Assassin P.I. (14 page)

“Watch!” his father said again.

The car engine died and a dark figure exited the car, his identity cloaked by a hat and trench coat. Long seconds ticked by, but the man did absolutely nothing. Just stood and waited.

For what? What was he waiting for?

Something was wrong. A sense of dread crept up Jack’s spine, digging tentacles of fear in his heart.

Another door opened. A man exited the home and paused to light his smoke. But still the dark figure watched and waited.

Taking a puff, the man loped to his car and slid in. When he revved the engine, his stalker raised his gun.

Jack felt, rather than heard, the first shot. It shattered the driver’s side window and pierced the driver’s skull. The second shot sent the car careening wildly out of control. It slammed into a street lamp, the horn sounding as the body slumped over.

The shooter lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand and took a long drag, walking slowly toward the light.

Didn’t anybody else see him? See what he had done? Was there no justice in this shitty crime-ridden town? Gotham City had nothing on Ellington Bay.

“Hey!” Jack shouted at the man but the shooter got into his car and pealed out, heading straight for him.

As he passed Jack, the car slowed. The shooter tipped his hat, and winked, his pearly whites gleaming under the streetlight.

Jack gasped and backed up. It couldn’t be.

He blinked but the shooter was gone, as was the victim, and the whole damned street. A mirror was the only thing left in its place.

His father nudged him. “Look in the mirror. Go on, look. What do you see?”

“Me.” Jack saw he had a few more gray hairs along his temple than he cared to see, and had the telltale signs of alcoholism creeping into his face, but beyond that, nothing had changed.

“Look again.”

This time when Jack peered into the reflective surface, his image was changed, warped, his eyes darker, the lines of his face were sharper, harder.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I see me.”

“You’re not looking in the right places. Look again,” he demanded. “Just do it, Jackie-boy, look in the damn mirror.”

This time when he stared at his image, a word was written across his forehead.

KILLER

Jack jolted awake, his heart still racing from the nightmare he’d been ensnarled in. Dragging himself from the bed, he stood and rubbed his face, feeling the stubble, which was now bordering on a full-blown beard. He felt like hell.

In the bathroom, he checked his reflection in the mirror, half-expecting to see word ‘killer’ permanently inked into his forehead, but when he checked, there was nothing there. It was just another bad dream. Recently it seemed like his entire life had turned into one long string of bad dreams he couldn’t wake up from.

Dropping his body into the chair, he reached beneath the desk, feeling for the hidden drawer with his fingertips. Springing the latch open, he grabbed his little black book, the one where he kept track of every case he ever worked, both on the job, and off.

Pulling it free of its hiding place, something fluttered to the ground. Jack bent to pick it up.

A napkin.

He turned it over to read the address that was scrawled across the tissue-thin paper.
38701 Oakhurst Lane.

His pulse quickened. He knew this address. Had seen it recently. He grabbed Trevor’s file from the top of the desk and laid it side by side with the napkin.

Could it be?

He double-checked the address. 38701 Oakhurst Lane. Home of one very dead Trevor Santino.

The file dropped, papers scattering on the desk. There had to be some sort of mistake.

Memories he’d locked up long ago came bubbling to the surface. Drunk and angry, he wasn’t taking to civilian life very well. All around him, his friends labeled him a thief and a liar, but not Deluca. Deluca understood what it was like to stand helplessly by while you got screwed over.

Jack closed his eyes and let the hazy memory wash over him.

Over cold beers Deluca had told him about a gang member who’d raped his daughter, Izzy. She was only fourteen at the time and had one hell of a rebellious streak. Fraternizing with bad boys was just part of being a teenager. Getting raped wasn’t.

According to Deluca, the lead detective was on the take and the perp walked, free to rape again. Damned inept police force. The stench of their incompetence made Jack nauseous. If he were still walking the beat, this wouldn’t have happened. Two hours later, fueled by alcohol, and enough ire mixed with stupidity, Jack had found himself driving the city streets, with only an address and a physical description to go on, tracking down a scumbag rapist.

