by Wendy Rosnau
"Juice? You made me juice?"
Another smile. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. "I checked with Mary at Silks. She's going to call you. The Paris Plus supers are on back order."
"Oh, no. The bras or the panties?"
Her innocent question sent Jackson's gaze to the twins. He had never in his life wanted to touch a woman as much as he wanted to touch Sunni Blais. Touch her, hell—smother her was more like it.
"Jackson, did you hear me?"
"Ah … bras." He reached out then dropped his hand. "Let Mac in," he grumbled. "Promise me."
She was staring at him, her eyes searching. Suddenly she reached up and slid her hands inside his jacket to straighten his shirt collar. Patting his chest with a look of approval for her efforts, she said, "All right. He's in. But I can't guarantee what kind of mood I'll be in when you get back."
He had to get out of there. "Watch TV with him," he offered. "He likes dog shows and the cooking channel."
* * *
Jackson slipped into the white two-story house by way of the unlocked back door, and a hundred memories came rushing back. He glanced around Tom Mallory's kitchen and almost expected to hear his ex-partner's voice. But it wasn't Tom seated at the table waiting for him. The man who had left the door unlocked and a message on Jackson's cell phone was Police Chief Hank Mallory, Tom's father.
They hadn't spoken in three years. The last time had been an explosive shouting match that had ended with Hank throwing an angry punch—a punch that had split Jackson's lip and broken his cheekbone.
He'd worn both to Tom's funeral two days later.
As the door banged shut, Hank brought his head around from staring out the window. "When I heard you were in town and why… I guess you'd be Chief Blais's likely choice. He must be pretty upset over this situation with his daughter. Heard he's laid up in the hospital, to add to his upset."
Hank looked like he'd aged ten years instead of three, Jackson thought. He was a big man, and at one time had been athletic. But for years he'd sat behind a desk and the inactivity had made him teddy-bear soft around the middle. His hair was completely gray and the lines around his pale blue eyes told the story of a man who had lost too much in too short a time.
"New Orleans agree with you?"
"It'll do." Jackson stood just inside the door. "The heat's a bitch, but if a man doesn't like things, he changes them, or not. Either way, life goes on."
"Feeling the heat means you're alive. My son doesn't feel anything anymore."
It was still there between them, the old pain and resentment. Maybe it would always be there. He was alive, and Tom was dead. Hank was bitter and he had every right to be.
"I was way out of line that day." Hank's gaze went back out the window. "I regret a lot of things I said. Blaming you for Tom's death most of all."
Jackson stepped further into the room and leaned against the kitchen counter. "He was my friend, as well as my partner. He was shot in the back in a dirty alley. I wish I could have been there. You were right. Maybe if I had been things would have turned out different."
Hank turned to give Jackson his full attention. "I have information for you that concerns the Tandi case. We could have done this in my office, but I wanted … I wanted to see you in private." He motioned to the letter on the table. "A few days ago that was mailed to the precinct."
Jackson crossed to the table and picked up the letter. Unfolding it, he read the brief paragraph, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "So someone thinks the war between Vito Tandi and Frank Masado has been resurrected?"
"Vito's been a recluse for twenty-five years, but everyone knows he's sitting in that big house pushing buttons. He's been trying to take over Frank Masado's empire for years. Maybe Frank just got tired of looking over his shoulder and hit Milo to force Vito out in the open."
It wasn't a new idea. He'd already examined that theory, but he didn't think that's why Milo was dead. "Why now?" Jackson asked. "A lot of years have gone by. And then there's the organization to consider. A house divided makes them weak. Sure, there's fighting going on inside, but a hit on one of their own? I don't know."
"Men like Frank Masado and Vito Tandi never forgive or forget. I've never questioned the rumors. I believe Vito sent his wife to the bottom of Lake Michigan because she betrayed him with his best friend. And likewise, I believe Frank Masado loved Grace Tandi or he wouldn't have jeopardized everything to be with her. Living with a powerful amount of hate can make a man do terrible things. Things he regrets, but can never change."
Jackson studied his ex-boss, wondering if Hank was speaking from personal experience or case history. He had taken Tom's death hard, as he should have, but he'd wanted revenge afterwards, not justice. And there was a difference.
"You still tight with the Masado boys?"
"Joe and Lucky aren't involved in this, Hank. If they had wanted Milo dead they would have taken him for a ride a long time ago."
"Then how about D'Lano?"
"It's possible, but Vincent D'Lano owns a salvage yard. Why not just drop two tons of steel on Milo? No body, no investigation. He's on my suspect list, but I'm starting to think the person who killed Milo has an altogether different agenda." Jackson pulled out a chair and sat opposite Hank. "This letter … any prints?"
"No. It's been analyzed. Handwriting suggests it was written by a woman." Hank turned to stare out the window once more. "Looks like I need to mow the lawn again."
Jackson glanced out the window. The lawn did need to be mowed, and the toolshed repainted. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the kitchen. Everything appeared to be just like he remembered—there were even clean dishes in the dish drainer. That had been Tom's pet peeve about Jackson. Jackson liked a clean kitchen—the dishes in the cupboards—and Tom thought putting dishes away was a waste of time when you were just going to use them again a few hours later. "I expected you would have sold this place by now."
