A Perfect Stranger

by Ryan, Jenna

  Ballads soothed him almost as much as the P.I. pissed him off. He honed in, crooned with The King and waited for her reaction.

  It was starting to hinge on reaction. That and keeping the anger in line.

  The envelope came out, the flap went up, the contents emerged.

  He licked his lips and savored the moment.

  He could see she didn’t like it. Neither did the P.I., but he hardly mattered. The message was for her. Sent, received and unreturnable.

  The ballad oozed through his head like molasses. Sweet and oh so lovely.

  He drew the moment out, salivated through it. Soon he’d taste it. Soon her life here would be his to control.

  And a brand-new era would begin.

  Chapter Nine

  “He removed you from the picture, Marlowe.” In the passenger seat of his Land Rover, Darcy traced an X in the air. “He slashed your face with a red pen. Three of those slashes cut through the photo paper. That says fury to me. And fury says Vince Maco.”

  “You’re really stuck on him, aren’t you?” Using the heel of his hand, Marlowe gave the AC control a thump. “If the Macos are angry because Frankie’s dying and, thanks to you, his final years were spent in prison, why eliminate only me from a picture the killer obviously took of us together in the park?”

  “As a warning.”

  “Of what? Death? Seems redundant at this point.”

  She sighed. “Fine, you explain it. I’m too tired to theorize. What little sleep I got last night was riddled with nightmares.”

  “About Frankie and company?”

  “Partly.” Crossing her legs, she tugged on the hem of her dress. “The last ones involved the past.” She uncapped a bottle of juice, drank. “I got a few threats when I worked in northern California.”

  He stopped abusing the panel. “What kind of threats?”

  “Indirect ones. Our news team was accosted on location a few times by a logger with a grudge. But he was shouting at his employer more than us. We just reported what was already an ugly truth within the company.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s always feedback,” she said after a moment. “Some positive, some not. Some personal, some not. A musician wrote me once and told me I inspired him visually. He said he wrote his lyrics while he watched my newscasts.”

  “And the not-positive stuff?”

  “Come on, Marlowe, it’s the nature of the work. You slant a newscast one way, people on the other side object. I learned early on not to take criticism personally. It’s also a big stretch from criticism to death threats. Anyway, there was more positive feedback than negative. And many, many kind gestures.”

  “For example?”

  “I got flowers from someone called Lover Boy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Everyone who saw the handwriting on the card put his age upward of eighty.”

  “Was that ever verified?”

  “Well, no, since I had no reason to be paranoid in those days.”

  “Did people ever send pictures?”

  “Sometimes. Of themselves, their pets, new babies, that sort of thing. One viewer sent a shot of me holding a rescued puppy. Another had me walking through a hotel lobby in Los Angeles. It was cool because the background was blurred, so it looked like I was moving out of time.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “I was covering a senatorial election race.”

  “Was there a note with the photo?”

  “No.” She sent him a canny look as the air-conditioning finally kicked in. “But there was a heart drawn around my head.”

  “Do you still have the picture?”

  “I’m not sure. Marlowe, nothing happened. These weren’t unique or isolated incidents. One of the women I worked with in Los Angeles had a stalker after her. Now that was cause for concern. Notes, pictures, flowers, sometimes even jewelry used to appear in the office. Once, the guy actually called to tell her how much he loved her. She was out, so I took the call. He went all soft and creepy, thinking I was her. He said one day they’d be together forever.”

  “Did the police make an arrest?”

  A faint frown marred her brow. “I don’t remember. Probably. In any case, the gifts stopped coming. Six months later, she left the newspaper. I had the office to myself, and my byline space was expanded. All things moving forward in S.L. Hunt’s world.”

  “Until she met Frankie Maco.”

  Leaning toward the windshield, Darcy let her gaze sweep the twilight skyline of Atlantic City. “It was a good situation for a while. Unfortunately for Frankie, S.L. met a man who gave her the means to write a series of articles that focused a little too much attention on the family business. Being a career-driven woman, S.L. saw media gold in that information. She collected and collated, and in the end handed her gold mine over to the authorities. Because, above all else, she’d been raised to be a good American citizen.”

