Glass Houses (9 page)

“The Zanettos.” Who would never let him forget it if he arrived pretending to be Ryan Hill. “They’ve got a big dry-cleaning business. My friend Vanni’s oldest brother runs it for their mother. Several members of the family are involved. We’re getting close. I’ve been told there are similarities to

London here. The little shops, the people who’ve known each other all their lives exchanging the news of their days. It’s all neighborhoods and families. I don’t think foreigners think about it that way at all. We’re just about there. Don’t worry with the skirt. Hold my arm when we get out of the car. You don’t have a coat? It’s cold, kid. Winter’s coming on. You need more than that jacket.”

This was appalling. “You’re going to wonder about me, but I didn’t even remember to bring a mac or a brolly.”

“Yep, well, hold my arm and stand close to my side. I’ll tell ’em you need to freshen up.”

“What a bother. I’m so—”

“You said you weren’t going to talk like that again.”

“No. I mean, yes, I did.”

“Good. This is it.”

Sam pulled his boat on wheels into a space undoubtedly intended for at least two cars. The shallow roots of beech trees with big, gnarled old trunks popped up cement along the edge of the wide pavement that separated the road from narrow, steep gardens fronting a long row of terraced brick houses. Each house was three stories high, with basement windows visible beneath black iron steps to the front door.

“Sit tight,” Sam told Olivia. “I’ll get your luggage out, and we’ll pretend we’re running a three-legged race.”

She felt hot, then cold. Lace curtains moved in one of the front windows of a house that was bigger than the rest. No face was actually evident. A boy on a skateboard cut off her view. His stiff jeans were wide, as wide at the waist as they were at the hems. She thought it possible that the jeans were actually attached to the board and the boy would have to climb out of them to get off. Several other boys zipped along on roller blades, leaping over the exposed tree roots and dodging baby strollers. Pushed by mums and dads dressed in chic casual and wit
h “established professional”
all but embellished on their brows, these strollers might cost as much as some automobiles.

Sam already had her luggage out of the car, and he opened her door. At the same moment, the front door of the big house
opened and a man stood on the top step. Olivia was too preoccupied with her predicament to do more than register his presence.

Sam planted the wheeled cart in front of them and said, “Okay, Olivia FitzDurham, relax and let me manage this, okay?”

She nodded and didn’t care that he took her hand to pull her to her feet, then tucked the hand and her forearm under his own arm, tigh
tl
y against his side. With his left hand, he reached back and slammed the car door.

“Hey there—”

“Hey, Vanni!” Sam roared, so loud he startled Olivia. “Traffic was traffic. Same old, same old. What’s for dinner?”

“I’m not allowed in the kitchen,” Vanni said. “You know that.”

“I sure do.” Sam shouted each word. He pushed the cart ahead, then lifted it up a step at a time. “Olivia FitzDurham and I are starving. Vanni, meet Olivia, Olivia, meet Vanni Zanetto.”

Olivia exchanged greetings with Vanni, whom she now saw was another star-quality male, only with very black hair and hazel eyes that were startling against olive skin. He stared down on them, his frown magnificent—and foreboding. Actually he frowned only at Sam.

“Poor Olivia’s exhausted, Vanni. D’you suppose she could freshen up before she meets the family?” He smiled at her, then at his friend. “I doubt if she’s experienced anything quite like the Zanettos.”

“No problem,” Vanni said, not taking his attention from Sam. Finally he looked at Olivia. “I’m sorry for your trouble, but my partner here is one of the best. He’ll work something out.”

She hesitated. “You never mentioned being in another business, Sam.” Not that he owed her his entire life story.

“Sam?” Vanni said. “That’s what I thought.” He should have known Aiden would make a mess of it with her. The guy was so awkward around women. For someone who was physically coordinated and really strong, the way he was manhandling a little suitcase up the steps like it had rocks in it showed just how uptight he was.

“Save it, okay, Vanni?” Aiden said.

Oh, no, this was one time when Aiden Flynn’s partner had to act fast if he was going to avert disaster. Vanni reached down to sweep the cart carrying a green tartan bag that sported a pink neon luggage tag from Aiden and deposited it inside the front door in a single move.

