Книга - Up Against the Wall

Up Against the Wall
Julie Miller


He was built like a tank, and he was undercover in Kansas City's seediest district.Waist-deep in the trouble that came along with the Vice Squad, Seth Cartwright had unwanted company. After several years, investigative reporter Rebecca Page was fi nally getting her chance to uncover the truth behind her father's death–if she could swing Seth to her side.There was no debating that Seth ignited her temper, along with something else at her core. He said he was no longer a cop, though Rebecca suspected there was more to Seth than met the eye. And awaiting them was a deadly secret that KC's most ruthless criminal minds will do anything to keep buried deep forever.









Up Against the Wall

Julie Miller











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This one is for me.

Because some years are harder than others.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven




Prologue


Three years ago

Reuben Page knelt over the bloody corpse of his informant and cursed. “Damn, Dani.”

His stomach soured. Maybe he was getting too old for this type of investigative reporting. The kid had just started her Master’s degree. Couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Reuben’s own daughter. Danielle Ballard was still a government intern, filing papers for Kansas City’s economic development task force.

The symbolism of the young woman’s throat being slashed wasn’t lost on Reuben.

Keep her from talking.

Nor was the fact that he was alone near the rundown docks on the Missouri River just north of Kansas City’s City Market, long after midnight, hovering over a dead body. If Dani had been made, most likely Reuben’s investigation had, too.

“Sorry, kiddo. Has to be done.” Disturbing a crime scene went against years of training as a crime reporter, but Reuben needed the disk that Dani had promised to deliver tonight. It held names, numbers, bank accounts. Clear evidence of bribes. Enough information to turn Reuben’s suspicions into facts.

He bit down on his conscience and leaned over the body.

Even though Dani didn’t smoke, the scent of fine tobacco clung to her clothes, mixing with the salty, dank smells of blood and flesh. The night was dull, the autumn air chilled by a heavy dampness in the air that wasn’t quite rain. The wash of the river was a lonely sound as it swept past in the darkness beneath the empty docks. He should be calling the cops. Calling Dani’s family. Putting a blanket over her.

Instead, Reuben turned out Dani’s pockets and discovered he wasn’t the first to search the corpse that night. Even her raincoat had been ripped open—with the same bloody knife that had slashed her throat, judging by the dampness of the dark red traces at the seams. The only item on her was a ring of keys in her fist. Her open purse lay in a puddle beside her. Either the disk had been taken by the killer, or Dani never had it in the first place.

But on the phone that morning, Dani had sworn that she’d found evidence to prove a new breed of organized crime had come to Kansas City. Reuben had already pieced together a pattern—a rise in intimidation crimes, suspect investments that mimicked the money laundering schemes he’d written about on the police beat in Chicago, select, ruthless murders like this one. Dani’s insider evidence would connect the dots, and Reuben could expose the problem and win a second Pulitzer in the process.

“It has to be here,” he muttered. If the killer had it, then Reuben’s story was dead.

If the killer had the disk, then so was he.

His heart beat faster and Reuben hurried his search, silently apologizing as he ran his fingers over the body, nudging it from one side to the other with the same speed and determination with which he typed out his columns on the keyboard.

When he saw the bulge in Dani’s purse, he turned it inside out and dumped the contents at his feet. Though it wasn’t the right shape for a disk, he might find a note, or a clue to lead him to the disk’s location. “Tell me you were a smart kid.” Reuben froze. “What the hell?”

Money. Not just a couple of twenties, but hundreds, no…Reuben caught the bills before the misted breeze off the river blew them away. “There has to be ten thousand dollars here.” A plant. Had to be. Idealistic kids fresh out of college didn’t carry that kind of cash. “What’s this?”

Reuben held the tiny plastic bag up to the dim circle of light hanging over the rusted door of the warehouse behind him. He recognized the crack from his research into numerous drug-related crimes.

“A setup.” One look at her dewy skin and straight white teeth, and anyone who knew the signs could tell Dani didn’t use. A crusader like her wouldn’t sell, either. So why…?

Reuben peered over his shoulder into the night, trusting his reporter’s nose. He was being watched. But by human eyes? Or by whatever was scurrying beneath the trash bin beside him?

He breathed a measured sigh of relief when a rat darted past and disappeared through a hole in the building’s foundation. But it was warning enough for him to get his butt into gear and get out of there.

Reuben pushed to his feet, pocketing the cash, the drugs and the keys. The kid was a hero in Reuben’s book, and would earn a deserving mention in his next Kansas City Journal column. He wouldn’t let the thug who’d silenced her tarnish her reputation.

Reuben’s crepe-soled shoes squeaked on the damp pavement as he hurried toward the vintage Cadillac he’d parked on the street side of the warehouse. He emptied the drugs into the river, dropped the plastic bag into a trash bin, and stuffed the wad of cash into his jacket pocket. Then he sped away into the heart of downtown K.C., planning to dump the money in a foreign location where it wouldn’t be traced back to Dani Ballard. Maybe he’d donate it to a shelter, or leave it in a church’s mailbox. Maybe he’d head on south of the city and toss it into one of the landfills.

Reuben Page did none of those things.

One of the keys in the passenger seat winked at him as he passed beneath a street lamp. The game was still on. “Brilliant, kiddo.”

The rush of discovery fueled the story composing itself inside his head as Reuben swung the car toward the city bus terminal. He reached for the key to a bus-station storage locker and tucked it into his pocket. In the same motion, he retrieved a pen and notepad, turned to a fresh page and jotted a cryptic note.

Balancing the pad on his knee and writing as he drove couldn’t make his handwriting any worse. There was only one person left in the world who could decipher his illegible scrawl, one person who looked forward to reading his notes, one person he loved and trusted enough to share them with.

Dear Rebecca, he began.

Since his wife’s death a decade earlier, Reuben had started sending his story notes to his daughter. Once upon a time, his wife had translated them and typed them up for him. But now that Rebecca was away at the University of Missouri’s journalism school in Columbia, following in his footsteps as a reporter, she seemed to enjoy reading them as though she was keeping up with a journal of his activities. He supposed they replaced the letters he always intended to write, but never could quite get onto paper or into an e-mail. His scribbles connected them in a way that the dangers and demands of his job rarely allowed them to. Besides, with the number of computers he’d sent to their makers, it never hurt to have a backup copy of his current work in someone else’s hands.

As he sped through the fog-shrouded streets, Reuben briefly detailed Dani’s murder, skipping the more graphic elements. He wrote about the disk, listed abbreviations of the names he thought would be linked to the murder. He sent his love and promised to visit Mizzou for homecoming in a couple of weeks. He pulled an envelope from his briefcase, tucked the notepad inside and addressed the package. He stuck a wad of stamps onto one corner and dropped it into a mailbox en route.

The bus terminal was a surprising hive of activity at one in the morning. Parked cars lined the street and Reuben had to squeeze his long sedan into a tiny space nearly a block away. The street lamps barely cut a path through the fog, but still he looked—peering up and down the sidewalk as he turned up his collar and checked for familiar cars. Then, when he felt certain enough that nothing beyond leaving the scene of a murder was out of the ordinary for the night, he crossed the street. Two buses were loading and unloading passengers beneath the driveway canopy on the west side of the building, and he jogged up to lose himself in the parade of travelers entering the terminal.

Inside, Reuben separated himself from the crowd and made a beeline across the lobby to the rows of storage lockers. He found number 280 easily enough and inserted the key.

The square, squat locker could have held an entire computer, but there was only one small item inside. A padded envelope with his name on it. Hunching over the open doorway to hide his prize, he slipped the disk inside his jacket. He couldn’t resist a satisfied smile. “You’re gonna be more famous than Deep Throat, kiddo.”

When he closed the door and saw the man in the tailored suit at the coffee counter, cradling a plastic cup between his well-manicured hands, Reuben’s temporary rush of victory chilled in his veins. Dani had never stood a chance. That smug son of a bitch. Publicly claiming to be a friend of the press. A friend to Kansas City. A friend to all.

The eyes that met Reuben’s gaze said he was no man’s friend but his own.

And the evidence to prove it was burning a hole inside Reuben’s pocket.

His story wouldn’t get written. Not tonight. Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Then he became aware of the bruiser with a mustache standing at the exit, watching him without blinking. Another overbuilt guard dog waited with the passengers lining up for St. Louis. Obliquely, Reuben wondered which one of them had Dani Ballard’s blood on his hands. Maybe they both did. Their boss, still sipping his coffee, certainly wouldn’t dirty his hands that way.

