Naughty Neighbor Part 11

She was paralyzed. A wild animal caught in the beam of a searchlight, held captive by his fingers.

Louisa could barely breathe for the sensations pulsing through her body. He knew all her secret pleasures. He knew how and where to touch and kiss. And he knew the words she liked to hear...words of endearment, words of pa.s.sion.

He rummaged through the freezer and pulled out a bag of homemade raviolis he'd gotten from the Italian deli on Connecticut. He set a pot of water to boil and scrounged a box of crushed, sun-dried tomatoes from the over-the-counter cupboard.

"You're really very domestic," Louisa said. She was at the table, wearing his big terry robe, feeling very lazy. She was resigned to the fact that she had no willpower when it came to the s.e.xual attraction between them and had reached the conclusion that it wouldn't hurt to enjoy it.

He looked around the apartment and laughed out loud. She was right. He'd become domestic. If someone had said that to him ten years earlier, he'd have broken his nose.

"I used to live like Kurt."

"What happened?"

"You know how some people find religion late in life? I found middle cla.s.s." He threw a frozen ravioli in Spike's direction, and the cat attacked it.

Louisa didn't want to burst his bubble, but he wasn't exactly middle-cla.s.s. She was on intimate terms with middle-cla.s.s and knew for a fact that owning a luxury sports car and a three-thousand-dollar tux was not typical middle-cla.s.s.

She supposed he meant he'd found middle-cla.s.s values, but she wasn't so sure of that, either. The men in her parents' neighborhood didn't feed their cat stick for dinner, and didn't hang out with wiretappers. She amended that last part to illegal wiretappers. After all, it was Was.h.i.+ngton.

He dropped a handful of ice cubes into a goblet, poured cola over it, and gave the drink to Louisa. He was still feeling the aftershocks of their lovemaking-violent ripples of affection that grabbed him in the gut and sent panicky messages of love and commitment to his brain. He wasn't ready to deal with messages of commitment, so he got himself a cold beer and took a long pull on the bottle.

"Tell me more about being different."

She tried for casual reserve but had no luck. The excitement bubbled out at the first opportunity to discuss her new plans. "I want to return to school. I want to be a lawyer."

It caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected a career change, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. He'd gone through a similar metamorphosis. He ran it through his mind one more time and nodded. "You'd make a terrific lawyer."

"You really think so?"

"Yup. I think you should go for it."

She'd badly wanted someone to say it, to encourage her. She flashed him a brilliant smile and felt her eyes mist over for a split second. She lowered her lashes and sipped her drink, embarra.s.sed that she'd almost burst into tears at the thought of becoming a lawyer. It was amazing how such a powerful dream could be buried so deep that it had been all but forgotten.

He saw the joy and the emotion and had a hard time not crying along with her. He gave himself a fast lecture on macho behavior, took a hard breath, and steadied his voice.

"Okay, so it's settled," he said. "You're going to be a lawyer. What else is different?"

"I'm more a.s.sertive." She shook her finger at him. "Don't try to push me around. I won't stand for it."

He pretended to be offended.

Louisa ignored him. "I want to be treated like an equal in this pig project."

"You want to be an equal to Kurt? Honey, even I don't want to be an equal to Kurt."

"You know what I mean."

He knew exactly what she meant. She didn't want him being overprotective of her. It was an unreasonable demand. He could more easily stop breathing than stop wanting to keep her safe.

"I understand your point of view," he said. "From now on you're one of the boys." It was an outright lie, and he didn't feel the least bit guilty about making it. There was more to love than truth, he told himself. There was survival.

Chapter 8.

Louisa didn't like working for Stu Maislin. The atmosphere in his suite of offices was oppressive, his administrative a.s.sistant looked like a bookie, and she suspected her phone was bugged by both Kurt and Maislin. It was like living in a goldfish bowl filled with piranha.

She was on her third day on the job, and she was still wearing a wire at Pete's insistence. He was outside, somewhere, listening to her every word. To say she had no secrets was an understatement.

"I wonder if I unplugged the iron?" she said into her chest. "Hope it doesn't burn the house down. And did you remember to close the front door after you went back in for my briefcase? I bet the house isn't locked up."

She smiled, knowing she drove Pete crazy with these mutterings. It was the only fun part of her workday.

"Only kidding," she said. "I'm pretty sure I unplugged the iron. I don't think it would burst into flames, anyway, because I had it on a low setting because I was ironing my red silk teddy. You remember that teddy? The one I wore the night before last? The one with the wide, easy-lovin' legs? I wore that teddy to the office today because I thought I might take an extra long lunch hour and"-she crinkled a paper, simulating static-"and when I was done with you, you'd be sitting funny for the rest of the afternoon."

