went to sleep. She let me in to get your suitcase.”
 

Shelley gaped at him.
 
She didn't know whether to be impressed by his helpfulness or incensed by Robin's lack of suspicion. “She did that? For all she knew, you could have been an ax murderer holding me hostage!”

“Are you kidding?” He threw her a scornful glance before sipping the last of his coffee. “Some women don't have to be convinced about me; you know. Some of them just know instinctively what sort of guy I am.”

“That's exactly what I mean.” She grinned at him. “And she gave you her blessings anyway. What a friend! But remind me to give her a call and tell her my plans for the day.” She started into the bathroom.

“Hold on,” he called after her. “I'm coming too.”

For once she put her foot down. “No, you aren't.” She closed the door until only a crack let her finish talking to him. 'This is one mission I plan to go on alone.”

“It's a nice big bathtub,” he said, his eyes large and a bit woebegone.

“You've already had two showers in the last twelve hours,” she protested. “Besides, I need some time alone.”
 

“Oh, no.” He groaned. “Don't tell me you need time to think over our relationship.”

“Well, what if I do?”

“Just don't think all the fun right out of it,” he grumbled, but he'd obviously given up on changing her mind. “And hurry up. It's boring out here without you.”

She expected to feel a sense of relief when she'd shut him out, but somehow it didn't come. “It's boring in here without you too,” she whispered, then shook her head. It was hopeless. She was crazy about him, and she knew it.

She stood under the stinging spray of the shower and tried to work out what she was doing, where she was going, but facts and feelings floated around her, solutions just out of reach, and she began to wonder if she'd lost all ability to reason.

She'd just made love, the most glorious love of her life, with a man she'd met first as a thief, then as a con man. He was doing both for legal reasons, but that didn't change the fact that he made his living, lived his life, based on fantasy. What part could she play in a dreamworld?

No part at all. Hadn't he made that clear from the start? You're the psychologist, Shelley. You figure it out.

She patted herself dry with the huge white towel, then wrapped it around her body, tucking in the ends, and stepped out into the room.

Michael had dressed. He wore the dark slacks and had put on a crisp white shirt. The cuffs and collar were still unbuttoned, and she stopped a moment, holding her breath, marveling at how handsome he looked, his dark hair and tanned skin set off by the snowy whiteness of his shirt.

He turned at the same moment, but he didn't say a word. The usual glint of humor was missing from his eyes as he stared back at her. The tension stretched between them. Shelley wasn't thinking in words, she was only feeling, and he seemed to be doing exactly the same.

Don't fall in love, Shelley Carrington. Don't be such a fool as to fall in love with this wonderful man
. The warning blazed through her, but she knew it was too late.

He was moving toward her, and she had a sudden impulse to see what would happen if she met him halfway. Would he pull away her towel and hold her, heedless of his fresh clothes? Could she make him forget all about the appointment with Mr. Big? Tempting, very tempting to find out. But not her style somehow.

“Did you miss me?” she said quickly, turning and pulling open her suitcase before he could reach her. “What should I wear to meet this crime kingpin you're taking me to?”

His hand touched the back of her head as she bent over the clothes, fingers spiking through her shower-damp hair. “Just wear a smile,” he said softly. “That's all you need for me.”

Her breath stopped in her throat. She wanted more than anything else in the world to turn into his hand, into his embrace, but she steeled herself. “That may be all I need for you,” she said lightly, rummaging through her things, “but I think Mr. Big would be a little surprised. Don't you?”

“Maybe.” Suddenly he drew his hand away as though he realized what would happen if he didn't and knew he had to resist temptation. Then the humor was back in his voice. “But if he's as smart as I think he is, he'd never let on.”

He sat back on the bed and she pulled out a slacks set—white pants and a sailor top—and held them out for him to examine. “Does this look like something Julie Daniels would wear?” she asked.

He nodded. “Looks fine to me.” A look of dismay crossed his face as she turned back toward the bathroom. “Hey, aren't you going to let me watch you dress?”

“Of course not.” She flashed a wary look his way.

He jumped up from the bed and beat her to the bathroom door. “You know, we're going to have to do something about this body fixation you have,” he told her sternly. “It's not healthy. What are you afraid of?”

You
, she started to say, but she stopped herself in time. “Not a thing,” she answered instead. She wanted to push her way on into the privacy of the bathroom, but as she looked up into his eyes she hesitated. There was something so open about him. She almost felt she could tell him anything. Maybe he deserved more of an explanation.

“I'm not used to this, you know,” she told him, a little shy. “I—I don't do this kind of thing. I've never really lived with a man and I—”
 
She shrugged.
 
“I can't change quite that fast.”

