Partners in Crime (6 page)

She could walk out into the bright sunlight and knock on his door. But what if he were still asleep? She didn’t fancy having him stagger to the door in rumpled pajamas, or even less.

She picked up the phone and dialed the desk. For a moment her mind went blank, forgetting his last name. She could hardly ask the bored-sounding clerk for the room of Jimmy the Stoolie, could she?

Calvin, that was it. Jimmy Calvin.

“No one by that name,” the gum-popping voice replied, and the phone slammed down.

Jane counted to ten, dialed 0 once more, and said in her sweetest voice, “I know he’s registered. He’s in the room next to me.”

“Then why don’t you go and knock on his door?” Slam.

Jane counted to fifteen, dialed 0 and said, “Because I don’t want to disturb him. Could you please ring his room for me?”

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line, accompanied by a loud snapping of gum. “There’s no one in 4-A, and the man in 6-A isn’t James Calvin. He’s registered as Alexander Caldicott.”

Someone was chasing after him, someone with a huge mallet, twice the size of an average man, and that person was slamming the mallet down on the ground, causing a major earthquake. It was Yosemite Sam, his red handlebar mustache bristling, shouting and cursing as he slammed the mallet down and the entire landscape hopped. It didn’t hop as fast as he did, and he realized without much enthusiasm that he was Bugs Bunny.

The pounding continued, the dream faded, and Sandy sat bolt upright in bed, realizing he wasn’t Bugs Bunny racing through a Southwestern desert, he was Alexander Caldicott in a motel in New Jersey.

The flimsy door was trembling with the force of someone’s fist. “Wake up,” Jane Dexter said fiercely from the other side and Sandy had one more realization. He was neither Bugs Bunny nor Alexander Caldicott, he was Jimmy the Stoolie. And he sank back into the pillow with a groan.

“Go away,” he said weakly. It was too early and he was too hung over to face her and the truth he knew would have to come out. He’d have to tell her—sometime during the sleepless night he’d come to that conclusion. He’d take her out somewhere, not a cafeteria like that godawful steak house but someplace restrained and elegant, where she wouldn’t dare throw a scene. She’d be embarrassed at her mistake, but he’d be charming, and they’d both end up laughing about it.

She didn’t sound like she was laughing right now. “Wake up, Jimmy!” she said, still pounding. He could see the cheap panel vibrate, and he knew she wouldn’t give up.

“I’m coming,” he groaned. He’d resorted to finishing the bottle of Scotch around four-fifteen, when sleep had still eluded him. He didn’t know whether he’d finally drifted off or blacked out, but the end result was the worst headache he’d had in his entire life.

He stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and stood glaring into the sunlight. Jane was glaring just as fiercely. “It’s about time.” She bit off the words, stepping into the room. He reached beyond her and shut the door, shut out the blinding sunlight that was threatening to split his skull. “I have something to ask you.” And then her voice trailed off as she noticed what he was wearing.

Sandy ignored her, collapsing back on the bed. The weakened frame shook beneath the force of his body, but he didn’t care, just lay face down in the tangled covers as he waited for Jane to pull herself together.

It wasn’t as if he was stark naked. He’d slept in his briefs and T-shirt—both were a sedate navy blue, and if she’d been married she’d been bound to see someone in a lot less. Hell, there was more to his underwear than he usually wore swimming. God damn all librarians and people who pounded on his door demanding answers when he had the world’s worst headache...

“Why are you registered under the name Alexander Caldicott?”

All self-pity vanished, and he stared down into the creased white sheets, his beleaguered brain working overtime. He’d always had the ability to think fast, particularly in crucial situations, and now wasn’t the time to come up with the truth. She’d probably break a chair over his head.

He rolled onto his back and eyed her calmly. Her normally pale face was still slightly pink, and she kept her eyes fastened above his neck. For a moment he had the sadistic wish that he had slept in the nude. If she was going to react like a Victorian virgin she might as well have something real to panic about.

“I’m registered under Caldicott’s name because he’s responsible for my bills,” he said blithely, obscurely pleased that he wasn’t actually lying.

“Why?”

