by Wendy Rosnau
“What was that last night, then? I seem to remember you trusting me with a needle and thread. Drunk, no less.”
“You were the only cop that owed me a favor,” Margo reasoned. “I didn’t want to worry Mama. I told you that.”
He relaxed back in the chair and crossed his leg over his knee. “Still as stubborn as ever. Your mama always—”
“Complained about that flaw. Yes, I know. But where does she think I got it? She’s twice as stubborn as my father ever was. And Blu… Well, he isn’t exactly a docile kitten, now, is he?”
It had been a slip of the tongue to mention Blu. Margo saw Ry’s jaw jerk, and she decided that his opinion of her brother hadn’t changed. Ry still thought Blu was irresponsible and selfish. What he didn’t know was that Blu thought much the same thing about him.
“Speaking of the Blu Devil, have you seen him lately?”
Margo shook her head. “No, not for a few days.”
“He still docked at River Bay, living on the Nightwing?”
“You know he is, Ry. You were there a few weeks ago harassing him about some nonsense.”
“I was just doing my job, Margo.”
“I might be young, but I’m not stupid. You’re a homicide detective, remember? You don’t investigate assault charges.”
“Okay, so I volunteered for that one. Blu’s temper being what it is, most of the guys down at the precinct would prefer tangling with a copperbelly.”
Margo brushed the covers aside and slid her long, bare legs over the side of the bed. “I would really like to stay and chat about my brother’s faults with you, but I don’t have time. Would you mind getting my clothes for me?”
“You think you’re leaving?”
“I don’t think I’m leaving, I know I’m leaving.”
Last night Margo had made a decision to head back to the Nightwing if Blu hadn’t rescued her from Ry’s home first thing in the morning. Yes, this was the perfect place to hide—that is, if she could keep her mind off the past. But she’d been trying and it wasn’t working. Staying here would be emotional suicide.
She saw Ry’s stubborn jaw lock. “Well, you didn’t think I was going to stay, did you?”
“Actually, I did. Most people take a few days to recuperate after being shot.”
“And I will.”
He stood. “You’ve got nine stitches in your arm. You live alone. Who’s going to look out for you?”
“Brodie.”
“But you can’t reach him.”
“I haven’t tried yet today,” Margo argued. “Now, I’m grateful for your doctoring skills, Ry. If I forgot to mention that, it was an oversight. But now I have to go. I’ll call a cab, and—”
“Forget it. You’re not leaving.”
Margo inched her backside to the edge of the bed and stood. She didn’t feel the best, but well enough to make it out the door. She hoped. “You can’t keep me here against my will, Ry.”
“Can’t I? Look at you, you can hardly stand up straight. And since no one knows you’re here I control the situation. The way I see it, you’re a gunshot victim. A criminal is still at large. It’s my duty to protect you.”
“This is ridiculous. Do you think I won’t be missed? If I don’t show up for work tonight, or at least call, Tony will send someone out to look for me. I have friends and family who really care about me, you know. You can’t just lock me up and think no one will notice.” Margo circled back to the crux of the matter. “Keeping someone against their will is called kidnapping, Detective Archard, and that’s illegal.”
He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Right now the best thing for you is plenty of bedrest.”
Margo’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare chain me to this bed like a dog, Ry. You wouldn’t dare!”
“If you don’t think so, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
Margo eyed the portable phone on the nightstand. “I have a job. If I don’t show up for work, Tony will fire me. He’s already…” She snapped her mouth shut, aware she was about to mention how unhappy he had been when she’d called and asked him for last night off.
“Tony’s already what?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re Tony’s meal ticket. He’s not going to fire you, not after the increase in business you’ve given him over the past year. You’re the best thing that’s happened to the Toucan, and everyone knows it. I’ll have someone call and explain you’re sick.”
Margo wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “There is no reason I can’t work tonight.”
“I’ve seen you perform, baby. Your act includes playing the piano. Damn hard one-handed. Not impossible but…” He rattled the cuffs. “Back in bed, or be prepared for what happens next.”
He couldn’t do this to her. Furious, Margo shook her head. “No!”
“The cuffs or a promise to stay inside my house until I get back. That’s the deal, Margo. Choose.”
Again Margo eyed the phone, considering her options. Fine, she’d do as he said, and then once he left she would be on her way one way or another. She eased down on the bed and swung her legs back on the mattress. “I hate you.”
“Say it. Swear to me you won’t leave.”
“You’re a jerk, a creep and a sadistic—”
“Swear on your father’s grave.” He rattled the cuffs.
“I swear, okay!”
Satisfied, he stuffed the cuffs back in his pocket. “Hungry?”
“For a piece of your liver,” Margo spat.
“Seriously, you need to eat something. What can I fix you?”
“You’re going to cook for me? You can’t cook, remember?”
“I’ve learned. At least I can get by until you can cook for me,” he taunted. “How does that sound?”
Margo didn’t bother to remind him she wasn’t going to be around long enough for that. She simply sneered back with a honey-coated grin and said, “Do you have arsenic in the house?”
He chuckled. “No, but I have eggs and shrimp. Still like shrimp for breakfast?”
