Free Sharp Shooter by Marianne Delacourt

under a hot shower for a few hours.
    Satisfied that he’d quelled me, he turned back to Nick. Not a word had passed between us, just a look and a whole lot of karmic buffeting.
    ‘How’s that team of yours going? Heard the recession’s hit you hard.’
    ‘The Thunder is doing just fine,’ said Nick, flushing.
    The words they were exchanging were civil, pleasant even. Delgado was smiling, Nick was smiling, and Johnny Vogue had his mouth set in a way that could have been a smile. But their auras were conducting a private war and I felt like my head was sticking too far out of the bunker.
    Fortunately, diversion came in the form of a tall, slim blonde leaning against the entrance to the ballroom.
    It wasn’t just our happy group that paused to ogle her either. This girl was a room-stopper. I mean she wasn’t beautiful, she was beautiful . And the dress! A hugging, low-scooped white tunic embroidered with Swarovski diamonds. Her ‘D’ cup looked natural but couldn’t have been – nobody could be that slim with breasts so big, it’s just not physiologically possible. I mean, you can’t just order your fat to stay in that one place. Her hair was like her legs, long and honey coloured, and her face was the kind of perfection that made you breathe deep. I couldn’t even be jealous; you gotta bow before a goddess when you see one.
    ‘Wow!’ I muttered under my breath. ‘A fallen angel.’
    ‘You’ve met my wife before, have you?’ asked Nick Tozzi.
    I hadn’t. But I’d seen her alright. Antonia Falk. Her family were big-time mining magnates. Capital ‘L’ loaded. Somewhere along the track I’d missed the fact that she’d hooked up with Nick Tozzi. Probably happened when I was four-wheel driving that toad, Pascal, around Cape York so he could see real live crocodiles. Shoulda fed him to them.
    ‘Nicky?’ the angel tittered, then swiped a drink from the hovering waiter’s tray. She staggered a little, clearly stoned.
    Nick Tozzi crossed the space between them in two giant strides and they spoke some quiet, tense words to each other. Their auras mingled uneasily, her fire-red psychic energy bleeding into his, diluting the caramel colour, as he took her arm and directed her back out the door.
    I felt a little deflated as I watched them go. Of course he’d be married, I told myself. Only married men know how to flirt like that. Still, it had been fun for a few moments.
    I glanced back at Johnny Vogue. He was watching them too – his eyes glazed with preoccupation. And it didn’t look like it was Nick Tozzi he was thinking about. Then his cell phone rang, and he and his unhealthy aura disappeared through another door to answer it.
    ‘Gotta go to the ladies!’ I announced, and dashed off to the loo before Delgado could pin me.
    The loo was nearly as grand as the ballroom – green and black marble, and a vase of fresh-cut flowers the size of King’s Park. I washed my hot face in the gleaming handbasin and patted it dry with a fresh, white handtowel from the pile the maid was restocking. Garth had been right about Peter Delgado, and I tried to think of a discreet way of begging off the job. I ended up deciding to cut and run instead. I’d mail his retainer back to him.
    Scooting out of the toilet, I headed deeper into the house looking for a back exit. But as I rushed past an impressive living room the sound of Johnny Vogue’s muffled voice stopped me in my tracks. It was coming from the patio outside the French doors. Unable to quell my curiosity, I sidled up to the curtains and turned the handle of the door, opening it just a crack.
    ‘– find a way to bring the arsehole down. Tozzi won’t get away from me this time, even if I have to plant coke up his arse. Give it six months and he’ll be ruined. She’ll come begging.’ He paused. ‘Yeah. See you at the Bunka warehouse on Monda–’
    OMG.
    ‘Ms Sharp?’ Peter Delgado’s cold fingers grabbed my elbow.
    ‘Oops!’ I let go of the handle.