Glory Days Read online

  NOT YET

  Liz looked ready to bolt. Without giving her any warning, John pulled her into his arms and lowered his lips to place a swift peck on hers. But what started out as a brief thank you turned into something more as he felt the soft contact and tasted the sweetness that was Liz.

  So he tried for more. He ran the tip of his tongue against the seam of her mouth. Coaxing. Tempting. But she did not open for him.

  She wasn’t ready. He felt a tremble run through her body...

  Irene Peterson

  Glory Days

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  NOT YET

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  To H. Roy, Elyse, and Karyn,

  Mom and the real Bourbon John.

  Chapter 1

  “Too . . . early.”

  John slapped the alarm clock off the nightstand and pulled himself back onto the pillows. Still dark as pitch outside. The only light came from the red 6:00 of the damned clock. He used to have a big fish tank that glowed blue all night long. Great for sex, as he remembered, until some dimwit in the throes of passion tossed her stiletto heel at it. It hit just right and speared a hole directly in the intake tube, dislodging it. Fish water spewed throughout his apartment. End of fish—quiet, floaty little things that never did anyone any harm—and end of peaceful blue light. The only gurgling sounds he heard now were from his stomach.

  Another loud buzz. Not the clock. The door? His or downstairs? The incessant off-key droning through his brain forced him awake. He cursed.

  Three days of surveillance without more than a couple of catnaps and he’d managed three hours’ sleep. And now some idiot couldn’t keep his hand off the doorbell?

  This was somebody’s lucky day.

  He’d locked up his Sig.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, John eased himself out of the bed and made his way naked through the office to the frosted glass door. With perverse pleasure, he flipped the lock and yanked it open.

  Nobody there.

  And he was awake.

  A shower might help, but the thought of getting wet so early in the morning irritated his cat DNA. After coffee would be soon enough. He did take the time to pick a towel off the bathroom floor and wrap it around his waist before venturing downstairs for caffeine. He needed coffee.

  Badly.

  Zanetti’s luncheonette didn’t officially open until ten on Sunday. Old Mrs. Zanetti, his landlady, usually had a fresh batch of coffee steaming away in the huge commercial brewing machine . . . not one of those sissy cappuccino makers, but real, one hundred percent Brazilian coffee with enough caffeine to clear his brain. He was welcome downstairs at any time, she’d told him since he moved in. And today he needed about a quart of black coffee to get his brain functioning.

  He opened the connecting door, inhaling the fragrance of liquid intelligence. Mrs. Zanetti slept late, sometimes, but always got the coffee brewing before six. He reckoned she was in her apartment getting dressed—not allowing his brain to venture any further—and would come out if she heard him moving around the spotless stainless steel kitchen, so he hitched up the towel, just to be sure. The stacked cups called to him. She’d left a spoon and sugar packets on the counter, as she did every day. Two little packages of dairy lightener . . . whatever the hell that was . . . next to the spoon. This was new.

  John pulled the handle and watched the coffee fill his cup. He paused, letting the perfume fill his nostrils, then turned to find a woman with a huge kitchen knife in her hand, standing ten feet away.

  Liz barely had time to toss her suitcase on the saggy bed when she heard odd noises coming from the kitchen. Her grandmother shouldn’t be walking around, fussing over getting breakfast for her when she was perfectly capable of making something for herself. But Flo was Flo and nothing, not even gout, could stop her.

  As she rounded the corner, Liz stopped dead. This wasn’t her grandmother rummaging in the kitchen. It was a naked man. A big, nicely built naked man with his back to her. Great shoulders. Whoa! This wasn’t good, was it?

  Think quick.

  Her eyes searched for a weapon. The kitchen knives lay on the counter, washed and ready to use. She snaked out her hand and grabbed one, hefting it defensively against her chest.

  He turned and started.

  “Ah, shit!” He flinched, spilling coffee over his hand, sending hot liquid to the floor and his bare feet. He danced in place for a few seconds.

  Liz saw great humor in the situation but maintained her cool.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Just the right amount of calculated heartlessness to scare off a guy wearing a tattered towel that covered not much more territory than a Speedo.

  “Getting coffee, like I always do. Jesus, you scared me.” He stepped away from the puddle. “Where’s Flo?”

  “Never mind where she is,” Liz snarled. “Who the hell are you?”

  Suddenly his expression mellowed as if he thought the threat was gone. “I’m her tenant, John Preshin. I live upstairs.”

  Giving him the once over, Liz took in his height and thick, dark hair that looked straight off the pillow. Nice. She saw his blue eyes twinkle as he returned her gaze, but as her inspection went a little lower, she got a real surprise. Something was stuck to his chest. Duct tape?

  She worked hard to hold in a laugh. “You always come down here naked?”

  His smile widened, showing nice teeth and making it very hard for Liz to keep up the don’t-mess-with-me demeanor.

  “Only on Sundays. This must be your lucky day.”