Reuben cursed beneath his breath and slowly walked toward the heart of the lobby. How had he been followed? When had he missed the car that must have been waiting for him to leave the docks? Or had they tailed him some other way? A tracking chip, maybe? He swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts. Whys and hows no longer mattered.

Justice did.

Survival seemed a mighty distant second.

He could be bold and approach the man at the counter, disk in hand, and dare him to deny the truth. Or he could take a chance.

The same chance Danielle Ballard had taken.

With a firm resolution, Reuben Page pulled his shoulders back and exhaled a steadying breath. With his gaze darting from one threat to the next, he strode with purpose to the center of the crowded waiting area.

And tossed the ten grand of cash into the air.

As the passengers converged and chaos erupted, Reuben shoved his way past them and ran. Once-weary citizens attacked the free money with a frenzy that blocked the two thugs and gave Reuben a clear path to the door. He shot outside, never sparing a glance behind him until he reached his car.

There was no finesse to slamming the bumper of the car in front of him, no apology for scratching a strip of paint from headlamp to taillight. He jerked the wheel, floored the accelerator and sped into the street. He turned two corners and ran one stop sign before daring to turn on his lights. Hopefully, he’d gotten enough of a lead that the three men couldn’t follow him.

No such luck.

Now he was painfully aware of the screech of tires and blare of horns behind him as the men who wanted to silence him closed the gap between them. Though little more than a pair of lights in the fog behind him, they closed in with an ominous intent. His own low-slung Caddy bottomed out over a pothole as he barreled through town. The base of skyscrapers gave way to empty parks, then tiny homes. The sleek black car chasing him took shape and color as it rammed his rear bumper. He skidded on the pavement made slick by the drippy fog and careened into a narrow alley. A gunshot cracked his rear window and a telephone pole tore off his side mirror as he whipped past.

Reuben couldn’t remember breathing, much less turning toward the decaying isolation of the warehouses that lined the river. Another gunshot shattered the rear window and debris slammed into the back of his neck and scalp. The lacerations burned, startled. The steering wheel lurched in his grip.

He thought of his daughter as the sedan flew off the end of the dock and plunged into the river. The water was a cold shock that slapped him in the face and sharpened his senses. The heavy car sank quickly, but as the murky water pooled around him, Reuben had the presence of mind to unhook his seat belt and swim up through the empty rear window.

He kicked to the surface as the current carried him downstream. Reuben coughed up water and gasped for breath. But bright car lights from the street that ran the length of the docks caught him in their glare. Shouts and bullets followed, and he dove beneath the water again.

Rebecca would love an adventure like this one. She’d inherited her mother’s beauty, but she had his tenacity. His reckless determination to know.

Reuben slammed into the rusting steel hull of the abandoned Commodore riverboat, permanently anchored and left to be sold for scrap metal. As his breath whooshed from his chest and he sank beneath the water, Reuben thought like a father, not a reporter. He didn’t want Rebecca risking her life for a news story. He didn’t want her to wind up like Dani Ballard.

As he swallowed a lungful of dense green-brown water, he wished his daughter could content herself with marrying a nice young man and filling a sweet suburban home with babies. Reuben knew Rebecca would love her children just as fiercely as he loved her. Maybe he should have showed her better what was in his heart.

The chance to meet those grandchildren, the chance to tell Rebecca the things he should have told her long ago, gave Reuben the strength to kick to the surface one last time. He hoisted himself up over the edge of the boat and rolled onto the deck. Sapped of strength, he crawled to the nearest opening and tumbled between the rotting floorboards, crashing down to the lower deck.

Shaking his vision clear, he staggered to his feet. The grandeur of what had once been a row of staterooms was lost on him. He saw only two-by-fours and steel joists and a rickety ladder descending into the pit of the engine room. Hearing footsteps running along the dock, he slid down into the bowels of the ship. Reuben slipped the disk from his pocket and hid the envelope inside the first cubbyhole he could find. Then, limping to the nearest exit, he pulled a marker from his pocket and scribbled a crude code of symbols on his hand in a shorthand that only Rebecca would understand.

“Mightier than the sword,” he rasped. He hoped. He prayed.

Reuben was lightheaded and weak when muscular arms pulled him back to the Commodore’s deck and propped him up against the bulkhead.

“Well, if it isn’t the legendary Reuben Page. You wouldn’t be planning another exposé now, would you? Where’s the disk Dani gave you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The voice laughed without amusement. “I’m afraid the truth is going to die with you, Mr. Page.”

Reuben blinked the face and suit into focus and stood as tall as his battered body would let him. “The truth never dies.”

“It does tonight.”




Chapter One


“W.I.” Rebecca Page read the acronym out loud. “That has to be Wolfe International.”

She gently turned the tattered page and read the names and information enclosed there.

TW,Sr/TW,Jr/DK/AC

Don’t worry. Will dec. gibberish at earl.con. unless you get it done first.

DB dead. Removed plant. Kid clean.

Execution confirms suspicions. KCPD will need different kind of proof, however.

Pursue lead to bus locker. DB promised disk. Should name names. Someone on Econ Dev Comm in it up to his eyeballs. Influence certain. Too much money floating around KC. It’s here at the docks. My nose can smell a rat—and he’s a big one. They’re watching me, so I know I’m onto something.

Stay away from this one, kiddo. Just play bookkeeper for me.

Will copy you as soon as able. See you at Mizzou.

XXOO,

Dad

“Love you, too.” Rebecca turned to the back of the small notebook and looked at the boxes and letters she’d copied herself. It was the last cryptic message her father had left for her. DBD->COM.


. Over the last several months, she’d added a spiderweb of names and possible interpretations. “What were you trying to tell me, Dad?”

As always, the answer toyed with her thoughts but escaped her.

She tenderly closed the notebook and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply. If she closed her eyes and imagined hard enough, she could still detect her father’s familiar scent on the soft, well-worn leather. She could hear his throaty laugh and feel his arms wrapping her up in a warm hug.

But she was long past sitting on the sidelines and playing bookkeeper. Rebecca wasn’t a woman given to fanciful notions, nor did she waste her time when there was a story to pursue. She had big footsteps to fill as a reporter for the Kansas City Journal. This wasn’t just about living up to her father’s reputation and making a name for herself in her chosen career. This was about living up to her father’s love. This was about proving his faith in her hadn’t been misplaced.

Her artificially long lashes tickled her cheeks as she opened her eyes and steeled herself for the task at hand. The only thing that warmed her tonight was the muggy summer heat. The only scents were the faint, seaweedy smell of the Missouri River and her own spicier perfume. The only laughter she heard belonged to a few of the lucky customers outside the Riverboat Casino complex, waiting for a cab or valet service. The players who’d been less fortunate filled the night air with damning curses and desperate ramblings.

Rebecca watched them all from the front seat of her cherry-red Mustang. Was he the one? Was she?

Who were the big guns with money-laundering and murder on their minds? And who were the innocent bystanders, unaware of the big money, big influence and big cover-up hidden beneath the Riverboat Casino’s polished-steel facade and glitzy excitement? They’d all come to the shiny steamship that had once been the rusted wreck of the Commodore riverboat. Renovation and expansion could only mask the Commodore’s secrets. A new name and facelift didn’t change the fact that her father’s life had ended here.

And where the trail of clues he’d left for her ended, her investigation would begin. If she could unlock the details of that last exposé her father had been working on, she just might be able to piece together the rest of the puzzle and find out who’d murdered him. Which was a hell of a lot more than those pathetic all-talk, no-action bozos at KCPD had been able to do over the past three years. They’d relegated Reuben Page’s murder to their unsolved cold-case files.

Rebecca had no intention of giving up on her father.

His memory was all she had left.

With her nerve firmly set into place, Rebecca locked the precious notebook inside the glove compartment and inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. Squeezing the university class ring that hung from a white-gold chain around her neck, she whispered, “This one’s for you, Dad.”

She bussed the man-sized ring with a quick kiss and tucked it inside the décolletage of her little black dress. Once out of the car, she paused for a moment to adjust the swingy hemline that stopped several inches above her knees. Any day of the week she preferred the practicality of jeans and khakis over a dress and three-inch heels. But what was the point of standing five-foot-ten if a girl couldn’t show off a little leg when the occasion called for it?

Tonight’s game plan definitely called for it.

