In Bed With The Wild One: In Bed With The Wild One / In Bed With The Pirate

“Damn it!” Slab bellowed, pounding a huge fist on the table and making the coffee cups bounce. “I’m going to get my stash!”

There was a long pause from their booth, as Tyler seemed to bide his time before speaking. “Sit down,” he said finally, in a dark, curt tone that didn’t brook objections. Slab sat. Emily could feel the reverberations all the way over on her side.

Angry words went back and forth, a “get a grip” followed by “I gotta do what I gotta do,” with Tyler getting colder and Slab becoming more and more agitated. Leaning across the table, the big guy distinctly brought up “Sweet Shanda” again and then something about the money had better be where he left it or he would “tear her apart with my bare hands.”

Emily felt chilled to the bone. Eavesdropping on criminals was one thing, but when they started contemplating taking women apart with their bare hands, it was going too far.

Finally the big guy raised his entire bulk from the booth, pushing himself to his feet with some effort. “I know what I gotta do,” he bellowed.

After mumbling a few more things Emily didn’t catch, he stomped his way out of the coffee shop, apparently determined to assault some poor woman named Shanda in San Francisco in order to recover ancient ill-gotten gains.

Tyler sent a wary glance around the place, clearly wondering whether anyone had overheard the outburst. Emily noted that, except for her, the diner’s few patrons appeared to be very good at minding their own business. And unless Tyler happened to lean forward and look in just the right place, he wasn’t going to see her, either. There were some benefits to being small.

Emily tucked herself even farther down into her bench seat, just to be sure, as she wondered what she should do next. Frankly, she was appalled. Had she just heard criminal activity being planned, and if so, as a lawyer and thereby an officer of the court, was she obligated to pull out her cell phone and report it to the police? Would they believe her if she did? And what would that mean for Tyler, the scowling, handsome ne’er-do-well who had done his best to dissuade the evil Slab from his crime spree?

Her head was spinning. Maybe she should at least call her mother the judge. But she was a bankruptcy judge. What would she remember about criminal law? Plus then Mom would know Emily was out eating banana splits in seedy dives and not at work. And then Dad would know, too, and she’d end up the first Chaplin in three generations to be fired from Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin.

Besides, she wasn’t absolutely sure there was anything wrong in what she’d heard. For all she knew, Slab had done his time, was completely reformed, and wasn’t allowed to leave the area because…well, there had to be some decent explanation. And if she started calling police and judges, she’d just make a fool of herself, making a mountain out of a molehill of stray words and overheard bits and pieces. Who knew anything for sure?

“Damn it.” Tyler interrupted her frantic thoughts as he, too, rose to his feet. He threw some money on the table, muttering under his breath. “I have to go after him.”

So maybe he was a bounty hunter? A bounty hunter with a heart?

Whatever he was, Emily gulped and hid behind her book as he crossed around the booths and passed right by her. She peeked over the cover, absently noting how well his weathered jeans wrapped his tight bottom, how wide his shoulders were under that leather jacket, how fearsome the expression on his handsome face…ooh, green eyes. She hadn’t been able to tell before, but now she could. Definitely green. Not the color of emeralds or grass or even a Christmas tree. What was that color?

One thing she’d say for him—he might be involved in a mess, but he was hot.

As she watched his every move, he cut near the counter where Jozette was just emerging with Emily’s banana split, and then he bolted up a set of stairs tucked in beside the rest rooms.

As the waitress ambled over and shoved the ice cream in front of her, Emily narrowed her eyes at the stairs. What was up there? And what was Tyler doing?

But before she’d had a chance to piece together a theory, he came barreling back down the stairs. “Jo?”

The waitress turned away from Emily’s table. “Yeah, babe. Whatcha need?”

He cocked his head, indicating he wanted to talk to her by the counter. She hotfooted it over there, which said volumes about how much more she valued Tyler’s business than anyone else’s.

As the two of them talked, Emily set her book down, absentmindedly picking up her spoon. With an overflowing scoop of banana, ice cream and hot fudge camouflaging her, she gazed in their general direction, wondering what in the world they were discussing.

“I’m telling ya, lay off,” Jozette said finally, in an aggrieved tone that was loud enough for Emily to hear. “I wanna do this. I got a credit card—it ain’t like real money—and you’re good for it. I know you, Tyler. You’ll pay up the minute you get back from San Francisco.”

