Assassin P.I.

ASSASSIN P.I.

ELIZABETH JANETTE

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

ASSASSIN P.I.

Copyright©2016

ELIZABETH JANETTE

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-68291-080-1

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Dad.

Wish you were still here to share your stories

about the good ol’ days living in the Holtville heat

and walking the beat.

Miss you much, Papa.

Acknowledgements

Without my fabulous support system, this book wouldn’t be what it is today. To start, I want to thank my editor, Debby Gilbert, for taking a gamble on this crazy story of mine and helping me whip it into shape. I promise I’ll learn how to correctly hyphenate words for the next one.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Lindsey Burcham for the legal advice, Jeremy Dorough for the info about interrogation rooms, and SSA Shanna Daniels for insight about the FBI.

To my cohort from the Inland Area Writing Project, thanks for letting me regale you with Jack and Angie’s steamy sex scenes during Author’s Chair. Your advice was invaluable, even if my characters did hijack the storyline and refuse to play nice. I tried, I swear.

To my students, thanks for always believing in me, even if you can’t read my books until you hit eighteen.

A heartfelt thanks to Monica and my sisters, who at times endured endless hours of brainstorming sessions against their will.

Much love to my family, particularly to my in-laws for willingly taking the kids so I can have writing time, and my husband and children, who support my dreams, no matter how crazy they are or how hectic it makes life. You are all much appreciated. Kisses.

And an extra special thank you to J.R. for inspiring me to reach for greatness. You touched more lives than you ever knew.

Chapter 1

“
I need your help, Mr. Gaines.”

Jack stifled a groan, refusing to acknowledge the woman who graced the doorway. It always started like that. Some broad would waltz into his office begging for help. Well, not this time. He was through being a sucker with muscles for every pretty dame who had a sad sob story to tell. Retirement was calling his name.

“We’re closed. Go away.” Jack tugged his hat lower and kicked his feet up on the desktop. Grabbing a book, he thumbed through it but peered over the paperback to watch the woman move for the coat rack, her stride restricted by the calf-length black pencil skirt she wore. She was a looker, that was for damn sure. Approximately five-eight, a buck fifteen dripping wet, late twenties or early thirties. The woman shrugged the red pea coat from her shoulders, revealing an hourglass figure draped in expensive clothes. The cream blouse scarcely concealed the lacy bra and the ample breasts beneath. His type of woman.

“Pretty legs, pretty legs,” Jack’s pet parrot squawked from his perch in the corner of the office.

Yes, they were very pretty legs, indeed, but they weren’t walking out the door, despite his insistence that he was closed for the weekend. Manners be damned. Jack exhaled loudly and reiterated, “I said, it’s Sunday, we’re closed.”

She didn’t budge. He mentally added
stubborn
to his list of her undeniable attributes.

“Sign says otherwise,” the woman said, undeterred.

Her voice, silky and lilting, tickled a memory in the dark recesses of his brain. He knew her. His body stirred as he tried to place a name to the legs.

“Pretty legs, pretty legs,” the observant bird insisted.

“Shut up, Shamus,” Jack and the woman commanded simultaneously.

That voice.

Those legs.

Angie.

Shamus squawked in protest but stayed quiet.

Could it be? At least ten years had passed, yet she still had an aura that swirled about her, burrowing deep into his psyche. It was impossible for any hot-blooded man to forget a woman like that.

He was no different.

Angie’s gaze flitted around the room, stopping briefly to take in the files piled haphazardly on the worn furniture. Her eyebrows arched as her gaze lit upon the empty bottle of scotch perched on an ancient record player, a relic from his father’s childhood.

She could take her disdain and shove it. Any man who’d seen what he’d seen was entitled to a little nip now and again. Who was she to judge? If memory served, the little vixen had a few of her own vices.

Tipping his hat so he could get a better view, Jack took in the stiff stance, the uncertainty that marred her otherwise beautiful face. If Angie was coming to him for help, she was desperate. From the slant of her upturned nose and furrowed brow, Jack deduced he was her last resort.

Jack tossed his book aside and dropped his feet to the ground. “Let me guess, you found yourself in bed with the wrong man,” he said, baiting her, “and now you need help getting out.”

Her lips pursed tightly. “I’m not a floozy,” she said, anger flashing through her eyes. She sat down in the chair reserved for paying clients and crossed her shapely legs. He noted the way her stilettos clung to her feet.

Leaning forward, he smiled. He enjoyed pushing her buttons. “What’s a matter? Drug habit, pissed-off pimp, bookie demanding payment? I’ve seen it all, doll.” The chair creaked as he sat back and propped his feet up on the worn oak desk again.

She opened her mouth, no doubt a scathing retort on her lips, but Jack cut her off. “Never mind, I’m not interested. I’m retired.”

Or would be soon enough. His job as a private eye kept him hobnobbing with the more dangerous elements in life, especially when he was tracking down bad guys and eliminating them. But he didn’t have a death wish. After his last job went south, he’d promised himself he’d lay low and get out of the game. And he had every intention of keeping that promise. Bora Bora was calling his name, baby.

“Cut the crap, Jack. You owe me.” Angie stood, sidestepping the desk until she was inches away from his face. Sweeping his feet aside, she slid onto the desk. “Remember this?”

