by Wendy Rosnau
"Your mama said you moved south. New Orleans, was it?"
"That's right. About the apartment?"
"Apartment 410 don't got no runnin' water at the moment. Got a nice two-bedroom on the second floor. You each could have a bed. Or is your dog a snuggler?"
Jackson ignored the mischief in the old man's aging eyes. "The fire escape running by the window up there would sure come in handy when Mac needs to take a leak." It wasn't an actual lie, though it wasn't the real reason he fancied that particular apartment.
"That might be so, but it ain't gonna accommodate your own nature call lessin' you plan on goin' out the fire escape with your dog."
"I'll take a look at the problem and see what I can do."
"You know about pipes and stuff like that?"
He didn't, but Jackson wanted that apartment. "Sure."
He watched Crammer scratch his head while he considered the offer, his rheumy eyes narrowing slightly. "I suppose you'll be expectin' a discount for your trouble."
"Seems fair."
"Can't make no money lettin' folks stay for free."
"Can't make no money sitting with empty apartments, either."
"Your mama musta washed your mouth out with soap six times a day when you was a runt. Mouthiest cop in Chicago, is what I always said. Mouthiest, but the best."
"Do we have a deal?"
"I'll need a hundred to seal it."
His cigarette pinched between his lips, Jackson peeled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, slapped it on the counter, then headed for the stairs. Five minutes later, Mac was slumped on a faded brown plaid couch from the seventies, and Jackson was assessing apartment 410 with a scowl.
As he headed into the kitchen, he pointed his finger at Mac. "No holes, understand? None of this is ours. And even if it does looks like hell, I don't want it looking worse."
After examining the kitchen and finding it had all of the necessities to keep him from starving—a noisy refrigerator, a yellow-stained sink and an old electric stove with two burners that still worked—Jackson entered the bedroom. The room was as sparse as the rest of the apartment—a narrow closet, a double bed and another floor lamp like the one in the living room with a water-stained blue shade.
The bonus was the wooden desk and chair—free of teeth marks. Jackson grunted. "That won't last," he muttered, then sauntered to the window and parted the dusty beige curtains.
Across the alley stood the Crown Plaza, and on the fourth floor directly across from his bedroom window was Sunni Blais's apartment—a penthouse suite complete with a brick terrace and greenhouse. She had ultrasheer curtains covering the two sliding glass doors that led to the terrace—one door on either side of the greenhouse.
Jackson opened the window and sucked in a breath of Chicago smog. Smiling, he angled his head and let the cool air wash over his face. When he'd left three years ago, he hadn't thought about missing the city itself. At the time, all that was important was to get away from the guilt that he'd felt over Tom's death. And so he'd packed and relocated without realizing what he was leaving behind.
As he looked over the city, he plucked a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, then relaxed his shoulder against the window frame. He was on his third when movement behind one of the curtains alerted him that she was home. He glanced down at his watch and read sixteen minutes after six. He hadn't expected to find her home this soon after work, but he'd make a note of it.
His attention back on the apartment, he was aware that Mac had entered the bedroom. A few seconds later, he felt his partner nuzzle his leg, then start licking his boot. "Knock it off, Mac. I'll get you some water and chow in a minute."
A shadow walked past the slider, a quick movement that allowed Jackson only a brief glimpse at Clide's daughter. Minutes later, she reappeared at the other slider to the left of the greenhouse. He waited, took another healthy pull off his cigarette. The curtain moved. Then there she was, as visible as a single evening star in a black sky.
She reached for the clip that held her hair off her neck. A second later, smooth black hair fell to her shoulders. A second after that, her straight white skirt went to the floor.
Jackson released a low, undulating whistle, then watched her fingers move to the buttons on her white suit jacket. He knew what was coming next. Knew he should step away from the window. Knew he wasn't going to.
Five buttons later, she sent the jacket off her shoulders, and Jackson damn near into cardiac arrest. "Oh, hell, red underwear," he moaned as raw heat attacked his groin and caught fire.
