BILLIONAIRE ANGEL (Point St. Claire, where true love finds a way) (2 page)

Even if that piece was worthless, Billy would still fight tooth and nail to get it back. She wanted to put a name to the creep behind the theft. After ten long years, she still needed him caught and punished.

Now, some club-owning Hollywood lookalike, who obviously knew nothing about ‘sucking it up’, thought she ought to walk away?

Crossing her arms, Billy spoke over the knot in her throat. “I won’t turn my back on this.”

He pushed out a weary sigh. “You’re asking for trouble.”

“Says who?”

“Says my years as a private investigator.”

Okay. He’d lost her. “You’re not a P.I.”

“I am. Or
was
.” He crossed over. Tall as well as built...in her flats, he towered above her. “Look, you seem like a nice girl.”

Again
. “I am
not
a girl.”

“You have no experience in crime investigation.”

“I found that first clue, didn’t I?”

“And look where it got you.”

“Here, talking with a P.I.”

“
Retired
.”

She was shaking, inside as well as out. Why wouldn’t anyone take her seriously? Why would no one help? This guy had gotten her hopes up, held out a branch then whipped it away before she’d had a chance to grab a hold.

Billy screwed her eyes shut. Muttered under her breath.

Somehow, somewhere, she’d find a way. For now, she needed to get herself together, cool down and put Jax Angel, and his snake, out of her head for good.

At first Jax had thought today’s intruder was a school boy on a dare. Then Belinda Slade had revealed a fall of bouncy brunette hair and what she’d had trapped under her vest. As she’d explained her story, big green eyes had pleaded, and damned if he hadn’t wanted to buckle. She was a mix of vulnerable and feisty―naivety as well as grit―in ways that Jax found hard to ignore.

But he’d been firm. He wouldn’t get involved. His life of helping others track down clues and find answers to tough questions was past history. That’s where the past, and its mistakes, needed to stay.

After escorting Ms. Slade out the back door, Jax headed for the admin area, through the club’s oak-trimmed main lounge. Patrons were discussing business or sports over coffee. Others were ambling toward the gym for a mid-morning workout, or the tennis courts for a hit. A few staff, however, followed Jax with curious eyes. Word of a security breach had gotten out.

The on-duty manager strode over. His ginger hair was spiked, and not in a stylish way. Rodney Long was known for having eyes in the back of his head. Nothing got past him. Jax guessed Rodney had seen him show a headstrong Belinda Slade the way out a moment ago.

“That waiter was a
woman
? I thought it was a kid.” Rodney fell into step alongside the boss. “She was hovering around, trying to blend in. Then I called her over and―
poof!
―she vanished. Tell me she didn’t end up in your office.”

“We, er,
met
in the locker room.”

Rodney shovelled a hand through his hair, generating a new highway of spikes. “I’ll call the authorities—”

“Don’t call anyone.” Jax stopped to grip his manager’s jacketed shoulder. “No harm done. Just up security at the doors.”

“Any idea what she wanted?”

Jax hesitated before walking again. “No clue.”

The M Lodge was known not only for its exceptional dining in a city of amazing restaurants, but also for its strict privacy policy. He didn’t want to think about the lawsuit if Garfield ever got wind that some crazy had come to within a whisker of harassing him here.

Rodney bowed off while Jax continued on to his office, loosening his tie more the nearer he got. Most of his life, he’d been ‘jeans and leather’ all the way. Rough and tumble investigative work was no place for business suits. But a person’s life could turn on a dime. Loss of friends. Loss of favor.

Loss of faith.

Jax took a seat behind his polished oak desk. Collecting a pen, he pulled a document over—a profit and loss sheet that needed sorting. But soon, figures seemed to bleed into each other. Like wearing neckties, crunching numbers had never floated his boat.

When his focus edged toward a window, Jax imagined the view from the second story of his place in Newforth Cove. In his mind, he heard wheeling seagulls cry overhead…imagined the breathtaking blue of the channel and lap of water on the shore. A couple of years back, the rundown turn-of-the-century shingle style house had caught his eye. He’d even organized an inspection. Back then, buying that place and then bringing the fireplaces, wood floors and hundreds of hand-crafted details back to life would’ve taken a bankroll he could only dream of.

