Smart-mouthed Vegas private eye Estella 'Steele' Mezzanotte is used to all kinds of trouble. She's nursing another black eye from her bartending sideline, her mom's dropping hints about nice Italian boys and Midnight Investigation Services is struggling. Otherwise, Steele would never have accepted her current gig—suspected adultery, maybe embezzlement. Possibly murder. Her ex, Cameron Stone, wants to partner. Steele wants to punish him for past misdemeanors.
But she's got to trust him or risk facing another side of danger alone—.
Smart-mouthed Vegas private eye Estella 'Steele' Mezzanotte is used to all kinds of trouble. She's nursing another black eye from her bartending sideline, her mom's dropping hints about nice Italian boys and Midnight Investigation Services is struggling. Otherwise, Steele would never have accepted her current gig—suspected adultery, maybe embezzlement. Possibly murder. Her ex, Cameron Stone, wants to partner. Steele wants to punish him for past misdemeanors.
But she's got to trust him or risk facing another side of danger alone—.
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Overview
Smart-mouthed Vegas private eye Estella 'Steele' Mezzanotte is used to all kinds of trouble. She's nursing another black eye from her bartending sideline, her mom's dropping hints about nice Italian boys and Midnight Investigation Services is struggling. Otherwise, Steele would never have accepted her current gig—suspected adultery, maybe embezzlement. Possibly murder. Her ex, Cameron Stone, wants to partner. Steele wants to punish him for past misdemeanors.
But she's got to trust him or risk facing another side of danger alone—.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426807091 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Harlequin |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2007 |
| Series: | Harlequin Readers' Choice |
| Sold by: | HARLEQUIN |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 271 KB |
About the Author
When Mia was about 10 years old, her mother let her read a 'grown-up' book. It was a Harlequin Romance novel about a small-town veterinarian and the family practitioner he falls in love with. That story was pretty tame by today's standards--the hero and heroine didn't even kiss until the last page--but it opened up a whole new world to a romantic little girl who loved to write.
Over the years, Mia penned really bad poetry, even worse song lyrics, adolescent short stories and overly descriptive class papers. Then one day a scene for a medieval romance emerged fully detailed in her head and she rushed to get it on paper. That scene eventually turned into eight chapters and a synopsis, but she kept getting bogged down in historical research and set the story aside. Deep in a sea of self-doubt, she set writing aside as well.
Mia met her husband in Russian 101 at the beginning of the university semester. Their first date was November 17, 1989, and they eloped one year and 13 days later. She credits her husband with encouraging her to write again and for suggesting that a contemporary time frame might help her focus more on the story than the setting.
One of her contemporary romance manuscripts won the Harlequin Books 2000 Summer Blaze Contest for bold, brash love scenes, placing second in the published category. On July 10, 2002, after four years and nine rewrites, Red Shoes & a Diary finally sold to the Harlequin Blaze line! Mia figures it was fate.
Mia lives in Maryland with her wonderful husband and their beautiful little boy. In addition to being a fiction author, she's also a creativity coach and a paralegal hoping to quit the law firm to write full-time. You can contact Mia at mia@miazachary.com.
Read an Excerpt
Lady Luck Strikes Again
LAS VEGAS, BABY. My kind of town.
Home to five different Cirque du Soleil shows, about 197,000 slot machines, over thirty-six million annual visitors, who knows how many Elvis impersonators and, of course, one Lady Luck.
However, as luck would have it, I'd spent the past half hour in a hot car, my digital camera poised near the small opening at the top of the tinted window. One of my best friends had let me borrow the Toyota from her used car dealership. My beloved Harley Davidson Softail motorcycle isn't exactly conducive to surveillance.
Downtown, the casinos are smaller than on the Strip, the hotels cheaper and the atmosphere more nostalgic than glamorous. "Glitter Gulch" is where you'll find the Golden Gate's ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails, the annual World Series of Poker at Binion's Horseshoe andVegasVic, the forty-foot neon cowboy. However, once you move past the four main blocks of interest, downtown feels meaner, gritty and weather-beaten.
The February temperature was a balmy eighty degrees, which meant it was over one hundred in the Toyota's driver seat. And I wasn't exactly sitting here for the fun of it. Waiting across from a run-down bar like a paparazzo anxious to snap photos of a clandestine meeting wasn't my idea of a good time, but it is part of my job.
My name is Stella Mezzanotte-midnight star in Italian- and I'm a private eye.
Damn, I like saying that.
Which was why I was roasting my ass outside of the Polar Lounge. At the moment I was following a client's girlfriend of two months because he thought she was messing around on him. Well, duh. With clown-red hair, capped teeth, collagen-filled lips and saline-filled boobs, did he honestly think she'd be genuine about her feelings?
