who’d apparently decided against having her day in court to explain why she shot her married boyfriend.
Jack figured she was dumb as a post, as well. A good-looking woman—and from her photo and description, she qualified—with a few working brain cells could manipulate a judge and jury over something as minor as plugging an adulterous accountant.
It wasn’t like she’d killed the poor bastard.
It was a cream-puff job, which didn’t explain why Ralph had been so jumpy. He’d stuttered more than usual, and his eyes had danced all over the cramped, dusty office.
But Jack wasn’t interested in analyzing Ralph. He wanted to wrap up the job quickly, get that beer and start enjoying his fee.
The extra money from this quick one meant he could snatch up that first edition of Don Quixote he’d been coveting, so he’d tolerate sweating in the car for a few hours.
He didn’t look like a man who hunted up rare books or enjoyed philosophical debates on the nature of man. He wore his sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail—which was more a testament to his distrust of barbers than a fashion statement, though the sleek look enhanced his long, narrow face, with its slashing cheekbones and hollows. Over the shallow dent in his chin, his mouth was full and firm, and looked poetic when it wasn’t curled in a sneer.
His eyes were razor-edged gray that could soften to smoke at the sight of the yellowing pages of a first-edition Dante, or darken with pleasure at a glimpse of a pretty woman in a thin summer dress. His brows were arched, with a faintly demonic touch accented by the white scar that ran diagonally through the left and was the result of a tangle with a jackknife wielded by a murder in the second who hadn’t wanted Jack to collect his fee.
Jack had collected the fee, and the skip had sported a broken arm and a nose that would never be the same unless the state sprang for rhinoplasty.
Which wouldn’t have surprised Jack a bit.
There were other scars. His long, rangy body had the marks of a warrior, and there were women who liked to coo over them.
Jack didn’t mind.
He stretched out his yard-long legs, cracked the tightness out of his shoulders and debated popping the top on another soft drink and pretending it was a beer.
When the MG zipped by, top down, radio blasting, he shook his head. Dumb as a post, he thought—though he admired her taste in music. The car jibed with his paperwork, and the quick glimpse of the woman as she’d flown by confirmed it. The short red hair that had been blowing in the breeze was a dead giveaway.
It was ironic, he thought as he watched her unfold herself out of the little car she’d parked in front of him, that a woman who looked like that should be so pathetically stupid.
He wouldn’t have called her easy on the eyes. There didn’t look to be anything easy about her. She was a tall one—and he did have a weakness for long-legged, dangerous women. Her narrow teenage-boy hips were hugged by a pair of faded jeans that were white at the stress points and ripped at the knee. The T-shirt tucked into the jeans was plain white cotton, and her small, unhampered breasts pressed nicely against the soft fabric.
She hauled a bag out of the car, and Jack received a interesting view of a firm female bottom in tight denim. Grinning to himself, he patted a hand on his heart. Small wonder some slob had cheated on his wife for this one.
She had a face as angular as her body. Though it was milkmaid-pale, to go with the flaming cap of hair, there was nothing of the maid about it. Pointed chin and pointed cheekbones combined to create a tough, sexy face tilted off center by a lush, sensual mouth.
She was wearing dark wraparound shades, but he knew her eyes were green from the paperwork. He wondered if they’d be like moss or emeralds.
With an enormous shoulder bag hitched on one shoulder, a grocery bag cocked on her hip, she started toward him and the apartment building. He let himself sigh once over her loose-limbed, ground-eating stride.
He sure did go for leggy women.
He got out of the car and strolled after her. He didn’t figure she’d be much trouble. She might scratch and bite a bit, but she didn’t look like the kind who’d dissolve into pleading tears.
He really hated when that happened.
His game plan was simple. He could have taken her outside, but he hated public displays when there were other choices. So he’d push himself into her apartment, explain the situation, then take her in.
She didn’t look like she had a care in the world, Jack noted as he stepped into the building behind her. Did she really figure the cops wouldn’t check out the homes of her friends and associates? And driving her own car to shop for groceries. It was amazing she hadn’t already been picked up.
But then, the cops had enough to do without scrambling after a woman who’d had a spat with her lover.
He hoped her pal who lived in the apartment wasn’t home. He’d kept the windows under surveillance for the best part of an hour, and he’d seen no movement. He’d heard no sound when he took a lazy walk under the open third-floor windows, and he’d wandered inside to listen at the door.
But you could never be too sure.
Since she turned away from the elevator, toward the stairs, so did he. She never glanced back, making him figure she was either supremely confident or had a lot on her mind.
He closed the distance between them, flashed a smile at her. “Want a hand with that?”
The dark glasses turned, leveled on his face. Her lips didn’t curve in the slightest. “No. I’ve got it.”
“Okay, but I’m going a couple flights up. Visiting my aunt. Haven’t seen her in—damn—two years. Just blew into town this morning. Forgot how hot it got in D.C.”
The glasses turned away again. “It’s not the heat,” she said, her voice dry as dust, “it’s the humidity.”
He chuckled at that, recognizing sarcasm and annoyance. “Yeah, that’s what they say. I’ve been in Wisconsin the past few years. Grew up here, though, but I’d forgotten… Here let me give you a hand.”
It was a smooth move, easing in as she shifted the bag to slip her key into the lock of the apartment door. Equally smooth, she blocked with her shoulder, pushed the door open. “I’ve got it,” she repeated, and started to kick the door shut in his face.
He slid in like a snake, took a firm hold on her arm. “Ms. O’Leary—” It was all he got out before her elbow cracked into his chin. He swore, blinked his vision clear and dodged the kick to the groin. But it had been close enough to have him swiftly changing his approach.
Explanations could damn well wait.
He grabbed her, and she turned in his arms, stomped down hard enough on his foot to have stars springing into his head. And that was before she backfisted him in the face.
Her bag of groceries had gone flying, and she delivered each blow with a quick expulsion of breath. Initially he blocked her blows, which wasn’t an easy matter. She was obvious trained for combat—a little detail Ralph had omitted.
When
