Belladonna, page 7
“So if I were to have Mr. Tock shoot you on the way out, you could take care of that?”
“Tock’s not here. Besides, the day he can catch me off guard is the day I retire.”
Charmaine was growing bored. “Make your point, Mr. Rudge.”
“My point,” he said, emphasizing the second word, “is that I was hired, by your boss if I’m not mistaken, to locate Bella Conlan and bring her in. Alive. Tell your man Tock to back off. The lady isn’t worth squat to me dead.”
“My, what high moral standards we have,” Charmaine mocked. Her fingers located a Chinese bust on the ledge behind her. “To say nothing of audacity. You’re telling me to back off because you need Bella Conlan alive in order to receive a second payoff.”
He feigned innocence. “She didn’t escape from me.”
“True.” Charmaine smiled. “And yet somehow, Mr. Rudge, I feel you did have a hand in her escape. Perhaps not directly, but in some small way. What do you think, Hobby?”
“I think it’s time I returned to my office.”
She laughed. “Poor Hobby. It’s so difficult to be a pacifist in this violent business of ours.” She glanced down. “Is that your lighter on the floor?”
Hobby looked. So did Rudge—a natural reaction to a subtly played ace. When the big man’s eyes dropped, Charmaine’s hands came up. She brought the plaster bust up and smashed it against his skull with great force. Rudge sat stock-still for a long moment, then slumped slowly sideways until the chair arm stopped him and he fell facedown to the floor.
Outside, Chinese fireworks paid homage to the festive season.
Hobby didn’t bat an eyelash. He simply asked, “Is he dead?”
Charmaine flicked a large piece of plaster away with her toe. “No. The man’s an ox. Have Tock take him away and tie him up. I’ll let him know what to do after that.”
Hobby’s brows rose in evident surprise. “You’re going to let him live?”
“For the moment. It wouldn’t be prudent for me to cross the Queen of Spades upstairs right now. Dead bodies can’t be kept on hand, and they can be difficult to dispose of quickly. I wouldn’t want him floating to shore in Tiburon or rubbing soggy shoulders with someone’s houseboat in Sausalito. He’s seen me, Hobby. Insolence aside, I don’t like it when someone of his ilk can identify me. You’re our front man. People see you, not us.” She indicated the office above with a barely perceptible movement of her head. “We like our anonymity.”
“It’s kind of you to want to protect her as well as yourself,” Hobby noted.
Charmaine’s laughter rang out. Picking up her cigarette and holder, she lit the tip and inhaled deeply. “Protection isn’t my plan, Hobby. She can take care of herself. But this situation is another story. A very old story, as you well know. There’s a great deal at stake here—more, I think, than you and she can handle.”
“Are you going to kill Bella?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely yes.”
He glanced upward. “She’ll be upset.”
Charmaine blew out a long, contemplative stream of smoke. “I know. But that’s her problem. I have my own to contend with. And where mine are concerned, I trust no one to solve them but me. Belladonna is mine, not hers—and, British bookie notwithstanding, as good as dead already.”
MALONE AWOKE TO DARKNESS and a bloodcurdling scream that raised the hair on his scalp. He was out of bed and across the floor before he fully understood the reason.
Bella!
Her name shot through his brain. He’d been sleeping on the leather sofa and smashed his foot into an end table en route to the bedroom. The pain barely registered as her scream came again.
She hadn’t bolted the door, but it stuck, as doors tended to in the fog-damp climate of San Francisco. He had to put his shoulder to it, and even then it didn’t want to budge.
“Pink knife,” she was screaming when he finally stumbled across the threshold. “Blood… the mirror. The mirror!”
Her head thrashed on the pillow; her fists were clenched on either side, ready to strike, it seemed to Malone. He ran to the side of the bed. She looked beautiful in sleep, even in nightmarish sleep. Bewitching, red lipped, golden skinned. Damn her for having such a potent effect on him. Damn black lashes, witchy eyes and a mouth just made for kissing.
