by Lakes, Lynde
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He shook his head. Rusti let the silence hang between them. She’d never beg, but the trouble was she’d want to. Desperately.
****
Razor heard the sheet rustle beside him. Then Rusti gave a sigh that was adoreably sexy. He ached to draw her into his arms. Okay, relax, Razor told himself. But he couldn’t blank out the fact that a very desirable woman lay within reach. He heard faint breathing coming from the other side of the bed. How long had it been since he’d heard the sweet sound of a woman breathing next to him? Felt the warmth of a feminine body? The touch of soft lips? Rusti’s lips had been the softest he’d ever kissed. And she was so warm and yielding when she accepted his arms for comfort or safety. There was a definite fire between them—but she’d never surrender to it. And that was wise, because this wild ride and a tarnished brass ring were all he could offer.
Razor shifted to a more comfortable position, but sleep refused to come. Damn! If he didn’t get some sleep, his nerves would be shot tomorrow. Rusti was better at keeping the lid on her feelings than he was. He might as well admit his longing was no longer just in his loins, it was also in his heart. Against his better judgement, he’d lost his perspective and fallen for her.
It was crazy, thinking of love, even sex, when he ought to be thinking about picking up another gun. He’d have to risk swinging by his apartment in the morning for his .45. And he had to talk to Terrilla. He’d want to know about the kidnapping and that someone had an agenda dangerous to the cartel. Razor smiled into the darkness. Rusti had fended off his remark about taking her to Terrilla’s. She was quick on the uptake. And clever—she’d tricked the caped boss into leaving—and his men into following him. If that hadn’t worked, it was likely he and Rusti would be dead by now. Certainly they wouldn’t be lying in this bed together.
If only their lives weren’t so incompatible. He’d planned to retire some day, take a desk job. But that was before he’d started feeling that playing the game had cost him the chance for a regular life. Even if he was wrong about overcoming the burden of his ganster persona, even if he thought René would have approved—which he didn’t—he couldn’t promise to give up the dangerous life he led and walk off into the sunset with Rusti. That would be a lie.
Chapter Eighteen
The motel room was silent except for the sound of Rusti’s breathing. Moonlight from the window cast a luminous glow over the sheets molded to her curves. She was curled into a spoon—a spoonful of sugar. Razor eased closer. God, how he ached to pull her into his arms and make love to her.
But dammit. He had to forget urges and fantasies and concentrate on getting her out of this mess in one piece. She hadn’t chosen this. She had said, unequivocally, that she had only thrown in with him to bring her sister’s killer to justice, not to clean up the L.A. drug scene.
For him, it was more complicated than that. He doubted that bringing this case to a successful completion would satisfy his thirst for justice. That had been part of what attracted him to the FBI and God help him, it still was. Rusti’s involvement had cast a pall over the thrill in this case; he was no longer objective. How often had he been told not to get personally involved with his subject?
He’d climbed on this gangland express and would probably still be riding it the day he died—in some dark alley or floating face down under a pier in some Godforsaken port of entry along the gulf coast. No fit end for Rusti’s husband. Husband? He must be crazy. He hadn’t even fueled the fires and seriously kissed her. Yet.
Rusti turned to face him in the darkness, her soft features illuminated by the dim glow of moonlight. “Razor, are you asleep?”
Her tender voice slipped into the silence and shook his senses. Her turning had brought their bare legs into contact. He swallowed. “Not hardly,” he said with false bravado. “What’s on your mind?”
“I think we should go to Baxter.”
That was the last thing Razor expected her to say. Without shattering their tenuous intimacy, he had to dissuade her from that idea. “We can’t let Baxter know what the kidnappers are after until Buck identifies Terrilla’s LAPD plant. It always turns out to be some unlikely character like Baxter.”
“It’s not Baxter. I’m sure of it.” Her voice had a ragged edge to it. To emphasize her point, she touched Razor’s arm, sending heat surging through him.