“Part of a deal we worked out. He’ll be reimbursed. It just helps with record keeping and all that.”

She looked doubtful, then guilty. “Actually, I suppose I should be paying for your room.”

“I draw the line at being a kept man,” he said in his most solemn voice, and her cheeks flushed pink again. He wondered if he could get her to come a little closer. If he could just manage to trip her, get her onto this too soft bed with him, she might very well respond as she had last night.

Speaking of response, he thought with a silent groan, rolling onto his stomach once more. She might not have noticed if she kept her gaze on his face, but he had the suspicion it was taking every ounce of concentration she possessed to keep from letting her eyes drift lower.

“I didn’t mean to offend you...you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, sinking down into the powder-pink vinyl chair that was the one improvement this room had to offer. “I’m too gullible.”

He grinned at that. “Very true. And no, you don’t need to pay for my room. We’ll work out the finances later.”

“But I don’t even know if I can afford...”

“You can afford me. And if you can’t, I may be into doing a little pro bono work after all.”

“I couldn’t accept that,” she said stiffly.

“We’ll work something out.” He still didn’t dare roll over again. She was having the most amazing effect on his senses, and she wasn’t even a blonde. “Listen, let me grab a shower and then we’ll head on out.”

“Head on out where?”

He grinned. “Back to Technocracies, of course. Breaking and entering netted us very little, so it’s back to plan one. It’s time for a little industrial espionage.”

“T
his is an incredibly stupid idea,” Jane hissed as she trailed Sandy down the same carpeted corridor they’d traversed less than twelve hours ago. It looked different in the daylight, bland and professional and distinctly unthreaten8ing.

Neither of them bore much resemblance to the two burglars of the night before. She could scarcely recognize Jimmy the Stoolie. His wheat-colored hair was slicked back and parted in the center, his aristocratic nose was marred by a pair of glasses, he walked with a stoop-shouldered slouch, and his tie was knotted badly. For such minor changes the results were considerable, turning the golden prince into an attractive nerd.

She didn’t know if her own transformation was as effective, though her companion had assured her it was. She’d gone in the other direction, fighting him all the way in the confines of his sleazy hotel room.

“Haven’t you got anything livelier to wear?” he’d demanded, eyeing her sensible khaki suit and white blouse with disgust.

“No.”

“Didn’t that lump of a jacket come with shoulder pads?”

“I threw them out.”

He snorted derisively. “I believe it. We’ll have to wad up some tissues. We need to give your clothes some shape.”

“It has quite enough shape, thank you.”

“Stop arguing.” Before she’d realized what he was doing he’d reached out and unfastened the top two buttons of
her
white oxford shirt. She batted at his hands, but he ignored her, yanking at the material until his critical eye found something to approve. “One would never know you had breasts under those clothes,” he muttered.

Outrage and amusement warred within her, and for once amusement won. “I think people are supposed to take it on faith.” She jerked away from him, taking the wadded up tissues from his hand. “I can manage from here, thank you.” She turned to the mirror, tucking the tissues under her bra straps to form makeshift shoulder pads. “They’ll probably slip and I’ll end up looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame
.
”

He came up behind her, and his fingers were deft in her tightly braided hair. “They’ll be too busy looking at your cleavage.” He spread her damp hair around her shoulders, fluffing it slightly, gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t quite fathom.

“Satisfied?” she demanded, turning to face him and instantly regretting it. As usual he was standing too close, and he’d touched her too much already for her peace of mind.

He wasn’t through touching. “Almost. Change the sensible shoes to something a little spikier, put on more lipstick, and these—” he reached out, unwound the curved stem of her wire-rimmed glasses from her ears and pulled them off “—have got to go.”

“Mr. Calvin,” she began fiercely.

“Who?”

“Calvin. It’s your last name, isn’t it?”

He had the grace to look slightly flustered. “It’s an alias
.
”

“I’m not surprised.”

“So is Jimmy.” He peered through her glasses, shaking his head and blinking. “Call me Sandy.”

“Sandy?” she echoed.

“Short for Sandor Voshninsky,” he said blithely. “That was my favorite alias and I haven’t used it for a while. You don’t need these glasses.”

“I get a headache without them.”

