In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (2 page)

“No. Cleaning it.”

“Goodbye, Aaron.”

* * * * *

The footsteps continued closer to Mo.

Please turn around
. The whispered incantation screamed inside her head. Mo’s eyes scrunched and her teeth clenched. The steps came closer, closer, closer. Abruptly, the footsteps stopped. Mo could’ve sworn they stopped a few cars away. Or was that just wishful thinking?

 “My, my.” A deep, masculine voice, tinged with an attractive British accent, spoke from behind her. “What have we here?”

Yep. Wishful thinking.

“Do you require assistance?” The mocking tone of the voice made Mo’s teeth clench tighter. More footsteps clicked against the cobblestones before halting again.

“No, I’m fine.” She struggled to sound nonchalant, but had to shout to be heard. Craning her neck, Mo saw through the driver’s side window to two feet shod in leather loafers. Tailored gray suit pants encased the legs just above the shoes. “Go on about your business, sir,” Mo choked out.

He chuckled. “It’s not everyday that one sees a woman’s derriere so beautifully displayed. So you may appreciate that I prefer to remain right where I am.”

Mo tried to move and stopped.

It probably wouldn't be the best idea to swish the protruding portion of her anatomy just now.

The man peered through the window at Mo. His face, topped by well-groomed black hair, nagged at her with its familiarity. Mo, under other circumstances, would have described his face as yummy.

“If you’re not going to leave, why don’t you make yourself useful and pull me out?” Mo surprised herself with the suggestion.

“Why didn’t you go in feet first?” he asked.

“I was trying to go with the grain of the skirt, of course,” she joked.

“You do know a skirt doesn’t have a grain?”

“Okay, Mr. Literal. I guess you think the phrase ‘half cocked’ actually means half a—” Mo cut herself off. “Shitake,” she screamed with frustration.

“Pardon?”

“You know?” Mo groaned. “The mushroom?”

“Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t comprehend your culinary reference.”

“If you must know, I’ve sworn off swearing and food-type words seemed like the most satisfying substitute since I’m also on a diet."

He didn't need to know that her boss had wanted her to cut out the obscenities to satisfy the agency's more gentile clients.

"I was killing two stones with one mushroom," she continued.

“You have your idiom confused, but I follow your meaning,” he noted. “And perfectly logical—in some alternate universe. But may I say you clearly don’t need a diet?” He returned to peer at her through the window again. “You look quite perfect…from the bits I see.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Why did you—” he began.

“Does it matter? I'm starting to get a stomach cramp and a headache,” she shouted. “Just help me!” Oh, how she’d love to slap that smirk off his yummy face.

“It’s just that I’ll be
gobsmacked
as to how you got stuck.”

“I don’t know what a gob is,” she said. “But don’t go smacking mine, mister.”

“All right then.” He laughed as he moved toward the front of the car and disappeared from her sight. The Mercedes dipped. He must have climbed onto the hood.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I’m going to have to place my hands on your, um,
asparagus
to try to pull you out.”

“Get on with it,” she said through clenched teeth. He chuckled in response. Exasperating man. “Do you have to laugh?” she asked. “Can’t you restrain yourself?”

“No,” he said with another chuckle. “Not even the most dignified gentleman could keep quiet. Apart from that, I haven’t laughed this much in years and I intend to enjoy it.”

“By all means,” she said. “It’s totally about you.”

His warm, strong hands gripped the bare skin of her hips. As he pulled, she pushed her palms against the steering wheel to give him some leverage. For a few seconds she didn’t move an inch. Then, accompanied by the rough ripping sound of her seam giving way, Mo popped out of the sunroof like a cork from a champagne bottle. The sudden release sent the man falling backward and, with his hands still clutching her hips, the two of them tumbled. They skidded down the hood, over the bumper, and finally crashed side-by-side onto the asphalt.

Lying there, Mo turned her head and scrutinized her “hero”. Up close, the stranger could only be described as seriously delectable.
Probably about forty.

Why did he seem so familiar?

He glanced at her and then rose before holding a helping hand out to her. “Are you unhurt?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mo said, taking his hand and then scrambling to her feet.

She surreptitiously observed him as he brushed at the dirt on his silk suit. Stop it, she told herself. Stop ogling the man. Mo inspected the small tear at the waistband of her skirt instead.

Oh no! My purse is still in the car
, she thought

Mo bounded around the front bumper and fixed her gaze on the black Coach through the passenger side window. “I
gotta
get back in there and get my bag.”

The man came alongside her to stare into the car’s depths. “Why don’t you just call a locksmith, Miss—”

“Tuttle, Imogene Tuttle.”

