Baby, Don't Go Page 11

  He excited her.

  No, darn it, he did not. She stuck her face in the spray.

  Then she pulled it back out again and reached for the shampoo. Skim the edges of the truth with him if you have to, Daisy. But don’t pull that ostrich number on yourself.

  Damn. This honesty-is-the-best-policy business was for the birds. It was a cliche. Hell, it was naive. Tact alone decreed that honesty be circumvented on a daily basis to avoid crushing people’s feelings right and left. And God knew she had been known to bend the truth a time or two to suit her own purposes.

  Still. She tried as much as possible to avoid putting herself in those situations. And she made it a practice to never, ever lie to herself. So, taking a deep breath, she admitted that Nick did, indeed, excite her.

  He’d kissed her last night as if he owned her, and instead of being outraged right down to her soul, she’d promptly fallen in with the program. It had been her protective instincts that had hauled her back from the brink—and even then, even knowing she couldn’t trust Nick as far as she could throw him, it had been much harder than it should have been to push him away. So, yeah, she supposed it was safe to say he excited her.

  Daisy rinsed the shampoo out of her hair. Flattening her palm against the side of her breast where her heart beat out a too-rapid tattoo, she blew out a frazzled breath.

  Okay, she lusted. Big deal; she would simply have to handle it. Having emotions didn’t mean you had to act on them. She would learn to cool down when dealing with Nick, to act in the mature manner she used with everyone else in the world. Cool and calm, that was the ticket. And just to get her started…

  She cranked the shower knob all the way over to cold.

  “Let me get this straight,” Daisy said between her teeth less than an hour later. “You risked life and limb to photograph a dog?” She peered at the glossy little creature on the red silk pillow. “That thing is a dog, isn’t it?”

  The animal’s mistress picked up the tiny, pure white animal and cuddled it to her breast. “Miss Muffet is not simply a dog, Miss Parker. She’s a purebred Maltese.” Bestowing a glance of disdain on Daisy, she settled the pup back on its silken perch and straightened the little bow that clipped the animal’s long bangs back from its forehead.

  “Sorry. Sure didn’t mean to insult any pedigrees.” Daisy looked at Miss Muffet’s silky Fu Manchu and at her luxuriant coat, which was so abundant as it hung in a waterfall to the floor that its weight caused the little dog’s tail to curve to the side. “You gotta admit, though, that if you sprayed her with a bit of Endust, you’d have yourself a handy little table-duster.”

  “That’s enough, Blondie,” Nick snapped.

  Daisy turned on him willingly. He was the one she had a problem with, anyway. “Oh, it’s not nearly enough, Coltrane. I’m just getting warmed up—”

  Nick held up a peremptory hand that notched Daisy’s temper a few degrees hotter, then turned his charm on his hostess. His smile was a benediction that visibly smoothed the woman’s ruffled feathers. “Would you and Miss Muffet excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Sawyer? I’d like a word with my assistant.”

  Daisy took an incensed step forward. “Dammit, Coltrane I am not your—”

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Sawyer spoke to Nick as if Daisy didn’t exist. “Perhaps you’ll utilize the time to teach the child a manner or two.” She swept out of the room. The Maltese’s round, slightly protuberant dark eyes, peering at Daisy over Mrs. Sawyer’s shoulder, were the last thing she saw as the dog’s mistress closed the door behind them.

  She swung back to face Nick, ready and willing to rumble. Then she caught herself. Control yourself, dammit. Just, for once in your life, stay in control with him. You know what needs to be done.

  She sucked in a deep breath and thrust out her bottom lip to exhale, causing random tendrils that had fallen over her forehead to flutter. She opened her mouth, but had to take a second and then a third breath before she could force herself to say with quiet dignity, “I’ll see you safely home after you take your photos of the dust mop. Then it’s time you hired a security specialist more compatible to your temperament.”

  Nick had already taken the step that brought him looming over her, but he froze and, staring down at her, blinked. “What?”

  “I’ll have Reggie tally the charges for my time so far; then Parker Security will return the balance of your retainer to you.”

  “You can’t just walk out in the middle of a job!”

