Luscious Craving (27 page)

Low Battery Warning
flashed across the screen. I started to activate the shut-down sequence, but another warning popped up
that files
hadn’t been saved and would be lost. If I didn’t do something, Michael would lose his files when the battery ran down. I clicked on the
Low Battery Warning
screen,
then
blinked as a brighter image appeared.

It was an outgoing e-mail, but the name on it wasn’t his.
Probably just sending a message for one of his friends
, I thought. With only a pinch of guilt, I leaned down and began reading the e-mail. It was a letter of complaint concerning funds that had been delayed being deposited in his account. The address block, like the e-mail address, said it had been written by Michael Irons.

I sat back then, as my security-oriented mind began to take over. The fact that Michael Pressman was sending e-mail for Michael Irons was an awfully funny coincidence. The names were just too close. What else could be in the suite that might tell me Michael’s true name?
Prescriptions
, I thought.

I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. It was empty, so I opened the bathroom drawers. They were empty, too. The doors beneath the sink revealed a roll of toilet paper and a travel kit, the kind specially designed for carrying toiletries. I pulled it out, unzipped it, and hit the jackpot. Inside was a common allergy prescription. The name on the label was Michael Irons.

Suspicion thoroughly aroused now, I moved quickly to the master bedroom, opened the
bifold
closet doors. There was a wall safe in the closet wall. All the high-roller suites have them. The safe’s door was open and there was a small travel bag inside. I pulled it out, sat down on the floor, and unzipped it. Empty, and so were the pockets. I was about to put it back when I noticed a window where a business card identified the bag’s owner.
michael
pressman, senior account manager
the card read, over the logo and name of an investment company. This was just like the one Michael had given me.

I slipped my finger into the slot. There was a driver’s license behind it.
Very smooth
, I thought.
Pretty much the perfect hiding place.
The picture on the license matched the Michael Pressman I knew. The name said: Michael Irons.

Well you lying
sonofabitch
, I thought. It looked like I was a Vegas fling all the way down the line. Michael had seemed so open and natural, it had never once occurred to me he might be using a false identity. I wondered if there was a Mrs. Irons back home in
Chicago
. On impulse, I slipped the license into my own back pocket, wondering if I could believe one single thing he had told me.

Josh
, I suddenly thought. Josh Doyle, the supposed Michael Pressman’s very best friend. Such a good friend that he had shelled out a five-figure bankroll so Michael could play in the poker tournament.
Josh who had been so eager to ask the cameraman all those questions.
I had wanted to talk to him, but Michael distracted me with his offer of a massage.
Josh, who was into anything high tech.

Michael and Josh were running the con. Okay, that’s part one, now I just had to figure out how the bloodsuckers figure in.
First things first.

Al
, I thought. But even as I reached for my cell, the door from the hall to the living room opened, and I heard Michael curse as he found his computer on. Quickly, I turned off the phone. The last thing I needed was for it to go off and give me away.
Okay, Candace, think fast
, I thought. The bedroom door was partially closed, screening me from view.

I got silently to my feet, eased the travel bag back where I had found it. Then, quick as lightning, I stripped and pulled on the hotel robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I didn’t bother to tie the sash. I tiptoed to the bathroom, put my clothes on the lid of the toilet seat, then returned to the bedroom and pulled open the bedroom door. I struck a provocative pose in the door frame. Somehow, I managed to make my voice light and teasing.

“Honey, I’m home.”

Michael spun around, eyes wide. I bent one knee. The robe slipped open to reveal the fact that I was naked underneath.

“I heard you made the final table,” I said. “I was hoping we could celebrate.” I let my gaze linger on his crotch. “But it’s going to be awfully hard to do it if you’re way over there.”

Hard is right
, I thought. He’d just gone from zero to full throttle.

I let the robe gape open a little farther as he came toward me. The second he reached me, I put my hands on him.
Pulling his shirt from his pants, keeping my hands moving hard and fast as I went through the motions.
That was all they were.
Motions.
Michael ran his hands along me,
then
followed them with his mouth. I began to back us toward the bed. He was breathing fast, his body totally aroused.

I climbed onto the bed, letting the robe fall completely open. He followed. But when he reached for me, I held up a hand.

“You’re overdressed, Mr. Pressman.”

“You could fix that,” he said.

I gave a tantalizing laugh. “But I don’t want to. I want to watch you do it.”

He was more than happy to oblige.

“Now you,” he
said,
his voice husky.

I caught his hand as he tried to run it up my thigh,
then
pushed it away.
“Oh, no.
We’re playing by my rules today, Michael.”

