Dangerous Angel

by Stacy Gail

  “Jesus.” Kyle crushed the foil that had been wrapped around the soft taco until it was a compact little ball. “With respect, Yolanda, your brother’s a dick. That’s a despicable thing to do at any time in a kid’s life. But to do it after dragging her to a strange country with a new language, only to leave her to tough it out on her own at the age of eight...that’s just not right.”

  “He didn’t drag Nikita anywhere. He left Cuba when Nikita was six. According to my niece, he promised her and her mother that he would send for them after he found a good job and a place for them to live. But he never did.”

  “What happened?”

  Yolanda’s mouth tightened. It was almost as though her body didn’t want to release the words. “I couldn’t tell you what happened in my brother’s head. Or his heart, if he had one. All I know is that from the moment my brother hit Miami he was living it up—party every night, a new woman every week. I even encouraged it, because I had no idea that no-good bastard was married with a kid, two people who were faithfully waiting for him to be a man and take care of them as he promised.” Yolanda jumped when several of the white lights strung in the tree’s branches overhead suddenly burst before the whole string went dark. “Ay Dios mio, what was that?”

  “Must have been a power surge.” With great deliberation Kyle took in a calming breath and tossed the ball of foil aside before his overcharged body accidentally used it as a conduit to flash-fry Yolanda. “It happens from time to time. So, if your brother was intent on starting a new life here as a swinging bachelor, how did Nikita get to Miami?”

  “Her mother.” Yolanda crossed herself and laced her hands in a prayerful pose, and that was enough to make Kyle’s stomach drop into the sub-basement. “According to what we could get out of my niece at that time, her mother grew desperate after hearing nothing from her husband. Nikita said they’d suspected he’d drowned in the crossing, but her mother had to be sure. The only way to do that was to come here herself and look for him. So she did a very courageous and foolish thing, and loaded herself and her eight-year-old daughter onto a rickety raft that sank halfway here.”

  “Fuck.” Only when he heard the word reverberate in his ears did he realize he’d spoken aloud. “Sorry, Yolanda.”

  She waved this away, suddenly looking every day of her age. “The Coast Guard found a debris trail in the water. As they looked closer they discovered little Nikita all alone, curled up in a tight ball on top of one of those big ice chests—blistered with sunburn, dehydrated, in shock. She couldn’t speak—even after she recovered she didn’t speak for weeks, she was so traumatized. But she was clutching a photograph of her mother and father, with the names on the back. That’s how I learned of her existence.” Another bulb burst, this time the outside light next to the restaurant’s back door, and Yolanda nearly came out of her seat. “What the hell is going on today?”

  “There’s a bad storm coming in.” Kyle shot the light fixture an irritated glance. Damned little tattletale. “How could Nikita’s father abandon her after all that? How could he do that when he knew he was the only parent Nikita had left?”

  “He didn’t at first. They had a very sweet, very tearful reunion in the hospital where they had taken Nikita. You should have seen her, eyes so big, unable to speak, clinging to her papa like she’d never let go. All of Little Havana wept.”

  “But it didn’t last.”

  “No.” She nailed him with a hard look. “I’ll never forget the look on her face when he left her with me. No child should know the meaning of hopelessness, Kyle. But during that time in her life, hopelessness was all I saw in her eyes. And I saw a hint of it today when she was here earlier, and now you show up looking the same. You had a fight with her, yes?”

  “Not a fight.” The very idea that he’d upset Nikita shook him more than he wanted to admit, and he pushed the rest of his food away, appetite gone. “I kissed her.”

  “And?”

  “And, nothing. As first kisses go I thought it was a real winner, but I guess she wasn’t as impressed. And now she’s taken off with some information she was supposed to share on my bounty, and she won’t answer my phone calls.”

