Undercover Nanny

Panting from exertion, D.J. hopped back, assessed her opponent’s condition and allowed herself a brief victorious smile. You lose, pal. Crime never pays.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with a bare forearm, she used her teeth to tug the boxing glove off her right hand and flexed her fingers.

“Sheesh, D.J., have a heart, would ya?” Angelo Fantozzi, owner-manager of Angelo’s Gym Downtown, looked mournfully at the man-shaped punching bag he provided for his clients. Helping D.J. off with her remaining glove, he tucked them both under his arm and massaged her sore fingers. “You keep whaling like that on my equipment, I’m going to have to get all new stock. What’s the matter? You get up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

Immediately, D.J.’s stomach began to churn. Angelo was the best, a king-size teddy bear, but she had never discussed her problems with him. She’d come to the gym this morning so she could work out some of the tension that was turning her into an antacid junkie. When it came to conversation, however, she disliked turning herself inside out so other people could see her troubles.

No…that wasn’t true. She didn’t “dislike” it; she hated it. Chronicling her woes out loud made her feel weak, tragic.

Fixing her problems—that’s what D.J. liked.

She glanced back at Angelo. He was waiting for a response, and he didn’t look like he was going to take “No problem” for an answer, so she shrugged. “PMS.”

Immediately the giant man turned beet red. “Oh, yeah, okay, well, whatever.” He patted the air with a beefy hand and walked away.

D.J. smiled. Pity that her troubles couldn’t be averted as easily as Angie.

Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly then rolled her shoulders. Angelo’s punching bag wasn’t the only thing going down. Thompson Investigations, the detective agency D.J. worked for—had worked for in one capacity or another since she was sixteen years old—was about to sink faster than stones in a river…unless D.J. found a way to keep it afloat.

Her stomach gurgled unpleasantly, making her regret the Danish she’d eaten before her workout. Wiping her face with the thin towel she’d slung around her neck, D.J. had made it halfway to the women’s showers when the pager at her hip buzzed. Looking down, she read the numbers on the digital display, and her heart started pumping as if she’d begun her workout all over again. This was the call she’d been hoping for.

Rushing to her locker, she fumbled with the combination, dragged out her duffel bag and rummaged through its jumbled contents. Seizing her cell phone, she checked the pager again then punched in Loretta Mallory’s home phone number—the private line.

D.J. had met with the elderly woman yesterday to discuss Loretta’s needs, private-investigatorwise. The case she had in mind was a bit more involved than the missing persons or cheating spouse cases D.J. usually handled, but that was good; the fee would be greater than usual, too. Unfortunately for D.J.’s burgeoning ulcer, Loretta was also careful and conservative and had opted to sleep on her decision to use D.J.’s services.

A sudden case of cottonmouth made D.J. realize how worried she’d been that Mrs. Mallory wouldn’t call, even to say she’d hired somebody else. Loretta Mallory was a wealthy woman, who could afford to pay top dollar, and D.J….

“I am a professional who can deliver the goods,” she said under her breath, hoping the mantra would buck up her resolve in the event her prospective client required more convincing. Thompson Investigations needed this job like a calf needed milk.

The phone rang twice before a cultured but obviously elderly voice stated, “Loretta Mallory.”

D.J. took a calming breath. Confidence begat power, and power was far more persuasive than desperation. Remembering that, she spoke as smoothly and evenly as any person with an urgent need could expect of herself. “Mrs. Mallory, this is Private Investigator Holden. I just received your page.”

Bette Davis put it best: “What a dump.”

D.J. stood just inside the door of Tavern on the Tracks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim bar lighting. When they did, she almost choked.

The large square room was decorated in sixties-style restaurant chic—burgundy leather, tufted chairs that had been patched a few times too many, round wooden tables, threadbare navy-blue carpeting and red flocked wallpaper that looked as if it was molting.

At 4:00 p.m. only a few customers perched on the tall stools tucked up against a bar that ran almost the full length of the far wall. It looked like “happy hour” could use a Prozac here at the tavern. Fortunately that suited D.J. just fine this evening. She was looking for someone, and when she found him, she wanted his full attention.

In a ridiculously tiny but fashionably correct purse, she’d tucked a snapshot of the man she’d come to see—Loretta Mallory’s grandson.

Maxwell Lotorto was the heir to the Mallory supermarket dynasty—Loretta’s daughter’s only child. Loretta had not seen her wayward grandson since he was a teenager, but she had a photo that was taken at his high school graduation—fifteen years ago. With no idea how to find Maxwell, Loretta had started interviewing P.I.s.

Standing straight and tall, D.J. squared her broad shoulders in a red dress that fit like a layer of glue. Fixing her gaze on the bar, she ignored the row of male backs on the customer side in favor of the man tending to drinks. Her brown eyes narrowed. Her heart rate accelerated. It always did when she was this close to victory.