Tyler tried to protest, but Jozette cut him off, laying a hand on his arm with a gesture that seemed downright friendly. “Ty, listen. I never did pay you what I owed you. Somebody’s gotta follow the big jerk and make sure he gets back in one piece. I can’t, so you gotta. Least I can do is get you on an airplane.”

After a long pause, he said reluctantly, “Yeah, okay. Get me an aisle seat, will you? I’ll just go upstairs, you know, pack a few things. Be back in a sec,” he called out as he headed for the stairs. He turned back. “And Jo—thanks.”

Going to San Francisco, Emily sang in her head, leaving out the part about wearing flowers in your hair. And Jozette was apparently paying his way, which implied some relationship between Mr. Cool and the hardbitten waitress. There was no way she would believe the two of them had, well, a thing. It was more as if he had done Jozette some major favor in the past—kind of like the Godfather or something.

Very curious. Biding her time until the tantalizing Tyler came waltzing back down those stairs, Emily decided that she could honestly say she’d never been confronted with anything remotely this intriguing in her entire life. Crimes, misdemeanors, mystery men, hidden loot, bank robberies, felons on the lam…

“You come to work late. You eat lunch at a new place. You break your cosmic routine. And all hell breaks loose,” she whispered.

Emily smiled. What fun!

Chapter 2

TYLER O’TOOLE TOSSED his toothbrush and a couple of extra T-shirts into a beat-up duffel bag.

“Damn it all to hell.” The last thing he wanted was to run to San Francisco to play baby-sitter for a loser like Joseph “Slab” Slabicki. But what else was he going to do? “Worst client I ever had,” he said darkly.

And he’d had some doozies in his short and unproductive legal career. So when he said Slab was the worst, that was going some. His clients were mostly lowlifes and petty thieves. Sure, they deserved a defense as much as anyone else. If only they paid better.

And if only their problems would quit sucking him into legal problems of his own. He’d already had the ethics committee of the bar association breathing down his neck—twice—over the way he’d handled a couple of cases for lesser lights in Fat Mike’s organization. Allegations of jury tampering and money laundering. Right. As if his clients had the cash to pay off jurors or launder money. That was way too liquid for his flea-bitten legal practice.

“Lie down with dogs, get fleas, and don’t even get a bone. Yeah, Ty, old boy. Real smart. You know, you might want to think about making some changes in this so-called life of yours.”

Excellent idea. As soon as this was over.

He threw a few more things into the bag and zipped it up, aware he had to get done and get out of there if he had any chance of pulling this off. Sure. All he had to do was follow Slab to San Francisco, find the mope before he did anything stupid, keep him from getting killed or arrested, and get them both back to Chicago in time for Slab’s preliminary hearing on Monday.

Because if he didn’t, Fat Mike would be out the dough he’d put up for Slab’s bail. And then there would be hell to pay.

Not to mention more scrutiny from the ethics committee over just how involved he was in Slab’s flight from the jurisdiction. Fugitive from justice. Aiding and abetting. Yeah, it sounded just great.

And then he was getting squeezed from the other side, too—the Feds investigating Fat Mike, who were none too subtle about pressuring potential witnesses into cooperation.

“This is a lose-lose situation,” Tyler muttered, making his way back down the stairs to the coffee shop. And a fool’s errand. But it was also his only shot at keeping the wolf—and Fat Mike—from his door.

“Hey, Jo,” he called as he hit the bottom step, “do you mind watching my place for a couple of days while I’m out of town? Only open it up for a search warrant, okay?”

“No prob, Tyler. I got you covered.” She glanced down at the counter where she’d scribbled some notes. “You’re leaving from O’Hare. I got you on a two-o’clock flight.”

“Terrific. Thanks again.” He paused. “I should be back by Monday. I’d better be back by Monday.”

And with that, he picked up his bag and headed to the street to look for a cab. He hoped he could cover the fare to the airport.

EMILY SAT THERE over the melting remains of her banana split, listening, thinking, planning.

“The only thing I can do is follow him,” she whispered, growing more sure with every word. “I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? And it sure sounds like he’s going to need one.”

