Under Cover Page 8

Peter took another gulp, then set his glass down and focused on the television. The broad pulling the balls out of the spinner looked disturbingly like Renee Jardin. Same stature and coloring, same dippy grin. Christ That was nothing to be thinking about. Time to think about his future, the houses he’d buy with the two-point-eight million dollars in this week’s Powerball. Time to think about what to name his company, his baby, his dream.

  “Six,” the Renee clone said sweetly to the camera. Peter didn’t have to look at his ticket. He played the same numbers every week. Six, twenty, six, thirty-nine. Mama Chuck’s birthday. “Twenty. Six.” His fingers tightened on the ticket. Come to papa, sweetheart! “Forty. Ten. Those numbers again—”

  “Son of a bitch,” he sighed, and drained his drink.

  “Maybe next week,” Mark said.

  “Maybe pigs will fly out of my ass.”

  “I have no idea,” Mark said cheerfully, “but a man like you probably has several disagreeable habits.”

  That made him crack a smile. Wiseass punk bartender. “I don’t have to take this. My left sock is older than you are.”

  “Most likely.”

  Peter pushed the rest of his drink away. “How’s school?”

  “Hard. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff there is to memorize. I mean, I knew it’d be hard, don’t get me wrong, but I had no idea.” Mark whipped a rag from his belt and wiped up the condensation left on the bar. “Working here most nights doesn’t help.”

  “Quit.”

  “Oh, very encouraging! You should have been a guidance counselor.”

  Peter shrugged. “The world has enough goddamned lawyers.”

  “Not the kind I’m going to be,” Mark said firmly. He made Peter’s dirty glass disappear and a tall glass with ginger ale and a cherry take its place. “You’re thinking of high-priced defense lawyers. I’m going to get my degree, then put up a shingle back home and help people who can’t afford good representation.”

  Peter stared at Mark, who was practically vibrating with earnest intensity, and wondered if he’d ever felt like that about anything. The kid made him tired.

  He poked a finger at the ginger ale. “I don’t want that. My back teeth are floating as it is.”

  “Very well put. Gosh, how come some lucky lady hasn’t snatched you up?”

  He ignored that. “How much?”

  “Um… I’ll take a twenty.”

  “Grasping bastard. These drinks are worth half that. And I’m not touching the pop.”

  “Ah, but you’re tipping for exceptional service.”

  “My ass,” he said, and left forty. Somehow, he felt the kid had earned it.

  There was a woman sleeping in his backseat.

  Peter looked around the dark parking lot. Yep, he was standing beside his puke-brown Ford Escort, all right He could have sworn he’d locked it before heading to the bar, but shit, Eagan wasn’t New York City. It was a mild-mannered suburb of Minneapolis, with more blond yuppies per square mile than anywhere else in the world.

  He opened the back door and waited. She didn’t stir. He poked her foot, which was clad in a dark blue sneaker. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing khaki shorts. In October! She had on a tattered black leather bomber jacket, but he couldn’t see her face because it was buried in her arms. Her hair, from what he could see, was exactly poised between red and blond. He couldn’t help staring. He’d always heard the phrase strawberry blond, but had never seen such a perfect example.

  She wasn’t a pro, taking a rest between hustles. Not unless prostitutes were wearing shorts and bulky jackets to troll for cock these days. So what the hell was she doing here?

  He cleared his throat and looked around the parking lot again. He was half hoping some geek would bounce up to the car and say, “Oh, right! Forgot my girlfriend. Here, let me take her off your hands. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Nope. Not a soul, and she didn’t move.

  He leaned in to tap her in the middle of the back, and then he got a whiff. Strawberries and rum. She wasn’t asleep, she was passed out.

  Drunk.

  In his car.

  “Well, shit,” he said aloud. What the hell was he supposed to do? Call the cops? Dump her out and leave her in the parking lot? Take her home?

