by Ryan, Jenna
She’d fought the paranoid feeling when she’d entered the house….
The alarm had been on, and Marlowe had thoroughly searched the place. But when he came back downstairs, she sensed a change in him. He kept his eyes on hers and his expression even.
It fascinated her how a stare could hypnotize her. She couldn’t have dragged her eyes from his if she wanted to. Couldn’t have stopped him from backing her into the corner and bracing his hands on either side of her head.
Good thing she didn’t want to stop any part of this.
Desire balled in her stomach. Hunger clawed through her veins. Heat flowed over her skin. All from a mere touch.
He inclined his head slowly, still holding her gaze, but even when she felt his breath on her lips, he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around her nape and whispered the words she never wanted to hear.
“There’s someone in the house.”
JENNA RYAN
A PERFECT STRANGER
To the seven angels:
Sheena, Maya, Mystique, Salem, Serena,
Mandalay and Scarlett.
Love you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Ryan started making up stories before she could read or write. Growing up, romance alone always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.
Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mindset. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. E-mail her at [email protected] or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.
Books by Jenna Ryan
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
88—CAST IN WAX
99—SUSPENDED ANIMATION
118—CLOAK AND DAGGER
138—CARNIVAL
145—SOUTHERN CROSS
173—MASQUERADE
189—ILLUSIONS
205—PUPPETS
221—BITTERSWEET LEGACY
239—THE VISITOR
251—MIDNIGHT MASQUE
265—WHEN NIGHT FALLS
364—BELLADONNA
393—SWEET REVENGE
450—THE WOMAN IN BLACK
488—THE ARMS OF THE LAW
543—THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT
816—EDEN’S SHADOW
884—CHRISTMAS RANSOM
922—DREAM WEAVER
972—COLD CASE COWBOY
1027—MISTLETOE AND MURDER
1078—DANGEROUSLY ATTRACTIVE
1135—KISSING THE KEY WITNESS
1182—A PERFECT STRANGER
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Darcy Nolan—A photojournalist, she was forced to go into hiding after she helped send a drug lord to prison.
Damon Marlowe—The ex-cop turned P.I. has a dark past and no reason to care about the woman he’s just exposed. But he does.
Vince Macos—With his father in prison, has the drug lord’s son sent a killer after Darcy?
Valentino Reade—A Philadelphia cop in desperate need of money.
Elaine Holland—Darcy’s editor wants that big story, and Darcy could be it.
Trace Grogan—Unpopular, untrustworthy and low, he works with and wants Darcy.
Hannah Brewster—She runs a boarding house and has more secrets than people might suspect.
Cristian Turner—Hannah’s nephew arrived in town the day Darcy was first attacked.
John Hancock—The creepy boarding house tenant spends a lot of time watching Darcy.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
Los Angeles, 2006
The police station smelled of sweat and stale coffee. It sounded like the bargain basement of a New York department store. And with the outdated central air-conditioning in desperate need of repair, it was hotter than the depths of hell.
Unruffled, photojournalist Shannon Hunt fanned her face with a discarded file folder and wondered how many stories could be ferreted out of this room by a canny fly-on-the-wall reporter. Dozens, she imagined, possibly more.
The amusement that tugged on her lips blossomed into a smile when Carmela Holden, a captain in Vice for thirty-plus years, strode through the door and barked her name.
“My office.” She glared at the desk sergeant. “No interruptions.”
Inside, Holden rounded her desk. “Dye your hair,” she said without preface.
Shannon’s brows went up. “Excuse me?”
The captain stared hard. “Dye it, cut it, buy a pair of glasses, sell your house.”
“Condo. And again, excuse me?”
“Frankie Maco got twelve years in San Quentin.”
“I know. I testified at the trial.”
“Testified and were threatened.”
“Very subtly, Captain, by a nephew who was high at the time.”
“You didn’t notice Frankie grinning like a Cheshire cat in the background?”
“What I saw was a grimace, probably of pain over his nephew’s pathetic demeanor.”
“A threat’s a threat, to my mind. And twelve years doesn’t cut it for me. I wanted twenty-five. He deserved that for the cocaine in his storehouse alone.”
Shannon knew where this was going. She’d worked at a high-profile L.A. newsmagazine for the past eighteen months, had, in fact, contributed a good portion of the photo and video evidence that had set Frankie up. “Come on, Captain…” she began, but Holden slapped her palms on the desk.
“No, you come on, Hunt. I have a daughter who reminds me so much of you it’s almost scary. All you’ve got on her is ten years, a skull as thick as granite and the tenacity of her boyfriend’s bull terrier.”
