Murder
Murder
Murder
Murder
All the way down the page.
I flip it over and the opposite side reads:
K is for Kane.
Kane
Kane
Kane
Kane
All the way down the page.
This isn’t a coincidence any more than the crime scene today. And I don’t know whether Junior is telling me Kane is dangerous or Kane has answers. Whatever the case, I want answers and it’s time to get them. I stand up and walk to the closet, open the chest, and grab a pair of handcuffs, and this time I leave my work in the office and head downstairs where I slip on my shoulder holster and a jacket. At the garage door I hit the security button. “If the system is disarmed before I call you back, it’s not me and you need to send help. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—”
“Just do it,” I order, exiting to the garage and climbing in my car. Next stop: Kane Mendez’s mansion by the beach.
A few minutes later I pull up to the gate of his sprawling property and key in the security code, hoping it still works, and thankfully it does. I drive to the front of the house, park, and grab the cuffs from my seat. Not giving him a chance to prepare for me, I march straight to the house, ring the bell, and wait. And wait. Finally, he comes to the door, and before he knows what hits him, I have a cuff on one of his wrists and my gun pointed at him. “Put the other one on.”
“As much as I enjoy this concept, this isn’t a good time for this, Lilah.”
“Put it on, Kane.”
“I have a situation in the garage. I can show you and you’ll understand.”
“Kane—”
“Garage, Lilah. Then if you want me to put on the cuffs without you shooting me first, I will.”
“Fine. Show me.”
“Are you going to keep pointing the gun at me?”
“Yes. Show me.”
He gives a heavy sigh and turns, walking down the hallway and turning left into the kitchen with no pause before he crosses to the garage, opens the door, and exits. Not sure what to expect, I follow him and find a man tied to a chair and gagged. The old man himself. “What the hell is this?”
“This is old man Romano. The patriarch.”
A Romano tied to a chair after two were beheaded today.
A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT LILAH LOVE NOVEL—COMING SOON.
Editor’s Note: This is an early excerpt and may not reflect the finished book.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s Sunday night, and like many people, that means catching up on dirty laundry. Unlike most people however, my list rarely includes jeans, shirts, and socks, though some might say it probably should. And it would, if my list wasn’t consumed by blood, bodies, and random crime scene nastiness. Tonight, that list includes Kane Mendez, my ex-lover, who swears he’s clean when we both know he’s dirty—as in the-head-of-the-Mendez-Cartel dirty. A complicated piece of the puzzle that is my life, since Kane runs a powerful yet legit business as well, while I’m an FBI profiler, and at one point he and I have killed and hidden a body together, or rather in some combination of together. I did the killing. He did the hiding. Even more complicated is the fact that despite that secret, I’m presently standing in his garage, pointing a gun at him, while the patriarch of the Romano family, who doesn’t exactly get invited to Mendez family outings, is tied to a chair and gagged several feet away. Of course, he’s not the man we in law enforcement believe to be the patriarch, but Kane would know. And now I know, which is a weapon Kane has handed me, and not by accident. Kane does nothing by accident.
I give this newly discovered patriarch a quick once-over, confirming that he’s the same sunbaked old man in jeans and a T-shirt, his gray hair braided down his back, that I remember cornering me at the tattoo shop in the city. He’d given me a lead I’d like to know more about, which means I need him alive, thus one of the reasons I confirm he’s not dead, which isn’t hard, since he’s presently fast-blinking at me. That’s enough for me to know he’s not feeling really warm and fuzzy right now, and also enough for me to dismiss him, at least for the moment, and for the obvious reason: he’s tied up and Kane is not.
I eye Kane, who is now two feet away and between me and the door, my gaze dropping to the silver cuff dangling from his wrist where I’d latched it the minute he’d opened the door. I part my lips to command him to cuff his second wrist, but in my mind, I play out exactly how that scene might be enacted:
I’d give him the same once-over I’d given the old man, as I do now, taking in his casual wear that’s replaced his business suit—his black jeans and snug black T-shirt that reads “Mendez Enterprises,” which we both know translates to Mendez Cartel, and that would piss me off. I’d lift my gaze, look right into those dark-brown eyes, and issue my command. “Finish cuffing yourself.”
