Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) (12 page)

It wouldn’t be an easy task, especially with her past working against him. Jordan decided he’d like to wring the neck of
Jake4Ever
if he ever got the chance. The guy did a real number on her. Gun-shy didn’t begin to describe her. One wrong move would have her skittering away like a startled rabbit. He knew he’d pushed it this evening. He couldn’t help himself. She’d looked so damned cute in those ridiculous pajamas, and the tired circles under her blue eyes tugged at him.

Maybe he should’ve stayed. Leaving her took every ounce of his willpower. His thoughts tumbled over each other until he reached the door to his suite. The
do not disturb
sign still hung on the handle. He slid his key card in the slot, waited for the light to turn green, and went in. He rubbed the back of his neck as he rolled his shoulders to rid themselves of the knots that had made themselves at home.

He might have ordered Tilly to sleep, but it would be impossible for him to do the same. There was a ton of work to be done. He might as well get something accomplished. He went to the desk and powered up his laptop. Taking Tilly to the hospital and staying with her had eaten into the time he normally devoted to business. It didn’t matter that he had his restaurants to run, a book deal in the works, or the television show. She had made it to the top of his priority list.

He sat at the desk and typed in his password. His email account came up with several questions concerning the menus for the next week. The New York restaurant had a completely different range of produce and proteins than Los Angeles. Once that was done, he went on to his agent’s plans for a series of appearances scheduled through the end of next year. He tabled that one until he had the time to look it over. It took a few minutes to scroll through the remaining emails, sorting them by importance, until he came across one from Tom Green’s personal email account.

He decided to wait until morning until he saw the subject line. It read, “LOST & FOUND.” Curiosity got the better of him. His eyes widened as he read the message and reread it to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted the words.

He grabbed his phone and made a quick call. The phone range twice before a sleepy Tom answered.

“Hello.”

“Tom, this is Kelly.”

“Oh, man.” Tom’s raspy voice raised an octave. “Don’t tell me that Hirschberg blew a gasket. The man has no concept of what’s it’s like to have kids and an ex-wife. Okay, he’s got three ex-wives, but no kids. Ali’s still blaming herself for Jerry’s broken arm.”

“Don’t worry about Hirschberg. How’s Jerry?” He decided to ease into the conversation by asking about Tom’s seven-year-old son who’d fallen out of his bunk bed and ended up in the emergency room.

“He’s doing better than me. Or Ali.” A long drawn-out sigh sounded on the other end of the call. “But it got us to talking, really talking for the first time in months.”

“I guess what they say is true about silver linings.” He decided to jump right in. “Did you send me an email around nine this evening?”

“No. Like I said, we spent the afternoon and evening together. I thought I’d call you tomorrow morning to see how your chat with Hirschberg went.”

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

“Damn it!”

“Hey, Tilly spent part of the day in the ER as well. Cut the shit out of her hand. It took five stitches to patch her up and they gave her enough pain-killers to down an elephant.”

“Wow.”

“I’ll have Miranda call and smooth everything over. She’ll understand why you had to leave. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t even missed you.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way.”

“Tom, you are absolutely sure you didn’t send me an email?”

“As sure as God made little green apples. Why?”

“Because the message read, ‘
You will find the murder weapon stuffed in a trash can inside Union Station.’”

“Crap on a cracker!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Chapter Eleven

Goose bumps of excitement prickled Jordan’s skin.

“Okay, Jericho.” He glanced down at the time at the bottom of his computer. It was close to midnight. “I’m calling you, anyway.” For a second he thought about calling Tilly with the new development. He decided against it, considering her day, and he’d be damned if he’d call Miranda. She would have to do without an exclusive until the police saw fit to give her one.

He got out the card the detective gave him yesterday and dialed the number. After three rings he heard a sleepy growl. “Jericho here.”

“It’s Jordan Kelly.”

“Tilly?” Now the guy sounded wide awake. “Something else happened to her?” The concern in his voice stopped any snarky comments. Jordan decided this wasn’t the time for a pissing contest.