  “Stupid, typical man. Taking so long to kiss a girl.” With an impatient sigh, she plucked a phone out from her apron pocket. “And stupid, typical Nikita, closing down when she should be doing the opposite. I have no hope for either of you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “She knows I worry, so she allows me to see where she is.” With a tap on the screen, she made a sound of satisfaction and held it out for him to see. “You go and get your information, but more importantly—you wipe that look off her face. You put a smile there instead. A big smile. Comprende?”

  “Comprendo.” And he knew just how to do it, too.

  Chapter Seven

  The SUV’s air conditioning blasted full force as Nikita pulled into the white-gravel driveway of a two-story, glass-and-stucco, contemporary mini-mansion surrounded by a lush tropical paradise. Not exactly the humble abode of a PK, she thought as she took the keys from the ignition and stepped out into the muggy, blistering heat. But after researching Paul Hardy via an internet search, she wasn’t surprised. Humble wasn’t exactly his thing.

  The only child of televangelist-turned-political shark Floyd Hardy, little Paul had been paraded in front of the cameras from the time he was in diapers. By six, he could parrot any scripture on command and was a seasoned world traveler. Nikita only knew this last bit thanks to a story she had come across about a trip Paul had taken with relatives to England. Though he was only in the single digits of age, little-boy Paul had such a penchant for pinching the bottoms of flight attendants that it made the news. When asked about why he’d left no bum ungoosed, the precocious lad had claimed to a charmed press corps, “The devil made me do it.”

  When he was eleven, the devil had also apparently made him “borrow” a golf cart from the country club the Hardy family lived next to and vandalize the neighborhood’s mailboxes. By thirteen, he was caught smoking marijuana in the bathroom of the private school he’d been attending, and was suspended. A year later he was expelled for showing up “in an obvious state of inebriation” after spending an unauthorized week of quality time at the family estate. There was no indication he’d ever graduated from high school, but by the time he officially reached adulthood, Paul Hardy’s misspent youth had racked up a score of petty charges that always managed to disappear.

  There was no denying the guy was a dissolute brat who had more money than brains. Nikita knew the type. Unfortunately Paul wasn’t unusual when it came to the upper echelons of Miami society—never swimming into the deep end of antisocial behavior, but just rough enough to make him feel like a rebellious bad boy. But to her mind, this pampered prince was only playing at being bad. If there was anyone who truly fit the bill for being naughty, it was Kyle.

  Nikita loosed a short sigh that sounded more like a growl. Of course Kyle wasn’t as bad as Paul Hardy. She knew that. He just irritated her to the point where she could easily see him claiming the devil made him do all sorts of things to a woman. Like kiss her when she wasn’t expecting it. Or rubbing her in all the right places until she hated the idea of clothes. Or dancing his tongue so wickedly with hers it left her wondering what else that tongue could do.

  She pulled the hair off her nape and fanned the overheated flesh there as she walked through a courtyard leading to the front door. If she wasn’t careful, entertaining thoughts about Kyle’s talented tongue would make her spontaneously combust.

  An older woman answered the door. Her maid’s uniform would have been perfect fifty years ago, and her expression suggested she sucked on lemons for fun. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Hardy. Is he available?”

  “Which one, the elder or the younger?”

  Ah. The one thing she didn’t want was
to mess with ol’ fire-and-brimstone Floyd. “Paul Hardy. I’m here on official business.” Reading the dubious light in the other woman’s eyes, Nikita dug out her bounty hunter’s badge and flashed it. “This shouldn’t take any more than five or ten minutes.” As long as Bambi wasn’t there on the premises. If she was, then there was no telling what the timetable would be.

  The maid shooed Nikita into the cathedral-like entryway, a white marbled area dominated by a breathtaking crystal chandelier that looked more like a work of modern art than a light fixture. “Wait here,” she instructed, in the same way a warden might tell a prisoner, “Get in your cell and assume the position.”

