“You like your astronomy,” Dominic observed

Mickey took a step away from him. She’d been so close that his breathing had his chest brushing against her back.

“It keeps things in perspective.”

“Something like the ‘you’re just a grain of sand on the beach of humanity’ theory?”

“No,” she replied. “There are constants and there are subtle shifts that are always evolving. The universe expands, time slows or increases, but it doesn’t matter. The rotation about the sun, the orbit of the moon—those don’t change. It’s a great fusion of dynamic and static forces all working together in concert.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he was willing to listen to her voice forever. Their discussion didn’t involve drugs or penny-ante larceny, or even who was winning at the races. Her words were the closest thing to a normal conversation he’d had in two years of undercover work, and he realized how much he missed it. “A philosopher as well as an astronomer,” he murmured.

“That’s not philosophy—that’s physics.”

“Who are you?” he asked, no longer able to continue with the game they were playing.

“Are you really sure you want to know?” She raised her brows as she asked.

And he was a goner.

Dear Reader,

Okay, if you’re a geek please raise your hand. Yes, I was a geek, too. It wasn’t fun, mostly awkward and painful. However, all awkward and painful things must come to an end, and eventually I realized how lucky I was to be blessed with geekiness. As such, Mickey holds a special place in my heart because she’s the heroine of THE BACHELORETTE PACT whose character is closest to my own. When I was creating the story, I knew I wanted to give her a special hero—a man living in a different world, but who was as isolated as she was in hers. And so Dominic flashed to mind, and instantly I was in love.

Next month is Beth’s story, and do I ever have a surprise in store for you! But I won’t spoil it…you’ll just have to read to find out.

I love hearing from my readers. Please let me know what you think. Visit my Web site at www.kathleenoreilly.com or drop me a line at P.O. Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960.

Kathleen O’Reilly

Books by Kathleen O’Reilly

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

889—JUST KISS ME

927—ONCE UPON A MATTRESS

*967—PILLOW TALK

HARLEQUIN DUETS

66—A CHRISTMAS CAROL

It Should Happen to You

Kathleen O'Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

BY ALL RIGHTS, it should have been a glorious day in Chicago. After all, it’s not every day your best friend gets married. It’s not every day that your maid of honor dress actually looks good and—as an even bigger bonus—fits you well enough that you might actually want to wear it again. Mickey Coleman forced a smile.

It’s not every day that you’re videotaped having sex.

She allowed herself one quick shudder. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. And that from a woman who was decidedly not religious.

She looked across the church’s small dressing room where Jessica, in blissful ignorance, was adjusting her veil. Jessica, who’d never been videotaped having sex in her entire life.

Mickey spent all of two minutes debating whether to dump on her best friend on her wedding day. Eventually, guilt prevailed and she realized that not even Mickey the Idiot was that stupid.

“Anything wrong?” Beth asked, coming up beside her. “You look a little pale.” Beth, sweet, innocent Beth, blinked her huge baby blues.

Mickey pulled off her glasses and wiped the lenses, as if that was the problem. “It’s the dress. The color is a little off for me.”

“I think it looks great on you.”

Mickey’s mouth twisted into a pale imitation of a smile. “Yeah, I do, too.”

This stupid dress was more than half of the problem. They had Jessica’s bachelorette party right after the last fitting. Oh, Mickey, you should wear it out. You look fab!

Mickey didn’t wear dresses that showed more than the requisite one-third of her breasts. And she didn’t normally drink more than four beers in one night. And she didn’t normally have one-night stands with horny college interns who threaten blackmail.

The panic attack started all over again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Beth asked.

“I think I just need to sit down.” Mickey managed to choke the words out, and then collapsed onto a nearby folding chair.

“Want some water?”

“Yeah, that’ll help. Thanks.”

Beth came back with a paper cup and handed it over. “I know this has been hard for you.”

Mickey stared in confusion. How did she know? “What?”

Beth tilted her head in Jessica’s direction. “Jessica. Adam. The wedding. You know, you’re not losing a best friend. You’re gaining a whole new conduit to eligible bachelors.”

The sad thing was, Beth was completely serious. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Mickey said, completely honest.

“I know we kinda made this bachelorette pact promise, but we were kidding, right?” Beth blinked hopefully.

The Bachelorette Pact. Almost twelve months ago the four college friends had made a promise to revel in their single status. Free of men, free to do whatever they wanted. Oh, yeah, paradise. Right now the free-of-men part sounded great, because today her priorities were getting the tape, of a night she didn’t even remember—much. Then she could concentrate on the galaxy density differentiation presentation for Dr. Heidelman. Her ticket to fame and fortune in the scientific community. Well, not really fortune, but definitely fame among the Astrophysical Journal set. And maybe even respect in the eyes of one Dr. Andrew Coleman, MD, the man otherwise known as Dad. If Dad ever heard about that tape, or anyone at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center for that matter, she’d be pretty much astrophysical toast.

The day after the Bachelorette Party, John Monihan had approached her with vague references about their evening before. Apparently he was one of those video aficionados, just her luck. Now he had the tape of their night, and he wanted payback. Actually, he merely wanted more sex, which was very frustrating, because Mickey just didn’t remember it being that great.

Beth pulled up a chair next to her. “You know, we can do stuff together, too. I mean, if you want to.”

This time Mickey’s smile was legit. Beth, at her most earnest, couldn’t be denied. “Sure, Beth. Maybe we can go out after the reception.”

“Brick’s for a beer?”

Beer? Not in a million years. Still, there were always the uncharted waters of new territories, like, say, martinis. “Sure.”

The music cranked up from the chapel, and the wedding planner rushed them out into the foyer. Mickey walked over to where Jessica was standing in front of the mirror, twisting around to see her back. When Jessica spied her, she gave Mickey one last hug.

“Break a leg,” Mickey whispered.

“You’ll be next,” was all Jessica had to say.

Oh yeah, right. Slimeball antimatter was definitely prime husband material. Mickey held her tongue.

The ceremony was beautiful, she had to say that. White lilies, classical music and barely controlled tears that hung stubbornly at the corners of her eyes. When Adam kissed Jessica, Mickey nearly lost it.

Jessica smiled at her from under her veil, a tremulous smile completely ruined by the steely glint in her eyes that said, “You’re catching the bouquet.” That was Jessica. Always the woman in denial.

The exit music started, true love conquering all, a journey to a new life, yada, yada, yada.

Mickey sighed, grabbed the arm of the best man and followed the happy couple down the aisle and out the door. The best man smiled at her, a harmless, unpretentious smile, and Mickey just nodded curtly.

He was one of the enemy. He was a man, and right now she had little patience for human beings with an extra appendage. She’d been shot down by those flyboys one too many times.

“I bet you have a video camera,” she whispered under her breath, a reminder that harmless, unpretentious smiles could hide the nefarious heart of a debauchee.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “It’s in the car. Should I bring it in?”

Mickey didn’t answer, just gave him the patented Coleman growl, guaranteed to intimidate any man, woman or Department of Energy inspector. So was this a testosterone-laden man or merely an invertebrate munchkin? The age-old question reared its head.

He shot her one frightened look and that was the end of the conversation.

Mickey buffed her nails on the shoulder of the polished-silk dress. The man was nothing more than Milquetoast in a tux.