Around the same time, a former client had passed away; the obscenely wealthy bachelor had needed help finding a long lost child, his only living family. While the grown son had been left the vast majority of his newly found father’s estate, Jax was stunned at the extent of that client’s gratitude for a job well done. He’d left Jax a vast amount of cash, more than enough to spruce up a hundred dilapidated houses.

He was also bequeathed The M Lodge. Jax didn’t know exactly why, except maybe that he’d joked a couple times about how cool it would be to own such a beautiful old place. But he’d already had a life, a career. And he knew zip about running a gentleman’s club.

Then tragedy had struck. Jax had shut the doors on his P.I. firm and, by default, had taken a chair at the helm here.

Now he could never go back to that other life, even if the idea grated on him constantly.

His gaze dropped to his desk’s bottom drawer. Giving in, he eased it open.

The replica pistol was lighter than the real deal, but when Jax clutched the handle, the grip felt familiar. Felt like home. An optical sensor was fixed to the replica’s barrel. An accompanying electronic target hung on the far wall. Whenever he squeezed off a shot, it showed up on a display screen. Easy.

Safe.

Getting to his feet, Jax took up position. When he raised the piece and closed one eye, years of training and instinct spiralled into focus. His heart pumped slower at the same time all his senses seemed to glow. His mind cleared of anything other than making the first shot count. In the real world, if you missed, people could die.

One night two years ago, someone he cared about had.

A knock on the door hauled him back. Feeling sweat cool on his brow, Jax called out, “Come in.” Public Relations Manager, Margo Quinn, and her killer heels, entered the room.

“I saw you goose-stepping a woman in pants out the back door,” Margo said, crossing over in a peach-colored power suit that fit almost too well. “Trouble in paradise?” 

“A minor hiccup.”

“Who was she? An over-zealous admirer?”

At the thought of Belinda Slade’s predicament and her plea, Jax winced but then set his jaw. “I’d sooner forget it.” He took aim, squeezed off a shot then assessed the nearby display screen—

And frowned.

He’d missed the bull’s eye?

No. He’d missed the target, like,
altogether
.

Frowning, he studied the replica while Margo took her usual seat opposite his desk while he aimed, squeezed again.
Missed
again.

What the―?

“Jax?”

He refocused. Had Margo asked him something? “Sorry. What was that?”

“This club’s been under your management coming up two years now.”

“Anniversary’s next month,” he said absently, studying the target again. He hadn’t paid a visit to the range in ages, still…was he really
that
rusty? That ‘retired’?

“How do you want to celebrate?” Margo asked.

The anniversary? Um, “How does free drinks and entertainment ‘til twelve sound? Throw in a worthwhile door prize. A weekend at a luxury resort maybe.”

“I was thinking more diverse. How about inviting wives and girlfriends in for the evening? Make it a party with partners.”

“The Lodge is men only, remember?”

“Aside from some staff,” Margo pointed out.

And some amateur intruders
, he thought.

He lifted the replica, took aim. Margo’s next question broke his concentration again.

“Jax, can I ask you something?”

He lowered the gun and sent over an encouraging smile that might have been a little tight. “Shoot.”

“Do you enjoy running this place?”

“Why?”

She eyed the fake firearm as if to say,
You need to ask?

He twirled the trigger around a finger, Old West style. “You know this is something I do to unwind, like some people throw darts. Play poker.” Heading over, he grinned knowingly. “Do crosswords.”

“Difference is I have never solved puzzles for a living. It’s not, you know…a part of me.”

He dropped the replica back in the drawer. “I don’t want my former life back, if that’s what you mean.” Casing sleazy haunts. Catching cheating spouses. Putting people’s lives at risk.

He shut the drawer firmly. “That’s all in the past.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to rake up bad memories.” Margo knew about, what had become known as, ‘the incident’. Hell, the whole of Maine knew. “It’s just, sometimes…” Biting her lip, she pushed to her feet, tried to smile. “Forget I spoke.”

