The Sweetheart Racket (3 page)

Although he tried to pass for sixty-nine, Taryn suspected he was heading toward ninety at a rapid clip. Not even a yearly facelift and jaw tuck could hide the telltale signs of a birthdate somewhere pre–World War II.

“As I've already told you a thousand times, Irving, no short shorts, no braless Tuesdays, and no feathered hair,” Taryn said. “And your unfortunate choice of name for the business aside, this is a professional PI firm. Jiggle is not allowed.”

“Drat.” His eyes twinkled. “I guess I'll have to live with my disappointment. Let's get to business.”

For most of his later years, Irving had wanted to close up his industrial cement pipe business and open his own PI firm. Unfortunately for him, his late wife liked making zillions of dollars a year in pipes and his dream was put off until widowerhood had come knocking four years ago. Then he opened his business and waited for his ideal Brash & Brazen women to appear.

And waited. And waited. Then his miracle happened.

Taryn, Summer, and Jess's bad luck turned into a happy day for Irving. He'd been visiting a sick friend in the boonies when his driver spotted them tottering down the road.

That they weren't strippers or hookers was a welcome relief to Irving. Despite his not-secret hope that one day they'd wear tube tops to work, he wanted his ladies to have class.

The meeting covered the usual dry topics involving business goals, clients, and profit margins. The three women each had a three percent stake in the company thanks to an unexpected Christmas present last year, so they had an interest in the company's success. When they broke up an hour later, Taryn was ready for a shower and dinner. She left Jess and Summer with a promise to go clubbing soon, and headed out.

Alas, her escape was foiled by a six-foot-two-ish of tattooed male, intimidating yet intriguing at the same time, who walked into the reception area wearing a black t-shirt and holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. His short brown hair was mussed and his face covered with shadow that went way past five o'clock.

Taryn felt a tug of feminine appreciation.

When his intense gray eyes landed on her, she was eternally grateful she wasn't a giggler, because he was the kind of guy who could elicit that kind of response from women.

Maybe some swooning, too. He was dangerously sexy to look at, a hard-edged man who was the entire list of all things mothers warned their daughters away from. She didn't have to know anything about him to sense trouble. She felt it from her head to her toes, and in all her good parts in between.

So she squelched a longing sigh and glanced around for Gretchen to make him an appointment. The receptionist was MIA.

Resigned that her hot bath had to wait, she stepped forward. “Hi. I'm Taryn Hall. How may I help you?”

His eyes beat a path up and down her body, taking her measure. She may have shivered a little, and she wasn't a shiverer, either. She chalked it up to being exhausted and brain-fried. The Peaches had wiped her out with their antics.

“I need a PI.”

She was just tired enough to make a sassy comment about his good fortune of stumbling into a PI firm, but profit margins danced fresh in her mind. Why chase off a perfectly good client with a smart comment?

“Come to my office.” The stranger followed her. She was convinced he was checking out her butt. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. She hadn't had a date in ages, and was beginning to feel a bit withered. Either way, she needed to keep her mind on business and not how good he looked in
his
jeans.

He settled into a chair before her desk and looked around the space. He had a strong jaw, a semi-straight nose, and a small scar that dissected his right brow.

“What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

“Silva. Rick Silva.”

“Yes, ah, Mr. Silva. What brings you to Brash ?” Despite a professional outward demeanor, it proved difficult to concentrate on anything but his gorgeous gray eyes. They were a stark contrast to his dark brown hair and tanned face.

The man was all alpha male. She'd be shocked if he'd ever eaten a bean sprout on purpose or ordered a vanilla mocha latte with lite whip and cinnamon sprinkles.

Add the tattoos peeking out from beneath his t-shirt sleeves and she wondered if he'd done time.

“I'm searching for someone. His name is Teddy Brinkman.”

His voice had gone hard. There was danger in his expression. A chill trilled through her. She leaned forward and knitted her fingers, forcing herself not to show fear. “Are you going to kill him?”

