Deadly Embrace

Copyright © 2002 by Chances, Inc.

The American Airlines plane from New York was three hours late
arriving in LA, and Madison Castelli was not pleased. She'd planned
on going straight to her best friend, Natalie De Barge's, house.
However, Natalie had informed her they were meeting Natalie's
brother, Cole, in a restaurant at eight, and since the plane was so
late, Madison decided she'd better go directly to Mario's—a
small Italian restaurant on Beverly Boulevard.

"I'll see you there," she said, speaking to Natalie on her cell
phone as she strode through the airport.

She was looking forward to getting together with her friends. The
truth was that she couldn't wait to hash out the ruins of her life.
Over the last few days everything had fallen to pieces. Her father,
Michael, was being accused of a double murder. His estranged wife,
Stella (Madison's stepmother), and Stella's live-in lover had been
shot, execution style. Now there was a warrant out for Michael's
arrest, and he'd managed to mysteriously vanish.

As if that weren't enough to worry about, her boyfriend, Jake, was
also on the missing list. Her wonderful, sexy, smart Jake—an
ace photographer who'd been covering a drug cartel in Colombia with a
couple of colleagues—had not been heard from in ten days, which
was pretty damn worrying. Kidnapping was rife in Colombia, and so was
murder.

All of this was on her mind as she collected her luggage, hailed a
cab, and headed for the restaurant. This visit west was exactly what
she needed to get her head straight. A few days of hanging with her
friends, doing nothing, was her plan. No work. No hassles. And then
she'd fly back to New York refreshed and ready to deal with
anything.

Cole was already at the restaurant when she arrived. A personal
trainer, Cole was an extremely good-looking, tall black man in his
twenties, with a well-toned, powerful physique and a killer smile. He
was also gay, and proud of it.

They kissed and hugged. "You're lookin' hot, babe," Cole said,
checking her out.

"Not me," she said ruefully. "And you're sounding very L.A."

"Could be 'cause I live here," he said, escorting her to their
table in the corner.

"So that's how the men in L.A. speak to their women," she
teased.

"No," he said, grinning. "That's how I speak to the
guys
—
keeps 'em comin', if you get my meaning."

"You'll have to teach me," she said, sitting down.

Madison, at thirty, was a striking-looking woman—tall and
slender, with full breasts, a small waist, and exceptionally long
legs. She usually attempted to play down her good looks, but her
green, almond-shaped eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, full seductive
lips, and clouds of black hair marked her as a beauty. A very smart
beauty, because she was a well-respected journalist, who specialized
in insightful profiles of the rich, famous, and powerful. She worked
for a magazine called
Manhattan Style
, she'd recently had a
book about relationships published, and she was currently working on
an investigative piece about old, notorious New York crime families.
Over the last year she'd discovered that her father's past wasn't
exactly the way it seemed. In fact, she wasn't sure she knew him at
all. She'd decided that if she wanted to find out the real truth, she
had to dig for it.

"Where's Natalie?" she asked, glancing at her watch.

"Late as usual," Cole responded. "What else is new?"

"I miss her," Madison said wistfully.

"She misses you, too. It's a real shame you don't live in the same
city. Think of the trouble you two could get into."

"How's her radio show going?"

"It's a big deal. She loves puttin' her voice out there. You know
our Natalie—gets off on the attention."

Minutes later, Natalie rushed in, looking glowingly pretty as
usual. She was short and sassy, with a curvaceous body and luscious
lips. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" she exclaimed, grabbing Madison in a
bear hug. "Gettin' out of the studio was a total nightmare. Wow!" she
added, flopping into a chair. "I need a drink."

"Me too," Madison agreed, signaling a waiter.

The waiter came over. He was slight of build and very Italian
looking, with shaggy black hair and an appealing accent.

"Wine," Natalie said. "I'm desperate."

"Red or white, signora?"

"House red for everyone."

"Good idea," Madison said.

The waiter hurried off.

"Hmmm ...," Natalie said to his retreating back. "Nice booty."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Cole said. "Wonder what team he plays
on."

"Mine!" claimed Natalie. "I can always tell."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Cole said, grinning.

"You two!" Madison exclaimed. "Nobody's safe around either of
you."

"That's not true," Natalie objected. "Old people, and anyone under
fifteen."

"Shocking!" Madison scolded.

"No, merely
honest
," Natalie said.

Suddenly their attention was taken by a huge commotion at the
front desk.

"What the hell is goin' on?" Natalie said, peering over.

"Dunno," Cole replied.

And then the unthinkable happened. Three men burst into the center
of the restaurant brandishing guns. "Don'tcha move, assholes, or I'll
blow your mothafuckin' heads off!" The chilling words, yelled by a
ski-masked male holding an Uzi machine gun, immediately silenced the
busy restaurant.

Madison stared at them in disbelief. It had been a tough week, and
now
this
. No way. This couldn't possibly be happening.

But it was. Mario's was under siege, and they were right in the
middle of it as the three armed bandits, dressed all in black, with
face-and-head-covering knit ski masks, commandeered the room,
blocking the exit and the entrance to the kitchen.

"Jesus Christ!" Cole muttered, while Natalie sat perfectly still,
frozen with fear.

Madison knew why. Ten years ago, when they were college roommates,
Natalie had experienced a traumatic gang rape. She'd gotten over it
and gone on to succeed in her profession as a celebrity
interviewer—now this random holdup had put her into shock.

"Stay cool, both of you," Cole warned. He was ready to deal with
anything, although even he knew it wasn't smart to argue with a
gun.