The photo in her purse showed a young man with black hair. Dressed in a cap and gown for his high school graduation, he was tall with strong shoulders, but at seventeen he still had the lean, gangly look of a teenager.

The person behind the bar was all grown-up. And undeniably, heart-thumpingly masculine.

Maxwell Lotorto’s looks were a striking combination of light and dark—dark hair, light skin, light eyes. He was a tall drink of water, too. Even at five foot seven and in three-inch heels, D.J. didn’t come close to his height. For a moment she wondered if she had the right Max Lotorto. Then he looked up.

The dim room disappeared. Eyes the color of an overcast sky zeroed in on her like radar, and pure male heat radiated from their depths. He neither smiled nor acknowledged her in any other way, but the steadiness of his gaze made several of the other men at the bar turn to see what he was looking at.

D.J. struggled to maintain her concentration. She was here to do a job. Finding Max Lotorto was merely the beginning. Loretta Mallory would not pay a small fortune for a mere missing-persons gig; what she truly wanted was to have her grandson investigated. Evaluated. She wanted details, as many as she could get so she could decide whether to herd her AWOL lamb back to the fold. D.J. had opinions—mostly negative—about ordering an investigation before deciding whether to hook up with your own flesh and blood. But then again she didn’t have millions to protect, and Loretta was looking for an heir, not only someone with whom to share Thanksgivings.

More importantly, Loretta paid top dollar for services rendered, so D.J. intended to keep her opinions to herself and give the woman everything she asked for. Thompson Investigations had two weeks to cough up five months of back rent or they’d be doing business from the pay phone at Hot Dog Hut. If this job was successful, on the other hand, they’d be debt free—and then some—for awhile.

To investigate Maxwell to Ms. Mallory’s satisfaction, D.J. knew she had to be very creative. Loretta wanted info that only a person close to her grandson could possibly know. Before she’d even gotten in her car to drive down here, D.J. had decided that by the end of the evening Mr. Lotorto was going to do one of two things: hire her to work for him or ask her out on a date.

Lifting her chin, she met his gaze squarely as she slipped onto a barstool. Then she breathed in deeply. Let the games begin….

Max watched the cat-eyed brunette seat herself at his bar with the same effortless grace she’d demonstrated on her walk across the room. Four of his five customers had turned to gawk at her the moment she’d strolled in. She hadn’t noticed. All her attention had been on him. Flattering.

Glancing away from her wasn’t easy, but he made himself do it. When their eyes had met and held, he’d felt a surge of pure male want, the kind that could make a man’s desire circumvent his sanity.

Max decided to let the beauty wait a bit, checking first on his other customers, making sure they were all topped up. Harvey Newhouse looked at him like he was crazy. Raising his right hand to hide the gesture he made with his left, Harv pointed to the newcomer as if he thought Max might have missed her in the early-evening “rush.”

“You want another beer, Harv?” Max wiped the bar in front of the older man. Scowling, Harv jerked his head to the right, another subtle cue.

Max ignored the directive, turning instead to Steve Shaynor, owner of the local feed and tackle. “How about you, Steve? You ready for another Dewar’s?”

Steve scowled at the younger man. “You got a customer,” he growled, and then, in a stage whisper the back row of an amphitheater could have heard, he hissed for extra clarification, “The girl.”

“I believe they mean me.”

She had the voice of a torch singer, and Max felt it wrap around him like a coil heater. He turned to her, resigned to the inevitable the instant he saw the humor in her up-tilted eyes and the wide unabashed smile. No question about it. He wanted what he saw.

Picking up a cocktail napkin, Max reached across the bar to set it in front of her. Her gaze fell to his forearm, bared by rolled-up shirtsleeves, and lingered there. He barely resisted a Cro-Magnon urge to flex his muscles.

Holding her gaze, he asked, “What can I get you?” “Seagram’s. On the rocks. With a twist.”

She named a call whiskey. Expensive. Smooth. Strong. Definitely not for the faint-hearted.

Look all you want, Max, old buddy, but don’t touch. Remember you’ve sworn off.

Deftly pouring her drink, he set it in front of her. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” She raised the glass before he could turn away. “Here’s to good luck. May she continue to smile.”

“Continue?” Picking up a clean bar towel, Max wiped out a shot glass—proper bartender behavior—but his eyes never left hers. “Have you been having a run of good luck lately?”

“Obviously.” She tilted her head. The curtain of straight hair fell like a dark-chocolate waterfall, and her comment emerged half flirtatious, half factual. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Max laughed outright. She was something.

He leaned forward, folded his arms on the bar and said, “That may be luck…or just bad taste in drinking establishments.” He’d lowered his voice so the regulars—who were all ears at the moment—wouldn’t hear. Smiling into the amused brown eyes, he added, “If you need anything else, just whistle.” Briefly his gaze dropped to her scarlet lips.