“You need the cooperation of Baronessa employees. I can get that for you. All I ask in return is a little information. Or the chance to accompany you while you uncover information.”
“No. And don’t bother to wave a checkbook at me. I don’t take bribes.”
“Did I suggest that?” She was indignant. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to trick information out of you if I thought money would work.”
His lips twitched. “Just as well. Your brother already tried.”
A crease formed in her forehead. “Derrick? He wasn’t supposed to. We agreed that I’d handle things. Well.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind that. I—”
His phone rang. He picked it up. “Mallory Investigations.”
It was Nick Charles, the arson investigator in charge of the Baronessa case—and a good friend of Ethan’s cousin, Mel. Nick didn’t really have anything for him; mostly he was fishing, himself. Ethan dragged out the conversation, keeping his responses uninformative, just to make his audience squirm with curiosity. Petty, maybe, but a man took what satisfaction he could. Lord knew it was all the satisfaction he was likely to get from Ms. Claudia Nose-in-the-Air Barone.
When he hung up, she had her purse in her lap. “If you’d believed I was a reporter, would you have let me tag along?”
“Probably not. Reporters aren’t entitled to the details of my investigation, either.”
She sighed. “You’re not going to be helpful, are you?”
“Sleep with me and see how helpful I can be.” The suggestion slipped out before he could edit it.
“You don’t mean that,” she informed him, and opened the big clutch-style purse. “Smile.” She pulled out a little camera—one of those new digital jobs that aren’t much bigger than a wallet.
“What the— Hey!” He held a hand in front of his face a second after the flash went off.
“For my collection,” she said breezily, retrieving her coat from the other chair.
No, not a coat, he realized as she slung it on. A cape that fell to mid-calf. Her dramatic side had apparently won out over the proper Boston deb on that particular shopping trip.
Her smile was perfectly polite. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mallory. When you change your mind about working with me, let me know. I’m sure a thorough man like yourself has my phone number in that file of yours.”
He watched the gorgeous legs move briskly out his door and out of his life. She had a damned fine behind, too—high, round and not as skinny as the rest of her.
Not that the rest of her was really skinny. He sighed and reached for his phone. He might lie for a living, but he didn’t lie to himself. Ever. Fact was, she was packaged just right. Incredible legs.
Incredible ego, too. Ethan punched in a number he didn’t have to look up. Conceited little society twit. Did she really think he was going to invite her to tag along just because she wanted him to? He’d have to be nuts.
The phone was answered on the third ring. “Sal,” Ethan said to his client and former father-in-law, Salvatore Conti, head of the family that occupied eight or nine slots on the Barones’ Top Ten list of enemies. “You’ll never guess who just showed up in my office.”
At eight-thirty that night, Claudia had her hands full of milk—two gallon jugs of it, to be precise. She was in her kitchen. Her best friend since the third grade, Stacy Farquhar, stood near the pantry, watching her suspiciously.
Claudia’s kitchen occupied the rear end of her apartment. It was divided from the long, narrow living area by an ivy-covered lattice and the dining table, a glass slab set on a cast-iron frame. Her dining table could seat twelve, and sometimes did. Tonight it held an empty pizza box, two paper plates and a few scattered bits of mushroom and bell pepper.
Claudia was very fond of bell peppers. “Grab the olive oil from the pantry, would you?” she said, using her hip to swing the refrigerator door shut.
“What are you going to do with that milk?” Stacy’s voice was filled with accusation. “You said you’d fill me in while we gave ourselves pedicures. Weird ones, maybe, but so much of what you do is weird.”
“Don’t be silly. What could be more natural than olive oil, salt and milk?” Claudia pulled out a soup pot and poured the milk in a gallon at a time. “You’re allergic to so many things, I thought we’d try—”
“I’m allergic to milk!”
“You’re allergic to drinking it. This is for soaking our feet after we give them the salt-and-olive oil scrub. You’ve heard of milk baths, for heaven’s sake. Now, quit squinting at me and go get us a couple of towels, okay?”
Stacy rolled her eyes and headed for the linen closet. “I don’t know why I let you do this to me. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the time you persuaded me to try out for the boxing team. I still have nightmares…. Hey, the printer’s finished.”
She darted into Claudia’s bedroom, which was affixed to the rest of the apartment like an afterthought about midway down the living area. And emerged waving the just-printed photo. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“I told you what happened.” Claudia tested the milk with the tip of her finger. Still cold. She turned the gas up a bit.
“You said Ethan Mallory reminded you of a grizzly bear.” She slapped the image down on the counter. “Exhibit A: photograph of major hunk who does not look like any kind of bear.”
Claudia glanced at the photo. Crisp brown hair that would curl if it weren’t cut so ruthlessly short. Hazel eyes framed by dark, extravagant lashes, that might have looked pretty if they hadn’t been set in such an uncompromisingly masculine face.
“He’s very big,” she offered, trying to remember just why she’d thought of a grizzly bear when she met him.
“He’s an ex-football player, you said. From his college days. Of course he’s big.”
“Solid, too. And not just physically. I had the feeling it takes a lot to rile him. Not because he lacks a temper, but because he’s so insufferably confident that anything other than a direct hit just rolls off. I guess it was the way he loomed over me when he had me pinned in the chair that made me think of a grizzly bear.” Claudia headed for the pantry for the olive oil. “Are you going to get us some towels, or not?”
Stacy opened a drawer, grabbed two dish towels and tossed them on the table. “And just when did he pin you in a chair?”
“I told you he tried to intimidate me.”
“Humph.” Stacy grabbed a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “He can’t be all that bright. A runaway train wouldn’t intimidate you.”
“No, I think he’s sharp enough.” Claudia paused, frowning at the container of salt in her hand. “Too bright, maybe. And very stubborn. He isn’t going to be easy to work with. Oh, well.” She shrugged and put the salt and olive oil on the table. “I have to work with what’s available, not with what’s ideal.”
“Claudia.” Stacy’s tone was ominous now. “He’s smart. He wears his hair short. He’s got shoulders like a—well, like a football player. And he’s domineering. Is he successful? Leader of the pack in his field?”
“Confident and assertive are not synonyms for domineering.” She went to check the milk. Nice and hot. “He does wear his hair short, doesn’t he?” Claudia had an image of the surly Mr. Mallory with his hair grown out enough to curl, cherublike, around that hard face. She grinned. “Curls would interfere with his tough-guy image.”
“Oh, Lord. He’s big, sexy, macho as hell. He’s practically the archetype.