Franco's Fortune (Redemption Book 2) (3 page)

She set down the photo of Dan and Lena and picked up
the other one, a picture of Doriana and Logan with their two
kids—Josh, almost twenty-one and Lenamarie, three—taken in the
backyard of their house in Tucson. Other than his black hair, Josh
was the image of Logan, with chiseled features and wide-set
shoulders. He must drive the girls at college crazy. Little
Lenamarie, named after her grandmother and great-grandmother, had
Logan’s dark blond hair and Doriana’s golden-brown eyes. Joy
radiated from the family’s big smiles. Jo doubted she’d ever find
the kind of contentment Logan and Doriana shared. They were
wonderful people and deserved all the happiness in the world.

With a sigh, Jo set the picture back on the table.
She strode to the windows, checking them as she had the windows in
her room, making sure they were securely locked. From the rough
outline Franco had given her of his house, she knew another bedroom
plus his suite were on this floor. She’d check them all.

On the ride over, Harris had told her that homes on
Delancey Street were some of the highest priced and most historic
homes in Old City Philadelphia. He needn’t have bothered. The
street reeked of money, old money. Delicate trees, just starting to
bud, formed a perfect canopy for the stately townhouses with their
marble steps and high ceilings. Nothing in Tucson could
compare.

She descended the stairs, passing from the small
foyer into the large living room. That room and the adjoining
dining room were designer showpieces, the walls painted sage green.
A cream-colored leather sectional and chairs dominated the living
room, with a small teak wood bar tucked into a corner. Bottles of
high quality liquor and wine lined mirrored shelves behind the bar.
Tied-back ivory drapes over sheer curtains of the same color
covered the large multi-paned windows. Museum quality paintings
hung on the walls, and fresh flowers in pops of bright colors sat
in exquisite Murano-style vases on glass-topped tables around the
room. The dining room overlooked the enclosed backyard. A pale wood
dining table that looked like it could seat twenty easily was
flanked by high-backed chairs upholstered in sage green and cream.
She stood between the two rooms and let her gaze roam. A real
showplace, like something out of
Architectural Digest
.
Dramatic and glamorous, yet somehow comfortable.

A place made for seduction.

Willing those thoughts away once again, she headed
into the large kitchen, with its gleaming white walls, high-end
stainless appliances and ceiling height cabinets. She tried the
back door, making sure the deadbolt held. Someone had broken in
through the back door and ransacked the place just two weeks ago.
She shook her head at Franco’s admission that he hadn’t had a
security system at the time and had had one installed last week.
Damn the man! Living in a house like this with no security system.
She’d get someone to replace the back door with a steel one. She
checked the basement last. Satisfied all was secure there, she
headed back to the kitchen.

As she sat at the granite center counter to type in
some notes, a sound permeated the quiet. She froze. There it was
again. A key turning in the front door lock, then the door opening
and closing. Jo hadn’t reset the security alarm. The hairs on her
nape stood up.

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Franco
wasn’t expected home for hours, and Harris would call when they
were on the way. She pulled her Glock from the waistband of her
pants. Cautiously she crept out of the kitchen, staying close to
the walls, and made her way to the living room. Adrenaline pumping
and her body on alert, she primed herself to fight. Hugging the
dining room wall, she peered into the living room. A young
dark-haired woman holding a huge tote bag stared back at her.

“Who are you?” Jo raised her gun. “You’d better talk
if you know what’s good for you.”

Fear in her eyes, the woman dropped the bag and ran
for the door. “Stop!” Jo shouted.

Trembling, the woman turned around, her hands
raised.

“Start talking,” Jo growled.

***

“P
lease,” the woman sobbed.
“Mr. Franco give me key. He say all okay. I’m legal.”

“Mr. Franco? Legal?” Jo lowered her gun. “It’s okay.
I’m a friend of Mr. Franco’s.”

The woman put her arms at her sides and backed away.
Terror shone in her deep brown eyes. She blinked rapidly. No more
than twenty-five, her long-sleeved T-shirt and ragged jeans hung
from her skinny frame. With a shaking hand, she brushed back
strands of black hair that had come loose from her ponytail.

