A Perfect Stranger. Jenna Ryan
marvel at his amazing, albeit shadowed, features, but she had a different agenda in mind.
Keeping her smile in place, she said, “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”
He moved a shoulder. “No—”
The crack of her hand across his cheek cut him off.
It had to hurt, but given his profession, maybe he was accustomed to being slapped. He absorbed the strike with nothing more than a lift of his brow. “Feel better now?”
“No, but you deserved that and more.” Darcy’s eyes glittered. “You destroyed a cover that’s held for three years. Apparently, you also lost whoever it was you tackled, so now I get to spend a sleepless night wondering who he was, why you felt the need to rush to my rescue and what you stand to gain from it. Do you know what you’ve done, Marlowe? Do you have any idea?”
“You want to take another swing, don’t you?” he asked without rancor.
“Love to.” Her lips curved. “Will you stand still and let me?”
“I might.”
The answer was just unexpected enough to make her laugh. Then suspicion moved in and she circled him with caution. “Who hired you? Was it Vince?”
“Umer Lugo.”
She stopped. “Who?”
“Not your dying, ninety-two-year-old grandfather’s lawyer, I assume.”
“My dying…” She shook the question away as her thoughts slid in a more disturbing direction. “Where is he? The guy who jumped me?”
“He grabbed your neighbor’s bike and took off. He was gone by the time I reached the corner.”
Darcy released a frustrated breath. “Let me get this straight. Whether by accident or design, you sicced someone on me. Then you switched sides and ran him off. I’m an investigative reporter, Marlowe. Oh, but wait, you already know that. You also know my real name. You relayed my alias to Umer Lugo, who very likely relayed it to Frankie Maco. By rights, I should be dead, and you should be home counting your money. So tell me, Mr. New York P.I., why isn’t the story playing like that?”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Last I checked, I was a sane American female. What’s the deal? Why are you here?”
“Call it a rare attack of conscience, likely spawned by the fact that I was a cop in a former life. Losing the guy who jumped you pisses me off, but nowhere near as much as letting myself be set up.”
“Frankie Maco’s very good at setups. Do you know who Frankie is?”
“His mug shot made the rounds before I left the force.”
“And there it is. You didn’t do your homework. Umer came up clean, so you were good to go. Bet he paid you plenty, huh?”
“Enough. Look, Shannon—”
“Darcy.” A false smile. “For what it’s worth and what might be salvageable—probably not much— I’ve been Darcy Nolan for three years now. I prefer to keep as many doors closed and windows open as I can.” When something rustled the bushes near the fence, she sighed. “Much as I hate to suggest this, we should probably finish our chat inside, where no one can come crashing through a hedgerow on a stolen bike. Can you imagine the headline? My editor would have the exclusive she’s been longing for, followed by book and screenplay rights. All things good in her world.”
Marlowe picked up her bags as she started for the stoop. “She’s not a friend?”
“Oh, Elaine and I are friendly enough, but longings are longings, after all.”
“You don’t sound bitter.”
“Bitterness is a destructive emotion. I prefer being positive.”
“And you can find a shred of that here?”
She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I can. Three years, a name change and one late-night attack later, I’m still alive.”
HE DIDN’T WANT TO step inside her home. Didn’t want to know her, or anything more about her than was absolutely necessary. Simpler, smarter, easier to keep her at arm’s length and think of her in two dimensions rather than three.
Unfortunately, it was too late for that, and the anger crawling in his belly wasn’t the kind he could push away. He deposited her bags next to the door, then followed her down a wide corridor to the kitchen.
Shadows hung everywhere in the old house. They spilled over the upstairs railing and slashed through the carved wood of the banister, lengthened on the hardwood floors and darkened cream walls.
In the kitchen, she switched on the overhead light. “Here’s the deal. You tell me what I deserve to know, and you can have a beer.”
Unexpected amusement rippled through him. “I’ve given you the meat, Darcy, all true and more or less verifiable. Lugo called, said he’d been referred to me by a former client. The client vouched for him. Money was good, man came up clean, I took the case.”
She headed for the fridge. “Tell me, were you this gullible as a cop?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Goes hand in hand with cynical, insensitive and don’t give a rat’s ass about other people.”
“Sounds like burnout to me.”
“Any way you look at it, I screwed up, and you’re paying the price. You get killed, it’ll be on my conscience.”
“Well, hey, don’t sugarcoat the possibilities.”
“Do you want them sugarcoated?”
“What I want,” she replied, “is Umer Lugo’s phone number. I want to know who hired him. Because while I’m ninety-five percent sure one of Frankie Maco’s family members is behind this, I’ve done other stories about a few other people who might not like some of the things I’ve said.” She waved her hand. “A lot of stories, actually. Anyway, my point is that knowledge is the key, and the key in this case is one Umer Lugo.”
The beer she tossed him was ice-cold and medium dark.
Marlowe let his gaze travel over her body. Shouldn’t, but it wasn’t as if he’d walked in unprepared.
She was pretty, all right. Beautiful, if you liked moonlight blondes with mile-long legs, sultry blue eyes and a killer smile. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length and made him think of silk. The edgy razor cut suited her. It was also the only noticeable change she’d made to her appearance since leaving L.A. three years ago.
“And now, he looks.” She pushed off gracefully from the fridge. “Don’t worry, Marlowe, I’m not going to seduce you. I only pull out the Mata Hari card when there’s a chance it’ll work. Guys who claim not to give a rat’s ass about people aren’t likely to succumb.”
“You like positive, I like simple. Just so we’re clear.”
“As Mississippi mud. Now, about Lugo.”
He twisted off the top, drank deeply. “He said he’d be staying in the city until you got back. That might or might not be true.” Lowering the bottle, he asked, “Do you have a laptop?”
“You dropped it by the front door.” She uncapped a bottle of orange juice. “Why would he hang around?” she mused. Then she considered. “How old is he?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Muscular and tall?”
“Five-six and stocky with a hump on his back.”
“Charming. Do you have the name of his hotel?”
“Give me five minutes on your computer and I will.”
She started toward him, dangerous in a way only a man on the edge