Kitabı oku: «Another Side Of Midnight»
Advance praise for
MIA ZACHARY’s
Another Side of Midnight
“Mia Zachary has a winner with Another Side of Midnight! With a wonderfully defined heroine, snappy dialogue and an intricate plot, what’s not to love?”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Kenner
“Mia Zachary takes chances that pay off in this edgy, compelling read!”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Leto
“Sparks fly when Steele and Stone clash in this dynamite, double-blind mystery.”
—New York Times bestselling author Rebecca York
“Steele is…sassy and strong, beautiful and smart but she also has [a] hint of vulnerability underneath that smart mouth attitude. Put Steele and Stone together and you get explosive chemistry… the pages fairly sizzle…. Another Side of Midnight grabs you right from the very beginning and keeps you until the end.”
—CataRomance
“Mystery, hard-balled suspense and a sizzle that won’t quit are a combination that I crave when I read a romantic suspense. Mia Zachary delivers my cravings to the max!
This book is definitely a keeper!”
—The Best Reviews
MIA ZACHARY
Over the years, award-winning author Mia Zachary has penned really bad poetry, even worse song lyrics, adolescent short stories and overly descriptive class papers. Her first completed contemporary manuscript placed second in Harlequin Books’ 2000 Summer Blaze contest.
She’s written four Blaze novels since then, including the bestseller Afternoon Delight; “Spirit Dance” in the paranormal anthology Witchy Business; and Another Side of Midnight, her first romantic mystery. Go behind the scenes of the Midnight agency at www.SteeleMidnight.com.
Mia lives in Maryland with her husband of seventeen years and their beautiful little boy. Visit Mia online at www.miazachary.com for excerpts, reviews, articles and more!
Another Side of Midnight
Mia Zachary
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Dear Reader,
A funny thing happened while driving home from lunch with girlfriends one day. A kick-ass heroine and a complex premise attacked me and didn’t let go of my imagination until the story had unfolded onto the manuscript pages…. Now here it is three years later and I could not be prouder to introduce you to the hero and heroine of my first mystery novel.
Steele Mezzanotte has a new P.I. agency, a showgirl’s body and a sharp-edged attitude. Born and raised in Vegas, street smarts and a smart mouth have always kept her in control of any situation. That is, until Cameron Stone walks into her life. Drop-dead gorgeous, with a lot of Scots charm, the enigmatic “problem solver” has a habit of disappearing, but he’ll always return to Sin City. And to Steele. Because the only thing that comes between a rock and a hard case is love…the greatest mystery of all.
Let me know if you enjoy the story as much as I loved writing it. I love to hear from my readers!
Mia
As a writer I know how important words are. And yet I can’t seem to find the right ones to express the breadth and depth of my gratitude to those friends who have kept the faith when my own wavered. This story is dedicated to Mom and Lisa, who believed from the beginning and to Rachel and John who loved it to the end. Thank you from my heart. I’m also very grateful to Marsha Zinberg, Birgit Davis-Todd, and Kathryn Lye for standing by this project from the first premise and pitch. Thank you, ladies!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
Lady Luck Strikes Again
LAS VEGAS, BABY. My kind of town.
Home to five different Cirque du Soleil shows, about 197,000 slot machines, over thirty-six million annual visitors, who knows how many Elvis impersonators and, of course, one Lady Luck.
However, as luck would have it, I’d spent the past half hour in a hot car, my digital camera poised near the small opening at the top of the tinted window. One of my best friends had let me borrow the Toyota from her used car dealership. My beloved Harley Davidson Softail motorcycle isn’t exactly conducive to surveillance.
Downtown, the casinos are smaller than on the Strip, the hotels cheaper and the atmosphere more nostalgic than glamorous. “Glitter Gulch” is where you’ll find the Golden Gate’s ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails, the annual World Series of Poker at Binion’s Horseshoe and VegasVic, the forty-foot neon cowboy. However, once you move past the four main blocks of interest, downtown feels meaner, gritty and weather-beaten.
The February temperature was a balmy eighty degrees, which meant it was over one hundred in the Toyota’s driver seat. And I wasn’t exactly sitting here for the fun of it. Waiting across from a run-down bar like a paparazzo anxious to snap photos of a clandestine meeting wasn’t my idea of a good time, but it is part of my job.
My name is Stella Mezzanotte—midnight star in Italian— and I’m a private eye.
Damn, I like saying that.
Which was why I was roasting my ass outside of the Polar Lounge. At the moment I was following a client’s girlfriend of two months because he thought she was messing around on him. Well, duh. With clown-red hair, capped teeth, collagen-filled lips and saline-filled boobs, did he honestly think she’d be genuine about her feelings?
People lie about anything and everything, especially when it comes to relationships. I hate these cases. I usually end up finding out things my clients don’t really want to know and then nobody wants to pay for bad news. But, until I get full ownership of the agency, I’ll take almost any case that comes in my door.
My mind was drifting toward a heat-induced nap when something—or rather someone—caught my attention.
The man walking out of the Polar Lounge was all kinds of gorgeous, but there was something else about him… An aura of quiet violence. This guy wasn’t bulging with muscles under his dark T-shirt, but he had strength.
My instincts told me he wasn’t afraid to use it. And yet beneath his military-short, dark blond hair was one of the most sensual faces I’d ever seen. Fascinated by the powerful, confident way he moved, my finger instinctively triggered the camera shutter. When he glanced over at me, I noted the intensity of his light blue eyes.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”
Oops. I’d been so focused on the golden god I hadn’t seen Scarlet’s boyfriend cross the street. Rat yanked open my car door and made a grab for the camera.