“We’re glad you can be with us, Olivia,” he said. “My mother loves company. So does my grandfather. He likes to be called Pops. My mother will tell you she’s Mama to everyone. Comes of having seven kids—she’s always been Mama.” Both Olivia and Aiden had stopped climbing the steps. Vanni narrowed his eyes at Aiden and said, “You knew what you needed to do.”

“Yeah. And I’ll do this my way, okay?”

“Not okay. You dragged me into this, buddy.” Olivia’s skirt was to
rn
. Aiden had her plastered on his side like a coat of paint, but something was peeling. She was no fashion plate to begin with, but flashes of pale orange underwear made an interesting statement against Aiden's dark-gray-clad thigh.

“Just point us in the direction of Olivia’s room, Vanni.”

Olivia looked up at Sam, then at Vanni. They were furious with each other, and she couldn’t think of any way to extricate herself from a very uncomfortable situation.

“I’m going to take a step up with my right leg,” Sam murmured. “On the count of three, use your left leg. One, two, three.” He stepped up slowly, and so did Olivia, but her leg was much shorter than his and she had to roll slightly toward him to avoid Vanni getting a view she couldn’t bear thinking of him getting.

Sam shrugged her camera bag higher on his left shoulder and put his right arm around her, holding her waist. She clung to him.

“Once more and we’ve made it.”

“You haven’t made anything,” Vanni said. “I don’t believe
this. How did that happen, miss? Did he—hell, no, he wouldn’t touch you. He doesn’t have it in him.”

Aiden made a note to knock the crap out of Vanni the instant he could get him alone.

“
I caught it in the seatbelt,” Olivia told Vanni.

“If Mr. True Blue had settled for not having seatbelts—which he doesn’t have to have in
that
—it wouldn’t have happened. Mama’ll mend it for you. I’ll get one of my sisters down here with something for you to change into. June! Get out here and help.”

She decided she didn’t like him much. Too full of himself, and as mean as they came. “Sam’s trying to help me. He’s an awfully kind man.”

“Oh, yeah,” Vanni said. “Awfully kind is what I’d call him. And dumb as a post if he thinks it was a good idea to
…
For cryin’ out loud, partner, I told you not to come here before you told her the truth. Tell her now.”

“Your timing stinks,” Sam said. “Let me do this my way.” He spread his fingers over her ribs and rhythmically rubbed her there. Evidently he was too preoccupied to realize he was smoothing the side of her breast with his thumb. She grew so hot all over, she trembled.

Vanni Zanetto studied them with those piercing eyes of his, and Olivia saw that he hadn’t missed where Sam’s hand was, but she didn’t know how to move away without causing even more trouble.

“And I never used to believe in love at first sight,” Vanni said. “You make such a nice couple. Such a cozy couple.”

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Get out of my way, but I want to see you as soon as Olivia’s somewhere comfortable.”

“And I suppose I explain to my family that you’re in disguise mode?”

“Not now, Vanni.”

“When, then?”

“Soon.”

Vanni nodded slowly. “You’re vulnerable, Olivia. Aiden here’s a nice guy, but he’s not exactly Mr. Smooth around the
ladies. I’m sorry, old friend, but I’m gonna have to help you out here. Take Olivia up to June’s old room—two floors up and on the right. Sit her down and tell her you aren’t and never have been Sam.”

E
ight

K
itty Fish stood in the shadows across the street from Miss FitzDurham’s house. A man had paced slowly past, glancing toward 2A as he
w
ent; then, after a while, he paced back in the opposite direction. Kitty was waiting to see if Rupert would show up. Rupert and Winston were up to something big and, if her instincts were right, something dangerous. This meant there could be a lot of money in it for her. She could always get Rupert to talk; then they’d have to pay for her silence.

This time the man had stopped, and he certainly wasn’t Rupert. The outline suggested someone athletic and young. He looked in all directions before crouching in front of the door.

Kitty’s heart took an extra, excited beat. The street wasn’t wide. He was close enough that when the light had caught his face, she knew who he was. She didn’t know whether to scream, to laugh, or to faint.

