Czytaj książkę: «In Bed With The Wild One»

Chapter 1

“EMILY, IS THAT YOU? Sneaking in late? Surprise, surprise!”

Emily Chaplin stopped in her tracks. It just figured. This Friday morning in June was the first time in her entire goody-two-shoes life she’d ever been late for anything. And now she was caught red-handed, tiptoeing her way down the hall to her office, by Alissa Bergman of all people, the snoopiest, most competitive lawyer in the firm.

Emily wavered there, unsure whether to respond to or just ignore Alissa. She’d figured if she hid behind sunglasses and kept her head down, dodged the law firm’s main reception area and took the stairs, surely she could sneak into her office before anyone saw her.

No such luck.

Of course, when you were among the lowly associates at Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin, Attorneys-at-Law, all competing to make partner someday, your co-associates watched your every move, eager to rat you out to the senior partner. They all knew the big guy was a stickler for associates making their quota of billable hours each and every day. It didn’t help that the big guy also happened to be Emily’s father. And he rode his family members harder than anyone.

“Emily, Emily,” Alissa murmured, making a little tsk-tsk sound. “I heard you were out with Kip Enfield from the eighth floor last night. Had a late night, did we? Did the Kipster get lucky?”

Emily stiffened. “As if.”

As a matter of fact, she did blame Kip for the fact that she’d overslept and missed her ride in to the city. But not because they’d had such a hot time. Au contraire!

Kip was just the latest terrible fix-up in her never-ending series of them. Her father the senior partner, her mother the judge, her older brothers, all four of whom were lawyers—they all insisted on matching her up with eligible but insufferable young attorneys. It didn’t matter that the men bored her silly and sent her running back to the bathtub and a book about sexy spies and hard-boiled private eyes. Her well-meaning family members kept roping her into these horrible dates, no matter how much she protested.

Was it her fault the lawyers they set her up with were as limp as old noodles, while the men in the books were exciting, dark, dangerous and very, very stimulating? They saved the free world, they uncovered conspiracies, they fought off bad guys in dark alleys. They grabbed life in both hands and didn’t let go.

Whereas Kip Enfield…“Gag me,” she said out loud. He was the worst, the absolute worst. He wasn’t just stultifyingly dull—no, he was pompous, irritable, and el cheapo to boot. Dinner with Kip had stretched out endlessly while he droned on about the wine and the beef and his fine palate. After all that torture, he’d made a big point of tipping only two percent because he didn’t like the service. Exactly two percent—which took him about half an hour to figure out. Emily had to run back at the last minute on a pretext, unable to stand the idea of leaving such a pathetic tip.

So by the time Kip pulled his Beemer up the circular driveway of the Chaplins’ suburban home, she was more than ready to dump him. Except that he insisted on coming into the house—dying to sip the senior partner’s brandy out of the senior partner’s snifter, no doubt—and she couldn’t get rid of him no matter how many hints she dropped. Hours later, after several attempts to kiss her, paw her and cajole her into a little horizontal bingo, Kip finally consented to leave. She’d practically wept with relief.

After that fiasco, she could hardly help it if she’d slept for a full nine hours, just as a defense mechanism. At least her dreams were entertaining, unlike Kip Enfield.

“I’m never dating another lawyer as long as I live,” Emily declared. “In fact, I may never date anyone. I’ve got that last-straw feeling.”

But first things first. Pulling off her sunglasses, she focused on a point over Alissa’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “Is that Daddy, rounding the corner to your office, Alissa? Uh-oh. And you’re here in the hall, chatting with me. That can’t look good.”

It was a complete and total lie, but Alissa was out of there so fast she barely left a vapor trail.

With a small smile of satisfaction, Emily turned on her heel and ducked inside her own office, safely closing the door behind her. Trying to work up some enthusiasm for the day ahead, she took off her jacket and neatly hung it up, parked herself behind the desk, and then stared at the mountain of paperwork for five minutes. Ugh.

Finally she cracked open the Bentley file on the top of the stack. As the minutes dragged by, she fiddled with a pen, chewing on the end, staring into space, scribbling notes here and there about the tax implications of one small subsection of a client’s proposed reorganization plan. It was so dull she almost nodded off right there at Part B(11), subparagraph 3(a)(iv).

“Okay, maybe I should listen to my voice mail,” she decided. Maybe someone fun might have called. But who did she know who was remotely fun?

