Staying Cool Read online

  Staying Cool

  A Short Story

  by

  EC Sheedy

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright 2012 by EC Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Chapter 1

  Patrick Byrne glanced at the time on the dashboard clock.

  Bang on midnight.

  If the information given him was right, the woman, Silver, driving a snappy, red Mercedes SLK, should be making her exit any second now.

  Leaning forward, he squinted, trying to see through the slashing rain and up the dark path leading to the gate and the mansion beyond it. The bank of trees fronting the property didn't make it easy. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they formed a dense shield against everyday oglers—and PIs, like him, following beautiful hookers.

  This being his first night on her tail, he hadn't yet set eyes on the woman, but he was pretty sure the guy paying for this job, the reclusive and insanely wealthy Harold Coleman wouldn't go to this much trouble and expense for fugly. Either that or the guy had more than the pay-as-you-go hots for her. It'd been known to happen.

  Before he could come up with any other scenario, a red car hustled its expensive butt out of the driveway, powered through a puddle, and sloshed water over the hood of his black Ford.

  Gotcha!

  Silver, the woman with one name and a few too many secrets to suit her current sugar daddy, was in his sights. So too was his next couple of months' rent. Which was all he needed. Then it was a fast goodbye to this PI crap. He couldn't wait.

  He gave the woman some lead time, put the Ford into gear, and pulled in behind her, staying several car lengths back. With luck, her shift was over; she'd go home—wherever that was—and he'd have some uninterrupted think time. He smiled. Damn! This job deserved an "A" for easy. The only trouble ahead that he could see was all Silver's.

  The woman might be a professional, but even so, Coleman obviously didn't hold with his women playing around. So, considering the depth of the man's pockets, if Miss One Name was selling her, no doubt bodacious, ass on the side, she was about to lose a helluva meal ticket. Then again, judging from the ritzy address she'd just left, maybe she'd already covered her losses.

  * * *

  Angry, disappointed, and all-round frustrated, Gina Argento flexed her grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel while a fusillade of rain pummeled the car's hood and fought the high-speed wipers for windshield territory. Pulling to a stop at an intersection about ten minutes from the mansion, she hesitated. She looked left, in the direction of the rented penthouse—where she should go—then right, toward home.

  She turned right.

  Her meeting with her boss, Tanner Cross, had not gone well. "You're too close to this," he'd said, for the thousandth time.

  Tanner's hard jaw and flinty eyes might have been telling her she was on the edge of failure, but she wasn't about to admit it—to him or to herself.

  But, like it or not, she couldn't do anything more tonight.

  All she wanted at that moment was to get home, wash her face clean of makeup, put on snuggly PJs, then hit the bed and cover up her head—with not a man in sight until her dinner date with Coleman tomorrow night.

  She pulled into her driveway, turned off the car, took some deep breaths, and rested her head on the steering wheel.

  Ignoring the bile rising in her throat, she acknowledged the inevitable: she'd have to sleep with Coleman. So far, she'd held him off, but the hard-to-get routine only worked on a man like him for so long. That she'd lasted until now was a miracle, but batting false eyelashes, and blah-blahing about how she was worth the wait, was getting old fast. If she was going to learn anything, she had to get him alone—intimately alone—a place where his personal, three-hundred-pound Igor, with his unblinking salamander eyes, wasn't standing guard like a concrete plinth.

  That place was the bedroom.

  When her stomach lurched, she sighed noisily in lieu of cursing. "Sex, it's only sex, for God's sake," she said to the rain soaked windshield. "And it's with Coleman. It's not like it's going to contribute to global warming."

  Of course, if the sex angle failed, she might have to kill the bastard. But so be it. There was a first time for everything.

  You're damn cavalier about killing someone, Gina Argento; maybe you've been in the game too long. Getting cold. Getting callous.

  She lifted her head off the steering wheel. "I said might," she argued with her coward self. "Might."

  If he finds out who I am, what I want...

  Her heart thudded and hurtled in her chest, like a boulder thundering down a hill.

  Coleman had already tried to kill Marco, and he'd do her in a nanosecond if he perceived her as a threat. And if it came down to him or her, she had to be prepared for it. Her next thought was how pissed off Tanner would be. Coleman ending up dead would draw heat and attention, both of which he took great pains to avoid.

  Tanner wanted Coleman for his own reasons, and worthy reasons, they were, but all Gina wanted was Marco safe from a dangerous and determined predator.

  If that took sleeping with the devil—or killing him—that's what she'd do.

  * * *

  From a safe distance, Patrick watched Silver get out of her car.

  That she was tall, slender, and blond was all he could make out. Head down and shoulders hunched against the rain, she hurried into the house. Tiny and ranch-style, it wasn't the kind of place where he'd expect a classy hooker to live. Nor did the neighborhood fit the image. Middle class all the way, one tidy home after another, on a tree-lined street. Not luxurious, but a big step up from his place: a one-bedroom apartment over an Asian corner store.

