Dirty Little Secrets (Romantic Mystery) Book 1 in the J.J. Graves Series

by Hart, Liliana

  The EMT’s met them both with oxygen, and a cop unlocked the cuff around the woman’s wrist. Shane could tell the officer wanted to ask questions, but the woman went into another fit of coughing and he backed off so the medics could do their job. Shane stayed as close to her as he dared and kept his eyes moving over the faces in the crowd. The lady had some explaining to do, and he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until she answered his questions.

  The medics tended to her wrist, wrapping it in gauze and tape, and then left the two of them sitting in the back of an ambulance. Shane took the oxygen mask off his face and turned to look at her. Despite what they’d been through, she was still beautiful. Her eyes were the pale blue of an Alaskan Husky and they looked at him with weariness and distrust.

  “I’m Shane Quincy,” he said, extending his hand. “I live across the hall from you.”

  She looked at his hand like it was poisonous, but she eventually took it. “Yes, I recognize you now. It was hard to see with all the smoke.”

  Her voice was husky and pure lust tingled along his spine with each word that was spoken. The combination of the adrenaline rush and not being with a woman for so long was playing havoc with his senses.

  “I guess I should thank you for saving my life,” she said.

  “I’d settle for your name.” Shane could tell she was thinking about lying to him.

  “Rachel.”

  “Do you have a last name, Rachel?”

  “Just Rachel will do,” she said firmly.

  “Well, just Rachel, do you want to tell me who the hell your uncle is and why he sent someone to murder you?”

  Jimmy Grabbaldi knew his plan was going to fail as soon as he saw the jogger start up the stairs to his third floor apartment. Who the hell jogged in the middle of the night, anyway?

  But he decided to stay and watch the scene play out. It wouldn’t bother him any if there were two casualties instead of one. As long as the job got done. That’s what was important.

  He’d watched the big white mansion from dawn till dusk for two weeks, easily passing as a tourist with a camera on the busy street in the Garden District, snapping pictures of the tenants and their patterns. The park across the street had provided cover. There were plenty of secluded areas hidden by magnificent trees and large shrubs. He’d put on his tackiest Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts and brought a book and a sack lunch each day, setting up the scene on one of the park benches that had a perfect view of the mansion. No one bothered him, and no one saw him taking closer looks with the binoculars he kept in his bag. He’d finally felt it was time to make his move and get back to Chicago.

  He’d passed the evening at Pat O’Brien’s Bar down in the French Quarter, nursing a couple of glasses of Irish Whiskey and charming a waitress named Candy into inviting him over to her place after she was through with her shift. Jimmy never thought of himself as an attractive man. He skimmed just under six feet and had the body of a brawler and the crooked nose to prove it was true. His hair was dark, his eyes small and black and his complexion bad, but he never had trouble scoring with the ladies. The one thing he did have going for him was that he looked dangerous, and that was its own attraction to a certain kind of woman. Apparently Candy fell into that group.

  He’d left Pat O’Brien’s just after three o’clock with a soft buzz and Candy’s address in his pocket. He didn’t have anything with him, no I.D. or wallet, just a money clip with a couple thousand in cash for business expenses. He took his time and walked almost three miles from the French Quarter to Prytania Street in the Garden District. Jimmy had always found it was to his advantage to do his crimes while it was raining because the cops didn’t like to leave their dry cars to check out anything suspicious. He’d left his car on a crowded side street adjacent to Rachel’s apartment so he could get away quickly if things went wrong, but things hardly ever went wrong when he set out to do a job.

  No one saw him enter the park across the street from the big white mansion, or move aside the branches from his hiding place to uncover a cardboard packing box. It held everything he needed: A milk jug of kerosene, matches, old rags he’d made from clothes he’d gotten at the Salvation Army, a pen light, a crowbar and finally the handcuffs.

  He’d thought out everything to the exact detail. That’s what the boss paid him for, and he was very successful at his job. They didn’t call him “The Grim Reaper” for nothing. He knew the code to the gate. The binoculars had picked it up easily, and none of the tenants except the guy on the third floor had bothered to cover the numbers. He’d carried the box and its contents up the three flights of stairs, sweating slightly and huffing a bit by the time he reached the top.

  It was black as pitch, so he had to pick at the thick tape that held the box closed by feel. When the box finally opened, he dug around for the penlight and stuck it between his teeth before getting out the crowbar. The door was sturdy, but the locks were flimsy and it was just the break he needed. The door splintered open and he was inside in just a few seconds. He immediately began dousing the rags and laying them around the apartment to make a trail to the front door. He poured the rest of the gasoline on the rugs and curtains and dumped the cardboard box in the middle of the living room before heading back to the bedroom.

  She was lying on her stomach, and a long expanse of pale leg was visible from where he stood. She’d left the bathroom light on, so he put the pen light in his pocket and pulled out the cuffs. He could see the curtain of her dark hair as it framed her face, and her breathing was slow and easy. It was a shame the boss wanted to knock her off. A waste of a good woman in his opinion. But the boss had his reasons—the most important being that Rachel Valentine was a threat.

