Buch lesen: «Close To The Edge»
“Unlike you, I do not lack experience.”
“So I’ve gathered.” Jacey’s gaze slid to his, and he didn’t trust the speculative gleam in her eyes. “Maybe you can help me, after all.”
“Anything. As I’ve proven tonight, I’m at your service.”
Jacey smiled, slow and satisfied, and he had the distinct sense that he’d stepped neatly into a trap. “That’s just where I want you. At my service, so to speak.”
Lucky choked. She couldn’t possibly have meant that the way it had sounded. “Careful. A less astute man would have assumed you meant…”
“That I want to sleep with you? That is what I meant.”
Lucky’s throat seemed to have closed completely, his lungs shut down. But the rest of his body was showing remarkable signs of interest.
Close to the Edge
Kylie Brant
KYLIE BRANT
lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.
An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.
She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com. Her Web site is www.kyliebrant.com.
For Justin, the entertainer of the family.
I love you, sweetie!
Acknowledgment
Special thanks to Edward Fischer, forensic psychologist, for your infinite patience with my questions about private investigation. I value your assistance and our conversations more than you can know!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Lucky Boucher would have sworn that his day couldn’t get any lousier. But it took an abrupt nosedive at about the same time the tony blonde walked into Frenchy’s.
Not that he could totally blame the events of the day on the blonde. It wasn’t her fault that his 1980 Firebird—on which he lavished as much time and devotion as a mother did on her infant—picked that morning to stage a most costly tantrum. Nor could he fault the woman for his hairstylist’s distraction that afternoon, which had resulted in his hair being cut a full quarter-inch shorter than his specifications.
But from the moment she entered the place any thoughts he’d had of a relaxing evening were banished. He watched with a feeling of resignation as she swept the tavern’s shabby interior with a regal gaze, then made her way toward the bar. There was a collective hiss, as if all the men in the place had simultaneously sucked in their guts and squared their shoulders.
With a mournful shake of his head, he returned his attention to his pool game. He wasn’t one given to philosophizing, but there were a few absolutes in this world. Men would always act like fools when faced with a beautiful woman, even one as far out of their league as this one. And the presence of a classy female in a place like this was a powder keg waiting to detonate.
From the wisdom of experience he knew, as a rule, blondes were generally trouble.
However, he wasn’t above using the diversion she posed to his own advantage. While his opponent was still drooling in her direction, Lucky sized up his shot, then banked the cue ball off one side of the table to kiss the three, sending it into the corner pocket.
The sound had his opponent, a thick muscle-bound man known only as Stally, swiveling his head back toward the table with a scowl on his face. “What the hell you doing?”
“Whippin’ your ass in pool.” Lucky straightened to chalk his cue stick, while considering his next play. “The fact that you have to ask makes me almost sorry about takin’ your money.” He sent the man an insincere grin. “Almost.”
Stally’s brows drew closer together. “Play don’t continue ’til both players are looking at the table. That last shot of yours don’t count.”
Lucky leaned forward to line up his next shot, resting his cue lightly on his outstretched thumb to balance it. “What’s that, some obscure rule from the pool etiquette handbook? Keep your attention on the game, mon ami. Perhaps you will learn something.” The six was then sent spinning to a side pocket.
“He is generally an untrustworthy sort,” Remy Delacroix, Lucky’s supposed friend offered lazily from a nearby table. “You need to keep your eye on him at all times. Fortunately for you, I was watchin’ the table. The shot was clean.”
“I still don’t like it.”
With an inner sigh, Lucky deliberately botched his next attempt and stepped aside with a flourish. “I’ll give you one last turn then. Make it count.”
With a sneer, the man circled the table to study his options. Lucky used the time to check out the blonde’s progress. The bar stool she’d chosen was right beside Goldie Bellow’s, an all-around lowlife who made his living running girls through some of New Orleans’ less savory hotels. Today the pimp was dressed in a lime-green suit with a bright-yellow shirt. Next to the woman’s tailored white shirt and crisply pressed jeans, he looked like a gaudy plastic Mardi Gras bead set next to a pearl necklace.
While Lucky watched, the bartender put a drink before her and Bellows made a production of paying for it from a large roll of bills he’d taken from his pocket.
