Kill Me Twice

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Not in the least. Nor would she pal around with one.” Jazz peered up at the landmark. “But this might have to do with the story she’s working on.”

  “Illegal gambling. Bookmaking. Does that seem like a story that would interest her?”

  “I guess it would depend on the angle.”

  Jazz’s phone beeped and she immediately dug into her handbag to find it. “That’s a text message,” she said. She punched a button, then tapped his arm with the phone, letting out a little whoop of joy. “Yeah, baby! We got her. I told you my sister never forgets.”

  Alex took a left to circle around the track. “Well? What does she say?”

  “Thanks. Sorry I missed you.” She tapped another button. “See you soon, sis.”

  He glanced at her, noting a strange tone in her voice. “Is that it?”

  She nodded slowly as she scrolled to reread the message. “That’s all.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t call you.”

  She closed the phone and looked out the window. “She’s busy.”

  He stopped at a light and studied her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said, the sparkle gone from her eyes. “I feel much better. Don’t you?”

  No, he did not. He whipped into an empty parking space and took the phone from her hand. “Let me read it.”

  She didn’t fight him. “Suit yourself.”

  The text box read: tx. srry i mssed u. c u soon, sis. “Does something about this not ring true to you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m just disappointed she didn’t call. I really wanted to talk to her.” Then she looked up at him with a bright smile that reminded him more of Jessica than Jazz. “Are we done in Hialeah now? I prefer the bright lights and big city.”

  “All right. But don’t erase that message.”

  “I won’t.” She slipped the phone back into her purse.

  They didn’t talk much on the way back to Brickell Key. Jazz continued to study the contents of Jessica’s address book, occasionally mentioning a name she knew, but she seemed content to believe all was well.

  Alex wasn’t. A meaningless text message was not the assurance he needed.

  He hated the idea of calling in backup on a job this lightweight. At least one of the Bullet Catchers was a missing person expert, and Alex had some lifelong contacts on the Miami-Dade police force. But surely he could find one wayward newscaster in Miami. Before he had to report in to Lucy.

  As he cruised the road that ran along the north side of Jessica’s condo, looking for parking, Jazz opened her bag and dug around again. “I think this card key I found upstairs will work for the parking garage. Why don’t you take Jessica’s spot? This thing is more of a target than my rental car.”

  He slid the card key into the electronic reader and rumbled over the metal grate.

  “It looks like the slots are numbered for the apartments,” she said. “Keep going until you get to 3701.”

  He maneuvered the vehicle around to the next level and slowed down as they approached the spot.

  “Oh my God,” Jazz whispered, yanking at her seat belt in a frenzy. “She’s home!”

  A silver BMW convertible sat in the slot. Jazz bolted out of the car.

  In a flash, Alex was beside her. “Wait,” he said sharply.

  But she seized the door handle and jerked it open. “It’s not locked,” she said with shock.

  The car was empty, immaculate, and still smelling like the factory. Jazz slid into the driver’s seat and put her hands on the wheel, staring at the dash. Then she reached to the ignition and he heard the jangle of metal, mixed with Jazz’s quick intake of breath. Turning to him, he saw the first glint of fear flash in her eyes.

  “She forgot her keys.”

  By the time Kimball Parrish seated Jazz at one of the pink leather sofas and black concrete dining tables of Licorice, she’d had enough. She didn’t want to be in some achingly hip restaurant on the arm of a handsome, rich, powerful man. She didn’t want to be dressed in Jessica’s slinky black cocktail dress, wearing three-inch heels and carrying a handbag so small it wouldn’t have fit her gun. And she sure as hell didn’t want to be under the watchful eye of Alex Romero.

  All she wanted to do is was figure out where Jessica was.

  Instead, Jazz had read the six o’clock news, then gone home to dress for a date she didn’t want to have with a man she didn’t particularly like at some high-end South Beach restaurant on Ocean Drive. Her only hope was that Kimball knew something about the story Jessica was following, and could give her some clues.

