Relentless

by Vanessa Dare

  She looked down as if she’d forgotten she had it on. “Oh, um…not the only reason.”

  “Hey, baby. Let’s dance.” A twenty-something guy, drunk off his ass, practically licked Anna’s ear. He was tall and wide, as if he majored in weight lifting. She had to tilt her head away, no doubt from his foul breath.

  “No thanks,” she shouted over the music.

  “Oh, come on, baby. I know you want to.” He placed his hand on her arm, gave it a squeeze. I could see the fabric of my jacket crinkle beneath his grip. “We’re going to be good together. I’ve got just what you need.”

  “I said no!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the music.

  “Hey, get your hands off her,” I yelled, but I was on the wrong side of the bar to do anything more than signal a bouncer with a wave of my hand. Just because she was a bitch didn’t mean she deserved to be pawed by a dick.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.” He switched from fun drunk to belligerent in the blink of an eye and turned toward the dance floor, pulling Anna along.

  Before I could make my way around the bar, she grabbed the guy’s hand on her arm, gave it a twist while she stepped back and put him in a wrist lock. His elbow bent at an awkward angle and she moved his arm easily behind his back. Just like I learned at the Academy. The guy immediately went up on his tiptoes—I could tell because he went a few inches up in the air—to relieve the pressure of her joint manipulation. He faced me, his belly pressed into the brass edging. I couldn’t even see Anna behind him, but she held him pinned in place, the guy’s face a weird mix of pain and astonishment. I grabbed his neck and yanked his head down so his cheek was mashed into the bar top.

  “The lady said no, asshole.”

  I looked up and she still had her hands on his wrist, pushing it up his back to ensure the most discomfort. Two bouncers appeared on either side of her, grabbed the guy’s shoulders. She let go and stepped back, letting them lead him away. I couldn’t miss the impressed looks my men gave her. One even winked.

  My heart rate started to lower from stroke point. The unnatural instinct to rip the man limb from limb had been overpowering. Knowing Anna was safe lessened that need, but the anger still simmered.

  I turned to Vince, the other bartender. “Take over here.” I wiped my hands on a clean rag, tossed it down. “I’ve got to deal with something in the back.” Glancing at Anna, I tipped my head in the direction of my office, not waiting to see if she’d follow.

  She did. I kicked the door to the office shut behind us, flicked the lock shut so we couldn’t be interrupted. The deafening music was muted but the droning beat remained.

  Anna faced me, but she glanced around the utilitarian room. There was a desk covered with papers and other crap that filled most of the space, a wheeled desk chair and liquor boxes stacked along one wall. A trash can was beside the desk, filled with empty take-out containers. A calendar of a scantily clad woman from three years ago was the only decoration on the walls. I wasn’t planning on staying long at the job, so an interior decorator wasn’t needed.

  The difference in our height was enough where I had to bend down to look in her eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

  She was breathing a little faster than normal, her pupils dilated, but she shook her head. Even with the fluorescent light from the ceiling casting a bluish glow across the room, I could see bright flags of color on her cheeks. Her adrenaline must be pumping. Mine always was after dealing with someone like she had. “No.”

  “What were you thinking? That guy could have…shit.” I tried to get control of myself, but it wasn’t fucking easy. I stood up and ran my hand through my hair.

  “I know how to defend myself,” she countered, putting her hands on her hips. My jacket flared out at her movement, making her seem even smaller.

  “That is more than obvious.” I moved to the desk and leaned my hip against it. I didn’t offer her the chair. “Where’d you learn a move like that?” I held my hand up. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” Mercenary school? Moretti’s School for Felonious Girls?

  “Karate,” she answered. Credible, but hard to believe considering the thugs and assholes I had to deal with on a daily basis. They learned moves like that on the street. It was either learn, or get the shit kicked out of you.

  “Any bodies in the trunk of your car tonight?” Obviously, with her being here she’d made the connection from Bobby Lane’s body to me, but I had to be sure.

  “I took a taxi. My rental’s being taken care of by the hotel.”