As did the free fall of curly brunette hair that tickled the bare skin between her shoulder blades. Rebecca paused to open her tiny purse and pull out her compact, ostensibly to check the subtle pout of her ruby-tinted lips. In reality, she was verifying that the miniature recorder she carried would be ready at the push of a button should she need it. Tonight was more about identifying the players she’d been researching rather than finding any meaningful facts. If she could ingratiate herself into the casino crowd, get the layout of the place and the faces memorized, then she’d be in position to start digging beneath the surface. Deck by deck. Suspect by suspect. Clue by clue.

The Journal hadn’t sanctioned this assignment. Her editor had no idea of the personal nature of this investigation. He probably wouldn’t have granted her vacation if he’d known what she was really up to. But blessing or no, she intended to approach this job with the same diligence she’d use on any other story she was reporting. She intended to be just as prepared, just as thorough.

Rebecca snapped her bag shut and let the masquerade begin.

She curved her mouth into a subtle pout at the appreciative glances and outright stares that followed her across the wide, fixed gangplank leading over the water to the Riverboat’s light-studded entryway. Good. She didn’t have the money to throw around at the gaming tables necessary to garner the attention of the men she was here to investigate. And she couldn’t exactly flash her press pass or use her real name, in case someone connected her to her father or the paper.

But there was more than one way to get herself invited into the back rooms and private offices on board. And though it stuck in her feminist craw, Rebecca Page was relying on the long legs she’d inherited from her father and the dramatic sculpt of cheekbones she’d inherited from her mother to get her inside that inner circle to the secrets hidden there.

The noise of bells and whistles, chatter and music assaulting her ears nearly sent Rebecca back out the sliding glass doors. But, seeing the wine-red carpet and refined appointments of an Old South cruise ship as some sort of surreal memorial to her father, she curled her toes inside her stilettos and refused to retreat. Bright lights and false fronts aside, this was where her father had died. It was where he might have hidden a disk or notebook before taking a bullet and plunging into the river.

His killer worked here. Or played here. Had rebuilt the place from below the waterline on up to the bright-red smokestacks. Someone here knew something or somebody. The money that had created this gambling mecca was tainted. Her father had known that and had been silenced for that knowledge.

If she couldn’t find the actual killer, then Rebecca was certain this place would provide the clues to lead her to him.



“WELCOME to the Riverboat.” A young woman wearing a mini version of a dance-hall girl’s costume pressed a brass coin into Rebecca’s hand. “We’re giving a token to every new player who comes in tonight. It’s good for one game at the quarter slots, or a free drink at the Cotton Blossom bar.”

Rebecca glanced at the token in her palm, arching an eyebrow with skepticism. “How do you know I’m a new player? You’ve been open since the Memorial Day weekend, haven’t you? Maybe I’ve been in here before.”

The hostess’s blank expression told Rebecca she’d interrupted the girl’s memorized spiel. Then the young woman laughed.

“Okay.” Rebecca waited for a “like, totally” to pop out of the blonde’s giggly mouth. “So we’re really giving a token to every customer who comes through our doors all summer long, whether it’s your first time or not. We want you to play the games and feel at home.”

In the enemy’s camp? Not likely. Rebecca returned a smile to the two men who entered behind her and who walked past before she dropped the token into her purse. Her questions had only just begun. She scanned the bubbly golden girl’s nametag. “Who’s ‘we’, Dawn? You and the other dance-hall girls?”

“Of course, us. Oh, you mean, who’s in charge?”

Rebecca nodded, gesturing around her and acting duly impressed. “Somebody laid out a pretty penny for this extravaganza.”

She knew the names on public record, but it wouldn’t hurt to know who the employees felt they really had to answer to. And if the perky blonde was willing to chat…

Dawn greeted two more guests and handed out tokens before she answered. “Well, there’s Mr. Kelleher. He does a lot of the boring business stuff.”

Rebecca ticked the name off her memorized list. That would be the chief financial backer from the Kansas City area. Local gossip claimed he had a grudge against the Westin family, who owned another wildly successful casino about two miles farther down river. Just how far would Kelleher go to get one up on the Westins? Would he murder a man whose story could close him down before he ever opened for business?

The hostess greeted another guest and continued, enjoying the opportunity to show off her inside knowledge of the place. “Let’s see. There’s the security guy. He used to be a bouncer, but now he’s in charge. Never smiles. And I don’t know Mr. Cartwright’s title, but I guess he designed the place and now he’s, you know, like the fix-it-up guy? Except he doesn’t do the work himself. I see him here more than I do Mr. Kelleher.”

Cartwright? Rebecca’s blood simmered as her subtle interrogation took a sharp turn into unexpected personal territory. That was a name she could have lived without hearing again. Shauna Cartwright was the stubborn lady commissioner of the KCPD whom Rebecca had interviewed more than once since assuming the position of crime beat reporter for the Journal. Even though the older woman had ultimately earned Rebecca’s grudging respect, she couldn’t exactly say they were friends. And, as if the chief cop wasn’t difficult enough to get along with, an even bigger thorn in Rebecca’s side was the commissioner’s bull-headed son, Seth Cartwright.

Another cop.

Built like a tank. To compensate for height issues, no doubt. Rebecca might even be a shade taller than KCPD’s lean, mean, testosterone machine.

But there was no debating the vivid memory of taut, hard muscles. Once, they’d been pressed intimately against her, and all that man and heat had left an indelible imprint on her skin and her psyche. Contact with Seth Cartwright had ignited her temper, along with something at the core of her that made so little sense that she’d dismissed it. Denied it, actually.

Maybe if her previous run-ins with the detective had had more to do with passion, and less to do with her right and his refusal to get to the heart of a story, she wouldn’t resent this visceral response to the mere mention of his name.

The prickly sea of goose bumps bathing her skin was no trick of the Riverboat’s air conditioning. Rather, it was an involuntary response to the humiliating memory of being wrestled to the ground like a common criminal. Like an overprotective bulldog, Cartwright had pinned her beneath him to keep her from approaching his mother and questioning her about a baby’s murder that had sent the entire city into a panic nearly eight months ago. The jerk. Hadn’t he ever heard of freedom of the press? Or respect for a woman? Or…hell.

Rebecca rubbed her arms to dispel the unwanted memory that refused to fade from her body. The name had to be a coincidence and she was doing a mental freak for no reason. A cop in his mid-twenties couldn’t have put away enough money to invest in an operation like this one.

Unless he’d quit the force and gotten a new job. Or was on the take.

Now there was a story she’d love to sink her teeth into.

“And there’s Teddy, of course.”

Rebecca dragged her attention back to the present and Dawn’s eager smile. “Teddy?”

Her father’s ring burned against her skin inside her dress. Rebecca fisted her hand around her purse to keep from reaching for it. How could she have forgotten her purpose here, even for a moment? How had she let a man, especially that one, distract her from her investigation?

Burying all thoughts of her nemesis at KCPD, Rebecca asked, “Who’s Teddy?”

“I mean, Mister Wolfe, of course,” Dawn’s cheeks pinkened as she corrected herself. “He manages the casino, bars and restaurants. He’s more of a people person than Mr. Kelleher.”

Now the name registered. Theodore Wolfe, Jr. Daniel Kelleher’s not-so-silent partner. Rebecca’s colleague in charge of the Journal’s business pages said Wolfe was a British investor who’d come to the U.S. to expand the successful gaming establishments his father’s company owned in London, Monte Carlo and the Bahamas—Wolfe International. Did his arrival in Kansas City have anything to do with her father’s death?

But Dawn was still talking. No, gushing was a better word. “You should get a load of that British accent. If James Bond had a twin…You know, they’re not all stuffy and tea and crumpets over there. At least, Teddy isn’t. Now his executive assistant, on the other hand—”

“Dawn, dear—are you monopolizing this beautiful lady?”

Rebecca “got a load” of that melodic, articulate British accent an instant before the scent of fine tobacco filled the air and a hand brushed the small of her back. She stiffened at the unexpected touch, then forced herself to relax as one of the men she’d come to investigate circled around her. Theodore Wolfe, Jr. Thirty. Boy wonder of the business world. As handsome in person as his publicity photo had indicated. Rebecca tipped her chin, unaccustomed to meeting many men she had to look up to. Teddy had expensive taste in smokes, deep-blue eyes and a killer smile that could make a woman with twice Dawn’s experience blush like a schoolgirl.

