Winters & Somers (18 page)

            Some minutes later they
came up for air, suddenly aware of their location on the very public stairwell
and laughing at the situation with the warm intimacy of lovers.

 
Even though they weren't
lovers. Yet.

            A fact which he meant
to change just as soon as possible, now he was sure she more than shared his
enthusiasm. Impatient as she fumbled the key in the lock, he took it from her
and deftly mated metal to metal, pushing open the door without letting an inch
drift between their bodies. As the heavy paneled door swung wide, their mouths
locked again, tongues dancing together in the increasingly urgent waltz as
desire built.

            His hand slipped
beneath Cíara's sweater, his skin tingling and his breath catching at the warm
smoothness he discovered there. Her tiny mewl as his thumb stroked her breast
through its satin cover made him gasp, a gasp that turned into a groan as her
fingers flicked under his waistband and burned a scorching path under his shirt
and across his belly.

            “Oh, God, Cíara, I
don't think I can wait much longer,” he whispered, his voice a shuddering sigh.

            “Oh, well, don't let us
interrupt you. Like, er, just make like we're not here.”

            He acted in a blur –
one moment he was in her embrace, the next he'd whipped the gun out from under
his trouser cuff and had a bead direct between Smokey's eyes. Smokey's brain
may have been hazy, but his survival instincts were good – he dived for cover
behind the settee just as Cíara grabbed Winters' gun hand, yelling: “No, you
eejit, they're friends.”

            He stiffened, yanked
his hand from hers and slowly replaced the gun. “Friends?” he asked, in a voice
that would have scared street punks in some New York back alley. “I wasn't
expecting there to be anyone here. I didn't know you had live-in guests – or
are they clients?”

            “How dare you! Coming
into my home, hauling out a gun – you could have damn well killed him! And what
if it had been Mary Margaret, who's pregnant? What could have happened then –
you'd have scared her out of her maternity! Clients – what in the saints’ names
are you on about?”

“I was wondering
if you supply the pot as well as other services.” His voice was cold.

“Can we come out
now?” A small voice piped up from behind the settee. Then the lanky,
long-haired character who'd first spoken slowly rose to his feet, hands in the
hair. He watched Winters warily. He was followed by another man, about six
inches taller than Jonathon's six foot one, and a good hundred pounds heavier.
Man Mountain.

            “What are you doing
here?”

            “At this moment I would
say they're saving me from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life,”
Cíara snapped, pulling down her sweater and stomping off to her room. The door
slammed shut with a finality that made all three men wince.

“I'm, er,
Smokey, and this is my buddy, Short Eddie. We're friends of Cíara's – just
kipping down here for the night 'cos we lost our place. Sorry if I broke
something up, man.”

Winters didn't
know whether to laugh or call for back up. Instead he shrugged. “You can put
your hands down now – the gun's gone.”

“Oh, yeah,
right, thanks man.” Smokey and Short Eddie both dropped like stones onto the
settee, which groaned in shock. He half expected them to disappear through the
floor, but instead they settled comfortably, pulling sleeping bags over
themselves and looking ready for a good night's sleep.

Which was more
than he was expecting to get. Between the sexual high that Cíara had created
and the adrenalin high that being intruded on so suddenly had created, he
doubted he'd sleep at all.

* * *

But he was
wrong. The moment his head touched the pillow in the room that was now his, he
fell fast into a calm and dreamless sleep. He could have slept a lot longer,
too, even ignoring the clanking of the old pipes as the heat came on and water
sloshed through them, but the sound that woke him was gentle laughter and a
sudden feeling he wasn't alone. His left arm swept across the bed, wanting her
to be there, wanting her – but met only a furry softness that was most un-Cíara-like.

And was the
reason for the laughter. Standing in the doorway, clutching a mug of coffee,
she greeted him with a grin. “Even New York cops have to have friends,” she
gurgled, pointing to the side of the bed.