  I just raised an eyebrow in response. Yeah, she’d connected the dots. She wasn't stupid. “So, enough chit chat. I guess Moretti sent you. Let me know the story he wants to give about Bobby and I’ll spread the word.”

  She just stood and stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns from my head. “You think Moretti sent me?”

  I shrugged. “Why else would you be here? I mean, if you were innocent, you’d be with your gay boyfriend right now waiting to catch the bouquet. Then, tomorrow, on your way back to the Big Apple.” I picked at an imaginary speck of dirt on my sleeve.

  She paused as if considering my words. “So, what? I’m the hit man Moretti hired to off his son-in-law? Is that how you say it? Yeah, I’m a real professional.” My brows went up at her sarcasm. “Caught with the body in the trunk. Really dumb of me.”

  “Or smart enough to come up with a story about the whole car rental swap.” I spun my finger around in the air. “Word gets around. I have to admit, I fell for it.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out. Dropped her hands to her sides. “Earlier tonight, at the reception, did you mean it when you offered to help me?”

  “A friend of Moretti’s is a friend of mine.” I wasn’t playing nice. Why should I? No one in Moretti’s organization would be considered nice. I felt like a fucking fool once. What was it with women? First Nadine, now Anna. I thought I’d learned my lesson. A woman was never what she seemed. Never sweet and innocent and wanting the simplicity of a man loving and protecting her. The whole picket fence romance movie. Boy, had I been wrong. At least I hadn’t gotten in too deep by marrying this one. I hadn’t even kissed her. Then why the hell did her duplicity feel like a jagged sliver beneath my skin?

  “You don’t believe me. Wow.” She shook her head. “You’re one to talk. What’s your real title, your real job? Thug? Murderer? Because you can’t just be a bar manager. I’ve heard the term wet work before. I guess in your case it doesn’t just refer to pouring drinks.”

  She thought I was a hit man? She was a piece of work.

  “You were a lot different a few hours ago at the reception when you made me promise to come to you if I had a problem.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not what we seem, are we?”

  She looked at me for long seconds. Just staring. I figured I’d get tears or anger or even a slap across the face for my shitty attitude. What I didn’t expect was acceptance.

  “Whatever. You’re going to believe what you want.” She gave a negligent shrug. “Nothing I say is going to sway you.”

  I picked up a paperclip, unbent one of the wires. “It seems you’ve been in this situation before.”

  “Yeah, you’d be surprised.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, but I couldn’t read it. Even if I had, I wouldn’t believe what I saw. She was a damn fine actress. Should I be the one to tell Peters and the others they’d been duped or let them figure it out on their own?

  “I didn’t come here to make you believe me,” she continued. “I came for your help. You offered earlier, so here I am. There’s a woman who needs rescuing from a bad man and I can’t do it by myself.”

  “You’ve got the karate moves to rescue someone. You don’t need anyone else, let alone me.” I tossed the straightened clip back on the desk. Grabbed another. I saw her jaw clench. I wasn’t making it easy for her. Like I really cared.

  “He’s a bad man. He’s done it before. I’ve got proof.”

  “Mor
etti’s a bad man. He’s done it before. You’re the proof.” I let that sink in for a minute. “Moretti’s not going to let me leave Scorch and go off to New York to save some damsel in distress, sweetheart. It’s not like we’re in the kind of business that has vacation time and a 401k. Besides, why should either of us help you?”

  Her hands clenched at her sides and I saw anger flare in her dark eyes. “Because he owes me.”

  I laughed. “Owes you?”

  “Yes, owes me. The police are completely distracted by a dumb woman who got the wrong car at a valet stand and got stuck with a corpse. They’re not paying attention to who really killed Bobby Lane. They don’t really even care. I take it Bobby wasn’t a very nice guy. I wouldn’t know since I’ve only seen him dead.”

