Mob Mistress. Sheri WhiteFeather
been forced to leave the mansion. And I want to stay here. I need to stay.”
He couldn’t begin to understand her. She talked in riddles. “Why?” he asked. “Tell me why you insist on living here. Give me a reason to help you.”
She hesitated, and he waited.
Finally she gave in. Her voice turned sad, shaky, isolated. “Someone in my family went missing. I don’t have any proof, but I believe the Halloways are involved.” Silence fractured the air, then she added, “So will you promise to help me later? Will you promise to be there?”
He wasn’t about to refuse. If the Halloways had kidnapped him, maybe they’d kidnapped her loved one, too? Then again, she kept saying the mob wasn’t going to hurt him. “I promise. I’ll do what I can.” When he wasn’t sedated, he thought. When he could think clearly.
“Thank you.” She moved toward him. Within the blink of a blurry eye, she was almost touching him again.
Almost.
“I better go,” she whispered. “But I’ll try to come back tomorrow.”
He kept silent. Next time he would make sure that he had access to a light so he could see her.
Next time?
He should be plotting an escape, but she compelled him instead, haunting him like the angel she was.
Her footsteps sounded softly. As she made her way to the door that would take her out of his suite and back to the mansion, he struggled to focus his gaze.
To watch her shadowy form disappear.
Sunshine blasted through the blinds, invading the room. Justin squinted at the clock. It was the middle of the afternoon.
He sat up and tested his equilibrium. He was hung over, feeling the aftereffects, but the drug itself had worn off. Or so he hoped. He climbed out of bed and thanked the Creator when his feet hit solid ground.
And then his world went woozy again. Not literally. But figuratively. A big clumsy puppy that had been sleeping on the floor jumped up and bounded toward him.
The black dog yipped and wiggled, but he could only stare. With its Dumbo ears and droopy eyes, the mutt looked like Chester, his childhood pet.
Only Chester had been dead for nineteen years.
“Where’d you come from?” he finally said.
The dog grinned in response. He wasn’t Chester. He wasn’t a canine ghost. But his uncanny resemblance to Justin’s boyhood companion threw him for a loop.
Wary, he checked out the suite, the puppy on his heels. Nothing. No one. Nada. Whoever had dropped off the dog was gone.
So this time he took a closer look around. He went into the walk-in closet and saw that his suitcase had been unpacked. His clothes were hanging on wooden hangers. Even the shirt that had been stripped from him was there, laundered and pressed.
Apparently he was a welcome guest, a valued captive, just as his nighttime angel had said.
He walked into the bathroom. His toiletries, the travel-size toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving kit he’d brought along, were lined up on the counter. Complimentary bottles of shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap had been provided, much like a hotel. They were the brands he used at home.
He doubted the suite had been readied while he’d been occupying it. They’d probably done it before they’d even carried him in here.
The puppy pestered him for attention. He didn’t want to get attached, so he ignored the goofy mutt and headed for the sitting room, where leather couches and an entertainment center dominated the masculine décor.
A sculpture by Frederic Remington, his favorite western artist, was displayed in a glass case. Justin had a recasting of it at home. But he suspected that this was the real deal.
Original Remingtons rarely came on the market, and when they did, major museums and private collectors scooped them up at astronomical prices.
But the Halloways could afford it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the statue had commanded a four or five-million-dollar price tag.
Had they purchased it to impress him? To entice him?
Taking a chance, he went to the main door and tried to open it. It didn’t budge. It didn’t even rattle. He was still holed up. But aside from the hangover, he was clearheaded, which meant the mob wanted him to be coherent. If they didn’t, they would have sedated him again instead of dropping off a dog.
Justin checked the French door in the bedroom and discovered it was unlocked, the terrace providing a place for the pooch to pee. When he went outside, he realized that he was on the third floor.
He examined the view. Lush grounds erupted into stone walkways, bubbling fountains and leafy plants and flowers.
Would this be his eventual escape route? Could he climb down the terrace without tripping an alarm? And if he got to the bottom safely, could he scale the cement wall that framed the yard and disappear without getting caught? Not likely. He spotted a uniformed guard at the edge of the building. But for now it didn’t matter. He wasn’t ready to leave, not until he found out why the mob had kidnapped him. And then, of course, there was his angel. Between his circumstances and hers, his mind was cluttered with unanswered questions. No, he thought. He wasn’t about to attempt a premature escape.
Needing to combat his hangover, he took a shower. After soaping down and washing his hair, he combed it straight back and frowned at his hard-edged reflection in the mirror. His former fiancée used to say that he looked like a desperado, especially when he neglected to shave, so he grabbed a disposable razor and went to work on the stubble.
With a towel wrapped around his waist he came out of the bathroom, and the dog whined at him.
“Fine. I’ll pet you.” He reached down to scratch the mutt’s elephant ears.
The happy-assed, ugly-as-sin dog rolled over on his back, exposing his belly and kicking his feet in the air.
So much for not getting attached. Justin decided to call him Lester since it rhymed with Chester.
He got dressed and took the puppy onto the terrace. Justin stood there for about fifteen minutes, checking out the situation again, wondering if he would be able to get past the guard at night, if when the time came, he could—
“I’d suggest using the stairs,” a deep voice said from behind him.
He spun around and stared at the giant who’d uttered those smart-mouthed words.
Instinctively, Justin clenched his fists. His opponent outweighed him by at least eighty pounds, but Justin had the advantage of youth. The Hulk was probably on the far side of sixty.
“I’m glad you’re up and about. But I figured you would be by now.” The other man extended a beefy hand and introduced himself. “Leo Gordon. I’m in charge of security.”
Justin didn’t return the gesture. “Screw you,” he said instead. He wanted to kick the crap out of the security chief, not make friends with him.
Leo grinned. He had a slightly crooked smile and a nose that had probably been broken a dozen times. His razor-buzzed, pseudo-military hair spiked into fuzzy gray points. He was dressed in a dark suit, as if he were trying to pass himself off as civilized. His shoes were high-dollar loafers.
“You’ve got balls,” Leo said. “Like your old man.”
Justin angled his head. “My old man?”
“Your dad. We were friends. Once upon a time.”
Justin considered Michael Elk, his half-Cherokee father, the man who’d taught him right from wrong. Dad had been a hellion in his day, but his rebellious antics had been petty, smoking-in-the-boy’s-room kind of stuff, not consorting with the mob. That had been Uncle Reed’s turf. Or so Justin had