Читать книгу Beneath The Silk - Wendy Rosnau - Страница 9

“You lied to the police.” Sunni met Joey Masado’s self-assured gaze and held it. It was just before closing and she was assembling the scattered notes on her desk that she’d made for Mary, her store manager for Silks. “You know we’ve never dated. Much less—”

“Spent the night together? I never told the police we spent the night together.”

“You implied as much.”

“Then maybe this is blackmail. Maybe that’s what motivated my alibi story, you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Masado.” But Sunni had a feeling she was about to find out why a man she hardly knew had waltzed into the police station four nights ago and lied through his teeth to keep her out of jail.

“Call me Joey, and I’ll call you Sunni. We’re dating, remember?” The reckless grin that slashed across Joey Masado’s Sicilian good looks as he sauntered through the door was as unsettling as the one-inch scar high on his cheekbone. As he sat on the plush red visitor’s chair in front of her desk, he snagged her small at-a-glance calendar off her desk. After studying it, his intelligent brown eyes pinned her where she sat stiff and wary. “Looks like I’m in luck… Sunni. You’re free for dinner tonight.”

With her black hair swept into a twist at her nape, and her curves tastefully disguised in her designer black silk suit, Sunni looked every bit the flawless, confident businesswoman—an image she had worked hard to perfect—at least on the surface. Careful to maintain that image, she tried to relax. “If we need to discuss something, now would be a better time, Mr. Masado.”

“We should be seen together. It’s just that simple, Sunni.”

He leaned forward, replaced the calendar, then reached out and tugged on the white silk scarf tucked into the deep vee of her suit jacket. When he sat back, the scarf came loose, baring Sunni’s throat and a whole lot more. Self-conscious, she squared her petite shoulders to minimize just how amazing her God-given-gift really was.

As he threaded the silk between his long fingers, Joey said, “Four of these were found at the crime scene. Your fingerprints on each one.”

“My prints would be on my scarves, don’t you think? The mystery isn’t whose scarves were used in the murder, but how they got into that apartment when I was never there.”

“It’s no mystery to the police. Detective Williams believes you were there.”

“But that’s not true.”

“He’s calling it premeditated murder. In this state, that buys life.”

Sunni knew exactly what it bought. And, yes, she was in serious trouble. But at least Joey’s alibi story had given her some breathing room until the police turned over more evidence, evidence that would prove she was innocent.

“I didn’t kill Milo Tandi.”

“I believe you. But then I’m not the one you need to convince. Williams is sure that, like the scarves, the silk lingerie found in Milo’s apartment is yours.”

“Milo Tandi ran an escort service out of that apartment. His name is on several other apartments at the Crown Plaza for that same purpose. That lingerie isn’t mine.”

“Before I arrived at police headquarters did you tell Williams anything I should know about?”

“No. Only that I didn’t kill Milo, and I wanted my lawyer if they had plans to formally charge me. That’s when you showed up.”

Smiling, he asked, “How does Caponelli’s sound?”

Sunni had never been to the quaint Italian restaurant in Little Italy. She’d heard it was one of the best in the city, but she had no wish to dine out with Joey Masado.

“Did I mention I saw Williams outside on my way in? It looks like he’s giving this case top priority. He’s waiting for one of us to make a wrong move. I don’t make wrong moves, Sunni, and you can’t afford to. Can you?”

No, she couldn’t. Detective Williams wasn’t the only one keeping a close eye on her. Three days ago Rambo had moved into the neighborhood with an oversize German shepherd. The tall muscle-machine and his sidekick had been dogging her every move. She would easily admit that Joey Masado was both intimidating and dangerous, but Rambo looked like he ate nails for breakfast and used his dog for target practice.

She had the best reason in the world to pick up the phone and call her father for help, only she couldn’t. Joey Masado thought her father was dead. And she needed him to keep believing it, because if he found out her father was alive and living in New Orleans as the city’s police chief she would lose everything.

