Nerd Gone Wild (Nerds, #3)(3)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

Enter Mitch, who covered his PI and bodyguard status by disguising himself as a nerd. He wished the pretense hadn’t been so easy to maintain. In no time the routine had come back to him. Once again he felt like the skinny eighth-grader he used to be, the one with bad eyes, good report cards, and a fondness for detail. In high school he’d bulked up, bought contacts, and let his grades slip. Goodbye, geek, hello, cool dude.

Now he’d reversed the process, and it had been discouragingly simple to do. Apparently you could take the boy out of Nerdville, but you couldn’t take Nerdville out of the boy. After all his efforts to turn himself into James Bond, he’d slipped into the role of Bill Gates in no time. Fortunately, Ally wasn’t attracted to nerds.

“So all you have to do,” Betsy said, “is let Ally know that she’ll be helping me out by saving the cost of heating and the work of cleaning. She’s a nice person. She won’t want to make extra work or waste resources.”

“Okay, I’ll try that.” He even thought it might work. Ally was a nice person. She’d put her own life on hold for some time because her sick grandmother had craved having her near.

Mitch wasn’t surprised that Ally wanted to escape now that the need for hanging around the mansion was gone. He just wished she hadn’t decided to escape up here. It could be a coincidence that Kurt Jarrett lived in Alaska, but Mitch didn’t think so. He guessed that Ally had been in contact with her stepuncle, who had to be stewing because he’d been cut out of the will.

“Then I’ll go on downstairs,” Betsy said. “Holler if you need anything.” She patted his arm on her way out the door.

Mitch waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs before he closed and locked his bedroom door. After throwing his ugly orange parka on the bed, he went into the bathroom and tried the door into Ally’s room. It was open.

The security in this place sucked. No one should be required to share a bathroom with a stranger, and apparently that happened at the Loose Moose on a regular basis. The wrong kind of bathroom-mate could steal you blind.

But for him, this setup was ideal. He could bug at will. Her bedroom was similar to his, only with a slightly different type of wooden dresser against the wall, an iron bedstead with more curvy scrollwork, and another color and pattern for the comforter. Without warning, he had a sudden, potent image of Ally nak*d on that bed, fingers wrapped around those curved iron pieces while he… Wow, where had that come from?

Wherever it had come from, he was sending it right back, plus the erection that had come along for the ride. His job was to protect Ally from gold diggers, not turn into one. It would look like the fox guarding the henhouse, and if she didn’t immediately see it, someone would inevitably point it out to her.

Mitch looked in the closet and noticed two decent-sized suitcases on the floor. She had a couple of lightweight jackets hanging in the closet, along with several long-sleeved cotton shirts. The dresser was stuffed with sweaters in various colors of the rainbow, sweats, and jeans.

And underwear. He didn’t spend much time looking at the underwear. Dangerous territory, considering that little flash of sexual urgency that had taken him by surprise. Maybe Betsy had created a monster with her suggestive comments.

In any case, Ally had enough clothes to last her a while, especially if Porcupine had a Laundromat. She hadn’t brought a single skirt, or anything to dress up in, for that matter. That figured. She was here to tramp around in the snowy woods and take pictures of whatever showed up.

Returning to the bathroom, Mitch found her toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter beside the sink, along with a hairbrush, some lotion, and a tube of lipstick. Unless she’d taken all her makeup with her in her backpack, which didn’t seem likely, she hadn’t brought anything on this trip except lipstick.

That fit with his image of Ally. She was the type to travel light, unwilling to let anything, or anyone, slow her down. That was why she resented him so much. She saw him as an anchor. And he was more of an anchor than she guessed.

The bathroom had no tub, only a shower stall. He pulled back the plastic curtain decorated with moose and canoes. Her shampoo and conditioner sat on a ledge in there, along with a razor. He would have taken her for a girl who got herself waxed. Then again, waxing might not be an option in Porcupine. Maybe she’d thought ahead.

When a picture of Ally in the shower shaving her legs wandered into his misbehaving brain, he got rid of it faster than he had the nak*d-on-the-bed scene. If he kept disciplining his mind this way, soon he’d think of her in a strictly platonic way. Or at least, that was the idea.