After all, if Tyler was dangling from the precipice of legal troubles, maybe she could help him, keep his creepy friend from taking any old girlfriends apart with his bare hands, and get the adventure of a lifetime while she was at it.

It sounded a lot better than sitting in Chicago with Kip Enfield and the Bentley file.

Emily dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and grabbed her things. She still had time to catch him. And she’d always wanted to say, Follow that cab!

SHE SAW HIM JUMP OUT of a taxi and head into the terminal at O’Hare just as her own cab was pulling up behind it. On the trip to the airport from the city, she’d had plenty of time to rethink her impromptu plan, but she hadn’t. In fact, she was more set on it now than she’d ever been. It was only for the weekend, after all. He’d said very clearly he’d be back on Monday. And didn’t lots of people throw together last-minute weekend plans?

Besides, hadn’t she begged for something wild and new to happen? What more could you ask for?

“Sukie Sommersby would do it,” she repeated to herself as she followed him into the terminal. As he approached the ticket counter, Emily quickly ducked behind a large family and their immense pile of luggage, to stay out of Tyler’s sight line.

Pretending to be absorbed in a cartful of golf bags, she added, “Sukie would do it in a New York minute. Sukie would be waking up in Vegas with him tomorrow, no regrets. And then she’d be calling me to tell me all about it.”

“Who are you talking to?” demanded the father of the family she was using as cover. He strong-armed the cart she was hiding behind, sharply wheeling it away from her. “Are you touching my bags?”

“No, no. I wasn’t touching anything. I, uh, twisted my ankle and was just resting for a moment.” She gave him a weak smile, which didn’t seem to satisfy him.

She wanted to demand, Do I look like a terrorist? but she kept her mouth shut. Harrumph. She was wearing a beautifully cut navy-blue suit, a silk blouse and her grandmother’s pearls. Hardly the sort of person who planted bombs in other people’s golf bags.

Oh well. She pretended to limp as she darted behind a convenient pillar, just to allay Mr. Cranky’s fears. It provided a better angle to spy on Tyler, anyway. From that vantage point, she saw him take his ticket from the agent at the counter and disappear down Concourse C.

“For once in my life,” she said with determination, “I’m not going to be the one on the other end of the phone. I’m going to be the one in the middle of the adventure.”

Now all she had to do was buy a ticket on his flight to San Francisco—two o’clock, the waitress had said—and keep shadowing him wherever he went when he got there. She would scope out whatever it was he was involved with, and she would step in to save him when the proper time arose.

Good plan, she told herself. It was just the sort of thing Trick McCall would do. Sukie, on the other hand, would be seducing him off to Paris for croissants in bed. But Emily preferred to stick with Trick on this one.

So she hit an ATM for as much cash as she could carry, tried not to look like a drug dealer when she paid for her ticket in cash, and then made a beeline for the gate.

Tyler was already there, moodily staring into space, and he didn’t seem to notice as she skirted around behind him and buried her nose in her Trick McCall book. Either she was very good at this surveillance stuff, or he was very bad at picking up on it.

Actually, things were working out so well she wondered if she should pinch herself. But surely this was kismet, destiny, fate, with her plans neatly falling into place to show her that this adventure was meant to be.

When the gate attendant called his row, Tyler strolled onto the plane, apparently none the wiser. Emily watched him go, drinking in his reckless, easy grace, the harsh angle of his jaw, the cool green of his eyes, offset beautifully by thick, dark lashes. Yes, she was definitely doing the right thing. She couldn’t just let someone like that pass her by and not do her best to save him.

Her assigned seat was near the front of the plane, so she was one of the last people to get on. She didn’t want to appear obvious, so she didn’t look for Tyler, didn’t allow herself to scan the rows or anything. No, she just settled in and fastened her seat belt. But even though she couldn’t see him, Emily knew he was back there somewhere. He wasn’t going to get away from her now.

And then the plane pulled away from the gate. A small smile curved her lips, and she felt a tingle of anticipation and exhilaration. Too late to turn back, which meant she was actually doing this. She couldn’t believe it! She had never done anything this outrageous in her life, and she was loving every minute.

“This your first flight?” The man next to her, a hearty, blustery type with bloodshot eyes and a boozy aroma, leaned in closer. “Fear of flying, huh, sweetie?”

Emily blinked. Men like this never came on to her. Why in the world would they start now? “Uh, no,” she managed. “Why would you think that?”

