Force of Nature (7 page)

Robin stood up. This was surreal. “Wow, so much for the diatribes about tolerance that I’m always hearing when I come over.
Gay, straight, or bi, you’re my brother and I love you. But I don’t want you near my kid.
”

Janey actually laughed. “This isn’t about your being gay, you idiot.”

“Shhh,” he said. It was an automatic reflex, which was stupid, because there was no one here to overhear them.

“You drink too much,” Janey told him. “Cos and I don’t want you to sit for Billy because you
drink
too much.”

“Yeah.” He felt sick to his stomach. “Right. Good excuse, Jane.”

“It’s not an excuse.” She was mad now, too. “Don’t be a fool. You were sitting right here when I left a message asking Scotty to sit.”

Scotty, as in their mutual friend Scott, who lived with his longtime companion, Jack…

“Look at you, you’re drunk right now.” Jane’s anger morphed into thorough disgust.

“I am not,” he protested.

“You’re always extra stupid when you drink,” she informed him.

He’d offended her, and he knew he should apologize, but…Robin got mad all over again. Because this was ridiculous. Did she and Cosmo actually think…? “I mean, yeah, I had a few with lunch, to celebrate the end of the press junkets, but I’m not
drunk.
”

“There’s always something to celebrate, isn’t there?” Jane asked, crossing the kitchen to pick up Billy, who was starting to get freaked by their raised voices.

“Yeah,” Robin agreed. “Yes. There is. Life is good, Janey. This movie’s going to be huge—I’m a
star.
I’ve finally made it. I’m allowed to celebrate.”

“And
I’m
allowed to say that I don’t want you
celebrating
around Billy,” she shot back. “You of all people should understand why.”

What was she saying? “I’m nothing like my mother,” he whispered. He’d spent the first part of his childhood in an ever-widening black hole of neglect. Neglect that Janey had rescued him from. No doubt about it, his ethereally beautiful mother had loved him, her only child, but she’d loved her gin and tonics more.

“Yeah, well. I think you got way more than your blue eyes from her.” Jane had never been one to hold back. She covered Billy’s ears. “I think it’s time you stopped bullshitting yourself, Robin.”

“And maybe you should take your own advice.” He could play this way—unsheathe his claws. “You’re just jealous because I’m the success.”

She laughed in his face, because they both knew the truth.
He
was the one who was jealous—of her happiness. “Yeah,” she said. “Congratulations. Your agent, your manager, and your accountant all really,
really
love you. That must make you feel great.”

Robin kept his mouth shut over words he didn’t want to say, words he’d never be able to take back. Instead, he went out the door, slamming it behind him.

Jesus, he needed a drink.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

“L
ouellen Jones?” Ric had to laugh as he searched for the switch that would turn on the headlights in Annie’s car. He was driving so she could sit with needy little Pierre in her lap.

She reached across him, around the steering wheel, her shoulder brushing his chest as she flipped the lights on. “Go ahead and mock me, Dick Tracy. So I panicked and made up a name. I also got the job done.”

“Maybe,” Ric pointed out. “There’s no guarantee that Brenda still lives in Palm Gardens. It’s a pretty high-end address for an exotic dancer. Particularly one who’s out of work.”

Annie flipped open her little leather-bound pad, pushing on the overhead light so she could read her notes. “The manager—her name was Mary Allen—she told me that Brenda was given a severance package—of sorts—after her ex-boyfriend showed up at the strip club, looking for her. Apparently, he and his friends tore the place up. Brenda injured her back in the melee—” She glanced up. “That’s a direct quote from Mary, and apparently it was quite the mother of all bar fights. When the dust settled, Brenda signed off on some kind of ‘I will not sue’ agreement, which included a financial incentive—and a provision that neither Brenda nor her ex ever again darken Screech’s door.”

“Mary give you the name of the ex?” Ric asked, signaling to make a left turn.

“Nope,” Annie reported, clicking off the light. “When I asked, she said
Satan.
I said,
seriously…
But then my phone rang, and she used that as an excuse to end our conversation.”

It was Ric who’d called her, interrupting her interview. “Sorry. You were in there so long, Pierre was getting anxious.”

She kissed the top of her dog’s tiny head. “Poor baby. But I always come back. Don’t I? Yes, I do.” She glanced at Ric. “I should probably get him his own cell phone so you don’t have to use up your minutes making calls for him.”

“Obviously,” Ric said, “I was worried, too. Annie, really, you’ve had no training—”

“So train me.” She turned in her seat, toward him. “Please, Ric. You don’t even have to pay me while you’re doing it. I’ve got some money saved.”

“Annie,” he started, but she cut him off.

“I’m good at this. I actually had fun tonight. More fun that I’ve had since Pam died, if you want to know the truth.”

Annie Dugan had been a master manipulator back when she was eleven years old. The fact that she was out here tonight, working this case with him, was proof that she hadn’t yet lost her skill. Back in his office, when she’d gotten those tears in her eyes…Ric had known right then that he was screwed. Whatever she asked for, he’d try to deliver. And sure enough, here they were.