Sliding off the bed, I pulled the sash off and rocked it across my hips, first facing away from him and then facing him. He groaned and reached out. I caught his wrist and pulled it over his head, lashing it to the headboard as he leaned up and pulled my breast into his mouth. Goose bumps crawled across my skin. Only one of us knew the reason why.

“Let me have the other hand,” I panted.

With a wicked grin, Michael obliged.

“I sincerely hope this means you’re going to have your way with me,” he said.

Sincere my ass
, I thought. Sexy Michael
Irons
didn’t have a sincere bone in his entire body.

I held out my hand for his other arm. He extended it, and I tied it next to the first, making sure I gave an extra tug on the knots. He wasn’t going to get himself free without some help. Too bad I wouldn’t be around. Then I straddled him, sliding down his body until he moaned.

“A man can always hope.”

All of a sudden, I tilted my head as if I had heard something. “Oh, shit,” I said. “That’s my cell phone. I’m on call. I have to answer it.”

“You’re hearing things,” Michael protested with a groan. “And even if you’re not, let it go.”

“Michael,” I said. “I have to take that. If I don’t, I could lose my job. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

I slid off the bed, moved quickly into the bathroom, where I had hidden my clothes. I didn’t wait to get dressed, just snatched them up and headed for the front door.

“Candace!” Michael called, and I heard the anger in his voice. “You can’t leave me like this!”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I called. “Mean-while, just hold that…thought.”

Then I was out of the suite and running for the elevator. Security would get an eyeful as I changed, but I was headed to IT anyhow. I slipped into my jeans, checked the back pocket. The driver’s license I had palmed was safe and sound. It was time to run a background check on Mr. Michael Irons, and I knew just the man for the job.

Chet was waiting as I entered the IT Department. He grinned and motioned for me to come around the counter.

“Nice to see you again,” he said.

I held up a warning hand. “Please, no elevator jokes.” On my way down to IT, I had called ahead, to let Chet know what I wanted. Now, I held out the driver’s license. “Just tell me what you can about this
slimeball
.”

Chet took the license, considered it for a moment,
then
moved toward a nearby terminal.
“
Slimeball
info coming right up.
Actually, I’ve already gotten started.”

Trying to ignore the seriously annoying computer whine I had heard before, I followed. Chet sat down and began typing in commands. The screen flickered through so many pages so quickly that I couldn’t focus on one before he brought up the next.

“Okay,” he said, leaning back in the chair after just a few minutes. “First off, your friend Michael Irons—that’s his real name, by the way, does not live in
Chicago
. Not lately, anyhow. For the past seven years he’s lived in the
Seattle
area at a couple of different addresses. He was employed by Microsoft until about six months ago when he began looking for a new job.”

“How do you know?”

“His résumé is posted on several job search sites.”

“Can you figure out why he left Microsoft?”

He hit a few more keys, shifted the mouse, and clicked a half dozen times.

“Nothing specific.
The circumstances of his departure seem murky. I’ve got some contacts in Microsoft, but I won’t be able to reach them until after the holiday.” He glanced at me. “Who is this guy?”

“One of the players at the final table at the charity poker tournament.
Under the name Michael Pressman.”

Behind his thick glasses, Chet’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting,” he said.

“What about Josh Doyle? Can you get anything on him?”

“Any other information you can give me as a starting point?”

“He owned an IT company.”

“Its name?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, but it was sold recently. It was in
Virginia
.” I searched my mind. “
Petersburg
,
Virginia
, assuming the whole thing wasn’t a lie.”

“Let’s try this,” Chet suggested. “I’ll go to a site that shows connections
between
different websites. Maybe there’s some site that both Irons and Doyle have in common.”

Amazed at his artistry with the computer, I put my hands on his chair and leaned over his shoulder. I straightened as the high, pitched sound became stronger.

“They both went to MIT,” Chet said. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he jumped from page to page. “Okay, here’s the alumni section. It doesn’t look as if Michael Irons graduated, but Joshua Doyle was near the top of his class. He majored in electrical engineering and computer science.” Chet grinned. “Sounds like someone I’d like to talk shop with.”

“I don’t think he would be interested in talking to either of us if he knew we were on to them.”

“On to them?”
He spun in his chair to face me.

“Would these guys have the skills necessary to try and pull off a high-tech con?”

“Yeah, but so do I. Having the skills doesn’t make it a given that they’re doing something to rip off the casino.”

“True, but Josh Doyle was asking all kinds of questions about the TV cameras, which ones were on when, and how the cameras at the table worked.”

“Still not a crime.
I know it’s suspicious, entering the tournament under an assumed name, but…”