Her Man Friday (7 page)

Finally, though, Eddie's voice sounded from the other end of the line. "Leo?" he grumbled. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Whattaya want?"

Leo chuckled. "I need some information about some people."

"What people?"

"Schuyler Kimball, his immediate family, and the various and sundry persons he has working for him at his estate."

"Ooo, well, la-di-da," the other man replied. "And what is it you want to know about His Highness, the King of Kimball and all his royal subjects?"

"I'll take whatever you can get," Leo told him.

"That means you want me to get all the dirty, lowdown, under-the-rug stuff you couldn't get on your own, being the upright, forthright, do-right kinda guy that you are. Right?"

"Right."

He heard the other man sigh heavily at the other end. "Well, you know, Leo, that kinda information isn't easy to come by. I might hafta rough somebody up."

" 'Rough somebody up'?" Leo repeated dubiously. "You couldn't rough somebody up if your life depended on it. You always get roughed up yourself before you can get your licks in."

"It's still gonna cost ya," the other man said, ignoring Leo's remark. "I can give you the friends and family rate, naturally, but it's still gonna be expensive."

"Nuh-uh," Leo said. "No way. You owe me, pal. Big time. And I'm collecting."

"I owe
you
?" Eddie asked, his voice tinted with confusion. "For what?"

Leo smiled. Okay, so it had been seven years ago. But he was sure the incident was still quite fresh in Eddie's memory. And it would only take two words to bring those recollections to the fore. "Walla Walla," he said.

At the other end of the line, there erupted a feral growl of discontent. "Oh,
man
. You're not gonna bring that up again, are you?"

Leo expelled an incredulous sound. "
Again
?" he echoed. "What do you mean again? I haven't brought it up since it happened. Hell, I wish I could forget it happened. You're the one who always wants to relive the incident every time you cuddle up with Jack Daniels. And, yeah, you're damned right I'm going to bring it up," he added, picking up steam. "I nearly got my butt shot off that night. And for what? Because you couldn't keep it zipped."

"Hey, Leo, she was a beautiful woman," Eddie pointed out.

"She was also a
married
woman."

"Yeah, well, we all have our little idiosyncrasies."

"Eddie," Leo said, striving for patience. "Being married to a mob boss is
not
an idiosyncrasy. It's a terminal condition, often fatal."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you've said. About a million times." He hesitated a telling moment before adding in a voice rife with lasciviousness, "You know, she still calls me sometimes."

Leo shook his head. "Like I said. Terminal.
Fatal
. You better watch yourself, pal."

"Oh, sure," Eddie replied. "At least until I even things up between us, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, fine," the other man relented. "Tell me what you need, and I'll get back to you when I can. And then we'll be square, got it?"

"Got it. I need everything you can find," Leo told him frankly. "Everything on everybody."

"Gotcha."

"And call me at home when you get it, okay? I'm going to be out of the office for a while."

"No problem. Gimme a coupla three days or so. I'll be in touch."

Leo dropped the phone receiver into its cradle, then spun back around in his chair to face the computer. He nearly leapt out of his seat, however, when he realized he wasn't alone in Kimball's office. A tall, willowy, attractive brunette with wide blue eyes had joined him at some point. She was wearing a pale, whispery, flowered dress, dainty white gloves, a ridiculously large straw hat, and a very suspicious expression.

"Uh, hi," he said in greeting, wondering how long she'd been standing there.

"Hello," she responded in a voice that was as pale and whispery as her dress. But she said nothing more.

Leo arched his brows in silent inquiry, and when she continued to remain silent, he asked, "Uh… can I help you?"

The woman shook her head, then turned side-ways, lifting her chin and closing her eyes to strike as melodramatic a pose as was ever struck. "No. I'm afraid no one can help me," she told him. "But thank you for asking."

"You're welcome," he replied automatically.

She turned her head again then, and opened one eye just enough to study him, with an intensity that made Leo more than a little uncomfortable. And all the while, she kept her thoughts to herself, whatever they might be. He was struggling to think of something to say himself, something that might either generate conversation or, better still, make her go away, when she finally lowered her head, opened her other eye, and parted her lips, as if she were about to speak.