  Anna had a dry sense of humor. She’d seemed so vulnerable and soft at the reception. The woman in front of me now was completely different, all fiery spunk and attitude. She was still soft in all the right places—my gaze roved over her body, completely hidden beneath my jacket. But I couldn’t help remembering her earlier, her curves hidden beneath, yet accentuated by the slim bodice of her blue dress. The way she’d looked, surprised by the connection between us. How her eyes had softened when I touched her waist. The way she’d been soothed by my words after her panic attack. So which was the real Anna? Was it even possible to figure out? Hell, was it worth the energy to do so?

  “The person who did shoot him got someone to take the heat for him,” she continued. “Me. They couldn’t have asked for anyone better. I mean, look at me!”

  She was the perfect dupe; a woman in from out of state for a wedding, pretty, educated, a spotless record not even tarnished by a parking ticket. Who’d have considered her for popping Bobby? The police didn’t. I hadn’t either.

  “The murderer is completely off the hook and Moretti looks like the grieving father-in-law,” she added. “He owes me, and I want him to pay up. With you.” She pointed her finger at me.

  “I’ve never been propositioned quite this way before,” I murmured, tossing the next unbent paper clip on the desk. “The door’s locked. You can have your way with me right here. An orgasm would do you good. You’re too tense.”

  Anna pulled my jacket from her shoulders as if she were allergic, threw it at me. I caught it with loose fingers, felt the warmth from her body, laid it on my desk chair. Her scent rose from the material, like lemons and spring flowers. She still wore the pretty blue dress, still looked innocent and sweet. Still had the right curves. If she offered herself now, I wasn’t sure if I could hold back. She’d be just like the bar bunnies. A quick fuck followed by a quick goodbye.

  “Get over yourself,” she shouted, stomping over to stand right in front of me, the flared hem of her dress brushing my legs. “I don’t know what happened to you between when you offered your help, with what I mistook for sincerity, and now. You even made me promise. Coming here was a big mistake.” She shook her head in obvious disappointment. “Forget it. No one’s going to help me. I’m on my own, like always.” She poked her manicured finger in my chest. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I learned this lesson when I was six, but I’m glad you reminded me. Thanks, Nick.”

  She turned on her high heel, flipped the lock with a loud snick, then looked back at me over her shoulder, the little blue ribbon on her dress almost brushing her chin. “Earlier, you said, ‘Trust me, I would never hurt you.’”

  I cocked my head to the side. “You’re in one piece, aren’t you?”

  That’s when I saw it. Right then. She let it slip. That guard, that wall she’d had up during the interview at the station. It had been around her now. But it fell. It was like a force field in a sci-fi movie that stopped working. And I caught a glimpse of it, for the merest of moments. Utter disappointment, then acceptance. Acceptance of that disappointment, as if it was something she was used to, something she expected. To her, I was just like every other guy who’d fucked her over.

  “Yes. I’m in one piece,” she said, her voice hollow, as she opened the door and left. A swirl of her perfume followed in her wake as if trying to keep up.

  Shit.

  ***

  “What?” I growled into my cell. The hovel I’d been living in since switching from Jake Griffin to Nick Malone had one perk—blackout curtains. Sure, Moretti paid me big bucks to run his club. Now. But my initial cover had me falling far from my job on the force, thus the dumpy apartment. No way in hell was I moving to swanky digs just for Moretti. Maybe the place had been used as a meth lab in the past, maybe the last tenant worked the graveyard shift. I didn’t care. I was just glad it was dark in my bedroom at—I opened one eye and looked at the clock on the bedside table—ten thirty.

  “Jesus, Grif. Are you always cranky?” Peters tsked me.

  “Yes. I went to bed at five. Give me a break.” I’d spent the bulk of yesterday sleeping, then working at Scorch all night. I was on my stomach and I refused to open my eyes. Once this call was done, I was shutting the ringer off and getting three more hours of sleep, even if there was a fire in the building. “What do you want?”

  “Your lady friend. Got some more information. Or lack of.”

  “Which is it?” I tried to clear the fog. “Who the hell is my lady friend?”

  “Anna Scott.”

  I perked up a little at her name, as if Peters had given me a cup of coffee to go with his news.

  “What about her?” Hearing her name only made me even more surly. The woman had the gall to come to the bar and tell me Moretti owed her. Like I was payment or something. “Didn’t she get on her plane yesterday?”

