Dirty Little Secrets: Romantic Suspense Series (Dirty Deeds Book 2)

by AJ Nuest

  “No, no.” Smoothing out the creases in the contract, she scribbled along the dotted line. “The next group is nearly ready. Please tell Mr. Yerovkin I should have everything I need to move forward by the end of next week.”

  That’s what he thought. And hey, that would only be five days too late.

  “All right, there we go.” Loretta placed the pen on the papers, sliding the whole works toward his legs. “Signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours.” A clever twinkle sparkled in her eyes as she inched close and angled her chin. “Now. Let’s move onto pleasure, shall we?”

  He cocked a brow.

  Yes. Let’s.

  Dropping his arm from around her shoulders, he snatched his phone off the table and thumbed in the password to open her off-shore account. The screen flashed, and he entered the six-digit code to zero out her balance.

  The numbers spun like an out-of-control speedometer. The download zipped across the bottom as the funds were sent via wire transfer to a secure investment portfolio he’d set up in his clients’ names.

  The transaction complete, he hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen, and then confirmed the dollar amount without knocking off his usual fee. The folks who’d hired him had already lost enough. Taking anything more from them just didn’t seem right. Besides, his needs were simple. And even if he quit the revenge business at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he had more than enough money to live beyond his means for several lifetimes.

  He swiveled the contract and snapped a photo of Loretta’s signature, opened a new window and attached the picture to the email waiting in his queue. Done. He hit send. Loose ends officially wrapped. A few extra taps to remove any signs of his digital imprint, and he backed out of the screen.

  Loretta started and eased away from him, glancing at her purse. “Shoot, excuse me a moment. Sorry about this.” Tugging open the zipper, she rummaged around inside and pulled out her cell.

  Satisfaction streamed through his veins as Xander stashed his phone in his breast pocket. Morty and Barbara were gonna be ecstatic once they learned he’d recovered their life savings. And he had zero doubts those two would make sure their friends who’d been swindled in Loretta’s scam received every thin dime that they’d lost.

  Only downside was, he’d be walking away from the best damn chicken and matzoh ball soup he’d ever eaten.

  Folding the contract, he stuffed it inside the envelope, collected the pen, and tucked everything in beside his phone. Time to vanish. He tossed back the last of his club soda and smacked the glass to the table. If his contact at the Justice Department was watching his email like Xander had warned him to, the place would be crawling with Feds in a matter of minutes.

  “Hold on a second.” Loretta stared at her cell, the tips of her fingers whitening around the leather case. Snapping her chin up, she pinned him with an irate glare. “What the fuck is this?”

  Ha! His shoulders shook with his husky laugh. The claws were out, huh? Then again, it had to taste like shit to find out she was flat broke. A healthy serving of the same entrée she dished up to the people who trusted her to do the right thing with their money.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Loretta.” He stood, but left the Russian accent sitting on the seat. “On behalf of my clients, you can kiss my hairy white ass.”

  Her jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Her arms shook as she slammed her phone to the table and sprang to her feet. “Derek! Get your ass over here!”

  Yep. Time to whistle for her guard dog. Xander located the bartender through the rapid pulse of a seizure-inducing strobe. Not surprising, though. Loretta had never been the type to clean up her own messes.

  The dude skirted the bar, and Xander followed the row of tiny red lights washing down his body to the sawed-off metal pipe in his hand.

  Oh, for shit’s sake. What was this, a game of Clue? Russian mobster in the VIP room with the pipe?

  Sighing, he shook out his hands, then tipped his head side to side to crack the tension from his neck. Fine. He waved the bartender forward, bounced on his toes and waved again.

  Come on, come on. He didn’t have all damn day.

  Teeth bared, the bartender hop-skipped a step to gather his momentum and hefted the pipe over his shoulder with both hands.

  Bad move, dipshit. Bending his knees, Xander jumped and came down hard, ramming his heels against the lip of the table. The underside splintered off the center brace. The far edge tipped up and snagged Derek square between the ribs. He bellowed and hunched forward, cradling his side. The pipe flew end over end and clanged to the ground as he lurched off-kilter to the right.

