In Deep Shitake Part 4

"No, my girlfriend," he mumbled, examining his feet.

Wife and girlfriend? This guy really was a playa.

"Let's get out of here." Mo slapped Ross on the back. "This is going to get ugly."

"Really?" Ross replied with heavy sarcasm. "How do you know?"

"I'm a professional."

As Mo ran toward the exit, she called over her shoulder, "Better get ready to use the defibrillator."

She pushed through the revolving door and out into the Savannah night.

"This isn't over, Ms. Tuttle." Mo heard Ross shout from behind her.

Chapter Three.

"Infuriating woman," Ross muttered, as he swiped the key card in the lock and threw open the door to the hotel penthouse. Walking across the suite, he ignored the luxurious ultramodern decor and Savannah's panoramic skyline view. He drew off his jacket to toss it onto the sofa.

Mo. What a name. He had an instant fantasy about Mo's legs. Too bad those magnificent legs were attached, via some other very fine equipment, to a head with a rapier tongue.

"Aaaaagh." He shouted to the ceiling.

"What is it, sweetie pie? What's wrong?" The voice came from behind him.

Ross pivoted. His erstwhile girlfriend, Heather Davies, posed at the door of the bedroom in a silky red robe so transparent that it showed the contours of her naked body underneath.

"What are you doing here?" Ross asked.

Heather, a twenty-five-year-old model turned actress, had gloriously long blonde hair, which naturally fell over her shoulders in ringlets. Her green eyes needed no enhancement with contact lenses, and no photographer had ever had to Photoshop her porcelain skin.

"How did you know what hotel I was in?"

"You told me, silly man," she chirped as she prowled in his direction.

"No. No I didn't." He didn't even bother asking her how she'd gotten in. No hotel concierge in the world could stand up to Heather's charms.

When she got closer, she stopped to strike another provocative pose. "What were you doing tonight, sweetie?"

"I was having a run in with one of the Three Stooges," he joked.

"Who are the Three Stooges?" Her brows knit in confusion.

"It wasn't actually the Three Stooges or even one Stooge." Ross shook his head. "It was a woman named Mo."

Heather's expression remained blank.

"Moe Howard was one of the Three Stooges comedy group," he explained.

The vacant staring continued from Heather for a few moments before she shrugged and smiled.

"Actually, Mo looks more like Audrey Hepburn," Ross murmured and couldn't help but smile at the image in his mind.

"Who?" Heather asked.

"Never mind," he said, forcing his thoughts away from Mo. "You haven't told me why you're here."

"You're here, so I'm here," she replied in her baby doll voice.

Brilliant. Just what he needed. More illogical logic.

A year ago, Ross had thought he wanted Heather. His connections and image traded for her beauty and s.e.x. Fair exchange. Heather had done well. She managed to work his connections to become one of six stars in a hit television comedy. But Ross had reached the saturation point with Heather's "stupid" act prior to leaving her behind in L.A.

"I grew up not far from here." Heather reached his side and then rubbed her body against his. "Besides, the president of my fan club lives in Savannah. I thought I'd give the club a treat."

"If you will recall, we ended our relations.h.i.+p before I left." Ross stepped back, forcing some distance between them.

"No-o." The way she said the word sounded like two musical notes strung together. High and then low. She stepped forward, pressing herself against him again before running her hands up his arms.

"You don't recall?"

"We didn't break-up." Her arms came up around his neck.

"Yes we did." His arms hung at his sides as he resisted the urge to giver her an ungentlemanly shove.

"No-o." Sing song again. "I don't accept it. We're the perfect couple. You're going to cast me in your movie. Remember?"

"You aren't going to be in my film." He carefully broke away from her grip to step back. "I've told you that repeatedly. You aren't right for the part of the brilliant chemist murder suspect." He exhaled in exasperation. "And apart from that, you can't act."

"So? I know you're really doing a sequel to SpyMatrix. I could play Francesca, Stephen Dagger's partner."