WHILE CASSANDRA DECORATED the getaway car with all sorts of suggestions and advice for every newly wedded couple, Mickey supervised. Eventually the wedding party—sans bride and groom, who were probably off doing the rumpy-pumpy—had managed to completely eliminate any possibility of driver-side visibility.

All in all, it was great bawdy fun.

But all good things must come to an end. The reception was winding down, the sun was starting to set, and finally the happy couple appeared, a telltale flush in Jessica’s cheeks. Sex had definitely been involved. Jess threw the bouquet at Mickey, who dodged and bobbed. In accordance with Murphy’s laws on weddings and other damned affairs, the thing hit her smack on the chest.

Using lightning-fast reflexes, which she’d never before possessed, she tossed it off to Beth.

Eventually Jessica’s Porsche pulled away from the curb. Mickey waved goodbye, wiping away her tears before anyone noticed. Her best friend was married. So why couldn’t she be happier for her?

It wasn’t as if she wished divorce or death on Adam; she just wished that things wouldn’t change. But already she’d noticed the little differences. Jessica tried hard, but she was becoming a clock-watcher when they went out. And worse, only once had she participated in Cassandra’s favorite sport, the ten-thousand meter, manly-man ogle. To top it off, she compared the subject in question to Adam—favoring Adam, of course.

It was all depressing.

In order to dispel some of her depression, and forget the whole tape-sex-blackmail-I-have-shot-my-career-to-hell debacle, she met up with Beth and Cassandra at Brick’s that evening.

Saturday nights were always packed, full of males and females on the make. Mickey traded in breast cleavage and heels for her favorite blue jeans and Polymorph T-shirt. Much safer.

Cassandra, spiffily attired in a fire-engine red sheath that revealed every single one of her Pilates-honed curves, shook her head. “Cinderella’s regressed back to rags.”

“Yeah, fairy tale’s over. Reality bites.”

Sometimes it was rough having an overabundance of brains and an underabundance of whatever it was that guys liked, she thought to herself. Everywhere she looked, the male eyes in the bar were glued to Cassandra’s parts.

A short time later two men in suits came over and began chatting with Cassandra and Beth, and Mickey wondered cynically who wore a suit on Saturday. Beth eventually broke free of the lesser suit and joined Mickey in the girls-gone-solo club, ordering chips and salsa for them both.

Beth fished in the basket for the biggest chip and wistfully studied it, shifting the golden triangle in the light. “It’s three points, but I’ve been starving myself all week. Tonight’s a celebration.”

“Oh, boy,” replied Mickey glumly, punching her chip in the picante. “Why’d you leave the potential life mate?”

“Too much cologne.”

“Yeah, I hate that,” Mickey replied, a little bit of snide in her tone, which covered the fact that she was envious as hell. Beth had never achieved envy-worthy status before. Out of all of them, Cassandra had the hot luck with the guys. Jess had the great family that understood how families were supposed to be. And now, she had the great new husband. As for Beth, Mickey had never spent much time being jealous of Beth.

Until now.

She crunched the chip with more force than necessary, a strong bite of jalapeño making her eyes water. Spitefully she swallowed the demon vegetable whole.

Mickey Coleman Cushing—jalapeño eater extraordinaire. Now there’s a talent.

She sighed. Now, see, this was the main problem with having a large ego. The falls from grace were light-years to the ground.

Covertly she studied Beth, who wasn’t as sexy as Cassandra, wasn’t as ambitious as Jessica, and wasn’t as smart as Mickey. Beth, who was completely happy with who she was.

“How do you manage to be so content with who you are?” asked Mickey.

Beth just grimaced. “I know you don’t think much of me…”

There were times Mickey didn’t think much of anyone; that’s what made her world such a lonely place. “That’s not true,” she said automatically, then popped a chip into her mouth.

“No, it’s okay. I know what you think and you’re wrong.”

Mickey stopped and swallowed, now more than slightly curious. “What do I think?”

“That I’m a weaker female destined to dilute the genetic line of females everywhere because I believe that man is necessary for the betterment of the species.”

It really did sound like something she would say. When had she gotten so bitter? Oh, yeah, she’d been born that way. “No, that’s not true. Exactly.”

“I think now is a good time for me to learn from you. You’re so focused and independent. You have your life together, and I feel so…needy. Maybe if we hang together, some of you will rub off on me? That is, if you want to.”

And here was Mickey, feeling all smug and superior, when her life was lower than a Jerry Springer show. She was being blackmailed. Because of sex. Sex which she hardly ever had. Oh, the irony. “If only you knew,” Mickey murmured.

“Knew what?” Beth asked, sipping at her wine.

“That focused, independent people whose lives are so together make some of the most nuclear mistakes in the world.”

“No!” Beth exclaimed, and such emphatic disbelief was almost refreshing. As if Mickey was not capable of mental burps. “What kind of mistakes?”

Now came the hard part. Admitting that she—who really considered her only true quality to be her brain—could do something so stupid. “Remember the bachelorette party the other night?”

Beth nodded.

“Remember how I disappeared?”

Again, the head nod.

Mickey took a long drink of alcohol. Even one-hundred proof couldn’t numb the embarrassment. “I can’t do this.”

Sensing imminent meltdown, Beth waved her hand. “Yes, yes, you can.”

Perhaps Mickey should keep her mouth shut. But she’d spent so much of her life needing to angst that silence was impossible. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to tell somebody. After I left the bar, I called up John, this intern at work—he looks all of thirteen—and asked if I could come over.”

“He’s not really thirteen, is he? I can see the headlines. Statutory Seduction: Physicist Charged In Boy-Toy Scandal.”

Mickey coughed as a straight shot of gin came back up her nose. “Oh, yes, that would look good. Thankfully, no, he’s a senior in college. But still…”

Beth nodded. “You know, that’s really very sexy right now. May, December. Woman in the dominant position. That’s not so bad.”

No, that wasn’t the bad part. Mickey took another long, brain-cell-killing dreg of the martini. “He videotaped me. Him. You know, when we were…”

There was no condemnation in Beth’s eyes, only a glow of admiration. “No joke? That’s so adventurous of you. I thought only Cassandra went down the red-light path.”

Adventurous? Yeah, that was one way of looking at it. “I didn’t know.” Mickey took another long drink. “Now he wants to do it again.”

Beth twirled her chip in the bowl of salsa, as if reading the future in the onions and tomatoes. “The taping or the sex?”

“The sex.”

“Just like Pamela Sue…” Then Beth looked up, and her eyes got huge. “Oh…and if you don’t, he’s going to put you on the Internet. Oh, man, I hope you don’t look fat.”

Mickey, who had never considered the fat aspect, shuddered in horror. “I’ve got an article to finish. I’m working the presentation for Heidelman. I’ll be the punch line in every joke for the next decade, playing into every stereotype that exists for the little woman.” She rammed her fist on the table, very un-little woman. “I’ve got to get that tape back.”

“Can you buy it from him?”

“No. I already offered. Stupid jerk.” She’d covered all possible aspects in order to salvage her career. Extortion, bribery, excessive pleading and murder. There was only one solution left. “I think I’m going to steal it,” she announced. It seemed better to state it confidently, as if she thought this could actually work.

“You could get caught,” replied Beth, pointing out the one elephantine flaw.

However, Mickey had already considered that. “That’s why I need a professional.” So Mickey wouldn’t get caught.

“A private detective?”