  As the dour woman disappeared on squeaking shoes down a hallway, Nikita took in her surroundings more thoroughly. It didn’t take her long to realize she stood in the aftermath of what must have been quite a party. At the mouth of the hallway sat a large stack of white trash bags, packed so full of party detritus she could easily mark the outlines of liquor bottles that the fussy Martha Stewart side of her wanted to sort into a recycling bin. While the air smelled of rug shampoo and bleach, beneath it there was a lingering reek of stale alcohol and what might have been vomit. One of the windows looking out to a garden at the side of the house was cracked, and a roll of duct tape sat on the low windowsill, as if the task of securing the now-dangerous pieces of glass together before they could fall out and shatter had been interrupted. A stain of what may have been red wine was at the foot of the staircase and had been messily smeared in what was no doubt a poor attempt at cleanup. And a closer inspection of the chandelier revealed that some uncouth oaf had thrown a bright purple condom—used—up there to stick on the elegant crystals.

  Ew. Seriously, ew.

  “Only in Miami.”

  The gravel-rough voice brought Nikita’s attention to a man padding barefoot down the hall toward her in a slightly uneven line. If a dictionary ever needed an image for the term debauched, this man was the perfect candidate for it. The only clothes he wore were a pair of pink board shorts that barely hung off the visible points of his hipbones, and an untied turquoise—and-gold silk kimono-style short robe with a dragon motif. Through the robe’s opening she could see that, in addition to both ears and one eyebrow being pierced, a gold hoop hung from each of his nipples. His hair was an enviable auburn that was a perfect melding of red and brown and bed-head tousled. The whiskers shadowing his face indicated he hadn’t used a razor in days. While his features were definitely masculine, there was an effete air about him—a libertine decadence that clung to his hazy, bloodshot eyes and full-lipped mouth like a natural aphrodisiac. In all her internet research, she hadn’t even considered that this attractive disaster would be a sight to behold, even if he was a kind of tragic, wasted beauty.

  Nikita tilted her head, and watched his attention wander to the fall of her hair as it tumbled over her shoulder. “Only what in Miami?”

  Paul Hardy stopped within inches of her. Despite his appearance of ruined perfection, his scent was nowhere near as pleasant. Sweat, sex and a clash of every kind of booze known to man. “Only in Miami will you find cops as beautiful as centerfolds.” He held out his wrists to her. “Arrest me, Officer. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” There were bright reddish marks already braceleting his wrists, dark bruises of hickeys along his chest, abdomen and lower, and as she looked closer she saw another sign of ligature marks around his neck that looked like fingers. This bad boy did like to play some dangerous games, indeed. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Mr. Hardy. I’m not a cop.”

  He dropped his wrists. “I was told you had a badge.”

  “I do. And identification to go along with it.” Again she pulled it out and waited for him to read it with his not-quite-focused eyes. “I’m looking for a friend of yours who happened to miss a court date. This isn’t a big deal, but it’s best that I talk with this person just to clear up the confusion.” Or, if need be, cart her away in handcuffs. Even if she hadn’t brought her own pair, Nikita had no doubt Paul knew where to get some.

  Her host didn’t appear to be interested. “I have a lot of friends, lovely. Since I hate boring people, I have no doubt the vast majority of them have outstanding warrants. Which friend are you referring to?”

  “Bambi Dominguez.”

  “Ah, Bambi. Such a sweet little thing. So good. So bad. So...everything.”

  “I hear she’s very fond of you.” And your money.

  “Fond. Now there’s a nice word. I suppose I’m very fond of her.” With a casual air he raised a hand to sift his fingers through the hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m fond of a lot of things.”

  “I’m not.” She backed up a step and out of reach before she could slap at him in automatic outrage at being touched. Slapping was the quickest way to not get his cooperation. “You wouldn’t mind if I talked with her, would you? She’s here, right?”

  “Who?”

  For crying out loud. “Bambi.”

  “Is Bambi here? Whoever’s here changes from one minute to the next.” He laughed, a strange laugh that made her back up another step, though she wasn’t sure why. “What makes you think Bambi is here now?”

