Sweet Caroline (15 page)

"Pierre, Mr. Foy and his daughter shall be my guests."

"Daughter?" both Ian and Caroline cried in unison. The woman had the grace to look embarrassed, although Caroline caught a flicker of conspiracy in the glance exchanged between Mick and her. "Oh, I am mistaken, I see," she said. "Please accept my apologies." 140

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Caroline cocked her head to one side, speculating on what might happen next. The ball was clearly in Ian's court. How would the chameleon deal with it, especially with a circle of waiting diners inching closer to the action?

"You flatter me, Mrs. Mustafa. This lovely young lady is my colleague, Ms. Spring, not my daughter."

"Miss Spring," Mrs. Mustafa offered her hand. Caroline shook hands with the woman who wore a mauvecolored dress with tiny pearls hand-sewn throughout a delicate, lacy fabric. She wouldn't hazard a guess what it must have cost, but knew that the silk dress she wore, the one she'd bought on her last trip to Hong Kong and had spent a month's salary on, looked like fish wrapping in comparison.

"Mrs. Mustafa, a pleasure."

"And this is Dr. Mahoney,"

Caroline had saved her most evil glower for this moment.

"I've already had the pleasure."

"Caroline, Ian," Mick said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

"Now please, Pierre," Mrs. Mustafa said. "Show these lovely people to my table and get them whatever they want." She shook a tapered, beautifully manicured finger at him. "Do not scrimp on the wine. Anything they wish from my stock." Ian held up a hand to stop her. "You're too kind. We can't accept this."

"Of course, you can. It's the least I can do." She turned to Mick. "I seem to have left my appetite at home,
mon ami
. Shall we ask Pierre to pack some little things that we can savor on our way?"

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Caroline watched Mick look deeply into those dark, brilliant eyes. She tried to swallow back a lump the size of softball that had lodged in her throat.

"Whatever you'd like," he answered in a tone that oozed the promise of lovemaking with every syllable. It raised the prickly little hairs on the back of Caroline's neck. How easily he threw that tone around. At least she'd never be fooled by it again.

All business now, Mick turned to Pierre. "A few oysters, a good Dom, a little Buluga..." He smiled. "You know what we want."

Oysters, caviar, champagne.
Foods that anyone over eighteen knew were supposed to be aphrodisiacs.

"Very good, sir," Pierre said before turning to Ian and Caroline. With two menus in his hand, he gestured toward the most sought-after table in the dining room. "Monsieur, Mademoiselle, right this way, please."

"Bon appetite," Mick called to them as he led Mrs. Mustafa toward the bar, leaving Caroline to curse the fact that she didn't know how to say "Bite me!" in Gaelic.

* * * *

IT WAS AFTER midnight when Ian patted his lips with his napkin for what Caroline hoped was the last time. He pushed aside the crystal dish that had only dregs left from Cherries Jubilee, and downed the last of his cognac. The
fois gras
was the only thing on the menu he hadn't ordered, but with three other appetizers, even Ian Foy couldn't finish another. 142

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Caroline didn't doubt the check would tote up to the high three figures after his last burp.

Throughout the meal he'd seesawed between raving about the food or railing at Mick and any other Mahoney he could think to include in his tirade. His paranoia grew with each bite, and his accusations against Brian and his cousins burgeoned with every dish served.

Caroline's head had begun aching with her bouillon. Her vision began to blur with the salad service, and even the delectable, freshly baked French bread tasted like sawdust. She'd told him over and over again that she'd uncovered nothing. Showed him her charts and spreadsheets. Made him read two summary paragraphs twice to be sure he understood. Finally, exasperation tingeing every word, she said, "Why won't you accept what I'm saying, Ian? I have found no proof—zero, zip,
nada
, that anyone is trying to subvert the ZyQyx network, not Brian Mahoney, nor anyone else."

Ian would have none of it. He'd ordered another bottle from Mrs. Mustafa's private reserve and renewed his assault. By the time the waiter set their entrées in front of them, Caroline had given up. Now, with the dining room cleared, she prayed he'd finish soon.

