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He’d read her file. Smart mind, good family, loyal to the bone when it came to her up-and-coming D.A.-turned-hopeful politician father. The glossy photos he’d flipped through showed her at her father’s right hand, smiling, poised, beautiful, an asset in any public circle, while her equally gracious and gorgeous mother stood at his left. She’d given up the promise of her own law career to support her father in his. She was supposed to have seen him on to bigger and better things. Not see his reputation go down in a blaze of rumors not even the grave could extinguish.
She sat in the rear of the hazy diner, her back to the wall leading to the rest rooms he wouldn’t use on a dare. The fact that she was out of place was as glaringly apparent as the cost of her tailored business suit. Classy clothes, classy lady. The dusky-colored plum wool suit, creamy silk blouse opened in a modest vee, tasteful pearls and gravity-defying heels belonged in the business district not in the back booth of a greasy spoon. Even though the sun had all but disappeared, she still wore trendy wraparound dark glasses. But if it hadn’t been for a pair of the most luscious lips this side of an adolescent boy’s dreams, Jack wouldn’t have recognized her from the society page photos he’d studied. This woman had none of the healthy sorority girl sparkle and confidence that had beamed out at him from the newspaper file he’d sneaked a peek at. This dangerously fragile Tessa D’Angelo looked as though she’d gone several brutal rounds with the reigning middleweight champ and lost. Badly.
The Veronica Lake spill of her sleek blond hair couldn’t quite cover the stitching that ran from delicately arched eyebrow to temple. The shades couldn’t conceal the telltale bruising of two spectacular shiners. Slender fingers clasped the chipped coffee mug before her in a two-fisted death grip that betrayed a near-the-edge tremor. Her shoulders hunched protectively. At first glance, she looked like a poster child for domestic battering, but Jack knew better. He’d seen her police file, too.
A robbery, they’d called it.
Unsolved.
An unfortunate coincidence in light of her recent tragedies.
“Miss D’Angelo?”
Her head jerked up and he was sure her eyes behind the opaque lenses had that deer-in-the-headlights glaze of alarm. He fought against the want to soften his tone with an apology for startling her. But she was expecting a kick-butt assassin not a Boy Scout, and he didn’t want to disappoint her illusions. At least, not yet.
“I’m Jack Chaney.”
She was motionless for a long moment. Not with fright, as he at first assumed, but to look him over as thoroughly as he’d done her. He fought against the impulse to stand just a little bit straighter and finger-comb the wind damage to his usually immaculate hair. He didn’t care if his chin was a bit burly, if his clothing was rumpled or if the truck outside sported more rust than attitude. If he surrendered to the gods of arrogance, it was in that one small spot of vanity. He had great hair and preferred none of it out of place. But then he wasn’t here to be interviewed. Tessa D’Angelo was the one on the hot seat. She nodded toward the opposite bench. “You’re late.” It wasn’t an accusation but rather a relieved observation, as if she’d feared he wouldn’t show.
“Traffic,” was his casual excuse. He couldn’t very well tell her that it had taken some time and some big promises to get a look into the official records, not until he’d at least had a cup of coffee for his trouble. “You need a refill there?” He gestured toward the half-full cup. She took a sip from it and grimaced.
“I guess I do. This is cold.”
He held up a hand and a curvy brunette with a scarred name tag proclaiming “JoBeth” bumped an ample hip against his shoulder. That she was the “Jo” in “Cuppa Jo’s,” a grandmother who spent all of her free time clucking over the much younger kitchen and wait staff and would do the same to him if he’d allowed it, didn’t keep her from the expected flirtation. Though she glanced at his stylish companion, she was careful to keep any hint of questions out of her gaze.
“Hiya, Chaney. Long time. The usual? High octane chased with a Sweet’n Low?”
“Sounds good. And a warm-up for the lady.”
“Got peach pie hot out of the oven. Marcy’ll take it as an insult if you don’t let her trot a piece out to you.”
