Elizabeth Bevarly - Undercover with the Mob

“Now if you ladies will excuse me,” Jack Miller said, interrupting what could have been a very nice preoccupation, “I got some things to arrange upstairs.”

Yeah, like trunks full of body parts, she thought.

No, no, no, no, no. She was not going to submit to Mrs. Klosterman’s ridiculous suggestions. Especially since Mrs. Klosterman herself was apparently falling under the spell of her new mobster. Neighbor, Natalie quickly corrected herself again. Falling under the spell of her new neighbor.

With one final smile that included them both, Jack Miller said, “Have a nice day,” and then turned to take his leave. Almost as an afterthought, he spun around once more and looked at Natalie. “Natalie, right?” he asked, having evidently not been paying attention when Mrs. Klosterman had introduced the two of them. And, oh, didn’t that just boost a woman’s ego into the stratosphere?

Mutely, she nodded.

But instead of replying, Jack Miller only smiled some more—and somehow, Natalie got the impression it was in approval, of all things—then turned a final time and exited the kitchen.

For a long, long time, neither Natalie nor her landlady said a word, as though each was trying to figure out if the last five minutes had even happened. Then Natalie recalled the broken tea cup and spilled tea, and she hastily cleaned up the mess. And then she and Mrs. Klosterman both returned to their seats at the kitchen table, where Natalie poured herself a new cup. In silent accord, the two women lifted their cups of tea, as if, in fact, the last five minutes hadn’t happened.

Finally, though, Natalie leaned across the table, scrunching her body low, just as Mrs. Klosterman had only moments earlier, before Jack Miller had entered the room, when they had been discussing him so freely. And, naturally, she went back to discussing him again.

But of all the troubling thoughts that were tumbling through her brain in that moment, the only thing she could think to remark was, “You said he wore normal clothes.”

“He does wear normal clothes,” Mrs. Klosterman replied. “He just wears them in black, that’s all.”

At least he hadn’t reeked of pesto and Aqua Velva, Natalie thought. Though she did sort of detect the lingering scent of garlic. Then again, that could have just been left over from whatever Mrs. Klosterman had cooked for last night’s dinner.

Or it could have just been the fact that she was reacting like an idiot to her landlady’s earlier suspicions.

“You heard him talk,” Mrs. Klosterman whispered back. “Now you know. He’s a mobster.”

“Or he grew up in Brooklyn,” Natalie shot back. “Or some other part of New York. Or New Jersey. Or Philadelphia. Or any of those other places where people have an accent like that.”

“He’s not a John Miller, though,” Mrs. Klosterman insisted.

And Natalie had to admit she couldn’t argue with that. Just who her new neighbor was, though…

Well. That was a mystery.

JACK MILLER MADE it all the way back to his apartment before he let himself think about the cute little brunette in his landlady’s kitchen. It had never occurred to him that there would be someone else living in the building who might pose a problem. Bad enough he was going to have to keep an eye on the old lady, but this new one…

Oh, jeez, he had behaved like such a jerk. But what the hell was he supposed to do? The way Natalie Dorset had been looking at him, he’d been able to tell she found him…interesting. And the last thing he needed was for her to find him interesting. Never mind that he found her kind of interesting, too. Hey, what could he say? He’d never met a woman who wore singing pajamas. That was definitely interesting. Hell, he’d never met a woman who wore pajamas, period. The women he normally associated with slept in a smile. A smile he himself had put on their faces. And he tried not to feel too smug about that. Really. He did. Honest.

Then he thought about what it would be like to maybe put a smile on Natalie Dorset’s face. And that surprised him, since she wasn’t exactly the type of woman he normally wanted to make smile, especially after just meeting her. What surprised him even more was that the thought of putting a smile on her face didn’t make him feel smug at all. No, what Jack felt when he thought about that was the same thing he’d felt in junior high school at St. Athanasius when he’d wondered if Angela DeFlorio would laugh at him if he asked her to go to the eighth grade mixer—all nerves and knots and nausea.

Ah, hell. He hated feeling that way again. He wasn’t a thirteen-year-old, ninety-pound weakling anymore. Nobody, but nobody, from the old neighborhood messed with Jack these days. They didn’t dare.

Damn. This was not good, having a cute brunette living upstairs. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

So he was just going to have to remember the plan, he reminded himself. Think about the plan. Focus on the plan. Be the plan. He’d come here to do a job, and he would do it. Coolly, calmly, collectedly, the way he always did the job.

There was, after all, a whacking in the works. And Jack was right in the thick of it. He had come to this town to make sure everything went down exactly the way it was supposed to go down. No way could he afford to be sidetracked by an interesting, big-eyed, singing-pajama-wearing, tea-spilling Natalie Dorset. So he was just going to have to do what he always did when he was trying to keep a low profile—which, of course, was ninety-nine percent of the time.

He’d just have to make sure he stayed out of her way.

“WELL, HELLO AGAIN.” The words came out sounding far more casual than Natalie felt. After all, the last person she had expected to run into at the Speed Art Museum was her new downstairs neighbor, Jack “The Alleged” Miller. But there he was, in all his…darkness…standing right behind her when she turned away from the Raphael to enjoy the Titian.

But she enjoyed seeing Jack even more. And not just because of the way his black jeans so lovingly outlined his sturdy thighs and taut tushe, either. Or because of the way his black leather motorcycle jacket hung open over a black T-shirt stretched tight across his expansive chest. Or because his overly long black hair was once again pushed back from his face in a way that made Natalie itch to run her fingers through it. Or because of the odd frisson of heat that exploded in her belly and shot out to every extremity, electrifying her, dizzying her, making her feel breathless and reckless, as if she were on the verge of an extremely satisfying—

Ah…never mind. She just enjoyed seeing him because…because…Well, just because, that was all. And it was an excellent reason, too, by golly.

Despite both her and Mrs. Klosterman’s misgivings about the man’s name, in the week that had passed since her new neighbor had moved in, Natalie had come to think of him as Jack. She had been able to do this because over the course of the week, she’d run into him a few times and whenever she’d greeted him as “Mr. Miller,” he’d always insisted she call him “Jack, please. Mr. Miller is my pop’s name.”

At first, it hadn’t felt right to call him that, and not just because, in spite of telling herself she was silly for doubting him, she really did find herself doubting it was his real name. But, too, he just didn’t seem like the sort of man with whom one would share such intimacies like first names. If anything, he seemed the sort of man who would prefer to go by his last name, if any name at all. But “Miller” didn’t suit him, either. Had his last name been something like Devlin or Steed or Deacon—or even Mancuso—that would have worked. Miller just seemed too…normal. Too common. Too bland. Not that Jack seemed appropriate either, but she had to call him something. Something other than “The Mobster Who Lives on the Second Floor” at any rate, which was how Mrs. Klosterman continued to refer to him.