DANGEROUS LOVE
(Book 4 on the Fitzgerald Family)
E. B. Walters
Also in the series:
SLOW BURN (book 1)
MINE UNTIL DAWN (book 2)
KISS ME CRAZY (book 3)
Firetrail Publishing
Logan, UT
Reproducing this book without permission from the author or the publisher is an infringement of its copyright. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any actual events or persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Firetrail Publishing
P.O. Box 3444 Logan,
UT 84323
Copyright © 2011 E. B. Walters
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 098342974X
ISBN-13: 978-0-9834297-4-6
Edited by Melissa Maytnz
Cover Design by Margaret McFarland. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
Whatsoever without permission, except in the case of brief
Quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Firetrail Publishing publication: February 2012
www.firetrailpublishing.com
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my children, Margaret, Merab.
Elijah, Joyce and Jannah
Thank you for celebrating my successes
I am so proud to be your mother.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my editor, Melissa Maytnz,
thank you for tweaking the plot and streamlining the
manuscript. To my beta-readers, Julie Barrett, Toni Steiner, and
Katrina Whittaker. You girls are gurus at finding typos and inconsistencies,
Going through the final product and giving it the stamp of approval.
I couldn’t have polished this book without your keen eyes. Thank you.
To my critique partners, Dawn Brown, Teresa Bellow,
Katherine Warwick/Jennifer Laurens, you guys are amazing at
removing the junk and being there when my muse goes missing.
We are more than writing partners.
To my husband and my wonderful children,
thank you for your unwavering love and support.
You inspire me in so many ways
Love you, guy
CHAPTER 1
“Mrs. Riggins wants to see you.”
Faith Fitzgerald looked up and frowned. She hadn’t heard the salesgirl knock or open her office door. But then again, when she had her nose in fashion sketches or fabric colors, nothing penetrated her artistic fog.
“Thanks, Molly.” Faith glanced at her watch and sighed. Eleven o’clock. There was no way she could drive to Barbara Riggins’ home and make it back for her next appointment. Regardless of the fact that she’d been at Barbara’s place two days ago to make the necessary adjustments on her gown, Faith had to go. Barbara was the wife of a renowned producer and a patron of Falasha—Faith’s clothing line. Without Barbara, Faith would not have landed the contracts to design costumes for two major film productions in the past three years, or become the designer for a bevy of women whose creative writing produced hit movies and television sitcoms.
Molly still hovered near the door, Faith noted.
“Call Mrs. Ferreira and cancel her fitting,” Faith said. “I had her down for the noon slot. Tell her I have a family emergency.” Mira Ferreira would have a fit if she knew Faith switched her fitting because of another customer. “Change it to four, or if she prefers later, I’ll be available in the evening.” Which would mean another long drive to Malibu.
She grabbed her car keys from the drawer. “The drive to and from Barbara’s place, not to mention the consult time, is going to screw up my schedule big time.”
“Shhh, not so loud,” Molly whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “I meant to say Barbara’s in the next room. I left her pacing the floor, ready to commit mayhem. She even refused refreshments. She demands to see you.”
That didn’t sound good. Barbara hadn’t visited the Falasha Showroom since the first time Faith’s Auntie Estelle introduced them four years ago.
Faith hurried around her desk to a side door and pushed it open. The private room she entered had an ambience guaranteed to make any customer feel appreciated—white carpeting and matching plush chairs, antique tables with assortment of drinks, and soft, soothing music in the background. From Barbara’s narrowed hazel eyes, the effect wasn’t working.
Barbara sat on the edge of the chair with her arms crossed and lush lips scrunched up in a pout made famous during her years as a talk-show host. Her tennis outfit rode high to reveal toned legs and cellulite-free tanned thighs. Despite the attire, her make-up was impeccable and her professionally styled black stresses tumbled down her shoulders.
“Barbara, what a wonderful surprise. What can I do for you?”
The diva got to her feet, her hazel eyes flashing, though not a single crease marred the Botox-smooth perfection of her face.
“I’d like to take another look at my gown,” she said in a frosty tone.
“It’s not yet ready, but I’ve sent the spec sheet with the adjustments to my patternmaker. As soon as I get the pattern back, I’ll start the—”
“Show me the one I tried on a few days ago.”
“Of course.” Faith disappeared inside the sewing room, where three seamstresses looked at her with questioning eyes. She shook her head, grabbed the mannequin with the prototype of the gown, and left the room.
“What’s this about?” she asked Barbara when she rejoined her.
“The design,” Barbara answered, walking around the mock-up muslin gown draped on a mannequin. “It’s exactly the same.”
Faith shook her head, not understanding. “Of course it’s the same one. But this is just the toile. I’ll use the real fabric once I get the pattern back.”
“No, no, no. I mean, Mimi has the exact same dress.” She slanted Faith a hard look. “I was at her house this morning for a game of tennis, and she invited me to see the dress she plans to wear to the Directors Guild Awards.” Barbara tugged at the toile, almost tipping over the mannequin. “Her husband was also nominated, just like my Sammy. She showed me this exact dress. The dress you designed for me.” She turned and glared at Faith. “Are you selling your designs? Recycling old ones?”