“No, no.” He got up from the desk to pace the floor. “She’s sleeping. I wanted to let you know I got an interesting email from Tom Green. You might check yours to see if you got one, too.”

“Hold on.” He heard the rustling sound of sheets being pushed aside. “Give me a minute—let me turn on my computer. So what’s the email about?”

“It said we’d find the murder weapon stuffed inside one of the trash cans in Union Station.”

“What!” The man’s yelp of surprise came close to breaking Jordan’s eardrums.

“You heard me.” Jordan sat on the edge of his bed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache flowered between his eyes. The ugly, dark geometric pattern of the carpet caught his eyes. His mind raced. Why did all hotel chains corner the market on hideous carpet? And why would the murderer contact him? If it wasn’t Tom, it had to be the murderer. “It didn’t make sense, so I called Tom and asked him if he’d emailed me. He said no.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes. He had to leave for New Orleans at six this morning because of a family emergency.”

“I see.”

Jordan jumped up from the bed as the flower of pain bloomed into a full-blown, skull- cracking headache. “I think Tom’s email was spoofed. If that’s the case, it’s someone who knew his personal email address.” He began to pace again. He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned his head down to his shoulder, repeating the action several times until he heard a satisfying pop
.
“When does the cleaning crew empty the trash at Union Station?”

“I’ll find out. Let me call you back.”

He closed his eyes to block out the pain and gather his thoughts. They tumbled in a relentless circle inside his brain, and his body felt like it’d been through a meat grinder. Jordan rolled his right shoulder to ease the stiffness left by yesterday’s acrobatics. He was fried inside and out.

The strains of Dead Pool’s “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” jerked Jordan from his mental wormhole. The caller ID showed it was the detective. He keyed in his security number and took the call. “Kelly here. What did you find out?”

“The night crew was just about to clean the building. I’m sending a team to check out the tip.

“The killer is taunting us.” He continued to pace. “The time stamp on the email said it was sent at nine p.m. Tom was back in New Orleans about ten in the morning.” He stopped mid-stride. “Why point the suspicion in Tom’s direction? Maybe the killer is sending us on a wild goose chase. ”

He heard the click of keystrokes on a computer.

“I just looked at my email. There’s nothing from Green. I’m coming over to the hotel as soon as I can get dressed and out of here. Don’t do anything with your computer. We may have to bring in a tech from CSI who can tell if the email is actually from Green.”

“Good.” Jordan released his breath, glad that the guy took him seriously. He heard a faint buzzing sound from the detective’s end of the line.

“Just a second, I have another call coming in.”

He waited, impatient and ready to take action. The killer was out there, teasing them. Two men were dead. Someone hadn’t thought twice about taking their lives. He mulled over the list of suspects. Brad Gilmore or Anthony Barrows didn’t have an apparent reason to kill either man. That didn’t mean they were off the list. Miranda was hysterical over losing her boyfriend, Austin Kenslo had lost his golden meal ticket. Ethridge’s arrogance pissed off Tom, but not enough to commit murder. Logic and the evidence pointed to Olivia.

Unless…

“Are you there?” The detective’s voice was hard and serious.

“Sorry, yes.” He couldn’t shake the idea that his ideas concerning Olivia might be wrong. Maybe Tilly was on to something. Had he jumped to conclusions without looking at all the angles?

“That was Tilly. She just got the same email and wants to meet up in the hotel coffee shop in a half hour.”

“Damn it, she’s supposed to be sleeping.” He raked his hand through his hair in frustration. “I knew I should’ve stayed with her.”

“A half hour.” Jericho ended the call.

He grabbed his room key and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. He marched down the hall to her room and knocked on the door. “Tilly, it’s Jordan.”

She opened it on the third knock and stepped back to let him in. A hot flush of color washed over her face, or the half of it that he could see. “Get in here.” Her words were muffled by the lightweight blue cotton sweater she had angled over her head. An arm was in one long sleeve while the other sleeve hung loose to flap around her body. “I need your help.” She’d managed to pull on a pair of white knit pants and purple flip-flops.

