Bachelor By Design: Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort
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“It also makes a handy guard dog,” he said, gingerly fingering his injury. “I just wish I’d seen it coming.”
“What exactly were you doing under the staircase?”
“The staircase,” he echoed, closing his eyes once more. “Nice. Nice staircase. I…looked under it.”
She frowned. “Why?”
His brow crinkled as if he was trying to remember the reason. At last he said, “Names. I was looking for names.”
Names? That didn’t make any sense. Which shouldn’t surprise her, since he was suffering from a head injury. “Speaking of names, do you happen to remember yours?”
He opened his eyes and scowled up at her. “Of course.”
“Tell me,” she said, wanting to be certain.
“Trace Joseph Callahan. I’m twenty-seven years old and live on Ravenna Drive in St. Louis, Missouri.” He arched a brow, then winced at the slight movement. “Am I right?”
“You looked older than twenty-seven.”
“At the moment, I feel about eighty-seven.” He struggled to sit up, his face blanching at the effort. “Make that ninety-seven.”
She clasped his shoulder and helped pull him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, then dropped his head between his knees.
She chewed her lower lip, wondering if she should call him an ambulance. “Are you all right?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Just a little dizzy.”
“I still don’t understand what happened.”
He looked up at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, not to me.” She stood up and began to pace. “I find you unconscious under the stairs and I can’t find my brother anywhere.” She paused to look at him, twisting her fingers together. “Do you think Ramon is in trouble?”
“Definitely.” He gripped the newel post, then rose unsteadily to his feet. “Attempted murder is a serious matter.”
She blinked. “What are you saying?”
His brows drew together.
“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend to be shocked. Ramon answered the front door with a butcher knife in his hand. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. And, just yesterday, he assaulted me with a power saw.”
“That was an accident. And this is…pre-posterous. Ramon would never…could never hurt anyone.” Her gaze flicked to his foot. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Chloe, I admire your loyalty, but this is pushing it a bit too far. The man is a menace. He belongs behind bars.”
Her blood turned to ice at his words. Ramon would never survive in jail. He could barely survive out of jail.
“I know he’s your brother,” Trace continued, his tone gentler now. “But I have to report him to the police. Otherwise, he’s liable to kill someone with these crazy antics. And since I seem to be his favorite target, I’m afraid that someone will be me.”
“You don’t understand,” she breathed. “He’s had a tough life. Our family is…different.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”
His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”
Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”
She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”
“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”
“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”
Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”
“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”
“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”
“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”
He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”
“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”
Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”
“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”
Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”
“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”
Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in prison?”
Chloe heard both horror and pity in his voice. She didn’t care for either. “Yes. But she’ll be out in less than a month.”
He turned to her. “Exactly how many D’Onofrios are behind bars?”
She glanced at the ceiling as she mentally calculated the number. “Six, if you count Benson. But he’s not technically behind bars. Juvenile Hall is more of a rehabilitation facility.”
“Six,” he echoed, sagging onto the sofa.
“So you see,” she said, joining him there, “I do have some experience with criminal behavior. Ramon just doesn’t have it in him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” she bit out, wishing she’d bitten her tongue instead. Trace already thought badly enough of her brother without knowing he aspired to become a master jewel thief.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not important,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop it, already.
He just stared at her, waiting. Was that empathy she saw in his blue eyes? Compassion?
“Fine,” she said at last. “On one condition.”
“You’re hardly in any position to make conditions. You can either tell me right now or I pick up the telephone and call the police.”
So much for compassion.
“Go ahead and call the police,” she bluffed. “I’m not telling you anything.”
But instead of reaching for the telephone, Trace leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, his face still unnaturally pale. For a moment she regretted arguing with him in his condition. She knew in her heart Ramon wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, but someone had definitely hurt Trace. And there was a high probability that someone was a D’Onofrio. Pangs of guilt and regret shot through her.
“Can I get you something,” she asked, her tone softer now. “An aspirin, or maybe some ice for your head?”
“No, thank you.”
“How about some pot roast? It will only take me a few minutes to reheat it in the microwave.”
He cracked open one eye. “You cook?”
“Since I was twelve. Someone had to take over the meals after Mom went to prison the first time.”
“Twelve.” Trace sighed, both eyes open now. “I was seven when my Mom left. Only she never came back.”
“I’m sorry,” Chloe murmured, knowing firsthand the inadequacy of those words.
“Don’t be. We had Aunt Sophie, and she couldn’t have loved us more if we were her own sons.” His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Even when we messed up.”
“Then you know why I still love my family. They’re a little on the shady side, but they’re all I’ve got.”