  Marlowe’s eyes went first to her legs, then to her face. “Are you sure you don’t have any of those letters or photographs?”

  “Not sure at all, so, yes, I’ll go through my boxes. I still have stuff on Frankie. Maybe I’ve forgotten or overlooked some detail of the trial.”

  “What was Frankie’s lawyer’s name?”

  “Kasparidian, Ezekiel J. The press called him Jabba the Hutt. Is that relevant?”

  “Means you probably haven’t overlooked any details.” With the boardwalk in sight, Marlowe pulled over.

  “Look, why don’t we—” she began. Then forgot the question when he took her face between his fingers.

  Less than half a second later, his mouth crushed down on hers in a kiss that sent every rational thought spiraling into oblivion.

  Heat and color fused. A hundred other sensations flooded in. They swam in her head even after he drew away.

  “Okay,” she said shakily. “What was that for?”

  “My own satisfaction.” He slid a knuckle over her cheek. “My pleasure. I’ve been staring at your legs since we left Philadelphia. Something had to give.”

  “I’d be flattered if I didn’t sense a but.”

  “We’re in Atlantic City, Darcy. It’s time for positive action.” His eyes glittered as they looked into hers. “Let’s see if we can’t hook a California shark.”

  “TWENTY-THREE BLACK. The lady wins again.”

  Despite the lucky drop, Darcy glanced behind her. The icy finger that trailed down her spine for the third time in five minutes no longer set her teeth on edge, but it made her want to move.

  “Not liking this,” she decided as she gathered her chips and left the roulette table. “Time for you to reappear, Marlowe.”

  When he didn’t right away, she studied the faces around her. Nobody appeared to be watching. She hadn’t seen a man in a Yankees cap and she hadn’t spotted Vince Maco.

  She did spot Marlowe several yards ahead as he returned from the men’s room.

  Black pants, white shirt, black jacket slung over his right shoulder, the man was a sin waiting to happen. Half the women in the casino would probably love to inhale him in one long, sensuous breath. Darcy certainly would.

  Or not, she thought as another chill skidded down her back.

  “Have you seen Vince?” she asked when Marlowe joined her. “Or the baseball-cap guy?”

  “Not yet. You?”

  “No, but I’ve been having a Big Brother feeling since I scored my first win at the roulette wheel.”

  A faint smile appeared as Marlowe’s gaze traveled around the noisy floor. “You won more than once?”

  “Twice. It’s my limit at any gaming table.” Resolved not to let unpleasantness win, she knocked his arm with hers. “Guess that means dinner’s on me, huh?”

  “We’ll see. I talked to Val while I was in the washroom. Nelda Hickey’s son was at the Boka Club until last Sunday. That’s when his short-term contract expired. The club’s Web site still lists him as the feature performer, s
o Val says he’ll stay on it for another night. The guy might turn up.” He frowned when her eyes fastened on a point over his shoulder. “Something?”

  “I saw a Yankees cap at the casino entrance. It’s gone now.”

  “Lots of people wear baseball caps, Darcy.” But she noticed he scanned the entrance.

  Using the color, lights and music as a balm, Darcy regrouped. “I talked to a man at the roulette wheel while you were gone. He says the owner here is looking for investors. He thinks he’s heard the name Maco through the grapevine.”

  At the arch of Marlowe’s brow, she sighed.

  “Not every business in Frankie’s sphere is crooked. He bought a legitimate and quite respectable chain of hardware stores a year before he was indicted. As far as I know, it’s still in the family. Not that that probably matters to you, since you appear to be leaning in a different direction.”

  “There’s such a thing as duplicity, Darcy. Whoever’s after you could be using Frankie Maco’s threats to cover his or her actions.”

