by Meghan March
“Seriously? Who are you? Did you have a personality transplant?” I turned my back on him and began rambling to myself. “The man barely speaks to me and now he’s saying he’s going to chase me? Oh, and he wants to date me? Seriously? And now some gangster is sending Dom? I need to go home. I need a weekend and a do-over.” I closed my fingers over the doorknob and twisted, but a big hand on my elbow stopped me from pulling it open.
It took every ounce of my willpower to not look over my shoulder or down at the hand on my arm.
Lord’s voice was low. “This isn’t me having a personality transplant. This is about me protecting you from someone you don’t even have the good sense to be afraid of and going after what I want. If you weren’t so fucking sexy and sweet and quirky, maybe both Rix and I would have a shot at resisting you.”
I felt my resolve start to crumble. I was going to be in so much trouble. I had my rules for a reason. And it was clear that if I gave in to Lord, I’d lose the independence I was so fiercely protective of. I couldn’t sacrifice that piece of myself. I didn’t trust him—or anyone—enough to give them that kind of chance. But how was I supposed to fight this? I wanted him.
“I’m calling a time out,” I said.
“This is the game of life, sweet thing. No time outs until you’re done breathin’.” And with that, he spun me and tugged my body against his. My hands pressed flat against rock hard slabs of muscle. “And besides, a time out means I don’t get to kiss you, and I haven’t done nearly enough of that yet.”
Lord slowly slid his hand up my arm, as if waiting for me to bolt, but instead I stood mesmerized by him. His words. His touch. His blazingly blue eyes. He skimmed his thumb up my throat, and tilted my chin even higher as he bent toward me. I closed my eyes just as his lips brushed mine. Light, lazy touches. And then, in an instant, he cradled my jaw and … took. There was no other word for it. His tongue delved inside my mouth, dueling with mine, drawing me into the kiss against my better judgment. I knew I should be backing away, but I was rushing forward. I didn’t remember moving them, but my hands were gripping his shirt, clutching at him to keep him close.
This is bad, I told myself. But it’s so damn good.
Lord finally pulled away, steadying me, his hand lowering to my hip as I fell forward into him.
“Whoa. You okay?”
I didn’t know what I was, but I strongly suspected I wasn’t okay. In fact, I strongly suspected I might have just left okay behind and headed straight into this man is more dangerous than the one he’s set on protecting me from territory.
I nodded anyway. “I’m fine.” Because I was always fine. Even when I wasn’t.
“We’ll eat our supper, and then I’ll run you home. You can take your weekend and figure out whether you can handle what’s going on here.”
“And if I decide I can’t? Then what? It’s done?”
Lord’s dark gaze grew sharp. “Then I get to change your mind. Clothes optional.”
I shoved at his chest. “You’re such a guy.”
He grabbed his crotch. “And thank God for that.”
“Classy, Lord. Real classy.”
His smile was wide and the most open I’d ever seen it. “You’re the classy one here. We both know that. Now sit. I’ll get your food.” I had no idea how we’d gone from stand-off to laughing, but here we were. I’d been wound up, ready to run, and now I was sitting down and reaching for my po’ boy. It was like the man had defused a bomb and lived to tell about it.
What the hell was I going to do now?
That was a question for which I had no answer, so I just sat, and we ate in surprisingly companionable silence while I ignored the Dom on the desk.
When we’d finished, we headed back out into the shop … smack dab into the cops.
It’d been a lot of years since I’d been in handcuffs, and the way Hennessy was studying me told me I was narrowly avoiding being in them right now.
“When? And how?” I demanded.
“Two rounds to the back. Brianna Sanchez’s time of death is estimated to be approximately one o’clock this morning. Her body was found by sanitation department workers two blocks off Bourbon around seven A.M.”
“Holy shit. Bree?” Mathieu breathed. “No fucking way. She was just here on Saturday.”
Hennessy glanced to Mathieu and looked back to me. “And I understand from her mother that you fired her on Saturday. Accused her of stealing?”