B
eneath a clay pot of waning geraniums, potato bugs, silver-fish, and mud kept company with a key to Olivia’s front door. Thanks to the frosty moon and some convenient light from ye
olde cutesy streetlight, he hadn’t even needed to fumble to find what he wanted.

Women.
They were boring opponents—most of the time.

Time was running out. If it hadn’t already run out. He let himself into the house and smelled lavender. Figured.

Upstairs or downstairs? He took an instant to think about it. She used the basement, but he didn’t think she spent much time on the ground floor.

First upstairs; then, when he’d tried to knock potential disaster off his back, down to the basement—not that he expected to find anything worth having there.

He pushed a button to turn on the light and climbed the stairs.

When he was partway up, the light went out.

Don’t let it be a fuse.
He put a hand on the wall and climbed as rapidly as he dared while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His fingers stubbed into another button for the lights and he punched it. The fuses were fine.

In the first room at the top of the stairs he hit pay dirt. A computer sat on an open rolltop desk. Olivia was tidy. Her papers were neatly stacked. Magazines had been carefully fanned on a brass coffee table.

He turned on the computer and got into her mail server in seconds. What he found gave him the creeps. She never deleted e-mail.

Minutes later he was giving thanks for Olivia’s old-message fetish. She’d left him all the information he needed, all the explanation.

He wrote a brief note himself and sent it on its way to New York.

There were scores to settle, overdue scores, but first he’d do the Goldilocks bit and hang out in the bed Olivia wasn’t using right now. Early in the morning he’d make a visit that wouldn’t be expected. Involuntarily, his hand rested on the piece in the waist of his jeans.

Another kind of visit would be good before he went to bed. He smiled and tanned the keyboard rapidly, entered his
password to a favorite late-night meeting place, and settled in to see what the ladies were up to tonight. The ladies, and the men who knew how to use them. Sonja was his ideal. She was evil, you could see that, and you could also see how well she bled when she was punished. Bled and screamed. The sound was irresistible. The woman loved every second, even when she was pretending to be dead.

He switched off. Now, bed. He was ready.

The faintest sound reached him from downstairs. He didn’t form a conscious thought before extinguishing the light and flattening himself to the wall inside the open door. His Sauer was in his hand and poised beside his head where he could feel the cold metal. That was a sensation that calmed his mind.

The hall light came on. He heard footsteps, very slow, unsteady footsteps, on the stairs. Through the space between the door hinges and the jamb he had a direct view of the top of the staircase.

The big question was whether the newcomer was aware that there was someone else in the house. That and one even bigger question—who was arriving here when the place was supposed to be empty for at least a couple of days?

Slow, slow footsteps.

The light went out, and he held his breath. Now his blood was really pumping, and it felt so good.

Whoever was out there continued to make crawling progress upward. He could hear breathing now. The footsteps stopped.

If it was Olivia, he’d have reason to celebrate. No reason she shouldn’t get to join in.

The next sound didn’t immediately compute. Soft, slithering.

Light flooded the space outside the room.

In that light he saw a woman, her head bent forward, concentrating on unzipping her short, brown-silk skirt. Long blond hair fell over her shoulders in tangled curls. He could smell her perfume, a rich, musky scent.

The skirt slid down over slim hips, revealing a silver garter
belt and sheer gray stockings. No panties. The lady wasn’t a natural blonde.

Darkness blotted everything out once more. He held back a curse, but he knew how to be patient, especially when he was given an unexpected gift.

The woman’s humming made him smile grimly. She was enjoying her “private” show, enjoying herself, the ritual of taking off her clothes. He’d put quite a wad on his loving whatever fantasy was playing inside that bleached head.

She turned the light on. She felt like seeing what she was doing again.

Good thing, because he felt like seeing what she was doing again, too.

The skirt was on the f
loor and she wobbled atop high-
heeled, transparent plastic mules. His gut told him she was fried, which meant she’d be coming down soon unless she had more of whatever she was on.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark, lush bush. She repeatedly pressed her thighs tightly together, at the same time fumbling to undo buttons on a silk blouse that matched the skirt. She jerked and grabbed for the railing that ran along the short landing. Her shudder brought parts to his south springing to attention. She cradled her breasts and moaned. Selfish, selfish girl.

