Franco's Fortune (Redemption Book 2) (20 page)

He kissed her temple. “Of course, my dad doesn’t
want to give up the controls. He calls me every day at work,
insists I send him weekly reports. Maybe someday he’ll have faith
in me.” A tinge of hurt colored his voice.

She freed herself and locked her gaze with his,
hoping he could see her trust in him in her eyes. “I’m sure your
dad has faith in you. He’s struggling with his loss. The stroke
cost him a lot. Give him time.” She took Franco’s face between her
hands. “As I’ve suspected, you’re a caring man with a good
heart.”

“I’ll tell you something else. I have a powerful
need for you.”

In response, she wound her arms around his neck. Her
heart melted along with her body and she gladly gave herself to
him.

<><><>

Jo hummed softly as she eased the designer jeans
over her hips, zipped and buttoned them. They were tight, but the
touch of spandex in the fabric made them easy to move in. She dug
through the lingerie drawer of the small bureau built into the
walk-in closet and pulled out her white lace pushup bra, the one
that matched the thong she wore.

Remembering Franco’s words about her not wearing a
bra, she hesitated before she snapped it on. She couldn’t go
braless while they were at dinner, but when they got home, she’d
sure take off the confining piece of lace. Or give Franco the
pleasure. She smiled, shivering at the thought.

Still humming, she sifted through the padded silk
hangers in the closet until she found the silver-gray sweater,
perfect for a cool spring night. She slipped on the sweater, the
cashmere soft as a cloud. Her whole body tingled from Franco’s
lovemaking. She couldn’t quite believe they’d made love one more
time before he left for work. He’d turned her into a wanton and she
loved it. But she was his wanton, only his.

Smiling, she left the closet, walked into the
bedroom, and sank onto the bed. Was this what being in love felt
like? This feeling of floating on air, wanting to laugh out loud
and hug herself with happiness? She’d had no idea making love could
be spiritual. That’s what it had been with Franco—spiritual and
otherworldly. She’d lost herself in him.

And she’d missed him all day, couldn’t wait to see
him tonight. She glanced at the clock. He’d be home soon. They’d go
to dinner, be together. She frowned. Until they either confirmed
DiGiacomo was the one after Franco, or found who was, she was on
duty. No more lovemaking until her assignment was over. The patrol
car was no longer parked in front of the house. She was back on the
job.

Sighing, she rubbed her bottom lip. Franco said
after this was over, he’d take her somewhere exotic where he could
make love to her all day. Warmth rushed through her at the
thought.

But that was in the future. She needed to finish
dressing, then do another run-through of the house to make sure it
was secure. She wiggled her bare toes. The silver stiletto sandals
would go well with her outfit. Where had she put them?

Standing in the large walk-in closet again, Jo
pulled out the shoe boxes lined up on shelves, searching for the
shoes she wanted. She spied the silver ones, out of their box and
tucked in a corner. She must have tossed them there the last time
she wore them.

She bent to pick them up. The heel of one shoe was
caught on a wooden floorboard that protruded slightly. Jo yanked
the shoe free and landed on her backside from the force. When she
sat up, she noticed the floorboard had worked itself free, leaving
a gaping hole.

She crawled on hands and knees to the opening. A
package, wrapped in blue silk, lay in the hole. Trepidation swept
over Jo as she gingerly reached in and retrieved the packet.

Holding the silk-wrapped bundle, she stood and
walked to the bed. Once seated, she placed the packet on her lap
and carefully peeled away the blue silk, exposing a canvas bag like
the ones banks used to transport money.

Hands shaking, she opened the bag and drew out
bundles of money. God, no, please. It couldn’t be. She spread the
packs on the bed and stared down at them, as if she could somehow
will them away. The implications of her find were too terrible to
bear. She did a quick count of the packs of one-hundred dollar
bills.

A half million dollars.

Mac’s missing money?

In Franco’s house.

She put a hand to her mouth. Did Franco know about
the money? If he knew, he’d lied to her all through this situation.
Even his lovemaking was a sham. His reformed playboy persona was a
lie. All of it, lies.

