Against The Night Part 3

"He was a gentleman. I was the one. I still can't believe it. G.o.d, I'm so embarra.s.sed."

Babs started to smile. "Sounds like it went exactly the way we planned. When are you seeing him again?"

Amy glanced up. "What?"

"You're seeing him again, right?"

Amy nodded numbly. "Tonight. After my s.h.i.+ft. We're going for coffee. He gave me his word we'd just talk."

Babs seemed to approve. "Smooth, not too pushy. I think I like this guy."

"I don't know what it is, Babs, but there's something about him."

Her friend just smiled. "Honey, you can say that again."

Johnnie slid behind the wheel of the Mustang, tipped his head back against the headrest and just sat there.

"Jesus." He couldn't quite catch his breath. He was still so hard he hurt and at the same time he felt completely drained. Watching Angel Fontaine was like waging a war with himself, a war he'd barely won.

He'd almost lost it tonight, but as hot as he'd been and still was, as hot as Angel had been-and man, the lady was on fire-something just wasn't right. He had to know what it was and he was determined to find out.

He believed she would show up tonight. Angel was even more baffled about what had happened in there than he was. Whoever she was-and he was sure Angel wasn't her name-she wasn't used to the kind of desire that had hit them both tonight.

The kind that struck like lightning, turned into a blazing inferno and flat-out sucked you dry. In another minute, he'd have had her on the floor and been inside her. He still didn't know how he had managed to hang on to that last shred of control.

Maybe it was his Ranger training. Maybe it was seeing the fear in her pretty blue eyes when she had realized how close they both were to losing complete control.

He raked a hand through his short, dark hair. He couldn't figure her out and that was part of the attraction.

Later tonight, he was going to find out what was going on with Angel Fontaine.

Four.

At the end of her s.h.i.+ft, Amy changed into a pair of skinny jeans, tucked in a red print s.h.i.+rt, fastened a silver belt around her waist and slid her feet into a pair of red, open-toed high heels. At five foot one, she was shorter than nearly everyone. High heels gave her a psychological boost as well as a physical one and she almost always wore them.

She glanced in the mirror. She had washed her face and removed her stage makeup. She ran a brush through her hair and fluffed her bangs, fastened a small gold hoop in each ear, then applied a little blush, mascara and pale pink lipstick. Nothing too heavy. She wasn't Angel now and she didn't want to be.

Amy thought of her performance in the private lap dance room and felt a rush of embarra.s.sment. What in the world had possessed her? During her few relations.h.i.+ps, she had never been the aggressor during s.e.x and basically preferred it that way. But tonight... Tonight something insane had come over her. She'd felt bold, empowered. She had practically attacked John Riggs right there in his chair.

Closing her eyes to block out the image, she reached for her small red leather purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. She couldn't imagine what Riggs must think of her or how she could possibly explain. At the apartment door, she paused. Maybe she should wait, talk to him after a cooling-off period. It would certainly be easier to face him.

On the other hand, maybe this was the perfect opportunity. With a sigh, she pulled open the door. The man was taking her out for coffee, nothing more. He had given her his word and she believed him. This was the chance she needed.

Maybe.

She hadn't thought past the part about trying to hire him. She would just have to play it by ear.

Babs met her as she crossed the backstage area toward the door leading out to the parking lot.

Babs propped a hand on her hip. "I talked to Tate. He says Riggs is an okay guy."

Amy just nodded, trying to forget the feel of those hot, possessive lips moving over hers.

"I pressed the boss a little to see what I could find out and Tate told me Riggs is a good investigator but he doesn't work cheap."

"I had a feeling."

"It never hurts to ask, right? You never know till you try."

Amy drew in a breath. "I don't know quite what I'm going to say, but I guess I'll think of something."

"Are you kidding? After that little performance you gave him, the guy is going to be toast."

Amy thought of her behavior during the dance and closed her eyes against a blush. "I guess we'll see." She waved over her shoulder as she pushed open the door.

"I won't wait up," Babs teased with a grin, and Amy's stomach knotted.

What would Riggs expect?

What would she be willing to do?

With a breath for courage, she stepped out into the parking lot and spotted him behind the wheel of a black Mustang. The car fit him perfectly, dark and powerful, dangerous and predatory. Her insides tightened.

Dear G.o.d, how far would she be willing to go to get John Riggs to help her?

Leaning back in the seat, Johnnie spotted Angel the minute she walked out into the night. He knew the instant she saw him. She froze like a deer in the headlights, and Johnnie didn't hesitate, just shoved open the car door and came out of his seat, started striding toward her.

"I'm glad you came," he said with a smile meant to put her at ease. "I know a little cafe just a couple of blocks away. We can get some coffee there."

She nodded. He could feel the tension thrumming through her, figured if he didn't get her out of there now, she was going to turn and run.

"It isn't that far," he said, setting a hand at her waist and urging her back to his car, not giving her time to change her mind. He led her around to the pa.s.senger door and helped her climb in, reached over and pulled the seat belt across her lap and fastened the buckle.

"Thank you."

Always so polite. Almost prim. Angel Fontaine was about as far from his idea of a stripper as a woman could get. And yet he had seen her up onstage and she was hot.

Maybe that was the appeal. Sweet and hot at the same time-sort of like cinnamon candy.

He chuckled to himself as he slid behind the wheel. If Angel was a piece of candy, he'd be the man to eat her up.

Looking uncomfortable, she s.h.i.+fted in her seat. "About what happened tonight... I want to apologize. I've never-"

"It was only a kiss, Angel. Nothing to get upset about."