Despite the circumstances, Malone felt himself getting hard. Damn that, too, he thought, setting reluctant hands on her shoulders. The spaghetti straps of her red chemise fell aside, bringing a groan to his throat that only his clenched teeth prevented from slipping out.
“Bella.” He shook her gently, trying to ignore the scent of her skin and hair, which reminded him of summer roses.
“Pink knife,” she said again, then squirmed and attempted to fight him off. “Coming for me,” she panted. “They see me. They must.”
They?
Again Malone shook her, and this time he had to duck to avoid her flailing fists.
“Bella, it’s me.” His soothing tone surprised even him. “You’re safe. I won’t let them hurt you.”
She twisted her body one last time. “Pink knife,” she whispered. “Covered with blood. They see me. Why don’t they kill me?”
A fair question, but unimportant at the moment. Although she’d quieted enough for him to release her, he didn’t do so immediately. Instead, he eased the sheet and blanket up, partly to keep her warm, but mostly to cover her firm breasts, so disturbingly delineated by her skimpy negligee.
A rush of heat and desire swept through him. “Oh, damn.” Malone sighed, dropping his head forward in utter defeat. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Stroking the dark hair from her face, he stared at her in sleep. And knew in his soul that he was lost.
“DON’T FIDGET,” Malone ordered, trapping her restless right wrist as they walked along the pier. “We’ll look conspicuous.”
“Like we don’t already,” Bella grumbled. She gave his arm a none-too-gentle poke. “This isn’t going to work, Malone. I don’t know the first thing about being a waitress in a place like this.”
“Pretend it’s a party. You’re the hostess, and you don’t want anyone to drop food or drinks on your brand-new carpet.”
“Thanks a lot.” Sighing, Bella adjusted her blond wig. How on earth had she gotten into this mess?
“We have to meet the Birds, or at least see them,” Malone had explained reasonably last night. “I called in some favors and found out that they’re hosting a charity casino aboard their restaurant yacht, the Sun Sen.“
Bella recognized the name. She’d been there once several months ago with a group of people from the Playhouse. The decor was lush, red and gold, and spoke strongly of the days when gambling dens and exotic brothels had been the norm in San Francisco. Atmosphere or no, however, she had major reservations about Malone’s plan.
Pose as waiters? It sounded reasonable in theory. After all, his cousin Ronnie had connections and could get them in, no questions asked. They could watch, listen and try to discover which Bird was which. Assuming they showed up, which Malone assured her they would, since this was their party. After all, it looked good to claim that they’d raised a small fortune to benefit no less than three national charities.
Which was disgusting and the height of hypocrisy, considering that they dealt in all sorts of nasty things, from stolen jewels to dynamite to hard porn. As for killing, well, Lona’s death proved that life meant less than nothing to them. The fingers of Bella’s free hand curled in determination. If it killed her, she was going to bring down the monsters responsible for Lona’s death.
She’d had a nightmare about the incident. Of course, Lona had been there, but she’d been stabbed rather than shot. The hand doing the stabbing had been gloved and… something else, something Bella hadn’t quite been able to fathom, because the dream had shifted abruptly at that point and the knife had seemed to be floating toward her.
She hadn’t been able to run in the dream, only to cower deeper into the shadows under the table. But that hadn’t helped, because she could see the knife moving ever closer. She’d looked up and spotted her face in a mirror, then suddenly she’d realized that the blade was poised directly in front of her. Yet, oddly, except in the mirror, she couldn’t see it.
She’d screamed long and loudly in the dream. She’d thrashed out at someone, too, but thankfully that person hadn’t been wearing gloves, and she’d felt immediately comforted and safe. The way she did now in Malone’s company…
She’d woken up that morning shaken but calm and had agreed to Malone’s plans. She’d used her talent for theatrical makeup, together with the putty, hair, shadows and tints Malone had purchased in Chinatown, to fashion their disguises.
Malone’s had been a piece of cake. A small beard, a little putty and a change of clothes had worked wonders. He hadn’t needed a wig; Bella had simply changed the style and added a bit more curl to the ends of his own dark hair.