  If she didn’t figure out where her sister was by the end of the night, she would come clean with Parrish. She’d promised that to Alex in exchange for him agreeing to play along.

  “Blackberry martini?” Kimball asked as though it were Jessica’s one and only cocktail. Miami must have really changed her.

  “That would be fine.”

  He slid closer and a whiff of peppery cologne reached her, but he didn’t touch her. No possessive arm, nothing more than an air kiss hello. “Just remember what happened at Verve,” he warned. “They’re potent.”

  Good God, what had happened at Verve? Jazz had never seen her sister drunk in her life—and couldn’t imagine it happening on anything as silly as a blackberry martini.

  Kimball waved for the waitress, and while he ordered, Jazz glanced at Alex. He stood at the end of the bar about twenty feet away, with a direct view of their table. At the moment he was panning the restaurant with his intimidating gaze. He managed to blend in, with his Latin good looks, and still be a presence no one in their right mind would mess with.

  She forced herself to concentrate on Kimball, a wholly different kind of handsome. His face was carved by strong, masculine lines, his body broad in the way of a man who’d once been in amazing shape but now waged a war with age. She’d done some quick research so she could converse intelligently, and she knew that he was fifty-two, widowed, the father of two teenage girls, and a staunch Catholic.

  There was no shortage of press coverage about his conservative mindset. Just last week, he took some heat from liberal watchdogs for his crackdown on a shock jock on one of his Texas radio stations. Kimball Parrish “aired” on the side of the angels. That was his sound bite to the media—most of which he owned.

  “So any news on the situation in Dallas?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s changed, including my decision,” he said, an obstinate set to his cleanly shaved jaw. “You did a masterful job this morning, did I tell you that?”

  She gave him Jessica’s most photographed smile, and a point for deft subject change. “Several times. Thank you.”

  “The word from New York is very, very good.” He shifted to get a little closer to her. “I’m meeting with the American Sunrise production staff tomorrow afternoon. The changes are imminent.”

  His tone implied she knew precisely what he meant, and that those changes would somehow involve her. If changes were imminent, why would Jessica stand on her head to get a big story to guarantee network notice?

  He leaned a little closer, his elegant cologne wafting toward her again. “And did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  “Thank you.” Couldn’t he see the differences between her and Jessica? Jessica’s skin glowed, she was a tad thinner than Jazz since she was less muscular, and flawless porcelain laminates enhanced her million dollar smile. Jazz’s teeth were real—orthodontically improved and perfectly straight, but not blindingly white like Jessica’s. But attitude covered a lot of flaws, and she’d draped herself in Jessica’s personality. So far, it worked.

  The waitress delivered the drinks, and Kimball raised his highball to meet her amethyst-colored martini. “Aristotle said, ‘Change in all things is sweet.’ To changes,” he said with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

  He could change my life.

  She could practically hear the excitement in Jessica’s e-mail. Smiling, Jazz touched his glass with hers
, then took a tiny sip of the frothy liquid. When this was over, she would never let Jessica forget she had to endure a disgusting drink and a date with a man who quoted Aristotle. That was really pushing sisterly love.

  “And you do know what changes I mean, Jessica.”

  His statement caught her off guard. “Why don’t you elaborate, Kimball?” she asked in her best anchorwoman voice.

  “I prefer when you call me Kim. I told you that.”

  Jazz covered the faux pas with a sip of her drink that included a long gaze. Kim. She’d have to remember that.

  He placed his glass on the table, straightening the napkin under it to align with the place setting. Maybe that’s what Jessica liked about him—a companion in neatness.

  He surprised her by dropping his hand on the exposed skin of her thigh. “I also told you I don’t like games.”

  She swallowed and her pulse kicked into a faster rhythm as she replayed Alex’s solemn warning: He’s paying to save your sister’s life, not play dress up and fool the boss.