She fell silent as he shoved the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life, then started to purr. He drove toward the cafe, pulled into the lot, which was full, but his luck was holding and a gray-haired couple in an old brown Buick was backing out. He parked in the s.p.a.ce left behind, guided Angel inside, and they slid into an empty booth.

The Eatery had a kind of retro decor with pink-and-white vinyl booths and a long lunch counter with a row of round stools. The cafe had been there for years, had once been called Norm's but that was a long time ago.

A waitress in a black skirt and white blouse showed up to take their order. Sheila, he recalled, frizzy blond hair and big b.o.o.bs. He was kind of a regular, though he rotated his meal stops to keep his information channels open. In his line of work, you never knew what rumors might come in handy.

Sheila pulled a pencil from behind her ear. "Hey, handsome, what can I get you?"

He looked across at Angel. d.a.m.n she was pretty. More so, he thought, without all that makeup. He tried not to look at her mouth, since now he knew exactly how good she tasted. "What would you like?"

"Just coffee," she said. "Cream, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Two coffees," he said. "One with cream. Thanks, Sheila."

They made small talk for the short time it took for the coffee to arrive. Angel poured cream into her cup and daintily stirred.

She looked up at him and smiled, but it looked a little forced. "I'm...aahh...glad you asked me to come here."

"Oh, yeah?" Here we go, he thought. He'd known something was off. He had a hunch he was about to find out what it was.

"The thing is, I heard you were a private investigator."

"Of sorts." He took a drink from the heavy white china mug in front of him, set it back down on the Formica-topped table. "That why you agreed to the dance? You wanted to talk to me about business?"

Soft color washed into her cheeks. "That was part of it. I really don't...don't know exactly what happened in there. I just...I guess I got carried away."

Amen to that. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I...umm...want to hire you."

"You in some kind of trouble?"

Her eyes rounded. "Me? No! Of course not."

"Of course not," he said with a hint of sarcasm she seemed to miss.

"It's my sister. Her name is Rachael."

"Then it's Rachael who's in trouble."

"I don't know. A little over six weeks ago, Rachael disappeared. I talked to the police, of course. Babs says they haven't tried very hard...you know...because she's an exotic dancer."

He leaned back in his chair, trying not to be disappointed that her real interest came in wanting something from him. "So you want to hire me to find her. Is that it?"

"Not exactly. I want to hire you to help me find her. I could do some of the work, and that way it wouldn't cost as much."

"Okay, I get it. You want to hire me but you don't have any money."

She sat up straighter in her seat. "Well, I have a little. Some savings from my job back home, but I've gone through a lot of it for my plane ticket and phone calls. I could borrow some, maybe a couple thousand. I get the feeling you don't come cheap."

She was right. He charged up to a grand a day, plus expenses. She looked across the booth at him, bit her plump bottom lip, and heat throbbed low in his groin.

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her coffee mug and the skin over her knuckles turned bone-white. "I thought...you seem to be attracted to me. I thought maybe we could..." She swallowed. "Maybe we could...you know...work something out."

A jolt of anger slipped through him. It began to fade when he noticed her face had turned as pale as the hand that gripped the mug. He hadn't pegged her for a prost.i.tute. He looked at her and he didn't buy it now.

Still, he could be wrong.

He stood up from the pink vinyl bench across from her. She had barely touched her coffee. He tossed down a five and a couple of ones, more than enough for the coffee and a tip, and hauled her to her feet.

"Let's get out of here." Angel didn't protest when he caught her hand and led her toward the door, didn't say a word as he guided her out of the coffee shop back to his car. But as she slid into the seat and fumbled to fasten her seat belt, he saw that she was trembling.

Johnnie fired up the powerful engine, slipped the car into gear and pulled out onto the busy street. It didn't take long to drive the winding road up the hill above Sunset to the guesthouse on the estate that was his home. He used the remote to open the gate then turned into the long narrow driveway, pulled into the guesthouse garage and parked next to his Harley. Up the drive a little farther, the main house, a big white modern structure, edged out over the hill.

Angel flashed a look at the motorcycle as he helped her out, but she made no comment, just let him guide her up on the porch, waited while he unlocked the door, then walked past him into the entry. The lights of Los Angeles glittered in front of them through the wall of windows in the living room, a view that never failed to impress.

She stared in that direction. "It's beautiful."

He tossed his keys into the gla.s.s dish on the table in the entry. "I got lucky. I did some work for the lady who owns the estate. She's older, feels safer having someone living in the guesthouse." Eleanor Stiles was not only his landlady but also a very close friend. She was seventy and smart as a whip.

"Someone who was once an Army Ranger?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. My office is downstairs. I do most of my work out of the house."

She looked calmer now, and yet he could feel her underlying tension.

"How about a drink?" he asked. "Maybe a gla.s.s of wine or something?"

He sensed her relief. "Wine sounds good."

"White or red?"

"White...if you happen to have it open."

The most polite hooker he'd ever met.

He opened the little fridge underneath the counter of the wet bar, took out an open bottle of chardonnay and poured her a gla.s.s, pulled out a Bud for himself and twisted off the cap. He carried the wine back to Angel, who stood in front of the window, staring out at the city lights.

"It's amazing, isn't it? The lights go on forever."

"I take it you aren't from L.A."

She shook her head. "Michigan."

"Detroit?"

She steadied the gla.s.s, took a sip of wine. "Grand Rapids."