  A piercing shriek sliced through the music, and Xander flinched as Loretta launched onto his back, her skinny arms cinched around his neck, legs straddling his waist from behind.

  What did the half-baked fruitcake think she was doing? Gritting his teeth, he pried her wrists free and stepped back, lifting his knee to block her ball-piercing kicks as he tossed her ass-first to the couch.

  The table seesawed and skated to a lopsided rest along the front. An evil smile curled her lips as she landed on the cushions, and Xander followed her line of sight over his right shoulder.

  Shit, a distraction.

  He spun and dodged left. A wash of multi-colored light arced along the back-swing of the metal pipe, and he blocked the incoming assault with his forearm. Pain vibrated the bones in his wrist and elbow. A hard twist, and he dislodged the makeshift weapon from Derek’s grip.

  The pumping music cut out. A loud whine pinged in Xander’s ears, and he seized the element of surprise. Charging forward, he squinted as the caged overheads flooded the interior with a blinding glare.

  A driving pivot, and he jabbed his elbow into the bartender’s injured ribs. The dude oophed and crumpled, keeling sideways. One step in the same direction, and Xander wrapped his hand around the idiot’s neck, shouldered his weight and slammed the guy flat on his back to the floor.

  “No! Get up, you stupid asshole!” Loretta scampered off the end of the couch and ran toward the bartender, jostling his shoulder with the toe of her stiletto. “I didn’t pay you to flop around like a limp dick.”

  Xander grunted. That comment was nothing if not appropriate. He snagged the pipe off the floor. He hadn’t doubted for a second the woman would be a class act to the end.

  Derek hissed and rolled onto his side, eyes squeezed shut as he groaned.

  “Now, Loretta.” Xander tossed the pipe in the air and caught the threaded end. Sweet. This piece of hardware would come in handy. “Let’s play nice.”

  “This isn’t over, you hear me?” She propped her fists on her hips, jaw tight. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find out who you are, Alexei whatever the hell your name is. And when I do, I can guarantee, life, as you know it, will be over.”

  “Good luck with that plan.” The world was a very big place, and the practice of exacting revenge was in high demand. Chances were, he’d be long gone from Miami by the time she got out.

  Turning for the elevator, Xander rested the pipe on his shoulder and strode toward the doors, using the end to jab the call button as he came to stop. They opened with a bing and he stepped on, nodding toward the balcony railing.

  “Your ride’s here, Loretta.” He hit the button for the third floor. Smiled. “Be sure to give the police my regards.”

  Her enraged scream grew muffled as the doors slid shut.

  Jesus, that was pleasant. Shaking his head, Xander eased back a step and jammed the end of the pipe into the control panel. Other than the two elevators, the only route off the second-floor balcony was through the emergency stairwell. The car jerked to a stop and the alarm echoed in the shaft like the ring of an old rotary dial phone.

  Perfect. His contact would know his exit plan had been initiated. He should cover the stairwell like Xander had instructed.

  Using the end of the pipe, he dislodged the recessed panel on the overhead escape hatch, jumped and hauled himself
up through the opening. A quick check of the shaft above and below, and he nodded. Good. With the other car still resting on the first floor, that would save him some time…and some climbing. He tugged a rigging descender from the small of his back, clicked it onto a nearby cable, and swung off the roof.

  The line whizzed past his ear as he zipped down two floors to the second elevator. His feet hit the top, and he disconnected from the cable, pried open the panel and hopped inside.

  Punching the button for the basement, he peeled the sticky sideburns off his face, emptied his coat pockets into his slacks and stripped to a faded, blue Margaritaville muscle shirt.

  His knees bounced as the elevator hit the subterranean level of the club. The doors slid open, and he stepped between them before knocking out the panel with a couple homerun at bats of the pipe.

  Contented whistle echoing off the concrete walls, he strolled toward the furnace room, casually swinging the pipe and his shirt and suit jacket folded over his arm. Shouldering the door, he stepped inside and twisted the lock.

  Heat tightened his face as he flicked open the incinerator. He tossed in his jacket and shirt, then toed off his shoes and chucked them in as well. A quick wipe down of the pipe to remove his prints, and he balanced it against the wall, swung open an air conditioning duct and retrieved his scuffed brown boots, a knit skull cap and a pair of John Lennon shades.