  “Oh, yes. I can. You clearly have no respect for my abilities—”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “It’s not bullshit. You’ve disregarded every recommendation I’ve made so far. Well, I’m cutting my losses, Nick, before something happens and I have to live with my failure to keep you safe.”

  “So that’s it, then? You’re just gonna run scared?” Temper surged behind narrowed lashes. “What’s the matter, Blondie, afraid you can’t cut it in a man’s world after all?”

  The temptation to lash out was sugar sweet, but she managed to swallow her fury. “Yeah,” she agreed coolly, although it left a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. “That must be it.”

  He gave her an insolent once-over. “Wuss.”

  “That’s charming, Nick. And it’s exactly that attitude that makes it impossible for us to work together. You’re gender-biased.”

  “What?” He looked down his nose at her. “That’s ludicrous.”

  “No, that’s reality. You refuse to take advice from a woman and you won’t keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Ahhhh.” The sound held a wealth of enlightenment, and he regarded her with a raised eyebrow and such a supercilious expression that she longed to claw it off his face. “That’s what this is all about. I kissed you last night and it reminded you of old times.”

  “No!” Then honesty compelled her to add, “Well, yes, I suppose that’s partly true.”

  “Partly, hell—that’s it in a nutshell. Well, let’s just talk about the night of Mo’s wedding before you go haring off like a scared little bunny rabbit—”

  “Now, wait just a damn minute!”

  “No, you wait, Daisy.” Hands on her shoulders, he backed her against the nearest wall, where he caged her in with his body and his arms. “You’ve had your say ad nauseam; now it’s my turn. And my memories of that night are a little different than yours. For instance, I sure as hell don’t recall knocking you loose the minute I came, the way you say I did.”

  “For God’s sake, Nick!” Heat flooded her face. But blue-hot fury burned like a gas flame in the depths of his eyes, and her discomfort at his frankness took a back seat to the realization that this was what had fueled the temper she had seen in his eyes earlier. The anger hadn’t gone away; it had merely been biding its time, looking for an outlet.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t like my version of the story? Too damn bad, doll face, because I remember holding you for a long time after I got mine.” He pushed back. “But feel free to stick to your interpretation if it keeps you warm at night. Either way, I’ve apologized for it. I truly am sorry, and if you don’t want to pick up where we left off, fine. But it’s been nine years, for chrissake. Get over it.”

  “Get over it?” She felt like screaming, like shooting him between the eyes, like crying. Then pride kicked in and she elevated her chin. “Fine. I’m over it. But you’re still a pig.”

  His nostrils flared, but his voice was prep-school cool when he said, “In the past couple of days, I’ve been threatened, roughed up, and run down. Being a New Age sensitive guy is just a little beyond me at the moment.”

  She snorted. “Like you’ve ever been that at the best of times.” She straightened the tail of her sleeveless blouse and slipped past him. “Call in Mrs. Sawyer and the dust mop, Coltrane. I’ll use the time you spend taking the pup’s picture to see if I can come up with a security specialist in your price range.”

  The tension in the Porsche was thick enough to serve up as a s
ide dish by the time Nick wheeled the car into the carriage house and cut the engine. He was edgy and angry and felt like picking a fight, but that wasn’t possible because some Blondie clone had usurped Daisy’s personality. Who was this cool-eyed, distant woman who responded to every dig he produced, no matter how snide, with equanimity? Jesus, she’d even apologized to Mrs. Sawyer and made friends with the pooch; by the time they’d wrapped up the photo shoot, Mrs. S was saying how utterly charming she was.

  It was enough to make him put his fist through the nearest wall.

  She turned in her seat and looked at him with such an un-Daisy-like lack of expression that his gut churned. “I came up with two names that might work for you,” she said coolly. “Mitch Jones or Dega Gonzales. Both of them charge rates comparable to mine, and they’re both pretty good.”

  He glowered at her. “Pretty good doesn’t cut it, cupcake. I want the best.”

  “That’s unfortunate, then, because I’m no longer available.” She reached for the door handle.

  Her fingers had barely grazed it when the passenger door was wrenched open and a beefy hand reached into the car and hauled her out.

