Under Cover Page 12

  “Boy,” Peter said with frightening gentleness, “you’ve got three seconds to let go of the lady. One—two—”

  “Aaaaaaauuuuuuugggggggghhhhhhh!”

  “Time goes kind of fast when I’m pissed off,” he said cheerfully. “Bad Conrad! No touchie!”

  Lori stared. Her childhood nemesis was rolling around on the floor cradling his forearm, which had an odd bulge in the middle.

  “What’s going on here?”

  She turned to see Alan Gretch, her mother’s lawyer and an old family friend, walking swiftly into the reception area. He stepped over the writhing Conrad—he knew him of old—and pulled her into an affectionate hug. “Lori! By God, you get prettier every week.”

  She extricated herself, blushing. “Thank you, Alan. This is my friend, Peter.”

  Peter scowled and stuck out a hand—the one he’d just broken Conrad’s arm with. “Meetcha,” he muttered. And, in a low voice to Lori, “Friend?”

  “Oh, hush up. Would you prefer it if I drew him a diagram?”

  “Do you need an ambulance?” Alan was crouching beside Conrad and speaking slowly, as if to an imbecile. Which in this case wasn’t far off. Conrad’s screams had died down to bubbly whimpers.

  “Fuck you!” he gasped.

  “So no?” Alan guessed.

  “I’ll help him outside,” Peter offered. “He just needs some fresh air.”

  “And some plaster,” Alan observed. “And possibly a sling.”

  Before Lori could protest—although she had no idea what she might have said—Peter had pulled Conrad off the floor by his good arm and accidentally walked him into the wall. Conrad howled and clapped his good hand over his eye. “Whoops! Missed the door by a few feet. Oh, and Conrad?” Peter’s booming voice dropped to a whisper, and though she and Alan strained, they couldn’t make out what Peter was saying. Conrad shuddered all over, then nodded so hard and fast he nearly reeled backward.

  “What a nice young man,” Alan commented.

  “He’s my—” What? Boyfriend? Too soon. Friend? Not after last night. Bad guy? Hard to tell. Savior? Getting there. “—he’s very nice.” Of course, that wasn’t right, either.

  Alan had taken her hand, and she blinked up at him in surprise. Not too far up—Alan only had about three inches on her. He was a kind man, a clever attorney, and had made no secret of the fact that he’d harbored a not-so-secret crush on her for two years.

  It’s funny, Lori thought, taking in his silvery blond hair, the friendly brown eyes bracketed with laugh lines, the hopeful smile, the expensive suit. He’s twenty years older than me—practically a father figure—and I could have taken him ages ago. He would have solved all my problems. Why not? Was I really waiting for someone like Peter all this time?

  Not someone like Peter… was I really waiting for Peter himself?

  Ridiculous. We have nothing in common, she thought, still gazing up at Alan. Peter thinks I’m a basket case and I think he’s a thug, and the fact that we’re both right doesn’t help matters. Not one bit.

  “I’m sorry, Alan, I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?”

  “I said I’ve got the paperwork and the trust checkbook right here, but I was really just screwing up my courage.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  He took a deep breath. “I adore you, Lori, and I want to be with you. I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve just been waiting for you to grow up. I want you to be my wife.”

  “Oh,” she said weakly.

  “I’m sorry. This is a horrible time and place to propose—”

  “Oh?”

  “—I had it planned all different, you know, with dinner and nice flowers and violins and things, but seeing you here with someone else—I just-had to do it right now. Before another minute went by. I’ve already waited so long, you know.”

  “Oh.” Two days ago she’d thought she was all alone. Now she was—er—involved with Peter, and a respected lawyer wanted her hand in marriage. And Conrad was on his way to the ER. And she had to spend close to a million dollars in the next day or two. “Ah—oh.”

  “And it’s not about the money!” he said urgently, although for once the money was the farthest thing from her mind. “I have plenty of my own. I just—I couldn’t wait. You understand, don’t you, Lori?” he pleaded.