“Hands off, pal. I’m just getting some exterior shots for a story I’m doing on the bar.” Lame, I know, but it was all I could come up with since I’d been taken off guard.
“Sure you are, honey.” This time he tried to grab me.
Big freakin’ mistake.
My real name is Stella, but everyone, except my parents, has called me Steele since I was nine years old. After I bluffed him out of his pocket change playing stud poker, my Uncle Vin used to shake his head and mutter, “That girl’s got nerves of steel.”
I need them in my line of work. In the end we all agreed to part ways: Scarlet with a torn handbag and an ex-lover; Rat with a bloody nose and sore balls; me with a headache and a broken camera lens. I did manage to save the image storage card, though. So, even though it was an affair to forget, my client would get proof and I would get paid.
Good thing since now I was out a three-hundred-dollar Sony Cybershot.
Mission accomplished, I slid into the Toyota and cranked the air conditioner to “arctic.” Then I looked down, cursing when I saw Rat’s blood on the hem of my favorite T-shirt, the powder-blue one that read Spoil Me and We’ll Get Along Just Fine.
Some days I love my job. This was not one of them.
I’D JUST LEFT one bar and was headed for another, this time in my father’s restaurant across from the University of Las Vegas campus. Mezzanotte’s offers authentic Tuscan recipes straight out of my Nonna Angela’s trattoria in Siena. The pappardelle primavera and the bistecca alla fiorentina are to die for. It’s a family business. My father, Paolo, and my brother Raffaele run the kitchen while my mother, Vivian, acts as hostess.
Since I have no life outside of work—much to my mother’s disappointment—I help out at the bar a couple nights a week.
Thursday nights are pretty slow, especially since Papa refuses to do gimmicks like karaoke or wet T-shirt contests. It took a lot of convincing to get him to put a TV above the bar for the sports channels. Tonight there was a decent crowd, though, enough to have me pouring drafts and shaking drinks at a regular pace.
I’m good at tending bar. I flirt a little so the guys keep thinking and keep drinking. I make the cocktails strong enough to earn a reputation without depleting the inventory. And I’m normally a good listener, even when I’m really keeping an eye on the liquor levels for a row of customers.
But not tonight. Oh, I was getting the job done but my mind wasn’t engaged. Tonight I felt… Itchy. Like my skin was too tight and my nerves were exposed. None of my customers needed refills, so I was absentmindedly watching the NFL Pro Bowl game when I heard a voice behind me.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a McEwan’s Ale about?” A hot shiver danced down my spine. The Scottish accent was pure just-out-of-bed Sean Connery. Hearing it, I started thinking about getting into bed. When I turned around, though, I looked straight into the face of the golden god. Stifling my sexual reaction I studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing here.
I don’t believe in coincidence and I never get this lucky when it comes to men in bars.
The guy had broad shoulders and a massive chest beneath a forest green shirt open just enough to reveal a navy T-shirt. His forearms looked as if they’d been sculpted from Carrara marble and his large, blunt-fingered hands… I was getting all kinds of ideas about his hands.
His face had wide planes and interesting angles, with heavy brows that accentuated a coldly compelling blue gaze. The only soft things about him were the slight curl of his dark-blond hair and a deliciously sensual mouth. He was watching me with the barest hint of a smirk.
His eyes hinted that he’d seen the dark side of life and had laughed in its face, that he had secrets and no intention of sharing them. He had the air of a hunter, both patient and persistent. And like any prey, I felt the thrill of danger. All the way down my body.
“Sorry, no McEwan’s. See anything else you might like?” I cocked my head and gave him a playful look.
“Aye, something’s caught my interest.”
I leaned my forearms on the bar, briefly drawing his attention to the lettering over my breasts. “Well, catching is one thing, keeping is another.”
He resolutely kept his gaze on my face. A real gentleman, this guy. “It’s a bit soon to play for keeps.”
But apparently he did want to play. So did I. If the game got out of hand, I had a borrowed car and one hell of a right hook. What I didn’t have was a date for Valentine’s, as Mom had been reminding me all evening.
“You mean it wasn’t love at first sight that made you trail me all the way from downtown?”
His mouth lifted a fraction of an inch and he nodded to admit he’d been busted, but there was no hint of apology. “Why were you taking my photo?”
“I wasn’t. You just got in the frame.” I grinned and gave him the once-over. “You’re kind of distracting.”
“As are you.” His lips curved a little more and I found myself anxiously awaiting his smile. “What was a sweet lass such as yourself doing there anyway, eh?”
“A job. Why were you there?”
“A job.” He returned my deadpan expression in kind then reached across the bar to offer his hand. “Cameron Stone.”
“I’m Steele Mezzanotte.”
“You don’t look like ‘steel.’” He smirked, as most guys do. I’ve got my Papa’s bone structure, my Mom’s curvaceous figure and, so I’m told, an innate sex appeal all my own. No matter how smart or how tough she is, nobody takes a pretty girl seriously.
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”
As his large, calloused hand closed over mine, energy— unexpected and potentially lethal—shot through my palm. It reminded me of when I was five and stuck a knife into a wall socket. Every nerve in my arm vibrated with sensory overload and I caught my breath. A little shaken, I dropped his hand and stepped back. I felt myself blush as I cleared my throat.
“What can I get you instead of the McEwan’s?”
“Surprise me, why don’t you.”
“I just might.” Letting a slow grin spread across my face, I was suddenly feeling very lucky, indeed….
However, I woke up the next morning alone in a hotel suite, unsure of which was worse, my hangover, my heartache or the trouble I had gotten into this time.
CHAPTER TWO
The Waiting Game
THE PORCH LIGHT was on. A sign of invitation, welcoming him for his efforts these past couple months. He smiled in the darkness.