  Where was a drink when you needed one? she thought. “You want me to go into hiding, don’t you?”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “It was an idea three years ago. I agreed, and where am I now? Back in the starting blocks. You can buy time if you’re lucky, Marlowe, but you can never be sure. Yes, that’s true of life in general, and God knows, I’m an advocate of change, but I don’t like doing it at the end of a shotgun.” Because he was so teasable and she was so tired of tension, she angled her body toward him. “I might, however, be persuaded to hide out for a single night.”

  The head-to-toe look he gave her seared her skin.

  “Maybe I’ll rephrase that.” She hooked a finger in the opening of his shirt. “We only made one booking for the night, and I’m going to guess the room service here is excellent.”

  She took another step, then shivered as the eerie sensation returned full force. “Okay, that’s it. Someone’s watching me. If it isn’t the baseball-cap guy, it must be Vince. Do you see anyone looking this way?”

  “Yeah, about ten men and that’s only in the immediate vicinity.” Marlowe ran his thumb over her collarbone. “You don’t exactly blend into a crowd, Darcy.”

  “Thank you, but I still feel something.”

  Taking her hand, Marlowe linked her fingers with his. “About that booking,” he began, but got no further as a man three feet away from them shouted, “Wait a minute, you! Stop!”

  The woman he shoved aside stumbled between Marlowe and Darcy. She would have fallen if Marlowe hadn’t caught her.

  Using his arms like machetes, the man hacked his way through the crowd. “He stole my wallet!” he shouted. “The one in the blue shirt!”

  “Are you all right?” Darcy asked the woman he’d shoved.

  “I saw him do it.” The elderly female patted her thin chest. “It wasn’t the man in the blue shirt. The thief was wearing brown. The man in blue was just walking past. He ran, so maybe he was in on it, but the one in the brown cowboy shirt is the thief.”

  “Blond hair, ponytail?” Marlowe handed his jacket to Darcy.

  “Yes, that’s him…Oh, goodness, my heart.” The woman sighed. “This trip was meant to be a birthday gift from the Red Hat Society. I’m eighty-seven tomorrow.”

  “Marlowe.” Darcy grabbed his forearm. “Let Security handle this.”

  “Security’s following the blue man. Ponytail’s heading for the lobby.”

  He was gone before she could object.

  The old woman continued to pat her heart. “I hope the thief doesn’t have a knife. Your young man could get hurt.”

  “You’ll never convince him of that.” Darcy watched Marlowe until she couldn’t see him anymore, then turned back. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble. My friends went up to their rooms an hour ago.” She flapped an arthritic wrist. “The corridor behind the slot machines is quiet and comfortable. I’ll be able to catch my breath.”

  Darcy kept watch for Marlowe as they crossed the casino. Once, when the skin on her neck prickled, she tossed a frustrated look over her shoulder.

  “I’m not imagining this,” she stated, and got the woman looking with her.

  “Did you spot another thief? Oh, good, we’re here.”

  Darcy’s instincts screamed at her not to go into a deserted corridor. There was no one to be seen in either direction, and a secondary commotion had broken out near the lobby entrance. However, with the woman sagging against her, she had no choice but to swap instinct for need and let the door close behind them.

  A strange hush descended. Her companion welcomed it. Darcy’s nerves went on alert.

  The old woman pulled a cell phone from her purse. “I’ll call Charlie, my fiancé, in Newark, and fill him in on the news. He’s such a worrywart. Can you get him for me, dear?”

  Darcy dialed, watched the door. At least the corridor was well lit, and there was a second exit in plain sight.

  She needed a gym, Darcy decided, handing over the phone. The headache that lurked at the base of her skull begged for motion. Something involving Marlowe would be good. But anything away from this empty corridor would work right now.

  “Say good-night to Charlie,” she urged the woman in a murmur. She walked, rubbed her arms, turned…

  And saw the door begin to open.

  She had her keys out and palmed when a bowlegged man in faded denim lurched across the threshold. A larger man with a firm grip on his arm followed.

  Darcy swallowed a shaky laugh. All that adrenaline for nothing more sinister than a drunk and a bouncer. Maybe she should consider going into hiding after all.