She allowed herself another smile and turned to the stack of mail on her desk, thinking he now had something to occupy his mind while she did some work. She was halfway through the mail when a check slipped through her fingers. It had been delivered earlier by a bonded messenger. Not an unusual occurrence. She'd signed for it and placed it in the priority bin. It was to Maislin, personally. And it was against a claim on his homeowner's insurance, to the tune of slightly less than half a million. She did a silent whistle. It was a lot of money, and it piqued her curiosity.

She copied the claim number, the amount, the name of the adjuster and his phone number, and went down the hall to the public phone. She dialed the adjuster and introduced herself. She was new, she explained. She needed to be brought up to speed on Mr. Maislin's claim.

Pete was at the water fountain behind her when she hung up. "Well?" he asked.

"Couldn't wait until I got off work?"

"I was intrigued."

"Maislin's house was broken into five days before the pig incident. A very expensive pair of diamond earrings, a choker, and two rings were stolen. The thief also took several stamps which were extremely valuable. They were insured for big bucks."

"Never found?"

"Never found," Louisa said.

"You think the pig could have eaten them?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"I'm serious. Years ago, before Reuters sent me to South America, I did an article on insurance fraud. It's common. If you're a big roller and times get tough, you fake a burglary. That way you get paid twice. You collect the insurance, and then you turn around and you sell the family jewels under the table. Suppose Maislin needed money. Suppose he had Bucky steal the stuff and Bucky was supposed to feed it to Petunia. Petunia was being s.h.i.+pped to Amsterdam. Maybe there was a contact in Amsterdam, waiting to fence the jewelry and stamps."

"The pig wouldn't have any problem with customs."

"Exactly."

"Sounds pretty farfetched. How were they supposed to get the jewelry and stamps out of the pig."

"That's the beauty of the plan," Pete said. "The jewelry and stamps would come out all by themselves. In one end, out the other."

"Ugh."

"It would have been brilliant if the pig hadn't wandered off."

"So now they're going to try it again," Louisa said.

"Precisely, Watson."

"I don't want to be Watson. Watson was fat and dopey. I want to be Holmes. You can be Watson."

"You're never satisfied."

"This is my new a.s.sertive personality," she said.

"Maybe we could take turns being a.s.sertive. You can be a.s.sertive on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and alternate Sat.u.r.days. I can be a.s.sertive on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday."

"It's worth considering. I suppose I need to get back to work and keep my ear to the ground. We don't want to miss any of this swiney intrigue."

Pete watched her return to Maislin's office. Now that the mystery might be solved, he wasn't sure he wanted to continue. There were worse things in the world than insurance fraud. It was white-collar crime, and no one would be surprised to find Maislin guilty of such a thing. In fact, people sort of expected it of him. It was almost his most outstanding job skill.

Rationalization, Pete admitted. It all came back to Louisa. He didn't want her involved in a sting operation. Was he willing to let Maislin off the hook to keep Louisa safe? Yes. He was a rotten patriot, but there it was. Louisa was his first priority. Not that it mattered. She'd sunk her teeth into this, and he didn't think she was going to let go.

They stopped by Kurt's apartment on the way home from work. They brought a pizza-double cheese with the works-and a six-pack of beer. They filled Kurt in on the insurance claim.

"Hard to believe Maislin needs money," Louisa said. "He has a big house, expensive cars and clothes, an extensive portfolio. He's a millionaire several times over."

"On paper," Pete said. "I checked him out. He has serious cash-flow problems."

Kurt chugged a beer. "And an even more serious drug problem. I've been picking it up on the tap. He doesn't get all that aggressive energy from eating a balanced diet. The man runs on speed." He looked over at Louisa.

"I know what it is. Are you sure?"

Kurt nodded. "He's made two buys this week alone."

Louisa felt sick. She might be a little jaded when it came to glorifying a senator or a congressman, but she believed in the American political system. She'd been on the Hill long enough to know the vast majority of the elected officials took their responsibility seriously and worked long and hard. Sometimes a man got carried away with his own importance or succ.u.mbed to the pressure of the job, and a scandal ensued. She was always sad to see that happen.

In this case, there was little sadness for Maislin. She'd had a chance to observe him firsthand and had come to thoroughly dislike him and distrust him.

Pete saw the color leave her face. He covered her hand with his. "You okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. I'm furious. How could he betray the voters like this? How could he be so stupid? So arrogantly corrupt as to put himself above the law?"

Pete grinned. "She's going to be a lawyer someday," he said to Kurt. "She's going to be dynamite."

"A lawyer?" Kurt said. "No kidding? Hey, that's terrific."

Louisa blushed. "It's actually only in the planning stage. I haven't even taken my LSATs."

"Don't worry about the LSATs. Pete and me'll help you study. And if that doesn't work, I can get into their computer. I can give you any grade you want."

