It Should Happen To You. Kathleen O'Reilly

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ gave Frankie a sideways look. “I bet you have all the women panting after you.”

      Frankie gave him a palms-up. “All my problems can be attributed to slow horses and fast women. I’m a veritable babe in the woods compared to you lothario types.”

      Dom kept silent. It helped his image when he didn’t talk about women; he just smiled mysteriously every now and then. Made everybody wonder. He smiled now, the smile of a man remembering his last good lay.

      “I haven’t seen Johnny C. around lately,” he said, casually changing the subject. “Where’s he gone? Sold us out for those guys back east?”

      “Don’t know. Vinny’s been keeping quiet lately.” Frankie looked around, watching the other people in the store. “Let’s go to Dilly’s place.”

      Dilly’s place was a good sign. Dom hadn’t yet been invited to the more sacrosanct confines, and if he was getting an invitation now, that meant Frankie was starting to trust him.

      That might be the perfect time to pitch his ATM scam. Nothing obvious or too eager. Cast the floater out and then just skim the line back and forth over the surface.

      Dom uncurled his legs and stood. That was the bitch of these little places. A tall man needed a place to stretch out.

      He caught the eye of the street cop that walked in the door. Badge 271. They’d been in the Academy together. Dom shrugged into his jacket, keeping his face turned away. The cops didn’t worry him as much as the attorneys. Cops knew to keep their mouths shut. But an attorney? Slimeballs who were paid to yap. Still, as he walked past 271, he kept his face firmly in the shadows. Big Frankie didn’t notice at all.

      MICKEY CAUGHT HER reflection in the rearview mirror, just as she hit the highway to Batavia. She had forgotten to rub off her eyeliner. Not that anyone would notice. Nobody really noticed her looks except when she was dolled up, either as a bridesmaid, or a bimbo.

      Neither of which was her.

      No, guys like Dominic Corlucci would never notice Mickey in the world that she lived in.

      He was the polar opposite of Slimeball Intern Monihan and a hell of a kisser. Her lips were still tingling from the effects, and if she closed her eyes she could still recall the centrifugal force that was buzzing between her legs.

      Times like this, a woman could be glad that the man was a gangster. It made him oh so easy to resist.

      Definitely trouble. In fact, by the time she’d made it to the triple-axe sculpture that bridged high over the entrance to the lab, she had made up her mind. No point in endangering her loins or her life. She could just forget about Dominic Corlucci altogether.

      I’m not going to be disappointed about it, either, she thought sternly to herself and to all body parts that reverberated whenever his magnetic field snapped its fingers.

      She slid her badge into the front-door locks and went inside the long narrow corridors. Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. This was her home. Sometimes it still overwhelmed her. Quarks, tau neutrino, hell, even the Internet was conceived of here, contrary to what the politicians thought. These were the discoveries that rocked the world.

      These discoveries were the very building blocks of the universe. People never appreciated the simplicity of the atom and all its components. Such a small, simple body, so powerful yet so overlooked.

      And Mickey knew just how that felt.

      Her sneakers squeaked as she walked down the halls where Lederman had walked. The seventh floor of the high-rise was where she did her work, and she found her way to the small, functional desk in the back of the pen.

      She worked on the Sloan Digital Sky Survey, which she considered her own personal heaven. Mapping out the cosmos with pictures and light. That was all Mickey had ever wanted to do—work with the stars.

      Every morning the schedule was the same, even if she came in late, which she was today. The great thing about research was that most scientists kept odd hours. Inspiration couldn’t be scheduled, nor could experiments that took three years to complete.

      She turned on her computer and checked e-mail first. Empty. Next, just because she was a creature of habit, she checked to see who was online.

      Chao: Unavailable.

      Dr. Lindstrom: Available.

      J.: Unavailable.

      Yeah, Jessica was off having a honeymoon in China. Dejected, Mickey rolled back in her chair. Mountain climbing, which was about the silliest thing that Mickey had ever heard. Her ideal honeymoon would involve a trip to Geneva to see CERN and possibly some sightseeing. Then a long week in the hotel, with room service and HBO.

      In lieu of actually having someone to talk to, Mickey started typing to herself.

      “M, what’s up?”

      She clicked Send and delighted herself when new mail appeared. Getting into the game, she hit Reply and started typing.

      “M, glad you asked. What to do, what to do? I’m not a girlie-girl. I don’t want to be a girlie-girl. But I keep doing these stupid men things. Just like a girlie-girl. Does that make me an idiot?”

      Then she clicked Send.

      Magically, a few moments later, she had new mail. She started hammering away at the keyboard.

      “M, no, you’re not a girlie-girl, because all members of the Coleman family—except your mother, and we’re not going to talk about that—are scientists. We use our brains to succeed where others have failed.”

      Send.

      “If I’m not a failure, then why am I being blackmailed with a sex tape? Why am I considering an affiliation with the mob? Why am I attracted to Dominic?”

      Send.

      “M, I lied. You’re a loser AND a girlie-girl. Get over it.”

      Mickey stared at her screen and wished that the J-woman was back. Jessica wasn’t this harsh.

      Maybe she should build Beth a computer and teach her how to use it. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow.

      She took a quick look up to the front of the bull pen.

      Damn, John was in. His Michael Crichton Sphere screen saver flickered eerily in the fluorescent lighting. Of course he couldn’t be sick today. Illness would be nice. Something vile and long lasting with symptoms that included pain-racked stomach spasms, huge bouts of nausea and perhaps a high fever, where he might be so incapacitated that he would simply hand over the tape.

      She’d seen that on TV once.

      When he walked into the room ten minutes later, he looked disgustingly healthy. Now, when she looked at him, her poor vision free of lust and alcohol, she could see the weak chin, the beady eyes that darted like a rat’s. Man, she had been so blind before. It was probably his golden hair that had blinded her to the rest of his faults. Yeah, definitely. The laughing blue eyes—that darted like a rat’s, of course—hadn’t helped.

      Then СКАЧАТЬ