  A series of lights came on in the house, then a couple of them went out. It looked as if she'd settled in. Patrick moved the Ford to a spot where he could keep an eye on the house and hear the Mercedes if she started it up again. Almost one a.m. After marking the time in a small notebook, he rolled his shoulders. He had a long stakeout ahead of him, which had him wishing like hell that he'd picked up a coffee on the way. His caffeine level was dangerously low.

  His cell phone rang.

  "Byrne," he answered.

  "Where is she?" It was Coleman. Jesus, the guy must be obsessed. This was his second call in the last three hours.

  "Home. And for the night, it looks like."

  "Address."

  Patrick reeled off the street and house number.

  Coleman paused. "And before that?"

  "Exactly where you said she'd be."

  The silence on C
oleman's side of the phone stretched out, then, "Good enough. You're done."

  What the hell? "The contract is for a week's surveillance."

  "You'll be reimbursed as agreed. Just move on. Now."

  A week's pay for a day's work? It sounded good, but it also made ye olde cop nose twitch. "Okay by me."

  "I thought it would be." The phone went dead.

  Patrick clicked OFF, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and put his hand on the key still in the ignition. Didn't turn it. His other hand on the wheel, he tapped the leather with his thumb. The engine didn't turn over, but his mind did.

  He started the car, drove around the block, parked, and got out. In under three minutes, he was back outside Silver's house, standing behind a tree, getting his ass soaked. All the lights in her house were now out. He pulled his collar up against the rain and rubbed his hands together for warmth.

  If he was right, he wouldn't have to wait long.

  Turned out he was right.

  Chapter 2

  Gina curled into herself under a down quilt, convinced she wouldn't sleep no matter how exhausted she was. But sleep was necessary, as was being sharp tomorrow. Seducing the enemy was no small task. She closed her eyes against the repellant image and focused on the sound of wind and rain against the window, determined to force herself to sl—

  A big, hard hand clapped over her mouth. Her eyes flew open to stare into a shadowed face.

  "Don't want to do. Sorry. I be fast. Won't take long." The voice was foreign, soft. The breath was last night's garlic.

  She strained against his grip, screamed. The scream was a no-go, her terror muffled to a sore, clotted gargle low in her throat.

  She couldn't breathe.

  She couldn't think.

  His palm firm against her mouth, he yanked the pillow from under her head. His fingers dug into her cheeks a split second before the pillow replaced his hand.

  Her screams muffled, she could only kick and thrash.

  The kicks found empty space. Her thrashing brought more pressure on the pillow. Fog bloomed in her head, thick and dark.

  I'm going to die.

  Pulling and clawing at the arm holding the pillow, the back part of her brain registered heavy material. Damp. Hard muscle. Immovable.

  Going under. Going deeper. Going weaker.

  * * *

  Patrick tackled the slab of a man leaning over Silver's bed, who, fortunately, was so engrossed in the act of suffocating the woman, he didn't see it coming. Fortunately, because without the element of surprise, his attack would be the equivalent of a robin attacking a rhino. The guy was bull big and intent on murder. Even with Patrick's six feet of height and one hundred and eighty pounds in full assault mode, all he did was distract the thug enough that he took his hands off the pillow.

  The instant he did, Silver rolled over, off the bed, out of sight. Good move.

  Too bad Patrick didn't have one to match it.

  El Toro straightened up, away from the bed, kind of slo-mo-like. Patrick braced for the worst. The room was too dark to see the guy's face, but he sure as hell got a picture of his girth and height—sweet Jesus, he had to be at least six-six. And just about as wide. Not a man, a fuckin' wall.

  Prepare yourself for a trip to the ER, Byrne.

  He figured a good headbutt to the gut was his best option. Through the blackness of the room, he tried to pinpoint where exactly the gut would be on a guy his size. But before he could put his piss-poor plan into action, Silver stood up, threw a well-aimed something that hit the hulk's head, and shouted, "Get out of here, you dumb son of a bitch."

  The guy didn't flinch; what he did was look from Patrick to Silver, as if considering his options. He hesitated briefly, then headed for the bedroom's still open French doors. He disappeared so quickly, so quietly, into the wet, dark night that Patrick's headbutt plan was aborted. Which didn't trouble him in the least—nor did seeing an attempted murderer get away. Because unless he missed his guess, Miss Silver knew exactly where to find him—and the man who'd sent him to do the job. Patrick had no doubt the incredible hulk was a hired hand, and that he'd go down with his boss—if Silver cooperated.

  "Are you okay?" he asked through the dense gloom.

  Her answer was silence and some very heavy breathing.

