High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

Tony had suspected her from the beginning, but hadn’t taken his own advice to always follow his gut. And now Sylvie was in danger.

“No one took Ivy,” Tony told Cam. “She’s the damn stalker.” He slid his hands free of the wraps and sprinted to the locker room, phone still glued to his ear. “Please, Cam. Tell me you’re with Sylvie now.”

“No one’s been able to get ahold of her. I’m on my way to her apartment.”

“Get her dads on the phone. They’ll know where she is.” His sweaty gym clothes were off as soon as he hit the locker room. He kicked them aside and flung open his locker.

“Already did that. They’re at some fancy shindig that she’s supposed to be at, too, but she’s not there. They can’t get ahold of her, either.”

“Hang on,” he said. He jumped into the shower and blasted off the sweat for ten seconds and then picked up the phone again, shaking off the water. “Where’s she supposed to be?”

Without taking the time to dry off, he tugged up his boxers and cargo pants, shoved his feet in his tennis shoes, and grabbed a clean T-shirt.

“Harbor City Museum of Modern Art.”

He ran out of the locker room. “I’ll take the museum. You take the apartment. I need everyone in on this.”

“Already done. Figured you’d want the big guns.” Cam paused. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

“Damn straight.” If they didn’t, a day’s punishment at the gym wouldn’t even put a dent in Tony’s guilt-induced misery. He ended the call, tugged on his T-shirt at warp speed, and tossed the phone to Paulie on his way out the door. “Thanks, man.”

The setting sun nearly blinded him as he hustled down the rickety outside steps from the second-floor gym to the parking lot. He gritted his teeth and hobbled to his car like an old man, battling to ignore his fatigued, aching muscles and the wrenching pain in his knee. He’d hurt like a sonofabitch tomorrow, but if he didn’t get to Sylvie now, she wouldn’t have a tomorrow—and he wouldn’t give a fuck about his.

He’d deluded himself long enough. Sylvie wasn’t just another client. She was the dangerous woman who made him want to be more than just the sum of his mistakes. The woman he loved.

She’d believed in him. Believed he could keep her safe. And, damn it, he would.

Tonight and forever.

Or he’d die trying.

Tony swerved around a Lincoln Town Car and slid into a parking spot reserved for the museum’s employee of the month. Thank God for ’Los’s hacking skills. It had taken him about five seconds to get into Sylvie’s condo’s security system. The surveillance footage from the condo lobby had shown her getting into a limo with Anya and another woman half an hour ago. A call into the limo company revealed she had, indeed, gone to the museum. A few calls later, he’d confirmed that Ivy had hired a car to drive her to the same fund-raiser.

The bitch’s shitty poetry said she wanted to expose Sylvie’s secrets to everyone. Well, she’d done that. Which only left leaving Sylvie bloody.

That would not happen.

Tony barely made it out of the car before a valet in a white jacket trotted over.

“Sir, you can’t park there.” The twenty-something model type gave Tony’s damp outfit of khaki cargo pants and black T-shirt the once-over. “This is a private event.”

Off in the distance a police cruiser wailed. His family had called in every favor anyone on the force owed them—and then some, judging by the conga line of cherry tops heading his way.

But he wasn’t waiting for them to arrive. “There’s my invitation.”

He pushed past the valet, popped open the car’s trunk, and yanked up the false bottom to reveal his weapons go-bag. The Kel-Tec P-32 went in his ankle holster and got strapped on. A semiautomatic with a seven-round magazine, it was the perfect backup. He buckled on a shoulder holster and tucked his Beretta 9 millimeter into it, then pulled on a Kevlar vest and finally a Windbreaker ready-packed with a lock pick and extra rounds. He tossed the bag back into the trunk and slammed it shut.

The valet stared at him with round eyes.

Tony flipped him the car keys and rushed to a wide staircase leading up to the museum doors. Breaks squealed behind him, followed by slamming doors. He whirled, his fingers curled around his still-holstered gun.

Carlos and Ryder sprinted to his side. Both were outfitted in Maltese Security’s tactical uniforms, also with Kevlar. Dark shadows circled the tech guy’s eyes, but judging by his straight, aggressive stance, he wouldn’t have gone home even if Tony ordered it.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Carlos asked, tossing him a com device.

“Beyond saving Sylvie?” Tony stuck the com in his ear, turned, and rushed up the steps two at a time, ignoring the sledgehammer pounding his knee into pulp. “Not a damn thing.”

Chapter Nineteen