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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right of reproduction, distribution, or transmitted in whole or part in any form or means, or stored in any electronic, mechanical, database or retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Ride A Falling Star
Copyright 2013 by D’Ann Lindun
Editor: Arran McNicol
Cover Design: Margery Scott
Interior design by
THE KILLION GROUP
www.thekilliongroupinc.com
Books by D’Ann Lindun
The Cowboys of Black Mountain:
A Cowboy To Keep
Promise Me Eden
Sunny Days Ahead
A Cowboy to Keep
Cooper’s Redemption
Desert Heat
Mississippi Blues
Shot Through The Heart
Vaquero
Wild Horses
For my friend, Brenda Mott
Chapter One
Ava Demassi closed her dressing room door behind her with a firm click that echoed eerily in the empty hallway. All the other girls had cleared out after the last show. A few had dates; a handful had husbands waiting. Even a child for one or two. The public believed the life of a showgirl to be glamorous—dates with movie stars or millionaires every night. Maybe some of them had a sensational life fit for the tabloids. Not her. All she had was an empty apartment with a few wilted plants. Not even a cat waited for her.
The hair on her arms stood up and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She wasn’t sure exactly what unnerved her. Because she was always slow to undress, she’d been the last one to leave many times before, but never been this jittery. Maybe she ought to call Bill, head of security, to accompany her. No, that was silly. She’d just cut through the casino; there’d be people all over the place.
Never mind that going on the floor was against rules. Penny, the director, constantly reminded them they weren’t to mingle with customers. Doing so could cost you your job. Ava doubted anyone would notice her in a long brown sweater and black leggings. Her stage makeup might give her away, though. Not worth the risk.
Ava tugged her messenger bag’s strap tighter and hurried forward.
The rumble of a man’s low voice reached her and she paused. The voice was too deep for Don the stage manager. Besides, he’d shot out of there the minute the girls cleared the stage. He’d mentioned something about a hot date with a martini.
Why did the corridor seem so long tonight? And the lighting so dim? She bit her bottom lip. Her dressing room was the last one on the right. The exit was locked. If she opened that door, it would sound alarms all over the casino. No, she didn’t want that kind of attention.
The voices, two now, grew closer.
And angry.
Maybe she could slip by unnoticed. Probably just a couple of drunken tourists who’d wandered into the wrong place.
Tucking her chin into her collar, she hurried forward. When she turned the corner, she froze. A tall, slim man held another by the shirt, brandishing a gun. The smaller man held his hands up in a defensive gesture. He cried, “I didn’t do it, boss. I swear.”
“Right. And I’m the Pope.”
Dario Abruzzo threatening someone? A guy she’d gone out with a few times?
She didn’t take time to analyze what he was doing as he pushed the pistol against the other man’s head. And pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter exploded every direction. The man slid down the wall in slow motion, smearing his blood as he went.
Ava screamed, turned and fled. She ran like a jackrabbit from a starving coyote. Behind her, the sound of pounding feet echoed off the concrete walls. Her pursuer was gaining ground. Her breathing came in harsh pants.
The locked exit door refused to open, and she bounced off it.
She rushed forward again and slammed the release bar. For a second, she didn’t think it would open. Her heart pounded like a one-armed bandit giving up its loot. With an extra burst of adrenaline, she pushed with all her might.
The bar gave and she fell through the door.
She didn’t stop to figure out why the alarms didn’t sound off.
Frigid December air hit her in the face and she gasped against the cold of the Blue Valentine’s east parking garage. Her car was clear around the building, on the far side. In front of her was every kind of vehicle imaginable. But not a soul in sight.
Ducking down, she raced along the first line of closely parked vehicles. Heavy footsteps dogged her like a shadow. “I’m going to get you, Ava. There’s nowhere to hide.”
She swallowed a scream as a ping ricocheted off the license plate of the Lexus next to her. A bullet hit the tire of the Ford on her other side. A third whizzed overhead. Where were the hordes of tourists usually coming and going at all hours? Security? Right now, she’d gladly take an old lady with a cane.
Taking a sharp left turn around the front of an SUV, she raced between rows of vehicles.
Bright lights suddenly blinded her. Raising her hand to shield her eyes, she made out the silhouette of a big pickup. In a split-second decision, she raced to the passenger door. With the agility of a lifelong dancer, she opened the door and swung into the truck.
She caught a glimpse of a cowboy hat and dark eyes. He stared at her. “What the hell, lady?”
“Drive, just drive,” she gasped.
Still he hesitated. “Is this some crazy fan thing? Cause I gotta tell you, honey, there are easier ways to get my attention. I really wasn’t looking for company tonight…” Clearly, he wanted her out of his truck.
“Somebody’s shooting at me! Just go!” Ava ducked down as a bullet smashed into the passenger-side mirror.
“Son of a—”
“Go, go, go!” Ava waved frantically. “Drive.”