Faith’s stomach had dipped when Barbara said ‘exact same design’—now it churned. “I would never ever use an old design to create a gown for any of my customers, Barbara. I study fashion trends and seasonal colors, and come up with fresh ideas every time you ask me to make something for you. I do not sell my creations either. Do you know who made her outfit?”
Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It might explain what happened. Please, who designed it?”
“DHS.”
The floor tilted under Faith. Dublin House of Styles. That bastard. That no-good, thieving son of a bitch. She didn’t know how he did it, but once again, Sean O’Neal had stolen what belonged to her and passed it off as his.
“Are you okay, Faith? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She gripped Faith’s arm and led her to a chair. “What’s going on? How can you have the same design as DHS?”
Faith shook her head. How could she explain about her past relationship with that visionless, back-stabbing bastard? She looked up at Barbara’s perfectly made-up face. Would she understand about broken promises and shattered dreams, humiliation and the vow to prove wrong those who hadn’t believed her?
“I did not steal his designs.”
“I
never said you did. However, we have a problem.” She took the chair across from Faith’s, concern in her eyes. “The award ceremony is a month away and I need a dress. I can’t wear what I wore to the Golden Globes or other awards. I’ve paid my dues in this business and I absolutely refuse to squeeze this,” she waved a hand to indicate her curvaceous body, “fabulousness into a size zero couture made for matchstick bodies. I need one of your creations.” She reached forward and gripped Faith’s hands. “Only you know how to flatter my body, dear. Only you understand that a woman can have curves and still wear couture. Can you do this?”
Faith struggled to separate what she just learned from what Barbara was demanding of her. Did she have the time to finish the dress on such short notice? Two more of her clients, all Barbara’s friends, were going to the same award show and expected their unique gowns completed. But what if Sean had gotten hold of their designs too?
Another idea occurred to her, snatching her breath like sucker punch. What if he had seen her fall collection for Fashion Week? Her show would be a disaster. No one would believe the designs were hers, just like no one did five years ago. Only this time it would not be limited to DHS. Panic torpedoed through her. What was she going to do?
“Faith!” Barbara called out in a sharp tone.
Faith blinked, reigned in the panic, and forced herself to focus on her client, her very important and influential client. If she had to sew every day and night, pay her seamstresses fat bonuses to finish new gowns, she’d make this happen. “I’ll stop by your place tomorrow night with new designs and fabric selections.”
Barbara beamed. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Now, about this DHS mess—”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it.” She refused to let that bastard screw her over again.
“Good.” Barbara stood, clasped her purse under her arm and started for the door. Before she opened it, she pivoted, and asked, “Aren’t you making gowns for all the girls?”
Faith nodded. ‘All the girls’ were Barbara’s three friends. She’d completed and delivered one already. “I’ll call them and explain.”
A faraway look entered Barbara’s eyes. “No, don’t. Leave the girls to me. ”
“Please, don’t mention DHS.”
“Of course not, dear. I’ll come up with something. Meanwhile get busy. Bring enough designs for all of us to choose from.”
“I will. Thanks, Barbs,” Faith said, reverting to the woman’s nickname.
“It’s the least I can do. What about Estelle? Do you want me to talk to her about this? She and I plan on doing lunch later this week.”
Faith jumped up and walked to where Barbara stood. Once Aunt Estelle learned of this, there’d be no stopping her from going after Sean. “Do you mind keeping this between us for now, at least until I figure out what’s going on?”
Barbara nodded. “I hate to keep things from my sorority sister, so get to the bottom of this fast. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“Thanks.” She escorted Barbara past glass display cases with colorful jewelry and the mannequins and racks showcasing ready-to-wear Falasha designs. At the entrance, she waved as Barbara entered her ride. Faith stared after the limo, then shifted her attention to the shoppers scurrying along 3rd Street.
She had worked so hard to make her store stand out among boutiques and showrooms at this end of West Hollywood. Located a block from Beverly Hill Center, Falasha had its regular customers who didn’t mind high-end clothes by an upcoming designer. That she also carried jewelry complementing her clothes was an added bonus.
Faith smiled at a bunch of valley girls and stepped aside to allow them entrance into the store. She turned and hurried to the back, where her office was located. Molly made eye contact, indicating she had questions. Faith stared pointedly at the customers and disappeared inside her office.
She sat behind her desk and drummed her fingers on the cherry wood top. How was she going to deal with Sean O’Neal? Going to his showroom would be foolish. He probably expected her to do exactly that. His people had treated her like a traitor before she left five years ago. There was no way they’d let her enter their showroom. Besides, one needed an invite or an appointment to enter the offices at the New Mart building.
Her cousins in law enforcement would step up if she asked them to deal with Sean, but she didn’t want to involve them. Not after one of them nearly lost his job for helping her cousin and her fiancé stop an international antique thief. So who to call? Who could she trust with her worst nightmare, her innermost secret?