He’d been careful to park around the corner, but still close enough to get a clear view down the street to her house. The sun was stealing over the mountains in the distance. He had to leave soon. Some early-bird neighbor might notice a strange car and it was almost time for her morning run.
A dog barked nearby, startling him. But he continued to watch the house, wondering which room she slept in. Wondering if she slept naked. He pictured her long dark hair fanned across the pillow, her blow job-worthy lips parted slightly as she breathed.
He shifted in the driver’s seat. The thought of her mouth always got him hard.
Letting his mind stretch further, he imagined she did sleep naked, her bare skin slick with sweat, the bed sheets twisted around her long athletic body. One hand would part her thighs while the fingers of his other tangled in her hair…
He wanted to hear her voice, if only a single word. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. Anticipation had his heart racing, his body tense. He ought to speak this time—
“Huhlo?”
He closed his eyes, savoring the sleep-roughened rumble of her greeting…then disconnected the call. The time wasn’t right.
Soon.
But not yet.
CHAPTER THREE
Through a Glass Darkly
BLINKING AGAINST the late spring daylight, I checked the bedside clock. Christ, did that thing really say five-fifty? I reached for the phone to stop the damned ringing.
“Huhlo?” My voice sounded as raw as it felt. I must have been screaming in my sleep again.
Silence greeted me in return. The heavy menacing kind that made the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. I sat up, wide awake now. I couldn’t hear so much as an inhaled breath, let alone any identifiable background noise. But I knew someone was on the line. Waiting. Intimidating.
Just like the other calls.
And, again like the others, my caller ID didn’t register a number. The line disconnected abruptly, leaving me to hang up with an ineffectual bang. Shafts of early May sunlight streamed across the bed but I was shivering, the sheet twisted beneath me damp with sweat. The sun had barely risen, but going back to sleep wasn’t an option.
I swung my legs off the bed and padded down the hallway to the kitchen in nothing but my panties. Twinges of pain had me glancing down. The bruises on my ribs were as muddy as day-old coffee and the one on my face probably didn’t look much better. Both of my jobs seem to make me a regular target.
The freezer yielded a half-empty bottle of Armadale vodka. I hate taking any kind of medicine. A double shot in my orange juice would hold off the worst of the pain and wash away the aftertaste of uneasy sleep. I’d been dreaming, the kind of dark, restless nightmares that leave a metallic taste in the mouth.
A few minutes later, I had three slugs in me—one from an old bullet and the other two from the vodka. I stood there in my gradually lightening kitchen, feeling the alcohol begin to warm my blood. One of these days I needed to quit drinking. Not today.
Back in the bedroom I threw on a T-shirt and bike shorts, sunglasses and a baseball cap. I used to run track in high school. There are probably still some ribbons and trophies in my parents’ attic. I usually do between three and five miles, depending on my route. But my heart wasn’t in it—I’d barely covered a mile—so I turned around.
After a quick shower, several ounces of hair goop and a half hour with my professional-grade ionic blow dryer, I started on my face. Normally I just wear moisturizer. But I was going to need some of Mom’s stage makeup tricks to disguise the black eye I got last night.
My dad’s place is not a dive, I swear. But with the restaurant being right across from UNLV, on weekends the bar clientele includes a lot of students blowing off steam… Sometimes in my direction.
Getting dressed only took me about five minutes. I hate having to think about clothes, so for everyday I just pick from my fifty pair of jeans and a hundred T-shirts. I slipped on the one that read, Have A Nice Day Elsewhere, grabbed my backpack and helmet and headed for work.
Traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard—otherwise known as the Strip—sucked, as usual. Caught by one of the city’s many lethargic traffic signals, I braced my feet on either side of my Harley. The sun beat down on me from out of a pale blue cloudless sky, piercing the dark glasses shielding my eyes. The temperature already felt like eighty-plus degrees.
Sitting next to a diesel-belching tour bus didn’t help.
Still, as I glanced around me, a chill slipped down my spine. I’d been feeling all too exposed for the last two months. The caller, my telephone whisperer, might be in the next lane. Behind the wheel of the Nissan with the tinted windows? Or maybe he was the bald guy in the Chevy staring at me funny….
Or maybe all of these people were normal human beings just trying to get to work on time.
As I drove past the glory that is the Venetian Resort Casino, with its Doges Palace entrance and replica of the Grand Canal, my thoughts turned wistfully to the old Sands Hotel that it had replaced. The Sands was “A Place in the Sun” in the days when Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack played here. And I do mean played.
The Sands is also where my parents met. Papa tended bar while my mother hoofed across the stage in a twenty-pound headdress. Mom was a Copa Girl. They had drinks with Sinatra once. But that’s another story, one my father never gets tired of telling. And somehow I never get tired of hearing it.
My folks are still happily married, but the Sands was leveled in a controlled implosion. It was a hell of a final show. Ground broke for the Venetian less than a year later. Who knows how long that will stand before it makes way for something new?
The city is constantly demolishing and rebuilding itself bigger, better and brighter. I was born and raised here—what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, as the advertising goes. Depending on who you ask, this is either the most incredible or the tackiest place they’ve ever seen.
What Las Vegas really is, is glitz and glamour for its own sake. If you take it too seriously, you miss the whole damn point.
I navigated past another bus and hung a left onto Paradise Road. After circling a couple of times, I found an open parking space. I took off my helmet and scratched my fingers through my hair to mitigate the heat, adjusted my black leather backpack and casually strode across the parking lot.
You name it; this strip mall has it. There’s a bank, a travel agency, a pawnshop, an attorney and a business services franchise. Midnight Investigation Services is on the corner, the name etched in gold script letters on the window. I get a flutter of both pride and anxiety when I see the place. It’s only been mine for about six months.