“Got yourself in a bind?” He’d laugh if he hadn’t caught sight of the side of her pale ivory breast peeking from the hem of the sweater. It was hard to sound cool when his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t start with me.” Her head finally popped through in a profusion of red curls and a pair of angry eyes. “I tried to get dressed, but the bandage on my hand got in the way. I can’t get it through the sleeve.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who should be in bed.”

“I couldn’t’ sleep so I checked my email. Do you know how hard that is to do with only one hand?” She swiped at a curl which dangled over one eye. “Thanks for agreein’ to meet in the coffee shop. I’ve had enough of this room.”

“You’re welcome, but you were supposed to be in bed, not checking email.”

“How? I was lyin’ there, eyes wide open. Anyway, there was an email from Tom about the murder weapon.” She grabbed the empty sleeve with her good hand and held it out. “Help me get this over my hand.”

He couldn’t resist playing with fire. “Pretty please.”

“Forget it.” She managed to tug the sweater down, obscuring her tasty flesh from his vision. “I’ll figure this out on my own. It’s bad enough that I have to go braless.”

“Testy, aren’t we?” He gave the sleeve a tug and pulled her forward. “Come here.” He took the opening at the bottom and stretched it out, bunching up the material until she could maneuver her hand through the sleeve.

“Phew. For a minute there I thought I was destined to be like No Hands Johnson back in Possum Trot.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking. Who is No Hands Johnson?”

Frustration faded from her face to be replaced by a big grin. “He was the town character. Bowlie Johnson lost both arms in the Vietnam War, along with most of his wits. Had to make do with hooks for hands. Lordy, they scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.”

“Why does that make you happy?”

“Not happy—just amused now that I think back on it.” She chuckled and shook her head in disbelief. “Bowlie had the whole town bamboozled.”

“You can finish this amusing tale on our way down.” He stood with his hands in his pockets. His body was already primed, ready, and on a boil, and it wouldn’t take much for him to turn his burners on high.

“Okay, let me get my purse.” She headed toward her bedroom.

He followed in her wake. “I didn’t know you carried one until yesterday. That thing is as big as you are.”

“I have a ton of them at home.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “It’s an addiction. My daughter says I need to join a twelve-step program.”

He blinked in genuine surprise at the revelation. He’d always thought Tilly was a no-nonsense, plain Jane kind of woman, until he discovered her love of expensive underwear and purses.

“I learn something new about you every day.”

“Oh, I’m as girly as the next woman. It’s just easier to carry my driver’s license and credit cards in my pocket while I’m workin’.” She picked up a huge, lime green animal print bag with enough bling to light an airport runway. She slung it over her right shoulder and motioned him to lead the way. “Back to Bowlie.”

They walked out of her room and down the corridor. “Back to Bowlie,” he seconded. Anything to keep his mind off her breasts jiggling under the lavender knit. He manfully focused on her face instead of a pair of pert nipples all but screaming
look at me.

“Bowlie would go on drinkin’ binges and end up lyin’ on some poor soul’s front lawn, passed out, or goin’ through an episode of PTSD.” She gingerly hitched her purse higher on her shoulder with the back of her injured hand. “Now, some businesses down the road in Brewersville were gettin’ hit by burglars. No one could figure out who was doin’ it.”

“Don’t tell me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed up his face. He put on his best fortune-teller voice. “Bowlie was the culprit.”

“He and his nephew were tag teamin’ the stores.” They stopped by the elevator and Jordan pressed the button to take them down to the lobby. “It seems Bowlie worked for military intelligence during the war. They taught him how to do all sorts of useful things.”

“Like how to crack safes.”

She nodded. “And bypass and disarm security alarms.”

“But nobody suspected Bowlie, because he was nothing but a drunk with no arms.” The doors opened and he led her inside. “Am I on the right track?”