“A little?”
“All right,” she conceded. “A lot. Except Ramon. He’s simply not a violent person.”
She waited for Trace to contradict her, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d convinced him. Maybe he’d already changed his mind about calling the police.
Chloe set her jaw. When she found the D’Onofrio who had attacked Trace, she’d string him, or her, up by his or her toes. On second thought, she’d do something even worse—she’d make the culprit eat her cooking. Trace had asked her if she could cook, not if she was a good cook. In her case, there was a big difference.
Only she couldn’t do anything until she knew what Trace planned to do. Would he press charges against her brother? Or would he finally believe her assertion that Ramon was innocent?
“Chloe,” he said at last, with the tone of a man who has come to a decision.
“Yes, Trace?” She held her breath, awaiting his verdict.
“There’s something else you should know.”
4
TRACE KNEW he shouldn’t tell Chloe D’Onofrio anything but goodbye. Especially since he’d sincerely underestimated the damage she could do to his life. His pounding head was a powerful reminder of that. He needed to concentrate on his pain, rather than the apprehension he saw in her big brown eyes.
“Something else?” she said, nipping her lower lip between her teeth. “What is it?”
Leave. The word reverberated in his woozy brain. He could get up right now and leave her behind without a word. It was D’Onofrio family business, after all. No one had asked him to interfere. In fact, he could probably take that blow to the head as a hint to butt out.
So why wasn’t he moving?
She reached out, the tips of her fingers lightly brushing his forearm. “Tell me, Trace. What else should I know?”
She should know that he never would have agreed to date her if he’d been aware of the extent of her felonious family background. She should know that he didn’t interfere in other people’s problems. He’d had enough problems in his own past to deal with. She should know that she wasn’t responsible for the actions of her brother, or her family. That he didn’t really blame her for any of this.
She should know…the truth.
“It’s about the staircase,” he began.
Her brow drew together. “What does the staircase have to do with Ramon?”
Instead of replying, he stood up, his knees wobbling just a little. Chloe was immediately standing by his side, lightly supporting him with her body. He closed his eyes for a moment just to enjoy the sensation.
He knew it wouldn’t last long.
“Trace, I think you should lie down. You took a nasty blow, and you’re not making a lot of sense right now.”
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said, walking slowly toward the staircase.
She walked beside him, still partially supporting him. “Understand what?”
He could hear the fear mingled with impatience in her voice. Hardly surprising. This woman had obviously endured a lifetime of unpleasant revelations. And he was about to add one more to the list.
“Lie down,” he said, when they reached the staircase. He placed one hand on the thick newel post to steady himself.
“As I said before, I think you’re the one who should lie down. But not on the floor.”
“Just lie down,” he insisted. “Then scoot underneath the staircase. Position yourself just as you found me.”
With one last look of bewilderment, Chloe acceded to his wishes. She lay down on the hardwood floor and wiggled herself underneath the open staircase.
Trace waited, his body tensing. He didn’t know what he expected to hear. A scream? A curse? A sob? Instead he heard the one thing he didn’t expect—silence. Her reaction, or rather the lack of a reaction, made him wonder if he’d imagined it all in the first place.
“Well?” he asked, bending down slightly, but still unable to gauge her expression. “Do you see anything under there?”
She shot out from under the staircase and jumped to her feet. “I certainly do. The dust bunnies have been breeding like rabbits.” Then she glanced at her watch. “Time to go! We don’t want to miss our reservations.”
Her false cheeriness confirmed for him that he hadn’t imagined it. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
With a sigh of resignation, he lay down on the floor, grabbed the bottom edge of the staircase and pulled himself underneath it. His head screamed at him with every movement. But his eyes saw everything clearly. Taped to the underside of the stairway in a sealed Ziploc gallon bag were dozens of sparkling loose diamonds, all shapes and sizes. Even in the dark the jewels winked at him like stars in the sky.
The next moment Chloe slid in beside him, her back on the floor, her head right next to his. She tilted her gaze toward him. “I can explain.”
He couldn’t wait to hear it. Would she tell him the truth or make up an elaborate lie? And would he be able to tell the difference? “Go ahead.”
She hesitated. “All right, I can’t explain. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a perfectly logical explanation.”
“Such as?”
“Such as…these aren’t what they look like.”
“They look like flawless diamonds worth thousands of dollars.”
“They could just be really good fakes. Sometimes you can hardly tell the difference.”
Trace stared at the bag, considering her argument. He supposed they could be fake, but that brought up another question. “If that’s true, then why did someone go to all the trouble to hide them?”
