Hotter Than Wildfire

  Montez waited until it became clear even to the idiot on the chair that he didn’t want money. Fisher slumped, defeated.

  After another long silence, Montez finally spoke.

  “Where’s Ellen Palmer?” he asked quietly. Be great if they could do this the easy way. Get the intel, ice the guy and go. Montez had a lot to do before this mess was over, and time spent away from business was money lost.

  “Who?” Fisher’s forehead scrunched up in confusion, utterly, completely clueless. He couldn’t possibly be that good an actor. Not with the stress he was under. Not a soft civilian.

  “Eve.”

  Fisher’s features cleared. “Oh, Eve. I’m sorry, that information is highly confident—”

  All the breath went out of him at the punch Trey gave him. It wasn’t even a real punch, just a shut-up-and-pay-attention punch. Still, this Fisher asshole started wailing like a siren. Jesus. Montez waited until the noise died down and Fisher was sniveling.

  “Eve,” Montez said again.

  Fisher shook his head. “Can’t, man. My contract says—”

  Another whack upside the head, not even hard enough to rattle teeth, and the wailing began again.

  “Okay, okay! I’ll talk!”

  Christ. If he hadn’t had a deep personal interest in the outcome, Montez would have left this to his men. What a waste of his time, interrogating this moron.

  Montez moved his chair forward so Fisher could see him, opened a file he held on his lap and pulled out a number of photos. He held up the first photo, the formal portrait that had been on the Bearclaw website, turning it so Fisher could see it clearly.

  Montez tapped the photo. “Is that Ellen Palmer?”

  Fisher’s eyes widened. “No,” he said, then held up his restrained hands in defense when Trey’s hand moved back. “Don’t hit me! I know her as Irene Ball. She uses the name Eve for her singing. I’ve never heard of an Ellen Palmer.”

  Trey looked at him and Montez nodded slightly. Trey’s hand went down and the dickhead’s breath whooshed out in relief.

  “So.” Montez leaned forward a little. “How did you meet her and where?”

  Fisher was moving into familiar territory, Montez could tell. He even relaxed a little, which just went to prove that civilians are terminally stupid.

  “I’m a talent agent, working out of Seattle. You ever hear of Broken Monkeys, or Pursuit, or Isabel?” Fuckhead actually looked hopefully at Montez, trying to impress him. Montez simply stared at him until his eyes dropped to his knees. “Well…” he drew in a deep breath. “I make the rounds of clubs and bars, because the Seattle music scene is great and throws up a lot of talent. One night I was in this club, the Blue Moon. I was there to talk to a guy, not talent scout. Blue Moon’s had this pathetic singer for like, forever—got no voice and his keyboard playing sucks, but what the fuck? Beer’s good and the chairs are comfortable. I’m thinking, talk to my guy and get out. Only turns out the singer was dead and this chick is singing. And man…halfway into her cover of “Every Breath You Take” I knew she was gold, pure gold. Asked the owner who she was and he shrugged. Said she was one of the waitresses, girl just showed up one day. Didn’t have papers or nothing, but the owner—he’s not particular. Half his staff is off the books. Five minutes after she started singing, there wasn’t a sound in the club, and when she finished, she got a standing ovation. Never seen anything like it. So I go over to her, thinking she’s unknown, she’s hungry—she’s a fucking waitress for Christ’s sake!—I’ll sign her up and she’ll be grateful, know what I mean?”

  Fisher looked around, searching for a little male solidarity. Montez shook his head. It was going to be a pleasure ridding the world of this shithead.

  “Go on,” he said quietly. “You signed her up, correct?”

  “Yeah, but man did that bitch drive a hard bargain.” A grating whining note crept into his voice. “Most musicians, they don’t know dick about the music business. They learn as they go along. Some of them never learn. But Irene—Eve—shit, it was like she was born to it. She negotiated the toughest contract I’ve ever seen, right down the line. Boy, does that bitch know her numbers.”