“It’s a risk I can’t take,” he said, unable to prevent the huskiness in his voice. “It could blow the whole sting.”
“I’m scared, Razor. Our lives are on the line, and you’re putting your cartel bust ahead of our safety.”
Now he had a legitimate excuse to take her in his arms—to comfort her, but in bed together with this wildfire raging in his loins, touching her now would lead to something they would both regret. “I can handle this, Rusti.”
“I don’t like it. I want police protection.”
He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down. Her lips had the slightest hint of a kissable pout. “The cemeteries are full of people who had police protection,” he said. “People like Petra, for instance.” It was a cheap shot, but he had to convince her. Even in the dark, he could see the hurt in Rusti’s eyes and hated that he’d put it there. “Remember—you were the target.”
She sat up and thrust her pillow against the headboard, then rammed her fist into it a couple of times as though she wished it were his face. “If not the police, then who?”
His stomach knotted. He got her point loud and clear. He hadn’t done a great job of protecting her up to now—and that had to change.
He reached across her and turned on the table lamp. Cinnamon eyes filled with mild defiance met his. He winced at the cut near her eyebrow and the purpling bruise on her cheek. He’d like to pulverize the bastard who’d hit her. Damn, he wanted her safe—he wanted her. “I’ll put you someplace safe until this is over. Later, if Buck clears it, you can sing to Baxter to your heart’s content.”
“I know you have things to do when we get back to L.A. Important things. Dangerous things. I understand that, Razor.” Something about the way she said that made him doubt her sincerity, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Or if she expected a response. He waited, knowing she wasn’t through with him yet. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” she said. “Your problem is that you can’t continue to drag me around with you, yet you don’t want anyone else involved.” Her voice had a tremor in it.
“It’s my job, Rusti.”
“It’s not mine, and I’m not your damsel in distress. You can’t stow me away somewhere in an ivory tower while you’re alone out there slaying dragons. You seem to forget that you’ve lost your team. You need Baxter. We need Baxter. And any other help we can get.”
Luminous eyes filled with worry bored into Razor, and he knew she wasn’t just worried about herself—she was worried about him, too. He hadn’t seen such concern for him in another person’s eyes for a long time. The self-imposed bindings around his heart loosened another notch. More than ever, again, he longed to take her into his arms, if only for a moment, but that would make the temptation to make love to her unbearable.
“I’ll give you this much,” he said. “You can tell Baxter about the kidnapping—after I get rid of the microfilm. Buck must’ve set up the meeting with Kincaid’s replacement by now.” He waited, but she didn’t reply. “I know you’re scared, Rusti, but it’ll soon be over.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re darn right I’m scared. I’ve been scared from the moment we met, but that doesn’t mean I’ll lie down and play dead. I have certain responsibilities too.”
The hairs at the back of Razor’s neck prickled. “What are you talking about?”
“I have to pick up Petra’s parents at the airport. They’ll be here tomorrow to take her body home. I have to be there, Razor. Even if you don’t need Baxter, I do. You’ll be too busy playing undercover agent to bother with me, so I’ll need a police escort. And that means I have to talk to Ba
xter.”
This was unreal. Rusti was pulling concessions out of him one by one—dangerous concessions. Although he fought it, he felt himself bending like steel under the fire of a blowtorch. Maybe if he gave her a little of what she needed she’d be satisfied. “You can call Baxter to check in, let him know you’re safe. That’s all. And that’s final.”
“Okay, but like Petra said just before she was murdered, I need my own personal bodyguard. I’ll call Jerry Nichols. He’ll be so glad I’m not with you he won’t ask any questions.”
Razor felt a wrenching in his gut. “No. Definitely not Jerry Nichols. That P.I.’s got a hidden agenda.”
“What do you care?” Rusti lifted a brow and an amused awareness brightened her eyes with teasing sparks, fiery enough to ignite anything within reach. His heart was right in the line of fire. “Jerry’s no different from everyone else who thinks I should stay away from you.”