Maybe a distant relative, or even better, an old boyfriend, who desperately needed her to fly to Istanbul or Zanzibar tonight. Yeah, right. All the Chaplins, even the distant ones, were so boring they made the Bentley file seem exciting by comparison. As for old boyfriends…well, she had one or two, but the only thing they’d be calling for was help on their taxes.

Okay, so maybe Sukie Sommersby, her goofy sorority sister from college, might call out of the blue. Sukie was always getting into trouble. The last time Emily had heard from her, Sukie had just woken up with a new husband in a Vegas hotel and needed info on quickie divorces.

“Why don’t I ever wake up with new husbands in Las Vegas?” Emily asked out loud. Hoping to hear something, anything exciting or different, she pressed the button for her voice mail.

Bad idea. There were three messages from Kip to tell her again how much he’d enjoyed last night, two from her oldest brother Rick—the doofus who’d set her up with Kip—wanting to know how it went, and one from her mother, the bankruptcy court judge, who had a new clerk she thought might be a good match for her daughter—not to mention at least one annoying message from each of her three other brothers, all of whom offered unwanted advice on her career, her car or her love life.

She felt like screaming. And that was before she heard the voice mail from her father, who had apparently called every ten minutes between eight-thirty and ten, demanding to know when the hell she was going to put in an appearance and reminding her that being a Chaplin did not bring her any special privileges at Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin.

“Sukie Sommersby would never stand for this!”

Without pausing to think about it, Emily stood up and grabbed her purse and briefcase, heading for the door in a blur. She called to the secretary, “I’m taking my laptop and one of the Bentley files out of the office, and I won’t be back for a while. I’ve got my cell phone in case anyone needs me.”

As if anyone would need her for anything truly important. She was a tax lawyer, for goodness’ sake. Her life was occupied with subparagraphs of footnotes to the tax code. It was as boring as boring could be.

As she hit the street, turning her face into the bright light of the Chicago summer, Emily’s mood only grew gloomier. What was the problem? Sure, the stale routine of her normal life was getting her down, but she was out of the office, wasn’t she? And the good thing about getting to work so late was that it was almost time for lunch.

“Café Allegro,” she murmured. Maybe that would make her feel better. After all, didn’t she eat lunch at Café Allegro every day? And didn’t she order the same tall glass of iced tea with a sprig of mint and the same low-fat grilled-chicken salad? Day in, day out.

It was calming, familiar and serene. Just what she needed. Right?

But her feet seemed to get sticky and slow as she wound her way down Ontario Street. She made it right up to the cool brass door of Café Allegro. But when it was time to walk in, Emily found herself paralyzed, stuck, unable to take even one more step forward. It was as if the weight of her same old routine had suddenly settled on her shoulders like a five-hundred-pound gorilla.

She pulled her hand away from the door. She wheeled. And she took off down Ontario Street as if the odious Kip Enfield himself were stalking her. She didn’t stop until she hit a dark, vaguely grimy coffee shop, a place that smelled of fried onions and greasy hamburgers. The Rainbow Rest-O-Rant.

Not what anyone would expect from Emily Chaplin—which was exactly why she was going in.

Clutching her briefcase, Emily veered into the dingy restaurant. It was mostly empty, so she had no trouble finding a booth. Scooting in, she decided this place was definitely nothing like Café Allegro. The two eating establishments were less than a block, but a whole world, apart.

She grabbed some paper napkins out of the dispenser on the table, wiping them quickly over the bench seat and the top of the table. It wasn’t the grime that bothered her, though. For some reason, she found herself pondering who had carved all those initials and messages into the wood, wondering how much Marco really loved Missy, and whether Tootie and BoBo were really Friends 4-Ever.

Her reverie was broken abruptly when a rather hard looking waitress wearing a name tag that said “Jozette” slapped down a plastic menu in front of her. The woman didn’t bother to smile, just raised a painted-on eyebrow as she poured coffee into one of the cups on the table. “You know whatcha want?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly. I think I need a minute.” Emily peered down at the menu, unwilling to actually touch it. She might be taking a walk on the wild side, but she wasn’t insane. She noted that someone seemed to have spilled ketchup on all the important parts of the lunch section, making it impossible to read. “Do you have any specials?” she asked hopefully.

“No, I don’t got any specials. What do I look like, freakin’ Café Allegro?” snapped Jozette. “I also don’t got all day. My chili is growing legs back there.” When Emily still didn’t come up with anything she wanted to eat, the woman stalked off. “Lemme know when you decide,” she snapped over her shoulder.

