Dead Ringer (5 page)

His eyes were so blue for a moment she thought she was looking at pieces of sky.
Don't be nice to me, Shark-man. I'm a sucker for nice.
"I'm not that easy to hurt."

His gaze lingered on her, as though he were seeing past all the masks she wore. She looked away, focused on the trees lining the road, and he rose. "That's good," he said, and frowned at the crumpled front end of the convertible. "But you're damned lucky you didn't break your neck."

"Disappointed?"

He turned to her, the ice back in his eyes. "Let's go. I'll call a tow truck from my car."

She got out slowly, her legs still shaky, and leaned against the car hoping he wouldn't notice. But he put an arm around her shoulder to prop her up. She shrugged it off.

"I'm fine."

One step and a leg buckled. In an instant he caught her. Clasping her against him, he held her up so she could make the short journey to his car. His body was hard and strong beneath the dark gray suit, and she liked the feel of it. Too much. Way too much.

"I don't need your help." She twisted away, but he held on.

"Right." The edges of his mouth betrayed a hint of a smile. "How'd you get to be such a tough guy?"

"Vitamins."

He opened the passenger door on the Ford and helped her into the car, then got in himself. "We can stop at the hospital if you want."

God, she felt a fool. "What for? You want to get your head examined, that's one thing, but there's nothing wrong with me. It was a little fender bender. No big deal."

Once again, he observed her closely, then dismissed his concern with a little shrug and started the car. "Okay."

She leaned against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. Why did she do these things?

As if he'd read her mind, he said, "You like being reckless."

Reckless, careless, thoughtless-any word with 'less' in it described her perfectly. "It's called fun."

"You want to kill yourself, wait until after we get Bo-rian." His voice was as cold as his eyes. "No more impulsive little dramas. You keep a calm, cool head. And you do what you're told, when you're told."

Not on your life, Sharkman. Not since I was eighteen.
"You say jump, and I say how high?"

His mouth twisted into a tight smile. "First you say yes, sir. Then you ask how high."

Finn let her stew on that while he headed south.
Crazy, stupid
... He wanted to shake her. No, he wanted to comfort her. Make sure she was okay.

He clamped his jaw against the tender impulse. It had taken a bullet to get him to stop caring for self-destructive women, but he'd learned his lesson.

For a minute his wife's face floated in front of him. He remembered the way her lipstick never quite stayed within the lines of her mouth because her hands shook from booze or drugs. He remembered her wild hair and the blowsy smile she bestowed on him and whatever other man happened to be near. And with Suzy there were always men. She'd been the life of the party. Or had the party been her life?

He cut a glance at Angelina, who was glowering out the passenger window as a way to avoid connecting with him, and remembered his dead wife's eyes. Those sick, haunted eyes that couldn't quite hide her fear and self-loathing. It was her eyes that had gotten to him. They'd convinced him she could be saved, that his love could save her. But nothing could.

Disgust washed over him, familiar, even after years of living-and nearly dying-with his greatest mistake. Disgust with himself. His weakness. His damn inclination to feel too sorry for people. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel Never again.

Twenty minutes later, he parked in front of Bradfords, one of the most exclusive clothing stores in town.

Angelina broke the angry silence she'd maintained during the ride. "We're going shopping?"

"That's right." He got out of the car and opened her door. "Angelina Mercer, you're in for a whole new look, courtesy of Uncle Sam."

He steered her toward the store, watching closely to make sure she wasn't limping. All he needed was to have her injured before they even got started. But her body parts were all back in prime working order. Unfortunately.

Inside, the store's cool quiet was ripe with the smell of old money. Perfectly laid-out clothes in muted tones spilled over polished wood tables or draped from carefully placed cabinets that seemed as though they belonged in a museum.

Angelina stood in the middle of the boutique looking like a refugee from Fredericks of Hollywood, her body-hugging suit clinging to every curve. She scanned the room, frowning.

"What's the matter?"

"Do you think this stuff could get any dowdier?" She held up a silky blouse. "What a cute little Peter Pan collar." She picked out a pale blue dress with some kind of floral pattern. "And this nice tidy belt and all those teensy-weensy flowers."