  * * *

  Gina couldn't get her mouth to work. She was too busy trying to steady her breathing and deep-freeze her terror. She stared toward the door where Igor—she never did get his real name—had exited her bedroom. She couldn't believe she hadn't heard him come in. And how had he found her house? Coleman thought she lived in the penthouse, part of the setup provided by Tanner and Raven Force.

  Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Coleman wanted her dead, and that added a whole new dimension to the fun house of horrors she currently inhabited. She needed to think. Figure things out. But not in the dark with a strange guy taking up space on the other side of her bedroom.

  "I'm okay," she finally answered. She groped for the lamp and switched it on, adding, "You saved my—" Her eyes went saucer wide. "You!"

  Patrick blinked. "This can't be happening."

  They stared at each other, equally dumbstruck. Of all the trouble she didn't need right now, Patrick Byrne topped the list. The timing was even worse than the last time they'd been together.

  Patrick was the first to shake off the shock. "You knew that guy," was all he said.

  It wasn't a question, so it didn't need an answer. "What are you doing here?"

  "Last I checked, I was saving your excuse for a life."

  "I was doing okay on my own." She lifted her chin and drew in another long breath of air to ease down her latest lie. Patrick. Here. Now. Unbelievable. Awful . . . exciting.

  What was once blood running through her veins was now a rush of heat and sparkle. And it scared her more than Igor had.

  "Yeah, I could see you were handling gorilla boy just fine." He bent over, picked up the book that had ended up at his feet, and scanned its cover. "Midnight Confessions? This your deadly weapon?" He held it out to her. "War And Peace would've been a better choice."

  When she didn't take the book, he dropped it on the bed between them.

  "Answer my question. Why are you here?"

  His mouth twitched, like he had a load of words in it and didn't like any of them. "I was tailing you."

  "I don't understand." But something clawing in her tummy tried to give her a clue.

  He said nothing, just scratched his jaw, looking down, then up again to meet her eyes.

  Oh God, she'd forgotten how blue his eyes were, how intense and direct. Cop eyes, that saw everything and showed nothing. Whatever was working away in her stomach felt as if it was drawing blood, while all Patrick did was stand there and look... embarrassed?

  "Give it up, Patrick. Why were you following me?"

  "Coleman hired me."

  "You know Coleman?" She felt her jaw drop.

  "Never met the man—vetted by his 2IC."

  She'd already guessed Coleman was behind Igor's attack, but the development was such a one-eighty from his wanting to get her into bed, she hadn't fully processed it yet. She would, but not now. Now, she wanted to focus on Patrick. Not hard. Never had been. "You're a cop. You don't get hired by people like Coleman."

  "I'm not a cop. Not anymore." He stopped. "All of which is beside the point."

  "And the point is?"

  "That less than ten minutes ago, someone tried to kill you."

  Light slowly illuminating a patch of her addled brain, she said, "And you brought him here." It was the only way they could have found her home.

  "That I did, but not knowingly." He gave her a sweep from bare feet to bedhead. "I was tailing Coleman's current, uh, love interest—a high-class hooker named Silver."

  Oops! She could only stare at him, her tongue in a knot and a firebed of lies between them.

  "I need a drink," she said.

  He stared back.
"I need a coffee."

  Chapter 3

  "Okay, spill." Patrick leaned a hip against the kitchen counter, raised the coffee to his lips, and gazed at Gina through its steamy heat. God, she was more beautiful than he remembered—she took his breath away and made his heart take a hammer to his ribs.

  He wasn't nuts about the blond hair. Didn't work for him, and it wasn't as long as he remembered. She was a natural brunette—as he knew from up-close-and-personal experience—and long, dark hair suited her olive skin better than bottle gold. Then again, if she dyed it purple, she'd still be a knockout.

  He remembered that silky dark hair sliding over his chest, his thighs...

  Stay cool, Byrne. Don't go there.

  He took his own advice and shut his thoughts down. She'd walked out on him. Fuckin' disappeared. What the hell kind of woman did that? And she still hadn't answered him. "Who was bull boy and why was he trying to kill you?" Seemed a fair enough question to him.

  She took a belt of Scotch and did not look him in the eye when she said, "He's a muscles-for-hire guy, my, uh, boyfriend uses for security. And other stuff."

  Patrick thought about what she'd said while trying to disgorge the word "boyfriend" from his Type-A imagination. "You're telling me that was Coleman's security goon who tried to stuff a pillow down your throat?"

  She played with the drink of Scotch in her hand, seemingly riveted by the last of its slosh at the bottom of the glass. "I told you, I would have been fine. He was probably just trying to, uh, get my attention."

  "He could've done that with a Post-it note on your fridge."

  "Funny." She eyed him now. "I remember how sarcastic you were."

  "Good to be remembered for something. Although I'd have preferred it being for another of my talents."

  She finished her drink, set the empty glass on the kitchen counter. "Like how you were great in bed, maybe?"

  Ah, the Gina he remembered—straight to the burning core of things. "Now that's the way to a man's heart."