Yes, she’d lied about who she was when she’d applied for the lease to open Silks. Frank Masado and his two sons were rumored to be linked with the mob. If that was true, they would never have given her permission to open her shop at Masado Towers—not a police chief’s daughter.

Joey brushed the silk past his nose, then stood and dropped the scarf on the desk. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Show a little skin tonight, Sunni. It’ll help sell us to Williams.”

Rambo joined them for dinner. No, he wasn’t sharing their table, but he was at Caponelli’s not twenty feet away from where Sunni sat at a cozy table for two with Joey Masado.

“How’s the veal?”

Caught with her eyes wandering for the third, or possibly the sixteenth time, Sunni scooped up her wineglass and pressed it to her red-painted lips, her attention back to Joey. Everything she’d heard about the restaurant was true—the food was great, the atmosphere intimate, the lighting soft, the music softer.

“Sunni—” Joey motioned to her plate “—how is it?”

She’d eaten only half of what she’d ordered. She was always careful about the kind of food she ate and the amount. Only food wasn’t what was on her mind at the moment. She’d lost her appetite the minute she’d spied Rambo. “The veal is excellent, but I’m afraid my appetite is a little off tonight.”

Sunni studied Joey Masado. At the Towers he was called the money man. He wore European suits and shoes so shiny they could double as traveling mirrors. She didn’t know much about the Masado men, but Frank looked as intimidating as he was handsome. Joey must have taken after his mother. He was softer in appearance, kinder and actually smiled—not often, but at least he knew how.

Tomas Masado, on the other hand—Joey’s little brother—was Frank with a chip on his shoulder. As handsome as Joey, he wore his street clothes tight, his vivid scars openly, and his attitude a foot out in front of him.

“I love this place.” Joey sampled his wine, savored it, then set the stemmed glass down. “I grew up a few blocks from here. For me this place was always a piece of heaven in the middle of hell.”

When they had arrived at the restaurant an attractive elderly woman had rushed forward to greet them. She was small, Sicilian and had offered Joey a motherly hug. After kissing him first on one cheek and then the other, the woman—obviously the owner of Caponelli’s—had showed them to their table.

Sunni had followed her progress as the woman had headed toward the kitchen, but instead of going inside, she’d stopped short and seated herself across from Rambo.

It was a good thing Sunni had been sitting down when she’d spied him or she would have melted into the floorboards. At that moment her throat had dried up, and forty minutes later she was still having trouble swallowing.

It was as if she’d been dropped smack into the middle of a gangster movie—she was having dinner with a Wise Guy in a restaurant likely owned by Mama Big Guns who knew Rambo personally.

It couldn’t get much worse, Sunni thought, then amended that thought. Over the past few days she had thought long and hard about who this rough-looking muscle-machine might be. Vito Tandi’s hired avenger seemed the most likely. That being entirely possible, she had loaded her .22 automatic and had been sleeping with it under her pillow.

The image of this man—whoever he was—aiming a gun at her head sent Sunni’s gaze over her shoulder once more. As if Rambo came equipped with internal radar, he glanced up and their eyes locked.

In the movies assassins were usually cold-eyed introverts with nasty acne and bad teeth. But Rambo wasn’t the least bit repulsive to look at. Of course, he still could have bad teeth. The words drop-dead-gorgeous came to mind. Dead…yes, that was the appropriate word to use in the same sentence with an assassin. And with her, if she was in fact, his target.

Sunni had all she could do not to leap to her feet and race for the door when Rambo stood and headed toward their table. Heart racing, she watched his long stride eat up the distance while he munched on a piece of garlic bread.

Suddenly it was too late to leap up and go anywhere—he was beside the table. And she was silently choking on her fear.

“You’re looking good, Joe. I guess crime still pays.”

Sunni’s first thought was, no, his teeth are stickpin straight and as sparkling white as pearls. And as for pitted skin—nothing unwanted lined his cheekbones but sun-bronzed smooth skin. Actually, his complexion was a grade or two above average. The second thought she had was that Joey Masado should be offended by Rambo’s brazen comment. But instead, he grinned, then added a bit of fuel of his own. “I see you’re still breathing. That’s amazing for a man in your line of work, Jacky. At least I have bodyguards watching my back. Still carry that Diamondback?”

