Read Dangerous Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries Book 4) Online
Authors: Gemma Halliday,Jennifer Fischetto
"You lookin' for Danny?"
I turned to find a woman with gray hair standing in a pink housecoat in the doorway next door. She had a fluffy white cat in her arms and was eyeing me suspiciously.
I nodded. "Uh, yeah, I'm a…friend of his."
She squinted at me, and I got the distinct impression she needed glasses. "Yeah," she finally answered, "I've seen you here before." Her face creased into a smile.
I smiled back. "Uh, do you know if Danny's home?"
She shook her head. "Nope. He's gone."
I felt those butterflies sink like a rock in my belly. "Oh." So much for my lunch-and-then-who-knows-what plans. "Uh, I don't suppose you know when he'll be back?"
She nodded. "Sure do. Six months."
I froze. "S-six months?"
"Yeah, he said he took some photography job. New Zealand. Though, I'll tell you, for someone goin' away to work in paradise for half the year, he didn't look all that happy."
That rock grew into a full-blown boulder as I digested her words. Danny wasn't just out to lunch. He was
gone
gone.
He'd told me he wouldn't wait forever, and he hadn't. He'd left, and now it was too late.
* * *
I snapped my fingers at the bartender and pointed to my empty glass. To heck with Zen. Jack Daniels was my new guru.
The bartender looked less than impressed at the way I'd reordered, but he went about pouring me another shot anyway.
The barstool beside me scraped against the dusty floor, as someone pulled it out. The old bar was far from crowded. Couldn't the guy find a spot that wasn't on top of me? I turned to give him or her the stink eye and did a double take.
It was Derek.
His brow was furrowed, and he looked annoyed. Then again, that could've been just his usual expression. He ordered a scotch neat from the bartender.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I should be asking you the same. Isn't it a bit early in the day for you to be drinking?"
"No new cases or appointments today, so I gave the girls the day off." He didn't need to know everything about my life.
"Hmm," he muttered and set a twenty on the bar. "Don't you usually go to places with white tablecloths and various sizes of forks?"
I smirked. He knew me well. "Sometimes. Other times I like dives like this. It's quiet, and no one messes with you here."
Neither of us remarked on how we both enjoyed the same bar. Unlike Derek, I wasn't a regular here, but I enjoyed it.
"How are things with Elaine?" I asked.
The bartender set down Derek's drink and made change from the twenty.
Derek took a long sip. "Not good. She gave me the 'I need some space' line in Vegas and refused to ride home with me, as you well know."
I knew about the ride, since I'd driven, but not about the line. Of course, the irony of that line was not lost on me. I was definitely a Bond.
"I think I really screwed up this time. I showed up to her place this morning with a dozen roses. She took them, whacked me over the head, and told me where I could shove them." He pointed to a scratch on his forehead. It looked like it had been bleeding at some point. It was pink and not too pretty, but it wasn't in need of medical attention.
"From the roses?" I asked.
He nodded. "Damn stem. I guess I was lucky the florist doesn't sell them with thorns."
I snorted.
He took another sip of his drink. "So, why are you really drinking in the middle of the day?"
I sighed. "Because my love life sucks as badly as yours."
"Danny will come around," he said.
I shot him a hard look. "How did you know I was talking about Danny?"
"I'm a good investigator." He winked at me.
"
Retired
investigator," I mumbled into my glass.
He shrugged off that detail. "That is who you're broken up over, isn't it, kid?"
I started to say yes, but stopped. The truth was at that point I didn't really know. "I'm not totally sure."
Thankfully, he didn't push it.
"Don't worry," I said. "Elaine will come around too."
"Oh, I know she will. I've got a standing order for a dozen roses to be delivered to her place every day. No one can resist the charm of a Bond forever."
I couldn't help but smile. Sometimes the old geezer could be romantic. And I had a feeling he was right. From everything I'd seen, Elaine really did care for him. Though, in her place, I couldn't blame her for letting the old guy simmer in his own guilt for a bit. If I'd found him spying on me, I'd be tempted to do the same.
Then again, if some guy had stood me up and run off to Vegas to lip-lock with someone else, I'd probably let
him
simmer in guilt too.
That depressing thought must have shown on my face as Derek patted my hand on the bar. "And don't you worry. It's gonna work out, kid." He shot me a supportive smile.
"You think?"
"I
know
."
I smiled back. I had to admit, it was making me feel a little better. Either that or the Jack.
"Hey, I know what you need," he said.
I cocked my head at him. "Another shot?" Somehow my glass was empty again.
"No. A vacation."
I snorted. "Right. Like a road trip to Cabo would solve everything."
Derek shook his head. "No, I mean a real vacation. Away from work, the girls, me, everything. Some time to just relax. You've been too stressed lately, James," he said, wagging his finger at me for emphasis.
