His eyes fastened on Sunni’s cleavage…

then her face. Grinning, Jackson said, “It’s a pleasure seeing you. I look forward to next time.”

Sunni was outraged. And dangerous or not, this man needed to know she wasn’t going to go down easy. He also needed to know there was more beneath her red silk dress than a memorable set of bubbles. She 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, “You mean meeting me, don’t you…Jackson?”

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

Dear Reader,

The warm weather is upon us, and things are heating up to match here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Candace Camp returns to A LITTLE TOWN IN TEXAS with Smooth-Talking Texan, featuring another of her fabulous Western heroes. Town sheriff Quinn Sutton is one irresistible guy—as attorney Lisa Mendoza is about to learn.

We’re now halfway through ROMANCING THE CROWN, our suspenseful royal continuity. In Valerie Parv’s Royal Spy, a courtship of convenience quickly becomes the real thing—but is either the commoner or the princess what they seem? Marie Ferrarella begins THE BACHELORS OF BLAIR MEMORIAL with In Graywolf’s Hands, featuring a Native American doctor and the FBI agent who ends up falling for him. Linda Winstead Jones is back with In Bed With Boone, a thrillingly romantic kidnapping story—of course with a happy ending. Then go Beneath the Silk with author Wendy Rosnau, whose newest is sensuous and suspenseful, and completely enthralling. Finally, welcome brand-new author Catherine Mann. Wedding at White Sands is her first book, but we’ve already got more—including an exciting trilogy—lined up from this talented newcomer.

Enjoy all six of this month’s offerings, then come back next month for even more excitement as Intimate Moments continues to present some of the best romance reading you’ll find anywhere.

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Beneath the Silk
Wendy Rosnau

WENDY ROSNAU

resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. A former hairdresser, she now divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and gift shop, and writing romantic suspense.

Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick.

Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com. E-mail her at cattales@brainerd.net. Or write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401.

To Tyler,

Our hearts know the truth, and in that we are made stronger.

Walk in truth, surrounded by the light, my son, and know you are never alone.

I love you….

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

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

They called him the NOPD’s loose cannon. His boss, Clide Blais, simply called him a pain in the ass. It was true that Jackson Ward hadn’t bonded well with his police chief—after three years of working together, they were still deadlocked as to the proper conduct befitting a New Orleans homicide detective.

To back up Clide’s argument, Jackson had gone through eight partners in two years before he’d found one that had stuck. But like everything in life, change is the one thing you can count on. After a year with Ry Archard, Jackson was again faced with the task of finding a partner he could work with—or more to the point, who could work with him.

Three partners had come and gone in the past three months, but still Jackson didn’t blame Ry for taking the desk job he’d been offered. If he had a beautiful wife like Margo to come home to, he would have wanted out of the hot seat and better hours himself. But the fact remained that he was still in limbo, sampling partners, hoping to find one who could appreciate his all-or-nothing, you-think-it, you-say-it approach to his job.

And that’s where Jackson found himself on a hot and sticky Friday afternoon in October as he wheeled his issued cruiser into the visitors’ lot at Charity Hospital, his newest recruit riding shotgun.

He parked the puke-green ’96 Ford, then turned to speak to partner number thirteen. Thirteen was a bad number, Jackson mused, staring at the aging has-been who had fallen asleep. Seeing no point in waking him, he climbed out of the car and headed for the hospital.

On entering the lobby, the old memories of how much he hated hospitals hit Jackson square between the eyes. As a kid he’d spent countless hours in hospital waiting rooms with a cereal box between his knees watching cartoons—too young to understand the seriousness of his father’s diabetes.

Harold Ward had been dead for fifteen years, but Jackson still hated hospitals, hated the feelings they evoked. The memories they resurrected. Only today he had no choice—last night his police chief’s peptic ulcer had erupted, landing him in a hospital bed.

Inside the elevator, Jackson hung his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. He was tall—six foot three—with a case-hardened body and shaggy black hair that had been freshly cut that morning. He and Clide had been butting heads for two weeks, and with his suspension record being what it was, Ry had suggested that a new-and-improved look might raise Jackson’s image a notch with the boss—that is, if he was willing to play suck-up to a man who clearly didn’t like him, or the way he did his job.

He found Clide’s room and knocked. A second later the gravelly voice inside barked, “You’re late.”

Jackson set his jaw, then swung open the door. “I’m not late—” his eyes found his boss slumped on the bed “—visiting hours don’t start till—”

“Screw visiting hours, Ward. I got a crisis on my hands. If I could have found you last night, a black-and-white would have picked you up.”

Now what? Jackson wondered. Other than Clide, he hadn’t pissed anyone off for two or three days—not that he was aware of, anyway. He stepped inside and closed the door. “What’s your crisis, Chief?”

“Milo Tandi. He was murdered night before last.”

The name Tandi was as commonplace in Chicago as the Loop and Wrigley Field. The Tandis were also front-runners in the Chicago-Italian Organization. Jackson had gone to school with Milo and knew from personal experience that his old classmate was about as likable as fungus on a toad.

Clide poked a finger at the electronic device attached to his bed and hoisted the mattress to raise him upward. “Well, give me some background on him. Draw me a picture, Ward. Don’t just stand there irritating the hell out of me.”

Jackson fished in his pocket for a cigarette, then remembered hospital regulations and slid the pack back into his shirt. “Milo’s thirty-four, same as me. He was born to Vito and Grace Tandi. The sole heir to the family fortune. Vito is alive, but he’s been a recluse since the scandal.”

“What scandal?”

“Grace was caught in bed with Vito’s best friend.”

“Go on.”

“Frank Masado was the friend. He’s also worth millions, and connected. Some say Grace was carrying Frank’s kid when Vito decided to slip her pretty long legs into a pair of concrete pantyhose and drop her off in the middle of Lake Michigan.”

“He killed his wife?”

“It was never proved.” Jackson grinned. “Guess Grace never popped up.”

“Don’t be cute, Ward. Keep going.”

“Milo ran Vito’s nightclubs. The Shedd, his favorite, is famous for its exotic dancers.”

“So it’s the usual? Prostitution? Gambling? Drugs? Tough guys playing tough?”

