Naughty Neighbor Part 13

"You want to do the two-step, we can go into my inner office where we'll have more privacy," he said.

Louisa caught a glimpse of the bug sitting black and malevolent on the floor. No one had noticed it fall. She blinked at Maislin with big innocent eyes. "I slipped."

The thumb did a fast exploratory. "Maybe you should slip more often."

Louisa wrenched herself away. "Maybe you should eat dirt and die."

Maislin narrowed his eyes at her. "What?"

"Listen, you miserable sc.u.mbag, you try that again, and I'll make sure you're in a lot of pain. You understand?"

Maislin just glared at her, and she glared back, thinking anger did wonderful things for her personality. James Bond eat your heart out.

"I'll deal with you later," Maislin finally said. He wheeled around and stormed off to his office.

Louisa bent to retrieve the bug. She took it back to her desk and sat quietly, waiting to stop shaking, staring down at the odious piece of black plastic. Now what? Now she was going to have to find another way to insert the blasted thing in his pocket. She was going to have to crawl back into his office with her tail between her legs and ooze up next to him. Not an appealing thought.

Pete was parked half a block away in the Porsche, listening. "d.a.m.n," he said. "What'd he do? What'd he do?"

He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and counted to ten. Then he counted to ten again. He hated this. He hated sitting in the Porsche, feeling impotent.

h.e.l.lertown might have its faults, but men grew up knowing their responsibilities. Roles were clear. Men didn't sit around, listening to their women take abuse from other men, and disputes were settled with good old-fashioned physical violence. Man to man.

It didn't feel right that Louisa should be in there, taking all the risks, threatening to hurt Maislin. Hurting Maislin should be his job, Pete thought. Instead, he was stuck in his car with a radio strapped to his head.

He slumped in his seat, thinking he would have been happier in the nineteenth century. This man/woman business was just too complicated now.

Louisa took a deep breath and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. She picked some lint from her blouse and checked to see if her nail polish was cracked. She was procrastinating. She didn't want to confront Maislin again.

"All right, already," she said into her chest. "Don't worry. I'll do it. I'll do it."

Pete sat up straighter "What? What?" he shouted.

She took the day's mail from her desk and headed for Maislin. The mail was a legitimate excuse, she told herself. Nothing demeaning or extraordinary about delivering the mail. She squared her shoulders, knocked twice, and entered the office. Maislin was on the phone, with his back to her. His jacket was slung over a chair by the door!

"Mail," Louisa said, weak with relief at her good fortune. She flipped the bug into his suit jacket pocket on the way out and closed the door behind her. "Mission accomplished."

Pete lunged out of the car and strode across the street to the Hart Building. There was a limo at curbside. Maislin's limo, he thought. He stood, waiting for close to a half hour, with his fists balled in the pockets of his shearling jacket. At last, Maislin swept through the doors with several aides in tow and plunged into the plush interior of the limo.

Pete felt the rage centering in his chest, felt his fist itching to pop Maislin one in the nose. Patience, he told himself. Hold out for long-term satisfaction-go for a congressional investigation, criminal charges, a drug bust.

He watched the limo pull away and slowly move down the street. Then he watched Kurt move after it in a late-model midsize Ford. Pete had ridden in the car many times. It had a custom V-8 engine under the hood, and hidden under the dash was a CB, a flush-mounted tracker with a dropped display panel, and a very large gun. Stashed under the backseat were more tools of Kurt's trade, and it was anybody's guess what was in the trunk. His trunk could hold anything from hot watches to dead bodies to Stinger missiles.

Pete rubbernecked at the steady stream of secretaries and aides on lunch errands trickling out of the building, then he plastered a smile on his face and went after Louisa.

She was alone in the office when Pete ambled up to her desk. He had his thumbs hooked into his jeans' pockets so that his open jacket revealed a black T-shirt stretched across smooth chest muscles and a rock-hard washboard stomach. The washed-out jeans hugged tight hips and held the telltale contour of a man who wore bikini briefs. His full mouth was curved into a lazy smile. His eyes were shaded and filled with s.e.xual promise. And under the facade, he fairly vibrated with suppressed violence.

The quintessential male, Louisa thought. Gorgeous...but not totally evolved. "You look as if you're about to rupture something," she said.

He expelled a long breath and kicked Louisa's desk, hard.

"Feel better?"

He had to think about it a minute. "No." He opened her bottom drawer and removed her purse. "Let's get out of here."

"I have work to do."

"You're done working for this creep." He wanted to take her home and make love to her. He wanted to go to bed and stay there until he felt at peace. No pigs. No politicians. Just Louisa and him locked away from the world for a little while.

For days he'd listened to her heartbeat come through the headset. He was no longer wearing the headset, but he still felt the soft thrum of her pulse. He would always feel it, he thought, somewhere deep in his subconscious. There was a word for it...bonding. He was bonded to Louisa.