Mickey glanced around, checking to make sure no big ears were listening. “Nah. I mean a professional criminal. You know, a real thief. Unfortunately, now I’ve got to find somebody. You don’t meet many criminals in the lab.”

“I know just the man,” said Beth, quick as you please.

Amazed, Mickey stared at her with new appreciation. “You really know criminals?”

Beth lifted one eyebrow. “You meet people from all walks of life in a Starbucks. Come in tomorrow about ten. He hangs out at a table near the coffee-mug-clearance shelf in the back.”

Mickey considered it for a moment. It was so tempting. “What do you think he’s into? Drugs?”

Beth shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s a made guy.”

Huh? The foreign terminology made Mickey wonder at the sheltered life she had led. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Part of the Outfit.”

Her jaw dropped open. “No way. A mafia guy?”

Beth preened. “Yup. Right in my own Starbucks. Venti latte. Loaded.”

Starbucks. It was a long way from The Godfather. Times had changed.

Mickey took another sip of the martini. The alcohol was beginning to make everything seem logical. “How do you know that he’s one of Them?”

“I saw his driver’s license once when he flipped open his wallet. Dominic Corlucci.”

Mickey still wasn’t convinced. “Just because he has an Italian name doesn’t mean anything.”

“Trust me, Mickey. A woman gets a sense about these things.”

A scientist would be laughed out of the lab on hunches and womanly instincts, but Beth sounded so sure, even in the absence of any conclusive evidence. Mickey thought instincts ranked right up there with the tooth fairy, and could rationalize the whole thing away with logic and science when she wanted to. That she had inherited from her father.

It all sounded glamorous and possibly real. The Mafia. She took another sip of her drink. She’d always had a major thing for Pacino.

Still, the Mafia.

It wasn’t exactly what she had planned. She’d been thinking of one of those penny-ante types that wore pants that were too short and hung out at the racetrack. In the end, did she really have a choice?

It was her career on the line. Her reputation as a professional and as an astronomer. No way were they going to take away her stars.

The mob ate guys like Monihan for dinner. That made her smile. It’d definitely be worth it. And worst case, she would lay even odds that the Witness Protection Program didn’t have one astrophysicist in their ranks.

Yet.

“BETH. PSSSSSSSTTT. BETH.”

Beth stared blankly, her face half-hidden by a cappuccino machine.

Oh, this was good. No recognition at all. The disguise was working. She’d had to leave her glasses on, because she was blind without them. Not that it seemed to affect the whole look. Mickey disguised as a bimbo had been a masterstroke. Who would suspect?

Mickey placed a hand on her hip, forming a nice isosceles triangle, just as she’d seen the other girls do.

“May I help you?” Beth asked.

“It’s Mickey,” she answered, twitching a little because the spandex skirt was hitting her butt in all the wrong places.

Beth emerged from behind the cappuccino machine and started to smile. “It’s always been a big, fat lie, hasn’t it?”

“What?”

“The whole ‘I hate men’ thing. Look at you,” she said, her hand encompassing spandex, lace and thigh-high boots. “You just jumped from the latest issue of Sluts R Us.”

Not exactly the look Mickey had been trying for. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Beth finished up the coffee she’d been making and put it on the wooden bar. “I’m not, huh?”

Mickey shook her head.

Beth grinned. “Well, girlfriend, you’re going to be fighting the vice cops off with a stick.”

When Beth started thinking she was witty, they were in serious trouble. “Where is he?”

Beth cocked her head in the direction of the far corner. “That’s his usual table. He’s not here yet.”

“Okay.” Mickey, who’d secretly been looking forward to mingling with the wrong kind, felt a little disappointed.

She practiced her walk over to the small round table. Hip to the right, hip to the left, thrust, thrust, thrust. There was a certain samba feel to it, not that Mickey had ever danced the samba, but if she had, it would have given her that same all-over body tingle that she had now.

Three espressos later, he walked through the door. Instantly she knew who he was. He moved with a sleek, lean grace, no squeaky tennies here. The kind of man who could kill you before you even knew he was in the room. His shoulders were broad, probably from lifting bodies. All in all, he was one dangerous hombre.

What scared Mickey was that, although Beth had told her enough that she would be able to recognize him, Beth had failed to disclose how a woman’s body would react. A logical, intelligent, rational woman’s body.

Mickey sat up straighter in her seat. Her back, her chin, her breasts all snapping into place. She’d taken a course in body language, she knew what she was saying.

Come on, baby, light my fire was the same in all languages.

Cold dark eyes scanned the room, settling on her.

Uh-oh.

The room temperature dropped ten degrees. In that moment, it dawned on her this was a really stupid idea.

He was going to kill her. He had the look of a man who carried a tommy gun in his pocket, or even worse, a garrote. Automatically, her hand covered her throat.

The next thing she knew, this cold-blooded killer was looming over her table. “You got three seconds to move your pretty little ass clear of my table.”

My table. Her eyes narrowed. Nothing like arrogance to piss a woman off, especially Mickey. She had heard the tone before. Dr. Breedlove had tried it her rookie year at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. Her nuclei and elementary particles prof at U of C tried it, too, and both had been easily shot down. That’s what happened when you could solve Maxwell’s equation at the age of eighteen.

Mickey pulled at her tortoiseshell glasses until she could stare down her nose at him. “I’m here on business, so you might as well stop your gawking and sit your pretty little ass right down.” She smiled innocently. “Sweet cheeks.”

The coolness in the dark eyes heated. Damn, he was a handsome devil. Handsome in the ways of those Italian boys with high cheekbones and dark, brooding looks that said, “Casanova was my grandfather.”

Not the sort of man that roamed the composite-floor hallways at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.

Not that she was noticing, or anything. Defiantly she raised her chin.

“Say what you want to say. It’s a free country.” Then he sprawled into the tiny chair next to her, his legs comfortably apart. A pose designed to draw attention to his well-muscled thighs and his well-muscled other parts.

Not that she was noticing, or anything.

Mickey tore her gaze away from his parts. “I want to hire you.”

His reaction wasn’t quite what she wanted. His legs closed, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes could’ve turned her to stone. “No.”

“You haven’t even asked what I want you to do.”

He stared up at the ceiling, doing a fine job of avoiding her eyes. “I don’t want to know.”

This was not good. “I could pay you,” she whispered. “Pay you well.” The dark eyes flickered back to earth.

“I don’t do anything illegal,” he said, slow and quiet, in a tone that implied that he did things illegal on a daily basis.

Mickey took a sip of coffee. “It’s not that illegal. I’ve got some property that needs returning.”

“To who?” he asked.

“Whom,” she corrected, now portraying the part of a bimbo grammarian. Focus, Mick. “To me.”

“You got the wrong city block for drug deals gone bad.”

“No drugs. It’s a tape.”

His dark eyebrows drew together at a perfect forty-five degree angle. “Who’s holding it?”

Mickey slid a piece of paper across the table. Slimeball Intern’s name and address were printed in twelve-point Arial type so that there were no mistakes. She’d seen that on Law & Order.

“How much are we talking here?”

“Two-hundred dollars.”

The eyes closed off again. “Sorry, lady.”

Quickly Mickey backtracked. The going rate for breaking and entering was not posted on CNN. “Two thousand.” It would kill her savings, but for a career-sustaining insurance policy, it was worth it. She needed muscle, and she was willing to pay for it.