Mesmerized, he stared at Sunni Blais's long, slender legs beneath a short red slip. Then, slowly, his gaze climbed back up to appreciate the most fabulous five-star chest he'd ever seen. "Either we have the wrong Sunni Blais, or Sis is adopted," he muttered. "There's no way in hell Clide can be her father."
As if Mac was in full agreement, he angled his head and barked loudly. Twice.
Startled by the noise, Jackson jerked in surprise, then looked down at Mac, who was up on all fours wagging his tail. Without warning, he barked again. Louder this time.
Jackson gave Mac his knee, then glanced back to Sunni's apartment to find that she'd crossed her arms over her amazing breasts, her gaze searching the alley to see where the sudden noise had originated and why. When her gaze locked with his, she opened her mouth and two words came out. The first word was Oh. The second word was…
"Shame on you, Sis," Jackson mumbled, "that's not a nice word."
The same two words flew out again, then Sunni was gone from sight. But not forgotten—Jackson's growing problem was now full blown and painfully obvious.
There was, however, a remedy for what ailed him. He could hobble to the bathroom and take an ice-cold shower—that is, if there had been running water on the fourth floor of the Wilchard.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"You lied to the police." Sunni met Joey Masado's self-assured gaze and held it. It was just before closing and she was assembling the scattered notes on her desk that she'd made for Mary, her store manager for Silks. "You know we've never dated. Much less—"
"Spent the night together? I never told the police we spent the night together."
"You implied as much."
"Then maybe this is blackmail. Maybe that's what motivated my alibi story, you think?"
"I don't know what to think, Mr. Masado," But Sunni had a feeling she was about to find out why a man she hardly knew had waltzed into the police station four nights ago and lied through his teeth to keep her out of jail.
"Call me Joey, and I'll call you Sunni. We're dating, remember?" The reckless grin that slashed across Joey Masado's Sicilian good looks as he sauntered through the door was as unsettling as the one-inch scar high on his cheekbone. As he sat on the plush red visitor's chair in front of her desk, he snagged her small at-a-glance calendar off her desk. After studying it, his intelligent brown eyes pinned her where she sat stiff and wary. "Looks like I'm in luck … Sunni. You're free for dinner tonight."
With her black hair swept into a twist at her nape, and her curves tastefully disguised in her designer black silk suit, Sunni looked every bit the flawless, confident businesswoman—an image she had worked hard to perfect—at least on the surface. Careful to maintain that image, she tried to relax. "If we need to discuss something, now would be a better time, Mr. Masado."
"We should be seen together. It's just that simple, Sunni."
He leaned forward, replaced the calendar, then reached out and tugged on the white silk scarf tucked into the deep vee of her suit jacket. When he sat back, the scarf came loose, baring Sunni's throat and a whole lot more. Self-conscious, she squared her petite shoulders to minimize just how amazing her God-given-gift really was.
As he threaded the silk between his long fingers, Joey said, "Four of these were found at the crime scene. Your fingerprints on each one."
"My prints would be on my scarves, don't you think? The mys
tery isn't whose scarves were used in the murder, but how they got into that apartment when I was never there."
"It's no mystery to the police. Detective Williams believes you were there."
"But that's not true."
"He's calling it premeditated murder. In this state, that buys life."
Sunni knew exactly what it bought. And, yes, she was in serious trouble. But at least Joey's alibi story had given her some breathing room until the police turned over more evidence, evidence that would prove she was innocent.
"I didn't kill Milo Tandi."
"I believe you. But then I'm not the one you need to convince. Williams is sure that, like the scarves, the silk lingerie found in Milo's apartment is yours."
"Milo Tandi ran an escort service out of that apartment. His name is on several other apartments at the Crown Plaza for that same purpose. That lingerie isn't mine."
"Before I arrived at police headquarters did you tell Williams anything I should know about?"
"No. Only that I didn't kill Milo, and I wanted my lawyer if they had plans to formally charge me. That's when you showed up."
Smiling, he asked, "How does Caponelli's sound?"