The thought hit him like a fist in the gut, and suddenly everything fell into place. He loved her. He would always love her. His love was deep and real and comforting. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel panic-stricken at the thought of marriage and commitment. He smiled at Louisa and kissed her on the nose.

She looked at him warily. "What's that smile all about?"

"We need to talk."

Louisa changed into jeans and a rugby shirt and made her way up the stairs to Pete's apartment. He was making cream of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and Spike was prowling the area around the stove in antic.i.p.ation.

"Okay," Louisa said, pouring two mugs of soup, and taking her place at the table. "What do you want to talk about?"

Pete handed out the grilled cheese. "Marriage."

Louisa felt her stomach dip. She looked up from her soup. "Marriage?"

"Yep. I think we should get married."

She put her spoon down and squinted at him. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Never felt better."

"Marriage," she repeated. "To each other?"

"It came to me while I was standing at your desk."

"I thought we'd decided we were incompatible."

"There're all kinds of incompatibility. It seems to me our incompatibility isn't nearly so incompatible as some other kinds of incompatibility."

"Gee, that makes me feel a lot better."

It was too fast, he realized. She hadn't been hit by the bonding revelation the way he had. And she didn't know how short their time was together. He had a studio breathing down his neck. It wouldn't be many more days before he received an ultimatum to get his b.u.t.t out to the coast.

"I should have gotten a ring first," he said. "I should have done something romantic."

"That part doesn't bother me."

"What then?"

"Eternity. I'm bothered by eternity. You know, 'til death do us part?"

"Do you love me?"

She stirred her soup. "That's not the point."

"Aha! So, you admit to it! You do love me!"

"Just because you love someone doesn't mean you have to marry him."

"No, but it makes things a lot easier. Besides, I'm a real catch. I'm relatively good looking, I'm great in bed, I'm rich, I'm fun at the zoo..."

"What about my independence? You know, charting my own course, running my own life."

"I don't want to take away your independence, I want to share in it."

"That's what my mother said when she persuaded me to go to the University of Maryland as a commuter."

"There are alternatives to marriage. We could get engaged and live together in sin. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

"I'm going to tell Grandma Brannigan you said that."

He dredged up a smile, reached across the table, and covered her hand with his, "Think about it."

Kurt showed up on Pete's doorstep at five-thirty. He had tapes stuffed into his ski-jacket pocket and his fingers hooked into a six-pack of beer. He set the beer on the counter, peeled one off the pack, and popped the top.

"You did good," he said to Louisa. "Between the phone tap and the bug in Maislin's coat, I was able to get everything I needed. Not only did I find out the pig's flight, but Maislin and Bucky had a nice conversation about how the insurance company deserved to get hit."

He flipped the tapes to Pete. "These are yours. You paid for them, you get to keep them. There's even a bonus tape dedicated to his drug buys."

"What about the insurance company and the police?" Louisa asked. "Don't they want the tapes?"

"Can't use them," Pete said. "We bypa.s.sed a few technicalities."

"Then what are you going to do with them?"

Pete grinned. "Give them to the media...anonymously."

"That should end his political career."

"Yeah, and when the animal rights activists get through with him, he'll be nothing more than a grease spot on the pavement," Kurt said.

He had his head in Pete's refrigerator. He came out with a plastic container of leftover hot dogs and beans and went in search of a fork.

"There's a loose end I need to tie up. I need to get the bug back. It's still in Maislin's pocket. If he found it, he might get nervous and call the deal off. Besides, it has Louisa's prints on it."

He saw the look on Pete's face and held up a hand. "No problem. He's on ice at a benefit dinner. In about an hour and a half he'll be full of chicken almondine and his own self-importance. All I need to know is which pocket."

"The left," Louisa said. "Suit jacket."

"They're not going to let you close to him dressed like that," Pete said. "You're too scruffy looking."

Kurt tossed the empty plastic container in the sink. "That's why I'm here. I need a clean shirt."

By the time he was ready to rendezvous with Maislin, he had more than a clean shirt. He had a suit, topcoat, shirt, shoes, and tie.

"Where's the dinner?" Pete asked.

"The French emba.s.sy."

Pete handed him the keys to the Porsche. "This'll help you get through the gate."

Kurt grinned. "I hope I don't see anybody I know. This is gonna shoot my image all to h.e.l.l."

Louisa watched Kurt disappear down the stairs, heard the front door slam behind him. "He actually looked human."

"An illusion," Pete said.

They were playing Monopoly when Kurt returned. He helped himself to another beer and headed for the bedroom. Five minutes later he emerged in his own clothes.

Pete rolled the dice. "Any problems?"

"None."

"Want to play?"

Kurt snorted. "Pa.s.s."

"I listened to the tapes. They're pretty condemning."

"Amateurs," Kurt said. "They even call each other by name."

"You going to be in on the kill tomorrow?"

"I might listen from a discreet distance."

"Thanks for helping out," Pete said.

"You'll get my bill."