  “Of course. I’m—I’m flattered, Alan, but surprised. And I don’t—”

  “Don’t answer yet,” he begged.

  He had inadvertently increased the pressure on her hand—the one Conrad had been mangling—and she hoped he’d let go before she had to ask him to. Her fingers were going numb, one by one.

  “Just promise you’ll think about it.”

  She couldn’t bear to wipe the hope from his eyes. She knew exactly how it felt, having your dreams dashed. It was the worst. “I promise,” she said.

  Life, she thought as he handed her the trust checkbook, was certainly getting interesting. For once, in a good way.

  Chapter Ten

  You fuckin’ moron.

  He only had himself to blame. He’d been right all along—a rich, classy dame like Lori wouldn’t stick with him in the long run, even if she did live in a dump and needed a housekeeper in a major way. She was using him to get what she needed, and then it was sayonara, Jack.

  He wasn’t mad at her. Much. He was mad at himself, for thinking for two seconds…

  Never mind. He should have learned. He had learned. Everyone was out for themselves. The Jackal, Renee, Lori, that lawyer dude, Conrad, and probably Lori’s dead mother.

  Serves you right for eavesdropping.

  Well, like Rhett told Scarlett in Gone with the Wind—probably the best movie of the last century—eavesdroppers often heard highly interesting things.

  They spent the afternoon writing checks. Well, she did. He played Personal Driver. They stopped at AirLifeLine, the Minnesota Valley Humane Society, Bridging, Inc., Meals on Wheels, and the Children’s Safety Center Network.

  With every check she wrote, he could see Lori get happier and happier, see her spirits lift and her load lighten, practically before his eyes. It was amazing, if weird. Jeez, this money really is a burden to her. She can’t wait to get rid of it.

  “—really make a difference, I just wish my mom could see what we’re doing with Grandpa’s money, she’d be so—”

  “You oughta give some to ProofCorp,” he muttered.

  She quit in mid babble and looked at him with her pretty gray eyes. “What’s ProofCorp?”

  “It’s this company that donates bulletproof vests to police precincts.”

  “Oh. Don’t the police provide—”

  “Suckers are expensive,” he grunted, turning the wheel and heading back to his place. It was the end of a long, long day. “Not all the departments can afford them, or if they can, they can’t buy as many as they need.”

  “How do you know so much about it?” she asked.

  “I just do, is all.”

  “Come on, Peter.”

  No way was he telling her his dream, the reason he played the lottery every week. Not when she was set to piss away all her money and marry Retch-the-lawyer.

  He shrugged.

  “Fine, don’t tell me.” She crossed one shapely leg over the other and jiggled her foot up and down. “It’s a good idea, though. Maybe we can head back to your place—oh. Here we are. Well, good. I thought we could get a bite and rest, and spend the rest of the money tomorrow. Sound good?”

  He grunted.

  “Are you all right?”

  He muttered.

  She was clearly puzzled as she followed him up the walk, but she didn’t say anything. Good thing, because he was in no mood.

  He stopped suddenly, and she ran smack into him.

  “Oof!”

  “Agghh! I mean, Mrs. O’Halloran, how ya doin’?”

  “There you are, you bad boy. And where’s my rent, now?”

  Lori peeked around him. Peter was sure Lori figured Mr
s. O’Halloran looked like a harmless TV sitcom grandma—curly white hair, glasses, plump figure, faded jeans and a denim workshirt. What Red couldn’t know was that his landlady was really a hydra in disguise.

  “Hello,” she said, sticking out her hand. “My name’s Lori.”

  “Betty O’Halloran. Nice to meet you, dear.”

  “Uh, about the rent—”

  Lori was scribbling in the trust checkbook. It really was like a book; it was about a foot long and eight inches wide. She had to bend over and rest it against her thighs to balance it. He put out a hand to stop her, when O’Halloran broke his train of thought.

  “Now, Peter, dear, I know you’re out of work. You can just get me the rent when you’re back on your feet again. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “You take that back!” he practically shouted. “I know you, you’ve probably been showing the house while I was out.”