It hadn’t escaped him that men were falling over themselves vacating nearby tables and filling the rest of the stools to get closer to the woman. He gave it another fifteen minutes before all hell broke loose.
Stally’s muttered curse brought his gaze back to the pool table. The other man had managed to sink three balls before missing the fourth.
“Looks like you may have met your match, Boucher,” Remy suggested, raising a finger to summon the waitress for another round.
“Your confidence is overwhelmin’. Watch and learn.” Within short order, he sank his next three balls, and concentrated on dispatching the lone eight ball remaining. Raised voices from the direction of the bar had him mentally shaving five minutes off his original estimate. With unhurried motions, he lined up his last shot.
“Move over, buddy. It’s my turn.”
Stally’s demand came just as Lucky was about to send the cue ball barreling into the eight. He lifted his head. “What are you babblin’ about?”
With a threatening expression, the other man said, “You scratched. Just now. The tip of your stick touched the felt. I seen it plain as day.” He glanced around at the other customers in the vicinity, as if looking for support. But it wasn’t the swell of onlookers that had Lucky bending to his shot again. It was the sudden activity at the bar. Another man had made his move, and was trying to engage the blonde’s attention.
“Right corner pocket.” Lucky dispatched the last ball in short order, then straightened, his gaze on the woman, as he reached for the two fifties lying on the side of the table.
Stally’s hand slapped down over his. “Like I said, you scratched. We’ll play the game over.”
“Why?” Lucky barely spared the man a glance. “Do you figure to play better the second time around?” Goldie was off his stool, he noted, one hand clamped around the blonde’s arm. The other man was rising, as well, to lean menacingly across the woman. She looked like a very small, very defenseless rabbit trapped between two snarling wolves.
“You’re a funny guy.” Stally’s voice lacked real appreciation. “But I said we’ll play it over, so that’s what we’ll do. Unless you want everyone here to know that you’re a coward, as well as a cheat.”
“Um, if I may make an observation,” Remy said diffidently, “he didn’t scratch. Boucher doesn’t cheat at pool. With women, yes. Can’t be trusted around them. Wise men lock up their daughters when he’s in the vicinity.” There was a low murmur of agreement from the crowd that had gathered. “But pool…no. You got beat, my friend, fair and square.”
“Thank you so much,” Lucky told Remy with mock politeness. “Remind me to return the favor someday.” He shifted his attention from his friend’s grin to the man who still held his hand clapped over his. “It appears, mon ami, that no one agrees with you. So pay up, if you ever want to play here again.”
It was long tension-filled seconds later before the man’s grip loosened, and his hand was lifted away completely. “Wise choice.” Lucky gave him a careless smile and scooped up the money, tucking it into his jeans pocket. His attention already diverted by the scene unfolding at the bar, he said, “Better luck next time.”
“I’m not gonna forget this. What’s your name—Bullshit?” Lucky stilled, re-focused on the man at his side. “Yeah, I ain’t gonna forget you, Bullshit. This ain’t over.”
He barely heard Remy’s groan. Didn’t notice the sudden scrambling as men hastened to back away from the table. One moment the taller man was spitting on the floor between them, and the next moment Lucky was behind him, holding a cue stick across his throat, cutting off his oxygen.
“I am normally a very forgivin’ kind of guy,” Lucky said conversationally. Stally’s hands were on the stick, trying to wrest it away, so he exerted more pressure on it. “You can call me a cheat. That is only your opinion, n’est ce pas? You can even call me a coward. After all, that’s a matter of perception.” An edge of steel entered his tone. “But you do not, ever, joke about my name. My grand-mère has always been a stickler about that. It’s Boo-shin.” He gave it the French pronunciation, with the final letter almost silent. The man gave a strangled gasp as a response. “Or if you can’t manage that, Boo-shay is acceptable. Let me hear you try.” He loosened the pressure slightly.
“Boo-shay,” the man gasped, his voice hoarse.
Lucky freed him suddenly, his tone again amiable. “There, that was not so hard, was it?” Stally bent over, wheezing, and Lucky clapped him on the back. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstandin’ on your part.”
“You’re crazy,” the man sputtered, backing away even as he uttered the words.