“And the Hibben.”

That piece of information opened up Joey’s smile and made Sunni’s fear triple. Growing up with a father in law enforcement had taught her more about guns and knives than she’d cared to know. If Rambo carried a Diamondback .38 in his back pocket, and a wicked knife in the other, he was a serious man of action, and she was dead.

While Rambo popped the last of his bread into his mouth, then settled his long-fingered hands on his lean hips, Sunni began to envision how he would do it. Strangulation was quick. Then, too, maybe he didn’t like things quick. Was torture more his style? Did he like things messy? Bloody? Would he use the Hibben? The Diamondback .38?

“You going to introduce me to your pretty lady, Joe?”

His heavy-hitter voice sent a landslide of chills racing the length of Sunni’s spine. She lifted her gaze to his face, still struggling to exist on no air—her lungs had collapsed. Rambo’s eyes were a vivid shade of green, but not the least bit empty or cruel like she’d expected. On the contrary, they were a combination of old wisdom and real-life experience.

Sunni did a quick once-over from head to toe without moving a muscle. He wasn’t wearing a belt and his faded jeans rode low on his hips. His body appeared to be hell-raiser hard—his flat stomach accentuated by the fact that his stark-white shirt clung to his chest and disappeared into his jeans as if he were one smooth column of steel.

“This is Sunita Blais. Sunni to her close friends.” Joey reached out and covered her hand with his, claiming her as if she were something he’d bought and paid for months ago. “Sunni, this is an old friend of mine. Jackson’s mama owns this place.”

His mother owned the restaurant?

Sunni caught Rambo’s gaze linger a moment on Joey’s hand covering hers, then his interest shifted to the low bodice of her red V-neck silk shift. He took his time sizing up her cleavage. It was on purpose, she decided. A reminder that he’d already seen her—seen her very close to naked standing in front of her bedroom window.

“You look familiar…Sunni.” He finally pulled his gaze off her chest to study her face. “Have we met somewhere?”

He knew damn well they hadn’t officially met, and yet they had in an unorthodox way she would just as soon forget. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of a man who would feast his eyes on an unsuspecting woman who was in the middle of changing her clothes, but somehow chastising the man who had been following her for the past three days, and quite possibly had been sent to kill her, seemed almost funny.

“Sunni?”

“Hah…” She blinked at the sound of Joey’s voice. It was then that she realized she’d been caught musing, that Joey was squeezing her hand, and both men were staring at her waiting for her response. She cleared her throat, sure her face matched the color of her red dress. “No, we’ve never met.”

A private, just-for-her twinkle entered his eyes, and another avalanche of chills washed over Sunni’s entire body.

“What kind of business are you in, Sunni? Anything I would be interested in?”

He was toying with her. He’d followed her to work, he’d watched her buy groceries. He knew where she banked. And as far as being interested in her business… Men, no matter how diverse their professions, were always interested in what a woman took off last.

Yes, Silks sold feel-good fantasy on a hanger. She hadn’t thought about it in quite that way when she’d opened the doors a few years ago, but it was a necessary marketing tool in the competitive world of retail.

Her private musing had again created dead silence. Luckily, like before, Joey came to the rescue. “Sunni owns an exclusive silk shop at Masado Towers. You’ll have to check it out when you come by to see me. You’re coming, right?”

“Yeah, tomorrow. I just got into town.”

That was a lie. He’d been following her for three days.

Rambo eyed her half-eaten plate of food. “Didn’t like your veal pizzaiola, Miss Blais?”

Nothing about this man should surprise her. But taking notice of what she’d ordered was unexpected. Again she faltered for words, and again, Joey came to her rescue. “Tell Vina the food was as good as ever.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Joey let go of her hand and reached for his half-full wineglass. “Tomorrow, mio fratello, I’ll give you a tour and we’ll catch up.”

