Parker And The Gypsy

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Authors: Susan Carroll

BOOK: Parker And The Gypsy
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“It's Late. I Should Be Going.”
“No!” Sara's cry seemed almost involuntary. “I—I mean, you don't have to. You could...stay.”
 
There was no mistaking her meaning. Her face was suffused with the delicate flush of passion, the glow of a woman waiting, willing to be loved. He'd never realized that desire could be such a pure and simple thing, almost holy when shining from a pair of deep blue eyes.
 
She was offering him everything he hungered for, and he didn't know why he didn't just reach out and take advantage of it. She was his gypsy lady. All the warmth that had always been missing from his black-and-white world.
 
He hesitated one moment more before taking the biggest risk of his life.
 
Mike Parker reached out of the shadows and took Sara's hand.
Dear Reader,
 
A sexy fire fighter, a crazy cat and a dynamite heroine—that's what you'll find in
Lucy and the Loner
, Elizabeth Bevarly's wonderful MAN OF THE MONTH. It's the next in her installment of THE FAMILY McCORMICK series, and it's also a MAN OF THE MONTH book you'll never forget—warm, humorous and very sexy!
 
A story from Lass Small is always a delight, and
Chancy's Cowboy
is Lass at her most marvelous. Don't miss out as Chancy decides to take some lessons in love from a handsome hunk of a cowboy!
 
Eileen Wilks's latest,
The Wrong Wife
, is chock-full with the sizzling tension and compelling reading that you've come to expect from this rising Desire star. And so many of you know and love Barbara McCauley that she needs no introduction, but this month's
The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher
is sure to both please her current fans...and win her new readers!
 
Suzannah Davis is another new author that we're excited about, and
Dr. Holt and the Texan
may just be her best book to date! And the month is completed with a delightful romp from Susan Carroll,
Parker and the Gypsy
.
 
There's something for everyone. So come and relish the romantic variety you've come to expect from Silhouette Desire!
Lucia Macro
And the Editors at Silhouette Desire
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
SUSAN CARROLL
PARKER AND THE GYPSY
Books by Susan Carroll
 
Silhouette Desire
 
Black Lace and Linen
#840
Love Power #876
Parker and the Gypsy
#1068
SUSAN CARROLL
 
began her career by writing Regency romances. It was a long way from the starch of the British aristocracy to the sizzle of a contemporary American love story. But, in making the leap, Susan found one thing remained the same: that spark of humor that gives zest to any romance, no matter what the time period.
 
Susan draws on the same humor in her own life. Currently residing in Illinois, she keeps busy between books, coping with two lively children, two rambunctious cats and one very noisy hamster.
To my friend Paula Jolly, for reading the runes and helping to keep my aura fluffed.
One
M
ikey ran through the maze of dark alleys, heart thumping beneath his ragged T-shirt, his grubby sneakers pounding the cold, hard concrete. Behind the kid, the shadow of a man loomed, tall and wavering in the streetlights, like a dangling spider.
Mikey glanced wildly about him for an escape route, but there was none. Brick walls enclosed him on all four sides. A ragged sob tore from his chest as he whirled about. The shadow man crept closer, ever closer. The boy flattened himself against the wall, tears streaking down his dirty cheeks as his stalker stepped into the light.
Mikey could almost see his face now....
“No! Go away,” the boy screamed as the shadow-man grabbed at him, his fingers sinking into Mikey's shoulder like bony talons. With his other hand, the dark demon raised his knife—
“No!”
The word tore from Mike Parker's throat as he wrenched awake, his head snapping back against the battered upholstery of his office chair. The leather creaked as he sat bolt upright and clenched the sides of his old oak desk, his brown eyes flying wide open. It took a few moments for him to remember where he was. The four plaster walls, the steel file cabinets and other trappings of his one man detective agency slowly penetrated his sleep-fogged brain.
No dark alleys. No shadow man. No knife. He had just dozed off at his desk, had a bad dream. That was all. But for a brief second, Mike felt all of twelve years old again. Small, helpless and scared. His hand crept reflexively to his shoulder, seeking traces of the wound that had long ago healed. Or should have. Damp patches stained the black T-shirt that hugged the hard contours of his chest, but they were from perspiration, not blood.
Swearing under his breath, Mike shook his head in disgust, raking back uneven lengths of tawny-colored hair from his eyes.
At the age of thirty four, he was too old for this, to be still having nightmares about the bogeyman. Or in this case, a
day-mare.
Anytime he was overtired or a little run-down, he could almost count on that stupid dream to come creeping up on him again. But after all these years, why, damn it?
“The answer is obvious, Michael,” the grad student from Rutgers he'd once dated had told him. “The dream is a manifest sign about some unresolved issue from your childhood.”
“You don't say,” Mike had snapped, wondering how they'd gotten around to discussing his restless sleep habits in the first place. He'd been quick to change the subject with a suggestive remark that had brought both the uncomfortable conversation and his dinner date with the lovely Carolyn 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 excesses. He stumbled back to his own seat behind the desk and tried to look nonchalant, leaning back in his chair.
“So what can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr. Parker—”
“Please. Mr. Parker was my father.” Or at least it was until the old man traded his name for the number stamped across his prison inmate's uniform. Mike shoved the grim thought aside before adding, “Call me ‘Mike.'”
“Mike,” she repeated, her smile gone suddenly shy. Her golden-tipped lashes drifted down. “It's very hard for me to know where to begin.”
“Then why don't we start with something easy? Like
your
name.”
“It's Sara Holyfield. And no
h
. In Sara, that is.”
“Sara with no
h,
” Mike murmured, but he was distracted by the silvery glint of her earrings. To his complete fascination, he saw that she was wearing naked fairies dangling off each ear. Very nubile fairies with delicate wings.
And there appeared to be another one suspended from a chain around her neck. This creature poised on top of some kind of crystal. Mike started to lean forward, tracing the path of the fairy where it danced down the front of her blouse, but he caught himself just in time.
Shoving aside the stack of paper that littered his desk—several days' worth of unopened mail—Mike attempted to assume a more professional stance. He managed to locate a notepad and a pen that actually worked. Jotting down Sara's name, he pressed her for a few more basic facts such as her address and phone number.
“Aurora Falls, New Jersey, huh?” he commented as he scrawled the information on his pad. “You drove a long way to find yourself a detective.”
“There was no one back there who could help me.”
“Suppose you tell me what the problem is and I'll see what I can do.”
Sara nodded, but she still appeared reluctant to proceed. Mike had encountered this before in first-time clients—the nervousness, the embarrassment to talk of what were often highly personal difficulties. Usually he lost patience and ordered his customers to cut to the chase.
But something about Sara Holyfield inspired an unaccustomed gentleness in him. Mike tried to set her at her ease by offering her a piece of his favorite peppermint gum. When she declined, he popped a stick in his own mouth, then settled back in his chair with what he hoped was a father-confessor type of expression.
“Just relax and take your time,” he soothed.

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