"Ian, please," She saw he was about to signal the captain for another cognac. She didn't know where he lived, and she had no intention of putting him up for the night at her place. She also had no intention of riding twenty miles home with a man who'd single-handedly downed two martinis, two bottles of wine, and now two generous splashes of cognac. 143

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

"Caroline, how often doesh a man dine like a king without worrying about a..."
hiccup
"...piper to pay?"
Oh, you'll pay the piper. Wait until you open your eyes in
the morning—if you can open your eyes in the morning.
"Ian, it's late. They want to close."

"I'm shuhprised at you. I thought you'd be a better shport, more adventurous," Ian said, ending the slurred sentence with another hiccup.

Caroline had to turn away. Otherwise he would have seen her disgust. "Our adventure's over, Ian. You're drunk." His head shot up and he pounded the table with his fist.

"The hell I am."

She picked up her purse. "I'm going to ask Pierre to call a taxi for you," she said, keeping her voice low. "You're in no condition to drive."

"Nonshenz," he answered loudly and snapped his fingers in the direction of the captain. The server looked at them over the rims of his glasses. He made no move to respond, especially after Caroline shook her head no. Purse in hand, she pushed her chair back and stood. "I'm leaving, Ian."

"What?" he looked at her with foggy eyes. "Whajewsay?"

"Good night."

Pierre waited for her in the lobby. Caroline opened her purse and threw down a credit card. "I understand that Mrs. Mustafa is paying for dinner, but I'd like to leave the gratuity. Thirty percent is fine."

He took her card. "Would Mademoiselle like a driver?" 144

Sweet Caroline

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"One for Mr. Foy. I'll take his car keys, please. I'll make sure he gets them in the morning."

"As you wish."

Caroline signed the receipt without looking at the cost—

thirty percent of Mrs. Mustafa's bill and the cost of a taxi. She didn't think twice about it. She'd submit the charge with the rest of her expenses for this assignment. She folded the receipt and handed it to Pierre. "Will you be sure Mr. Foy takes this with him?" she said, regretting only that she wouldn't be there to see the look on Ian's face when he realized how much his "free dinner" cost him.

* * * *

CAROLINE LEFT IAN'S Beamer parked on the street in front of the Mahoney Building and stepped out into a blanket of bone-chilling fog and mist that enveloped the street and muted the sounds of the night. It was nearing one o'clock. She shivered as she fumbled for her keys, grateful when she stepped into the hall where cheery nightlights welcomed her. She couldn't remember a time she'd been happier to be home.

From the street, Caroline had seen Mick's windows were dark, too. She hadn't expected to see him again—not until late tomorrow. After the oysters and champagne had a chance to settle.

She unlocked her apartment door, took two steps inside and kicked off her shoes. Padding across the living room, she flopped down in one of the love seats, too tired even to undress.

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Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Her headache had disappeared at almost the same moment she'd stepped away from Ian's table. Nothing, however, soothed the ache that had been gnawing at her since the moment she caught her first glimpse of Mrs. Mustafa. How much of a coincidence had it been that they'd shown up at L'Etoile? They'd obviously followed Ian. What if Caroline had not come down from her flat until five minutes after the Mustafa limousine picked up Mick? Would they still have met along the way? Was Mick playing a cruel joke on both of them, the lovely woman who called him
mon ami
and Caroline?

And Ian? She shuddered. He'd made a complete ass of himself and her by association. She reached up, turned on a light and opened her laptop. It was late, and she was tired, but e-mail suddenly seemed like her only link to a sane and rational world.

Immediately, a line-up of messages waiting flashed onto the screen, among them a reply to her request for a background check on Mick. She thought about opening it then changed her mind. It was too late, and she's had enough of him for one day.

She had messages from a couple of friends, a joke forwarded by Brian, and three emails from Travis. She jumped on those, opening the most recent first.
Hey, sis, where the heck are you? I've left about six
messages on your cell and this is my third e-mail!

Her cell phone. She grabbed her purse and spilled the contents on the coffee table. A comb, lipstick, a package of 146

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

tissues, Ian's car keys, her wallet, and the shank—no cell phone.

Wide-awake, she sprang to her feet and raced into the bedroom, flipped on the lights and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The phone lay on the floor, right next to the bed. Exactly where she'd left it.

