Authors: Glenys O'Connell
With a little charm – and the help of her low cut
t-shirt – she had winkled the number of Winters' room from the entranced young
man. In return, he'd been crafty enough to ask for her private phone number.
Winters had rented one of the hotel's best suites
for himself and 'a companion', the clerk had told her with a lascivious wink.
Cíara's heart sank – it certainly seemed that Winters was expecting another
warm body in his bed.
That would be Peggy O'Keefe, if Frank's surmise
were correct
.
It was one thing telling women that the men they
already distrusted could be led astray – it was something else again to tell a
decent, middle-aged man that the wife he'd trusted for years was eager to hop
into another man's bed.
So
she lurked behind a large potted palm tree waiting for the romance writer to
arrive. Her research hadn't come up with a recognizable photograph of Winters
but the desk clerk – with another of those winks - had agreed to discreetly
signal her when the man and his 'companion' checked in. Already she had that
dull feeling in her chest, hoping against hope that the man’s companion would
not turn out to be Peggy O’Keefe.
She'd got the impression that Winters was so
gorgeous that women tended to swoon as he walked by – even Granny had a light
in her eyes at the mention of his name - so there shouldn’t be any problem
identifying him. She'd spent much of the previous night reading one of the
man's racy, red-hot novels. His words raised goose bumps on her bare skin as
she sat propped up in bed and there'd been a few moments when she, too,
wouldn’t have minded taking a nibble at Mr. Winters.
Security
in city centre hotels was tight and a couple of security staff types were
already giving her long, considering looks. Taking pity on her, the desk clerk
brought over a chair and a cup of creamy coffee, wishing her the best of luck
and adding that he hoped they would be able to celebrate her first sale to the
big dailies together. Cíara suppressed the guilty flash – she'd actually given
him the number of a Chinese take-out in Rathmines rather than her own number -
and she settled down to wait for her chance to get photographic evidence that
might end a 23-year marriage.
Come to think of it, she might just punch that
no-good philanderer on the nose herself.
Remembering Frank O’Keefe’s woebegone face, she might just punch that
stupid wife of his, too.
Suddenly
the foyer was all aflutter and the desk clerk was winking madly at her as the
man Cíara had dubbed the Big Bad Wolf arrived with his innocent little lamb in
tow. Except this little lamb wasn’t a comfortable middle-aged librarian but a
ravishing blonde barely old enough to need to pluck her dark, curving eyebrows.
The blonde hugged Winters as they checked in, planting a big red lipstick kiss
on his criminally handsome face.
Had the man no shame?
It looked as though he was going to have a
positive harem for his few days in Dublin!
So, from her spot behind the potted palm, Cíara
shot a couple of black and white photographs of the man and the blonde in a
clinch, using fast film which gave a grainy finish but did not need telltale
flash. Cíara's temper was rising – the kid had to be barely half the man’s age!
Anyway, at least the photographs might serve to put Frank O’Keefe’s mind at
rest.
Then
the couple picked up their room key and headed towards the elevators
accompanied by much bowing and scraping from the hotel staff and several guests
who’d cottoned on to who Winters was. Gimlet eyed, Cíara noted that only one
room key was handed over.
One suite, eh? The man wasn’t even bothering to
feign propriety!
She
flew up the stairs, finally coming to rest out of breath at the fire door
entrance to the corridor on which Winters’ suite was situated. She bent over,
clutching her burning sides and gasping from the unaccustomed exertion. Just as
she was promised herself more time at the gym the elevator doors opened,
spilling out the man himself and his chattering companion.
Grateful
for the dim lighting in the hallway, she used the fire door as a shield as she
aimed for another couple of shots of the couple entering their suite. But the
angle was all wrong, the light was terrible, and there was nothing for it but
to try to slip quietly around the door – which let out a mortified wail of
hinges – and creep closer to her quarry.
A few feet further in and she was out of film.
Damn!
Maybe it was time to go digital!
Struggling to change films without being
noticed was a challenge. Not that it was likely either of them would notice
her; they were so engrossed in each other! She slipped the exposed film into an
inside jacket pocket and was just inserting the new one, hoping against hope
that the noise of the winding motor would not attract attention, when a hand
grasped her wrist like a metal band.
“Geroffme!”
she yelped, then the cry gave way to a strangled wail as she looked up into
burning dark eyes and a very angry, very handsome face. J.V.Winters looked
positively furious as he glared down at her. Cíara gulped.
“So! Time and time
again I’ve made it plain to you newspaper people that there are to be no
unauthorized photographs – can’t you understand plain English?”he demanded
through gritted teeth as he dragged her towards the open door of his room.
Despite her struggles, he pulled her inside as if she were featherweight, and
she found herself spluttering indignation all over one of the most luxurious
hotel rooms she’d ever seen. The pique of pride managed to calm her down a
little as she noticed the blonde, slender legs crossed, sitting watching the
entertainment from a white leather sofa. It was obvious from the other woman’s
nasty smile that she was enjoying the scene, and Cíara made a big effort to
calm down and spoil the blonde's fun.
“Just
what do you think you’re doing – dragging me in here against my will! I want to
call security!” she declared with all the dignity she could muster. The
expression on her captor’s face told her that her act was cutting no ice.
And
ice it was, his attitude towards her. Ice that burned. Slowly, mockingly, he
handed her the telephone receiver from the small desk. “Go ahead, call security.
I’d be interested to hear your explanation,” he drawled sarcastically. Face
flushed, she dropped the receiver back into its cradle with trembling fingers,
and stood silently willing herself to meet the cold flame of his eyes.
“So,
who do you work for?”
“I…I
freelance,” Cíara croaked, thankful at least to be able to tell the truth.
If not the whole truth.