  The quiet click of the cuffs being fastened to her wrist and then to the headboard didn’t wake her—the empty bottle of wine sitting next to a thick novel and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand had helped him out in that regard. Jimmy figured he’d let her sleep through her death. It was the least he could do for Dom’s daughter. Kind of a last tribute.

  He struck a match as he walked back out the front door and dropped it onto the soaked rags. They didn’t flare and spread as quickly as he would have liked, but it would get the job done. He left the door open and started back down the stairs, looking for any potential witnesses.

  He saw the jogger once he got to the bottom of the stairs and immediately took cover behind the garbage bins. The guy was huge, and Jimmy didn’t want to risk any type of involvement because he had a feeling he’d come out the loser. The man was at least 6’4” and muscled. If the guy had been at Pat O’Brien’s, Jimmy had no doubt who Candy would have given her address to.

  So when the man charged ahead into the smoke and flames and through Rachel’s front door, Jimmy took the opportunity to sneak back across the street to the park and watch the action from a distance. And when Rachel and the guy both came out together, Jimmy knew he’d failed. The boss wasn’t going to be happy with this latest setback. His orders had been to get rid of Rachel Valentine and get the hell out of New Orleans, and Angelo Valentine wasn’t one to give second chances very often. Jimmy was dreading the phone call he was going to have to make.

  On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t place the call just yet. He could follow her and take care of the problem in the next couple of days. He’d be back in Chicago before the weekend.

  Chapter Two

  Shane waited patiently for Rachel’s answer and knew whatever it was wouldn’t be good.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered, taking off her own oxygen mask and hopping down from the back of the ambulance. The medics had given each of them a thin plastic poncho to keep the rain off, but it wasn’t enough to ward off the October chill.

  “Well, Sugar, let me see if I can jog your memory,” Shane said, frustrated. “Someone broke into your apartment tonight, cuffed you to the bed and set the place on fire. I don’t know where you come from, but down here that’s considered at
tempted murder.”

  Her glare could have cut glass, it was so penetrating. She tried to walk away but changed her mind when she saw the officer headed in her direction. “Just leave me alone. I’ve got to get out of here. Everything I owned was in that apartment and now it’s all gone.”

  “Which is just part of the reason you’re going to need my help.”

  “I don’t want or need your help. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Obviously. You did a bang up job at hiding from whoever is trying to kill you. Why don’t you tell me about your uncle?” he asked, trying to keep her off guard.

  She jerked around suddenly, her nerves showing for the first time that night. “I don’t have an uncle.”

  “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. Near death is not the time most people feel like making up stories. You said very clearly that your uncle was trying to kill you. The cop that’s headed in your direction is going to want some answers, and I could make things pretty difficult for you. He’s going to want to know who did this.”

  “It’s not his problem, or yours,” she said, unknowingly moving closer to his side when the cop approached. “I just want to get away from here.”

  Shane wanted to smile. He had her right where he wanted her. Subconsciously she already trusted him, even though her brain was probably telling her she couldn’t trust anyone.

  With good reason, he thought.

  He put his arm around her and felt the tremors from adrenaline overload and the cold she’d been trying to contain unsuccessfully. Shane didn’t recognize the cop. Through his business he’d run into most of them at one time or another, and most of them knew Shane by reputation.

  “I need to ask you a few questions, ma’am,” the officer said when he finally made it over to them. His uniform was pressed and starched severely, the rain hitting the surface and then sliding off the fabric in big fat drops. The stiffness could be nothing but uncomfortable against his considerable bulk. The night air was cool, and the stinging rain made it even colder. Shane was only wearing his sweatpants and running shoes and Rachel the thin cotton boxers and t-shirt she’d slept in. She didn’t even have shoes.

  Shane pulled her closer and she burrowed into his warmth. His body temperature spiked suddenly at the feel of her pressed against him. His body was a raging inferno, and he was surprised the rain didn’t sizzle off his sensitized skin. He’d never understand why hormones always picked the most inopportune times to want attention.

  Shane looked at the officer’s name plate and made a decision, whether Rachel would go along with it time would only tell.

  “Officer Broussard, we’ve both had a really difficult night.” An uncontrollable shiver chose that moment to wrack Rachel’s body, and Shane was pretty sure she wasn’t that good of an actress. At least he hoped she wasn’t. The shiver did the trick though because Broussard’s hard eyes softened and he looked at her with pity. “All she has left are the clothes she’s wearing. She doesn’t even have shoes. Is there any way we can come into the station tomorrow to answer your questions?”

  Officer Broussard looked both of them over and then made his decision. “First thing in the morning,” he said stiffly. “This was no accident, and the longer we wait the less likely we are to catch whoever did this.” He walked away and got into his cruiser, watching the firemen put out the last of the flames from the warmth of the car.

  “Listen,” Rachel said, pulling away from him. “I really appreciate your help. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, but you don’t understand what you’re dealing with. I have to get out of here, and I have to do it alone. They’ll kill you too if you’re with me.”

