Overnight Male (9 page)

I
N HIS SUITE AT THE
Four Seasons, Adrian Padgett sat in midnight-blue silk pajama bottoms and matching robe—appropriate, since it was just after midnight—and cradled his usual snifter of Armagnac in his left hand. He ignored three now-closed file folders that were stacked neatly on the desk before him, because he was much too interested in a fourth that lay open with its contents fanned out before him. Where Chuck and Donny and Hobie had turned out to be precisely who they claimed to be, and were therefore in no way remarkable, Iris Daugherty was, as of this moment, even more fascinating/intriguing/worthy of preoccupation than Adrian had initially thought. She, like he, was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

She’d been born Trisha Harrington. Of the Philadelphia Harringtons. A family that wielded rather a lot of power in that city and others, thanks to generations-old wealth, generations-old power and a generations-old reputation. To put it politely, the Harringtons of Philadelphia were a family who had achieved their social status through less than ethical means. To put it truthfully, the Harringtons of Philadelphia were a bunch of thugs.

Such thugs that every other crime family in the northeast—and in the South and on the West Coast and in the Midwest, too—gave them a wide berth. The Harringtons weren’t trustworthy criminals, the other families said. They were loose cannons who didn’t abide by any code of honor, even the bendable one generally adhered to by thieves and pushers and pimps and murderers. The Harringtons would just as soon shoot you—or stab you or poison you or pound you with a brick—as they would look at you. And then they would chop you up into little pieces. And then they would bake part of you into a cake. A birthday cake. For your child’s birthday. And then they would wrap up the rest of you in brightly colored paper as a gift for the same child.

Iris, née Trisha, was the granddaughter of the Big Man himself, Nathaniel Harrington. Her father, Benjamin, was currently being groomed by Nathaniel to take over that grand vizier of crime position himself, because the old man was looking to retire and move to Florida, where he could play shuffleboard and bet on the ponies at Hialeah and chop up a new crop of people into little pieces for dessert. And since Benjamin had no other children besides Trisha, she had been raised and expected—and groomed—to move into the number two position her father currently occupied and would be soon vacating.

There was just one small problem. Trisha Harrington had disappeared only days after turning eighteen, and even after a years-long exhaustive search, none of the Harringtons had been able to find her. Ultimately, they’d had no choice but to conclude she was dead, probably killed by a rival family. Or even someone within the Harrington gang, looking to end the direct Harrington line and move leadership into a new direction. Or perhaps even by one of Nathaniel’s trusted confidantes, who just couldn’t stomach the idea of a woman rising to the upper echelons of power. So the Harringtons had officially called off the search for Trisha years ago, had done whatever passed for grieving among those who had no hearts and Benjamin had taken a new protégé under his wing.

They hadn’t, however, canceled a reward they’d been offering since day one of Trisha’s disappearance, for any information leading to her whereabouts. To the tune of one point five million dollars.

It was only because OPUS was OPUS and had ways of finding out things others could not—even the Philadelphia Harringtons—that Adrian’s source in the organization had managed to discover that Iris was really Trisha. All Adrian had to do was pick up the phone this very moment, dial a number his source within OPUS had also provided, and he would be in touch with the very person who was in a position to award him seven figures for the return of the missing Harrington dame. It was no small change, even to a man bent on world domination. And it would be the easiest money he’d ever made. He would even be making it legitimately, which was virtually unheard of for him.

Or, better still, if he returned Iris to her father and grandfather, the two most powerful criminals in the country—perhaps even the world—Adrian would win their gratitude. He might even be able to manipulate the opportunity into winning the men as allies. And with allies like that in his corner, he wouldn’t need amateurs like Chuck, Donny and Hobie. The Harringtons surely had a more effective network of hackers and thieves at their disposal, just waiting for the guidance and creativity of someone like Adrian.

He looked at the phone as he enjoyed another sip of his Armagnac, even went so far as to stroke the receiver as he gave the matter more thought.