  The bouncer handed the drunk to an even larger man behind him.

  “Problem, miss?” he inquired as his charge was ushered outside.

  Slipping her keys back into her purse, Darcy explained. Minutes later, the old woman was rolling toward the elevator in a sleek leather chair.

  “You have a nice time with your young man,” she called around the bouncer’s arm.

  “Wish he was,” Darcy murmured.

  Rolling her head, she turned—or started to.

  Halfway around, a man’s hand clamped over her mouth. As his arm cinched her waist, his voice—thick, syrupy and sporting a familiar, though not-quite-right twang—flowed into her ear.

  “Nighty-night, pretty darling. We’re caught in a trap for the moment, but we’ll get ourselves out soon enough.”

  Darcy’s vision wobbled. He’d used a cloth to cover her nose and mouth. And she knew, she just knew, she’d inhaled some of the chloroform on it.

  Words jumbled. The lights around her blurred. She heard voices, a woman laughing. Then everything swirled together. And slowly faded to black.

  Chapter Ten

  Marlowe swore all the way back to the casino. He’d spotted the guy in the Yankees cap. He’d have been able to nail him if he hadn’t had the casino thief pinned against a wall and two dozen excited bystanders endeavoring to help.

  The man knew he’d been seen. Before Marlowe could hand the thief off, the guy had bolted.

  His cell rang as he wove a path through the sea of confusion that was currently the casino lobby.

  “What’s with the racket?” Val shouted. “I thought you’d have swung a romantic interlude with your fair lady by now.”

  Marlowe squeezed past a clump of tipsy Texans and wished he could stop the world for sixty seconds while he located and removed Darcy from the madness.

  What did he care about thieves, or addictions, or people tossing away their hard-earned cash? He’d be stripping off Darcy’s pretty strapless dress. Though he might leave the spiky red stilettos. With her blond hair and big blue eyes, she’d be a total siren.

  “You there?”

  Marlowe made one last sweep of the lobby. “Yeah, I’m here. Do you have something?”

  “What I have is a sore finger from punching numbers all day and night. Here’s the scoop, old
friend…I got in touch with the Boka Club’s manager. He said young Hickey took his vocal act on the road at the end of last week. It’s a twisty one that winds across the eastern states and hits all the major cities, from New York to Virginia Beach. Top of the list, our very own Philadelphia, Pa.”

  DARCY WOKE UP—or, more precisely, surfaced—from a lifeless black void to the more familiar environs of a hotel room.

  Furniture took shape as her bleary eyes adjusted.

  She allowed herself ten precious seconds, breathed carefully, tried not to wonder how she’d gotten here, only how she could get away.

  Her head felt heavy when she moved it. And she swore someone had shoved a knife into her left temple.

  But she knew instinctively there was no time for pain. She had to get past it, find a way out.

  Going up on her elbows, she listened. Music played somewhere close by. Beneath it, she heard the murmur of a man’s voice.

  Distorted memories swam in her head. Faces without features and the smell of alcohol blended with perfume, laughter. Flamingo-pink fingernails.

  The voice droned on, became a sonorous buzz in the background. She couldn’t see the speaker or anyone as she worked her way from the sofa. All the rooms in the hotel were suites. He must be in the bedroom.

  The door doubled up in front of her. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, brought the space dimly into focus.

  Her heels sank into the thick pile carpet. Good. No telltale sound to give her away. Unless he heard her heart banging in her chest or the blood pounding in her ears.

  The door handle came into view. She twisted, pulled, prayed.

  The voice halted. Her breath hitched. She yanked the door open, made it to the corridor.

  Different music played out here. Ignoring the fact that her limbs weighed three hundred pounds, she zeroed in on the stairwell. Did she hear him shouting behind her, or was her mind amplifying fear?

  Palms damp, she pushed on the fire door. Frigid air poured over her shoulders and arms. She shivered, but caught the metal rail with both hands and started down.