Winters propped
open his eyes long enough to focus – and wanted the floor to open up and
swallow him. Somehow, in the night, he'd knocked down one of Mary Margaret's
big teddy bears from the shelf by the bed and now he lay with the toy clasped
in his arms. He knew his face must be beet red. Pushing the toy away, he pulled
himself up in the bed, enjoying the way her smile faded as she saw he was naked
under the sheet, and snarled: “Was there something you wanted?”

 Cíara
swallowed, hard.
Oh, yes, yes, there was something she wanted…
Her eyes
traveled slowly upwards, following the trail of dark hair from his belly button
up to where it fanned out across his muscled chest, then up again, to his
mouth.

That
miserable bastard was grinning like he knew what she was thinking.

* * *

“Wipe that look
off your face, Winters, or you'll get scalding coffee in your lap!” she
commanded, advancing on him purposefully. He quickly scooted further up in the
bed, pulling the comforter up over himself. Straight-faced now, he reached out
for the coffee cup she offered, suppressing another grin as he noticed she
stayed just outside grabbing range.

Oh, yes. He
definitely had the lady's interest.

“So what's with
the humane gesture?” he asked, raising his coffee cup to her.

“Oh, I have to
go out early on business, and I wanted to make sure everyone was up and moving,
and no loose ends or anything.”

“You mean like
your little playmates dossing down in the living room?”

“They've an
ultimatum to find a place today. But then there's you.” She moved cautiously to
sit on the end – the very end – of the bed. “Look, Jonathon, about last night –
well, I…feck it. I don't know what to say. I was tired and feeling a bit
battered after talking to the Henleys. It won't happen again.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep
breath. “Because it can't. I've no room in my life for a relationship with you,
a relationship that's not…”

“Paying its
way?”

“You could put
it that way. Oh, I fancy you; really I do, so your ego needn't feel bruised.
But if I – if we were to sleep together, it would interfere with everything I
have planned.”

And then she was
gone, closing the door softly beside her. He had an awful, childish urge to
punch the idiotically grinning face of the teddy bear next to him.
She
couldn't sleep with him, because she didn't work for free?

 Or because
she couldn't juggle a personal relationship and keep her 'business'
entanglements at a distance? Dammit!

Climbing out of
bed and grabbing a clean shirt from his suitcase, Jonathon vowed he'd get
Cíara's private detective business going profitably and get her off the
streets.
And into his bed. Oh, yes, that, too, was very definitely still on
the agenda…

Then it hit him.
She was going out 'on business'. An emotion he should have recognized as
jealousy but preferred to interpret as exasperation washed over him. It was
only 7 am. Who the hell would a hooker be seeing at seven in the morning?

He dressed
quickly and slipped out past the still-snoring Smokey and Short Eddie, just in
time to see a blur of red as Cíara's sports car flew by on the other side of
the square. He was after her in minutes, ignoring the prickle of guilt that
here he was again, following his own partner
. Not very trusting.
He told
himself it was for the sake of the business. How could a reputable private
detective business flourish if one of the partners was distracted by following
the Oldest Profession?

His groin
tingled as he remembered the way he'd felt when she was in his arms last night.
Dammit, the woman could probably make her fortune seducing men, why should
she bother running a legitimate investigation agency?

* * *

 She eased into
the early morning traffic, which was still thankfully light but building
steadily, got stuck at the traffic lights alongside the elegant building that
housed Rathmines Library, then turned left. On the main road she turned right
at the second next lights, driving alongside the canal which lay quiet this
morning, disturbed only by a family of ducks that swam lazily towards an old
man on the bank who threw bread into the murky water.

Wrapped up in
her own thoughts, wondering how to approach the problems on hand, Cíara didn't
notice the sleek SUV that hovered a car's length from her rear fender. Of
course, its occupant was one of her problems. She'd been honest enough to admit
to Winters that she was attracted to him, but she knew she'd bungled her
explanation of why their relationship could go nowhere. And she knew why.