Jack grinned. “I’ll pass for now but have her save a slice for the road.”
“Gotcha, doll.”
After she sashayed back to the counter, Jack faced his would-be client and got right to business.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Tessa D’Angelo inhaled a sudden breath as if his condolences struck like another unfair punch. She let it out slow and shaky, then, in her throaty rumble, said, “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know him but he had a reputation for being a straight-up kinda guy.”
“And look where that reputation got him.”
Her flat summation puzzled him until she reached up with an elegant sweep of her hand to remove the dark glasses. The baby blues they revealed were anything but sweet. They were bright with angry, unshed tears.
“My father was a good man, Mr. Chaney. He was honest and decent and stood for justice all the way. Where was the justice in what happened to him?”
Casually he brought out the bulky tabloid he’d purchased on his way to the meeting. He laid it on the Formica-topped table where it covered the cup rings with words much more staining. She glanced at the glaring headlines and what little color her chiseled cheekbones retained all but drained away. She swayed slightly then gripped the edge of the table to regain her balance. Her delicate jaw worked a moment before she asked quietly, “If you believe that, why are you here?”
“I needed a cup of coffee. And I owe Stan. He asked me to take you seriously. This is pretty damned serious.” His finger tapped the tabloid’s banner: D.A.’s Suicide Tied To Drug Scandal.
“It’s a lie.”
“Most of the stuff you find in here is. But this sterling publication isn’t the only one saying it.”
“I don’t care who is saying what. My father isn’t guilty of anything. He wasn’t making money off drug trafficking or by looking the other way. I’d think his death would be proof of that.”
That was what Tessa had been trying to convince the police, according to her numerous calls, complaints and eventual condemnations.
Playing a calm devil’s advocate, Jack murmured, “Or unfortunate proof that he got in over his head and couldn’t face the consequences.”
She was off her seat so fast he barely had time to catch her wrist before she bolted. Such fine, easily broken bones. He restrained her carefully but refused to go easy on her. After all, even though she was the one who’d placed the call, they were on his dime now.
“Sit down, Miss D’Angelo. Those opinions can’t be news to you. They’ve been in every headline for weeks now. If you had thicker skin, you wouldn’t bruise so easily.” He felt a shiver go through her in reaction to her pain and rage.
“Hardly an amusing observation, considering,” came her wry retort.
“Sit,” he said again, and this time she did.
“It’s not my place to make judgments, Miss D’Angelo. That’s not what I do. I wasn’t aware that my opinions were why you sought me out. So I guess it’s time to ask, just why have you called me?”
“Justice, Mr. Chaney. For my father and me.”
“Vigilante style?”
“Would it matter to you?”
Her sharp tone was a quick barb to a conscience he wasn’t sure up until that very moment could be reached by mere words. His features stiffened.
“Obviously you think it shouldn’t.” She thought she was looking at a gun-for-hire, a quick, violent solution to her problems. What had Stan told her to give her that erroneous impression? Why come to him when the streets of the inner city were most likely teeming with guys who would kill for a quarter? That wasn’t what he did and it was about time she found that out. “What do you want from me, Miss D’Angelo? You want to put a contract out on whomever you think is responsible for putting your father in the ground? You want me to pull the trigger, is that it?”
She never so much as twitched. “I plan to pull my own trigger, Mr. Chaney. That’s not why I need you.”
He blinked.
“I need you to teach me how to stay alive long enough to pull it.”
She was blowing it.
Tessa could tell by the sudden blanking of his dark eyes. Gorgeous dark eyes that she bet could beg for forgiveness while making a woman forget what he had done wrong. Eyes that saw right through her tough outer shell to the marshmallow filling. It didn’t help that with his smoldering George-Clooney-like sex appeal, he looked more like a romantic leading man than the Rambo she’d been expecting. She had maybe a minute to plead her case or he was going to be gone. And with him, her last chance at finding out the truth.
“Stan said you could help me.”