Shannon crossed to the desk, planted her palms on it and met the woman’s stare. “Flattery won’t work, Carmela. I’d look ridiculous as a brunette, and I’ve done my homework. Frankie Maco’s not a killer.”
“That you know of.”
“He’s also not overly powerful beyond the city limits.”
“That you know of.”
“What I know is that he has a totally screwed-up family and a handful of street connections.”
“Lots of screwed-up family and many street connections.”
“He also has enemies and rivals and an arthritic mother he’s taken care of for the past fifteen years.”
“People around him have been known to disappear.”
“And more than one of them has turned up again.”
“Doesn’t account for the dozen who haven’t.” Smoldering, Holden hit a key on her computer, swiveled the monitor. “I’ve got a new name for you, as well as a revamped portfolio and an altered family history. No more army brat. You’ll be Darcy Nolan, only child of Boston real estate agents Ann and Jerry Nolan. Your parents retired five years ago, died within eight months of each other. You’ve got an Irish-Swedish background, so go red with the
hair and wear green contacts. I can have a job lined up for you in a day. Anywhere but here.”
Shannon continued to stare, but there was no malice in it. How could she dislike a woman who had her safety at heart? “Your daughter’s going to rebel, Holden.”
“I’ll deal with that if and when.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Think about it.” The captain pinned her hand before she could draw away. “Really think about who and what Frankie Maco is. How he operates.”
Shannon regarded her trapped fingers, then narrowed her eyes on the woman’s face. “All right, I’ll think. I’ll even research his extended family. But I won’t,” she said with the barest trace of humor, “dye my hair. I’m a blonde and I’m staying that way.”
“Best I could have hoped for.” Releasing her, the captain shut off her monitor. “Watch your back, Hunt.”
SHE WISHED HOLDEN hadn’t said that because she’d been feeling twitchy ever since the trial ended. No, before that, actually. Facts were facts, however, and no one in or out of his organization had ever accused Frankie Maco of murder.
Of course, there was always that first time. And what Maco couldn’t do from behind bars, his son, siblings or grandchildren might.
Shannon glanced in the rearview mirror. There was no one behind her on the exit ramp, no one trailing her along the dark street, and no one lying in wait when she reached her Tujunga Canyon home. She was letting Holden’s fears get to her. And wouldn’t her army-for-life parents just love to know that?
On the porch, a gust of hot, dry wind blew across her arms. Even her tank top felt like too much clothing in this ninety-five-degree weather. It made people cranky.
It made vice cops worry.
A bush rustled to her left. She caught a footstep, followed by a whiff of cologne, and managed a tight curse a split second before a large hand yanked her around and caught her throat in a choking, viselike grip.
Her head hit the condo door; her breath stalled in her lungs. A pair of black eyes bored into hers.
“You made a big mistake, lady,” the man holding her growled. “I got a message for you.”
She held herself dead still, returned his stare. “Let go of me, Vince. You know very well Captain Holden has a pair of officers watching my place.”
“Got here ahead of them, sugar. They’re eating cold pizza, ogling your bedroom window and having dirty fantasies as we speak.”
His grip tightened, and pinpricks of light began to appear before her eyes.
With her spine still pressed to the door, Shannon’s hand traveled to the pocket of her jeans. Hooking the ring on the black box inside, she pulled it free.
A high-pitched shriek filled the air so that Vince clapped both palms to his ears.
“You won’t know,” he shouted above the deafening racket. “You won’t see or hear. You won’t expect. Cabdriver, store clerk, guy stuffing money in a parking meter. Someone, someday. Anyone, any day. Me being the most likely anyone of all. One clear shot, sugar. That’s all I need. That’s all I want.”
Feet thudded on the stone walkway. Above her, a handful of windows flew open. Vince let a crooked grin steal across his lips before he ducked sideways out of the barely-there light.
The officers arrived, panting. One took off in pursuit, the other drew her aside.
He asked questions. Shannon responded. But it was purely reflex. Only two things registered. His partner wouldn’t catch Frankie’s slippery son.
And Shannon Hunt was going to die.
Chapter One
New York City, 2009
The air was stinking hot. A stale breeze carried the muffled noise of human and street traffic. Bad music thumped above; a dog barked below. It was one of those New York nights when no one in the city slept.
There had been two brownouts in two days, and the forecast called for even higher temperatures tomorrow. The police chief was asking for the public’s cooperation. Would he get it? Damon Marlowe had no idea, and he didn’t care. Hadn’t since leaving the force two years ago.