But another few moments passed before she finally asked, "Do you know what the word 'didactic' means?"

As questions went, it wasn't one Leo heard often, nor was it the traditional ice-breaker for conversation. Nevertheless, he answered, a bit cautiously, "Uh… It generally describes something which offers instruction, right?"

She expelled a sigh of clear disappointment. "Yes, that's right," she answered sharply, as if angry that he'd been correct. Then, brightening some, she asked further, "Can you spell it?"

Again, the question wasn't exactly a standard one for two people who had just met, but he found himself stating, without hesitation, "D-i-d-a-c-t-i-c?"

Her mouth formed a disgruntled moue. "How about the word 'quisling'?"

Leo gazed back at her in silence, suddenly wanting to ask a few questions of his own. But all that emerged when he spoke was, "You want the definition or the spelling of 'quisling'?"

Once again, she lifted her chin a fraction, as if in challenge. "Both," she stated in a voice that suggested she didn't think he was up to either task. Then, to emphasize just that, she added in a voice tinted with haughtiness, "
If
you think you can manage it."

Leo's back went up at the very idea. As if. "Okay. Quisling. Q-u-i-s-l-i-n-g. Noun. One who betrays his country by aiding its hostile occupants." Somehow, he managed to refrain from sticking out his tongue and concluding with a snotty,
So there
.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. "What's your IQ?" she asked warily.

Some of the snottiness crept out anyway when Leo replied readily, "A hundred and forty-two. What's
yours
?"

But instead of answering his question, the woman let her entire body go limp, and she expelled a very loud, very rude, sound of disgust. "Oh,
great
," she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Terrific. Another one. Well that's just
fine
."

Then she spun around on her heel, and with pale, whispery sounds, strode quickly out the door. She was some distance down the hall when Leo heard her call out further, "Mother! There's another one in the house! Would you
please
talk to Schuyler about this?"

The sister, Leo realized. Jane Kimball. He should have figured that out right off, as she bore a strong physical resemblance to her brother. And if rumors were to be believed, she shared his eccentric behavior, as well. As far as Kimball's renowned super-genius intellect, however…

Well, suffice it to say that that particular matter was still in question.

Leo wondered again how much of his conversation with Eddie she'd overheard, then decided she must have come in on the tail end of things and missed out on the specifics. Which was good. Because he didn't want anything to prevent Eddie from completing his search. Hey, if Leo's experiences today were any indication, the results would provide some kind of interesting story, he was sure.

Shaking his head at what was promising to be a very strange reality, Leo went back to work.

His day brightened considerably a little later, when he heard a soft knock at the door. It was followed by the appearance of Miss Rigby, who entered Kimball's office looking as cool and elegant—and as hot and sexy—as ever. She was also, he noted with no small amount of distraction, carrying a silver tray laden with all kinds of fragile china… tea… stuff.

"Four o'clock," she said as she entered. "Tea time. Would you care to join me, Mr. Freiberger? I brought coffee, as well, if you'd prefer that instead. And there's more than enough for two. I just think it makes the day so much more enjoyable if one can take a little break from one's work in the afternoon, don't you?"

Tea time
, he repeated to himself. Now there was an activity he'd indulged in exactly zero times in his entire life. He eyed the delicate tea cups, rimmed in gold and painted with red and yellow roses, and he wondered if he would have to undergo hormone-replacement therapy if he picked one up in his bare hand. Because surely it was detrimental to a man's testosterone to come into contact with something like that, wasn't it?

In spite of his misgivings, however, he replied,

"I'd be delighted, Miss Rigby. A break would be very welcome. Thank you for thinking about me."

She smiled becomingly as she placed the tray on Kimball's desk and went about rearranging things more conveniently. The little teacups sat on little saucers with little spoons, and beside them were little plates hosting little sandwiches and little cookies. It was all so…
dainty
, Leo thought, squelching a vague shudder of distaste. He must really be consumed by lust for Miss Rigby if he'd go to such extremes just to spend a little time in her presence.