His lopsided grin was delightedly disarming. “No problem.” His large hand cupped her chin and he beamed into her dark eyes. “We'll take it a step at a time. Just like—”

“The sushi.” She said it at the same time he did, and they grinned at each other.

“Get in there and change,” he growled, patting her bottom, “before I tear that towel off and ravish you again.”

She did as she was told, but the glow he conjured in her didn't fade when she left him. Was this love? If it was, it was wonderful.

CHAPTER SEVEN:
 

Hot Stuff
 

“Have you ever met Mr. Big before?” Shelley asked as they drove along the bay, on the way to the condominium Mike Daniels was supposed to be thinking about buying.
 

The early-summer day was perfect, the sky crystal-blue, the sun as yellow as a California lemon, the ocean water slick and shiny. Expensive white yachts making toward the open sea took down their brilliant blue canvas coverings and hoisted rainbow sails. Pink geraniums bloomed from window ledges, yellow roses and red portulaca lined the road. Colors seemed to pop out at her everywhere she looked. Had it always been this beautiful here, or was there something special about the company?

“I think it's time we started referring to him as Mr. Stickler,” Michael answered, maneuvering the car skillfully through the heavy traffic. “It wouldn't do to slip up and call him Mr. Big to his face.”

“Think that might give him pause, do you?” she asked, holding back a smile.

“Could be. I don't think I'll chance it.” He glanced across the car at her. “I hate bucket seats.” He sighed. “When I was a teenager, I drove an old Chevy and I always had my girl right next to me.”

“One hand on the wheel and one arm around your baby, huh?”

“Absolutely. Keep those women under control.”

“Dreamer.
 
That’s what seat belts are for.”

She sneaked a glance at him. She could see him as a teenager. Had he worn his hair slicked back, black-leather-jacket style?
 
Or was he in a long-haired rock band?
 
Or had he been strictly Ivy League? From what she knew of him, it could have been any of the above. Maybe all, one at a time.
 

“But you haven't told me about Mr. B—Stickler. What do you know about him?”

“Quite a lot actually. We've got a very thick file on the man at the department.” He pulled into a security area, lowered the window, and told the guard where they were going before turning back to Shelley. “Stickler is only one of many aliases. He's done time in Florida for real estate scams, and now he's trying his luck here.”

They turned down a side road and approached a row of gleaming new condos sitting at the water's edge. “He started his career in New York when he was pretty young, running numbers for the mob. But that action was a little too risky for him. Job security isn't what it once was. Besides, he wanted to strike out on his own. So he split for Miami.”

“White-collar crime is more to his liking than the rough and tumble of the street?”

“Exactly.” Michael parked behind a shiny Rolls-Royce. “Besides, the perks are so much nicer,” he said, nodding toward the beautiful car.

“Is that his?”

“I imagine so. It's the only other car out here.”

She looked at it, shaking her head. “Wouldn't you think he might be afraid his pigeons might get a little shaky seeing that car? I mean, it's obvious where he got the money to buy it. He's not exactly involved in charity work here. He had to make it out of the hides of his clients.”

Michael grinned. “But you see, pigeons, as you so eloquently call them, don't look at it that way. They see a man like Stickler as a successful businessman. They only want to get in on the action, to become a part of that success too.”

“So it's the old story that greed makes you into a victim of these creeps.”

“It often works out that way. Of course, a lot of totally innocent people get caught up in it too.”

She took a deep breath. “Anything else I should know before we go in?”

“No. Just be yourself.” He got out of the car and came around to her side to open the door for her. “They say he likes women,” he added as she rose to join him. “Charm him.”

“Oh, brother.” She gave him a look of disgust and began the walk up the flagstone steps alongside him.

“Oh, one more thing.” He stopped her just before the double front door, a hand on her arm, speaking in a low, careful tone. “Whatever you do, don't say a thing about his hairpiece. He's very sensitive about that.”

As if she would bring it up casually in conversation! What did he think she was, an idiot? Her mouth opened, but he didn't give her time to speak.

“In fact,” he whispered as he jabbed at the bell, “just to be safe, don't mention hair at all.”

There was no time to ask any questions. The door was opening, and she steeled herself to play the part of the perfect suburban housewife, while at the same time remembering to avoid looking at the man's toupee.

“Hello, hello, welcome, come right on in. You must be the Daniels, right? Please, come right in.”

Mr. Stickler was a few inches under six feet, a slightly paunchy, olive-skinned man in a light plaid suit, with snapping black eyes, a perpetual smirk, a bushy mustache, and no hairpiece that Shelley could see.

His hair was quite thin on top. In fact, he'd combed a few strands in such a way as to pretend there was more hair there than he could really muster. But that wasn't a hairpiece. Was it?