“It’s all that.” Jackson narrowed his clear green eyes—eyes that had come from his Irish grandfather on his father’s side. His black hair, prominent cheekbones and classic nose were gifts from his mother’s Sicilian heritage. “What’s this all about, Chief?”

“Someone put a hole in the middle of Tandi’s forehead in an apartment at the Crown Plaza. He was found naked, tied to a four-poster bed with red silk scarves. Scarves that have been traced to Silks Inc.”

“Was he offed before the fun started or after?”

“God, Ward, what the hell difference does it make?”

“Just wondered if he died happy, Chief.”

“He did, if that makes any difference.”

“It would to me,” Jackson confessed. “This place, Silks… I’ve never heard of it. Is it suppose to mean something to us?”

The color drained from Clide’s already pale cheeks. “It means something, all right. It means my baby girl’s gotten herself in trouble in your town, Ward. Normally I wouldn’t give a damn that some Mafia mogul’s son ate a bullet. But when the evidence is pointing straight at Sunni that changes things.”

“Sunni?”

“My daughter. She’s been living in Chicago for the past two and a half years.”

While Clide started at the beginning, Jackson sauntered to the third-story window and gazed down at the congested street traffic. The crowded city had never been a problem for him. Having grown up in Chicago, he was used to people. But it was the heat that he’d never gotten used to. That’s why he’d taken Ry’s suggestion and cut his hair. No, not for a second had he considered playing suck-up, but sweating less had definitely appealed to him.

“So you see, Sunni’s the prime suspect,” Clide was saying. “She started Silks six months after she moved to the city. It’s one of those fancy lingerie shops. And her apartment is at the Crown Plaza. That’s why Detective Williams thinks he’s got his case sewn up.”

“Stud Williams?” Jackson slowly turned from the window.

“What’s that look mean, Ward?”

“Stud was one of my partners when I worked for the CPD.”

“Well hell, that’s no surprise. You change partners damn near as often as I change my shorts.” Clide rubbed his gut, made a face. “Williams claims the scarves are Sunni’s. I thought he meant that they came from her store, but he says they’re her personal property. That she identified them and that her fingerprints were on all four scarves.”

Jackson relaxed his shoulder against the wall and tried to imagine what Clide Blais’s daughter looked like. He’d never seen Mrs. Blais, but Clide was five foot six, seventy-five pounds overweight, and the only place he could grow hair was on his upper lip.

“Williams also told me the only reason Sunni hasn’t been arrested is that she’s got an alibi for the night of the murder.”

“At least that’s something.”

“You won’t think so once you hear who it is. Sunni’s alibi is Frank Masado’s son. The oldest one. Williams says Joey Masado is my daughter’s boyfriend.”

Jackson winced. “You’re telling me she’s been seeing both Joe and Milo Tandi at the same time?”

“Hell, no. That would be stupid.”

Deadly was a better word, Jackson thought. Just ask Grace Tandi.

“Masado claims Sunni was having dinner with him in his suite when Milo Tandi took the hit.” Clide rubbed his gut again, the obvious strain of the situation adding to his chronic ailment. “It’s bad, ain’t it? She’s in deep, and it’ll take a miracle to pull her out of this quicksand mess she’s gotten herself into without dragging her face-first through the mud.”

“If she’s innocent, then—”

“Of course she’s innocent. Only…”

“Only what?”

“I’ve got more bad news. Sunni’s store is in Masado Towers.”

Jackson frowned. “You didn’t know that before last night?”

“Don’t look at me like I’m some negligent father. Sunni made it clear when she moved to Chicago that she was tired of living in a fish bowl. Asked her mother and me to give her some space. We agreed that being the police chief’s daughter had stifled her some. We phone back and forth. We’re planning a trip up there for Christmas.” Clide paused. “I know you and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye too often, Ward. Hell, maybe never. But whether I like it or not, you’re the man.”

“The man?”

“You know how to get around department bureaucracy better than anyone I know. And you’re familiar with who’s who. You not only know the Tandi family, but you and the Masado boys were pretty tight, I hear. You lived in the same neighborhood, right?”

“That’s true. But—”

“But nothing. I want you on this case. Back in Chicago today, Ward. Before supper if you can manage it.”

“I don’t think I’m the man, Chief.”

“There’s that look again. What you’re telling me without turning over the dirt pile is that you were a pain in Mallory’s ass for four years at the CPD before you became the pain in mine. Confession time, Ward. Is there bad blood between you and your ex-police chief?”

As far as Clide knew, Jackson had relocated three years ago for a change of scenery. He hadn’t needed to know more then, and he didn’t need to know more now. Yes, there was a problem. Only he wasn’t going to turn over the dirt pile, as Clide called it. “I’m NOPD, Chief. I—”

“I know what you are. You’re the only man I can trust to do whatever it takes. I need a man who isn’t afraid to go head-to-head with the devil if need be. That man’s you.”

Jackson was sure he’d heard wrong. He’d been called a lot of things by his boss, but the word trust used in the same sentence with his name… No, Clide must be on some pretty powerful painkillers.

“You heard me right. So get that dumb-ass look off your face. Yes, I trust you. Which isn’t the same as liking you. There will be no Christmas present at the end of the year, and I’m not interested in knowing when your birthday is, or if you like white cake or chocolate.”

“But, Chief—”

“Ry pointed out that he’s seen you put a rat’s eye out at fifty yards. That you keep your Diamondback .38 cleaner than your teeth. Which, he tells me, is saying a lot since you’re obsessed with your teeth and carry a toothbrush in your back pocket wherever you go.”

“But, Chief—”

“Okay, dammit! I admit you’re the man I would pray to God was on the end of the rope if I found myself dangling ten stories in the air. But if you ever repeat that I’ll call you a liar and have you demoted to a meter maid.” Clide looked as if he were doing a math problem. “Sunni’s twenty-six, Ward. She grew up a cop’s kid, and that makes her smarter than most, but she’s no match for a bunch of slick gangsters who’ve got more notches on their bedposts then I got hairs on my ass.”

No, she would be no match for men who had been carrying guns in their back pockets since age fourteen, Jackson thought. Joe Cool and Nine-lives Lucky had the market on street survival. And the boys Milo Tandi had run with had no conscience.