But now, with her face lit by the headlights of the oncoming traffic, her gray eyes were wide and guileless.

She
had
done a good job tonight. Although…

“So you just walked into Screech’s, walked up to Mary Allen, and she just…willingly answered your questions?” Ric asked her.

“Yup,” Annie said.

He glanced at her and the guilelessness was gone from her eyes. Yeah, there was a little more to the story than she was telling him. “After you gave her…how much? A hundred bucks?”

“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “That would be, oh, let’s see if I can figure out
that
math—a hundred percent of our take for this entire case? Not too smart a move. No, she obviously wanted to talk to me about Brenda—I don’t think she liked her very much. A twenty gave her reason enough to vent.”

So okay. Annie was thrifty as well as smart. And as long as he limited her to the easy cases—the ones where she couldn’t possibly get hurt…Man, was he really considering doing this?

“Plus, she seemed to like me,” Annie continued. “We bonded. So if you decide that today’s just a fluke, and that from now on you’re going to chain me to the reception desk, I’ve always got an in at Screech’s. Who knew? Apparently there’s a place there for dancers who are zaftig.”

“Zaftig,” Ric repeated. No way.

“That’s a polite way of saying larger,” she told him.

“I know what it means.” Apparently his definition of
zaftig
was different from Mary’s. “I wouldn’t call you zaftig. You’re…” Damn. Now that he’d started that sentence, he had to finish it. “Nicely put together.”

Thankfully, they had arrived at Palm Gardens, so he focused on pulling into the private drive for the apartment complex, pausing at the signs just inside the front gate.

“Building five,” Annie told him, consulting her pad in the street light. “Mary said Brenda’s apartment number is 508C.”

A sign for buildings three, four, and five pointed him around to the right, back toward the lake with the fountains. He slowly headed over the speed-bump-laden route.

The complex was set up in a series of three-story-buildings with outside stairways going up to balcony-style walkways, which led to the various apartments. A place like this, though, had to have elevators, too—probably in some sort of central lobby.

As they passed buildings three and four, Ric saw that
C
meant a third-floor unit. The penthouse, so to speak.

Annie was silent, looking around, no doubt taking note of the expensive cars in the lot. The grounds were well groomed, the swimming pool enormous. A sign pointed the way to the tennis courts and clubhouse. There was no doubt about it. Money lived here.

As if a punctuation mark to that fact, a sleek black limo was idling near building five, in a no-standing zone.

It wasn’t until Ric parked and they got out of the car, leaving the windows open for Pierre, that Annie spoke.

“Nicely put together,” she mused, and Ric realized his earlier relief had been premature. “Generally, people say that when they don’t want to be mean. When they can’t think of anything positive to say without lying. It’s the equivalent of saying
You looked like you were having fun up there
to a friend who was in a show that you thought sucked.”

“Third floor,” Ric told her. “Door closest to us. Don’t look straight at it.”

The door was clearly marked 508C, with ornate gold numbers and letters. The windows surrounding it were brightly lit, but just at that moment, the lights went out and the door opened. Someone was coming out.

Three someones. One of them was female and blond.

The limo moved closer, surely not by accident as Annie exclaimed, “Would you look at that moon?”

“Looks like Brenda’s got herself a sugar daddy,” Ric murmured, pulling Annie against him, her back pressed to his front, his arms encircling her.

“Are you sure it’s her?” she whispered, playing along, covering his arms with her own, leaning her head against his shoulder, as if they were lovers looking at the stars.

Well, okay, so this was Florida and the haze factor usually eliminated most starlight. Tonight was no exception. They were lucky, though. The moon was shining through the clouds.

“No,” he whispered back. He wasn’t sure it was Brenda—she was still too far away. And yeah, Annie was a solid, comfortable armful, but zaftig? Come on. “Let’s let her come closer.” They were standing on the path, directly between the exit from the building and the limo. She’d have to go right past them.

Assuming that this was her gentleman friend’s limo.

Except, up on the third floor, the trio had turned around and trooped back to the apartment.

One of the men unlocked the door, and the blonde went back inside.

“Hurry the fuck up,” a disgruntled male voice carried down to them.

“Charming as well as wealthy,” Annie murmured. “How long can we get away with standing here like a pair of idiots?”

As if on cue, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, leaving them staring up into the nothingness of the night sky.

“Uh-oh,” Annie said.

On the third floor, the two men lit cigarettes, leaning against the railing, still waiting for the blonde.

Their options were pretty limited; still, Ric ran through them in his mind. They could do this overtly—just walk up those stairs, approach the two men, inquire as to whether Brenda Quinn lived in apartment 508C.

That approach was simple and to the point, and would be easier than this undercover investigation they were attempting.

Problem was, every instinct he had was screaming that there would be trouble if Brenda and Co. found out they were looking for her. Keeping this covert seemed ridiculously important.

Of course, maybe he just wanted an excuse to kiss his best friend’s little sister.