He covered his mouth...Probably trying to hide a smile.

“I know,” she moaned. “It’s horrible. Call me Mo.”

“Mo?” Laughter burst from him. At her glare, he ended in a cough muffled by his hand. “Sorry. I had an image of the Three Stooges there for a minute.”

“It’s okay. I get it all the time.”

“This is all very amusing," he said, not bothering to hide a smile now.

“My name?” Mo asked.

“This bit of pretend,” the man replied. “It’s been fun but you can give it up. I know you must be a fan."

 “A fan of what?” She asked in genuine confusion.

"Why don't you just admit it and ask for an autograph?” He winked at her. "I'll even sign a body part if you like."

 "An autograph? Why would I want that?"

“Have it your way.” The lines at the side of his eyes crinkled gorgeously as he smiled.

The stranger walked to the back of the vehicle as he took a key from his pocket. He pressed the fob and then opened the trunk to remove a briefcase.

“Fortunately, I needed this for a meeting,” he said, closing the trunk. “Or you’d still be stuck in the sunroof.”

Crêpe! This guy owned the car.

“You got me," she said, trying to cover. “I’m a fan.” She’d kill her boss for giving her this assignment on the spur of the moment. That is, if her boss didn’t kill her first for fouling it up.

Mo glanced up to see the stranger’s brows converge and his mouth twist into a scowl as he eyed her. “No, you’re not,” he spat out. “I know a bad acting job when I see it. Are you with a tabloid? Why won't you people layoff?
SpyMatrix
was ten years ago.” His tone held an openly hostile edge.

What the Frito? Why—

Then it came to her. Now she knew why he seemed so familiar. He was Stephen Dagger from
SpyMatrix
.

* * * * *

Yuri
Kubikov
placed the sleeping baby in his crib. Watching the rise and fall of the baby’s tiny chest for long seconds,
Kubikov
ran his index finger in a caress along one chubby infant cheek. The strong perfume scent of the powder he’d just used during the diapering operation filled his nostrils, blocking out the pungent smell of the used disposable diaper now sealed in the trashcan.

After a last loving glance at the baby, he strode out of the nursery and then down the hall to the den.
Kubikov
flopped onto the sofa, grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels. Even with two hundred stations, he couldn’t find anything interesting on television. He switched to the DVD mode to start up a movie. The intro for his wife's favorite film,
The Sound of Music
, blared. Betsy, already in bed with the door locked against him, knew he hated that one. She probably left it in the player just to irritate him.

Too lazy to get up,
Kubikov
tossed the remote onto the coffee table and it landed next to his cell phone. The phone hadn’t made a sound all night. Not even a vibration for a text from one of his men. What should he do with such inept employees?

But then, just as the hills came alive, the cell phone shook. Grabbing it up,
Kubikov
examined the message on its face: Blackmailer found downtown.

Smiling,
Kubikov
placed a hand to his midsection and removed the Desert Eagle 50 caliber from the waistband of his pants. He ran his index finger caressingly over the barrel. Good. Now the blackmailer would know what a mistake it had been to anger a Russian mobster.

Chapter Two

“You’re Stephen Dagger,” Mo said. “From
SpyMatrix
.”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “Dagger is a character I played ten years ago. My name is Ross Grant. Why do you insane people insist on thinking the characters you see in films are real?”

“
Sor-ry
,” she mocked. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”

Turning away, he extracted a cell phone from his pocket and then punched at the touch screen.

“Who are you calling?

“The police,” he said. “You broke into my car.”

“Hey, man.” She put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t even get all the way into your car. You’re calling the police because I didn’t break in?”

"You were half in." He seemed to be waiting for an answer to his call. “And, besides, you intended to break in.”

“Yes, but intention is only one-tenth of the law. Possession is nine-tenths.” Adopting what she hoped was a charming expression and saccharine
tone,
she gazed up at him with wide eyes.

"That makes no sense." He huffed in disgust.

Only
adistant
fire engine whine could be heard as Ross waited on hold.

“While we’re waiting for the police," Mo said. "The least you could do is unlock your car so I can get my purse.”

His laughter barked out. “You really are the limit. Wouldn’t removing your handbag from my car be destroying evidence of your breaking and attempted entering?” He shook his head, sending his black bangs swinging onto his forehead.

How could he be so gloriously beefcake handsome and so beef jerky at the same time?

This assignment was an epic fail, but she tamped down her humiliation. Best to feel that later. If she was going to be arrested, she wanted her purse.

Mo turned her back, hiked up her skirt, and began to crawl up the hood of the Mercedes on her hands and knees. Once at the windshield, she scrambled to her feet. She half pulled and half crawled her way onto the roof.