  “TSA says she did. Works for me. That’s not why I’m calling. We pulled her record for the interview on Friday, but only did a cursory glance. We knew pretty fast we couldn’t pin her for Bobby Lane.”

  “You mean when she cleared herself.” I rolled onto my back, tossed an arm over my eyes.

  Peters coughed. “Whatever. I did a more thorough search of her, just to close her out as a suspect. Her record is blemish free. Nothing on it. I dug a little deeper out of curiosity. Her background check shows she graduated from Harvard. Her work history starts seven years ago.”

  “I’m not hearing anything interesting yet.” I sighed. “Get to the good stuff. You wouldn’t have bothered me otherwise.”

  “Bought a pretty pricey apartment in New York right before she started Harvard. In cash.”

  I dropped my arm, stared up at the dark popcorn-textured ceiling. “What else?”

  “Where did that kind of money come from? Harvard doesn’t come cheap. No student loans. Paid in full. I checked her bank balance. She has checking and a savings account. Not enough dough in there to match a cash real estate purchase. In Manhattan. So I pulled her social.” I had an idea what he was going to say, but the man was on a roll and I was wiped, so I let him talk. “No hits on that social security number until Anna was eighteen. No passport, no teenage job, no college fund.”

  “Parents’ tax returns? Kids are a real nice tax credit, but you’ve got to list the social.”

  “Nothing. Like I told you on Friday, records say her mother died when she was six, father kicked the bucket when she was eighteen. Bob and Mary Scott. Nothing pops about their deaths. Nothing pops about them, period.”

  “Bob and Mary?” Those were some pretty bland names. “Maybe just simple, law-abiding citizens who weren’t on our radar,” I said. I didn’t believe it and I knew Peters didn’t either. “The money could’ve come from their wills.” I flicked on the bedside lamp, swung my legs over the side of the bed. Sat there in my boxers and considered.

  “Even then, and with that amount of money, she’d need a bank and it would be tied to a social security number. It’s not like she’d have stacks of cash under her mattress.”

  “Someone could have paid her college tuition and we’d never know. Maybe a family friend. But her apartment? What about birth certificate?”

  “None I’ve found,” Peters rep
lied. “Her license says Anna Louisa Scott. What I’ve shared matches that name, that home address.”

  “School records before college? She had to go to high school somewhere. Had to have a very serious transcript to get into Harvard.”

  “Nothing. I can’t pump Harvard admissions for her records without a warrant. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  Peters and I were both curious about her, more now than ever, but curiosity wouldn’t get us a search warrant.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Zilch.”

  “She knew she wasn’t in the system and wanted to stay that way. That’s why she didn’t touch the soda. Without the fingerprints, it’s like she doesn’t exist,” I said, rubbing my whiskers. “If she’s not Anna Scott—”

  “Then who the hell is she?” Peters finished.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was no chance I’d go back to sleep after the call, so I took a shower and tried not to think about Anna and everything Peters had shared. Coffee was needed to get my brain functioning to work through this puzzle. I was drying off when there was a knock on my door. I wrapped a towel around my waist, walked into the living room and looked through the peephole. Shit.

  I opened the door and stepped back to let Moretti in. He didn’t look like the typical made-for-TV mobster. He wasn’t short, balding, nor overweight. In fact, he was around six feet, just an inch or two shorter than me. Hair once black was now salt and pepper; I wasn’t sure if it was from the stressful lifestyle—always watching his back—or from age. It was far from receding and I had to admit, he wasn’t half bad looking. In his early fifties, he was trim, almost fit. If I didn’t know he was a pack-a-day smoker, I would think he exercised.

  He had good genes on his side, which made him even more dangerous. The ladies looked at him twice, especially since he always dressed impeccably. The men didn’t fear him. Not until they got to know him. Mothers herded their daughters in the opposite direction, not wanting them to become his mistress, or worse, married off to one of his many offspring. Men either learned to respect Moretti or they wound up dead. Unfortunately, they learned it by seeing their friends end up dead.