  The cops were out—too many of them had questions about the attempted murder thing with Renee. He could pull the broad out and leave her, but…

  The woman in his car began to snore.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and slammed the car door, being careful not to catch any of her curls.

  Chapter Two

  Peter staggered up the front steps with the drunk bim in his arms—she was dead weight, completely zonked. He glanced over his shoulder to the house directly across the street from his. Thank you, Jesus! All the lights were out. His landlady was asleep, no doubt storing up her evil powers to use on him in daylight. There were some real benefits to coming home from a bar at one-thirty in the morning.

  Peter stared at his locked front door and finally draped what’s-her-face over the porch railing, belly down, while he fished for his keys. He got the door unlocked in another moment, then grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her inside. Gripes, if any of his neighbors saw him, they’d be on the phone to the cops before you could say serial killer. And more attention from the boys in blue he did not need.

  “This is nuts,” he muttered under his breath.

  Booger, his cat, yowled in agreement from her perch on the living room sofa. “Hang in there, baby. I’ll feed you in a second.” He hoisted the stray du jour into his arms and carried her to his bedroom. Great. On top of everything else, he was sleeping on the flicking couch tonight.

  He dumped her unceremoniously on the bed, half hoping she would wake up, but she simply flopped back over on her stomach and went on snoring. Not cute little ladylike snores, either. Real buzz saws.

  Nothing to do now but wait. And feed the damned cat, of course.

  Lori Jamieson rolled over and stared at a ceiling that was completely unfamiliar. Where in the world?

  She blinked, puzzled, then sat up, massaged her pounding temples, and nearly screamed when she saw the man straddling the chair at the foot of the bed. As it was, a muffled squeak escaped her lips, and she felt her heart rate double. Her headache, which had been mildly painful, suddenly became a skull buster.

  “Well, finally,” the man said. He was alarming looking, to say the least. Big, quite big, with the palest blue eyes she’d ever seen, and the thickest black hair. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a white open-throated shirt. She could see the fine black hair on his knuckles, and the lines bracketing his eyes. On most people, those would be called laugh lines. Not on this one… he looked really mean.

  Good.

  “Look who’s awake,” he said, drumming his fingers on his knee.

  “I—you scared me.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s doing, sweetheart? Why were you in my car?”

  “Fine, thanks, and you?”

  “Oh, you’re gonna lecture me on manners? You get drunk and pass out in my backseat, but I’m the troglodyte?”

  “Yes.” And, for the first time since the news of her mother’s probate, she giggled, which caused him to raise an eyebrow at her. “Sorry, not too polite, right? It’s just that it’s been kind of a long—aagghh!”

  The ugliest cat she had ever seen strolled into the bedroom. She tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. It looked like a cat that had been run over, then put back together by an evil genius. Its eyes were two different colors, one a baleful green, the other a crystal blue. Its fur was a mottled brown, and its feet were white, except for the back left leg, which was reddish-orange. It was missing an ear, and half its tail.

  “What happened to your cat? Or giant rat? Or whatever?”

  “It’s not mine,” he said quickly. Too quickly, she decided. “I don’t even know what it’s doing here. I hate cats. Shoo! Get lost!”

  The cat gave him a long
stare, then slowly walked out.

  “Just a stray, huh?”

  “It sneaks in when I’m not here. I have to find the crawl hole it keeps using and close it up.”

  “Maybe you should take it to the pound.”

  He nearly gasped. “They gas cats there every week! Uh—also, I’m too damned busy. Yeah, I—enough about the cat. Let’s hear your story. Why were you in my car?”

  “I got it mixed up with mine,” she said. The cat chat had given her time to think up something. “I have an Escort, too. I knew I was too drunk to get home by myself, so I thought I’d sleep for a while, then drive home.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Mine was the only Escort in the parking lot. So unless you got the bar mixed up with the Laundromat, you’re lying. Let’s try something simple, like your name.”

  “Debbie.”

