Susan Carroll - Parker And The Gypsy

His angry gaze collided with Storm’s and held for a moment. Then Storm’s heavy lids drifted down, veiling his eyes. Reaching to his side, he depressed a button and the door lock clicked open.

Mike shoved the door open and thrust himself out of the car, but before he even had time to straighten, Storm’s silky voice echoed from the cavernous recesses of the limo.

“Parker, one last word of caution. You’d be wise to forget about taking on this case.”

“I’ve never been noted for my wisdom. Have a nice day, Mr. Storm.” Mike slammed the door closed and stalked off down the sidewalk without looking back. He charged upstream through a pack of stupid tourists who didn’t seem to know that if they wanted to find the boardwalk, they had to head toward the ocean, not away from it.

Crossing against the light, Mike was nearly grazed by a honking taxi and its cursing driver, but he continued blindly on for several more blocks before he managed to cool down.

When he finally paused to draw breath, he was more irritated with himself than Storm. Irritated that even after all this time, he’d still let the guy get to him.

“What a morning,” he muttered. First the queen of the gypsies and now the casino king, the two of them bizarrely connected by a ghost and a missing chump named John Patrick. It was like stumbling into the plot of an old mystery movie after you’d missed the whole first reel.

But it wasn’t his mystery, Mike reminded himself. Then why had he allowed Storm to believe he’d taken on Sara as a client? The answer was simple. For the first time since he’d met the guy, the smooth-polished Mr. Storm had actually seemed capable of breaking into a sweat like any ordinary Joe. Whether he was alive or dead, this John Patrick person obviously posed some sort of threat to Storm, which meant he had something to hide—a fact that didn’t surprise Mike at all.

Nobody pulled down the kind of millions and deals that Storm had and did it completely honestly. That was a bitter truth Mike had learned long ago from watching the antics of his own father. The only difference between Storm and Mike’s old man, was that Storm appeared to be the better gambler.

But maybe his luck was about to run out. Mike’s mouth set into a grim line. He’d owed Storm one for a very long time, and not just because of that business with Darcy. Even more because Mike had an innate dislike of all cheats and con men. And behind that Ivy League manner and prominent Philadelphia family background, Mike had always had a gut feeling that Xavier Storm would prove to be the biggest fraud of all.

The more he thought about it, the more nosing around into this Patrick business began to appeal to Mike.

Are you sure that’s what’s appealing to you? his inner voice tormented. Or the excuse to see a certain big-eyed, curly-haired angel of a blonde again?

“No way!” Mike blurted out so loud that he startled several teenagers passing by. But despite his denial, he was once again overpowered by that feeling of Sara melting in his arms.

He was quick to shut it down with a vehement shake of his head. Despite the sizzling kiss they’d shared, he didn’t want to be anywhere near a woman who read tea leaves, who might want to try reading him. If he decided to go looking for John Patrick, he’d do it on his own, Mike resolved. “I can do just fine without the psychic services of Miss Sara Holyfield.”

Long after Mike Parker had slammed his way out of the back seat, the black limo continued to idle at the curbside. His shoulders slumped, Xavier Storm leaned forward, bracing his head upon his hands in a display of weariness he never allowed anyone else to see.

Waiting for some instructions from his employer, Storm’s driver eventually became concerned and lowered the tinted glass himself. Twisting around in his seat, Mr. George glanced anxiously back at Storm. “You okay, boss? You get that business with Parker all taken care of?”

With a long sigh, Storm straightened. “No, I handled the situation rather badly. I fear I overplayed my hand, Mr. George.”

A mistake Xavier Storm rarely made, but his usual icy calm had been badly shaken ever since he’d stumbled across the advertisement in the papers and realized that someone was looking for John Patrick. Why? After all these years? When he’d recovered from his initial shock, he initiated a few careful inquiries after the person who’d placed the ad, only to discover the situation had already grown worse.

Only yesterday morning, Miss Holyfield had cheerfully informed the newspaper she was discontinuing her ad in favor of a more direct approach. She was off to Atlantic City to hire herself a famous investigator, Mr. Michael Parker.

Storm’s mouth twitched into a grim smile that held little humor. “Of all the detectives in New Jersey, why did that foolish girl have to drag Parker into this?” he murmured.

“I dunno, boss.” Mr. George’s deep-set eyes darkened with concern. “But what are you going to do? If Parker and the Holyfield girl succeed in finding the truth about John Patrick...” the chauffeur trailed off.

“If they succeed, Mr. George?” Storm’s face set in taut lines, his voice assuming its customary dangerous purr. “Well, we will simply have to make certain that they don’t.”

Three

Mike guided his lipstick red Mustang convertible down the shaded streets of Aurora Falls. It was definitely a one-fast-food-joint type of little burg with Yuppie pretensions. Even the quickie mart sported a blasted pink-and-white awning.

As he turned the corner onto a street that looked suspiciously like one he’d already been down, his radio speaker blared out the sound of the Eagles warning him to take it easy. Probably way too loud for Dullsville, so Mike leaned over and switched the cassette tape off.

He brushed aside a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. The afternoon sun baked down through the open top of the convertible, making Mike curse his choice of apparel—dress blue jeans, his best T-shirt topped off with a navy sports jacket. Mike Parker, P.I. in his professional mode. Ready, perhaps, to make a better impression on Miss Sara Holyfield.

No way! Mike scowled his denial, quick and sharp, that his spiffed-up appearance had anything to do with Sara.

Oh, yeah? a voice inside him taunted. And so who’s the close shave, the freshly trimmed hair and the liberal dose of Mr. Manly cologne supposed to be for? The ghost?

Mike was beginning to find his inner voice damned annoying, especially when it was right. Okay, maybe he had given a thought or two to Sara when he’d spent that extra five minutes in front of the mirror this morning. If he wanted the woman’s cooperation, he had a few fences to mend with her after the way he’d treated her yesterday. Making a pass at her, flinging out sarcastic insults, chucking her out of his office.

When he saw her again, he’d be lucky if she didn’t tell him to go to hell. If he hoped to get any information out of her regarding this Patrick business, then he was going to have to turn on a little charm, a pretty scarce commodity with him.

But first, he was going to have to find her. After Sara had left yesterday, he tossed all the information he’d taken down about her straight into the trash. And wouldn’t you know it? It would be the one day Rosa would creep into work and decide to make herself useful by tidying up his office. Sara’s address and phone number were now buried somewhere in a city Dumpster.

But it shouldn’t be too difficult for Mike to locate her in a small town like this, should it? After all, he was supposed to be a detective. Squeaking through on the yellow end of a traffic light, Mike whipped the Mustang onto what he presumed to be Aurora Fall’s main street.