Undercover with the Mob. Elizabeth Bevarly
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um, I actually prefer the Flemish painters myself,” she said lamely.
Jack swept a hand carelessly in front of himself. “Yeah, well, they were all profoundly influenced by the Italians, you know.”
She did know. But not nearly as well as he did. “So,” she began again, “you come here often?”
That something over her shoulder seemed to catch his eye again, because he suddenly glanced to the left and frowned. As Natalie began to turn around to see what was going on, Jack quickly shifted his body into that direction, taking a few steps forward, as if he wanted to block whatever she was attempting to see. Then he said, “This is my first visit to the museum. What else do you recommend I see?”
So Natalie stopped turning. But it wasn’t his question that halted her. It was the way he extended his hand and curled his fingers around her upper arm and pulled her toward the right, as if he were trying to physically regain her attention, too. And boy, did he. Regain her attention, she meant. Physically, she meant. Because the minute his fingers curled around her arm, another shiver of electricity shimmied through her, right to her fingertips, and another wash of heat splashed through her belly with all the force of white-water rapids.
Jack seemed to feel it, too, because he stopped looking over her shoulder and fixed his gaze on her face, and his eyes went wide in astonishment. Or maybe alarm. Or panic. Natalie couldn’t be sure, because she was too busy feeling all those things herself. And more. Desire. Need. Wanting. Hunger. Yes, she thought she could safely say now what it was like to hunger for something. Someone. Because that was how Jack Miller made her feel when he touched her the way he did.
“I, ah…” she began eloquently.
“Um, I…” he chorused at the same time.
“Gotta go,” they both said as one.
And, just like that, they turned around and sped off in opposite directions.
And as she fled, all Natalie could think was that, for a mobster, he had a very gentle touch. Not to mention exceptionally good taste in art.
JACK WAS KEEPING a close eye on his objective when he ran into Natalie in the art museum a second time. Or, rather, almost ran into her a second time. Fortunately, he saw her before she saw him, so he was able to duck behind a sculpture before any damage had been done.
Damn. So much for staying out of her way.
This was just great, he thought as he pressed his body against the cool stone statue. Now there were two people he had to keep an eye on in this crowd. What was bad was that he would have much rather kept his eye on Natalie than on his objective. What was worse was that his eye wasn’t the only body part he was thinking about when it came to keeping something on Natalie.
But he was obligated, even honor bound, to make the man in the trench coat who was studying the Matisse his priority. Because he was the person Jack had been assigned to take care of—so to speak. Not that there was any real care in what Jack was supposed to do to the man in the trench coat who was studying the Matisse. But he did have a job to do—and there was sort of an art to that job, he reflected—and until he could complete that job, he had to stay focused on it. Even if it was a job he didn’t particularly relish completing. Especially now that Natalie Dorset was lurking around.
Lurking, he echoed to himself. Yeah, right. If there was anyone lurking these days, it was Jack. When had he been reduced to such a thing? he asked himself irritably. And why, suddenly, did his job seem kind of sordid and tawdry? He’d always taken pride in his work before. Before Natalie Dorset had come along looking all squeaky-clean and dewy and wholesome. Ever since meeting her, Jack had felt sinister in the extreme. Which made no sense, because what he did for a living was a highly regarded tradition in his family. His father, his father’s father, his father’s father’s father back in the old country, all of them had been in the same line of work. Jack respected his heritage, and had always taken pride in his birthright. Since meeting Natalie, though, his heritage seemed almost tarnished somehow.
Which really made no sense at all, because he barely knew the woman. Yeah, sure, he’d run into her a few times this week, so he knew her a little. Like, he knew she left for work everyday at 7:30 a.m. on the dot, which meant she was punctual. And he knew she often ate breakfast and dinner with their landlady, Mrs. Klosterman, which made him think she was one of those women who felt obligated to take care of other people. And he knew she drove an old Volkswagen, to which she seemed totally suited, because it was kind of funky, and so was she. Not just because of the singing pajamas she’d been wearing that first morning he met her, but because of the way she dressed at other times, too. Like, for instance, oh, he didn’t know…today. She was sort of a combination of Ralph Lauren and Fishin’ with Orlando. And somehow, on Natalie, it worked.
And Jack knew she taught high school, because he’d seen her downstairs grading papers one evening and asked her about it. A high school teacher, he reflected again. She didn’t seem the type. Hell, where he’d gone to high school in Brooklyn, a teacher who looked like her wouldn’t have lasted through lunch. Jeez, she would have been lunch for some of the guys he’d run around with. But she’d claimed to actually enjoy teaching English to teenagers. She’d assigned James Fenimore Cooper on purpose.
And Jack knew she liked old movies, because he’d come in a couple of nights to find her and Mrs. Klosterman watching movies on TV, black-and-white jobs from the forties. Cary Grant, he’d heard them talking about as he’d climbed the stairs to his apartment. The suave, debonair, tuxedoed type. The leading man type. The type Jack most certainly was not. He preferred to think of himself as more of an antihero. Okay, so maybe he was more anti- than he was hero sometimes. That was beside the point. The point was…
What was the point again?
Oh, yeah. The point was he had no business hiding behind a sculpture sneaking peeks at a woman when he had a job to do. Especially a woman like Natalie Dorset, with whom he had absolutely nothing in common. Maybe if she’d been a combination of Frederick’s of Hollywood and Fishin’ with Orlando, then maybe his attraction to her would have made sense. Or if she’d taught exotic dancing classes instead of high school, and assigned bumps and grinds instead of Natty Bumppo. Or if she’d left for work around ten o’clock every night to serve drinks in some smoky bar. Or if she’d had breakfast and dinner with her bookie. Or if she’d driven a sporty little red number on the verge of being repo’d. Then, maybe his attraction to her wouldn’t have been such a shock. Because women like Natalie Dorset normally didn’t even make it onto Jack’s radar.
She sure was cute, though.
Still, even if Jack did have something in common with her, he still had no business sneaking peeks at her. Or talking to her. Or being preoccupied by her. Or wondering what she looked like naked. But he’d only done that last thing once…okay, maybe twice…okay, five, or at most fifty times, and only because he’d had too much Chianti. Except for all those times when he’d done it while he was sober. But that was only because he’d accidentally come across Body Heat on cable that night. But then there was that time when he’d done it while watching the Weather Channel, too…
Ah, hell.
The point was he was only here to do a job, and that job did not include Natalie Dorset, clothed or unclothed, in or out of his bed. Or on the sofa. Or in the shower. Or atop the kitchen table. The kitchen counter. The kitchen pantry. The kitchen floor…
Um, what was the question again?
Oh, yeah. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. He could not allow himself to be sidetracked while doing this job. He would just have to avoid Natalie Dorset from here on out, and keep his focus on his target. Who…oh, dammit…seemed to have disappeared.
Jack scanned the crowded museum, starting with the last place he’d seen the man in the trench coat, invariably finding Natalie instead, then forcing his gaze away again, over everyone else in the room. There. He found him. Two paintings down from the one he’d just finished looking at. Jack groaned inwardly. Just how much longer could the guy look at paintings? Jack was ready to go for pizza. And a beer.