He needed to get over to the Top Hat bar, though. From the way she’d skedaddled out of the lodge, she’d been eager to tip back a few, and he didn’t want to deal with her when she was sloshed—sloshed because she was ticked off about his arrival, to be more precise about it.

Moving faster now, he returned to his room and unzipped his suitcase. For now, he’d install one listening device under her bed. That way he’d be alerted to her movements. He was back in her room attaching the bug to the leg of the bed under a decorative skirt when a paralyzing thought came to him. What if she liked to masturbate?

Oh, hell, she probably didn’t do that, and he had a one-track mind to even be thinking such a thing. Or if she did do that normally, she’d be too tired from all her adventures in the snow and trying to take pictures of wild animals to think about sex. But she had Betsy for a landlady, and Betsy lived and breathed the subject.

All righty then, if she masturbated, so be it. He’d deal with that when it happened. Surveillance meant sometimes hearing things that made you uncomfortable, even things that made you feel horny. On the PI side of his business, he’d come across plenty of sexual situations—a man with more than one woman, a woman with more than one guy, men with men, women with women, and even men and/or women with animals.

He was tough. He could handle a simple masturb**ion scene if the need should arise. Bad choice of words. If the need came up. That was no better. Shit. He’d just do it. No problem. Part of the job.

One bug was enough for now. He had a nifty little gizmo to plant in her backpack when he got the chance, a personal sort of LoJack that would allow him to trace her anywhere she went. He’d tried to plant it before she’d left for Alaska, but he hadn’t been able to without taking a big risk that she’d suspect him of being up to something.

Her grandmother had been worried about fortune hunters in general, but she’d been specifically worried about Kurt Jarrett. With Madeline dead, Ally was the only person standing between Kurt and the Jarrett fortune. If anything happened to Ally, Kurt, the only remaining relative, would get it all. That meant Mitch had to be very alert and very cautious. Extremely cautious.

At last he was ready to head to the bar. Putting on the orange parka, the orange knit hat with the pom-pom, and the earmuffs was a humiliating experience. He’d searched the discount stores until he’d found this hideous ensemble and whenever he had it on he tried to avoid seeing any reflection of himself anywhere.

Leaving on the lamp sitting on top of the dresser, he left the room, locked up and pocketed the key. He wasn’t surprised upon descending the stairs to find Betsy ensconced behind the registration counter once again.

“Just take a minute to see the parlor,” she said.

“I really should get over there and find out what Ally’s up to.”

“It’ll only take a minute. Maybe it’ll inspire you.”

Mitch took off his earmuffs and unzipped his jacket. “If we make it quick.”

Ten minutes later, Mitch emerged from the parlor biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Entertainment in Alaska must be severely limited if Betsy had snared seven men with that over-the-top setting.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Betsy said, following Mm out.

“Mm.” Mitch nodded energetically, not trusting himself to speak.

“Good luck with Ally. I’ll probably be over there in a little while, myself. Most everyone in Porcupine usually ends up at the Top Hat before the night is through.”

Mitch cleared his throat. “Then I’ll see you later, Betsy.” Bracing himself, he opened the door. The wind cut right through him and it felt as if icicles were piercing his eyeballs. The temperature had dropped at least another twenty degrees since he was out here last.

With great effort he closed the door behind him, located the Top Hat by the jaunty neon sign, and started toward it. He hated cold weather, hated snow, hated sleet, ice, cold wind—all that winter nonsense. That’s why he’d moved from Chicago to L.A. eight years ago.

Then he’d struggled to build his investigative and personal protection business in sunny Southern California because he simply could not tolerate the idea of going back to cold weather. Now look at him. Freezing his ass off in Alaska, for God’s sake.

The job wasn’t supposed to be like this. When Madeline had hired him, he’d pictured keeping an eye on Ally in Southern California. Where it was warm. He hadn’t known about this Kurt Jarrett/Alaska angle.

Grumbling to himself, Mitch took off his glasses because they were crusted with ice. The clear-lens glasses were only for show, anyway, part of his nerd disguise. He wore contacts. He couldn’t afford to go with prescription glasses because if they happened to come off in a tight situation he’d be nearly blind.