  His fingers weren’t groping, just…affectionate. “At least, not games I don’t win,” he added quietly.

  “I’m sure you rarely lose, Kim.”

  His hand slid an inch higher. “You know how I feel. I’m ready to take this to the next level.”

  Tonight? She smiled sweetly. “I have so much on my mind these days.” Like where the hell my sister is…and how I can fend you off.

  One finger gently caressed her skin, as he glanced toward Alex. “You’re not still mad at me about the bodyguard?”

  “I know you only want to do the right thing.” She stayed perfectly still, not wanting to brush him off, but definitely not digging being felt up by her sister’s admirer.

  He finally released her leg, taking a drink. “I worry about you.”

  She sipped her mix of sweet fruit and potent alcohol. “I’m fine.”

  He leaned closer as though he were going to kiss her, but instead pulled her into him in a tender embrace. Over his shoulder, she looked directly into Alex Romero’s eyes.

  He looked purely disgusted.

  She felt the vibration of a phone between them, and Parrish pulled back and released a cell phone from his belt with an apologetic look.

  Oh, God, what if Jessica was calling him? Then she’d have to come clean.

  As he turned slightly away, she studied the polished patrons of Licorice.

  The music drowned out Kimball’s soft conversation. Closing her eyes, she took another sip of her drink, returning to the questions that had plagued her that afternoon. Nothing could cause Jessica Adams to leave her keys in the ignition and her car unlocked. And she hadn’t called Jazz “sis” since they were ten years old. So why did she sign her text message that way?

  Should she follow her gut, which said something was wrong? But what if nothing was wrong? What if Jessica was deep into this story and just couldn’t call her? Then she’d blow Jessica’s cover.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kimball said as he disconnected the call, looking right into her eyes. “I am really so, so sorry to do this to you. It appears I have to travel to Cincinnati before I can go to New York tomorrow. I’m going to leave tonight.”

  She managed to look suitably disappointed. “Why?”

  “Some liberal assholes are rioting at a radio station I have there.” He shook his head angrily and waved at the waitress for a check. “Sorry again. I know you hate profanity.”

  “Really?” Jess could swear with the best of ’em. “They’re rioting? Seriously?”

  “I believe the left wingers call it ‘protesting,’ but whatever it is, I have to control the coverage. This will be all over the leftist media. Those bastards are out to get me.” He squeezed her hand. “I have to defend my position. I hope you understand.”

  She worked not to look relieved. “Oh, I do. I completely understand.”

  “They’re getting my plane ready now.” He chucked her chin as if she were a little girl. “Unfortunately, this is not what I’d hoped for tonight.” She backed out of his touch, but he leaned closer and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. No tongue, closed mouth.

  “I’ll be back next week,” he promised. “You think about…changes.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said lightly.

  “You’d better be.” She couldn’t tell if that was a tease, a hope, or a threat. “I’ll have the bodyguard take you home now,” he added, giving her shoulder a possessive squeeze.

  As he left, he paused to speak to Alex, who nodded and immediately headed toward her, his ebony eyes trained on her.

  Jazz took one more swallow of the martini, reminding herself that she despised men who insisted on control. They grated on every independent cell in her body. Yet Kimball Parrish’s gentle suggestion that they get to “the next level” certainly didn’t leave her in a pool of lust, either.

  She drank again as Alex moved toward her like an animal. A hungry, predatory beast who brought out the most primal instincts in her. That man could throw her down and take her about six more levels in one easy move, and leave her begging for the next one.

  Desire hit her as hard as the vodka, at precisely the same instant. The raw and sudden need for him took her breath away.

  Alex held out his hand to help her up from the sofa, but she refused the assistance.

  “Let’s do it,” he said, tipping his head toward the door.

  “Oh, yeah. Let’s.”