Somewhere in the shadows of his Soho studio, a tap dripped. The pipe that fed it rattled, and the walls groaned. If he listened hard enough, he might hear the 1970s wallpaper peeling.
Stretched out on his sofa, with a cold beer dangling between his fingers, he watched a cockroach crawl along a thin ceiling crack. He counted five, ten tops, a night—a decent average for the neighborhood. There’d been twice as many in his ex’s Los Angeles apartment.
The memory brought a twinge, then suddenly, there it was—the smothering crush of grief, dulled by time but still a force to be reckoned with. Or locked away when he chose not to deal with it.
He opted for the lock and a deep pull on the bottle.
Behind him, his cell phone erupted into classic Eric Clapton. He listened for a moment, swirled his beer, then gave in and reached back.
“Marlowe,” he said.
“Would that be Damon Marlowe of DM and Associates?”
He almost smiled at the man’s polite tone. Slight European accent, perfect diction. Caller ID revealed a Southern California area code.
“Hours are nine to nine,” he replied and raised the bottle to his lips. “It’s three minutes to midnight here.”
“I’ll take that as a confirmation and say that I was referred to you by a former colleague, one who currently practices criminal law in Manhattan.”
“Peter Duggan.”
The caller seemed impressed. “So your reputation isn’t exaggerated after all. Peter and I worked together in Los Angeles. My name is Umer Lugo. May I ask if you’re engaged at the moment?”
Marlowe’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’ve got clients.”
“Hardly unexpected. However, I’ve been authorized to offer you twice your usual rate, triple if you can finish what needs doing in under five days. I must warn you, though, I have little information about the party to be located.”
Marlowe’s humor, seldom stirred these days, kicked in. “This offer has a cloak-and-dagger ring to it, Mr. Lugo. As a former homicide cop, I prefer to drop the mystery and cut to the bottom line. Who do you want me to locate and why?”
“Three years ago, her name was Shannon Hunt. I have no clue what she calls herself today.”
“Is there an outstanding warrant involved?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. The family simply wants her located and returned to the fold.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine on Thanksgiving Day of this year. I can send you a photo, but it’s possible she’s altered her appearance.”
Marlowe rolled the beaded bottle across his forehead. “Why?”
The lawyer sighed. “Are my reasons important?”
“If you want me to take the case, yeah.”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. Shannon had a falling-out with a grandparent who recently lost his only other grandchild in a vehicular accident. When you’re ninety-two, Mr. Marlowe, and your health is failing, you want to tie things up wherever possible and make amends. I’m sorry, but that’s all the history I can give you. My practice is small but entirely reputable. Check me out if you wish. However, I would ask that you do so quickly. I’ll need an answer by 6:00 a.m. your time.”
Across the room, Marlowe’s TV showed a carousel in motion. He saw a child’s face fill with excitement as she clutched the golden pole.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “Ninety-two, huh?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t see ninety-three in the cards. Will you accept the job?”
Something in the man’s tone set off a warning bell. Should he listen or not? Marlowe glanced at the TV screen, rocked his head from side to side. “Send me what you have. You check out, I’m on it.”
“You’re a good man, Mr. Marlowe.”
A flicker of humor rose, dark and ominous. “Not good,” he corrected. “Just a man.”
Tossing the phone aside
, he got up to snag the last cold beer.
“DARCY? ARE YOU THERE? For heaven’s sake, answer. I’ve been leaving messages on your phone all day.”
Elaine Holland sounded cranky, which was the last thing Darcy needed right then. “Radiator hose,” she repeated to the baffled-looking man beside her with the wrench in his hand. She made a slicing motion. “It’s split, leaking. Just take a look, okay?” She turned her attention back to the phone. “Sorry, Elaine, I haven’t checked my messages today. My rental car broke down.” Her eyes traveled around the weedy lot outside what might loosely be called a service station. “I, uh, might be a little late getting back.”
The mechanic used the wrench to indicate a nearby goat, and Darcy got his message. He’d loan her the animal for a ride. She turned away. “I’m still in Nicaragua. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to describe car parts in Spanish.”
“So you’re stranded.”
“Sí.”
“Damn. Did you talk to Dr. Aquilina?”
“Talked to, got photos of, visited his lab and his experimental farm. A world food shortage is imminent, in his opinion, but avoidable if we’re willing to open our minds and our stomachs to worms, rye grass and something he calls ‘cocoluna.’ Chocolate from the moon. You don’t want to know the details on that one.” She thought about the feature article she was to write and the looming deadline. “Now, why have you been calling me all day?”
Her editor huffed. “A guy’s been asking questions about you.”