Winters & Somers (9 page)

           
“A 16 year old
blonde, you say?” Frank’s voice was filled with indignation.

            “She
had to be barely that – looked at least half his age.”

            “The
slimy bastard! That’s a disgrace, that is,” Frank declared, although she could
still hear the relief in his voice.

Better that Winters was fooling around with an 18
year old than with his beloved Peggy!

She grinned at the irony of it all. Putting down
the phone after promising to contact him when she had her report written up,
she paused for a moment. Surely that was a noise in the outside cubbyhole that
passed as a reception area?

Good Lord, not Granny Somers after a job again!

            But
the reality proved to be much worse. The door to her office space opened
decisively and in walked none other than J.V. Winters, looking more than a
little peeved.

 
No
,
not simply peeved. Thoroughly
angry.
 

She had just about enough time to qualify her
thought before he leaned over her desk and snatched the photographs from her
hand.

            “I’ll take those,” he
told her, perching one hip on the side of her battered old desk, giving him the
advantage of both crowding her and towering over her at the same time. It was
all she could do not to cower. Summoning up the Henley temper, she surged to
her feet and faced him nose-to-nose.

            “What
in hell do you think gives you the right to come in here, a private office, and
snatch hold of documentation intended for a private client’s eyes only?” she
spat at him, anger making her red hair bob and spark in the sunlight from the
window.

            “Calm
down – you look like one of those Roman candle fireworks.” Winters face sported
a malicious grin. A grin Cíara would have smacked away, if she’d dared. But
most of all, she wanted to know how this man had gotten to her office.

            “By
taxi,” he replied dryly when she asked him.

            “You
know what I mean – how did you find me?”

            “Red
haired working girls who spy on men and lie about their photography aren’t that
common, not even in Dublin,” he said, enjoying the curiosity that burned in her
eyes. Taking pity on her, he added then: “I also have a friend in the Gardai
Siochana who was very helpful. Bill O'Malley.”

            Bill!
One of the officers she’d thought of as a buddy when she worked out of the same
station as a civilian administrator. She’d wring his bloody neck when she got
her hands on him, she vowed silently to herself. Oh, yes, she could imagine him
and Winters, and probably a crowd of her former workmates having a great laugh
down in the pub about this.

Cíara’s eyes narrowed. “Give me back the
photographs.”

            But
Winters was already leafing through the dark, grainy shots. There was no
mistaking him and the lovely blonde clinging to him featured in each shot. Twin
angry creases framed his mouth. “Not until you tell me what you wanted these
for. Bill told me the type of work you do – picking up men and…well, if the
cops here want to turn their back on that sort of behavior, who am I to give a
damn?” He glared at her. “But if you're going to extend your activities to
blackmail, then I'll make sure you get what you deserve.”

Looking into those deep, deep eyes, Cíara
wondered if she'd get to choose the punishment she deserved. Her hormones could
suggest a few acts of penance she wouldn't mind…………

“Why don’t you just feck off?” she exclaimed,
trying to pull herself together. She was actually talking to those errant
hormones, but Winters seemed to take it personally. He loomed taller over her,
his expression black.

            “It’s
not blackmail! Look, I have a client who thought his wife was.. well, that you
and she…oh, lord.” She suddenly saw how ridiculous the whole thing had been,
how farcical the case was. But she could understand Winters’ anger, and the
honest part of her realized he deserved an explanation for the invasion of his
privacy.

            “This
will probably sound funny,” she began.

            “You’re
the only one laughing right now,” he said, his mouth forming back into a hard,
thin line. Her lips were still twitching, but she pulled herself together and,
in a brisk and businesslike way, explained the situation.

            “And
just who the hell is this client of yours? I’ll break his fool neck….”

            “Oh,
migodno – Frank didn’t mean anything, he was genuinely worried…”

            “You’re
sure you weren’t just trying to set me up for the press? I never have
photographs taken without the shades and a hat - and you’ve got some good shots
of me and my niece there..”

            “Your
niece?” Cíara knew her bottom jaw was probably parked on the floor, but this
was a shock. “The little blonde bimbo is your niece?”

            “She’s
a straight A student, not a bimbo, if you don’t mind. She lives in London with
her parents and there’s been some trouble with some undesirable boy – my
brother sent her to me for a couple of days, see if I could sort her out…”
Realization slowly dawned on Winters’ face. “You thought that she and I…. that
Kizzie was my…my lover!” He gave a great hoot of laughter. “What an idiot you
are – an idiot with a mind that needs a good washing out!” he added nastily.
“To be expected, I suppose, given the way you earn your living!”

            Cíara
bridled at that – enough was enough, after all. “My client thought you were
having an affair with his wife. I simply took photographs and watched your
activities at the conference…”

            “Wait
a minute – the wife was someone at the library convention?”

            The
man was sure quick-witted. “Yes, Frank O’Keefe’s wife, if you must know….”

            “Peggy
O’Keefe – that lovely lady who’s almost mothered me to death with apple pie and
home-made cookies? You must be kidding!”

            “Well,
Frank seemed to think…”

            Still
chuckling, Winters eased himself off the desk and went to stand looking out of
the office’s one window. It had been a while since he’d really laughed – in
fact, this whole damned writer’s retreat thing was getting to him. He loved
Ireland, certainly, but the peace and quiet of the countryside, staring at that
blank, flickering screen day in, day out, was driving him mad.

            Some
stimulus was just what he needed. A bit of excitement. He remembered how he’d
almost salivated at Bill’s request to snoop around after the Diamond Darling.

But now he had an idea that should prove
altogether much more fun.

