Sloane Monroe 5.5-Flirting with Danger

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  FLIRTING with DANGER

  A SLOANE MONROE NOVELLA

  CHERYL BRADSHAW

  Flirting with Danger

  Copyright © 2015 by Cheryl Bradshaw

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First eBook Edition: 2015

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2015 Indie Designz

  Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Published in the United States of America

  CHAPTER 1

  A woman going by the name Rachel Forrester gazed into the full-length mirror, almost not recognizing her recent transformation. An hour earlier she’d arrived at the pricey Hotel Devonshire dressed in a pair of boot-cut jeans, a T-shirt, and neon-colored running shoes. She wore no makeup and no jewelry, not even her princess-cut wedding ring.

  Rachel checked into the fourteen-hundred-dollar-a-night, exquisitely furnished penthouse suite and was escorted to her room, where her own on-call butler showed off the amenities, including a spectacular view of New York City’s Central Park. She’d grown used to these late-night rendezvous in fancy, upscale hotels. Too bad they were coming to an end.

  After soaking in the oversized marble bathtub, Rachel removed the satin ribbon from the box that had been left for her at the edge of the bed and changed into the outfit she wore now—a ruby red and black corset, black thong panties, silk stockings clipped into garter straps, and the sexiest pair of black-and-gold studded Manolo Blahnik’s she’d ever seen. Rocco “The Rock” Romano may have been a tyrant, but she had to admit, he had exquisite taste when it came to women’s clothing.

  Rachel lifted one of the shoes from the box with a finger, dangling it in front of her face. Admiring. Appreciating. Calculating. This pair in particular must have set Rocco back seven or eight-hundred bucks at the very least. She curved her mouth into a smile, fully aware that she was worth it. Worth every copper-colored penny.

  Seductive vixen wasn’t a role Rachel thought she’d ever play, but being hard up for cash opened all kinds of previously-closed windows. When the woman who hired her fanned ten large in front of her face, saying no wasn’t an option. The money was too hard to resist. Besides, when she was all done up, she had the look Rocco was attracted to and the body to match. Not only was she good, she played the role of doting mistress so well, a small part of her had actually fallen for Rocco’s charms. On the outside, he was intelligent, collected. On the inside, sensitive and warm. At times it was hard for her to see him for who he really was—a cold-blooded killer.

  Rachel gazed out of the bedroom window, reflected on the first time she met Rocco a few months before. She’d sat at a table across from him at La Vita e Bella, an Italian restaurant he frequented. After tailing him for three weeks, she’d learned his habits, his likes, his dislikes—anything and everything she needed to know so she could nail him to the wall when the moment was right. There was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus in it for her when she did, and she wasn’t about to let anything screw it up, not even her feelings for the guy.

  Rocco had taken to Rachel quickly that first night, striking up a conversation before inviting her to dine at his table. Rachel chose her words carefully, inserting a few shared interests into the conversation, things to reel him in, get him interested. Within thirty minutes, he was hooked.

  Two months later, Rachel almost had what she wanted. In the living room of his house, Rocco had dropped his guard and engaged in a private conversation with his underboss and consigliere in front of her. He’d glanced across the room when Rachel walked in and smiled, confident she wasn’t smart enough to decode what he was actually saying.

  He was wrong.

  So wrong.

  All she needed now was one last night, and it would all be over.

  The clothes.

  The attention.

  The parties.

  The sex.

  Rocco.

  The sound of Rachel’s phone vibrating on the nightstand brought her back to the present moment, as if jolting her from a moment of tranquil meditation. She glanced at the name on the Caller ID. Rocco.

  “Thank you for my present,” she said.

  “Did you put it on?”

  “I’m wearing it now. It fits perfectly. All that’s missing is you to take it off of me.”

  “I have one last stop to make, and I’m all yours, baby.”

  “Three days without seeing each other is three days too long,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I had other things to attend to or I would have seen you sooner.”

  Calm. Cool. Collected. Always in control.

  “Other things like your wife?”

  Her sharp words cut through the air like needles seeking out a target. It was too much. Too brazen. She knew it. She also no longer cared.

  “Trust me, even when I am with her, the only woman I’m thinking of is you.”

  He always had a way with words. A perfect way. For a moment, Rachel felt bad for his wife. Almost.

  “I had something else delivered,” he continued. “Did you find it?”

  Rachel canvassed the room. “Where?”

  “Look in the kitchen.”

  Rachel combed a hand through her long, ash-blond hair, walked into the next room. “I’m here.”

  “Do you see it?”

  “The wine?”

  “I bought it special, just for tonight. Try it.”

  “I’d rather wait for you,” she said. “Try it together.”

  “If you like it, I’ll order more.”

  Rachel grabbed the bottle, stalled for a time, then said, “It’s wonderful. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “Good. Have another glass. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  The call ended, leaving Rachel with a sense of uneasiness she hadn’t experienced with Rocco before. Up to now, she felt confident about every move she’d made. Tonight, on the phone, something was off. His voice. It was different. Still in charge, in command, but changed somehow. Plain. Monotone. He seemed insistent about her trying the wine. Too insistent.