He stomped on the gas and the big truck roared forward. He tore around the corner of the building and dove into the flow of fast moving traffic. Even at three a.m., Las Vegas Boulevard stayed busy. The flashing lights of the casinos never dimmed and movement never ceased.
From her vantage point, lying across the seat, Ava couldn’t see much but a hard thigh cased in blue jeans. Booted feet. Some country tune she didn’t recognize blasted from the speakers. She’d been rescued by a cowboy. “Is he still after me?”
“I don’t think so. You want to sit up and tell me who the hell I’m running from?” Her unwilling hero’s voice sounded deep, husky and more than a little irritated.
Ava pushed off the seat and angled her body toward him. “Thanks for saving me.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.” For the first time, she caught a good look at his profile. Under a black Stetson, he had a strong nose, jaw and mouth.
“Sorry.” Ava swiped clammy hands down her leggings. “I just saw a murder—”
“What?” He turned toward her and his stark male beauty sent her racing heart up another notch. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were,” Ava muttered.
He looked in the mirror and changed lanes. “You watched somebody get killed? Where?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Backstage at the Blue Vale
ntine. Some guy shot another man in the head. I saw it all.” She shivered. “The shooter came after me.” It seemed wise not to tell him she knew the killer. She’d save that tidbit for the police.
“What were you doing backstage anyway? What are you, a waitress or something?”
“Or something.” She looked in her smashed side mirror. The distorted image of a black Town Car appeared. “Oh, God. I think he’s after us.”
“What?” The cowboy shot a glance in his own side mirror. “I don’t see anything.”
Ava turned so she could look out the back window. “There’s a black car, a big one, changing lanes and coming fast.”
Without answering, her unwilling rescuer crossed two lanes of traffic, ignoring honking horns and rude gestures from other drivers. At the signal light, he twisted his wheel hard. The big truck whipped a U-turn, tires screeching. Ava grabbed the door and held on as the truck spun around into the opposite direction, merging into a line of cars. The cowboy tromped on the gas pedal and the big diesel engine roared in response.
The black car raced by the other direction, caught in the flow of fast-moving traffic.
“We lost him,” Ava said. “But he’ll probably turn around.”
“Where’s a cop when you need one?” The cowboy scanned the vehicles around, but they didn’t see a police car among them. “Do you know where there’s a police station? Not that it’ll probably do you any good if you did.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“You live here, don’t you?” He sounded sour.
“Yes, but when I need help I ask a security guard.” She snapped her mouth shut.
“I don’t see one of those guys around right now, so we best find a cop.” He nodded toward the dash. “Wish I had one of those satellite gizmos right about now.”
Ava continued to look over her shoulder. “Me too.”
“You see him?”
“Not yet. Maybe we lost him.” She hoped. Prayed.
“This is like a bad movie,” the cowboy said. “Go out for a few drinks with friends, and what do you know…a pretty girl hops in your truck…then you’re on the run…hellfire.”
“I’m sorry I got you involved.” Ava wanted to crawl under the seat and stay there. This guy didn’t deserve any of this. “Let’s find a police station and you can go about your business.”
“It won’t be that simple,” he said. “He shot at you, hit my truck. That makes me a witness. Besides, I can’t just throw you out at the front door and leave you there.”
“I’m sorry,” Ava repeated.
“Yeah, me too. My backers aren’t going to like this one bit.”
“You’re an athlete?” She glanced at him again. A cowboy hat. Jeans. Boots. The arm of his right sleeve covered with sponsor patches. A big belt buckle shining under the street lights. It dawned on her he’d probably been in town with the National Finals Rodeo. “A rodeo cowboy?”
“I ride saddle broncs.”
“Wow.” She was suitably impressed. Rodeo cowboys came into the Blue Valentine every December during the two weeks of the National Finals Rodeo. Some of the girls talked about how sexy some of the bull riders were, but Ava preferred the physiques of the taller, heavier bronc riders, though she’d never dated one.
“You see that guy?” The cowboy’s terse question brought her back to the present.
A quick glance over her shoulder showed nothing. “No. Look, I’m close to my house. Why don’t you take me there? I’ll call the police from home.”
“Better idea. Dial 911 and have them meet us there.”
She’d been so rattled, the thought of dialing 911 hadn’t even occurred to her. “Super plan.”
His sardonic grin flashed in the dark. “I have them from time to time.”
In spite of her fear, she smiled tremulously. “Good to know.”
She made the call and an operator assured them he’d send someone to Ava’s house right away. After she hung up she gave the cowboy directions to her apartment. He turned off the Strip and made a few turns into a quiet neighborhood. She pointed to a yellow duplex at the end of the block. “I live there.”
As they grew close, she spotted a police car with flashing lights. Her racing pulse slowed a fraction. Then jumped back to racing form when she noticed the cruiser nearly blocking the shiny black car parked in front of her house. She grabbed the cowboy’s arm. “The killer’s here. At my doorway. Oh, God.”
As they passed, unable to turn around on the narrow one-way street, Ava spotted Dario talking to the cop as if he belonged there. Her front door stood wide open. From her vantage point, she could see her trashed living room. “The hitman has been inside my house and tore it up.”
