It Should Happen To You. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      “Sure. Testa.”

      “Is that a last name or a first name?” she drawled.

      Playing with her was starting to get fun. “Last.”

      He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, like a secretary or something. She sure as hell knew how to type. He was a hunt-and-pecker when typing was required.

      “Here it is.” With a single flourish of her finger, papers started flying out the hole in the bottom, and she handed him the list. “Crystal by Waterford, Dolmen, and china by Royal Albert. Hartington. Good stuff.”

      “Okay,” he said, like he knew what she was talking about.

      “Do you see a salesgirl?”

      Dom looked around the empty store. “No.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound echoed in the quiet corridors, and one or two shoppers poked their heads out to stare.

      Michelle glared at him, and for the first time he realized her eyes were blue. A sky blue that was barely noticeable behind her thick lenses. Right now they were noticeable because she was staring daggers at him. Obviously whistling was not the right way to flag a clerk.

      “Don’t you ever shop?”

      Dom shrugged. “Not if I can help it.”

      She turned on her heel and gave him her back. Whoever she belonged to, he must be loaded. She knew the right brand names and she walked around without looking at the directory. This was a place she was used to, so he supposed he should trust her taste. “What do you think I should get?”

      “How much did you want to spend?” she asked, neatly rattling him even more.

      Oh, that was a tough one. His budget was tight, and he’d rather spend his money on graft and corruption than dinnerware, but he needed to make an impression. And he needed to look like he had money—but not too much money. “A couple of hundred.” That seemed safe.

      “Go for the Hartington.”

      An older saleswoman appeared, clad entirely in red. “May I help you?”

      Michelle didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll take the gravy boat.”

      “Would you like that wrapped or delivered?”

      “Wrapped,” interjected Dom. He didn’t dare show up without a gift, even if it meant being late. Bad move.

      Michelle shook her head, the blond curls moving as one. “It’s going to take a while.”

      If he was lucky, they’d miss the entire wedding ceremony. “We can wait.”

      “It’ll take half an hour, young man. Our gift-wrapping service is quite comprehensive.”

      Dom checked the time. Thirty minutes was perfect. “’S all right. We’ll wait.” He turned to Michelle. “We’ll get a cup of coffee.”

      After paying for the gift and making arrangements for the “proper” bows and crap, they headed down to the Walnut Café. The dining room was more a place for women who had too much time on their hands. Dom sipped his coffee and watched Mickey, wondering if this was her element. “So what do you do in your spare time?” he asked, his curiosity rearing its head once more.

      “Read. TV. Movies.”

      Almost normal. Except for that reading thing. Dom couldn’t remember the last time he had picked up a book. Course, most wise guys wouldn’t be caught dead with a tome in their hands. “I like movies.”

      She smiled at him politely, as if to say, “That’s nice, but not in your wildest dreams.”

      Damn she knew how to step right on a guy’s more honorable intentions. Or maybe they weren’t so honorable, but he figured if she was a plant, then she knew what was what. He would be expected to make a play for her. It was all about the game.

      He just couldn’t forget that it was nothing more than a game. She was fascinating, intriguing and just a little clunky, and the combination whetted his appetite like no woman he’d met in a long while.

      The idea of spending long hours in her company, merely unwrapping her package—both in the figurative and literal sense—awakened something inside him, something that he’d kept dormant for a long time. Of course, that’s probably exactly what they’d figured he’d do, pegging him for the horny bastard that he was. Undercover work was hard on a man’s sex life. People really had no idea.

      “Do you think you can try for the tape tomorrow?”

      Ah, yes, the mysterious tape. It was always about the tape. To be honest, he wasn’t sure it existed. “I’ll go look on Monday when the scammer’s at work.”

      “Maybe you could try tonight?”

      “I thought your friend would be home tonight,” he said, wondering if he was supposed to get caught breaking and entering. It was a stupid setup, but guys had been brought down by lesser slipups.

      She crossed her legs in front of her, the skirt riding up exquisitely high. Once again her packaging was calling to him, parts of him responding right on cue. Damn.

      “Probably,” she said, all casual like. “Monday then. Here’s a cell-phone number. One of those disposable jobbers that can’t be traced, so don’t even think that it’s legit.”

      He cracked a smile. “Whoa. Looks like you’ve covered all the bases.”

      “Of course I did.”

      “Why’s the tape so important?”

      “It should never have been made.”

      That was new. “It was one of those foot or farm animal things? You’re trying to be an actress, aren’t you?” He hoped that wasn’t true, because she’d never make it.

      “An actress? What do you think I am? Some vacuous bimbo who can’t do anything more? You men are all alike.”

      Dom hid his smile. The brain thing seemed to be a sticking point with her. “I’ve got a bad case of primordial regression.”

      “Good. As long as you understand.”

      “Sure.” He stood, thought about helping her up, but she looked so militant, so determined to be on her own, he just watched instead. “Ready to head out?”

      She uncurled her legs from the small table, and he felt a twinge of something that was probably sympathy. Whatever got her here, she wasn’t happy about it. For just a second, her walk was brisk, no-nonsense, and then she glanced back.

      He smiled at her open look of assessment.

      The walk shifted, the hips swayed and he found himself watching once more. It wasn’t pretty, but damned if he wasn’t getting more than a little randy just by watching that eye-glazing swing. There was an odd rhythm. Just when you thought you had the beat, she gave it an extra ka-ching.

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