“I’m the one tellin’ the story.” Her eyes twinkled with glee. “It seems in one of his rare moments of sobriety, Bowlie worked out a plan to make some quick money.” She leaned back against the brushed metal chair railing running around the walls of the car. “He did all the legwork. The hooks on his hands could open jars and stuff like that, but turnin’ a dial on a safe turned out to be a bit harder than he thought. So he got his nephew Junior to actually open the safes. Poor kid didn’t have any smarts. He had the mind of the ten-year-old, but he loved Bowlie and was good at takin’ orders. Right down to wearin’ gloves on the job. Anyway, Bowlie listened to the tumblers in the locks while Junior turned the dials. Voila—instant cash. The sheriff’s department didn’t find any fingerprints at any of the burglaries. Everyone thought Bowlie had stepped off the clue train a long time ago, and no one suspected Junior because of his condition.”

“I take it they eventually got caught?” He found himself caught up in the story and enjoying the animation on her face as she told the saga of No Hands Johnson.

“Oh, yes indeedy, they did.”

“So how did they nab Bowlie and Junior?”

“It seems Bowlie had a screw loose.”

“He had PTSD.”

“More than that. The two were doin’ a job over at Calhoun’s Feed Store, when one of the screws in his prosthetic came loose. It fell on the floor near the safe. The sheriff knew he had his man when Bowlie showed up at the hardware store to get a replacement. It wasn’t something poor ol’ Bowlie could get off the shelf. He ended up in prison with a bed and three squares. He was okay with that, and poor Junior didn’t realize he’d done anything wrong. The judge left Junior in his mother’s care.”

“You are making this up.” He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up.

She held up her left hand in an awkward Girl Scout salute. “No, it’s the truth.”

The elevator door to the lobby opened and Jordan led Tilly to the coffee shop. The décor was a complete one-eighty from the very elegant restaurant. Red and chrome tables and chairs sat on the black and white tiled floor. A long counter, harking back to the days of soda jerks, malted milks, and cherry Cokes lined an entire wall. A lone hostess staffed the front. He cleared his throat to divert her attention away from brewing coffee.

“How late do you stay open?”

“Until two a.m. We’re pretty light tonight. Sit anywhere.” The hostess pointed at the nearly empty dining room. “We catch the crowds after the late shows and theater. A few people come in to sober up before they go home.” She flashed them a warm smile. “Your waitress will be with you in a minute.”

Jordan pulled out Tilly’s chair and waited for her to sit. The few minutes he’d spent alone with her in the elevator, doing nothing but talking about the nefarious goings on in Possum Trot, cemented his determination to pursue Tilly. So far he was batting zero. He still had some tried and true moves left. The first order of business was to knock Jericho out of the competition.

Tilly slipped the humongous green bag off her shoulder and let it rest on the floor by her feet like a loyal dog. She pulled a menu from the chrome stand on the table. “I never did get to eat my pie.”

“You were aiming it at my head.” He raised an eyebrow and glared, but he couldn’t help the grin that followed.

“That was your pie.” She gave him a roguish smile. “I’d planned to eat the chocolate cream.”

“We got sidetracked.” The memory of the kiss still sizzled through his veins. He knew she remembered as clearly as he did from the way her eyes skittered back to her menu.

“I’m so wired after gettin’ Tom’s email.”

“I told Detective Jericho that I thought it was spoofed. He’s going to have the CSI techs check it out.” Jordan perused the menu to see if anything caught his eye other than the sweet and tart Tilly. “How’s the hand holding up?”

Tilly set her hand palm up for his inspection. “Except for bein’ a pain when it comes to dressin’ myself, not too bad. Throbs a bit—okay, a lot, but I can deal with that.”

Movement at the front of the coffee shop caught his eye. It was Jericho. Jordan did the one thing he could do to stake his claim. He leaned over and planted a kiss on Tilly’s lips, letting it linger long enough to be sure his rival saw it.

She blinked with surprise. “What was that for?”

He gave her his patented
melt your panties
smile and pitched his voice low and deep for maximum effect. “Because you’re tastier than anything on the menu.” Oh yes, she would cave, and Jericho would be left hanging in the wind.