The door to the Top Hat opened out, and he had to give it a mighty pull to conquer the wind wanting to keep it closed. When he jumped inside, the door slammed behind him with a loud whack.

Nobody noticed. Everyone was too busy clapping and cheering for the woman dancing on top of the bar. The woman was Ally.

* * *

Chapter Three

After three Irish coffees, Ally had decided it was the best drink in the world. What other combo could hype you up and drown your inhibitions, all in one fell swoop? And as for the jukebox in the corner of the Top Hat, it had the most brilliant selections she’d ever heard. When “Louie Louie” had come on, what was a girl supposed to do? She’d started to shake her booty.

Then Rudy, the red-haired, substantially bearded guy who raised chickens and transported people to and from the Fairbanks airport in a truck called Slewfoot Sue, had lifted her up on the bar so everyone could see what a great dancer she was. After three Irish coffees, she was one amazing dancer. She tossed her hair around and gave them the old bump-and-grind like a pro.

Apparently they loved it, because the clapping and cheering drowned out “Louie Louie.” That was okay, because she’d found her own personal rhythm. She was smokin’.

Or at least she was smokin’ until her heart began racing a little too fast and she found herself short of breath. So she wound up for a big finish that included a few breast shimmies and nearly made her fall off the bar. But she regained her balance and swept both arms out in a low bow. The whistles and stomping were extremely gratifying.

Feeling a wee bit dizzy, she looked out over the audience, which was comprised of maybe six or eight lumberjack types like Rudy. What a terrific bunch of guys. She blew them all kisses and did her Elvis impersonation. “Thankyou. Thankyouverymuch.”

Then her gaze drifted from the smiling faces of her fans as she sensed another presence in the room. Her attention was drawn like a moth to the flame of a giant orange parka positioned right by the door. Oh, crap. Mitchell J. Carruthers, Jr., the Terminator of All Things Joyful, had arrived.

She glanced down at Clyde, bartender, owner of the Top Hat, and the man who would love to get into something or other belonging to Betsy. Betsy would make two of him, so the pairing would be like Jack Sprat and his wife.

But it was not her place to judge. It was her place to drink, especially now that an orange Popsicle man was standing by the door. “ ‘Nother Irish coffee, Clyde, if you please.”

“Comin’ up, Ally. Nice dancing for an amateur.”

“Thanks. I’m sure you can do better. You wanna be next?”

“Nah, at least not until Dave shows up to help out. Somebody has to mix drinks, or the boys will turn ugly.”

Her tongue felt a little thicker than usual. “Those boys could never turn ugly. They’re sweetie pies.”

“Deny them their booze and they’ll go from sweetie pies to shitheads in no time.”

“No!” She couldn’t believe it.

“Yep.” Clyde put whipped cream on her drink with a whoosh from a pressurized can. “You drinking this standing up or sitting down?”

Ally glanced over at the orange Popsicle man. He was on the move. She decided sitting down was a prudent idea. “Sitting.” She just wasn’t sure how to accomplish that, being so wobbly and all.

Suddenly the orange Popsicle man was standing right by the bar. He even spoke. “Let me give you a hand.”

She gazed down at Mitchell. “Does a Popsicle man have hands?” Then she giggled at her own joke.

“Come on, Ally. I don’t want you to fall off.”

She frowned, thoroughly insulted. “You’re doing it. Hovering.”

Rudy appeared next to Mitchell. “Need some help down, Ally?”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She put her hand in Rudy’s, gave a haughty glance in Mitchell’s direction, and allowed Rudy to grab her around the waist and swing her effortlessly to the ground.

She couldn’t be sure because her vision was a little blurry, but she thought that Mitchell looked annoyed. Good. He’d come to Alaska uninvited and he dressed funny. He deserved to be annoyed. She was annoyed, too, dammit. And more than slightly dizzy.

Grabbing the nearest chair, she plopped into it. To her dismay, Mitchell sat in a chair at the same table and proceeded to take off his orange hat and orange coat. Worse yet, when Clyde brought her drink over, he stopped to ask Mitchell what he was having and Mitchell ordered a draft.