  “Strike two, Red.” He held up something black. Shocked, she realized it was her billfold. “Your name is Lori Jamieson, and everybody is looking for you. Did you know the cops think you’ve been kidnapped?”

  Her mouth popped open. “You went through my things while I was asleep?”

  “Sure.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Sure. It’s good that you know something about me. And I know a few things about you. I know your name’s Lori, I know you’re a student at the U, I know you’re in deep shit, and I know you’re a liar.”

  “I—you—” Had she ever been so angry and so frightened at the same time? She didn’t think so. She didn’t know whether to throw something at him or hide under the bed.

  “So. One more time. And, Lori, sugarpie, do not make me ask you a fourth time.” He grinned. He had a lot of teeth. She suppressed a shiver. “Who the hell are you, and why did you pick me?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Come on, don’t play coy now. Out with it. Don’t make me throw you and the cat in the same sack.”

  She tried to think, but it was so hard… her head was pounding in time with her heartbeat, and the room started to spin like a merry-go-round gaining speed. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “Wh-where’s the bathroom?”

  His forehead creased as he frowned at her. “I’d assume this was another sorry-ass stall tactic, but you don’t look too good.”

  “I don’t feel—hurp! Too good. I’m not stalling, you shouldn’t… ohhhhhh…”

  She was amazed at how quickly he moved for such a big man. In a flash, he’d pulled her off the bed, yanked her across the room, and tossed her into a bathroom.

  “You make a mess,” he said, turning on the light and then closing the door, “you’re cleaning it up. I have no idea where the mop is.”

  She staggered toward the toilet. “Don’t worry about m—urgh!”

  The final humiliation in a long week of them, she thought, and threw up so hard she saw white spots in front of her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  Peter could still hear Lori shoutin’ at the floor—what had she eaten, an antelope?—and decided not to knock just yet. Instead, he crept into the kitchen and gave Booger half of the fresh tuna steak he’d picked up from the fish market yesterday. It was ridiculously expensive, and the place was only about sixty miles out of his way, but the cat seemed to like it.

  Between overtipping bartenders and feeding Booger high on the hog, it was no wonder most of his money had run out. Peter, old pal, he thought ruefully, you’re a classic sucker.

  “Hurry up before she comes out. Eat faster, damn it. God, did you see her face? Did you see her eyes?”

  What he hadn’t noticed while she was facedown on his bed was how extraordinarily pretty she was. He already knew she had nice legs. Real legs, too, great old-fashioned gams like you saw on Marilyn and Rita, not the stringy, thin legs women worked to get these days. And her body was pretty good—she was a little too thin, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a few milkshakes and steak dinners. Decent rack. But her face… wow.

  She had the cutest little nose, sprayed almost artistically with a fine network of freckles. He couldn’t help it; he had counted them while they were talking. Well, while he was talking… she hadn’t said much. She had the lushest lips he’d seen since he quit subscribing to Penthouse. Her mouth was red and pouty, even without makeup, and begged for kisses. And her eyes… her eyes were the color of the fog coming in off the ocean. He’d never seen gray eyes before.

  When she sat up and opened those amazing eyes, he’d nearly fallen off the chair. He hadn’t felt such a stroke of such urgent lust in—when had he let that subscription lapse?

  He expected a tiresome litany… who are you, where am I, can you drive me home, sorry for your trouble, blah-blah. Instead, the line of bullshit she’d trotted out was interesting, to say the least. She was up to something, all right. The real question was, did she just pick a car at random, or did she pick him?

  As soon as that antelope was all the way out, he’d find out.

  Booger finished her tuna and twined around his legs, so he picked her up and carried her to her room. “Stay in here,” he said into her one ear. “Take a nap.” She purred against his chest, then jumped from his arms to her twin bed, curled up, and closed one eye. It always cracked him up when she slept with her green eye open. Other people would probably find it disturbing, he supposed.

