by Ryan, Jenna
That got her attention. Leaving the mechanic to kick her tires, Darcy put some space between them. “What kind of questions?”
“Odd ones. The name Shannon came up, which meant nothing to me or anyone else at the magazine. But after a while and more than one chat, I realized he was looking for you. Is your middle name Shannon?”
“No.” Darcy moved into the shade of the sagging station. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’d been here a little over a year, during which time our circulation has increased. I thought he was a cop at first, but turns out he’s a P.I. So I asked myself, what would a P.I. want with my Darcy? That’s when it hit me. You’re a question mark, kiddo. A lovely person but a puzzle only partly solved. Your parents are dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Darcy’s gaze swept the choked, brown landscape. “What’s his name?”
“Damon Marlowe.”
Meant nothing. “And he looks like…?”
“The guy’s hot. Tall, very lean, with dark, wavy hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors for months. He’s not slick or polished, and as far as I can tell, he shoots from the hip. A bit thin, but the muscles are there for sure. I thought artist when I saw him, then rocker, then cop. Would you believe he has gold eyes? You’d say hazel, but the frustrated novelist in me saw an amber-eyed Heathcliff.”
Darcy couldn’t visualize anyone she knew.
She made another precautionary sweep of the area. Except for the goat, a dog the size of a Shetland pony and the mechanic, whose upper body had vanished under her car, there was no sign of life. Even the weeds were wilting in the glare of the sun.
“I checked his credentials,” Elaine said. “Marlowe’s for real. He works out of New York.”
And Darcy worked out of Philadelphia for the moment, but credentials could be faked and identities altered. “Did you tell him where I am?” she asked.
“Hard to do since I wouldn’t know if you drew me a map. Look, just get the hell out of there before the freaky Dr. Aquilina stops experimenting on worms and decides cannibalism’s the way to go.”
In spite of herself, Darcy laughed.
Her editor made a considering sound. “Do you have a cousin named Shannon? I thought you said you did.”
“No cousins.”
“Evil twin?”
“I’m ending this call now, Elaine. Wish me luck.”
When he saw she was free, the mechanic waved her over. He smiled broadly and indicated the overheated engine.
“At least you’re at the right end of the car.” Swatting at a persistent wasp, Darcy slid the cell phone into her bag.
Then whirled around as a loud blast erupted from inside the ramshackle building.
“THREE AND HALF DAYS.” Umer Lugo handed Marlowe a certified check, drawn on his legal firm’s Swiss account. “I’m pleased and impressed. She’ll be back in Philadelphia on Thursday, you say?”
“That’s the word at the magazine.”
“Then I thank you for your services. I’ll handle the matter from here.” Lugo swept an arm around the crowded Turkish restaurant he’d chosen for their meeting. “Select anything you want from the menu and enjoy it at your leisure. I’ll be in town until Ms. Nolan returns. Perhaps I’ll relax while I wait. So many wonderful sights to see.”
And while he wouldn’t be seeing any of them, Marlowe thought the man talked a good game. Just not good enough to fool an ex-cop.
Not his concern, he decided, and shook the hand Lugo offered.
With the check stuffed in his pocket, he made a mental list of outstanding bills and calculated he might have enough left over for a trip to Chile. The Andes. Somewhere remote, where he didn’t know a soul.
His phone, clipped to the waistband of his jeans, began playing Clapton. He checked the screen and saw the name of someone he hadn’t heard from for years, not since they’d worked together in Los Angeles and again briefly in Chicago.
“Hey there, slugger.” Regardless of the circumstances, Valentino Reade always sounded cheerful. “I heard you were in town. What’s up?”
Propping his elbows on the table, Marlowe rubbed a tired eye. “According to your captain, no one in your division. Hell, Val,” he said with a faint grin, “you punched an old woman in a bar.”
“A cage-wrestling bar. We were making a bust. Things got out of hand.”
The grin became a chuckle. “Word’s out, and it’s made its way to Manhattan. Blydon’s got five of you on restricted duty.”