Silva's eyes widened at her bluntness. “And if I did?”

Damn. She'd hoped for a new client, not a murderer looking for an accomplice. “Then I can't help you.” She stood. “We are not in the business of playing intermediaries to murder. You'll have to find him on your own.”

And she'd have to call the cops ASAP.

Unmoving, he stared. She fought not to fidget. He was intense, unreadable, and very intimidating. As something of a control freak at her job, she didn't like feeling off kilter.

Usually she could tell the inner workings of someone within a few minutes of a first meeting. Of course, she hadn't known Penny Peach intended to bash her husband's head in. Maybe she was getting rusty.

No, this guy was different from the Peach duo and her usual clients. She sensed something off about him. But what?

“Please sit, Ms. Hall.”

Taryn paused. Then sat. Her curiosity overcame her desire to call 911. She wanted to know more about him and the case, even if she might have to call the cops to intervene.

He stretched both hands over his head and took a deep breath. His knuckles were scarred—likely from fighting—and his eyes held a weariness that was not obvious before, as if he carried the weight of something big in those hands and in his heart.

She waited. Reading him.

Finally he broke the silence. “Brinkman is a lonely hearts con man who married my mother and took her for almost everything she had. Although I'd like to wring his chicken neck, I want to do this legally. Then maybe I can get her money back.”

Huh. This turn was interesting and quite unexpected. She'd never worked a sweetheart con. Her curiosity notched up. Perhaps she could help him after all. “I assume you know he's somewhere in Michigan?”

“I do. Last week he married a woman from Ann Arbor, Honey Comstock, under one of his other known aliases and vanished again. He now has six wives that I know of. Could be more.”

“Seriously?” she asked. “Wow.”

Silva arched the scarred brow. “I guess you could say that.” He paused and pulled out his phone. “I tracked her to an apartment in Ypsilanti. She hadn't been there long, but one of her neighbors said she was quiet and her only visitors were her two adult sons. She did start going out at night all dressed up over the last few weeks, but they never saw Brinkman.”

“And you checked the apartment?”

“I did. It was cleared out and cleaned out. She vanished.”

Poor woman. Having suffered through her own miserable divorce, she felt sympathy for the victims of this man. She pulled a note pad and pen out of her desk drawer. Irving liked hard copies. She'd enter everything into her computer once she got the information down. “Where did he and your mother meet?”

“Online. Match-Mate.”

Figures, Taryn thought. The Peaches had met on the same sketchy site. “How long ago?”

“Last year. They married after four weeks.”

“That isn't very much time to date and marry,” Taryn agreed. This Brinkman sounded like a skilled player. Lock a woman in before she sees his true nature. “He works fast.”

“He was the first man she dated since my dad died.” His tone was defensive, as if daring Taryn to judge his mother.

“Everyone has fallen for at least one jerk in their past,” she said truthfully. This seemed to relax him. “Why don't you show me what you have on Brinkman?”

He pulled a folded printout from his jeans pocket and pushed it over the desk. The man in the picture was in his early sixties and bland looking, with graying hair and pale blue eyes. He'd worn a gray suit with a blue bow tie for his picture and had a charming smile.

“He'd not raise red flags for women looking for love online,” she said. “He doesn't look felonious. He'd blend in anywhere. No wonder he's been hard for you to find.”

Silva slumped back. “The guy's a ghost. I haven't been able to track him back more than a couple of years. This leads me to believe that Brinkman is an alias. His real identity is a mystery.”

“You're probably right. Con men are good at hiding anything personal from their victims,” Taryn said. The more Silva talked, the more intriguing the case became. She really could use a break from spying on the Gregory Peaches of the city. She wanted a big case. “His entire backstory will be lies.”

Silva nodded. “I've already contacted one of his exes, who lives in Arizona, online. She started a web page devoted to catching him. He took her for ten grand and told her he was a retired spy.”

“People often ignore their intuition when looking for love.” Taryn wondered how the guy got past Silva. He didn't appear to be the type who would be easily duped. “Didn't you have suspicions about his character when he married your mother after four weeks?”

