Perfect Victim, The (3 page)

"Hawaiian shirt or not
,
a private investigator may be able to cut through some of the red tape I haven't been able to unravel
.
" Addison counted out change and handed it to the customer
.

"Cut through your checkbook
,
more likely
.
"

"Give me a little credit, Gretch. I'm a businesswoman. I can handle this." Glancing at her watch, Addison frowned. "I've got to get going."

"Don't sign anything," Gretchen warned
.

Hoping for a quick escape, Addison snagged her purse and headed for the alley door
.
"Can you get by without me for an hour or so?
I'll
be back before the lunch rush."

"If you're not back by noon, I'm calling the cops
.
"

From the door, Addison shot Gretchen a wry smile. "Better make it the S.W.A.T. team. I hear Jack Talbot's as crazy as he is good."

He remembered the chill, the kind that seeped through the skin to permeate muscle and bone and sent the body into involuntary shivers. The moment he left the chopper, he smelled the fire, that horrible stench he'd inhaled too many times to ever forget. Around him the air was heavy, cold, and wet
.
The jagged horizon above the trees was barely visible, and full darkness would soon fall, a black cloak trapping him with the dead.

Emanating from the darkness beyond, a symphony of chain saws worked in unison to
c
lear the trees so the emergency vehicles could pass
.
He
'
d never felt more alone as he
walked toward the wreckage of Allegiance Air flight 335. It was as though he was traveling through a vacuum, devoid of sound and light, his senses assaulted instead by unspeakable stimuli. Silently, he repeated the only line he could recall from a psalm he'd memorized as a boy. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

The area resembled a war zone. He stopped twenty yards from the fuming crater where the main portion of the fuselage had slammed into the earth. Rescue workers dressed in yellow slickers glowed like beacons against the spotlights. Smoke blended with fog and curled upward into the cold, still air.

"This guy went straight down," he heard himself say in a voice devoid of the panic and horror thrashing inside him. "No survivors." The voice came again, his own, sounding strange among the surreal flashing of lights and the screaming of chain saws. Somewhere in the distance the rise and fall of a bulldozer's engine added another degree of bedlam.

Then he was standing at the brink of the jaggedly cut cavity. Around him, teams of rescue workers moved in slow motion, in and out of the crater, lugging stretchers, plastic buckets, or body bags. Nearby, an ambulance stuck in the mud rocked back and forth, its bumper hammering against the trunk of a walnut tree. Back and forth. Hammering . . .

Pounding dragged him from the nightmare.

Randall Talbot opened his eyes. The need to cry out clenched at him. His heart pummeled his ribs. The putrid taste of horror pooled at the back of his throat like vomit. He jerked upright, flinching as a cramp shot across the back of his neck. Cursing, he rubbed the sore muscles and tried to remember where he was, and how he'd gotten there. The scenario was all too familiar these days.

Christ, not even the booze can keep the nightmare at bay,
he thought bitterly and lowered his head back onto the desk.

The pounding persisted.

Muttering an oath, he rose. The room swayed. He blinked, realizing belatedly that he was still drunk—which suited him fi
ne. Somehow
,
the alcohol made it all easier to take. At least for now, he thought grimly.

Gray light slanted through the single window of the office, and he realized with some surprise it was well past dawn
.
As he staggered to the door, he plucked his flannel shirt off the back of the chair and pulled it on, not bothering with the buttons
.
Fighting a spell of dizziness, he leaned against the door, relishing the feel of the cool wood against his forehead. At least until the frame rattled under someone' s persistent knocking.

"Yeah, dammit, hold on a minute
,
" he croaked, sickened by the taste of whiskey at the back of his throat
.
Vaguely, he remembered breaking the seal as he'd waited for his two A.M. appointment
.
A topless dancer who worked at the Cheetah Lounge, he recalled. A woman who owed his brother, Jack, a fee for some surveillance work. She hadn't shown and
,
of course, Randall had ended up getting comatose drunk
.
Just like a woman to show up late and expect a man to wait, he thought sourly
.
Considering she owed Jack four hundred dollars, he was surprised she
'
d shown at all.

Spotting the bottle of whiskey on his desk, he strode to it and thumbed off the cap. It wouldn't do to waste the expensive stuff. Tipping the bottle, he drank deeply, swished, then spat in the wastebasket
.
The bottle followed with a
clank!

