Private Security

by Mallory Kane

  The Sky Walk had been a multimillion-dollar two-level suspended walkway that stretched above the main floor of the Golden Galaxy Casino in Waveland, Mississippi, the newest and largest casino on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay, son. Call your mother later. She’s taking a nap now.”

  Dawson disconnected and looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. His lips thinned. Taking a nap was family code for at least one bottle of wine down the chute, if not two. He sighed.

  It was hell being the oldest kid—oldest son, he amended. If his sister Rosemary had lived, she’d be thirty-four, two years older than he. But she’d been murdered twelve years before, so she would always be twenty-two.

  The twins were older than that now. At the thought of Ryker and Reilly, his identical younger brothers, he gave a gruff snort. They’d gone completely bonkers over the past year—not even thirty and married within six months of each other—right on the heels of a notorious serial-killer case in St. Tammany Parish in Louisiana.

  Ryker had married the only woman who’d survived Albert Moser’s obsessive killing spree, and Reilly had married the serial killer’s daughter.

  Dawson shook his head. He was five years older than them, and he didn’t even live in the same hemisphere as marriage. It would be a cold day in hell when he fell into that trap.

  It was bizarre. They’d grown up in the same family. As Dawson liked to say, they put the funk in dysfunctional.

  Rosemary’s death, or to be precise, her disappearance, had begun their mother’s fall into discreet, genteel alcoholism. Then, eight years ago, Michael Delancey had gone to prison, his mother had gone into the bottle and Dawson had separated himself from anything having to do with his father.

  Inside his condo he tossed keys and jacket onto the kitchen table and laid his shoulder holster beside them. Then he headed for the shower.

  As he dropped his egg-and-yogurt-stained shirt and pants into the hamper and stepped under the hot spray, a vision rose in his brain. Juliana Caprese, private eye, with a pink sling to match her pink panties and brandishing a big gun.

  Immediately, insistently, something else rose, as well. His buttocks and thighs tightened as the shower’s spray changed to caressing fingers. He groaned and raised his face to the hot water, enjoying the feel of it streaming down his neck, across his sensitized nipples, over his abs and down, tickling across the sensitive skin just above his pubis.

  He shuddered and contemplated turning off the hot water, but it was way too late for that, so he gave himself up to the fantasy of Juliana Caprese handling his weapon.

  Chapter Three

  Juliana snuggled down under the fake fur throw and wriggled her toes inside her bunny slippers. The slippers didn’t have bunny faces on them; they looked like the fluffy fat slippers that Bugs wore when he was relaxing.

  On her lap was a stack of building permits, code inspections, material specifications, everything she’d been able to find in public records about the Golden Galaxy Casino. But on her mind was John Dawson.

  After he’d left abruptly this afternoon, she’d looked up his website and called every government agency she could think of that might have information—good or bad—about D&D Services, Inc.

  There was nothing out there about the company. Apparently what Dawson had told her was true. If people needed his services, they found him.

  She remembered what else he’d said. Dedication and discretion. She had to hand it to him. He had the discretion part down pat. Every search had come up zero. No client list, no reviews, no referrals, no recommendations. Nor had she found anyone who knew anyone he’d worked for. In fact, although he had a website, it had hardly more information than his card. Not even the Better Business Bureau or the Attorney General’s office had anything on D&D Services. The person she’d talked with at the Attorney General’s office told her that no complaints had been filed against the company.

  She’d also searched online for a John Dawson. There were dozens of Dawsons in Biloxi, and several John Dawsons. Once the entire Gulf Coast was included, she was looking at scores of possibilities. None of the phone numbers matched, though.

  Juliana sighed and picked up her glass of wine. She took a sip, then realized she couldn’t open a folder while holding the glass.

  She was so sick of trying to do things with one arm. She slipped her left arm out of the sling. It hadn’t been broken, just dislocated. The doctor had told her on Tuesday that after a couple of days she could start using it. That was today.

  She transferred her wine to her left hand and lifted it to her lips, feeling a pop and a twinge that almost made her drop the glass. The doctor had told her the joint would probably pop for several months. He hadn’t told her it would hurt. Still, she got the glass to her lips without spilling any.

  Okay. That simplified things. She flipped through the folders in her lap with her right hand. She wanted to look at the note she’d found in her dad’s things.

  She found the file, neatly labeled in her father’s precise hand. Golden Galaxy, Misc. Her heart squeezed, just like it did every time she saw his writing. She opened the folder and took out the plastic bag in which she’d placed a folded piece of lined paper. Inside the baggie, written in deliberate block letters, was the most damning piece of information she had about the construction failure that had killed her father and five other people.

  Why hadn’t her dad done something? Told somebody? Had the Sky Walk checked? He might be alive today.

  She ran her fingers across the baggie, tracing the words.

  BE CAREFUL, CAPRESE. THE SKY WALK'S DANGEROUS. DELANCEY SHOULD KNOW. LOOK AT VEGA. HE HOLDS GRUDGES.

  There was no signature. Judging by the questions the police had asked her, she was sure her dad hadn’t shown it to anyone. The police obviously didn’t know about it.

