Hotbed Honey
Authors: Toni Blake
Contents:
Chapter 1
"
I
need a woman."
I
need a woman."
"Don't we all."
"I don't need a woman for
that
," Max Tate said, casting a dry look at Frank Marsallis. He took a sip of the Scotch Frank had just shoved into his hand. "If I want
that
, I can get it. I need a partner for a job."
that
," Max Tate said, casting a dry look at Frank Marsallis. He took a sip of the Scotch Frank had just shoved into his hand. "If I want
that
, I can get it. I need a partner for a job."
Frank lifted one stubby finger in the air as he gave a somber nod. "Aha. I should've known you weren't here just to crash my party."
Standing in Frank's lavish entryway, Max took an absent look across the expansive area that his onetime mentor called a "living room." Stylish-looking people stood in clusters drinking and talking as a slow, bluesy tune cascaded from speakers hidden in the vaulted ceiling. Not really his kind of scene, or at least not by choice. All things considered, he'd rather be drinking a beer in a neighborhood bar. Especially considering the way he looked at the moment. "Crashing parties isn't my style, Frank. Anyway, the job starts tomorrow morning."
Frank rolled his eyes, letting his blue gaze land on his fellow P.I. "Nothing like waiting till the last minute, Max."
Max didn't have time to deal with Frank's annoyance. "Look, I've been busy with a job that went longer than planned. Can you help me or not?"
"One question first. Why do you look like you've been living in a trash can?"
"Like I said, I've been busy. I just came from doing a little undercover work." Undercover assignments were Max's specialty.
"As what?"
"A garbageman." He slanted Frank a look of warning. "And no cracks, please—I don't have time for your wit right now. I need to know if you can get me the woman."
"All right," Frank said, offering a highly exaggerated sigh. "What are the parameters?"
"She needs to be quick-thinking," Max told him, glad to get down to business. "And she has to have good instincts. She should also be a good actress."
"Anything else?"
Max snapped his fingers. He'd almost forgotten the most important part. "Yeah. She has to be drop-dead gorgeous."
Frank shook his graying head in clear irritation, then returned to the matter at hand. "All right, why do you need a good actress?"
"She's going to pretend to be my wife."
"And why does she have to be gorgeous?"
"Same reason."
Frank cast him yet another cutting look, but this time Max turned a sly grin toward his friend.
"Actually, the job calls for it, Frank, in a big way. The guy I'm trying to nail only goes after really hot women."
Frank took the last sip of his drink and set his glass on a nearby table. "So this means she'll be bait."
Max knew Frank didn't like the sound of that, but it was often the nature of the business for women who chose this line of work. "Something like that. That's where the quick thinking and good instincts come in. Besides, I'll be there the whole time, either out in the open or in hiding, keeping an eye on things."
Frank sighed again, then scanned the room while Max waited impatiently. If Frank couldn't come through for him on this, he was sunk. In between stints of playing garbageman, he'd spent the last two weeks drawing Carlo Coletti into this scheme, and he'd made it clear to Carlo that not only was he loaded, but that he had a beautiful wife to shower his riches on. Without one, the whole case would flop. And Frank was the only guy in town he trusted enough to "borrow" another P.I. from. He knew from experience that Frank hired only the best.
Frank's head suddenly darted around to face him. "I thought you were quitting." It sounded suspiciously like an accusation.
Max tilted his head derisively. "Not quitting, Frank. Stepping back. Growing the business. Bringing in some new blood."
"Quitting," Frank repeated.
Well, so what if he was? Max thought. He'd been in this business up to his ears for fifteen years, since he was twenty years old, for God's sake. He'd had his own firm for the last three of those years, and now he finally had the money to hire enough good people so that he could get out of the field himself. He liked the work and was damn good at it, but he'd fallen into it by chance all those years ago. He and Frank had met through a mutual friend, which had resulted in an unexpected job offer at a time when Max had been looking for some direction in life. Well, he'd ended up with a definite direction, all right, but now wanted to see what it was like to have a job where he didn't risk his life every single day. So he planned to manage the P.I.'s he'd soon hire, be the brains behind the operation and let someone else be the brawn—and the garbagemen—for a change.
"Anyway," Max said, "I just finished up the garbage gig, so this next one is my last case. Worth a fortune if I can pull it off. But like I said, I need a woman. Do you have one for me?"
Frank gestured across the room. "See the brunette in the blue dress?"