Sheesh. Life got tough when you ventured outside your comfort zone.

Using another napkin for protection, Emily flipped her menu over, looking for inspiration. Idly she tried a sip of the coffee. Whoa. The stuff was so strong she rubbed a finger across her front teeth to make sure they were still there. She opened four sugar packets and five little creamer cups and sloshed them in. Better. Not really drinkable, but better. Meanwhile, she distinctly made out the words “banana split” behind a smear of something brown—syrup?—on the back of the menu.

Well, why not? I’ve never had a banana split for lunch.

She scanned the premises, prepared to signal Jozette that she was ready to order, but the surly waitress was nowhere to be found. After a moment, Emily gave up looking for her, content to wait until Jozette wandered back on her own. Emily was in no hurry.

Closing her sticky menu, she set it aside and pulled out the newest Trick McCall novel, which she just happened to have in her briefcase. She’d bookmarked the spot where she’d had to stop last night. It had really been annoying to leave her book and her bubble bath to go out with that stupid Kip Enfield, just when Trick had been beaten to a pulp by a couple of hoods who’d double-crossed him. But Trick McCall didn’t go down without a fight.

Emily scanned the page eagerly. Trick tried to sit up, but the pain in his gut was like a bucket of hot lead.

A few people drifted in, a few people drifted out, dishes clattered, coffee was poured, and life went on in the outlying areas of the Rest-O-Rant. Nobody passed near her, and Emily stayed intent on what she was reading.

“Damn,” Trick swore under his breath. He couldn’t pass out. Not yet. Not before he knew where Rico and the Ice Man had stashed the loot…

“You have to come up with the money,” a low, heated voice said fiercely. “Listen to what I say, Slab. We’re past desperate here. We’re right over the brink into disaster.”

Wait a minute. Slab? There was no one named Slab in this book. And that hadn’t been a voice inside her head. That was real. Out loud.

Confused, Emily looked up from the page, toward the source of the intriguing voice. Her gaze slid right through the gap between her booth and the next, snagging when it caught the face of the man who’d spoken. And what a face…

She swallowed. She felt her cheeks suffuse with heat.

Whoever he was—this man who was teetering on the brink of disaster—he looked amazing.

She didn’t know who or what he was, his name, what he was doing there, any of those important details. It didn’t matter. All she needed was one glance at that gorgeous, dangerous face, all hard angles and stormy shadows, the hint of stubble, the carelessly cut dark hair that brushed the collar of his battered leather jacket. And she knew him down to her bones.

She had an overwhelming desire to toss aside the adventures of Trick McCall, private eye, and toss herself over the divider into his booth.

“You pay up now, Slab,” he muttered, “or we’ll both be in too deep to shovel out.”

Pay up? In too deep to shovel out? This sounded an awful lot like the book she’d just been reading. How very exciting! Easing herself up and around to one side, trying not to make any noise, she craned her neck enough to get a glimpse of this Slab person through the shabby fronds of a plastic plant attached to the top of the divider. Holy smokes. She could see where Slab got his name. The man had shoulders the size of a minivan and a face like a hunk of concrete.

“But, Tyler, I ain’t got the dough,” Slab responded, sounding higher and whinier than she would have expected from someone that large. She couldn’t completely make out his next words, but it was clear he was offering excuses.

So the gorgeous one’s name was Tyler. First or last? Who cared? Tyler. She tried it on her tongue and decided she liked the feel of it.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t fork over some cash like yesterday, I’m the one who’ll take the heat,” Tyler returned. “You owe me, Slab. You owe me big-time.”

“I could knock over another bank,” the big lug offered cheerfully, and Emily caught her breath.

Knock over another bank? Who were these people?

“Keep your voice down, will you?” After that command, Tyler dropped his own volume as well, and Emily had to really concentrate to get any of their conversation. Darn it, anyway. This was fascinating.

Tyler said something about “the Feds.” Was it, you know the Feds are on our tail? Or, who knows if the Feds have the details? Good show the Feds let you out on bail? She chided herself for jumping to conclusions. For all she knew, he’d just said that Joe Fezz didn’t pay retail.

He added in an ominous tone, “You never know where they have wiretaps and informants parked. Let’s be smart about this.”

Okay, so she was right the first time. Slowly Emily slid as far down into her seat as she could go. She was only five-four, but she wasn’t taking any chances that they might catch a glimpse of her and take her innocent eavesdropping for something more sinister. Who knew what these two were involved in? Just because Tyler was a major babe was no reason to think he wasn’t a hoodlum.