She checked her messages. All were from Travis, exactly as he'd said. It was after three in Dallas now—way too late, or too early, to return his call. She walked into the living room and scrolled down the screen, into the body of his e-mail message.

Since we can't reach you in person, we'll have to tell you
the good news online. Kristi-Lee's pregnant!!! Can you believe
it? Your little brother's going to be a daddy! If you can sneak
away for a couple of days, hop a commuter and meet us in
Vegas. We're getting married on the 15th. I want you to be
my best man!

Travis and Kristi-Lee had been dating since high school. She always knew they'd marry one day, but Travis was still such a kid. Now the kid was going to be a daddy.
Travis, Kristi-Lee,

I am soooooo happy for you, and so honored that you asked. Of course I'll be your best man. Does that mean I have to wear a tux?—vbg—It's after one here, so I'll call you first thing in the morning. Congrats again!

Love you both. C.

Caroline sent the message then slumped in the love seat. She was too tired to stand up and shed her clothes so she loosened the barrettes that held her hair in place. After she 147

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

laid them on the table, she ran her hands through the tangle of curls, catching her nails on one of the tight knots. It was another reminder of how different she and Travis were. His hair was as straight as a stalk of wheat, hers so curly that in high humidity, like tonight, it turned to frizz and knots. KristiLee's hair was straight, too. How lucky for their children. They'd never have to put up with bad hair days. She stood and unzipped her dress. Once in the bedroom, she shucked her panty hose next, then her slip and bra. She grabbed the first pair of panties she found in her drawer, a ghastly pair of red satin bikinis with a fringe around the waistband. Luke had gotten them for her as a Valentine present. She was sure she'd incinerated them the day they broke up, but Travis had found them somewhere among her things and thrown them in the box he sent. What a great laugh he must have had over it. She tossed a nightshirt over her head and fell into bed.

Forty-five minutes later, Caroline's eyes popped open wide. She'd barely fallen into the haze of half sleep when the memory of the shank, as if driven by its own power, raced across her REM sleep. She jumped up and as soon as her feet touched the floor, she stooped down and looked under the bed. Nothing, which gave her a sense of relief as well as piqued her curiosity.

Mick had access to her apartment with his passkey. He knew she was meeting Ian at eight, but he didn't know where they were dining. Unless—and she knew this was probably far flung—unless he'd hidden the shank under her bed. If its technology had advanced to wireless, he could have been 148

Sweet Caroline

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monitoring her conversation with Ian as they rode along because she'd carried the shank in her purse. Caroline had hardly finished the thought before heading for the door. She knew three things for sure—Mick wasn't home, he never locked the door to his apartment, and she was going to get to the bottom of this shank business. She left the lights blazing in her apartment and boldly crossed the hall. She left her own door wide open. With one twist of the knob, she was inside Mick's, turning on every light along the way.

Instinctively, she was drawn to the wall of photographs. She'd seen something this morning that had triggered a memory or an association. With Mick out, she had the time to examine each photo without fear of appearing too curious or examining one too long.

* * * *

WHAT HAD STARTED out as a perfect day was becoming one of the longest of Mick's life. He couldn't remember a time he'd enjoyed playing tour guide more. Caroline Spring had been a most appreciative tourist in addition to having a sense of humor, a trait he found wildly attractive and pathetically missing in most women he'd spent time with recently. Bright, funny, opinionated, and best of all, intriguing. Caroline didn't aim to please, and she didn't blather on about her life in excruciating detail. She spoke intelligently on any subject he threw at her. She traveled almost as much as he, yet she delighted in prowling the gaudy little souvenir shops in Bodega, prancing along the beach and digging her toes into 149

Sweet Caroline

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the wet sand, and the sea breeze whipping her red mane into a frenzy of tangles and curls that was sexier than anything Mick had seen in the last ten years. Gazing out at the horizon, her face had lit up with a look of wonderment that in less than ninety days she could stand in that same spot and watch a pod of whales frolic by on their southerly migration. Caroline Spring had a zest for life unmatched by any woman he had ever known. With her he viewed life differently. An amazing woman, an amazing day. And one that had turned sour as quickly as fresh milk left sitting in the sun. Hard to swallow but a fact: she preferred Striker Foy to him.