“Nice to hear your voice, too, old friend. Look, I’m off duty in ninety minutes. You working?”
“Was.” Guilt snaked through his system. He picked up a stained menu. “I thought about heading home tonight, but I might hang around for a few days instead.”
“Are you hanging around for yourself or because of a woman?”
“None of your business.”
“Hot woman, huh? I’m fascinated.” He named a local bar. “I’ll meet you at ten. If you get there first, ask for table ten. And bring money. I’m flat until Friday.”
Marlowe shook his head as he ended the call. One thing about Val, no one was a stranger.
Someone pumped up the volume on an already loud Turkish folk song. No idea why that, coupled with the suffocating layers of heat, smoking incense and spicy food, should bring to mind a blue-eyed blonde he’d never met. But there she was, the woman he’d located, floating front and center in the haze across from him.
Picking up his glass of ouzo, he took a contemplative sip. And tried to figure out why a case that should be done refused to let his cop-trained senses rest in peace.
A BACKFIRING TRUCK.
If she’d been older, Darcy’s heart would have stopped. Luckily, the only explosive device in the area had been an ancient Ford truck that had coughed and sputtered its way out of the rickety service bay, then died for good behind her rental car.
It hadn’t been a promising sight.
Yet, here she was, Darcy reflected, at ten-twenty on a Thursday night, two cars, four flights and a cab ride later, home at last. She was still on alert, though, since no one but a P.I. sent by one of Frankie’s brood would be asking questions about her.
She paid the cabdriver, then hoisted her laptop, shoulder bag and carry-on. Three years and one month had passed since Frankie Maco’s trial. She’d lived incident-free in Chicago, Minneapolis and Dallas. She’d covered stories from London to Sydney to Shanghai. Beyond the fact that she hadn’t liked the insect life in Australia, nothing really strange had happened.
Her cover had held in all those places and for all this time—until now.
“Darcy? Is that you? Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.”
Darcy halted as a woman clattered down the stairs of the old Victorian across the street. Hannah Brewster was a sight, right down to her flowered muumuu, her flip-flops and her clacking costume jewelry.
“I’ve got a package for you in my storage room.” The older woman patted her heaving chest. “It’s from Switzerland.”
“That’ll be my godmother. If I don’t call her every month, she sends me a clock.”
“Really?”
“It’s Nana’s quirky idea of a reminder.” Darcy’s conscience gave a tiny ping. “I, uh, have a lot of clocks.”
Hannah waved that aside. “Count yourself lucky. My one and only clock is upstairs snoring, with his feet six inches from the AC unit. My husband, Eddie,” she said at Darcy’s puzzled expression. “He’s a cuckoo clock. You name an upcoming sporting event, he’ll tell you what time it’s on. Poor dear lost his baseball buddies when three of our boarders moved out last month, but I’m slowly refilling the rooms. I took on a new one just yesterday.”
Darcy slanted a look at her neighbor’s darkened house. “Long-term or short?”
“Day-to-day, for the moment. But it costs more that way, so the arrangement could change. Dear?” She tapped Darcy’s arm at her prolonged stare. “Are you all right? You know, jet lag can make people a bit loopy.”
> “I’m fine. What’s your new boarder like?”
“His name’s Hancock. He has an accent, though I can’t pin it down. Possibly English. But he’s not your type.”
“I have a type?”
“You do, and Mr. Hancock isn’t it. You need James Dean.”
What she needed, Darcy reflected, were answers. For the life of her, however, she didn’t see getting them tonight.
So she let it go and pulled her gaze from the boardinghouse. “I’ll pick up my package tomorrow, Mrs. B. Does your new man who’s not my type have a first name?”
“John.”
John Hancock…Okay, a bit pat, but not necessarily suspicious. She shifted her bags. “Maybe I’m tired at that,” she murmured. “Good luck renting your rooms.”
“Thank you, dear, and welcome home.” Hannah fluttered a hand as she recrossed the street. “Don’t worry about the rent until Monday. You’re a wonderful tenant, and I’d hate to lose you.”
