Читать книгу A Perfect Stranger - Jenna Ryan - Страница 12

Darcy’s blood pressure spiked, then slowly settled. This man was holding her, not choking her. Relaxing her muscles, she offered a pleasant, “Let me guess. Damon Marlowe?”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. Word travels at warp speed in my business. Uh, do you mind?”

For an answer, he released her and moved back half a step.

With a smile on her lips, Darcy faced him.

Gorgeous was her first, frankly surprised, thought. Elaine had been right. If the word sexy could take human form, Damon Marlowe would be it. She would have continued to 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 would understand. “And then?”

Because he knew what she was thinking, he used the beer to cover a burgeoning smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Darcy, but I’ve dealt with reporters before. I go in alone, you follow me. So we’ll save time and do this together.”

Setting her tongue on her upper lip, she tipped her head to the side, strolled closer and assessed him from top to bottom. “You’re a man of mystery and surprise, Marlowe. I foresee all kinds of problems between us.”

“I see them here and now.”

Humor sparkled in her eyes. “You can drop the guard. I told you I wouldn’t play the seduction card, and I meant it.”

Was he on guard? Maybe. Probably. Didn’t mean he had to ditch a rather intriguing situation. He just had to make sure he didn’t get tangled up in it.

Taking another drink, he let his gaze slide over her face. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The sparkle blossomed into a smile. “Oh, I believe that. Your kind isn’t afraid of any woman.”

“I’m a kind?”

“Very much so. You’re immovable, inscrutable, emotionally distant, and if I were a female rat, I wouldn’t even consider exposing my ass to you. Unfortunately, you’re also hot and sexy, and I’m going to guess chock-full of bad-boy vices. Makes you irresistible to a female like me. Therefore—” letting a sly look steal across her face, she hooked her finger around the front of his T-shirt and gave a tug “—my feeling is, we should get this out of the way now, before we move on.”

A thread of amusement, mostly dark, wove through his system. “I’m not a gentleman, Darcy.”

“Well, I’m shocked.”

Eyes glittering, he let the darkness have its way, set the bottle down and trapped her jaw between the fingers and thumb of his right hand.

“Lady, this is one mistake I’m going to enjoy.” Leaving no time for second thoughts, he covered her mouth with his.

HE TASTED LIKE SOMETHING forbidden, something she should run from and not look back.

He went in deep, and he savored. He made light and color shimmer to life in her head. When he finally stepped back, it took several long moments for the drumbeat he’d created in her blood to subside.

Now that, she thought through a lovely warm haze, was a kiss.

He didn’t say a word afterward, just stared into her eyes, then turned and walked out.

Darcy knew his mind was working. On what, she wasn’t sure. But that was enigmatic for you.

He returned a moment later with her laptop. The haze vanished when he told her where Umer Lugo was staying.

It took them twenty-five minutes to reach their destination in Marlowe’s Land Rover. During that time, Darcy rattled off a dozen questions, most of them concerning the state of Lugo’s mental health.

“The Declaration Inn.” She read the dimly lit sign from the parking lot off the westbound Interstate. “Aka the Bates Motel. I see five cars, three of them old and rusty, outside four doors. The only visible lights are in the lobby, and there’s no one behind the desk.”

Marlowe surveyed the low structure as they got out of the car.

“Question,” she said as they navigated the ravaged lot. “Why do you suppose Lugo is staying in a place like this?”

With his fingers wrapped around her bare upper arm, Marlowe swept the line of doors. “I don’t know.” He glanced down when she turned her ankle. “You probably shouldn’t have worn heels.”

“If I’d known about this parking lot, I’d have worn combat boots.” And full camo gear, she thought, although the pale pink dress that stopped just above her knees and crisscrossed in the back was definitely cooler. “I hope the manager isn’t a weirded-out mama’s boy.” She peered through the spotty glass. “Still no one in sight.”

“Easier for us to find Lugo’s room and get inside.”

“It’s a fine line between cop and crook, isn’t it?”

“Ex-cop.”

“And the line gets finer.”

The lobby door creaked, but no bell announced them. In fact, the only sound came from a pair of droning flies and a whiny Merle Haggard song emanating from the dusty wall speakers.

Steadier now on the cracked linoleum tiles, Darcy eased her arm free. In her mind, she was still going over a kiss that had left her breathless and oddly light-headed. At this moment, though, and given the circumstances, distance was more prudent.

She ran a finger down the open register while Marlowe checked out the shadowy back room. “There’s someone named Jones in three,” she told him. “A double X in eleven and a squiggly line with two big rabbit ears in five.”

“Anything that looks like Lugo?” Marlowe asked from the inner door.

She ran the list. “Lucky number seven.” Then she glanced at the Peg-Board. “There’s no key.”

Returning to the desk, Marlowe took her hand. “Let’s go.”

Drawing a gun she hadn’t realized he was carrying from the waistband of his jeans, he nodded forward.

At the door of room seven she gave two firm taps. “Mr. Lugo? It’s Darcy Nolan.”

Five seconds ticked by. “Mr. Lugo?” she tried again. “Are you there?”

No light came on.

“Door’s paper-thin,” she noted. “Unless he sleeps with earplugs, I’d say he’s— Oh, God, you’re not. A credit card?”

Seconds later, Marlowe opened the door to an expanse of black, the smell of must and Rambo playing on a very old TV.

He located a tippy floor lamp. The low-watt bulb cast a long shadow over a pair of twin beds, an open bottle of Bordeaux and an unzipped suitcase.

Darcy swung in a slow circle. “Well, this is really icky. Even on the lam, Janet Leigh wouldn’t have showered in a motel room that had splotchy walls and vermin in the once green carpet.”

“There’s a reason he chose this place,” Marlowe told her. He switched on a second lamp.

It didn’t help, only made it possible for Darcy to step over the more suspect stains.

Her eyes landed on the desk behind him. “Laptop.”

With a gleam in his eyes, Marlowe opened it, leaving Darcy to search the bathroom.

Palms braced on either side of the computer, he scanned the screen. “There’s something here.”

“Mr. Lugo?” she called at the bathroom door. Reaching for the knob, she paused, then shrugged and went for it. “Mr. Lugo?”

The first thing she saw was a dirty window with just enough light trickling through to reveal yet another empty room. Still, she felt strangely deflated as she lifted the hair from her overheated neck. Whatever the man’s program might be, his absence wouldn’t help them uncover it.

“What’s on his computer?” she called back.

“Looks like an unsent e-mail.”

Humor speared through her when she spied the drawn shower curtain. “Bet it’s filthy,” she murmured. But she gave the thin plastic a tug anyway.

And felt her mind freeze.

The faucet wasn’t running, but there was water in the tub.

“Looks like Lugo was working on a report for his client,” Marlowe said from the other room.

The sound of his voice fractured her temporary paralysis. With her eyes on the bathtub, she backed toward the door. “Unless he brought someone with him, he won’t be finishing it.” The words wanted to stick, but she forced them out. “Lugo’s dead, Marlowe. He’s got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in the middle of his forehead.”