Her Secret Spy. Cindy DeesЧитать онлайн книгу.
sorry. I didn’t realize you were a contractor.”
“I’m not,” she answered cheerfully. “But how hard can it be? It’s only hammers and nails and saws.”
Oh, my dear God. Was that what she thought? “And you know how to weld copper and run wiring and hang drywall and know the New Orleans building codes, then?” he asked lightly. He’d renovated his condo when he bought it, but he’d paid experienced professionals to do it and it had still been a nightmare. He’d pitched in to help the crew and had learned a ton about construction, but he wouldn’t know where to begin with this disaster.
“No, but I’ll figure it out.”
He managed to get his hanging jaw closed before she turned around, a small bowl of tuna fish and mayonnaise in hand. Other hand on her hip, she asked, “Now where has Mr. Jackson gone off to?”
If he were this Jackson guy, he’d have run away from home and not come back until this place was put back together. Belatedly, Max answered, “Can you call him on his cell phone? Find out where he’s gone? I know some guys who could pick him up and bring him back here.”
Lissa frowned at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Hey. He’d just offered to burn a hard-won favor from his employer for her.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said slowly, as though he were some sort of ignorant child. “Mr. Jackson,” she crooned. “I made you your favorite. Tuna salad.”
Something landed on his shoulder from above, and he dived for the floor, rolling and coming up ready to kill. Jeez. Where had that guy come from? Stunned at the surprise attack, he looked around wildly for his attacker.
Nada. What the hell?
For her part, Lissa laughed and scooped up a...
Son of a bitch.
A cat. Small and black. With one white front paw that looked just like a feline glove. “Mr. Jackson, I presume?” he said drily, lowering his fists to his sides.
“Would you like to pet him? Although I don’t know if he likes men or not. You’re the first one I’ve seen him around. I inherited him with the store.”
“Along with this disaster zone?”
“I prefer to think of it as a project with unlimited potential.”
A cold knot of suspicion started to form in his gut. Had she actually, literally, inherited the place? From whom? And how recently? He’d been under the impression that the store’s namesake would be returning at some point. “Exactly how long ago did you inherit this place?”
“Let’s see. It’s been almost a month.”
He closed his eyes in chagrin as acid frustration ate its way through his gut. A month. The past few weeks of grueling round-the-clock surveillance had been for naught. She wasn’t the person he was supposed to be following. She wouldn’t have any contacts. She was useless to him. Worse, the trail had gone cold, then.
“Who owned this place before you?” he asked in resignation.
“My aunt. Callista Clearmont. She willed it to me right before she died suddenly.”
His one and only link to the next level of hierarchy in the mob he was infiltrating was dead? A stream of violent swearing erupted inside his head.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured automatically. Crap, crap, crap. How was he going to track down Callista Clearmont’s mob connections if the woman was dead? Why hadn’t anyone told him?
Unless the niece had inherited the mob contacts, as well...
Lissa turned away. Her shoulders gave a suspicious heave, and she sniffed loudly. Oh, no. Not more female tears. He had no defense against them. They scared him to death. Frantic to distract her from launching into full-blown waterworks, he asked quickly, “You said she died suddenly?”
His question did the trick. Lissa turned back to face him, another one of those delicate frowns of hers puckering her creamy brow. “She called me. Told me she was going to die any minute and that she’d willed everything she owned to me.”
“Was she sick a long time?”
“Oh, no. She was in perfect health. We all thought she was going to outlive the rest of the family.”
His internal antenna wiggled abruptly. Could it be? Had the mob or one of its enemies killed her? “What were the circumstances of her death, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“She died in her sleep, supposedly. A customer found her after she didn’t come downstairs for an appointment to do a reading.”
“A reading?”
“She was a psychic. I think that customer had asked for a crystal ball scrying. She also read palms very well. The last time I talked to her, she claimed she’d had a vision. That a spirit told her she was going to die within a day or two and to put her affairs in order.”
A spirit, huh? More like a mob informant, perhaps? “Who were your aunt’s clients? Did she keep a list of them?”
“I suppose so. I haven’t found it if she did keep one, though. Her business papers are, well, a little disorganized.”
If the shop downstairs was any indication of how the woman had done business, any kind of organized client list was probably a long shot. With a list, though, he could maybe identify Callista’s mob contact and find the next level of hierarchy in the secretive Russian gang he’d spent the past two years infiltrating.
“Are you hungry?” Lissa asked, startling him out of his train of thought.
“You don’t have to feed me. I’ll grab something on the way home.”
“It’s the least I can do for you after you saved my life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far in describing what I did. I only interrupted a mugging. Any passerby could have done the same.”
“They could have, but that doesn’t mean they would have. He was going to kill me.”
How did she know that? Was she a psychic, too?
“I was just planning to heat up some leftovers. Let me fix you a plate.”
“Can I help, umm, prepare it?” He eyed the hot plate and metal washtub askance.
“Nah. I bought a Monte Cristo sandwich earlier and I’ll just pop it in the microwave. It’s a lot more than I can eat alone. I’ll split it with you.”
“Sure. If you’ll let me buy the next meal.” The words were out of his mouth before he stopped to think about them. There couldn’t be a “next meal” for the two of them. She was an innocent, not mixed up in her aunt’s mess and of no use to him. He would deliver her to Bastien in the morning, and then he would get the hell out of her life and never look back.
Lissa’s hands still shook a little as she handed a paper plate with the batter-dipped, multilayered, fried ham-and-cheese sandwich to “Max Smith.” Which totally wasn’t his name. It didn’t take special powers to hear the evasion in his voice when he’d given her the name.
She was more rattled by tonight’s attack than she wanted to let on, even to herself. Thank God this stranger had been there to swoop in and save the day. She didn’t want to think about what would have happened had he not come along.
Speaking of which...“I’ll be right back,” she blurted. “There’s something I have to do.”
Max looked up at her in alarm. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Heavens no.” She ducked into what would