Lucky’s gaze went again to the bar, and he winced. Goldie and the stranger were trading punches, as the blonde was attempting to sidle out from between the two of them. With a crash, Goldie sent the other man into a table and jumped on him. The woman ducked to the floor. Ambling in the direction of the battle, he said, “At times like these, it is difficult to disagree with you.”
Several patrons had surrounded the men, shouting encouragement and jeers. Money changed hands as bets on the outcome were made. The woman was easing toward the exit, but her escape was thwarted by a ponytailed biker who stood and grabbed her arm as she passed by. Lucky walked faster. Before he could reach the pair, she moved swiftly, ramming her knee into the man’s groin, doubling him over. Then she sailed out the door.
Three other men began to follow her. Lucky beat them to the exit. “Goldie’s offerin’ a hundred to anyone who helps him out.” Two of them stopped, turning to look speculatively at the couple on the floor. The third kept moving.
“She’s not for the likes of you, friend.” Lucky stiffarmed the man, preventing him from passing by. There was a loud crash as Goldie was tossed over the bar and into the bottles lined up in back of it. “It would be much healthier for you to watch the show in here.”
“Hell with you, Boucher. You just want her for yourself.”
It was easy enough to dodge the punch the man aimed at his stomach. But as the crowd shifted, pressing in closer to the battle near the bar, Lucky was thrown off balance. He didn’t quite manage to duck the left jab the man threw. It snapped his head back, and for a moment he saw stars. The man pushed by him, then tripped over Lucky’s outstretched leg. A well-aimed push had him flat on his face, and in the next moment Lucky’s knee was in his back. Taking the man’s head between his hands, Lucky rapped it smartly against the floor, felt the guy go limp. Giving it another rap for good measure, he rose, wiggled his jaw gingerly.
“Looks like you’re goin’ to have a bruise, my friend.”
Lucky sent a disparaging glance at Remy, who looked as though he was enjoying himself hugely. “As always, your assistance is greatly appreciated.”
“I had your back,” Remy assured him, tipping the bottle of beer to his lips. With a meaningful glance toward the door, he noted, “You know, that blonde isn’t your type either.”
Lucky pushed out of the bar, his friend’s words echoing in his ears. High-class former debutantes were about as far from his usual female companions as it was possible to be. He liked to believe, however, that it was by choice. His.
When he hit the sidewalk he became aware that a slight mist was falling. Perfect. Hunching his shoulders, he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and headed down the street. Given the events of the evening, he didn’t need any further proof of his earlier conviction. Blondes were trouble. Always.
Keeping an eye on the clock on her office wall, Jacinda Eloise Wheeler unbuttoned her plain white shirt with one hand and undid her jeans with the other. Shimmying out of the denim, she stripped off her socks and leaned against the corner of her desk to draw first one, then the other thigh-high nylon over her legs. With any luck she could slip into the Sisters of the South Auxillary gathering before dinner was served. That timing, she hoped, would save her from her mother’s inevitable disapproval.
There was a tiny noise behind her. Whirling, she saw her office door swing open, a dark shape of a man filling it. A strangled scream escaped her throat, even as she reached behind her, searching her desktop for a weapon. Her fingers closed around a heavy paperweight just as the figure stepped into the room.
Then her eyelids slid closed in relief. “Damn you, Boucher, you scared me to death.”
Lucky’s face was lit with unmistakable male appreciation. “If you had shown just a little bit of those riches back at the bar, cher, your evenin’ might have been a bit more productive.”
For a moment she stared at him blankly, before following his gaze to her chest. She dropped the paperweight and yanked her shirt closed, felt her cheeks firing. “A gentleman,” she pointed out from between clenched teeth, “wouldn’t have looked.”
“What have I ever done to give you the impression that I’m a gentleman?”
He managed, she thought, to sound affronted. And he was right. Of all the descriptives she could come up with, gentleman would never make the list. He looked more like one of Lucifer’s henchmen, handpicked to roam the earth wreaking havoc on the female population. The light rain had dampened his black hair, which was always kept just a shade too long. Right now it nearly touched his collar in the back, though he’d claimed he was leaving early to get a haircut that afternoon. Given his aversion to shaving, his jaw was most often shadowed. They’d long ago reached a compromise so that he used a razor at least every other day, making him due again tomorrow. His eyes, as dark as his hair, usually held a wicked gleam that, if rumors could be believed, had led hundreds of unwary female hearts to their ruination.