"I told you, Borian is conservative."

"Borian is boring."

A saleswoman approached them. "Can I help you find something?"

"Yes, you can," Angelina said, her green eyes innocent as a baby's. "Where do you keep the crotchless panties?"

Jesus Christ.

"I beg your pardon?" the saleswoman said.

"The cr-"

"We're just browsing." Finn took her arm and steered her away. "Behave yourself."

"Or?"

He gritted his teeth. "What size do you wear?" He'd held her last night, and her body had yielded under his hands, soft and fleshy, nothing like the stripped down, bony women he'd held in the past But if she was anything like them, she'd pare herself to the smallest possible number. "Two? Four?"

She laughed. "I'm a woman, Sharkman, not a little girl. I wear an eight. Sometimes a ten. Even a twelve. Depends on how skimpy they cut things. In case you haven't noticed, I've got a few curves. And they take up room."

Oh, he'd noticed all right.

She smiled like she knew it

"Here." He garnered up the first things he saw and thrust the pile in her arms. 'Try them on." Still grinning, she sashayed into the fitting room.

Finn made himself look away from the sweet sway of her very shapely bottom. He focused on a display of linen suits instead, noting their simple lines and understated cut. A nearby mannequin wore the same outfit, and it looked polished and well bred. Exactly the kind of look Victor Borian would expect The skirt was a modest, knee-skimming length, the jacket a square coverall that lent the outfit a quiet, moneyed air. A strand of pearls at the throat completed the civilized look. Once Angelina was stuffed into that Finn knew his hands would stop sweating.

But when she came out a minute later, he saw he'd been wrong. She wore the same skirt, the same jacket, but somehow on her it looked entirely different. He would barely have known the mannequin had breasts, but the jacket hugged Angelina's waist and the rich curves of her chest. She did a slow turn and he saw the skirt fit snugly around her well-rounded bottom. She'd played with her hair, pulling it off her shdulders and into some kind of knot at the back of her neck, imitating Carol Borian's hairstyle in the photo he'd shown her. But unlike Mrs. Borian's hair, a strand of Angelina's refused to stay in place, drifting across one cheek like a sultry, invitation.

An invitation he had no intention of accepting.

As if she knew what he was thinking, a faint, mocking smile curved her lips. "Conservative enough for you?"

His jaw tightened. "No. Try on the dress."

Her eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with this?"

He wasn't about to explain. "Try on the dress."

But the same thing happened. The mannequin wearing the dress looked like she'd be at home at a Junior League meeting. Angelina looked anything but. The silky material clung to her breasts, outlining the lush curves, The tidy belt she'd made fun of accented the way her waist squeezed in and her hips flared out. The skirt floated over her thighs and knees like gossamer, moving in a seductive dance as she walked.

They spent two hours at Bradfords, and despite his vow not to let her get to him, in the end Finn was sweating in more places than his hands. Everything that looked prim on (he hanger looked sexy on her. The final getup- a simple skirt and sweater that should have looked elegant but somehow looked provocative-was the last straw.

"This is ridiculous, Sharkman. I've tried on every damn outfit in the place." She glared at him, hands on shapely hips. "This
was
your idea, remember?"

"Well, it was a bad idea. Get dressed."

She flounced away, but not before he saw a glimmer of hurt in her eyes.
Now what?

Angelina slammed into the dressing room and examined herself in the mirror. No horns growing out from the top of her head. What the hell was wrong with that man? She smoothed down the front of the lavender sweater she wore over a straight skirt in shades of lilac and mauve. A short-sleeved cashmere crew, the sweater was soft as a baby's breath. It blended perfectly with the gentle heathered colors of the skirt. She sighed, gazing at her own image. In spite of herself, she liked what she saw. She looked young and sweet, the way she used to look years ago. Before she found out what a rat hole the world was. Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt a pang of nostalgia for the girl she used to be. That naive girl from Ruby, Texas, who believed in American justice. And herself.

Remember her, party girl?

