Hooked (2 page)

T
awny felt her hand lifted away without a visible reaction from Walsh, even though he was hard as a rock. Most men would have soared into orbit at her practiced touch, but not this one. He returned her insolence with a steady glare.

She harbored no illusions about what was going down. Damn. Double damn. She’d finally put her life in order, and now this. What lousy timing. Somehow the IRS found out about one of her offshore accounts, the first and biggest. There were two more―money she’d stashed without giving Uncle Sam his share. That’s what offshore accounts were for, weren’t they?
If huge corporations avoided paying one red cent of taxes on billions of dollars of profit, why were they after her? Besides, she paid taxes, thanks to one of her clients who set up accounts for her. Just not on
all
her illegally-earned money.

But how did Treasury connect with the NYPD? Then the sneaky mention of the New York mob. Five Families, put more delicately, which meant her secret tryst had been exposed. Was that what connected her to the feds? And what was that about a dead hooker? Her head reeled from the implications. So far, this was not turning out to be a very good morning.

“Which room?” Walsh asked.

“You know everything. You tell me.”

“Look, lady, you’re in enough trouble. Don’t make it worse. Which room?”

She challenged him with a scowl, but it was strictly bravado. His gunfighter-steady stare never wavered. She caved. “733.”

While Tawny gathered her things, Walsh hustled back to his car for his suit jacket. The man might have been a New York cop, but his taste in suits was European and expensive. The side bulge indicated a shoulder holster, complete with whatever weapon cops carried these days. Ha, like she was going to run. He had her cold. Now what in hell did he want from her in return?

As they walked through the hotel lobby, a slanted glance revealed Walsh was having a hard time keeping his eyes off her, and not like a watchful parent. To make matters worse, or maybe better, he was damn good looking. Big, brown eyes, with a face resembling those on old Roman coins. His name, Walsh, spoke of Ireland, but she’d bet there was a Mediterranean gene hidden somewhere in his DNA. No matter how interested this guy appeared to be, she never mixed business with pleasure. And Special Investigator Lincoln Walsh was definitely business.

He kept his eyes front in the elevator, and when they entered her suite, he scanned the luxurious rooms with raised brows.
Yeah, Walsh, it was expensive.
“Mind if I put on some clothes?”

“Go ahead.”

She stripped off her bikini―hell, he’d seen most of her anyway―and stepped into a halter-style white sundress. Walsh watched with detached curiosity, a commuter rubbernecking a fender bender. What did she have to do to rattle this guy? She usually had more of an effect on men. Even the gay patrons who hired her as arm candy while hiding in the closet were more attentive.

Feds and cops she’d known casually over the years bordered on non-descript,
ordinary, unlike the actors who played them in film and TV. Not this one. With his rugged good looks and pearly whites, Lincoln Walsh could get pretty much any woman he wanted. Nothing she pulled on him worked. Maybe he
was
gay. Many of the really handsome ones were. Naw, gay men appreciated her visually only. This guy was as erect as a flagpole when she commandeered his balls. No point playing coy.

“Okay. What’s the deal?” She sat on the bed and pulled her legs up under her, blasé about the unladylike position. He ignored the view.

“Ever hear of a guy named Benny Cooper?”

Tawny took her time answering. She knew Cooper. His ownership in a string of sex clubs was a tightly-held secret within the community. Apparently more widely-known than she thought. Cooper had tried for years to hook her into his domain—she smiled inwardly at the pun—proposing she could cherry-pick her assignments and name her price. But she’d never wanted to work for anyone. She’d developed her own client list. No kinks, perverts, or freaks need apply, although a few liked role-playing or made unusual requests that fell within the range of acceptable. She made more than enough money and never saw an advantage to Cooper’s offers. Besides, Benny Cooper had a well-known string attached to all his girls, and she didn’t like it for any amount of money.

She wasn’t the only independent working the city, but she’d maintained her standing at the top for a long time. Many left the business for that
Pretty Woman
fairytale, like Cooper’s wife, or they got hooked on drugs and let their habit and an unscrupulous bloodsucker take them down.

Tawny didn’t owe anyone, didn’t need a man to control her life, and wouldn’t have to work past her prime. But
she didn’t need to wind up in prison, the target of some horny dyke. She needed options, and she needed them fast.

So what should she do? Lie and say she didn’t know Cooper, or tell the truth? “I’ve heard of him
,” she said. Not a lie. She had heard of him. Now what?

“In what context?” the cop asked.

“He married a working girl. News gets around.”

“You know her? Eileen Cooper?”

Tawny swallowed hard. She knew Eileen Cooper. While their paths hadn’t exactly crossed, they’d connected indirectly. “Um, no, but I know
of
her. Girls in the trade pass along those feel-good stories. You know, hooker marries rich hedge fund manager who takes her off the streets. Kind of like in the movies.”

“Is that what didn’t happen to you?”

Tawny got off the bed, brushing against Walsh as she did. “Absolutely,” she said calmly, though this guy was getting under her skin. He was trying to goad her, and she couldn’t let him.

“Number one, I never worked the streets. Never. And neither did Eileen Cooper. You should know there’s a caste system of women offering various services. We’re not all
on the streets
. I used the term metaphorically. And two, in case you think I was waiting for some guy to propose so he could get it for free, marriage was never in my game plan.”

“What was?” he asked. “Hoarding all your money and living happily ever after? Alone?”

Now she was getting pissed. “Exactly, Detective Walsh. I’ve seen enough of
happily married men
. They marry the girl next door, have kids, and then one day feel trapped and wonder what they missed. Doesn’t matter whether these upstanding citizens are rich or poor, whether they pay or get a freebie. They want a fantasy fuck. Even a politician with a record of breaking up prostitution rings falls victim. Can you beat that?”

