Kathleen O'Reilly - It Should Happen To You

Perhaps Mickey should keep her mouth shut. But she’d spent so much of her life needing to angst that silence was impossible. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to tell somebody. After I left the bar, I called up John, this intern at work—he looks all of thirteen—and asked if I could come over.”

“He’s not really thirteen, is he? I can see the headlines. Statutory Seduction: Physicist Charged In Boy-Toy Scandal.”

Mickey coughed as a straight shot of gin came back up her nose. “Oh, yes, that would look good. Thankfully, no, he’s a senior in college. But still…”

Beth nodded. “You know, that’s really very sexy right now. May, December. Woman in the dominant position. That’s not so bad.”

No, that wasn’t the bad part. Mickey took another long, brain-cell-killing dreg of the martini. “He videotaped me. Him. You know, when we were…”

There was no condemnation in Beth’s eyes, only a glow of admiration. “No joke? That’s so adventurous of you. I thought only Cassandra went down the red-light path.”

Adventurous? Yeah, that was one way of looking at it. “I didn’t know.” Mickey took another long drink. “Now he wants to do it again.”

Beth twirled her chip in the bowl of salsa, as if reading the future in the onions and tomatoes. “The taping or the sex?”

“The sex.”

“Just like Pamela Sue…” Then Beth looked up, and her eyes got huge. “Oh…and if you don’t, he’s going to put you on the Internet. Oh, man, I hope you don’t look fat.”

Mickey, who had never considered the fat aspect, shuddered in horror. “I’ve got an article to finish. I’m working the presentation for Heidelman. I’ll be the punch line in every joke for the next decade, playing into every stereotype that exists for the little woman.” She rammed her fist on the table, very un-little woman. “I’ve got to get that tape back.”

“Can you buy it from him?”

“No. I already offered. Stupid jerk.” She’d covered all possible aspects in order to salvage her career. Extortion, bribery, excessive pleading and murder. There was only one solution left. “I think I’m going to steal it,” she announced. It seemed better to state it confidently, as if she thought this could actually work.

“You could get caught,” replied Beth, pointing out the one elephantine flaw.

However, Mickey had already considered that. “That’s why I need a professional.” So Mickey wouldn’t get caught.

“A private detective?”

Mickey glanced around, checking to make sure no big ears were listening. “Nah. I mean a professional criminal. You know, a real thief. Unfortunately, now I’ve got to find somebody. You don’t meet many criminals in the lab.”

“I know just the man,” said Beth, quick as you please.

Amazed, Mickey stared at her with new appreciation. “You really know criminals?”

Beth lifted one eyebrow. “You meet people from all walks of life in a Starbucks. Come in tomorrow about ten. He hangs out at a table near the coffee-mug-clearance shelf in the back.”

Mickey considered it for a moment. It was so tempting. “What do you think he’s into? Drugs?”

Beth shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s a made guy.”

Huh? The foreign terminology made Mickey wonder at the sheltered life she had led. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Part of the Outfit.”

Her jaw dropped open. “No way. A mafia guy?”

Beth preened. “Yup. Right in my own Starbucks. Venti latte. Loaded.”

Starbucks. It was a long way from The Godfather. Times had changed.

Mickey took another sip of the martini. The alcohol was beginning to make everything seem logical. “How do you know that he’s one of Them?”

“I saw his driver’s license once when he flipped open his wallet. Dominic Corlucci.”

Mickey still wasn’t convinced. “Just because he has an Italian name doesn’t mean anything.”

“Trust me, Mickey. A woman gets a sense about these things.”

A scientist would be laughed out of the lab on hunches and womanly instincts, but Beth sounded so sure, even in the absence of any conclusive evidence. Mickey thought instincts ranked right up there with the tooth fairy, and could rationalize the whole thing away with logic and science when she wanted to. That she had inherited from her father.

It all sounded glamorous and possibly real. The Mafia. She took another sip of her drink. She’d always had a major thing for Pacino.

Still, the Mafia.

It wasn’t exactly what she had planned. She’d been thinking of one of those penny-ante types that wore pants that were too short and hung out at the racetrack. In the end, did she really have a choice?

It was her career on the line. Her reputation as a professional and as an astronomer. No way were they going to take away her stars.

The mob ate guys like Monihan for dinner. That made her smile. It’d definitely be worth it. And worst case, she would lay even odds that the Witness Protection Program didn’t have one astrophysicist in their ranks.

Yet.

“BETH. PSSSSSSSTTT. BETH.”

Beth stared blankly, her face half-hidden by a cappuccino machine.

Oh, this was good. No recognition at all. The disguise was working. She’d had to leave her glasses on, because she was blind without them. Not that it seemed to affect the whole look. Mickey disguised as a bimbo had been a masterstroke. Who would suspect?

Mickey placed a hand on her hip, forming a nice isosceles triangle, just as she’d seen the other girls do.

“May I help you?” Beth asked.

“It’s Mickey,” she answered, twitching a little because the spandex skirt was hitting her butt in all the wrong places.

Beth emerged from behind the cappuccino machine and started to smile. “It’s always been a big, fat lie, hasn’t it?”

“What?”

“The whole ‘I hate men’ thing. Look at you,” she said, her hand encompassing spandex, lace and thigh-high boots. “You just jumped from the latest issue of Sluts R Us.”

Not exactly the look Mickey had been trying for. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Beth finished up the coffee she’d been making and put it on the wooden bar. “I’m not, huh?”

Mickey shook her head.

Beth grinned. “Well, girlfriend, you’re going to be fighting the vice cops off with a stick.”

When Beth started thinking she was witty, they were in serious trouble. “Where is he?”

Beth cocked her head in the direction of the far corner. “That’s his usual table. He’s not here yet.”

“Okay.” Mickey, who’d secretly been looking forward to mingling with the wrong kind, felt a little disappointed.

She practiced her walk over to the small round table. Hip to the right, hip to the left, thrust, thrust, thrust. There was a certain samba feel to it, not that Mickey had ever danced the samba, but if she had, it would have given her that same all-over body tingle that she had now.

Three espressos later, he walked through the door. Instantly she knew who he was. He moved with a sleek, lean grace, no squeaky tennies here. The kind of man who could kill you before you even knew he was in the room. His shoulders were broad, probably from lifting bodies. All in all, he was one dangerous hombre.

What scared Mickey was that, although Beth had told her enough that she would be able to recognize him, Beth had failed to disclose how a woman’s body would react. A logical, intelligent, rational woman’s body.

Mickey sat up straighter in her seat. Her back, her chin, her breasts all snapping into place. She’d taken a course in body language, she knew what she was saying.

Come on, baby, light my fire was the same in all languages.

Cold dark eyes scanned the room, settling on her.