Margo was prudent.
Mindful
...unlike Belinda Slade who, it seemed, rushed in where angels might fear to tread.

He felt for her, but when he’d shown Belinda the door, he’d warned her not to come back. It sucked when justice wasn’t served. Made a man want to take the law into his own hands.

Take it, and ring it by the neck.

Still, he hoped she left well enough alone. No one wanted to tick off an ex judge like Garfield, including the Portland police department it would seem. And, seriously, the chances of reclaiming that ruby ring were close to zip. She ought to concentrate on the here and now.

Jax eyed the figures waiting on his desk and dragged in his chair.

“We’ll talk about the anniversary invitations another time,” Margo said, heading for the door. “Why don’t you have the rest of the day off? I’ll take care of things here.”

“I have work to do.”

“Bet you’d rather be working on your renovations.” Margo had seen some early images when he’d first moved in. “Huge job. I don’t know why you don’t bite the bullet and get some professionals in.”

He grinned. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

She stopped by the door. “You’ll have to invite me around sometime to check it out.”

Everything about Margo was pristine. Never a hair, or word, or intention, out of place. “Can’t picture you as a fan of sawdust and half-repaired bathrooms.”

As she headed out, he heard her faint reply.

“You’d be surprised at what I like.”

But you said you’d help.

A couple of questions is all.

Monday was Jax’s day off. Renovation time. Best part of the week.

But, try as he might, he couldn’t shake off memories of his conversation with Belinda Slade. The passion in her eyes. The determination in her voice.

Unfortunately, the way she was headed, Belinda would get nowhere with
the case of the missing heirloom ring.
She was on the back foot as far as experience was concerned. There were steps to take when conducting an investigation.

As well as steps to avoid.

After his third cup of coffee (
a man could never have too much good caffeine
), Jax gave in and made a call. While he waited for that contact to phone back, he dived into his latest renovation project, an idea that promised a truly personal touch.

The previous week he’d plotted out a pattern for a stained glass sign. Each segment was coded and numbered then cut to be used as a stencil. Now, he placed a stencil on some glass then carefully scored around the outline. Using a special pair of pliers, he applied just enough pressure at one end, then the other, and snapped the glass pattern out.

One down. A hundred or so to go. It’d be worth the effort. He couldn’t wait to see this sign, and its message, fixed above the front door.

When his phone rang, Jax’s whipped off his protective glasses and took the call.

“Got the info you’re after,” Tim Fielding from the Portland Police Department said down the line. “It’ll cost you a beer.”

“I’ll throw in a steak, too. Whatcha got?”

“Your contact’s right on the money. That particular robbery was reported in Point. St. Claire ten years ago this month. A ring matching your description was the only item lifted.”

“Ruby and pearls surrounded by gold wings.”

“Sounds like something my wife would go mad for. I’d just have to rob a bank to afford it.”

Two years ago, Jax would’ve shared the sentiment. These days, money wasn’t an issue. Keeping a lid on bad memories and guilt were the weights that held him down.

“Name of the complainant?” Jax asked.

“Last name Slade. Oldest of a pair of sisters. She was visibly shaken, but the detective didn’t discount an insurance job.”

“For how much?”

“Doesn’t say.”

The money was paid out, Jax thought. So, either way, the insurance company must’ve bought the story.

“No signs of forced entry, by the way,” Tim went on. “Doesn’t mean a lock wasn’t picked or window jimmied.”

Jax heard a creak as Tim Fielding leaned back in the chair his butt had been close friends with for fifteen years.

“So, buddy,” Tim went on, “sounds like you’ve got itchy feet. You thinking about getting back in the game?” He paused, lowered his voice. “What happened a couple of years back...that was a tough break. Real tough. But you can’t go on blaming yourself. That kind of stuff can destroy you—”

“I’m just making inquiries for a friend,” Jax cut in. Good intentioned or not, he didn’t need reminding. “Suspects questioned?”

“The girl’s boyfriend. Some neighbors. A couple of friends. A David Green, Dean McPherson—”

“
Whoa
. Hold up.” Jax’s pulse rate had spiked to the red zone. “Did you say Green?”