“I wasn't around.” Guilt filled his eyes. “I've had minimal contact with my mom for several years.”

“Estranged?”

“Nope. I was in prison.”

R
ick watched the expression freeze on her pretty face. He almost smiled. After one hell of a bad week, he'd felt the need to shake her up. Mess with her. Knock out some of her calm professionalism. After all, she'd taken one look at him with those amazing hazel eyes and assumed he was capable of murder. Just because of a few tattoos and a scuffed black bomber jacket.

He'd dealt with snap judgments since his first tattoo and it never bothered him. With her, it did. Why?

“What were you in for?” she said, her tone guarded.

“Drugs, murder, racketeering, and dognapping.” This time he did grin when her face went white and one hand clamped around her pen as if it were a shiv. “Is that a problem?”

The pretty PI sat silent, reading him. She was dressed as he was, in a black tee and skintight black jeans that covered a very nice ass, and low-heeled black boots. Her brown-blond hair was pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail. She wore very little makeup, as if she had better things to do in the morning than worry about lipstick. She was dressed like a tough girl, but would she balk at this bit of bullshit and flee?

The clock behind him ticked. He waited.

Right when he thought she'd refuse the case, her body language changed, her eyes darkened, and she released the pen. Then she dropped back in the chair with a touch of casual arrogance. Tough girl was back.

“Why don't you cut the crap and tell me what's really going on here, Mr. Silva.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Damn. You're good.”

“I've been a PI for two years and a student of life for many years before that. I seldom get conned. And if I do, I discover it quickly and make corrections.” Her eyes skimmed over the tattoo on his bicep. “You talk like a felon, you dress like a felon, but you don't have the look of a felon.”

“And what look is that?”

“A hard hopelessness in your eyes.” She rolled the pen on the desk. “Besides, five years in prison barely covers dognapping. Unless you escaped over the wall, this is BS.”

Following her lead, he rocked back in the chair and locked onto her stare. She didn't twitch. Taryn Hall was one sexy piece of work. Suddenly, he couldn't wait to dig into this investigation with her. She was smart and confident and would look damn good on the back of his bike.

“I'm a special agent with the DEA.” This got her attention. He retrieved his wallet and flipped it open to his ID. “I spent the last five years working a drug case that spanned several countries.”

He waited for her to absorb the information and continued. “I did spend time in prison, as part of my cover as drug thug Richard DaSilva, but only during the day and just enough to be seen by the other inmates to establish my cover. The rest was spent in ‘solitary confinement.' I was snuck in and out of the prison at night.”

“That's why you didn't know about your mother.”

He nodded. “That, and I worked in Los Angeles, while she's in Indiana. Our phone calls were brief and months apart. I knew she'd been online dating, and warned her about cyber safety, but Teddy Brinkman duped her anyway.” He reached for the note pad and pen. “My brother is in the Marines overseas and my sister lives out of state, so Mom was lonely. She was a perfect mark.”

As he took the pen from her, their fingers touched. Heat washed up his arm. Her breath caught. She extracted her hand.

Damn. She had soft hands. The rest of her was likely just as soft. Her full mouth looked intriguing, the kind of mouth that would make men beg for a kiss, and she had the kind of body he'd never tire of exploring.

Rick felt a stir in his boxer briefs. Shit. He hadn't been this attracted to a woman in years. If he didn't get control, she'd be a distraction he didn't need.

He'd already failed his mother. It was time to make her a priority.

Still, he didn't have the time or energy to find someone else to work the case. And for a new company, Brash & Brazen, Inc. had a reputation for being the best. No, he'd just have to deal with Taryn and keep things professional. It couldn't be that tough.

Focusing, he wrote down the information she'd need to get the case going. Although he'd told her that he wouldn't harm Brinkman, he wasn't sure there wouldn't be any neck wringing once they found the bastard. Maybe not enough to kill him; just enough to leave permanent fingerprints that he'd see every morning when he shaved. Mom deserved her pound of flesh.

