Slow Hands. Leslie Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ like her mother, Jason Turner’s second wife, who’d died when Maddy was four. Supposedly, though he never spoke of her, Jason had mourned her greatly. Which could explain why her sister always harassed Maddy about being their father’s favorite.

      Maybe it was just that they had more in common. Aside from looking more like Jason than Tabby did, Maddy was also blessed with his quick mind, one fascinated by banking and finance. She also had the work ethic to run the business that had been in the family for generations.

      That didn’t mean Tabitha hadn’t gotten something from their father, too—his fickleness. Maddy seemed to be the only Turner who didn’t fall in and out of love as frequently as the networks changed their Friday night lineup.

      “We have to do something.”

      “About what?”

      “About the little cheater, that’s what!”

      Maddy sighed, lowered her pen, and leaned back in her chair. “But she hasn’t cheated yet, has she?”

      “No…and we’re going to make damn sure she doesn’t.”

      Frankly, her sister’s attitude came as a surprise. Considering how strongly Tabitha disliked their father’s new wife, Maddy would have figured Tabitha would want Deborah to cheat, and get caught. Her father would tolerate a lot when it came to his wives—spending money, demanding attention and throwing tantrums. But he would never tolerate being cheated on. As a few of his former loves could certainly attest. Tabitha’s mother included.

      “I’m surprised you haven’t hired a detective to follow her and get the goods yourself.”

      Tabitha frowned, shifting her pretty blue eyes away to study her perfectly manicured nails.

      “You have? Jesus, Tabby…”

      “Look, it was stupid, and I changed my mind almost right away. I don’t want to catch the bitch cheating.”

      “You don’t?”

      Her sister finally lifted her eyes, and in them was a hint of genuineness, an emotion Tabitha didn’t often let the world see, but which Maddy knew lurked beneath her sister’s polished, shiny, brittle surface. “He loves her, Mad. Really loves her and she makes him so happy. It’s like he’s twenty years younger.” She swallowed, murmuring, “I don’t want him hurt. Again.”

      Wow. That stunned her. So much that she couldn’t reply for a minute. Because while she completely understood the sentiment—and felt the same way—she wouldn’t have expected it of Tabitha.

      Then she remembered the one area where she and her sister were absolutely, one hundred percent alike: in their love for their father.

      She lowered her pen to her desk, finally giving her sister her undivided attention. “Okay. What do you propose we do?”

      Tabitha dissembled for a moment, glancing around the room, at the few framed photos on Maddy’s bookshelf—all family—at the plants in the corner and the view of the Chicago skyline out the window.

      She wasn’t going to like this, Maddy knew. Tabitha had the same look she’d had when they were nine and twelve and her big sister had suggested they “borrow” their new stepmother’s—wife three’s—Dior gowns to play house. And Maddy had the same reaction—the similar twitch in her temple and the sweatiness in her palms she’d experienced on that day.

      One thing was sure…sweat wouldn’t wash any better out of her Chanel suit now than it had out of Dior then.

      “Tabby?”

      Her sister finally met her stare, appearing almost defiant. “It’s simple, really.”

      The twitching intensified. The moisture on her palms could water the office plants for a week. “Oh?”

      “Yes. She can’t cheat on our father with the guy if somebody outbids her.” With a smile that showed off the twenty-thousanddollar smile their father had bestowed upon his oldest daughter, Tabitha continued.

      “You buy the gigolo.”

      PARAMEDIC JAKE WALLACE had faced death dozens of times since he’d started working with Chicago FD’s 4th Battalion five years ago. He’d responded to fires and shootings, to brawls and domestic abuse calls. To riots and hostage standoffs. He’d treated heart attacks, drowning victims and people two steps past death who’d miraculously taken three steps back into existence.

      He’d once talked a whacked-out druggie into letting him take his injured girlfriend—whom said druggie had stabbed—out of their house for emergency treatment. And he’d then gotten chewed out by his lieutenant for not following protocol by waiting for the Chicago P.D. to handle it. Right—as if he was going to let her die.

      None of those situations had intimidated him.

      But this? This scared the hell out of him.

      “Why did I ever agree to get involved with this?” he muttered.

      One reason. Because he owed his lieutenant big and his lieutenant owed the chief big and the chief’s wife loved this particular pet charity. End of story. Which was why two of his buddies from the battalion had already taken their turns under the spotlight.

      “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” a stranger’s voice replied.

      Jake tugged helplessly at the bow tie that was choking him and glanced at Bachelor Number Eighteen, the one right before him. The other man looked just about as happy to be here as Jake, which was saying a lot. Because Jake would just as soon give CPR to a toothless octogenarian with halitosis than stand up on stage and be bid on by a bunch of rich, horny women with way too much time on their hands and too little self-respect. Or self-control.

      “I should feel better about it,” he said, trying to convince himself more than the other final few “bachelors” waiting for their turn on the block. “It is for a good cause, right? So I suffer a few minutes’ embarrassment and a bad date. It’s worth it.”

      Number Twenty offered a jaded smile as he leaned indolently against a column in the backstage area that had been set up for this evening’s event. The guy looked almost bored, and Jake envied him his calm. “What, you don’t enjoy having women ‘paying’ for your services?” The voice held amusement, and a hint of a foreign accent, possibly Irish.

      Maybe European dudes were more at ease playing meat-onparade. But this all-American rescue worker most definitely was not. “You do?”

      Number twenty smiled as he checked his sleeves, the gold sheen of expensive cuff links flashing beneath the obviously pricey, tailored tux. Jake would lay money it was not rented.

      “It can be…entertaining.” This guy’s suit and demeanor said he had money enough to donate to worthy causes on his own. But the longish hair scooped back into a black ponytail said he also liked to live dangerously.

      So did Jake. But he got quite enough thrills out of putting his ass on the line at emergency scenes, thank you very much. He didn’t particularly want to put it out there to be appraised, pinched, ogled or catcalled over by a bunch of strange women with itches between their legs and enough dollar bills to scratch them.

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