by JoAnn Ross
“Credentials can be forged,” he muttered. “Hell.”
Gerard seemed to take the illegal entry personally. The past two months had given Lorelei the impression that he was the kind of old-fashioned cop that truly cared, and after decades in the crime business, the detective had managed somehow to keep from burning out. Nevertheless there were times when she found him nearly as difficult to deal with as her stalker.
“If you had your way, I’d lock myself in my house, never go to work, not answer the phone, and shoot anyone who showed up at my gate. I wouldn’t even be able to order a pizza.”
He skimmed a momentarily nonprofessional gaze over her body, clad in jeans and a white T-shirt. “I have difficulty believing you eat that many pizzas.”
Once again his detective instincts proved right on the money. Lorelei couldn’t recall the last time she’d tasted a pepperoni.
“That’s beside the point.” She tossed her head, welcoming the tinge of irritation that managed to curb her earlier fears. “I was referring to the fact that you’d like to put me under house arrest until this man is caught.”
“Just because a law is on the books doesn’t keep the sicko creeps from stalking,” he proclaimed succinctly. “And it doesn’t stop them from killing.”
His words hit too close for comfort “I know.” She sighed. “This is just so frustrating. And frightening.”
“You’re smart to be frightened. It’ll keep you on your toes.” He returned his attention to the letter. “1 imagined the fear and anticipation in your eyes as I cut off your nightgown—the sea green one that matches your bedroom walls and—”’
“Oh, my God.” Lorelei interrupted, drawing in a quick, harsh breath.
“What’s wrong? It’d make sense, if he’s been in your bedroom that he’d go through your clothes—”
“No,” she cut in again. “You don’t understand. I had dinner with friends last night. Nothing special, just a small group of women who get together once a month. Last night was my birthday.... They gave me a gift.”
“Tell me it wasn’t a nightgown.”
“A sea green one I’d mentioned lusting over from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. It was so lovely, I couldn’t resist putting it on as soon as I got home.”
He cursed. “The son of a bitch put a camera in the bedroom.”
Knowing that this man who’d been watching her from the shadows for the past months had been observing her while she’d been sleeping, caused a frisson of fear to skim up her spine.
“That’s it,” he decided. “You’re going to have to call off the trip to New Orleans.”
“I can’t do that.” Even though a part of her knew the detective had a very good point, she’d always been a firm believer in the old theatrical saying about the show going on. “The summer fires forced us to switch location sites three times. We’re already horribly behind schedule and—”
It was Gerard’s turn to cut her off. “That’s Taylor’s problem,” he said brusquely.
“True. But my name is on the marquee and the studio is threatening to take control away if Eric doesn’t get it wrapped up by Labor Day.
“Besides,” she said as a thought occurred to her, “I’d think that leaving town would be safer.”
“Not if the guy follows you.”
Good point.
“I’ll contact the New Orleans Police Department,” he decided. “Meanwhile, I’ll send a lab team out to your house to get rid of the camera, or cameras, then dust for fingerprints, just in case.”
“Do you think he might have left any?”
“No,” he answered, crushing her faint hope. “But the equipment the guy’s planted in your house might give us a clue, if it’s unusual or technically advanced stuff. And we can always hope that the more he becomes fixated on his sick fantasies, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”
“That’s not exactly encouraging.” Lorelei didn’t really want to dwell on her stalker becoming even more obsessed.
“It’s not my job to be encouraging. My job is to try to keep you alive. And to catch the damn weirdo before he crosses that thin line between fantasy and murder.” He dragged a broad hand down his face. “We have learned one thing.”
“What?”
“The guy knows about cameras.”
“That’s not unusual for this town.”
“True. But it’s something new. I’ll want to talk with Taylor again. And everyone else working on your current film.”
For someone who’d chosen to have her image portrayed on an oversize silver screen, Lorelei keenly guarded her privacy. Although she hadn’t been able to keep her recent troubles a secret—the tabloids had gotten hold of the police report shortly after the first letter had arrived—she dreaded the idea of her work-mates being interrogated.
“Surely you don’t suspect someone I work with?”
“It’s my job to suspect everyone.”
Although she guessed that was, indeed the truth, Lorelei also thought it was the most depressing thing she’d ever heard.
Despite the fact that Eric Taylor was always irresolute about whether to go with a first take while filming, he proved surprisingly decisive when he heard about the most recent letter.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m going to do what I should have done in the beginning. Hire a bodyguard to watch you around the clock.”
“That’s not necessary.” Lorelei repeated what she’d said the first time he’d brought it up.
“It’s no longer your decision.”
“It’s my business. And my life.”
“It may be your life you’re behaving so cavalierly about, but it’s become my business,” he countered. “Since this film would shut down if anything happened to you before we wrap, I have a vested interest in that lush body of yours. Which means I’m willing to pay to have it protected.”
“You have such a way with words,” she muttered. Once again she was grateful for the flash of irritation that helped clear the clouds of lingering fear from her head.
