Virgin in Disguise Read online

  Considering she had Cabrini in custody, in handcuffs, she could probably be charged with kidnapping. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d bent the rules to suit the situation. Still, the idea didn’t sit well. Comfort came from knowing such a charge would never occur to most of the lowlife types she dealt with.

  But then, Frank Cabrini didn’t fit that stereotype. He was nothing like she’d expected. The rough exterior he presented was every bit a disguise, same as her faked accents and wigs.

  His eyes reinforced the perception that he wasn’t what he appeared to be. Clear and steady, his gaze spoke of curiosity and intelligence. He had barely shifted his glance from her since he’d awakened.

  Those damned blue eyes seemed to see into her soul. And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

  She didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit.

  Frank tugged at the handcuff. He could probably work his way free, given enough time and a little ingenuity. Ingenuity he could handle, but the time factor was too big of an unknown. He didn’t like gambling when the odds were stacked against him.

  In the hall, creaking floorboards betrayed the movements of his captor. The murmur of a one-sided conversation leaked through the thin wall. He caught a snatch that sounded a lot like, Do you think he knows something?

  That finished any thoughts of attempting to escape—he wanted to know who the hell had ordered this bounty. He settled into a slightly more comfortable position and turned his attention to his captor.

  First impressions didn’t yield much information. That, in itself, told him something. She was no rookie. She hadn’t let much slip, other than her accent. Even then, she’d run through so many variations, he couldn’t begin to guess what might be normal for her. Lacking that small bit of information prevented his figuring out her background, which could lead to more clues.

  The fact that she had his real name could prove problematic. His assignment necessitated a cover story and false identity to work. He’d have to make sure he didn’t come in contact with anyone connected to his investigation.

  Assuming she wasn’t somehow connected already. With no clues to her employer’s identity, he wouldn’t rule out that possibility.

  He swung his legs off the bed and stood. Waves of dizziness threatened to swamp him, and he hung onto the cool metal headboard, taking slow, deep breaths until his balance returned to normal.

  Other than leaving him with a faint nausea, the drug seemed to have no lingering effect on his system. He stretched his arms and legs and did a couple of cautious squats. Everything seemed to be in working order, limited only by the very short leash of the handcuff around his wrist.

  The door opened. His captor returned, and she was looking none too pleased. When she saw him standing, she pulled her gun from the back of her waistband. She didn’t point it at him, which seemed encouraging. She knew how to handle a gun and didn’t appear to be trigger happy, just cautious.

  “Take your seat, please.”

  Frank complied, sitting to face her, with both feet on the floor and his free hand on his thigh, palm up. His cuffed hand rested on the pillow, also palm up. He had no intention of doing anything that could be misinterpreted as a threatening gesture.

  “What size pants do you wear?”

  The question came from so far out in left field, he didn’t respond immediately. The information was hardly classified, and there seemed to be no reason not to share it. Then again, he couldn’t come up with a logical reason for her query.

  “Mind if I ask why you want to know?”

  “We’re going out of town for a few days, and I figure I better pick up some things to tide you over. You’re going to need clothes. No razor, but shampoo, toothbrush…” She continued, adding items to her list.

  “Out of town” didn’t work for him. Not by a long shot. “It seems like a waste to buy new when we could just go over to my place and pack my own things.” If he could talk her into stopping at his place, he could get his hands on—

  “Nice try, but neither one of us will be going anywhere near your room.”

  Room, not apartment or house. She knew how he lived, if not where.

  He nodded in understanding. She wasn’t going to risk being seen in the rooming house he’d called home for the past two months, with him or without him. “In that case, thirty-four waist, thirty-six inseam. If you’re getting jeans, Levi’s fit best. I prefer my shirts extra large, tall if you can get them. Otherwise, short-sleeved would be easiest.”

  She stared at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

  “I prefer clothes that fit well.” He shrugged, not feeling particularly apologetic.

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” A slow grin pulled up one side of his mouth. “Boxers.”

  Soft color flooded up her neck, darkening her cheeks. Well, well. Now that was interesting.

  “It’s going to take me a little while to gather everything together.” She crossed to the dresser, where a bottle of water and several plastic cups shared space with a battered television with rabbit-ear antennae. She turned on the TV, tuning it to the least static-filled station, and turned the volume to a reasonable level—loud enough to hear, not so loud that any possible neighbors would object.

  “My assistant isn’t available to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. I can’t take any chances right now, so you’re going to have to take another sedative.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You really don’t have the option of whether or not to take it.” She pulled a small dopp kit from the top dresser drawer and opened it. “You can choose how. Either take it orally or I can give you a shot. My recommendation is go for the drink. I’ve never been very good with needles.”

  “In that case, line ’em up, barkeep.” Orally also held the advantage of being able to regurgitate the sedative once she left.

  She emptied two capsules into one of the glasses and filled it with water. So much for plan A. She handed the glass to him then stepped back and waited.