The question and the memory it manifested had Margo biting the inside of her cheek. The pain reminded her of how dangerous it was to reminisce, as well as how vulnerable it made her feel.
“With shallots and chives?” He added, twisting the knife a little deeper.
“Cook what you want,” she snapped. “Start the kitchen on fire for all I care. Better yet, how about yourself?” Margo squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to tune him out. Suddenly she caught the scent of him, felt his hand on her forehead. Her eyes popped open. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t have a fever.”
When his hand left her forehead, he shoved it into his back pocket and pulled out a key. A twinge of panic knotted Margo’s stomach. My God, she’d forgotten all about Blu’s key.
“Recognize this?”
Margo clamped her mouth shut.
“Of course you do, it came from your pocket.” He was no longer grinning, his blue eyes razor sharp as he held Blu’s key up so she could see it clearly. “After breakfast we’ll discuss what it unlocks.”
He slipped the key back into his pocket, then reached for the portable phone on the nightstand and pocketed that, too. On his way out the door, he said, “I almost forgot. There’s a tape recorder in the drawer next to you. While you’re waiting for breakfast why don’t you listen to it?”
“I don’t feel much like listening to music,” Margo sniffed.
“It’s not music, but it’s just as entertaining. You don’t sound like yourself, but you were in a lot of pain last night. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much the pain as the whiskey talking, you think?”
He walked out of the room then, leaving Margo to wonder if the liquor he’d poured down her throat, had, in fact, done the dirty deed and loosened her tongue. And if that was the case, just what had she told Detective Archard that she shouldn’t have?
Chapter 4
His
instructions had been specific—no one was to die. Not until he’d gotten his shipment back, that is. And maybe not even then if there wasn’t a good enough reason. Keeping a low profile, even in a city this size, had always been the key to his success and survival.
Why, then, had his wishes been ignored and the job bungled so badly? The answer was simple—it was impossible to find good help these days. More to the point, his cousins were idiots.
Swearing crudely, Taber Denoux lifted his glass of cognac to his lips and swallowed the expensive amber liquid. He’d just finished talking to his best customer, and the man was livid. His merchandise was missing, and Taber hadn’t been able to promise a recovery date. Oh, he had promised the merchandise would turn up, but without a date, the customer had threatened to buy elsewhere.
Damn Blu duFray to hell, Taber thought. Was the man an idiot like Rudy and Raynard, or the very devil his name implied? A more important question was, how had a going-broke fisherman pulled off a heist worth millions?
Unable to believe his merchandise was gone, Taber slammed the empty glass down on his desk. Blu duFray was either damn lucky, or his fisherman guise was the perfect cover for a well-connected thief.
Taber still didn’t know how the cop fit into the scheme of things. And he conceded that he might never know. But, what did it matter now? The cop was dead. It seemed the only thing that had gone right last night was Raynard shooting low and wounding Blu duFray instead of killing him along with the cop. duFray dead would have only magnified the problem, since it seemed he was the only one who knew where the missing merchandise was.
Taber silently admired the Blu Devil’s brashness, as well as his daring escape. The river at night was treacherous—made worse if you were carrying around a bullet in your leg. But as much as he respected the man’s tenacity, he still wanted duFray’s neck wrung as soon as he had recovered his stolen goods.
Taber glanced around his immaculately furnished penthouse high above the city. Beautiful objects were his weakness, and he’d surrounded himself with expensive paintings and artwork fit for a king. His tastes were a bit eccentric, as was his own appearance—the long, blond hair he wore flowing past his shoulders a striking contrast to his shiny black suits. He resembled a twenty-five-year-old man. Not bad for a man nearly forty.
He slid from behind his polished white desk and ambled to the wall-to-wall window that overlooked the city of New Orleans.
The morning was sunny, the weather report promising another humid day in the nineties. Taber gazed down on the people below, amused by their small, insignificant lives in comparison to his own. They really were pitiful, he mused, watching them scatter like ants in a frenzy.
His thoughts returned to last night and the uncomfortable situation he now found himself in. Antos, his most dependable man, had mentioned a woman on the pier with duFray, that she had also been shot by his cousin, Raynard, but that she, too, had escaped. Taber admired bravery as much as he did loyalty—they were both hard to find in a man, let alone a woman.
Curious to know more about this woman, Taber strolled back to his desk and picked up the phone. When Antos answered, he said, “I want her found, the woman on the pier. I want her name, where she lives, and I want the information yesterday.”
Before Antos had a chance to confirm the order, Taber hung up the phone. He splashed more cognac into his glass, then wandered back to the window. By rights, the woman was his enemy. Then again, hasty decisions were made by fools.
She wiped her pretty mouth on her napkin, then licked her lips. Ry stifled a moan and instead asked, “Did you listen to the tape?”
“What do you think?”
She motioned for him to take the breakfast tray balanced in her lap, the scrambled eggs and shrimp smothered in shallots and chives all gone. Ry reached for the tray and set it on the nightstand. “So explain to me again what you were running from?”
“I already told you, or have you forgotten how you found me last night?”