“You seem a little nervous,” he said, patting her hand, glomming on, squeezing warmly. “Kinda jittery. White knuckles. Poor baby.”

Eeuw. She snatched her hand away. “I’m not nervous. I’m just anxious to get to San Francisco.” She couldn’t help embroidering the truth, hoping to put him off. “Y’see, I’m a lawyer. Criminal law. I have a really important case. A murder case. My client murdered a guy who sexually harassed her. We’re claiming justifiable homicide.”

“Okay, I get the picture.” Mr. Boozy turned his attention to the stewardess, intent on snagging an early cocktail, and Emily leaned back and shut her eyes.

There were no bumps, no turbulence, nothing. And it was taking forever.

While Mr. Boozy tossed back miniature bottles of every color and type, Emily did her best to be patient. She finished off the Trick McCall book before they were even past Iowa. After that, she took a nap, thumbed through the magazine, filled in the crossword puzzle, gazed out her window. She even pulled the odious Bentley file out of her briefcase and worked on that for a while. But this waiting stuff was driving her bananas.

She was simply gazing at the back of the seat in front of her when the flight attendant held out a napkin and a bag of pretzels. “Would you like something to drink?” the woman asked pleasantly.

Although Emily waved off the stewardess, the guy next to her made up for her and then some. He had about ten empty bottles lined up on his tray, with a tiny Scotch, a tiny bourbon and four or five wines in different colors. He wasn’t just drinking, he was having a one-man tasting party.

With a jaded eye, Emily watched him plow through his liquor supply. At least he was a fairly quiet drunk. Then he turned to ask her if she wanted to try the cognac and knocked the whole uncapped bottle off his tray and into her lap. With cold, potent-smelling liquid seeping into her thigh, Emily realized those tiny bottles held a lot more than she would have thought.

The icky man did his best to blot at her with his napkin, but it didn’t help. So, for two hours, she sat there, stuck in her puddle of brandy, willing the plane to get its tail fin to San Francisco on the double so she could get out of there before she started shoving little bottles down Mr. Boozy’s throat.

Finally, blessedly, they were there, their gate was hooked up, and she gathered her heavy briefcase and her purse and bolted off the airplane as if there were no tomorrow.

A traffic jam behind her clogged the jetway, and she decided she surely had time to nip into the rest room and splash some water on her cognac-soaked skirt. She was in and out in record time—not that it really helped the cognac problem—but her gate had cleared by now, and Tyler was nowhere to be seen.

“What now?” Emily chewed her thumbnail, glancing up and down the concourse for a glimpse of that familiar leather jacket. Where could he have gone?

Hotfooting it in the general direction of ground transportation, she wished she wasn’t wearing pumps or hauling that stupid, cumbersome briefcase with the laptop in it. Was she gasping with exertion? Or starting to hyperventilate?

And where the hell had Tyler disappeared to?

Huffing and puffing, Emily took a decisive turn toward the taxi arrow. Tyler seemed like a cab kind of guy, didn’t he? Rather than a limo or a shuttle, she thought a taxi would definitely be the best bet—

“Taxi, miss?” When she was almost at the curb, a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere and reached for her briefcase.

Emily whirled in his direction, skidding to a stop, bumping into the cab driver, as she saw—oh, my God!—Tyler pop up like a mirage right in front of her.

She’d not only found him, she’d practically fallen on top of him.

The cabbie said, “You share cab, miss, yes?” and wrenched her briefcase out of her hand. He’d already tossed it into the trunk of the taxi, so there wasn’t much she could do but get in. Oh, God. She was supposed to be following the mysterious Tyler, not sharing the back seat of a cab with him!

Tyler waited, staring right at her, holding the door as she scooted inside. No chance of being inconspicuous now. She tried hard to manage her entrance with a modicum of grace, but it was impossible with those stormy green eyes staring a hole in her. She was flushed and breathless and she smelled as if she’d just taken a dip in a distillery vat. What kind of impression was she going to make? Besides idiotic, of course.

“Where we goin’?” the cabbie asked as Tyler folded his long, lean body in after her, stowing his duffel bag on the floor at his feet.

Tyler glanced her way, clearly giving her the first shot.