  He eyed the mixture, sizing up the quantity of liquid. He could still do this—pretend to swallow, and once she left, spit it out. His system would probably absorb some of the sedative, but not enough to incapacitate him for long. He raised the glass in a mock salute and drained the contents.

  “Mistah Cabrini, suh?” She was back to the southern accent. “You may as well go ahead and swallow for real. I won’t be leaving until the drug has taken effect.”

  Ah, hell. He was beginning to hate that southern-belle act. He swallowed.

  “Thank you. Now, why don’t you rest your weary head on that pillow and get comfortable. It won’t take but a few minutes for you to drift off.”

  He stretched out on the mattress, tempted to fight the lethargy already beginning to weigh down his limbs, but knowing it would be futile. He folded both hands beneath his head, crossed his ankles and glared at her until he faded into oblivion.

  Chapter 2

  Angel tossed the bull’s-eye-spotted bags in the trunk of her car, glad to have that portion of her list out of the way. The credit gods had been merciful—most of the items she needed were on sale. Better still, these particular charges wouldn’t come due until well after she’d received payment for this job.

  The car rattled as she slammed the trunk shut, and she gave the dented fender an affectionate pat as she rounded to the driver’s door. Old Rusty’s body had seen better days, but it served its purpose. Few would guess the dilapidated red shell hid a chassis-and-engine combo that could outrun just about anything on the road. The engine purred to life, and she pulled out of the parking lot.

  It didn’t take long to reach her last stop, even with a detour through the drive-up ATM. The modest rambler, shaded by several old oak trees, sat back from the quiet street. Traffic cruising past Cedar Lake seldom came down these twisting streets, providing the illusion of seclusion in the middle of Minneapolis.

  “Grampa Fred,” head of the Neighborhood Watch and honorary
grandfather to every kid in a four-block radius, waved as she drove by his corner house. He provided the illusion of continuity and security.

  The garage door opened with the touch of a button, and she backed into her space with practiced ease. She slipped through the connecting door into the kitchen and down the stairs to her basement office.

  Shedding the wig and contact lenses, she transformed to her “normal” blue-eyed, sorta blond self before heading back to the kitchen. She crunched on baby carrots from the refrigerator as she sifted through the mail. Bills, junk mail, a couple of bank statements.

  Not for the first time, she considered consolidating the money into one bank. But the mostly inactive savings account, inherited from her father, provided some emotional touchstone for her mother. That alone made the few extra pieces of paper a minor inconvenience.

  “I thought I heard you come in.” Corie Anderson, her mother’s companion and caretaker, came around the corner from the dining room.

  Angel turned and smiled. “Hi, Corie. How is she today?”

  “Today was mostly a good day.”

  “Mostly?”

  “She spent much of her time reading a book.” Corie crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a diet pop. “We watched a movie. Then Mr. Dexter stopped by. He left an envelope for you—it’s on the front hall table.”

  “Did he visit with Mom?”

  Corie nodded, but a frown shadowed her face.

  “What?” Angel prompted.

  “She’s just been very moody lately. Mostly sad.”

  Angel looked out the window over the sink. The grass needed mowing again. Already. Had it been a week? Probably longer. She shook her head and pulled back from the momentary escape. “I have to go out of town for a few days. As soon as I finish packing, I’ll come in and see if I can get her to talk some.”

  “I wonder if it’s her medication.”

  “You think she’s having a bad reaction?”

  “It’s not that so much as I don’t think this new stuff is as effective as the original prescription.”

  “Dr. Brenna said it would take some time to transition, and for the new meds to reach optimum levels.” She pulled a bottle of spring water from the refrigerator. “Until then, we’re bound to see some symptoms of the depression and paranoia.”

  Corie nodded. “I guess that makes sense. But I keep wondering if maybe you should get a second opinion? I know of another doctor….”

  Angel sighed. “I don’t know. Between Dr. Sanders all of a sudden disappearing without a word, Mom’s files getting lost, finding a new doctor and now this new prescription…it’s been a lot of change. At least she seems to like Dr. Brenna.”

  She exchanged a look with Corie. Her mother’s moods had taken a marked downturn nearly two months ago. The change had been difficult for all of them.

  Angel held the cool water bottle to her chest, wishing it would soothe the ache building there. She wanted her father, wanted their little family whole. Except some bail jumper— She shook off that line of thought.

  “Tell her I’ll be in in just a few minutes. It won’t take me long to pack.”

  “Sure.”

  Angel turned back to the window. “The lawn needs mowing. You better call a service and get it done. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You pay me enough to do more than sit around all day.”

  Angel smiled. Since joining their little household two years ago, Corie had become indispensable. “Don’t sell yourself short. Having you is a godsend. I don’t know how we managed without you.”

  “Then we saved each other.” Corie gave her a quick hug. “If you hadn’t exposed my ex for the rat he was, I’d probably be dead now. The best thing I got out of that disastrous marriage was this job.”

  “Thank Dex for that. He came up with the idea. All I did was make the offer.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the offer is all that counts. I’ll tell Maryam you’re home.”