There were plenty of reasons why Jackson should tell Clide to get someone else to pull his daughter’s butt out of the fryer. But his boss was right—he would have an advantage over someone who didn’t know the boys. He knew who was who, and where to dig. And he knew something else, too. He knew this was a golden opportunity, a chance to set things right with Hank Mallory—if that was at all possible.

“Bottom line, Ward, you’re Sunni’s best shot. Her only shot, the way I see it. Now, how much more stroking is it going to take for you to hop on that plane? Do you want me on my knees? If that’ll make the difference, then I’ll—”

“I can be there before supper.”

His words had Clide sighing deeply. “All right, fine. Good.”

“When did Sunni call?” Jackson asked, suddenly anxious to get out of the oven and into his favorite leather jacket. Chicago in October… Yeah, he could handle that.

“She didn’t call, which doesn’t make sense. I learned all of this last night from Detective Williams. Three hours later—after imagining the worst—I ended up in here. Sunni’s mother is in Europe with her sister. I don’t want Ellen to know about this. If we’re lucky, she won’t have to until it’s all over. She’ll be gone for four weeks.”

Four weeks? “That doesn’t give me much time, Chief.”

“You have a knack for raising hell, Ward. And I’ve seen you when you get obsessed with a case. So get obsessed and raise some hell. This time you have my permission and my blessing.”

“About Mac—”

“Take him with you. You know what they say about two heads.”

Jackson could see all sorts of problems taking his partner to Chicago with him. But he was sure Clide wouldn’t be interested in hearing a single one. “How do I handle Sunni?”

“Think of her as a member of your family, Ward. Your favorite cousin, or better yet, the sister you never had. The old cliché, guard her with your life, works for me. If it don’t for you, imagine there’s a crazy police chief holding a gun to the back of your head ready to blow it off the minute you screw up.”

After all that, Jackson said, “That’s not what I meant, Chief. Do I tell her why I’m in town? Or am I undercover?”

“Undercover would speed things up. But Sunni’s safety takes priority, so it’ll be your call. Sunni’s no killer, Ward. Take my baby girl out of that ugly picture Williams painted me last night and I’ll give you whatever it is you want. A raise. A promotion. A new partner… You name it and it’s yours.”

The idea of how to get close to Sunni Blais and still stay undercover for a couple of days came to Jackson on the airplane. Now, two hours after arriving at O’Hare, he stood inside the Wilchard Apartment Building across the alley from the Crown Plaza with half the battle won—old man Ferguson was still alive and the Wilchard’s landlord owed him a favor.

“Never figured I’d see you again, Jackson.”

Thinking much the same thing—Crammer Ferguson was at least ninety—Jackson stuck out his hand. “You get a face-lift, old man? You look twenty years younger than the last time I saw you.”

“Still a smart-ass. Some things never change.” Grinning, Crammer shot his bony hand across the counter and pumped Jackson’s eagerly. “Ain’t seen you in… Hell, how long’s it been?”

“A good three years.” Jackson caught Crammer eyeing Mac. He decided to forgo the introduction for now. “You got an apartment on the fourth floor that faces the alley. Is it vacant?”

“They’re all vacant up there. Got pipe trouble and them damn plumbers are as independent as the no-good bankers and crooked lawyers in this city. What you want a place for? Your mama finally disown you?” Crammer’s grin exposed six teeth evenly divided between his top and bottom jaw.

“We don’t want to impose on Ma.”

The we word sent Crammer’s aging eyes back to Mac for a second time. “Who’s that?”

“My partner.”

“You got a dog for a partner?” Crammer’s surprise shot his sparse white eyebrows into his wrinkled forehead. Looking back at Mac, he asked, “What happened to his ear? Looks like somebody chewed it half off.”

Jackson had wondered that same thing. It had prompted him to dig up the reports surrounding Mac’s five-year service to the NOPD. “A burglar,” he explained, “and you’re right, the guy bit a chunk out.”

“God! A burglar bit your dog?”

“He’s not my dog. He’s my partner.”

Crammer must have caught the irritation in Jackson’s voice, and his eyebrows creased. “He lives with you, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you feed him?”

“Don’t have a choice.”

“A year ago a tomcat started hanging around. A fella asked me, is he your cat? I said no, he ain’t. He said, but he lives here, right? I said, no, he’s a free agent. He comes and goes. He asked what I fed him. I said, I don’t feed free agents. I already told you, I don’t own no cat.” His point made, Crammer asked, “So, what happened after the burglar bit your dog?”

“Mac bit him back. The guy’s missing his left ear. With two counts of burglary, and an aggravated assault charge as a prior, he sued the department.”

“Bet the son of a bitch won, too.”

“He did.”

“Hell, them fool judges got no better sense than the crooked lawyers and lazy plumbers.” With that, Crammer went back to studying Mac.

It was something that happened often—Mac drawing stares. One night, with time on his hands, Jackson had counted forty-three scars while the K-9 slept sprawled across his bed.

“He ain’t ugly mean like he looks, is he?”

“Only when it’s called for.”

“Well behaved otherwise?”

“Damn near perfect.” Jackson recited the lie stone sober. He wasn’t going to mention Mac’s flaws. Everybody had flaws, he silently mused, but Mac’s chronic problems of late had been the reason why he’d been put on the top of the List.

Jackson hadn’t even known the List existed, or what it meant, until after he’d accepted Mac as his partner. But within two days he had decided that a K-9 partner, with problems, wasn’t for him. The next day he’d driven back to the pound, only to learn that dogs no longer of value to the department were destroyed—and since Mac topped the List, the only thing that stood between him and a lethal injection was Jackson.

He’d walked out of the pound minutes later and climbed back into the cruiser. He’d sat a minute, eyeing the new hole Mac had chewed in the seat while he’d been gone all of ten minutes, then he’d driven back to his apartment with his new partner.

“Your mama said you moved south. New Orleans, was it?”

“That’s right. About the apartment?”

“Apartment 410 don’t got no runnin’ water at the moment. Got a nice two-bedroom on the second floor. You each could have a bed. Or is your dog a snuggler?”

