He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
— P. G. Wodehouse
Grady Sullivan was sitting on the bed when she came out of the bathroom, a huge white towel wrapped, sarong-style, around her body, another small towel turban on her head.
Annie liked the way he looked at her. She also liked the way she’d quickly recovered from her shock, hopefully in time not to let him know she’d been rattled by his unexpected appearance. And she was particularly glad the Peevers household had sprung for very large bath sheets, and that she had actually used one of them instead of walking out of the bathroom stark naked.
If you looked hard enough, Annie had always thought, there was always some sort of silver lining. But now to get Grady Sullivan out of her room, before she started thinking he was it!
“I’m sorry,” she said as she loosened the towel around her head, turned her back to him so that she could see him in the mirror above the dresser, and began rubbing at her wet hair. “We only receive visitors on Tuesdays. But please do leave your card, and thank you so much for calling.”
“Not funny. You didn’t lock your door,” Grady said. Growled, actually. “I could have been anyone.”
“Yes, you could have, couldn’t you? But, instead of anyone, it was you. So sad,” Annie said, now combing through her hair, then pushing at it so that the natural curl asserted itself. “Next time, could you try to be Harrison Ford? Now that could prove interesting.”
She watched his reflection in the mirror; watched as he clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyelids. She suddenly wanted to know how far she could push him, and how he’d push back. It was probably an irrational thought, but then, when had she started being rational? Certainly not today.
“Did you sneak in here to show me your... gun?” Annie asked him, doing her best to make her voice low, give her question the air of a double entendre. She didn’t think her femme fatale act would actually have him running, screaming, from the room. But she certainly was interested in how he’d respond.
He didn’t disappoint. The man was a gentleman. He probably hated that about himself, but he was a gentleman. She was safe with him.
In some ways, that was a damned pity.
A slight, embarrassed flush had already become visible under Grady’s tan. He was a knockout. If he ever smiled at her, she’d probably melt into a whimpering puddle at his feet. Not that there was any great chance of that happening.
Grady stood up, glared at her. “Miss Kendall—Annie,” he began, clearly trying to control his temper. “We have to talk.”
She shook her head, her three-day-old very good cut arranging her hair around her face. “No, we don’t have to talk. Why? Because I know what you’re going to say.”
“Then say it for me, so that I know you know,” Grady prodded, leaning his long frame up against one of the posts of the four-poster bed. He was definitely the kind of guy who liked to lounge. An easy, laid-back kind of guy. A slow mover, but with sharp, intelligent eyes. And a sarcastic mouth.
“You’re going to say that Archie’s bonkers, his idea is bonkers, and I’m bonkers for being here. Right?”
“Close. Actually, I was first going to ask you if you think it was one of the heirs, or Archie himself, who doctored the orange juice.”
Annie had gathered up fresh underclothes and was about to step into the walk-in closet, to get dressed. But Grady’s words stopped her. “Archie? You think he’s been poisoning himself? Why would he do that?”
“Because I have a deep and twisted mind? Because I remember reading about tricks like that in my handy-dandy private-investigator handbook? Maybe, but no. Actually, Archie did suggest it himself, remember,” Grady said, still leaning against the bedpost, his arms now crossed, looking as if he was prepared to watch as she dropped the towel and stepped into her undies.
She didn’t think so.
“No,” Annie corrected, but not with as much conviction as she would have liked. “He said his heirs might try to say he poisoned the orange juice himself.”
Grady finally pushed himself away from the bedpost, so now he was even taller as he stood there in the suddenly small room, looking down at her. She put up a hand, covered her cleavage. “I know what he said. And, to tell you the truth, that’s what gave me the idea. I think he just made up the orange-juice story this morning, just in case I tried to quit again, which I did. Besides,” he added, and now he did smile, and now Annie did feel her knees begin to liquefy, “nobody would take the time to slowly kill Archie over time. Much more likely they’d blow him up, and this mausoleum with him. Bang!”
Annie blinked, feeling herself becoming mesmerized by Grady’s smile, Grady’s eyes, Grady’s overwhelming presence. And then, shaking her head once more, it hit her. “That old bastard! He did fake it, didn’t he? Trying to hold on to you, trying for my pity. I have half a mind to... to...”
“The word you’re searching for is leave, I believe,” Grady supplied when she came to a fuming halt.
“No! That’s the last thing I’d do! But you might want to add my name to the list of suspects if Archie’s found with his neck in a knot anytime soon.”
She hadn’t had time to wonder what Grady’s eyes would look like if he ever got angry, but now she was seeing it firsthand. His eyes sparkled, his lips thinned, and he seemed to grow another six inches right in front of her. “You idiot! Don’t you understand what’s going on here?”
Annie forced herself not to back up a step, or to remember that she was naked under the towel. It was so much easier to feel intimidated, she suddenly realized, when one wasn’t dressed. “I know exactly what’s going on here, Grady Sullivan. And don’t you call me an idiot! Now, stand right there—right there!—while I get dressed.”