Pity for the woman tugged at Jo’s heart, but she
tensed, ready to defend herself if needed. She’d learned the hard
way that the most innocent-looking people could be the most lethal.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jo said. “What are you doing here?”

“I clean for Mr. Franco. See?” The woman pointed to
the large tote bag she’d dropped. Her attention riveted on the
woman, Jo reached over and picked up the bag, dumping its contents.
Cleaning supplies fell onto the Oriental rug.

Relaxing slightly, Jo blew out a breath. “Why did
you try to run?”

The woman folded her arms across her chest and
backed farther away. “Mr. Franco’s lawyer say I okay. Please don’t
send me back to Mexico. Family here.”

The woman was truly frightened or she was one hell
of an actress. Jo’s instincts told her to believe the woman. They’d
asked Franco if anyone had keys and he’d said no. He’d lied.

“No one’s sending you anywhere,” Jo said. She
engaged the safety on her gun and tucked it back into her
waistband. “Let’s gather up this stuff and you can leave.”

“I have to clean.”

“Okay, since you’re here you can clean. But you
can’t come back for awhile.”

“I no clean, Mr. Franco no pay.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll pay.”

<><><>

Frustration had Jo pacing the living room, unable to
keep her churning nerves under control. She’d double checked all
the locks again, written her lists. She mentally ticked off the
items that needed to be second nature while she was on this
assignment. Gun with her at all times: check; security alarm set at
all times: check.

She’d probably worn a path in the expensive-looking
Oriental carpet by now. She glanced at her watch for the hundredth
time. A little past seven. Harris had phoned that he and Franco
were on their way. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t
eaten since the sandwich she’d had several hours ago. Food could
wait. Her confrontation with Franco couldn’t.

Twenty minutes and more miles of pacing later, she
heard a car pull up. Over the rumble of the engine, doors opened
and closed. Jo hurried to look out the door’s peephole, then
disengaged the security alarm. Heavy footsteps raced up the marble
steps, then the sound of a key turned in the lock.

“See you tomorrow, Franco,” she heard Harris say as
the door swung open.

Franco entered the foyer and shut the door behind
him.

“Don’t forget to reset the alarm,” she said.

He reset the alarm, dropped his briefcase on the
hall table, loosened his tie, then sauntered into the living room.
She followed. He turned. His gaze scanned her. Something hot and
dark lit his blue eyes, something that stoked an answering heat in
her.

With an arrogant quirk of his eyebrow, he gave her a
slow, sizzling smile. “You look a little perturbed, Fortune. Not
enjoying your stay? Accommodations not to your liking?”

She stalked toward him, not stopping until only
inches separated them. “You jerk.” She jabbed a finger into his
chest, suppressing a wince when her finger connected with hard
muscle. “How do you expect us to keep you safe if you can’t be
straight with us?”

He grabbed her hand and held it before she could
poke him again. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, jutting out her
chin.

“Have no idea.” He still held onto her hand.

She jerked free and stepped back. “You told us no
one had keys to your place. What about Marissa?”

“Marissa?” He swiped a hand over his short hair. “I
left her a message the other day telling her I wouldn’t need her
for awhile. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Did she show up
here?”

“She sure did, cleaning products in hand.”

“I didn’t think she’d come. I didn’t want to take
any chance on her getting hurt while those thugs, or whoever, are
out there. Maybe she never got the message.” He narrowed his eyes.
“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

“I didn’t. But I scared the poor woman half to
death. And I took her key away.”

“You had no right to take the key. I trust her. I’ll
make sure she doesn’t come back until this whole thing is
over.”

“I guarantee she won’t come back. You lost your
rights when those thugs threatened you. Right now, my job is to
protect you and your job is to do what I say.”

“No one tells me what to do.”

“If you want to live, I’ll tell you what to do. And
you’ll listen. ’Fess up. Now. Who else has a key to your place? And
I hope you haven’t given anyone your security code.”