“Join the club. I already have one.” He reached up and settled her glasses on his own classic nose, peering through them. The transformation was instantaneous. He looked nearsighted, slightly wimpy and suddenly approachable. Jane found she didn’t like that approachability one bit.

“I don’t think we’re going to fool anyone.” She reached down to button her shirt, but he caught her hand, stopping her, holding it far too long. “If Uncle Stephen hadn’t left for Europe I wouldn’t even consider it. It’s a lucky thing we met at his house and not at the office. I know his executive assistant never forgets a face, and once she sees me...”

“We don’t have to fool them for very long. Listen, this is a simple scam. I know they’ll hire me—I can talk anybody into anything.”

“I believe it,” she muttered.

“And you only had to look at the cluttered desks around there to know they’re behind on their clerical work. You show up with the proper credentials and they’ll jump on you like fleas on a dog.”

“Charming figure of speech.”

“Good help is hard to find nowadays. Everyone wants to be a chief, no one wants to be an Indian.”

“How come I got elected to be the squaw? Why don’t I tell them I’m a research scientist and you’re the typist?”

“Because you don’t have the experience to carry it off,” he said bluntly. “I do. All you have to do is smile and lean over.”

“Sexist pig,” she said mildly. “How do you know the person hiring me is a man?”

“I don’t. You’ll have to adapt. If it’s a man, you flirt very, very discreetly. Show him those terrific legs you try so hard to hide. If it’s a woman, pull your skirts down and come on strong and subdued. Play on the sisterhood angle, but don’t let her feel threatened.”

She stared at him for a long moment, trying to ignore the flush of pleasure that had swept over her when he mentioned her terrific legs. She did have good legs, but she hadn’t expected him to notice. “You have the most devious, manipulative mind,” she said.

He leaned closer, and for a brief, startled moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he reached under her jacket and adjusted the wad of tissue. “Thanks,” he said cheerfully. “But you’re showing great promise yourself.”

Right now she didn’t feel the slightest bit promising. Jimmy, no, Sandy had called Technocracies Ltd. And apparently the company was in dire need of temporary secretarial help. She didn’t even understand half of what Sandy said about himself. All that mattered was the end result. Sandy had an appointment with the chief of personnel, Jane was to be interviewed by the other end of the corporate ladder.

“Cheer up, Madame X,” he murmured at the door of the personnel office. “You’ll do fine.”

To her amazement she did, though she had a few schizophrenic moments. Charlie Pilbin, a harassed-looking middle-aged man, interviewed her, and she dutifully hiked her skirt up, leaned forward, and spoke very seriously of her interest in word processing. She hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of being hired if she admitted she knew nothing about computers, and she’d managed to pick up enough information in her job at the Baraboo City Library to sound knowledgeable. She could only pray Sandy rescued her before she actually had to confront one of the electronic beasts.

There she was, being as subtly seductive as she could possibly imagine, when the door opened and a woman walked in. Jane didn’t need an introduction to know who the newcomer was. Richard had been loud and hostile about Elinor Peabody, and the vivid word pictures still lingered.

Stephen Tremaine’s executive vice-president was a stunningly attractive woman in her late thirties. From the tips of her leather-shod feet to the top of her silvery-blond hair, a distance that encompassed almost six feet, the woman emanated poise, intelligence, and the kind of ruthless determination that had always given Jane a headache. Some people were so sure of things in this life, and nothing ever swayed their intense certainty.

Whereas Jane was far too likely to view all the possibilities and have a wretchedly hard time choosing which one was the least of all evils. She rose politely, looking up at Elinor Peabody, and knew one thing without any doubt. The woman was trouble.

“Is this the new temp?” Ms. Peabody inquired abruptly. Jane was too nearsighted to be sure, but it seemed as if the woman’s icy gaze took in Jane’s appearance, not missing a detail, and found her wanting.

“It is.” Charlie Pilbin clearly didn’t like being interrupted, and he didn’t like Elinor Peabody. Jane didn’t need glasses to ascertain that—his tone of voice made it very clear. “Judy Duncan, meet Elinor Peabody, Stephen Tremaine’s executive assistant.”