"Not yet. Not until I know who killed my boy and why."
"Still want revenge, Hank?"
Hank laughed bitterly. "Yes, I can't deny I want blood."
Jackson never liked dancing around what was on his mind. Straightforward was the way he liked things. Straight, clean and honest. "What's going on, Hank? Why did you want to meet me here?"
Hank closed his eyes a minute. Finally, when he opened them, he said, "There's been talk that Tom was on the take. That he was seeing some woman who was connected to the organization. The rumor claims he was hit because he was a dirty cop messing where he didn't belong."
"That's bull," Jackson responded quickly. "There was no way Tom was dirty."
"That letter isn't much. It was an excuse to see you." Hank smiled sadly. "I suppose you figured that out by now. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Tom. I wanted to hear you say it wasn't true. And to ask a favor."
"Ask it, Hank. Whatever you need."
"If while you're here you find out anything about Tom, I'd like to be the first to know. Good or bad, I need to know first. Will you agree to that?"
"He wasn't dirty, Hank. But if I learn something, I'll tell you first."
"Here, take this." He pulled a key from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table. "In case we need to meet again. Now what about this woman, Clide Blais's daughter?"
"What about her?"
"How's she holding up?"
"She's a cop's kid. She's smart. She'll be all right."
"I got a look at her that morning she was brought in for questioning. She's not only smart, she's easy on the eyes."
"She's all of that," Jackson agreed.
"That's it? You're not going to say anything more?" Hank grinned. "Why do I take that to mean something?"
Jackson shrugged.
"Are you on a diet?"
"No."
"Then you haven't really looked at her? Those curves?"
Oh, yeah, he'd really looked at her, Jackson mused. He'd had plenty of opportunity to look at her from all angles the p
ast two days. And no one needed to tell him how remarkable Sunni's curves were, or how fabulous she smelled. They'd been sandwiched together like sardines. They'd been so damn close that they'd been recycling the same air. The same heat.
"The house is yours while you're here if you want it. Feel free to move in if it works for you." Hank stood, opened an overhead cupboard and pulled out a can of ground coffee. "I've restocked the kitchen. I'm going to have a bowl of soup and coffee for lunch. Kinda like hanging around sometimes. You hungry?"
"I could eat."
Hank dug in a drawer and pulled out a can opener. "Williams tells me your partner's got four legs and your sour disposition. What's the story there? You still having trouble getting someone to appreciate your going-for-broke style?"
* * *
"Don't even try to look innocent." Sunni ignored Mac's warning growl and snatched the scrap of silk from between his big hairy paws. "You and your partner are—"
"We're what?"
Sunni whirled around to find Jackson standing in her bedroom doorway. His gaze traveled to the red thong she held, then to where Mac sprawled in the middle of her bed among some of her most colorful naughties.
"He raided my dresser." The explanation wasn't necessary. Anyone with half a brain could see what had kept Mac occupied for the past hour. "He's a pervert. He's—"
"Got good taste."
"I should have expected you'd take his side in this. Well, that's fine. He's out of here, and so are you!"
Sunni tried to stay calm, but that was impossible. Jackson had been gone all day doing God know what, and she had been stuck in her apartment with a psychotic mutt who couldn't stay out of trouble if you bribed him with two steaks and a ham bone every ten minutes.
"My red bra, the one that matches these—" Sunni waved her panties like a flag "—I think he's eaten it. That bra was seventy-five dollars, my cost."
"So I guess you've had a bad day."
Sunni's gray eyes narrowed into slits. "He ate two silk pillows, and my Portland rose bush has gone to plant heaven. And after all that, I still watched the Westminster Dog Show with him for two hours. I've gone over and above, and this is my reward."
Hands on her hips, she waited for Jackson to say something. Instead, he shoved away from the doorjamb and sauntered to the bed looking too good for words. First he picked up a sheer black bra off the bed, then a sin-sizzler red garter belt that was wet with dog drool.
Sunni eyed the garter belt, minus one garter. "He's ruined at least a thousand dollars' worth of silk in less than an hour. He's either chewed, snagged or drooled on everything that came out of that drawer."
"At least he's not wearing something. That's a relief. His shrink warned me that I should expect anything."
"His shrink?"
"Mac's in recovery." He handed her the soggy garter belt. "Would a woman my mother's age wear this?"
"Not in the shape it's in now." Sunni glared at him, then snatched the garter belt. He didn't let go right away, not until the elastic was stretched between them. In that strained moment their eyes locked, and again the heat that had been circulating between them for the past two days sucked her throat dry. Sunni tossed the garter belt and the thong into the open drawer Mac had pilfered. "What do you mean he's in recovery?"
"He lost his partner a few years ago. After that he was sent to the K-9 pound to wait to be reassigned. Only, the partners that teamed him couldn't get along with him."
"What a surprise," Sunni mocked. "I do wonder why."
"It really was a surprise. Mac was their top K-9. The theory is that he lost too much all at once. He lost his partner and his partner's wife in a matter of days. The shrink thinks he couldn't handle losing them both and that's why he shut down."