Joey had just called Rambo his brother. Knowing that wasn’t true in the literal sense, she decided that he was definitely connected in some way to the mob.

He started to turn away, then stopped, his eyes fastening on Sunni’s cleavage…then on her face. Grinning, he said, “It’s been a pleasure seeing you. I look forward to next time.”

Dangerous or not—this man needed to know she wasn’t going to go down easy. And he needed to know there was more beneath her red silk dress than a memorable set of bubbles. She also had long legs that could run a six-minute mile. And she was no slouch on the firing range with her .22 automatic.

Chin raised, Sunni corrected him. “You mean meeting me, don’t you…Jackson?”

Undaunted by her challenge, his grin opened up. “That, too, Sunni.”

“What was that?” Jackson’s mother asked the minute he returned to his chair.

“What was what, Ma?”

“You were flirting with Joey’s girlfriend. Instead of ogling his lady, you should be pleased that he’s dating again and looking so happy.”

“Don’t you mean still alive and breathing, Ma?”

Lavina’s scowl sent her glasses to the end of her nose. “Jackson, your nasty side is showing again.”

He reached across the table and shoved his mother’s glasses back up. “Joe’s doing what he does best, Ma. What all the Masados do best. I accepted that a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I admit I worry about those two boys.”

“Joe’s got bodyguards watching his back. Lucky doesn’t need any. Don’t lose sleep over it, Ma.”

“What both of those boys need is their best friend showing them a little more compassion.”

“They need more than that, Ma. They need Frank shipped off to another planet so they can breathe some fresh air.”

Lavina Ward reached out and patted her son’s hand. “Joey looked good, though, didn’t he? So handsome in that shiny suit. Why don’t you get yourself a suit like that?”

“Because I don’t have two grand to blow, Ma.”

“That suit cost that much?”

“He’s Frank’s money machine, Ma. Remember?”

“What he is, Jackson, is your best friend.”

Yes, he and Joe were friends. Lucky, too. They had formed the Brotherhood when they had been three small boys with no last names, just watching cartoons and playing in his ma’s backyard. But then the boys grew into men. Frank put Joe in an expensive suit and Lucky on the street with a gun in his hand, and everything after that had gotten complicated.

Jackson still didn’t understand it, and he knew he probably never would. He was a cop and they were syndicate connected. And still they were his…fratelli.

He nodded to Joe as his friend escorted Sunni Blais out of the restaurant, half listening to his mother.

“I said, I wonder what happened between Joey and Sophia D’Lano. They were engaged for over a year, and then he just up and broke it off.”

“I heard Frank’s still trying to put it back together.”

“See, I knew you were keeping track of things back home.”

His mother’s smile was smug as a bug. “Okay, Ma, so I’ve kept an eye on Joe and Lucky from a distance. What of it?”

“Nothing. It’s just nice to hear, is all.”

Jackson leaned back and studied his mother. Her black hair had turned gray and she was sporting a few more age lines around her soft brown eyes. Still, she was a pretty woman for fifty-seven. Best of all, she looked happy. He supposed he owed that to Charlie. The retired military man had moved in across the street five years ago, and had been trying to attract his mother’s attention from day one. Recently, in their weekly phone conversations, she’d mentioned him with more frequency.

Attaboy, Charlie, Jackson thought—his mother deserved some happiness. She’d been alone for too many years.

Back on track, he asked, “Do you know Sunni Blais, the woman with Joe tonight?”

“Not before last week. She’s the woman the police are investigating in the Tandi murder.”

“Did she do it?” Jackson watched his mother’s reaction to the question.

“How should I know?”

“There’re rumors moving through here daily, Ma. You have to have heard something.”

“You can’t believe rumors, you know that. But after seeing her…”

“Go on.”

“She owns an underwear shop at Masado Towers, Jackson. You’re the man who moved to the sin capital of the world. I shouldn’t have to tell you that a woman as beautiful as that most likely wears the hundred-dollar underwear she sells. And that kind of expensive silk, dear boy, is made to be seen, not kept undercover.” Suddenly eyeing her son’s head, she said, “You’ve cut your hair. What prompted that?”

