The Wild Side. Isabel Sharpe
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it. Riley’s comrade-in-arms, partner and best friend was currently at the family cottage on the coast of Maine, mourning his mother’s death from cancer.
Riley and Slate had been a successful, and eventually highly decorated, Marine Recon fighting unit that had earned the respect of their peers and commanders alike. Gemini. The twins. In the field they’d developed such a bond that they barely needed to speak when they went on missions. If Riley’s instincts proved correct, and he’d need to do some digging to see, this case might induce Slate to return to civilization after the long year spent nursing his mom. It had been too long since they’d worked together.
Riley nodded again at Watson. “I’ll do it.”
“Not a tough assignment. I’m guessing the way you look, you won’t have any trouble getting friendly with this Rose character.” Watson sniggered and tipped back his soda cup, then cursed as an avalanche of crushed ice spilled onto his face and shirt.
Riley allowed himself a faint smile. If only justice got meted out so quickly all the time.
He stayed at the restaurant just long enough to agree on terms, preferring fresh air to deep-fat-fryer fumes, and preferring nearly anyone to Charlie Watson for company. Then he pushed open the bell-jangling door and headed for Cambridge street, inhaling the warm late-June air. Tourists flocked among the pigeons on City Hall Plaza; the breeze in his face brought the faint tang of the sea from nearby Boston Harbor. Riley headed for the Government Center T stop. Might as well take a look at this Rose woman’s apartment building this afternoon. Check out the scene, formulate a plan, then do some digging. Send Slate a telegram if he uncovered anything worthwhile.
The unmistakable nerve-burning sensation of being watched made him hesitate in his stride for a fraction of a second. He waited until he came opposite the low brick wall surrounding the entrance to the T, then turned, keeping the wall at his back.
A man. Clean-cut. Nice suit. Bulge for the gun. Government agent.
Riley set his feet slightly apart, hands at his waist and expression neutral as the man approached. His instincts had proved correct earlier than he’d anticipated. Coming so soon on the heels of the bizarre summons from Watson, this could mean only one thing. Whatever this guy wanted had something to do with Rose the Maneater and her art collector boyfriend.
“Ted Barker, FBI.” The man flashed a government credential from his wallet. “And you are Riley Anderson, private investigator, ex-Marine Force Recon, half of Gemini.”
“Yes.” Riley met the man’s eyes impassively, surprised to see what looked like a trace of admiration and respect in the FBI regulation sneer. “What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to talk to you.” Ted Barker, FBI, put away his ID and gestured to the black Lincoln Towne Car across the street. “We think you can help us.”
“WOW.” MELISSA ROGERS widened her eyes and leaned forward on the living room sofa in her Cambridge apartment, over the bowl of popcorn clutched in her lap. “Oh, wow.”
On her television screen, halfway through the movie 9 1/2 Weeks, a blindfolded Kim Basinger lay on her back in an open white shirt and white bikini panties, cigarette smoke swirling behind her in the blue-white light of a desk lamp. Mickey Rourke, smirking in devilish black, fished an ice cube out of his drink and held it for a camera close-up. Cold wet drips fell into Kim’s mouth, trickled between her lips, down her breasts, hardened her nipples, rolled into her navel.
“Oh, oh, wow. Look at how he…oh, wow.”
Her friend Penny grabbed a handful of popcorn from her own bowl and turned to Melissa in irritation. “Will you stop with the ‘Oh wow’ and let me watch the movie? You’re ruining it.”
Melissa forced her mouth shut, except when it needed to admit another influx of popcorn. And except when Kim was sitting on the floor in Mickey’s kitchen, eyes closed while he fed her—strawberries, cherries, olives, champagne—then squirted honey on her outstretched tongue, and onto her chin, and knees, and legs; used his hands to spread the sticky golden fluid around her thighs, around and in, and up, and higher….
Melissa opened her mouth and formed the words silently. Oh, wow.
The movie spun on, ended; credits rolled up the screen. A strange, almost angry longing charged through Melissa’s body. She smacked her fist on her sensible dark beige, Scotchgarded couch. “Why can’t something like that happen to me?”
“What.” Penny screwed up her face incredulously. “You want to meet a controlling, sadistic psycho who almost ruins your life?”
“No, no, no.” Melissa pushed the popcorn off her lap and stretched her bare feet rigidly out in front of her, trying to calm the emotional need for physical action. “I mean I want that kind of excitement, that danger. I want to be swept away by passion, even if it’s not sensible. Maybe especially because it isn’t sensible.”
“You and the entire population since man walked upright. Get real, Melissa. It don’t happen. By the time you get to sex, you and Mr. Whoever know too much about each other. There’s always baggage, always a power play, or at the very least you start worrying that your thighs feel too squishy, your arm is in the way or you’re taking too long to come and he’ll get impatient.” She pushed her oblong wire rims higher up on her nose. “Swept away by passion is for the movies. Trust me.”
“What about sex with a guy you don’t know? Someone you don’t have baggage with yet?” Melissa blurted the words out, shocked she’d admit considering such a thing, even to her best friend. Some hungry demon had recently invaded her personality and begun gobbling up her common sense.
“Huh? You want to risk messing sheets with a guy who turns out to be Mr. Diseased Serial-Killer?”
“Okay, look. I want a deep, meaningful relationship as much as anyone else. I want to get married someday, and I know the kind of guy that can make me happy. But marriage is like life was for the five years I dated Bill. Comfortable intimacy, predictable dates, same old fights about the same old issues.” Melissa gestured in the air and let her hand flop disgustedly into her lap. “I understand that. I don’t expect it to be a rest-of-my-life thrill. But I’m not married now. I want something different, a totally shallow and exciting and fabulous adventure with someone I know is completely wrong for me.”
Penny snapped her wide-open mouth shut. “Since when have you been Ms. Hot-to-Trot?”
Melissa sat up and curled her legs under her. “I don’t know. I’m tired of being sensible and dependable and predictable. I want to try being someone else for a change.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “Who, Mata Hari?”
“Why not?” Melissa stretched her arms over her head and grinned. “After all those years with Bill, and then the months of misery after he dumped me, I feel alive. Like I’ve been asleep all my life and I’m just waking up.”
Penny peered over the tops of her glasses, brows raised. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life?”
Melissa grabbed a handful of popcorn and lobbed it at her friend. “Many thanks for taking my late-twenties crisis so seriously.”
“Aw, hon, you know I care. I just think sex is not any kind of a cure for what ails you.”
“Then what is?”
“Love.” Penny nodded emphatically. “You need to fall in love.”
“Oh, please. I was in love with Bill. Look where that got me.”
“Ha! Bill was a habit, not love. Give yourself some time. Look around. Ask your friends. Not me, though. If I knew an adorable, single, straight guy I wouldn’t let you near him.” Penny heaved her well-padded self up to her full five-foot-two-inch height, shook off the popcorn in a gentle rain onto Melissa’s hardwood floor and scooped it back into her empty bowl. “Me, I must go. I have to be at the museum shop early tomorrow. We’re expecting a huge shipment of mini Thinker statues for the Rodin exhibit.”