  Rachel sized up the bottle, the bottle she hadn’t actually opened. She paid particular attention to the seal. It was intact. There was no evidence to show it had been tampered with, nothing to prove it was anything more than the kind of drink they always shared together on nights like this one.

  Stop being paranoid. You’ve done everything right. It’s nothing, just a simple bottle of wine.

  Simple or not, Rachel stopped herself from partaking of the dark-colored beverage, instead erring on the side of caution. She popped the cork, opened the bottle, took a whiff. It looked fine. It smelled fine. She went to the sink, dumped half the bottle down the drain. Whether his intentions were innocent or not, Rocco needed to believe she’d done what he asked. She could pull off the tipsy-girlfriend act. She’d done it before.

  …

  Twenty minutes later, the latch to the hotel room door clicked. Rachel reclined back on the bed, bent her knees, posed in the kind of way that would strike Rocco’s fancy when he came in.

  A man rounded the corner.

  He wasn’t Rocco.

  “Carmine?” Rachel’s voice tensed. “What are you doing here? Where’s—”

  “Rocco says to say goodbye.”

  Carmine reached into his coat pocket
, pulled out something black, shiny, with a silencer attached to the end. Rachel screamed. She swung her body off the bed, narrowly avoiding the first bullet as it whizzed by, pelleting the pillow her head had rested on a moment before.

  Rachel dropped to all fours, scrambled to the bathroom where she’d concealed her gun behind a few spare toilet paper rolls under the sink. She cursed herself for not practicing at the gun range this week like her boss had suggested. She didn’t think she needed to. She’d always been an excellent shot.

  Rachel assumed she had Rocco by the balls, thinking he was completely devoted, incapable of harming her like she’d been told he’d done to countless others when deals went south. She was no deal. She was his mistress, his lover. He had feelings for her. Genuine feelings. Didn’t he?

  A second shot expelled from Carmine’s gun. This time it connected, the bullet searing Rachel’s leg as it broke through. She clubbed the bathroom door closed with her foot, reached up, turned the lock. Blood seeped through her panty-hose, dripping splotches of red onto the cool marble floor below.

  “Come on, Rach,” Carmine teased. “Don’t make this harder than it’s gotta be. We all die sometime, right?”

  She yanked open the cabinet, fingered her gun. “Carmine, please. Don’t do this.”

  Don’t do this?

  Was she out of her mind?

  He was doing this.

  Nothing she said would stop him. She’d been a fool. He’d been sent there on a mission, a mission that only ended one way: with her death.

  “The wine, did you poison it?”

  “Poison it?” Carmine roared with laughter. “Whadd’ya think we are, a bunch of sissies? Rocco wanted you to relax. That’s all. You should have stayed put on the bed, made things a whole lot easier on both of us. I would’ve made it a clean shot. No pain. Now you’ve made me come after ya.”

  She crouched in the corner, gun centered on the door. Ready.

  “How did he find out, Carmine?” she asked. “How does he know? If you’re going to kill me anyway, you may as well tell me the truth.”

  “You know somethin’, Rach? I’m sorry it has to be this way. I mean it. I liked you. Orders are orders, though. You understand.”

  Carmine’s next bullet shattered the doorknob. He stepped inside. Gunfire was exchanged. Rachel managed to get two shots off, Carmine only one. One was all he needed. The target had been acquired.

  CHAPTER 2

  Three minutes earlier

  Nightmarish dreams frequently infested my mind, but tonight was different. The faint, yet unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking through the bleak, sleepy darkness seemed all too real. I sat up, flicked on the lamp, peered at my friend Maddie resting in the bed next to mine, her eyes closed, sleeping soundly.

  “Did you hear something?” I whispered.

  No response.

  “Maddie! Can you hear me?”

  Still nothing.

  A smidgen of white foam protruded from one of her ears, and I remembered—Maddie was a light sleeper—she always traveled with ear-plugs. I scooted off my bed and onto hers, lifted the foam from one of her ears. Tried again.

  Maddie slid her eye mask to the side, opened one eye halfway, adjusted to the light. “What? Where? What’s going on?”

  “I thought I heard a woman scream just now. Did you hear anything?”

  “You sure the woman wasn’t you? You do that sometimes, you know.”

  “It wasn’t me. It sounded like it came from the room next door. I’m going to check it out.”

  Maddie raised a brow. “Did you ever think it might be a couple, enjoying some … ahh … time together, some alone time?”

  “Trust me—it wasn’t that kind of scream.”

  Maddie stretched one arm into the air, yawned. “If you say so.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  Her eye slid closed again and she mumbled, “Good luck.”

  I slipped into the hallway, sprinted in the direction of the sound. I knocked on the door to the room next to ours. Waited. Nothing. I jiggled the door handle. Locked. Seemed right, considering most hotel room doors locked automatically.