He also had a thick-necked sidekick who positioned himself behind his shoulder. Rebecca was guessing the older man with the nearly-shaved, silver hair was the executive assistant Dawn had sneered about. Looking more bodyguard than business associate, despite his tailored suit and tie, he stood far enough away to be removed from the conversation, but close enough for Rebecca to see his dark eyes studying her, then dismissing her as though she wasn’t worth his interest.

Cold, Rebecca thought, looking away before another attack of goose bumps betrayed her. Creepy.

“The idea is for you to welcome each guest,” Teddy chastised and flirted at the same time, though Rebecca wasn’t sure if the charm was aimed at her or Dawn. “Then we send them on his or her way to enjoy their evening. We want them to play.”

“We were just chatting, Mister Wolfe,” Dawn emphasized, as though she’d earn points for making the distinction.

With his silent shadow glowering just a few feet away, it wasn’t as difficult as Rebecca would have liked to respond to Teddy Wolfe’s smile. “I hope I didn’t get Dawn into trouble,” she apologized. “She really has been very welcoming.”

“She’s a good girl, isn’t she?” Though Dawn beamed at the praise, Rebecca thought she detected a subtle slur in the word girl. As opposed to woman. As opposed to the heavy-lidded interest he gave to Rebecca’s long legs and the deep plunge of her neckline.

Score one for the femme fatale persona she’d donned for the evening. Rebecca forced herself to breathe normally, despite the surge of confidence racing through her veins. This guy was interested. If she played her cards right, and didn’t come on too strong with a barrage of questions, he’d eventually tell her everything she wanted to know about his new business, and whether any blood—namely, her father’s—had been spilled to make it happen.

Rebecca’s sultry, satisfied smile drew his gaze up to her mouth. “I’m Teddy Wolfe. My assistant, Shaw McDonough.” He waved in the general direction of the dark-eyed hulk behind him, but never took his eyes off Rebecca. “What have you two been chatting about? Something fascinating, I expect.”

“I’m Rebecca.” Rebecca extended her hand before the hostess mentioned the questions she’d been asking. “This is my first time at the Riverboat, and Dawn was very graciously giving me the rundown so I wouldn’t get lost.”

Teddy’s gaze made a reluctant descent back down to her outstretched hand. But instead of the businesslike shake she was expecting, he pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them. His grip was gentle, his lips moist and warm and as precise as that swoon-worthy accent. He’d done this before. More than once. “I’d be delighted to give you the grand tour myself. I’ll even show you the private gaming rooms and offices upstairs.”

Dawn’s gasp was audible. “Teddy.” The blonde made no effort to correct her familiar address this time. “I get off in an hour. You promised…”

And though Rebecca saw the accusatory look on the young girl’s face, Theodore Wolfe, Jr., ignored it.

Maybe there was something more than a crush on the handsome Brit that Rebecca had intruded upon here. Or maybe it was the sudden wedge of Shaw McDonough between boss and hostess that soured Dawn’s expression.

McDonough whispered into his employer’s ear. Another British accent, though deeper, gruffer. “Daniel Kelleher is waiting in your office, Mr. Wolfe. He wants to review the agenda for the meeting regarding the poker tournament coming up next weekend.”

“Of course he does.” Teddy leaned in to Rebecca as though he was sharing some inside joke. “I expect Kelleher plans an agenda for each trip to the loo. If he wasn’t so damn good with numbers, he’d annoy me.” The smooth stroke of his thumb across the back of her knuckles reminded Rebecca that he still held her hand. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Rebecca.”

She ignored the urge to pull away and reach for Dawn. A reassuring hug was definitely not a femme fatale move. Instead, she fixed her pout into place. “Maybe if I haven’t lost all my money and I’m still here later, I’ll take you up on that private tour.”

His grip tightened as he stroked her hand again. “Be here.”

“Mr. Wolfe.” His executive assistant tapped his watch. “The meeting?”

“Dawn.” Teddy draped his arms around the hostess’s shoulders and kissed her cheek, despite her stiff posture. “Now, now. Give Rebecca all the tokens she can carry. I want her evening here to be long and successful.”

“Sure, Teddy.”

For a moment, she had the boss’s full attention. “What was that?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Wolfe.”

He traced his finger across her cheek. “Ahh. Where’s that pretty smile?” His wink restored Dawn’s color, and a playful jab at her chin earned a soft giggle. “Good girl.”

“We still need to talk. Remember?”

Teddy Wolfe turned away without an answer. He took center stage, striding through the maze of slot machines that filled the main room, shaking hands and greeting players as he passed. Shaw McDonough, with his ever-watchful scowl, scanned the crowd, urging his employer forward whenever a conversation lasted more than a few seconds.

Once the two Brits reached the boat’s grand staircase at the far end of the room and headed up the stairs, Dawn turned and shoved her entire cup of tokens into Rebecca’s hands. The smile she’d given the boss was gone. “Here. Enjoy your evening at the Riverboat. All of it.”

Rebecca cringed at the accusation in the younger woman’s voice. She wondered if there were any words she could put together to get back into Dawn’s good graces without giving away her real purpose here. But guilt chased away her normal fluency, and all she could come up with was, “Thank you.”

Dawn didn’t even want to hear that much from her. Just as well. Rebecca was here to dig up a story, not make friends.

She had that scenario down to an art form.

She bristled at the silent admission, then straightened as if Dawn’s cold shoulder didn’t bother her one damn bit. “Can you point me toward the nearest Cosmopolitan?”

In reality, she’d be drinking ginger ale. But a bar tended to be a friendly place where people were either too drunk or too eager to please, making it easy to get them to talk.

With a roll of her eyes, Dawn pointed to the Cotton Blossom, a brightly lit archway which nearly blinded Rebecca to the dark woods and brass trim inside. “Knock yourself out.”

Then Dawn announced to the other hostesses at the bank of doors that she was taking a break. Ignoring their reminders that each of them had already had their fifteen, she wove her way along the same path Teddy Wolfe had taken. Though, instead of following him up the stairs, she paused at the curving white balustrade. The feathers on her headpiece stirred as she tilted her chin in some mark of pride or defiance.

She glared back over her shoulder, making sure Rebecca understood that her welcome to the Riverboat had only been superficial. Teddy Wolfe was off limits—whether her intentions were personal or professional.

Then, with a stamp of her button-top boots, the blonde turned and disappeared through a shadowed recess beneath the staircase, letting the door marked Employees Only swing shut behind her.




Chapter Two


Left to fend for herself, Rebecca spent an hour strolling around the islands of slot machines and gaming tables, pausing to watch a craps game before trying her hand at blackjack.

She hadn’t been entirely alone. Two men had offered to buy her a drink. Another coaxed her to rub his cards for luck. And when the dealer turned over a card and gave him 21, he invited her to be his good-luck charm at the Riverboat’s upcoming high-stakes poker tournament. Rebecca agreed to think about it. Serving as arm candy was one way to get into the Riverboat’s inner circle. But it wouldn’t give her much of a chance to talk without drawing undue attention to her questions. Still, she took the man’s card. If she couldn’t create her own access into Wolfe International’s secrets, then she’d show up as retired businessman Douglas Dupree’s date.

“Congratulations again, miss.” There was a smattering of applause from the guests lined up behind Rebecca as the dealer pushed another stack of chips her way.

Good grief. She must be up to over four hundred dollars by now—and that didn’t even count the tokens Dawn had shoved into her hands earlier.

“Thanks.” She added her chips to the cup of tokens, catching the ones that spilled over in her hand. She looked across at the young man wearing the Riverboat’s ubiquitous uniform of a silk vest and pinstriped shirt with black armbands and string tie. “Is it bad form if I walk away from the table while I’m ahead?”

The dealer grinned. “Around here, we call that good sense.” He scooped up the cards and the chip she left him as a tip. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Two guests vied for her lucky seat as she got up. Pushed aside for the moment, she searched for her next information target.

Despite her amazing success, Rebecca was bored with the tables. And after already sounding out the dealers on some of the same questions she’d asked Dawn Kingsley, she’d run out of connections to explore here. Though she hadn’t wasted her time, there were faster, more direct ways to get the results she wanted. She needed to get chummy with an employee farther up the hierarchy—if not Teddy Wolfe, his partners and executive staff themselves.

