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A Perfect Stranger
Jenna Ryan
P.I. Damon Marlowe always found his man–or, in this case, his woman.Tracking down Darcy Nolan at his client's request was a piece of cake for the ex-cop. But there was something about this assignment that didn't sit right with him. When the attractive blonde was attacked, put into danger by his unwitting exposure, Marlowe told himself he had no choice but to flush out her would-be killer. After all, he had compromised the cover of a protected witness to a crime.But was it the guilt that drove him…or a deeper emotion he'd long since buried? Try as he might, Darcy roused feelings he'd rather deny. But for Marlowe, the motive didn't matter. The killer was making his move, and now Darcy was his to protect….


She’d fought the paranoid feeling when she’d entered the house.…
The alarm had been on, and Marlowe had thoroughly searched the place. But when he came back downstairs, she sensed a change in him. He kept his eyes on hers and his expression even.
It fascinated her how a stare could hypnotize her. She couldn’t have dragged her eyes from his if she wanted to. Couldn’t have stopped him from backing her into the corner and bracing his hands on either side of her head.
Good thing she didn’t want to stop any part of this.
Desire balled in her stomach. Hunger clawed through her veins. Heat flowed over her skin. All from a mere touch.
He inclined his head slowly, still holding her gaze, but even when she felt his breath on her lips, he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around her nape and whispered the words she never wanted to hear.
“There’s someone in the house.”

A Perfect Stranger
Jenna Ryan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the seven angels:
Sheena, Maya, Mystique, Salem, Serena,
Mandalay and Scarlett.
Love you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Ryan started making up stories before she could read or write. Growing up, romance alone always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.
Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mindset. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. E-mail her at jacquigoff@shaw.ca (mailto:jacquigoff@shaw.ca) or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Darcy Nolan— A photojournalist, she was forced to go into hiding after she helped send a drug lord to prison.
Damon Marlowe— The ex-cop turned P.I. has a dark past and no reason to care about the woman he’s just exposed. But he does.
Vince Macos— With his father in prison, has the drug lord’s son sent a killer after Darcy?
Valentino Reade— A Philadelphia cop in desperate need of money.
Elaine Holland— Darcy’s editor wants that big story, and Darcy could be it.
Trace Grogan— Unpopular, untrustworthy and low, he works with and wants Darcy.
Hannah Brewster— She runs a boarding house and has more secrets than people might suspect.
Cristian Turner— Hannah’s nephew arrived in town the day Darcy was first attacked.
John Hancock— The creepy boarding house tenant spends a lot of time watching Darcy.

Contents
Prologue (#u723e2c52-4950-5402-9fd1-e2b07216fa1d)
Chapter One (#u5c6edf84-5552-5e83-ac6e-6c690f2c7bd6)
Chapter Two (#ud57fc30d-304d-5c7b-baea-ed8e32704ab7)
Chapter Three (#u56fb00e9-92e2-57e3-892d-6caa8c12a95d)
Chapter Four (#u499f4b84-5506-5f31-a99d-46157c982253)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
Los Angeles, 2006
The police station smelled of sweat and stale coffee. It sounded like the bargain basement of a New York department store. And with the outdated central air-conditioning in desperate need of repair, it was hotter than the depths of hell.
Unruffled, photojournalist Shannon Hunt fanned her face with a discarded file folder and wondered how many stories could be ferreted out of this room by a canny fly-on-the-wall reporter. Dozens, she imagined, possibly more.
The amusement that tugged on her lips blossomed into a smile when Carmela Holden, a captain in Vice for thirty-plus years, strode through the door and barked her name.
“My office.” She glared at the desk sergeant. “No interruptions.”
Inside, Holden rounded her desk. “Dye your hair,” she said without preface.
Shannon’s brows went up. “Excuse me?”
The captain stared hard. “Dye it, cut it, buy a pair of glasses, sell your house.”
“Condo. And again, excuse me?”
“Frankie Maco got twelve years in San Quentin.”
“I know. I testified at the trial.”
“Testified and were threatened.”
“Very subtly, Captain, by a nephew who was high at the time.”
“You didn’t notice Frankie grinning like a Cheshire cat in the background?”
“What I saw was a grimace, probably of pain over his nephew’s pathetic demeanor.”
“A threat’s a threat, to my mind. And twelve years doesn’t cut it for me. I wanted twenty-five. He deserved that for the cocaine in his storehouse alone.”
Shannon knew where this was going. She’d worked at a high-profile L.A. newsmagazine for the past eighteen months, had, in fact, contributed a good portion of the photo and video evidence that had set Frankie up. “Come on, Captain…” she began, but Holden slapped her palms on the desk.
“No, you come on, Hunt. I have a daughter who reminds me so much of you it’s almost scary. All you’ve got on her is ten years, a skull as thick as granite and the tenacity of her boyfriend’s bull terrier.”
Shannon crossed to the desk, planted her palms on it and met the woman’s stare. “Flattery won’t work, Carmela. I’d look ridiculous as a brunette, and I’ve done my homework. Frankie Maco’s not a killer.”
“That you know of.”
“He’s also not overly powerful beyond the city limits.”
“That you know of.”
“What I know is that he has a totally screwed-up family and a handful of street connections.”
“Lots of screwed-up family and many street connections.”
“He also has enemies and rivals and an arthritic mother he’s taken care of for the past fifteen years.”
“People around him have been known to disappear.”
“And more than one of them has turned up again.”
“Doesn’t account for the dozen who haven’t.” Smoldering, Holden hit a key on her computer, swiveled the monitor. “I’ve got a new name for you, as well as a revamped portfolio and an altered family history. No more army brat. You’ll be Darcy Nolan, only child of Boston real estate agents Ann and Jerry Nolan. Your parents retired five years ago, died within eight months of each other. You’ve got an Irish-Swedish background, so go red with the hair and wear green contacts. I can have a job lined up for you in a day. Anywhere but here.”
Shannon continued to stare, but there was no malice in it. How could she dislike a woman who had her safety at heart? “Your daughter’s going to rebel, Holden.”
“I’ll deal with that if and when.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Think about it.” The captain pinned her hand before she could draw away. “Really think about who and what Frankie Maco is. How he operates.”
Shannon regarded her trapped fingers, then narrowed her eyes on the woman’s face. “All right, I’ll think. I’ll even research his extended family. But I won’t,” she said with the barest trace of humor, “dye my hair. I’m a blonde and I’m staying that way.”
“Best I could have hoped for.” Releasing her, the captain shut off her monitor. “Watch your back, Hunt.”
SHE WISHED HOLDEN hadn’t said that because she’d been feeling twitchy ever since the trial ended. No, before that, actually. Facts were facts, however, and no one in or out of his organization had ever accused Frankie Maco of murder.
Of course, there was always that first time. And what Maco couldn’t do from behind bars, his son, siblings or grandchildren might.
Shannon glanced in the rearview mirror. There was no one behind her on the exit ramp, no one trailing her along the dark street, and no one lying in wait when she reached her Tujunga Canyon home. She was letting Holden’s fears get to her. And wouldn’t her army-for-life parents just love to know that?
On the porch, a gust of hot, dry wind blew across her arms. Even her tank top felt like too much clothing in this ninety-five-degree weather. It made people cranky.
It made vice cops worry.
A bush rustled to her left. She caught a footstep, followed by a whiff of cologne, and managed a tight curse a split second before a large hand yanked her around and caught her throat in a choking, viselike grip.
Her head hit the condo door; her breath stalled in her lungs. A pair of black eyes bored into hers.
“You made a big mistake, lady,” the man holding her growled. “I got a message for you.”
She held herself dead still, returned his stare. “Let go of me, Vince. You know very well Captain Holden has a pair of officers watching my place.”
“Got here ahead of them, sugar. They’re eating cold pizza, ogling your bedroom window and having dirty fantasies as we speak.”
