The Good Daughter (2 page)

Bobbie Jo chose that moment to bring his fresh beer. Suddenly, Dave was parched, his mouth so dry he could barely swallow, much less speak. On the job or not, as soon as the bottle touched the table, he took a swig.

“
Oh, ho, so the boy does drink. Just waiting on your lady friend here before you started partying.” Bobbie Jo’s wink made his neck muscles tighten.

She turned to Marisa. “Keep ’em waiting, honey, good policy.” Bobbie Jo gave an approving nod. “Whatcha drinking?”

Marisa looked at Dave. “Whatever he has is fine.”

The waitress moved off, and Marisa raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t been drinking?”

“
Not while I’m on the job. Just been sitting here
for hours
watching the beer grow warm.”

“
My, you must have excellent
come se dice
. . . how do you say?” She held up a hand in question. “Oh, yes. Willpower.”

Her sarcasm irritated him, and he couldn’t stop himself from lashing back. “You pull off the cowgirl wannabe look pretty well.”

“
What?” For a moment she seemed to wilt before his eyes. Then she straightened, held her head higher. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?”

Had he imagined the brief moment of weakness? He decided to probe deeper. “A true cowgirl would wear something more practical than designer jeans. And it’s not necessary to color coordinate everything down to your boots.”

Her voice was still strong when she asked, “Which boots? On my feet or my ears?” She pushed back her hair, and he saw a dangling pink jeweled miniature boot hanging from each ear.

He couldn’t help but stare.

“
I had them special made, do you like?”

What game was she playing? Was she trying to convince him she liked playing dress up? He had a feeling they could go back and forth like this all evening, when all he really wanted was his information so he could leave. No, Dave, you don’t want to be sitting here across from a totally hot woman, not at all. Information.

“
You’re late,” he said, the blunt statement designed to throw her off guard while allowing him to regain his composure.

“
It takes a while to put together an outfit like this. And these boots were really hard to pull on.”

“
You almost backed out,” Dave guessed, trying hard to get onto the subject.

Marisa only smiled and leaned close. Dave leaned forward as well, anxious to get to business.

“
Since you’re still on the job, Mr. FBI man,” she said in a low voice, “you’re not going to drink any more of that are you?” She nodded toward his beer.

Dave fought off a frown, tempted to lie. “Actually, I--”

“
I didn’t think so.” She picked up the bottle, held it against her lips with her left hand, while she used her thumb and first two fingers of her right hand to stroke the bottle. The action injected Dave with the immediate idea of her stroking something much more personal.

“
After all, you’re working, no?” she said, her lips, shiny and pink, hovering over the bottle rim.

“
Help yourself,” Dave nearly growled, hating that this woman, this Mafia princess, was playing him so well and making him work hard to stay in control.

She moved the bottle in a cheering motion, put it back to her lips, tilted her head, and slugged down half the contents. Dave tried to ignore how her moist lips closed over the rim where his own lips had been moments before and focus, instead, that her actions indicated she needed a boost to steady her nerves.

He knew he’d guessed correctly that she almost didn’t show, even though she had pointedly not answered his question. The realization provided a small comfort.

“
You like this place?” she asked, looking around at the New York City bar that was pretending to be country.

Dave shrugged, now resigned a long night was going to get longer. “It serves its purpose.”

“
Which is?”

“
It’s far away from Little Italy. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She finished the beer before she answered. “Certainly I didn’t want to be seen by anyone I know, but I thought you’d like this place since you’re from Texas. Don’t you Texans like country-and-western?”

“
I’ve been gone from Texas a long time.”

“
Ah, but I’ve heard Texas is like Italy--you can leave it, but it never leaves you.” A wistful look clouded her dark eyes and she seemed in another place before she turned her gaze back to him. “Once a Texan, always a Texan.”

“
And once an Italian, always an Italian,” Dave echoed.

“
Si
,” she said softly. “You are correct.”

Bobbie Jo brought Marisa’s beer and picked up the empty bottle. “Need another?” she asked Dave.

“
No, thanks.” He’d spent enough money tonight on beer he couldn’t drink. When the waitress left again, he asked Marisa, “You want to go back?”

“
To Italy?” Marisa shrugged. “I haven’t really thought of it. I’m getting used to the States.”

Dave knew she’d been in the city three years, her father cleverly moving the family before the Italian authorities could solidify a case they’d been working on against him. At the time, Dave had just finished his first massive mob bust when Carlo moved in and dirtied the turf again with one of the bloodiest family takeovers the city had ever seen.

Ever since, Carlo had remained slippery as a well-oiled snake.

“
If you don’t want to go back, what’s your game?” Dave asked, needing to understand why she was willing to turn witness.

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Dave rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers. “What do you hope to gain by helping me?”

She stared at him, her cocoa brown eyes unflinching. “I want justice.”

“
Justice for your father would be prison.” Dave narrowed his eyes and leaned closer for emphasis. He wanted to be very clear they were talking the same language.

“
Yes, at the very least,” she agreed, her tone laced with venom.

The lady was full of surprises this evening.

While he would privately admit a criminal like Carlo, who made it a habit to destroy lives for his own gain would be better off dead, Dave wondered what Marisa had been through which led her to at least appear to share his opinion.

“
It’s my job to gather enough evidence to arrest your father,” Dave continued. “Sandro said you’re willing to help.”