Jackson ignored the mischief in the old man’s aging eyes. “The fire escape running by the window up there would sure come in handy when Mac needs to take a leak.” It wasn’t an actual lie, though it wasn’t the real reason he fancied that particular apartment.

“That might be so, but it ain’t gonna accommodate your own nature call lessin’ you plan on goin’ out the fire escape with your dog.”

“I’ll take a look at the problem and see what I can do.”

“You know about pipes and stuff like that?”

He didn’t, but Jackson wanted that apartment. “Sure.”

He watched Crammer scratch his head while he considered the offer, his rheumy eyes narrowing slightly. “I suppose you’ll be expectin’ a discount for your trouble.”

“Seems fair.”

“Can’t make no money lettin’ folks stay for free.”

“Can’t make no money sitting with empty apartments, either.”

“Your mama musta washed your mouth out with soap six times a day when you was a runt. Mouthiest cop in Chicago, is what I always said. Mouthiest, but the best.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll need a hundred to seal it.”

His cigarette pinched between his lips, Jackson peeled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, slapped it on the counter, then headed for the stairs. Five minutes later, Mac was slumped on a faded brown plaid couch from the seventies, and Jackson was assessing apartment 410 with a scowl.

As he headed into the kitchen, he pointed his finger at Mac. “No holes, understand? None of this is ours. And even if it does looks like hell, I don’t want it looking worse.”

After examining the kitchen and finding it had all of the necessities to keep him from starving—a noisy refrigerator, a yellow-stained sink and an old electric stove with two burners that still worked—Jackson entered the bedroom. The room was as sparse as the rest of the apartment—a narrow closet, a double bed and another floor lamp like the one in the living room with a water-stained blue shade.

The bonus was the wooden desk and chair—free of teeth marks. Jackson grunted. “That won’t last,” he muttered, then sauntered to the window and parted the dusty beige curtains.

Across the alley stood the Crown Plaza, and on the fourth floor directly across from his bedroom window was Sunni Blais’s apartment—a penthouse suite complete with a brick terrace and greenhouse. She had ultrasheer curtains covering the two sliding glass doors that led to the terrace—one door on either side of the greenhouse.

Jackson opened the window and sucked in a breath of Chicago smog. Smiling, he angled his head and let the cool air wash over his face. When he’d left three years ago, he hadn’t thought about missing the city itself. At the time, all that was important was to get away from the guilt that he’d felt over Tom’s death. And so he’d packed and relocated without realizing what he was leaving behind.

As he looked over the city, he plucked a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, then relaxed his shoulder against the window frame. He was on his third when movement behind one of the curtains alerted him that she was home. He glanced down at his watch and read sixteen minutes after six. He hadn’t expected to find her home this soon after work, but he’d make a note of it.

His attention back on the apartment, he was aware that Mac had entered the bedroom. A few seconds later, he felt his partner nuzzle his leg, then start licking his boot. “Knock it off, Mac. I’ll get you some water and chow in a minute.”

A shadow walked past the slider, a quick movement that allowed Jackson only a brief glimpse at Clide’s daughter. Minutes later, she reappeared at the other slider to the left of the greenhouse. He waited, took another healthy pull off his cigarette. The curtain moved. Then there she was, as visible as a single evening star in a black sky.

She reached for the clip that held her hair off her neck. A second later, smooth black hair fell to her shoulders. A second after that, her straight white skirt went to the floor.

Jackson released a low, undulating whistle, then watched her fingers move to the buttons on her white suit jacket. He knew what was coming next. Knew he should step away from the window. Knew he wasn’t going to.

Five buttons later, she sent the jacket off her shoulders, and Jackson damn near into cardiac arrest. “Oh, hell, red underwear,” he moaned as raw heat attacked his groin and caught fire.

Mesmerized, he stared at Sunni Blais’s long, slender legs beneath a short red slip. Then, slowly, his gaze climbed back up to appreciate the most fabulous five-star chest he’d ever seen. “Either we have the wrong Sunni Blais, or Sis is adopted,” he muttered. “There’s no way in hell Clide can be her father.”

As if Mac was in full agreement, he angled his head and barked loudly. Twice.

Startled by the noise, Jackson jerked in surprise, then looked down at Mac, who was up on all fours wagging his tail. Without warning, he barked again. Louder this time.

Jackson gave Mac his knee, then glanced back to Sunni’s apartment to find that she’d crossed her arms over her amazing breasts, her gaze searching the alley to see where the sudden noise had originated and why. When her gaze locked with his, she opened her mouth and two words came out. The first word was Oh. The second word was…

“Shame on you, Sis,” Jackson mumbled, “that’s not a nice word.”

The same two words flew out again, then Sunni was gone from sight. But not forgotten—Jackson’s growing problem was now full blown and painfully obvious.

There was, however, a remedy for what ailed him. He could hobble to the bathroom and take an ice-cold shower—that is, if there had been running water on the fourth floor of the Wilchard.

Chapter 2

“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.”

Chapter 3

A strange feeling raised the hair on the back of Sunni’s neck. It was as if she and Joey had chased a thief out the back door as they had come through the front door.

But that was impossible. She was just spooked, is all. And the blame rested squarely on Rambo’s broad shoulders—that wicked grin he’d flashed her a second before he’d walked away from their table had gotten her so flustered her imagination was playing tricks on her.

Sunni shoved the green-eyed demon from her thoughts and concentrated on getting Joey Masado out of her apartment as soon as possible. She said, “You wanted to talk privately. So talk.”

“Who’s your decorator?”

She glanced toward her dinner date and found him standing in the middle of her living room studying her taste in decor. “Me.” As a good host, she was forced to ask, “Would you care for something to drink? Beer? Wine? Something stronger?”

“Beer would be fine. I like all the color.”

The Crown Plaza was an upscale apartment complex, but the sterility of white walls and white carpets had driven Sunni on a quest to bring a touch of warmth into her home. She loved bold colors, especially red, and had painted the living room raspberry red, and her kitchen and small dining room, a shade lighter.