“Well…maybe someone is fencing them as the real thing. They do look authentic.”
“There’s one way to find out.” As soon as he said the words he felt her stiffen beside him.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He turned slightly to get a better view of her face. “You haven’t even heard my idea yet.”
She scowled. “I can make a wild guess. You want to take them to a jeweler so he can examine them and give us his expert opinion. Or did you have something else in mind?”
“No, that about sums it up. At least then we’d know what we’re dealing with.”
“We?” she echoed, her tone slightly sarcastic. “This isn’t your problem, Callahan. This is my house. My staircase.”
“Your diamonds?” When she didn’t deny it, the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He hadn’t even considered Chloe might be involved in something shady. He suddenly wondered why he’d been blind to that possibility. Was it the way she looked? Talked? Kissed?
He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to think about that kiss. It confused him too much. Made perfectly clear issues suddenly cloudy.
“They’re not my diamonds,” she said firmly. “But this is a family problem. I’d rather you didn’t become involved.”
“It’s too late. I became involved the moment your brother conked me over the head. And now we know why. He didn’t want me to find the stash.”
“That’s pure speculation,” she replied, although she didn’t sound too convinced herself. “Why wouldn’t he…I mean, whoever hit you, just take the diamonds and run?”
Trace shrugged. “Maybe he heard you coming and panicked. Or maybe he thought he’d killed me and panicked. Criminals aren’t always logical. Or smart.”
“Believe me, I know.” She turned her face to him. “So now what?”
They were lying so close together that he could feel her soft breath on his cheek. “We call the police.”
Chloe immediately wiggled out from beneath the staircase. Trace followed her, moving more slowly. She was pacing back and forth across the living room by the time he got to his feet. He watched her for a moment, then he walked toward the telephone.
“Wait,” she cried, reaching out to stop him.
He turned to face her. “Chloe, I know you’re upset. I know you don’t want to face the facts about your brother. But shielding him won’t help him. Ramon will just dig himself deeper and deeper into trouble.” He took a step closer to her. “I’m furious with Ramon for knocking me out, but I could probably deal with him one-on-one and leave the police out of it.”
He steeled himself against the way her brown eyes filled with hope. “But the diamonds are another matter. We’re talking about a possible felony. We don’t have any choice but to turn him in to the authorities.”
“You’re right.”
He blinked, surprised at her easy capitulation. He turned toward the telephone once again.
Chloe whirled in front of him, effectively blocking his path to the phone. “But we don’t have to turn him in yet. I still don’t believe Ramon hit you, but…” Her voice trailed off and a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.
“You do believe he stole the diamonds?”
“Yes.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Why couldn’t he have started small? A gold bracelet here, a semiprecious stone there? Instead he steals enough diamonds to land him in prison for a lifetime!”
“Wait a minute,” he interjected, slightly confused. “Did Ramon tell you he planned to rob a jewelry store?”
“Not in so many words. But I could see the warning signs.” She looked up at Trace. “Why didn’t I try harder to stop him?”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Yes, I can,” she countered. “I promised my mother I’d look after him the first time she went to prison. And I’ve tried to keep that promise ever since.”
His gut clenched at her words. She’d only been twelve years old and already taken on the responsibilities of an adult. “Ramon is a man now, not a little boy. You’re not responsible for his actions anymore.”
“He’s still a little boy inside. Sensitive and impulsive.” She laid her hand on his chest. “Let me find him. Let me try to convince Ramon to turn himself in. They’ll go easier on him then.”
He shook his head. “The police could be on his trail right now. I’ll bet they’re definitely on the trail of the diamonds. If they find them here, you could be considered as an accomplice.”
She tipped up her chin. “I can take care of myself.”
Trace knew it wasn’t a bluff. From the sound of it, she’d been taking care of herself since she was a child. But this was serious. Still…he couldn’t quite resist the raw appeal in her eyes.
“Twenty-four hours,” he clipped. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to find your brother. Then we go to the police.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you! You won’t regret it—I promise.”
He didn’t regret it. Not at this very moment, with Chloe warm and pliant in his arms. He lowered his head and captured her mouth with his, hearing her tiny gasp of surprise. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her closer, relishing the way her body molded so easily against his own. Seeking an answer to the question that had plagued him ever since she’d tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Now he knew for certain.
It hadn’t been a fluke.
The same strange current arced between them—making him feel almost as if their souls were connecting as well as their lips and their bodies. It exhilarated him—and terrified him.