Besides, she sensed she was drawing someone’s attention. And not in the way she’d intended. The feeling of being watched was too intense, too malevolent to attribute to the legs or the hair or the little black dress. Was it the pit boss with the long black ponytail, who seemed to show up in her peripheral vision every time she placed a bet? Was it Dawn’s jealous evil eye, condemning Rebecca for distracting the boss she’d already set her sights on? Could it be a potential mugger, sizing her up to rob her of her winnings once she left the cameras and security of the casino?

Or was there someone else she needed to guard against?

Rebecca shivered, feeling those eyes on her even now as she stood outside the entrance to the Cotton Blossom Bar.

A subtle glance to either side revealed no one more suspicious than the next person. Short of spinning around and making eye contact with every soul on the Riverboat’s vast main floor, there was nothing she could do to identify and stop the unwanted interest.

Watch my back, Dad, she prayed, invoking her father’s memory and finding her own strength.

Her laid-back father would have hated a place like this, with all its glitz and glam and commotion. But she could feel him with her, like a restless spirit lurking in the shadows until revelation of the truth could finally give him peace. Rebecca fingered the chain around her neck, imagining his warmth before the chill of isolation could take hold of her.

“Has to be done,” she whispered. She tipped her chin, stood straight and tall, and walked into the bar.

Rebecca nodded to the faceless bouncer who waved her inside without checking her license. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimmer ambiance, her ears to the more human, less mechanical sounds. By the time she’d pulled up a stool at the polished walnut bar and ordered her ginger ale and lime, she’d introduced herself to the bartender, Tom Sawyer.

“You’re kidding, right?” She looked up from the nametag on his black silk vest and offered a teasing smile.

“My mother was an English teacher. She had a thing for literature.” The dexterous giant who created drinks with a speedy sleight of hand winked and moved down the bar to fill the cocktail waitress’s drink order, clearing away abandoned glasses as he went. The literary giant was too busy to press for information right now. So Rebecca pulled the straw between her lips and swiveled around to seek out other prospects.

Most of the tables were filled with gamblers celebrating their jackpots or drowning their losses. Some were doing their best to impress a date, others were hoping to find one. The lone waitress, in a short, showboat-style costume that matched Dawn’s, was running like crazy to fill orders and clear tables. “Two drafts and two rum and colas, Tom.”

Rebecca traded a sympathetic smile with the other woman as she brushed a droopy feather off her forehead and leaned against the brass railing to catch her breath for a moment. But the instant she rested her full weight on her left arm, the waitress winced and pulled back, drawing Rebecca’s attention to the dark violet and purple marks on her wrist.

The bartender had noticed them, too. “You sure you’re okay to work tonight, Melissa? I can ask Mr. Wolfe to call in someone else.”

“No. Don’t do that.” But, realizing she may have answered too quickly, the waitress tucked her long, golden hair back into its French twist and smiled. “You know I need the tip money.”

“I’ll stake you for it,” Tom offered. “Go home and rest that arm.”

“I am not taking charity from you. Now load up my drinks.” She gritted her teeth as she lifted the tray in her left hand. “But thanks.”

Melissa was too busy to do Rebecca much good, either. And she didn’t think any of the customers could give her the kind of information she needed. Maybe the bar would be a bust tonight. Was it too soon to go snooping through the offices and private rooms upstairs? Of course, it was. But Rebecca had been hoping to find some piece of evidence on this first visit to the Riverboat. At least a clue that would point her in the direction of something useful.

“Mr. Cartwright?”

Rebecca froze with a sip halfway up her straw as the bartender called to someone in the archway behind her. There was that name again. No. The fates wouldn’t be that cruel. C’mon, Dad. You’re supposed to be watching out for me here.

She slowly turned. Ginger ale pooled back in her glass as she breathed again. Not Seth Cartwright.

Though the stocky build of the man buttoning his cream-colored jacket reminded her of the burly detective, the similarities ended there. This man had enough gray on his head to give his blond hair a silver sheen. His suit and tie and easy smile were a definite contrast to the streetwise style and smart-mouth attitude of his namesake at KCPD. This distinguished fellow must be the “fix-it-up” guy Dawn had said was in charge of something at the casino. He was definitely an acquaintance she needed to make.

So when he sidled onto the stool beside her, and his knee brushed against hers, Rebecca returned his glance with a smile. “Hi.”

The older man eyed the cup of chips and tokens sitting on the bar beside her drink. “Looks like you’re having a good night.”

“You know what they say—first time’s lucky.”

“That they do.” He traced his finger around the rim of the cup. He picked up a blue and white chip, flipping it with a magician’s dexterity between his fingers before placing it back on top of the pile. “What’s your game? Slots? Roulette? Craps?”

This guy was definitely a player she wanted to meet. “I like card games.”

“A little strategy to balance the luck, eh?” He tapped the token on top of her pile. “You know, you can trade these in for a ticket. It’s easier—and safer—than carrying around tokens or chips or cash. I can show you how to exchange them.”

The blackjack dealer had already told her how. “I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m Austin, by the way.” Unlike Teddy Wolfe, this man offered her a traditional handshake. “I’m the architect responsible for redesigning this place.”

“I’m Rebecca.” The bar was looking up, after all. She’d think of this potential source as Austin, and let the whole Cartwright coincidence slide. “The Riverboat is lovely. I feel like I’ve gone back in time with these surroundings.”

“Authentic as the retro look is, everything behind the historic facade is completely high-tech. I did all the research and design elements myself.” Perfect. A man who bragged about his accomplishments was a man who liked to talk. About a lot of things. Maybe she could even get him to show her the blueprints for this place. Rebecca had hit paydirt.

“So, you know the Riverboat inside and out?”

“Probably better than anybody.”

“Mr. Cartwright.” The bartender demanded Austin’s attention again.

“You’d better take care of business,” she suggested.

Pressing for information right now would only arouse suspicion. She’d follow up with Austin later. Maybe ask him to show her around. He could take her into the bowels of the boat, into the parts that would have been in place at the time of her father’s death. She imagined she could learn more from that tour than from the places she suspected Teddy Wolfe wanted to show her.

“What’s up, Tom?” the older man asked.

“Can you speak to Mr. Wolfe about getting another waitress for this shift? When one of them calls in sick like tonight…At least bring someone in off the gaming floor. Melissa’s running ragged.”

“Is she complaining?” Austin asked.

“Of course not. You know her.”

Rebecca turned the direction he pointed and saw the waitress schooling her patience with a smile at a table with three college-aged men who were flirting with her. While Tom and Austin discussed options across the bar, Rebecca noted how Melissa flexed her fingers on her sore arm before collecting their empty beer bottles. She was mentally girding herself to take the extra weight. Once she had the bottles and the order, she turned back toward the bar.

But, with a suggestive quip, one of the men reached for her, tugging her off balance. Melissa yelped in pain and the tray went flying.

Rebecca was on her feet before the last beer bottle hit the floor and shattered.

The man who’d caused the accident was instantly apologetic, but Melissa waved him off when he tried to help. “No. It’s fine. Really. Don’t get up. Please.”

Rebecca picked up two intact bottles and righted them on the tray before squatting down beside the blond waitress. “Here. Let me.”

Melissa paused in her frantic retrieval of the broken brown glass. “This isn’t your job.” Her blue eyes were moist and wide with unshed tears as she met Rebecca’s gaze. She dropped a shard onto the tray and cradled her left arm against her chest. “I can do it. I have to.”

Son of a bitch.

Lifted up to the subdued light of the bar’s chandeliers, the pattern of bruises on Melissa’s swollen wrist became evident. Five of them. With the span of long, strong fingers. The imprint of a man’s hand.

Rebecca swallowed the bile in her throat and reached for the next shard of glass. “I’m helping,” she insisted, resisting the urge to ask who’d hurt her. Was it Tom? Was that why he was so protective and anxious to get her off the floor? Was it a customer? Boyfriend? Husband?

She’d written pieces on domestic violence before. She knew the numbers to call, the words to say. But her dad…She owed him so much. Could she help Melissa without betraying a plan that had been months in the making?

“I’m helping,” she repeated, positioning herself between Melissa and Tom when the bartender hurried over with a towel to mop up the splatters of beer.

Maybe making a friend tonight, making this friend, was just as important as finding her father’s killer. Maybe there was more than one story here on the Riverboat, more than one reason why Rebecca needed to become a part of this world and discover all the secrets hidden here. Maybe she could help the living as well as the dead.

The perfect opportunity lay scattered at her feet.