In an effort now to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she studied his profile. He looked very handsome, like a pirate or a bullfighter in his black pants and vest, white shirt and knee-length boots. Handsome and unbearably appealing.
Her own costume pleased her less. She’d had to don a blond wig, but since the color didn’t really suit her complexion, she’d also been obliged to lighten her skin with foundation and a variety of powders. Using pencils and shadows, she’d made her eyes rounder. She’d also added a few body curves, mainly in the bust area, had blotted out her high cheekbones with contour and had finally donned the navy blue dress and white apron required for tonight’s performance. She looked like a cross between Brigitte Bardot and Shirley Temple. Tres sexy, she thought, resisting an urge to giggle.
At the end of the pier they boarded the cruiser that would transport them out to the Sun Sen. With the fog twining around the rails and seawater slapping against the hull, Bella felt as if they were sailing to a ghost ship, back through time to the days of saloon girls, bordellos and gambling houses.
A group of the other employees stood close by on deck, chatting about the money that would flow like wine that evening.
“Try to look professional, will you?” Malone said about halfway out.
“I am,” Bella retorted. She released a pent-up breath. “Look, Malone, I’m simply not good at balancing trays. What if I drop something?”
He rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Bella, it’s an act. Use your imagination. I can’t believe you don’t have one. You’ve spent enough time around Irish Max and company.”
She pulled her raincoat, the one he’d thankfully remembered to bring from the hotel, tighter. “You make them sound like hoods. They’re not dangerous or threatening. In fact, they aren’t much of anything anymore. They’ve gone straight—well, mostly.”
He slid her a dubious look. Why, oh why, she murmured inwardly, did he have to look so dark and dangerous, especially tonight? She masked the shiver that started deep in her belly.
“What about you?” he asked.
The shiver stopped. “What about me?”
“Have you gone straight?”
Insulted, she glared at him. “I’ve never not been straight. I did a favor for a friend. If you want to get technical, I undid a crime for him. The only pockets I’ve really picked belong to Max and his friends, and I was only after candy and… Hey, wait a minute. Back off, Malone,” she warned when he reached a hand toward her.
“Your cheek’s smudged,” he said, rubbing a spot with his gloved thumb.
Even through the leather, Bella felt the contact. She already knew his hands very well. They were warm, slightly callused and long fingered.
He’d admitted to being born in Durham, in the north of England as she’d suspected. Durham was a county of farms, mines and fishing ports. People there did manual labor, the kind of work that created calluses both physical and mental. Oh, Malone was tough all right; the question was, could he love?
It surprised Bella a little to discover that she wanted to know. Surprised and, strangely, pleased her, too. The shiver she’d staved off earlier rippled through her again.
“We’re here,” the cruiser pilot called down from the cabin house. “The Sun Sen.”
Malone looked up at the lighted ship. “Moment of truth, Bella. Get your climbing shoes on.” He cupped her elbow in his hand. “We’re about to meet the Birds of San Francisco.” Lesser-known than Alfred Hitchcock’s, but far, far, deadlier.
Chapter Six
“You’re tipping your tray, Bella.”
Malone made the stoic observation as he passed her in the dining room. You’d think he’d been born in service, she reflected resentfully. That and to give orders to those beneath him. Must be a British thing, she decided.
The main dining room was located just below the casino, which was situated on the ship’s upper deck. The vessel was huge, Oriental in design and plush inside and out. Red velvet curtains adorned portholes and entryways. The floor was polished planking, the tables covered with white linen and draped with a smaller square of red cloth. Candles burned in dozens of wall sconces. The air, delicately scented, smelled of holly berries, spiced wax and smoldering incense. Unlike the staff, the Birds’ guests were, as Lona would have described them, dressed to kill. If they were friends of the Birds, who knew, maybe killing was their job.
Bella drifted from a group of business people to a circle of men and women talking politics. She was fighting a yawn and attempting to catch a glimpse of Malone when a sultry voice behind her said, “Chablis, please.”