That look he was giving me? That was the ‘did you fucking kill her, you motherfucker’ look. Except because Hennessy was a good detective, he didn’t actually have to say it out loud to let me know he was thinking it.
“You here to take me in?” I asked. I wasn’t beating around the bush on this one. If he wanted me to come to the station to be questioned, then he could take me in. “Because if you are, I’ll be calling my lawyer.”
“You got something to hide, Lord? Is that why you need a lawyer?”
Typical cop. Always assuming that someone who wanted a lawyer was guilty instead of smart. “Just protecting myself.”
“The crazy girl with the bad extensions? The one who used to work here? She’s dead?” All the color had drained out of Elle’s face.
Hennessy’s attention cut to her. “Yes. And you are?”
“Elle Snyder.”
“Are you a customer or an employee?” he asked.
“Umm … I started this week.”
Hennessy’s eyebrow went up as he looked at me. “And you knew Ms. Sanchez?”
“I didn’t know her … I just … saw her that one day when she decided to pretend she was a rock star and smash a guitar.”
I cut in. “Back off, Hennessy. Elle didn’t even know her. They barely crossed paths while I was firing Bree.”
He held up both hands. “I’m just trying to get all the facts, Lord. No need to get defensive.”
“Where off Bourbon did they find her? Like which end?” Elle asked, drawing the attention back to her.
Hennessy told her, and she reached a hand out to steady herself on the glass case behind her.
I could’ve muzzled her when she said, “Oh. Wow. That’s only a couple blocks from my place.”
Hennessy’s interest in Elle jumped about twenty notches. “Where were you at one o’clock this morning?”
Oh fuck no. “Elle, don’t say a damn thing. If Hennessy wants answers out of you, he’ll get them through your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer anymore.”
It was the anymore part that caught my attention—and Hennessy’s. “Did you need a lawyer before, Ms. Snyder?”
Elle’s face grew even paler, and she lifted a hand to smooth her hair. It was a nervous tell if I’d ever seen one. “No—I mean… No.” Finally, she shook her head and seemed to snap out of it. “I just never really thought of where I live as being that dangerous. Sure, pickpockets and purse-snatchers. Maybe a drunken fistfight occasionally. But murder? What the hell?”
Considering I’d been a pickpocket, a purse-snatcher, and a drunken fist-fighter, I tried not to wince. But going from that to murder was big leap.
“You find the murder weapon?” That’s the reason Hennessy usually stopped in here—not to question me, but to see if we’d gotten any guns in that might match cold cases or ongoing investigations. My range in the basement was set up for basic firearms identification. Nothing like what the cops had, but I gave it my amateur best. It was the whole reason Con had bought Chains in the first place and asked me to run it—to try to find the gun that had been used in the murder of his adoptive parents. We’d found it—against all odds. So what were the odds that we’d find the one that had killed Bree? My heart squeezed at the thought. Why the fuck did death keep touching us? Couldn’t it keep its dark and destructive fingers out of our fucking lives until we were all old and gray? We didn’t survive a war and expect to come home to more violence.
“No murder weapon was found at the scene. No casings either. So it was either a
revolver or someone policed their brass.”
“Caliber? What do I need to be looking for?”
Hennessy didn’t answer right away, and it hit me that this time he might not share any information.
“Look, if I had killed her, would I offer to help you find the fucking gun?”
The tilt of Hennessy’s head pissed me off even more. “Wouldn’t you, though? You’ve helped with every other case when I’ve asked. If you refused to help on this one, wouldn’t that just look suspicious as all hell, Lord?”
“Fuck you, Hennessy. I didn’t have jack shit to do with it, and if you were any kind of detective at all, you’d already know that.”
He shrugged. “How about you just keep turning over rounds from every gun you get in the door.”
“Fine. Whatever you want. You’ve got everything we had up until today. I took one more in on pawn this afternoon. I’ll test fire it in the morning and you can pick up the bullet and casing whenever you get around to it. I know NOLA’s finest are keeping busy schedules these days.”
“You do that. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He tipped his head to Elle. “A pleasure, Ms. Snyder.”
