Anything You Can Do (19 page)

Oh, no, he thought, switching the channel. That was television, not real life, and he was a respected member of the legal community.

So who do you think is going to know?
some perverse side of him argued.
Not likely you'd see anyone there you knew, and if you should, how would they recognize you?

No way.

He gulped half his beer, switched back to the detective show.

Is your pride stronger than your desire to beat Bailey Russell?

His demented side had a point. Right now she seemed to be in control of every aspect of his life, and that was certainly an undesirable state of affairs. She knew something he didn't know about the Miller case. She had hinted strongly that the fate of the merger was in her hands. And, worst of all, she seemed to be in charge of his hormones. He drained the beer can. Even thinking about her was creating a physical problem. And it didn't just involve her body, desirable though said body was. Everything she did, from their contests to her performance at the deposition, excited him. He had to get a wedge in somehow, regain the upper hand.

Look on the internet and find where he could get a fake mustache.
Add a pair of glasses—they were good enough for Superman—then a hat, maybe. A straw hat. Denim shirt open halfway to the waist. Tight jeans and a belt with a big buckle and his name on the back. Somebody else's name, that is. Cletus, maybe. No, Bubba.

He crushed the beer can and headed for the refrigerator to get another. Fun to play with the idea, but he had too much dignity to actually go through with it.

"No way am I going out in public dressed in that thing," Bailey protested as Paula held up a black leather skirt that appeared to be made for a Barbie doll.

"It'll be shorter and tighter on you than it was on me, but that's all to the good,"
Paula mused, ignoring Bailey's protestations and continuing to rummage in her closet. "Now for a blouse. Let's see, we need to show some skin."

"Oh, I don't think so." Bailey held the skirt in front of her. It was a good six inches above her knees. "This should be about maximum on the skin."

Paula tossed a fuchsia tube top and a short teal blouse with waist ties onto her bed.

"Do you actually wear these things?" Bailey questioned.

"Of course I do, and so do lots of other women. It's very trendy." She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of black nylons. "Just the right touch," she approved. "Now come on to the bathroom so I can make you up."

"This is still in the supposition stage," Bailey balked. "I don't really think I can walk in that bar, made up like a floozy, and spy on Candy Miller."

Paula folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "You said you wanted to get in that bar and find out what she's up to since there were no clues in your omnipotent files. You'll stand out like a sore thumb dressed in your own clothes."

Bailey eyed the costume dubiously.

"So make up your mind. I haven't got all night. I have to get ready for my date with the real Prince Channing. "

"I told you Gordon would come through."

Paula shrugged. "We'll see."

"He sends you a flower arrangement so big it's obscene, and invites you to dine at the Peppercorn Duck Club
. What else do you want to see?" Bailey took the stockings from Paula and added them to the pile of clothes on the bed. "Let's do my face and then determine if I can carry off this crazy scheme of yours."

Thirty minutes later
Paula turned Bailey to the mirror to see her handiwork. Bailey gasped, peered closer, laughed. A heavily made-up face batted false eyelashes beneath curly blond hair.

"Your own mother wouldn't know you,"
Paula promised.

"She wouldn't claim me, that's for sure. Where did you get this awful wig?" She touched the short curls tentatively.

Paula leaned into the shower to turn on the water. "It's part of a Halloween costume I wore a few years ago."

"That does it. I will not go out in public dressed in a Halloween costume."

"Relax. Those clothes aren't part of the costume. The wig goes with a Shirley Temple pinafore. But you do what you please. Just get out of my bathroom so I can shower. Go try on the clothes and sit and think for a while about how badly you need this information. Then we'll talk about it while I get dressed."

An hour later Bailey was sitting on a barstool in the dimly lit B&B Lounge, sipping a screwdriver and feeling ridiculous. In spite of
Paula's reassurance, she didn't exactly blend into the woodwork. Every man in the place had given her the once-over, and a few had made suggestive comments when she walked in.

"Hi, babe." This latest voice came from right beside her. The troops were closing in. She turned to see a bulky, bearded male on the next stool. "You sure are looking good," he said.

"Thank you," she said tentatively, unsure if it was the proper response.

It must have been. The man grinned hugely.

"Haven't seen you in here before."

"I haven't been in here before." Getting picked up by King Kong wasn't part of her plan, but she didn't suppose she could afford to alienate a regular who might know Candy.

"How 'bout another one?" He indicated her drink.

"Ah, no, thanks. I'm fine. My boyfriend's due before long, and he doesn't like me to drink too much." That should cool him down.

"Your boyfriend, huh? Too bad."

"Say, if you come in here a lot, maybe you know a couple of my friends, Candy Miller and Alvin Wilson. I was kind of wondering if they'd be in tonight."

"Sure I know Candy and Al. She ought to be here pretty soon, but he don't come in with her since they got that car wreck thing going. Don’t want anybody to find out they know each other."

The man drained what remained of his beer in one gulp and slammed the empty can onto the bar, causing Bailey to jump at least six inches.

"Ready for another one, Mike?" the bartender asked as he replaced the can with a full one.

Bailey's heart raced as she clutched her own drink in both hands and made a pretense of sipping. She had obtained some vital information, but where did she go from here? This wasn't quite the same thing as examining a witness in the courtroom.

"Reckon they'll still remember their old friends after they get all that money?" she finally asked, affecting a drawl.

"Shoot, yeah. Don't you remember a few years back when Candy and that other guy, Murray, I think his name was, got a big settlement on his neck after he let her run into him? His golden neck, he used to call it."