He opened his mouth, probably to yell at her again, but she didn’t give him the chance. She just hugged her new silk underwear to her, pulled open the door to the walk-in closet, and then slammed it behind her.
The stuffed plush rabbit was sitting on the floor inside the closet, and Annie swore it was frowning at her. “Oh, sure. Everyone’s a critic. But believe me, I do know what I’m doing. Sort of,” she whispered, picking up the thing and placing it facing the corner.
Three minutes later, after misbuttoning her blouse in her anger, she stepped out of the closet to see that now the man was sitting on the side of her bed. Almost lying on the bed, actually, on his side, one elbow bent beneath his head.
“Just make yourself comfortable, why don’t you,” she said through gritted teeth, and suddenly wished she hadn’t given up smoking three months earlier. She really could use a smoke. She probably could even chew one if she didn’t have a match.
“I thought I would, thank you, as I believe you’re about to tell me a fairy tale,” Grady said, and nearly purred like a contented tomcat.
Annie had a sudden flash, thinking how nice it would be to neuter the bastard. But, even angry, she knew that would be a terrible waste.
Besides, she had been about to tell him a fairy tale, another great big fib to go with the rest. But that could get confusing, so she stuck to as much of the truth as she could. “Look, I saw the ad, I went on the interview, and I took the job. One month, driving Archie’s kids up the walls for fun and profit. Archie’s fun, my profit. There’s nothing dishonest about it, because I most certainly am not going to be written into his will, or anything like that. And it is not, repeat, not going to be dangerous. Archie’s blowing smoke on that, and we both know it. We’re both here for Archie’s fun, only you’re probably getting paid better.”
She watched as Grady obviously did some quick mental calculations. “With overhead, paying my assistant, who’s here with me—her name’s Maisie; you’ll meet her later, I’m sure—and figuring in the taxes I’m betting you aren’t planning on paying... yeah, I think I’m still getting the better end of the deal. Sorry about that.”
“I insisted on a 1099,” Annie grumbled under her breath, pretty sure that the best con artists didn’t concern themselves with paying Uncle Sam, but curiously unwilling to have Grady Sullivan believe her dishonest.
“What? What was that?” Grady asked, sitting up. “I had one hand on my ear. I couldn’t have heard that right. You’re going to report the fifty thousand as income?”
Annie slipped her feet into the heels she’d had on earlier, then picked up her brush and began pulling it through her hair once more. It was far from dry, but if she didn’t try to tame it while it was damp, she always ended up looking like a startled poodle. The only people who thought naturally curly hair was nifty didn’t have naturally curly hair.
“Of course I’m going to report the money. I’m a... I think Archie called it some kind of contract worker, or something like that. All perfectly legal.”
Grady was behind her again, standing right behind her. Because he was so much taller, she couldn’t see his face in the mirror, but she had a pretty good idea that he was smiling. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Pack your bags, Annie Kendall, and get the hell out of here. You don’t belong with these sharks. A 1099 form? Damn, just when you think you’ve heard it all...”
She bent her knees and slipped out from under his hands, not stopping until she was standing on the opposite side of the room. “I could really learn to despise you,” she told him, not at all honestly, but hopefully he didn’t know that.
“That’s fine with me, as long as you despise me from, say, Bermuda,” Grady said, stabbing his fingers through his hair in a pretty good imitation of near-total distraction. “Because, in case you haven’t thought about it, maybe Archie’s orange juice was spiked. Maybe he’s not kidding, and he really believes, for good reason, that one of his nearest and dearest is crossing the line, to become one of his nearest and deadliest. Hell, I’ve only known the guy for two days, and I’ve already been tempted to smother him with his own pillows. He’s not exactly a warm, fuzzy, grandfatherly type, now is he?”
“I like him,” Annie said honestly. “No, really,” she added when Grady snorted, “I really like him. You know, at the bottom of it, he’s just a scared old man waiting to die. That can’t be fun.”
Grady shot out one arm toward her, as if introducing her to some invisible audience. “And there she is, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “this year’s Miss Gullibility. Let’s give her a big hand, everybody. It takes a lot of work to be this naive.”
“Oh, put a sock in it, will you?” Annie returned to the mirror and picked up her lipstick, then put it down again without using it because her hands were trembling and she’d probably end up looking like Bozo the Clown. “You know,” she said, turning to look at Grady, “you’re reacting just the way Archie wants you to react. You believe he’s in some sort of danger.”
“No, I don’t believe that. I believe, Miss Kendall,” he said coldly, “that if anyone is in danger around here, it’s you. Archie’s going to wave you under his kids’ noses like a red flag, just to see what happens. Not just to get his jollies, Miss Kendall. If he really believes he’s in danger, and if he really is in danger, he wants to see if anyone makes an attempt on your life. Why don’t you chew on that one for a few minutes, Miss Kendall, before you tell me how much you like the old bastard. Or do the words sacrificial lamb mean nothing to you?”