Sunni had never been to the quaint Italian restaurant in Little Italy. She'd heard it was one of the best in the City, but she had no wish to dine out with Joey Masado.
"Did I mention I saw Williams outside on my way in? It looks like he's giving this case top priority. He's waiting for one of us to make a wrong move. I don't make wrong moves, Sunni, and you can't afford to. Can you?"
No, she couldn't. Detective Williams wasn't the only one keeping a close eye on her. Three days ago Rambo had moved into the neighborhood with an oversize German shepherd. The tall muscle-machine and his sidekick had been dogging her every move. She would easily admit that Joey Masado was both intimidating and dangerous, but Rambo looked like he ate nails for breakfast and used his dog for target practice.
She had the best reason in the world to pick up the phone and call her father for help, only she couldn't. Joey Masado thought her father was dead. And she needed him to keep believing it, because if he found out her father was alive and living in New Orleans as the city's police chief she would lose everything.
Yes, she'd lied about who she was when she'd applied for the lease to open Silks. Frank Masado and his two sons were rumored to be linked with the mob. If that was true, they would never have given her permission to open her shop at Masado Towers—not a police chief's daughter.
Joey brushed the silk past his nose, then stood and dropped the scarf on the desk. "I'll pick you up at seven." He turned to leave, then hesitated. "Show a little skin tonight, Sunni, It'll help sell us to Williams."
* * *
Rambo joined them for dinner. No, he wasn't sharing their table, but he was at Caponelli's not twenty feet away from where Sunni sat at a cozy table for two with Joey Masado.
"How's the veal?"
Caught with her eyes wandering for the third, or possibly the sixteenth time, Sunni scooped up her wineglass and pressed it to her red-painted lips, her attention back to Joey. Everything she'd heard about the restaurant was true—the food was great, the atmosphere intimate, the lighting soft, the music softer.
"Sunni—" Joey motioned to her plate "—how is it?"
She'd eaten only half of what she'd ordered. She was always careful about the kind of food she ate and the amount. Only food wasn't what was on her mind at the moment. She'd lost her appetite the minute she'd spied Rambo. "The veal is excellent, but I'm afraid my appetite is a little off tonight."
Sunni studied Joey Masado. At the Towers he was called the money man. He wore European suits and shoes so shiny they could double as traveling mirrors. She didn't know much about the Masado men, but Frank looked as intimidating as he was handsome. Joey must have taken after his mother. He was softer in appearance, kinder and actually smiled—not often, but at least he knew how.
Tomas Masado, on the other hand—Joey's little brother—was Frank with a chip on his shoulder. As handsome as Joey, he wore his street clothes tight, his vivid scars openly, and his attitude a foot out in front of him.
"I love this place." Joey sampled his wine, savored it, then set the stemmed glass down. "I grew up a few blocks from here. For me this place was always a piece of heaven in the middle of hell."
When they had arrived at the restaurant an attractive elderly woman had rushed forward to greet them. She was small, Sicilian and had offered Joey a motherly hug. After kissing him first on one cheek and then the other, the woman—obviously the owner of Caponelli's—had showed them to their table.
Sunni had followed her progress as the woman had headed toward the kitchen, but instead of going inside, she'd stopped short and seated herself across from Rambo.
It was a good thing Sunni had been sitting down when she'd spied him or she would have melted into the floorboards. At that moment her throat had dried up, and forty minutes later she was still having trouble swallowing.
It was as if she'd been dropped smack into the middle of a gangster movie—she was having dinner with a Wise Guy in a restaurant likely owned by Mama Big Guns who knew Rambo personally.
It couldn't get much worse, Sunni thought, then amended that thought. Over the past few days she had thought long and hard about who this rough-looking muscle-machine might be. Vito Tandi's hired avenger seemed the most likely. That being entirely possible, she had loaded her .22 automatic and had been sleeping with it under her pillow.
The image of this man—whoever he was—aiming a gun at her head sent Sunni's gaze over her shoulder once more. As if Rambo came equipped with internal radar, he glanced up and their eyes locked.
