Against the Night
Authors: Kat Martin
He knows what goes on in the dark.
She’s got the face of an angel and the body of…well, isn’t that what he’d expect from an exotic dancer? But there’s something about this girl that Johnnie Riggs can’t shake. The former army ranger is hot on the trail of an elusive drug lord—and suddenly very hot under the collar, as well.
Amy’s got her own agenda to pursue: her sister is missing and Amy seems to be the only one who cares. She’ll enlist Johnnie’s help and do her best to ignore her growing attraction to finally get some answers. But when the two trails begin to converge and reveal something even more sinister than they imagined, their mutual desire is the least of their problems. They’ll bring the truth to light…or die trying.
Praise for Kat Martin’s
The Raines of Wind Canyon series
Against the Wind
“This is a ‘don’t miss’ read.…
Kat Martin is a very gifted writer who takes you
from the beginning to the end in total suspense.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Kat Martin has delivered yet another rockin’
romantic suspense. Stockpiled with suspense and passion,
Against the Wind
kept me reading, dying to find out the truth…I can’t recommend [it] highly enough!”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Martin brings us a rugged hero, a strong-willed heroine and a story filled with romance, grit, tension and suspense…Martin definitely delivers.”
—RT Book Reviews
Against the Fire
“There’s something irresistible about a bad boy.… There’s lots of sizzle and burn…this sexy page-turner
is a perfect blend of romance, mystery and action.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A fascinating page-turner, one you won’t want to miss.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“I simply loved this book. I didn’t want to put it down.”
—
Suspense Romance Writers
Against the Law
“Once you start
Against the Law,
be prepared not to stop until you’ve reached the end…. This is one I highly recommend.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“4½ quills! Ms. Martin has struck the motherlode….”
—Romantic Crush Junkies
Also by Kat Martin
SEASON OF STRANGERS
THE SUMMIT
SCENT OF ROSES
The Raines of Wind Canyon
AGAINST THE STORM
AGAINST THE LAW
AGAINST THE FIRE
AGAINST THE WIND
The Bride Trilogy
RULE’S BRIDE
REESE’S BRIDE
ROYAL’S BRIDE
The Heart Trilogy
HEART OF COURAGE
HEART OF FIRE
HEART OF HONOR
The Necklace Trilogy
THE HANDMAIDEN’S NECKLACE
THE DEVIL’S NECKLACE
THE BRIDE’S NECKLACE
And don’t miss the next book
in The Raines of Wind Canyon series,
AGAINST THE SUN
AGAINST THE NIGHT
KAT
MARTIN
Table of Contents
To all my Rock Creek pals. You guys are the best! Thanks for the fun times!
One
Johnnie Riggs was a night owl. Tonight he sat at a table at the Kitty Cat Club on Sunset Boulevard, watching a little blonde pole dancer with the hottest body he’d ever seen and trying like hell not to get an erection.
He reached for the Bud Light sitting in front of him, took a swallow and set the barely touched bottle back down on the table. He wasn’t there to get drunk. He wasn’t there to get turned on by some sexy little piece of fluff.
He was there to make a collar and a nice chunk of change.
A former Army Ranger with a P.I.’s license, Johnnie spent most of his time in the bars and clubs of Los Angeles, digging up information for clients who could afford his fees. And the occasional recovery job, if the money was high enough.
He glanced around the club, one of the better run strip joints in the area, a place an out-of-town businessman could go for a little harmless fun and not feel like he was about to get mugged when he walked outside to catch a cab.
Johnnie knew the owner, a guy named Tate Watters, a reasonable sort who ran a clean operation. Tate knew Johnnie was there to collect a skip, but Tate was a stand-up guy who did his best to stay on the right side of the law, and having a pervert around—Johnnie’s target—wasn’t good for business.
It was dark inside the club except for the neon beer signs behind the bar and the soft glow of lights over gilt-framed photos of nineteen-fifties strippers that hung on the walls. A row of colored spotlights lit the woman performing onstage.
The place smelled like stale beer and cheap perfume, and rock music hid the sound of clinking bar glasses and the heavy breathing of the men. Customers sat in the darkness at small round tables sipping whiskey or beer, staring toward the entertainment with big smiles on their faces.
Johnnie didn’t blame them. He’d be wearing a big smile, too, along with a raging hard-on if he wasn’t there on business.
He watched the woman on the stage. She was twenty-five or -six, a pretty little exotic dancer wearing nothing but red sequined pasties and a matching G-string. She wasn’t just petite, she was dainty, little more than five feet tall, with the shiniest, straightest, long blond hair he’d ever seen. Short bangs fluttered across her forehead above a pair of blue eyes that made him shift in his seat against his growing arousal, and muttering a curse between his teeth.