Mike guffawed, and Bailey squeezed out a smile in an effort to join him.

"No, I don't remember that," she said when Mike settled down. "Candy had just run old Murray off when I met her."

Mike laughed with his whole body this time and swigged another portion of beer. "You women," he said. "Old Murray run off and left her one fine day is what really happened, but don't you tell her I told you so."

"I won't. Don't worry. So he left her, you say? What a jerk." Bailey wrapped both hands around her glass to keep them from trembling. "
Uh, that wasn't Murray Anderson, was it?"

"Nah. I think old Murray's last name was Ferritt or Ferrell
—that's it. Murray Ferrell."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now." You asked for it, you got it. "Would you excuse me?"

"For what?" He looked at her quizzically.

"I need to go to the ladies' room." She had to be alone for a minute and assimilate this new information.

"Over there," he advised, pointing to a dark corner.

"Thanks." Bailey slid off the stool and tried to avoid eye contact with any of the men who looked, whistled, or made other obscene noises.

The ladies' room wasn't exactly conducive to thinking. It hadn’t been cleaned in at least a century, and someone had used it for a private smoke recently, not the kind of smoke purchased from a vending machine. Since she didn't dare sit anywhere or even lean against one of the walls, she paced back and forth in the small room.

The evidence was overwhelming that Candy Miller was a fraud. She'd been involved in an insurance scam before
, and she didn’t want anyone to know she was acquainted with Alvin Wilson.

Okay, Bailey thought, you've got the information. Now what on earth do you do with it? Drop the case? The accused was presumed innocent until proven guilty. She hadn't really proven that Candy was perpetrating a fraud. But the circumstantial evidence was pretty incriminating.

An impatient knock sounded on the door, and the knob rattled.

"I'll be right out," Bailey called
. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands after touching the knob, then felt she needed to wash them again after turning off the faucet.

As she strode back into the bar, the low murmurings and whistles broke into her concentration, irritated her. With her haughtiest gaze in place, she raised her head to confront the creeps and shut them up. They smiled at her, completely undaunted. And coming in the door, as luck would have it, she saw a
man who looked vaguely familiar though she couldn’t quite place him.

She slid back onto her stool and turned to look again.

He definitely reminded her of somebody. He was attractive in a rural sort of way. Great bod, as Paula would say. Slim hips, dark hair bristling out of his unbuttoned shirt. As he momentarily turned away from her, she saw the name "Bubba" on the back of his belt.

"Somebody you know?" Mike asked.

"No. He looks familiar, but I don't know anyone named Bubba."

Beside her, Mike slammed another empty beer can down. At the far end of the bar, Bubba slid onto a stool. The bartender handed Mike another beer, then moved on to the new customer. Bubba looked up at the bartender, in Bailey's general direction.

It wasn't possible, but even in the dim light and behind the glasses, she couldn't mistake those eyes.

Austin was here, which meant Austin was suspicious.

He'd be even more so when he noticed her, and it wouldn't take him long to find out what she'd already found out.

But the panic that seized her dropped her just as suddenly, and Bailey relaxed for the first time since entering the bar. He'd never know she was here. All he'd see was a blond floozy. And if she looked as desirable as the men in the bar seemed to think
…

"You know, I believe I do know that guy. Think I'll just mosey over there and see," she drawled.

Mike grinned through the tangle of his beard. "You be careful now, darlin'. Your boyfriend come in and catch you—we don't need no more fights in here."

"I think this is a business acquaintance."

Mike winked suggestively. "You never did say what kind of business you're in, sweetheart."

She was halfway around the bar before she realized what Mike
was suggesting.

"Hi, cowboy," she said to Austin, trying to keep her voice a husky whisper.

Austin almost fell off the barstool. What, in the name of all that was sacred, was Bailey doing in this bar, dressed like a hooker?

Probably the same thing you're doing
, he thought, answering his own question.

"Hi, uh, sugar." Knowing his voice was the only way she could possibly recognize him, he pitched it a few octaves lower and added a drawl.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, sliding onto the stool next to him.

"I'd be plumb delighted, little lady. I'll even buy you another drink." Austin smiled as he signaled the bartender. 

What a stroke of luck! If he worked it right, she'd waste her entire evening prying bogus information out of him, then when she left, he'd get down to business and find out just what she was so interested in.

She returned his smile as she accepted the drink. "I believe you're about the purtiest little filly I've ever seen in here," he said, playing the role. And it was the truth in spite of the makeup and fright wig.

She tilted her head sideways and peered at him coyly.

"I'll bet you've seen a lot of 'fillies' to compare me with." Her voice, always pleasantly low in pitch, was husky, overtly se
xy.

Where had she come up with such a corny act? She'd obviously been watching too many movies. Well, he could play that game, too. He reached over and took her hand, pretending to examine the gaudy ring she wore. Without a word, he turned her hand over and stroked the palm, raising his eyes to hers.

She met his gaze boldly and held it while stirring her drink with her index finger, then placed the finger in her mouth and slowly sucked off the orange juice and vodka. The surf began to pound in Austin's ears. He peered closely at the woman, suddenly uncertain it really was Bailey. She couldn't possibly be acting in such a seductive manner, even with the movies for guidance.

As he ran his finger down her wrist, Austin noticed that her pulse was racing. Or maybe it was his own pulse throbbing all the way to the ends of his fingers.

He turned on his barstool to face her. She moved with him, placing her long, bare legs between his. They certainly looked like Bailey's legs. They affected him the way Bailey's legs affected him.