Heat: An Alpha Male Criminal Romance (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 1) (4 page)

The wall directly beneath the second story landing has three sets of double white doors. Toward the back of the house, there’s a double, or maybe triple, hallway. That’s as far as I can see. The house, with all its showcased hanging artwork, lighting, and accent pieces, could be a museum.

Who actually lives this way?

A very wealthy head of a crime syndicate, I remind myself.

I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs gaping at everything around me. Gomez waits patiently. I suddenly realize what I’m doing and feel like an idiot. Gomez waves his hand toward the front door when I turn and face him. I precede him again, my shoes making a soft pitter patter against the tile. He reaches around me and I jerk my hand back from the door handle when he opens it. Heat instantly envelops me as I take the first step outside. I also realize how cool it was inside and know the monthly electric bill is most likely more than all my expenses combined.

I stand at the top of the steps leading down from the front door and stare like a fool again. Luscious foliage mixed with desert landscaping is divided by a circular drive made of unpolished but no less beautiful Spanish tile. The driveway wraps around a twenty-foot high fountain that shoots torrents of water into the air. The spray doesn’t lower the outside temperature, but it adds a cool vibe and a mental picture of a desert oasis. The image is ruined when I peer past the fountain and notice the high white-washed brick walls and I’m reminded of whose property this is.

Gomez steps around me, walks to a black Cadillac, and opens the back door. Approaching the car helps me put this entire episode into perspective. Four men pointing guns in a deadly situation where I ended up unconscious is not a pretty picture. I quickly fold myself inside the car and notice the immediate drop in temperature. The Caddy’s been running with its air conditioning on while I took my sweet time. I’m sure Moon doesn’t need to worry about engines overheating, coolant running out, or God forbid engine fires like the rest of us Phoenicians.

Gomez opens the driver’s door and a short blast of hot air enters before he closes it. I buckle up without getting burned by the usual hot metal of a Phoenix summer seatbelt. Relief should be my friend as we drive through the tall gates and leave Moon’s compound. No, the inside doesn’t look like a compound, but I need to keep that perspective. I touch the back of my head as a mild ache continues pounding through my brain. Sadly, the pain has nothing to do with the sense of loss that settles over me. I keep my gaze forward and look through the dark, smoky windshield refusing to look back.

Chapter Four

THE VALLEY OF THE
Sun, as Phoenix and the surrounding cities are known, is a sprawling metropolis of black asphalt and mostly one- or two-story buildings. The high-rise, big city atmosphere can be found downtown and takes up about forty square blocks total. That’s a pin in a map compared to the rest of the city.

Gomez doesn’t ask directions as he navigates the streets. We circumvent the inner city, and Gomez enters the freeway a few miles from Moon’s home. I sit back and pull in a long slow breath of air.

“My car,” I say without thinking. I totally forgot about my car, which is parked in the underground garage one level up from where I caught Dandridge with his pants unzipped. And I don’t have my keys.

“It’s been moved to your designated parking spot at your apartment.”

Is there nothing Moon forgets? My police training kicks in again and I decide to get some answers. “So what exactly is your title?” I ask.

“Title?”

I have no intention of being vague. “Within Moon’s organization.”

“Hmm.” He pauses.

I can’t see his slight smirk, but I sense it. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, which I glare at in the rearview mirror. He’s giving nothing away.

Just when I think he won’t answer, he speaks up. “I’m Moon’s bodyguard and friend. Do those titles work for you?” he finally replies.

It’s my turn to say, “Hmm,” and then forge ahead. “How long have you been friends?”

His response is quicker this time. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.” He lets the words hang as I consider if I want to play this game.

“Give me the first question and I’ll decide.”

I receive his gravelly chuckle. “Okay, Miss Kinlock, you’re on. Why did you go into private investigations after leaving your department?”

I don’t like his question because I hate thinking about it. Of course, that doesn’t keep me from thinking about it three or four times a day. “That’s a rather private question.” I say in order to give myself time to decide if I’m willing to answer.

His voice turns slightly playful. “So is the length of my friendship with Moon.”

I don’t like doing the buddy–buddy thing with a thug. I think about my answer and finally come up with, “I’m good at it.”

He shakes his head. “Try answering the question.”

I give a heavy sigh so he thinks he’s won. “I had bills to pay, no other job prospects, and I was qualified.” It’s only half the answer, but it’s the one he’s getting.

“That’s not all of it.” We both remain silent as a minute passes, and I refuse to add more. “Okay, you win. I’ll let you slide,” he finally says. “With your looks and body there are a lot of other things you could have done and it would earn you a hell of a lot more money.”

He has now pushed the buttons that take me from a mild-mannered person to pissed off in 0.002 seconds. Why is it, when I bring up the subject of a career with men, they tend to consider what I could do with a body “like yours”? They seem to think if you have large tits, respectable work isn’t your only option. My last not-quite boyfriend got dumped for voicing his opinion on that matter. The thought of a girlfriend being an exotic dancer didn’t bother him. After this eye-opening conversation, I never saw that particular
not-quite boyfriend
again. I grit my teeth at his memory. He was one of a long line of losers I tend to choose. Pain flashes behind my eyes and I relax my jaw before snipping at Gomez, “Says the bodyguard of the biggest pimp in the Southwest.” There, take that, asshole.

