Читать книгу Bachelor By Design - Kay David - Страница 14

CHLOE HAD NEVER had so much trouble preparing for a date. First, her curling iron went on the blink, leaving her bangs hanging down in her eyes. Too pressed for time to go out and buy another one, she had to settle for sweeping her hair off her forehead and securing it with a silver filigree hair clip. Then her topaz ring snagged on her only decent pair of panty hose, causing a run from knee to thigh. She halted any further damage with a dab of clear fingernail polish, then rummaged through her closet for something long enough to cover up the run. She finally settled on a colorful broom skirt and a matching red peasant blouse.

Then there was Ramon.

“I’m the head of the family now,” he said, propping his skinny form against the door frame in the open doorway of the upstairs bathroom. “And I don’t like the idea of you dating Trace Callahan. Call it off.”

“I made you a pot roast with carrots and potatoes for supper.” Chloe leaned close to the mirror as she carefully applied a touch of mascara to her long, dark lashes. “If you eat all your vegetables, you can have some mocha ice cream for dessert.”

Ramon wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like pot roast. Besides, I have plans tonight.”

Chloe turned to look at her brother. His shoulder-length brown hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail. He wore a blue pinstripe shirt and crisply pressed denim blue jeans. He’d shaved recently too, judging by the small tuft of toilet paper stuck to his chin. “Plans? What kind of plans?”

He shrugged. “I’d rather not say.” Then his brown eyes widened in dismay. “And you changed the subject again. We were talking about Callahan.”

She turned back to the mirror, able to see his reflection in the glass. “What about him?”

“He’s not your type, Chloe. I’ve heard he even has a list of requirements for the perfect wife.”

“Don’t worry, Ramon. I’m not interested in the job.”

“I still forbid you to go out with him. I don’t trust the man, and I certainly don’t like him. He wouldn’t let me handle any of his precious tools at work today.” His mouth drew down in a pout. “Except the broom.”

“You’re an apprentice,” Chloe reminded him. “You’ve got to start somewhere. Just give it some time.”

Ramon shook his head. “I don’t have that much time. I’m already twenty-two years old.”

She laughed. “I’ll buy you a walker for your next birthday.”

“I’m serious, Chloe. Life is passing me by. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.” He took a deep breath. “It’s time to make some changes.”

The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. “What kind of changes?”

He scowled. “You did it again. You changed the subject. We were talking about you and Callahan.”

She turned to face him, a tube of raspberry-red lipstick in her hand. “Right now we’re talking about you. I want to know exactly what kind of changes you’re planning to make.”

“It’s a secret.”

She took a step toward him. “Ramon, don’t do anything foolish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We both know what it means. I know the past few years have been rough for you. Especially after Dad died.” She didn’t want to admit they’d been rough for her, too. The sudden death of Theo D’Onofrio eight years ago had left Chloe, a naive nineteen-year-old, in sole charge of her sullen fourteen-year-old brother. She’d tried her best to raise him right, with plenty of unsolicited advice from her incarcerated mother and assorted D’Onofrios.

“I miss him,” Ramon admitted. “He was my hero.”

Just the words she didn’t want to hear. “I loved Dad, too. But he had his faults. He was too smart to waste his life cracking safes. He could have done so much more.”

Ramon’s eyes sparked with anger. “Theo D’Onofrio was the best jewel thief in the country. The police never even came close to touching him.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But the stress of evading them all those years took its toll. He was only forty-seven when his heart gave out.”

Ramon’s shoulders drooped. “The same thing could have happened if he’d been a plumber or a banker. Besides, he loved his work.”

Sometimes Chloe wondered if her father had loved his work more than he’d loved his family. They’d never been able to stay in one place long—making it necessary for Chloe and Ramon to change schools often. They’d had to lie, too, whenever anyone asked them what Theo D’Onofrio did for a living. He’s in the security business was their standard reply. Only they refrained from mentioning that his specialty was breaking security.