The story made Sunni take a longer look at Mac where he lay sprawled among her silk. "Why do you suppose they did that?"
"Did what?"
"Why did they strip him of everything familiar to him? Wasn't losing his partner traumatic enough? I don't understand."
"Nate Taylor's wife contested the decision to take Mac from her, but she lost on the grounds that K-9's are police property."
"I think that's terrible."
"Terrible enough to forgive Mac for making this mess?"
"The Portland rose bush was—"
"A one-of-a-kind?"
"No. One of my favorites." Sunni sent her eyes down the length of Jackson's body, another favorite thing she was into these days—feasting her eyes and letting her imagination wander. She watched him shrug out of his jacket, studied his soft cotton gray shirt, remembering what was underneath.
"I talked to the cab driver. He pretty much saw what you saw."
"That's good, right?"
"It confirms that the car deliberately sideswiped you. Is that good? No."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, we're moving in permanently."
"Excuse me?"
He walked to her closet and opened it. Pushing her silk aside, he hung up his jacket. "You heard me." He turned around, his gaze locking with hers once more. "Me and Mac are your new roommates until this case is wrapped up."
For the past two days she'd resorted to injecting her morning insulin into her thigh behind that closet door. If that continued, what were the odds she'd be discovered? Sunni shook her head. "You can't."
"Can't? We've been here for two days, and we've been doing fine so far, right?"
"Wrong."
He glanced at Mac, who had decided to stretch out with his nose inside the cup of one of her bras. "Okay, so I'll keep a better eye on him. But we—"
"But nothing." Sunni's lips suddenly started to tingle. It was clearly a warning that she needed to check her blood sugar. All day she'd been feeling a bit off. See, this was why he couldn't move in. Her stress level was screwing up her sugar level. She needed peace and quiet, and she needed her privacy.
Aware she had to do something, she turned to her nightstand and pulled open the second drawer. As casually as she could, she picked up a bottle of pain relievers and pretended to extract one. As she placed the bottle back in the drawer, she curled her fingers around a sugar cube, then closed the drawer. Her back to him, she popped the cube into her mouth, pretending it was the head pill.
"Got a headache?"
Stuffing the sweet sugar into the side of her cheek, she turned to face him. "Are you surprised?"
"I'll replace the pillows. And I'll buy you another rose bush. As far as Mac goes—"
"No. My apartment will look like a hovel within twenty-four hours if he stays here. I'm sorry his recovery is slow, but the Wilchard is going to have to be close enough … for both of you." Sunni glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes and she'd start to feel better. Or would she? She had the sudden urge to giggle.
Horrified, she grabbed Jackson's arm and propelled him toward the door. "Mac, come on. Out."
Mac jumped off the bed and trotted into the hall. Jackson cleared the door and stopped. "Sis, you all right? You look—"
"Exhausted. Who wouldn't baby-sitting a kleptomaniac? Go."
"And do what?"
Sunni reached for the door and started to close it. "Something. Anything. Nothing. I don't care, as long as you do it out there instead of in here."
He started to go, then stopped again. "How's your back? You look like you're moving better."
"Better. Yes … much better. Go."
"I'll start dinner."
"No, start packing." She slammed the door shut and locked it. A second later, the pile of silk on the bed was on the floor, and Sunni was sprawled on the comforter sucking on two sugar cubes at one time and holding a roll of Life Savers.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"What are you doing out here?" Jackson stood in the doorway of Sunni's greenhouse and watched her snip at a large potted rose bush at the end of her worktable with a pair of silver garden shears. Around and above her hung baskets of roses in a dozen different colors. They were pr
etty and smelled good, but he knew for a fact that nothing and no one smelled better than Sunni Blais.
He knew because he'd been sleeping with her right under his nose for two nights and her exotic scent had been permanently burned into his memory.
"What's going on, Sis? You've been quiet all evening. You didn't say two words at the kitchen table. What's the matter, you don't like steak?"
"It was very good."
"Wine too dry? Next time I go shopping, want to come along?"
She kept working with her back to him, the scissors making fast little snipping noises. Something was definitely bothering her, and Jackson intended to find out what it was. If she was still angry with him for refusing to move out, they were going to have to come to some kind of an understanding, because he wasn't going to gamble with her life a second time.
She turned, her face as serious as he'd ever seen it. She had on a slippery silk dress—another super-soft nut buster. It was open at the neck and short sleeved—a garden party of colors on a white background. Shorter than her work skirts, it showed off more leg above the knees than her father would have approved of.
The dress was free-moving … loose. It would be easy to get underneath. Yeah, that's what he'd thought about the minute he'd seen her come out of the bedroom wearing it, when he'd knocked on her door and told her that dinner was ready.
And while they sat across from each other at the table, he'd kept wondering what color her panties were, or if they covered her perfect backside. His lusty thoughts had turned him stone hard and he'd stayed that way throughout dinner.
He was still hard an hour later.
"You didn't need to buy groceries."
"The coffee supply was getting low. You know me and my morning coffee. Your juice, too. And with us moving in—"
"This isn't going to work."
"Sure it will, Sis. Something will open up with the case before long."
"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it."