The lazy bayou cadence of his languid drawl put most people at ease, but the more wary would never mistake him for harmless. Not with that slight hint of menace layered beneath the lazy affability. Given his penchant for jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with suggestive sayings, he looked like exactly what he was—a man who had grown up in the swamps and had lived by his wits in the back alleys of New Orleans. The fresh bruise blooming below one eye only added to his aura of danger.
He ambled into the room and propped his hips against a chair to survey her. “What were you doin’ in Frenchy’s tonight?”
“I am not going to stand here half naked and have a conversation with you!”
His mouth twitched. “A shame, since you make such a picture half naked.” When she reached for the paperweight again, he made a production of raising his hands and turned his back with exaggerated care. “What could you possibly be plannin’ after startin’ a riot in Frenchy’s? Wrestlin’ a few alligators? Leapin’ tall buildings with a single bound?”
“I’m meeting my mother for dinner.” And, she realized, with another quick glance at the clock, she was almost certain to be late. Giving up the battle, she slipped the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. “Hand me that dress, will you?”
He reached for the sedate black dress hanging over the back of the chair and held it up to study it. “A present from a nun?”
She snatched it from him, yanked down the zipper, and stepped into it. “From my mother.”
“That explains it. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
Struggling to zip up, she said, “I got a tip this afternoon about that missing girl, Cheryl Kenning. Remember her?”
“Twenty-year-old, reported missin’ by her grandparents. The NOPD found her hookin’, didn’t they?”
“That’s the one.” She jammed her feet into her high-heeled pumps. “I discovered that she was working for Goldie, and with a little digging I was able to come up with a list of his hangouts.”
Without asking permission, he spun around to frown at her. “And you thought you’d just ask him to point you in her general direction?”
“Give me some credit. I heard he carried his business ledger with him.” She rounded the desk to pull open the center drawer. Withdrawing a small black notebook, she waggled it, feeling smug. “This fell on the floor after I arranged to have him distracted. I managed to swipe it on my way out.”
“You arranged? The guy that provoked him was workin’ with you?”
One of the nice things about Lucky, she thought, as she dropped the notebook back in the drawer, was that he caught on so quickly. She never had to waste time explaining things.
Admiration sounded in his voice. “Very nice. Devious, yet simple.”
“Thank you. I learned from the master.” She went to her bag, withdrew a small purse that would match the dress, and began transferring a few things from the one she’d carried earlier. “Apparently each girl he has working for him frequents the same few locations. I’ll spend some time staking them out, and then when I can be certain of the location Cheryl frequents, I’ll let her grandparents know.”
“So they can do what? Kidnap her?”
Snapping her purse closed, she searched the bag for the flat jewelry box that held her grandmother’s pearls. Pushing aside a tiny sliver of uncertainty, she responded, “That will be up to them. My job was just to find her. Help me with these, will you?”
Lucky moved in back of her and took the two ends of the necklace and fastened the clasp. But when he was done, he didn’t step away. He turned her around, his hands remaining on her arms, his face serious. “She had a chance to leave that life the last time the police picked her up, and her grandparents were alerted. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave, have you ever thought of that? You may not approve of her choice, but she still has the right to make it.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed over a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and the difference was inevitably reflected in their attitudes. But knowing that, understanding it, didn’t make it any less annoying this time. “My approval doesn’t have anything to do with it. He might have gotten her hooked on drugs. Or she might be too afraid of him to leave. She’ll get her choice, and it won’t be tempered by fear or addiction.”
Not every case handled by Wheeler and Associates was imbued with moral implications. Most, as a matter of fact, bordered on the mundane. But there were cases, plural, and the knowledge filled Jacey with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She’d started the private investigation business as soon as she could get her hands on her trust-fund monies, over the vehement objections of her mother. She’d acquired the training, found the building and done the advertising. And then, for the better part of a year, she’d twiddled her thumbs.
It seemed that few in her circle of acquaintances had need for a PI, however upscale and discreet. And most who had stopped in had lost interest quickly when it became apparent that hers was a one-woman operation. That had abruptly changed when Lucky Boucher had walked through her door three years ago.