  Popping the hook at the front of his slacks, he jerked the waistband to his hips, tucked one end of his T-shirt into his red plaid boxers and stepped into the boots. Nothing like ending the night with a target sufficiently under wraps.

  Swinging the incinerator door back in place, he turned and clomped toward the exit. Only thing left was to take the stairs to the main level and blend in with the crowd. He smirked. Hell, maybe he’d even hang outside for a bit and see if he could catch Loretta being led away in cuffs.

  The beep of an incoming text drew him up short, and he slumped. Shook his head. Come on, guys. He’d practically posted her location on Facebook. He fished his cell from his pocket and thumbed the screen. What had those dumbass Feds screwed up now? “Bunch of fucking numb nuts.”

  A glance at his phone, and his brows jacked so fast they pushed his cap up his forehead. Eden? Damn, he hadn’t heard from her in ages.

  A needle of worry slid under his skin.

  He tapped the message and froze. His legs gave and his shoulder connected with the wall.

  A single symbol floated on screen.

  Ɵ—the Greek letter Theta.

  No. He jerked his head up. God, fuck no.

  A crushing pain he hadn’t fought in over ten years cranked through his chest, and he wrenched open the door and sprinted for the stairs. Not Charlie, not Charlie. Jesus Christ, he’d never forgive himself.

  Contact Theta meant one thing.

  Someone was dead.

  Chapter 2

  The buzz of the lock drilled through the pre-dawn mist with the subtlety of high-torque steel saw, and Charlie yanked open the handle before the damn thing woke every poor slob huddled inside the row of cardboard boxes framing the alley.

  Movement caught the corner of her eye as she stepped over the threshold, and she paused, squinting into the screen of white fog that led off into obscurity.

  Shadows fluttered near the center, and her pulse tripped. Grit rasped against the shiny asphalt as a dark figure lurched forward and solidified into a man.

  Shit. She spun and jerked the door closed, one eye perched at the crack to peer into the bleak November morning. This had to make the third time in a week she’d gotten the hinky suspicion someone was trailing her. Bottles clinked. Garbage rustled. The creeper lifted one arm and braced his hand against the wall. But the penthouse was empty except for the daytime staff. She’d made sure of it by waiting until that prick and his supermodel girlfriend had left on vacation.

  Her chest lifted as she pulled a measured breath. Heat washed her cheeks as she silently exhaled against the door. During the past several nights, she’d been careful to take only a few select items. Following protocol, she’d spaced out her visits, gradually building her stash so it wouldn’t become obvious to the cleaning crew anything was missing. She’d gotten in and out clean without tripping any alarms, so who—

  “You’ve lost…that lovin’ feelin’…” An a crapella rendition of The Righteous Brothers echoed off the brick buildings, followed by a rip-roaring belch. Charlie slumped, gritting her teeth as her supposed stalker pushed off from the wall and staggered a few steps forward then back. “Oh-h-h that lovin’ feelin’.”

  Dammit, she should’ve known better than to give that marinated old fossil a ten-spot. She blew a sarcastic huff off her bottom lip and her long bangs fluttered against her forehead. He’d lost feeling, all right. Instead of using the money for a hot meal and warm bed like she’d told him to, Willard had gone out and fermented his liver with God only knew what kind of paint thinner.

  “You’ve lost…that lo-o-ovin’ feelin’ oh no, oh-h-h—”

  “Willard!” Her harsh whisper fell flat in the damp air. For crying out loud, he was gonna wake every soul in the New York City block.

  The open sides of his ratty coat swung out from his knees as he twirled in her direction. “Sh-h-h…” He crammed his finger against his lips, then grimaced and bounced his hands at the ground as if she were the one making the racket. “Don’t tell Charlie.”

  Nice. She sighed. So much for wishing for the best from her impulsive generosity. “My lips are sealed as long as you promise to stop singing.” She pulled her head back and then winced as he stumbled into a pile of garbage bags, rattling some cans. Gravity was definitely no longer his friend. “Go sleep it off somewhere before you fall and crack your head open.”

  Geez. She inched the door closed and the pneumatic bolt shunted into the lock. Next time, she’d bring him a blanket and a burger instead of handing him cash. Dumb. Really dumb move.