Annie turned in his arms to face him. “Maybe we could pretend we’re reciting poetry to each other. ‘There once was a girl from France, who wanted to learn how to dance…’”

Ric laughed. “That’s not poetry.”

“Cut me some slack. I’m thinking on my feet here. I don’t see you doing much of anything—”

He kissed her.

He felt her surprise for only a fraction of a second before she caught on, and she kissed him back. Man, she was good at making it look real—anyone watching them would have to look away to avoid getting scorched from the emanating heat.

Her mouth was as sweet as he’d always imagined, her body as soft, as she molded herself against him. Her hands were in his hair, down his back, and—Mother of God—cupping his ass, pulling him closer. She angled her head to kiss him more deeply, going so far as to wrap one leg around him, shifting her hips until her heat was rubbing him and there was no way she could miss knowing that he was already inappropriately aroused.

Although, damn. It was surely more inappropriate
not
to get turned on while getting dry-humped by a sexy woman who had her tongue in his mouth and her hands all over his butt. And okay, if she touched him
there
again, he was going to embarrass himself.

He grabbed her hands and pulled away and found himself staring down at her upturned face, into her amazing-colored eyes.

“Here they come,” she whispered, and for several endless seconds, he had absolutely no clue what she meant. And then he remembered.

Brenda Quinn.

Right.

Annie was breathing as hard as he was, but she still managed to speak. “They’ve locked the door and they’re heading for the stairs,” she told him, her hands back in his hair. “We just need to stall for a few more seconds…”

No way was he kissing her again, but she was up on her toes, pulling his head down to her mouth.

Ric knew only one definite way to stop her. “We’re going to do this on a trial basis,” he said. His voice sounded raspy, thick, and he had to clear his throat. “This training thing, okay? I’ll continue to pay your salary and you’ll continue to do the secretarial work that I need done. You won’t get to work on everything. If I say it’s too dangerous, you don’t argue. If I tell you to duck, you duck and you ask any questions later. I’ll test you constantly, and if you fail, just once, the deal’s off—are we clear?”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

“Good,” he said. “And this—you know—kind of thing…That we’re doing here? It won’t happen again. Because it’s just…too weird.”

But Annie’s attention was over his shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s her,” she whispered, and he turned just as she called out, “Excuse me…”

If this was Brenda, she’d cut her hair Halle Berry short. She was much skinnier than the girl in Lillian’s photos, too. Any chance of IDing her via her tattoos was eliminated by the jacket she wore, despite the heat of the night.

Heroin addict, anyone?

She was walking just behind the two men, both of whom were young—maybe midtwenties—and white, with shaved heads and a variety of tats and piercings. They both moved as if their balls were too big for their pants. The shorter one wore a T-shirt that bore the number 88. The other had on a leather jacket. He kept his left arm slightly out from his side—which was a pretty sure sign that he was carrying a weapon.

Annie, of course, didn’t know that, and when the blonde didn’t slow down, she tried to follow.

Ric grabbed her hand, but he couldn’t muzzle her without drawing undue attention, and she called out again. “Excuse me. Hi. I’m Louellen, 408C? I think I got a package of yours. Are you Brenda?”

All three of them turned, and it was then that Ric saw her—a slight figure, moving toward them across the grass, in a dark raincoat with a grim-reaper-deep hood that covered the wearer’s hair and concealed her face.

Most of the time.

The woman—and it had to be a woman with that shape and height—seemed to look right at him. It was when she turned away—exactly as a car approached, headlights flashing across them all—that he caught a glimpse of her face.

It was none other than Lillian Lavelle.

She must’ve come from the parking lot. He hadn’t seen her approach, but then again, he hadn’t seen much of anything with his eyes closed as he’d attempted to touch Annie’s tonsils with his tongue. Damn it. As Ric watched his client now, she was sticking to the shadows, moving closer still.

“Who the fuck you getting packages from?” the thug with the concealed weapon asked Brenda, who shook her head.

“I don’t know.” She looked to Annie for help. “You’re sure it’s for me? Brenda Quinn?”

“Quinn,” Annie repeated. “Quinn…No. It was Brenda Johnson or Jackson or…Something with a J. Wrong Brenda, sorry.”

“It’s not mine,” Brenda said, talking more to the thug than Annie.

“Sorry to bother you,” Ric said, trying to tug Annie away. Whatever was going to happen when Lillian got closer was not going to be good. People didn’t dress in hooded trench coats and creep around in the shadows, simply to return a photo album.

He had to get Annie out of there, and Brenda and gang safely into their limo and on their way. As quickly as possible. At which point he would tackle his client to the ground if need be. He’d demand to know why the cloak-and-dagger. Why, really, was she so intent upon finding Brenda Quinn that she would have followed him here?

That she’d managed to follow him without his being aware of her was pretty remarkable. As distracting as Annie was, she hadn’t had her hands on his ass all afternoon long.

Ric took his keys from his pocket and held them out to Annie. “Sweetheart, we left the ice cream in the car. Would you mind running back to get it? Hurry, hon, before it melts.”