  “Only to six or seven families,” she said, having the gall to sound wounded. “I’ve got to look out for myself, dear. An old woman living on a pension…”

  “You bought IBM stock in 1984!” he howled. “My house is one of twenty-four!”

  “Here,” Lori said, cutting him off and handing O’Halloran a check. “This should take care of it.”

  O’Halloran glanced at the small piece of paper and her eyes went shiny, the way they always did when she contemplated money—or wounded animals. “Ah—yes, this will do it. Thank you.”

  “That’s all right,” Lori said comfortably, and waved when Mrs. O’Halloran hotfooted it across the street.

  “She’s probably going to hitch up her broom and head straight to the bank,” he mumbled.

  “I heard that, dear!”

  Peter yanked his screen door open and fished for his front door key. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said irritably. Yeah, so, Red saved his ass—not to mention his home—but damned if he liked being beholden to her.

  “Why not? I owe you a salary, anyway. You’re working for me, remember?” She grinned. “Six months’ rent seemed like a good starting point. Besides, there’s not that much money left in the account, thank God.”

  “And the stud service? What’s that worth?”

  She almost walked into the door frame. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You need hand puppets?”

  Shocked, she stared at him. Then she shot out of his line of sight and the left side of his face went numb.

  She slapped me!

  “Never,” she whispered. “Never ever. Imply that. Ever again.”

  “Ouch!” He balled a fist, then let it drop to his side. Who was he kidding? He’d never hit a woman in his life. He certainly wasn’t going to start with Red. “Don’t do that again,” he said through gritted teeth. The gal packed quite a punch. He ran his tongue across his teeth—yes, everything seemed to be in place. “You won’t like the consequences.”

  “Blow me,” she snapped.

  He blinked at her, but before he could answer, his front door opened and a hand shot out, seized him by the hair, and dragged him inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Ow, goddamn it!”

  “Boy, you got what you deserved, and if I hear you talking to a lady like that again, you’ll get a whole lot worse.”

  His face throbbed. His skull was on fire. His eyes were watering. What vicious beast had waylaid him in his own home? He wrenched himself away. “Mama! Cut that out! And how’d you get in here, anyway?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions, boy. Your landlady let me in.”

  “Remind me to shoot her,” he grumped.

  “Hello,” Lori said tentatively, shutting the front door and holding out her hand. “My name’s Lori. You must be Mrs. Chuck.”

  “Darling, you call me Mama, all right? Yes. My, you’re a beautiful little thing, aren’t you!” Since Lori had about six inches on Mama, “little” was a bit ludicrous.

  “Thank you. Peter’s been helping me out this week.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Mama Chuck said. She tried a leer, but it looked like an attack of indigestion. She was an emaciated woman with skin so dark it had mahogany undertones. Her wrists were little over an inch across. Her eyes were, interestingly, the color of apple cider. Her hair, streaked with white, was pulled back tightly and fastened in a bun low on her neck. She was wearing cocoa-colored leggings, a faded sweatshirt, and knee-high red rubber boots. Her face was remarkably unlined. She could have been thirty-five or sixty-five.

  “Jeez, Mama, you still losing weight? What about that case of Ensure I brought over?”

  “Tastes like chalk,” she said shortly. “Chocolate-flavored chalk.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if it tastes like hot piss, drink it. Keep your weight on—ow!”

  She’d smacked him in the back of the head, Three Stooges-style. “Watch your mouth, Peter Neville Random. And you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “Neville?” Lori asked.

  “Like hell!” he shouted, backing out of her reach. “Mama, I’m a grown man, you can’t—”

  “Neville?”

  “Randall and his boys ran into you at the MegaMall with this little cutie, and you didn’t say a word. You didn’t call me over, and you sure didn’t bring her to visit. I got to hear about your doings from my own boys?”

  “You act like it’s a real rare thing when I’ve been in the company of a woman,” he whined.

  “Oh, Neville?” Lori was grinning. He refused to look at her.