Silence echoed down the line.

“Jax, buddy...Green is a real common name.”

Jax shuddered, nodded. Knee-jerk reaction. Of course, there were thousands in every State, the vast majority of them law abiding citizens.

Jax willed the heat from his chest, from his throat, and got back on track.

“Anything else?”

“There’s a note here about the youngest Slade, Belinda Joy. She needed to be sedated, she was so upset. Kept going on about her mother who’d recently passed away, how she’d let her down, would never forgive herself. A subsequent investigation looked into whether Belinda should be placed under care in the system. It questioned whether her older sister was providing a stable environment.” Tim groaned. “Poor kids. No father around, either. But looks like the town got behind them both. Lots of support poured in.”

“Any names?” Sometimes perpetrators liked to get extra close to the scene after the crime, even offer assistance.

“Judson Bartholomew Everett pops up a few of times,” Tim said, “and during both investigations―the theft
and
child services.”

So, from a police report perspective, Belinda Slade’s story checked out. People of interest had been interviewed. And now...

Well, Jax wanted to know more. Not because of any unlikely Green connection. Just because it had piqued his interest.

Because Billy Slade―then and now―could use a little help.

*

As soon as Billy got back from doing Millers Bakery’s books, she jumped into rehearsing for a part she was
so
excited about. Billy had met a Hollywood director at a recent homecoming celebration for her friend Helene Masters and her new husband, a prince from a Mediterranean kingdom, no less. The director was putting together a new series and looking for an actress to play the part of a brilliant, but borderline, ballerina. He’d agreed to audition Billy when he was back in these parts. They’d made a date for one week from today.

But now, as Billy glanced out of her living room window, she noticed a shiny luxury sedan parked on the other side of the street. The laidback driver wore shades and an impassive face. Only his mouth was moving while a set of fingers tapped on the steering wheel, along to a song, Billy presumed.

Some wealthy folk had made Point St. Claire their home. The town’s beloved Dr. Damon Knight for one, although last Christmas the doc had planned to leave the Point for good. Then there was Dex Creed, a drop-dead-gorgeous billionaire who’d come to the Point for a wedding and had decided to stay. There’d even been a dot com magnate who had holed up in the Point’s lighthouse for a time, but Jack Mason and a pretty photographer had disappeared last October. Halloween Eve, to be exact.

The man parked outside Billy’s place now, however, was new. And she was certain. He was here to see
her
.

Billy dashed outside, jogged across the street. As she knocked on the driver’s side window, Jax Angel turned down the music, dragged the aviator sunglasses to the tip of his aquiline nose and sent over a lazy smile. After the window whirred down, Billy laid her forearms on the ledge. Bending at the hips in her tutu, she rested her chin on stacked fists.

“Am I under surveillance, Mr. Angel?” she teased.

“Why? Have you done something wrong, Ms. Slade?”

Jax had made himself clear: he wanted nothing to do with the search for her stolen ruby ring. In his ‘professional’ opinion, she was asking for trouble. But he
had
been curious that day at The M Lodge.

Curious enough to have tracked down her address and show up now unannounced.

“You’ve changed your mind, right?” she asked. “You want to help.”

“Some basic stuff. That’s it.”

Billy could have kissed him. Kissed him
hard
. And not purely out of gratitude. He looked at home in the sleek lines of this vehicle. He was born to wear the exclusive gold watch circling the olive tones of his wrist. But rather than a towel or crisp business attire, this morning he wore yummy blue jeans and a casual button down shirt that announced
day off
.

And he’d chosen to spend it with her.

Billy rubbed her hands together. “When do we start?”

“Ground rules first. From now on, you speak to no one about this case,” he said, “unless, or until, I okay it. Not police, or insurance companies. Particularly no contact with Garfield. That’s a deal breaker. Check?”

“Check.”

“And no flapping your gums around friends.”

“But I have a couple of really good—”

“
No
. Now say it.”

“I won’t tell my friends what we’re doing.” She lowered her voice. “What
are
we doing exactly?”

“Digging around a little.”