Rather than bringing her a case, he’d been looking for work. The idea had been laughable, since she couldn’t even keep herself busy. And he…he had been completely inappropriate, even if she had been considering employees. He was too rough, too unpolished and his background bordered on the unsavory. He’d also been impossible to get rid of.
He’d snatched the lone case file off her desk and read it over her furious objection. Then he’d left, after vowing to find the bail jumper she’d been hired to trace within twenty-four hours.
It had taken him six.
After two weeks and two more solved cases, his constant badgering had worn her down. Besides, as he’d pointed out then, he worked cheap. She’d hired him reluctantly, fully expecting him to tire of the job and move on within weeks. He’d surprised them both by staying. Even more shocking, they had somehow, along the way, become friends.
At least, she thought that was what they were. She trusted him, in a way she did no other, although at times it was difficult to tell just who was the boss and who was the employee. She seemed to spend most of her time reminding him.
He dropped his hands, freeing her. But instead of moving away, she frowned, reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face. “Did your pool partner catch up with you after I left?”
He’d never been one to miss a chance to milk an opportunity. Making a show of wincing, he said, “No, this bouele was delivered by one of your would-be admirers. There were several who thought of followin’ you out of the bar. I convinced them otherwise.”
Rather than looking grateful, she appeared mildly amused. “So you were protecting me? Lucky, that’s so sweet.”
Discomfited, he shrugged. There was something about the woman that could make him feel like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “Well, if one had hurt you, I’d have had to do all the work around here. Since I already carry more than my load, I was just thinkin’ of myself.”
She made a sound that almost qualified as a sniff, one she often used to denote derision and disagreement without having to do something as ill-bred as argue. It never failed to set his teeth on edge.
“I think I demonstrated my ability to take care of myself in there. Was that biker walking again by the time you left?”
He hadn’t been, but Lucky didn’t want to swell her head by telling her so. “Next time give him a good kick once he’s down. You want to disable him completely, not just piss him off.”
“Thank you so much.” From the sweet smile she was gracing him with, he was given the impression that she was considering carrying out his advice on him. “But I don’t have time for your lavish compliments.” She glanced at the clock and made a face, reaching for a ridiculously small purse. “I should have called for a cab, but it’s too late. And my mother is going to be impossible.”
“That goes without sayin’.” Impossible was a much more favorable description than any he would have come up with. He and Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler regarded each other with thinly veiled contempt.
“All right.” She gave a deep breath, smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”
With a critical eye, he surveyed her. “Prim as a librarian. A very dull librarian.”
“Why would I even ask you?” she muttered, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. Crossing to a mirror on the opposite wall, she applied it carefully. “You’ve made your preferences regarding women’s attire all too clear.”
He slouched against the wall to watch her. “Low-cut top, short skirt, panties optional. Choices that never go out of fashion.”
“Any question about your fashion sense is answered by reading the shirts you insist on wearing.”
Offended, he looked down at his favorite black T-shirt, which proclaimed I love everybody. You’re next. “You’re just bein’ mean because you have to spend the evenin’ with your mother.”
She blotted her lipstick and dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. “I have to go. Lock up for me, will you? And don’t forget to set the alarm. And check the windows. And make sure the door closes tightly behind you. It kind of sticks, you know, and I’m afraid…”
He gave her a friendly nudge out the office door. “I know how to lock up. Go. Have as good a time as possible with the Witches of the South.”
He thought, he was almost certain, he heard a smile in her voice. “Sisters of the South. Thanks. And you get one of your girlfriends to look at that bruise. I’m sure, given your skills, you can appear pathetic enough to be plied with TLC all night.”
The thought was cheering. “If not, I’m losin’ my touch.” And there was no reason, none at all, to believe that was true. He stood watching while she dashed through the rain to the car she’d parked right in front of the business. It wasn’t until the taillights winked and she pulled away, that he turned back to the office, already flipping through a mental file. Who should he call? Desiree? Leanne? Monique? Reaching for the phone, he punched in a number. With a pitying look at the now-empty street, Lucky was certain of one thing. Whatever he ended up doing this evening, it would beat what Jacey had waiting for her, hands down.
