Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  “If you can take the elevator, I can take the elevator.” Yet as it rose, she leaned against the back wall with her head pressed against the paneling and braced herself as if waiting for the fall. “Besides,” she said as if he’d made a comment, “the suite’s only on the fourth floor.”

  The elevator stopped.

  She jumped.

  The doors opened.

  Roberto put his arm around her back. “Let’s go find out what’s in your coat.”

  His touch seemed to galvanize her, and she hurried out and down the hall—away from him.

  She didn’t trust him, and while he supposed she showed good sense, still he hated to see the misgivings in her eyes. His every action was that of an adventure-seeking opportunist, yet he wanted her to see beyond his exploits to the man he really was. He wanted her to depend on him, confide in him, believe in him, and he had only two tools on which to rely—his touch and his words.

  If she chose to doubt those, he could do nothing to change her mind.

  In the suite she went right to the coat closet. Pulling out her London Fog, she dug her hand into the pocket and unerringly pulled out the white velvet jewel case.

  He remembered it. It had fallen out of her pocket at the courthouse. He’d picked it up, handed it over, and she’d thrust the case into her pocket once more. Thank God it had remained there until they could get to it now.

  She flipped open the lid, lifted the insert that displayed the jewels—and a black-and-gold video chip tumbled out onto her foot.

  “My God.” Scooping up the chip, she gazed helplessly at Roberto. “It’s really here.”

  Taking it from her, he walked to the desk. He ran his fingers across the lock on his laptop, pushing the right combination, and the lid slowly lifted.

  “You have the best gadgets,” she said.

  She sounded so awed that when this was over, he resolved to get her a laptop with as many bells and whistles as money could buy.

  “Let’s see what we have.” He inserted the chip.

  At once the screen came to life and played a typical day in a small neighborhood pawnshop.

  First they saw the counter and the cash register. They heard the door open and someone punch in the alarm code.

  “There’s probably another camera pointed at the door,” Roberto said.

  “Probably.”

  “When he first got the threats, he must have upgraded to a security system with sound.”

  “Probably,” she said again.

  They saw Mr. Nguyen come into the picture, go to the cash register with a bank bag, and fill the open till.

  At the sight of him, Brandi took a pained breath.

  Roberto understood. “It’s a shock when you see someone who you know is gone.”

  “But I barely met him.” She sounded bewildered.

  “Death is always a surprise. About what time did you go in the shop?”

  “Early. Probably ten thirty.”

  “Okay.” Roberto fast-forwarded through Mr. Nguyen seating himself behind the counter and flipping through a magazine, and slowed when the door clanged. The shopowner looked up and flinched. Obviously he dreaded his visitors, but he called out, “Joseph and Tyler Fossera. What are you doing here? I told you to stay out.”

  Two young men swaggered up to the counter, and the oldest said, “Hey, you’re nothing but an old gook. We don’t have to listen to you.”

  “Yeah, man, he’s a gook.” The other boy laughed—and coughed.

  “That’s him; that’s the kid I caught following me,” Roberto said.

  At the same time Brandi said, “That’s them.”

  On the video, the oldest asked, “Are you going to take our offer?”

  “I’ve checked around the neighborhood,” Mr. Nguyen said. “You have no power here. It’s your uncle who is the head of your family and if he knew that you were trying to set up your own protection racket in his territory—”

  In a flash, the oldest punched Mr. Nguyen in the face.

  Mr. Nguyen’s head jerked sideways. He fell back, hitting the wall. Pictures clattered to the floor.

  The younger guy said, “Joseph!” He sounded shocked.

  “Shut up, Tyler.” Joseph waited while Mr. Nguyen staggered up.

  “Yeah, well, gook, we can protect you from us.” Joseph thrust his head forward, a pugnacious little shit who needed to be taken out.

  Mr. Nguyen put his hand to his jaw and gingerly moved it from side to side.

  “I saw that bruise on his face,” Brandi whispered. She couldn’t take her gaze off the screen.