"I'm not filming a sequel." He strode to the window and glanced at the skyline before turning back to her. "Why won't you believe me?"

"There are people-a lot of people-who think I would be perfect for the part of Francesca." She straightened and thrust her perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s forward. "I could play the h.e.l.l out of Francesca. Buddies With Benefits' success made me America's sweetheart."

"It's not going to happen."

"Why not?" Her bottom lip turned pouty. "I think you're being cruel. I bet the rumors are true and you're doing that sequel. You just don't want to tell me because you don't want me to be a movie star."

"I'm certain you'll be cast in any number of films without being in mine."

"Yes, but they all want me to play a dumb blonde. I want to play an action heroine like Francesca." She gave a little stomp.

If he hadn't been so tired, and tired of arguing, Ross would have laughed at the ridiculousness of her petulant tantrum.

"I don't know how much clearer I can be. I am not doing a sequel to SpyMatrix. Period. That's the end of the discussion." Ross rolled his shoulders to try to ease the tightness. "I don't have the energy for this tonight."

"Aw, sweetie pie." With a sensual smile, Heather sauntered to his side and then reached out to brush the hair off his forehead. "You need your rest. Come to bed and let your Heather take care of you."

Tempting. He didn't need to love or even like her to have s.e.x. But if he gave in, would he be able to off-load her in the morning? He stepped away from her stroking fingers.

"No. I'll sleep on the sofa. You have the bed." He pointed to the bedroom that adjoined the suite's sitting room. "But we will not be talking about this in the morning."

"Okay, sweetie. I'm glad you finally agree there isn't anything to talk about." Heather glided into the bedroom. She stopped and posed in the doorway, allowing her gown to be backlit once again.

"Oh, Ross. I almost forgot. A reporter from that really sleazy tabloid ambushed me in the lobby earlier. He says he's planning to break a big story about us this week."

"What's in this tabloid story?" Just b.l.o.o.d.y marvelous. Already a potential morals clause issue before the contracts were even signed for his comeback film. Scuttling this tabloid joker's story was a priority since he didn't want Nicodemus spooked. Maybe Mo Tuttle's client was this reporter.

"The reporter didn't say." Heather blew him a kiss and shut the door.

Fab. He would have to deal with this tomorrow. There would be no long hot shower tonight or even a cold one. And he'd have to sleep on the sofa. The modular piece of furniture looked comfortably plush, but short. Ross knew he would be stiff after a night curled up on this torture device.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l." He blamed Imogene Tuttle. His evening had been going fine until she'd intruded. Imogene "Mo" Tuttle required a serious lesson. Maybe, I should be her teacher, he thought.

"This place better not be a sty," Mo grumbled as she trudged up the steps to the porch of her two-story, shotgun-style, Victorian house. Since it was well past midnight, and the adrenaline generated by the evening's events had worn off, she was way too tired to deal with a disaster area.

Mo turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open. She stuck her head through and then glanced around. Hmmmm. So far so good. No smelly male clothing draped over the lamp on the hallway table. Mo stepped over the threshold and walked through to the parlor. No half-filled coffee cups on the claw footed mahogany side table or food wrappers on the cream brocade covered settee.

As she progressed through the dining room and into the kitchen, Mo observed a similar state of cleanness. And the sink that had been full of dirty dishes sparkled with empty spotlessness. Impressive. Her brother and roommate, Leo, had done a great job. Of course, he'd probably had one of his many girlfriends clean for him. Her handsome, volleyball playing brother, with his tanned hard body looks had no shortage of women falling over themselves, and each other, to cater to him.

"Hey Mo," her brother called from the back of the house. "I'm watching SpyMatrix."

Mo groaned to herself before calling back, "I'll be right there."

"Mmmrouwwww." Mo's longhaired black cat rubbed himself against her leg. When she bent to stroke his fur, Talley plopped down, rolled onto his back, and then gave a long stretch. He obviously wanted his belly rubbed. Mo happily obliged him.

