Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  A reluctant stripper and a damaged bounty hunter lay bare a tale of stolen lives, secret shames and the powerful criminal behind their every shattered dream

  Polly:

  For just one night I needed to turn off the dread I felt every day. I needed to forget that despite every carefully planned escape, my past was waiting to tap me on the shoulder and steal away everything I cared about. I wanted this man. It was passionate. It was perfect. It was the beginning of the end.

  Painter:

  I don’t get involved. I don’t get personal. I get a name and last-known whereabouts, and I get the job done. This assignment was no different. Find and identify the target. Collect and deliver the target. But the woman calling herself Polly was a revelation—in every way. My boss always got what he wanted. Until now.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate Pinups and Possibilities to my friend and fellow Harlequin author Barb Han. She has been a tremendous supporter of my writing journey and I am forever grateful to her.

  Pinups and Possibilities

  Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Three Months Ago

  Gary Howell stood in front of his boss’s office door with his heart in his throat and rocklike dread in his stomach.

  Six years, he told himself. I’ve been fearing this moment, and now it’s here.

  There was no doubt in Howell’s mind that his secret had been found out. The two bodyguards gripping his arms told him there was nothing social about his requested presence.

  “Bring him in!”

  Cohen Blue’s voice carried through the mostly closed door, and the sound of it made Howell want to reach for what he held in his coat pocket. He forced himself to keep his hands at his sides instead.

  The bodyguard shoved the door open and pushed Howell through it.

  Howell stumbled, but righted himself almost immediately, and without flinching, faced his boss’s glare. At that moment, he realized Cohen’s eye were bloodshot and full of rage. He took an unconscious step back before he could stop himself.

  “You’ve been keeping a terrible secret from me, Doctor.” Cohen’s words were not quite slurred.

  “I’m not a doctor,” Howell corrected, purposely ignoring the rest of his boss’s statement.

  “Anymore.”

  “Anymore,” Howell agreed.

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Cohen took a deep sip of his Scotch.

  Then he sighed and asked, “Do you want to know how I found out?”

  “That depends on what you think you found out.”

  Cohen cracked a humourless smile. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you make a smart-ass remark since…well, since ever. Well done, Howell. You finally grew some balls.”

  “It’s not balls. I’m just tired, Cohen. And old,” Howell replied.

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  “How courteous of you.”

  Cohen rattled his ice cubes. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words, don’t they, Howell?”

  Howell’s chest tightened. “Tell me what you want, shoot me, or let me go.”

  Cohen laughed. “No patience today, huh?”

  “I don’t feel like playing games.”

  “A picture, Howell, is worth way more than a thousand words. It’s worth a life. Or in this case…several of them. Let’s talk about yours first.”

  Cohen reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photograph. His finger traced the curved line of the figure showcased there, then he flipped it over, set it down on his desk and slid it toward Howell.

  A name, written in Howell’s own hand, glared up at him from the dog-eared photo.

  “The cleaning lady was in your office today, dusting,” Cohen stated. “Her duster got caught on the bottom of your file cabinet. When she yanked it out, she was very surprised to find that stuck to the feathers. She thought it might be important, and she very kindly turned it in to me. So what I want, Howell…is this one thing. Jayme Duncan.”

  So often over the past half a decade, Howell had thought the name and not said it. So often he’d thought of the people attached to it and forced himself to steer his mind elsewhere. He’d stuffed the memory so far into the recesses of his brain that it often seemed like fiction rather than fact. Now, hearing it on Cohen’s lips made everything real once again.

  Howell closed his eyes against the roiling in his gut.

  Cohen repeated the name in a slow, dangerous voice. “Jayme. Duncan.”

  If Cohen’s intention was to intimidate, he failed miserably. Howell’s hackles rose protectively instead. He opened his eyes again, and he clenched his hands into palm-biting fists. He said nothing.

  “Tell me about Jayme,” Cohen commanded.

  Howell didn’t reply, and Cohen slammed his glass against his desk, sloshing the amber liquid over the side.

  “Jayme fucking Duncan!” he yelled. “A last-known location. Now!”

  Howell finally answered, and when he did, it was in a choked voice that betrayed his lie. “I have no clue.”

  “You’ve always been a terrible liar.” Cohen grinned and called out toward the door. “C’mon back in, boys! It’s your lucky day!”

  Howell knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes. He was weak. He knew that, too. He’d always known it. But he wasn’t going to let Cohen’s men beat the truth out of him.

  Howell reached into his pocket and closed his shaking hand around the oddly warm metallic object there.

  Sometimes, it was now or never, and sometimes it was just never.

  Chapter One

  Painter

  The first thing I have to do is admit that the second I pulled into the parking lot at Tangerines, I knew it was a strip club.

