It Should Happen To You. Kathleen O'Reilly

professional,” he said with a smile.

      “It’s a job. Nothing more,” she answered.

      “Certainly Ms…? You never gave me your name.”

      “Jones. Foxy Jones.”

      His lips quirked. Okay, so it was a sham name, but he didn’t have to think it was funny. “Can I call you Foxy, or should I just stick to Ms. Jones?”

      “Use whatever moniker you choose. When can you get the tape?”

      “Not tonight. I have a wedding tonight.”

      “A wedding?” How oddly domestic. Still, Italian-Americans were very family oriented, so maybe it was cultural rather than some subliminal yearning to find his life mate.

      “I need a date…Foxy,” he said coaxingly, his voice silky as sin.

      Her heart tripped right over itself in its hurry to pump blood into her nether regions. “Oh, behave,” she said, as much to her heart as to him.

      “I’m being honest. Anthony Testa’s youngest son is getting married. I was invited. Black-tie.”

      “No, I mean don’t call me Foxy.”

      “I thought that was your name?”

      “It’s a nickname. Call me…Michelle.” Very few people knew that Michelle was her real name. Her father had insisted on calling her Mickey—after Mickey Mantle. He said that her mother liked the way Michelle had sounded. Fragile and feminine and silly. Everything that Mickey abhorred.

      “Michelle,” he said, his mouth lingering on the first part and then drawing out the rest, making it sound fragile and feminine and…completely not silly.

      “Don’t wear it out,” she snapped. “So, can you get the tape tonight?”

      “Will your…friend be home this evening?”

      Mickey didn’t want to know John’s schedule; she didn’t want to think about knowing John’s schedule. Now he just made her skin crawl. “How the hell should I know?”

      “Do you know of a time when he’s usually out? It’ll make my job easier.”

      “During the day, Monday through Friday. He works business hours.”

      “So he’s at home at night? Looks like I’m off the hook tonight, then. You can come with me to the wedding, can’t you? Not a business deal, a date.”

      She had to try one last time. When Dominic Corlucci looked at her, he scared her, and not because she thought he would stuff her into a trunk. Her fears were deeper. Her sensible, logical, rational nature was careening out of control. Her father would never approve. She slammed that door shut, the noise reverberating in her brain. “I don’t do ‘black-tie.’”

      “I’ll knock five-hundred dollars off my fee. Forget the up-front payment. Go buy something…” his gaze moved up and down, over thighs, breasts, arms and legs “…nice.”

      She fought the urge to cover herself. Think bimbo. “Only pretend,” she said, the best warning she could muster.

      He looked offended, the dark eyes holding secrets that no man should know. “Your choice.”

      She nodded briskly. “Don’t forget it.”

      “Should I pick you up at your apartment?”

      “No!” God forbid he should know where she lived. Or what her name was. Or her real bra size. “I’ll meet you at the corner of Canal and Jackson, in front of Union Station.”

      “Okay. Be there at five-thirty. I’ve got to buy a wedding present.”

      A wedding present? No way. No way. On a good day, she hated to shop. In two-inch heels, it was stilettocide. “You think I can be beneficial?”

      Again he looked her over. “Don’t know, but Anthony said something about Marshall Fields. I hate Marshall Fields. On the other hand, your sparkling companionship could get me through it.”

      Mickey turned away, turned away from the dark, compelling eyes. Turned away from that mobile mouth that seemed to be terminally amused. She was halfway to the door when she heard his low voice. Deep, sexy words that tickled their way down her spine, one vertebra at a time.

      “See you tonight—sweet cheeks.”

      THE AISLES OF MARSHALL FIELDS were not where a virile, all-American man should be on a Saturday evening. It was embarrassing, emasculating and damned shameful. Still, Anthony’s son needed a wedding present, and Dom was determined to find something appropriate, yet suitably tough, no pantywaist gewgaws from him.

      “Maybe we should get a bottle of Scotch?” he suggested.

      “Are they registered here?” Michelle asked, surprising him with what she knew.

      It was one surprise after another with her. She had showed up in front of the station in a dress that knocked him in the gut. It wasn’t her usual tacky outfit, not that it was demure, either. This dress smacked of sexuality. Some white silk thing that was cut short, so short it made a man itch to explore exactly how short it was. Michelle wasn’t stacked, but nicely curvy up top. Again, she just looked—right. If he ever got her naked, he’d spend about two hours just memorizing all her lines.

      He stopped so suddenly that Michelle crashed into him.

      “Are they registered?” she repeated, as if he was a moron.

      It primed his ego and made him want to act like the stupidity was a farce. As if “getting naked” thoughts couldn’t get him dead. “How do I know if they’re registered?” he asked, mentally undressing that long body once more.

      He kept forgetting why he had wanted her here in the first place. To figure out exactly who she was.

      She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “They just tell you.”

      Dom tried to remember exactly what Anthony had said about the wedding. “Don’t know.”

      “We can check,” she answered, and moved toward the china department as if she knew just where she was going. Who the hell was she? She walked awkwardly in her heels, looking as if she was unused to the usual busyness of every female he had ever met. Yet, damn, could she kiss. Still he could remember how she felt, how her lips parted so effortlessly. He shot a quick sideways look at her. Maybe somebody had brought out their big guns. One of those innocent-looking broads with the high-powered starters that knew men, and knew sex. Maybe “they”—whoever “they” were—knew Dom’s weak spot. Okay, it was every man’s weak spot, but still…

      He followed her blindly into a demilitarized zone known as the bridal registry. As she walked, he found himself slowing, watching the swing in her hips, watching the long length of her legs. She was tall. Almost as tall as he was. Her bare shoulders emerged from the white silk. Pale, not tanned like a lot of the girls he knew. The blond mane had to be fake, but there was no disguising that face. It was lean, angular and the dark-framed glasses were a great touch. They gave her an air of arrogance—and mystery. Dom had always loved mysteries. It always got him in trouble. That, and poor judgment.

      Michelle stopped in front of the kiosk decorated in roses and bells. “Here we are. What’s the bride’s name?”

      Dom thought for a minute. “Mona.”

      She tapped her foot. “Do you know Mona’s last name?”

      What did she think? He was doing time with Anthony’s future daughter-in-law? “No.”

      “Perhaps you know the groom.”

      “Sure. Testa.”

      “Is that a last name or a first name?” she drawled.

      Playing with her was starting to get fun. “Last.”

      He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, like a secretary