One point five million dollars and a potential seat at the right hand of Nathaniel Harrington and his second, soon-to-be first, in command, in exchange for Iris Daugherty. Who had, Adrian gathered, muscled her way out from beneath the bosom of her psychotic family under her own steam nearly a decade ago and had been in hiding ever since. He settled his hand comfortably on the receiver, but something made him hesitate to pick it up. Something that felt vaguely like…

What? he asked himself. He was having trouble identifying what the feeling was. Probably because it was something he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. It was somewhat familiar—he just couldn’t put his finger on quite how. But there was a definite feeling there of…

Protection, he was astonished to finally realize. A desire to protect Iris. How bizarre. The only person Adrian had ever worried about protecting was himself. Yet here he sat, thinking that if Iris was hiding from her family, it meant she had no desire to be reunited with them, even if they were still looking for her. And strangely, where Adrian would normally look to capitalize on such a situation, he instead found himself leaning toward keeping Iris’s secret.

He didn’t have much time to think about his epiphany, however, because a beep at the door signaled the key card was being inserted to open it. It wasn’t unusual for one of the boys to use the suite from time to time, especially on the weekends with a date in tow. More than once, Adrian had returned to his room after a late evening looking for love, or something, in all the wrong places—and usually finding it, thankfully—only to discover that some other love had occurred in his own bed while he was out. And college boys weren’t known for their tidiness when it came to sex. On those nights, Adrian had been forced to sleep on the sofa bed in the adjoining room. But he needed the little bastards on his side, so he never rebuked them. He’d be damned, however, if he would vacate the premises for them. Besides, the weekend was still a day way. It was a school night, for God’s sake.

He was about to call out something along the lines of “Beat it, you thoughtless little bastard, it’s a school night” when the door was pushed open from the other side and Iris’s head poked through the opening. When she saw him seated at the desk, she entered, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. She was dressed in her usual black garb and makeup and was carrying her usual enormous black bag, and Adrian found himself wondering if she owned anything that claimed even a splash of color. He also wondered what she was doing here at this hour. Not that he couldn’t think of one or two reasons to go visiting after midnight. He just doubted hers mirrored his. Unless she was as big a fan of naked Twister and Crisco as he was.

“I’m glad you’re still up,” she said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He began gathering up the contents of her file, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel, but not wanting her to become suspicious. “What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked cautiously.

She took a few steps into the room, but halted suddenly, as if she were uncertain of her reception. “Is it okay if I crash here tonight? I’ll sleep out here in the living room.”

He was about to ask her why she would do something like that when the two of them could have so much more fun together in the bedroom—even without the Crisco and Twister board—but for some reason kept his mouth shut. Again he was surprised by his behavior, because he normally would have taken complete advantage of the situation—and Iris. Again he decided to think about it later.

“Of course you can stay,” he told her. Then, deliberately, he added, “Problems at home?”

She uttered a small, helpless sound and muttered, “You have no idea.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You could enlighten me.”

She crossed her arms restlessly over her midsection, then uncrossed them and settled her hands on her hips. But that must not have been comfortable either, because she then cupped both hands nervously behind her neck. Finally she said, “My roommate’s scumbag boyfriend is spending the night again, and the two of them are so drunk, they’re trying to get me to go along with a threesome.”

Adrian’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Really,” he said. “And you object to this because…?”

Iris gaped at him. “Because the guy is totally heinous, that’s why. He’s like Napoleon Dynamite. Only without the dancing.”

Whoever the hell that was, Adrian thought, feeling himself starting to age again.

Oh, well, he tried to console himself. As long as Iris’s reluctance was due only to the third member of the party being unpalatable. Adrian started to ask her why she hadn’t brought her roommate with her to the hotel then, so that he could be the additional member of the party—to put it a bit crassly—but again stopped himself. There was plenty of time for fun and sex games later. Right now he had another sort of game in mind. Besides the naked Twister and Crisco, he meant.

“Drink?” he asked Iris as he lifted the snifter to his mouth again.

She shook her head. “No. Thanks. Just a place to crash.”

“Do you have everything you need?” he asked further. “Should I call down to the concierge for anything? Shampoo? Toothpaste?”
Crisco? Twister board?