“The heat.” It wasn’t a lie. Still, he wouldn’t mention he was having boss trouble or she’d start pestering him about moving back to Chicago where he belonged.

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest to study her son. “It looks good. You look like your father.”

It was still hard to talk about his father’s death and the dark years prior to it. His father’s diabetes had been a nightmare for all of them. “How’s the knee, Ma?”

“Like new.” She swung her leg out from under the table to show him how easily her knee could move without pain.

When she’d had surgery a year ago, Jackson had returned to Chicago for a week. That had been the one and only time he’d been back since he’d relocated to New Orleans.

“Tell me about your partner.”

Jackson hadn’t mentioned Mac to his mother, outside the fact that he had a new partner. She still didn’t know he was a dog. “Mac made the trip with me.”

“Then this is a field assignment, not a vacation?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“You guess? Either it is or it isn’t, Jackson.”

“Okay, Ma, it’s work related.” His mother was studying him with one raised eyebrow. “What?”

“This assignment, can you talk about it?”

“It has to do with the Tandi murder, Ma. But that’s not for public discussion, okay?”

“You know I never talk to anyone about your work.”

He knew that, and that’s why he always felt free to bounce ideas off her. “Okay, here it is. Sunni Blais is my boss’s daughter. I’m here to clear her name.”

His mother’s eyes widened with surprise. “That woman is your boss’s daughter?”

“What about the old scandal, Ma? Could Milo’s death have something to do with the old feud with Frank Masado?”

“It’s true the scandal has never really died out. People still talk, still speculate where Grace is buried. But the rules Vito and Frank play by have never changed. It seems more likely that this woman killed Milo. The evidence is pretty convincing.”

“But she’s innocent, Ma.”

“A few minutes ago you asked me what I’ve been hearing, like your mind wasn’t made up. Now you say she’s innocent.” Lavina shook her head. “I can tell you this much, she doesn’t look like a victim.”

Mouth-watering curves outlined in red silk flashed behind Jackson’s eyes. No, he decided, a woman showing off smother-me-please breasts to the degree Sunni had tonight didn’t look like a victim. But did being beautiful and owning a million-dollar chest make her a murderess?

“Women who look like that are dangerous, Jackson. Look what happened to Frank Masado. Grace Tandi was the most beautiful woman alive. Frank knew better than to sleep with his best friend’s wife, so why did he? I’ll tell you why. Because Grace tricked him into thinking with his Johnson instead of his head.”

Jackson grinned. “His what, Ma?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” She scowled when Jackson chuckled. “Maybe you should warn Joey to be careful. And take a little of that advice for yourself.”

Jackson snorted. “Warn Joe? Like he would listen to me any more than Lucky would.”

“You underestimate yourself, Jackson. I can still picture you boys lined up on the couch in the living room watching cartoons. You three used to belly-laugh together so hard that you would turn blue and almost stop breathing. You camped together. Went to movies. Shared spaghetti off the same plate. Slept out in the rain together in that old leaky clubhouse in the backyard. Those two boys had a hand in shaping you, and making you who you are today. And contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t Frank who made Joey and Lucky who they are. Who they really are, anyway.” Lavina patted her son’s arm, then pushed his coffee cup toward him and raised hers in a salute. “Friends forever, Jackson. To the end and beyond.”

Jackson raised his cup, then downed the strong coffee and stood. He’d left Mac asleep on the couch, and more than likely something in the apartment needed rescuing by now—the desk chair, the bedspread…his T-shirt. “So if I get a chance to pick you up a pair of underwear at Silks in the next day or two, what color do you fancy, Ma? Widow-spider black, or chili-pepper, too-hot-to-handle red?”

Lavina took a wild swing at her son and missed. “What would a woman my age do with silk drawers?”

Jackson leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek, then whispered, “Give Charlie a thrill. It’s his birthday next month, right?” As he headed for the door, he tossed over his shoulder, “Maybe a better present would be saying yes next time he asks you to marry him.”