“You want a writer, go find Wilder. I’m just a frazzled, overworked director trying to keep from having my film taken away by the frigging bean counters who have taken over all the studios these days.”
He turned toward Gerard, who was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “Would you explain to this hardheaded steel magnolia that a bodyguard is the perfect solution? Especially while we’re shooting so many scenes on location?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” the detective agreed.
Although she’d been against the idea from the beginning, Lorelei secretly wished that he sounded a bit more positive about the plan.
2
A WEEK SPENT dealing blackjack on one of the riverboat casinos, looking for dealers who might be skimming from the profits, had left Michael’s clothes smelling of cigarette smoke and his head jangling with the sound of jackpot alarms. He was looking forward to the relative solitude of his office.
He’d opened the detective agency after leaving the NOPD. Although he’d enjoyed his work as a homicide detective, he’d found himself embroiled in a political battle when the various business and tourist powers didn’t want it known that a serial rapist turned killer had begun stalking the French Quarter.
He’d done his job and apprehended the killer, then, fed up with a system that would put dollars before innocent citizens, he’d walked away from the police department and opened up Blue Bayou Investigations. Since spending the rest of his life peeking into motel room windows in search of errant spouses had been unappealing, he’d decided to specialize in executive protection and company security.
Times being what they were, he had more business than he could handle. Which was one reason he’d been more than happy to take his brother, Shayne, on as a full partner.
Shayne, who’d recently returned to New Orleans after a decade of living a shadowy existence in the European espionage community, greeted him with a grin as he entered the office located abo
ve a French Quarter antique stop.
“I take it you got your man,” he said.
“I always do. Although in this case it turned out to be a woman.”
Michael swept a quick glance around. Although he and Shayne had been working together for nearly three months, he still couldn’t get used to the changes. Before, the place had had a relaxed, lived-in appearance; these days it was neat and filled with high-tech computer equipment And although Michael missed the clutter, he had to admit that the bookkeeping system Shayne had installed was solving a lot of problems.
He went over to the portable refrigerator, took out a bottle of beer, offered one to his brother, then popped the tops on both long-necked bottles.
Shayne took a swallow of the Dixie beer. “This is one thing I really missed all those years away from home,” he said, eyeing the brown bottle with appreciation.
Michael took a drink from his own bottle. “I thought Europe was a beer drinker’s paradise.”
“Beer flows like water over there,” Shayne agreed. “But the circles I moved in tended more toward Cristal champagne and Pouilly Fuisse.”
“Must’ve been hard,” Michael drawled, “playing the role of a jet-set playboy all those years.”
Shayne’s grin was the same self-satisfied one Michael remembered seeing the day his brother had beaten him on the dirt basketball court behind their uncle Claude’s bayou cabin by revealing he’d finally taught himself to dunk.
“It’s a dirty job,” Shayne agreed, a sparkle of laughter in his eyes. “But somebody had to make the sacrifices it takes to keep America free.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Michael threw himself down on the sofa that had taken the place of the old one he’d found at a Garden District estate sale. Although he had to admit the glove soft black Italian leather contributed to an impression of success, he couldn’t help missing the comfortable, raggedy overstuffed cotton-covered one.
He put his feet up on the scarred wooden coffee table he’d refused to let Shayne replace with a trendy glass-topped model—a guy had to put his foot down somewhere—took another drink and enjoyed the cool taste as it slid down his throat. It was summer in the city, and the humidity was like a hot damp curtain hanging over the French Quarter. The ancient air-conditioning system in the building was doing little more than moving the wet air around and his shirt was already sticking to his back.
Shayne, on the other hand, looked disgustingly cool in a white silk shirt. From his vantage point on the sofa, Michael couldn’t detect a single wrinkle. No wonder his brother had been able to pull off that jet-set act for so many years.
Although Michael had always considered himself a damn good undercover detective, he figured he’d be lucky to last a day playing the role of a filthy rich, devil-may-care playboy.
“Speaking of life-styles,” Shayne said, “I’m a bit disappointed to discover that the life of a detective isn’t exactly the way it’s portrayed on television.”
“Getting bored already?”
Michael wouldn’t be surprised. Shayne, like their other brother Roarke, seemed to have inherited their famous father’s wanderlust. Roarke, it seemed, had hung up his rambling shoes. In fact, he’d recently announced he was getting married on Labor Day to Daria Shea, a parish prosecutor.
Since Shayne was now involved with the agency’s landlady, antique dealer Bliss Fortune, Michael had been hoping the youngest O’Malley brother might follow Roarke’s lead.
Not that he’d miss him all that much if he did leave town. But their mother would. Hell, Michael admitted, that was a lie. He’d gotten used to having both his brothers back home in New Orleans. It was almost like old times, but with a lot less responsibility.
“I’m not at all bored,” Shayne assured him. ”If nothing else, attempting to follow the paper trail you laughingly refer to as an accounting system is keeping me more than busy.