He’d taken a swig from the bottle of J.D., letting the last drops of the powerful swill coat his throat and dull his senses. The bottle had dropped onto the floorboard, drained of its liquid courage. Drunk on the anger that boiled in his belly and lacking any and all common sense, he’d gotten out of his car. For a while he’d watched the house and waited, biding his time as a man exited the home and got into a car.

He remembered raising his gun, hands trembling, waiting until he had a clear shot. One more drink and his hands wouldn’t need steadying.

A fleeting sense of panic had settled in his gut. He didn’t have to do this. He could still turn around and go home. No one would ever know he was even there.

But he would know.

And his daddy would know.

Someone had to stand up to the thugs, and bangers, and killers in the world.

Closing his eyes, he’d squeezed the trigger.

He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but he knew without a doubt
he
was Trevor’s killer.

He’d become one of
them.

Chapter 14

There’s a fine line between a casual drinker and an alcoholic, and Jack had just blown past that line and was speeding toward becoming sloppy drunk. The last thing he needed was a dame messing with his head. But when Angie waltzed through his front door, acting like she owned the place, there was no turning back.

What was it about that woman? Every time he saw her, he got all mixed up and turned around, so he couldn’t tell up from down or right from wrong. A man’s home is supposed to be a private refuge of his own making, an impenetrable fortress, a man cave, but everywhere he turned, she was there in his dreams. On the couch, in his bed, in the shower.

“You didn’t come to work today,” she said. “I got worried.”

“Yeah, so? I fired you. Several times if memory serves.” Who cared? His life as he knew it was about to end. Just as soon as he worked up the courage to do something about the mess he was in.

“I’m sorry about the other day, about what I said.” She dug her toe into the carpet.

There it was. That look again. The vulnerable gaze that tripped him up, and made him want to slay imaginary dragons for her.

“What do you want? I’m busy.” Jack threw back the shot of whiskey.

“I can see that.” Angie poured him another shot. He downed it before she had time to pour herself a drink.

She cocked an eyebrow, the fire back in her eyes now.

Good. He liked saucy Angie. She was a fighter, always had been. Sparing with her was just as much of a turn-on as when she was purposefully seducing him for information. Maybe even more so.

“I came for an update on the case. You know, the one I’m paying you to solve?”

He didn’t want to talk about the case. Talking was dangerous. It never led to much of anything. But kissing? Kissing he liked.

One gander at her perturbed face was enough to quell the desire that suddenly surged up. No. There would be no kissing tonight.

“I quit, remember?”

“Then you owe me my ten grand back.” She shot him a heated stare that said she was willing to fight fire with fire. “But the Jack I know is not a quitter.”

“No. I’m just a thief, right?”

The air was heavy with tension. Given the evidence, what other conclusion could she have come to? And he certainly didn’t bother to set her straight. Instead, he’d kicked her to the curb, just like her lowlife stepfather had.

He took a deep breath. She didn’t deserve his anger. The only person he should be angry with was himself.

“Not much to tell. Trevor’s still dead. Killer’s still in the wind.”

And I’m up a creek without a paddle.

“Is that so?” Angie tipped the bottle again, filling both their glasses to the brim. She handed Jack his glass. “
Salud
.”

A vixen. That’s what she was, a straight up vixen, the worst kind of woman to know. He gulped down the strong liquor and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You trying to get me drunk?”

“I’d say you’re doing a mighty fine job all by yourself. Didn’t figure you the kind of guy who needs help getting drunk.”

“I don’t.” Why wouldn’t she just take the hint and leave already?

“Want some company?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly.”

Angie sat down anyway, clearly not to be dissuaded from her mission. “So why the pity party?”

Was she always this pushy? “Just shut up and drink. Or get out already. I don’t care which, just quit asking so many damn questions. All I want to do tonight is drink.”

“Fine by me, but can we at least get to the good stuff?” Angie moved toward the cabinet where he kept his liquor.

“Top left,” he said, admiring the curve of her ass as she stretched to reach the unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Deluxe Blend Scotch Whisky. He couldn’t help himself. The opportunity was too perfect, too enticing. She was too damned alluring with her tight skirts and stilettos. He crossed the space between them. “Need help?”