  She sure wasn’t going to turn it over to them. They had done absolutely nothing about arresting the man responsible for her dad’s death. She wasn’t letting anybody get their hands on the note, not until she’d done everything she could to identify the sender and find out what he knew about her father’s death.

  The best clue she had was the name Vega. Compared to her search for D&D Services and John Dawson, finding information about Vega had been a walk in the park. In the Mississippi Gulf Coast area, Vittorio “Tito” Vega was a landmark. She found numerous newspaper articles touting his patronage of the arts and his civic involvement. But there were also op-ed pieces that suggested that he had more money than his real-estate investment business could account for, and that he was rumored to be involved in loan-sharking and bribery.

  The day after she’d found the note, she’d placed the ad.

  Wanted: Information leading to the conviction of the person(s) responsible for the collapse of the Sky Walk. $10,000 reward. Respond to P.O. Box 7874.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. She’d been so pleased with herself, so cocky. Dawson was right. She might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on her back. All the guy who’d attacked her had to do was watch the post office box until she received a reply, then snatch it.

  Like John Dawson. A disturbing thought occurred to her. He had admitted he’d watched the box. It could have been him who’d taken the letter. Not personally, she amended. The scumbag had been scrawny, dirty and covered with tattoos. Still, Dawson could have hired him.

  She’d been on the verge of trusting the tall, hot private investigator. His assertion that he was working for someone who’d been injured in the Sky Walk’s collapse had rung true.

  But what if he was playing her? Whether he’d been responsible for stealing her letter, he wanted the information she had about the Sky Walk. And judging by his slick, flirty attitude and his shrewd blue eyes, he wouldn’t balk at anything to get it.

  * * *

  DAWSON PUSHED HIS FINGERS through his damp hair and knocked on Juliana’s door again. He was pretty sure she was home. After spilling he
r groceries and hurting her knee, he doubted she’d be going out on the town anytime soon. Besides, the single-serving packaged salad and the small baguette had hinted at a meal at home—for one.

  He heard movement behind the door. He stepped back and positioned himself so his bland expression could be seen through the peephole.

  He saw a shadow cover the minuscule window and heard a groan. “What do you want?” she called ungraciously.

  He held the carton in his hand up to the peephole. “Brought you some eggs.”

  “Thank you,” she called. “You can leave them by the door.”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” he chided. “You don’t get them until you let me in. I had to take care of some business earlier, but I still have questions.”

  “I guess you’ll have to live without answers and I’ll have to live without eggs.” Her voice came through the door, tinged with a note of amusement.

  “Have a heart, Caprese. I almost dropped them coming up the stairs. You know how that is.”

  The door opened slowly. She held out a hand.

  “Sorry, you’ve got to let me in to get the eggs. Just a few minutes, two questions. That’s all, I swear.”

  She shook her head. “Customer support is closed for the day.”

  Dawson quirked his mouth. “Cute. Now let me in. Like I told you, we can get a lot more done by working together.”

  “Right, you did say that. Why don’t you make me a copy of what you have. I’ll look at it and get back to you. You can give me your number—oh, wait. I already have it on your card.” She moved to close the door, but he stuck his size-twelve Nike in the way.

  She looked down, then back up, her eyes snapping. If they’d been dark lasers, he’d be neatly sliced in two lengthwise. “So that’s how you want to play it,” she commented. “Hold on a second while I get my gun.”

  He laughed. “That was your first mistake, rookie. You should have brought it with you.”

  She drew back, then showed her right hand again—holding the Ladysmith. “Like this?”

  “Like that,” he said. Neatly and lightning-quick, he caught her wrist, pressed a pressure point and took the gun away from her. He checked the safety. It was on.

  “Don’t play with firearms, little girl,” he growled.

  She frowned and her cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t really—”

  He pushed past her and set her weapon on the coffee table. “That’s the problem. Guns aren’t something you fool around with. If you weren’t really, then you shouldn’t have brandished it.”

  She went around the coffee table and sat, quickly grabbing a folder that lay on the seat cushion beside her and stuffing it in between a stack of similar manila folders. Then she carefully slid her left arm into the sling that dangled from her shoulder and picked up a wineglass. She sipped nonchalantly.

  Or tried to. But her cheeks were splotched with pink, and she refused to meet his gaze. She was obviously embarrassed about letting him take her gun.

  “If you want to be a private eye,” he said drily, “you’d better learn how to handle a gun.”

  “I know—”

  “Don’t ever—” he interrupted her “—hold your weapon at arm’s length when your target is close enough to grab it.” He set the eggs down on the coffee table and picked up her Ladysmith.

  He demonstrated. “Stay far enough back that he can’t reach it. If you’re cornered and you can’t step back, hold your weapon close and your arm closer. Press your elbow against your body. It gives you stability. Most importantly, never hold the gun with just one hand, and always check your balance. If the other person gains an advantage over you, you’re dead.”

  She nodded carefully. “Got it,” she said solemnly.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “What?” His abrupt change of subject took her aback.

  “Eaten. You know, dinner?”

  “I—”

  “Great. I know you’ve got salad and bread. Let’s have an omelet.”