Although I’d been licensed for just under a year, I’d worked as the secretary in my Aunt Gloria’s investigation agency for three years before that. Not long after my life disintegrated because of a cowardly, self-centered decision…
Gloria Diamond, a blackjack dealer turned private investigator, had divorced Uncle Vinnie years ago, but I’d still considered her family. Nobody understood me the way she had, being a hard-assed, soft-hearted Italian girl herself. When I’d dropped out of UNLV my sophomore year, Aunt Gloria had talked me into helping around the office.
I’d mostly answered phones, typed reports, made coffee and paid attention. Then her two-pack a day habit caught up with her and suddenly I was taking over the casework. Gloria taught me what she knew, cut corners where she could and sent me to community college for the rest. But I still had a lot to learn, and now I have to do it without her.
When she died last year, Aunt Gloria left me the agency. She also left me the strip mall and the associated rental income in trust. According to her philosophy, a gal needs “fuck-you” money in a man’s world. Smart woman, that Gloria. She’d believed in empowerment and independence. But she’d also believed in earning it.
As long as I keep the place running in the black for a year, I’m set. As long as no one ever finds out how far Gloria went to get me licensed… Otherwise, it all goes to my cousin Rick, who won’t hesitate to sell everything and lay the money on the nearest craps table.
Opening the front door to the agency, I gratefully stepped into the air-conditioning. The large reception area is decorated in “soothing but elegant tones of cobalt, maroon and cream.” Whatever. It gives clients a place to sit.
My secretary, Jon Chase, was typing furiously and staring at his computer screen. He’s about six feet tall with a lean build, sleepy brown eyes, thick hair and a great smile. In a word? Hot. In another word? Gay. This, of course, was a heartbreaking shame to every heterosexual woman who met him.
He looked up and raised one perfectly arched brow. Then he added a glance at his watch. “Whoa. Are you aware that it’s not even nine o’clock yet?”
“Just get me some coffee, will you.” I have to remind him on a regular basis who employs whom around here.
“Well, aren’t you just a delight this morning.” He handed me a stack of envelopes and some message slips. Then he did that tsking thing when I peeled off my sunglasses. “I hate to tell you, Steele, but black and blue is so not this season.”
Guess I needed more makeup. “Dad needed help at the restaurant last night.”
“And to think bartending doesn’t come with hazardous duty pay.”
“Were there any calls besides these?” I kept my gaze on the phone slips and made my voice as casual as possible.
“Two hang-ups on the machine and a woman who didn’t want to leave a message.”
The aborted calls shouldn’t have bothered me. But they did. “Has anybody stopped by?”
Jon looked at me, his expression curious. “Nobody outside the usual suspects—the mailman, that cute UPS guy. Why? Are you hoping for someone in particular?”
“Nobody outside the usual suspects.”
I trudged down the hallway, past the kitchen and bathroom, to my office. When we redecorated, I’d let Jon have his way with the paisley love seats, glass coffee tables, potted bamboo and Impressionist art out front, but my office was off limits.
Framed posters of exotic beaches hung between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The armchairs and couch were leather and my walnut partner’s desk takes up the far corner. I’d only agreed to the bright blue carpeting for the sake of Jon’s “visual continuity.”
My helmet and backpack landed on the couch with a dull thump. Pulling the window shades kept the bright daylight from drilling a hole into my brain. I visited each of the electrical outlets in the room, recharging the pieces of my portable office. Then I collapsed onto my suede desk chair. The best place for my head seemed to be in between my open palms.
But, I had work to do. I picked up the mail and sorted through it. Credit card applications went into the trash along with dating service invitations. My mother thinks I don’t know she secretly signs me up for that crap. I separated the bills from the few payment checks and thank-you notes then started a letter of my own.
The last time I was face-to-face with my oldest brother— five years almost to the day—I was only nineteen. Stupid, scared and selfish as only a nineteen-year-old can be. I’ve had to grow up since then. Vince still won’t see me or take my phone calls. I understand, and so respect his wishes.
If you keep picking at an old wound, it never heals. But I hate the idea of having no contact with him at all. I write once a week without fail and haven’t missed a week in all the time he’s been gone. It’s the very least I owe him. And, no matter what it costs, I’ve always kept my promises.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sombody’s Got to Do It
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Jon slid my favorite mug—the one that read I’m Only Here To Annoy You—across the desk.
“Coffee-coffee-coffee.” I took a sip and moaned out loud. “I made you espresso instead of latte. You look like you could use the extrastrength caffeine.” Tilting his head, he crossed his arms. “Soo, what’s the story with that eye?”
I swallowed another mouthful before answering him. “One of the customers didn’t take too kindly to her boyfriend gluing his eyes to my chest every time I delivered their drinks. When she said something, he took a poke at her. I swung on him. After that it got a little ugly.”
“Ugly is not the word for it.” Jon sighed dramatically. “With your looks, you could be a showgirl—”
“I tried that. Then they asked me to sing.”
“Or a model—”
“I thought about that, too. For maybe a minute.”
“But, no. You have to go around beating up drunks and spying through bedroom windows.”
“Lucky for you and your sense of job security, huh?”
He rested a hip on the edge of her desk. “Oh, please. You’ve been lucky to have me these past three months. How many people did you fire before I came to your rescue?”
“About a dozen,” I mumbled into my coffee mug. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re the only secretary—”
“Administrative assistant.”
“Whatever. You’re the only one who didn’t complain about the part-time hours, the salary or the amount of work. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be typing something?”
He made an exaggerated snap with his fingers and stood up. “Thanks for the reminder. I have to finish writing chapter twelve.”