His grip tightened, and pinpricks of light began to appear before her eyes.
With her spine still pressed to the door, Shannon’s hand traveled to the pocket of her jeans. Hooking the ring on the black box inside, she pulled it free.
A high-pitched shriek filled the air so that Vince clapped both palms to his ears.
“You won’t know,” he shouted above the deafening racket. “You won’t see or hear. You won’t expect. Cab-driver, store clerk, guy stuffing money in a parking meter. Someone, someday. Anyone, any day. Me being the most likely anyone of all. One clear shot, sugar. That’s all I need. That’s all I want.”
Feet thudded on the stone walkway. Above her, a handful of windows flew open. Vince let a crooked grin steal across his lips before he ducked sideways out of the barely-there light.
The officers arrived, panting. One took off in pursuit, the other drew her aside.
He asked questions. Shannon responded. But it was purely reflex. Only two things registered. His partner wouldn’t catch Frankie’s slippery son.
And Shannon Hunt was going to die.

Chapter One
New York City, 2009
The air was stinking hot. A stale breeze carried the muffled noise of human and street traffic. Bad music thumped above; a dog barked below. It was one of those New York nights when no one in the city slept.
There had been two brownouts in two days, and the forecast called for even higher temperatures tomorrow. The police chief was asking for the public’s cooperation. Would he get it? Damon Marlowe had no idea, and he didn’t care. Hadn’t since leaving the force two years ago.
Somewhere in the shadows of his Soho studio, a tap dripped. The pipe that fed it rattled, and the walls groaned. If he listened hard enough, he might hear the 1970s wallpaper peeling.
Stretched out on his sofa, with a cold beer dangling between his fingers, he watched a cockroach crawl along a thin ceiling crack. He counted five, ten tops, a night—a decent average for the neighborhood. There’d been twice as many in his ex’s Los Angeles apartment.
The memory brought a twinge, then suddenly, there it was—the smothering crush of grief, dulled by time but still a force to be reckoned with. Or locked away when he chose not to deal with it.
He opted for the lock and a deep pull on the bottle.
Behind him, his cell phone erupted into classic Eric Clapton. He listened for a moment, swirled his beer, then gave in and reached back.
“Marlowe,” he said.
“Would that be Damon Marlowe of DM and Associates?”
He almost smiled at the man’s polite tone. Slight European accent, perfect diction. Caller ID revealed a Southern California area code.
“Hours are nine to nine,” he replied and raised the bottle to his lips. “It’s three minutes to midnight here.”
“I’ll take that as a confirmation and say that I was referred to you by a former colleague, one who currently practices criminal law in Manhattan.”
“Peter Duggan.”
The caller seemed impressed. “So your reputation isn’t exaggerated after all. Peter and I worked together in Los Angeles. My name is Umer Lugo. May I ask if you’re engaged at the moment?”
Marlowe’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’ve got clients.”
“Hardly unexpected. However, I’ve been authorized to offer you twice your usual rate, triple if you can finish what needs doing in under five days. I must warn you, though, I have little information about the party to be located.”
Marlowe’s humor, seldom stirred these days, kicked in. “This offer has a cloak-and-dagger ring to it, Mr. Lugo. As a former homicide cop, I prefer to drop the mystery and cut to the bottom line. Who do you want me to locate and why?”
“Three years ago, her name was Shannon Hunt. I have no clue what she calls herself today.”
“Is there an outstanding warrant involved?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. The family simply wants her located and returned to the fold.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine on Thanksgiving Day of this year. I can send you a photo, but it’s possible she’s altered her appearance.”
Marlowe rolled the beaded bottle across his forehead. “Why?”
The lawyer sighed. “Are my reasons important?”
“If you want me to take the case, yeah.”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. Shannon had a falling-out with a grandparent who recently lost his only other grandchild in a vehicular accident. When you’re ninety-two, Mr. Marlowe, and your health is failing, you want to tie things up wherever possible and make amends. I’m sorry, but that’s all the history I can give you. My practice is small but entirely reputable. Check me out if you wish. However, I would ask that you do so quickly. I’ll need an answer by 6:00 a.m. your time.”
Across the room, Marlowe’s TV showed a carousel in motion. He saw a child’s face fill with excitement as she clutched the golden pole.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “Ninety-two, huh?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t see ninety-three in the cards. Will you accept the job?”
Something in the man’s tone set off a warning bell. Should he listen or not? Marlowe glanced at the TV screen, rocked his head from side to side. “Send me what you have. You check out, I’m on it.”
“You’re a good man, Mr. Marlowe.”
A flicker of humor rose, dark and ominous. “Not good,” he corrected. “Just a man.”
Tossing the phone aside, he got up to snag the last cold beer.
“DARCY? ARE YOU THERE? For heaven’s sake, answer. I’ve been leaving messages on your phone all day.”
Elaine Holland sounded cranky, which was the last thing Darcy needed right then. “Radiator hose,” she repeated to the baffled-looking man beside her with the wrench in his hand. She made a slicing motion. “It’s split, leaking. Just take a look, okay?” She turned her attention back to the phone. “Sorry, Elaine, I haven’t checked my messages today. My rental car broke down.” Her eyes traveled around the weedy lot outside what might loosely be called a service station. “I, uh, might be a little late getting back.”
The mechanic used the wrench to indicate a nearby goat, and Darcy got his message. He’d loan her the animal for a ride. She turned away. “I’m still in Nicaragua. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to describe car parts in Spanish.”
“So you’re stranded.”
“Sí.”
“Damn. Did you talk to Dr. Aquilina?”
“Talked to, got photos of, visited his lab and his experimental farm. A world food shortage is imminent, in his opinion, but avoidable if we’re willing to open our minds and our stomachs to worms, rye grass and something he calls ‘cocoluna.’ Chocolate from the moon. You don’t want to know the details on that one.” She thought about the feature article she was to write and the looming deadline. “Now, why have you been calling me all day?”
Her editor huffed. “A guy’s been asking questions about you.”
That got her attention. Leaving the mechanic to kick her tires, Darcy put some space between them. “What kind of questions?”
“Odd ones. The name Shannon came up, which meant nothing to me or anyone else at the magazine. But after a while and more than one chat, I realized he was looking for you. Is your middle name Shannon?”
“No.” Darcy moved into the shade of the sagging station. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’d been here a little over a year, during which time our circulation has increased. I thought he was a cop at first, but turns out he’s a P.I. So I asked myself, what would a P.I. want with my Darcy? That’s when it hit me. You’re a question mark, kiddo. A lovely person but a puzzle only partly solved. Your parents are dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Darcy’s gaze swept the choked, brown landscape. “What’s his name?”
“Damon Marlowe.”
Meant nothing. “And he looks like…?”
“The guy’s hot. Tall, very lean, with dark, wavy hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors for months. He’s not slick or polished, and as far as I can tell, he shoots from the hip. A bit thin, but the muscles are there for sure. I thought artist when I saw him, then rocker, then cop. Would you believe he has gold eyes? You’d say hazel, but the frustrated novelist in me saw an amber-eyed Heathcliff.”
Darcy couldn’t visualize anyone she knew.
She made another precautionary sweep of the area. Except for the goat, a dog the size of a Shetland pony and the mechanic, whose upper body had vanished under her car, there was no sign of life. Even the weeds were wilting in the glare of the sun.
“I checked his credentials,” Elaine said. “Marlowe’s for real. He works out of New York.”
And Darcy worked out of Philadelphia for the moment, but credentials could be faked and identities altered. “Did you tell him where I am?” she asked.
“Hard to do since I wouldn’t know if you drew me a map. Look, just get the hell out of there before the freaky Dr. Aquilina stops experimenting on worms and decides cannibalism’s the way to go.”
In spite of herself, Darcy laughed.
Her editor made a considering sound. “Do you have a cousin named Shannon? I thought you said you did.”
“No cousins.”
