Summer Kisses (175 page)

More than a block away, she grabbed her phone again. Hit redial. She swerved around the corner onto Giuseppe’s street.

The phone was ringing.

But she was almost there. She could see the house, Paolo’s familiar dusty white Fiat parked out front. She smiled. The day suddenly seemed brighter. Relief almost made her limp—

The explosion rocked her Audi. Flames shot fifty feet in the air, glass shattered. She slammed on the brakes, her car screeching as it slid to a stop. The impact threw her head into the deployed air bag. The phone flew out of her hand.

Then everything went silent.

Her head pounding, blood dripping from her nose and a cut on her forehead, her vision blurred, she dragged her gaze upward and stared in horror at the fire blazing before her.

Paolo’s car engulfed in flames.

Five Years Later, New York City

Dave Armstrong watched the condensation collect around the neck of the beer bottle, roll slowly downward, and soak through to the napkin underneath. Another untouched and fast-warming bottle of brew going to waste.

No help for it. He was on the clock. He’d only bought the drinks because he needed to keep this table. The one his informant Sandro had specified when he guaranteed someone high up in the Peruzzo crime family would make contact tonight at ten. In a bar so far from Little Italy, Dave was sure it’d been chosen so the contact wouldn’t be recognized.

He removed the piece of gum he’d been chewing, rolled it in the old gum wrapper, and opened a new piece. The last piece. Damn gum lost its flavor so fast, though the first burst of spearmint gave false promise it would last. Sort of like every relationship he’d been in, he thought.

Man, he was totally bored if he was comparing gum to women.

And the TV shows always made his job at the FBI sound so exciting. Yeah, right.

The waitress stopped by his table, providing a brief diversion. “You wanna waste another beer, good-lookin’?” she asked with what he now thought of as her trademark overly bright smile and hopeful gaze.

During the course of the evening, she’d been by often enough—he knew her name was Bobbie Jo and she was another Southern transplant like him, determined to make it big in New York. Only he didn’t want to make it big in New York. Just catch the bad guys.

“Yeah, fine,” he told her, doing his part to keep the tip money flowing her way.

Hoppin’ John’s Beer Bar had certainly lived up to its name this evening. The bar was crowded and noisy, full of women in tight jeans and halter-tops, and men with big belt buckles longing to get laid. After more than two hours, his head pounded in rhythm with the Country & Western wannabe band’s attempt at honky-tonk. Their rendition of
Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain
made him want to cry right along with them.

Dave tapped his fingers on the table and mentally reviewed the top guys the FBI hadn’t pinched in this last bust who might be willing to flip. Or was it one who already had been arrested and was willing to deal? The biggest bust in history, but Carlo had managed to escape the net. Truth be told, many of the mobsters that they got were going to walk without more information. And for certain they couldn’t nab Carlo without more information, but chances on getting that seemed slim.

Carlo had a particularly nasty reputation for offing people who crossed him. And Dave couldn’t come up with anyone that brave.

Yet Sandro had promised the contact would have useful information and he would know him as soon as he saw him—

Her.
Dave corrected himself and sat up straighter when she entered the bar. He would recognize
her
. Sandro had never specified male or female, Dave realized as his heart rate kicked up a few notches. His jaw would have dropped if he hadn’t been the kind of guy trained not to show his emotions.

Hell, who wouldn’t be shocked?
Carlo Peruzzo’s daughter. The Mafia princess herself.

Her gaze scanned the room until she saw him. Though her lips were pressed in a straight line, a sparkle flashed in her eyes as if she did know just how she shocked him.

She walked purposefully toward him, making her way through the crowded tables. Black designer jeans hugged nice curvy hips, and her full breasts were covered with a pink plaid, pearl-button western shirt. Interesting color choice. A leather belt wrapped around her waist, and his focus narrowed. Best he could tell the belt was pink, too. And there were some kind of pink jewels inlaid in the buckle.

He hid a smile. The only thing that would complete the color coordination was if she had on—he looked down, yep, pink cowboy boots. Pretty-in-pink cowgirl-Mafia princess. That certainly wasn’t an image he expected to see.