He turned around with an evil smile.

 “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t
refuse,” he told her, sidling away from the window and towards where she still
stood by her desk.

That smile alone was enough to alert her that
something nasty was afoot. Winters grinned wolfishly as Cíara stepped backwards
instinctively. And then he stepped forward and she moved back again, until she
ran out of space. The wall was cold against her back, and she shivered.

His smile widened.

“Touch me, and I’ll hurt you,” she intoned.

“Yeah, Bill told me you were quite the little
street fighter.” Winters chuckled again.

 “Bill had no right talking to you about me, and
I’ll see to it that he regrets it,” she snarled.

* * *

Winters leaned forwards, one hand on either side
of Cíara’s head, flat against the wall.

“I’ll look forward to
witnessing that,” he said softly. “Now, I have a proposition for you.”

 She was just about to hurl back a quick
rejoinder when she realized that Winters was leaning back to look into her
face, his lower body was pressed lightly against hers. But not lightly enough.
She figured the man wasn’t carrying a gun, so that meant he was
definitely
happy
to see her! A delighted grin began to spread over her face.
Gotcha!

But maybe not. Most of the men she knew, finding
themselves in a similar situation, would have moved away – at least when sober
- and done that funny twitchy thing guys do to the pleat of their pants,
adjusting for comfort but thinking they just look as though they’re
straightening the crease.

But not this guy. Winters stared her down, unashamed.
And then out of the blue, Cíara Somers, who’d always known her own mind and
body, was taken by surprise into a whirlwind of primitive feelings.
A jungle
beat of lust, a….

“So, Cíara, I figure you owe me – and you can
repay that debt by letting me become your partner in the private eye side of
your business.”

The whirlwind dropped her right down to earth.
The jungle beat stopped abruptly. Now she knew why Winters hadn’t pulled away –
he knew he’d get a knee in a very tender spot if he hadn’t had her pinned
against the wall.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she
growled at him.

“You and me, a partnership.”

She made a noise like a cross between a laughing
hyena and a choking elephant.

“You’ll let me,”
he told her.

“In your
dreams,” she replied, trying to stem the trembling in her chest.

“Oh, mark my
words, Somers, we’re going to be a team. Either you agree, or I’ll sue both you
and your client for everything you possess.”

“That’s
blackmail.”

“Damn right.”

“Why would the
famous J.V. Winters want a partnership in a one-horse investigation agency that
barely has two cases to rub together?” she asked honestly.

“I don’t like
working girls masquerading as something else. I think this agency has potential
– together we can turn it into a real detective agency. Besides, I'm bored,” he
said with equal honesty.

“And because
you’re bored, you’d break up a marriage and ruin me if you don’t get what you
ask for?” Her voice was faint, but the blood was pounding so hard in her
temples she had to struggle to speak.

Winters just
shrugged his wide shoulders. “Not much to ruin, is there? I'd rather think it's
more like saving you.”

Cíara
's brain was working overtime.
What
on earth did he mean – saving her? Working girls masquerading…? But,
pushing
to the front of her mind was poor Frank O'Keefe. It was the first question she
wanted to ask.

The telephone
shrilled. Neither of them moved – their position was a stalemate.

 Finally the
answering machine picked up. A woman's voice filled the room, sounding as if
she was close to tears. “Ms. Somers, this is Peggy O'Keefe. Frank O'Keefe's
wife. I found your number in his phone book, and saw the appointments with you.
They say a wife is the last to know. I…I don't know what this is all about, but
I want you to leave my husband alone!” 
Cíara
jumped as the phone was slammed down.

Winters regarded
her through slitted eyes.

“I don't have a clue what
she's talking about,” Cíara muttered. But it seemed obvious that Frank's wife
was as prone to jumping to the wrong conclusions as her husband.

“Peggy’s a nice woman.
Frank should get his act together.” Winters said softly.

Cíara's slender fingers
curled into fists as she imagined the satisfaction of pummeling the hard body
that caged her in against the wall of her own office.

Winters was threatening to
sue her and Frank.
‘Everything you possess’
didn’t amount to too much in
her case – but in her client’s case, it could mean a great deal more –
including his marriage. For Frank O’Keefe had been wrong in believing his wife
was entangled with the charming writer. Her fantasies were no more than those
shared by hundreds of thousands of women who read the man’s books. And now his
wife thought that Frank was seeing someone else.
Great.

Winters was
watching her intently, and she knew she had no choice. She needed time to think
this through, so she nodded. Winters looked like the cat that got the cream,
and she was left feeling like a waif and stray in her own office.

She had had to
accept as gracefully as possible – after all, if Winters took her client to
court, kind, patient Frank might lose the wife he loved so much. But even so,
as Winters stepped back from her, that smug look still on his face, she took
the opportunity to knee him in that very tender place.

“Oh, crap,” he
yelled, doubling over and falling back onto the wooden chair by the desk, “What
the hell did you do that for?”

“Just to prove I
could – and to let you know that if I go into partnership with you, it's
against my better judgment! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've work to do.”  She
stalked victoriously into the old-fashioned bathroom attached to the office.
She was booked to visit a nightclub at lunchtime to check out on another
cheating spouse.

Quickly she
donned her favorite long blonde wig, teasing the fake do into a sex-kitten
style that she thought looked ridiculous but which seemed to call to men like a
neon sign. Then she wriggled into thong briefs and a tight black cocktail dress
with a neckline that swooped so low she had to go braless and a hemline that
rode so high she had to walk with teeny steps. Especially in the delicate spiky
heels she eased her feet into.