Max followed Frank's gaze. Did he ever. She stood with her back to them, talking with another woman as they studied an impressionist print that hung above Frank's fireplace. She had legs that went on forever, dark brown silky hair that fell in waves to her shoulders and a nice shape inside that dress to back it all up.
Even without seeing her face, Max knew she was a beauty, just what he was looking for. So he didn't hesitate. He looked at Frank and winked. "I'll take her."
* * *
"Okay, Kim, this is the place. Number 230. Go on in and introduce yourself. I'll park the car and join you in a minute."
Kimberly Brandt stepped out of Frank's mint-condition 1977 gold Cadillac into the lightly falling rain. She slammed the door, blotting out the sounds of B.B. King, and hurried up the front steps of the stylish condo.
She rang the doorbell and waited, realizing that she didn't even know the guy's name. All she knew was that Frank had volunteered her to be the guy's wife for a few days, which sounded a bit complicated, but interesting, too. She'd done plenty of undercover work in the past, but since joining Frank's agency a year ago, she usually worked alone. This might be a challenging change. Maybe even fun. And good training for cases that required a team approach.
She rang the doorbell again and pulled the thin, beaded shawl she wore tighter around her as the rain began to seep in.
Come on, buddy. Answer the door
.
Come on, buddy. Answer the door
.
Frank had also told her she was going to be used as bait for a thief who liked to seduce his victims before robbing them. That part
wouldn't
be so fun, but she knew she could handle it. She'd gotten quite good at her job over the past few years.
wouldn't
be so fun, but she knew she could handle it. She'd gotten quite good at her job over the past few years.
"Damn it," she muttered, pressing the doorbell once more, holding it for a few seconds this time. She could be a tough chick when she needed to be, but she didn't like standing out in the rain for no good reason. If she didn't get inside soon, her rayon dress would just be one big wad of crinkles.
She glanced up and down the rain-slickened sidewalk, irritated. Where was Frank? Was this guy even home? According to Frank, he'd headed here to get cleaned up after an undercover operation, but where was he? If it was such an emergency to meet tonight, why wasn't he opening his door and welcoming her with open arms?
On impulse, she reached down and twisted the doorknob.
The door was unlocked.
More surprised than she'd expected, she let go and watched the door ease to a stop after opening hallway. She'd only turned the knob for the hell of it—she hadn't thought it would actually get her inside.
What a bozo, not even keeping his door locked. Well. What now?
What a bozo, not even keeping his door locked. Well. What now?
"Hello?" she called, leaning through the doorway. No answer. But there were lights on and music playing low but potent. Pearl
Jam.
"Hello?" she yelled again.
Jam.
"Hello?" she yelled again.
"I'm with Frank Marsallis, and I'm getting soaked out here," she said, trying to project her voice as she tentatively placed one foot over the threshold. "So I'm coming inside now."
Standing in the sunken entryway of a dimly lit living room, she suddenly thought,
God, please let this be the right condo.
God, please let this be the right condo.
"Julie, is that you?" a deep male voice called.
Julie? Hardly. Maybe this
was
the wrong condo. "Um, no, not Julie," she answered. "I'm here with Frank Marsallis."
was
the wrong condo. "Um, no, not Julie," she answered. "I'm here with Frank Marsallis."
She'd barely uttered the last sentence when a man turned the corner at the top of the small flight of stairs, wearing nothing but a hunter-green towel around his waist. The first thing she noticed was that he had a great body, rife with nice, medium-size muscles, which were her favorite kind. The second thing she noticed was that he was …
Max!
Max!
Max
, whom she hadn't seen since the Carpenter case three years ago. Max, who was just as excruciatingly handsome as ever.
, whom she hadn't seen since the Carpenter case three years ago. Max, who was just as excruciatingly handsome as ever.
Their eyes met and held. Kimberly's heartbeat increased with all the conflicting memories of him that raced through her brain. It took a lot of effort, but she finally forced her mouth to close. Then she swallowed, hard.
"Oh no," Max said, shaking his head.
"Oh-h-ho no.
This can't be. It just can't. Please tell me
you're
not the woman Frank sent me." He was laughing now, but not in a happy way, more like a delirious, he-couldn't-believe-his-rotten-luck kind of way.
"Oh-h-ho no.
This can't be. It just can't. Please tell me
you're
not the woman Frank sent me." He was laughing now, but not in a happy way, more like a delirious, he-couldn't-believe-his-rotten-luck kind of way.
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