  Roberto pushed the desk chair under her, and she sank down as if her knees could no longer support her.

  “We’re going to kill you if you don’t pay us,” Joseph said.

  Mr. Nguyen shook his head as if clearing it, then rounded on Tyler. “And you! What are doing with this thug? You’re smart. You program computers. You don’t need crime!”

  “He’s with me!” Joseph grabbed Tyler around the neck. “Aren’t you, man?”

  “Yes, I’m with him.” But Tyler didn’t look happy. “You have to pay us. We’re starting our own business. We’re going to be rich, and everyone’s going to pay!”

  “Ask your uncle what he thinks of that, young Tyler!” Mr. Nguyen said.

  Joseph pushed Tyler behind him and focused on Mr. Nguyen. “My uncle’s old. He’s lost his touch. Everyone says so. Someone new needs to step in. That’s me.”

  “And me,” Tyler said.

  “No wonder they want the video,” Brandi said. “This would convict them.”

  Roberto nodded. “If Mossimo didn’t get to them first.”

  “Would he kill those boys?”

  “The ones who challenged his power? You bet.”

  On the tape, Joseph said, “Yeah, Gook, Tyler is my second in command. So pay us”—he pulled a pistol and pointed it at Mr. Nguyen—“because I’m not kidding. We’re going to kill you.” His hand was absolutely steady, and he smiled as if anticipating the money or the kill.

  Slowly Mr. Nguyen stepped back, his hands rising in the air.

  Tyler was wiggling like a kid who needed to go to the restroom. “No, man, don’t kill him; we’ll get in trouble!”

  “The weak link,” Roberto said.

  “Jesus, Tyler, you’re such a chickenshit!” Joseph said in disgust.

  “I’m not, either!” Without drawing breath, Tyler said, “Someone’s coming. Shit, it’s a girl.”

  All three heads swiveled toward the door.

  “Didn’t you lock it? You moron, what’s wrong with you?” Joseph put his pistol in his coat pocket. He pulled his cap down and his scarf up. To Mr. Nguyen he said, “It’s up to you. If you say one word, we’ll kill her and you. Remember that before you say anything.”

  Mr. Nguyen nodded.

  The boys moved down the counter.

  The door opened, and Brandi heard her own voice saying, “It’s cold outside. It’s warm in here.” She was talking to Kim, and in a second she appeared in camera range.

  Roberto and Brandi watched as she pawned her ring and bought her earrings. They saw Mr. Nguyen take the white velvet case apart, then turn toward the camera. He looked into the lens and the expression on his face said it all. He faced death, but he took no one with him, and at the same time he hoped he brought the boys down.

  He reached toward the camera. The chip went blank.

  As the video ended, neither Roberto nor Brandi stirred.

  She stood. “The little bastards!” she burst out.

  He flinched at her vehemence. She called them bastards; if she knew the truth about Roberto, would she use that word so freely?

  “They’re not bastards,” he told her. “They’re Fosseras. Treachery is born and bred into their bones. Now let me copy this onto my computer and send it to the police.” Pulling up the chair, he went to work, sending the video as an e-mail attachment to his contact at the FBI. Aiden would know what to do.

  Walking
to the window, she looked down. “I can see them from here. They look like a couple of innocent young boys shivering in the cold. But they killed Mr. Nguyen.” She stared down at them, shaking her head as if she couldn’t comprehend such violence. “I hope they get frostbite.”

  “They’re going to get more than that.” He finished the operation, then turned his attention to her. “But until they’re in custody, they’re dangerous men. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

  She faced him, exasperation clear on her face. “No, but I know how to do a flip on the balance beam.”

  “That’s good, too.” Going to the closet safe, he punched in the code and opened it. He pulled out his pistol, the small piece he kept handy for small jobs, and checked to make sure it was loaded.