“Here's the link to my online file. Everything I know about the man and the case is there,” he said. “But don't expect much. Brinkman has more aliases than wives.”

Taryn crossed her arms and fell silent. She rocked back and forth in her wheeled office chair as if running everything through her mind.

“Don't you have the full weight of government resources at your disposal? Why do you need me?”

Silva shrugged. “Two reasons. One, the agency frowns on using their ‘resources' for personal investigations. And since Brinkman doesn't fit under DEA guidelines, I can't officially investigate him through them.”

“Makes sense. And two?”

“My mom is embarrassed that she was conned. She wants to keep the investigation quiet.”

“That also makes sense.” After a minute, she stopped rocking and nodded. “I'll take the case.” She rattled off the fees. Then, “Tonight, I'll poke around Match-Mate and read your file. Our computer tech, Summer, can run facial recognition to see if Brinkman has a new profile. I'll text you daily with updates. Deal?”

He said nothing for a beat. Then, “No deal. We're working together.”

She frowned. “We have a team of investigators here.”

“Then consider me transportation, or a bodyguard. Whatever. You're not working this case without me.”

For a moment, he thought she'd refuse. Instead, she sighed and nodded.

“Fine. Meet me here tomorrow at eight a.m. I like to start early.” With that, she ushered him out. It wasn't until he was standing next to his bike that he realized she'd conceded too fast for comfort. She was up to something.

Tomorrow, he'd find out what.

Of course, he hadn't been entirely up front with her either. Part of the reason he'd missed the marrying the con man thing had been because of selfishness and neglect. Over the last couple of years when he'd had a long weekend off, instead of flying to Indiana for visits with his mother, he'd usually take some woman he barely knew to Vegas, or surfing along the coast, or to Mexico. Aside from Christmas, he'd let his sex life rule over his responsibilities as a son.

Not anymore. No women and no distractions until after the case was solved. His mom deserved nothing less.

He fired up his James Dean–era vintage Triumph motorcycle and made it to the far end of the parking lot before his mother's most recent scolding rose up in his head. So he pulled over, put his helmet on, and headed off again with the rumble of the engine in his ears and the power of the bike between his legs.

Joyce Silva had enough to worry about without the trauma of burying her son.

For the first twenty-two of his twenty-nine years, he'd grown up a clean-cut middle class kid. Well, outside of some normal boyhood mischief. Joining the DEA after college had turned him to the dark side. His first tattoo led to the next and that was enough to give his mother fits. If not for his undercover work, he might not have gotten inked. But he liked them and the tough persona he portrayed to the world.

Another checkmark in the plus column was that women loved the look. The griffin across his back and shoulders was a particular favorite.

His mind flashed back to Taryn. What would she think if she saw it? Would she like it?

Why did he care?

Sun beat down on his back as he slid into traffic. Beneath his jeans, his stomach rumbled.

However, it was another part of him that had all of Taryn on its mind. She was sexy, in the way of a woman who was confident in herself and her abilities. She wasn't hard-edged despite her black clothes, but she still gave off an attitude that attracted him. The way her tee and jeans fit her like a second skin left him wondering what she looked like beneath. And that troubled him most.

“Damn,” he said, cursing himself for losing perspective. He was so used to playing the part of a selfish and entitled drug lord that sometime over the last five years he'd kind of lost himself in that life. Partying, women, fast cars; the only thing he didn't indulge in was drugs. Now he was free and wanted the real Rick Silva back.

Thinking of Taryn as anything other than an employee would be a mistake.

* * *

Taryn hit heavy traffic while driving through the university, having forgotten that it was move-in week for the upcoming fall semester. Weary, she arrived home in time for the news and clicked on the living room TV. The shabby two-story blue Victorian belonged to her parents, purchased as an investment property, or so they said. But she was convinced they'd done it entirely for her benefit after her marriage left her dazed and broke. After all, why would die-hard Iowans need a house in Ann Arbor, Michigan?