Elle’s muttered I’m sure it was all yours under her breath was the only thing that could have possibly made me smile.
I led Elle across the alley to the warehouse where the ’Cuda was parked, my protective instincts rising and my brain spinning.
Fuck.
What the hell had Bree gotten herself into?
Yes, she’d stolen from me, but I sure hadn’t wanted her dead. And two shots in the back? Jesus.
No one deserved that. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d still be breathing if I hadn’t fired her. Had she been in the Quarter at a new job? Why hadn’t I asked for more details?
Oh yeah, that’s right—because he was looking at me like a suspect and not a guy who’d helped him close more than a few cases because of the guns I’d bought and tested. No, I hadn’t been doing it out of the goodness of my heart before, but I could’ve stopped any time after we’d closed out Con’s case. And it looked like my assistance might be drawing to a close if Hennessy really thought I had jack shit to do with this. Yeah, I had a watered-down motive, but there was no way in hell I’d ever go after a woman.
I unlocked the door and deactivated the alarm, and Elle followed me inside. It was a routine we’d established over the last week; I’d gotten used to seeing her in the front seat of my ’Cuda. And now that I’d had a taste of her spicy sweetness, I should’ve been thinking about how I was going to convince her to take a chance with me and how I was going to make sure I had Con and Vanessa’s blessing.
But everything was now overshadowed by the ugliness of death. I didn’t like where my thoughts were going, so I revved the engine and peeled out. Elle scrambled for her seatbelt, but I kept my eyes on the road. She wasn’t going to like what I had to say, but I would do whatever was necessary to protect her.
I bided my time, the entire ride passing in silence before I parked in front of Dirty Dog. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and she tentatively reached for the door handle.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you—”
“You’re fired, Elle.”
She swiveled around to face me. “What? Are you serious?”
I cut my eyes to her. “Yes. You’re done. Don’t come back. It was a bad idea to begin with, and it’s an even worse idea now.”
She crossed her arms, and lifted her chin. “Because of the date or Rix or Bree?”
I squeezed the steering wheel with my left hand until my knuckles turned white.
“Take a guess.”
“And if I keep showing up?”
I released my grip and turned toward her. “What is your goddamn obsession with working there?”
Her lips flattened and a deep V formed between her brows.
“I’ve got my reasons.”
“Then how about you share them with me so I understand what they are?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“There’s a whole lot of shit I don’t understand, but if you don’t tell me, I can’t even try.”
Elle shoved open the door to the ’Cuda, grabbed her purse from the floor, and climbed out. Instead of a response, I got a slammed door.
“Oh hell no,” I said to my empty car. “She is not walking away like that. No goddamn way.”
Within seconds, I was following her through a door on the side of the building housing Dirty Dog.
When I got inside the small lobby space, she was unlocking a metal gate that led to a set of stairs.
“Wouldn’t have expected someone as determined as you are to run.”
She threw a pissed-off-woman look over her shoulder. “I’m not running. I’m regrouping before I give in to the urge to scratch your pretty car.”
I lifted my hands in a gesture of surrender. “No need to threaten the car, Elle. That’s uncalled for.”
She yanked the gate open and slipped behind it, fully intending to slam it shut before I could get to her. Elle kept underestimating me, and that was totally fine.
I grabbed the wrought iron and tugged it from her grip.
“What are you doing? You got me here, so just go,” she ordered.
“Not until you tell me why you’re so dead set on working in my pawnshop.”
Elle ignored me and stalked up the stairs.
I kept following.
Finally, over her shoulder, she tossed, “None of your damn business.”
“It’s my pawnshop, so it sure as hell is my business. And you’re not setting foot in it again unless you give me a good reason.”
She reached the door to what I assumed was her apartment and jammed her key in the lock. She wasn’t even attempting to keep me out anymore. Probably because she was too busy cursing me out under her breath.
“And people say I’m stubborn? He’s ridiculous. I’m fired, and then he’s after me for a reason why I shouldn’t be? Seriously? Arrogant asshat,” she muttered.