  A key card projected from a rectangular slot above the door latch. Odd. Like it had been left there by someone too boozed up to remember to remove it once the door opened. I took the card out, pushed it back in again. A light no bigger than a sliver of rice flashed red, then green. I tried the handle again. Success.

  I tiptoed inside, tried not to make myself known on the off chance Maddie was right and I’d interrupted some kind of vigorous mating ritual. At the end of a long hallway, I bobbed my head around the corner. The pale light shining through the oversized window provided a glimpse into what money could buy if you had money to throw away. The penthouse was exquisite, about twice the size of ours, and we’d splurged on eight-hundred square feet.

  I saw no one at first. Heard nothing. Maybe it had all been a realistic figment of my imagination. Maybe they’d gone to sleep. I considered what might happen if I got caught sneaking around someone else’s room. How would I explain myself? Who would believe me?

  The faintest noise echoed from the far end of the suite. Someone groaning. There wasn’t anything pleasurable or sexual about it. I listened, heard the same harrowing noise a second time, decided there would be no rest until I confirmed whether or not there was any truth to my suspicions.

  I passed through the living room to the bedroom, unprepared for what I was about to see. A man was slumped on the floor, his back propped against the side of the bed. His cell phone hung from his limp hand. Blood stained his face, masking me from getting a good look at him. A fairly serious-looking weapon rested on the floor next to him. I pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. No pulse. And he wasn’t breathing. I glanced at his phone, at the name of the person he tried to reach out to before leaving this world and entering the next. If in fact there was a next for this guy. The name on the Caller ID was Johnny. First name only. No last name.

  I pushed on what was left of a splintered bathroom door with a finger. A woman was hunched in the corner, one hand pressed to her chest, as if to keep in what blood hadn’t already spilled out. A gun rested on her lap. One of the walls was sprayed red, like a sprinkler set to full blast.

  The woman faced forward, her eyes still, frozen.

  She blinked.

  She was alive.

  I rushed to her side. “Hang on, I’ll call the police.”

  She pressed her eyes closed. Tears trickled out of the corners. “No…police.”

  “You need help. You’ve lost a lot of blood. If I don’t call someone right now, you’ll die.”

  “No police,” she repeated. “Rocco…he…”

  “Who’s Rocco? Why was the man in the bedroom trying to kill you? Why is he dead? I’m a private investigator. Please. Let me help.”

  “334XY7.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Key’s on the nightstand. Get out of here. Hurry.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Not…safe.”

  As I clutched her phone in my hand, the woman’s head slumped to the side. Her eyes closed again—only this time, they didn’t reopen.

  CHAPTER 3

  Footsteps. Someone was coming. I sized up the cabinet to my left. I had no choice. For now, it would have to do. I manipulated my body inside, reeled the door back, waited.

  “Carmine, you done yet?” a man said. “Boss said fifteen minutes tops. We gotta get the body and get outta here. Carmine?”

  Upon discovering Carmine was no longer amongst the living, the man panicked. “Carmine! Wake up! Get up! Come on! Please! This can’t happen. This isn’t happening.”

  What part of “bullet to the head and it’s light out” was confusing to this guy?

  The man was crying now, feverishly pounding away at something that chirped every time he touched it.

  “Boss,” the man said
. “We got a problem. Carmine’s dead.” There was a pause, and then, “I don’t know about the girl. Haven’t seen her. Hold on. Lemme check.”

  The man entered the bathroom, sighed, said, “Girl’s dead too. What should I do? I dunno what to do.”

  A second male voice came through a phone that had obviously been placed on speaker. It was smooth, orchestrated. “How did Carmine die, Johnny?”

  “His face is all bloody … and … uhh … Carmine shot her, and I think she shot him.”

  He thinks? How could it be any more obvious? The guy had an unmistakably large entry wound on his forehead.

  “Johnny, I need you to calm down,” the voice inside the phone said. “I’m sorry about your brother. Unless you want to end up like him, you need to get a hold of yourself. Now. Understand?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “You on a burner phone?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said.

  “Good. I need you to do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Check Rachel’s body. Find her gun.”

  Rachel. I had a first name.

  “I’m staring right at her. It’s not here.”

  He was right. It wasn’t there. I had it.

  “It has to be.” The voice inside the phone was becoming impatient, irritated. “They couldn’t have exchanged fire unless she had a gun. Look harder.”

  “I see Carmine’s,” Johnny said.

  “I’m not asking about Carmine’s. You and Carmine failed me tonight. I gave you a simple task. You didn’t complete it. You let me down.”

  “I’m sorry, Boss.”

  “Stay there. I’m sending someone over to help you out of this mess.”

  The call ended. I expected Johnny to look for the gun as instructed. He didn’t. He made another call.

  “Lou, Carmine’s dead in Rachel’s hotel room,” he said. “Rachel shot him. Boss said to wait here. He’s sending someone over. Who’s he sending? What does that mean?” Johnny paused, then said, “He wouldn’t do that, Lou. I know he wouldn’t. He’s been good to me. You don’t mean it.”