“Evil twin?”
“I’m ending this call now, Elaine. Wish me luck.”
When he saw she was free, the mechanic waved her over. He smiled broadly and indicated the overheated engine.
“At least you’re at the right end of the car.” Swatting at a persistent wasp, Darcy slid the cell phone into her bag.
Then whirled around as a loud blast erupted from inside the ramshackle building.
“THREE AND HALF DAYS.” Umer Lugo handed Marlowe a certified check, drawn on his legal firm’s Swiss account. “I’m pleased and impressed. She’ll be back in Philadelphia on Thursday, you say?”
“That’s the word at the magazine.”
“Then I thank you for your services. I’ll handle the matter from here.” Lugo swept an arm around the crowded Turkish restaurant he’d chosen for their meeting. “Select anything you want from the menu and enjoy it at your leisure. I’ll be in town until Ms. Nolan returns. Perhaps I’ll relax while I wait. So many wonderful sights to see.”
And while he wouldn’t be seeing any of them, Marlowe thought the man talked a good game. Just not good enough to fool an ex-cop.
Not his concern, he decided, and shook the hand Lugo offered.
With the check stuffed in his pocket, he made a mental list of outstanding bills and calculated he might have enough left over for a trip to Chile. The Andes. Somewhere remote, where he didn’t know a soul.
His phone, clipped to the waistband of his jeans, began playing Clapton. He checked the screen and saw the name of someone he hadn’t heard from for years, not since they’d worked together in Los Angeles and again briefly in Chicago.
“Hey there, slugger.” Regardless of the circumstances, Valentino Reade always sounded cheerful. “I heard you were in town. What’s up?”
Propping his elbows on the table, Marlowe rubbed a tired eye. “According to your captain, no one in your division. Hell, Val,” he said with a faint grin, “you punched an old woman in a bar.”
“A cage-wrestling bar. We were making a bust. Things got out of hand.”
The grin became a chuckle. “Word’s out, and it’s made its way to Manhattan. Blydon’s got five of you on restricted duty.”
“Nice to hear your voice, too, old friend. Look, I’m off duty in ninety minutes. You working?”
“Was.” Guilt snaked through his system. He picked up a stained menu. “I thought about heading home tonight, but I might hang around for a few days instead.”
“Are you hanging around for yourself or because of a woman?”
“None of your business.”
“Hot woman, huh? I’m fascinated.” He named a local bar. “I’ll meet you at ten. If you get there first, ask for table ten. And bring money. I’m flat until Friday.”
Marlowe shook his head as he ended the call. One thing about Val, no one was a stranger.
Someone pumped up the volume on an already loud Turkish folk song. No idea why that, coupled with the suffocating layers of heat, smoking incense and spicy food, should bring to mind a blue-eyed blonde he’d never met. But there she was, the woman he’d located, floating front and center in the haze across from him.
Picking up his glass of ouzo, he took a contemplative sip. And tried to figure out why a case that should be done refused to let his cop-trained senses rest in peace.
A BACKFIRING TRUCK.
If she’d been older, Darcy’s heart would have stopped. Luckily, the only explosive device in the area had been an ancient Ford truck that had coughed and sputtered its way out of the rickety service bay, then died for good behind her rental car.
It hadn’t been a promising sight.
Yet, here she was, Darcy reflected, at ten-twenty on a Thursday night, two cars, four flights and a cab ride later, home at last. She was still on alert, though, since no one but a P.I. sent by one of Frankie’s brood would be asking questions about her.
She paid the cabdriver, then hoisted her laptop, shoulder bag and carry-on. Three years and one month had passed since Frankie Maco’s trial. She’d lived incident-free in Chicago, Minneapolis and Dallas. She’d covered stories from London to Sydney to Shanghai. Beyond the fact that she hadn’t liked the insect life in Australia, nothing really strange had happened.
Her cover had held in all those places and for all this time—until now.
“Darcy? Is that you? Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.”
Darcy halted as a woman clattered down the stairs of the old Victorian across the street. Hannah Brewster was a sight, right down to her flowered muumuu, her flip-flops and her clacking costume jewelry.
“I’ve got a package for you in my storage room.” The older woman patted her heaving chest. “It’s from Switzerland.”
“That’ll be my godmother. If I don’t call her every month, she sends me a clock.”
“Really?”
“It’s Nana’s quirky idea of a reminder.” Darcy’s conscience gave a tiny ping. “I, uh, have a lot of clocks.”
Hannah waved that aside. “Count yourself lucky. My one and only clock is upstairs snoring, with his feet six inches from the AC unit. My husband, Eddie,” she said at Darcy’s puzzled expression. “He’s a cuckoo clock. You name an upcoming sporting event, he’ll tell you what time it’s on. Poor dear lost his baseball buddies when three of our boarders moved out last month, but I’m slowly refilling the rooms. I took on a new one just yesterday.”
Darcy slanted a look at her neighbor’s darkened house. “Long-term or short?”
“Day-to-day, for the moment. But it costs more that way, so the arrangement could change. Dear?” She tapped Darcy’s arm at her prolonged stare. “Are you all right? You know, jet lag can make people a bit loopy.”
“I’m fine. What’s your new boarder like?”
“His name’s Hancock. He has an accent, though I can’t pin it down. Possibly English. But he’s not your type.”
“I have a type?”
“You do, and Mr. Hancock isn’t it. You need James Dean.”
What she needed, Darcy reflected, were answers. For the life of her, however, she didn’t see getting them tonight.
So she let it go and pulled her gaze from the boarding-house. “I’ll pick up my package tomorrow, Mrs. B. Does your new man who’s not my type have a first name?”
“John.”
John Hancock… Okay, a bit pat, but not necessarily suspicious. She shifted her bags. “Maybe I’m tired at that,” she murmured. “Good luck renting your rooms.”
“Thank you, dear, and welcome home.” Hannah fluttered a hand as she recrossed the street. “Don’t worry about the rent until Monday. You’re a wonderful tenant, and I’d hate to lose you.”
Darcy gripped her suitcase and started along the sidewalk of what Hannah Brewster swore was the finest rental property in Philadelphia. All in all, it was probably fine enough. But when and if she ever settled, she wanted something simpler than turn-of-the-century American. Something modern, with lots of glass and hopefully no more worries about Frankie Maco and company.
A cat meowed from the bushes as she disengaged the alarm.
“I know, Podge, it’s ridiculously hot.”
She didn’t see it coming, didn’t hear a thing. One second she was about to go inside, the next she was crashing into a bed of purple dahlias. Something scratchy whipped across her eyes. Another softer cloth—saturated with chemicals, her brain warned—descended on her face.
Twisting sideways, she avoided it, and with her forearm knocked her attacker’s hand away. His fist rapped against his mouth, and she heard him grunt.
Still squirming, she rammed the heel of her hand into the side of his head. She’d been aiming for his ear and from his reaction thought she might have hit it.
When he jerked back, her instincts took over. Planting both hands on his chest, she shoved. It gave her the space she needed to work her leg out from under him.
He felt strong, but she couldn’t see well enough to fix an age on him. Young or old, however, she knew a man’s vulnerable spots, and she aimed for the one that would cripple him the fastest.
Did she make full contact? Her brain said no, yet a second later, he was gone, tackled sideways by something or someone else she couldn’t see.
The wool strip that had partially covered her eyes lay on the ground beside her. The chloroformed cloth had vanished with her attacker.
She rolled out of the flower bed and onto the grass. It took a moment to steady her breathing, another to realize that there was no one in the tiny front yard except her and Hannah’s long-haired cat.
“What the hell was that, Podge?” she demanded, pushing to her feet. She swayed slightly, but shook herself and scrambled to locate her cell.
She had her thumb on the key pad when a man’s hand closed over hers and a low voice came into her ear.
“Let’s leave the police out of this, Ms. Hunt.”