Automatically Madison leaned over to comfort Natalie, murmuring,
"I don't believe this," as she pushed back her long dark hair, her
green eyes darting around the room, her journalist's mind taking in
every detail.

"You'd better believe it," Cole said in a low voice. "This is L.A.
Shit happens."

"Shut the nick up!" yelled the leader, the one with the Uzi. He
was nervous and jumpy, moving around on the balls of his sneaker-shod
feet like a stoned runner at the end of a particularly invigorating
race.

Madison noticed his eyes staring at them through the slits in his
mask. They were angry eyes, filled with undisguised hate. She
reckoned he was young, probably still in his teens.

Young, agitated, and pissed off at the world. Just what they
needed.

"Empty your fuckin' purses, take off your jewelry, an' do it now!"
he screamed.

A second bandit, armed with a handgun and a crumpled black garbage
bag, began running from table to table collecting money, wallets,
watches, rings, cell phones, anything of value, while the third
masked man herded the kitchen staff into the center of the room.

Madison willed herself to remain calm, but her heart was already
pounding. She had no desire to be a victim; she was in the mood to do
something, anything—not just sit there and hand over her stuff
like an obedient sheep.

The elderly woman at the table next to them was attempting to
remove her pearl necklace. Her hands were shaking so much that she
couldn't quite manage it. The younger woman with her leaned over and
tried to help.

Whack
! The bandit collecting the loot hit the younger woman
in the face with the butt of his pistol. She slumped over, blood
pumping from a vicious cut to her temple.

"Oh my God!" gasped the elderly woman. "What have you done to my
daughter!"

Madison couldn't help herself; it was an unprovoked act of
violence and she wasn't about to stand for it. "Coward," she hissed
at the ski-masked robber. "Big man with a gun in your hand."

"Don't go there," Cole managed, his voice an urgent command. "Stay
cool—stay quiet."

Too late. The guy turned on Madison, waving his gun recklessly in
her face. "Keep outta my business, ho, an' gimme your watch." He
jerked his gun toward Natalie. "You too."

Natalie was still frozen to the spot, her brown eyes wide with
fear.

"Give him your watch, Nat," Madison urged in what she hoped was a
calm and steady voice.

Natalie didn't move.

"Come on, sweetie, do it," Madison cajoled.

Natalie still didn't move.

Without warning, the gunman grabbed Natalie's arm, tearing the
gold Carder watch off her wrist.

Natalie screamed, a loud, piercing scream that almost drowned out
the sound of police sirens in the distance.

"
Mothafucker
!" yelled the leader, turning on Cole, eyes
glinting dangerously through the slits in his mask. "Which one a you
shit-ass fucks called the cops?"

"Hey, man," Cole said evenly. "Don't look at
me
."

As he spoke, the burly-looking man at the next table made his
move, suddenly producing a pistol from under his jacket and aiming it
at the ringleader.

"Drop your weapon," the man commanded in a salty voice. "Give it
up now before you get into even more trouble."

For a second, Madison thought the ringleader was about to comply
and instruct the other two to do the same. But no—even though
the lights of police cars now flashed outside the shuttered front
windows, he was not prepared to give up. "Drop
your
fuckin'
weapon," he sneered. "Or you got any fuckin' idea what
I'm
gonna do?"

The burly man stood his ground. He was a retired detective ready
to make his final stab at being a hero, and no punk with a gun was
about to stop him. "Listen, sonny, don't be dumb—," he began in
a patronizing tone with the slightest hint of an Irish accent.

The word "dumb" triggered immediate action from the gunman, who
let loose with a sudden burst of gunfire. Everyone screamed. The
burly man fell to the ground, a look of complete surprise on his
face.

"Who th' fuck's dumb now?" sneered the leader, waving the Uzi
threateningly around the room. "Not me!"

Then he began yelling at his two cohorts to lock the doors and get
everyone into the center of the restaurant.

"Christ!" Cole muttered. "We're screwed."

And Madison had a gut feeling he was right.

Vincent Castle watched his pretty wife, Jenna, through hooded
eyes. Jenna wasn't merely pretty. She was a true peach, with
soft-as-satin skin, natural honey blond shoulder-length hair,
wide-apart pale blue eyes, real breasts, and extraordinarily long
legs.

Vincent was no slouch in the looks department himself—six
feet three inches tall, with dark curly hair, intense black eyes, a
straight nose, dimpled chin, and worked-out body. Women creamed
themselves over Vincent Castle. Not only was he a partner in the
extremely successful Castle Hotel and Casino, he was also hot, and
rich, and still only thirty-six. But unfortunately for the women who
continually circled this fine prospect, he was married to the
delectable Jenna.

And even more of an obstacle, he was faithful.

Of course, they had not been married a year yet, so there was
still time.

"Jenna seems happy tonight," the woman sitting next to Vincent in
the red leather booth said in a sly, seductive voice, placing an
elegant hand on his thigh. Her name was Jolie Sanchez, and she was
the wife of Vincent's business partner and childhood friend, Nando.
Jolie was also a beauty. In her early thirties, she had catlike amber
eyes, turned-down sensual lips, and long raven hair.

Vincent knew that if he wanted to, he could avail himself of
everything she had to offer.

He didn't, because other men's wives were not his style, and he
would certainly never go near his partner's wife. Besides,
Nando—who was half Colombian and half French—had an
out-of-control temper. He'd once cut off the ear of a rival he
believed had screwed him in a deal. Unfortunately, the man had almost
bled to death, causing Nando to think three times before losing his
violent temper again.