  Bringing it to her, he said, “Here’s the safety. When you want to shoot someone, take the safety off. After that, point this end”—he showed her the end of the barrel—“at the largest part of the person you want to kill, and pull the trigger. It’s not art. It’s not science. It’s security. Your own. Don’t take any chances. Until the FBI has those guys under arrest, take this pistol with you every time you go out.”

  She didn’t argue with him. Taking the gun in her hand, she got familiar with the weight, clicked the safety on and off, and nodded. “Okay. I might not do a good job shooting one of those guys, but it won’t be for lack of trying. Where do you want me to keep it?”

  “Someplace easy to get to.” He opened the top drawer of the desk.

  She placed the pistol there and smiled uncertainly at him. “What happens next?”

  That Roberto couldn’t tell her—even he didn’t know for certain what would happen next. For all the work he and his grandfather had put into the plans to steal the Romanov Blaze, there was still an element of uncertainty. Any robbery could go sour; this one, with enemies around every corner, could prove lethal.

  More than that, when Brandi discovered what he had done, she would be angry. It might take him several days to get back into her good graces, and he didn’t want to wait. He wanted her as he’d had her today, as he’d had her last weekend, in his bed for the slow, heated loving, for the impetuous, graceless matings. He wanted her . . . always.

  “Brandi, we need to talk.”

  At his expression she caught her breath. Color bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes dropped as if she were shy. Then they rose, and she said, “Yes, we do. Do you know what I discovered today in that falling elevator?”

  “What?”

  “That I love you.”

  He gripped the back of the chair hard enough to make the metal crack.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “You’re the wrong man for me. You fit none of my requirements. You’re flighty. You want adventure. You’re immoral. You don’t respect the law. But I can’t help myself. I adore you.”

  “As I adore you. Brandi . . .” She stunned him with her fierce courage. He had been anguished that she believed the worst of him, yet was it not braver to open her heart to him when she credited him with a notorious character?

  Lust, shimmering beneath the surface, roared into the full heat of an Italian summer. He found himself beside her, holding her head in his hands and kissing her. Kissing her with a rough need he could barely rein in.

  She responded. . . . Their impetuous need in the elevator was nothing to this. Her mouth sought his again and again.

  He slid his hands inside her jacket, relishing the narrow width of her waist, lifting his hands to her breasts and knowing that inside her bra, her nipples had peaked.

  She shed her jacket and pushed his off his shoulders.

  What was it about this woman? He’d had other beautiful women, yet she tasted fresh, new, and something about the way she reveled in his response hinted at the desperation that drove her to this moment, this night, and her own confession.

  Twined in each other’s arms, they stumbled toward the bedroom.

  In between kisses, he said, “Brandi, I promise . . . I will be everything you want. Honest . . . I will be honest.”

  For one moment she buried her head in his chest as if she cherished his pledge. Then she lifted her head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ve never lied to me. I know who you are. I couldn’t bear it if I believed you were a knight in shining armor and discovered . . . you weren’t.”

  But he had lied to her. He’d lied to her about almost everything, and unless he bound her to him now, she would lash out at him for making a fool of her. “I’m not a knight in shining armor. I’m what you want—I’m the dragon.”

  She laughed tremulously, pleased that he remembered.

  Lifting her, he carried her to the bed. He laid her on the comforter. Leaning his forehead on hers, he said, “I promise to be the man you first imagined me to be. I promise.”

  She struggled to turn her head away. She didn’t want to fall into his enchantment.

  “Brandi. Listen to me. I promise my heart—”

  “Your heart?” Her gaze leaped to meet his.

  “My heart is in your keeping. Surely you’re not surprised?”

  “Why would I think you . . . you . . .”

  Her uncertainty amazed him. “Love you? Do you think I take every woman I meet to my room? Do everything I can to keep her at my side? Insult a judge? Get remanded into—”

  Brandi shoved him away and sat up. “You did do that on purpose!”

  “But of course. I would do anything for you. Only for you.” He grinned at her indignation. “I wanted to be with you. I wanted to see if fate had at last given me what I most desired—a woman of intelligence, of beauty, and of kindness.”