He’d say, “I’m not going to do that.”
I’d then say, “I won’t kill you, Kane, but I will make you bleed and at least two of the three of us will enjoy it. Cuff your wrist.”
“No,” he’d say, offering me nothing more as an explanation, because that’s Kane. A man of few words because he means every damn one he speaks. But then he’d ask, “Would you like to have a private conversation in the kitchen?”
And I’d consider shooting him, but then I’d remember what my mother of all people told me when speaking of Hollywood: “When you are swimming with sharks,” she’d said, “and one of them wants you alive, you feed that shark and defang the others.” And so I would say, “Yes, Kane. I would like to have a private conversation in the kitchen.” And if it went down like that, old man Romano would know the dynamics of our push-and-pull, right-and-wrong connection that I won’t call a relationship, which he would most certainly exploit. And I can’t let that happen, especially since as Kane’s enemy, I should have long ago considered Romano in my attack.
And so my gaze collides with Kane’s, and the arch of his brow dares to challenge me to be stupid enough to act on the fantasy scene in my head, while the glint in his eyes says he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. He does. He knows me too well. He understands me in a way no criminal should understand a law enforcement officer. And I usually like it, which really fucking pisses me off, but this moment isn’t about my anger issues with Kane. It’s about what my gut says Romano should be allowed to see and hear, which is not division between Kane and me.
And thus, I act out another scene.
I holster my weapon, and remove the key to the cuff, dangling it in the air. “You were right,” I say. “Sadly, now isn’t the time for these types of games.” I walk to him, lift his hand, removing the cuff before returning them both to my pocket with the key.
Kane smartly doesn’t push his luck and touch me, but instead says exactly what he’d said in my fantasy scene. “Would you like to have a private conversation in the kitchen?”
So, I say what I’d said in my fantasy scene. “Yes, Kane. I would like to have a private conversation in the kitchen.” I sound sticky sweet and sarcastic, but I figure that isn’t really a misstep. Ask around and you’ll know. I’m not exactly the agreeable type, even if I like you. Okay. Accept you. I don’t really like people. Any of them. Which is perhaps the answer to why I’m so comfortable with dead bodies.
I don’t wait for him to motion me forward, already walking toward the kitchen, which is another one of
those push-and-pull things between Kane and me that I make obvious. I’m not in his control, but I dare to give him my back, actions that tell Romano the story I want him to believe: I trust Kane. I’m intimate with Kane, but he doesn’t own me. Lies. I don’t like lies, but they can sometimes keep you alive and catch the bigger liars, the perps. That I have fucked one of the two perps at my back right now too many times to count and enjoyed every moment . . . Well, at least I know what makes him tick: Me. I do. I’m his weakness, but he’s not mine. I’m my own weakness. I let a man who is not only off-limits but also should be my target get to me, and that’s a problem I need to fix.
I open the door and enter the kitchen, dark wood beneath my feet, lighter shades, even a hint of blue, streaked here and there, but it’s still dark. Everything about Kane is dark, which is exactly one of about ten reasons I am certain I could list to put space between myself and him, now and always. But my intent to place myself at the end of the heavy wooden island, my gun on the surface of the navy-blue marble top, ready to aim, falls as lame as my denial that I understand Kane, because I am like Kane in too many ways for comfort. The door shuts almost the moment I’ve passed through it, and Kane is on my heels.
I whirl around to face him. “Consider this official business. I have two dead bodies sitting with their heads in their laps, Kane. Romano’s people, and now you have him in your garage.”
“Exactly why he’s in my garage, Agent Love,” he says, as if that should absolutely make it all right. “He followed you. That was a threat, and I wasn’t giving him time to act on those murders and go after you.”
My eyes go wide. “Did you kill his men, behead his men, because he followed me?”
“No,” he says without so much as a blink. “But I should have. Our women are off-limits. Always.”
“I’m not your woman, Kane. Not for two years. And I thought you didn’t chop off heads like your father?”
“Beautiful, I can still smell you on my skin. Taste you on my lips if I try hard enough.”