Turning, Bella spied a tall woman of indeterminate age with black hair and bangs, wearing a long, red silk gown and carrying an unlit cigarette in a holder. She had an odd, British-American accent. Only her delicate jawline and painted mouth were visible. The rest of her face was covered with a pair of large, round sunglasses and a mesh veil attached to a broad-brimmed hat. Like Greta Garbo, she apparently wanted to maintain her anonymity.
“I…” Bella forgot her role for a moment, then recovered. “This is champagne, ma’am,” she said politely.
The woman treated her to a practiced smile. “Yes, but I want Chablis.”
“I’ll see if I can find some.”
“Wait.” A slender hand, the skin fractionally older looking than that of her jaw and throat, waylaid her. The contact even through her uniform caused Bella’s skin to prickle. “Do I know you?”
Confident in her disguise, though still uncertain about her reaction to the woman’s touch, Bella replied, “I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“Hmm.” Through dark glasses that reminded Bella of enormous bug eyes, the woman studied her. “I admit the light’s bad, but I swear I’ve seen you before. In Los Angeles, perhaps?”
The light was bad only because of her sunglasses. Bella forced a smile. “I don’t think so. I’m from Cincinnati.”
“Ah, well, I’m from Vicksburg myself. What’s in Cincinnati?”
WKRP sprang to mind, but Bella settled for a less flippant response. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid.”
“Hobby, come here.” The woman beckoned to a middle-aged man with a thickish body, brown hair and nondescript features.
“Yes, Charmaine?”
Bella’s heart jammed into her ribs. Charmaine? As in Charmaine Parret?
“Does this woman look familiar to you?”
Between her shock and the man’s inspection of her, Bella experienced a moment of panic. What if her makeup had smudged again?
“I…” He screwed up his face. “No,” he said at length. “But she reminds me of someone.”
“Who?”
“Amanda.”
Charmaine Parret’s reaction and Bella’s couldn’t have been farther apart. Charmaine’s mouth compressed to a grim bronze line. From behind her glasses, she shot Hobby—Hobson Crowe, perhaps—what could only have been termed a cutting look.
Bella, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to control her expression. Her mother had known the Birds.
“Excuse me, Ms. Parret, Mr. Crowe.” A familiar hand grasped her arm. Numb inside and out, Bella continued to stare. Malone smiled a totally false smile. “Selma’s only been with us for a few weeks. Can I get you anything?”
Charmaine’s composure reasserted itself so swiftly that the slip might never have occurred. “Chablis,” she said, her tone as pleasant as her smile—her perfect smile, which Bella suddenly realized she had seen somewhere before. Where, though? And when? Recently? In the past? The answers danced tantalizingly out of reach.
“I’ll have it sent over at once,” Malone promised. Nodding politely, he drew Bella through the crowd to a quiet corner near the bandstand.
It surprised her that he didn’t snap her head off. Instead, he trapped her chin with his long fingers and brought it up until her eyes met his. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Not with him so close, she wasn’t. “Of course. I just didn’t realize who she was.”
“Yes, but she might have guessed who you were.”
“I doubt it. Though Mr. Crowe said I reminded him of Amanda.”
Malone’s brow furrowed. “He knew your mother?”
“Apparently. So did Charmaine. I don’t think she liked her, however—Charmaine, that is.” She paused. “I got a funny feeling from her, Malone.”
“Funny how?”
“I can’t describe it. It was prickly, like sparks on my skin.”
“Threatening ones?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?” He was losing patience. In spite of everything, Bella had to hide her amusement. He was very sexy this way, short-tempered and reluctant to get involved. There was a great deal more to this man than he let on. But that was for another time.
“Like Frankenstein,” she answered him.
His steady stare and level “What?” told her plainly what he thought of that response.
She gave his chest a quick poke. “Like a static charge, Malone. Or maybe fireflies.”
A smile that really wasn’t a smile curved his lips. “Have you been sampling that champagne, by any chance?”