She was touched. She was also horrified, but she told herself Kurt's intentions were good. Maybe Kurt wasn't such a bad guy. Just a tad misdirected. She took another look at him. Who was she kidding? He might have a good heart, but his brain had mental deviant engraved on the frontal lobes. Kurt was frighteningly weird.

Pete watched the play of emotions on Louisa's face and could hardly keep from laughing out loud. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He'd gone through the same thought process many times himself and had always reached the same conclusion about Kurt. In South America he'd worked with entire units of Kurt types-bottom-line personalities. The end always justifies the means. It was a convenient philosophy to take into combat.

Louisa slid another tray of chocolate chip cookies into the oven and set the timer. At four-thirty in the afternoon the sky was gun-metal gray and the outside air cold enough to make her kitchen window frost. Inside, the house was filled with the warm smell of freshly baked cookies and melted chocolate.

Louisa leaned against the counter and wondered why she was feeling so cranky. It was Sat.u.r.day. She had the whole day to herself. She had her life under control. She had exciting plans for the future. She'd gotten her way with the pig project. She was s.e.xually satisfied. Why wasn't she happy?

She looked up at the ceiling. The source of all discontent, she thought. She was in love with Pete Streeter, and she didn't like it. He was all wrong for her. In fact, he was probably all wrong for anybody. And she loved him. She rolled her eyes and flapped her arms. Love was stupid. It made no sense. After so many years of being so careful, she'd gone and fallen in love with Pete Streeter. Go figure.

She nibbled on a warm cookie. She was going to ignore the "L" word, of course. She absolutely was not going to say it out loud, and she especially wasn't going to say it out loud to Pete. She was certain this was a temporary condition. All she had to do was wait it out.

Pete could smell the cookies baking downstairs in Louisa's oven. She was torturing him, he thought. She knew he had to work, and since early morning she'd been producing the most distracting sounds and smells...sighs and stretches; rustles of clothing, s.n.a.t.c.hes of tunes hummed between ch.o.r.es, and now the cookies. He looked at the computer screen in front of him and swore out loud. He was doing rewrites and e-mailing them to the coast, because he didn't want to leave Louisa. Ordinarily, he'd be in L.A. by now, gearing up to go on location. In a few days they were going to start shooting, and he was going to have to be on call for daily page changes. It wasn't the sort of thing he felt comfortable doing long distance.

Unfortunately, Louisa refused to give up the pig investigation. They'd tapped Maislin's home phone and tagged his car with a transmitter. They'd alerted the insurance company and were working with a fraud investigator. In his opinion, Louisa was superfluous. The insurance investigator didn't share that opinion. And Louisa wasn't budging from her desk until Maislin was caught with the goods.

So here he was, torn between his work and Louisa Brannigan. It was frustrating, especially since he didn't know why he was in this predicament. It wasn't as if she needed him. Once she'd gotten it into her mind to take control of her life, she'd done it with a vengeance. He was the one who'd told her to cut the umbilical; now he felt like Dr. Frankenstein.

He saved his file, stood, and stretched. He was meeting her parents later that night. She'd been invited home to dinner, and she was dragging him along. He suspected it was one last vestige of cowardice, but he didn't care. He was curious about the typical suburban family. As a kid he'd watched reruns of fifties and sixties family sitcoms and desperately wanted to be adopted by Donna Reed. As a teenager he'd struck out against the saccharine unreality of the heartland image, and as an adult he wondered if the coveted clean, harmonious, upper-middle-cla.s.s, Cape-Cod-house, dog-sleeping-on-the-hearth family actually existed.

Two hours later he found himself shaking his head in disbelief. There it was in front of him-a white brick Cape Cod with black shutters, a white picket fence, and a flagstone front walk. Even in winter it was nicely landscaped with lots of big holly and azalea bushes bordered with silver-dollar wood chip mulch. It had a brick chimney, which he was sure led to a living room fireplace and had been designed with Santa Claus in mind. No disrespect intended-he really was very impressed.

The door flew open before they had a chance to knock, and the frame was filled with Louisa's father, dressed in a knit s.h.i.+rt and sans-a-belt pants.

"Mike Brannigan," he said to Pete. "Good to meet you." The man was medium height and stocky, his complexion was ruddy, his outstretched hand was short fingered and meaty. He was a Brannigan through and through.

Louisa's mother was close behind her husband. "Kathy Brannigan," she said, extending her hand. Her hair was short and feathered with gray, her face was friendly. She was wearing gray University of Maryland sweats and red high-top basketball shoes. "You'll have to excuse the way I look," she said. "I just got back from the library."

Louisa shook her head. "June Cleaver never dressed like that."

"Who?"

"June Cleaver. Beaver's mother."