"My handsome boy. How's my baby?" He wasn't a baby of course. Huge as cats go, Talley was shaped like a panther.

Mo straightened and saw a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. The top item drew her attention...and not in a good way since the words "final notice" appeared in big red letters on the envelope. After tearing it open with shaking fingers, she drew out the single sheet of paper. Scanning the information was quick. If she didn't pay over a thousand dollars in past due car payments within the next week, she could expect a visit from the repo man. Where was she going to get that money? She had nothing in the bank and the rent was due in less than two weeks.

Finances had been tough since Leo had broken his leg a few months ago. He'd been out of work for a few weeks and unable to help out with expenses...not to mention the medical costs. She wanted nothing more than to save enough to return to culinary school-her dream was to be a chef-but that wasn't happening. Instead, the bills were piling up.

Mo had to have the bonus she'd been promised at Incredible Love.

As she trudged toward the sound of the television, her brother called happily, "Most of the movie is over."

Leo's obsession with the futuristic super spy film was typical of her brother. At thirty, Mo was the elder by three years, but it felt more like thirty. She should tell Leo she met his idol today, but then she'd have to tell him the circ.u.mstances.

"You missed the gravy scene," Leo continued. "But I can rewind."

"Don't bother," she replied.

The cries of the baby woke Kubikov the next morning.

"Betsy," he bellowed. "Get the baby."

No response came from his wife and the infant continued to wail. He checked the time on his cell phone's digital display. Betsy must have gone out shopping especially early this morning.

Sitting up on the sofa, he stretched to work the kinks out of his back. Kubikov rose and stumbled toward the nursery. As he pa.s.sed through the door, he made eye contact with his son and the baby stopped crying.

"Okay, little man. Your papa is here." Kubikov swung the child out of the crib and pivoted to the changing table. "I'll always be here for you."

Glancing at the over abundance of the room and the luxuriousness of its furnis.h.i.+ngs, a burst of pride bloomed in Kubikov. He had made it. He had provided all this for his child. Now if his employees would just do their jobs, there would be no danger he would be unable to provide for his son in the future.

A tap sounded on the front door.

Hoping for good news, Kubikov left the baby in his crib and went to the door. When he opened it, he found his best enforcer-his brother-on the front porch. He waved him inside and closed the door.

"You have news for me, my brother?"

"A source traced one of the blackmailer's calls to a business called Incredible Love."

Kubikov crossed to the sitting room and paced from one side to the other. "I am familiar with this name. It is a PI firm. An agent from there prowled around the club a few months ago. And a woman agent was there just last week at the drag show. Coincidence is no coincidence. That agent must know something about the blackmail."

"We will watch the office of this business," his brother said.

"The woman agent has brown hair," Kubikov said. "She looks like the actress from Breakfast at Tiffany's."

"We will make her talk," his brother said with a nod.

"Oh pickles! I'm late," Mo groused.

The morning after the Ross Grant debacle, Mo balanced her cup of coffee in one hand-with doughnut teetering atop the lid-while fumbling the front doork.n.o.b to the agency with her other. Better late than raging with caffeine withdrawal.

Mo hoped that, as a caffeine addict herself, her boss, Harry, would understand her lateness.

Harriet Hutson was a redheaded fifty-five-year-old with a southern belle exterior and the att.i.tude of a drill sergeant. She'd opened the agency after her husband left her for a high school student. Harry was fond of saying that she'd had her finger on the pulse of the economic principle of supply and demand. There was a big supply of cheaters to be caught and she demanded money.

The boss often said that Mo was like the daughter that she was obviously not old enough to have. Of course, Harry was old enough, but Mo didn't point that out. As a result Mo usually got a little slack.

Stumbling through the door she'd finally managed to open, Mo saw something different this morning. Clarence wasn't at the reception desk.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.