Shirl Henke - Finders Keepers

Matt noted the way she’d looked at him. Maybe he could give good old lust one last college try before chancing the stun gun. “Coffee smells good,” he said. In fact, it smelled like a blend of road tar and battery acid, but he was used to the stuff in the Herald’s newsroom, which was even worse.

When he reached for his clothes, piled in a heap on the floor, Sam said, “No. Leave them. I’ll put them in the van later.”

He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned. This was working out even better than he’d hoped.

“Put on the pj’s again and slip on the robe and house shoes. It looks more convincing if a patient’s not dressed in street clothes,” she explained quickly, too quickly.

“So much for romance,” he mumbled as he reached for the discarded pajamas and coarse terry robe, taking his time, letting her stare at his naked chest. After he’d belted the robe casually around his middle, he walked over to the table, never breaking eye contact with her. “Pour me some java?”

“Pour it yourself,” she snapped, gesturing with the gun. As he did so, she watched the front of the robe gap open. He hadn’t buttoned the pj top, either. She could see his chest again. Had he done that deliberately? Of course he had. Ballanger, you have to be a moron to fall for this guy, she chided herself, watching him take an experimental sip of the coffee and reach for a doughnut as he sat down across from her.

Smiling, he swallowed down the large Styrofoam cupful as if it were medicinal. “Ah, nothing like a jolt of caffeine in the morning.”

“You must have a cast-iron mouth,” Sam said as he poured a second cup and chomped into a doughnut.

“Newsroom habit. Reporters learn to drink this sludge like water. Only thing that redeems it is it’s too hot to taste. I really do work for the Herald, you know.”

“Yeah, well your aunt said you ‘dabbled’ at writing stories. Didn’t say where. Look, I checked out Claudia Witherspoon before I took this job, believe me. She’s a female Warren Buffet. We’ve been over this before, remember?”

Matt snorted in disgust. “She never approved of my career choice. I was supposed to be a good little Yalie, stay in Boston and work for the family brokerage firm.” He shuddered.

Sam looked at him with renewed interest. “Yale, huh? Figured you’d have ivy of some kind growing out of your ears. Why not just chill out at the family manse, live off your trust fund?”

“Would you like to sit around and do nothing?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Never had the option. It might be nice to jet-set around though, you know, sipping martinis.”

He couldn’t help the frustrated bark of laughter. Oh, would his great-aunt pay for this if he got dragged all the way to Boston right in the middle of the biggest story of his career! He’d wring her scrawny, manipulative old neck! “That’s what you imagine the life of a Boston Brahmin is like?”

“It isn’t?”

He knew she was humoring him. “It’s boring beyond measure and filled to the brim with social obligations.”

“No wonder you ran away and joined a cult then.”

Matt sighed. “I did not join a cult.” It came out through gritted teeth.

“Not what Aunt Claudia said. You were living in that complex just the way she described it. I believe her term was ‘a pack of California coconuts.’”

He raised one eyebrow as a thought occurred to him. “I wonder if the old girl’s finally gone around the bend.”

“You’re the one around the bend. She sounded plenty sharp.”

“Sharp she always has been.” His eyes narrowed in cunning intensity. “She’s paying you to bring me to Boston. How about I pay you not to?”

Sam shook her head, wiping crumbs from her mouth with a paper napkin. “Against my ethics. If I took bribes it would wipe out my business.” And Pat’d put me in the slammer with Renkov and his pals when they arrest them. “A girl’s gotta think of her reputation, after all.”

“Yes, I know, you are, after all, a ‘trained medical professional.’ I’ll pay you…three thou to let me go.” He measured her over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

Sam chuckled in genuine amusement. “You never give up, do you? Even if I were willing to stiff dear old Aunt Claudia—which I’m not—it wouldn’t work. She’s paying me ten K plus expenses. I get you back under her wing within the week, she even promised me a bonus. The old dame’s loaded.”

Matt swore beneath his breath. Last option closed. Three grand was all he had to his name unless he hocked his car and small sailboat, neither of which were exactly liquid assets. “She inherited a couple of mil from my grandfather and quadrupled it several times playing the stock market over the past forty years or so,” he said glumly.

While he appeared deep in thought, Sam observed him. He acted nothing like a patient, but then he wasn’t nuts, only a reporter messing around in a deal way over his handsome head. Her usual range of clients sulked, turned mute, whined or were so catatonic that she could’ve propped them up in a corner and slept through the night in perfect safety. Now and then one went ballistic. Once Granger found out the truth, he might, too. A good thing she carried the stun gun.

She’d never met a guy with half as much sex appeal as Matt Granger. Of course that was understandable, considering that her snatches were usually pimply teens or wealthy nutcases whose families spent a fortune to prevent scandal. Nothing like this dude. He’s out of your league, Sam. If you met him in Miami, he’d walk past you without a second glance.

Samantha seemed distracted. This might be his only chance. Matt lunged against the table, overturning it into her lap and sousing her with coffee. She let out an oath of outrage as the scalding liquid splashed across her chest and legs. His long arms extended, big fingers biting into her shoulders. Her hand, still holding the stun gun, was pinned beneath the edge of the table. Luckily, the table was small and round, lightweight enough for her to kick at the center base of it and roll it off her as he moved in.

He was a big sucker and his grip was punishing as he tried to get her into a bear hug, immobilizing her arms. That helped get her to her feet, but before he could lift her off the ground, she hooked one ankle behind his knee hard. He lost balance and started to topple, still holding her. But his grip on her arms loosened sufficiently for her to raise the gun and press it against his rib cage. She gave him a short jolt.

“Son of a bitch!” He grunted through gritted teeth, but didn’t let go, trying instead to knock the weapon out of her hand.

Then she let him have it, a full three-second burst. He folded up like an accordion at the end of a three-day Polish wedding. Granger slid bonelessly to the dirty carpet, now soaked with coffee and powder sugar. He was still conscious but his muscles were sending crazy jangled signals to every nerve in his body. Sam stepped quickly back as he twitched and flopped. A banked carp could’ve moved better.

His eyes, the only part of him still able to obey brain commands, glared at her in confusion while he tried to curse. At least, she was pretty sure he was cursing. His speech was too garbled to really tell.

“I warned you, Mr. Granger. Now look at the mess you’ve made. I’ll have to charge Aunt Claudia extra to pay for the damages. And we’re going to be late getting on the road.” She affected a sigh of patient resignation to cover her acute case of nerves. Boy, would he be pissed when he found out how he’d been set up. Too bad, but all the better to get thoughts of sex out of her head. This charming little encounter definitely cured her of that. It had been a close call.

Sam had only been forced to zap a few of her patients and none with a maximum charge before. Then again, none had been his size. As she waited for him to come around, hoping it would not take too long, she soaked some towels with warm water and tried to clean him up as much as possible. A burn patient covered with powder sugar and reeking of stale coffee might just raise a few questions if anyone got close enough to notice.