She turned, and Jack’s mouth found hers. There was nothing tentative about the kiss. Jack released all his pent-up desire and frustration, taking her into his arms, deepening the embrace.

Angie broke off the kiss and pushed away from him. “What are you doing, Jack?”

He grabbed her by the wrist and brought her back into his arms. “Making up for lost time. Doing what I should have done years ago.”

“You can’t go back and change the past, Jack. You broke my heart once. I won’t let it happen again.”

She was right, but when he was close to her, thinking straight was near impossible. There were a million and one reasons why he should walk away from her, from this case. He headed for the door and yanked it open.

She didn’t budge.

“You’re right. You should leave.” It would kill him to see her walk out his door again, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do. He was giving her an out. One she would take if she were smart.

Angie lifted her chin defiantly. “Not until we talk.”

The tension was palpable. Jack let the door close and engaged the deadbolt. “Suit yourself.”

He strode across the room, pinning Angie to the wall. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he tugged her head back, leaving her silky neck exposed. God, how long had it been since he’d last been with a woman as tantalizing as her? He took a deep breath in. Her perfume beckoned him to take a taste, to throw caution to the wind and give in.

“I warned you. I’m not in the mood to be played with.” Tonight wasn’t about making excuses, or even about making love. It was about sheer lust. Trying to scratch an itch that had lain dormant for too many years. Far too many years.

Lowering his mouth to hers, he forced her lips apart. He would not be denied a moment longer.

Angie returned the kiss with a passion that matched his. Thank God, because he didn’t think he had it in him to restrain himself, to pull back if she said no.

Jack released her hair and grabbed her hands, clutching them above her head. It was too late to walk away. Body pressed against hers, he made his need known. Impatient, he hiked her skirt up, running a hand up her stockings, over the garters that held them in place. Her trusty dagger was there, too, just like old times. Relieving her of her weapon, he deepened the kiss while his hands found her zipper. The skirt slid to the ground.

He broke the connection long enough to lift her into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. With one hand holding her securely against him, his other hand clutched her hair again as he planted warm kisses down her neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in the wake, eliciting a soft groan from Angie. He would never get enough of that sound. The sound that drifted in and out of his dreams, haunting him night after night.

Flicking the light switch, Jack plunged the house in darkness and made his way to the bedroom. In the silent darkness, the rest of their clothes and any lingering inhibitions were stripped away, leaving him to focus only on pleasing her. Nibbling his way down her body, his mouth sought to taste every part of her, just enough to tease, not satisfy.

When at last he couldn’t possibly wait another moment longer, he grabbed a condom from the nightstand. Hands splayed, lips hungry, Jack drove into Angie with an intensity that shocked even him.

When at last his pulse had returned to normal, Jack sat up and reached for his cigarette and lighter. Taking a long drag, he released the smoke into the air. He cast a sideways glance at her. “I warned you.”

Angie took the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out on the nightstand. She grabbed a second condom from the drawer, ripping it open.

The sound had an immediate effect on his body.

“Uh-huh. I’m not done with you yet.” Shoving Jack onto his back, she straddled him. “Now who’s the boss?”

Her fingers swirled in his chest hair, tickling his nipples with her nails. The devilish grin she gave him was enough for his spent body to tap into a hidden reserve of energy. She grasped his erection as it sprang back to life, slid the condom on, and sank down on it.

He groaned and cupped her ass as she rocked, her movements tantalizingly slow, gripping him and tugging him deeper into her body. Did she have any idea of what she was doing to him? To his body? “You are.”

“I’m what?” Her voice coy, she stilled her movement.

Don’t quit
, he wanted to say.
Don’t ever quit doing what you do to me.

“Say it, Jack.”

“The boss,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You’re the boss.”

He clutched her hips, forcing her to resume her delicious rocking. Teetering on the edge of release was enough to drive him mad, but he held back, waiting for Angie to join him in bliss.

He didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly, a shudder wracked Angie’s body and she arched her back, moonlight spilling over her face. The sigh that escaped when she found her release was all it took to send Jack over the edge himself.

