Close To The Edge. Kylie Brant
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“Unlike you, I do not lack experience.”
“So I’ve gathered.” Jacey’s gaze slid to his, and he didn’t trust the speculative gleam in her eyes. “Maybe you can help me, after all.”
“Anything. As I’ve proven tonight, I’m at your service.”
Jacey smiled, slow and satisfied, and he had the distinct sense that he’d stepped neatly into a trap. “That’s just where I want you. At my service, so to speak.”
Lucky choked. She couldn’t possibly have meant that the way it had sounded. “Careful. A less astute man would have assumed you meant…”
“That I want to sleep with you? That is what I meant.”
Lucky’s throat seemed to have closed completely, his lungs shut down. But the rest of his body was showing remarkable signs of interest.
Close to the Edge
Kylie Brant
KYLIE BRANT
lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.
An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.
She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at [email protected]. Her Web site is www.kyliebrant.com.
For Justin, the entertainer of the family.
I love you, sweetie!
Acknowledgment
Special thanks to Edward Fischer, forensic psychologist, for your infinite patience with my questions about private investigation. I value your assistance and our conversations more than you can know!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Lucky Boucher would have sworn that his day couldn’t get any lousier. But it took an abrupt nosedive at about the same time the tony blonde walked into Frenchy’s.
Not that he could totally blame the events of the day on the blonde. It wasn’t her fault that his 1980 Firebird—on which he lavished as much time and devotion as a mother did on her infant—picked that morning to stage a most costly tantrum. Nor could he fault the woman for his hairstylist’s distraction that afternoon, which had resulted in his hair being cut a full quarter-inch shorter than his specifications.
But from the moment she entered the place any thoughts he’d had of a relaxing evening were banished. He watched with a feeling of resignation as she swept the tavern’s shabby interior with a regal gaze, then made her way toward the bar. There was a collective hiss, as if all the men in the place had simultaneously sucked in their guts and squared their shoulders.
With a mournful shake of his head, he returned his attention to his pool game. He wasn’t one given to philosophizing, but there were a few absolutes in this world. Men would always act like fools when faced with a beautiful woman, even one as far out of their league as this one. And the presence of a classy female in a place like this was a powder keg waiting to detonate.
From the wisdom of experience he knew, as a rule, blondes were generally trouble.
However, he wasn’t above using the diversion she posed to his own advantage. While his opponent was still drooling in her direction, Lucky sized up his shot, then banked the cue ball off one side of the table to kiss the three, sending it into the corner pocket.
The sound had his opponent, a thick muscle-bound man known only as Stally, swiveling his head back toward the table with a scowl on his face. “What the hell you doing?”
“Whippin’ your ass in pool.” Lucky straightened to chalk his cue stick, while considering his next play. “The fact that you have to ask makes me almost sorry about takin’ your money.” He sent the man an insincere grin. “Almost.”
Stally’s brows drew closer together. “Play don’t continue ’til both players are looking at the table. That last shot of yours don’t count.”
Lucky leaned forward to line up his next shot, resting his cue lightly on his outstretched thumb to balance it. “What’s that, some obscure rule from the pool etiquette handbook? Keep your attention on the game, mon ami. Perhaps you will learn something.” The six was then sent spinning to a side pocket.
“He is generally an untrustworthy sort,” Remy Delacroix, Lucky’s supposed friend offered lazily from a nearby table. “You need to keep your eye on him at all times. Fortunately for you, I was watchin’ the table. The shot was clean.”
“I still don’t like it.”
With an inner sigh, Lucky deliberately botched his next attempt and stepped aside with a flourish. “I’ll give you one last turn then. Make it count.”
With a sneer, the man circled the table to study his options. Lucky used the time to check out the blonde’s progress. The bar stool she’d chosen was right beside Goldie Bellow’s, an all-around lowlife who made his living running girls through some of New Orleans’ less savory hotels. Today the pimp was dressed in a lime-green suit with a bright-yellow shirt. Next to the woman’s tailored white shirt and crisply pressed jeans, he looked like a gaudy plastic Mardi Gras bead set next to a pearl necklace.
While Lucky watched, the bartender put a drink before her and Bellows made a production of paying for it from a large roll of bills he’d taken from his pocket.
It hadn’t escaped him that men were falling over themselves vacating nearby tables and filling the rest of the stools to get closer to the woman. He gave it another fifteen minutes before all hell broke loose.
Stally’s muttered curse brought his gaze back to the pool table. The other man had managed to sink three balls before missing the fourth.
“Looks like you may have met your match, Boucher,” Remy suggested, raising a finger to summon the waitress for another round.
“Your confidence is overwhelmin’. Watch and learn.” Within short order, he sank his next three balls, and concentrated on dispatching the lone eight ball remaining. Raised voices from the direction of the bar had him mentally shaving five minutes off his original estimate. With unhurried motions, he lined up his last shot.
“Move over, buddy. It’s my turn.”
Stally’s demand came just as Lucky was about to send the cue ball barreling into the eight. He lifted his head. “What are you babblin’ about?”
With a threatening expression, the other man said, “You scratched. Just now. The tip of your stick