  Yes, indeed, Montez thought sourly. The bitch knows her numbers. And mine.

  “And that was the easy part. Because when I started talking gigs and recordings, man, she just went wild. Laid down the law. No concerts, only recordings. Recording studio had to be emptied out, musicians and sound engineer in another room with a separate entrance. And no interviews, no photos, no website, no nothing. That was her iron-clad bottom line, and I tell you, I nearly walked away, because who needs this shit. But then, hell…” The idiot smiled reminiscently, forgetting where he was. “That first album went gold, the second platinum. It was a smart marketing ploy.”

  This was getting tedious. Montez wanted to wrap it up.

  “So where does this Irene, or Eve, live?”

  Fisher shook his head. “No fucking idea.”

  Trey’s blow drew blood this time. When the idiot stopped screaming, Montez tried again.

  “Where does she live?”

  “I don’t fucking know!” he shouted. “She wouldn’t tell me! The address on the contract is a P.O. box in Seattle. No one knows where she lives.”

  Fisher was too much of a coward to lie. Shit.

  “What’s her cell phone number?”

  Fisher’s eyes lit with hope. He rattled off a number with a Seattle prefix, and Montez realized that was about all he was going to get out of this fuckhead.

  “Okay, we’re done here.” Montez stood, and Fisher’s eyes followed him eagerly. Idiot thought the whole thing was over. Montez glanced at Trey. “Take care of this,” he said quietly, and exited the room.

  He could barely hear the shot out in the corridor. Trey used a suppressor, just like he’d been told.

  San Diego

  Ellen Palmer checked the address on the small brass plaque outside an elegant, super-modern building in downtown San Diego against the scrawled words torn off a napkin and verified that they were the same.

  She didn’t need to do that. She had a near-photographic memory, and if a number was involved, she never forgot it, ever.

  Morrison Building, 1147 Birch Street.

  Yes, that was it.

  Ellen recognized what she was doing. She was stalling, which was unlike her. She was alive because she’d been able to take decisions fast and act on them immediately. She’d have been six feet under if she hadn’t acted fast. Stalling was unlike her.

  But she was so damned tired. Tired of running, tired of lying, tired of keeping her head down, in the most literal sense of the term. Security cameras were everywhere these days and her enemy had a powerful face recognition program. For the past year, she’d rarely presented her naked face in public in daylight.

  Even now, when she was betting her life on the fact that she was moving toward safety, she had on huge sunglasses and her now-long hair was drawn forward around her face. She needed to buy a big straw hat.

  There were two security cameras on the lintel of the twelve-foot street door of the Morrison Building, but Ellen kept her head down as she entered, walked across the huge glass and marble lobby and rode up in the elevator to the ninth floor. Remaining anonymous in the elevator was hard. The four walls were polished bronze that reflected as well as mirrors to the small security camera in the corner.

  The door to RBK Security was guarded by two security cameras, and you were either buzzed in or you dealt with a topflight security panel located on the right-hand side, because the door had no doorknob.

  She lowered her head even more as a whirring sound came from above her head. Good God, their cameras were motorized!

  Well, it was a security company, and she’d been assured they were really good.

  They’d better be, because otherwise she was dead.

  She rang the bell. There was a click and the door slid silently open. Ellen walked in gingerly, heart starting to pound.

/>   Was this a good idea? Because if it wasn’t, if she was putting herself into the wrong hands, there was no turning back, and she’d pay the ultimate price.

  The lobby was wonderful—luxurious yet comfortable, with huge, thriving plants, soft classical music in the background, the faint smell of lemon polish, deep, plush armchairs. A secretary sat behind a U-shaped counter. She smiled in welcome.

  “Are you Ms. Charles? Mr. Reston will be in shortly. Please have a seat.”

  For a second, Ellen didn’t respond, thinking the receptionist was talking to someone else. But there wasn’t anyone else around.