Scowling, I waved my hand at the files on my desk. “I meant something business-related.”
“Oh, right. Because we have so many cases right now. On the other hand, Savannah and Brick are at a critical turning point in their relationship.”
“The trials and tribulations of a Southern belle and her Yankee lover.” He smiled as I affected a drawl with practiced ease. I even managed the Georgia mountain dialect he tries so hard to repress. “How’s the book coming along?”
“They were undressed and fixin’ to fall into bed when you walked in. Let me tell you—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” I stabbed my index finger in his direction. “I keep you out of my love life. You leave me out of yours.”
“Sweetcakes, you don’t have a love life.”
There’s nothing like the truth to end a conversation. And, besides, I hate it when he calls me “sweetcakes.” I scowled at Jon’s back as he swept out, then propped my boot heels on the desktop. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in over five years, not since Bobby died… I didn’t want to think about him.
And I hadn’t gotten laid in exactly two months, two weeks and four days. But I didn’t want to think about him, either.
Instead, I turned my attention to the files clogging my inbox. Private investigation is the business of information. Your client needs to know something and your job is to find the facts. People love the idea of Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, Thomas Magnum and Charlie’s Angels.
Reality is nowhere near that glamorous.
It’s hours of sheer boredom while you wait and watch and wait some more. It’s days of tedious fact checking and double-checking. And it’s paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. I
have a system for it, though you’d swear otherwise. It involves nearly illegible notes on yellow legal pads or scraps of paper shoved into my pockets.
When I’m ready to type up a report, I shuffle the paper around on my desk like an abstract collage until I make some sense of it. Conventional? No. Organized? Hell, no. But I’m not a linear thinker and it’s not pretty when I try to be.
After dropping my feet to the floor, I drained the last of my espresso and grabbed the first folder to draft a status report. Insert client’s name into document template. Briefly recap case. Inform of progress. Advise how to proceed. Save to hard drive. Repeat as necessary.
I’d reduced the stack by half when the intercom buzzed. Jon was on the phone, using his business voice. “A Mrs. Cavanaugh is here to see you.”
Who? I frowned and capped my fountain pen before flipping the page of my calendar. There weren’t any appointments scheduled this morning and I would have been happy to leave it that way. Then I glanced over at the pile of bills. Not enough to bury us, but enough to make me sigh.
Due to the steady increase of infidelity, bad parenting and civil litigation, there’s a greater than ever demand for private investigators. Just not this one. Jon says it’s because we need a Web site.
“Okay, Jon, give me a minute to get professional, then send her back.”
I rummaged through my backpack for a compact. Dab-bing pressed powder onto my eye didn’t help much. Screw it. I pulled my arms out of my T-shirt and turned it around so that the slogan was on the back. Then I yanked the spare navy blazer off the door hook and combed my fingers through my hair. Picking up my legal pad, I tried to project an air of expertise.
Because of my looks, most people think I only have enough brainpower to keep me breathing. While I have no qualms about using their assumptions against them on a case, it works against me when meeting new clients. But as my visitor walked in, I knew my appearance didn’t matter.
Her shoulder-length brown hair had expensive-looking gold highlights. She wore a lavender business suit and matching heels. Diamonds flashed at her ears, neck and wrists. She actually wasn’t much smarter than she looked, but I liked her anyway. Always had.
“Maria DiMarco.” I came from behind the desk to take her hand. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“It’s Cavanaugh now. Mrs. Gray Cavanaugh.” Her breathy, childlike voice rushed from between pale pink lips, but her tone had an undercurrent. Something flickered in the back of her eyes. Then she smiled, looking like the girl I remembered, and indicated my shiner. “Still raising hell, huh, Steele?”
I grinned back at her and shrugged. “Somebody’s got to.” At St. John the Evangelist High School, Maria had been the princess of the popular crowd while I’d been in trouble more often than I’d stayed out of it. Our second year, I’d chosen peer tutoring over detention when the principal caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom.
At first Maria and I had nothing in common except our Italian heritage and American History class. But over time we had become good friends. That lasted until I’d started at UNLV and we lost touch, as people do when they leave childhood behind.
“I didn’t realize your aunt wouldn’t be here when I called. I’m sorry, Steele. I know you two were close.”
Like that, I remembered the last time I’d seen Gloria. She’d needed a hospice, but she’d opted to stay home and go out on her own terms. We’d been sitting on the patio, toasting the sunset with twelve-year-old scotch and a twenty-five-year-old male nurse… That was Gloria. A bad girl to the end.
“Thanks. I miss her.”
Maria looked around, a slight frown pulling her brows together. “So…you’re doing this stuff now? I mean, do you think you’ll be able to help me?”
“I’ll do my best. Why don’t we sit down.”
Maria seemed nervous, in no rush to get started. She was twisting the rings on her left hand. I didn’t have to take a wild guess at the problem. This town provides plenty of work in the marital discord department.
I settled against the couch, wanting to put her at ease. “It’s been a long time. What have you been up to?”
“Daddy finally let me be part of the family business.” Her lips curved, but the feigned emotion didn’t get close to her eyes. “I put in a couple of days a week at the Palazzo Napoli. I’m the events planner for the hotel.”
“That’s great. How is Big Frank?”
“Good. He’s, uh, okay.” She dropped her gaze for a second. “How’s your family, Stella? I hear your brothers are working at Mezzanotte’s now.”
I shifted in my seat. “Just Rafe and his wife. You remember Laura Caporetto? She was a year ahead of us. Anyway, they help run the restaurant side. Joey’s still a cop. He’s doing good.”
Neither of us mentioned Vince.
“And your folks. Are they as cute as I remember them?”
