With Private Eyes. Eileen Wilks

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      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. Your archetype.”

      “I wouldn’t say that Ethan Mallory is at the top of his profession. He’s made himself a nice little niche in the detective business here in Boston, investigating white-collar crimes, but…” Claudia decided not to think about that. “The milk’s ready.”

      Stacy dragged out a chair, plunked herself down and fixed Claudia with her most repressive stare. Since Stacy’s eyes swallowed about half her face, she looked like a cute, green-eyed owl. The green, of course, was supplied by her contacts. Without them she couldn’t have seen who she was glaring at. “You are not to have anything further to do with this man.”

      “Well, I have to. Besides, I’ve changed.”

      “You’ve made one of your plans, that’s all. You decided to change. That doesn’t mean you have changed.”

      “Quit worrying. I’m reformed,” Claudia assured her, setting out two plastic tubs for their feet. “On the wagon. I’m dating Neil.”

      “Four, five dates—big deal. Besides, Neil is not a cure. He’s a symptom.”

      Claudia paused with the pot of steaming milk in her hands, surprised. “I thought you liked Neil.”

      “Of course I like Neil. He’s my type. But I like caution. I love caution. You don’t.”

      “The Neils of this world are an acquired taste. I’m acquiring it. I learned to like coffee, didn’t I?”

      “Yes, but you still don’t like spinach.”

      “I do, too. Sort of.”

      “It makes you throw up.”

      Since that observation was hard to dispute—Stacy had been at the restaurant when a serving of pasta Florentine had sent Claudia running for the ladies’ room—Claudia ignored it. She poured the milk carefully into each plastic tub. “Now for the exfoliating. Mix a heaping handful of salt with some olive oil.”

      “I don’t know about this.” Stacy eyed the ingredients dubiously.

      Claudia rolled her eyes. “You don’t quibble over spreading that green gunk all over your face, with who knows how many chemicals and preservatives in it, but you’re worried about rubbing a little olive oil on your feet?”

      “If God had wanted us to put olive oil on our feet, She would already have put it in a lotion sold at Filene’s.”

      “If you don’t trust me, trust my grandmother. She told me about this.”

      That worked—as Claudia had known it would. Stacy was nuts about Claudia’s Italian grandmother. Of course, it had actually been Claudia’s mother’s mother, the very proper Bostonian, who’d read about this in some magazine, not her father’s thoroughly Italian mother. But mentioning that wouldn’t help Stacy relax and enjoy herself.

      The two of them rubbed their feet with gritty oil. “So do you think your plan will work?” Stacy asked. “The one to make Ethan Mallory let you tag along on the investigation, I mean. Not your other plan, with Neil. That’s doomed.”

      “Not right away.” Claudia gave her heel a little extra attention. Calluses built up there so quickly. “He’s stubborn, like I said. He’ll try to wiggle or trick his way out.”

      Right after her meeting with the detective, Claudia had e-mailed the photograph she’d taken of him to her cousin Nicholas, COO of Baronessa. He, in turn, had sent it to all Baronessa department heads and supervisors, telling them that no one, but no one, was to speak with Ethan Mallory or allow him onto corporate property unless he was accompanied by a Barone family member.

      That family member, of course, being Claudia. They’d settled that at the family council two nights ago. She had the time and the energy to devote to this complication. The others didn’t. Besides, she was good at fixing things. And boy, did things need fixing right now.

      “So what’s plan B? I know you have a plan B. You always do.”

      “I’ll just follow him around, see what he’s up to, that sort of thing. That will annoy him.” Claudia eased her feet into the warm milk and wiggled her toes. “But I think I’ll enjoy it. I’ve never done detective work before.”

      “You’re getting carried away here, Nancy Drew. You’re supposed to find out who this guy’s client is, not start playing detective yourself.”

      “My family is counting on me.”

      “They don’t expect you to turn into Nancy Drew.”

      “Things are wrong. More wrong than I’d realized.”

      “Of course there’s something wrong. Like arson, for one. Good Lord, your sister was nearly killed. Has she remembered anything else?”

      “Nothing about the night СКАЧАТЬ