Hers to Tame Page 9

  “No, they’ll agree to welcome my guest to their table. My only stipulation—you will not write about anything you see there. You will go for exposure only. For the experience and the perspective.”

  “And you trust me to honor that request?”

  “Can I?”

  “Of course.”

  He lifted one eyebrow.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, suddenly feeling as offended as he’d looked before. “I can be trusted.”

  “Good.” He stood and stared down at her. “I know you normally have a shift on Sundays. What time are you done?”

  Rising as well, she stood well within touching distance. A fact that suddenly made her simple T-shirt and boy shorts that much more inconsequential compared to his full attire.

  She tugged the hem of her shirt a little lower. “Not until after seven.”

  “Good.” He turned and ambled for the door with all the confidence of a man who’d obtained exactly what he’d come for. “I’ll pick you up here at 7:30.”

  “Wait!” She scurried around the coffee table.

  Kir paused just as he opened the door and looked back at her.

  “I don’t know what to wear. What kind of event it is, or what to expect.”

  His mouth quirked and the gentleness that had ridden his expressions until their conversation had taken a darker path returned. His gaze slid down the length of her then lifted back to her face. “Just be yourself, Cassie.” He dipped his head in farewell and resumed his exit, but added one last quip before he pulled the door shut. “But do prepare to be surprised.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cassie sat at her newsroom desk, headphones on and eyes glued to her monitor while an unedited interview she’d done months ago streamed by like white noise.

  What did a girl wear to a mobster’s house? A suit? A dress? Something more casual? If she’d been smart, she’d have pushed Kir for an answer to her question last night, but it’d taken a good ten seconds after he closed the door behind him before her brain had fully reengaged.

  Texting was an option, of course, but stubbornness and pride had waylaid her more times than she could count.

  Now, if she had a new lead to share—some viable excuse to text him that might open up a chance for her to ask a clarifying question or two, that would be different.

  Except you’re not going to find any clues if you don’t actually listen to your interviews.

  Huffing loud enough to make Lizbet glance at Cassie from her own desk, Cassie backed up the interview to the last time her mind had wandered off and tried again.

  It was a candid conversation. One where she’d cornered one of Alfonsi’s bodyguards coming out of a pub only three days after his boss’s disappearance.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Alfonsi?” Cassie said.

  The man shrugged. While none of the men photographed with Alfonsi over the years looked anywhere near as polished as Kir, Roman or the men that spent time with them, this particular man had already ditched his chinos and plain white Oxford for slouchy jeans and a ragged gray T-shirt. “About a year. Maybe a little more than that.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  The question seemed to take him aback for all of a second, then he scanned up and down the street. “No more than anyone else.”

  An evasive answer. One that bugged her now just as much as it did then.

  “But you spent a considerable amount of time with him. Surely you have some idea of places he frequented. Have you offered any clues to authorities?”

  “I talked to ’em, yeah.”

  “Can you share that information with me?”

  He frowned and planted his hands on his hips. “I saw him Tuesday morning, November 13 when I got to work. Then he left with his son and one of his captains a little while later. Never saw him again.”

  “But you’re his bodyguard. Wouldn’t you have escorted him to work?”

  “Not always.”

  “Because you’re not his only guard?”

  “No, because sometimes he didn’t want a guard. Said he’d see to himself.”

  “You don’t think that’s weird?”

  “What?”

  “Not having a bodyguard wherever you go. I mean, if you need a bodyguard, shouldn’t they always be there?”

  The man shook his head, clearly as exasperated with Cassie as Cassie was with his answers. “Look, lady. I didn’t get paid to think for or second-guess my boss. Only to make sure no one laid a hand on him. What he does—or did—isn’t my concern.”

  Someone circled the edge of Cassie’s desk and startled her out of focus.

  No. Not someone.

  Lizbet.

  And she was in rare form today, too, sporting a snazzy pair of deep emerald green capris, a matching yet stylishly cut blazer and a marigold silk shirt. The pewter heels she’d paired with the look would’ve had Cassie limping inside thirty minutes.

  Cassie peeled off her headphones. “Cute outfit.”

  See? She could be nice. So what if what she really wanted to know was how anyone could afford so many clothes on a reporter’s pay?

  Lizbet straightened a little taller and swayed her hips from one side to the other. “Isn’t it fantastic? The lady who’s been the go-to costume designer for some of the biggest Mardi Gras floats and drama productions just started branching out into custom clothing. Fell on hard times and had to diversify. She’s over on Canal Street. We should go together sometime.”

  Um. No.

  Never.

  Orange didn’t suit Cassie’s coloring and there was no way she’d make it through a shopping trip with Lizbet without ending up in a prison jumper. “It’ll be a bit before I’m doing any shopping. Too much catching up from deposits and furniture for my new place. But thanks.”

  “Money woes, huh?”

  “Something like that,” Cassie said, moving the slider on the video back to the beginning of the recording.

  Lizbet leaned in for a good look at the monitor. “You rehashing those old interviews again?”