Chapter Two
Darcy’s blood pressure spiked, then slowly settled. This man was holding her, not choking her. Relaxing her muscles, she offered a pleasant, “Let me guess. Damon Marlowe?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Word travels at warp speed in my business. Uh, do you mind?”
For an answer, he released her and moved back half a step.
With a smile on her lips, Darcy faced him.
Gorgeous was her first, frankly surprised, thought. Elaine had been right. If the word sexy could take human form, Damon Marlowe would be it. She would have continued to marvel at his amazing, albeit shadowed, features, but she had a different agenda in mind.
Keeping her smile in place, she said, “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”
He moved a shoulder. “No—”
The crack of her hand across his cheek cut him off.
It had to hurt, but given his profession, maybe he was accustomed to being slapped. He absorbed the strike with nothing more than a lift of his brow. “Feel better now?”
“No, but you deserved that and more.” Darcy’s eyes glittered. “You destroyed a cover that’s held for three years. Apparently, you also lost whoever it was you tackled, so now I get to spend a sleepless night wondering who he was, why you felt the need to rush to my rescue and what you stand to gain from it. Do you know what you’ve done, Marlowe? Do you have any idea?”
“You want to take another swing, don’t you?” he asked without rancor.
“Love to.” Her lips curved. “Will you stand still and let me?”
“I might.”
The answer was just unexpected enough to make her laugh. Then suspicion moved in and she circled him with caution. “Who hired you? Was it Vince?”
“Umer Lugo.”
She stopped. “Who?”
“Not your dying, ninety-two-year-old grandfather’s lawyer, I assume.”
“My dying…” She shook the question away as her thoughts slid in a more disturbing direction. “Where is he? The guy who jumped me?”
“He grabbed your neighbor’s bike and took off. He was gone by the time I reached the corner.”
Darcy released a frustrated breath. “Let me get this straight. Whether by accident or design, you sicced someone on me. Then you switched sides and ran him off. I’m an investigative reporter, Marlowe. Oh, but wait, you already know that. You also know my real name. You relayed my alias to Umer Lugo, who very likely relayed it to Frankie Maco. By rights, I should be dead, and you should be home counting your money. So tell me, Mr. New York P.I., why isn’t the story playing like that?”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Last I checked, I was a sane American female. What’s the deal? Why are you here?”
“Call it a rare attack of conscience, likely spawned by the fact that I was a cop in a former life. Losing the guy who jumped you pisses me off, but nowhere near as much as letting myself be set up.”
“Frankie Maco’s very good at setups. Do you know who Frankie is?”
“His mug shot made the rounds before I left the force.”
“And there it is. You didn’t do your homework. Umer came up clean, so you were good to go. Bet he paid you plenty, huh?”
“Enough. Look, Shannon—”
“Darcy.” A false smile. “For what it’s worth and what might be salvageable—probably not much— I’ve been Darcy Nolan for three years now. I prefer to keep as many doors closed and windows open as I can.” When something rustled the bushes near the fence, she sighed. “Much as I hate to suggest this, we should probably finish our chat inside, where no one can come crashing through a hedgerow on a stolen bike. Can you imagine the headline? My editor would have the exclusive she’s been longing for, followed by book and screenplay rights. All things good in her world.”
Marlowe picked up her bags as she started for the stoop. “She’s not a friend?”
“Oh, Elaine and I are friendly enough, but longings are longings, after all.”
“You don’t sound bitter.”
“Bitterness is a destructive emotion. I prefer being positive.”
“And you can find a shred of that here?”
She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I can. Three years, a name change and one late-night attack later, I’m still alive.”
HE DIDN’T WANT TO step inside her home. Didn’t want to know her, or anything more about her than was absolutely necessary. Simpler, smarter, easier to keep her at arm’s length and think of her in two dimensions rather than three.
Unfortunately, it was too late for that, and the anger crawling in his belly wasn’t the kind he could push away. He deposited her bags next to the door, then followed her down a wide corridor to the kitchen.
Shadows hung everywhere in the old house. They spilled over the upstairs railing and slashed through the carved wood of the banister, lengthened on the hardwood floors and darkened cream walls.
In the kitchen, she switched on the overhead light. “Here’s the deal. You tell me what I deserve to know, and you can have a beer.”
Unexpected amusement rippled through him. “I’ve given you the meat, Darcy, all true and more or less verifiable. Lugo called, said he’d been referred to me by a former client. The client vouched for him. Money was good, man came up clean, I took the case.”
She headed for the fridge. “Tell me, were you this gullible as a cop?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Goes hand in hand with cynical, insensitive and don’t give a rat’s ass about other people.”
“Sounds like burnout to me.”
“Any way you look at it, I screwed up, and you’re paying the price. You get killed, it’ll be on my conscience.”
“Well, hey, don’t sugarcoat the possibilities.”
“Do you want them sugarcoated?”
“What I want,” she replied, “is Umer Lugo’s phone number. I want to know who hired him. Because while I’m ninety-five percent sure one of Frankie Maco’s family members is behind this, I’ve done other stories about a few other people who might not like some of the things I’ve said.” She waved her hand. “A lot of stories, actually. Anyway, my point is that knowledge is the key, and the key in this case is one Umer Lugo.”
The beer she tossed him was ice-cold and medium dark.
Marlowe let his gaze travel over her body. Shouldn’t, but it wasn’t as if he’d walked in unprepared.
She was pretty, all right. Beautiful, if you liked moonlight blondes with mile-long legs, sultry blue eyes and a killer smile. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length and made him think of silk. The edgy razor cut suited her. It was also the only noticeable change she’d made to her appearance since leaving L.A. three years ago.
“And now, he looks.” She pushed off gracefully from the fridge. “Don’t worry, Marlowe, I’m not going to seduce you. I only pull out the Mata Hari card when there’s a chance it’ll work. Guys who claim not to give a rat’s ass about people aren’t likely to succumb.”
“You like positive, I like simple. Just so we’re clear.”
“As Mississippi mud. Now, about Lugo.”
He twisted off the top, drank deeply. “He said he’d be staying in the city until you got back. That might or might not be true.” Lowering the bottle, he asked, “Do you have a laptop?”
“You dropped it by the front door.” She uncapped a bottle of orange juice. “Why would he hang around?” she mused. Then she considered. “How old is he?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Muscular and tall?”
“Five-six and stocky with a hump on his back.”
“Charming. Do you have the name of his hotel?”
“Give me five minutes on your computer and I will.”
She started toward him, dangerous in a way only a man on the edge would understand. “And then?”
Because he knew what she was thinking, he used the beer to cover a burgeoning smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Darcy, but I’ve dealt with reporters before. I go in alone, you follow me. So we’ll save time and do this together.”
Setting her tongue on her upper lip, she tipped her head to the side, strolled closer and assessed him from top to bottom. “You’re a man of mystery and surprise, Marlowe. I foresee all kinds of problems between us.”
“I see them here and now.”
Humor sparkled in her eyes. “You can drop the guard. I told you I wouldn’t play the seduction card, and I meant it.”
Was he on guard? Maybe. Probably. Didn’t mean he had to ditch a rather intriguing situation. He just had to make sure he didn’t get tangled up in it.
Taking another drink, he let his gaze slide over her face. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The sparkle blossomed into a smile. “Oh, I believe that. Your kind isn’t afraid of any woman.”
“I’m a kind?”
“Very much so. You’re immovable, inscrutable, emotionally distant, and if I were a female rat, I wouldn’t even consider exposing my ass to you. Unfortunately, you’re also hot and sexy, and I’m going to guess chock-full of bad-boy vices. Makes you irresistible to a female like me. Therefore—” letting a sly look steal across her face, she hooked her finger around the front of his T-shirt and gave a tug “—my feeling is, we should get this out of the way now, before we move on.”
A thread of amusement, mostly dark, wove through his system. “I’m not a gentleman, Darcy.”