  That got the snort it deserved. But Liz lowered the knife, her eyes going back to the ridiculous Z of duct tape across his well-muscled hairy chest.

  “Had a visit from Zorro last night?” she asked offhandedly.

  The man, nonchalant as all get out, leaned one hand back on the counter and sipped from the cup. His eyes closed in obvious appreciation, but when they opened, they blinked down at the duct tape. He resumed his pose as if he had the silvery stuff stuck on his chest every day of the week. Yeah, right.

  “Let me get back to you on that,” he grinned.

  And totally disarmed her for a second.

  “Anything else we can offer you?” Liz struggled to hold in the smirk that wanted to come out.

  “Doughnuts aren’t in yet?”

  What nerve! “Not yet. Shall I call you when they are?”

  “If you don’t mind . . .” His voice was deep and husky and dangerous.

  Liz stepped back, denying the tiny thrill that spiked through her. “What kind do you like? And are you gonna clean up that mess on the floor?”

  H
e reached across the counter, grabbed a wad of paper towels and bent to wipe the spill, showing far more of his anatomy than Liz had been prepared to see. Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight.

  With that audacious grin plastered on his lips, John Preshin from upstairs stood, tossed the wet mess into the garbage and slowly padded past Liz toward the back stairs.

  “Jelly,” he whispered as he passed her.

  The heat of his breath played on her neck and a chill sizzled up her spine, leaving her speechless. All she could do was nod and put down the knife.

  Perhaps this day wasn’t going to be so bad after all, he mused as he swallowed the last of the coffee and headed for the bedroom. A redhead. Hmm. He liked redheads, but then, he liked good-looking females of any shape or style. This one was gutsy, he had to admit, and he’d seen the subtle approval in her eyes as she scoped him out. Never failed once he turned on the charm, unless it was with wise guys who didn’t get his natural magnetism.

  Or jerks with high-powered rifles.

  He shut the thought away, crawled back into bed and felt sleep overtake him with gentle feminine hands.

  The additional hour’s sleep revived him enough to entertain thoughts of a shower. With a burp from pipes old enough to have voted for Roosevelt—Teddy, not Franklin—he waited for the water to heat. Cooler would be better, but John Preshin was no martyr. Not this morning.

  As he stepped into the shower, the tepid water brought gooseflesh to his body and he shivered. At least something about him worked correctly this morning. Bit by bit as he scraped the soap across his skin, he remembered pieces of last night’s drama after he’d located his quarry and tagged the guy for sure. Investigation over. So he’d allowed the bleached blonde to pick him up. She’d slithered against him and practically given him a handjob on the barstool after he’d bought her a martini.

  There hadn’t been enough caffeine in his Coke to keep him awake long enough to satisfy either of them but he’d left and gotten back to the office before crashing completely.

  The tape puzzled him. After a one-night stand, had she marked him with her initial? What kind of crazy woman did a thing like that?

  One best forgotten.

  Not like that rash redhead downstairs. He knew she’d be something else.

  As the water trickled down his body, he scrubbed at the puckered scar on his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the obscenely wrinkled flesh. From beyond the shower curtain, a different pounding began, not in the pipes this time. Somewhere outside, maybe in the street. Maybe a jackhammer trying to break through glass. It registered. His door.

  “Keep your shirt on,” he bellowed as he turned off the water, grabbed a towel and, soaking wet, wrapped it around his hips. These inappropriate interruptions were part of the trouble of living in his office.

  He shook the water from his hair, took one quick, futile tug at the duct tape, stifled a scream and stomped through his inner office, bent on opening the door and giving major grief to whoever kept threatening to break the glass.

  “What the hell do you want?” John threw open the door, startling the two people on the other side.

  One he recognized. Cop named Stoffel, a sluggish ape of a man wearing a blue Asbury Park uniform jacket and all the rest. His swarthy face cracked into a smirk though his eyes moved quickly, scoping out the scene of John in all his near-naked glory. Just like any other cop. Behind him, a kid. A kid wearing an enormous nylon jacket emblazoned with some sort of logo, black watch cap and baggy jeans.

  “What?”

  Stoffel took a step back, eyeing John up and down with a malicious sneer that made John’s returning good humor go sour all over again.

  “This your kid?”

  A negative stopped short of his teeth. Something required thought here. A kid. What was up?

  “Dunno. Let me see.”

  The cop grabbed a handful of oversize jacket and pulled the kid from behind him so John could take a look.

  “What makes you think it’s mine?”

  Stoffel snorted. “Caught him in the RexAll about to make off with some items. When I asked him for ID, he said he was Carl Preshin. Father was John Preshin, maybe I knew of you.”

  John kept his face and voice neutral. “And as luck would have it, you did.”

  The cop leaned closer, so close John could smell the coffee on his breath. A slight trace of powdered sugar dusted one corner of the cop’s mouth. “I think this makes us even.”

  For what? John grunted. “Yeah.”

  “Now teach him it ain’t polite to steal.”