Walsh didn’t answer.

“These guys all walk around with condoms in their wallets,” Tawny continued, “primed to jump the bones of the first woman who tempts him with a little pussy.” She crouched in front of his chair. “Tell me, Mister NYPD Detective, have you got a condom in your wallet? Bet you have.”

His face flushed. Aha! The first sign of discomfort. Oh, yeah. He had one. She’d put money on it.

He kept his outward cool. “I’m not married. And I’ve never had to pay for a woman.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No.”

Disappointed, she got up, walked around, making sure the light coming through the balcony doors silhouetted her body through her lightweight dress, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“I keep them in the car.”

She turned around to see a playful smirk. “I knew it. You’re all alike. Cops, businessmen, crooks. Even professors. Very cerebral, those profs. Never without a Trojan.”

“You ought to know. You bankrolled your PhD screwing half the faculty at Columbia.”

Angry heat came off her neck and worked its way down her back. She rarely lost her temper. Couldn’t remember the last time. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of losing it now. “Don’t forget my undergrad at Brown. You know all about me.”
But not everything.
“Yes, I paid for my college education turning tricks. Sorry, I didn’t have a hundred thou back then. Everyone got what they wanted. I had no loans to pay back, and half the faculty, as you wrongly think, fulfilled their fantasies. I was good at what I did. No one ever complained of being ripped off.”

He tsked and sputtered, his cool dissipating, apparently frustrated at being bested. Good. She was getting his goat too. “Now, are you going to tell me what you want? What about Cooper?”

“You got anything to drink in that cabinet?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thirsty so I didn’t check.”

He opened the mini bar and took out a small bottle of vodka, uncapped it, and drank half of it straight. “Want one?”

“I don’t drink, but you can get me a Coke from the mini fridge.” He glared at her. “You asked.”

He pulled one out. “I thought high-priced hookers drank nothing but champagne.”

“And I thought cops weren’t supposed to drink on duty.”

“I’m on break.”

She didn’t say anything else. Let him stew. He wasn’t the first man she’d driven to drink. Men who thought that paying for one evening meant they owned her. Well, they didn’t.
Go ahead, Mister Detective, drink away. The longer you do, the more time I have before facing whatever it is you want me to do.

The room closed in on her. She slid open the glass door to the balcony and stepped outside. Leaning against the rail, she sipped her drink. The breeze had picked up, swirling her hair around her head, plastering her dress to her body. A thunderhead gaining momentum had driven everyone off the beach. White crests danced on the surface of the water as far as the eye could see; waves crashed onto the shore, spewing frothy sprays into the air. It was as if Lincoln Walsh had brought the dark clouds and
ruined her sunny day. Now she sensed he was about to ruin her life. Movement in her peripheral vision announced his presence, his body sheltering her from the south wind’s blustery onslaught.

“Sorry. I had no right to throw all that in your face. It’s what you do…did,” he corrected. “Your past life is none of my business.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. But I have a feeling you’re going to ask me to do it again, aren’t you? And I have four-hundred-thousand reasons why I can’t refuse.” She faced him. “Right?”

He shifted his focus from the horizon to the beach to the vee of pelicans gliding by overhead. Everywhere but on her. “Right.”

She wondered if she could tempt him into forgetting about her. Cop or not, she could think of worse punishment. Now he was looking down the beach to the fishing pier, his jaw set tight. It wouldn’t work. Not with this guy. He’d probably haul her in and add bribing a cop to the charges.

She’d been so careful, so private. All those years, she never spoke out of school either to or about her clients or to the few friends she’d made. How the hell did he find out? “I’d like to know how you found out about the money.”

* * * * *

T
he woman was too damn smart for her own good. She knew Cooper, and she didn’t lie about it. When Linc first got this assignment, he couldn’t believe her profile. Tawny Dell earned a doctorate in art history. She could fucking teach at Columbia. Instead, she was a high-dollar call girl. He didn’t understand it. She had everything going for her. College tuition aside, there were only two reasons a woman did that. She liked the money and liked screwing men to get it. His first glimpse of her photograph almost knocked him over. She’d been careful, but all it took to take her down was one friend who ratted her out. With friends like that…

“Sheri Markham,” he said.

Tawny didn’t say anything for a while. “I tried to help her, you know, but she couldn’t kick it.” She gazed at Linc. “I hope you got her into a drug program for the information.”

He nodded.

“She didn’t know anything for sure. Just giving it her best shot. It figures. She needed a bargaining chip, and I was it. I might have done the same thing.”

Somehow he doubted that. “What were you planning to do?”

She shrugged. “Oooh, I don’t know. Go to some Mediterranean island, Sardinia or Crete. Open a gallery. Something like that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Piercing him with those turquoise eyes, she said, “Hadn’t gotten around to it.”

She brushed a disobedient strand of hair off her face, but a gust of wind recaptured it and set it free. A light mist turned into a drizzle, then a pelting downpour. She didn’t move. Neither did he. Within a minute, both were soaked. Her thin dress clung to her like Saran Wrap and was about as transparent. Dark circles appeared around nipples that poked stubbornly through the thin fabric. She stood there.

Jesus, she was beautiful. He never understood paying for sex. He could always get a woman if that’s all he wanted. Good thing he didn’t have that kind of money, because he sure might be tempted to pay for Tawny Dell. There’s a first time for everything. Even breaking every rule in the book. “Better come inside.”

“You go. I like the rain.” She turned to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t jump.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

Inside, he found a towel in the bathroom and rubbed it through his hair. He’d taken
off his suit jacket and shoulder holster—put the gun in his pocket—but his shirt and pants were sopping. He glanced outside. The wind twisted her hair into a tornado of long honey-colored strands. The dress glowed white against the dark cloud-covered background and billowed around her contours. She might as well have been naked.