Another second and he listened to her sighing in the blackness. Fucking light could drive a guy mad.

This was one show that was worth the irritation.

She hummed some more, and he visualized her swinging those naked hips in time to the beat. More light donated a whole new view. She hadn’t quite managed the buttons at her cuffs, but the rest of the shirt trailed from her elbows. Her headlights didn’t need any help, but she was into coordination. A silver bra, strapless and boned to her minuscule waist, offered up a pair of the biggest brown eyes on milk-white tits. Few men would call those handfuls, unless a man were a freak, or a basketball player.

He was going to have to f
ind out the extent of his ball-
handling skills.

Finally she managed the cuffs, and the shirt joined the skirt.

With both hands she massaged her softly rounded belly, naked between the boned piece at her waist and the low-slung garterbelt.

Maybe he’d waited long enough. He was tired, but not too tired to have some fun. Yeah, fun. A girl shouldn’t waste so much, so selfishly.

Another plunge into the night left him with her sounds and a picture that glowed in his brain. Sleep was good. Several hours of entertainment was better. It would be a humanitarian act. She’d either be careful where she performed solo in future, or she’d make sure she was never alone, maybe never, ever alone.

He smiled and squeezed his crotch.

And there she was again. Oh, God. One by one she undid the row of tiny hooks down the front of the bra. They’d been hidden by rosettes of silver ribbon. As each one popped open, his judgment was proved as perfect as ever. The satin window dressing was just that. Those brown eyes stayed right where they were. When she wriggled a little and dropped the stays— he guessed that’s what they called them—he couldn’t look away. Disposing of the belt scarcely broke his concentration for an instant, although he decided he ought to remember how much he liked a woman in nothing but sheer stockings and transparent mules.

Now she deserved a partner, if only because this partner could teach her some lessons she’d never forget.

He wanted her away from the top of the stairs. It would be a waste if she fell and broke her neck before he’d finished with her.

“Come closer, bitch,” he mouthed silently. “Come to your very own nighthawk and see what he’s got for you.”

Hot damn, she must have heard his brain. She swaggered closer until she stood with her back to the f
acing door
jamb.

He couldn’t see more of her face than pouty red lips and the tip of a pointy tongue gripped between real white teeth.

He didn’t care if she
had
a face. He also didn’t care that her boobs didn’t jiggle the tiniest bit and had probably cost plenty. They’d do what he needed them to do just fine. “Come to daddy, mama.” He salivated. Every muscle in his body tensed hard.

The light did its disappearing act again, but this time it was back on without a pause. Gradua
lly the woman sank down the door
jamb, spreading her legs as she went. He could see sweat on her skin, and how moist and slack her mouth was.

She started pulling on the lips of her vagina before her ass met the carpet. With the soles of her feet together, she gave the task her all, pausing at intervals to play with her nipples and pant even louder.

Mission accomplished.

Two for you, zero for me—so far.

She got up and strutted into the room, switching on lamps as she went. Her butt was reddened from action on the carpet, but it was nice, very, very nice. Standing in front of the window, she languorously closed pink velvet curtains. A writing table stood at an angle near a white-marble fireplace, and she went to search the surface. A cigarette and lighter materialized from a wooden box. She lit the cigarette, sat on the desk, and inhaled deeply. When she tipped her head back, smoke rings issued from her pursed lips.

In that movie-star move copied by thousands, she ran her fingers through her hair, shook it out, and tossed it back. Without looking at him, she said, “Welcome to London Town, Ryan. You have no idea how surprised I am you’re here. And very glad, too.” She laughed—propped her hands on the edge of the table and laughed from the gut.
“
I was following a hunch. Staking this place out to see if a certain little dickhead was jerking me around. And along came Ryan the stud. You can’t blame me for thinking of old times, and how much fun it would be to see if you’ve still got what it takes to do your thing. You used to be so good, Ryan. I’ve missed you.”

Being a master of quick recovery was a priceless asset.
“
I didn’t realize I was watching the best alley ca
t in the business,” he said. “
Th
e bleach job threw me. And you’
re older, of course. But I was too busy enjoying the show to care who you were and how many more wrinkles you've got. You and I have things to do, Kitty. We’ve got bargains to strike.”