“Yeah, they still can’t keep their hands off each other.”
Maria nodded and kept twisting the big-ass solitaire and matching band. With most investigations, you find out a lot more by shutting up than by asking a lot of questions. So, I nodded too and waited for her to tell me why she was here.
She sat and fiddled for another minute or so, then cleared her throat. “You know, my father didn’t want me to marry Gray the first time he asked. Daddy didn’t think he was good enough for me. Of course, nobody I chose ever was.” Maria gave a humorless laugh. “I really loved Gray, though.”
I leaned back against the couch, having picked up on that past tense verb, but not wanting to comment.
“The wedding was beautiful. We had a five-tier silver foil cake, a chamber orchestra and dinner with three hundred of our closest friends. Then we spent two weeks in Hawaii for our honeymoon. Daddy gave Gray a job managing the Palazzo’s casino. I thought we were happy….”
Listening to the slight catch in her voice, I watched her face. I had a pretty good idea what was coming. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I think…maybe…Gray’s been, um, unfaithful.”
Maria looked at me, her expression bewildered, gauging my reaction. I guess she expected me to be as shocked as she was. Nine times out of ten, if you think your man is cheating, he is. So I made a sympathetic humming noise and didn’t try to dismiss her fears.
“At first it was just a feeling, you know? He’s constantly on his cell phone and doesn’t say who he’s talking to. He started dressing differently.” Maria shifted her gaze and focused on the carpet. “For a while he was really affectionate, almost too much, but now he’s completely disinterested in… You know.”
I hummed again. “What made you decide to hire an investigator?”
“Well, Gray’s been going up to Reno on business. Daddy’s thinking of buying a place up there. I called the hotel one time.” Maria took a deep breath. “The front desk told me Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh had already checked out.”
I winced. I couldn’t help it. Guys can be so damned dumb. “Yeah. I guess I should have seen it coming, considering… But I guess the wife really is the last to know.”
Did I mention that I hate domestic cases? Despite the amount of business they’ve brought the agency. The first one I ever took without Gloria was a freaking disaster. I wasn’t too sure of myself so I kept in close contact with the client as I followed the husband. First he met his lover for lunch. Then he took her to look at rocks and I don’t mean the geological kind.
My client was pissed; the husband never took her to expensive restaurants or bought her jewelry. She showed up at the motel I’d followed them to. The client ran into the room, the girlfriend ran out and, to make a long, stupid story short, I got shot in the ass trying to break up the fight.
Since then, I set off metal detectors at the airport and I keep my mouth shut until after I write up my case files.
“What would you like me to do, Maria?”
Her eyes and voice hardened unexpectedly, erasing her vacant appearance. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll find out for you one way or another. But if Gray really is cheating, you’ve got to promise not to pull any of those movie-of-the-week theatrics, okay?” The look she gave me was totally uncomprehending. “No taking matters into your own hands.”
She agreed and asked me to get hard evidence for any future legal action. After jotting her contact information onto the standard contract, I had to decide how to handle the financials. Gloria had used a sliding scale that depended on how much she thought a potential client could afford. With the shades drawn, there was still enough light in my office to illuminate the facets of Maria’s diamond jewelry.
I named a figure that included my time, mileage, expenditures and front-row tickets to Cirque du Soleil at the MGM Grand.
She accepted the terms without blinking. “Whatever it takes, Stella.”
Damn. I should have added enough for dinner and drinks before the show. “Tell me about Gray.”
Maria’s lips curved and I could hear the wistfulness in her little girl voice. “The first time I saw him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Not handsome. Beautiful. Gray has incredibly expressive amber eyes and a face that should be on magazine covers.”
That was nice, but it wouldn’t help me pick him out of a crowd. “Maybe you could bring me a picture?”
“I should have a recent one.” She reached for her wallet and removed several pictures from one of the pockets.
As she sorted them, a rectangle fell onto the sofa between us. It was one of those four-pose strips you get from a photo booth. I had a quick glimpse of a much younger Maria kissing a guy with long blond hair. I noticed his Spirits Dancing concert T-shirt before she slipped the pictures back into her wallet.
“Here.” She handed me a snapshot taken on the gangway of a cruise ship. “This is from our vacation last year.”
I studied her husband’s image, trying to commit it to memory. He was tall with sandy hair and a goatee, a lean build and an angular face that I wouldn’t have called either handsome or beautiful. Gray Cavanaugh looked…slick. He was too attractive, too stylish, too everything.
I handed the picture back and went over to my desk. I rifled the bottom drawer for one of Gloria’s checklists. She’d called the one for domestic cases the Cheat Sheet. After grabbing a clipboard, I returned to the couch.
“Okay, so tell me. What kind of car does Gray drive?” Maria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I bought him a white Mercedes, but I don’t know the license number.”
“No problem. I can get that myself. Is there any property other than your main residence?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
Because if he kept an apartment, he didn’t have to pay for hotels. Out loud I said, “So I know where I’m most likely to find him.”
“Oh. Well, we’d talked about buying a vacation place but I didn’t get around to it.”
I made a note to do an asset search anyway and look for rental properties. “What about his work schedule?”
“He usually takes the noon-to-eight. But one of the other managers has been sick recently, so Gray’s working some graveyard shifts. I’m not sure of his schedule this week, but I’ll find out for you.”
“That would be great.” I scribbled more notes as she told me about his routine and habits. “Okay, tell me about any hobbies.”
She shifted, recrossing her legs. “Gray’s been spending a lot more time on his golf game lately. He plays eighteen holes on his days off. We’ve got several memberships. Aliante Golf Club, of course, but also Spanish Trail and Red Rock.”