With her head high, and her gaze fixed on him she seemed unaware—or unaffected—by the attention she garnered. And she certainly got a fair share of stares. He saw more than one man pause with a drink halfway to his mouth, head swiveling to keep track as she walked past.

Dave had never seen the high-and-mighty Mafia daughter in anything other than expensive business suits, with her hair pulled back and her makeup understated, but tonight she wore this chic knock-off cowgirl look well. With her dark wavy hair swinging free around her shoulders, her smooth olive skin glowing, and lips a luscious color of pink to match as well, she could raise the lust level in a saint.

Dave was no saint.

But he was a professional, and he would make certain not to let her looks affect him.

Marisa slid into the chair opposite his. “Hello, Agent Armstrong.” Her husky voice matched her hot cowgirl look and went a long way toward shattering all of his previous ice princess illusions.

Bobbie Jo chose that moment to bring his fresh beer. Suddenly, Dave was parched, his mouth so dry he could barely swallow, much less speak. On the job or not, as soon as the bottle touched the table, he took a swig.

“Oh, ho, so the boy does drink. Just waiting on your lady friend here before you started partying.” Bobbie Jo’s wink made his neck muscles tighten.

She turned to Marisa. “Keep ’em waiting, honey, good policy.” Bobbie Jo gave an approving nod. “Whatcha drinking?”

Marisa looked at Dave. “Whatever he has is fine.”

The waitress moved off, and Marisa raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t been drinking?”

“Not while I’m on the job. Just been sitting here
for hours
watching the beer grow warm.”

“My, you must have excellent
come se dice
. . . how do you say?” She held up a hand in question. “Oh, yes. Willpower.”

Her sarcasm irritated him, and he couldn’t stop himself from lashing back. “You pull off the cowgirl wannabe look pretty well.”

“What?” For a moment she seemed to wilt before his eyes. Then she straightened, held her head higher. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?”

Had he imagined the brief moment of weakness? He decided to probe deeper. “A true cowgirl would wear something more practical than designer jeans. And it’s not necessary to color coordinate everything down to your boots.”

Her voice was still strong when she asked, “Which boots? On my feet or my ears?” She pushed back her hair, and he saw a dangling pink jeweled miniature boot hanging from each ear.

He couldn’t help but stare.

“I had them special made, do you like?”

What game was she playing? Was she trying to convince him she liked playing dress up? He had a feeling they could go back and forth like this all evening, when all he really wanted was his information so he could leave. No, Dave, you don’t want to be sitting here across from a totally hot woman, not at all. Information.

“You’re late,” he said, the blunt statement designed to throw her off guard while allowing him to regain his composure.

“It takes a while to put together an outfit like this. And these boots were really hard to pull on.”

“You almost backed out,” Dave guessed, trying hard to get onto the subject.

Marisa only smiled and leaned close. Dave leaned forward as well, anxious to get to business.

“Since you’re still on the job, Mr. FBI man,” she said in a low voice, “you’re not going to drink any more of that are you?” She nodded toward his beer.

Dave fought off a frown, tempted to lie. “Actually, I–”

“I didn’t think so.” She picked up the bottle, held it against her lips with her left hand, while she used her thumb and first two fingers of her right hand to stroke the bottle. The action injected Dave with the immediate idea of her stroking something much more personal.

“After all, you’re working, no?” she said, her lips, shiny and pink, hovering over the bottle rim.

“Help yourself,” Dave nearly growled, hating that this woman, this Mafia princess, was playing him so well and making him work hard to stay in control.

She moved the bottle in a cheering motion, put it back to her lips, tilted her head, and slugged down half the contents. Dave tried to ignore how her moist lips closed over the rim where his own lips had been moments before and focus, instead, that her actions indicated she needed a boost to steady her nerves.

He knew he’d guessed correctly that she almost didn’t show, even though she had pointedly not answered his question. The realization provided a small comfort.

“You like this place?” she asked, looking around at the New York City bar that was pretending to be country.