She shook her head again. “No, I have everything I need in here.” She slung her enormous bag over her head. “I always keep it ready, because I never know when I have to jam.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes at that last comment. Wait a minute. He recognized that line. Wasn’t that what Ally Sheedy’s character had said in
The Breakfast Club?
And no one had taken her seriously either. Then again, Ally’s dad hadn’t been all mobbed up, had he? If he had, maybe Judd Nelson and Emilio Estevez might have been more apt to listen to her. In any case, what a remarkable event. Adrian and Iris had just connected on a level he could appreciate. She’d cited a pop culture reference he actually understood. Of course, it was probably a coincidence and Iris doubtless had no idea who Ally Sheedy was, but Adrian was going to celebrate his and Iris’s union anyway by enjoying another sip of his drink. Which he did, draining it.

“Are you hungry?” he asked when he lowered the empty snifter. “I could order you something from room service.” He dipped his head toward her bag. “Just a shot in the dark, but I’m betting you don’t have a nice succulent filet in there.” Not that the filet he’d had for dinner had been especially succulent, he recalled. “Or even a club sandwich.” Not that the club sandwich he’d had for lunch had been especially succulent, either.

She thrust her chin up indignantly at his suggestions that she did not, in fact, have everything she needed in her disreputable-looking bag. “I’m a vegetarian,” she told him. Then, as if to illustrate that fact, she unzipped the bag and reached into it, withdrawing a pear from which she enjoyed a big, crunchy bite.

Adrian sighed and reached for the phone. “Fine,” he said as he pushed the number for room service, which, by now, he knew by heart. “I’ll ask them to send up a salad.” As he waited for an answer at the other end of the line, he added, “And a nice pinot noir. And another Armagnac for myself.” And maybe he’d see if they had a Twister board, just in case. In lieu of Crisco, which he was reasonably certain hotels didn’t stock for their guests, they could just use the butter pat from the bread that came with the salad.

“Thanks,” Iris said.

Adrian waved off her gratitude quite literally as someone at the other end of the line picked up.

“Mind if I use your shower?” she asked once he’d concluded the order and hung up. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if she felt awkward about voicing the question.

“Not at all,” he said, extending his hand in that direction. “By the time you’re finished in there, your food should be here.”

She opened her mouth as if she intended to say something else, but closed it again before any words emerged. With a single quick nod, she retreated to the bathroom, and a moment later Adrian heard the water running. He indulged in a quick fantasy about slipping out of his robe and pajamas and joining her, then decided against it. For some reason, he rather liked the idea of Iris approaching him first. Which was a startling thing to realize. Usually he liked to be the initiator of any sexual contact. And he liked to be the one who concluded it. In fact, he liked being the one in control of anything sexual at all times.

With Iris, however, he found the idea of her coming to him first intriguing. Maybe because she worked so hard to keep herself to herself and went out of her way to illustrate her indifference to everything. Not that Adrian thought for a moment that she
was
indifferent about everything. But she certainly worked hard to make others think she was. If she emerged from her seemingly impenetrable shell far enough to take the initiative in a sexual liaison, it would mean she was exceptionally interested and, therefore, exceptionally eager.

He was still pondering that when she emerged from the bathroom after a lengthy soak in the tub, still dressed in black. This time in baggy black pajama bottoms decorated with tiny white skulls and a black tank top. She’d removed all her hardware and washed off the heavy eyeliner and lipstick, and Adrian was stunned to realize just how beautiful she really was. But it was a healthy, wholesome kind of beauty that evoked images of prairies and picnics and Sundays in the park, the sort of beauty to which he’d never, ever been attracted.

He told himself he liked her better with the black eyeliner and lipstick. Then he pictured her with the pale blond hair he knew was her natural color, and the cheerleader-in-the-heartland imagery returned. This time Adrian found himself liking what he saw in his mind’s eye. The picture he had of Iris then was…fresh. Innocent. Full of possibility and potential. Empty of anger and artifice. The way life, he imagined, must be for other people. The way it should have been for him. And Iris, too.