I couldn't argue with him there.
"Where would I go alone?" I asked.
Derek shrugged. "I don't know." He paused, staring at a point above the bar for a moment, as if thinking. "I hear New Zealand is lovely this time of year."
I raised an eyebrow his way. "Where on earth did you hear that?"
Derek shrugged again, blinking at me in mock innocence.
I glanced down at my empty glass, then back up at Derek's sympathetic smile and rose-scratched face. He might be a good
retired
investigator, but he was also pretty decent at the pep-talk thing. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did need some time to get away, clear my head, gain some perspective. Time to get my Zen back. And I did have a few frequent flier miles saved up. Maybe even enough to make it to New Zealand…
Derek pulled me out of my thoughts with a hand on my shoulder. "I promise you one thing, James."
"What's that, old man?" I asked.
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Women may come and women may go, but our
Bond
…now that's something that won't ever wane, kid." He gave me a wink and chuckled at his own pun.
I grinned and chuckled back. Derek was right. No one could resist the charm of a Bond forever.
Not even me.
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Gemma Halliday is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, the Jamie Bond Mysteries, the Tahoe Tessie Mysteries, as well as several other works. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National Reader's Choice awards, and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her boyfriend,
Jackson Stein
, who writes vampire thrillers, and their three children, who are adorably distracting on a daily basis.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at
http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor
High Heels Mysteries:
Christmas in High Heels
(short story)
Honeymoon in High Heels
(novella)
Sweetheart in High Heels
(short story)
Suspect in High Heels
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Twelve’s Drummer Dying
(short story)
Jamie Bond Mysteries:
Bond Bombshell
(short story)
Tahoe Tessie Mysteries:
Baby It's Cold Outside
(short story)
Young Adult Books:
Other Works:
A High Heels Haunting
(novella)
Watching You
(short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit
(short story)
* * * * *
Jennifer Fischetto is the
National Bestselling Author
of the Jamie Bond Mysteries.
Unbreakable Bond
, her adult debut novel, has received a National Reader's Choice award nomination. She writes dead bodies for ages 13 to six-feet-under. When not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, singing (off-key), and watching an obscene amount of TV. She also adores trees, thunderstorms, and horror movies—the scarier the better. She lives in Western Mass with her family and is currently working on her next project.
To learn more about Jennifer Fischetto, visit her online at:
http://jenniferfischetto.com
Dead by the Numbers Mysteries
:
One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam
A Christmas Ghost & Zero Regrets
(holiday short story)
Jamie Bond Mysteries
:
Danger Cove Bakery Mysteries
Disturbia Diaries:
I Spy Dead People
We Are The Weirdos
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this Jamie Bond Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another humorous romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday:
LUCK BE A LADY
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
&
T. SUE VERSTEEG
CHAPTER ONE
When I was ten, my dad taught me how to play blackjack. I'd proudly shown him my fourth grade report card bearing the A I'd earned in math, and he'd said, "Nice work, Tessie. Now let's put those skills to good use." He'd taken me upstairs to the VIP blackjack tables in the back of his casino, set me up with one of his dealers in a crisp, white shirt, and taught me the art of counting to twenty-one. I heard him bragging later to his director of operations what a quick study I was. In two hours, I'd cleaned him out of $600 in chips.
That was almost twenty years ago, but it was still one of my most vivid memories of him. Though, to be honest, I didn't have a whole lot of memories of my father to choose from. Mom and he split when I was just two, and she'd promptly moved me south to Berkeley and away from the high-rolling life my father had carved out for himself here. I'd grown up only seeing him every other Christmas and during summer breaks. Our relationship wasn't what you'd call close, but it wasn't strained either. I guess I'd always looked at Richard King more like one would a fun uncle than a father figure.
Which is why I was surprised at how hard it was to keep tears from running down my face as they lowered his casket into the ground. I sniffed, my nose starting to run as much from the cold as the grief, as I tried to look anywhere but at the polished mahogany surface in front of me.
Across the grass, still spotted with melting snow, stood my father's widow, Britton. Britton was blonde, thanks to her stylist, busty, thanks to her plastic surgeon, and at least twenty years my dad's junior. She was dressed in all black, a skin-tight Donna Karen dress underneath a faux fur that engulfed her petite frame like a giant gorilla suit. While I enjoyed my designer shoes as much as the next girl, Britton took the notion of fashion to a whole new level. One that was bedazzled, bling-ed, and bleached within an inch of its life.
Beside Britton stood Alfonso Malone, or Alfie, my father's Director of Operations and head of security. Tall, grim, and not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley. A scar ran across his cheek, his nose lay at a crooked angle, and his voice held a deep gravel that spoke of a hard life before donning the expensive suits he wore to be my dad's right-hand man. He had a comforting arm around Britton, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the casket, almost as if he was examining it for proof my dad was really in there.