  There was a short, pointed silence, broken by Mama Chuck tapping her teeny, size-four triple-A foot. Peter could feel his face getting red. “OK, still,” he mumbled. “Grown man. Mind your own business. Stop bugging me. Go away now.”

  “Neville and I have only known each other for a day or two,” Lori added, coming to his rescue. Thank you, Jesus! “He’s helping me out of a bit of a jam. There really hasn’t been time for niceties.”

  “Peter never makes time for niceties,” Mama said. “Sweetie, you want to excuse us for a minute? I need to kick this boy’s ass up and down the living room, and you shouldn’t have to watch.”

  Lori eyed the tiny, energetic woman and the hulking Peter, who was actually shuffling his feet, and made a graceful exit to the bedroom. He watched her go, he couldn’t help it, even though he knew Mama wouldn’t miss a trick.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “Nothing. I got a new job.”

  “Uh-huh. Randall said you could hardly take your eyes off her at the Mall. What you waiting for?”

  “Forget it, Mama. She’s different from us. Rich, classy, white…”

  “I hate to break this to you again,” Mama said dryly, “but you’re white.”

  “You know what I mean. She’s living in a dump right now, but she grew up in a mansion. She’s pissing away close to a million bucks, and you should see her with this money—she can’t wait to get rid of it.”

  “So? Then she’ll be in your league.”

  “No chance.” He kicked at his carpet. “Besides, she’s going to marry some jerkoff lawyer.”

  “If you let that happen, you’re the jerkoff,” his mama said sternly. Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was pretty profane, for his mother. “Fix it so it doesn’t happen. Win her over. Don’t just let her walk away from you. Peter, if she means this much to you, don’t be a fool. Not about this.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re really good at letting happiness slip through your fingers,” she said simply. “Haven’t I known you since you were toilet-trained? Didn’t I take you in when that worthless father of yours started using you for batting practice? Haven’t I seen it? Not this time, Peter. She needs someone; I knew that the second I saw her. Why can’t it be you?”

  “You don’t know anything about her,” he replied. “So how can you know we’ll be good together?”

  “I’m your mama. I know everything.”

  He shrugged and stared at
the floor. “Don’t think it’s gonna be that easy.”

  “Try first,” she said tartly. “Then you can give up. Do what you’re good at, boy. Get her between the sheets and show her how you feel. What woman could resist you?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” he said, revolted. He preferred to assume his mother was a virgin. Hey, it was possible—he was adopted, after all.

  “Everybody’s good at something,” she said slyly. “Some more than others—or so I hear.”

  “Seriously. Mama. I’m going to puke, you don’t cut that out.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Mama turned. “I’ll get it. You think about what I said. You were always bright, but you sometimes act like a fool.”

  “Thanks,” he said sarcastically.

  “Well, you do,” she snapped, peeking through the peephole. “Huh. Some rich-looking white man. Nice suit.”

  “Probably the lawyer. Let him in.”

  “Why?” she asked scornfully, then swung the door open.

  An imposing man stood in the doorway. Mama Chuck was right; his black suit was beautifully cut and fit him perfectly. He looked down his long nose at them. Though he was nearly Peter’s height, he was at least forty pounds lighter. His hands were beautiful—long, thin fingers, clearly manicured. His eyes were the color of frozen mud. His hair was pure white. He looked like a prosperous mortician.

  “I’m seeking my stepdaughter and the trust checkbook,” he said coolly, not even glancing at Mama. “You will deliver both, at once.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lori heard the voice and nearly fell down. She knew it well. Hadn’t it spoken to her, taunted her, hurt her in enough nightmares?

  Edward! Edward’s out there with Peter and Mama Chuck!

  She shoved the remarkably ugly cat off her lap and sprinted through the bedroom doorway. “You leave them alone!” she shrieked, skidding to a halt in front of Edward and nearly knocking Mama into the DVD collection.

  His cool gaze fell on her like a weight. “Ah, Lori, there you are. I was just explaining to your… friends… that you’ll be coming with me. And you’ll bring the checkbook, of course.”