Resting a foot on Jack’s crotch, she inched the black skirt up past the top of her flesh-toned silk stocking and garter to reveal the ivory handle of a sheathed dagger. To the right of it, flames from a fire-breathing dragon tattoo concealed the ugly scars of a childhood trauma, courtesy of her stepfather.

“Who could forget such a lovely dagger being thrust so perilously close to my manhood?” He stood, pulling her off the desk and into his embrace. Mahogany curls curved around his fingers as he brushed her hair aside. The gold flecks in her brown eyes glistened. But it was her lips that were calling to him at the moment.

Once, he’d been in love with her.

Maybe still was.

Their lips met, and she sighed into his embrace. Her head dropped back, giving Jack full access to her body. Goosebumps rose on the silky skin of her neck as he kissed his way toward her collarbone. Clumsy fingers struggled with the buttons on her blouse until at last Jack could slide a hand into her bra to warm his fingers against her breast.

Sheer heaven.

Shamus whistled appreciatively and danced on his perch. “Lucky bastard!” the bird squawked.

“Now about that job.” Angie pushed away from Jack. She straightened her clothing and rebuttoned her shirt. “I pay cash. Twenty large.”

Shamus made kissing noises. “Kissie, kissie.”

“Dammit, woman! You don’t play fair.” Jack didn’t bother to hide the desire that coursed through his body and adjusted his pants, making sure she saw. He moved to the bar, anxious to put some distance between them. Thinking straight was always a challenge with Angie around.

He grabbed a glass and poured himself a scotch. “I told you, I’m retired.”

She chuckled and strode across the room to follow Jack. Snatching his hat, Angie dropped it onto her head and leaned against the counter. “Forty-year-olds don’t retire. They have mid-life crises. You’re just a sucker with a foot fetish and a thing for old gumshoe movies.”

Jack took a swig of the drink but found little courage in the liquid that burned his throat. “Never bothered you in the past. Why’d you come back, Ang?”

Hell, did it even matter why?

“It’s just a job, Jack.” She paused. Vulnerability oozed from her every pore. “Nothing more. Trust me, you are the last person I wanted to ask for help.”

Wasn’t that the truth. He couldn’t blame her either. He always was his own worst enemy, letting his many vices get in the way of his happiness.

“I hate to admit this, but . . .” Her gaze sought his.

No matter how many women he’d taken to his bed, it was her eyes that haunted his dreams. Always those damn bedroom eyes of hers. She was the only woman he couldn’t shake. Jack brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “I like the new look.”

She’d shucked the air of youthful innocence in favor of sultry brunette locks that suited her fiery personality to a T and gave her the femme fatale vibe men were drawn to.

Angie drew a deep breath and released it with a shiver. “I need you.”

Need wasn’t the same thing as want. She didn’t want him to be her lover. She needed him to be her hero. Retrieving his hat, he placed it back on his head. “So tell me about this job of yours.”

Her chin jutted defiantly as her spine straightened, her gaze infused with steel. She transformed before his eyes. “Track down my husband’s killer. I want him to pay.”

“Shoot to kill, shoot to kill,” Shamus urged.

A sense of dread settled in Jack’s gut. Why did he get the feeling he’d just signed his own death warrant and sealed it with a kiss? It never ceased to amaze him how easily a gal could convince him to do her dirty work. Saying no to Angie was just as pointless now as it was when they first met years ago. Break out the bullets, and bring on the bad guys, Jack’s back in the vigilante justice business.

Angie glanced in the rearview mirror.
Damn. Her lipstick had smudged and lost some of its sheen. She traced her lips with a finger. Jack always was a great kisser.

She cast a quick glance back at his office. Just thinking about the smoldering kiss was enough to send her pulse racing. Some men fizzled with age, losing their hair, their good looks, their stamina in bed.

But not Jack.

Jack’s thick, short dark hair, slightly mussed, was just beginning to gray slightly at the temples. Sideburns tapered to a perpetual five o’clock shadow which did little to conceal the strong jaw or hide those chiseled-from-marble cheekbones. And if his kiss was any indication of his stamina in bed . . .

Her panties were damp just thinking about it.

Angie cradled the cell phone between her shoulder and ear, tapping her manicured fingernails on the steering wheel while she waited for the connection to be made.

On the third ring, a voice answered, “You’re late.”

“Yeah, well, our little reunion took longer than I expected.”

“Did he take the bait?”

Was there ever any doubt?
A man like Jack would never turn down a woman, especially one who was in trouble or had been wronged somehow. He was a regular old Sam Spade, with old-fashioned morals and a wicked thirst for justice, stuck living in the perfectly immoral twenty-first century. All she had to do was play her part, and Jack would do the rest.

“Just like I told you he would. He’s meeting me at the club tonight at nine to discuss the case.”

“What about the voice recorder?”

“I dropped the pen like we talked about. Easy peasy. If he happens to find it, no biggie. The pen looks, feels, and works like any other ordinary pen. He’ll never know it’s secretly recording his every word.”

She could only hope she’d spooked Jack into saying something to incriminate himself before the battery ran out. “In a couple days, I’ll make an excuse to go by the office and swipe it off his desk. Now what?” Angie dug her signature lip color from her purse. Parting her lips, she applied a fresh coat and smacked her lips together.

“Now we wait. You sure you’re up to this?”

Please. She’d been ready ever since Trevor’s demise. Taking one last parting look at Jack’s office, Angie eased her ’65 Mustang into traffic. “Don’t worry. I got this.”