Parker And The Gypsy. Susan Carroll
Saunders to an abrupt end. As she had stormed out of the restaurant, Mike had resolved upon two things. In the future, to steer clear of women who called him Michael. And to keep his dreams to himself.
“Manifest sign,” he muttered, still irritated by the memory of Carolyn’s attempts to play Sigmund Freud. The issues of his childhood had all been resolved quite well as far as he was concerned. Locked neatly away behind the bars of Trenton State Prison and forgotten.
The only thing the damn dream was ever a sign of was a hangover, just like the one that was making his head pound this morning. The dull pain still throbbed behind his eyes despite the cold shower and aspirin tablets that had gotten him awake and into his office earlier that morning.
Rummaging around in his top desk drawer, Mike managed to locate the plastic bottle and shook out two more white tablets into his hand. Uncoiling his six-foot-two frame from the chair, he dragged himself over to the water cooler and filled a stained ceramic coffee cup. He gagged down both aspirin in one huge gulp.
The blasted air-conditioning was on the fritz again and outside his open second story window, the heat and noisy traffic of another Atlantic City summer morning assaulted his much-battered senses in one great oppressive wave. He couldn’t remember how much he’d had to drink last night, but if it had him dreaming about the shadow man again, it had obviously been too much.
It had all started out harmlessly enough—hefting a few cool ones at Boom Boom’s Bar and Grill with his friend Jimmy Potts, in celebration of Jimmy’s upcoming marriage. Mike had spent most of the time staring morosely into his glass and wondering how many months it would take before Jimmy turned up in his office, hiring Mike to get the goods on the little woman when she took to cheating with some new Romeo. That, in Mike’s bitter experience, was how most marital bliss panned out. All those hearts and flowers, promises of love and eternal devotion—just another con game.
Despite his raging headache. Mike congratulated himself on surviving this bachelor party better than he had the last one, when he’d trailed after the girl who’d jumped out of the cake. Darcy Robbins. But she was another nightmare he’d just as soon forget.
Rubbing one hand along his unshaven jaw, Mike tried to summon up the energy to return to his desk and complete the report he’d been working on before he’d fallen asleep. Skip traces on some missing deadbeats for a local finance company. Boring as hell but—
A knock sounded on his office door, nearly startling him into dropping the coffee cup. As he replaced the mug back on top of the water cooler, he grumbled, “Now what?”
He knew it couldn’t be his secretary. Rosa had no respect for a closed door. She barged in whenever she felt like it. The rapping sounded again, causing Mike to wince. “All right, all right!” he snarled. “Just stop the damn pounding and come in.”
The door opened slowly and Mike blinked at the vision that filled his threshold. It was as though a burst of sunlight had pierced his gloom-ridden office and assumed the form of a woman. She was all softness, from the rainbow-hued skirt that clung to the willowy outline of her hips, to the white flowing blouse that shifted half off her creamy shoulders.
Golden ringlets rioted about a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine porcelain, from the dainty nose to the small determined chin. She regarded Mike with the most wistful blue eyes he’d ever seen.
She had an angel’s hair, an angel’s eyes, an angel’s mouth. It took Mike a moment to realize he wasn’t breathing and to exhale deeply. It took him a moment longer to snap back to his senses and remember that the only angels he had any use for were the fallen kind.
This young woman had that look of dewy-eyed innocence about her that usually meant nothing but trouble. When she hesitated, fretting her lip, Mike barked out, “What can I do for you, sis? Are you sure you’ve got the right office? The Save-a-Soul Mission’s on the first floor.”
“I’m not looking for the mission,” she said softly.
She had an angel’s voice, too. Mike grimaced.
“I’m looking for Michael Parker.”
“You’ve found him.”
“Oh, no!” Her mouth dropped open in dismay. She took a cautious step closer, her remarkable blue eyes traveling over him. “I—I mean you just can’t be Mr. Parker.”
“I forget a lot of things the morning after I’ve tied one on,” Mike said with a sardonic lift of one brow, “but I generally manage to remember my name.”
“I’m sorry.” A flush rose into her cheeks. “I guess I do see the resemblance now.”
Her shoulders sagged as disbelief appeared to give way to disappointment, but Mike was used to that. He’d been disappointing people all his life—his high school teachers, his foster parents, his ex-wife....
The woman’s gaze flicked from Mike to the newspaper she held clutched in her hand. “It’s just that you don’t look very much like your picture.”
Closing the distance between them, Mike snatched the paper away to see just what she had there. It was a puff piece about him, inserted in the Golden Times Gazette, a weekly magazine distributed mostly to local retirement communities, written and edited by Mrs. Eudora Jenkins, a very grateful former client of his. A more glowing testimonial about the Parker Agency could hardly have been penned by his own grandmother.
Mike didn’t know what was worse: the glaring headline, Mike Parker, Crusading P.I., or the sappy photograph that accompanied the article. He would have been hard-pressed to recognize himself from the picture, his broad shoulders encased in a tuxedo, his slightly crooked mouth angled into a debonair smile.
Mike thrust the paper back at the woman who had invaded his office. “I was doing undercover work,” he explained.
“Oh!” Her brow cleared. “You mean you were on a stakeout last night. That explains...everything.” Her gaze drifted over his disheveled appearance.
No, it didn’t, Mike wanted to argue. What he’d meant was that he’d been doing undercover work when he’d been all trussed up in that tuxedo. His present appearance—the beat-up sneakers, the faded jeans, the T-shirt—was much closer to his natural state.
But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. Not with her beaming at him that way, with such a radiant smile.
She had an angel’s smile...
He caught himself wishing that he had at least taken time to shave after his quick shower. Finger combing his hair in a self-conscious gesture, Mike cleared his throat. “I don’t usually see walk-ins. But if you’d like to step out in the reception room and set up an appointment with my secretary—”
“But she isn’t there.”
Mike stepped around her to peer into the outer office. She was right. Rosa’s desk was empty. She had never come in to work.
“Damn! She’s probably planning to call in sick again,” he said. “Off to visit Dr. Blackjack at the United Memorial Casino.”
When his visitor regarded him blankly, Mike explained, “That’s a joke.”
“Oh.” Again that blinding smile.
It galvanized Mike into stalking forward and pulling up one of the seasick green vinyl chairs that comprised his office decor. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he’d leapt to hold a chair for any woman, but he was doing it now.
“As long as you’re here,” he said, “you might as well sit down.”
“Thank you.” She sank gracefully onto the seat. As Mike pushed the chair into place before his desk, he experienced a double assault on his senses. First the sight of her slim, shapely legs as she crossed them. Then the exotic scent that seemed to radiate from the golden cloud of her hair.
The sweet perfume rendered him a little dizzy. Or maybe, he told himself, it was still the effect of last night’s