  A huge sign, bearing the name in blinking, neon letters, and two enormous, orange-hued fruit that shone like a sunset, gave everything away. The parking lot was jam-packed with pickup trucks and SUVs, and a crowd of men hovered not far from the door, puffing on cigarettes and looking guilty. That made me roll my eyes. In a small area like this one, it was doubtful that any of the wives or girlfriends attached to these guys didn’t at least suspect their whereabouts.

  I parked the car and considered the idea that the guy who had recommended Tangerines as the best place to relax and regroup might’ve been playing a joke on me. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody in a country town had sent me—the clueless city bumpkin, so to speak—on a wild-goose chase.

  It made me smirk a little. I’d been led to far worse places by far worse people.

  I pulled my out-of-place Mustang into a spot between a rusty Suburban and raised-up Jeep and I decided that I didn’t care either way. I’d been following the name Jayme Duncan for nearly three months. I was tired of diner food, tired of sleeping in shitty motels w
hen I could find them, tired of sleeping in my car when I couldn’t, and tired of the chase.

  I just wanted to find Duncan, toss him into my trunk, get him back to my employer and be done with this assignment.

  God, I hope Jayme’s small enough for the trunk. If he’s not and I have to let him ride shotgun for a thousand miles, I’m going to go fucking nuts.

  I was far too worn-out to deal with someone’s bitching for more than a minute or two.

  I stared at the group of smokers, wondering if Jayme was one of them. I hoped not. The smell of smoke had a hard line to my stomach. Just being near a lit cigarette was enough to make my guts roll.

  I frowned, cursing the fact that I knew so little about the guy. Of all the men I’d hunted, Jayme Duncan was the most elusive. No one was sure what he looked like. Everyone knew someone who had met him, but no one had ever spoken with him directly. He could be tall or short or Asian or bow-legged or even part donkey for all I knew.

  I’d been half expecting Cohen Blue to call off the job, actually. Never had he let a chase go on for this long. His usual rule was three-hundred miles, or three-hundred dollars, whichever came first. In the six years I’d been chasing down men on his behalf, this was the only time I’d ever needed to come near either one of those limits, let alone pass them. I knew some of the other men who Cohen employed had reached those limits, and each time, my boss just cut his losses.

  I was beginning to suspect that this particular debt was more personal to him than most. I wondered how much money Jayme Duncan owed Cohen, or what he had done to incur the man’s wrath. As always, I had no clue. My boss took pleasure in doling out information in the form of a breadcrumb trail.

  “Start here,” the older man would say smugly, and then hand me a name and last-known address.

  He expected me to chase them down from there. No physical description, no personal information.

  It was like a twisted game Cohen created just to make my life harder.

  Still, I didn’t ask for more. I wouldn’t give the glorified bookie the satisfaction.

  Sometimes it was easy. The debtor would actually be at home, or would only have moved once.

  Sometimes it was harder. He’d have skipped town, changed his name and be willing to sell his own mother out to avoid paying what he owed.

  It never mattered much in the end. Someone always knew where to find them. Usually a jilted ex. Men who welshed on their bets often ran out on their women, too. Commitment issues.

  Cohen never made a secret of the fact that he thought I would fail. He probably even hoped I would, so he would have an excuse to lay down an appropriate punishment. My boss wouldn’t hesitate to lay down a vicious beating for the smallest of infractions. Men had lost life and limb trying to live up to his expectations.

  Maybe that was what motivated him to dole out the breadcrumb information. He wanted me to come home without the target so he could teach me his version of a lesson.

  I hadn’t done it yet.

  Six years. Eighteen men chased down. Not a single failure.

  Except, of course, for Jayme Duncan. It was frustrating as hell. Which was why, for the first time in recent memory, I was taking a break.

  My lead was undoubtedly a false one anyway. I mean, a man who pissed off my boss enough to let me drain resources like this wasn’t the kind of man who would be content in Trent Tri-City. The tiny towns—Trent Falls, Trent River and Trentville—were basically the three points of a hole-in-the-wall trifecta. I’d coasted past a drive-in theatre and an outdoor pool filled with leaves. There was one shitty motel, where I’d taken a room. And of course, at the epicentre, there was Tangerines. Their sinful little hub.

  So yes, it was a strip bar and I knew it. I was still going in, Cohen and his agenda be damned. I worked for him because I had to, not because I wanted to. My employer could foot the bill for a fistful of singles and a bad meal.

  Maybe even a lap dance, I added spitefully as I climbed out of the car.

  That would get Cohen’s back up. It was the one thing he and I agreed on. Women and business didn’t mix.

  I quickly shoved aside thoughts of my obligation to the man before they could consume me. I didn’t want to dwell on the why. I couldn’t dwell on it. Instead, I nursed the steady hatred that I felt for him. If he was going to keep me on the road for this long, he could pay for it all.