Despite the headache raging behind his eyes, Randall smiled as he started for the door. It was a smile that had little to do with good humor
-
and everything to do with the fact that he was ripe for a fight
.
Any woman who took advantage of a man confined to a wheelchair
-
especially his brother—deserved a good verbal trouncing. The way he felt this morning, he might even enjoy
i
t
.

Steadying himself against the wall, he unlocked the door and swung it open. "You're late
.
"

A young woman with dark, almond-shaped eyes and skin as flawless as new snow stood staring at him. Her mouth was full, heart-shaped, and painted an interesting hue of red. It was the kind of mouth that made a man think about the finer
elements of a woman—and the even finer elements of sex.

Her cheekbones were delicate and high, the flesh there blushed with cold. Soft bangs brushed past delicately arched brows. An unruly mass of brown hair tumbled onto her shoulders like strands of raw silk.

She didn't look like a topless dancer. Too soft, he thought, not to mention the fact that he couldn't make out much of her beneath the thick, fuzzy sweater. She wore a skirt that could have been her grandmother's and lace-up boots that would have looked more appropriate on a construction worker.

Her eyes flicked over his bare chest. "I must have the wrong address." She stepped back.

If he hadn't known better, Randall would have sworn he saw her blush. "Not so fast." Reaching for her hand, he pulled her inside.

She yelped and tried to jerk away, but he was prepared and hauled her into the office like a recalcitrant child. Her hand was small and cool in his. He caught a whiff of her perfume and ignored the flutter of pleasure that wafted through him.

"You have thirty seconds to cough up the cash," he said, resisting the urge to hold his head to keep the room from spinning.

Gasping, she tried to twist away. "What are you doing? Let go of me!" Her eyes narrowed. "What cash?"

She was small and vulnerable-looking, like somebody's little sister, he mused. Her body was fluid and graceful, all subtle curves and sly lines with a dangerous air of understated sexuality. It was a lethal combination for a woman who made a living off men willing to shell out their hard-earned cash for a peek at her goods.

Kicking the door closed with his foot, Randall forced her over to the shabby vinyl chair in front of the desk and thrust her into it. Placing his hands on the armrests, he leaned close to her, enjoying the way her eyes widened. "Fifteen seconds," he said quietly.

Indignation heated her gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You obviously have me confused with somebody else."

She was breathing hard, and Randall could see that she was shaking. Temper, he thought, and warned himself that women turned unpredictable when they were angry. They tended to lose control
.
He wondered if she was a screamer or a hitter.

She pressed herself into the chair as if she were trying to put some space between them, but he went with her, refusing to give her a respite. "The money, Felicia. Four hundred bucks. Then you can go."

"Felicia?
My name is Add
—
"

Randall snatched the purse from her shoulder. "Time's up." Without waiting for a response, he dumped the contents on the desk. A gold-encased tube of lipstick rolled over the edge and hit the floor.

She came out of the chair like a spring-loaded jack
-
in-the box
.
"You can't treat me like this! Who do you think you are?"

Ignoring her, Randall found the wallet, an overstuffed piece of goatskin jammed full of crinkled receipts and coupons
.
Christ, he hoped he didn't find drugs. The last thing he wanted to do was cart a screaming topless dancer down to the police station
.

He rifled through the cash pocket, pulling out a ten
-
dollar b
i
ll
.
"Is this all?" He waved the bill
.
"Where did you stash your tips?"

.
She blinked and stepped away from him. "Is this a robbery?"

Anger rippled through him that she would try to use that innocent facade to weasel out of paying a man who sorely needed the money
.
''Where the hell's your sense of decency?" he growled. ''The man's in a wheelchair, for chrissake."

''I don't know what you're talking about
.
I have an appointment
.
.."

Randall hated liars. Especially good ones with big brown eyes and a body that could give a man wet dreams for a week. A man was never quite safe around a woman with such formidable weaponry.

Even a man like him.

Intent on teaching her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget, he gave her a blatant once-over. "Maybe we could take it out in trade." He tried not to notice when her tongue flicked nervously over those ripe lips. This was a hell of a time for him to realize he'd gone too long without sex.

She looked like a prim little housecat that had just stepped into the ring with a snarling junkyard dog. "Touch me and you'll be singing soprano with the Vienna Boys' Choir," she warned in a voice that was refreshingly tough.

Captivated, and oddly pleased, he leaned forward and hit her with a look that had brought more than one tough guy to his knees. "Why don't you show me?"