Uh-huh. The Canyon Gate Country Club property, where the Cavanaughs lived, was home to a championship private course. I was back to thinking how much I hate domestic cases.
Then Maria pulled a thick envelope out of her purse. “This should cover the first week of your time.”
I ran a thumb over the bundle of fifty-dollar bills before shaking hands with my newest client.
It’s like Gloria always used to say—as long as there are sins and cynics, I’ll have a job.
CHAPTER FIVE
No Easy Answers
ONCE MARIA LEFT, I stripped off my blazer and turned my shirt back around. Then I walked out to the reception area and handed Jon the contract and a copy of Maria’s cash receipt. “Start a new file, please.”
He sets up manila folders with hard copies as well as entering data into the case management program. If I can look something up for myself, it leaves him more time to write his romance novel. Jon glanced at the receipt.
“She paid in advance?”
“That’s just the retainer.” I grinned as I handed him the envelope. “Drop this at the bank before you go to lunch.”
He rifled the thousand dollars the same way I had. Then he cocked his head to one side and wiggled his brows. “I’m taking ninety minutes for lunch. And I’m ordering the lobster salad from El Pescador.”
As many times as we’ve played it, neither of us seems to tire of this routine. “You’re taking an hour for lunch, pal. And you’re paying for your own lobster.”
“It’s only thirty minutes, Steele. You can unshackle me from my desk for that long.”
“Nope. We’ve got bills to send out.”
He gave me a sly look from under his dark lashes. “I’ll bring you back some Tandoori chicken from Shalimar.”
Ooh. He was playing hardball. Growing up in a restaurant made me pickier than most when it comes to quality, well-prepared food, and Shalimar was named best ethnic food in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I relented on the ninety-minute lunch, just like he knew I would. Say what you will, but the man knows how to stay on my good side.
Alone again, I called up a blank document on my laptop and started typing up my impressions for the Gray Cavanaugh file.
Kept husband? Got his house, his car and his cash from the wife, got his job from the father-in-law. Maybe he married for love, maybe not. Probably cheating just to prove he’s a real man.
Follow-up for work and golf schedules. Check background (basics should be enough), credit statements (past three months) and cell phone bill (frequent numbers and times of calls).
A few minutes later, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. Yawning, I waited impatiently for the water to gurgle and blurp out of the ten-gallon jug and into my oversized plastic cup. I’m not trying to be trendy. Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in North America, which puts a lot of demand on the desert environment.
All the golf courses around here don’t help.
I do my part by only drinking the bottled stuff. It’s imported from some natural spring in Pennsylvania. I guess you’d say I’m a closet environmentalist, saving the world one cup at a time. Then again, I never remember to separate the trash on recycling day.
As I walked back toward my office, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck. The air seemed oddly still. I was no longer alone. Remembering this morning’s dream and the subsequent phone call, my heart hiccupped in my chest. There was a phone in my office. My nine-millimeter was stashed in my desk drawer. The emergency exit was through the storeroom. Which would be quicker?
My fight-or-flight instinct froze with indecision. Shit. All three choices were too slow and it was too late to hide my reaction. Nothing to do now but fight. Whipping around, I saw a hulking silhouette. His features were hidden by the glare through the front windows. I tensed as he came closer, bracing for whatever happened.
His presence was somehow primal, unnerving. And familiar. It ought to be, as often as I’d studied his digital photo.
I released the breath I’d been holding. Flinging out my left arm, I aimed the full cup of water at his face.
“Hey! It’s—”
I put everything I had into the punch that followed. When my right fist connected with his chin, I felt equal parts satisfaction and pain.
“It’s me, damn it!”
I bent over to grab my cup with a shaking hand as the adrenaline slowly filtered out of my system. “I knew who it was.”
It’s not like I could have forgotten him. A guy doesn’t walk into your life, turn it upside down and then disappear without leaving an impression. I thought I’d gotten past it. If not forgotten, at least moved on. I was wrong.
Okay, maybe it hadn’t been the first time I’d gone to bed with a guy and woken up by myself. But it had been the first time I’d cared.
After the nuclear meltdown that had been Bobby Mattingly, I hadn’t dated much. Two years passed before I accepted a dinner invitation. Another year before I had sex again. I’d slept with a couple of guys since but hadn’t let it get serious. Then I’d met Cameron and lightning struck.
So I figured I could be forgiven for expecting more than his morning-after note. S, You’re amazing. I’m sorry for this. Something’s come up and I have to leave immediately. I’ll call when I can. C. He hadn’t bothered to come up with an original kiss-off line. Obviously, I hadn’t been that amazing.
After wiping a hand over his face, Cameron raked back his wet hair. “I guess you’re surprised to see me, eh, love?”
I flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’d be more than happy to hit you again.”
Not exactly true. He had a cast-iron jaw and my hand already hurt like hell. It had been worth it. I hadn’t heard a word from him in two months, two weeks and four days. But who the hell was counting, right? Why be “surprised” about that?
What really ticked me off was my other reaction, which was purely physical. His damp black T-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and chest. Faded blue jeans skimmed over what I knew to be long, muscular legs. And I’m a sucker for long, muscular legs. He moved toward me and I had to fight my natural reaction—internal combustion in the face of an alpha male.
Cameron Stone is a lion of a man—six foot three or four, golden and gorgeous. In a word? Dangerous.
“Are you having a go at me because you lost the last fight?” He reached toward the tender skin beneath my eye.
I ducked his hand and crossed my arms, tapping a finger against the cup. “No, I’m picking a fight with you because your note wasn’t exactly the Valentine I’d hoped for. While I appreciated breakfast, Stone, I would have appreciated an explanation more.”