Andy Blake and Sheriff Maxwell Dodd had taken care of that other Angelina. And her mother, the one who she'd called mother all her life, had helped.

She pushed back the hair escaping from the makeshift chignon, dismissing the memories. Everyone knew she could never be that girl again. Even Sharkman. Especially Sharkman.

Now why did that bother her so much?

Glancing at the mirror once more, she tried to see what he saw when he looked at her. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist small, her hips ample. Men usually liked her. More than hked her. Then again, was Sharkman really a man, or some kind of cold ocean creature?

She took one last look at the skirt and sweater, then began to tug it off. Before she pulled the sweater over her head, she changed her mind.
The hell with it.
Leaving the outfit on, she scooped up her suit and all the other clothes she'd tried on. So Sharkman didn't like them? The hell with him, too.

He was on her case the minute she walked out of the dressing room, the pile of clothes in her arms. "What are you doing? I told you to get dressed."

"I am dressed."

"I thought I made it clear these clothes won't work."

She shrugged. "I don't need your permission to buy clothes." Transferring the pile into the arms of a waiting salesgirl, she fished in her purse. "Who needs you when I have Citibank?" She handed the girl a credit card.

She could see by the way his mouth pinched that Finn wasn't happy, but she didn't care. She turned her back on him and tried not to blink when the salesgirl read her the total.

Oh, Beam, I could really use you now.

She thought about Beamer as she signed the credit slip. He'd have gotten a good laugh out of this shopping spree. No glitter, no boas,,no plunging necklines. Nothing but simple elegance.

Like Carol.

The thought sent a ripple of longing through her. Would her real mother have liked the clothes in Brad-fords? Pictures lie. Maybe the snapshot Finn had showed her hid the real Carol Borian. Maybe she had sequins and feathers in her closet, too.

As soon as Angelina's transaction was over, Finn hurried her away. He bundled her into the white Ford and her packages into the trunk.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

Typical closemouthed cop answer.

"There" proved to be a nondescript office building. Without explanation, he led her into the elevator and up to the third floor, where he pushed open the door to suite 301.

No one occupied the receptionist's desk, but that didn't seem to bother Finn. He led her past it and through an interior door to a vacant office.

Inside, an old Naugahyde couch sat across from an empty desk pushed against a dull beige wall. Lying on the couch was a pudgy man short enough to fit with his feet just barely dangling over the edge. His eyes were closed and he seemed asleep, but the minute they walked in, he said, "You're late."

"We got held up."

The man sat up; he was the ugliest man Angelina had ever seen, with a bulbous nose and a bulldog face. But when he stood and beamed at her approvingly, the smile was so warm she forgot his unattractiveness.

"Beautiful, Miss Mercer. Stunning, actually."

She laughed. She couldn't help herself, he was so transparent. "Thank you." And in a stage whisper, "You have better taste than he does." She indicated Finn, who stood stiffly to one side. "And now, don't you think you better tell me who you are? How do you know my name?"

Finn stepped in. "This is my boss, Ron Roper. Roper, Angelina Mercer."

"A pleasure." He extended his hand, enclosing Angelina's in his own.

"We're still working on the clothes," Finn said.

"The clothes? They're perfect. She's perfect. Victor Borian won't know what hit him." She tossed Finn an I-told-you-so look, but before he could respond, Roper led her to the couch and sat beside her. "I wanted to thank you personally before you began, Miss Mercer. Right now, you're our best chance of stopping this dangerous material from falling into the wrong hands. We don't have the luxury of infiltrating Borian's organization on our own. That could take weeks, if not months, of carefully building his trust. Time we don't have. We need someone to get close to Borian as quickly as possible."

Something in his voice set off alarm bells. She frowned. "Close? How close?"

Neither man responded right away, and she looked between the two of them. Finn's gaze was cool and mocking. "As close as you have to."

She flushed as his meaning dawned. "You want me to sleep with him."
Figures.

"It's not like you haven't done it before."

The blood drained from her face and Finn could have kicked himself. Why the hell did he turn into such a bastard every time he was around her?