Against the Night. Kat Martin
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flashed a look at the motorcycle as he helped her out, but she made no comment, just let him guide her up on the porch, waited while he unlocked the door, then walked past him into the entry. The lights of Los Angeles glittered in front of them through the wall of windows in the living room, a view that never failed to impress.
She stared in that direction. “It’s beautiful.”
He tossed his keys into the glass dish on the table in the entry. “I got lucky. I did some work for the lady who owns the estate. She’s older, feels safer having someone living in the guesthouse.” Eleanor Stiles was not only his landlady but also a very close friend. She was seventy and smart as a whip.
“Someone who was once an Army Ranger?”
He shrugged. “I suppose. My office is downstairs. I do most of my work out of the house.”
She looked calmer now, and yet he could feel her underlying tension.
“How about a drink?” he asked. “Maybe a glass of wine or something?”
He sensed her relief. “Wine sounds good.”
“White or red?”
“White…if you happen to have it open.”
The most polite hooker he’d ever met.
He opened the little fridge underneath the counter of the wet bar, took out an open bottle of chardonnay and poured her a glass, pulled out a Bud for himself and twisted off the cap. He carried the wine back to Angel, who stood in front of the window, staring out at the city lights.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? The lights go on forever.”
“I take it you aren’t from L.A.”
She shook her head. “Michigan.”
“Detroit?”
She steadied the glass, took a sip of wine. “Grand Rapids.”
Too old to be a runaway, but she was obviously new to the city. “So you came here to find your sister.”
She looked up at him with those big blue eyes. “Yes.”
Johnnie forced himself to concentrate. “Have you reported her disappearance to the cops?”
“I didn’t, but Rachael’s friend Barbara McClure called the police the day after she disappeared. They haven’t found her or even a clue as to what happened to her. I’m not sure they’re even still looking.”
He took a drink of his beer, set it down on a nearby table. Angel took a large, nervous swallow of her wine as he moved closer. Reaching out, he took the glass from her hand and set it down on the table next to his beer.
“So now you want to hire me to help you find her.”
“Y-yes…”
“And in exchange you’re willing to make a trade.”
She swallowed, nodded.
“I like this idea, Angel. I like it a helluva lot.” Then he hauled her into his arms, bent his head and very thoroughly kissed her.
Amy gripped Johnnie’s powerful shoulders and just hung on, reeling at the powerful jolt of desire that shook her. Hot lips, softer than they looked, moved over hers, nibbled the corners of her mouth. He deepened the kiss, coaxed her lips apart and his tongue slid inside.
Heat engulfed her; need curled in her belly. She wanted to have his hands on her, wanted him to touch her. She wanted him to make love to her. She had never felt this way before, never experienced this intense, mindless hunger. She wanted to give in to it, let him have what he wanted.
What she also wanted.
She pressed herself more firmly against him, felt the heavy weight of his erection. He was going to help her. In return, she was paying him with her body. It didn’t matter that she was selling herself like…like a prostitute, behaving like…like a whore.
Her throat closed up. A little sob got caught there. She felt his mouth against the side of her neck, trailing scorching kisses along her throat, and her eyes stung. His fingers worked the buttons on her blouse and tears welled.
She wasn’t a whore. She didn’t sell herself to strangers.
What about Rachael? What if she isn’t dead? The awful thought both she and Babs secretly believed. What if she’s in terrible trouble and there is no one to help her?
He kissed her again, long and deep, but the desire was fading, replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The tears in her eyes slipped onto her cheeks.
Johnnie must have felt the wetness because he broke off the kiss and jerked away. “All right, that’s it!”
Hard fingers dug into her shoulders. Her head came up as he backed her against the wall and she stared into his dark, angry face.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And don’t even think of telling me your name is Angel Fontaine.”
She shook her head, misery sweeping over her. She had failed Rachael, failed herself.
“I’m so s-sorry. I thought…thought I could do it. I didn’t mean to lead you on, I just…” Fresh tears welled and the sob locked in her throat finally escaped.
Johnnie blew out a breath and eased her back into his arms. “It’s all right. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to work.” He held her a moment, giving her time to compose herself, then moved away.
“I was going to tell you my name,” she said, brushing away a drop of wetness with the tip of her finger. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. I just…”
“You just what?”
“There’s something about you… I don’t know, I just… When I get around you, I can’t seem to think straight.”
A corner of his mouth edged up and some of his anger faded. “Go on, let’s hear it.”
She swallowed. “My name is Amy Brewer. I’m not…not a stripper. I’m…I’m a kindergarten teacher.”
Johnnie groaned.
“The part about my sister is true. After Rachael disappeared, I flew out here from Grand Rapids. Babs—that’s my roommate, Barbara McClure—she and Rachael worked together at the Kitty Cat Club. They were friends. Babs got me the job at the club. She helped me deal with my…my inhibitions and learn to dance—which wasn’t all that easy. Eventually, I got the hang of it. And then I saw you and I found out you were an investigator and we sort of came up with this plan.”
“This plan being for you to sell yourself to me in exchange for my services.”
Fresh tears welled. She wiped them away. “I guess so. It sounded like a good idea at the time, considering…”
“Considering what?”
She looked him in the face. “Considering what happened in that room.”
Johnnie’s eyes seemed to darken. There was no mistaking what she meant. She was attracted to him or she wouldn’t be sitting in his living room.
“Anything else?”
“There’s more, but it isn’t important now.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?” He led her over to the sofa, as modern as the rest of the apartment, which had high, open ceilings, a sleek dark brown sofa and chairs, and everything perfectly in place. He was, after all, an ex-soldier.
He picked up her wineglass and handed it back to her, grabbed his beer, and sat down beside her on the sofa.
“Okay, tell me the rest.”
Amy took a fortifying sip. “Once I started my sister’s old job, I began to dig around. That’s the reason I came to L.A., to try