  “What the—?” Nick leaped out of the driver’s side, only to freeze in horror as he stared at the tableau on the other side of the car. One of J. Fitzgerald’s minions had Daisy by the arm—and held a gun to her temple.

  “Let her go,” Nick ordered hoarsely. His hands curled into fists on the roof of the car.

  “Shut up, faggot.” If anything, the man’s grip on Daisy tightened. He was built like a refrigerator—a big, solid rectangle with no discernible neck. “I want those negatives, and I want ’em now.”

  “She doesn’t have anything to do with that. Just let her go and—”

  “Give me the negatives, hotshot, or your little girlfriend here gets a bullet in the head.” The barrel of the gun pressed into Daisy’s temple.

  Christ. She looked so little next to the muscle bound bruiser. So fragile. Every bit of moisture in Nick’s mouth evaporated. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever you say. I’ll get them—just don’t hurt her.” He pushed back from the car.

  “Smart choice, pretty boy.” The thug looked down at Daisy. “And he is a pretty one, isn’t he, sweet thing? How do you stand it? I mean, the guy’s hair is longer than yours, he’s a sharper dresser, and he’s just plain better-looking’—not that I’d chew my arm off rather than risk waking you gettin’ outta your bed.” He caressed her cheekbone with the barrel of the gun and Daisy made a sound of distress. Her hand flew up protestingly to pull on his wrist, and Nick took an instinctive step toward them.

  “What I’m sayin’ here is you’re far from coyote-ugly,” the thug assured her. Then he shrugged. “Still, you’re no centerfold, you know what I mean? And it’s gotta be touch havin’ a boyfriend who looks better than you in the morning.”

  “It’s the bane of my existence,” Daisy agreed. Suddenly she did something to the man’s wrist that made his hand go slack. The gun that had been pointed at her head tumbled to the garage floor, and with a smooth, fast movement she thrust out her hip and bent forward…and two hundred pounds of gangster sailed over her head to land on his back with a horrendous crash on the hood of Nick’s car.

  Nick jumped back. “Holy shit, Daise!”

  Reaching for her gun, Daisy dove after the thug. Her pistol hadn’t yet cleared the holster, however, when he rolled onto his side and, with a roar, sat up and took a swing at her. She stopped in her tracks, her head jerking back, but she wasn’t quick enough to avoid the punch entirely. His fist caught her on the shoulder, and the force of the blow spun her sideways and threw her against the wall. She felt something sharp prick her back as she fumbled beneath her shirttail for the butt of her Glock. Time seemed to stand still as she watched No-Neck roll off the car and come after her. Then her piece cleared her waistband, and he skidded to an abrupt halt as he found himself on the receiving end of the nine-millimeter she pointed at his chest.

  “You don’t wanna make any sudden moves,” she advised. “I’m feeling kinda cranky.”

  “Uh, Daisy?”

  “Just a minute, Nick.” Keeping an eye on No-Neck, she pushed away from the wall and moved over to where his gun had fallen. Stooping, she swept it up and stuck it in her waistband.

  “The asshole here’s got something to say that you might wanna lend your attention to, little lady,” a new voice said.

  Damn! Daisy turned her head. Another bruiser had his gun on Nick, who stood directly in her line of fire. The second thug was even larger than his buddy, but unlike his cohort, he had a neck. His forehead was flat, though, and his nose was even flatter. Moving so she could keep an eye on the new threat and still keep her gun trained on No-Neck, she glanced over at the flat-faced man. “I guess this is what they call a Mexican standoff, huh?”

  “Looks like. Tell ya what. Right now I’d just like to get outta here with everyone’s skin intact. Let’s do a little horse trading, whataya say?”

  It was far from ideal, but…“I guess I can live with that.” Her eyes narrowed at Blunt Face’s rough handling of Nick and she snapped, “You put one scratch on Coltrane, and all bets are off.”

  “He kept me from putting an end to this shit once and for all, girly, and for that I oughtta kneecap the sonzabitch.”

  “You do that, and I’ll just have to do the same to your buddy here.”

  “Yeah, I know—that’s why I’m being such a reasonable guy.” Blunt Face maneuvered Nick around the hood of the Porsche, and he clearly knew his trade, for he kept his own exposure to a bare minimum.