  He went back out, through the kitchen and down the hall, and into his bedroom. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Red? You gonna live?”

  “Unfortunately,” he heard her groan.

  He grinned in spite of himself.

  “D’you have any aspirin?”

  “Yeah. How many you want?”

  “Six hundred.”

  “How about a glass of 7-Up instead?”

  “I’ll accept that. On a trial basis, anyway. I’m really, really sorry, but I’m going to use your toothbrush now.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  When she tottered into the kitchen, he silently held a chair back for her and she sank into it with a grateful sigh.

  “Peter, this is wonderful,” she said with what he assumed was sincere gratitude. He’d taken a minute to fix toast and pour her a glass of pop. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He sat across from her, waited until she took a bite, then added pleasantly, “I never told you my name.”

  After he’d given her a modified Heimleich and the toast chunk had gone flying from her esophagus into the living room, he made her sit down and drink her pop while he grabbed the errant chunk with a napkin and chucked it into the garbage.

  “Don’t do that ever again,” she said sternly.

  “Well, shit, I did think you were gonna choke.”

  “And you did so tell me your name.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Yup.”

  She put her glass down and rested her face on the Flintstones placemat. “I screwed this up all the way around,” she muttered.

  “There were about twenty ways you coulda done it better,” he agreed.

  Her head snapped up and she glared at him. Then she clutched her head. “Ouch! And thanks a lot.”

  “So are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here, or what?”

  She bit her lower lip, which made it swell, almost as if she was asking for a kiss. He stared and tried to stop his mouth from hanging open. Did this broad have any idea how fine looking she was?

  “Can I take a shower first?” she stalled.

  “Oh, for—you don’t have anything to change into.”

  “I can borrow one of your T-shirts.”

  “Is that so?”

  She smiled at him. Great smile—made her whole face light up. It was like watching the sun come over a hill. He fought the urge to promise her anything. “I’ve got you now, Peter. You’re too curious to throw me out.”

  “Well, that’s a fact,” he admitted. “I guess I’ll rustle up some clothes for you, then.”

  “And more to drink?” she asked hopefully.

  He s
cowled. “OK” Peter, you are such a sucker.

  Forty minutes later—what did she do in there, wash every millimeter six times?—she was at the table again, her long hair wrapped in a towel, wearing his Come Along Quietly T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants cut out at the knees. They were so long on her the holes were closer to her ankles.

  “That’s much better,” she said, polishing off her third glass. “You know, the reason hangovers are so painful is dehydration.”

  “Tell me about it. Now, out with it.”

  “That’s it? Out with it?”

  “Lady, you have no idea how patient I’ve been. Trust me, it’s totally out of character. Now spill it.”

  “OK.” She took a deep breath and looked him square in the eyes. “I want to hire you for protection.”

  “Bodyguard work? Pass.”

  “But you need the job!”

  “Do I?” He was starting to get nervous and tried to control it. When he got nervous, he hit and kicked and stuff broke. People, too, sometimes. And he didn’t want to scare Red. But the fact was, she had staked him out. She knew his name and knew he was out of work. And she was as twitchy as an epileptic who’d skipped medication. It was nerve-racking. “You seem to know about me, but I don’t know much about you, Red.”

  “Lori.”

  “Right. Except that you’ve gone missing and your family called the—”

  “They’re not my family!” The empty glass went sailing past his left ear and shattered against the fridge. As he watched, her pupils shrank to almost nothing. Adrenaline rush. Fight or flight. Now that was interesting. “Don’t you call them that,” she hissed. “Neither one of them is related to me. They only called the police to track me down. My only family died a year ago.”

  “OK. Take it easy. That glass was super expensive.”

  It worked; she smiled a little. “It was an old jelly jar. Unless you buy all your glasses at the Smuckers factory.”

  He turned around and looked at the mess on the floor. “You got a good arm, Red, give you that. But if you think I’m sweeping that shit up, you’re nuts.”