A sculptured glass coffee table separated a pair of mustard-yellow leather sofas. Wing chairs in raspberry-and-green-rose-patterned tapestry were used as accents. A number of expensive Tiffany lamps also expressed Sunni’s love for color—her favorite a one-of-a-kind Calafar with a giant red-and-amber shade that stood behind one of the sofas. A built-in bookshelf hinted that Sunni’s interest in roses was more than just casual—her book collection was as extensive as the fragrant collection she had in her greenhouse.

A dozen damask and silk pillows scattered throughout the living room gave the space a female-shrine feeling, as did the bone china in her kitchen cupboards, and the fresh-cut roses in colorful vases that could be found in every room—even the bathroom.

“Maybe I should have you make a few suggestions for brightening up my suite at Masado Towers.”

He turned and Sunni was surprised to find him smiling. The spare expression softened his dramatic good looks and made him appear more human. She rounded the island counter and took one step up to enter the kitchen. As she retrieved the requested beer, she said, “I’m sure you can find someone far more qualified.”

Beer in hand, she turned around, knowing that he had followed her into the kitchen. She handed him the beverage, avoiding his warm brown eyes, and headed back into the living room.

“Are you afraid of me?”

She would be a fool to admit it, but she wouldn’t lie. Sunni leveled him a look from behind one of the leather sofas. “You said you had something to discuss with me.”

“First let me say that I’m not here to force myself on you. So relax. You’re beautiful, and I’m sure a night in your bed would be memorable, but I never mix business with pleasure. Tonight is business.”

Sunni raised her chin. “Then state your business.”

“I know about the deal Milo proposed to you several weeks ago.”

He knew about the partnership. How?

Suddenly the room felt too warm. Sunni rounded the sofa and headed for the sliding glass door. She brushed aside the sheer curtain to unlock it, but it was already open. Momentarily surprised, she reminded herself of the fresh roses she’d cut that morning in the greenhouse. She must have forgotten to relock it…again.

“Tomas knew the day Milo approached you. Was that all he wanted from you, just the silent partnership?”

The fall breeze lifted the curtain’s hem as Sunni stood gazing at the dark sky. “Milo Tandi’s deal included some perks, as he called them. But his image of himself, at least in my book, was terribly overrated.

“Unlike me, Milo liked to mix business with pleasure.”

“He didn’t hide the fact that he was interested in me personally, but his interest in the partnership was what we talked about. I told him I wasn’t interested.” Sunni turned to face him. “Why are you still smiling? I thought you would be angry.”

“I’m smiling because seeing Milo’s expression when you told him no would have been worth a cool million. He doesn’t get told no that often.”

“True, he didn’t like hearing it. That’s why he kept the offer on the table.”

“Meaning he pressured you?”

“He died before it came to that. But, yes, I think he would have gotten heavy-handed eventually.”

“Would he have been successful…eventually?”

“I’ve sacrificed a lot to make Silks a success. It’s mine. I created it, and I should be the one to own it. Completely.”

His smile widened. “Very good answer, Sunni. Now, I’m told you have a greenhouse on your terrace. Will you show it to me?”

“You like roses?”

“Is that hard to believe?”

“Honestly?”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Yes. You don’t look like the flowery type.”

His sudden laugh was rich and open. It brought a hint of boyish charm to him that Sunni found attractive.

Inside the greenhouse, she showed him the climbing William Baffins and Celsianas. The long blooming rugosas. England’s impressive white Yorks and red Lancasters were some of the most fragrant.

“You did good tonight.” Joey leaned across the long work table to take a delicate white Rosa soulieana into his hand and sniff. “If we keep the game going, Williams will back off. These smell like heaven, Sunni.” He turned and guided her onto the terrace. In one corner an iron table and two chairs attracted him and he sat.

Sunni remained standing. She said, “I’m confused why you would care one way or the other whether I’m a suspect in the Tandi murder.”

“It’s important to Masado Towers’ image. Don’t get me wrong. I believe you’re innocent. But a full-scale investigation would be awkward for us. I supplied the alibi as added insurance until Williams wakes up and starts looking in a different direction.”

It made sense. An intense investigation for a family connected with the organization could pose serious problems.

She regretted wearing the revealing red shift. She could feel Joey dissecting her again and she turned away, her gaze locking on the fourth floor apartment across the alley. The room was dark at the Wilchard. Was Rambo there, sitting in the dark watching them, or was he still out?

“Did you hear what I said?”

No, she hadn’t. Sunni turned. “What?”

“I asked if you were afraid to stay here alone.”

She came forward and pulled the chair away from the table and sat across from him. “Should I be?”

“Vito Tandi will be hunting for Milo’s killer, as will the police. I could put you up at Masado Towers if you like.”

“But I’m innocent, remember?”

“Innocent, but alone. On your lease you didn’t list any sisters or brothers. And with both of your parents deceased, there’s no one to protect you.”

Sunni nodded, even now determined to keep the lie her secret. It was true what she had told him a short time ago. She had worked too hard to turn Silks into a success. “I’m fine, really.”

“I can protect you, Sunni. You can trust that.”

His declaration prompted her to question whether or not she should tell him about Rambo. But if they were friends, maybe he already knew that his fratello was staying at the Wilchard. No, Rambo had lied. He’d told Joey he’d just gotten into town, which meant he no longer lived in Chicago.

He drained his beer quickly, set the bottle on the table, then stood. “I’m good at what I do, Sunni. But you’re going to have to do your part, too.”

“My part? I don’t understand.”

He reached out and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Kissed her quickly, like a man who had the capability to be as tender as he could be cruel.

As Sunni tried to shove him away, he slid his strong hand up her back and crushed her full breasts against him. He nuzzled her neck, whispered, “Someone’s watching us. A shadow at the apartment window across the alley. No, don’t look. It’s show time, Sunni. Kiss your alibi like a woman in love.”

Jackson backed away from the window, but not before the image of Sunni wrapped in Joey’s arms revisited him. He had to admit that the kiss he’d just witnessed could have started wet paper on fire.

Clide was going to chew both their heads off, he thought. Sunni’s for sleeping behind enemy lines, and his for being the elected sucker to confirm the ugly fact to his boss.

At least Clide would be happy to hear that Sunni hadn’t made his suspect list. In four days’ time he had narrowed Milo’s killer down to a list of four possibilities. The bad news was Frank Masado had made the list. Which meant that if he’d moved on Milo, it would have been Lucky who would have made the hit.