  “Not only is she fond of you, I hear she’s also fond of a party.” Nikita nodded toward the bags of trash. “It looks like a good time was had by all.”

  “How I wish you’d been here, lovely. Our good time would have been even better.” Again he reached out, but before he could make contact Nikita brought up a hand to intercept his, a business card between her fingers. A chuckle whispered from him as he took it. “Score. I got your digits.”

  “Yes, you’re quite the player.” And she was struggling with an increasingly imperative desire to bathe. “Now that you have my gift, what do I get in return? Make me happy and say I get some fun girl-time with your Bambi.”

  “Do I get to watch?”

  She supposed she’d asked for that. “If that’s what trips your trigger.”

  “It would definitely trip my trigger. If she were here.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nikita didn’t blink, watching his face for any reaction. “You’re telling me she passed up a party like you obviously threw, and you expect me to believe it and meekly go on my way?”

  “Oh, Bambi was here for the party. Hell, for a while she was the party. You wouldn’t believe how eager that girl was to see how many people she could take all at once. I mean, I was genuinely awestruck. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  This was drifting into the realm of TMI in a bad way. “Sounds like I should look for her to be passed out in a corner somewhere.” And possibly in need of an ambulance.

  “Go right ahead, search away. But be warned, the more you stay here, the more I’m inclined to keep you all to myself, whether you like it or not.”

  Inherent disgust dovetailed with an instant, wary vigilance. Not that this man was much of a threat against her self-protection skills honed through years of bounty hunting. He was clearly still half-drunk and high on heaven knew what, but it paid to be on her toes. “You wouldn’t want to get your household staff in an uproar over a screaming woman claiming she was being held against her will, now would you?”

  “No worries. Everyone’s become used to the screaming around here. Especially screams like that.”

  Okay, done now. Kyle could figure out where his own damn jump had scampered off to, it was time to get the hell out of Creepyville. “Expect another visit from someone much less fabulous than I am. You’ll be sorry you didn’t help me find your awe-inspiring party girl.”

  “I’ve chosen to never be sorry about anything I do.” He followed her to the door and propped an elbow against the jamb, his arm draped with lazy grace over his head while his board shorts slid further south. “To prove it, I’ll tell you where I think Bam
bi might be.”

  The sun scorched her skin as she turned back to him, unconsciously breathing in the blistering, humid air of the courtyard that was still better than the astringent-yet-unclean odor in the house. “You mean besides upstairs in your bed?”

  He laughed, then winced and touched his bruised throat. “Bambi isn’t so pedestrian that she enjoys her sex in beds, lovely, so I can guarantee you’ll never find her in mine. I’m not even sure she sleeps anymore. None of us sleep, now that we’re all together.”

  Nikita didn’t bother asking who he was referring to in his group of rowdy insomniacs. The less she knew of his twisted life, the better. “Where do you think she is?”

  “She could be anywhere, really—she’s a woman of many, many whims.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “Oh, no one’s quite like Bambi. She’s like the wind that blows. One minute she wants to annihilate that bitch of a roommate of hers. The next, she wants a double-scoop ice cream cone. If she isn’t committing murder or nomming some creamy goodness, I know she wanted to exchange a present my granddad bought her for something that fit better.”

  “Your granddad bought Bambi a present?” That sounded so strange it had to be the truth.

  He nodded. “What can I say, I come from a long line of givers. The place she was heading to is called Lady Jayne’s, on Biscayne Boulevard across from Bayside Marketplace. It’s easy to miss, so keep your eyes open for it. After that, I don’t know where she’d be.”

  “And you’re sure she’s not tucked in some bed somewhere, curled up under the covers and peacefully sleeping it off like any well-used party favor might do?”

  “Like I said, I don’t think she sleeps anymore. Have you noticed you seem to be preoccupied with beds?” A slow smile that was pure sex crossed his face. “You want to fuck me, don’t you? It’s okay—the moment I saw you I wanted the same thing. I want to fuck your brains out, lady.”