Knowing the information she was about to relay wouldn't be well received, Addison braced. "I have an appointment to speak with a private detective this morning."
Gretchen cut her a sharp look. "Someone reputable, I hope."
Smiling at a customer who'd brought a set of musical Christmas mugs to the counter, Addison started for the cash register. "Jim recommended him."
Gretchen rolled her eyes and followed. "That's supposed to make me feel better?" she muttered in a low tone. "Lawyers. You can't trust them as far as you can throw them."
"I trust Jim."
"As long as you're not expecting Tom Selleck in a Hawaiian shirt."
"Hawaiian shirt or not, a private investigator may be able to cut through some of the red tape I haven't been able to unravel." Addison counted out change and handed it to the customer.
"Cut through your checkbook, more likely."
"Give me a little credit, Gretch. I'm a businesswoman. I can handle this." Glancing at her watch, Addison frowned. "I've got to get going."
"Don't sign anything," Gretchen warned.
Hoping for a quick escape, Addison snagged her purse and headed for the alley door. "Can you get by without me for an hour or so? I'll be back before the lunch rush."
"If you're not back by noon, I'm calling the cops."
From the door, Addison shot Gretchen a wry smile. "Better make it the S.W.A.T. team. I hear Jack Talbot's as crazy as he is good."
* * *
He remembered the chill, the kind that seeped through the skin to permeate muscle and bone and sent the body into involuntary shivers. The moment he left the chopper, he smelled the fire, that horrible stench he'd inhaled too many times to ever forget. Around him the air was heavy, cold, and wet. The jagged horizon above the trees was barely visible, and full darkness would soon fall, a black cloak trapping him with the dead.
Emanating from the darkness beyond, a symphony of chain saws worked in unison to clear the trees so the emergency vehicles could pass. He'd never felt more alone as he walked toward the wreckage of Allegiance Air flight 335. It was as though he was traveling through a vacuum, devoid of sound and light, his senses assaulted instead by unspeakable stimuli. Silently, he repeated the only line he could recall from a psalm he'd memorized as a boy. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
The area resembled a war zone. He stopped twenty yards from the fuming crater where the main portion of the fuselage had slammed into the earth. Rescue workers dressed in yellow slickers glowed like beacons against the spotlights. Smoke blended with fog and curled upward into the cold, still air.
"This guy went straight down," he heard himself say in a voice devoid of the panic and horror thrashing inside him. "No survivors." The voice came again, his own, sounding strange among the surreal flashing of lights and the screaming of chain saws. Somewhere in the distance the rise and fall of a bulldozer's engine added another degree of bedlam.
Then he was standing at the brink of the jaggedly cut cavity. Around him, teams of rescue workers moved in slow motion, in and out of the crater, lugging stretchers, plastic buckets, or body bags. Nearby, an ambulance stuck in the mud rocked back and forth, its bumper hammering against the trunk of a walnut tree. Back and forth. Hammering . . .
Pounding dragged him from the nightmare.
Randall Talbot opened his eyes. The need to cry out clenched at him. His heart pummeled his ribs. The putrid taste of horror pooled at the back of his throat like vomit. He jerked upright, flinching as a cramp shot across the back of his neck. Cursing, he rubbed the sore muscles and tried to remember where he was, and how he'd gotten there. The scenario was all too familiar these days.
Christ, not even the booze can keep the nightmare at bay, he thought bitterly and lowered his head back onto the desk.
The pounding persisted.
Muttering an oath, he rose. The room swayed. He blinked, realizing belatedly that he was still drunk—which suited him fine. Somehow, the alcohol made it all easier to take. At least for now, he thought grimly.
Gray light slanted through the single window of the office, and he realized with some surprise it was well past dawn. As he staggered to the door, he plucked his flannel shirt off the back of the chair and pulled it on, not bothering with the buttons. Fighting a spell of dizziness, he leaned against the door, relishing the feel of the cool wood against his forehead. At least until the frame rattled under someone' s persistent knocking.
"Yeah, dammit, hold on a minute," he croaked, sickened by the taste of whiskey at the back of his throat. Vaguely, he remembered breaking the seal as he'd waited for his two A.M. appointment. A topless dancer who worked at the Cheetah Lounge, he recalled. A woman who owed his brother, Jack, a fee for some surveillance work. She hadn't shown and, of course, Randall had ended up getting comatose drunk. Just like a woman to show up late and expect a man to wait, he thought sourly. Considering she owed Jack four hundred dollars, he was surprised she'd shown at all.
Spotting the bottle of whiskey on his desk, he strode to it and thumbed off the cap. It wouldn't do to waste the expensive stuff. Tipping the bottle, he drank deeply, swished, then spat in the wastebasket. The bottle followed with a clank!