“Name’s Annie,” she mumbled, averting his gaze. “Do you really think one of his children would try to hurt me?”
“No, I think they’d try to kill you, if Archie convinces them he’s thinking of rewriting his will, giving his one billion plus to you, and cutting them out. The question you should be asking yourself, Annie, is very simple. Do you feel lucky?”
“That’s from an old Clint Eastwood movie. Couldn’t you at least be original?” Annie said, trying to dismiss the sudden fluttering in her stomach. She wanted to talk to Poppy. She needed to talk to Poppy.
Grady rubbed a hand across his mouth, probably to keep from swearing in her presence. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “how about this for original? And harebrained, but I have to work with what I’ve got. Let’s become partners.”
Annie looked at him; goggled at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, playing for time, “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Would you please repeat that?”
Another hand rub, this time over his jaw. Another split-finger stab through his hair. “Don’t push, Annie, this is bad enough. But if you insist on staying, and I can’t leave—which I can’t, thanks to that damned orange juice—then we’re going to have to start cooperating with each other.”
“Meaning?” she asked, silently conceding that, okay, maybe the man had a point. Wasn’t there supposed to be safety in numbers?
“Meaning,” he said, pointing a finger toward her chest, “that you tell me anything suspicious, anything that happens that you don’t think is quite right. Meaning that you do what I say, when I say, and don’t ask questions. Meaning, if at any time, in my judgment, you’d be safer somewhere else, you’ll go.”
“That’s not partners,” Annie pointed out. “I already have one boss, remember? I don’t need two.”
“Right! And I’m not going to be your boss. You need a keeper, Annie Kendall, and that’s what you’re going to get. You and me, stuck together like glue for the next month. I protect you, you listen to me, and, together, we watch Archie and all the little Peeverses. Understand now?”
It was a good idea. It had been his idea, which was probably why she felt this need to object, but Annie knew it was also the best idea. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “You and me, together. But only if you let me see your gun.”
* * *
The bedroom door in the adjoining room slammed so hard it shook the lamp on Maisie’s bedside table. She popped another butter cream into her mouth, then slid off the bed and opened the connecting doors. Clearly the boss was back.
“It went well?” she asked, watching Grady storm around the bedroom, probably looking for something relatively inexpensive to smash.
“She’s impossible!” He picked up a figurine of a shepherdess with a small lamb at her feet, hefted it, then put it down. “Stupid, ignorant... infuriating woman!”
“Let me rephrase that. It didn’t go well?” Maisie prodded, enjoying herself very much.
Grady unbuttoned his shirt, sending one of the buttons sailing halfway across the room as he ripped out of the sleeves, mashed the expensive shirt into a ball, then slammed it into a corner. He had to get dressed for dinner. He had to go make nice-nice with the Peeverses again. He had to sit across the table from Annie Kendall and not give in to the impulse to bean her with a dinner roll.
“Yes, it went badly,” he said, plopping himself down on the side of the bed. “And the hell of it is that I don’t know if I’m overreacting or if she really could be in danger. I just know I have to stick to her like glue for the next month. I think I’d rather sky-dive without a parachute. Come to think of it, that’s probably what I’m doing. Damn her!”
Maisie crawled up on the opposite side of the bed and walked, on her knees, across the mattress. “Now, honey, you just sit here a minute and let me rub those shoulders,” she said, putting her hands on either side of his neck. “Oooh, feeling a little tense, are we?”
Grady closed his eyes, leaned back against her soft bosom, and let Maisie rub his shoulders, her red-tipped fingers digging into his muscles, easing some of his tenseness. “Damn, Maisie, what would I do without you?”
There was a knock on the door, swiftly followed by the opening of that same door. Annie Kendall stepped inside, looked toward the bed, stopped short. “Oh.”
“Hiya, honey,” Maisie said, still rubbing Grady’s shoulders. “You must be the newest nutcase. I’m Maisie, and Grady here was just saying he couldn’t live without me. Isn’t that sweet? Now, what can we do for you, honey?”
Annie looked at Grady. “You said... you said you’d show me your gun...”
“I said later on I’d show you my gun,” Grady reminded her, very much aware he was stripped bare to his waist, very much aware of what Annie must be thinking. “And did anyone ever tell you that it’s knock, then wait for an answer? Not knock and walk in?”
Annie’s face looked small and pinched, her grey eyes bruised, hurt. “I... I’ll try to remember that,” she said, then looked at Maisie. “So nice to meet you, Miss, um... Maisie,” she mumbled, then quickly left, closing the door behind her.
“Well, that went well, don’t you think, honey?” Maisie asked just a moment before shepherdess and lamb shattered against the wall. “Oh, okay, honey,” Maisie added. “Maybe not.”