“Well, I’m shocked.”
Eyes glittering, he let the darkness have its way, set the bottle down and trapped her jaw between the fingers and thumb of his right hand.
“Lady, this is one mistake I’m going to enjoy.” Leaving no time for second thoughts, he covered her mouth with his.
HE TASTED LIKE SOMETHING forbidden, something she should run from and not look back.
He went in deep, and he savored. He made light and color shimmer to life in her head. When he finally stepped back, it took several long moments for the drumbeat he’d created in her blood to subside.
Now that, she thought through a lovely warm haze, was a kiss.
He didn’t say a word afterward, just stared into her eyes, then turned and walked out.
Darcy knew his mind was working. On what, she wasn’t sure. But that was enigmatic for you.
He returned a moment later with her laptop. The haze vanished when he told her where Umer Lugo was staying.
It took them twenty-five minutes to reach their destination in Marlowe’s Land Rover. During that time, Darcy rattled off a dozen questions, most of them concerning the state of Lugo’s mental health.
“The Declaration Inn.” She read the dimly lit sign from the parking lot off the westbound Interstate. “Aka the Bates Motel. I see five cars, three of them old and rusty, outside four doors. The only visible lights are in the lobby, and there’s no one behind the desk.”
Marlowe surveyed the low structure as they got out of the car.
“Question,” she said as they navigated the ravaged lot. “Why do you suppose Lugo is staying in a place like this?”
With his fingers wrapped around her bare upper arm, Marlowe swept the line of doors. “I don’t know.” He glanced down when she turned her ankle. “You probably shouldn’t have worn heels.”
“If I’d known about this parking lot, I’d have worn combat boots.” And full camo gear, she thought, although the pale pink dress that stopped just above her knees and crisscrossed in the back was definitely cooler. “I hope the manager isn’t a weirded-out mama’s boy.” She peered through the spotty glass. “Still no one in sight.”
“Easier for us to find Lugo’s room and get inside.”
“It’s a fine line between cop and crook, isn’t it?”
“Ex-cop.”
“And the line gets finer.”
The lobby door creaked, but no bell announced them. In fact, the only sound came from a pair of droning flies and a whiny Merle Haggard song emanating from the dusty wall speakers.
Steadier now on the cracked linoleum tiles, Darcy eased her arm free. In her mind, she was still going over a kiss that had left her breathless and oddly light-headed. At this moment, though, and given the circumstances, distance was more prudent.
She ran a finger down the open register while Marlowe checked out the shadowy back room. “There’s someone named Jones in three,” she told him. “A double X in eleven and a squiggly line with two big rabbit ears in five.”
“Anything that looks like Lugo?” Marlowe asked from the inner door.
She ran the list. “Lucky number seven.” Then she glanced at the Peg-Board. “There’s no key.”
Returning to the desk, Marlowe took her hand. “Let’s go.”
Drawing a gun she hadn’t realized he was carrying from the waistband of his jeans, he nodded forward.
At the door of room seven she gave two firm taps. “Mr. Lugo? It’s Darcy Nolan.”
Five seconds ticked by. “Mr. Lugo?” she tried again. “Are you there?”
No light came on.
“Door’s paper-thin,” she noted. “Unless he sleeps with earplugs, I’d say he’s— Oh, God, you’re not. A credit card?”
Seconds later, Marlowe opened the door to an expanse of black, the smell of must and Rambo playing on a very old TV.
He located a tippy floor lamp. The low-watt bulb cast a long shadow over a pair of twin beds, an open bottle of Bordeaux and an unzipped suitcase.
Darcy swung in a slow circle. “Well, this is really icky. Even on the lam, Janet Leigh wouldn’t have showered in a motel room that had splotchy walls and vermin in the once green carpet.”
“There’s a reason he chose this place,” Marlowe told her. He switched on a second lamp.
It didn’t help, only made it possible for Darcy to step over the more suspect stains.
Her eyes landed on the desk behind him. “Laptop.”
With a gleam in his eyes, Marlowe opened it, leaving Darcy to search the bathroom.
Palms braced on either side of the computer, he scanned the screen. “There’s something here.”
“Mr. Lugo?” she called at the bathroom door. Reaching for the knob, she paused, then shrugged and went for it. “Mr. Lugo?”
The first thing she saw was a dirty window with just enough light trickling through to reveal yet another empty room. Still, she felt strangely deflated as she lifted the hair from her overheated neck. Whatever the man’s program might be, his absence wouldn’t help them uncover it.
“What’s on his computer?” she called back.
“Looks like an unsent e-mail.”
Humor speared through her when she spied the drawn shower curtain. “Bet it’s filthy,” she murmured. But she gave the thin plastic a tug anyway.
And felt her mind freeze.
The faucet wasn’t running, but there was water in the tub.
“Looks like Lugo was working on a report for his client,” Marlowe said from the other room.
The sound of his voice fractured her temporary paralysis. With her eyes on the bathtub, she backed toward the door. “Unless he brought someone with him, he won’t be finishing it.” The words wanted to stick, but she forced them out. “Lugo’s dead, Marlowe. He’s got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in the middle of his forehead.”

Chapter Three
Darcy had seen death before in the Amazon rain forest. And all things considered, the circumstances had been much more grisly. But she hadn’t expected Lugo to be there when she’d opened the curtain.
“Drink this, Darcy.”
She felt something cold in her hand and, looking down, saw a bottle of mineral water.
“Thanks.” From her perch on the bed, she regarded Marlowe, then the now-closed bathroom door. “I’m okay. Shocked, but not in shock. It’s just…” The memory repeated in garish neon. “He’s fully dressed, Marlowe. Shirt, pants, tie. And yet the only visible blood relates to the bathtub. So he was what? Running a bath when the killer came in? Killer forced him into the tub?”
“It’s as good a theory as any. You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?”
“Positive. Believe me, I got a very good look at his face.”
Crouched in front of her, Marlowe trapped her chin so he could bring her gaze in line with his. “I called a friend of mine, Darcy. He knows Lugo hired me to find you. His name’s Val Reade.”
A single brow winged up. “Reade, as in the detective who punched an elderly woman in a bar brawl?”
“There’s a story attached to it, but yeah, that’s him.”
Another man’s face superimposed itself over Lugo’s. Light brown hair, a little curly, wholesome features. A faint smile appeared. “I was one of the reporters who cornered your friend after his disciplinary hearing. Wrong place, right time. Elaine needed two filler pages before deadline.”
“Did you write the article?”
“I started to. I had another piece to do about a political scandal in Alabama, so Elaine filled in the missing pieces.” The smile grew. “She’s not as diplomatic as me when it comes to matters of dubious police behavior.” A sigh rose when she looked at the bathroom door. “Frankie wasn’t big on murdering people.”
“Frankie’s not in control now, Darcy.” Marlowe ran his thumb over her jaw. “Are you okay here if I go back to the desk?”
“Marlowe, I’m an army brat. I’ve heard and seen true horror. This is—” she searched for a fitting word “—tidy by comparison.” Standing with him, she sipped her water. “Tell me, do all P.I.s erase rules like this?” When he merely glanced at her en route to Lugo’s computer, she took another drink. “Figured that.”
As he tapped the keys, she circled the room, letting her mind return to the attack at her house. She wanted to lay the blame at Vince Maco’s feet, but it was possible he’d hired someone to attack her so he could deal with Lugo.
She caught the distant wail of sirens and moved to the window. “You’ve got about ninety seconds before your ex-cronies arrive, Marlowe.”
“Let me know when you see the lights.”
The word accomplice sprang to mind, but she blocked it and rested a shoulder against the window frame. “Are you plucking out any clues as that information whizzes past?”
“Only the e-mail he didn’t send. Recipient unknown, text incomplete.”
“Sounds like he was interrupted. Or he thought the tub might be full and he went to check on the water level. What does it say?”
“That the target’s been located and the end is imminent.”
