Hooked

Mediterranean island, Sardinia or Crete . Open a gallery. Something like that.”
    “Why didn’t you?”
    Piercing him with those turquoise eyes, she said, “Hadn’t gotten around to it.”
    She brushed a disobedient strand of hair off her face, but a gust of wind recaptured it and set it free. A light mist turned into a drizzle, then a pelting downpour. She didn’t move. Neither did he. Within a minute, both were soaked. Her thin dress clung to her like Saran Wrap and was about as transparent. Dark circles appeared around nipples that poked stubbornly through the thin fabric. She stood there.
    Jesus, she was beautiful. He never understood paying for sex. He could always get a woman if that’s all he wanted. Good thing he didn’t have that kind of money, because he damn well might be tempted to pay for Tawny Dell. There’s a first time for everything. Even breaking every rule in the book. “Better come inside.”
    “You go. I like the rain.” She turned to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t jump.”
    “I wasn’t worried.”
    Inside, he found a towel in the bathroom and rubbed it through his hair. He’d taken off his suit jacket and shoulder holster—put the gun in his pocket—but his shirt and pants were sopping. He glanced outside. The wind twisted her hair into a tornado of long honey-colored strands. The dress glowed white against the dark cloud-covered background and billowed around her contours. She might as well have been naked.
    When she cupped his nuts on the beach, she knew he was hard. Any man would have to be anesthetized not to have a serious hard-on around her. He was hard again. Christ .
    He seriously thought of asking out of the assignment. Would his boss buy a conflict of interest defense? Sorry, Captain, but every time I feast my eyes on this woman I want to fuck her. He doubted that would fly. Besides, his friend and mentor, FBI Special Agent Harry Winokaur, a man to whom he owed his life, would no doubt express disapproval, and Linc never wanted to disappoint Harry. Forget your dick, Linc, and concentrate on the dirty, stinking job before you.
    Michael Corleone’s line from The Godfather stuck in his mind. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He almost felt sorry for her.
    Then he wondered how much Tawny really knew about Benny Cooper’s operation. Whatever it was, she was on the fast track to learn more.

Chapter Three
    Benny’s Perks

    B enny Cooper’s chauffeur-driven Bentley pulled up to the building’s front entrance. Benny enjoyed owning a Bentley. Almost like the car company christened the luxury automobile after him. Didn’t matter that Bentleys had been around longer than the fifty years since Benny’s mother named him. He got out and scaled the five steps to the nondescript door of a four-story brownstone, punched a code on the touchpad, and slipped a key into the door lock. Charles, the doorman, allowed entry to only those with a reservation and password. He waited to greet Benny like a loyal servant.
    “Afternoon, Mr. Cooper.”
    “Afternoon, Charles. Anyone here yet?”
    “Colin, as usual, sir, and a couple of the ladies arrived early for appointments.”
    Benny checked his Rolex, then studied the sign-in sheet. “Hmm, Melody’s free for a while. Ask her to come to the apartment in half an hour, will you please?”
    “Certainly, sir.”
    The unobtrusive façade of the building, nicknamed Upper Eighties, belied the luxury inside. The small, posh lobby boasted marble floors, potted palms, and eighteenth-century erotic prints in gilt frames. Unlike other lobbies, no cameras filmed entries or exits, though they were secretly positioned elsewhere throughout the establishment.
    Ever since Benny read in The Times that police had identified the body found floating in the harbor as Sarah Marshall, a prostitute, he’d suffered a combination of acid reflux and cardiac arrhythmia. Benny’s condition degenerated when he read the reports that police had ruled the death a homicide. Then he received a phone call on the island from an NYPD detective by the name of Walsh, who specialized in sex crime investigations. The Marshall woman had called Walsh a week before and mentioned Benny’s name. The detective knew Benny’s wife, Eileen, had been in the life, so it was pointless to deny knowing the dead woman, admitting only that he had known Sarah Marshall as Serena, and neither he nor his wife had seen her in years. Puzzled, Benny claimed he couldn’t