Again she caught the flicker of interest in his face before it disappeared. “No.”

“Please,” she said. It was about the closest she’d ever come to begging in her entire life, but she needed help.

“How do you know there’s only one tape?”

Mickey closed her eyes. This was where things got tricky and moved into the realm of diplomatic finagling. “If there’s more than one tape, then work—of a more forceful nature—might be involved. You do any leg breaking? Whacking?” she asked, successfully imagining Slimeball Intern screaming in pain. She smiled.

“No,” he said, and the screams in her dreams drifted away.

“Oh,” she muttered softly, thinking it was probably a good thing that Slimeball Intern wouldn’t get hurt. Secretly she was still disappointed.

“So you’ll do it?” she asked, just as the door swung open. The bells on the top jangled, and a big man walked through. Big, beefy, with frown lines that were carved permanently into his face.

Mickey shot a quick glance in Beth’s direction to see if she’d been watching, but right now Beth was missing. And where was moral support when you needed it? Off refilling the Frappuccino mix.

Slowly the big guy lumbered over to where she was sitting.

“We’re done,” Dominic said to Mickey, as if she were nothing more than a nanofly.

Sensing the other man was a business associate, in the haziest definition of the word, Mickey stood. “You’ll do it?”

He didn’t reply, just grabbed her and dumped her in his lap.

Whoa.

“What—”

And he kissed her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…

An electrical charge fired everywhere he touched, and somewhere in her nether regions condensation began to form. What had she been missing out on by not kissing wise guys before? That was the last thing she remembered before her brain began to spark and fizzle.

Her body melted, draping over his in a nicely accommodating fashion. Another two nanoseconds and she’d be ready for sex.

He stopped before she really embarrassed herself, which was a good thing. Then he patted her bum and whispered in her ear, “You need to get out of here really, really fast. Meet me here tomorrow at ten. I’ll help you, but don’t say anything right now.”

Like she was capable of speech. Ha.

For a long moment she stared at him, trying to read exactly what he was thinking. This time what she saw in his eyes surprised her. None of the “leg-breaking” coldness, nor the “Come to me, cara mia” heat, but instead there was just—curiosity. The kind that she saw everyday at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.

She blinked, and whoosh—it was gone and the cold was back.

“See you later,” he said, in a husky tone that implied all sorts of carnal treats. He spoiled it all by giving her another pat on the rear.

She should have socked him, but that “later” part was still echoing in her head.

Then she glanced at the big Gonzo that cast a long shadow over the table. “Yeah, all right,” she said, then pulled down her glasses, just so he didn’t think he could boss her around. “Sweet cheeks.”

2

DOMINIC CORLUCCI HAD to work hard to keep the smile off his face. A woman like that? She could make a man forget a lot.

However, Dominic’s memories were too well ingrained to forget anything. Self-preservation was his number-one priority now. The only reason he had kissed her was to stave off unnecessary questions; his companion saw one use in a woman and one use only.

Maybe that was his only reason, or maybe she aroused his curiosity—among other things.

He watched her walk away, an exaggerated swing in her hips that didn’t look normal. He didn’t know who she was, but he did know that something reeked of a setup. That worried him.

“So I was telling Louise, ‘Louise,’ I said, ‘I’m not ready to settle down. If you’re looking for a man to play house with, then you need to be finding greener pastures.’”

Dom turned his attention away from the puzzle of the retreating female and back to the job at hand. Namely Frankie “Lumpy” DeCarlo.

“Yeah, females ain’t nothing but trouble,” he muttered, trying to figure her angle.

“Amen. Who’s the legs?”

“A potential sheet warmer. Need to try her on for size.” He cracked his knuckles for effect.

The big man considered it for a moment, rubbing his chin. “I’d do her.”

Dom stretched in the damned little seat, all casual, a man having a cup of coffee, nothing more. “You seen her around before?”

Frankie scratched his head. “You know, she looks a little like Big Jake’s ex, but that one—and she was trouble, I tell you—didn’t wear no glasses. Odd look, the glasses and all.”

Definitely odd. Dom didn’t trust anybody. A man got real dead, real fast that way. “Yeah, but it’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”

“Me, I like my women stacked. A man needs something to hold on to.”

Dom gave Frankie a sideways look. “I bet you have all the women panting after you.”

Frankie gave him a palms-up. “All my problems can be attributed to slow horses and fast women. I’m a veritable babe in the woods compared to you lothario types.”

Dom kept silent. It helped his image when he didn’t talk about women; he just smiled mysteriously every now and then. Made everybody wonder. He smiled now, the smile of a man remembering his last good lay.

“I haven’t seen Johnny C. around lately,” he said, casually changing the subject. “Where’s he gone? Sold us out for those guys back east?”

“Don’t know. Vinny’s been keeping quiet lately.” Frankie looked around, watching the other people in the store. “Let’s go to Dilly’s place.”

Dilly’s place was a good sign. Dom hadn’t yet been invited to the more sacrosanct confines, and if he was getting an invitation now, that meant Frankie was starting to trust him.

That might be the perfect time to pitch his ATM scam. Nothing obvious or too eager. Cast the floater out and then just skim the line back and forth over the surface.

Dom uncurled his legs and stood. That was the bitch of these little places. A tall man needed a place to stretch out.

He caught the eye of the street cop that walked in the door. Badge 271. They’d been in the Academy together. Dom shrugged into his jacket, keeping his face turned away. The cops didn’t worry him as much as the attorneys. Cops knew to keep their mouths shut. But an attorney? Slimeballs who were paid to yap. Still, as he walked past 271, he kept his face firmly in the shadows. Big Frankie didn’t notice at all.

MICKEY CAUGHT HER reflection in the rearview mirror, just as she hit the highway to Batavia. She had forgotten to rub off her eyeliner. Not that anyone would notice. Nobody really noticed her looks except when she was dolled up, either as a bridesmaid, or a bimbo.

Neither of which was her.

No, guys like Dominic Corlucci would never notice Mickey in the world that she lived in.

He was the polar opposite of Slimeball Intern Monihan and a hell of a kisser. Her lips were still tingling from the effects, and if she closed her eyes she could still recall the centrifugal force that was buzzing between her legs.

Times like this, a woman could be glad that the man was a gangster. It made him oh so easy to resist.

Definitely trouble. In fact, by the time she’d made it to the triple-axe sculpture that bridged high over the entrance to the lab, she had made up her mind. No point in endangering her loins or her life. She could just forget about Dominic Corlucci altogether.

I’m not going to be disappointed about it, either, she thought sternly to herself and to all body parts that reverberated whenever his magnetic field snapped its fingers.

She slid her badge into the front-door locks and went inside the long narrow corridors. Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. This was her home. Sometimes it still overwhelmed her. Quarks, tau neutrino, hell, even the Internet was conceived of here, contrary to what the politicians thought. These were the discoveries that rocked the world.

These discoveries were the very building blocks of the universe. People never appreciated the simplicity of the atom and all its components. Such a small, simple body, so powerful yet so overlooked.

And Mickey knew just how that felt.

Her sneakers squeaked as she walked down the halls where Lederman had walked. The seventh floor of the high-rise was where she did her work, and she found her way to the small, functional desk in the back of the pen.

She worked on the Sloan Digital Sky Survey, which she considered her own personal heaven. Mapping out the cosmos with pictures and light. That was all Mickey had ever wanted to do—work with the stars.