  Angel watched the seconds tick off as she drained her bottle of water. Precious time—time spent away from Mom—chasing shadows and ghosts that might not even exist anymore.

  The chase was essential, and lately it seemed like she was actually making some headway. She was closer now than she’d ever been to tracking down the arsonist who’d killed her father. If she could keep at it a little longer, she’d succeed. She knew it in her bones.

  Then, maybe, she’d capture the person she most needed to find—her mother.

  Dropping the empty bottle into the recycling bin, she headed back to the basement. Ten minutes and a change of clothes later, she stowed a small suitcase filled with a range of wardrobe options in Rusty’s trunk, along with a gym bag now filled with the clothes and supplies she’d picked up for Cabrini. Another five minutes, and she had her overnight bag packed and sitting by the back door, ready for her departure.

  She pulled a pint of Godiva chocolate ice cream from the freezer, grabbed a couple of spoons and headed for the living room.

  The afternoon sun wrapped the butter-yellow room in a golden glow. At the center, her mother, dressed in tan slacks and a pale green cotton sweater, sat next to a side table piled with books.

  “Hi, Mom.” Angel flopped down next to her on the chocolate leather couch and handed her a spoon. “Time for dessert.”

  “We haven’t eaten dinner yet.” Her mother’s voice held a curious mix of amusement and sadness.

  “There’s always time for chocolate. You two can do the healthy dinner thing later.”

  “What about you?” Her mother looked at her with sad, gray eyes.

  There had been a time, when Angel was very small, that her mother had laughed all the time. The memories acted as a beacon, reminding Angel of what life could be, would be, someday. If she found her father’s killer, her mother could heal and maybe even be happy again.

  Angel dug her spoon into the ice cream. “I have to go out of town for a few days. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’ve got my cell phone so you can call me anytime.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Mom. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “When you get back, we should talk.”

  Angel shot a quick glance at Corie. Corie shrugged and shook her head. “Talk about what?”

  Maryam shook her head.

  “Do you like your new doctor? Is that what you want to discuss?” Angel tried another tack.

  Again, Maryam shook her head, this time casting a furtive glance at her companion.

  “Would you prefer to go back to the old medication?”

  “No.” She picked at the crease of her twill pant leg. “That stuff made me feel…fuzzy, like I’m looking at the world through a big wad of cotton gauze.”

  “So, the new stuff is better?”

  “Better? Yes, but it’s still not right. Nothing is right. Nothing’s been right since…” She stabbed her spoon into the ice cream.

  “I know it was hard to lose Dr. Sanders after all these years. If you don’t like Dr. Brenna, we can see about someone else.”

  “I never trusted that man.” Maryam half muttered.

  “Who? Dr. Sanders?”

  Maryam looked her in the eyes. “It’ll be better soon.” She smoothed Angel’s spiky blond hair away from her face, her hand lingering on her cheek. “You have such beautiful blue eyes. I see your father looking at me every time I look in your eyes.”

  Tears, hot and unexpected, burned the back of Angel’s throat. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to curl into her mother’s arms like she was a little girl again. Their roles had reversed too many years ago to go back. Now she needed to be the strong one. The sane one.

  Her mother tugged at the short blond hair again. “I wish you’d stop bleaching your hair. And this cut—it’s so short and punk. You’d look nice with something more feminine, something like a chin-length bob.”

  “You know I’m too lazy to spend that
much time on my hair.” Besides which, short hair fit beneath a wig much better than long hair. Changing identities was easier when she didn’t have to worry about her own hair peeking out.

  “Where are you going this time?” Her mother switched topics with her usual randomness. Years of practice made it easy for Angel to follow.

  “Just up north. I have to take a…friend to a cabin for a little vacation.”

  “Is that why Marvin came?” Maryam jabbed her spoon into the ice cream again.

  “Yes. He asked me to check on his place, since I’m going to be so close.”

  “I don’t think I trust him very much, either.”

  “Mom, how can you say that? Dex has been a rock for us. Not many men would take on their partner’s family as their own.”

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Maryam picked up one of the paperbacks in the pile next to her. “I thought this one would be funny. The cover looked funny. But the story was sad.”

  Angel’s head fell back to rest on the couch cushion behind her. Every time they came close to a serious discussion that lasted longer than a few sentences, Maryam drifted off onto another topic.

  The antique mantel clock struck the hour and Angel jerked upright. “I need to get going. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Be careful, sweetie. I need you to come back.”

  “I know, Mom. I will.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss to her mother’s soft cheek. “I love you.”

  Her mother kissed her in turn. “You take such good care of me.”

  They hugged and Angel stood to leave. Her mother clung to her hand. “You need to stop the bad men.” Her voice sounded so fragile and lost.

  Angel nodded. “That’s what I do, Mom. Stop the bad men.” But she hadn’t found the one bad man who counted—her father’s murderer. She spun on her heel and fled the room before the tears returned. On the way out, she grabbed the key and envelope Dex had left for her.

  “Mister, wake up.”