The music played, the beat steady, loud and erotic. She raised a red spike heel, wrapped her calf around the pole and slid up, then sank back down, rubbing the pole between her pale, perfectly proportioned legs. He felt a tug in his gut so strong he had to shove back his chair and get up from the table. Grabbing his beer bottle, he walked to the back of the club where he could survey the room and put a little more distance between him and the scrumptious piece of ass on the stage.
He scanned the patrons, keeping a careful watch for his target.
Earlier in the week, he’d gotten a call from his Ranger buddy in Houston. Trace Rawlins owned a security firm with branches in Houston and Dallas. In the years since they’d left the army, they had worked together a dozen times, most recently on an abduction case that had led them into Mexico.
According to Trace, a guy named Ray Carroll had jumped bail and was on the run. Rumor was he had friends in L.A. and odds were good that was where he had gone to ground. Good ol’ Ray had been arrested for possession and trafficking in child pornography—the lowest of the low as far as Johnnie was concerned. He would have taken the guy down for free if he’d had to, which fortunately he didn’t.
The case was interesting because Ray was the grandson of the late Texas oil billionaire, C. P. Carroll. C.P.’s widow was filthy rich and she doted on her grandson, which, with that kind of money at his disposal, made Ray a flight risk. His bail had been set at a half-million dollars, which his grandmother had posted.
But Ray had taken off for parts unknown, leaving grandma on the hook for a boatload of money if her boy wasn’t caught and brought back to appear in court. For ten percent of the bail fee, a cool fifty thou less a referral fee to Trace, Johnnie had agreed to find him. Surprisingly, once he’d started digging, narrowing his search hadn’t been all that hard.
Since leopards didn’t change their spots and jackals like Ray were fairly predictable, it didn’t take long to find out that Carroll hung out in the local strip clubs.
The Kitty Cat was his favorite. According to the bartender who ID’d the photo Johnnie had shown him, a guy calling himself Ray Conners had been in the club both Wednesday and Thursday nights. Johnnie had come in on Friday and again tonight but so far hadn’t seen any sign of him. Not until now.
The black padded vinyl front door swung open, letting a thin slice of street noise into the club. Recalling the photo, Johnnie recognized Ray Carroll as he ambled over to the bar. He was an average-looking forty-year-old, with thinning brown hair and the kind of greasy smile you’d expect to see on a creep like him. He sat down on one of the black vinyl bar stools, and the bartender, a tall, spare, good-looking Hispanic guy named Dante, flashed Johnnie a heads-up glance before taking Ray’s drink order, a double Grey Goose martini on the rocks.
A cocktail waitress walked past. The girls who performed also served drinks, though for that they wore a few more clothes. This one, a brunette, was tall and svelte, dressed in a little blue satin two-piece number, the bottom cut high on the sides, a built-in push-up bra shoving her heavy cleavage nearly over the top. Not indecent, but definitely less than the old bunny outfits they wore at the Playboy Club.
Johnnie sipped his beer, his attention fixed on Ray, who stared with fascination toward the stage. The dancer, Angel Fontaine, being not much bigger than a kid, was Ray’s favorite according to Dante. He watched as she dipped and swayed to the music, the red sequins on her nipples flashing in the spotlight, the light changing color to the rhythm of the music.
Johnnie tried to look away, but found himself as mesmerized as the drunks at the tables. Like the rest of her body, her breasts were perfectly formed, not too large, not too small and tilted provocatively upward.
Her face wasn’t perfect, he had finally gotten around to noticing. Her mouth was a little too wide, making her pouty lips a little too pronounced. Her cheeks were as flawless as rose petals but her chin was a little too pointy.
She was the sexiest woman Johnnie had ever seen.
She turned, thrust her pale, luscious ass into the air and wiggled it suggestively, and his groin tightened. If he didn’t make his move soon, he wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone make a collar.
Ray came off his stool just then and started toward the stage. Johnnie noticed the folded dollar bills in one hand as he approached the little blonde.
Another man beat Ray to her, leaning over and stuffing a ten-dollar bill into Angel’s sequined G-string, the scrap of red barely covering the spot every guy in the place dreamed of touching. Angel whirled away from him and smiled, mouthing a thank-you. When she turned her back, raised her arms above her head and began swaying to the hard rock beat, another man stuffed a bill into the glittering strip of red around her waist above that sweet little ass.
