Beneath The Silk

“True, he didn’t like hearing it. That’s why he kept the offer on the table.”

“Meaning he pressured you?”

“He died before it came to that. But, yes, I think he would have gotten heavy-handed eventually.”

“Would he have been successful…eventually?”

“I’ve sacrificed a lot to make Silks a success. It’s mine. I created it, and I should be the one to own it. Completely.”

His smile widened. “Very good answer, Sunni. Now, I’m told you have a greenhouse on your terrace. Will you show it to me?”

“You like roses?”

“Is that hard to believe?”

“Honestly?”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Yes. You don’t look like the flowery type.”

His sudden laugh was rich and open. It brought a hint of boyish charm to him that Sunni found attractive.

Inside the greenhouse, she showed him the climbing William Baffins and Celsianas. The long blooming rugosas. England’s impressive white Yorks and red Lancasters were some of the most fragrant.

“You did good tonight.” Joey leaned across the long work table to take a delicate white Rosa soulieana into his hand and sniff. “If we keep the game going, Williams will back off. These smell like heaven, Sunni.” He turned and guided her onto the terrace. In one corner an iron table and two chairs attracted him and he sat.

Sunni remained standing. She said, “I’m confused why you would care one way or the other whether I’m a suspect in the Tandi murder.”

“It’s important to Masado Towers’ image. Don’t get me wrong. I believe you’re innocent. But a full-scale investigation would be awkward for us. I supplied the alibi as added insurance until Williams wakes up and starts looking in a different direction.”

It made sense. An intense investigation for a family connected with the organization could pose serious problems.

She regretted wearing the revealing red shift. She could feel Joey dissecting her again and she turned away, her gaze locking on the fourth floor apartment across the alley. The room was dark at the Wilchard. Was Rambo there, sitting in the dark watching them, or was he still out?

“Did you hear what I said?”

No, she hadn’t. Sunni turned. “What?”

“I asked if you were afraid to stay here alone.”

She came forward and pulled the chair away from the table and sat across from him. “Should I be?”

“Vito Tandi will be hunting for Milo’s killer, as will the police. I could put you up at Masado Towers if you like.”

“But I’m innocent, remember?”

“Innocent, but alone. On your lease you didn’t list any sisters or brothers. And with both of your parents deceased, there’s no one to protect you.”

Sunni nodded, even now determined to keep the lie her secret. It was true what she had told him a short time ago. She had worked too hard to turn Silks into a success. “I’m fine, really.”

“I can protect you, Sunni. You can trust that.”

His declaration prompted her to question whether or not she should tell him about Rambo. But if they were friends, maybe he already knew that his fratello was staying at the Wilchard. No, Rambo had lied. He’d told Joey he’d just gotten into town, which meant he no longer lived in Chicago.

He drained his beer quickly, set the bottle on the table, then stood. “I’m good at what I do, Sunni. But you’re going to have to do your part, too.”

“My part? I don’t understand.”

He reached out and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Kissed her quickly, like a man who had the capability to be as tender as he could be cruel.

As Sunni tried to shove him away, he slid his strong hand up her back and crushed her full breasts against him. He nuzzled her neck, whispered, “Someone’s watching us. A shadow at the apartment window across the alley. No, don’t look. It’s show time, Sunni. Kiss your alibi like a woman in love.”

Jackson backed away from the window, but not before the image of Sunni wrapped in Joey’s arms revisited him. He had to admit that the kiss he’d just witnessed could have started wet paper on fire.

Clide was going to chew both their heads off, he thought. Sunni’s for sleeping behind enemy lines, and his for being the elected sucker to confirm the ugly fact to his boss.

At least Clide would be happy to hear that Sunni hadn’t made his suspect list. In four days’ time he had narrowed Milo’s killer down to a list of four possibilities. The bad news was Frank Masado had made the list. Which meant that if he’d moved on Milo, it would have been Lucky who would have made the hit.

Aware of how little time he had to solve the case, Jackson turned on the floor lamp next to the old desk. Like always, he’d easily become obsessed with the case. But, he admitted, this time was worse. He knew the people involved, and a few of those people were important to him. If it took all night, he was determined to narrow down the suspect list to two instead of four.

Resigned, he peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the bed. Mac opened one eye, spied Jackson’s shirt a foot from his nose, and with the skill of a master sneak, he slid his paw forward and pulled his partner’s only hole-free T-shirt toward him. A few well-placed nudges, and the cotton lump became a pillow for his wide scarred head.

Jackson eyed his partner, then glanced at the jeans he had left on the chair before leaving to have supper with his mother. The jeans were now on the floor, and one ass-end pocket was missing.

Shaking his head, he went to work. An hour later, distracted by Mac’s whining, he looked over his shoulder to see the K-9 struggling in sleep—trapped in an obvious nightmare he couldn’t forget.

The facts were that Mac had lost Nate two years ago, and Jackson had lost Tom a little over three. They had nothing in common, save the sudden and tragic loss of their partners, and yet that was the cement that had kept Jackson from returning Mac to the pound five weeks ago—that, and the fact that the canine was on the List.

Mac rolled onto his side, still whining and twitching. It was then that Jackson saw it, a flash of red.

“What’s that, Mac?”

At the sound of his name, the dog jerked awake.

On his feet, Jackson moved to the bed, his hand reaching out to uncover the mystery. But Mac wasn’t feeling too obliging. Guarding his treasure, he growled low in his throat.

“Take it easy,” Jackson warned.

When Mac relented and turned his head away in resigned submission, Jackson sent his hand beneath the dog’s furry coat. When his fingers locked around the silky red strip, he pulled, and the mystery literally sprang forward, snapping Jackson in the chest. “What the hell… So this is why you didn’t give a damn about going outside to take a leak when I got home.”

Jackson was addressing Mac, but his gaze was locked on the sexy red bra that dangled from his fingertips—a bra that looked surprisingly familiar.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Mac had gotten his loot. The Crown Plaza had a similar fire escape. It would have taken Mac less than five minutes to leave the Wilchard by way of the window, cross the alley and get on Sunni’s terrace.

Jackson turned and stared out the window. The case files concerning Mac had ranked him as the number-one dog in the precinct’s K-9 unit. If a door or window wasn’t locked, he was in…or out, whichever the case may be.

He was still staring out the window, still balancing Sunni’s bra on the end of his index finger, when his cell phone rang. He snatched it off the desk and jammed it to his ear. “Yeah?”