“I, uh…” She trailed off, tongue-tied. “I’m thinking.”

He shrugged. “Okay, well, I need to go to North Beach. Take Stockton—I’ll tell you where to stop.”

Emily couldn’t believe it, but she actually had the presence of mind to murmur, “What a coincidence. That’s exactly where I’m going.”

As the driver merged with traffic, sailing off into a sunny San Francisco afternoon, a long pause hovered over the back seat. Tyler’s gaze measured her, held her, as she waited for him to say something. Finally he offered, “You don’t look like the North Beach type.”

“Oh, really?” She had no idea what that meant. She’d never even heard of North Beach. Did he expect her to be carrying a towel and suntan lotion? “Well, you never know, do you?” she asked brightly. “Maybe I’ve got my swimsuit in my briefcase.”

Now she saw the spark of something else in his eyes. Humor? “There’s no beach at North Beach,” he told her calmly. “Are you sure you’re going to the right place?”

“Oh, I’m sure. I was just joking. About the swim-suit, I mean.”

Again silence hung between them. He shrugged. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

She wished he would stop staring like that. Miserable, Emily pulled on the hem of her soggy skirt and retreated into the far corner of the seat.

Still he was awfully close. Too close. And so very sexy. Even in repose, he had this hard-edged, smoky attitude that just screamed sex and lust and bad, bad things. It was like sitting two inches from a bonfire. She knew she shouldn’t touch, but she was mesmerized, bewitched by the dancing flames.

You know what happens if you start playing with fire, a panicky internal voice reminded her. You come away with third-degree burns.

Ooh. Bad thing to think about. Very, very bad.

Her mind suddenly filled with images of Tyler and heat and flames. She pictured him glistening with sweat, stripping off his clothes one article at a time as the torrid temperature overpowered them both.

Now she was definitely hyperventilating.

As she fanned her face, the rest of the trip into San Francisco became a blur. She had no idea what was outside her window; all she saw was Tyler.

Stop this, she commanded herself. Do something. Say something.

But what? Okay, so she hadn’t planned to introduce herself quite this quickly. She could roll with the punches, couldn’t she? Surely this was her golden opportunity to cross-examine him, to get him to tell her more about whatever this was she was horning in on. And then she would say, Hmm, sounds like you need my help, and somehow make it all sound natural and reasonable.

Except she hadn’t exactly figured out how to do that yet.

She mulled over various openings, but before she’d so much as asked for his name, the taxi swooped up one hill and down another, and Tyler leaned forward.

“This is it. Pull over here,” he instructed, and the cab slammed to a stop.

“Okay, we got North Beach,” the driver shouted. He jumped out to open the trunk and retrieve Emily’s briefcase as Tyler unwound himself and his duffel bag from the back seat.

Emily got out more slowly, not exactly sure how she was going to maneuver Tyler into showing her where he was going. For her to follow, he had to lead the way. But he was standing there waiting, doing the gentlemanly thing and allowing her to go first.

“No, no, you go ahead,” she said suddenly. “I’ll take care of the cab. My treat. You just go right ahead and get on your way.”

His dark brows lowered. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I—I’m practicing random acts of kindness,” she blurted. Well, that was as good an explanation as any.

He studied her for a moment, but finally accepted the favor, probably deciding it was easier to let the crazy lady have her way than fight with her. Phew. As Emily thrust bills at the cabbie, her quarry ambled across the street and up to a charming little Queen Anne house on the opposite corner. Mostly painted pink with some white trim, the house had a faintly purple conical tower in one corner. The sign out front read “Beau’s B and B.” And Tyler marched right in the front door as if he owned the place.

This was a surprise. Although Emily thought the B and B looked delightful—the only remotely Queen Anne house around—it was not where she would have expected Tyler to land. Everything else on the softly sloping street was strictly Edwardian, mostly three stories, with squared-off angles and bay windows. But whatever it was, at least Beau’s B and B was a legitimate place to stay, and she wouldn’t look incredibly weird filing in behind him.

As soon as she got rid of the cabbie, Emily gathered her purse, her briefcase and her courage, and took off across the street to Beau’s B and B. Her heart pounded as her hand closed around the brass knob on the front door. Get a grip, Emily, she chided herself. You just spent half an hour in a car with him. How much scarier could sharing a bed and breakfast be?