Still, it hadn’t been a bad life. The D’Onofrios were a close-knit family, and they’d always been able to depend on each other. Which was the reason Chloe wasn’t about to let her brother down—whether he wanted her help or not.

“Times are different now,” she said briskly, turning back to the mirror. “The police have much more sophisticated equipment to track stolen merchandise. So if you’re thinking of taking up where Dad left off, think again.”

The doorbell rang, forestalling Ramon’s reply. But she could see by the mottled flush on his cheeks that she’d hit a nerve. “That must be Trace.”

“I’ll get it,” Ramon said, moving down the hallway.

Chloe picked up a pair of gold hoop earrings off the marble vanity top and hooked one through her ear. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I will,” Ramon called over his shoulder. “As well as a few other things.”

She stuck out her tongue at his retreating back, then walked down the hallway into her bedroom. After slipping on a pair of red leather flats, she took a long look at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on her closet door. Not quite satisfied with her appearance, she pulled the elastic band of the peasant blouse off her shoulders. Then up again. Then down again.

Her gaze fastened on her hair. Pulled back, it looked awful. Unfortunately, it looked even more awful flopping in her eyes after she took off the clip. Picking up a bottle of hair spray off her dresser, she feathered her bangs back with her fingers, then sprayed them into place. Not perfect, but definitely an improvement.

Chloe took a deep breath, surprised by the fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t been on a real date in months. Between getting her business off the ground and keeping a watchful eye on Ramon, she simply hadn’t had any time left over for romance.

Only this wasn’t a real date. And Trace Callahan had made it clear he wasn’t interested in a romance. Especially with her.

Good thing, too.

Because despite her skepticism about Madame Sophia’s talents, she couldn’t deny the pull between them. There was something about Trace that brought out the flirt in her. Something that almost made her forget she didn’t even like the man.

TRACE BROKE OUT in a cold sweat as he stood waiting on the dilapidated porch of the rambling Victorian house. He’d been restless all day, wavering between apprehension and anticipation. The prospect of a date with Chloe D’Onofrio intrigued him, aroused him and terrified him all at the same time. Now that the moment had finally arrived, he didn’t know whether he should ring the doorbell again or run screaming in the opposite direction.

Noah’s warning echoed in his mind. Be afraid, Trace. Be very afraid. Then he shook off the words as well as his sense of foreboding. Trace Callahan had never let fear dictate to him before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Besides, it was only one date. How bad could it be?

The front door swung open and Ramon stood on the other side, a scowl on his face and a six-inch carving knife in his hand. “It’s you.”

“Put the knife down, Ramon.”

Ramon held the knife up in the air, the blade glinting in the glow of the porch light. “This little thing? I was just using it to slice up a roast.”

“Put it down, Ramon.” After almost losing his big toe, Trace wasn’t about to take any chances.

Ramon tipped up his chin. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have to take it away from you, and you won’t like the way I do it.”

Ramon hesitated a moment, then dropped the knife into the potted plant just inside the front door. The hilt quivered slightly as the blade pierced the soil. “All right, have it your way.”

“Thank you.” Trace waited for him to move away from the door. “May I come in now?”

Ramon stood with his hands on his narrow hips, blocking the doorway. “Could I stop you?”

“No,” Trace said genially, pushing past him as he stepped across the threshold and into the living room. “Is Chloe ready to go?”

“Depends.” Ramon turned to face him. “Exactly what are your intentions toward my sister?”

“I intend to buy her dinner.”

“I’m not worried about dinner. I want to know what you have in mind for dessert.”

“Something sweet and soothing, which pretty much rules out your sister.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Ramon. I’m not interested in Chloe that way.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but he didn’t like the way Ramon was eyeing that knife.

“I hope not.” Ramon moved a step closer to him, the top of his head barely reaching Trace’s chin. “Because otherwise you’ll have to answer to me.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Trace said dryly.

“Remember it.” Ramon gave him one last glare, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Trace watched him leave, grudgingly impressed with Ramon’s efforts to defend his sister. The man might be a fruitcake, but he was a loyal fruitcake.