“Efficient, ominous, and more personal than he knew.” She thought for a moment while she watched the horizon. “It also shows he was doing his job, so why kill him? Vince is nasty, but as far as I know, he follows Daddy’s instructions.”
“As far as you know. Three years might change a person’s attitude.”
“I see headlights. Three sets, and another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction.”
The tapping continued. With each click, Darcy pictured Lugo’s face. With each click, the face came closer, grew clearer.
Pushing on her temples, she turned from the window. “The rules you’re ignoring are going to get you arrested in a minute.”
A man’s voice reached them from outside. “M, it’s Val.”
One last series of taps as gravel crunched in the unpaved lot, and suddenly he was behind her.
Val Reade strode in ahead of six uniformed officers. His eyes flicked from Darcy to Marlowe, then back again in mild suspicion. “Why do I recognize you?”
“Disciplinary hearing, three months ago. I was one of the people firing questions at you.”
His expression cleared. “Thank God. I was afraid I might have hit on you.”
“And been rejected?”
“It’s been known to happen on rare occasions.” His almost twinkling eyes moved to the man behind her. “Still in the tub?”
“Just as Darcy found him.”
Val motioned to the uniforms. “How hot was the water?”
“Room temperature.”
“Which borders on body temperature at the moment.” Val ran a hand through his brown curls. “That’ll hinder the medical examiner. Did you know him?” he asked Darcy.
“No.”
“Any idea who he was working for?”
“Possibly Frankie Maco. But that’s assumption, not fact,” she added at a look from Marlowe. “Frankie’s the only person I can think of who’d bear a grudge strong enough to send lawyers and P.I.s after me three years down the road.”
“I’ll check him out.”
“You?” Surprised amusement colored Marlowe’s tone. “The captain put you in charge of the case?”
Val scratched his neck. “The word shorthanded came up during his telephone tirade. For some reason, Blydon likes you. You called me, I called him, case is mine. Now, Darcy, you and I need to have a nice long talk.”
“About the discovery of Umer Lugo’s body, or the attack outside my home?”
He stopped scratching. “You were attacked?”
“Guy got away,” Marlowe said. “On a bicycle.”
“Has all the earmarks of a three-ring circus, doesn’t it?” Darcy remarked. “Except for…” She indicated the bathroom.
“That’s a big exception.” Pulling out his notebook, Val cast a level look at Marlowe. “And given the outcome, I hate to think who else might wind up in the same condition.”
HE’D MISSED HER. She’d been underneath him, pinned and struggling, ripe for the taking. Then, wham, she hadn’t been, because Lugo’s P.I. had decided to play hero. He’d ruined the perfect opportunity with a broadside tackle that had shocked, infuriated and freaking hurt.
He’d pay for the bruises he’d inflicted. He’d pay like the lawyer had paid, only not so easily, not without pain. Oh, yeah, shooting off vital body parts was starting to sound real good about now.
In the end, though, it was all about Shannon. No, wait, call her Darcy. Live the charade. Until the charade ended and life became death ever after.
“Gonna get you, Darcy doll,” he promised.
Shaping his thumb and index finger into a gun, he aimed at the TV set in front of him. He grinned as he pulled the imaginary trigger.
Then he pulled out his iPod, popped in his earbuds and bopped to the music of The King.
NIGHT MELTED SLOWLY into day. Marlowe spent most of both sweltering in the Center City police station.
Lugo’s laptop had been bagged and tagged. So had his suitcase and wallet. Pictures had been snapped, the body removed, the motel room taped. Forensics would be dusting and sweeping throughout the weekend, and both Lugo’s paralegal and his ex-wife had been notified.
It was a police matter now. Legally, Marlowe knew he could wrap things up in Philadelphia early Saturday morning and be back in his office by mid-afternoon.
So why wasn’t he blowing off what had the potential to become a complicated tangle of red tape, blurred lines and emotions he had no desire to awaken? Why wasn’t he putting as much distance as possible between himself and a beautiful blue-eyed blonde who was bound to screw up the structure, the fabric and the dubious integrity of his not yet unscrewed life?
Because those questions were far too heavy to think about, let alone deal with, he spent another night at another bar with Val, a long one that ended with him collapsed on the sofa while Val snored and muttered on a cot across the room.
He let his friend sleep the next morning, made a stale pretzel and coffee work as breakfast and, ignoring a hangover the size of Texas, headed out to purge his mind of the few loose ends he’d neglected to mention to the police.
On the drive back from the Declaration Inn, Darcy had told him about a man named John Hancock. He’d recently taken a room at her neighbor’s boardinghouse. Probably nothing to it, but the cop in him couldn’t let it go without a cursory look.
Only a look, though, he promised himself as he worked his way through the vaguely seedy streets of Val’s neighborhood to Darcy’s southwest Philly home. A look, a chat, an unimpassioned goodbye. End of case.
As he parked, Marlowe took note of a sunburned man pushing a hand mower around the front lawn of Hannah Brewster’s boardinghouse.
A woman and a somewhat older man sat on the shaded front porch. The woman, in an odd flowered muumuu, used her foot to rock the hanging swing while she waved a folding fan in front of her face.
Her eyes brightened when Marlowe took the stairs two at a time. “My goodness, someone has more energy than me this fine August morning.” Elbowing her companion, she stood.
Marlowe kept his smile easy and leaned a hip against the railing.
Beside her, the forty-something man with the receding hairline offered a rather feral smile. “Glad to know you. I’m Hancock from Houston.”
By way of northern England, unless Marlowe had his accents wrong. And he doubted that, since his mother came from southern Scotland.
“Hannah Brewster.” The woman smiled broadly. “My husband Eddie’s inside watching a ball game.” Shielding her eyes, she peered through the bushes. “And that’s Cristian, mowing the lawn. He’s my cousin Arden from Oklahoma’s middle boy.” She patted her chest. “Arden died, oh, it must be fifteen years ago now. I feel terrible we couldn’t make it to the funeral, but Eddie was laid off at the time, and we didn’t dare borrow against our properties. As it is, we’re down to three from four, two on this street and a much older one on Faldo Road.” She used her fan to slap at a wasp. “Would you like some iced tea, Mr…?”
“Marlowe. No, thanks. This is a very nice house, Mrs. Brewster.”
“Nice and expensive,” she agreed. “And it’s Hannah. If you’re looking to rent a room, I have one left. Second floor, faces the garden. Oh, here he is, Arden’s boy. Come out of the sun, Cristian. This is Marlowe. He might be taking our last room.”
Cristian’s mop of blond curls, his eager expression and his lanky build reminded Marlowe of Val. But then Val reminded him of pretty much every college quarterback he’d played against at Michigan State.
“My last name’s Turner.” The twenty-something man cast an uncertain glance at Hancock, whose garish smile was starting to distort his mouth. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Hannah beamed. “Cristian’s a painter. He came to Philadelphia because of our thriving artistic community.”
Cristian rubbed at a bump on his neck. “I think something bit me, Aunt Hannah.”
“Well, you march right inside and put some ice on it.” Moving his hair, she tutted. “Will you look at that ear. Today it was a mosquito. Ten years ago it was— What was it again, dear? A schnauzer?”
“Rottweiler.” Cristian tugged on his ragged left earlobe. “Owner figured he was going for my earring. I think he was going for my throat.”
“You should have kicked him.” Hancock raised a leg, but lowered it at a stern look from Hannah. “Gotta show it who’s boss,” he finished with a nasty grin.
“Yeah, right. Uh, where’s the ointment, Aunt Hannah?”
“In the downstairs bathroom, dear. Oh, and would you mind calling for Eddie to open up the garden room as you go past the study?”
Hancock smirked at Marlowe. “Don’t know how long you’re planning to stay, but if you get wind of any openings for a short-order cook, you let me know. My specialty’s a burger… Whoa there, Silver.” He broke off mid-sentence to leer. “Who would that pretty little darlin’ be?”
