In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) Read online

  IN DEEP SHITAKE

  By

  Patricia Mason

  Copyright 2012

  Table of Contents

  One Two Three Four Five

  Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

  Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen

  Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty

  Author's Note

  More From Patricia Mason

  Licensing Notes

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Praise for IN DEEP SHITAKE

  “A case of mistaken identity turns into a fun, fast paced romp ... Once you pick up this great story, you won’t be able to put it down."

  - Lois Lavrisa, Amazon Top 100 Author

  Overview

  Take one devastatingly handsome movie star.

  Add one outrageously sexy female private eye with a penchant for food-word obscenities.

  Mix in a dose of mistaken identity and a handful of Russian mobsters...And they're all In Deep Shitake.

  Acclaim for Patricia Mason

  "This book was fantastic...a must read" -- The Romance Studio (about A Girl, A Guy and A Ghost).

  "An intriguingly beautiful paranormal romance that will have readers longing for more." --Night Owl Reviews (about A Girl, A Guy and A Ghost).

  "This is a wonderful story and I hope to read more from Ms. Mason and soon!" -- The Pen & Muse (about Sacrifice in Stone)

  "What an awesome story!" -- JER Reviews (about Undisclosed Desires).

  Chapter One

  A locked car is like a chastity belt. There may be a way in if you don't have the key, but you can be sure it's going to be painful.

  The fortune cookie's advice from long ago flickered through Mo's mind as she contemplated her assignment: break into a certain Mercedes sedan and take note of the information found inside. The car in question was parallel parked on a public street in the historic downtown of Savannah, Georgia. Being locked, the Mercedes' half-open sunroof seemed Mo's only option for entry.

  Doesn't look painful, Mo thought. What do those stupid fortune cookies know anyway?

  She scanned her surroundings. The antebellum row houses that typified the downtown loomed four stories high on both sides of the street. This was one of the city's most scenic neighborhoods, with its cobblestones and the canopy of trees linking branches overhead.

  Mo didn't see anyone around. Ten p.m. on the Tuesday before St. Patrick's Day— a big tourist attraction—was rarely calm. But tonight's stillness was good for her purpose. Only the chigger bugs in the Spanish moss hanging from the live oak trees would see her if she leaned in through the car's sunroof to unlock a door.

  After a few more seconds of hesitation, Mo decided to go for it. Failure in her assignment meant termination from the private investigation firm and that wasn’t an option she could consider given her current money woes.

  The skin-tight, purple dress she wore wasn't exactly conducive to car B&E. The outfit was intended for a honey trap assignment, to catch a client's cheating husband, scheduled for later that night. Nevertheless, Mo toed off her high heels, hiked up her skirt a bit more, and hopped onto the car’s hood. Inching through the sunroof face-first, she dropped her purse onto the passenger seat. When Mo stretched her arm toward the door, she found the power lock switch tantalizingly out of her grasp.

  If I just lean in a little more, she thought, I can reach it.

  Grabbing the steering wheel, Mo allowed her body to slide inside. But before she closed the necessary distance to the door handle, her body jerked to a stop.

  Stuck.

  She was wedged, face-first and bottom-up, with her top half trapped inside the car and her lower half draped over its windshield.

  "Son of a poached egg," Mo muttered.

  Her waistband had snagged on some unseen piece of car trim. She twisted her body this way and that, forward and back, causing the skirt part of the dress to bunch into an uncomfortable knot around her belly. Mo's behind, covered only by lacy black panties, lay exposed to the night air.

  At least I'm not wearing a thong, she thought, grasping for something to be positive about.

  The gunk under her right toe on the windshield was positive also...positively bug guts.

  Shitake.

  As she hung there, Mo's phone pinged a message alert. Her purse had landed on the car seat with its flap open and Mo could see the face of the cell lying atop its contents. A notification of a text from her brother, Leo, with his signature tongue-out smiley-face emoticon taunted her. If only she could reach that cell. Leo would tease her mercilessly about this from now until the end of time, but at least he would help her.

  Just then a sound in the distance interrupted her thoughts. A sound dreaded by all women stuck in a sunroof: footsteps.

  * * * * *

  Ross had just woven his way around a group of tourists waiting to board a ghost tour trolley when the cell phone rang in his pocket. Touching the button of the Bluetooth device in his ear, he answered, “Ross Grant,” without breaking his stride down the sidewalk.

  “This is your only warning,” a menacing voice said from the other end of the phone.

  “Aaron.” Ross gave a husky chuckle, turned left and strode on. “Quit being such a tosser, mate.”

  When he reached the end of the block and paused to consider what direction to take, the warm night air carried a slight hint of jasmine scent from the nearby bush. Ross barely noticed his surroundings. He wasn't here to be a tourist or to enjoy the weather.

  “I don’t know what a tosser is. Why don’t you insult me in American English? You haven’t lived in Britain for ten years,” Aaron replied. “Besides, I think my thug voice is pretty good.”

  “You’ll never make it as an actor,” Ross drawled. “Good thing you’re just an agent.”

  “Just an agent? That’s like saying I’m just a miracle worker.”