  She gazed at him as if he were a strange beast. “You’re not like any man I’ve ever met.”

  “I would hope not.” He pressed her down on the bed again. “I don’t want to remind you of anyone else. When you think of love, I want to be the only man you can imagine. But I promised you my heart. Can’t you promise me your trust?”

  She surrendered. At last she surrendered. “I trust you, Roberto. No matter what happens, I trust you.”

  25

  A ringing noise woke Brandi out of a deep and satisfied sleep. “Roberto?” She groped, but he wasn’t in the bed beside her.

  The ringing noise continued.

  Her cell phone. She fumbled, searching in the dark. Located it by the blinking red light that signaled a call. A glance at the clock told her it was midnight. Midnight. And—she stared at the caller ID—was that her father’s phone number?

  He never even called her in the daytime.

  In a flash she imagined a heart attack. A car wreck. Some desperate need that made him want, at last, to talk to his middle child.

  Flipping open the phone, she blurted, “Daddy. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” His wrathful voice blasted her ear. “What’s wrong? I have a daughter who’s a goddamn groupie, that’s what wrong!”

  “What?” She shoved the hair out of her eyes, trying to comprehend what he was yelling about. “Who?”

  “You didn’t think I’d see the pictures, did you? Your stepmother couldn’t wait to show them to me. My wonderful daughter, the one I always compare that pathetic son of hers to, cavorting with a jewel thief!”

  Daddy was talking about her.

  “Kissing cheeks with a bunch of gangsters. Dressed like a two-bit hooker!”

  She straightened up. “What pictures?” She might be half-asleep, but she didn’t need to hear him call her a hooker again.

  “In the paper on the front page of the society section. The Chicago Tribune has been slavering over that creepy Italian ever since he showed up in your town. I knew McGrath and Lindoberth was representing him, but damned if I knew you’d decided to sink your law career to screw him!”

  She had that sick feeling in her stomach, the one she always got when she talked to her father. “I have not sunk my law career.”

  “You’d damned well better not have. You owe me for your education. You ow
e me big. Vanderbilt wasn’t cheap.”

  She had hoped this was some sort of nightmare.

  His nagging about money convinced her it was real.

  “I got into one of the best law schools because I’m one of the smartest people in the country,” she reminded him sharply.

  “Don’t take that tone with me. You’re as stupid as your mother.”

  She’d heard that a few too many times. “I am not stupid, and neither is my mother!”

  “Who are you trying to convince? Your mother still can’t add two and two and get four, and you’re sleeping with a client! Didn’t Vanderbilt teach you anything about ethics?”

  “Just about as much as you taught me, Daddy.” She had the satisfaction of hearing him huff.

  The satisfaction was short-lived.

  He took a huge, angry breath. “Right, and if I don’t have a check for your tuition—the whole thing—on my desk tomorrow, I’ll repossess your ballet lessons.”

  His rage was contagious. She stood up on the mattress and bounced with temper. “You’ll get your money. I’ve got a good job. Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank and take out a loan to pay you so I won’t ever have to talk to you again. You’re a controlling, abusive bastard, and I am done trying to please you.”

  She had to give him credit: He recognized what she’d done; she’d washed her hands of him. And he replied with all the spite and malice of which he was capable. “You’re no better than your mother. A goddamned, stupid, spineless ballerina worth nothing. When I’m dead, you won’t even have the guts to come to the funeral and spit on my coffin.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Daddy. I’m not coming to your funeral to spit on your coffin. I don’t like standing in long lines.” She waited until he stopped sputtering. “Now, Daddy—you’re the last person to criticize anybody for messing up their lives, so next time you want to shout at someone, don’t call me.” She almost shut the phone.

  Then she brought it back to her ear. “And don’t call my mother, either.”

  Then she hung up.

  She hung up on him.

  She rubbed her stomach and waited for the ache to start, that sick sort of roiling that told her she’d had another run-in with her father.