She nodded. “This is true.”

“
You and Sandro are old friends, right?”

“
We’ve been friends since we were children,
si
.” She drank from her own bottle this time. “I know what my father is doing to him.”

“
So you’re here to help out an old friend?”

“
That’s one reason.”

“
An old
married
friend?” He didn’t know why he threw out that comment except the pain of remembering who Sandro had married distracted Dave momentarily from the dark-haired and dangerous woman across from him.

There was also the fact Marisa and Sandro had once been engaged--something Dave learned on his own. Had Sandro dumped her to marry his wife? If so, why would Marisa help him? Or maybe Marisa dumped Sandro. Dave would love to know the story.

“
I’m aware Sandro is married, Agent Armstrong,” Marisa said at last, interrupting his speculations. “And I said helping him was one reason. I didn’t say it was my only reason.”

“
Which is? Your main reason, that is.”

Marisa took another drink and surveyed the bar again. “Can you dance like those people?”

Dave turned and followed her line of view to the small dance floor in front of the stage. “The two-step? Sure.”

She set the bottle firmly on the table. “Dance with me, then.”

Her request wasn’t what he expected, but he resigned himself that she wasn’t going to make this as easy as he’d hoped. All in a day’s--or night’s--work.

There could be worse things besides dancing with a beautiful woman. He stood and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

She slipped her small, manicured hand into his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

He turned, and she moved into his arms, closer than he would have liked, her head fitting neatly under his chin. He made himself ignore the erotic feel of her warm, firm body pressed against him, the soft smell of her musky perfume, as he taught her the steps.

“
You think dancing will make me forget what I asked?”

“
Shh, I’m counting so I don’t lose my step.” She stared at the ground. “I like your boots.”

He led them to a more isolated corner and stopped dancing. “Marisa.”

Forced to stand still, she looked at him. Her dark eyes studied him with a cool, casual gaze. He was tempted to move closer, see if he could make the coolness melt away.

He held his place instead. “Why are you willing to help?”

“
Why is it important?”

“
Motivation. Everyone has a reason for what they do.”

“
My reasons are my own.”

“
I need to know you’re trustworthy.” He knew when she narrowed her eyes she understood his meaning.

“
You think I’m trying to set you up?”

“
It’s been known to happen.”

“
What good would that do me? If you were
removed
, someone else would take your place, no?”

“
Maybe this isn’t about you. Maybe I’m causing your father too much trouble. Granted, I haven’t been able to arrest him yet but I will--”

“
You think this is about you? You think I care nothing for my friend Sandro at all?”

Her regal, indignant tone made him feel like he was getting a dressing down from his superiors.

“
I don’t know what to think,” Dave snapped.

“
Bah!” Her gaze flashed fire. “Sandro must be desperate to use you.”

“
Yes, I believe he is. Quite desperate. I can help.” Dave didn’t want to gloat, because Sandro, a transplanted Italian soccer star who had unwittingly found himself in Carlo’s clutches,
was
in a desperate situation. Even though it wasn’t so many years back when Dave would have gloated. Would have hoped quite fervently for the downfall of the man he once considered his rival.

“
Maybe you can help him. Maybe you can’t. But I don’t think you can help me, Agent Armstrong.” She released his hands, stepped back, and turned toward the door.

“
Marisa, wait.” How had he lost control of the situation so fast? “Don’t go.”

She paused, glanced over her shoulder. “Why?”

“
I...um, I apologize. For . . . my naturally suspicious nature.” He held out his hands, hiding nothing.

She pivoted to face him, gazed at him steadily, as if debating with herself. “This is a dangerous business,” she finally said.

“
Exactly.” Dave kept his tone level, though inside the clamp released around his windpipe. “And of course being suspicious keeps me alive.”

“
What about me?” She moved closer to him.

He closed the space between them even more, took her hands in his again. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“
Will your suspicious nature keep me alive, Agent Armstrong?” She squeezed his fingers. “Can I trust you with my life?”

Chapter 3

It was well after two a.m. but Marisa went through her normal nighttime routine, even though she felt anything but normal. She tried to deny an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Her body wasn’t cooperating. Her hands shook as she swiped away make-up, her stomach rolled with nausea. Tossing the used cotton pad in the small garbage can, she braced her hands on the sink.

Today had been a long day, starting out with a visit to her mother. While Marisa no longer lived with her parents, she made a point to stop by and see momma a few times a week. She had some good days. Other times she was unresponsive. Today was one of those unresponsive times. Did her mother realize what that brute who called himself her husband had done to her? Did she ever remember what she’d been like before? Marisa couldn’t tell.

She stared at herself in the mirror. And just what was
she
doing?

She was doing what she had to do.
In order to live with herself, she had to bring her father down. Make him pay. What he’d done to her mattered little; what he was doing to Sandro was another thing. And what he’d done to her mother--and Paolo--was unforgivable.

Tonight she’d set things in motion which could not be reversed. By agreeing to help Dave, she hoped she found a way to accomplish her goals. What she had not intended was her reaction to Dave. Did she simply have a fatal attraction for men in law enforcement?

No, before Paolo, she’d never associated with cops, went out of her way to avoid them because that’s the way it was in her family. Until Paolo approached her and opened her eyes and stole her heart. She was twenty-one then and while she’d been with men, had been used and abused, she had never experienced the joy of being in love.