Aware of how little time he had to solve the case, Jackson turned on the floor lamp next to the old desk. Like always, he’d easily become obsessed with the case. But, he admitted, this time was worse. He knew the people involved, and a few of those people were important to him. If it took all night, he was determined to narrow down the suspect list to two instead of four.

Resigned, he peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the bed. Mac opened one eye, spied Jackson’s shirt a foot from his nose, and with the skill of a master sneak, he slid his paw forward and pulled his partner’s only hole-free T-shirt toward him. A few well-placed nudges, and the cotton lump became a pillow for his wide scarred head.

Jackson eyed his partner, then glanced at the jeans he had left on the chair before leaving to have supper with his mother. The jeans were now on the floor, and one ass-end pocket was missing.

Shaking his head, he went to work. An hour later, distracted by Mac’s whining, he looked over his shoulder to see the K-9 struggling in sleep—trapped in an obvious nightmare he couldn’t forget.

The facts were that Mac had lost Nate two years ago, and Jackson had lost Tom a little over three. They had nothing in common, save the sudden and tragic loss of their partners, and yet that was the cement that had kept Jackson from returning Mac to the pound five weeks ago—that, and the fact that the canine was on the List.

Mac rolled onto his side, still whining and twitching. It was then that Jackson saw it, a flash of red.

“What’s that, Mac?”

At the sound of his name, the dog jerked awake.

On his feet, Jackson moved to the bed, his hand reaching out to uncover the mystery. But Mac wasn’t feeling too obliging. Guarding his treasure, he growled low in his throat.

“Take it easy,” Jackson warned.

When Mac relented and turned his head away in resigned submission, Jackson sent his hand beneath the dog’s furry coat. When his fingers locked around the silky red strip, he pulled, and the mystery literally sprang forward, snapping Jackson in the chest. “What the hell… So this is why you didn’t give a damn about going outside to take a leak when I got home.”

Jackson was addressing Mac, but his gaze was locked on the sexy red bra that dangled from his fingertips—a bra that looked surprisingly familiar.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Mac had gotten his loot. The Crown Plaza had a similar fire escape. It would have taken Mac less than five minutes to leave the Wilchard by way of the window, cross the alley and get on Sunni’s terrace.

Jackson turned and stared out the window. The case files concerning Mac had ranked him as the number-one dog in the precinct’s K-9 unit. If a door or window wasn’t locked, he was in…or out, whichever the case may be.

He was still staring out the window, still balancing Sunni’s bra on the end of his index finger, when his cell phone rang. He snatched it off the desk and jammed it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Ward?”

Clide. “Chief, how’s it going?”

“That’s my line, Ward. I thought I told you to stay in touch. What that means is I want to be kept abreast of everything that’s going on.”

No, he didn’t, Jackson thought as he brought the sexy bra to his nose and inhaled deeply. It was hers, all right—there was no doubt. He would never forget how wonderful Sunni Blais had smelled as he stood downwind of her at the restaurant. He had never smelled anything better in his life, and he had always thought that nothing could top the mix of delicious smells coming from Caponelli’s kitchen.

“So tell me what you got so far. Anything we can sink our teeth into?”

Jackson ran his tongue over his front teeth, his imagination playing with the idea.

“Ward? I said, what evidence have you uncovered? Give me something that’ll make me rest easier tonight?”

Jackson thought a minute. “I got a suspect list.”

“Hell, that’s good news. How’s Sunni? Keeping a close eye on her? What’s she been up to tonight.”

Jackson moved the expensive piece of lingerie through his fingers. “Ah, she’s…home.”

“Safe and sound. Good. Good work, Ward.”

Jackson tucked a delicate red strap into the waistband of his jeans, then rifled through the papers on the desk. “You suppose if I sent you a couple of names you could run a check on them?”

“That’s a damn fine idea, Ward. I’ll convince the doc I need my computer. I’ll have Ry bring it in. E-mail me the names and I’ll have him do the legwork for us.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Keep up the good work, Ward, and remember…whatever it takes to get Sunni in the clear, do it. You got my blessing to raise a little hell.”

When Clide disconnected, Jackson tossed the phone on the bed beside Mac, then sauntered to the window. Sunni and Joe were no longer on the terrace, and the living room was dark. A dim light shone through the bedroom curtain.

The possibility that Joe was there spending the night in Sunni’s bed bothered him more than it should. But then any man with half a brain would want to be in Joe’s shoes, or out of them as the case may be.

For the next hour Jackson stood in front of the window and chain-smoked like a drunk on a bender. Then, just when he had convinced himself he needed to go back to work, a shadow appeared behind the curtain. For a long minute it stood there unmoving, then the curtain was swept back to reveal Sunni in a pale blue robe silhouetted against her dimly lit bedroom.

She knew he was there. Her focus went straight to the Wilchard’s fourth-floor window. Their gazes locked, minutes dragged by. Jackson wondered what she was thinking as she stood there like a statue.

He lit a cigarette.

More minutes.

Then she stepped back and let the curtain drop.

Her light went out seconds later, but Jackson didn’t move. He lit another cigarette. Two more cigarettes came and went.

Conceding that he was up for the rest of the night—up, as in straight as an arrow and stone hard—he went back to work with Sunni’s bra still tucked into his waistband, wishing he had taken the time to figure out how to fix the plumbing.

Chapter 4

Sunni knew she should have called her father, explained the mess she was in, then asked for help. It would have been the most reasonable and the most responsible thing to do. And she would have done just that if she hadn’t been so sure that she’d lose her lease for Silks and be tossed out of Masado Towers on her ear.

And after that, Joey would have no reason one way or the other to continue to be her alibi. She wouldn’t only be out of business, she’d be in jail.

It had been such a small lie. Well, not that small…but harmless. She’d just wanted Silks to have the best location possible in the city, and Masado Towers was simply the best.

Sunni was in the kitchen still dissecting her grim situation when a knock sounded at the front door. She glanced at her blue silk robe, debating whether she should make a quick change or pretend she wasn’t home. The second knock forced her to the door to investigate. She leaned into the door, closed one eye and focused the other on the peephole.