How could she
admit to the World's Most Exasperating man that she wouldn't start an affair
with him because she knew he would someday soon walk out of her life and leave
her broken hearted?
Other lovers, that hadn't been a problem – she'd known
from the start that the passion was a temporary thing, and they'd part company
once it burned itself out. Usually she'd been glad when they'd reached that
point – some men could become so cloying!

But all her
instincts said it was different with this one. Even now she was squirming in
her seat as her treacherous hormones let the memory of his touch ripple silkily
over her skin.

But at least
he'd seemed to understand. He was right when he'd said their relationship
wouldn't pay its way – in fact, would probably interfere with their working
partnership. So, maybe she'd leave it at that.

She slipped her
hand into her fanny pouch – yes, the precious jewels were still there. First,
she'd go see Sly Stevie, the pawnbroker. He had a reputation for being sharp
and once or twice there'd been rumors that he was also well in with the police,
but she was sure he'd treat her fairly. After all, hadn't she been to school
with his daughter Breege? And Breege wouldn't be above giving her old man a
thorough tongue-lashing if he cheated one of her friends….

            “Hi, old buddy. Listen,
I need a favor – just an idea, a hunch I'm following up.” Winters took the good
natured ribbing and the very curious questioning of his Gardaí friend Bill
O'Malley in good part, and managed to hide his surprise – and his plummeting
heart – when Bill gave him the information he asked for.

            The pawnshop – Second
Glances – was owned by a fly character named Steven McGonagall, or Sly Stevie.
McGonagall was known for skirting the edges of the law, but had also come
across as a Gardaí informant enough times for them to turn a blind eye to some
of his lesser misdemeanors. So far, he’d bought himself a reasonably hassle
free life – from the police, at least – by being extremely co-operative in
passing on odds and ends of information which had proved useful. And at the
same time he'd managed not to get his head kicked in by some of the darker
figures that lurked in the murky underworld ponds into which Stevie
occasionally dipped his toes.

            “So, why'd you want to
know and what do you have? Is it connected to the Diamond Darling? I'd have
thought that was a bit exotic for Sly Stevie.” Bill was on a fishing expedition
himself, and gave in gracefully when Winters refused to give him a straight
answer.

            Now he wondered just
what Cíara would want with a pawnbroker who was basically a smalltime fence for
stolen property – jewelry included.
How did she come to know such scum – and
why would she have a business appointment with him?

He told his
rebellious heart that Cíara's business meeting with the fence was probably more
to do with the jewels she'd lifted from her grandparents than any earthier
coupling. At least, he hoped so.

            A slightly built
blond-haired man, dressed in casually elegant style that shouted Money! Money!
at anyone who cared to notice, stopped in front of the store, glancing in the
window.  His face was familiar – Winters remembered he'd met this man at the
Henleys. A friend of Cíara's through her grandparents? Was it him, not Sly
Stevie, that she'd had come to meet?

Yes, he
remembered they'd made dinner arrangements. He sighed with relief when she came
out of the store, the look of surprise on her face very genuine as she greeted
the other man.

            He tried to ignore the
flash of jealousy that rasped through him as he saw her throw back her head and
laugh when her companion stood close to speak into her ear. And he ignored the
impulse to get out of the car and go and intrude on their little tête-à-tête,
but it was hard, and he was relieved when she climbed into her own vehicle and
took off into the traffic again.

* * *

           
Good God and His Blessed
Saints!

Of all the
people to meet outside the pawnbrokers but Anton Wallace, one-time fiancé of
Serena McLaughlin and erstwhile dinner guest of the Henleys! Cíara shook her
head, knowing she'd find the situation funny if it didn't intrude a little too
closely into her private business. And this was private – she certainly didn't
want news of her activities getting back to her paternal grandparents.

            She paused as she
remembered the painful revelations of the previous evening. The Henleys had
seemed almost human, sitting in their kitchen, plying their unexpected
nighttime guests with cocoa and spirits and talking in a way she'd never heard
them talk before.