Despite the headache raging behind his eyes, Randall smiled as he started for the door. It was a smile that had little to do with good humor-and everything to do with the fact that he was ripe for a fight. Any woman who took advantage of a man confined to a wheelchair-especially his brother—deserved a good verbal trouncing. The way he felt this morning, he might even enjoy it.
Steadying himself against the wall, he unlocked the door and swung it open. "You're late."
A young woman with dark, almond-shaped eyes and skin as flawless as new snow stood staring at him. Her mouth was full, heart-shaped, and painted an interesting hue of red. It was the kind of mouth that made a man think about the finer elements of a woman—and the even finer elements of sex.
Her cheekbones were delicate and high, the flesh there blushed with cold. Soft bangs brushed past delicately arched brows. An unruly mass of brown hair tumbled onto her shoulders like strands of raw silk.
She didn't look like a topless dancer. Too soft, he thought, not to mention the fact that he couldn't make out much of her beneath the thick, fuzzy sweater. She wore a skirt that could have been her grandmother's and lace-up boots that would have looked more appropriate on a construction worker.
Her eyes flicked over his bare chest. "I must have the wrong address." She stepped back.
If he hadn't known better, Randall would have sworn he saw her blush. "Not so fast." Reaching for her hand, he pulled her inside.
She yelped and tried to jerk away, but he was prepared and hauled her into the office like a recalcitrant child. Her hand was small and cool in his. He caught a whiff of her perfume and ignored the flutter of pleasure that wafted through him.
"You have thirty seconds to cough up the cash," he said, resisting the urge to hold his head to keep the room from spinning.
Gasping, she tried to twist away. "What are you doing? Let go of me!" Her eyes narrowed. "What cash?"
She was small and vulnerable-looking, like somebody's little sister, he mused. Her body was fluid and graceful, all subtle curves and sly lines with a dangerous air of understated sexuality. It was a lethal combination for a woman who made a living off men willing to shell out their hard-earned cash for a peek at her goods.
Kicking the door closed with his foot, Randall forced her over to the shabby vinyl chair in front of the desk and thrust her into it. Placing his hands on the armrests, he leaned close to her, enjoying the way her eyes widened. "Fifteen seconds," he said quietly.
Indignation heated her gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You obviously have me confused with somebody else."
She was breathing hard, and Randall could see that she was shaking. Temper, he thought, and warned himself that women turned unpredictable when they were angry. They tended to lose control. H
e wondered if she was a screamer or a hitter.
She pressed herself into the chair as if she were trying to put some space between them, but he went with her, refusing to give her a respite. "The money, Felicia. Four hundred bucks. Then you can go."
"Felicia? My name is Add—"
Randall snatched the purse from her shoulder. "Time's up." Without waiting for a response, he dumped the contents on the desk. A gold-encased tube of lipstick rolled over the edge and hit the floor.
She came out of the chair like a spring-loaded jack-in-the box. "You can't treat me like this! Who do you think you are?"
Ignoring her, Randall found the wallet, an overstuffed piece of goatskin jammed full of crinkled receipts and coupons. Christ, he hoped he didn't find drugs. The last thing he wanted to do was cart a screaming topless dancer down to the police station.
He rifled through the cash pocket, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. "Is this all?" He waved the bill. "Where did you stash your tips?"
. She blinked and stepped away from him. "Is this a robbery?"
Anger rippled through him that she would try to use that innocent facade to weasel out of paying a man who sorely needed the money. ''Where the hell's your sense of decency?" he growled. ''The man's in a wheelchair, for chrissake."
''I don't know what you're talking about. I have an appointment..."
Randall hated liars. Especially good ones with big brown eyes and a body that could give a man wet dreams for a week. A man was never quite safe around a woman with such formidable weaponry.
Even a man like him.
Intent on teaching her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget, he gave her a blatant once-over. "Maybe we could take it out in trade." He tried not to notice when her tongue flicked nervously over those ripe lips. This was a hell of a time for him to realize he'd gone too long without sex.
She looked like a prim little housecat that had just stepped into the ring with a snarling junkyard dog. "Touch me and you'll be singing soprano with the Vienna Boys' Choir," she warned in a voice that was refreshingly tough.
Captivated, and oddly pleased, he leaned forward and hit her with a look that had brought more than one tough guy to his knees. "Why don't you show me?"
Chapter 2
Addison had known she was in trouble the moment she set eyes on him. Now, as she took in the mussed black hair, the unforgiving eyes, and the cruel mouth, she could only wonder how she was going to get out of it.
Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a red plaid shirt, he had the haunted eyes of a prisoner on death row and the rough-hewn face of a gangster. He towered over her like a giant sequoia, without the beauty, all brawn and muscle and temper. The way he moved reminded her of a big predatory cat, a hungry one that enjoyed the kill as much as the feast.
Under different circumstances, the image might have been appealing in a physical, fundamental way. Too bad he had the intellect of an ice cube and a mean streak that had her shaking in her shoes. Her throat constricted when she considered the possibility that he might actually try to hurt her.