  I straightened my plaid, button-down shirt—also bought on Cohen’s dime—and strolled confidently toward the saloon-style swinging door that led into the club.

  * * *

  I wasn’t really expecting to be stopped as I made my way in, so when a meaty hand pressed against my chest, I very nearly answered with a fist. My tightly balled hand drew back instinctively. At the last second, though, I realized the big hand was attached to a big man, dressed in an official-looking Tangerines T-shirt, complete with the fruit-themed logo in the centre of his steroid-wide chest.

  “Can you buy those inside?” I joked as I forced myself to shove my twitching hands into my jeans pockets.

  “ID, please.” The tough-looking man ignored my attempt at humour.

  “Huh?”

  I ran my fingers through my slightly grey-tinged sideburns. Maybe I looked under thirty, but I doubted it. My premature salt-and-pepper look had been getting me into bars since my seventeenth birthday. And the last time I had been asked to provide ID anywhere was on my twenty-third birthday, nearly seven years earlier.

  The bouncer rolled his eyes at my puzzled expression.

  “Not for your age,” he clarified. “Everyone who comes inside hands over either a passport or a driver’s licence. We’ll file it under your last name, and so long as you keep your mouth shut and your hands off the girls, we’ll give it back to you at the end of your…visit.”

  “And if someone doesn’t hand it over?” I responded.

  “Then someone doesn’t come in,” he answered with a shrug.

  I hesitated. I couldn’t help it. Part of what makes me good at my job is that no matter where I go, no matter who I talk to, I keep my identity under wraps. Another part of what makes me good at my job is that I’m more than a little confrontational. It’s hard to get people to pay up if they don’t think you’re going to follow through on your threats. For once, the two traits worked together and made me buck against the idea of handing over my ID.

  I gave the bigger man a quick, assessing once over. He had an easy fifty pounds on me, and he undoubtedly had friends inside Tangerines.

  Probably all wearing matching shirts.

  The chunk of my brain that had the sardonic thought wanted me to give the man a healthy shove anyway. It was probably also the part of my brain that didn’t respond so well to having not slept in more than twenty-four hours. After less than a minute of internal arguing, I gave in and handed the bouncer my driver’s licence. He barely glanced at it before pulling out a plastic bin labelled with a large letter D.

  “Last name on the way out,” he reminded me.

  He waved me through, looking bored.

  Probably because now that I’m not arguing with him, I’ve lost my appeal for conversation, I reasoned. Or more likely…my potential to become someone to pound on.

  I nodded my acknowledgement as I sidled past him to get my first look inside the bar, and immediately forgot about the orange-clad man as I began to scan the room. It was dimly lit, but cleaner than a lot of similar establishments. I attributed a large portion of that to the fact that there was no haze of cigarette smoke, and had to give credit to the owner for keeping it that way.

  Two mostly undressed girls did a slow and lazy dance on a raised table near the stage. Low music played from the overhead speakers, and most of the customers appeared disinterested in the side dancers as they waited for the main attraction.

  I quickly dismissed the idea of sitting near them and glanced around for a better place to situate myself. I eyed up the bar. A lone man in a hooded jacket was the only patron on one of the high stools, and
he didn’t look like the type to strike up a conversation. Which suited me just fine, as did the fact that I wouldn’t be facing the stage. I sauntered over and took a seat a few spots down from the guy in the black jacket.

  The bored bartender set down an empty glass without even looking at me.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Diet whatever you’ve got,” I replied.

  “With rum? Or vodka?”

  “Neither, thanks.”

  His eyes finally snapped toward me, and he gave me a hard once over. The long-sleeved plaid effectively hid the physique I worked hard to maintain, but it didn’t cover my height or my girth. Six feet on the nose might not be attention grabbing, but confronting my two-hundred-pound form from only three feet away was nothing to laugh at, either. I raised a solitary eyebrow as he took in my appearance.

  “You out of diet?”

  “No, sir.”

  He grabbed the soda dispenser, filled up my cup, and then very quickly found a group of glasses that needed polishing. I grinned darkly into my own glass as I took a deep sip.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  The soft, throaty voice made me jump, and I swivelled my head as I realized the other man at the bar wasn’t a man at all. The biggest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen, set in a porcelain-skinned face, stared back at me. They were wide with surprise, like she couldn’t believe she’d spoken. She held my gaze for a moment, and surprise turned to something else. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but it made my heart stop beating for a breath and then start up again, hammering at double speed.

  She looked down quickly, and when she brought her face back up, she’d buried her emotions.

  Too late, I thought.

  Whatever I’d seen made me want to lose myself her eyes and bury myself in her skin. My eyes caressed her face hungrily. Aside from a tiny, nearly invisible, star-shaped scar on one delicate cheekbone, she was flawless. Lust, fast and hard, drove my pulse higher, and I had to clear my throat as I tried to brush off the strong physical reaction.