It was an emotional ploy but she could tell it was effective by the way his sensuously shaped mouth thinned into a disagreeable line.
“Stan told you I could make you into a killer?”
Now, she was surprised. “N-no. No, of course not.”
Chaney relaxed ever so slightly. “Then I’m to assume we are speaking of a symbolic trigger.”
“Yes. Oh, you thought—that I—No.” Indignation stained her cheeks in hot points. “Mr. Chaney, my father gave his life to defend a system I will not abuse, even if it failed him. This isn’t about vigilante justice, it’s about truth. A truth someone doesn’t want me to find.”
“Isn’t that what the police are for, Miss D’Angelo?”
It was hard to hang on to her patience. Just what did he think she’d been doing since the official report and its damning summation had been released to the press? But no one wanted to listen to a distraught daughter anxious to save her father’s reputation with unsubstantiated tales right out of high-tech spy fiction.
“They don’t want to look beyond the truth they think they’ve already found. Someone framed my father and now he can’t defend himself against their lies. But I can and I will. But I can’t do it…the way things stand now.”
The coffee arrived and gave the tension between them time to ease to a manageable level. Tessa sipped her coffee, not caring that it burned her tongue and brought a swimming dampness to her eyes. She wasn’t a stranger to pain or tears these days, but she wouldn’t give in to either. Not any longer.
“Okay, I’ve heard your story. Now tell me how I fit into the next few chapters.”
She took a shallow breath and made herself meet his steady stare. She couldn’t let his sullen silent-screen-star looks distract her from what he was. He was a killer. A man who trained assassins for the government. A man so dangerous and beyond the laws she revered that she felt soiled just speaking to him. He had no respect for her cause or for honor; men like him never did. They had their own agendas, outside the rules that governed her world. But he was just the kind of man she needed to see those rules bent to her advantage.
“I’ve been threatened.”
Her simple statement had the impact of a ten-pound sledge. The evasive glassy look was gone from his keen gaze, replaced by a sharp understanding. “Is that verbal or physical?” He was studying her battered features, betraying no reaction to the sight. She forced herself not to cover the ugly reminders. Better he look and judge for himself.
“Both.” She didn’t care to go into more details with a stranger. He didn’t need to know that she lay awake at night listening for a telltale footstep, that if she was lucky enough to fall into a restless sleep, she always woke from it screaming and drenched in a sweat of dread. But he did need to know that the stakes were, as he’d said, serious.
“Just phone calls, lately. And I’ve been followed. Someone’s been in my apartment. More than once. The second time I walked in on them. A robbery gone bad, the police called it.” Her chin trembled slightly until she clenched her teeth. She could hear the voice whispering in the back of her mind and shook her head slightly to chase it away. Easy to do here in the light with noise and the companionable smells of coffee, grease and cigarette smoke to surround her. She fought to keep her own tone level.
“So far, it’s just a game of intimidation but I don’t like games with no rules, Mr. Chaney. I play to win. I always have. And to have any chance at all in this game, I have to be able to compete on their level.”
He made no comment on that, no judgment. “Do you have a gun?”
“No.”
“Get one.”
“I will. But when I do, I need to know that no one is going to take it away from me. I’ve been a victim once and I didn’t like it much. Next time they come for me, I want to be prepared. They hurt me and they scared me. And they killed my father. But they don’t know me. I’m not going to run and hide, Mr. Chaney. And I’m not going to give up. That’s why Stan sent me to you. I’m a sitting duck and I don’t want to be. Teach me how to protect myself so that I can see justice done for my father and see those who killed him brought to trial.”
Teach me how not to be afraid.
She didn’t have to say that. She knew he saw it in her face, in the shaky hands that nested the bottom of her coffee cup seeking the warmth she lacked inside. But would he do something about it?
Would he make it his fight?
“You’re wasting your time, Miss D’Angelo.”
His crisply spoken summation struck the wind from her lungs, the hope from her heart. For a moment she couldn’t respond, so he continued with that same detached calm.