Left on his own, Trace could finally feast his eyes on the exquisite and spacious living room. Evidence of fine craftsmanship was everywhere. Intricate crown moldings lined the high ceiling. The large picture window was a showpiece in itself, accented with rose, amber and green stained glass. Marble insets flanked the hand-carved windowsill.

Trace stared in wonder around the rest of the unique room. Chloe obviously wasn’t his perfect match, but he was falling hard and fast for her house.

He had to give her credit, though. She’d decorated it just right. The simple, tasteful furnishings and decor enhanced rather than detracted from the nineteenth-century grandeur of the setting. He just hoped she could do half as well with Café Romeo.

Saving the best for last, he moved toward the open spiral staircase. He’d never seen a staircase like this one before, although he knew a handful had been built in St. Louis sometime around the turn of the century. It was in amazing condition for its age, the wood gleaming and polished to a high sheen. With a feeling of reverence, he reached out one hand and ran it down the carved balustrade. He didn’t know enough about real estate to guess the value of the house, but the staircase itself had to be worth a fortune.

He wondered who had built it. One of his hobbies was studying the techniques of local craftsmen from the nineteenth century. They had built some of the finest houses in the city. He bent down to look at the underside of the staircase, hoping to find a find a date or even the initials of the man responsible for this masterpiece.

He saw something far different.

“What the hell…” he muttered, angling his head for a better view. Then he heard footsteps behind him. But before he could turn around, something solid and heavy struck his temple. He blinked in surprise as a blinding pain streaked through his head.

Then everything went black.

CHLOE GAVE HER BANGS one last spritz of hair spray for good measure, then headed for the stairs. A loud thud made her pause at the top of the staircase. “Ramon?”

No answer. It was quiet down there now. Too quiet. She hoped Ramon hadn’t scared her date away. Or maybe Trace hadn’t shown up at all. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d wondered more than once if Callahan would really go through with this fake date.

Her doubts turned to uneasiness when she reached the landing. The living room was empty, but the front door stood open. She walked toward it and looked outside. The wide porch stood empty too, although a strange black Chevy Blazer was parked by the front curb.

Chloe closed the door and turned back into the living room. That was when she saw the knife sticking out of the potted plant. It looked as if someone had tried to murder her philodendron.

“Ramon?” she called again, picking up the knife, then walking toward the kitchen. “Where are you?”

She moved through the kitchen door and her gaze settled on the oak pedestal table in the center of the room. It was set for one. The pot roast sat congealing on the counter, two thick slices of meat lying on the platter beside it. She set the knife in the stainless steel sink, then looked out the kitchen window at the driveway. Her brother’s beat-up ’83 hatchback was still there.

“Ramon?” she called, louder now as she walked down the long hallway, checking all the other rooms on the main floor. Could he possibly have gone upstairs without her seeing him?

Chloe moved back into the living room and headed toward the spiral staircase, a vague uneasiness settling over her. She’d just set her right hand on the newel post when she saw the shoes. She blinked in surprise, then leaned over the right side of the banister. Sticking out from under the staircase were two feet, wearing brown leather loafers, their toes pointing up toward the ceiling. She leaned further and saw that the feet were connected to a pair of long legs clad in tan Dockers.

“Omigod!” She rounded the newel post, and her knees hit the hardwood floor right next to the shoes. Bending down far enough to peer underneath the staircase, she saw Trace Callahan crammed in the narrow space between the floor and the bottom of the staircase.

His face looked pasty-white in the shadows.

“Trace!”

She grabbed his ankle and shook it. “Trace, are you all right?”

He didn’t react to either her voice or her jostling. He just lay there deathly still. Her heart pounded in her chest as panic consumed her. She stood up, grabbed both his ankles and pulled with all her might. His body moved about a foot. She pulled again, grunting aloud with her effort. He was so impossibly heavy. She’d never moved over two hundred pounds of dead weight before. Dead. The awful word reverberated in her head. He couldn’t be dead.

