JoAnn Ross by Legacy of Lies

Author:Legacy of Lies [Lies, Legacy of]
Language: rus
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-22T04:11:41.308000+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

The Irish pub, located in, of all places, Pasadena, would definitely not have been Miranda's first choice for an intimate rendezvous. The single thing the out-of-the-way watering hole had going for it, she decided, was that she did not have to worry about running into anyone she knew.

Or more importantly, anyone who knew Zach.

She was on her second martini when the man she'd been waiting for finally showed up.

"You're late."

Mickey O'Rourke shrugged uncaringly as he waved to a pair of uniformed cops seated nearby. From what she'd already determined during her irritating wait, the Hibernian watering hole was a favorite with the police. "Something came up."

She frowned at him over the rim of the iced glass. When he sat down across the table, she caught the unmistakable scent of cheap drugstore cologne. "If you must meet me reeking of other women, I would prefer you find a bedmate with better taste in perfume."

He grinned unrepentantly. "Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Hardly."

The grin widened, a cocky flash of white in his freckled face. He tilted the wooden chair on its back legs and laced his fingers behind his head. The gesture, which she had no doubt was meant to impress, caused his biceps to swell against the sleeves of his navy blue polo shirt.

"You sure about that?" Lines crinkled outward from his boyish blue eyes.

"Absolutely. I was merely pointing out that I am not paying you two hundred dollars a day--"

"Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses," he reminded her helpfully.

"Plus expenses," she agreed, "to waste time screwing."

"Could have fooled me." He lowered the chair to all four legs again and leaned across the small wooden table toward Miranda. "My balls still ache from our marathon fuckarama in Bungalow Five of the Beverly Hills Hotel last week."

"Must you be so crude?"

"Don't get up on your high horse with me, sweetheart." He ran his hand up her leg beneath the table. His thick square fingers slipped beneath her emerald silk skirt, exploring the soft skin above her stocking top. "I remember you liking it crude." His fingers tightened. "And hard.

"In fact, how about you and I moving this meeting somewhere else. Somewhere more private."

Mickey O'Rourke was everything Miranda despised. He was uneducated, horridly common and, thanks to an unfortunate habit of playing the ponies at Santa Anita racetrack, he was also, despite his hefty fees, always skating on the brink of poverty.

She had no doubt that while her civilized ancestors had been drinking tea and playing polo, his people had amused themselves by painting their naked bodies blue and leaping out of trees.

He showed her no respect. Not in their business meetings or in bed. But, she allowed, the man was hung like a Brahma bull and could keep it up all night. He also had access to something she wanted. Something that made her willing to hang around places like this waiting for him to show up.

"What have you discovered?"

"I'll give you the rundown in a minute. Soon as I get a drink.

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