Darcy gripped her suitcase and started along the sidewalk of what Hannah Brewster swore was the finest rental property in Philadelphia. All in all, it was probably fine enough. But when and if she ever settled, she wanted something simpler than turn-of-the-century American. Something modern, with lots of glass and hopefully no more worries about Frankie Maco and company.
A cat meowed from the bushes as she disengaged the alarm.
“I know, Podge, it’s ridiculously hot.”
She didn’t see it coming, didn’t hear a thing. One second she was about to go inside, the next she was crashing into a bed of purple dahlias. Something scratchy whipped across her eyes. Another softer cloth—saturated with chemicals, her brain warned—descended on her face.
Twisting sideways, she avoided it, and with her forearm knocked her attacker’s hand away. His fist rapped against his mouth, and she heard him grunt.
Still squirming, she rammed the heel of her hand into the side of his head. She’d been aiming for his ear and from his reaction thought she might have hit it.
When he jerked back, her instincts took over. Planting both hands on his chest, she shoved. It gave her the space she needed to work her leg out from under him.
He felt strong, but she couldn’t see well enough to fix an age on him. Young or old, however, she knew a man’s vulnerable spots, and she aimed for the one that would cripple him the fastest.
Did she make full contact? Her brain said no, yet a second later, he was gone, tackled sideways by something or someone else she couldn’t see.
The wool strip that had partially covered her eyes lay on the ground beside her. The chloroformed cloth had vanished with her attacker.
She rolled out of the flower bed and onto the grass. It took a moment to steady her breathing, another to realize that there was no one in the tiny front yard except her and Hannah’s long-haired cat.
“What the hell was that, Podge?” she demanded, pushing to her feet. She swayed slightly, but shook herself and scrambled to locate her cell.
She had her thumb on the key pad when a man’s hand closed over hers and a low voice came into her ear.
“Let’s leave the police out of this, Ms. Hunt.”
Chapter Two
Darcy’s blood pressure spiked, then slowly settled. This man was holding her, not choking her. Relaxing her muscles, she offered a pleasant, “Let me guess. Damon Marlowe?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Word travels at warp speed in my business. Uh, do you mind?”
For an answer, he released her and moved back half a step.
With a smile on her lips, Darcy faced him.
Gorgeous was her first, frankly surprised, thought. Elaine had been right. If the word sexy could take human form, Damon Marlowe would be it. She would have continued to marvel at his amazing, albeit shadowed, features, but she had a different agenda in mind.
Keeping her smile in place, she said, “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”
He moved a shoulder. “No—”
The crack of her hand across his cheek cut him off.
It had to hurt, but given his profession, maybe he was accustomed to being slapped. He absorbed the strike with nothing more than a lift of his brow. “Feel better now?”
“No, but you deserved that and more.” Darcy’s eyes glittered. “You destroyed a cover that’s held for three years. Apparently, you also lost whoever it was you tackled, so now I get to spend a sleepless night wondering who he was, why you felt the need to rush to my rescue and what you stand to gain from it. Do you know what you’ve done, Marlowe? Do you have any idea?”
“You want to take another swing, don’t you?” he asked without rancor.
“Love to.” Her lips curved. “Will you stand still and let me?”
“I might.”
The answer was just unexpected enough to make her laugh. Then suspicion moved in and she circled him with caution. “Who hired you? Was it Vince?”
“Umer Lugo.”
She stopped. “Who?”
“Not your dying, ninety-two-year-old grandfather’s lawyer, I assume.”
“My dying…” She shook the question away as her thoughts slid in a more disturbing direction. “Where is he? The guy who jumped me?”
“He grabbed your neighbor’s bike and took off. He was gone by the time I reached the corner.”