  “I don’t—”

  But he’d already grabbed the carton of eggs and headed into the kitchen. Checking the refrigerator, he found some Swiss cheese, an open package of cooked bacon, the salad greens and a half-empty bottle of Cardini’s Caesar salad dressing. “That should be enough for the two of us.”

  She craned her neck to look at him over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “I assume you like Caesar dressing. I’ll just heat the bread, okay?”

  “I don’t— You don’t—”

  Dawson turned his back on her, smiling to himself. He had to admit it was fun keeping her off guard. He turned on the oven to preheat for the French bread, then he sniffed the packaged salad. He hated prepackaged greens, but these at least looked fresh. He emptied them into a glass bowl from her cupboard and ran water on them.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice surprised him. She’d come into the kitchen under cover of the running water and was peering around him at the sink.

  “Rinsing the greens,” he said, trying his best to sound calm, although the peppermint scent of her hair brought to mind the erotic pressure of her firm bottom against him when he broke her fall earlier.

  “But they’re prerinsed.”

  “Trust me, rookie. Rinsing takes the plastic taste away. It’ll be a hundred percent better.” He held up a leaf of arugula. “Taste.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes smoky and filled with doubt, then opened her mouth.

  When Juliana’s lips parted, Dawson completely forgot about the arugula. His gaze slid along the soft, pink opening of her lips the way his tongue wanted to. His mouth watered at the imagined taste of her lips.

  She looked up at him. Her gaze slid down to his neck when he swallowed, then drifted upward again and stopped at his mouth. She rose on tiptoe and leaned toward him.

  Just when he’d decided to meet her halfway for a deep, delicious kiss, she plucked the leaf from his fingers and popped it into her mouth.

  Then she licked her lips and lifted her chin. If he were a betting man, he’d bet that she was laughing at him behind those eyes. “Mmm,” she drawled. “Good.”

  It was his turn to be caught off guard. He was left aching with desire and curiosity when she turned on her heel and went back to the couch. What would she have done if he had kissed her?

  Most likely thrown him out. He could have lost his best bet for finding out what she knew about the Sky Walk’s collapse. He had to be careful. He hadn’t met a woman in a long time who interested him as much as Juliana Caprese did. And because he only went to bed with women who interested him beyond the physical, that long time had long since become a very long time.

  He broke the eggs into a bowl and added crumbled bacon. He couldn’t find a cheese grater, so he chopped the cheese into chunks and tossed it in, then beat the eggs and poured the whole concoction into a heated pan.

  But this wasn’t even marginally about sex. It couldn’t be, even though Juliana Caprese might be the most interesting woman he had ever met. He was here for one reason and one reason only. To find out what she knew about the collapse of the Sky Walk. He needed to know if her father’s death was his father’s fault.

  The odor of toasty French bread filled his nostrils and made him realize he was staring at her black, tumbling hair. He opened the wall oven and grabbed the bread with his bare fingers, then dropped it onto the granite countertop. “Ouch,” he muttered.

  “Burn yourself?” Juliana asked cheerily, rising.

  “Nope. Dinner’s ready.” He grabbed a plate and slid it under the loaf of bread, then carried it to the kitchen table.

  “Burned French bread and watery salad. My favorite,” Juliana said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a new bottle of white wine.

  Dawson opened a couple of drawers until he found freshly washed dish towels. “Watch this,” he said. He unfolded a towel and dumped the greens onto it. Then he caught the corners together and twirled the bundle a few times. When he folded the now-wet towel�
�s corners back, the greens were dry and fresh-looking.

  “Impressive,” she said. She tucked the wine bottle under her left arm and began to twist the cap with her right hand.

  He checked the omelet, flipped it and let it cook on the other side for about a minute. Then he cut it in two and slid the larger portion onto his plate and the smaller one onto hers.

  Dinner was ready, but Juliana was still struggling with the bottle. Dawson sat down and crossed his arms, curious about how long it would take her to admit that she couldn’t open the wine.

  He was beginning to think she might have a stubborn streak.

  She took the bottle from under her arm and stuck it between her knees. That didn’t work any better. She muttered a colorful curse under her breath.

  He chuckled. “Come on, rookie, let me open it for you. How’d you get the first bottle open?”

  She sent him a withering look. “It was already open when—” She gingerly shrugged her left shoulder.

  “So if I wasn’t here, they’d find your skeleton in that chair, with the still-unopened wine bottle clutched in your bony fingers?”

  Her mouth twitched. “I’ll get it open eventually,” she said flatly.

  He plucked the bottle from between her knees and gave the cap a quick twist. Then he filled her glass. “Mind if I have some?”

  “After all that work you did to open it? You deserve it.”

  Dawson tore the bread into small pieces so she wouldn’t have to struggle with it, and then dug into his salad.

  “Rinsing the salad did take the plasticky taste away,” she said grudgingly.

  He didn’t bother answering. He was examining his reaction to sitting in her apartment breaking bread with her. It was a disturbing sensation. After a few minutes of silence, he realized that his discomfort was emanating from her. Despite their outwardly friendly banter, when she thought he wasn’t looking, she eyed him with a guarded suspicion.