Warrior Without A Cause. Nancy Gideon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ collapse into one of the mended vinyl booths at 4:00 a.m. and not have to explain anything to anybody. Not even about the occasional contusions on his face. At Jo’s, everyone kept their troubles to themselves. And Tessa D’Angelo could mean the capital-T kind.

      He’d read her file. Smart mind, good family, loyal to the bone when it came to her up-and-coming D.A.-turned-hopeful politician father. The glossy photos he’d flipped through showed her at her father’s right hand, smiling, poised, beautiful, an asset in any public circle, while her equally gracious and gorgeous mother stood at his left. She’d given up the promise of her own law career to support her father in his. She was supposed to have seen him on to bigger and better things. Not see his reputation go down in a blaze of rumors not even the grave could extinguish.

      She sat in the rear of the hazy diner, her back to the wall leading to the rest rooms he wouldn’t use on a dare. The fact that she was out of place was as glaringly apparent as the cost of her tailored business suit. Classy clothes, classy lady. The dusky-colored plum wool suit, creamy silk blouse opened in a modest vee, tasteful pearls and gravity-defying heels belonged in the business district not in the back booth of a greasy spoon. Even though the sun had all but disappeared, she still wore trendy wraparound dark glasses. But if it hadn’t been for a pair of the most luscious lips this side of an adolescent boy’s dreams, Jack wouldn’t have recognized her from the society page photos he’d studied. This woman had none of the healthy sorority girl sparkle and confidence that had beamed out at him from the newspaper file he’d sneaked a peek at. This dangerously fragile Tessa D’Angelo looked as though she’d gone several brutal rounds with the reigning middleweight champ and lost. Badly.

      The Veronica Lake spill of her sleek blond hair couldn’t quite cover the stitching that ran from delicately arched eyebrow to temple. The shades couldn’t conceal the telltale bruising of two spectacular shiners. Slender fingers clasped the chipped coffee mug before her in a two-fisted death grip that betrayed a near-the-edge tremor. Her shoulders hunched protectively. At first glance, she looked like a poster child for domestic battering, but Jack knew better. He’d seen her police file, too.

      A robbery, they’d called it.

      Unsolved.

      An unfortunate coincidence in light of her recent tragedies.

      “Miss D’Angelo?”

      Her head jerked up and he was sure her eyes behind the opaque lenses had that deer-in-the-headlights glaze of alarm. He fought against the want to soften his tone with an apology for startling her. But she was expecting a kick-butt assassin not a Boy Scout, and he didn’t want to disappoint her illusions. At least, not yet.

      “I’m Jack Chaney.”

      She was motionless for a long moment. Not with fright, as he at first assumed, but to look him over as thoroughly as he’d done her. He fought against the impulse to stand just a little bit straighter and finger-comb the wind damage to his usually immaculate hair. He didn’t care if his chin was a bit burly, if his clothing was rumpled or if the truck outside sported more rust than attitude. If he surrendered to the gods of arrogance, it was in that one small spot of vanity. He had great hair and preferred none of it out of place. But then he wasn’t here to be interviewed. Tessa D’Angelo was the one on the hot seat. She nodded toward the opposite bench. “You’re late.” It wasn’t an accusation but rather a relieved observation, as if she’d feared he wouldn’t show.

      “Traffic,” was his casual excuse. He couldn’t very well tell her that it had taken some time and some big promises to get a look into the official records, not until he’d at least had a cup of coffee for his trouble. “You need a refill there?” He gestured toward the half-full cup. She took a sip from it and grimaced.

      “I guess I do. This is cold.”

      He held up a hand and a curvy brunette with a scarred name tag proclaiming “JoBeth” bumped an ample hip against his shoulder. That she was the “Jo” in “Cuppa Jo’s,” a grandmother who spent all of her free time clucking over the much younger kitchen and wait staff and would do the same to him if he’d allowed it, didn’t keep her from the expected flirtation. Though she glanced at his stylish companion, she was careful to keep any hint of questions out of her gaze.

      “Hiya, Chaney. Long time. The usual? High octane chased with a Sweet’n Low?”

      “Sounds good. And a warm-up for the lady.”

      “Got peach pie hot out of the oven. Marcy’ll take it as an insult if you don’t let her trot a piece out to you.”

      Jack grinned. “I’ll pass for now but have her save a slice for the road.”

      “Gotcha, doll.”

      After she sashayed back to the counter, Jack faced his would-be client and got right to business.

      “I’m sorry about your father.”

      Tessa D’Angelo inhaled a sudden breath as if his condolences struck like another unfair punch. She let it out slow and shaky, then, in her throaty rumble, said, “Thank you.”

      “I didn’t know him but he had a reputation for being a straight-up kinda guy.”

      “And look where that reputation got him.”

      Her flat summation puzzled him until she reached up with an elegant sweep of her hand to remove the dark glasses. The baby blues they revealed were anything but sweet. They were bright with angry, unshed tears.

      “My father was a good man, Mr. Chaney. He was honest and decent and stood for justice all the way. Where was the justice in what happened to him?”

      Casually he brought out the bulky tabloid he’d purchased on his way to the meeting. He laid it on the Formica-topped table where it covered the cup rings with words much more staining. She glanced at the glaring headlines and what little color her chiseled cheekbones retained all but drained away. She swayed slightly then gripped the edge of the table to regain her balance. Her delicate jaw worked a moment before she asked quietly, “If you believe that, why are you here?”

      “I needed a cup of coffee. And I owe Stan. He asked me to take you seriously. This is pretty damned serious.” His finger tapped the tabloid’s banner: D.A.’s Suicide Tied To Drug Scandal.

      “It’s a lie.”

      “Most of the stuff you find in here is. But this sterling publication isn’t the only one saying it.”

      “I don’t care who is saying what. My father isn’t guilty of anything. He wasn’t making money off drug trafficking or by looking the other way. I’d think his death would be proof of that.”

      That was what Tessa had been trying to convince the police, according to her numerous calls, complaints and eventual condemnations.

      Playing a calm devil’s advocate, Jack murmured, “Or unfortunate proof that he got in over his head and couldn’t face the consequences.”

      She was off her seat so fast he barely had time to catch her wrist before she bolted. Such fine, easily broken bones. He restrained her carefully but refused to go easy on her. After all, even though she was the one who’d placed the call, they were on his dime now.

      “Sit down, Miss D’Angelo. Those opinions can’t be news to you. They’ve been in every headline for weeks now. If you had thicker skin, you wouldn’t bruise so easily.” СКАЧАТЬ