Every morning the schedule was the same, even if she came in late, which she was today. The great thing about research was that most scientists kept odd hours. Inspiration couldn’t be scheduled, nor could experiments that took three years to complete.

She turned on her computer and checked e-mail first. Empty. Next, just because she was a creature of habit, she checked to see who was online.

Chao: Unavailable.

Dr. Lindstrom: Available.

J.: Unavailable.

Yeah, Jessica was off having a honeymoon in China. Dejected, Mickey rolled back in her chair. Mountain climbing, which was about the silliest thing that Mickey had ever heard. Her ideal honeymoon would involve a trip to Geneva to see CERN and possibly some sightseeing. Then a long week in the hotel, with room service and HBO.

In lieu of actually having someone to talk to, Mickey started typing to herself.

“M, what’s up?”

She clicked Send and delighted herself when new mail appeared. Getting into the game, she hit Reply and started typing.

“M, glad you asked. What to do, what to do? I’m not a girlie-girl. I don’t want to be a girlie-girl. But I keep doing these stupid men things. Just like a girlie-girl. Does that make me an idiot?”

Then she clicked Send.

Magically, a few moments later, she had new mail. She started hammering away at the keyboard.

“M, no, you’re not a girlie-girl, because all members of the Coleman family—except your mother, and we’re not going to talk about that—are scientists. We use our brains to succeed where others have failed.”

Send.

“If I’m not a failure, then why am I being blackmailed with a sex tape? Why am I considering an affiliation with the mob? Why am I attracted to Dominic?”

Send.

“M, I lied. You’re a loser AND a girlie-girl. Get over it.”

Mickey stared at her screen and wished that the J-woman was back. Jessica wasn’t this harsh.

Maybe she should build Beth a computer and teach her how to use it. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow.

She took a quick look up to the front of the bull pen.

Damn, John was in. His Michael Crichton Sphere screen saver flickered eerily in the fluorescent lighting. Of course he couldn’t be sick today. Illness would be nice. Something vile and long lasting with symptoms that included pain-racked stomach spasms, huge bouts of nausea and perhaps a high fever, where he might be so incapacitated that he would simply hand over the tape.

She’d seen that on TV once.

When he walked into the room ten minutes later, he looked disgustingly healthy. Now, when she looked at him, her poor vision free of lust and alcohol, she could see the weak chin, the beady eyes that darted like a rat’s. Man, she had been so blind before. It was probably his golden hair that had blinded her to the rest of his faults. Yeah, definitely. The laughing blue eyes—that darted like a rat’s, of course—hadn’t helped.

Then he winked at her. Winked. As if she would be happy to see him. He was lucky she wasn’t working in the Tevatron. Proton collisions could be really messy. One false move, and zap—a human body could be transported to—well, everywhere, really. Just tiny Monihan particles floating in the air. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Oblivious to her degenerative thoughts, he lifted his Coke in greeting and strolled over. “Top of the morning, Miss Coleman. We on for this evening?”

She stared down at him over her glasses. “Go choke on a quark, Monihan.”

“I love it when you get feisty.” He pitched his voice an octave higher, “Oh, baby, yeah, right there…”

Had she really said that? Thank God she’d been too drunk to remember. She kept her eyes on her computer screen and whispered. “I got friends, Monihan. Friends that can really hurt you. I wouldn’t be so quick to make jokes.”

He leaned forward, the laughing blue eyes deadly serious. “You think this a joke? Not at all. Your career’s been shot into a black hole unless you cooperate. You know the presentation for Heidelman? I’ll bring the video.”

“I could go to Heidelman and just report you for sexual harassment.”

He looked intrigued. “Are you going to? A tough character-defining choice. Which is more important to you? Justice or your academic image? That’s how you know what you’re really made of. Which path are you going to take?”

Mickey looked up, close enough where she could see the true ugliness of his nature. “What has happened to you? You used to be nice, now you’re just a bastard. Have you ever seen what a positron beam can do to human flesh? I’d say that’s one directional splatter we’ve yet to map. What do you say, John? Want to go down in history?”

He took a sip of cola, looking completely unfazed by threats of evaporation. “Does that mean we’re on for tonight? I’ve got to work late in the lab this evening, but for you? I’ll wait up.”

Wait up? He’d have to wait for hell to freeze, for time travel to be possible and for the discovery of Higgs Boson. “I have a hot date with my boyfriend,” she said.

“You don’t have a boyfriend, Mickey. Remember?”

She raised an eyebrow. Very Queen Elizabeth. “Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, right. Look, I’ll let you have your fun. Tonight you’re off the hook. And I’ll be nice and leave you the weekend free, but come Monday…” His voice trailed off, and he flicked a finger under her chin.

At his touch, she flinched, saddened that she’d actually had a pleasant carnal-knowledge experience with this creep. “You’re watching too many bad movies, Monihan.”

He walked over to his computer and clicked on his mouse a few times. Instantly the air was filled with moans and heavy breathing.

She slapped her hand down on her desk, welcoming the pain. “Shut it off.”

“Monday night?”

When the seventh quark was discovered, and not a moment before. Mickey shot him a dire look. “Whatever.”

IT WAS DARK OUT; the apartment complex was in a seedy part of the South Side. Thankfully, security lights were nonexistent. Mickey brought out her flashlight as they made their way to the side of the building.

“Ready?” she asked, whispering behind her.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” was Beth’s sole vote of confidence.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, you do. Hire Dominic.”

“He’s too expensive. And besides that, he’s dangerous.”

“Well, yes. But expensive means that he’s good, and you live for danger.”

Mickey shone her flashlight in Beth’s face to see if she was serious. Not a trace of a smile. Sometimes Beth scared her.

“I can do this,” Mickey answered, just as she found the old fire escape. Bingo.

“And why do you think that?”

Mickey pulled at the ladder, and the whole world resounded with the painful creak. “I researched breaking and entering on the Internet.”

Behind her, she heard the sound of Beth rolling her eyeballs.

Now wasn’t the time for naysayers, though. She searched through her bag until she found the can of WD-40. There’s always another use. Little did the advertisers realize, it could also be used for B and E. One spritz and the ladder was as quiet as the lab on Sunday.

“Okay, Shifty, what do we do next?” asked Beth.

Mickey climbed onto the fire escape and got to the second floor. Quickly Beth scampered up behind her. Then Mickey shone her light on the wooden window frame. It looked just like the diagram on the Net. “We can lift up on this and slide it off its tracks.”

“I’ll take this side,” said Beth, positioning herself at one end.

Mickey put down the flashlight and grabbed the other side. “One, two, three. Lift.”

They heaved.

Nothing.

Mickey took a long breath. “Okay, we’re just not putting enough into this.”

“Excuse me. I was. I put everything into that lift. Aren’t you supposed to know how to do this? Can we just teleport it, or something?”

“Transport. And that only works in Star Trek.”

“I’m losing faith in you, Mickey. I didn’t think this was going to work, but I told myself, ‘No, if anybody can hypothesize her way out of this, it’s you.’ I was wrong.” Beth, when tired, got mouthy.

Mickey, who had no patience for tired, mouthy women, shot her a warning look. “Shh. One more time.”

They got in place again.

“One, two, three. Lift.”

Somewhere in the dark they heard a noise.

“What was that?” Mickey asked, her heart pounding wildly.