Surrounding them was a slew of people dressed in black who I didn't know. Not surprising, considering it had been some time since I'd seen my father. A year? Two? I couldn't remember now. To be honest, the allure of the blackjack tables had long ago faded for me. While I'd inherited my father's blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair—leaning just a little more to the strawberry than blonde—he'd failed to pass on his love of high-stakes games. Especially ones that favored the house.
I shifted, my feet going numb from the cold in my black pumps as the priest said his final words over the casket. Mourners began to disperse, nodding sympathetically in my direction, patting Britton on the shoulder, awkwardly shuffling back to their cars in their overcoats and boots, trying not to slip on the icy mud.
In the winter, Tahoe was a magical wonderland, the pristine snow on the evergreens and jagged mountains brilliant enough to take your breath away. In the spring, the snow melted to reveal enough mud puddles to make a kindergartener squeal with delight. This was March, and the town was just starting to lose its magical sheen.
"Hey, Tessie," I heard a deep voice say behind me.
Even before I spun around to face him, I knew who it belonged to. Rafe Lorenzo. Pro snowboarder, sponsored by my father's casino, minor local celebrity, and my first crush.
"Rafe," I said, turning away from the casket to face him.
"I'm so sorry, Tess," he said, emotion etched on his face.
I nodded. "Thank you," I responded, trying to adjust my eyes to the adult version of the first boy I'd ever doodled my name in hearts with.
When I was a teenager, Rafe had been in his early twenties, just coming into his own on the mountain, and charming enough that my father had threatened to take out his knees if he ever so much as held my hand. Not that the threat had kept me from fantasizing about just that. The same daredevil charm and charisma that had made him such a lucrative ambassador for my father's resort also made for a dangerous temptation to a girl whose adolescent hormones were running amuck.
While Rafe still wore his dark hair a little too long, letting it curl at the ends around his neck, his face was leaner and more angular now than it had been. A few faint laugh lines tickled the corners of his eyes, but his skin was the same warm, Mediterranean tan I'd remembered. And his eyes, staring at me now with genuine concern, were the same brilliant green and rimmed in long, black lashes that I'd gotten lost in as a teenage romantic.
I strongly reminded myself what good practice I'd had at keeping my hormones in check since then.
"You look great, Tess," Rafe observed. "You haven't changed a bit."
My cheeks heated despite the biting wind. "Thanks," I mumbled. "You too."
"Bullshit. I totally look ten years older," he replied, though the corners of his mouth turned up, deepening those laugh lines at his eyes.
I felt a small grin pulling my lips in response. It felt good. I realized it might have been the first time in days that I'd smiled. "Has it really been ten years?"
"At least. Last time I saw you, you were heading off to art school, planning to make your mark as the next great American painter."
"That was a long time ago," I agreed, feeling the smile drop from my face. "I curate now. A small gallery in San Francisco. Mission Arts."
"Don't tell me you've given up painting?"
I shrugged. "Turns out being a starving artist isn't actually as glamorous as I thought."
He chuckled, the sound warm, rumbling, and totally incongruent with our grim surroundings. "Well, I'll have to check out your gallery next time I'm in The City."
The fact that we both knew it was a hollow threat pulled an awkward pause over the conversation. I shifted in my pumps again. Rafe ran a hand through his thick hair.
Finally Rafe broke the tension by asking, "So how are you doing? You okay?"
I nodded, stealing a glance at the casket again. "I will be," I replied by rote. I'd fielded this same question at least a dozen times since getting the news via Britton's text message that my father had suddenly passed away. The past two days had been a blur of last-minute travel arrangements and subdued murmurs of sympathy from strangers. Or, in Rafe's case, resurrections from my past.
Rafe shook his head, his hair skimming the collar of his wool coat turned up against the cold. "Heart attack," he said, eyes cutting to the closed casket, too. "Who would have thought any part of Richard King was weak, let alone his heart?"
I nodded in agreement. Shot execution style, I might have expected in his line of work. Possibly dumped in the frigid waters of Lake Tahoe. But my father succumbing to something as mundane as a heart attack? I could almost hear him rolling over in his freshly-dug grave at the thought.
"You coming back to the casino?" Rafe asked. "Britton's hosting a wake of sorts in the penthouse."
"Oh, I, uh, I'm not sure…" I trailed off. I watched Britton get into a town car, the other guests filing into their vehicles. Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was replay the same awkward sentiments of sympathy with a roomful of people who all knew my father better than I did. What I wanted to do was go back to my rental car, crank up the heater, and listen to old Sinatra songs—my dad's favorite—as I made the drive over the hill and home to San Francisco.
He must have sensed my hesitation, as Rafe put a hand on my arm. "He loved you, Tessie."