No, he hadn’t forgotten. She had nearly given him a heart attack. For sure, she had shortened his life by at least five years. “There was a shooting in Algiers last night,” he offered. “A cop was killed.”
She sucked in a fast breath of air, then tried to cover it up by clearing her throat. “A cop? Was he a friend of yours?”
“He? I didn’t mention the cop was male.”
She hesitated only a split second. “I just assumed.”
Ry circled back to an old question. “You said you worked last night. Was it busy?”
“Yes. The rain always draws a crowd.”
It was a good answer, but not the answer Ry was looking for. “Can you prove you were there?”
“Will I have to?” When Ry didn’t answer, she raised her chin and offered a breathy little sigh. “If I must, then I will.”
He hadn’t expected her to have an alibi. That meant she was sure Tony, and the others at work, would cover for her. What did that mean? Were they used to covering for her? Did she ask them to lie for her often? “So you’re serious about Hewitt?” The question wasn’t planned and it surprised Ry as much as it did Margo.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a straight question, Margo.”
“But not very professional, Detective Archard.”
Ry climbed out of the paisley chair and stuck his hands in his back pockets. “But a legitimate question. Standard in a situation like this. Is your relationship with Hewitt healthy? Do you ever argue? Do you know where he was last night?”
“Brodie had nothing to do with me being shot.”
She settled her hands in her lap like a innocent child. Hell…Margo innocent? What was he thinking? She had stretched every boundary her mother had ever given her after her father had died, and he knew she’d done things her way long before that, too. “Answer the damn question, Margo. Are you sleeping with Brodie Hewitt?”
She took her sweet time answering. “Well, you know what they say. Once you’ve tasted sugar, it’s hard to go without. Who are you sleeping with these days, Detective Archard? As I remember you used to have quite a sweet tooth.”
Ry tried to keep from getting angry. It was natural for her to choose Hewitt, he supposed. People often fell back on what they knew and who they were comfortable with. After all, Brodie Hewitt had been working with Blu for the past three years, waiting patiently in the wings for Margo to notice him. The bastard.
Ry felt like chewing the heads off nails every time he thought about Margo with Hewitt. He wanted to strangle Margo and shoot Hewitt in both kneecaps. Worse, he wanted to make Hewitt disappear for good and had considered it a hundred times.
Dammit! He was losing sight of what was important here. And he was acting like a jealous jackass, to boot. Margo had just been shot. He should be basking in the knowledge that she hadn’t been killed. Only, the baggage from the past was upsetting his standard routine. It was the remembering that was to blame. An ironic parallel, since it was the remembering that had kept him sane for the past two years.
“What about this key?” He dug it out of his pocket. “What does it open?”
“I’ve never seen that key before you showed it to me an hour ago.”
Angry all over again, Ry reached out and wrapped his fingers around Margo’s slender throat. “Don’t play this game with me, baby. I want answers. Clear, simple, truthful answers. And I want them now!”
“Let go, Ry,” she whispered through his choke hold.
“I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”
“Take your hands off me, Ry.”
He did the opposite and squeezed tighter. “Were you on DuBay Pier last night? Are you mixed up with Mickey Burelly’s murder? Tell me the truth, dammit, or I swear I’ll—”
She reached up and pried his hand off her throat. “You’ll what, choke me? Throw me in jail? No you won’t. You’ll demand and threaten, and when that doesn’t work, you’ll back off and come at me again from a new angle. But I’m telling you right now, I d
on’t have any new story you want to hear. So why don’t you save us both the frustration and let me get the hell out of here?”
Furious with her, Ry spun away from the bed. He had to get out of there, had to regain control; he hadn’t intended to bring up the murder on DuBay Pier. Not yet, anyway. He’d just been so damn angry at her for continuing to lie to him with such ease.
He stalked to the door, then turned back. “My new angle is this, baby. Until I’m convinced what happened to you last night has nothing to do with my case, you’re my permanent houseguest.”
“The murder on DuBay Pier is your case?”
“That’s right. My case.”
Her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open.
“That look says it all, baby. You should have thought about the consequences of coming here before you bled all over my towels and climbed into my bed.” In three long strides Ry was back at her side, looming over her. “You didn’t work last night, dammit. I was at the Toucan, and you weren’t.”
“You’re lying. You never come by on Wednesdays. Never.”
That she knew his schedule both surprised and pleased him. Still, Ry was so damned worked up, the only thing that would calm him down would be her concession to tell him the truth. “Do you have anything new to add to your story?” he pressed.
“Yes. If you insist on keeping me here against my will, I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
He leaned forward, his face coming within inches of hers. “A weak threat, baby. I’ve already been to hell and back on account of you, so I’ll be on familiar ground.”
His words were as swift and solid as a hard slap. She drew back as if she’d physically felt it, then quickly looked away. “Get out of here.”
Too late Ry realized the impact of his words. He’d made it sound as if he’d regretted the time they’d spent together. “Dammit, Margo! I never meant—”
“Get out of here,” she demanded.
Dropping down on one knee beside the bed, he clasped her jaw and forced her to look at him. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean—”