“Yes, he is. He’s in love with you. But that’s not why I don’t want you calling him. I don’t want anyone else involved in this. It’s just too risky.” Razor knew he should have realized Rusti had her own priorities. He had no choice but to handle the situation himself. “I’ll be your personal bodyguard! Now go to sleep.”
****
Terrilla heard the screech of tires and imagined Stretch’s bright red Corvette skidding into the circular driveway of the mansion and braking with a jolt. Then he heard boot steps pounding the stairs and crossing the Italian marble floor.
“Anyone around?” Stretch shouted.
“Here, in the study.” Stretch was up and about awfully early.
Almost beat the servants. Terrilla didn’t remove his feet from the corner of his polished walnut desk. It was only Stretch. He looked up from his morning paper and laughed as the dramatic fool swept majestically into the room wearing a long black cape. “What’s with the getup? Going to a masquerade party?”
“Already been.” Stretch yanked off leather gloves and tossed them onto Terrilla’s desk. “I had Razor and Rusti right here.” Stretch leaned forward and held a clenched fist only inches from Terrilla’s face.
Terrilla narrowed his eyes as heat crept up his neck. “I told you to lay off.”
“Don’t blow your cork,” Stretch said, removing and dropping the cape ceremoniously over the arm of the overstuffed chair, displaying the inborn dramatics Terrilla both admired and hated. “I tricked Rusti into confirming the microfilm’s existence. Don’t you see? I was right about that. She lied about where it was, but I’ll get the truth out of her next time.”
“There’ll be no next time! Hasn’t it occurred to you that she might have lied because she doesn’t know the answer, that she might have said the first thing that popped into her mind just to get you off her back? I can sympathize with that. Like I keep saying, where’s the proof?”
“The foul-ups I hired didn’t stay on the job. Rusti and your precious Razor Jones got away.”
Terrilla raised his fist, but caution kept him from striking out. Instead, he pounded the desktop. “You’re the screw-up! I should kill you myself for disobeying my direct orders.”
Stretch gave him a go-to-hell look and began to pace. “The kidnapping would’ve worked, if those clowns had followed orders. When this is over and I don’t need them anymore, those dirtbags’ll wish they’d never met me.”
“Right now, I wish I’d never met you,” Terrilla growled.
Stretch’s eyes took on the expression of a kicked dog, then hardened, full of hate.
Terrilla shook his head at the insolence. Although Stretch was mutinous, Terrilla took it, with some reservations, because Stretch’s fearless intensity fascinated him—which was something he kept to himself. “You’re unruly and insubordinate,” he said, “and I’ve had it up to here.” He made a cutting gesture across his neck, then paused and studied Stretch. “Where are Razor and Rusti now?”
“Hiding,” Stretch muttered. “I’ll be able to tell you exactly where in a couple of hours.”
“Don’t hurt them. That’s an order.”
“Yeah. Right.” Stretch gathered up the cape and gloves and left.
Terrilla downed his coffee laced with bourbon in one gulp. It was internal discord that crumbled empires. He had no choice. It was time to confront Razor.
****
After a quick breakfast of fruit and bagels, Rusti watched Razor call a friend to take them back to L.A. When she asked for details, he put her off, promising to explain his whole plan later.
Forty-five minutes later a limo with darkened windows drove up in the motel parking lot. A driver with shades and a bulge at his side stepped out. Rusti suspected that the driver catered exclusively to the gangster trade. “Who is this guy?” she whispered, certain now that her concerns were well-founded.
“His name is Ben,” Razor said, handing her a card that read: Ben’s Limo Service and Garage. “He’s a friend.” Razor’s voice was hard as steel; his tone barred further discussion.
Rusti didn’t want to let it go, but she couldn’t expect Razor to talk freely about the guy in front of him. Hmm. A friend. That worried her. But if she wanted Razor’s help, she’d have to accept his so-called friends. At least for now.