  She closed her eyes in dismay. Of course.

  She’d booked the appointment under the name Nora Charles, which was stupid. Any film buff would recognize it as a fake name, but she’d been so desperate when she’d called and she’d just sat through a triple feature of The Thin Man, After the Thin Man and Shadow of the Thin Man last night in San Francisco, waiting for the first bus to San Diego. An allnighter at the cinema was the only thing she could think of to stay off the streets.

  She’d started the journey the day before yesterday in Seattle and hadn’t slept more than an hour or two in three days.

  But exhaustion was no excuse.

  Forgetting her cover name was terrifyingly dangerous. She was alive because she was always alert, always. Forgetting her cover name for just a second was inviting death. And if there was one thing the past year had taught her, it was that she didn’t want to die. She wanted—desperately—to live.

  Nora Charles was her fifth cover name in twelve months. Forget all the others and concentrate on this one, she told herself.

  She was mentally putting together a little fake bio for Nora, just to give Nora a little heft in her head, when the receptionist suddenly said, “Yessir, I will.”

  Ellen really was exhausted, because she couldn’t figure out who the receptionist was talking to. There was no one else in the lobby and she wasn’t talking into a phone. Then she saw the very neat, very small and very expensive headset attached to one ear and understood.

  Wow. She should have noticed it.

  This was truly dangerous. Her exhaustion was catching up with her. She felt stupid with fatigue. Stupid people died, very badly. Particularly ones with Gerald Montez and his army after them.

  “Ms. Charles?”

  Ellen looked up. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Reston has been delayed. But Mr. Bolt is free. They are both partners in the company.”

  “How—how long will Mr. Reston be delayed?”

  “He doesn’t know.” The receptionist had a kindly look, unusual in such upscale surroundings. Usually an employee in such a swank, obviously successful company was snooty and remote. This woman looked gentle. As if she somehow understood. “It might be a long time. Mr. Bolt is very good, too.”

  Oh, God. Kerry, the woman who’d told her about RBK Security, had dealt with Sam Reston, who’d saved her life. She had no idea what this Mr. Bolt was like. Maybe Sam Reston worked on the down low to rescue women in danger and this Bolt didn’t know anything about it. What then?

  Ellen closed her eyes for just a second, wishing she could either rewind her life to a year ago or fast forward to a year in the future, when either she’d be settled in a new life or she’d be dead. Because if she didn’t do something, now, she was surely headed toward a slow and painful death.

  Gerald Montez didn’t forgive.

  But she kept having to make these split-second decisions, with no training for them, no way to judge whether she was making the right choice or throwing her life away.

  The lion or the lady, every time, every day.

  And now toss exhaustion and sleeplessness into the mix. How to choose?

  She looked the receptionist in the eyes. Ellen was a good judge of character, and now she had to trust her instincts. The receptionist looked back at her calmly, seemingly undisturbed that the lunatic lady, who looked as if she hadn’t slept in three days because she hadn’t, was staring her in the face, taking minutes for a decision that shouldn’t take a second.

  Except—like all her decisions this past year—her life hung in the balance.

  The receptionist stayed calm, eyes kind. Maybe she was used to desperate people. Maybe the desperate were tossed up on this doorstep daily.

  “Okay,” Ellen finally said, clutching her hands. Please let this be the right choice. She sent the prayer up to whoever was up there, who’d been noticeably absent lately. “I’ll see Mr. Bolt. Thank you.”

  The receptionist nodded. “The second door to your right. Mr. Bolt’s name is on the door. He’s waiting for you.”

  Ellen nodded and slowly made her way to the big corridor on the right. As she passed in front of the desk, the receptionist looked up and Ellen saw understanding in her eyes.

  “It will be okay,” the receptionist said softly. “Don’t worry. Mr. Bolt will make it okay.”

  No, it wouldn’t be okay. It would never be okay again.