Dave shrugged, now resigned a long night was going to get longer. “It serves its purpose.”

“Which is?”

“It’s far away from Little Italy. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She finished the beer before she answered. “Certainly I didn’t want to be seen by anyone I know, but I thought you’d like this place since you’re from Texas. Don’t you Texans like country-and-western?”

“I’ve been gone from Texas a long time.”

“Ah, but I’ve heard Texas is like Italy—you can leave it, but it never leaves you.” A wistful look clouded her dark eyes and she seemed in another place before she turned her gaze back to him. “Once a Texan, always a Texan.”

“And once an Italian, always an Italian,” Dave echoed.

“
Si
,” she said softly. “You are correct.”

Bobbie Jo brought Marisa’s beer and picked up the empty bottle. “Need another?” she asked Dave.

“No, thanks.” He’d spent enough money tonight on beer he couldn’t drink. When the waitress left again, he asked Marisa, “You want to go back?”

“To Italy?” Marisa shrugged. “I haven’t really thought of it. I’m getting used to the States.”

Dave knew she’d been in the city three years, her father cleverly moving the family before the Italian authorities could solidify a case they’d been working on against him. At the time, Dave had just finished his first massive mob bust when Carlo moved in and dirtied the turf again with one of the bloodiest family takeovers the city had ever seen.

Ever since, Carlo had remained slippery as a well-oiled snake.

“If you don’t want to go back, what’s your game?” Dave asked, needing to understand why she was willing to turn witness.

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Dave rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers. “What do you hope to gain by helping me?”

She stared at him, her cocoa brown eyes unflinching. “I want justice.”

“Justice for your father would be prison.” Dave narrowed his eyes and leaned closer for emphasis. He wanted to be very clear they were talking the same language.

“Yes, at the very least,” she agreed, her tone laced with venom.

The lady was full of surprises this evening.

While he would privately admit a criminal like Carlo, who made it a habit to destroy lives for his own gain would be better off dead, Dave wondered what Marisa had been through which led her to at least appear to share his opinion.

“It’s my job to gather enough evidence to arrest your father,” Dave continued. “Sandro said you’re willing to help.”

She nodded. “This is true.”

“You and Sandro are old friends, right?”

“We’ve been friends since we were children,
si
.” She drank from her own bottle this time. “I know what my father is doing to him.”

“So you’re here to help out an old friend?”

“That’s one reason.”

“An old
married
friend?” He didn’t know why he threw out that comment except the pain of remembering who Sandro had married distracted Dave momentarily from the dark-haired and dangerous woman across from him.

There was also the fact Marisa and Sandro had once been engaged—something Dave learned on his own. Had Sandro dumped her to marry his wife? If so, why would Marisa help him? Or maybe Marisa dumped Sandro. Dave would love to know the story.

“I’m aware Sandro is married, Agent Armstrong,” Marisa said at last, interrupting his speculations. “And I said helping him was one reason. I didn’t say it was my only reason.”

“Which is? Your main reason, that is.”

Marisa took another drink and surveyed the bar again. “Can you dance like those people?”

Dave turned and followed her line of view to the small dance floor in front of the stage. “The two-step? Sure.”

She set the bottle firmly on the table. “Dance with me, then.”

Her request wasn’t what he expected, but he resigned himself that she wasn’t going to make this as easy as he’d hoped. All in a day’s—or night’s—work.

There could be worse things besides dancing with a beautiful woman. He stood and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

She slipped her small, manicured hand into his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

He turned, and she moved into his arms, closer than he would have liked, her head fitting neatly under his chin. He made himself ignore the erotic feel of her warm, firm body pressed against him, the soft smell of her musky perfume, as he taught her the steps.

“You think dancing will make me forget what I asked?”

“Shh, I’m counting so I don’t lose my step.” She stared at the ground. “I like your boots.”

He led them to a more isolated corner and stopped dancing. “Marisa.”

Forced to stand still, she looked at him. Her dark eyes studied him with a cool, casual gaze. He was tempted to move closer, see if he could make the coolness melt away.