Close To The Edge. Kylie BrantЧитать онлайн книгу.
They’d long ago reached a compromise so that he used a razor at least every other day, making him due again tomorrow. His eyes, as dark as his hair, usually held a wicked gleam that, if rumors could be believed, had led hundreds of unwary female hearts to their ruination.
The lazy bayou cadence of his languid drawl put most people at ease, but the more wary would never mistake him for harmless. Not with that slight hint of menace layered beneath the lazy affability. Given his penchant for jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with suggestive sayings, he looked like exactly what he was—a man who had grown up in the swamps and had lived by his wits in the back alleys of New Orleans. The fresh bruise blooming below one eye only added to his aura of danger.
He ambled into the room and propped his hips against a chair to survey her. “What were you doin’ in Frenchy’s tonight?”
“I am not going to stand here half naked and have a conversation with you!”
His mouth twitched. “A shame, since you make such a picture half naked.” When she reached for the paperweight again, he made a production of raising his hands and turned his back with exaggerated care. “What could you possibly be plannin’ after startin’ a riot in Frenchy’s? Wrestlin’ a few alligators? Leapin’ tall buildings with a single bound?”
“I’m meeting my mother for dinner.” And, she realized, with another quick glance at the clock, she was almost certain to be late. Giving up the battle, she slipped the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. “Hand me that dress, will you?”
He reached for the sedate black dress hanging over the back of the chair and held it up to study it. “A present from a nun?”
She snatched it from him, yanked down the zipper, and stepped into it. “From my mother.”
“That explains it. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
Struggling to zip up, she said, “I got a tip this afternoon about that missing girl, Cheryl Kenning. Remember her?”
“Twenty-year-old, reported missin’ by her grandparents. The NOPD found her hookin’, didn’t they?”
“That’s the one.” She jammed her feet into her high-heeled pumps. “I discovered that she was working for Goldie, and with a little digging I was able to come up with a list of his hangouts.”
Without asking permission, he spun around to frown at her. “And you thought you’d just ask him to point you in her general direction?”
“Give me some credit. I heard he carried his business ledger with him.” She rounded the desk to pull open the center drawer. Withdrawing a small black notebook, she waggled it, feeling smug. “This fell on the floor after I arranged to have him distracted. I managed to swipe it on my way out.”
“You arranged? The guy that provoked him was workin’ with you?”
One of the nice things about Lucky, she thought, as she dropped the notebook back in the drawer, was that he caught on so quickly. She never had to waste time explaining things.
Admiration sounded in his voice. “Very nice. Devious, yet simple.”
“Thank you. I learned from the master.” She went to her bag, withdrew a small purse that would match the dress, and began transferring a few things from the one she’d carried earlier. “Apparently each girl he has working for him frequents the same few locations. I’ll spend some time staking them out, and then when I can be certain of the location Cheryl frequents, I’ll let her grandparents know.”
“So they can do what? Kidnap her?”
Snapping her purse closed, she searched the bag for the flat jewelry box that held her grandmother’s pearls. Pushing aside a tiny sliver of uncertainty, she responded, “That will be up to them. My job was just to find her. Help me with these, will you?”
Lucky moved in back of her and took the two ends of the necklace and fastened the clasp. But when he was done, he didn’t step away. He turned her around, his hands remaining on her arms, his face serious. “She had a chance to leave that life the last time the police picked her up, and her grandparents were alerted. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave, have you ever thought of that? You may not approve of her choice, but she still has the right to make it.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed over a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and the difference was inevitably reflected in their attitudes. But knowing that, understanding it, didn’t make it any less annoying this time. “My approval doesn’t have anything to do with it. He might have gotten her hooked on drugs. Or she might be too afraid of him to leave. She’ll get her choice, and it won’t be tempered by fear or addiction.”
Not every case handled by Wheeler and Associates was imbued with moral implications. Most, as a matter of fact, bordered on the mundane. But there were cases, plural, and the knowledge filled Jacey with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She’d started the private investigation business as soon as she could get her hands on her trust-fund monies, over the vehement objections of her mother. She’d acquired the training, found the building and done the advertising. And then, for the better part of a year, she’d twiddled her thumbs.
It seemed that few in her circle of acquaintances had need for a PI, however upscale and discreet. And most who had stopped in had lost interest quickly when it became apparent that hers was a one-woman operation. That had abruptly changed when Lucky Boucher had walked through her door three years ago.
Rather than bringing her a case, he’d been looking for work. The idea had been laughable, since she couldn’t even keep herself busy. And he…he had been completely inappropriate, even if she had been considering employees. He was too rough, too unpolished and his background bordered on the unsavory. He’d also been impossible to get rid of.
He’d snatched the lone case file off her desk and read it over her furious objection. Then he’d left, after vowing to find the bail jumper she’d been hired to trace within twenty-four hours.
It had taken him six.
After two weeks and two more solved cases, his constant badgering had worn her down. Besides, as he’d pointed out then, he worked cheap. She’d hired him reluctantly, fully expecting him to tire of the job and move on within weeks. He’d surprised them both by staying. Even more shocking, they had somehow, along the way, become friends.
At least, she thought that was what they were. She trusted him, in a way she did no other, although at times it was difficult to tell just who was the boss and who was the employee. She seemed to spend most of her time reminding him.
He dropped his hands, freeing her. But instead of moving away, she frowned, reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face. “Did your pool partner catch up with you after I left?”
He’d never been one to miss a chance to milk an opportunity. Making a show of wincing, he said, “No, this bouele was delivered by one of your would-be admirers. There were several who thought of followin’ you out of the bar. I convinced them otherwise.”
Rather than looking grateful, she appeared mildly amused. “So you were protecting me? Lucky, that’s so sweet.”
Discomfited, he shrugged. There was something about the woman that could make him feel like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “Well, if one had hurt you, I’d have had to do all the work around here. Since I already carry more than my load, I was just thinkin’ of myself.”
She made a sound that almost qualified as a sniff, one she often used to denote derision and disagreement without having to do something as ill-bred as argue. It never failed to set his teeth on edge.
“I think I demonstrated my ability to take care of myself in there. Was that biker walking again by the time you left?”
He hadn’t been, but Lucky didn’t want to swell her head by telling her so. “Next time give him a good kick once he’s down. You want to disable him completely, not just piss him off.”