  The metal railing iced the palm of her leather glove as she tromped down the concrete stairwell. A short trip past the multi-colored gang effigies spray-painted on the cinderblock walls, and she jabbed the second doorbell, flipping the bird toward the security camera mounted above the door.

  There. That should handle any questions over how happy she was to be here. Nearly a week without any sleep, add in the thick layer of stress and worry frosting her skin, and the last thing she needed was a small-time fence like Mike Jambinowski trying to sweet talk her with a whole lotta smack.

  The blast of the buzzer nearly lifted the hair off her shoulders, and she braced before shoving into the bowels of his underground hoard. The skankish vibe he’d sent in her direction during last week’s negotiations had practically ballooned off him like that dirty kid in a Peanuts cartoon. She wasn’t about to give him the impression she’d shown up at o’dark hundred for more of the same.

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” Jammer stood from his black ergonomic chair and approached the bulletproof glass encasing his far corner office like a whiskered bottom-feeder swimming toward the side of a tank. He folded his arms on the high counter and a few strands of his greasy ponytail slipped past his shoulder, sunken cheeks and bushy Fu Manchu bisected into one-inch strips from the metal bars covering the window. “What’s my favorite set of sticky fingers brought me this morning?”

  His favorite—? Oh, dear God. The idea she could be his favorite anything flicked the switch on her gag reflex to eject. “A headache and a bad attitude.”

  Carefully navigating past a haphazard pyramid of shiny hubcaps, she strode down the aisle formed by heaps of hot merchandise for the Wi-Fi hotspot he’d pirated near the back of the room.

  “Aw, come on, Charlie. Don’t do me like that.” He shoved up from the counter, tracking her progress with a slow turn of his head. As usual, a paper-thin wife beater hung loose over his concave chest, the yellow stains under his hairy armpits making it difficult to identify the color.

  Could’ve been white in a previous life. Maybe
gray. It was anyone’s guess.

  “Why you always gotta be so cold?” He bumped his chin at her, eyes free-ranging down to the pointed tips of her black boots, back up her stretchy black jeans and hips until his focus screeched to a halt on the top buttons of her thigh-length, double-breasted raincoat. “Ya never know. Playing nice with me just might work in your favor.”

  Gross. Her boobs wanted to run and hide, which would’ve been quite the feat considering their full-figure D cup size. “My face is twenty degrees north, Jammer.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “What’s that?”

  Sweet baby Jesus. The sharpness of his brain knew no bounds.

  Biting her tongue, she resisted the impulse to verbally cut him off at the knees. The only thing to top the assortment of rocks in his head was how badly she needed the services he provided. The wrong snarky comeback, and she could kiss any hope of scoring a fair deal goodbye. “Never mind.”

  Hooking her thumb under the strap of her backpack, she swung it off her shoulder and entered one of the lopsided cubicles bolted to the wall. Dealing with Jammer was a means to an end. One she couldn’t screw up if she stood a chance at keeping her promise. Six months, she’d scoured every back alley and wangster pawn shop looking for someone with his special skill set, and the rep he boasted for quickly moving hot merchandise put the other brokers in his trade to shame.

  Sickening as it was to admit, she needed him. And no matter how nauseating, if she had to put up with his suggestive comments, his constant staring, his holy mother of God, when is the last time you showered stench, then she would. She’d happily wade ankle deep through hot coals before she let the douchebaggery of Mike Jambinowski trip up her plan.

  Kicking the orange plastic chair aside, she braced her knee on the seat, peeled open the zipper on her backpack and carefully unloaded the take she’d collected onto the dented desktop.

  GoPro Hero4 camera—four hundred bucks off the floor. iPad Air 2 with sixty-four gigabyte memory—a little over five hundred brand new. Kindle Voyage eReader, fully loaded with everything from cookbooks to romance novels—worth two hundred easy if she could convince Jammer to take the downloads as a package deal. Silver Beats headphones with a matching portable 2.0 Pill speaker—seven hundred dollars as the day was long. And last but not least, an MSi Workstation laptop, Intel Xeon E3 memory with a dual one hundred twenty-eight solid state gigabyte drive.