  “Just trying to figure something out,” Cassie murmured. Whatever it was that bugged her about the talk with the bodyguard she still couldn’t put her finger on, but it had all the discomfort of getting two miles into her daily commute and wondering if she’d left the iron on at home.

  “Mmm.” Lizbet watched the monitor a second more, then lowered her voice. “Listen, I know we’re not super close and you haven’t asked my opinion, but I feel like to be a team player, I really have to point something out.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Lizbet nodded toward the screen. “The stuff with Alfonsi—it’s over. I know you got some good headway with it, but it’s time for something fresh. Not just for the station, but for you. Don’t you think?”

  Yes, she did think. Had beaten herself up more times than she could count for even considering another story that had anything to do with Stephen Alfonsi.

  But she also wasn’t in the mood to have her nose rubbed into the obvious by a woman who’d flirt or shake her ass in a man’s face to get him to do something for her, either. “Just because I’m looking at an old interview doesn’t mean I’m doing a story, Lizbet.”

  “Oh.” The response seemed to leave her momentarily nonplussed and knocked off course. “Well, why else would you be digging through them?”

  “To find something for a friend.”

  Lizbet blinked.

  Then repeated the act.

  Then glanced back at the screen and shrugged. “I guess I just thought—”

  Cassie’s phone rang, the number on the screen vaguely familiar even though it wasn’t programmed in her directory. Not that it mattered. If it meant having an excuse to end her conversation with Lizbet, she’d have answered Satan’s call.

>   She picked it up and held up her finger. “I’ve got to get this.”

  Lizbet frowned, but backed away from the desk. “Sure. Let me know if you need help finding whatever you’re after.”

  Mindful of other eyes on them, Cassie fought glaring at Lizbet’s back and answered the phone instead. “Cassie McClintock.”

  “Um, Cassie. Hey. This is Rodney.”

  “Rodney?”

  “From Farley Mechanics. You brought your car in yesterday?”

  “Oh! Rodney! Right!” Cassie peeled her headphones from around her neck and reclined in her desk chair. “Everything going okay on the repairs?”

  “Yep. All done.”

  She shot upright so fast her seat back rattled. “Already? I thought it was going to take a day or two at least.”

  “Nope. Got it all knocked out, and it’s ready to go.”

  Maybe it was just her imagination, but it sure sounded like Rodney was as relieved as she was. “Did the cost end up where you thought it would?”

  “Oh, no. Just fifty bucks should cover it.”

  “Fifty? For a timing chain? You said it’d be at least four-fifty.”

  “Uh...” Papers rustled in the background followed by what sounded like a metal file cabinet slamming shut. “It wasn’t a timing chain. It was...a belt. Those are cheap. Just charging you for that and a little labor.”

  “Really?” She let out a shaky laugh and anchored her elbows on the desk in front of her. “The way you were looking at my engine yesterday, I thought for sure I was in for some whopper repairs.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes that first look we get it wrong.” Something muffled the background noise on his end of the phone. A second later he was back on the line, the sound of a power tool causing a pretty significant commotion. “So, listen, if you’re gonna be home in the next hour, I’ll drop it off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll drop it off.” He hesitated a beat then hastily added, “I can make it in thirty minutes if that’s better.”

  “No, no. An hour is fine. I just—well, fifty dollars and delivery to boot, that’s a great deal. I’m really grateful. Let me give you my address.”

  “No need. I’ve got it on the paperwork.”

  The papers stacked on her desk and the insulated tumbler of water she’d brought from work blurred while her mind scrambled for snippets from yesterday. “I don’t remember doing paperwork.”

  “Yep, got it right here. I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  With that, the line went dead.

  Cassie pulled the phone away from her ear and studied the screen.

  “Weird,” she said to no one. Though, as far as weird calls went, that one had to have been one of the best of all time.

  She shut down her computer, packed up her stuff and started the cumbersome trip home via public transportation. On the bright side, bus rides made for great rumination time. By the time she’d made it to her house, she’d at least narrowed down to four or five attire options for Sunday dinner with Kir. The whole bodyguard interview, on the other hand, was still needling her from the inside out.

  She started to unlock the front door, but got sidetracked when Rodney pulled her car into an open slot right behind her. A ragged blue truck with a magnetic Farley’s Mechanics sign on the side pulled in right behind him.

  Cassie waved to them both and jogged down to the sidewalk. “Hey, guys. You almost beat me here.”

  With the door to her car already open and one leg out on the pavement, Rodney rolled up the driver’s side window and killed the engine. “Traffic was better than I thought. Plus, Amos has a truck that he’s got to have done tonight, so we had to hustle.” He handed off the keys. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks very much.” She took the keys and dropped them in her purse. “You two want to come in while I write the check?”

  “No need,” Rodney said, high-stepping it to the passenger side of the truck. “We’ll send you a bill.”

  A bill? Who sent bills these days? Especially when you had a client willing to write a check on the spot?