He broke the kiss, pressing his cheek momentarily against her hair while he regained control of his equilibrium and his breathing. “This is quite a date.”
She laughed, sounding a little breathless herself. Then she stepped out of his arms. “Short but memorable.”
He frowned. “Does that mean it’s over?”
She nodded. “If I only have twenty-four hours to find Ramon, I need to begin looking right now.”
“Do you even know where to start?”
She picked up her purse off the coffee table.
“Ducky’s Bar on Benton Street. That’s one of Ramon’s favorite hangouts.”
“Benton Street?” he echoed in disbelief. “You can’t go down to that part of town alone at night. It’s bad enough in daylight.”
She slung the purse strap over her shoulder.
“I’ll be all right.”
“I’m going with you.” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and headed toward the door. “I’ll drive.”
She stood her ground. “I think I should handle this on my own.”
“You’re wrong.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m wrong? Just like that?”
“It’s nothing personal,” he assured her. “Many women don’t realize what’s best for them. I’ve been to Ducky’s a time or two and it’s no place for a lady. I think it’s best if I go along for protection.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Do you know what year this is?”
“Two thousand,” he replied without any hesitation. “I already told you, I’m fine. A blow to the head can’t stop Trace Callahan.”
“Too bad,” she muttered, as she watched him walk out the door.
DUCKY’S BAR sat nestled between Eve’s Tattoo Emporium and Barney’s Bail Bonds at the far end of Benton Street. Peeling yellow paint adorned the cinder-block wall on the outside of the bar. Black paint concealed the windows and the plate-glass door, giving the building an ominous appearance.
Humidity hung heavy in the air and swollen gray clouds stretched across the sky. Trace glanced at Chloe as they walked along the litter-strewn sidewalk. She looked grim, determined, and too damn sexy.
“Hold it,” he said, stopping in front of the door. “I’ve changed my mind. You can’t go in there.”
She looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
“Go back and wait for me in the car. I’ll check out the place and see if Ramon’s made an appearance.”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “I’m not waiting in the car. I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“And I can’t believe you’d even consider going into a place like Ducky’s Bar in that outfit.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t like the way I look?”
“You want my honest opinion?” He took a step closer to her. “I love the way you look. The problem is that every hoodlum in the bar is going to love it, too. I can’t help you find Ramon if I’m too busy fighting off all your admirers.”
“In the first place,” she said, her voice low and tight, “I never asked you to fight anyone. You’re barely able to walk, much less defend my honor. And in the second place, it may surprise you to learn that not every man looks at a woman as a sex object.”
His jaw tightened. “This has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with that blouse you’re wearing. Or should I say, barely wearing.” He frowned at the way the red peasant blouse exposed her creamy white shoulders and generous cleavage. “Don’t you have a sweater or something you can put on?”
“A sweater?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s ninety degrees in the shade.”
Standing so close to Chloe made it seem more like a hundred and ninety. He reached out and pulled up the elastic neckline of her blouse, tugging it up to her chin. “There. That’s much better.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” she muttered, tugging her blouse back down but keeping it on her shoulders this time. “But I don’t have time to argue. We’re here to find Ramon, remember?”
“Just let me do all the talking.” Trace moved toward the door. “This Ducky woman may be the owner, but I’ve heard she’s a real wacko. She’s been married four times.”
“That hardly makes her crazy,” Chloe said wryly. “Just unlucky in love.”
“Her husbands were the unlucky ones. They’re all dead.”
She stopped short.
“Just what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m just telling you she’s a rough old broad who needs careful handling.” He smiled. “But I’m sure I can soften her up. Women find it hard to resist me.”
“It must be your modesty.”
“Must be.” Then his smile faded as his gaze flicked to her blouse. “Let’s make this quick. And try not to draw attention to yourself.”
She didn’t say anything as he held the door open for her. He followed her inside, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the haze of smoke in the air and the low lighting. An old Hank Williams tune wailed from the jukebox, accompanied by the shrill bells and whistles of the two pinball machines in the corner.
Trace had only taken three steps inside the bar when a burly bouncer blocked his path.
“I’d like to see some identification.”
“What about her?” Trace asked, watching as Chloe walked past the bouncer unimpeded.
“What about her?”
“You didn’t card her, so why single me out? You can’t seriously believe I’m under twenty-one.”
“Must be your baby face,” the bouncer sneered. “You’re one of them pretty boys that all look about twelve years old.”
No one in their right mind would ever call the bouncer a pretty boy. He wore his dark hair in a military-style crew cut and had a long scar running along his forehead, just above his bushy eyebrows. His nose veered a little to the left.