His voice drops an octave. “Relax, sweetie. Whatever you’re thinking isn’t what I’m thinking.”

Sweetie
, the nerve. I give him silence for the next five minutes. Then, because I want personal information, I ask, “So your employer doesn’t smile often, does he?” Most people will smile to relieve the anxiety of those around them. Not Moon. The more nervous I became, the more his regard intensified.

“Ha,” Gomez bursts out. “Moon’s smiles are rare. He intimidates by being his usual broody self. I’ve worked on his charm techniques for years with no luck.” Gomez’s head cocks a little and I know he’s looking at me again. “You eventually grow accustomed to it.”

Interesting. I can usually size someone up fairly quickly. I couldn’t peg Moon. Gomez, on the other hand, comes across as lighthearted with a touch of playboy. He hides his true colors with congeniality. Do not forget gorgeous. The man gives Moon a run for his money. The problem is—Gomez is intense in a different way than Moon is. Nothing gets past him and that’s why he’s Moon’s bodyguard. He’s someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. I may have stood up to him in the parking garage but I was caught between a rock and a hard place and sometimes you have no choice.

“We were placed in the same crib as babies.” He says, which surprises me. There’s a slight change in his tone. He’s either telling me more than he actually wanted to or it’s meant to sucker me into more Q and A’s. I’m done with the game. Sometimes you need to take what little information you have and stop there.

My refusal to comment turns the rest of the ride to long and boring.

My apartment is in the northwest valley by an old high school that once had two acres of rolling grass where students sat and ate lunch. A few years ago, the grass was changed to the customary desert landscaping—rocks—and now high fences separate the school from the road. Passing through a metal detector is also required to enter the building. I never worked this district as a cop. In Phoenix, you don’t live where you work. You travel as far as possible. The last thing you want is to run into someone undesirable when off duty. Home should be your sanctuary. I, like most city officers, varied my route when leaving the department and heading home. You always check to be sure you aren’t followed. It’s the life of a cop and these lessons begin at the academy.

Gomez pulls into my apartment complex, which is kitty-corner from the school. He travels toward the back and I wonder if he helped return my car. The clock on the dash shows it’s been more than five hours since I took dick pics of Mr. Dandridge. We turn toward the back corner of the parking lot and I see my car in its spot. Sally is a 2008 white Nissan Sentra. I picked her up so I had an unassuming vehicle for surveillance. Or at least that’s what I told myself. She has more than one hundred and fifty thousand miles on her, a few small glitches in the upholstery, a dent on the back right fender, and an air conditioner that barely cools the car ten degrees less than the outside temperature. This means ninety plus degrees on a mild summer day. Bottom line: the price was right.

I bite my lip to hide a smile as I think of Gomez driving Sally in his full suit. He deserves the buckets of sweat that likely came with that ride. Though, unless he changed into another spectacular thug suit, I see little evidence of an adventure in my car. I open the door before we stop rolling. My driver growls, which is kind of comical in a big man-bear kind of way. At least the knock to my head didn’t ruin my sense of humor.

“Are you forgetting something?” he says before I can run off and enter the safety of my apartment where thugs and crime bosses don’t invade.

My magazine. I stand and wait as he walks around the Caddy and reaches into his pocket. I’m surprised when three items land in my palm—the magazine, my beat up iPhone, and a shiny new iPhone. What the hell?

“Moon wants you to have the phone so he’s able to contact you.”

“What the hell?” I say it out loud this time and get another pompous smirk as my answer.

Gomez closes my door and heads back around to the driver’s side as I stand looking down at my hand. Over the top of the car he stares in my direction and says, “Go to your apartment, Miss Kinlock. I won’t leave until you’re inside.”

“I don’t want calls from Moon,” I say in a voice that’s gone embarrassingly whiny.

He’s silent and his dark shades give nothing away. My headache moves to a medium throb as so many things roll through my brain—
what
and
why
being at the top. So, like the good little PI I always try to be, I walk away, cell phones and magazine in hand, and head to my first floor apartment. At the door, I realize I have no keys. I try the knob and it turns. I’m in too much turmoil to scream when another tall thug is standing inside. He tips his chin, and I should add his face displays a fine sheen of sweat. He hands me my keys and exits the front door. I stand to the side in stunned silence.

The fucking assholes have invaded my home.

Chapter Five

I CHECK EVERYTHING. THERE’S
not so much as a mail-order catalog out of place. It doesn’t matter; I feel victimized while more than one scenario runs through my head. Did he or they search my private papers? God, did they go through my underwear drawer? What about planting a hidden camera or listening device?

Assholes! And the biggest one being Moon himself.