  Ross chuckled. “Okay. You’re a miracle worker. What miracle have you worked for my career today?” He could use divine intervention to break free of the super spy action hero typecasting he'd been mired in for the last ten years. Forty wasn't old. His career could skyrocket if people would just forget about SpyMatrix.

  “I just snagged an offer for you to do a musical,” Aaron said.

  “Really?” Ross’s eyebrows arched as a thrill of excitement shot through him. Maybe Aaron had earned his fifteen percent this week. A musical would be a huge departure from what he'd been offered lately. “Broadway? Film?”

  “In Japan.”

  “Someone wants me to sing on stage in Japan?” Not ideal. But he could work with anything if given a chance.

  There was a moment of silence before Aaron said, “In a Japanese commercial.”

  Had he just thought he could work with anything? Think again.

  “No, Aaron. No way.” Ross stopped walking. “I didn’t attend the Royal Shakespeare Academy to sing in a commercial. And a Japanese commercial at that.”

  “Technically you wouldn’t be singing,” Aaron said. “The toilet would sing.”

  Groaning and trying to repress the feelings of humiliation that bubbled up, Ross started walking again. “I’m not that desperate yet. Thanks very much.”

  “Then you’d better make sure that Savannah producer is gonna come through with the bucks for the film you want to direct.” Aaron's bark sounded particularly harsh across the cell.

  “I’m on the way to meet with him right now.”

  “Good...Oh. I want to warn you about that asshole tabloid reporter, Stewart Milton," Aaron continued. "The one who’s been writing all the crap about you."

  "What about him?" Ross aske
d, turning right to head down another block, this one lined with town home-style, Victorian-era homes.

  "He flew out of L.A. for Savannah yesterday.”

  “Why? Aren’t there enough celebrities in L.A. for him to harass?”

  “Yeah, but he’s after you buddy-boy,” Aaron answered. “The word going around is that he has a personal grudge against you.”

  “Why? I don’t even know him.”

  “You slept with his wife.”

  “I haven’t slept with anyone’s wife,” Ross shouted then glanced around him and lowered his voice. “I think I’d remember.”

  Aaron told Ross her name.

  “That was six years ago. And she wasn’t involved with anyone when we dated.” Shaking his head, Ross stepped over a gap in the bricks of the sidewalk. All he needed now was to break a leg. “Ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But, apparently, she can’t forget you and the guy is jealous.”

  “Brilliant,” Ross said, cringing inside.

  “Think about the toilet commercial,” Aaron advised.

  “Out of curiosity, would I be sitting on the toilet while it’s singing?” Ross asked.

  “No. Cleaning it.”

  “Goodbye, Aaron.”

  * * * * *

  The footsteps continued closer to Mo.

  Please turn around. The whispered incantation screamed inside her head. Mo’s eyes scrunched and her teeth clenched. The steps came closer, closer, closer. Abruptly, the footsteps stopped. Mo could’ve sworn they stopped a few cars away. Or was that just wishful thinking?

  “My, my.” A deep, masculine voice, tinged with an attractive British accent, spoke from behind her. “What have we here?”

  Yep. Wishful thinking.

  “Do you require assistance?” The mocking tone of the voice made Mo’s teeth clench tighter. More footsteps clicked against the cobblestones before halting again.

  “No, I’m fine.” She struggled to sound nonchalant, but had to shout to be heard. Craning her neck, Mo saw through the driver’s side window to two feet shod in leather loafers. Tailored gray suit pants encased the legs just above the shoes. “Go on about your business, sir,” Mo choked out.

  He chuckled. “It’s not everyday that one sees a woman’s derriere so beautifully displayed. So you may appreciate that I prefer to remain right where I am.”

  Mo tried to move and stopped.

  It probably wouldn't be the best idea to swish the protruding portion of her anatomy just now.

  The man peered through the window at Mo. His face, topped by well-groomed black hair, nagged at her with its familiarity. Mo, under other circumstances, would have described his face as yummy.

  “If you’re not going to leave, why don’t you make yourself useful and pull me out?” Mo surprised herself with the suggestion.

  “Why didn’t you go in feet first?” he asked.

  “I was trying to go with the grain of the skirt, of course,” she joked.

  “You do know a skirt doesn’t have a grain?”

  “Okay, Mr. Literal. I guess you think the phrase ‘half cocked’ actually means half a—” Mo cut herself off. “Shitake,” she screamed with frustration.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know?” Mo groaned. “The mushroom?”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t comprehend your culinary reference.”

  “If you must know, I’ve sworn off swearing and food-type words seemed like the most satisfying substitute since I’m also on a diet."

  He didn't need to know that her boss had wanted her to cut out the obscenities to satisfy the agency's more gentile clients.

  "I was killing two stones with one mushroom," she continued.

  “You have your idiom confused, but I follow your meaning,” he noted. “And perfectly logical—in some alternate universe. But may I say you clearly don’t need a diet?” He returned to peer at her through the window again. “You look quite perfect…from the bits I see.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Why did you—” he began.

  “Does it matter? I'm starting to get a stomach cramp and a headache,” she shouted. “Just help me!” Oh, how she’d love to slap that smirk off his yummy face.