Hannah rapped him again with her fan. “You put your eyes straight back in their sockets, Mr. Hancock. That’s Darcy. Now, she’s sweet as can be, but the two of you would simply not be compatible.”
Both Cristian, riveted on the threshold, and Hancock, whose mouth had curled back into that Grinch-like smile, watched her bend and stretch as she extracted three bags of groceries from her trunk.
Exasperated, Hannah shooed both men along, then smiled at Marlowe. “Do say the garden room will suit you. It’s on the cool side of the house.”
Annoyed that he’d wanted to do a great deal more than move John Hancock along, Marlowe returned his attention to the woman in front of him.
“Darcy’s a reporter,” Hannah revealed with a sly expression. “Sadly, she had some trouble a few days ago. Poor dear was mugged right outside her front door. I feel somewhat responsible since I’d talked to her not five minutes earlier.”
“You didn’t see anyone?”
Catching his arm, Hannah brought him down to her level. “See those hedges? A body could be murdered on the far side, and no one would ever know about it. If only she’d screamed.”
“Guess she didn’t think of it.”
“Fortunately, the man ran away, no real harm done. Cristian will be trimming those bushes down to waist height as soon as he gets his second wind. I’d ask Eddie to do it, but it’s difficult to schedule outdoor chores between sporting events.” She dismissed the matter and straightened. “Now about that room. Seeing as it’s my last, and Eddie scored on one of his long-shot bets this past week, we might be able to negotiate the price down a tad. Say forty-five dollars a night from fifty?”
Marlowe glanced at Darcy’s hedge. “Does that include breakfast?”
“Lunch, as well, if you want it.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Big mistake, Marlowe’s instincts warned. He felt the darkness rolling through him. But in the end, it was Darcy he saw, and Darcy he continued to see even as the carousel of his mind revolved.
And with the darkness still slithering through his head, he accepted her hand.
“THANK YOU, THANK YOU, thank you.” On the threshold of Darcy’s office, Elaine hugged an eleven-page printout to her chest. “You not only made deadline, but you also made the moon chocolate readable.”
“Well, hey, what are sleepless nights for if not to draft and redraft feature articles?”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Removing thick reading glasses, her editor, a tall, narrow-chested woman in her early fifties, came in to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Some pervert jumps you outside your front door, and I hear about it from a cop? Really, kiddo, there’s such a thing as a telephone.”
Keys and sunglasses in hand, Darcy checked her e-mail. “There was more to it than I could tell you.”
“Like a dead man in a sleazy motel room?”
“I can’t give you details, Elaine. You know how the system works.”
“I also know how much attention you usually pay to that system.” Elaine leaned forward. “Was it anyone you knew?”
“No comment.” Darcy reached for her shoulder bag, popped the glam sunglasses on top of her head and started for the door. “At least not until Monday.”
Elaine bared her teeth. “This is so annoying. We both know how this stuff sells, and you’re shutting me out.”
“All I want to shut right now is the door.”
Reaching back inside, Darcy snagged Elaine’s wrist. “Give me a break, okay? It’s a thousand degrees today, my landlady’s given me five casseroles that no one with half a brain would eat, and if you think the cops are keeping me apprised of the investigation, you’re wrong.” At the elevator bank, she pressed Down. “I answered questions, gave my statement, answered more questions, then went home and spent the rest of yesterday and most of last night refining an article you insisted had to be done by Monday. Be happy. It’s only Saturday, and there it is, in your freshly manicured hands.”
Elaine admired her fingernails as they boarded the elevator. “I got the works for my date tonight.”
“Yeah? Are we talking hot stud at last?”
“So-so. He’s the CEO of a cable station that aspires to rival CNN.”
Darcy let her eyes sparkle. “Does personality enter the picture at all?”
Elaine’s lips smiled, her eyes didn’t. “I’m fifty-something, kiddo. I’ve been married twice and lost money both times. I want Ebenezer Scrooge this time. Rich and stingy—except when it comes to me. Barring that elusive miracle, I’ll have to hope and pray our little newsmagazine can break a story that has our big Manhattan brothers scrambling to catch up.”
“So that would be a no to the personality question.”
On the street with the burn of the early-evening sun on her shoulders, Darcy let Elaine pull her to a stop. “Get me an exclusive, okay? The magazine needs it. Your coworkers need it. I need it.”
“I’ll do my best.” Darcy tweaked her editor’s collar. “In the meantime, go home, cool down, get ready for tonight. I’ll see you Monday.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
It was the tone of her voice more than her words that echoed in Darcy’s head.
Too revved to return home, she detoured to the gym, the wonderfully cool gym with the fitness instructor whose hot body paled next to the memory of a certain P.I. she was determined to run, punch or meditate out of her system.
Of course it didn’t work, but then she didn’t expect it to. Any man whose face haunted her patchy sleep wasn’t likely to be blown off that easily.
After showering, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a white tank top, packed her gear and headed for home.
Her arrival was greeted by a barking dog and the lingering traces of a barbecue. Mrs. Brewster’s cat, Hodgepodge, lay on his back on the sidewalk with his paws in the air. Overhead, a faint breeze rustled the neighborhood trees.
Crouching as she passed, Darcy tickled Podge’s tummy and received a yawning meow in response.
She realized with a twinge that she’d forgotten to set her house alarm when she’d left today. Foolish? Yes. But on the plus side, the front hedge had been trimmed as promised, and there was still a glimmer of light in the sky.
Her cell phone rang while she was climbing the porch stairs.
She glanced at the screen. “Oh, good. Perfect.” She flipped it open. “I thought you’d be long gone by now, Marlowe.”
“Guess we both thought wrong.”
“So are we talking choice here or police order?”
She imagined his faint smile. “You found the body, Darcy.”
“After you got us into the motel room.”
“What can I say? Val’s captain’s a fan.”
“Which means you’re staying by choice, then.”
“A dead client in a bathtub isn’t good enough reason to stay?”
She dropped her keys in a bowl, her purse and gym bag on a high-backed chair. “Aren’t you the one who said he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody—what was it your friend called you— M?”
“Val can’t get his tongue around my name after a few drinks. Calling me M is the simple solution.”
“Your friend had more than a few drinks last night if the coat I saw on his tongue today was any indication. I’m going out on a limb here, Marlowe, but I’d speculate that Detective Reade has some serious issues in his life.”
“And you know someone who doesn’t?”
Removing the bush hat she’d bought in Sydney, she shook her hair. “Tell me, have you always lived on the dark side?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Darcy.”
“To which you give very few answers.”
Wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear, she reached into the cupboard. “I saw your Land Rover at Hannah Brewster’s this morning. I’m sure she was delighted to talk and talk and talk to you, but I could have saved you the headache and told you she didn’t see or hear a thing Thursday night. If she had, the guy who attacked me wouldn’t have made it out of the yard.”
“Thanks for that.”
“No offense. She just goes into superhuman mode in times of trouble, which, frankly, I’m surprised she missed that night.”
“She misses more than you think.”
Darcy dropped three large ice cubes into a glass. “Sorry, I’ll need a hint for that one. Has something else happened?” When he didn’t answer, she frowned. “Marlowe?” Sighing, she opened the fridge. “Come on, it’s too hot for games. What is it you know that I don’t?”
“Look behind you, pretty lady. You’re not alone.”
Darcy’s heart leaped into in her throat. Her fingers froze on the handle.
The voice hadn’t come from her phone.

Chapter Four
Darcy realized who it was a split second before the heel of her hand snapped to his throat.
“You,” she stated thirty minutes and a short, temper-cooling walk later, “really need to break that habit of yours.”
A step behind her on the crowded street, Marlowe grinned. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
“I’m not. I’m projecting.” She turned to walk backward on the sidewalk. “It’s how I work off being mad.”