“Stella, love—”
“Don’t call me that.” He’d used the L word twice now. Even out of context, it was awkward, unsettling, and so very wrong.
Unable to avoid it any longer, I looked directly at his face. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, his features now had edges hard enough to suit his name. He’d let his hair grow and his Celtic skin was deeply tanned. His light blue eyes still had the power to both captivate me and put me on my guard.
He looked really good, damn it.
I tried to forget how often he’d made me smile that night, the way my heart had raced when our fingers touched, or how eager I’d been for him as midnight became morning.
His eyes warmed considerably as he’d looked at me and asked, “Where have you been?”
“Right here, waiting,” I’d answered.
The intense sunlight hurt my eyes. That’s why they were tearing up. I swallowed hard, struggling for control. The level of my anger would reveal the depth of my feelings, and damned if I was going to allow that. I had questions, lots of them, but I also had some pride. So I kept things as simple as possible.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“As I said in the note—”
“Something came up. That was the best you could do?” I let my tone slide down into the sarcastic range.
His mouth flattened. “Aye, something came up. It was rather urgent and I had to take the first available flight.”
“Where to?” I tipped my head, intrigued. Stone didn’t strike me as the kind of man who ran from trouble. But, then again, what did I really know about him?
He continued to look me right in the eye, not an apology in sight. “I can’t give you any details.”
“Can’t? Don’t you mean ‘won’t’?”
“Can’t. Client confidentiality and all that.”
He shrugged, one of the cockiest gestures I’d ever seen. Either he was using confidentiality as an excuse, or he was adhering to it out of expediency. Professionally I understood, but personally it set my temper off.
“Fine, no details. How about a broad overview? It’s been almost three months, Stone. What kept you from calling once this something was finished?”
His hesitation only lasted a nanosecond, long enough for me to realize he’d already decided how much not to tell me. “This is the soonest I was able to contact you.”
Asshole lying jerk bastard. “Nice to see you, Stone. Feel free to drop out of my life again.” I turned my back on him, heading into my office.
“Not so fast.”
Before I could take more than a step, his arm banded around my waist. He leaned back against the door frame, turning me in the space between his thighs. The thrill of being so near him again struck me like lightning. I felt the sizzle in every nerve of my body as repressed desire added to the heat of my anger.
I could have knocked him on his ass, had him flat on his back in less than a heartbeat. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But I didn’t because, knowing Stone, he’d have thought it was foreplay.
“Let me go.”
“I did that once and didn’t much care for it.”
I laughed harshly, not about to fall under the spell of that sexy brogue. “You’ve got it backwards, Stone. You’re the one who left.”
“I know. Believe me, I didn’t want to.” When I pushed away he didn’t stop me. I moved toward the opposite wall, putting distance between us so my body would stop humming. “But I’m back, Stella. I’m here now.And I’m wanting to work things out.”
Crossing the space between us, he cupped my shoulders, sliding his calloused hands up and down my bare arms. He held my gaze calmly, his pale eyes clear and candid. I knew better. There’s nothing open about Stone except his blazing sensuality. Seriously, he’s a natural-born charmer.
But I was in no goddamned mood to be charmed and feeling emotionally unprotected did nothing to improve things. So I ignored his oh-so-sincere assurances. “The only thing we need to work out is when to file—”
The little bell over the front door chimed. I frowned, startled to realize that it hadn’t made a sound when Stone came in. Jon started down the hall, then stopped dead in his tracks. His expression hardened as he looked at us—Stone still loomed over me, grasping my elbow.
Jon drew himself up to his full height and struck a menacing pose, muscles flexed, eyes watchful. “Who’s this?”
I’ll be damned. A knight in flaming armor.
But, instead of an Uzi, Jon had a takeout container under his arm. It ruined the effect. Right now, I needed to defuse the situation or I’d be picking carpet fibers out of my lunch.
“This is Cameron Stone.” I slipped from his grasp and took a step back. “He’s—”
“I’m her—”
“—leaving now.”
Stone shot me a look, but thankfully didn’t finish his sentence. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
I squared my shoulders, irritated by his unspoken censure. “This is Jon Chase, my secretary.”
“Administrative assistant,” Jon cut in, glancing from me to Stone and back again. He had yet to move, apparently still gauging the threat.
Stone nodded in greeting, though his focus stayed on me. “We’ve some things to discuss, you and I. A proposition.”
I snorted inelegantly. “I’m still trying to recover from your last one.”
That brought Jon closer to my side. He stood just in front of me, making himself an obstacle. When I tapped his shoulder, he turned his head but didn’t take his eyes off Stone.
“I thought you were taking a long lunch.”
“It can wait.” Jon didn’t seem ready to shift out of action-hero mode. “Should I ask why he’s wet?”
Stone spoke up. “He is wet because I gave her a bit of a start when I came in.”
I looked over and caught his faintly amused expression. Damn it, couldn’t he at least pretend? Jon was acting more jealous than Stone was.
“I’m fine. Really. I just wasn’t expecting the ghost of mistakes past.” I darted my eyes in Stone’s direction, then held my hand out to Jon. “Can I have my food now?”
He handed over my chicken and a small plastic bag. “I got yours first. Try to remember this when I’m up for a raise.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” I replied in my least sincere voice. “Go get that lobster.”
“I’m not hungry.” Jon eyed Stone some more even though he was talking to me. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be right at my desk.”
“Nice to’ve met you.” Stone held out his hand.
Jon ignored the gesture.
Stone let his hand fall to his side. “I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”
That did not make me happy. It sounded like a threat to my mental health as well as a casual promise to my secretary. Jon walked away, but not before giving me a look that warned he’d be asking a lot of questions later. Let him ask.
There was no easy way to explain Stone.
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