Beth looked down below. “A cat.”

“One more time.”

“Maybe we could just break it?”

Mickey cased the joint, considering the idea. Everything was too quiet. “Nah. Somebody might hear us.”

“Can we try the front door? Maybe it’s unlocked.”

“You have no imagination.”

“Logic, Mick. It’s called logic.”

Beth had a point. Mickey abandoned her short life of crime. “Okay.”

They climbed back down and entered the building’s lobby. John’s apartment was on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs. Mickey handed the flashlight to Beth and tried the doorknob.

Locked.

Beth stared at Mickey’s hand, her mouth open. “You’re wearing gloves?”

“I didn’t want to leave any prints.”

“And what about me?”

Mickey had researched that, too. “Your prints aren’t on file. No worries.”

“What? You’ve been arrested before?”

“No. Anybody that handles plutonium gets printed and filed in the national database. Procedure.”

Beth got a little wide-eyed. “You really work with plutonium?”

“Nah. Just a little prison humor.”

Beth wasn’t amused. “Can we go now?”

A long beam of headlights lit up the window off the stairwell.

“Somebody’s coming,” Mickey said, and then took off up the stairs to the third floor. “Up here. If it’s John, he won’t see us.”

Beth followed right behind, a streak in black spandex and sweater. Very stylish. Silently they waited for the door to open below.

The door eased open and an old man creaked his way into the foyer. Mickey began to breathe again. “False alarm.”

“Look, this isn’t working. You need to hire Dominic.”

Oh, hell.

Mickey leaned against the rickety stair rail and faced the whole truth. Sadly, her life as she knew it was pretty much screwed unless she got that tape back, and Dominic Corlucci, mob guy extraordinaire, seemed the best answer.

Somewhere upstairs, a stereo cranked up. Loud, discordant and really, really bad music.

Mickey sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“Want to get a beer?”

“Soft drink for me,” she answered. She was still paying for the aftereffects of her last binge.

“I’ll buy.”

Mickey stuffed her gloves in her pocket and studied her own attire. Black sweatshirt and matching knit pants. Passable, but barely. “You think we should change?”

Beth shook her head. “Nah. Black is very in.”

3

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Mickey donned the long blond wig. She pulled the boots from her closet and searched for something remotely sleazy.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In disgust, she slapped her hand against the hard wooden frame and immediately regretted it. Swift, Coleman, very swift. She was going to have to do something about her wardrobe if she wanted to continue her disguise in front of Dominic Corlucci—which she did. Her alter ego was going to need some more clothes. She should talk to Cassandra about that. If there was one woman who knew sleaze—a tasteful sort of sleaze—it was Cassandra.

Dejected, she leaned against the closet frame. There was only one reason for this loss of steely self-control. Sex.

And one way to fix it. Never again was she going to have sex.

If Queen Victoria could do it, so could Mickey. Some little particle of double circled inside her, due mainly to the nighttime sightings of Dominic Corlucci in her dreams. Dreams that were starting to impact her sleeping abilities. But what harm was there in a little idle fantasizing? Mickey had always had a healthy fantasy life. And fantasies were allowed under the steely selfcontrol regime. It kept the lonely Saturday nights interesting.

She shoved off the doubts and started strategizing her dress code, the pragmatic Mickey returning. If Dominic ever knew the real Mickey Coleman, he wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less an interesting Saturday night, so fantasies were all she had.

Another hour later and she was at Beth’s Starbucks in full regalia—creatively inspired by a Victoria’s Secret catalog and utilizing underwear in a manner for which it was not intended. The black camisole turned heads, which she hoped was a good thing.

She ordered a latte and then settled herself at his table. Prepared for all eventualities, she pulled out the latest issue of Scientific American—discreetly tucked inside a Playgirl—and sat back to read.

Half an hour later, he showed. When he walked through the door, she experienced that extreme tickling inside her that seemed so odd. Again. What was it about him? Was it the long, lean body that moved so gracefully? Was it the hooded eyes that seemed as deep and dark as the blackest night sky? Whatever it was, it was powerful and scared the smegaroo right out of her. Mickey didn’t like men to have power over her. She was arrogant enough to think she could make her way to the top on her own merits. Everything would have been fine except for John Monihan. Except for Dominic Corlucci. Maybe she was just doomed to be stupid with men.

Oh, enough already. She took one last confidence-building sip of her coffee and then stood, electing to operate from a position of dominance. “You’re late.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “If I had known you were so…anxious, I’d have come sooner.” He glanced over at the Playgirl and raised an eyebrow. “A little light reading?”

“For the articles only,” she said, and then winced when she noticed the front page, Seven Sensational Positions to Achieve the Ultimate O. She shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “We have a deal?”

He crossed his powerful arms over his chest, his T-shirt clinging to muscles that made her mouth salivate in a purely Pavlovian response. “Yeah, but there’s one little thing I need.”

At this point, Mickey would have promised him anything. “What?”

“I need an escort. Somebody to fill in for a while.”

Anything except that. “Let me think about it for a minute. No.”

Then he shrugged a shoulder, nothing nonchalant about it at all. “The deal’s off.”

A lesser woman would have stamped her foot. Mickey merely adjusted her glasses. “You’re willing to walk away from two-thousand dollars because I won’t decorate your arm?”

Evenly he met her eyes. “Yeah.”

She pulled herself up to her full five feet eleven inches and stared down her nose. He was taller than her by half a head, but the effect was still good. “What kind of wise guy are you?”

And she had him. His eyes flickered, not a big move, but she caught it. His gaze slid over her, a look she was learning to recognize, guaranteed to drop her stomach three megaohms. Then he slowly shook his head, regret marking his expression. “All right. We do it your way.”

She didn’t feel like woman triumphant, only woman stupid, but determinedly she carried on. “It’s a business transaction, Mr. Corlucci. I’ll pay a quarter of your fee up front, a quarter after the first visit to Monihan’s apartment and the remainder upon delivery of the tape.”

“Very professional,” he said with a smile.

“It’s a job. Nothing more,” she answered.

“Certainly Ms…? You never gave me your name.”

“Jones. Foxy Jones.”

His lips quirked. Okay, so it was a sham name, but he didn’t have to think it was funny. “Can I call you Foxy, or should I just stick to Ms. Jones?”

“Use whatever moniker you choose. When can you get the tape?”

“Not tonight. I have a wedding tonight.”

“A wedding?” How oddly domestic. Still, Italian-Americans were very family oriented, so maybe it was cultural rather than some subliminal yearning to find his life mate.

“I need a date…Foxy,” he said coaxingly, his voice silky as sin.

Her heart tripped right over itself in its hurry to pump blood into her nether regions. “Oh, behave,” she said, as much to her heart as to him.

“I’m being honest. Anthony Testa’s youngest son is getting married. I was invited. Black-tie.”

“No, I mean don’t call me Foxy.”

“I thought that was your name?”

“It’s a nickname. Call me…Michelle.” Very few people knew that Michelle was her real name. Her father had insisted on calling her Mickey—after Mickey Mantle. He said that her mother liked the way Michelle had sounded. Fragile and feminine and silly. Everything that Mickey abhorred.

“Michelle,” he said, his mouth lingering on the first part and then drawing out the rest, making it sound fragile and feminine and…completely not silly.

“Don’t wear it out,” she snapped. “So, can you get the tape tonight?”