No. No. She bit down on her lip. Her career had made
her a good judge of a person’s character. She couldn’t be that
wrong about Franco. She couldn’t love him if he weren’t the man she
thought he was.

Blowing out a breath, she pushed off the bed and
paced the room, her mind whirling with images starting from the day
she’d stood in his office, resentful of the assignment, yet oddly
happy at the prospect of working with him. She saw his eyes, heard
his voice, felt his hands and mouth on her body. Saw the regret in
his eyes when he talked about Mac, when he talked about how his
family hadn’t expected much of him. The man she’d come to know and
love was no liar. She loved Franco. She had faith in him. They’d
talk when he came home. When she told him about the money, she’d
gauge his reaction, watch his face.

There had to be a good explanation for the money. He
couldn’t have known it was hidden in her closet.

Her phone rang once, then stopped. She ran to the
night table and picked up her cell. A missed call from Harris
registered. She frowned. Her phone beeped, signaling a text
message.
On way
, she read. Harris must have decided a text
was faster than calling.

She stuffed the money back into the canvas bag,
covered it with the blue silk and pushed everything back into the
hole in the closet. She set a couple of shoe boxes on the loose
floorboard. She didn’t want Franco to see the money before she
talked to him.

Twenty minutes later, Jo heard the jangle of keys at
the front door. She shoved her gun behind her in the waistband of
her jeans and raced down the stairs, glad she hadn’t put on the
stilettos yet, then disengaged the alarm. The door swung open. The
smile she had for Franco faded.

***

“K
eep your hands where we
can see them, bitch.” Two strange gunmen stood in the doorway
holding an unconscious Franco between them. One waved his gun at
her. She put her hands up. The men dropped Franco’s limp, lifeless
body onto the floor and slammed the door shut.

“What have you done to him?” She fought to keep her
voice steady. “Where’s Harris?”

“Lover boy will be okay, so long as you give us what
we want. The other guy’s swimming with the fishes.”

Harris dead? She forced away the terror that pressed
against her chest.
Focus, Jo, focus
. “Who are you?”

“We’re your worst nightmare. Be a good girl and
cooperate if you and lover boy want to live.”

“Cooperate how?” Jo started to back up slowly. If
she could push the hall table between her and them, she might have
a chance to get her weapon. But there were two of them and one of
her.

“Stop right there,” said the second man, who’d been
silent until now. He pointed his gun at her chest. “No funny stuff.
You try any of that martial arts shit, and you’re dead.”

He glanced at his companion. “Frisk her.”

The other man grabbed her shoulder and spun her
around. She grunted as her forehead banged against the wall and he
pulled her gun from her waistband.

“Nice piece.” She heard her gun hit the floor, then
the sound of him kicking it aside. Anger built in Jo, a gathering
firestorm, but she fought back her rage.
Not now
.

Rough hands grasped Jo’s shoulders, turned her, and
slammed her against the wall again. She found herself face-to-face
with the leader, their bodies inches apart. His flat, black eyes
stared into hers. Expressionless, dead, they made Jo shiver. She
almost gagged at the smell of stale whiskey on his breath.

“Give us the money,” he said, “or you and your
boyfriend are dead.”

Jo gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to spit
in his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know plenty. You live here. Where’s the
money?”

“
What
money?”

The thug pressed his hand against her throat. “Don’t
play dumb, bitch.”

She struggled to breathe and gasped for air when he
released his hold on her throat.

“We’re not leaving until you tell us where the money
is.” He grabbed her arm and threw her toward the living room. “Time
to talk.”

She glanced back at Franco and saw him stir. Thank
God. And what about Harris? She prayed he was alive. If anyone
could survive, it was Harris. Hopefully, his SEAL training would
kick in, wherever they’d taken him.

Dead Eyes gave her another shove. She faked a trip
and reached out a hand to balance herself. He gripped her upper arm
and squeezed hard, holding her upright. The other guy brought a
chair from the dining room and set it in the center of the living
room. He pulled out a piece of rope from the pocket of his jeans.
These guys had come prepared.