“Hey—Melissa, is it?” The waitress nodded, blinking away the tears she refused to shed. “I’m assuming you guys have a first aid kit here. Why don’t you go wrap your wrist for some extra support, and I’ll cover for you for a few minutes. Just tell me which tables are waiting on drinks and I’ll deliver them. I can clear away the empties, too.”

When Tom seconded the idea, Rebecca wondered if he was sincere in his concern—or eager to cover the evidence of his assault.

Melissa shrugged, clearly reluctant to showcase her injury, despite the practicality of the suggestion. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

Rebecca grinned, including them both in her offer. “I want to.” She beat big Tom to helping Melissa to her feet and carried the tray to the bar. “I’ve been looking for a second job to help make ends meet.”

Austin was waiting for them at the waitress’s station. “Melissa, are you all right?” He shifted on his feet, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. “What happened?”

“Just an accident.”

He nodded, than darted a glance at Rebecca. “Thank you.”

Rebecca picked up on his uneasiness. Good Lord, was Gramps the man responsible for her injury? He was certainly fit enough to do some damage. “No problem. I worked my way through college waiting—” that’s when she noticed a handful of her chips and tokens had disappeared from her cup “—tables.” Perplexed by the discovery, she couldn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief. Austin was guilty of something, if not abuse. “If you could use another waitress, I’d love to have the job.”

Melissa was the first to respond to the proposition. “I don’t know. Really, I’ll be okay. We’ve been shorthanded before. Right, Tom?”

The big bartender glared a response. But Melissa glanced away from the message he tried to convey. Whether concern had been rebuffed or a threat satisfied, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Tom dumped the mess into the trash and grumbled, “It’s not my call.”

“I say give her a chance.” By comparison, Austin was downright enthusiastic about getting Rebecca on the payroll. “I’d be happy to run it by Mr. Wolfe. If Tom thinks you can handle it, you’d have my full recommendation. You could take care of the paperwork later.”

Rebecca went along with his friendly support, pretending she didn’t hear the click of metal tokens and plastic disks knocking together in his jacket pocket. She assumed he’d have some ready excuse if she did call him on the theft. Add one more suspect to her list. Austin the Nameless One had secrets to hide. Maybe it stopped with kleptomania. Maybe it meant there were other, darker, mysteries he could reveal to her.

“Melissa, you come with me.” Now the older man was eager to leave. “I’ll bandage that arm for you. You?” He winked at Rebecca. “Grab an apron and start clearing those tables.”

“You got it.”

Everyone she’d met thus far had been polite and accepting, if not outright friendly.

Everyone she’d met thus far was hiding something as well. Her reporter’s nose was telling her as much.

She was in the right place. She was in. She was going to succeed where KCPD had failed.

Her father would be proud.

Rebecca adjusted the black apron around her waist and moved to the next table to gather glasses and take their order. She’d already discovered the bar’s outside entrance, and used the opportunity of clearing the deck tables to scout out where public access ended and private balconies and service corridors began. She’d met other staff, and had identified some of the Riverboat’s repeat and long-term customers.

Other than wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes, she didn’t have to worry about anything else tonight. She’d be back tomorrow. She could ask her questions and begin her search then. Chat with Teddy Wolfe. Meet Daniel Kelleher. Take Austin Cartwright up on a tour. Befriend Melissa and find a way to help her.

No one would suspect a thing.

Nothing could go wrong.

But her smug smile was short-lived.

She sensed the hostile gaze boring holes into her back. More intense, more direct than anything she’d felt before. A beat of time passed before a blunt voice from her past grated against her ears.

“What the hell are you doing in my casino?”



“YOUR CASINO?” Tawny gold eyes shot sparks at him as Seth Cartwright strode through the maze of tables.

Rebecca Page. Intrepid reporter. Dogged investigator. Wouldn’t say uncle even if it meant saving her own skin.

Caught. Snooping where the woman damn well knew she shouldn’t be.

He walked right up to her until he was close enough to absorb her scent and to communicate in a whisper.

“It’s a free country, so you’re welcome to throw away your money in whatever way you please.” Sarcasm came far too easily to Seth these days. He’d been at this job long enough that he’d learned to ignore any flicker of guilt or regret when the verbal arrows unleashed themselves. “But when you stop playing and you start chatting up the employees and customers, it’s time for you to go.”

Her chin tilted up. Seth expected no less from a woman who relied on guts as much as a wickedly precise intuition when it came to tracking down a news story. Her tongue was in fine form tonight, as well. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Detective.”

“Don’t call me that. Not anymore.”

He said the words he loathed to hear and watched the transformation cross her face. Shock. Confusion. “You’re not a cop anymore?”

When the serves-you-right smirk reached those painted lips, he reached for her. “I got a better job.”

“Hey.” The would-be waitress dodged his grasp and turned on the attitude. She pulled her tray in front of her like a shield and tipped her nose up with that Amazon arrogance he was all too familiar with. “Then you can’t arrest me.”

As though besting him by a few inches had ever made him retreat.

“Is there a reason why I should? I just want you to leave.” He wrapped one hand around her arm, pried the tray from her resistant grasp and started walking.

“You want—?” She tugged against his grip. “You have no right—”

“I’m Chief of Security around here. I have every right.”

“Chief of—? No way.”

“Way.” He tugged back and she stumbled beside him, bumping into his shoulder, freezing for an instant in mute surprise before regaining her balance and pushing away. She felt like any other woman, with delicate breasts that poked against his arm and back, and hair dark and soft as mink that caught in his collar and brushed his neck. But Rebecca Page wasn’t like any other woman. She was trouble on stilts. He didn’t need the kind of curiosity and attention she thrived on to walk into the middle of his investigation.

He’d worked too damn hard for eight long months to get to where he was at Wolfe International. He’d trashed his reputation on the force, lost the loyalty of his friends and gained the trust of his enemies. He’d lied, bent a few rules, broken a few bones. He’d learned the difference between being tough and being dead. No nosy reporter—woman or otherwise—was going to waltz her way onto the Riverboat and blow his operation.

“C’mon.” He slowed his pace and altered his grip to keep her on her feet and keep her moving. “I thought you’d gotten a clue last fall when you were harassing my mother about the Baby Jane Doe murder case. I don’t like report—”

“Shh!” She darted in front of him and pressed her fingers over his mouth, stopping up his words. Stopping him. What the hell? An apologetic frown creased the smooth skin on her forehead. “Don’t say another word,” she whispered. “I don’t know what you think is going on here. I was only pitching in to help Melissa. But I’ll go. Just let me get my purse.”

Huh? Capitulation? Seth’s gaze narrowed. Had to be a tactic. But a quick study of her fervent expression revealed no clear objective. Or motive. “Whatever.”

He tossed the tray on the bar and, without releasing her, picked up her little black bag.

“That’s mine.”

Evading her grasping fingers and annoyed huff, Seth twisted it open and spotted the keys, comb, lipstick—and cell phone-size recorder inside. Just as he’d thought. He had Little Miss Innocent’s number. Seth lifted his gaze to her gold-brown eyes. Was that a plea he read there? Or defiance?

Didn’t matter. He was in control of this situation. He snapped the purse shut and pushed it into her hands. “Pitching in to help yourself to what?” But that wide mouth was pressed into a fine, thin line. No problem. He could remove the tape outside, away from these witnesses, and get his own answers. “Time to go byebye.”

He reclaimed his grip on her elbow and turned her toward the doorway and the main lobby. This time she didn’t protest.

But Sawyer threw his arms up behind the bar. “Hey, you’re stealing my only waitress.”

Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Seth kept moving. “No, she won’t.”

The click of her killer heels muffled when they reached the lobby carpeting. He never had understood how a woman could walk in those things, and suspected that hurrying at his side was a difficult task, even with those long legs. But she didn’t argue his hold on her arm or his path toward the front door.

He hadn’t believed it when he’d first spotted her on the monitor in his security office. He’d pegged Rebecca Page as a woman who liked to stay in control of things—not an easy thing for a gambler to do. Still, he hadn’t taken any chances and had radioed Ace Longbow, the pit boss on the floor tonight, to keep an eye on her. As long as she was playing, she could stay. Seth would steer clear of her and keep his suspicions in check.

But then Ace had taken a break to handle some personal business, and by the time the big Indian had reported back in, he’d lost track of Rebecca. Seth had scrolled through nearly every camera angle on his monitors before he found her at the Cotton Blossom.

There she sat, flirting with his father at the bar. Long mahogany hair down to here, short black skirt up to there. His dad’s eyeballs bugged out to…hell. The woman clearly wasn’t here to gamble.