  “It’s just that I’ll be gobsmacked as to how you got stuck.”

  “I don’t know what a gob is,” she said. “But don’t go smacking mine, mister.”

  “All right then.” He laughed as he moved toward the front of the car and disappeared from her sight. The Mercedes dipped. He must have climbed onto the hood.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m going to have to place my hands on your, um, asparagus to try to pull you out.”

  “Get on with it,” she said through clenched teeth. He chuckled in response. Exasperating man. “Do you have to laugh?” she asked. “Can’t you restrain yourself?”

  “No,” he said with another chuckle. “Not even the most dignified gentleman could keep quiet. Apart from that, I haven’t laughed this much in years and I intend to enjoy it.”

  “By all means,” she said. “It’s totally about you.”

  His warm, strong hands gripped the bare skin of her hips. As he pulled, she pushed her palms against the steering wheel to give him some leverage. For a few seconds she didn’t move an inch. Then, accompanied by the rough ripping sound of her seam giving way, Mo popped out of the sunroof like a cork from a champagne bottle. The sudden release sent the man falling backward and, with his hands still clutching her hips, the two of them tumbled. They skidded down the hood, over the bumper, and finally crashed side-by-side onto the asphalt.

  Lying there, Mo turned her head and scrutinized her “hero”. Up close, the stranger could only be described as seriously delectable. Probably about forty.

  Why did he seem so familiar?

  He glanced at her and then rose before holding a helping hand out to her. “Are you unhurt?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Mo said, taking his hand and then scrambling to her feet.

  She surreptitiously observed him as he brushed at the dirt on his silk suit. Stop it, she told herself. Stop ogling the man. Mo inspected the small tear at the waistband of her skirt instead.

  Oh no! My purse is still in the car, she thought

  Mo bounded around the front bumper and fixed her gaze on the black Coach through the passenger side window. “I gotta get back in there and get my bag.”

  The man came alongside her to stare into the car’s depths. “Why don’t you just call a locksmith, Miss—”

  “Tuttle, Imogene Tuttle.”

  He covered his mouth...Probably trying to hide a smile.

  “I know,” she moaned. “It’s horrible. Call me Mo.”

  “Mo?” Laughter burst from him. At her glare, he ended in a cough muffled by his hand. “Sorry. I had an image of the Three Stooges there for a minute.”

  “It’s okay. I get it all the time.”

  “This is all very amusing," he said, not bothering to hide a smile now.

  “My name?” Mo asked.

  “This bit of pretend,” the man replied. “It’s been fun but you can give it up. I know you must be a fan."

  “A fan of what?” She asked in genuine confusion.

  "Why don't you just admit it and ask for an autograph?” He winked at her. "I'll even sign a body part if you like."

  "An autograph? Why would I want that?"

  “Have it your way.” The lines at the side of his eyes crinkled gorgeously as he smiled.

  The stranger walked to the back of the vehicle as he took a key from his pocket. He pressed the fob and then opened the trunk to remove a briefcase.

  “Fortunately, I needed this for a meeting,” he said, closing the trunk. “Or you’d still be stuck in the sunroof.”

  Crêpe! This guy owned the car.

  “You got me," she said, trying to cover. “I’m a fan.” She’d kill her boss for giving her this assignment on the spur of the moment. That is, if her boss didn’t kill her first for foul
ing it up.

  Mo glanced up to see the stranger’s brows converge and his mouth twist into a scowl as he eyed her. “No, you’re not,” he spat out. “I know a bad acting job when I see it. Are you with a tabloid? Why won't you people layoff? SpyMatrix was ten years ago.” His tone held an openly hostile edge.

  What the Frito? Why—

  Then it came to her. Now she knew why he seemed so familiar. He was Stephen Dagger from SpyMatrix.

  * * * * *

  Yuri Kubikov placed the sleeping baby in his crib. Watching the rise and fall of the baby’s tiny chest for long seconds, Kubikov ran his index finger in a caress along one chubby infant cheek. The strong perfume scent of the powder he’d just used during the diapering operation filled his nostrils, blocking out the pungent smell of the used disposable diaper now sealed in the trashcan.

  After a last loving glance at the baby, he strode out of the nursery and then down the hall to the den. Kubikov flopped onto the sofa, grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels. Even with two hundred stations, he couldn’t find anything interesting on television. He switched to the DVD mode to start up a movie. The intro for his wife's favorite film, The Sound of Music, blared. Betsy, already in bed with the door locked against him, knew he hated that one. She probably left it in the player just to irritate him.

  Too lazy to get up, Kubikov tossed the remote onto the coffee table and it landed next to his cell phone. The phone hadn’t made a sound all night. Not even a vibration for a text from one of his men. What should he do with such inept employees?

  But then, just as the hills came alive, the cell phone shook. Grabbing it up, Kubikov examined the message on its face: Blackmailer found downtown.

  Smiling, Kubikov placed a hand to his midsection and removed the Desert Eagle 50 caliber from the waistband of his pants. He ran his index finger caressingly over the barrel. Good. Now the blackmailer would know what a mistake it had been to anger a Russian mobster.

  Chapter Two