“Omigod… I’m dead.”

Sunni’s life—past and future—flashed before her eyes. She pressed her hand to her throat, tried to swallow.

Another knock.

“He’s finally made his move,” she whispered, choking on the words. Would they talk first? she wondered. Or would he just kill her…quick? Or maybe not so quick.

The idea of being dead, no matter how Rambo achieved it, sent Sunni scrambling into her bedroom. Throwing one of her fluffy pillows to the floor, she snatched up her loaded .22—if she was going to die, she wouldn’t go down without a fight, she decided.

Sunni emerged from the bedroom with the .22 automatic gripped in her hand, just as she heard Rambo call out, “Sis, you there?”

Sis…

“Come on, Sis. Open up. It’s me.”

She knew who it was, and her neighbor no doubt did, too—his voice was loud as a bell. Sunni looked out the peephole once more. “Not too smart, Rambo. A man bent on murder doesn’t want witnesses.”

Witnesses…

Of course, that was it. What she needed was a witness. Before Sunni could second-guess her genius idea, she slid the .22 into her robe pocket and unlocked the door. Please, Edna, be nosy today, she silently prayed, then flung the door wide and bolted through it.

In a flash of blue silk, she was past Rambo. Another second and she was pounding on Edna’s door. “Edna! Edna!”

In a jiffy the elderly woman in 404 swung her door open. “Yes, dear?”

“Look at this man, Edna.” Sunni spun on her heels and jabbed the air with a nervous finger in the direction of her early-morning caller. “Take a good look, Edna. If you read in the Tribune tomorrow that I was found in my apartment with my throat slit, call the police and give them this man’s description. Green eyes, Edna. Dark hair, almost black. He hasn’t shaved in days.”

“Five, to be exact,” Rambo supplied. “That’s if you want to count today.”

Edna angled her head and squinted Jackson Ward into focus. “He looks tall, dear. How tall did you say?”

“Very tall, Edna. He must be—”

“Six three.”

“Three, Edna. He said he’s six thr—” Sunni snapped her mouth shut and glanced back to find Rambo leaning comfortably against her doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket along with an amused smile that didn’t exactly make him look nasty or dangerous. Or much like a hit man.

“Handsome? Is he a looker, Sunni? His voice is sure nice.”

Edna’s question went unanswered, but not for long. Suddenly she shuffled forward in her pink terry-towel bathrobe, fuzzy pink bunny slippers and pink sponge rollers—nine, to be exact. She was three feet from Rambo when Sunni rushed forward and jerked Edna to a stop. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“Getting a closer look, dear.” Edna stretched her birdlike neck and licked her crooked lips as she dissected Rambo as if he were the dessert special for Thursday night bingo. Finally, she asked, “Who is he, again?” To Sunni’s surprise, Rambo shoved away from the doorjamb and stuck out his hand to her elderly neighbor. “Hi, Edna. I’m Jackson, Sunni’s older brother. The one she never talks about.”

“Brother? No, I don’t believe she mentioned you.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m the black sheep in the family.”

When Edna reached for his hand, Sunni’s jaw dropped. “You are not—”

One minute Rambo was shaking Edna’s hand, and the next minute he had successfully captured Sunni around the waist. A quick jerk forward and her body collided with a slab of iron. A solid squeeze after that—using only one arm around her waist—he lifted her off her feet. “God, it’s good to see you, Sis.”

Another hard squeeze successfully stripped the air from her lungs, and she fought to speak. As she sucked in air, his male scent rushed up to greet her—that and the smell of sweet tobacco and mint toothpaste.

“I should have called first,” he told her. “Forgive me, Sis? Please?”

The question wasn’t meant to be answered. He followed it up with a fast kiss planted square on her open mouth. Startled, Sunni jerked her head back only to hear him swear softly, then he thrust his free hand to the back of her head and forced her mouth to meet his once more. Their eyes locked in a battle of wills, he whispered, “Be nice,” then clamped his shiny white teeth around her lower lip and hung on.

Behind them, Edna said, “Oh, dear, would you look at the time. I had no idea it was so late. Jeopardy starts in three minutes. I hope I can move that fast.”

Flattened against Rambo, dangling a foot off the floor with her lip caught between his teeth, Sunni heard Edna’s famous slipper-shuffle start back to her apartment. Desperate to keep the elderly woman in the hall, she jerked her head back, only to wince in pain when sharp teeth clamped down hard to keep her silent.

Edna’s retreating shuffle stopped. “You two have a nice family reunion.” Then the sound of her door closing resigned Sunni to whatever fate Rambo had planned for her.

She squeezed her eyes shut as he stepped inside her apartment and closed the door. Sunni felt his arm loosen up around her waist enough to allow air to filter back into her lungs. Eyes still closed, her lip still caught between his teeth, her heart beat like an African drum in her chest.

A minute must have elapsed before he released her lip. Afraid to open her eyes, Sunni opted to keep them closed. That is, until something warm and wet slid over her lower lip. The unexpected sensation brought her eyes open in one quick blink.

“You’re bleeding.”

Her tongue went to investigate, and sure enough, she tasted blood. “What’s next?”

“Next?”

“A quick kill, or are you one of those sadistic animals who enjoys seeing his victim beg?”

It appeared he was struggling to keep from smiling. A warning bell sounded in Sunni’s head.

“Begging is good in some instances. But in this case, I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else, Sis. I’m here to keep you from being a victim, not make you into one.”

“Who are you?” Sunni insisted.

“You know who I am. We met last night.”

“Okay, then what are you?”

“I’ve never liked the word bodyguard, but if that word works for you, then—”

“Bodyguard?” Shock cracked Sunni’s voice. “You’re not connected? A hit man?”

“No.”

“Bodyguard? My…bodyguard?”

“That’s right.

Relieved yet confused, Sunni demanded, “Put me down.”

“First we negotiate.”

Sunni narrowed her eyes. “Negotiate what?”

“I need a shower. Agree to let me use yours, and I’ll put you down.”

“Your apartment is right across the alley. Use your own shower.”

“No water. It’s your fault, really. If you lived on the second or third floor I wouldn’t have bargained with old man Ferguson for the fourth. The Wilchard’s plumbing is out on that floor.”