Seth had long since given up on the idea of his parents ever getting back together—and he knew his mother was far better off without Austin Cartwright. Messing with the ladies had never been his dad’s problem. But he had other weaknesses that an opportunist like Rebecca Page wouldn’t hesitate to exploit if it meant getting her story.

And the story brewing beneath the surface of the Riverboat was too big to allow an ambitious reporter to break it before his mission here was accomplished.

If he could still accomplish it.

Seth had been out of the office in an instant, knowing this entire undercover operation could be lost with one wrong word by that woman. He couldn’t get to the bar fast enough. Couldn’t risk asking his father about what they’d discussed when he’d dashed past him and Melissa in the lobby. He’d been blinded by the same surge of adrenaline he’d felt when their paths had crossed in the past. Rebecca Page had to go.

Her resistance renewed once he got her out the door. No surprise there. This time she tried to reason with him. She flipped the hem of her apron at him. “I have a job here, you know.”

“Where’s the rest of your uniform?”

“I just started.”

He got her across the gangplank. “Then you’re fired.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me. Where are you parked?” He remembered the flashy red Mustang from their last encounter when she’d had the gall to stalk his mother to her home to bug her about the Baby Jane Doe murder investigation. Sure, that case had since been solved with the help of his new stepfather, and his mother’s position as acting commissioner of police had become a permanent job since they’d put the killer behind bars.

But he figured once a pest, always a pest. In another profession, he might have admired Rebecca’s persistence. But it was a reporter’s job to make headlines. Reveal secrets. Expose facts that could do more harm than good if they became common knowledge.

Therefore, the lady with the diehard curiosity had to go before she opened her mouth.

“Give me your keys,” Seth ordered, as they approached the Mustang, moving farther away from the lights and crowd of the casino. Instincts honed by months of learning to spot trouble before it spotted him had Seth checking between and underneath the vehicles before he led her to the door of her car. He snapped his fingers when he saw she wasn’t complying. “The keys.”

Out of sight from the front doors and beyond the hearing of other customers, she was done pretending to cooperate. She stuck her purse out at arm’s length and tried to play keep-away. “Can’t you ever just ask nicely when you want something?”

The role he’d been forced to play since taking this assignment didn’t involve making nice. People who asked got trampled on in this business.

So he grabbed her outstretched arm, spun her around and backed her against the car while he snatched the black bag from her grasp.

“Damn you. Give me that!” Her fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket as she tried to push him away and retrieve her purse.

“Stop.” Seth leaned in half a step closer, pinning her hips and thighs in a mockery of intimacy, warning her she couldn’t win this particular battle. Her struggles stilled with a startled gasp. But if she hadn’t made the sharp sound of surprise, he would have. Her lips hovered at eye-level, painted red and parted, breathing little puffs of tantalizing warmth across his cheek, reminding him how long it had been since he’d risked being with a woman. How long it had been since he’d risked feeling anything beyond the job.

The imprint of her feminine shape was an unexpected shock to his system. Blood surged through his veins and things awoke. Control and denial had sustained him for months. But here he stood, caught unawares in the middle of the night, wanting something he shouldn’t—needing something too dangerous even to put a name to.

Damning that weakness inside him, Seth opened her purse and fished out the keys. While she watched in mute condemnation, he removed the tape from her recorder and dropped it in the pocket of his jacket.

“That’s stealing,” she accused, drawing her hands from his chest and crossing her arms between them.

He’d done worse recently. “I call it a security precaution.”

A cool breeze off the river blew a long, curly tendril over her flushed cheek, but didn’t do a thing to soothe the fever rising in his body. He tested his restraint by refusing to move away, by denying the urge to sweep away that lock of hair that had caught at the corner of her mouth. He denied the urge to sample that corner with his tongue to find out if she was as rich and fiery to the taste as she was to the eye.

He forced Rebecca to be the one to retreat. She obliged by leaning back against the sweet lines of the car to ease a whisper of space between them.

“You are a son of a bitch,” she accused, jamming the tempting strand of hair behind one ear. The husky softness of her voice was a direct contrast to the darts targeting him from those golden eyes.

He didn’t argue the point. He didn’t say anything as he returned her purse and slipped the key into the lock.

“Did they boot you off the force for being a jerk?” She was determined to get the upper hand he wouldn’t allow.

“It is my right and responsibility to escort anyone off the premises whom I deem a threat.”

“A threat to what?” She snatched at his sleeve and demanded he look at her. “This is about your mother, isn’t it. If she and I can share a civil conversation now, then you—”

“Leave my mother out of this.” Seth could do the in-your-face thing, too. “I don’t want you snooping around here.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You don’t know how to do anything else.” He opened the door and pushed her inside, instinctively taking care to protect the back of her head, just as he would load up any of the suspects he’d once pulled off the streets. “Did you tell anyone here you work for the Journal? Or were you recording conversations illegally?”

“What? No. That tape is still blank.” Seth climbed in right beside her and closed the door, forcing her to scramble over the console onto the passenger seat. “Hey. Get out!”

For a split second, her backward crab crawl exposed a smooth tanned thigh all the way up to a line of black silk panty. Sheesh. Hormones lurched in a base male response to all that bare skin and he slapped his hands around the steering wheel before he reached for something he shouldn’t. Rebecca Page was the enemy here. She fired his temper, not his lust.

She threatened his mission, not his conscience.

Tender feelings like guilt or concern had no place in the world of power and intimidation in which he’d immersed himself.

And he was too smart to forget that.

He wisely averted his gaze while she hastily sat up in her seat and righted her skirt and the apron she wore. He went on the attack before he did something foolish, like ask if he’d been too rough with her. “Why are you here? What story are you working on?”

She tucked the heavy charm at the end of her necklace back inside the front of her dress. “I’m here to make friends and earn some extra money with a part-time job.”

“Liar.”

“Ass.”

With a noisy huff, she folded her arms and stared out the windshield into the fog off the river.

Seth breathed deeply, right along with her, waiting for a response. The carefully preserved interior of the small vintage car was tinged with the scents of leather polish and Rebecca’s own spicy perfume. Frustrated with her stubborn silence, he raked his fingers through the careless spikes of his short blond hair. His focus should be back on the Riverboat and proving that Teddy Wolfe was just as deviant and dangerous as Interpol and KCPD suspected him to be. He shouldn’t be sitting here, noticing the Mustang’s fine details. And he damn well shouldn’t be noticing anything about the car’s owner.

“Well?” he prodded.

“You said you weren’t a cop anymore. I don’t have to talk.”

Enough of this battle of wills. He needed to win this argument more than she could ever understand.

Seth fitted into Teddy Wolfe’s world all too well. He released the steering wheel and leaned over the center console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the seat behind her head. “You’ll talk to me.”




Chapter Three


Whatever advantage Rebecca had over Seth Cartwright when they were standing vanished when they sat side by side. Now he loomed over her, and those massive shoulders and beefy chest filled up the tight space inside her car.

She smelled the dampness from the air outside that clung to his suit and golden hair. She heard his deep, even breathing over the alarming staccato of her own pulse in her ears.

He wore a classic suit over a tight charcoal-gray T-shirt. But no amount of tailored wool or self-restraint could completely civilize the hard edge that lined his square jaw, or temper the danger that lurked in the depths of his gray-green eyes.

It couldn’t hide the black shoulder holster that peeked out from inside his jacket, either. Right next to the pocket with her confiscated tape. Okay, so she hadn’t recorded anything on it yet, but still, he’d taken it from her. Just like that, he’d put her at a disadvantage. All that muscle intruding into her personal space made her rethink the shrimp-size memory she’d mistakenly had of the man. His sharp eye and suspicious mind made him more of a formidable opponent than the pesky annoyance she remembered. And the gun…? Oh, hell. She knew she’d be taking a risk by going undercover at the Riverboat. But she hadn’t really known.

She’d expected close calls and the need to think on her feet. She’d reviewed her arsenal of fast talk and coy come-ons. She’d even been prepared for threats if her true purpose was found out. She’d made note of where the nearest exit in each room was located, and had her can of pepper spray within reach on her keychain. But she hadn’t expected this palpable sense of mistrust, this antagonism, this isolation.

She hadn’t expected to feel like the enemy herself.

The fuse on Seth Cartwright’s temper, however, was every bit as short as she remembered, his inability to listen to reason just as frustrating. No wonder she didn’t like cops. Or ex-cops. Or whatever kind of man rated a dubious title like Chief of Security at the place where her father had been murdered.