“Go to the police. This is their job, not mine. I won’t give you any false confidence so you can go out and get yourself killed. I train professionals who are already without fear to do a job they have no illusions about coming home from. I don’t do Girl Scout camp. I’m sorry if Stan misled you.”
He didn’t look sorry.
He placed his hands on the table and started to rise. With nothing left to lose, she pulled out all stops.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to speak to your innate sense of decency. Men like you can’t afford any, can they?”
A thin smile warped his lips. “No, ma’am. We’re not do-gooders like your father. We’re not flag wavers who think justice will always triumph. We know better. That’s why people like you always come to people like me. I have no illusions left.”
“I feel sorry for you, Mr. Chaney. How sad not to believe in anything worthwhile.”
“I believe Detroit will have another crappy year despite a new billion-dollar home field. I believe the new fall season on television will end up in early midyear replacements. I believe a man can spit in the wind and have a better chance of not getting wet than you’ll have in proving your father is innocent of the nasty things this paper says about him.”
“I believe you’re a coward, Mr. Chaney.”
“Then you would be right, Miss D’Angelo, if being a coward means never taking on a fight you know you can’t win.”
He gathered up his heavy coat and laid two wadded bills on the tabletop. He no longer bothered with eye contact. He obviously didn’t want to see her disgust.
“With or without you, I’m not giving up.”
“Good luck, Miss D’Angelo.”
And he was gone, just like that.
Tessa sat for a moment, struggling to take a decent breath. Now what was she going to do? All her bold statements blew apart like smoke in a sudden breeze when she thought of the darkened corners of her parking garage and the 2:00 a.m. ringing of the phone. There would be shadows and threatening silences. And she would experience, all over again, the crippling panic of being helpless.
To hell with Jack Chaney. He was about as useful as the Metro police. Both wanted to take the easy way out in spite of the very real danger she was in. So be it. Tomorrow she would buy a gun. And she would keep right on digging for the truth until someone stopped her with something more than whispers over the phone and footsteps in the dark.
With something more than a beating disguised to be a robbery.
It was cold outside. October bit with the force of January but she’d been cold even before she’d left the diner to traverse the near empty streets. When she’d arrived, the only space available had been three blocks away. Now, with the curbs abandoned and the sidewalks a wasteland of tumbling wind-tossed litter, it seemed like three miles.
Gripping her keys, she started down the walk, hurrying between the weak pools of light spilling out from liquor stores and places of dubious entertainment value. She didn’t look around but stayed focused on her goal: a lone silver Lexus promising warmth and protection with the turn of a key and click of a latch.
Footsteps.
Her own quickened in pace with her heart. She fought the fatalistic desire to turn around, to confront the skulking threat head-on. What kind of weapon was a car key gripped in a sweaty palm against the fear that banged within her breast?
The footsteps grew bolder, closer, more determined in their cadence. The urge to run the length of that last block twisted within Tessa’s belly and trembled down her legs. If she ran, there was a chance she would be pursued. Could she outrun whatever followed? Her breathing shivered noisily as she bunched her calves and cursed the heels she’d worn to impress Jack Chaney. Three inches of fashionable thinness. She might as well be on stilts.
Anxiety knotting through her, she held her coat together and readied to bolt for safety.
And just then, safety in the person of Jack Chaney separated itself from the shadow of her car ahead. A true professional, he’d checked her background to learn what she drove. He’d been leaning there, waiting for her. She didn’t have to listen to know there were no longer footsteps behind her. Intimidation was a solitary business, not one meant for an audience.
“This is a dangerous neighborhood for a lady alone at night.”
She smiled crookedly at his generic observation. “You have no idea.” She came to a stop in front of him and was momentarily surprised. She thought he’d be taller. He’d seemed like a veritable giant seconds ago. Nervously she risked a look over her shoulder.
“He’s gone.”
Her gaze jumped back to him. “Who?”