“It’s just that I envisioned us living like Thomas Magnum, with tons of gorgeous, willing women—hopefully clad in little more than bikinis and skimpy lingerie—throwing themselves at us. And paying a daily rate for the privilege.”
“What do you want other women for? When you’ve got Bliss?”
The dancing devils left Shayne’s pale blue eyes and his gaze turned thoughtful. “Good point.” He took a longer pull on the bottle. “She’s different,” he admitted quietly.
“Special,” Michael added. If he and Bliss hadn’t started out being such good friends, he might have considered trying to get something going with the warmhearted antique dealer. But that was before Shayne had staked his claim on her.
Shayne sighed. “She is that.”
Michael heard a but in his brother’s voice. “Having troubles?” he asked casually.
“Nah.” Shayne shook his head. “Not really. I’ve just got some stuff I have to work out in my own head.”
“Just so you don’t hurt her. Because if you do, even though you are my kid brother, I’d have no choice but to shoot you.”
“Makes sense to me.” The grin was back. This time more devilish than before. Michael, who’d witnessed it too many times over the years knew it foreshadowed some new scheme.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked suddenly.
“Me?” Shayne placed a tanned hand against his pristine shirtfront. He was the only man Michael knew who could get his fingernails manicured and not look like some sissy jerk.
“See anyone else in this place? Don’t try to dodge the question. After all these years, I know every one of your tricks.”
This time Shayne’s sigh was deep and dramatic. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’m going to love watching you apologize for not trusting me.”
Actually, the only two people in the world Michael did trust were his brothers. And, of course, his mother. But she wasn’t the subject at the moment.
“But something’s come up,” he pressed.
“Actually, I did have an interesting call today,” Shayne revealed, seeming more than happy to shift the conversation from his love life. “From a prospective client in Los Angeles. Seems he’s coming to our fair city on business and was looking for a firm that could provide executive protection.”
“He called the right place.”
“That’s exactly what I told him. Then, after assuring him that we’re the best in the business, and stating our sterling credentials, I told him that we could possibly, if we did some juggling, fit his case into our busy schedule. For our usual rate of a thousand dollars a day. Plus expenses.”
“A thousand bucks a day?” Michael put the empty bottle on the table beside his feet.
“Plus expenses,” Shayne reminded him.
“That’s more than double Blue Bayou’s usual fee.”
“True. But there are two of us now. Besides, Mike, this guy can afford it...and it’ll help make up for that freebie you did last week.”
“I suppose you could have turned the job down? The woman’s husband snatched her kid, Shayne. Right off the street in front of her. house. And the police sure as hell weren’t doing anything to find him.”
“The little girl just happened to be the man’s kid, too.,,
“The father’s a drunk and a small-time crook. A judge decided the man didn’t even deserve unsupervised visitation rights when he gave the mother sole custody.”
“Too bad the judge didn’t figure out a way for her to get some child support bucks out of the guy. So she could afford to pay a detective to find the kid.”
“It cost a lot for her to come here from Pittsburgh, and besides, she had to take time off without pay from her waitressing job. I didn’t see any point in making a bad problem worse.”
“That’s my big brother.” Shayne lifted his bottle in a salute. “Saint Michael, defender of small animals, women and children.”
“Sometimes you just have to help, whatever the cost,” Michael grumbled, hating the slant the conversation had taken. Since when was it a crime to do a good deed?
> “You’re right,” Shayne surprised him by agreeing. “And, if you want to know the absolute truth, I hope I would have done the same thing under the circumstances. However, the fact remains that we have rent to pay, food and beer to buy, not to mention New Orleans Saints season tickets to pay for. Which makes the Robin Hood method of billing appropriate in this case.”
“So, we’re going to rob from the rich to help the poor?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No,” Michael admitted. “Like everything else you think up, it makes a certain skewed sense.”
“Of course it does.” Like his two older brothers, Shayne had never lacked in self-confidence. “Okay. Here’s the deal. There’s this movie company coming to town to shoot on location.”
“And they want us to keep the gang-bangers from harassing them,” Michael guessed.
“Uh-uh. This is a personal protection matter. Seems the star has attracted herself a stalker.”
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, but according to the detective who’s been handling the case for LAPD, there’s a chance the guy might be obsessed enough to follow her. I assured the director—his name’s Eric Taylor, he’s the guy who does a lot of those action thrillers—that you’d had experience with stalkers.”
Too much, Michael thought grimly. The woman he’d once thought he might marry had been stalked twice by two different men. The second one had almost killed her. If he hadn’t arrived at her house when he had...
“So,” he said, putting grim thoughts of that Christmas day behind him, “who’s the star we’re going to be baby-sitting?”
“That’s the cool part.” Shayne’s grin lit up the room even more than the bright southern afternoon sun streaming through the window. “It’s an old friend.”
A fist twisted at Michael’s gut. It couldn’t be, he assured himself. Although life was filled with coincidence, surely fate wouldn’t play such a dirty trick.
“I assume this old friend has a name?”