“What’s going on?” The silky voice sounded very
young.
“Paparazzi.” Winters spat out the word as if it
tasted disgusting on his tongue. “Give me the film.”
“Go
to hell,” Cíara shot back, her response more a knee-jerk reaction to being
bullied than to his request. Which, she had to admit, was probably reasonable
in the circumstances. A large male hand reached out, grasping the camera. He
flicked it open, and saw the tail of the film loose, and raised a quizzical
eyebrow to her.
“I
was just changing the film,” she snapped. “I’d just rewound and got the camera
open when you grabbed me.” Okay, not a lie, but stretching the truth a little.
Even so, she was amazed when, after pocketing the film, slamming the camera
door shut, and studying her face for a moment or two, Winters' arm snaked out
pulling her tightly to him in an embrace that had her heart pounding
treacherously. She had to close her eyes and take a deep breath to stop herself
swooning like one of his bodice-ripper heroines – and then she shrieked in
indignation as his hand slipped – into her pants pocket.
He gave a smug grin as his hand came out with a
roll of exposed film. “Is this it?” he demanded, but Cíara had had enough.
Glaring up at him as she scooted backwards to put some distance between them,
she stood stubbornly silent, chin held high.
Winters shrugged, handed back the camera, and
opened the suite door. “If I ever find you hanging around me again, it’ll be
the police, okay? And the same goes for the rest of your buddies, so pass the
word along.”
She
raised her Somers chin even further, looked at him disdainfully, and walked out
through the door he held open. It closed behind her with a finality that made
her shiver, and once she was sure she was unobserved, she skedaddled down the
stairs and through the lobby into the warm spring air of the street. She found
an empty bench and collapsed on it, breathing heavily as if she’d just run a
marathon.
My
God, the man was gorgeous!
When he'd pulled her into his arms she'd wanted
to – her cheeks reddened as she remembered the hot wave of lust that had hit
her right there in the hotel room. Talk about lousy timing. No wonder a poor
country wife like Peggy O'Keefe fell at the man's feet!
Pity he was also an
arrogant pig.
Then she smiled as her hand felt the roll of
exposed film in her inside
jacket
pocket! She could hardly believe her
luck when he'd fallen for the decoy film that he’d found so easily in her pants
pocket where she’d slipped it earlier in the day. A hot shiver shimmered cross
her skin as she remembered that large hand against her stomach through the thin
wool of her slacks, and she sternly told her hormones to behave.
Now all that Mr. Smarty-Pants Winters had was a
few snaps of traffic scenes and some cheeky kids playing Gaelic football in the
street outside the squat building that housed Somers Investigations. Thank God
he’d taken it all at face value and not searched for other films! Her heart
beat a hormone-happy tattoo at the thought of being body-searched by the tall
American, and she looked guiltily at passers-by, wondering if her thoughts were
readable on her face.
Once the shaking had stopped, Cíara got up and ran
for a bus that was just pulling in. She wanted to put as much space between
herself and Winters as she possibly could. As she swung herself up the steep
steps, she had the sudden thought that Winters was somehow familiar in some way
– and she wondered where he’d gotten the nasty bruise on the side of his face.
Some other cuckolded husband?
She flowed onto the bus with the early evening
rush hour crowd, put on a little spurt of speed to snag a vacant seat and
turned to smile sweetly at the purple-haired teenager she'd beaten to it. Some
days, even small victories counted
* * *
“Bill?
Listen, I’ve a favor to ask you…”
“Well,
let’s see, is this quid pro quo?” Bill didn’t miss an opportunity.
Jonathon Winters sighed. “I’ll keep an ear to the
ground about your damned diamond thief, yes,” he agreed reluctantly, silently
thinking there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that he’d be hearing anything
much about the notorious thief.
Not with his fingers glued to the keyboard, where
they should be right now.
“You
got yourself a deal, Jon. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I'm
looking for a woman…” But he didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence.
Bill’s hearty chuckle probably hit a nine on the Richter scale. “Jeez, man, I
thought you were pretty proficient at finding them for yourself. Maybe I could
get Sórcha to look up a couple of her girlfriends for you.”
Impatiently
scrolling the computer screen, Winters rolled his eyes. “Okay, Bill you’ve had
your fun. Now, the woman I want to find is…”
“Frank?
It’s Cíara Somers here. Listen, I think you can probably stop worrying. Winters
spent the two days of the conference either involved in conference workshops,
at the guest reception, or out visiting a small semi-detached house in Swords.
The residents there appeared to be friends of his – a married couple with a
brace of young kids. I’ve got a full report here for you.” She flipped through
the photographs she’d just received back through An Post from the lab.
“And,
er, in his free time…?” the man at the other end of the line asked delicately.
Tension hummed along the line and into her ear, making her own shoulders bunch.
“He
rented a room for himself and a gorgeous blonde, who looked about sixteen – and
when he retired for the night, about 10:30 each evening, neither of them
emerged until the next morning.”
“And
Peggy?”
“He
had coffee and cake with her and a bunch of other librarian types after his
afternoon talk, spoke to her for about two minutes surrounded by a mob of other
women at the evening reception, and as far as I could see, there was no other
contact.”
Unless Winters was a wily, athletic bird who
could climb down the outside fire escape, after jumping several meters from his
room window…and unless Peggy O’Keefe was quite the sex siren to lure him away
from that leggy blonde…
She thought it wiser not to mention any of this
to Frank. She didn’t want to stir his unease again – or to elecit thoughts of
insulting his wife. Peggy O’Keefe had seemed a very pleasant, middle-aged lady
who’d enjoyed socializing with her colleagues and who retired early to bed each
evening, probably with a copy of one of J.V.Winters’ books for company.