Could he?

At last, she’d pulled his body clear of the staircase. She dived to her knees again and clasped him by the shoulders. “Trace, please wake up. Please!”

The skin at his temple was mottled a dusky blue, and a thin red streak of blood was running down his cheek. His face was still pale, his lips almost bloodless. She wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“Trace!” She shouted his name, her throat straining with effort and fear. She called it again. Then a third time.

No response.

Frantic now, she cupped one hand under his neck, tilting his chin up. His mouth fell open, revealing a straight line of white teeth. She took a deep breath, then clamped her mouth over his. Exhaling slowly, she tried to fill his lungs with air. But somehow, it wasn’t working right.

Then he moved. His lips anyway, gently molding themselves against her mouth. His tongue darted forward and her eyes opened wide as it slid sleekly inside.

His eyes were still closed and she heard a low rumble deep in his throat. Then his hands rose. They reached up to cradle her face, holding her gently in place. Pure sensation overcame her shock as his mouth pressed against hers. She moaned softly as his fingers trailed down her throat, his thumbs stroking her collarbone. Then his hands moved over her bare shoulders, drawing her even closer to him.

He groaned again. Only this time it sounded more like a groan of pain than pleasure.

Chloe broke the kiss and sat up, watching him grimace as he brought his hand to his temple. She swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”

“What the hell happened?” His voice sounded weak and raspy.

“I don’t know. I came down here and found you unconscious under the stairs.”

His gaze focused on her. “Where exactly is here?”

“My house.” She leaned forward. “I’m Chloe, remember? Chloe D’Onofrio. We have a date.”

“Chloe.” He closed his eyes. “I dreamed you were kissing me.”

It seemed like a dream to her, too. She’d never been kissed like that before. It wasn’t just his technique. The man had been barely conscious, after all. It was the unusual spark that had arced between them—connected them.

He opened his eyes. “Or was it a dream?”

“No. But it wasn’t exactly a kiss, either—at least it didn’t start out that way.” She licked her lips. “That’s not important right now. How do you feel?”

“Like someone has been using my head for batting practice. What happened?”

“I think you were attacked by a Chihuahua.”

He shook his head as if to clear it, then winced. “I think I’m hearing things. Did you say a Chihuahua?”

She stooped to pick up the small ceramic dog lying upended near the base of the stairs. One pointed ear had been chipped off, and the remaining fragment was stained with a small amount of blood. She held it up for him see. “It used to be Ramon’s pet, since he’s allergic to animal dander. Now we use it for a doorstop.”

“It also makes a handy guard dog,” he said, gingerly fingering his injury. “I just wish I’d seen it coming.”

“What exactly were you doing under the staircase?”

“The staircase,” he echoed, closing his eyes once more. “Nice. Nice staircase. I…looked under it.”

She frowned. “Why?”

His brow crinkled as if he was trying to remember the reason. At last he said, “Names. I was looking for names.”

Names? That didn’t make any sense. Which shouldn’t surprise her, since he was suffering from a head injury. “Speaking of names, do you happen to remember yours?”

He opened his eyes and scowled up at her. “Of course.”

“Tell me,” she said, wanting to be certain.

“Trace Joseph Callahan. I’m twenty-seven years old and live on Ravenna Drive in St. Louis, Missouri.” He arched a brow, then winced at the slight movement. “Am I right?”

“You looked older than twenty-seven.”

“At the moment, I feel about eighty-seven.” He struggled to sit up, his face blanching at the effort. “Make that ninety-seven.”

She clasped his shoulder and helped pull him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, then dropped his head between his knees.

She chewed her lower lip, wondering if she should call him an ambulance. “Are you all right?”

After a moment, he nodded. “Just a little dizzy.”

“I still don’t understand what happened.”

He looked up at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, not to me.” She stood up and began to pace. “I find you unconscious under the stairs and I can’t find my brother anywhere.” She paused to look at him, twisting her fingers together. “Do you think Ramon is in trouble?”