  Harry sat at his desk, trying to clear his mind of his last client, London Harriman, heiress to a real estate empire. She wanted him to stop publication of a sex tape by a tabloid website.

  She didn’t mind that the sex tape was going to be put online, mind you. Oh no. She’d recorded it specifically in order to release it and she’d assured him that it had been shot “professionally.” No, what had got her panties—or lack of panties—in a twist was that she wouldn’t be in control of the timing or the release venue.

  She wanted him to stop the gossip website from putting it up. She’d handed him a copy with a coy smile, saying she wanted him to watch it. So he’d understand.

  London had come on to him, real heavy, but then Harry imagined that London came on to anything with a penis, particularly if that man could even marginally help her in her goal of becoming the Socialite Sex Goddess of the World.

  She was beautiful and buffed to a shine, wearing what he imagined at a rough guess—Sam’s wife, Nicole, would probably know the amount down to the dollar—to be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of…stuff, from the designer purse, designer shoes, designer shades, to the big flashy designer jewels.

  She’d carefully and slowly crossed her legs, showing a pantyless crotch that had been shaved except for a little landing strip in the middle, so she had a designer twat, too.

  Harry hated this shit, but he had been designated by Sam and Mike as the go-to guy for the asshole clients, and he owed his two brothers so much he accepted the Asshole Detail without complaint.

  Plus, they both knew that he was constitutionally incapable of being rude or discourteous to a woman.

  His curse.

  After quoting double their usual fee, Harry got the details, the copy of the tape of the delectable London fucking the man du jour, and the name and website of the so-called journalist who was going to post the tape tomorrow.

  Five minutes after the door had closed behind London, Harry had found the file on the online tabloid’s servers, degraded it, left some spyware and a very clear message that any attempt to post the file would cause the entire archives of the site to be degraded beyond repair, effectively putting them out of business. He toyed with the idea of signing the message “The Twat’s Avenger” but decided not to. It was touch and go there for a moment, though.

  Have to get your jollies where you can.

  Five minutes, fifty thousand dollars. Not bad. And twenty-five thousand of that fifty was going into their Lost Ones Fund, their own personal Underground Railroad.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars from London’s trust fund would not be used to buy a fur or a week at a fancy spa or luxury rehab or a couple of Rolexes. That money would be spent on some abused woman who was running for her life. Most of the women who came to them left home under cover of darkness with nothing but the clothes on their backs, sometimes—tragically—with their kids. They did that because if they stayed they’d be beaten to death.

  Harry and his brothers gave t
hem a new life and enough money to start that life.

  Great, great feeling. Maybe he should have charged London triple their usual fee. Buy some safety for a lot of little kids, that would.

  He was frowning over that when Marisa announced the next client, a Ms. Nora Charles.

  She’d had an appointment with Sam, but Sam had called to say that Nicole was having bad morning sickness and he’d come in when she was better.

  Harry knew his brother Sam. Not even the threat of nuclear war would keep Sam from Nicole’s side when she wasn’t feeling well. Sam would stay by her side until she felt better. That was the bottom line.

  Harry respected that. He liked Nicole, a lot. And he liked it that she made Sam so happy. Well, happy…Sam seemed really happy with her when he wasn’t panicking about some imaginary danger to Nicole around every corner. And now that there was a kid on the way, whoa.

  Sam was going to have to dial down his crazy overprotective-ness, though Harry doubted he could. Sam Reston, big, huge, tough guy, good with a rifle, good with his fists, was a total wuss when it came to his wife. And the little girl on the way? Sam would probably keep her under armed guard throughout her childhood and let her date when she turned thirty. Maybe.

  Mike was out on a recon for a jeweler who had received death threats.

  So today Harry was it.

  Nora Charles, huh? Did she think no one could remember the Thin Man movies? He sent up a little prayer. Please, God, not another heiress under a fake name. Harry had had his heiress quotient for the year with London even though it was still April.

  He was bracing himself for more nonsense as his door slid open.