“Would’ve been faster and easier if you’d just laid into me at your house.”
“I still can, if it’ll make you feel better. You’ve got the potential to be a great second-story man, Marlowe. I have a finicky lock on an obscure cellar door that doesn’t even read like a door anymore, and you go all Sherlock Holmes on me and find it. Point made? No. You have to jimmy the thing, wait for me to come home and set me up with a phone call. If I’d had a knife in my hand at the time, you might not be enjoying this or any other night scene ever again.”
His gold eyes tracked her past an open bakery and on through a collection of outdoor café tables. “Which says to me, my point still hasn’t been made.”
“No, I get it.” She turned back to navigate a crosswalk. “One, I should always set my alarm. Two, I should replace any faulty locks. And three, since I didn’t do any of those things, you decided to show me that what you managed to do with a minimum amount of effort, someone a whole lot more lethal could also do. I’m not arguing, Marlowe, and I won’t make those mistakes again. So can we please move on and get a hoagie?”
“Sounds like— Careful.” Reaching out when she turned to face him once again, he steered her around a man in a MEDIchair.
“You’ve gotten out of the habit, haven’t you?” he asked as the doors opened on a neighborhood playhouse and a crowd of people rushed by. “You think nothing can hurt you in a crowd.”
Darcy zeroed in on a cart that sold some of the best street food in the area. “I like people,” she agreed. “I like watching them live their lives, doing the things I wanted to do when I was a kid, but couldn’t because army kids are born transient. That’s not a complaint. I learned a lot and experienced more. But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to grow up somewhere and know the streets, the stores, my neighbors.”
“You’re a gypsy, Darcy. Were then, still are now.”
“Old habits,” she said with a smile. “From the cart she selected two hoagies and two bottles of locally brewed beer. She knew he was watching her and, still smiling, continued to walk. “I have no idea what you’re thinking, unless it has to do with Umer Lugo’s death and why I haven’t mentioned it for the past thirty minutes.”
“My guess? You’ve been over it a dozen times already. You’re tapped out.”
She bumped her shoulder into his arm. “I’m also still irked at you for pointing it out the way you did.” Not to mention, she reflected, for a kiss she might never erase from her mind.
She held her pulse in check with a sip of cold beer, then felt it spike when he eased her around the side of an Italian restaurant and into the alley.
Setting bottles and wrappers aside, he ran a thumb over her lower lip. His eyes were unreadable as they stared into hers. “I could get distracted by you, Darcy.”
“Tell me about it. But that’s not good, is it? For either of us. I have gypsy tendencies, you don’t want to care. I’m not sure I see the point in pursuing something that has Shakespearean tragedy written all over it.”
The ghost of a smile appeared. “That doesn’t sound like the positive Darcy I met two nights ago.”
“Sometimes she reverts.”
“To Shannon?”
“To S.L. Hunt. That was the name on my Los Angeles byline. S.L. was… Well, I’ll be kind and call her a little too focused, a little too career-driven.”
“You wouldn’t say ambitious?”
“No, ambition was Shannon Stone’s arena. Stone is my mother’s family name. I adopted it when I did on-air weather reports in Oregon. It was a small town, and I was just starting out, and I thought Stone sounded more ruthless than Hunt. Then it occurred to me that ruthless might not play well on TV. When I relocated to northern California, I became Shannon Hunt.”
“You did on-air weather in northern California?”
“Actually, I anchored the six o’clock news. Bigger town, bigger market, and in the end, a good, strategic move.” She rested her head against the warm stone wall, let her mind drift. “I stayed for about a year, then got an offer from a Los Angeles media group and went with the better money. That’s when S.L. Hunt was born.”
His eyes swept over her face. “So you traded in live action for the printed word. Why?”
“I told you. Better money. I wasn’t in it for the glamour, Marlowe. I wanted to get ahead. Be someone. Make a difference. Well, maybe that part came later, but hey, I was in Hollywood. I was twenty-four, free to choose, and my boss liked me.”
“Yeah? How much ‘like’ are we talking here?”
“Lots. And her name was Michelle.” She lifted a hand to his hair. “None of this really matters, Marlowe. I’m Darcy now, not Shannon or S.L. Yes, I’m career-minded, but I’m not so fixated that I can’t see, think or feel anything else. These days I prefer different sights, better thoughts, more positive feelings.” As if to underscore those words, she angled her mouth toward his.
“Darcy…”
Undeterred, she moved her hips against him. “I’m pretty sure you started this.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Guess I did.”
Maybe the sparkle in her eyes challenged him. Or maybe she shifted her body just enough that temptation toppled resistance. All Darcy knew was that one minute she wanted to kiss him, and the next he was lowering his mouth to hers.
Something exploded inside her. Her body came alive. She ran her hands over his shoulders and around his neck, until her fingers fisted in his hair.
Pinpoints of light, like fireflies, raced through her head. When he took the kiss deeper, she met him halfway, let the greed inside her rule. She tasted and teased and, pushing them both to the edge, nipped his bottom lip.
She managed to drag her mouth away a heartbeat short of hopping up and wrapping her legs around him. But her eyes danced as she took one final satisfying bite.
“Clear enough answer for you, Marlowe?”
“Might be—if I could remember the question.”
Pressing the tip of her finger to his chin, Darcy indulged in one last, long kiss. Then she stepped out of temptation’s way and made herself take a deep breath.
“I have to tell you, Marlowe, I expected wow, not a fireworks display.”
Picking up the remains of their dinner, Marlowe dumped them in a nearby bin. “Not to diminish the moment, Darcy, but this isn’t why I stayed in Philadelphia.”
“Because I understand, I’ll keep my distance and simply ask what comes next. Case wise, that is.”
Grinning a little, he took her hand and drew her back onto the busy street. “I went through the list of contacts in Lugo’s e-mail with Val. There were approximately thirty names.”
“You think Maco—or whoever—would be on Lugo’s contact list?”
“No, but it’s a place to start. No one’s found his client list yet.”
“I assume the police have searched his office.”
“Office and home. My former client—his former partner—still vouches for him.”
As the number of shops and restaurants around them began to dwindle, Darcy pointed to a park entrance across the street. “Come on. We can check out the painters’ exhibit and the flea market. There’s also a band shell, a carousel and, if we’re lucky, a puppet show.”
When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “Enterprise to Captain Kirk. Are you still running swiped laptop info in that overactive brain of yours?”
He sent her a sideways glance. “For your information, it was Spock, not Kirk, who had the overactive brain.”
“You don’t give us Earthlings much credit, do you, Marlowe? The rise to captain in any field of endeavor takes a great deal of brainpower.” She regarded him in profile. “As a point of interest, how high did you rise in yours?”
“Lieutenant in the homicide division.”
There was a rough edge to his voice that intrigued her. Before she could question it, he gave a humorless laugh.
“Yeah, I was all about murder once. Gang related, random, premeditated, crimes of passion—you name it, I investigated it.”
She tread carefully. “In New York?”
“New York, Chicago, L.A. That’s where I met Val.”
“You met Val in Los Angeles?” For some reason, a chill danced along her spine. She shook it off. Almost. “When was that, exactly?”
He gave her another shrewd sideways look. “I know what you’re thinking, Darcy, but Val’s a good cop. Screwed-up, sure, but that’s a personal thing.”
“Uh-huh, and no cop has ever sold out for personal reasons— She stopped herself and shot him an apologetic look. “That was totally out of line. He’s your friend. You know him. I’m just looking for—well, anything, really. Give me another twenty-four hours, and I’ll start questioning the principles of my godmother.”
“Who’s out of the running because…?”
She laughed. “To start with, Nana lives in Geneva. She fosters abused pets and troubled teens, and she’s an ordained minister.” Darcy turned away from the cluster of flea market tents where couples and families wandered. “Uh, Marlowe? There’s a guy back there, wearing a Yankees cap. I think I saw him when we bought our hoagies.”

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