The person must be someone outside their family. Aunt Estelle was the only one who knew the real reason Faith broke off her engagement to Sean five years ago. Estelle Fitzgerald rarely let people mess with her family. Five years ago, Faith had pleaded and sobbed buckets to convince Estelle to ignore what Sean did. This time, it would take an army to stop her aunt from marching to the designer’s showroom at the Intersection and exposing him. The ripple through the fashion world would be swift. Sean was unique among Irish haute couturier, the first to blend hip-hop and high fashion, a man most aspiring couturiers revered. Worse than that, the rift could hit closer to home. Sean was related to the second husband of the matriarch of the Fitzgerald family, Faith’s indomitable Aunt Viv. Aunt Viv had never approved of anything Faith did, including ditching Sean.
One thing was for sure, she didn’t want Sean to see her coming. She’d managed to avoid him these past years, ignoring him at family gatherings. She’d play offense, and she knew just the man to do it. Kenneth ‘Ken’ Lambert, ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.
Something shifted in her belly, the thought of Ken prickling her skin. Faith closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat, the image of him vivid in her head yet she hadn’t seen him in one year and five days, give or take seven hours, but who was counting.
Tall and masculine, with slanted green eyes and chiseled cheekbones, he had the most skillful hands and killer mouth, wicked tongue, and an arsenal of sexual tricks. Their night of pure bliss had awakened in her the kind of passion that could easily have become addictive. So she’d panicked and sneaked out like a coward, vowing never to see him again. The fury in his eyes when he came to her store…
No, there was no point in dredging up ancient history. Except for the sneaky memories blindsiding her now and then, she’d moved on. She even had a couple of flings since Ken, but none of the men compared to him. Other than being the best lover she ever had, Ken Lambert was one hell of an investigator. Single-minded, ruthless, and relentless, he was the kind of man you’d want by your side at a time like this.
Faith fought against a wave of nervousness, punched in numbers, and brought the phone to her ear. Before Ken could pick up at the other end, she hung up. He might blow her off over the phone. She had to see him in person. LASEC, short for Lambert Security Consultants, was on Wilshire, a few blocks from her showroom. Faith reached for her car keys for the second time that morning and left her office.
“Do you still want me to cancel Mrs. Ferreira’s appointment?” Molly asked as Faith walked past her.
“Yes, please. I’m going to Textile District for some fabric. I should be back around one.” Once again, she ignored the questions brimming in Molly’s eyes. She blew out a breath and mentally prepared herself for Ken.
***
When was Sly coming back? Ken reached inside the pizza box, pulled out a cold slice, and bit into it. If he had a choice, he’d carry his latest protégé up the twenty flights of stairs, leg brace and all, just so he could get the hell out of here. Filtering audio and video feeds off surveillance cameras and being cooped up in a puny cubicle while eating day-old pizza wasn’t his idea of fun. He should be back in his office, outsmarting bad guys from the comfort of his chair. He’d earned it. Freedom to be his own boss and to do as he pleased was the reason he left the Bureau.
Stop lying to yourself, nimrod.
A jarring explosion resounded in his inner ears an
d images flashed in his head—lifeless bodies in the playground and hallways, the pitiful wails of the injured, and the damning accusation in parents’ eyes. Pain blindsided him, and Ken dropped the half-eaten pizza on top of the box, his hand fisting. Three years after the bomb and he still couldn’t erase the images, or the guilt.
Ken realized he was rubbing his stomach, his finger tracing the memento from that terrible day three years ago. He smothered a curse, focused on his present surroundings and grimaced. His freedom did have some downsides, like the occasional dingy room and day-old pizza. Empty Starbucks coffee mugs overflowed from the garbage can at a corner. The only light in the room came from the neon blue monitors. If it weren’t for the air conditioner, no one would believe he was on a floor above the offices of a lucrative brokerage firm in the business district of Los Angeles.
His gaze swept the monitors and the montage of smaller windows showing the insides of Braun Brokerage Firm. Which one of the sharks milling around, smooth-talking clients, or hugging their monitors was guilty of insider trading? A hungry newbie? A seasoned broker losing his edge? Or an old geezer with too many ex-wives and alimony issues? He had an idea, but needed proof.
One of the windows on the screen showed an assistant leave her office, a cute blonde with long legs and a sexy walk. She stopped by her boss’s office. Ken listened to their brief conversation—she was off to lunch and wanted to know what to get him. Nothing unusual there. They went through the same ritual every day. After the blonde left and entered the elevator, her bespectacled boss pulled a pair of binoculars from a drawer, walked to the window and trained them on something outside the building.
Ken frowned. That was a first. What the hell was the man looking at? Ken scooted closer to the bank of computers and monitors. Too bad he hadn’t tapped into the video surveillance system outside the building too.
His cell phone started to vibrate. He knocked the pizza box off the desk as he fished under it for the phone. His gaze still on the monitor, he flipped the phone open and slapped it on his ear. “What?”
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