Undercover with the Mob. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      “WELL, HELLO AGAIN.” The words came out sounding far more casual than Natalie felt. After all, the last person she had expected to run into at the Speed Art Museum was her new downstairs neighbor, Jack “The Alleged” Miller. But there he was, in all his…darkness…standing right behind her when she turned away from the Raphael to enjoy the Titian.

      But she enjoyed seeing Jack even more. And not just because of the way his black jeans so lovingly outlined his sturdy thighs and taut tushe, either. Or because of the way his black leather motorcycle jacket hung open over a black T-shirt stretched tight across his expansive chest. Or because his overly long black hair was once again pushed back from his face in a way that made Natalie itch to run her fingers through it. Or because of the odd frisson of heat that exploded in her belly and shot out to every extremity, electrifying her, dizzying her, making her feel breathless and reckless, as if she were on the verge of an extremely satisfying—

      Ah…never mind. She just enjoyed seeing him because…because…Well, just because, that was all. And it was an excellent reason, too, by golly.

      Despite both her and Mrs. Klosterman’s misgivings about the man’s name, in the week that had passed since her new neighbor had moved in, Natalie had come to think of him as Jack. She had been able to do this because over the course of the week, she’d run into him a few times and whenever she’d greeted him as “Mr. Miller,” he’d always insisted she call him “Jack, please. Mr. Miller is my pop’s name.”

      At first, it hadn’t felt right to call him that, and not just because, in spite of telling herself she was silly for doubting him, she really did find herself doubting it was his real name. But, too, he just didn’t seem like the sort of man with whom one would share such intimacies like first names. If anything, he seemed the sort of man who would prefer to go by his last name, if any name at all. But “Miller” didn’t suit him, either. Had his last name been something like Devlin or Steed or Deacon—or even Mancuso—that would have worked. Miller just seemed too…normal. Too common. Too bland. Not that Jack seemed appropriate either, but she had to call him something. Something other than “The Mobster Who Lives on the Second Floor” at any rate, which was how Mrs. Klosterman continued to refer to him.

      Natalie, however, still wasn’t convinced of Jack’s, ah, connections. For lack of a better word. Even if she had heard faint strains of Don Giovanni coming up through the floor a few times—it wasn’t like it was the theme from The Godfather. And even if the faint scent of garlic always did linger around his door—lots of people cooked with garlic, Natalie included, and it wasn’t like he reeked of pesto and Aqua Velva. And even if she had seen him toting a bottle of Chianti up the stairs one day when he was bringing in his groceries—maybe he was just planning to make one of those interesting candles out of it. None of that proved anything. Except that he liked Italian food and opera music and that he maybe had a hobby that included hot wax.

      He hardly ever used the word whacked as far as Natalie could tell. And not once had she seen him dragging suspiciously heavy black plastic garbage bags out to the Dumpster under cover of darkness. So that was a definite plus. And he’d worn a suit once or twice, too, she’d noticed. Boring, bland suits, too, and they weren’t always black. And he wore them with neckties that were tasteful. Silk, even. And the toes of his shoes weren’t quite as pointy as she’d first thought, and they might have been made someplace other than Italy, possibly even with man-made uppers. So there. Take that, Mrs. “I-know-a-mobster-when-I-see-one” Klosterman.

      And now here he was, viewing a visiting art exhibit at the Speed Museum. Totally, totally non-Mob activity, that. Even if he did seem to be preoccupied by the Italian masters.

      He appeared to be as surprised to see her as she was to see him, and suddenly, Natalie wished she’d worn something other than the flowing, flowered skirt in shades of fall, and the oversized amber sweater that came down over her fanny. She had thought the outfit feminine and comfortable when she purchased it. Now, though, it just felt frumpy. Jack Miller seemed like the kind of man who went for tight and sleek and bright, and, quite possibly, latex. Not that Natalie cared, mind you. But she did wish she had worn something different. The hiking boots, especially, seemed inappropriate somehow.

      “Well, hello to you, too, neighbor,” Jack said in a deep, rough baritone that belied the Mr. Rogers sentiment. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

      Natalie looked first left, then right, then back at Jack. “It’s an art museum,” she pointed out. “It’s a nice place.”

      He smiled at that. “So it is,” he agreed. “I stand corrected.”

      She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so she pressed onward. “So you’re an art lover, are you?”

      He nodded, and fiddled with the program he’d already twisted into a misshapen lump of paper. Vaguely, she wondered what had made him do such a thing. It was as if he were anxious about something. But what was there to feel anxious about in an art museum? This was where people came to escape the pressures of the day.

      “Yeah, I like art okay,” he said.

      But something СКАЧАТЬ