I trailed her into her apartment, shocked to realize I was smiling. What was it about this woman and her ability to make me smile in almost any situation?
Elle’s apartment was not what I expected. There was nothing pink or frilly or girly in sight. It was bare. No pictures. No knickknacks. None of the stuff I would’ve expected from her.
“Did you just move in?”
Elle whipped around to look at me. “Until you unfire me, I think you’re going to find that my answers to your questions will be given solely in four letter words.”
The sass from this woman hit all my buttons exactly the right way. “Come on, Elle.”
Her hands landed on her hips, and the pose did nothing but push her tits out. “Am I still fired?”
“Yes—until you give me a reason that would make me think keeping you around would be worth the risk to you.”
She spun and headed for the kitchen. The apartment, while bare, wasn’t small. Just the portion I could see had to be over a thousand square feet. Mostly open, clearly renovated in the last decade if the polished, wide-planked wood floors, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances were any indication. I thought of my small house about a half-mile away from Chains. It was new, post-Katrina, and sat up high, with a white, covered front porch, blue siding, and clean white trim. It was the first place I’d lived that had ever been my own. It was nothing compared to the thick molding and modern furniture in this place. But at least my house looked like it had some life to it.
Elle returned with two bottles of water. For some reason, I’d expected booze, but she’d surprised me once again. Her expression gave nothing away. She held out the bottle, and I took it. It was fancy—a glass cylinder that probably cost more than a pack of smokes or a lot of the liquor I’d drunk in my day.
I raised an eyebrow. “I can drink tap water.”
“Then help yourself. This is all I’m getting for you.”
She stood, arms crossed, her bottle c
lutched in one hand.
“What’s your deal with Chains, Elle?”
No response.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
She shook her head. “You barely speak for a week, and now I can’t get you to stop.”
I took two steps toward her and set the bottle on the counter. “And you don’t stop chattering for a week, and now I can hardly get a word out of you.” Her eyes dropped to the ground, which just gave me another clue that whatever she was hiding, I wanted to know. My gut told me my curiosity was warranted, and listening to my gut had saved my ass more than once.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t.
“Elle, look at me,” I repeated. “I ain’t leaving until you spill.”
Her eyes darted up. “Why do you care?”
“Because I let it go for a week, and I can’t let it go any longer.”
She squeezed her lids shut for a beat and turned away from me to start pacing the room. It was another of her tells.
“Fine. You win. I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”
At my nod, she continued.
“Vanessa told me about the gun you found. The one that Con was looking for. That it came in on pawn and you identified it as the murder weapon.”
She’s looking for a gun? That was the last thing I’d expected to hear.
But Elle continued, laying my question to rest. “Well, I’m looking for something too. Something my mother gave away that belonged to me. I know it’s ridiculous and a long shot, but I thought maybe I’d hang out for a while at Chains and see if it ever came in.” She laughed, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in the sound. “I mean, it’ll probably never show up, but Chains has a reputation as being the place to sell expensive stuff—which this would be. Add on the fact that I needed a new job, and this one had the dual purpose of not only pissing off my mother and stepfather, but giving me a small chance of finding what I’m looking for.”
“What is it?”
Silence hung between us before she replied, “My daddy’s watch. An antique Patek Philippe, engraved with To T.S. with love on the back. It was a gift from my great-grandmother to my great-grandfather and was handed down through the family. It would’ve gone to a son if my dad had had one, but he didn’t; he just had me. It was the only thing of his my mother held on to after he died. She got rid of every other damn thing. Every time I asked about it, she put me off, telling me she didn’t have time to get it out of the safe deposit box … and then I found out last week she gave it to my stepbrother for his 25th birthday, and the dumb fuck sold it to buy an eight-ball of coke to celebrate.” Elle hugged her arms around her body. “I ripped him a new one, and the only thing he’d tell me was it was long gone. He doesn’t even remember which pawnshop he took it to because he was so fucked up at the time. So feel free to laugh at my ridiculous reason, but there it is.”