  Chapter

  Five

  A lex Romero knew women, and he could read this one’s mind as clearly as if she’d just stripped naked and handed him a condom.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” he said as they hit the steamy sidewalk. He hustled her toward the car, his gaze darting up and down the streets teeming with revelers, tourists, and drunks. Dangerous dark alleys separated the art deco buildings outlined in neon pink and bathed electric blue, and the streets overflowed with a population as colorful and hungry for attention as the architecture.

  South Beach was a bodyguard’s nightmare. But he didn’t dare take her home to a secluded condo—not with that look in her eyes.

  “I’m not hungry,” she announced.

  Oh, yes you are. “You haven’t eaten all day. And in case you didn’t notice, your date dumped you before you had time to open a menu.”

  “I don’t need food.” Her voice was tight.

  “I think you do. I watched the bartender make that drink.”

  Jazz managed a scathing look. That was good; he could handle pissed off. But not hot and bothered. Well, he could handle hot and bothered. He glanced down at the V-neck of her form-fitting dress, his gaze lingering in her generous cleavage. But not tonight.

  He rapidly reviewed his options to keep her in public but secure. There were a few restaurants with ideal floor plans nearby, if they could get a seat with no one at his back.

  “I could go for something…spicy,” she said with a sly smile. “Cuban?”

  Great. This was just what he needed on a job that already bent the rules big-time. A brazen woman with a killer body, a martini buzz, and sex on the brain.

  A group of partiers turned a corner in front of them. He automatically molded her into his body as the pack cruised by with an eruption of laughter and some Spanish he was glad she didn’t understand.

  The side of her breast rested against his rib cage and she made no attempt to move away.

  You know the rules, Alex. Of course, Lucy didn’t specify if pretend principals fell under her regulations.

  Hell, pretend or real, Jazz was under his protection.

  “I wouldn’t mind stopping somewhere for another drink,” she suggested.

  “Food. You get only food.” At the car, he pressed the keyless entry and opened the back door.

  She stepped in front of him and opened the front passenger door. “I don’t do backseats.” She grinned. “Unless we’re parked.”

  The slit in her dress parted as she climbed up, revealing a long, lean thigh. W
hen she reached for the seat belt, he saw right down the halter top of her dress.

  Carajo. He closed the back door and hustled to the driver’s side, then muscled the SUV into the standstill of Ocean Drive traffic.

  “I take it you conveniently forgot to mention to him that you aren’t the real Jessica Adams.”

  She let out a long sigh. “He left so abruptly, I really didn’t get a chance. But they haven’t slept together.”

  “You sure? He seemed pretty at home with your legs.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” He heard the tease in her voice, but didn’t take his eyes off the road.

  “I don’t miss anything, Jazz. That’s my job. What did you two talk about?”

  “Aristotle.” She laughed, a throaty sound as pleasant as the delicate fragrance she wore. Unable to resist, he stole a look. Her head was back, her eyes half closed.

  Just the way she might look if he kissed her. “You really want Cuban?”

  “That’s all I can think about.” Her eyes opened slowly, and she turned toward him. No smile, no doubt. No playfulness. Just pure lust. “What’s good?”

  “Media noche. Arroz con frijoles. Café cubano.”

  “You make it all sound so…sensual.”

  “Sensual? A sandwich, rice and beans, and coffee? You’re imagining things.”

  Her gaze darkened to a smoky gray. “No, I’m not.”

  He couldn’t look away from her. A sudden smack on the hood of the car yanked him back to reality, and he jammed on the brakes to keep from hitting two young men jaywalking across Ocean Drive.

  He swore softly. “Let’s go to Versailles.” The popular, kitschy, late-night spot would be perfect if he could convince the hostess to give them a booth along the back wall. Plus, it was too crowded and noisy to get flirtatious and intimate. He could easily monitor the crowd for her safety, and she’d sober up with some of the best espresso outside of Havana.

  The famous Cuban diner on Calle Ocho was already wall-to-wall with hungry barhoppers shouting in as many different dialects of Spanish and English as there were items on the mammoth menu. Safely situated in the back, Alex scanned the crowd.