She sighed. “You and me. A team. Like Holmes and Watson. Like Bones and Booth.”

When she presented her hand for a fist bump, he hesitated and then gave her knuckles a light knock.

But his body language...the ghost of a crooked smile... She could tell.

Jax Angel was psyched, too.

“Anyone ever mention that you’re a darker version of Ryan Gosling?”

Entering Billy’s home, Jax cocked a brow. “Uh, all the time.”

“I can see you playing a hard-nosed detective, a toothpick hanging between your teeth while you interview some mysterious femme fatale.”

Assuming the role, she hitched a shoulder up under her chin and sent over a seductive pout.

His own lips twitched. “Needs work.”

“We have time. After we’ve cracked this case, you might even want to keep me around.”

Belinda Slade was super keen and inexperienced and more off-limits attractive than she probably knew. But he never mixed business with pleasure. Or not any more. This relationship was, and would remain, plutonic. When lines got blurred, things got messy.

Got dangerous.

Belinda Slade’s place sat on a quiet tree-lined street in Point St. Claire. Inside was small, neat and, given her vocation as an actress, partly predictable. Overlapping movie posters littered the walls. Several stacks of DVDs towered beside an LCD. Then there was the tutu she was wearing and the dance pole stuck in one corner of the living room.

Don’t ask
.

An old-fashioned desk crouched against the far wall. The timber was dark with an old-world smell about it. In another time, it might have taken pride of place in some big banker’s office. Reminded him a little of the one he’d left behind at his old job, not that he’d ever used it much.

Now Belinda leaned back against the desk’s ledge, scrutinizing him, the pink tutu sticking out around the hips of her low-waist skinny jeans. Cute. Enticing. All the more reason to tell her again.

He wasn’t going to ‘keep her around’.

“This is a one-time only thing,” he explained. “Strictly short-term.”

Her brows knitted. “Why?”

“Because I have a full-time commitment at the club and—”

“I mean why’d you give away your P.I. work?”

That took him aback and he frowned like he meant it because he did. “I ask the questions, remember?”

“Sorry. Except…I’ve known you five minutes, and it blazes out like a neon sign. You are so suited to this Sam Spade stuff.”

He understood her need to know more, to burrow deeper. He’d known that same drive all his life. These past years, he’d wondered where he’d be now if he’d directed his curiosity toward science or inventing some must-have device, like an app to predict heart attacks or a stock market crash. Something that saved lives rather than―

Jax don’t go there.

In the kitchen, he accepted a full steaming cup and wandered over to straighten a listing photo frame hung on the wall. Decked out in a costume, the girl in the picture was accepting a bunch of flowers on stage. Brunette hair cascaded around slender shoulders all the way past her waist. She was at least a head shorter than the rest of the kids. The smile was bright and just as infectious as it was today.

Lifting his cup, he took a sip. And another.
Whoa
. This coffee was good.

“End of year drama performance,” she explained, pouring herself a cup. “Heard of Shakespeare?”

“To be or not to be.”

She grinned. “Needs work.” After adding in an inch of cream, she joined him. “We performed
Twelfth Night.
I played a female who dresses up as a male.”

He studied the photo again. “So, the habit goes back a ways.”

When she didn’t answer, he glanced across—looked harder. Was that remorse glistening in her eyes?

“Last week, guess I lost my head a little. After that police sergeant brushed me off, I didn’t know where to turn next. Sorry I broke into your club.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe you’re only sorry you got caught.”

“Are you sorry you caught me?”

Any answer stuck in his throat because suddenly she was standing too close. A few inches more and her chest would be brushing his shirt. Her floral scent was playing tricks with his oxygen levels, too. And her lips looked almost too plump, in a completely natural, annoyingly kissable way.

Clenching his jaw, Jax moved to the counter.

Business, Angel. Not pleasure.

“Ten years ago, before or after the break-in here,” he said, “did anyone ask a lot of questions, hang around, act in a suspicious manner?”

“That dialogue is so
authentic
,” she murmured, like she was filing it away for future reference. Then, focusing, she followed him across to the counter. “Back then, the police asked that same question. There’s nothing I remember.”