“Will your…friend be home this evening?”

Mickey didn’t want to know John’s schedule; she didn’t want to think about knowing John’s schedule. Now he just made her skin crawl. “How the hell should I know?”

“Do you know of a time when he’s usually out? It’ll make my job easier.”

“During the day, Monday through Friday. He works business hours.”

“So he’s at home at night? Looks like I’m off the hook tonight, then. You can come with me to the wedding, can’t you? Not a business deal, a date.”

She had to try one last time. When Dominic Corlucci looked at her, he scared her, and not because she thought he would stuff her into a trunk. Her fears were deeper. Her sensible, logical, rational nature was careening out of control. Her father would never approve. She slammed that door shut, the noise reverberating in her brain. “I don’t do ‘black-tie.’”

“I’ll knock five-hundred dollars off my fee. Forget the up-front payment. Go buy something…” his gaze moved up and down, over thighs, breasts, arms and legs “…nice.”

She fought the urge to cover herself. Think bimbo. “Only pretend,” she said, the best warning she could muster.

He looked offended, the dark eyes holding secrets that no man should know. “Your choice.”

She nodded briskly. “Don’t forget it.”

“Should I pick you up at your apartment?”

“No!” God forbid he should know where she lived. Or what her name was. Or her real bra size. “I’ll meet you at the corner of Canal and Jackson, in front of Union Station.”

“Okay. Be there at five-thirty. I’ve got to buy a wedding present.”

A wedding present? No way. No way. On a good day, she hated to shop. In two-inch heels, it was stilettocide. “You think I can be beneficial?”

Again he looked her over. “Don’t know, but Anthony said something about Marshall Fields. I hate Marshall Fields. On the other hand, your sparkling companionship could get me through it.”

Mickey turned away, turned away from the dark, compelling eyes. Turned away from that mobile mouth that seemed to be terminally amused. She was halfway to the door when she heard his low voice. Deep, sexy words that tickled their way down her spine, one vertebra at a time.

“See you tonight—sweet cheeks.”

THE AISLES OF MARSHALL FIELDS were not where a virile, all-American man should be on a Saturday evening. It was embarrassing, emasculating and damned shameful. Still, Anthony’s son needed a wedding present, and Dom was determined to find something appropriate, yet suitably tough, no pantywaist gewgaws from him.

“Maybe we should get a bottle of Scotch?” he suggested.

“Are they registered here?” Michelle asked, surprising him with what she knew.

It was one surprise after another with her. She had showed up in front of the station in a dress that knocked him in the gut. It wasn’t her usual tacky outfit, not that it was demure, either. This dress smacked of sexuality. Some white silk thing that was cut short, so short it made a man itch to explore exactly how short it was. Michelle wasn’t stacked, but nicely curvy up top. Again, she just looked—right. If he ever got her naked, he’d spend about two hours just memorizing all her lines.

He stopped so suddenly that Michelle crashed into him.

“Are they registered?” she repeated, as if he was a moron.

It primed his ego and made him want to act like the stupidity was a farce. As if “getting naked” thoughts couldn’t get him dead. “How do I know if they’re registered?” he asked, mentally undressing that long body once more.

He kept forgetting why he had wanted her here in the first place. To figure out exactly who she was.

She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “They just tell you.”

Dom tried to remember exactly what Anthony had said about the wedding. “Don’t know.”

“We can check,” she answered, and moved toward the china department as if she knew just where she was going. Who the hell was she? She walked awkwardly in her heels, looking as if she was unused to the usual busyness of every female he had ever met. Yet, damn, could she kiss. Still he could remember how she felt, how her lips parted so effortlessly. He shot a quick sideways look at her. Maybe somebody had brought out their big guns. One of those innocent-looking broads with the high-powered starters that knew men, and knew sex. Maybe “they”—whoever “they” were—knew Dom’s weak spot. Okay, it was every man’s weak spot, but still…

He followed her blindly into a demilitarized zone known as the bridal registry. As she walked, he found himself slowing, watching the swing in her hips, watching the long length of her legs. She was tall. Almost as tall as he was. Her bare shoulders emerged from the white silk. Pale, not tanned like a lot of the girls he knew. The blond mane had to be fake, but there was no disguising that face. It was lean, angular and the dark-framed glasses were a great touch. They gave her an air of arrogance—and mystery. Dom had always loved mysteries. It always got him in trouble. That, and poor judgment.

Michelle stopped in front of the kiosk decorated in roses and bells. “Here we are. What’s the bride’s name?”

Dom thought for a minute. “Mona.”

She tapped her foot. “Do you know Mona’s last name?”

What did she think? He was doing time with Anthony’s future daughter-in-law? “No.”

“Perhaps you know the groom.”

“Sure. Testa.”

“Is that a last name or a first name?” she drawled.

Playing with her was starting to get fun. “Last.”

He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, like a secretary or something. She sure as hell knew how to type. He was a hunt-and-pecker when typing was required.

“Here it is.” With a single flourish of her finger, papers started flying out the hole in the bottom, and she handed him the list. “Crystal by Waterford, Dolmen, and china by Royal Albert. Hartington. Good stuff.”

“Okay,” he said, like he knew what she was talking about.

“Do you see a salesgirl?”

Dom looked around the empty store. “No.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound echoed in the quiet corridors, and one or two shoppers poked their heads out to stare.

Michelle glared at him, and for the first time he realized her eyes were blue. A sky blue that was barely noticeable behind her thick lenses. Right now they were noticeable because she was staring daggers at him. Obviously whistling was not the right way to flag a clerk.

“Don’t you ever shop?”

Dom shrugged. “Not if I can help it.”

She turned on her heel and gave him her back. Whoever she belonged to, he must be loaded. She knew the right brand names and she walked around without looking at the directory. This was a place she was used to, so he supposed he should trust her taste. “What do you think I should get?”

“How much did you want to spend?” she asked, neatly rattling him even more.

Oh, that was a tough one. His budget was tight, and he’d rather spend his money on graft and corruption than dinnerware, but he needed to make an impression. And he needed to look like he had money—but not too much money. “A couple of hundred.” That seemed safe.

“Go for the Hartington.”

An older saleswoman appeared, clad entirely in red. “May I help you?”

Michelle didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll take the gravy boat.”

“Would you like that wrapped or delivered?”

“Wrapped,” interjected Dom. He didn’t dare show up without a gift, even if it meant being late. Bad move.

Michelle shook her head, the blond curls moving as one. “It’s going to take a while.”

If he was lucky, they’d miss the entire wedding ceremony. “We can wait.”

“It’ll take half an hour, young man. Our gift-wrapping service is quite comprehensive.”

Dom checked the time. Thirty minutes was perfect. “’S all right. We’ll wait.” He turned to Michelle. “We’ll get a cup of coffee.”

After paying for the gift and making arrangements for the “proper” bows and crap, they headed down to the Walnut Café. The dining room was more a place for women who had too much time on their hands. Dom sipped his coffee and watched Mickey, wondering if this was her element. “So what do you do in your spare time?” he asked, his curiosity rearing its head once more.

“Read. TV. Movies.”

Almost normal. Except for that reading thing. Dom couldn’t remember the last time he had picked up a book. Course, most wise guys wouldn’t be caught dead with a tome in their hands. “I like movies.”

She smiled at him politely, as if to say, “That’s nice, but not in your wildest dreams.”

