Parker And The Gypsy Read Online Free PDF

breasts had looked outlined by the sun, how good it had felt to have those soft curves pressed against him. A faint trace of her perfume still lingered in the air and it brought with it the memory of the kiss they shared. He could still feel the sweet surprise of Sara’s lips yielding beneath his, the imprint of her body in his arms, warm, fragile and feminine. It was almost as though she had left some—some sort of aura behind.
    Aura? Mike straightened abruptly, his eyes flying open wide. Had that thought really come from him? His gaze darted around his office like a man who’d misplaced his mind and was trying to locate it again.
    Oh, man! Mike rubbed one hand across his unshaven jaw. If he was starting to entertain thoughts about Sara’s aura, he really needed to get out of here for a while, go get himself a cup of coffee or some breakfast. Yeah, likely that was what was wrong with him. He’d gone hungry enough as a kid to know that the world always made more sense on a full stomach.
    Shoving an unfinished report in the top drawer, Mike leapt up and strode out of the room. In the outer office, Rosa’s modest switchboard was lit up like the neon sign at a strip joint. Mike paused long enough to switch on the answering machine before trudging down three hot airless flights of stairs that connected his office to the outer world.
    He emerged into the heat and noisy blare of the street just in time to catch some little blue-haired punk painting graffiti on his office sign.
    â€œHey,” Mike bellowed.
    The kid dropped the spray can and took to his heels. Swearing, Mike gave halfhearted chase for half a block, slowed by the heat and the lingering effects of his hangover. As the kid darted down a narrow alley, Mike gave it up in disgust and turned back to see how much damage had been done.
    Instead of the usual obscenities, the kid had merely altered the sign to read Ma Parker’s Detective Agency, Two Flights Up.
    â€œGreat,” Mike muttered. Just what he needed—a graffiti artist with a wit. Grabbing some paper napkins that lay tumbled by a nearby trash can, Mike sought to repair the damage before the paint had a chance to dry, but he only succeeded in smearing it worse.
    Preoccupied by his cursing and rubbing, he forgot his own cardinal rule about always being aware of what was happening on the street around him. He didn’t realize he had company until a finger poked him sharply in the back of his shoulder.
    Mike spun around to find himself all but hemmed to the wall by a burly gorilla of a man attired in a chauffeur’s uniform, salt-and-pepper hair bushing out from beneath his driver’s cap, his coarse ruddy features and slightly crooked nose shoved in Mike’s face. It was a nose Mike remembered well. He’d broken it himself. Though he had trouble recollecting the big ape’s moniker—Greg or George perhaps—Mike knew all too well the name of the man who held his leash—
    Storm. Xavier Storm.
    Every muscle in Mike’s body went taut, but he masked his tension behind an insolent drawl. “Well, well, if it isn’t George of the Jungle. What brings you to this part of town? Isn’t the zoo the other way?”
    The gorilla’s face scrunched up into a mighty scowl beneath the brim of his driver’s cap. “It’s Mr. George to you, Parker.” He jerked one large callused thumb in the direction of a long black limo that stood idling at the curbside. “Mr. Storm is waiting in the car. He’d like to have a word with you.”
    â€œI’ve got one for him.” With a dark smile, Mike spat out the expletive between clenched teeth.
    â€œThat’s two words,” George objected.
    â€œWhat d’you know? The ape can count.” Mike tried to elbow his way past, but with a low growl the driver clamped his hand around Mike’s upper arm.
    Mike shot him a black, warning look, but the goon only tightened his