Up Against the Wall

She smelled the dampness from the air outside that clung to his suit and golden hair. She heard his deep, even breathing over the alarming staccato of her own pulse in her ears.

He wore a classic suit over a tight charcoal-gray T-shirt. But no amount of tailored wool or self-restraint could completely civilize the hard edge that lined his square jaw, or temper the danger that lurked in the depths of his gray-green eyes.

It couldn’t hide the black shoulder holster that peeked out from inside his jacket, either. Right next to the pocket with her confiscated tape. Okay, so she hadn’t recorded anything on it yet, but still, he’d taken it from her. Just like that, he’d put her at a disadvantage. All that muscle intruding into her personal space made her rethink the shrimp-size memory she’d mistakenly had of the man. His sharp eye and suspicious mind made him more of a formidable opponent than the pesky annoyance she remembered. And the gun…? Oh, hell. She knew she’d be taking a risk by going undercover at the Riverboat. But she hadn’t really known.

She’d expected close calls and the need to think on her feet. She’d reviewed her arsenal of fast talk and coy come-ons. She’d even been prepared for threats if her true purpose was found out. She’d made note of where the nearest exit in each room was located, and had her can of pepper spray within reach on her keychain. But she hadn’t expected this palpable sense of mistrust, this antagonism, this isolation.

She hadn’t expected to feel like the enemy herself.

The fuse on Seth Cartwright’s temper, however, was every bit as short as she remembered, his inability to listen to reason just as frustrating. No wonder she didn’t like cops. Or ex-cops. Or whatever kind of man rated a dubious title like Chief of Security at the place where her father had been murdered.

She’d been willing enough to leave the Riverboat with him to keep him from blabbing to everyone on board that she was a reporter for the Journal. But she had no intention of giving up on her quest.

She wasn’t the bad guy here.

If finding Reuben Page’s killer meant finding a way to deal with Seth Cartwright, then she’d swallow her pride and frustration—and ignore that little frisson of nervous awareness that made her heart beat faster. Give me strength, Dad. And then she asked for the practically impossible. Give me patience.

“You want to talk?” She bit down on a sarcastic desire to remind him how close-mouthed he’d been with her. “How about this? I am looking for a story.”

“And?”

If he could be a smug know-it-all, then she could tell a little white lie. “I’m writing an article on the history of the Commodore. From its days as a cruise ship and dance-hall club on the Missouri River through its rusty demise as a floating eyesore to its reincarnation as a casino. I’m talking to owners, staff and passengers who’ve known the Commodore in all its stages, from the time it was built in the late thirties to the present.”

He settled back behind the wheel. But his heat and scent—and mistrust—remained. “History? That’s not your usual beat.”

“I’ve always loved research. Between jazz and baseball and the westward expansion of our country there’s so much history in Kansas City that there’s always something more to learn.” Those statements were completely true. The first story she’d written for her high-school paper had been a piece on the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Baseball League. She’d only turned to crime investigation after her father’s death. “Who knows? If I can piece together enough facts and firsthand accounts, I could write a series of articles—or put together a book.”

“I don’t care if you’re writing haiku poetry. I don’t need you asking questions and stirring up trouble at the Riverboat.”

“Afraid I’m a security risk you can’t handle?”

His eyes darkened like storm clouds in the shadows of the car. The bastard didn’t even blink. “I can handle you just fine, Miss Page.”

Easing any smart remark aside on a soft, drawn-out breath, she tried to keep the rare line of communication open. “You should probably call me Rebecca. I didn’t tell anyone my full name tonight. I don’t want them to know who I am and what I do. It could taint their responses to me.” She added the latter as a plausible explanation of her need for anonymity. “It’s not like I’m a television reporter with my face plastered all over the news. The Journal doesn’t even publish a picture with my byline. I was going to use my mother’s maiden name if I needed to.”

He shook his head. “A decent background check would point out that deception in an instant.”

“Good to know,” she conceded. “Then I’ll use another one. Tom Sawyer’s named after a character in a book. I can come up with something at least as believable.”

“You’ve been talking to Sawyer?”

“Just enough to get offered a job. And to make me wonder if he’s the guy who got too rough with Melissa.”