She tried to remember what she’d heard so far. Let’s see…Tyler needed Slab to fork over some cash that was owed to him or dire things would happen. Slab didn’t have the money, but was willing to rob a bank to get it. And not just rob a bank. Rob another bank. And the FBI was apparently sniffing around.

If she had any sense, she would run, not walk, out of the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant. But she couldn’t help herself—she leaned in closer to the divider so she could make out more of their soft, tantalizing words. Slab mumbled something she couldn’t catch, but Tyler’s words came back fast and furious.

“Listen to me,” he whispered angrily, “don’t even think about any more bank jobs. You got caught the last two times, and that means you better retire already.”

Ooh, this was getting good. Slab had a criminal record but was none too bright and wanted to do it again, while the awesome Tyler was trying to keep him away from more criminal activity.

Maybe he was some kind of counselor, she mused, like for some ex-con twelve-step program.

“Do you know how much you’re already into me for?” Tyler went on. “I trusted you, Slab. I know—that makes me every bit as stupid as you, but I trusted you. And now you need to do right by me. You said you could come up with the money. Or we both know I’m out on the street.”

That made no sense for a counselor. A loan shark, maybe? She ventured another glance through the slats. World’s best-looking loan shark?

But Jozette, the world’s crankiest waitress, chose that moment to come back. After stopping to refill the coffee at Tyler’s table, trading chitchat and good-natured insults and making it very clear they were old pals, she finally sauntered around to Emily’s side of the booths. Quickly Emily pretended to be absorbed in her book so that Jozette didn’t shout, “Hey, I think we got your FBI snitch right here!” or something equally scary.

As quietly as she could manage, Emily ordered the banana split she’d completely forgotten. She waited impatiently for Jozette to vamoose so she could go back to listening. Meanwhile, the men in the next booth were still arguing in the same hushed, urgent tones.

“Look,” Slab said finally, half-rising in his seat. “There’s only one way. I’m gonna have to get out of town.”

“Are you nuts?” Tyler retorted.

She felt sure she heard something about Slab not being allowed to leave the jurisdiction—or maybe both of them—and then the name “Fat Mike,” which sounded very familiar. A local mobster? Emily quickly added these clues to the others she’d already amassed. Couldn’t leave the jurisdiction…if Slab were out on bail and unable to leave the area, would that make Tyler his bail bondsman?

“I gotta do it, Ty,” the big guy continued. “It’s the only way! I gotta go to Frisco.”

“Slab, keep it down, will you?”

No, no, Emily wanted to plead. Talk louder! But no one cared what she thought.

Slab mumbled something about “real loot, plenty to make us even,” and then “stashed in Frisco.” That was followed by a string of words that went right past her, and Emily leaned her whole head into the plastic plant to try to pick up more of it.

“Money…stashed,” Slab whispered, as something akin to a wistful smile crossed his blunt features. “Sweet Shanda. Best time I ever had was with Sweet Shanda.”

Emily started to get excited. This was kind of like charades. And she thought she had it! Slab had hidden his money in San Francisco with an ex-girlfriend named Shanda.

Tyler’s next words were very low, but the intent was unmistakable. “If you go to San Francisco,” he said, “Fat Mike will kill you. And maybe me, for good measure.”

Emily shivered. Had he really said “kill”? As in, dead? Nobody would really kill someone who looked like Tyler, would they? And waste all that potential?

But the gigantic man shook his head, his voice rising as he argued. “I owe you, man. And Fat Mike will get off both our backs if I come up with the dough. I’m going, and I’m gonna get it.”

“Forget it—”

“Damn it!” Slab bellowed, pounding a huge fist on the table and making the coffee cups bounce. “I’m going to get my stash!”

There was a long pause from their booth, as Tyler seemed to bide his time before speaking. “Sit down,” he said finally, in a dark, curt tone that didn’t brook objections. Slab sat. Emily could feel the reverberations all the way over on her side.

Angry words went back and forth, a “get a grip” followed by “I gotta do what I gotta do,” with Tyler getting colder and Slab becoming more and more agitated. Leaning across the table, the big guy distinctly brought up “Sweet Shanda” again and then something about the money had better be where he left it or he would “tear her apart with my bare hands.”

