Susan Carroll - Parker And The Gypsy

“How cozy,” Mike muttered, his fingers drumming out an impatient tattoo on the armrest. Between the minibar and a seat large enough to be a bed, Storm really had it made. Make-out city if the rumors about Storm were true. An unwelcome image surged into Mike’s head no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

So was it here in the back seat that Storm had seduced Darcy, or had he deemed her worth the cost of a hotel room?

The thought no longer had the power to burn Mike with a jealous rage, but the cold ashes of his hate for Storm remained.

Even if it hadn’t been for the bad blood between them over Darcy, Mike feared his dislike of Storm would have still been intense. There was just something about the man and his mocking arrogance that brought out in Mike a side of himself he didn’t like. Storm’s wealth and breeding was like a slap in the face, a constant reminder to Mike of who he was and where he came from. The son of a no-account gambler and petty con man from the wrong side of the tracks. Little Mikey Parker, the throwaway kid, worth more dead than alive even at the tender age of twelve.

Mike felt familiar bitterness chum through his gut and mumbled, “The hell with this.” He reached for the door only to discover it was locked and there was no sign of a release button. Storm chose that moment to end his conversation. Snapping the phone shut and tossing it on top of the minibar, he turned toward Mike with an urbane smile.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Parker,” he said in a low purring voice. “It was good of you to agree to meet with me on such short notice.”

Mike shot him a glare. “It’s not as though I had a helluva lot of choice.”

Storm hunched one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Mr. George is a very devoted employee. But you have my apologies if he was a little...overzealous in carrying out my commands. I trust I didn’t drag you away from anything too important.” Storm arched one thin black brow as his gaze roved over Mike’s disheveled appearance. “May I offer you anything? A drink perhaps? Or a comb and razor?”

“No thanks, Storm. If I wanted to slit your throat, I would’ve brought my own.”

A glimmer of amusement appeared in Storm’s hooded green eyes. “Do I still detect a note of hostility, Mr. Parker? After all this time, I would have thought the little misunderstanding between us long forgotten.” After a brief hesitation, Storm asked, “How is Dulcie?”

Mike’s jaw clenched. The son of a bitch didn’t even remember her name. “Darcy is doing just fine for all I know. She’s probably living quite well down there in Florida with all the money she managed to clean out of me after the divorce.”

“Pity you didn’t think to have a prenuptial agreement,” Storm drawled. “You could have hardly expected to have formed a permanent relationship with a woman you found in a cake.”

“And you’d know all about permanent relationships, wouldn’t you, Storm?” Mike said with a sneer. “Didn’t I just see in the papers that you finished up your third divorce? In most ball games I’ve ever heard of, three strikes and you’re out.”

For a moment, Storm’s imperturbable mask slipped and his mouth tightened with what might have been pain if he’d been anything other than the coldhearted man he was. “Perhaps it would be better if I come right to the point.”

“Oh? You’ve got a reason for wasting my time? I’m dying to hear it.”

Storm ignored the sarcasm and went on. “I have reason to believe that you may soon be receiving a visit from a woman seeking the services of a detective. A woman from Aurora Falls named Sara—Sara—” Storm frowned slightly as he groped for the name.

Mike gaped at him. He didn’t know quite what he’d been expecting this little tête à tête to be about, but it certainly wasn’t this. He was so stunned, he forgot his usual caution about volunteering information and supplied, “Holyfield. Sara Holyfield.”

Storm’s eyes narrowed. “So the young lady has already been to see you.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Mike was hardly paying attention.

He still couldn’t fathom the connection. Sara and Storm? It was like trying to imagine an angel chatting with the devil over a friendly cup of tea.

“You know Sara Holyfield?” he demanded in utter disbelief.

Storm merely raised his brows. “Let’s just say I know of her.”

“You surprise me, Storm. I thought hardheaded businessmen like you confined your money dealings to this world. What’ve you been trying to do, find a way to take it with you?”

When Storm’s brow furrowed in confusion, Mike took a keen pleasure in needling him. “Looks like your sources are holding out on you. Didn’t they tell you? Sara’s a selfprofessed psychic. Some kind of a medium.” Mike dropped his voice to an exaggerated spooky hush. “The lady deals in ghosts, Storm.”

For a moment Storm looked taken aback, then irritated. “That particular aspect of Miss Holyfield’s life doesn’t interest me. It’s her reason for calling upon you that concerns me. She came to ask you to take on a missing-persons case, didn’t she? To search for a man named...John Patrick.”

“What if she did? What’s it to you?”

“Simply this.” Storm’s reply was soft and chilling. “I don’t want him found.”

Mike stared at him, astonished. As though he feared he had been too brusque, Storm hurried on. “I don’t know what induced this Miss Holyfield to meddle in this affair, but I assure you she has gotten in over her head.”

So she had, if Sara was inadvertently doing something to trample on the mighty Storm’s toes. Oh, angel, what have you stumbled into here? Mike wondered. Though he maintained his nonchalant pose, all his detecting instincts went on full alert.

“If you know something that would be to my client’s benefit, I think you’d better tell me, Storm,” Mike said, shoving to the back of his mind the fact that he had thrown Sara out of his office and told her to go get herself a good shrink.

“All your client needs to know is that her quest to find John Patrick should be dropped. You should advise her to do so, and if she refuses to listen, you’d do well to back off from this case yourself, Mr. Parker.”

“Is that some kind of a threat, Storm?”

“Consider it an offer. I would be prepared to triple your usual rates if you could persuade Miss Holyfield to abandon this foolish search.”

“And what makes you think you can buy me like a cheap suit?”

Storm’s insolent green eyes raked over Mike, from his scuffed sneakers to his T-shirt “Because, my dear Mr. Parker, I could probably calculate your entire net worth to the nearest penny. And I fear the sum would likely be in pennies.”

Mike had been told that he was worth nothing in far more blunt ways but none had ever stung worse than Storm’s elegant way of expressing it.

He told Storm what to do with himself in a short but pithy terms and reached for the door handle, only to curse in frustration. He’d forgotten he was virtually a prisoner in Storm’s little luxury-bound den on wheels.

“I’m sorry if my lack of tact offends you, Mr. Parker. Despite your dislike of me, I bear you no ill will,” Storm said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “I admire your talents and feel they are completely wasted trying to run some two-bit detective agency. I told you that years ago when I first tried to hire you to run security for my casino.”

“Well, maybe you should have spent more time trying to tempt me and less time tempting my wife,” Mike snarled. “I wasn’t interested in working for you then, Storm. And I’m not now. So I suggest you unlock this damned door before I find my own way out of here, like smashing that fancy little computer of yours through one of the windows.”