And if this was the way he was behaving on day one, then God alone knew what he'd be reduced to in a week's time. He'd probably end up alongside her in the kitchen, cutting the crusts off those little sandwiches, and wearing an apron with cats on it.

"Coffee, definitely," he said adamantly.

She flinched a bit at his order, and he realized he must have spoken more loudly and forcefully than was necessary. Before he could explain or apologize, however, she finished pouring and asked, "Would you care for cream or sugar?"

"No, just black," he stated proudly for the benefit of his testosterone.

When she extended the cup toward him, though, he hesitated a moment before taking it, then switched it from one hand to the other as he tried to figure out just how to hold the damned thing. Ultimately, he set both cup and saucer down on the desk, telling himself it needed to cool. Then he launched himself into a much-needed stretch, arching his back and curling his arms upward, flexing everything he needed to flex after spending hours in a chair that had been adjusted to the body specifications of someone else.

Oh,
boy
, that felt good.

Evidently, Miss Rigby thought so, too, because as he completed the action, Leo heard her utter a sigh of contentment much like his own. He snapped his gaze to her face when she did, but her expression belied nothing of what she might be thinking. Instead, she appeared to be even more indifferent than usual as she lifted her cup to her lips for an idle sip, and he figured he must have just imagined that soft sound of satisfaction.

"So…" she began slowly when she lowered the cup. "How's the search coming? Have you found the problem you were looking for?"

He shook his head. "Not even close. But that's not surprising. I was pretty much resigned to the fact that it could take several days. Possibly even several weeks, depending on the state of Mr. Kimball's files."

She sipped her tea again, then said mildly, "Mr. Kimball's files are a complete mess. You'll be lucky if you can find his sangria recipe in there."

Leo smiled confidently. "Oh, I bet I could find it."

She smiled indulgently in return. "Oh, I bet you couldn't."

He chuckled, then turned back to the computer. In less than five minutes, he had pulled up a screen. "One three-liter box of cheap red burgundy," he began. "One liter citrus soda, one can frozen peach juice concentrate, juice from one jar maraschino cherries—add cherries, too…"

Miss Rigby jumped up from where she had perched herself on the edge of the desk and rounded the big piece of furniture until she stood behind Leo. "How did you find that?" she demanded. "I've practically turned the computer upside down looking for that recipe."

He glanced over his shoulder at her and grinned cockily. "Well, Miss Rigby, I'm just that good."

The look she gave him in response struck him as odd. For some reason, she seemed worried about something. Certainly his comment could have been taken as sexually suggestive—and, naturally, that was the way he had intended it—but still. She didn't have to look
that
anxious.

Her lips parted fractionally, as if she were about to put voice to her concerns, but all she said was, "Quick, print it up. I'm hosting my garden club next weekend."

He pushed the print button, and immediately, the laser printer hummed with activity. Miss Rigby set her tea down on Kimball's desk and went to retrieve her prize, but her expression, as she scanned the recipe, still seemed significantly worried.

"Is there a problem, Miss Rigby?" Leo asked, curious about her reaction.

For a moment, he didn't think she'd heard him, then she jerked her head up and looked at him. "What? Oh. No, no, there's no problem at all." Her face cleared then of its clouds, and she smiled, but somehow the gesture seemed forced. "I'm just trying to remember if we have any maraschino cherries, that's all."

Somehow, Leo doubted that was really what was on her mind at the moment. After all, what kind of self-respecting billionaire would run out of maraschino cherries? It was unheard of. No, he'd wager that Miss Rigby's apprehension came from something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with sangria.

"Can I—" he began.

"Have a cookie? Why certainly, Mr. Freiberger," she cut him off. She circled the desk again and reached for the plate where someone had artfully arranged a half-dozen different varieties of baked goods. "Mrs. Kaiser is particularly proud of her springerlies," she said as she extended the plate toward Leo. "I'm sure you'll love them."