“Sit.” Dead Eyes pushed her into the chair. The
other guy grabbed her arms and put them behind the high chair back,
then proceeded to tie her hands at the wrists. Jo held her wrists
slightly apart, but not so much that the thug would notice. Maybe
they’d leave her legs free. She breathed a little easier when the
man who’d tied her moved to stand before her, not holding another
piece of rope. Big mistake.

She studied the men, imprinting their images onto
her mind. Dead Eyes was short, but powerfully built, with thinning
dark hair. The other man was taller, slimmer, with thick gray hair
and a goatee. His watery blue eyes held no expression, as if his
soul was long dead. She’d call him Cry Baby.

Dead Eyes moved closer, a hulking menacing figure
that reminded her of a fiend in a horror movie. “Tell us where the
money is.”

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
What money?”

He slapped her across the face. Her head whipped
around and her ears rang from the impact. His blow hit her with
more force than DiGiacomo’s had. She fought the wave of nausea that
rose in her chest.

“You know Callahan’s business,” he said. “Give us
the fucking money.”

She’d gladly give them the money if she thought
they’d go away and leave Franco and her alive. But she knew better.
She had to keep them talking, had to stall for time. Maybe one of
the neighbors had seen the guys pull Franco up the steps and called
the police. Maybe Harris had gotten free and was on his way with
the cops.

“Tell me what money you want. Maybe if I knew, I
could help.” She kept her voice calm and low.

The men looked at each other. Cry Baby turned his
attention to her and grinned, exposing a gold front tooth. “You
know what we’re talkin’ about. MacIntyre said he hid it here.
Callahan knows. So do you.” He leaned in close. “You’re his woman,
ain’t you?”

She took shallow breaths, fought the urge to retch.
“Franco doesn’t tell me anything. I don’t know anyone named
MacIntyre.”

“Lying bitch!” Dead Eyes hit her across the face
again. The blow forced her to bite the inside of her cheek. She
tasted blood. He stepped closer and squeezed her chin between his
fingers. Tears flooded her eyes. “Look, bitch, MacIntyre said
Callahan had the money. Talk, and we let you both live.”

Time to change tactics. Most criminals were
narcissistic and liked to have their egos stroked. “You didn’t let
Harris live. Did you know he’s an ex-SEAL? Pretty hard to get past
one of those guys. How’d you do it?”

“You ask too many fucking questions,” Dead Eyes
said.

But Cry Baby stepped forward and puffed out his
chest. Bingo. “We greased the palms of the garage attendants.”

Dead Eyes backhanded his accomplice in the arm.
“What the fuck did you tell her that for?”

“She needs to know we mean business,” Cry Baby said,
rubbing his arm.

While their attention was diverted, Jo worked at the
rope binding her and stole a glance at Franco. He lay where they’d
left him, but his eyes were open and he stared directly at her. An
understanding of what they needed to do passed between them and Jo
blinked her eyes in acknowledgement.

The men turned back to her and she forced a smile.
“You’re smart guys. How do you know this MacIntyre?”

“Never met him,” Dead Eyes said. “Sal heard about
the money when he was locked up.” He squeezed her chin again,
forcing her to look into his eyes. “Now where’s the money?”

“Sal?” The word reverberated through her brain.

“Our boss,” Cry Baby said.

“You mean Sal DiGiacomo? He’s your boss?”

“You deaf?” Dead Eyes growled. “Lucky for Sal they
put the dude who stuck MacIntyre in the hole next to him. MacIntyre
had a big mouth, and me and the boss owe some very bad people.
They’re getting a little anxious for their money. Sal figured he’d
get his revenge on Callahan for fucking his wife and we’d get the
money.”

Jo blinked, processing the information. “The police
have DiGiacomo. He’s already looking at more jail time.”

Dead Eyes shrugged. “It happens. We get the money, I
pay off the debt, we split what’s left. Sal gets out of the joint
and he’s got a nice investment waiting. He’ll be out soon, like
last time. He’s got connections.”

Jo angled her chin at Cry Baby. “What’s in it for
you?”

His gold front tooth glinted in the weak sunlight
coming through the window. “Booze and broads. What else?”

What else indeed. “You can walk away now,” she said
to Cry Baby. “Walk now and I won’t tell the police you’re
involved.”