But she reminded herself that he was a private detective and that she was merely a victim of mistaken identity. Surely they could handle this like mature adults.
He stuffed the ten-dollar bill into the front pocket of jeans that stretched snugly across lean hips. For an insane instant she found her eyes drawn to a part of his anatomy she didn't want to think about. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and gazed at him squarely. "My name isn't Felicia. My name is Addison Fox, and I had a nine A.M. appointment with Jack Talbot."
His eyes glittered menacingly. "My name is Randall, and I'm Jack's brother from hell. He asked me to fill in."
"You're making a huge mistake ... Randall."
"Ah, now that we're on a first-name basis, I should tell you I'm not as nice as Jack. I'm certainly not above frisking you."
Indignation punched through her. "How dare you speak to me like that."
"How dare you take advantage of a man in a wheelchair."
"I've never met your brother. I don't even know him."
"Ten bucks isn't much of a down payment." His eyes raked over her. "Maybe we could work something out."
Realizing he seriously had the wrong impression about her, Addison snatched her bag off the desk and began throwing the contents back inside. "I'm not going to take this."
She refused to tolerate brutality, verbal or otherwise. As far as she could tell, this man was stark, raving insane. She started for the door.
Heavy footsteps thudded against the floor behind her. Even with her back to him, Addison knew he was coming after her.
"You're not going anywhere," he said in a rough baritone.
Not trusting her back to him, she spun and walked backward. "Don't come any closer." She raised her hands, knowing they wouldn't stop him. Her bottom connected with the door. Her hand shot to the knob. She tugged, but the door didn't budge. Locked, she thought, and realized what it must feel like to be a rabbit caught in the sights of a rifle.
"On the other hand a little striptease is hardly worth four hundred dollars." He peeled the purse from her shoulder and tossed it onto the desk behind him without looking at it.
Her legs went weak. "You're out of line."
One side of his mouth curled. A smile or a snarl, she couldn't tell which. "Stealing is out of line." He braced an arm on either side of her, effectively pinning her against the door. "I don't have much tolerance for thieves."
Addison told herself it was outrage that had her pulse hammering. But when his shirt parted, her eyes took on a life of their own and swept down the front of him. His chest was wide and rippled with muscle. A sheath of thick black hair tapered to a stomach that was hard and flat. The sight of such blatant maleness sent an uncomfortable awareness surging through her.
Incredulous that her hormones were about to betray her, she raised her head and found herself looking at a harsh, unshaven face. Prominent cheekbones and a nose that looked as though it had been broken and never properly set dominated his features. His mouth was sculpted and distinctly brutal. But it was his eyes that commanded her attention. They were haunted eyes. The kind that looked through people and saw all the way to their souls.
"So what's it going to be, Felicia?" He assessed her boldly. "You going to pay my brother what you owe him? Or are we going to have to find another way for you to make good on your debt?"
She could feel the heat of his gaze as surely as if he had touched her. The thought made her shiver. "There is no debt," she said. "And you're a thug."
"Yeah, well, at least I'm honest about it. I don't march around claiming to be something I'm not."
He was so close she could smell the musky male scent of him and the smoky tang of whiskey on his breath. A tremor of fear barreled through her when she realized he'd been drinking. "I'm going to scream," she warned between clenched teeth.
A cruel smile curved his mouth. "Why don't you just hand over the cash like a good little girl and we'll be done with this?"
Scant inches separated his mouth from hers. For a single, wild instant she half expected him to close the distance between them, lean close, and kiss her. She wondered if he would use his tongue, if the kiss would be ruthless or gentle ....
Thoroughly unnerved by the bizarre turn her thoughts had taken, Addison gave herself a hard mental shake and forced her gaze to his. "Unlock the door."
"We're not finished."
"Yes, we are."
"I'm not going to let you rip off my brother."
"Get out of my way."
When he made no effort to move, she braced against the door and pushed him with both hands. The sudden contact stunned her. His muscles were like warm steel beneath her palms. He stumbled back, catching his balance on the desk. She stared at him, trembling, every nerve in her body on edge.
Humiliation washed over her when tears stung her eyes. She wasn't prone to displays of emotion, but the outrage burgeoning inside her—and the fact that this man se
emed to be enjoying every second of this—was too much.
She knew it the instant he realized his mistake. He went perfectly still. The intensity drained from his eyes, and he just stood there staring at her as if she had suddenly transformed into a rare and endangered species. It was her tears, she realized, that had finally convinced him she was telling the truth.
"I want my purse." Her voice shook, but she didn't care. God, she hoped he didn't try to apologize. An apology now would only make her angrier, and she didn't want to go another round with this dim-witted Neanderthal. "I'm leaving."
Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "I don't believe this," he muttered.
The Perfect Victim Page 2