She’d been willing enough to leave the Riverboat with him to keep him from blabbing to everyone on board that she was a reporter for the Journal. But she had no intention of giving up on her quest.

She wasn’t the bad guy here.

If finding Reuben Page’s killer meant finding a way to deal with Seth Cartwright, then she’d swallow her pride and frustration—and ignore that little frisson of nervous awareness that made her heart beat faster. Give me strength, Dad. And then she asked for the practically impossible. Give me patience.

“You want to talk?” She bit down on a sarcastic desire to remind him how close-mouthed he’d been with her. “How about this? I am looking for a story.”

“And?”

If he could be a smug know-it-all, then she could tell a little white lie. “I’m writing an article on the history of the Commodore. From its days as a cruise ship and dance-hall club on the Missouri River through its rusty demise as a floating eyesore to its reincarnation as a casino. I’m talking to owners, staff and passengers who’ve known the Commodore in all its stages, from the time it was built in the late thirties to the present.”

He settled back behind the wheel. But his heat and scent—and mistrust—remained. “History? That’s not your usual beat.”

“I’ve always loved research. Between jazz and baseball and the westward expansion of our country there’s so much history in Kansas City that there’s always something more to learn.” Those statements were completely true. The first story she’d written for her high-school paper had been a piece on the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Baseball League. She’d only turned to crime investigation after her father’s death. “Who knows? If I can piece together enough facts and firsthand accounts, I could write a series of articles—or put together a book.”

“I don’t care if you’re writing haiku poetry. I don’t need you asking questions and stirring up trouble at the Riverboat.”

“Afraid I’m a security risk you can’t handle?”

His eyes darkened like storm clouds in the shadows of the car. The bastard didn’t even blink. “I can handle you just fine, Miss Page.”

Easing any smart remark aside on a soft, drawn-out breath, she tried to keep the rare line of communication open. “You should probably call me Rebecca. I didn’t tell anyone my full name tonight. I don’t want them to know who I am and what I do. It could taint their responses to me.” She added the latter as a plausible explanation of her need for anonymity. “It’s not like I’m a television reporter with my face plastered all over the news. The Journal doesn’t even publish a picture with my byline. I was going to use my mother’s maiden name if I needed to.”

He shook his head. “A decent background check would point out that deception in an instant.”

“Good to know,” she conceded. “Then I’ll use another one. Tom Sawyer’s named after a character in a book. I can come up with something at least as believable.”

“You’ve been talking to Sawyer?”

“Just enough to get offered a job. And to make me wonder if he’s the guy who got too rough with Melissa.”

Seth swore. One pithy word that told her he’d noticed the abuse, too. “You have been a busy lady.”

“I’m trained to be observant.”

His answering silence lasted so long that Rebecca thought the conversation was over.

She jerked in her seat when he swung around to face her again. “If you really are concerned about Melissa, could I appeal to your kinder side?” The hard line of his mouth quirked at one corner, in something that could almost be construed as a smile. Almost. “You do have a kinder side, don’t you?”

Ha. Ha. But the quiet depth of his voice kept her sarcasm in check. It stung to think his question was halfway serious. “I care very deeply about a lot of things.”

He nodded, taking her statement at face value. “These aren’t all nice people around here. Asking the wrong question to the wrong person could get you into trouble.”

“I’m not afraid of ruffling someone’s feathers.”

“No need to state the obvious.” He pulled her keys from his pocket and dropped them into her lap. Concession? Or dismissal? “Just know, that if you do ruffle somebody’s feathers, I may not be there to bail you out.”

“I never asked you to. I don’t ask anyone for anything except the truth.”

“There are some truths that could get you killed.”

His stark warning filled all the empty spaces inside in the car. And, despite the warmth of the night, Rebecca felt goose bumps crawling across her skin.

But he couldn’t have said anything that would make her more determined than ever to stay to find her father’s killer.

“Look…Seth.” Why was that word so hard to push through her lips? Had she never called him by name before? “I don’t care about whatever descent into the dark side you’re on. If tossing cheats and rowdy drunks out of the casino gives you the same thrill that arresting bad guys and harassing innocent reporters used to, then that’s your business. I appreciate the words of caution, but you’re not going to stop me from taking care of my business.”

“You are the single most stubborn woman I have ever met. I’m trying to give you a fair—” A blast of static from beneath his coat cut him off. He reached inside and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Cartwright.”

The static cleared and another man’s voice reported in. “Mr. Wolfe is leaving the building to make a bank deposit. He says he’ll be staying at the penthouse downtown instead of his suite on the ship tonight.”

Seth checked his watch. “What about Kelleher?”

“He’s staying late to work some numbers in his office.”

“Post a man outside the accounting office. Tell Mr. Wolfe I’ll be right there to escort the money.”

Escort the money? Big money? Illegal money? What numbers was Daniel Kelleher working on? Probing questions danced on the end of Rebecca’s tongue, but she pressed her lips together to keep them quiet. She didn’t need Seth Cartwright’s blessing to investigate Wolfe International and the Riverboat, but she did need him to stay out of her way and keep the whole reporter thing secret.

He hooked the phone back on his belt and adjusted his suit coat to mask his shoulders and gun. “You think you could earn Melissa’s trust?”

What? He was asking her for a favor? But the subject was too serious for Rebecca to gloat. “I have some contacts who counsel abused women. I can call them to get ideas on the best way I…we…could help her.”

“Good. You can stay. For Melissa.” He pointed a finger in warning. “But if I hear one word out of your mouth that isn’t related to the history of the ship or becoming her friend, you’re out of here.”

Then she wouldn’t let him hear anything else. Rebecca stuck out her hand. “Deal,” she lied.

Maybe he sensed the false promise there. Or maybe he could hear the traitorous anticipation of his touch pounding through her veins. Seth looked down at the outstretched offering, looked up into her eyes. He looked deep enough inside her that Rebecca felt compelled to curl her fingers into her palm and cross her arms in front of her again.

“I have to go,” he said. Seth dismissed her, climbed out of her car and disappeared into the night.



REBECCA SAT in the passenger seat several moments longer, hugging herself, trying to instill the warmth that victory over Seth Cartwright should have given her. She’d just negotiated her way around the biggest obstacle standing in the path of her investigation. She should be high-fiving herself, not clinging to her father’s ring and wondering why the air inside her car seemed flat and cool in the wake of her charged confrontation with Seth.

Rousing herself from that disturbingly fanciful thought, Rebecca unlocked the glove compartment. She pulled out her father’s notebook and turned to a new page where she jotted some notes about tonight’s events and what her next step should be.

DBD-Dani Ballard Disk was her best guess for that clue.

COM-The Commodore. Had to be.

The wolf is at the door, her father had written on another page. “Teddy Wolfe,” she mouthed out loud, underlining the name she had written. “Or someone else at Wolfe International.”

“


,” she read out loud. “I’ll figure it out, Dad. I promise.”

Rereading her father’s words centered her around her purpose again, and the distractions of Seth Cartwright’s scent, strength and surly attitude receded beneath a surge of renewed confidence. She’d already made an introduction to almost every major player at the Riverboat. She’d be back tomorrow night to ask more questions and poke her nose into the original parts of the ship. With luck, she could acquaint herself with Daniel Kelleher and anyone else who had stood to gain from Reuben Page’s death.

With a solid plan firmly in mind, Rebecca saved herself the indignity of climbing across the front seats again and got out of the car.

“Oh, damn.” As she walked around the hood to the driver’s side, she realized she still wore the short black apron from the Cotton Blossom. As much as she wanted to stay off Seth Cartwright’s radar screen for the rest of the night, she knew she had to venture back inside the Riverboat to return it. She could go straight to the bar and show Tom that she was serious about the job by returning the apron and asking him what time he expected her to report for work. She could avoid the main lobby altogether by circling around the outer deck to the bar’s outside entrance.

But her aching feet balked at the long row of cars separating her from the Riverboat’s gangplank.

“Has to be done.” She coaxed her energy to return by repeating the phrase her father had often used when she’d turned her nose up at some unpleasant task.

So Rebecca pulled off her high heels and tossed them into the car before locking it behind her. As long as she didn’t step into any unidentified gooey substances, the walk actually felt good. The pavement was still warm and just rough enough to soothe her aching feet without scratching them. Tomorrow, she’d trade a little sex appeal for the comfort of more sensible shoes.





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