  Shane was glad she was finally starting to give him a little honesty. “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with, Sugar. But this isn’t just about you anymore. Whoever did this could have killed everyone in the building tonight. Me included. I can take care of myself, and I can track down who’s responsible a hell of a lot faster than Officer Friendly over there.”

  She was shaking her head and looked ready to run as far away from him and New Orleans as possible. “I can’t ask you to do that,” she pleaded.

  “You don’t have to. Besides, this is our very first date. It’ll be a hell of a story to tell our grandkids. I’m not quite ready to let you get away now that I’ve met you and put a name to that stunning face.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  Shane didn’t acknowledge her statement. Maybe he was out of his mind. He wasn’t one to act on impulse. Not ever. He’d been trained to think out scenarios for every situation. He didn’t even know what this situation was yet, but it didn’t matter because his priority had become keeping Rachel alive.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her over to a large black Tahoe. “I’ve got some things to pick up at my office.”

  “I don’t even know you,” she protested.

  “That’s all right, Sugar. I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other real well before this is over.” He gave her a look hot enough to make her blush and put his Tahoe in reverse, speeding away from the flashing lights and the dwindling crowd toward the Central Business District. Neither of them noticed Jimmy Grabbaldi watching from his hiding place across the street.

  Commuter traffic was just getting started as they made their way down the rain-slicked streets toward Shane’s office. There was still another hour of dark, and the rain had turned back into a miserable drizzle.

  “What is it exactly that you do?” Rachel finally asked after several minutes of uncomfortable silence. She’d spent the short car trip with her arms folded across her chest and her eyes staring straight ahead, but she was all too aware of the man sitting beside her.

  “I work in private security,” he finally answered.

  “Is that like a private detective?”

  “It’s whatever the client wants. Sometimes it involves bodyguard work, and sometimes it involves tracking down people who don’t want to be found.”

  “How long have you been doing it?”

  “What is this, a job interview?” Shane asked. “I told you I was qualified to help you with whatever your problems are. I can probably even dig up a few references if it makes you feel better.”

  The “mind your own business” signal couldn’t have been stronger if he’d been wearing a sign, but Rachel had never been one to give up easily. If she had, she’d already be dead.

  “I have a right to know who you are. You’ve shanghaied my life and not given me any choice in the matter. Of course, I can always walk away just as soon as you stop the car. No harm, no foul.”

  The threat was made, but Rachel didn’t want to walk away. She was tired of running, tired of hiding, and tired of looking over her shoulder every time she went to the grocery store. She needed help. And fate had stepped in and given her a bodyguard for a neighbor.

  “You look like a cop. But more,” she said, eyeing him carefully now. She’d gotten plenty of looks at him in the two months she’d lived to New Orleans. She’d have to be dead not to notice the dark-eyed god who lived across the hall. He looked like a fallen angel. His hair was dark and longer than she usually preferred on a man, hanging just past his ears and over his collar. His skin was swarthy, and his eyes were so black that the pupil and iris couldn’t be differentiated. She’d lay awake at night and listen to him run his fingers over the piano in his apartment, playing bluesy numbers, and imagine what those same fingers would feel like touching her.

  “I was a Marine sniper during the Gulf War, and then I did more of the same for the FBI Hostage and Rescue Unit,” he answered quietly.

  Rachel flushed because she’d been staring at him so intently she’d forgotten what question she’d asked. Now was definitely not the time to be having inappropriate thoughts about a man she didn’t even know. She looked at the hard set of his jaw and the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel and knew it had cost him a lo
t to tell her that much about himself. She decided not to press the issue for now.

  They turned on Tchoupitoulas Street and parked in front of a non-descript, beige, two-story building smashed between more of the same on either side. All the buildings had red awnings that hung over the sidewalk. Discreet gold letters painted on the window said, Quincy Security and Investigations.

  “This is a lot bigger than I thought it would be,” Rachel said.

  “What, you were expecting some hole in the wall in the slums?”

  “No, not exactly.” But she hadn’t thought it would be an operation as large as this. Shane Quincy must be very good at his job.

  “I’ve got twelve men and women on staff full-time. All of them are retired law enforcement of some kind.”

  Rachel let him usher her into a small waiting area where a receptionist’s desk and large fish tank sat among cool shades of gray and blue. She watched as he locked the door behind them and headed up carpeted stairs.

  “I’ve got a small apartment up here that I use when I’m working late. It’s got some extra clothes. Unfortunately, I don’t think my shoes are going to fit you.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t think your clothes are going to fit me either.”

  He laughed and the sound sent tingles down her spine. This was a dangerous man. He threw her a pair of dark gray sweats and white athletic socks and pointed her to a small bathroom.

  “Go get dressed and then you need to start talking,” he ordered. “I need to know what we’re up against.”

  Rachel did as she was told without argument because he’d said the magic word. We. She no longer had to face her fears alone. And maybe by the time it was all over, her father could finally rest in peace.

  Shane took off his sopping clothes and threw them in a basket by the bathroom door. He pulled on worn jeans, a white shirt and a flannel, and he exchanged his wet Nikes for a pair of dry ones.