Emily felt chilled to the bone. Eavesdropping on criminals was one thing, but when they started contemplating taking women apart with their bare hands, it was going too far.

Finally the big guy raised his entire bulk from the booth, pushing himself to his feet with some effort. “I know what I gotta do,” he bellowed.

After mumbling a few more things Emily didn’t catch, he stomped his way out of the coffee shop, apparently determined to assault some poor woman named Shanda in San Francisco in order to recover ancient ill-gotten gains.

Tyler sent a wary glance around the place, clearly wondering whether anyone had overheard the outburst. Emily noted that, except for her, the diner’s few patrons appeared to be very good at minding their own business. And unless Tyler happened to lean forward and look in just the right place, he wasn’t going to see her, either. There were some benefits to being small.

Emily tucked herself even farther down into her bench seat, just to be sure, as she wondered what she should do next. Frankly, she was appalled. Had she just heard criminal activity being planned, and if so, as a lawyer and thereby an officer of the court, was she obligated to pull out her cell phone and report it to the police? Would they believe her if she did? And what would that mean for Tyler, the scowling, handsome ne’er-do-well who had done his best to dissuade the evil Slab from his crime spree?

Her head was spinning. Maybe she should at least call her mother the judge. But she was a bankruptcy judge. What would she remember about criminal law? Plus then Mom would know Emily was out eating banana splits in seedy dives and not at work. And then Dad would know, too, and she’d end up the first Chaplin in three generations to be fired from Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin.

Besides, she wasn’t absolutely sure there was anything wrong in what she’d heard. For all she knew, Slab had done his time, was completely reformed, and wasn’t allowed to leave the area because…well, there had to be some decent explanation. And if she started calling police and judges, she’d just make a fool of herself, making a mountain out of a molehill of stray words and overheard bits and pieces. Who knew anything for sure?

“Damn it.” Tyler interrupted her frantic thoughts as he, too, rose to his feet. He threw some money on the table, muttering under his breath. “I have to go after him.”

So maybe he was a bounty hunter? A bounty hunter with a heart?

Whatever he was, Emily gulped and hid behind her book as he crossed around the booths and passed right by her. She peeked over the cover, absently noting how well his weathered jeans wrapped his tight bottom, how wide his shoulders were under that leather jacket, how fearsome the expression on his handsome face…ooh, green eyes. She hadn’t been able to tell before, but now she could. Definitely green. Not the color of emeralds or grass or even a Christmas tree. What was that color?

One thing she’d say for him—he might be involved in a mess, but he was hot.

As she watched his every move, he cut near the counter where Jozette was just emerging with Emily’s banana split, and then he bolted up a set of stairs tucked in beside the rest rooms.

As the waitress ambled over and shoved the ice cream in front of her, Emily narrowed her eyes at the stairs. What was up there? And what was Tyler doing?

But before she’d had a chance to piece together a theory, he came barreling back down the stairs. “Jo?”

The waitress turned away from Emily’s table. “Yeah, babe. Whatcha need?”

He cocked his head, indicating he wanted to talk to her by the counter. She hotfooted it over there, which said volumes about how much more she valued Tyler’s business than anyone else’s.

As the two of them talked, Emily set her book down, absentmindedly picking up her spoon. With an overflowing scoop of banana, ice cream and hot fudge camouflaging her, she gazed in their general direction, wondering what in the world they were discussing.

“I’m telling ya, lay off,” Jozette said finally, in an aggrieved tone that was loud enough for Emily to hear. “I wanna do this. I got a credit card—it ain’t like real money—and you’re good for it. I know you, Tyler. You’ll pay up the minute you get back from San Francisco.”

Tyler tried to protest, but Jozette cut him off, laying a hand on his arm with a gesture that seemed downright friendly. “Ty, listen. I never did pay you what I owed you. Somebody’s gotta follow the big jerk and make sure he gets back in one piece. I can’t, so you gotta. Least I can do is get you on an airplane.”

After a long pause, he said reluctantly, “Yeah, okay. Get me an aisle seat, will you? I’ll just go upstairs, you know, pack a few things. Be back in a sec,” he called out as he headed for the stairs. He turned back. “And Jo—thanks.”

Going to San Francisco, Emily sang in her head, leaving out the part about wearing flowers in your hair. And Jozette was apparently paying his way, which implied some relationship between Mr. Cool and the hardbitten waitress. There was no way she would believe the two of them had, well, a thing. It was more as if he had done Jozette some major favor in the past—kind of like the Godfather or something.