  Rodney lumbered into his seat, slammed the door and waved from behind the windshield.

  The man she assumed was Amos had his window down and his left elbow hanging over the edge. He saluted Cassie. “Nice working with you, miss.”

  “Right,” Cassie said. “Nice working with you, too.”

  And with that, they were gone, the only reminder they’d been there being her now-functioning car parked perfectly in a spot right in front of her house.

  Hold up.

  Was her car clean?

  She padded closer and peeked in the window.

  Holy crap.

  She opened the door, threw her purse to the passenger’s seat and slid behind the wheel. Her car wasn’t just clean. It was spotless. As in cleaner than it’d been the day she’d bought it.

  “I am so going to them for every tune-up for the rest of my life.” She smoothed her hands over the faded leather steering wheel, the lightness whispering beneath her skin the first time in days if not weeks. Maybe this was the turn of luck she’d been hoping for. A shift that would trigger her thoughts and ideas back into motion.

  Inspired and suddenly free of the debt she’d braced for, Cassie shut the car door, dug her keys and her phone out of her purse, then fired up the engine. She thumbed up Aunt Frieda’s number, tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled out of her parking space.

  Aunt Frieda answered on the second ring. “Please, sweet Jesus, tell me you’re calling with lurid details on what happened last night instead of needing bail money for killing the reporter.”

  “Neither. But I am giving you a heads-up—I’m on my way over.”

  “You are? How? Your car’s on the fritz.”

  “Not anymore it’s not. And better yet? I only owe fifty bucks for the repairs. Now what I need is a cocktail, a sounding board for something I’m trying to figure out, and someone to help me hash out outfit options. You game?”

  As she’d hoped, Aunt Frieda shifted gears on a dime. “Sweetheart, I’m always game. I’ll be ready before you get here.”

  Chapter Eight

  The parmesan chicken and mushrooms had been cleared away. Only one serving of the blackberry cobbler remained on the dining room table’s whitewashed surface and everyone but Emerson was on their second cup of coffee. Kir traced the line of his mug’s handle with his thumb, nuancing the words he’d tossed around in his head all day and waiting for the right time to drop his proverbial bomb.

  Emerson, who’d been on a roll for thirty minutes about the big mid-month competition in his archery class, snatched his sweet tea off the table. “Bobby thought for sure he had the whole thing wrapped up and was gonna get first prize, but then this girl, Maggie, swooped in and got three bull’s-eyes in a row. She was amazing!”

  Roman grinned.

  Sergei chuckled.

  Evette just shook her head. “Mmm-hmm. See what happens when you underestimate the women? We slide right in outta nowhere and catch you with your pants down.”

  “She speaks the truth,” Kir said. Unfortunately, there must have been a little too much sarcasm in his tone, because every head snapped his direction.

  Kir picked up his coffee and tried to play it off. “What? It is a very truthful statement. Women should never be sold short. Nor should you assume you know what they’re thinking.” Especially witty, funny and charismatic ones like Cassie.

  Evette pursed her mouth, just a touch of a wry grin tugging the corners. “You say that like a man who’s recently had a brush with one, Vasilek.” She planted her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “Do tell.”

  It was the opening he needed and an easy one at that. All he had to do was walk right through it.

  He cleared his throat and set his
mug on the table. “Cassie McClintock.”

  Roman, who’d been mostly silent all night, finally let loose a satisfied snigger.

  “Oh, now this sounds juicy,” Evette said.

  Emerson smiled big enough to show teeth and scooted close enough to the edge of his chair it was a wonder he didn’t fall off. “Oh, yeah. For realz.”

  Sergei’s gaze narrowed on Roman then shifted to Kir. “The reporter?”

  Fuck.

  Not the particular detail he wanted his pakhan to home in on first. But then again, Sergei was as shrewd as they came. “Yes.” He glanced at Emerson. While they never talked of business in Sergei’s son’s presence, they’d been known to hint at issues a time or two when necessary. “She provided much coverage several months ago on a topic we were following.”

  “He broke one of his precious rules for her,” Roman added.

  Evette cocked an eyebrow. “You have rules?”

  Kir scowled at Roman and shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes, he does,” Roman said. “Never sees the same woman twice.”

  “And how many times did you see this one?” Sergei asked.

  The thickly padded dining room chair beneath his ass suddenly felt riddled with hot tacks. “Twice. But the second was business related.”

  Roman sipped his coffee. “And the third, fourth and fifth?”

  Sergei cocked his head, a silent demand for clarification.

  Kir sighed. “She was at Bacchanal when we celebrated my birthday last week. She approached me after you, Evette and Emerson left, and we’ve resumed a business connection.”

  Sergei barely waited a full beat. “A business connection?”

  “Is that why you paid a visit to the mechanic working on her car this morning?” Roman said.

  Bastard.

  He should have known better than to run that particular errand with Roman along for the ride. “She’s less efficient doing research without a functioning vehicle. Ensuring the repairs happened expeditiously only made sense.”