“There are people who have keys, people I trust. You
don’t need to know who they are. They won’t come here until this
mess is over.”

Franco’s cell phone rang. Frowning, he slipped the
phone from his pocket and punched the connection to start the call.
“Yeah?” he said roughly.

His face hardened as he listened for several
seconds. “Who—” With a puzzled expression, he stared down at the
phone, then slid it back into his pocket.

Her anger forgotten, Jo approached him. “It was him,
wasn’t it?”

He raised his gaze to hers. Fear and anger flashed
in his eyes. “That sonofabitch.” He headed toward the small bar. “I
need a drink.”

He grabbed two brandy snifters from the rack above
the bar, plunked the glasses onto the wooden surface, and reached
for a decanter filled with golden liquid. After pouring a shot into
each glass, Franco came from behind the bar and held out a glass to
Jo.

Shaking her head, she put up a hand.

“Take it. We both need a drink,” he said.

“I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”

He set her glass on the bar. Jo watched the liquid
swirl in the glass. Brandy always reminded her of her father.
Memories, as warm as brandy, curled through her. Her dad had loved
the sweet drink, and he’d loved her. Not so her stepfather. He’d
enjoyed something much darker. A small shudder spilled over her
warm memories.

Franco downed his drink in one swallow, then grabbed
her glass from the bar.

Pushing aside her memories, good and bad, Jo caught
his gaze. “Sit. We need to talk.”

With a visible effort, Franco relaxed his shoulders
and followed her to the sectional.

They sat down, and Jo kept what she hoped was a safe
distance between them. Franco pulled his tie off, then threw it on
the small table in front of the sofa. Still holding his brandy, he
stared down at the liquid in his glass. Jo wished she could have
some of the warming drink to chase the chills that had crept up her
spine while she watched Franco’s face as he’d listened to the
call.

“What did he say?” she asked quietly.

He turned to her with expressionless eyes. “He knows
Harris is my bodyguard and he knows the Town Car is bulletproof.
Apparently, that angers him. He said no one will stop him from
getting to me, and when he does, I either give him what he wants
and he’ll let me die quickly or he’ll torture it out of me.”

She shuddered. “And he wants money? Think, Franco.
What money could he want?”

He knocked back his drink, set the empty glass on
the table, then turned to her. “If I knew what he wanted, don’t you
think I’d give it to him?” His features tightened and he looked
away. “Money. Mac.” He shook his head. “No, it couldn’t be.”

“Mac? What are you talking about?”

He looked at her. “It’s nothing.”

“Franco, you have to tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know why I thought
of Mac. He’s dead so he couldn’t have anything to do with
this.”

Leaning back, she closed her eyes, taking large,
even breaths, using the meditation technique one of her
mental-health counselors had taught her. After the trauma of her
childhood, then the Army and now the security firm, Jo had taught
herself to stay calm in any circumstance, to isolate her emotions.
The meditation worked its magic and soon blessed calm stole over
her. She opened her eyes to Franco watching her.

“You okay?” he asked with a small smile. “I’m the
one he wants to kill, not you.”

“And I’m the one charged with keeping you
alive.”

His eyes softened and he reached for her, taking her
hand in his. “Jo, it’ll be okay.”

She pulled away and scooted to the other end of the
sofa. “It’ll be okay so long as you listen to me and Harris,
Callahan.”

“It’s Franco, remember?” He shot her a teasing grin
that must have made countless women melt at his feet. She wasn’t
those other women. But the warmth that swirled through her told her
she wasn’t so different after all.

With a determined shove, she pushed up from her
seat. “Stay here. I left my tablet in the kitchen. I have
questions.”

When she came back, Franco was lounging on the sofa,
looking like a man without a care in the world. He’d lost the look
of fear mixed with anger he’d had in his eyes when he’d hung up
from the call. She wondered if years of partying had taught him how
to mask his feelings, to put on the pretense of the international
playboy. Jo suspected she might like the real Franco if he ever
completely let down his guard. That frightened her almost as much
as the thought of him being murdered.

Sinking down onto the cushions next to him, she
turned on her tablet, then faced him.