This admission took me by surprise. "I, um, I loved him, too," I said, the words sticking in my throat, causing those tears to back up again.
"Come back to the casino, Tessie." He paused. "At least to say good-bye."
Put like that, how could I refuse?
* * *
The Royal Palace Casino and Resort was located on the border of South Lake Tahoe, California and Stateline, Nevada. And when I say "on the border," I mean the state line ran the entire length of the parking lot. One inch over the Nevada border, Dad had erected the first line of slot machines on casino property.
South Lake Tahoe was primarily a tourist town, playing host to Silicon Valley execs and wealthy entrepreneurs on their three-day weekends. The locals were die-hard skiers and snowboarders whose jobs largely centered around the tourists, a small trade-off for living in the winter sports paradise. The landscape was dotted with million-dollar ski chalets mingling with weather-worn cottages and old motels converted into apartments. Ski bums and nature lovers who worshiped the mountains mixed with weekenders who worshiped the casinos, spas, and souvenir boutiques lining Lake Tahoe Boulevard.
And in the center of it all sat the lake itself, almost two-hundred square miles of crystal blue waters. My father named me after the legendary "Tahoe Tessie" monster that was supposedly the local version of its more famous Loch Ness cousin. Not that I really believed in that kind of folklore. And, trust me, my father hadn't been the fanciful type either. But he knew a publicity opportunity when he saw it. Any chance to draw more tourists to the Royal Palace's slots, that man was all over it. Even when it came to naming his only child.
Next door to the Royal Palace sat the Hard Rock casino, and just across the street were their two competitors, Harrah's and the Deep Blue. And just over the border on the California side sat a handful of boutiques, restaurants, and ski equipment rental shops, soaking in the casinos' tourist overflow.
I pulled up to the front of the Royal Palace. It was eighteen stories of neon-rimmed glass and steel. The main gambling floors sat in front, windowless chambers with flashing signs advertising showgirls, magicians, and the latest aging rock band booked into the amphitheater behind the parking structure. Flanking the main building were the turret style towers, holding guest rooms. They jutted into the bright blue sky, breaking up the scenery of pine trees and snow dusted peaks with giant billboards at their apex, letting everyone know that the buffet was only $4.99 on Wednesdays.
While there was no other word but "gaudy" to describe the building, it had an almost predictably commercial charm about it that was oddly comforting.
I left my car with a valet sporting dark hair and lots of freckles and entered the lobby. Here the gaudy goodness was even more prevalent, my father having delighted in being the "King" of his "Royal" palace. He'd embedded touches of his theme everywhere, from the "Princess Day Spa" on the second floor, to the "King's Court All You Can Eat Buffet" located in the west wing of the building. In the lobby, the floors were polished marble leading to the check-in desk, lined in gold and dotted with fake family crests. The gaming floor dinged with a thousand slot machines all going at once, and the air held a thick haze of cigarette smoke, indoor smoking being legal on this side of the border. It was a scent I should have hated, but it instantly brought me back to my childhood, dragging with it bittersweet memories that threatened those tears again.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat as I hit the east bank of elevators, stepped into an empty carriage, and keyed in my code for the penthouse.
"Ohmigod, Tessie, I'm so glad you came!" The second I walked into the penthouse suite, Britton attacked me with air kisses.
"Hi, Britton," I said, extracting myself from an embrace that smelled like peaches and Chanel No. 5. I scanned the room behind her for a glimpse of Rafe's tall frame, but the room was a sea of people in black who all blended together.
"When did you get in?" Britton asked, twirling her hair with one hand, holding a martini with the other.
"Just a couple of hours ago," I answered, craning around her to see where she'd gotten the drink from. I could definitely use one.
"Well, we'll totally have to catch up. Lunch tomorrow?"
I shifted my feet. "Actually, I'm not staying."
"What do you mean you're not staying?"
"I…have to get back to work." Which was true. While the owner of Mission Arts had told me to take as much time as I needed, we had a show this weekend. I was already starting to get antsy about leaving my artists in someone else's hands.
"Oh. Right. Work," Britton said, wrinkling her nose up at the four letter word.
She sipped at her drink, letting her eyes wander around the room, an uncomfortable silence falling between us. I'd only met Britton a couple of times. In fact, since leaving for college, I'd only been to Tahoe a couple of times. Work, life, and schedules had gotten in the way. Two-and-a-half years, I decided as I stood there, coveting Britton's drink. That's how long it had been since I'd stepped foot in the penthouse. Not that anything had changed. The walls were still covered in the same flocked, fleur-de-lis wallpaper and spotted with museum-quality paintings. Imported Persian rugs covered polished hardwood, the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling with crystals from the Liberace collection. The penthouse was exactly the same, the casino exactly the same. Even Britton was the same. With possibly the exception of her lips, which seemed a little fuller.