She tugged her t-shirt over her head and wandered through the house and up the creaky stairs. The old place had gone through years of college students and the smell of beer and cigars still clung to tattered old wallpaper and worn carpet.

“If only these walls could talk.” She unsnapped her jeans and longed for her comfy PJs.

“Bath first.” She loved the old claw-footed tub. She could sink up to her chin in bath oil and bubbles.

Her bedroom was in the far back corner of the house and she passed four other rooms to get there. A dying air conditioner in the backyard spit out just enough cool air to keep the house a couple of degrees cooler than the temperature outside and her room from becoming a sauna. Only slightly.

“I need to move to Alaska,” she groused. It wasn't that she didn't like summer. It was just that she liked it in small doses.

Thankfully, the leaves were already changing color. Cooler temps were ahead.

She'd considered taking in students to help pay the bills and pay for updates to the AC and the furnace. However, she liked the quiet that came with living alone.

So no boarders. Yet.

The bedroom was the largest in the house, with a private bathroom. The faded pink floral wallpaper was picked out, she assumed, somewhere in the mid–nineteen hundreds and never replaced. With college students moving in and out during the changing school years, only negligible maintenance from the previous owners kept the roof and walls from falling in. After all, why bother with any new decorations when busy college students didn't care what the house looked like?

Weathered hardwood floors ran throughout the house, including her room, and slanted slightly to one side. The builders hadn't had the fancy leveling tools of today. An old orange hard-water stain marked the ceiling above her bed, like a dried-up river with fingerlike tributaries spread out from the main stain. The leak had been long fixed but evidence of it remained to mock her for not doing something about the ugly eyesore.

“I really need to pull down the paper and repaint this room. Heck, the whole house.” A good plan, if she had the money to make an overhaul. Maybe once her case with Willard was settled she'd splurge on some updates.

Tossing the shirt into the hamper in the corner, she dug around in her dresser for her favorite old PJs, a long-ago Christmas gift from her nana. Tonight was Thursday, so it was Investigation Discovery and frozen dinner night.

Her cell rang. She checked the screen. Tim? That was odd. He hadn't contacted her since the conclusion of their divorce three years ago.

What could he want? Nothing she cared about. She was done with him. So she hit ignore and reached back into the drawer.

She pulled out gray PJ pants covered in a daisy pattern with holes in the knees and the matching top, turned, and screamed.

Outside her window, a man—or, rather, a boy—froze. A pair of owllike eyes stared, wide open in shock and enlarged by thick glasses. In his white-knuckled hand were several pairs of what looked like women's panties.

Taryn dropped the clothes, raced to the window, lacy lavender bra and all, and pushed up the pane. “Who in the hell are you! How did you get there!”

They were two stories up!

Her yell startled the Peeping Tom and he lurched back on an ancient wooden ladder. Before he could right himself and find a handhold, the ladder tipped away from the window and knocked him off balance.

“Whoaaaaaa!” One arm whipped out and tried to catch the sill, but it was too late. He pitched backward like someone in a scene from a teen comedy movie and vanished from view. “Ahhhhhhhh!”

She leaned out the window to peer through the leafy tree branches of the ancient oak and down over the gutter, expecting to see a dead body broken on the rocks below. The space of mostly dead grass and packed dirt between the two houses wouldn't offer any cushion for the kid's fall.

Thankfully, the little peeper and panty bandit was still breathing, as confirmed by a rustle in dried leaves. Excellent. The cops would have something to cart off to jail.

First, she had to catch him before he roused himself and fled. She leaned farther out and quickly assessed the situation. The guy had landed among a pile of empty beer cans. He whimpered pitifully. Good, he wasn't up for a foot chase.

Taryn retrieved and slipped on her black shirt as she ran downstairs and out the front door.

Muted moaning led her onward and she found him still lying as he fell, rubbing his forehead with a pink thong still wrapped around his index finger. The rest of his cache was scattered around him like shards of a shattered thong rainbow.