Capturing Cleo. Linda Winstead Jones

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ place. A long bar stretched along the wall to the left, and a number of small, randomly scattered tables and chairs, half filled even though this was a Monday night, were arranged in a haphazard kind of symmetry. At the rear of the room a small stage rose above the dimly lit crowd. A woman perched on a stool there and sang. He recognized the song now: “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” A piano and a piano player shared the stage with the singer, but as he watched and listened, the instrument and the longhaired musician faded into the background, necessary but insignificant.

      Luther stared, over heads and past hanging silk ferns, at the singer whose warm, husky voice had captivated the crowd. And him. It wasn’t just the voice that fascinated him, it was the whole, luscious package. Damn. Now, this was a woman. Grace was always trying to set him up with one sweet thing or another, certain he was not yet past saving, sure that he, too, could be as disgustingly happy as she and Ray were. But she’d never offered up anything like this woman.

      Long, wildly curling black hair fell past the singer’s shoulders; her lips were red and lush; her eyes slightly slanted and rimmed with dark lashes, giving her an exotic air. She perched on that stool, back straight and yet perfectly relaxed, shapely legs crossed at the knee. The body beneath her slinky black dress was rounded and curved, soft in all the right places and begging to be…

      Luther shook off his daze and headed for the bar and the bartender. It really had been a long day.

      The surly bartender was an older man—late fifties, early sixties, Luther guessed. He was built like a fireplug, short and solid, and had a thick head of silver-gray hair and a flat face only a mother could love. And he was offended that a potential customer took his attention from the woman on stage. He looked Luther up and down, scowled, and asked what he wanted to drink, in a gruff voice that matched his craggy face.

      “Nothing,” Luther said. “I need to speak to the owner. Cleo Tanner.”

      “I know who owns the place,” the bartender snapped. “Wait around. She’s kinda busy right now. You can talk to her in about twenty minutes.”

      Annoyed, Luther lifted his jacket to show the fireplug his badge, and to offer a glimpse of the snub-nosed revolver he carried in a shoulder holster. “Tell her Detective Malone from HPD is here and has a few questions for her,” he said.

      The bartender didn’t budge. “I tell you what. You go up on stage and flash that badge and gun at her. Maybe, and I ain’t promising anything, that’ll get her to end her set early.”

      Luther cut his eyes toward the stage. “That’s Cleo Tanner?” Surprise.

      “Yep.”

      He should’ve known. Cleo Tanner was a singer, he already knew that. Her one recorded hit, popular almost eight years ago, had been the sappy country love song, “Come Morning.” He glanced around the club, taking it all in while he waited. The small crowd was mesmerized, as he had been when he’d first seen her. They ate and drank, and smiled serenely. If she pulled in a good crowd like this on a Monday, the weekends were probably really busy. She was doing all right.

      But from what he’d learned today, Cleo Tanner could make a real killing in the business if she went back to using her married name and sang country music. She could pack a much larger place than this and make a small fortune. Hearing her now, watching her, he knew she had the talent and the presence to make something like that work.

      Luther took a deep breath. “Coffee,” he said, taking a stool and leaning on the bar. “Black.” He stared at the singer, but she was as oblivious to his presence as she was to everyone else’s. She didn’t look at the crowd, she didn’t sing to a lover at a table close to the stage. She sang with her eyes fixed above the crowd, a satisfied smile on her face, an evident contentment in her eyes.

      She finished the song to enthusiastic applause, and after flashing a small smile she almost immediately went into the next number: “Someone To Watch Over Me.”

      Cleo Tanner was gifted, beautiful and incredibly sexy, but like it or not she was still suspect number one. His day wasn’t getting any better.

      Cleo left the stage with a smile on her face. No matter what happened during the day, when she sang everything got better.

      “Good set,” Eric said, coming up behind her. “How about a late dinner to celebrate?”

      Cleo smiled over her shoulder. Eric was a great piano player, he was cute and he was extremely talented, but he was too young for her, and besides…she didn’t need any man looking at her this way, with adoring and hopeful eyes and a wicked come-hither smile. Not now. Maybe not ever. “No, thanks.”

      “One day you’ll say yes,” he said, shaking a long finger.

      “Don’t hold your breath, piano man.” Their banter was lighthearted, without passion or vigor. But she did wish he would quit asking her out and find a nice girl close to his own age. With his thick, pale brown hair, blue eyes and that baby face, he should have no problem finding willing women. And yet he persisted in asking her out. Seven years wasn’t a huge difference, but Eric was such a kid and she was such a jaded old woman. Too jaded for thirty-two, maybe—but there was no going back.

      Sometimes she wondered if Eric was the secret admirer who’d been sending her flowers and romantic notes over the past four months. She’d considered it, but really didn’t think it was Eric’s style. He’d be more likely to show up with flowers in hand, get down on bended knee and expect his due appreciation for the gesture.

      She planned to head to her office to catch up on a little paperwork before going home, but Edgar lifted his hand and waved her over to the bar. He looked none too happy, and the tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, either.

      The man in the black suit was trouble, and she knew it at first glance. He was too tall and stood with his spine too rigid, even as he went for that casual pose against the bar. But it was the way his eyes bored into hers that said trouble, the way his mouth thinned. Heavens, he had a hard face. No softness muted the cut of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the line of his nose. Sharp or not, he was a very nice-looking man. He was definitely too good-looking to be so openly sour. Men who looked like this, with nicely even features and unbroken noses, solid bodies and killer eyes, smiled and got what they wanted. They didn’t do glum the way this guy did.

      Another glance, and she knew who he was. What he was, anyway. A cop. A tired, cynical, overworked cop, and he was here to see her.

      Somehow this was Jack’s fault, she knew it. Her ex would do anything in his power to make her life more difficult.

      “What’s up, Edgar?” she asked, purposely ignoring the cop.

      “This detective wants to talk to you,” Edgar said, with an apologetic nod of his gray head.

      “Malone,” the cop said, offering his hand. “Detective Luther Malone.”

      Cleo ignored the offered hand, and eventually he dropped it. She looked him over, her eyes raking up and down the rumpled black suit, the white shirt, the slightly loosened gray tie. Either Detective Malone had had a very bad day, or he slept in his clothes.

      “What can I do for you, Malone?” She imagined, in a split second, a hundred different kinds of grief Jack might’ve planned for her this time. False charges, wild stories, out-and-out lies. She wondered if she should offer her hands for the cuffs the cop no doubt carried under that suit jacket of his.

      The СКАЧАТЬ