Seth swore. One pithy word that told her he’d noticed the abuse, too. “You have been a busy lady.”

“I’m trained to be observant.”

His answering silence lasted so long that Rebecca thought the conversation was over.

She jerked in her seat when he swung around to face her again. “If you really are concerned about Melissa, could I appeal to your kinder side?” The hard line of his mouth quirked at one corner, in something that could almost be construed as a smile. Almost. “You do have a kinder side, don’t you?”

Ha. Ha. But the quiet depth of his voice kept her sarcasm in check. It stung to think his question was halfway serious. “I care very deeply about a lot of things.”

He nodded, taking her statement at face value. “These aren’t all nice people around here. Asking the wrong question to the wrong person could get you into trouble.”

“I’m not afraid of ruffling someone’s feathers.”

“No need to state the obvious.” He pulled her keys from his pocket and dropped them into her lap. Concession? Or dismissal? “Just know, that if you do ruffle somebody’s feathers, I may not be there to bail you out.”

“I never asked you to. I don’t ask anyone for anything except the truth.”

“There are some truths that could get you killed.”

His stark warning filled all the empty spaces inside in the car. And, despite the warmth of the night, Rebecca felt goose bumps crawling across her skin.

But he couldn’t have said anything that would make her more determined than ever to stay to find her father’s killer.

“Look…Seth.” Why was that word so hard to push through her lips? Had she never called him by name before? “I don’t care about whatever descent into the dark side you’re on. If tossing cheats and rowdy drunks out of the casino gives you the same thrill that arresting bad guys and harassing innocent reporters used to, then that’s your business. I appreciate the words of caution, but you’re not going to stop me from taking care of my business.”

“You are the single most stubborn woman I have ever met. I’m trying to give you a fair—” A blast of static from beneath his coat cut him off. He reached inside and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Cartwright.”

The static cleared and another man’s voice reported in. “Mr. Wolfe is leaving the building to make a bank deposit. He says he’ll be staying at the penthouse downtown instead of his suite on the ship tonight.”

Seth checked his watch. “What about Kelleher?”

“He’s staying late to work some numbers in his office.”

“Post a man outside the accounting office. Tell Mr. Wolfe I’ll be right there to escort the money.”

Escort the money? Big money? Illegal money? What numbers was Daniel Kelleher working on? Probing questions danced on the end of Rebecca’s tongue, but she pressed her lips together to keep them quiet. She didn’t need Seth Cartwright’s blessing to investigate Wolfe International and the Riverboat, but she did need him to stay out of her way and keep the whole reporter thing secret.

He hooked the phone back on his belt and adjusted his suit coat to mask his shoulders and gun. “You think you could earn Melissa’s trust?”

What? He was asking her for a favor? But the subject was too serious for Rebecca to gloat. “I have some contacts who counsel abused women. I can call them to get ideas on the best way I…we…could help her.”

“Good. You can stay. For Melissa.” He pointed a finger in warning. “But if I hear one word out of your mouth that isn’t related to the history of the ship or becoming her friend, you’re out of here.”

Then she wouldn’t let him hear anything else. Rebecca stuck out her hand. “Deal,” she lied.

Maybe he sensed the false promise there. Or maybe he could hear the traitorous anticipation of his touch pounding through her veins. Seth looked down at the outstretched offering, looked up into her eyes. He looked deep enough inside her that Rebecca felt compelled to curl her fingers into her palm and cross her arms in front of her again.

“I have to go,” he said. Seth dismissed her, climbed out of her car and disappeared into the night.

REBECCA SAT in the passenger seat several moments longer, hugging herself, trying to instill the warmth that victory over Seth Cartwright should have given her. She’d just negotiated her way around the biggest obstacle standing in the path of her investigation. She should be high-fiving herself, not clinging to her father’s ring and wondering why the air inside her car seemed flat and cool in the wake of her charged confrontation with Seth.

Rousing herself from that disturbingly fanciful thought, Rebecca unlocked the glove compartment. She pulled out her father’s notebook and turned to a new page where she jotted some notes about tonight’s events and what her next step should be.

DBD-Dani Ballard Disk was her best guess for that clue.