While sex might not be a cure for all of his troubles, it sure was a nice Band-Aid, like a sudden rainstorm that drives away the filth and grime from the city streets, even if only for a little while. The problem was, great sex always left him craving more and the night was still young.

The sound of the shower running woke Angi
e. She waited until she heard Jack’s deep warbling voice singing a Frank Sinatra tune before reaching for the phone on the nightstand. If she guessed right, she only had about five minutes or so to make a quick phone call and then escape with what little self-control and pride she still had left. Last night had been a monumental mistake and facing Jack, and the repercussions of their steamy night of sex, was definitely not on her to-do list for the day.

Tucking the covers around her body, she sat upright and dialed a phone number. On the third ring, the call was connected.

“This is Agent Shaw.”

It was now or never. “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t,” she blurted out, her voice low and strangled.

Swinging her legs around to the side of the bed, she bent and snatched her underwear off the floor where they’d been discarded. She scanned the room. Where were the rest of her clothes?

“It’s too late. I’m sorry.” The lack of remorse in his tone of voice made it very clear that he wasn’t sorry at all. Not really.

“Jack’s a good man.” She chewed on her lip. His warped view of justice might work double time, and his sense of reality a bit skewed, but whatever else he was, he was still a good man who didn’t deserve to be betrayed. Least of all by the woman he loved. She knew that now. “I won’t help you put him away for Trevor’s murder or any other murder for that matter.”

Panties clutched in one hand, she tugged the black satin sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her body so she could go search for the matching bra.

Where the hell was it? She dropped to her knees and checked under the bed.

Closing her eyes, she tried to retrace her steps from the night before. She’d been drunk, which only made her woozy and her memories hazy.

Think, Angie, think.

She remembered Jack’s face, the defeated expression he wore, his soul tortured as he tried to excise his demons with alcohol. It never worked, even she could have told him that, but he wouldn’t have listened. He never did.

Agent Shaw’s voice, patient and patronizing, cut through her thoughts. “It doesn’t work that way. Even if I wanted to, it’s a bell that can’t be unrung, not any longer.”

Angie’s heart sunk. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. She stood up.

Agent Shaw continued. “The facts speak for themselves. Jack Gaines is not the hero he thinks he is. Your boss, Marco, can attest to that fact. If he were still alive, that is.”

Jack might not be the hero, but he’d sure rescued her. And the only crime he’d committed was when he’d set her body on fire with his mouth. She nearly groaned just thinking about it. Sweet Jesus. Those lips of his, crushing hers, moving down her body, whispering sweet nothings? It should be a crime to have lips as tasty as his. His lips had the power to make her feel emotions she hadn’t felt in years. No other man could make her swoon the way he could. Only a pure heathen would have acted the way she did last night. And the problem was, she wanted to do it again, and again, and again. All night long. Every night for the rest of her life.

No. A cold-blooded killer couldn’t make love to her like he had. Her body flushed as she tried to remember the room as it looked in the dark. Where in the world had he dropped her clothing?

Agent Shaw coughed, tugging her thoughts away from Jack and back to the phone conversation.

“You wanna know what I think? I think Marco is the one who killed Trevor. Not Jack. Marco got what he deserved, whether it was at Jack’s hands or not. Case closed.”

“Except it’s not, Angie. We both know Jack killed Marco, possibly Trevor, and only God knows how many other people. It’s only a matter of time before he gets caught, or worse, killed.”

There was the unmistakable squeak of the hot water being turned off.

She couldn’t let Jack catch her like this. Naked and on the phone to an FBI agent. Angie ended the call and went in search of her clothing. She found her skirt in the kitchen by the breakfast bar. Her nylons had been discarded somewhere between the kitchen and the bathroom. She located her garter belt on the bedroom floor buried beneath a blanket. But where in the hell was her bra?

It was a black, lacy, demi-cup that had cost a small fortune and taking a walk of shame—braless, no less—was not on her agenda for the day. “Damn it, Jack. Where did you hide it?”

“Missing this?”

Startled, Angie gasped. Her face burned with shame, as much from getting caught trying to sneak out, as from Jack’s sudden intrusion into the naughty thoughts that raced through her mind.