She shivered. Ben had turned the AC to high and she was cold without her jacket, which was unfit to wear in public with the sleeve cut off. She looked down at herself. Her dress was filthy from slithering around the winery floor, and almost as badly damaged. She didn’t want to meet Petra’s parents looking like she’d been in a bar brawl. It was bad enough that her face was cut and bruised. “Don’t forget. I want to swing by my place in Pasadena to change and pack a few things. And we can put a fresh dressing on your wound.”
Razor frowned and Rusti thought he might refuse, but he didn’t. “Okay,” he said. “A quick stop is safe enough.”
Chapter Nineteen
When they arrived, they left the armed Ben sitting on the front step smoking a cigar and went inside. Rusti checked her voicemail. Five calls were from Petra’s fiancé, two from Jerry Nichols, and half a dozen from the people at the Club Egyptia. Reba, the dancer with the stage name Zena, had called twice, which was curious since she’d had little use for Rusti after she danced in her sister’s place. Even so, the calls that worried Rusti most were the three from Kirby, the bartender.
“You better not answer those calls,” Razor said. “Especially those from the Egyptia bunch. Most of them have had a brush or two with the law and one might even be the killer trying to find you—directly or indirectly.”
Rusti shuddered. Razor’s warning led her to be even more concerned about Kirby’s persistence. Still, she had trouble imagining him as René and Petra’s killer. After considering it for a moment, she said, “Do you really think so? Baxter questioned everyone.”
Razor arched his brow and gave her a so-what look. “We can’t take chances.”
Maybe Razor was right to worry, she thought, her mind still on the bartender. “I think Kirby was in love with René.”
“I’m not ruling anyone out.”
Rusti headed for the bedroom, wondering how many people who frequented the club fit the tall, slender body description. There had been several at the funeral, like René’s hairdresser and the guy who’d disappeared before she’d had a chance to talk to him. He’d been so far away, and had worn a suit and sunglasses. Ben and that stranger had certain similarities. But why would Ben be there? Had he known René? Or was he Razor’s backup? Nothing about the limo driver would surprise her.
Rusti had to go up on tiptoes to reach the small Samsonite overnighter she kept on the top shelf of her bedroom closet, and immediately Razor was next to her. He’d apparently followed her into her bedroom. His long reach dwarfed hers, and he swung the case down and set it on the bed.
“Thanks,” Rusti said. “I’ve been thinking, the head kidnapper had to be someone with a connection to Terrilla. Otherwise the microfilm wouldn’t interest him.”
“The idea of the killer hav
ing a pipeline to Terrilla makes sense,” Razor said, looking thoughtful. “But it doesn’t prove anything. A rival gang would love to get their hands on the old Capo’s records. The question is: how would they know about it? But you’ve just made my point. With all these uncertainties, you can’t answer your calls. Even innocent people can let things slip.”
She felt Razor watching as she pulled out drawers and threw things into the bag. His worried gaze unsettled her. Catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror, she cringed. In daylight, the cut over her eyebrow seemed longer and the bruise on her cheek was darker. Her hair was a kinky, unruly mass, and her dress looked like she’d worn it to sleep in the gutter. She was a walking nightmare. She’d showered and washed her hair at the motel, but she desperately needed makeup and some decent clothes. “I have to get out of this dress and hide my bruises with makeup. First though, let me see that shoulder.”
“Make it quick. Even with Ben on the job, we can’t dilly dally while you play Florence Nightingale and then fool around with makeup.”
Rusti raided the medicine cabinet for gauze and tape and laid a compress against Razor’s shoulder, trying not to be distracted by his expansive chest. A nearly impossible feat. When the dressing was securely in place, she grabbed some fresh clothes and fled to the bathroom to change.
Her zipper caught and wouldn’t budge. She yanked again, but the zipper wouldn’t give and precious minutes were passing. She had no choice. “Razor,” she called, “are you good with zippers? This one’s stuck.”
“I think that’s something I can handle,” he said, joining her in the bathroom. There was a subtle shift in his eyes, a fleeting dilation of the pupils.