  She was trying to figure out the logistics of the trade when Blunt Face gave Nick a hard shove, careening him into her. They stumbled against the wall and got caught up in a tangle of arms and legs, and by the time they got themselves sorted out, the goons had disappeared from the carriage house. Swearing, she ran out of the garage and down the drive. She rounded the curve just in time to see the thugs drop from the tall gate onto the sidewalk. Halting, she braced her gun hand and took aim, but she hesitated to shoot into a residential street. A car squealed to a stop in front of the two hired guns. They piled in, and the car took off in a cloud of smoking rubber before the door had even closed.

  She jerked the gun up. “Shit!”

  Nick skidded to a halt next to her. “They got away?”

  “Yes, dammit. We better go call the—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her around. “Are you okay? Jesus, you took ten years off my life when you started wrestling with the refrigerator.”

  “I’m fine.” She shrugged off his hands. “Listen, we better—”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “What? Are they back?” She whirled to face the street, her arms once again extended in a shooting stance. She expected to see the goons bearing down on them and was almost disappointed when there was nothing to see. She had a snootful of unspent adrenaline running rampant through her system and it urged her to action, any action. She turned her scowl back on Nick. “Don’t do that—I could’ve shot an innocent bystander.” He had an odd look on his face, and she stepped closer. “What was that all about, anyway?”

  He stared down at his hand, then held it up for her to see. “Dammit to hell, Daisy. You’re bleeding.”

  11

  “WHAT?” For a moment Daisy stared blankly at the blood on Nick’s hand. Then her mouth rounded in an O of comprehension, and she twisted to see over her shoulder. “I must have caught a nail; I felt something when No-Neck knocked me into the wall.”

  Nick tweaked back the armhole of her blouse and sure enough, there just beneath her shoulder blade was a puncture wound. It oozed blood and, grasping her wrist, he hustled her up the drive and around the corner of the carriage house. He kept seeing flashes of her flying backward when No-Neck slammed his ham-sized fist into her. He also saw a repeat of Goon Number Two turning his gun on her when her attention was on Goon Number One. Fury bubbled in his veins as he hauled her up
the staircase to the apartment. “You don’t have the sense God gave an amoeba.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What the hell were you trying to do, Blondie?”

  “My job.” She danced in place like a kid in need of a bathroom while he jammed his key into the lock. “Oh, man, I’ve got an overload of adrenaline. It feels like an army of ants under my skin.”

  “Does your freakin’ job call for you to get yourself killed? Jesus, Daisy! And you said I have a death wish.” In a distant part of his mind he knew he was overreacting, but she’d scared the shit out of him. And fear was all too willing to transmute into fury.

  “For heaven’s sake, Nick, it was just a little pop.” She rubbed her shoulder and gave him a rueful grin. “Okay, the guy had a fist like a sledgehammer, but killed is sorta overstating the case. And the hole in my back was inadvertent. It doesn’t even hurt, and I doubt it’s all that serious. I’m up to date on my tetanus shots anyway, so lighten up.” She punched him on the arm. “C’mon! I told you I was good.”

  He dragged her into the small bathroom, flipped down the toilet seat, and had her straddle it facing the tank. She submitted meekly enough, but as he collected supplies from the cabinet, she twisted back and forth to watch him and jitterbugged restlessly in place.

  “Take off your blouse.” He tipped the bottle of hydrogen peroxide over a cotton ball and scowled down at the gouge in her back when she complied. “If you’re so damn good, how come the second guy almost got the drop on you?”

  “Blunt Face? Get outta here!” She planted her hands on her knees and bounced her legs in a surplus of nervous energy. “He didn’t get the drop on me.” Nick sat on his heels to clean out the wound, and she hissed when the soaked cotton came into contact with it. Then, the pain apparently forgotten, she twisted to peer at him over her shoulder and flashed him a great big pleased-with-herself smile. “You saw for yourself; it was a draw.”

  “No. When he pointed his friggin’ gun at me it was a draw. But that wasn’t until after I knocked his arm away from pointing the damn thing at you.” He reached for the antibiotic salve.