Darcy released a frustrated breath. “Let me get this straight. Whether by accident or design, you sicced someone on me. Then you switched sides and ran him off. I’m an investigative reporter, Marlowe. Oh, but wait, you already know that. You also know my real name. You relayed my alias to Umer Lugo, who very likely relayed it to Frankie Maco. By rights, I should be dead, and you should be home counting your money. So tell me, Mr. New York P.I., why isn’t the story playing like that?”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Last I checked, I was a sane American female. What’s the deal? Why are you here?”
“Call it a rare attack of conscience, likely spawned by the fact that I was a cop in a former life. Losing the guy who jumped you pisses me off, but nowhere near as much as letting myself be set up.”
“Frankie Maco’s very good at setups. Do you know who Frankie is?”
“His mug shot made the rounds before I left the force.”
“And there it is. You didn’t do your homework. Umer came up clean, so you were good to go. Bet he paid you plenty, huh?”
“Enough. Look, Shannon—”
“Darcy.” A false smile. “For what it’s worth and what might be salvageable—probably not much—I’ve been Darcy Nolan for three years now. I prefer to keep as many doors closed and windows open as I can.” When something rustled the bushes near the fence, she sighed. “Much as I hate to suggest this, we should probably finish our chat inside, where no one can come crashing through a hedgerow on a stolen bike. Can you imagine the headline? My editor would have the exclusive she’s been longing for, followed by book and screenplay rights. All things good in her world.”
Marlowe picked up her bags as she started for the stoop. “She’s not a friend?”
“Oh, Elaine and I are friendly enough, but longings are longings, after all.”
“You don’t sound bitter.”
“Bitterness is a destructive emotion. I prefer being positive.”
“And you can find a shred of that here?”
She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I can. Three years, a name change and one late-night attack later, I’m still alive.”
HE DIDN’T WANT TO step inside her home. Didn’t want to know her, or anything more about her than was absolutely necessary. Simpler, smarter, easier to keep her at arm’s length and think of her in two dimensions rather than three.
Unfortunately, it was too late for that, and the anger crawling in his belly wasn’t the kind he could push away. He deposited her bags next to the door, then followed her down a wide corridor to the kitchen.
Shadows hung everywhere in the old house. They spill
ed over the upstairs railing and slashed through the carved wood of the banister, lengthened on the hardwood floors and darkened cream walls.
In the kitchen, she switched on the overhead light. “Here’s the deal. You tell me what I deserve to know, and you can have a beer.”
Unexpected amusement rippled through him. “I’ve given you the meat, Darcy, all true and more or less verifiable. Lugo called, said he’d been referred to me by a former client. The client vouched for him. Money was good, man came up clean, I took the case.”
She headed for the fridge. “Tell me, were you this gullible as a cop?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Goes hand in hand with cynical, insensitive and don’t give a rat’s ass about other people.”
“Sounds like burnout to me.”
“Any way you look at it, I screwed up, and you’re paying the price. You get killed, it’ll be on my conscience.”
“Well, hey, don’t sugarcoat the possibilities.”
“Do you want them sugarcoated?”
“What I want,” she replied, “is Umer Lugo’s phone number. I want to know who hired him. Because while I’m ninety-five percent sure one of Frankie Maco’s family members is behind this, I’ve done other stories about a few other people who might not like some of the things I’ve said.” She waved her hand. “A lot of stories, actually. Anyway, my point is that knowledge is the key, and the key in this case is one Umer Lugo.”
The beer she tossed him was ice-cold and medium dark.
Marlowe let his gaze travel over her body. Shouldn’t, but it wasn’t as if he’d walked in unprepared.
She was pretty, all right. Beautiful, if you liked moonlight blondes with mile-long legs, sultry blue eyes and a killer smile. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length and made him think of silk. The edgy razor cut suited her. It was also the only noticeable change she’d made to her appearance since leaving L.A. three years ago.
“And now, he looks.” She pushed off gracefully from the fridge. “Don’t worry, Marlowe, I’m not going to seduce you. I only pull out the Mata Hari card when there’s a chance it’ll work. Guys who claim not to give a rat’s ass about people aren’t likely to succumb.”