The humor in what he was saying took Sunni by surprise. And so did the desire to believe what he was saying.

“You find that funny, Sis?”

“Very. Swear you’re not a hit man.”

“If I was, you would have been dead four days ago.”

There was some truth in that. And last night at the window she’d had the strangest feeling. It was as if he was watching over her. “All right. A shower if you can prove you’re who you say you are. Now, put me down.”

He set her down, then reached into his pocket. Sunni thought he meant to show her his ID, but when he produced her .22, she nearly fainted. “Oh, God!”

“Take it easy. Silk pockets are lousy for hiding heavy hardware. Noticed it the minute you bolted through the door.” He grinned, then studied the .22 in his hand. “Do you know how to shoot this?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hit what you’re aiming at?”

“Why not hand it over and I’ll show you?”

His grin spread, then he sobered and walked over to the island counter and laid down the gun—but not before checking to see that the safety was on. After that, his gaze traveled from Sunni’s face to the swell of her breasts. “Just so I have the facts, how long have you been sleeping with Joe?”

His question turned Sunni’s cheeks hot. Only, she knew what had prompted the question. Last night he had witnessed her and Joey Masado kissing. And it hadn’t been just a friendly kiss. Joey had told her to kiss him like a woman in love.

“Come on, Sis. I know Joe was here last night, and we both know how I know that.” Her continued silence had him rubbing his whiskered jaw as he continued to take her apart with his eyes. “I didn’t hear you. Are you or are you not doing the horizontal hustle with him?”

Sunni drew her robe together to lessen the amount of cleavage on display. She wasn’t sure if it helped, but she’d be damned if she’d check. “That question wasn’t part of our deal,” she finally said. “I won’t discuss my personal life with a stranger. At least not until you can prove to me you are who you say.”

He parted his jacket and settled his long-fingered hands on his hips. “I’ve seen a lot of you lately, Sis. I don’t consider us strangers.”

Sunni knew what he was getting at. She clamped her mouth shut, then winced when renewed pain shot into her bruised lower lip.

“If I’m going to keep you alive, I need to know everything about you. That includes whose bed you frequent and who you’ve passed your apartment key around to. There was a murder five days ago, and you’re the PD’s number-one suspect. You forgotten that?”

“No. But I didn’t kill Milo Tandi.”

“You have no motive as far as I can tell. But those scarves manacled around the DB’s wrists are damn incriminating, Sis. And this time the CSU didn’t screw up the evidence when they collected it. Your prints are crystal.”

Another warning bell set off inside Sunni’s head. She’d lived with a cop for more than twenty years—her father used cop slang constantly. DB meant dead body. CSU was the crime scene unit. Only a cop would use that kind of slang. Only a cop would—

“Are you Joey’s window dressing, Sis, or the beautiful woman caught in the middle of an old feud? If you’re the woman in the middle, I’ll warn you it isn’t a healthy place to be sitting right now. Powerful men in powerful places think human life can be bought and sold as easily as real estate. The Masado boys and the Tandis are powerful players in an old organization. You could be taking a swim in concrete if you’ve been bed hopping.”

More words and phrases convinced Sunni that—

The phone rang.

Sunni jumped, then stared at the phone on the island counter just a foot away from where her bodyguard stood. On the second ring she started forward.

“Let the machine take it.”

She ignored his rusty-nail voice as well as his intimidating stance. As she reached for the phone his hand covered hers and remained there like an iron paperweight.

“I want to hear who it is.”

Five rings later the answering machine clicked on. “Sunni, it’s Joey. Detective Williams paid me a visit early this morning. He claims he called your father four days ago after being assigned to Tandi’s murder investigation. You can imagine my surprise when he told me Clide Blais was your father. Especially since my records say your father and mother are dead and buried in Mississippi. A police chief for the city of New Orleans, is what Williams claims. That explains why Jacky’s in town. A few phone calls and I’ve learned that your father’s ace flew in five days ago as the mop crew. What’s your scam, Sunni? Ten o’clock in my office.”

“You’re a sleazy cop?”

The force of her words nailed Jackson where he stood. “Homicide detective,” he corrected her.

“You’re a con man with the morals of a snake.”

“Bodyguard protecting the boss’s daughter.”

“Stalker.”

“You must have me confused with that other guy,” Jackson returned. “The one who was tailing you the day I got here.”

Her eyes widened. “Someone’s been tailing me, other than you?”

“Not any longer. So Mommy and Daddy are buried in Mississippi, is that the story? That’s funny ’cause I just talked to Daddy last night.”

“What do you mean by, not any longer?”

Jackson was trying to keep his temper corralled, but she was treading close to the end of his patience. She had no idea what he had been doing on her behalf since he’d gotten into town—without running water, no less.

“If I’m going to be any use to you, I’m going to need your cooperation. As far as the stalker goes, he had a record. People who lie and cheat are usually easy to trip up. That leads us back to why Joe’s file on you is full of lies.”

She glared at him. “I don’t cheat. The lie…the lie didn’t hurt anyone. About the stalker…”

“Whoever paid him to watch you, paid him enough to keep his mouth shut. I explained to him that if he didn’t tell me who that was, he’d be jailed on a charge he couldn’t beat. He didn’t believe me.” Jackson shrugged. “He’ll do a year. Now, about this suspect mess—”

“This mess, as you call it, Mr. NOPD, isn’t my doing.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s still in your face, Sis. That’s what matters. And Stud Williams goes by the book, sweetheart. If you’re on his suspect list, he’s got a damn good case, and the power to ruin your life.”

“So what are you doing about it…Ace?”

“I’ve been turning this city inside out to rescue your cute butt, that’s what I’ve been doing. And at the same time, I’ve been keeping an eye on you so—”

“I know exactly what you’ve been keeping an eye on, you snake. And I’m sure my father would be interested to know what kind of man he’s sent to rescue me.”

Jackson tried to keep a straight face, but even when she was angry, chewing tail, he liked looking at her. And that voice…oh, yeah, he definitely liked her husky voice. It didn’t fit her petite size, but then neither did the amount of frontage she was carrying. His grin widened.

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