“Definitely.” He gripped the newel post, then rose unsteadily to his feet. “Attempted murder is a serious matter.”

She blinked. “What are you saying?”

His brows drew together.

“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend to be shocked. Ramon answered the front door with a butcher knife in his hand. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. And, just yesterday, he assaulted me with a power saw.”

“That was an accident. And this is…pre-posterous. Ramon would never…could never hurt anyone.” Her gaze flicked to his foot. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“Chloe, I admire your loyalty, but this is pushing it a bit too far. The man is a menace. He belongs behind bars.”

Her blood turned to ice at his words. Ramon would never survive in jail. He could barely survive out of jail.

“I know he’s your brother,” Trace continued, his tone gentler now. “But I have to report him to the police. Otherwise, he’s liable to kill someone with these crazy antics. And since I seem to be his favorite target, I’m afraid that someone will be me.”

“You don’t understand,” she breathed. “He’s had a tough life. Our family is…different.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”

His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”

Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”

She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”

“Frankie?”

“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”

“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”

“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”

Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”

“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”

“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”

“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”

He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”

“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”

Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”

“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”

Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”

“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”

Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in prison?”

Chloe heard both horror and pity in his voice. She didn’t care for either. “Yes. But she’ll be out in less than a month.”

He turned to her. “Exactly how many D’Onofrios are behind bars?”

She glanced at the ceiling as she mentally calculated the number. “Six, if you count Benson. But he’s not technically behind bars. Juvenile Hall is more of a rehabilitation facility.”

“Six,” he echoed, sagging onto the sofa.

“So you see,” she said, joining him there, “I do have some experience with criminal behavior. Ramon just doesn’t have it in him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”

His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” she bit out, wishing she’d bitten her tongue instead. Trace already thought badly enough of her brother without knowing he aspired to become a master jewel thief.

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop it, already.

He just stared at her, waiting. Was that empathy she saw in his blue eyes? Compassion?

“Fine,” she said at last. “On one condition.”

“You’re hardly in any position to make conditions. You can either tell me right now or I pick up the telephone and call the police.”

So much for compassion.

“Go ahead and call the police,” she bluffed. “I’m not telling you anything.”

But instead of reaching for the telephone, Trace leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, his face still unnaturally pale. For a moment she regretted arguing with him in his condition. She knew in her heart Ramon wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, but someone had definitely hurt Trace. And there was a high probability that someone was a D’Onofrio. Pangs of guilt and regret shot through her.

“Can I get you something,” she asked, her tone softer now. “An aspirin, or maybe some ice for your head?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about some pot roast? It will only take me a few minutes to reheat it in the microwave.”

He cracked open one eye. “You cook?”

“Since I was twelve. Someone had to take over the meals after Mom went to prison the first time.”

“Twelve.” Trace sighed, both eyes open now. “I was seven when my Mom left. Only she never came back.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe murmured, knowing firsthand the inadequacy of those words.

“Don’t be. We had Aunt Sophie, and she couldn’t have loved us more if we were her own sons.” His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Even when we messed up.”

“Then you know why I still love my family. They’re a little on the shady side, but they’re all I’ve got.”

“A little?”

“All right,” she conceded. “A lot. Except Ramon. He’s simply not a violent person.”

She waited for Trace to contradict her, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d convinced him. Maybe he’d already changed his mind about calling the police.

Chloe set her jaw. When she found the D’Onofrio who had attacked Trace, she’d string him, or her, up by his or her toes. On second thought, she’d do something even worse—she’d make the culprit eat her cooking. Trace had asked her if she could cook, not if she was a good cook. In her case, there was a big difference.

Only she couldn’t do anything until she knew what Trace planned to do. Would he press charges against her brother? Or would he finally believe her assertion that Ramon was innocent?

“Chloe,” he said at last, with the tone of a man who has come to a decision.

“Yes, Trace?” She held her breath, awaiting his verdict.

“There’s something else you should know.”