In the movies assassins were usually cold-eyed introverts with nasty acne and bad teeth. But Rambo wasn't the least bit repulsive to look at. Of course, he still could have bad teeth. The words drop-dead-gorgeous came to mind. Dead … yes, that was the appropriate word to use in the same sentence with an assassin. And with her, if she was in fact, his target.
Sunni had all she could do not to leap to her feet and race for the door when Rambo stood and headed toward their table. Heart racing, she watched his long stride eat up the distance while he munched on a piece of garlic bread.
Suddenly it was too late to leap up and go anywhere—he was beside the table. And she was silently choking on her fear.
"You're looking good, Joe. I guess crime still pays."
Sunni's first thought was, no, his teeth are stickpin straight and as sparkling white as pearls. And as for pitted skin—nothing unwanted lined his cheekbones but sun-bronzed smooth skin. Actually, his complexion was a grade or two above average. The second thought she had was that Joey Masado should be offended by Rambo's brazen comment. But instead, he grinned, then added a bit of fuel of his own. "I see you're still breathing. That's amazing for a man in your line of work, Jacky. At least I have bodyguards watching my back. Still carry that Diamondback?"
"And the Hibben."
That piece of information opened up Joey's smile and made Sunni's fear triple. Growing up with a father in law enforcement had taught her more about guns and knives than she'd cared to know. If Rambo carried a Diamondback .38 in his back pocket, and a wicked knife in the other, he was a serious man of action, end she was dead.
While Rambo popped the last of his bread into his mouth, then settled his long-fingered hands on his lean hips, Sunni began to envision how he would do it. Strangulation was quick. Then, too, maybe he didn't like things quick. Was torture more his style? Did he like things messy? Bloody? Would he use the Hibben? The Diamondback .38?
"You going to introduce me to your pretty lady, Joe?"
His heavy-bitter voice sent a landslide of chills racing the length of Sunni's spine. She lifted her gaze to his face, still struggling to exist on no air—her lungs had collapsed. Rambo's eyes were a vivid shade of green, but not the least bit empty or cruel like she'd expected. On the contrary, they were a combination of old wisdom an
d real-life experience.
Sunni did a quick once-over from head to toe without moving a muscle. He wasn't wearing a belt and his faded jeans rode low on his hips. His body appeared to be hell-raiser hard—his flat stomach accentuated by the fact that his stark-white shirt clung to his chest and disappeared into his jeans as if he were one smooth column of steel.
"This is Sunita Blais, Sunni to her close friends." Joey reached out and covered her hand with his, claiming her as if she were something he'd bought and paid for months ago. "Sunni, this is an old friend of mine. Jackson's mama owns this place."
His mother owned the restaurant?
Sunni caught Rambo's gaze linger a moment on Joey's hand covering hers, then his interest shifted to the low bodice of her red V-neck silk shift. He took his time sizing up her cleavage. It was on purpose, she decided. A reminder that he'd already seen her—seen her very close to naked standing in front of her bedroom window.
"You look familiar … Sunni." He finally pulled his gaze off her chest to study her face. "Have we met somewhere?"
He knew damn well they hadn't officially met, and yet they had in an unorthodox way she would just as soon forget. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of a man who would feast his eyes on an unsuspecting woman who was in the middle of changing her clothes, but somehow chastising the man who had been following her for the past three days, and quite possibly had been sent to kill her, seemed almost funny.
"Sunni?"
"Hah…" She blinked at the sound of Joey's voice. It was then that she realized she'd been caught musing, that Joey was squeezing her hand, and both men were staring at her waiting for her response. She cleared her throat, sure her face matched the color of her red dress. "No, we've never met."
A private, just-for-her twinkle entered his eyes, and another avalanche of chills washed over Sunni's entire body.
"What kind of business are you in, Sunni? Anything I would be interested in?"
He was toying with her. He'd followed her to work, he'd watched her buy groceries. He knew where she banked. And as far as being interested in her business… Men, no matter how diverse their professions, were always interested in what a woman took off last.