Damn she knew how to step right on a guy’s more honorable intentions. Or maybe they weren’t so honorable, but he figured if she was a plant, then she knew what was what. He would be expected to make a play for her. It was all about the game.

He just couldn’t forget that it was nothing more than a game. She was fascinating, intriguing and just a little clunky, and the combination whetted his appetite like no woman he’d met in a long while.

The idea of spending long hours in her company, merely unwrapping her package—both in the figurative and literal sense—awakened something inside him, something that he’d kept dormant for a long time. Of course, that’s probably exactly what they’d figured he’d do, pegging him for the horny bastard that he was. Undercover work was hard on a man’s sex life. People really had no idea.

“Do you think you can try for the tape tomorrow?”

Ah, yes, the mysterious tape. It was always about the tape. To be honest, he wasn’t sure it existed. “I’ll go look on Monday when the scammer’s at work.”

“Maybe you could try tonight?”

“I thought your friend would be home tonight,” he said, wondering if he was supposed to get caught breaking and entering. It was a stupid setup, but guys had been brought down by lesser slipups.

She crossed her legs in front of her, the skirt riding up exquisitely high. Once again her packaging was calling to him, parts of him responding right on cue. Damn.

“Probably,” she said, all casual like. “Monday then. Here’s a cell-phone number. One of those disposable jobbers that can’t be traced, so don’t even think that it’s legit.”

He cracked a smile. “Whoa. Looks like you’ve covered all the bases.”

“Of course I did.”

“Why’s the tape so important?”

“It should never have been made.”

That was new. “It was one of those foot or farm animal things? You’re trying to be an actress, aren’t you?” He hoped that wasn’t true, because she’d never make it.

“An actress? What do you think I am? Some vacuous bimbo who can’t do anything more? You men are all alike.”

Dom hid his smile. The brain thing seemed to be a sticking point with her. “I’ve got a bad case of primordial regression.”

“Good. As long as you understand.”

“Sure.” He stood, thought about helping her up, but she looked so militant, so determined to be on her own, he just watched instead. “Ready to head out?”

She uncurled her legs from the small table, and he felt a twinge of something that was probably sympathy. Whatever got her here, she wasn’t happy about it. For just a second, her walk was brisk, no-nonsense, and then she glanced back.

He smiled at her open look of assessment.

The walk shifted, the hips swayed and he found himself watching once more. It wasn’t pretty, but damned if he wasn’t getting more than a little randy just by watching that eye-glazing swing. There was an odd rhythm. Just when you thought you had the beat, she gave it an extra ka-ching.

There couldn’t be much harm in a guy noticing a woman’s moves, could there? The voice that had kept Dom alive for the past two years had some objections, but content to watch the sway and pitch, Dom chose not to listen.

MICKEY SWORE QUIETLY to herself. The sandals were giving her a blister. She’d dressed nice tonight. Sexy, but nice. And every time she looked at Dominic, he was watching her with that speculative look, but she wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t notice the heat in the look, as well. And that was really ticking her off.

The clingy clothes and the long blond hair called into every male stereotypical fantasy. That fantasy was sooooo not Mickey, nor would it ever be. The other reason she was annoyed was that—well, that she was annoyed. It shouldn’t bother her. Nor should it thrill her. But it did and she wasn’t sure which was worse nor, to be honest, did she really care. She just needed the tape, and then this whole charade would be over.

And she’d never see Dominic Corlucci again.

Which brought in a whole new wave of emotions, which annoyed her even further. She looked back over her shoulder, noticed the Saturday-night smile. “Can you hurry it up?”

“Sorry,” was all he said, and they made it up the steps to the back of the chapel.

They had ended up at the church with about ten minutes to spare. Dominic drove a Honda, which seemed a little odd. She was expecting something bigger, something less fuel efficient. Not a Honda four-door that looked like it couldn’t hold golf clubs in the trunk, much less a body. But what did she know? If you cut off the head and legs, the human torso really wasn’t that long.

As they were rushed to some seats in the back, the sounds of the wedding march began, and everybody stood. It was a traditional Catholic wedding, striking up memories of Jessica’s recent nuptials. At least Jessica would be back in another week, although Mickey had pretty much decided to keep most everything to herself. It was one thing unloading her mistakes to Beth, who seemed to think the whole thing was a spectacular adventure, but it was another to admit weakness to Jessica, who would never, ever let her forget it.

The bride looked gorgeous, happy and content. Really content. Mickey wanted to holler out to her, “You’re marrying a wise guy. Is this what you’re reducing yourself to?” but wisely she held her tongue.

Stubbornly she looked around the chapel, looking anywhere but at Dominic. He looked good in his suit. Better than she wanted him to look. Mickey always prided herself on focusing on more than just the outer facade of the human appearance. A man’s mind was more important than a great set of abs. It was an edict that was easy to believe in when you were exposed to receding hairlines and physiques that were less than ideal. Confronted with such godlike physical attributes, it seemed shallow and a full-frontal betrayal of all her principles to be filled with lust.

Careful not to get caught, she gave him a quick onceover. Yeah, definitely lust. Black was his color. When contrasted with the dark line of his jacket, his hair shone without color at all. The truest black that swallowed up all the light around it.

And his mouth. This man had a mouth that should have been feminine. Should have made him look prissy. Instead, that mouth made her stop breathing. Wide, full, expressive lips. He was always moving them. Smiling, frowning, smirking. Like he knew about his effect on women. The cad.

He almost caught her ogling him, but she covered and concentrated on the stained-glass window just on the other side of him.

The church was packed with dark-haired men, perfectly coiffed women and screaming kids. Every now and then, one goombah type or another would nod in Dom’s direction. He’d send an answering nod, some sort of mob fraternity handshake.

Why couldn’t she be afraid of him? It was a mystery that she wasn’t going to solve right now, but as soon as she got home, she was going to sentence herself to six hours with Joe Pesci and GoodFellas.

Nothing like a little blood and gore to put the fear of God into a female.

Finally the ceremony was over, and she could concentrate on more important things, like walking in her heels.

The reception was a few blocks away and—of course—they walked. He made a point of putting her on the inside of the sidewalk. A nice touch, but she really needed more help with the walking.

The dress and the shoes were Cassandra’s. And while the dress was okay, the shoes were one size too small. She stumbled, and he grabbed her arm. It was only one touch. A polite, impersonal touch. But her body just responded with its own law of attraction. The force operating between two masses is equal to the two masses multiplied together, preferably in a carnal manner. Then the result was divided by the square of the too few inches between them. Lastly, the whole disaster was now multiplied by the Corlucci sexiness constant. Sadly, the constant was in triple digits.

For a moment she leaned in, using gravity as an excuse to get close. He looked into her eyes, and Mickey felt her flesh go even weaker.

“You doing okay?” he asked, as they entered the small hall, and suddenly they weren’t alone anymore. Mickey straightened, focused on the pain in her foot and condemned all males to perdition.

Yeah, that was easy, she thought to herself, ignoring the little snickering from the peanut gallery in her brain.

The reception hall was lit with candles and roses. Except for the one-hundred or so mafiosi, it would have been really romantic. Two weddings in less than two weeks. Her life was cursed. She shot a sideways look at Dom, looking sinfully delicious, and decided being cursed wasn’t without its rewards. He led her over to the bar and ordered two glasses of cabernet.

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