The cowboy pressed the gas pedal and the truck sped up a little. “I don’t think we ought to stop just now.”
As they rolled by, Ava looked directly into the face of the guy she’d briefly dated. Dear lord in heaven. Dario Abruzzo was a killer? She’d broken up with him because he became too possessive too fast, but she’d never guessed him to be a cold-blooded killer. From his evil stare she had no doubt he’d off her if he caught her. “Get me out of here.”
“You don’t have to ask twice.” The cowboy took the first right turn and headed back for the strip. “You know that guy?”
“I dated him a few times,” she said, still unable to believe it. “What do you think he was telling that cop?” Ava bit her bottom lip. “Who apparently didn’t think to arrest him? I guess my trashed living room didn’t tip him off he was talking to a criminal.”
“Unless that cop and your ex are somehow connected.”
Ava hadn’t considered that. “Possibly.”
The cowboy turned his truck onto Las Vegas Boulevard again and drove toward the opposite side of town from the Blue Valentine. “What about the dead guy? Know him?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” She buried her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?”
“Spend the night with me, for starters.” At her horrified look, he added, “Lay low. Catch a few winks.”
“Oh.” Her face heated. Why had she automatically jumped to the conclusion he meant something more? Because of her career, most men propositioned her within an hour of meeting? “I can’t put you in any more danger than I already have. You need to drop me off somewhere and go on about your business.”
“That isn’t happening.” He glanced her way. “My mama didn’t raise me to dump a lady in distress alongside a road and leave her there to fend for herself.”
“You have a good mother,” Ava said.
“Yes, ma’am, I do. And she’d be mighty happy to have you stay for a few days until you get all this sorted out.”
Ava didn’t hesitate. “No. I’m not dragging your family into my mess. It’s bad enough you’re caught up in it.”
“Okay then.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “You have a friend or relative you could call?”
Her laugh was brittle. “No close friends. My mother threw me out when I turned eighteen. Said no daughter of hers was going to be a stripper.”
His eyes, when he glanced her way, lit up with merriment. “You’re a stripper?”
“I am certainly not.” She glared at him. “I’m a professional dancer. A showgirl.”
He whistled. “One of those fancy gals who wears a dead chicken on her head? And not much else?”
“It’s not a chicken of any sort—they’re ostrich feathers. And yes, I wear headdresses.” She continued to glower at his profile. “I don’t ever dance nude.”
“I remember you now.” He flipped on his blinker and took the exit ramp near the Thomas and Mack rodeo arena. “My buddies and I noticed you tonight in the chorus line. You were the tall blonde on the end. We thought you were a knockout.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“I mean you’re still hot.” He glanced at her plain brown sweater and black leggings. “I just didn’t recognize you without
the turkey on your head, and wearing clothes—”
“I was wearing a costume on stage,” she repeated, “and it’s not a dead bird.”
He took a right turn into a motel parking lot. “We can hole up for the rest of the night and figure out what to do in the morning.”
“Okay.” She reached for the door handle. “Thanks.”
“First thing first.” He grabbed her arm and a strange heat sizzled up it. “I don’t sleep with strangers, so maybe we ought to introduce ourselves. I’m Levi Callahan.”
“Ava Demassi.” She hesitated a moment. She didn’t care to have a jealous wife after her in addition to her current troubles. “Are you single?”
His grin was lopsided. “Not hitched and planning on staying that way. You?”
“Also single.” She held out her bare left hand and wiggled her fingers. “And also not looking for a wedding ring.”
“Nice to meet you, Ava.” He took her hand in his large, callused one and held it. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”
He let go of her hand and opened his door. Before she could let herself out, he came around and opened her door. “This way.”
Placing an arm around her shoulders, he leaned hard on her. When she shot him a startled look, he whispered, “Go with it. Pretend I’m drunk and you’re helping me home. If anyone’s looking they’ll think I’m just another cowboy who’s partied too hard.”
“Okay. But Dario knows me. We won’t fool him.” Doing as he asked wasn’t as easy as she imagined. To her surprise, he stood several inches taller than her own five-ten. For some reason, she’d thought him shorter. Heat from his body seeped into hers and she chalked up her awareness to coming out of a bad shock.
Fumbling around in his coat pocket, he found a key and handed it to her. She took it, taking care not to brush his fingers with hers. They stepped across the threshold and into the messiest motel room she’d ever seen in her life. The girls at the Blue Valentine’s dressing rooms weren’t this bad.
Junk lay everywhere. Newspapers, clothes, boots. A pair of black shorts peeking out from under the edge of the bed. Even some kind of saddle. One she assumed he rode his bucking horses with. Pop cans and pizza boxes lay strewn over every surface. The place smelled worse than a dorm room. He gave her a sheepish look. “Damn it anyway. I told Drew to clean up before he headed out tonight. My roommate’s not much of a housekeeper.”
Ride A Falling Star (The Callahans) Page 1