  Reaching out, John caught the kid’s shoulder and pulled him past the large man’s blockade of his door. “I’ll do that.”

  Stoffel tugged at the visor of his cop hat, gave a snicker as he once again eyed the duct tape and dripping wet private eye and left them. His control didn’t last more than ten feet down the dingy hall. Doughnut-breath would have some tale for the boys back in Central.

  Slamming the door didn’t do wonders for John’s brand new headache. He grabbed the kid and hustled him into the reception area.

  “What gives?”

  The kid looked up for the first time. Heavily lashed big blue eyes, wide with fear, looked back at John. “I didn’t take anything.”

  “Jesus!” He snatched the cap off the kid’s head, revealing short, spiky black hair with tips of blood red stuck against a pale face.

  Panic made him reach for his ancient trench coat on the nearby coat tree. He fumbled to get it on, but he was wide awake now.

  “You’re a girl!”

  Her eyelids lowered as she turned away slightly, and stepped back, out of reach. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  John raised his hand to scratch the hair on his chest, stopped it in midair.

  “It says on the door that you do ‘discreet investigations. ’”

  “That’s right.” He groped, one-handed without effect, at the buttons on the coat.

  The girl dug into the pocket of her jacket. Holding out a crumpled bill, she said, “I’m hiring you to find my father.”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  Her challenging expression fell, replaced by one of weariness and defeat. “Why not?”

  John scrubbed at his face again. “I can’t enter into a contract with a minor. Especially a runaway. My advice—go home to your mother. She left him, probably for a good reason. Living with him won’t be any better, believe me.” He made to escort her to the door.

  Hands on hips, fire in her eyes, the girl thrust the bill toward him again. “It’s a hundred. A C-note. That’s a lotta money.” Her eyes scanned the dowdy office. “Looks like you could use the bucks.”

  “Go home to your mother, kid. Tell the new boyfriend to leave you alone, stay out of his way, and talk to the school guidance counselor. I can’t help you.”

  Her chin went up and her eyes focused on him, daring him, wordlessly pushing. Then she turned her head and shot him a look that scorched his heart.

  “I have no mother. I have no one in this world. What I do have, though, is a list of six names, any one of whom could be my father.”

  The words seeped into his brain, slowly, unaided by sufficient caffeine or aspirin. Without thought, his one eyebrow raised.

  A tight smile curled the corner of her mouth.

  “Your name, John Preshin, is at the top.”

  Chapter 2

  “Wait here. Don’t move. I gotta go downstairs for a minute, but I’ll be right back.” John pointed at the kid. “We’ll discuss this as soon as I get back.”

  Without waiting for a response, John pulled the raincoat around him and tightened the belt. It was still early. Mrs. Zanetti probably wouldn’t be in the kitchen to catch him in this bizarre attire, but he didn’t want to risk scaring the old lady.

  His bare feet made little noise on the rough wooden stairs, but a blast of cold air coming in through the space underneath the outside door made his nipples pucker against the damned duct tape. The tape tug
ged chest hairs out of his skin and he cursed. He needed more coffee.

  Mrs. Zanetti’s voice rang out from the back room. “Is that you, John?”

  Relief came at the sound. “Yeah, Flo, it’s me.”

  “Come on back.”

  John waited. No redhead in sight. Too bad.

  Flo Zanetti had been a dancer in her early years. Her apartment overflowed with memorabilia from her glory days . . . head shots, faded feather headdresses from costumes from long ago. A big old black piano stood against the far wall of her living room, covered with sheet music. The light straining through the flimsy curtains turned everything golden . . . even Flo herself, sitting in the faded chintz armchair by the window.

  Her foot rested on a hassock, swathed in elastic bandages. Looked as if her regal ailment had flared up again. She motioned for him to come closer and shut the door.

  “I see you had a bad night,” she observed, the amusement flashing in her light blue eyes. “What’s with the trench coat? You playing at being a spy?”

  John looked down and saw the coat had come open. He pulled it over himself and felt the heat rise in his face. He was too old for this inquisition, but he liked Flo and knew she would burst out laughing if she saw that damned duct tape.

  “Well, you know how it is,” he drawled. And laughed.

  She laughed along with him. “John, there’s someone I want you to meet. Liz, come out here and let me introduce you to John Preshin. He lives and works on the top floor.”

  Liz appeared in the doorway of the smaller bedroom.

  Flo patted the arm of the chair. “Over here, Liz. He doesn’t bite. John, my granddaughter, Elizabeth Atwater.”

  Liz stayed where she was. “We’ve met. I found him wandering in the kitchen earlier.”

  The old lady shrugged. “So?”

  Liz bristled. “Look at him, Grandma! He’s naked under that ratty old coat!”

  “So, what did you do, pull a knife on him?” Flo’s eyebrow arched and John stifled a laugh at the picture she made.

  “Yeah, I got the biggest knife I could find. I didn’t know who the heck he was and I wasn’t about to take chances.”