People lie about anything and everything, especially when it comes to relationships. I hate these cases. I usually end up finding out things my clients don't really want to know and then nobody wants to pay for bad news. But, until I get full ownership of the agency, I'll take almost any case that comes in my door.
My mind was drifting toward a heat-induced nap when something-or rather someone-caught my attention.
The man walking out of the Polar Lounge was all kinds of gorgeous, but there was something else about him... An aura of quiet violence. This guy wasn't bulging with muscles under his dark T-shirt, but he had strength.
My instincts told me he wasn't afraid to use it. And yet beneath his military-short, dark blond hair was one of the most sensual faces I'd ever seen. Fascinated by the powerful, confident way he moved, my finger instinctively triggered the camera shutter. When he glanced over at me, I noted the intensity of his light blue eyes.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
Oops. I'd been so focused on the golden god I hadn't seen Scarlet's boyfriend cross the street. Rat yanked open my car door and made a grab for the camera.
"Hands off, pal. I'm just getting some exterior shots for a story I'm doing on the bar." Lame, I know, but it was all I could come up with since I'd been taken off guard.
"Sure you are, honey." This time he tried to grab me.
Big freakin' mistake.
My real name is Stella, but everyone, except my parents, has called me Steele since I was nine years old. After I bluffed him out of his pocket change playing stud poker, my Uncle Vin used to shake his head and mutter, "That girl's got nerves of steel."
I need them in my line of work. In the end we all agreed to part ways: Scarlet with a torn handbag and an ex-lover; Rat with a bloody nose and sore balls; me with a headache and a broken camera lens. I did manage to save the image storage card, though. So, even though it was an affair to forget, my client would get proof and I would get paid.
Good thing since now I was out a three-hundred-dollar Sony Cybershot.
Mission accomplished, I slid into the Toyota and cranked the air conditioner to "arctic." Then I looked down, cursing when I saw Rat's blood on the hem of my favorite T-shirt, the powder-blue one that read Spoil Me and We'll Get Along Just Fine.
Some days I love my job. This was not one of them.
I'D Just left one bar and was headed for another, this time in my father's restaurant across from the University of Las Vegas campus. Mezzanotte's offers authentic Tuscan recipes straight out of my Nonna Angela's trattoria in Siena. The pappardelle primavera and the bistecca alla fiorentina are to die for. It's a family business. My father, Paolo, and my brother Raffaele run the kitchen while my mother, Vivian, acts as hostess.
Since I have no life outside of work-much to my mother's disappointment-I help out at the bar a couple nights a week.
Thursday nights are pretty slow, especially since Papa refuses to do gimmicks like karaoke or wet T-shirt contests. It took a lot of convincing to get him to put a TV above the bar for the sports channels. Tonight there was a decent crowd, though, enough to have me pouring drafts and shaking drinks at a regular pace.
I'm good at tending bar. I flirt a little so the guys keep thinking and keep drinking. I make the cocktails strong enough to earn a reputation without depleting the inventory.
And I'm normally a good listener, even when I'm really keeping an eye on the liquor levels for a row of customers.
But not tonight. Oh, I was getting the job done but my mind wasn't engaged. Tonight I felt... Itchy. Like my skin was too tight and my nerves were exposed. None of my customers needed refills, so I was absentmindedly watching the NFL Pro Bowl game when I heard a voice behind me.
"I don't suppose you've got a McEwan's Ale about?" A hot shiver danced down my spine. The Scottish accent was pure just-out-of-bed Sean Connery. Hearing it, I started thinking about getting into bed. When I turned around, though, I looked straight into the face of the golden god. Stifling my sexual reaction I studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing here.
I don't believe in coincidence and I never get this lucky when it comes to men in bars.
The guy had broad shoulders and a massive chest beneath a forest green shirt open just enough to reveal a navy T-shirt. His forearms looked as if they'd been sculpted from Carrara marble and his large, blunt-fingered hands... I was getting all kinds of ideas about his hands.
His face had wide planes and interesting angles, with heavy brows that accentuated a coldly compelling blue gaze. The only soft things about him were the slight curl of his dark-blond hair and a deliciously sensual mouth. He was watching me with the barest hint of a smirk.
His eyes hinted that he'd seen the dark side of life and had laughed in its face, that he had secrets and no intention of sharing them. He had the air of a hunter, both patient and persistent. And like any prey, I felt the thrill of danger. All the way down my body.
"Sorry, no McEwan's. See anything else you might like?" I cocked my head and gave him a playful look.
"Aye, something's caught my interest."
I leaned my forearms on the bar, briefly drawing his attention to the lettering over my breasts. "Well, catching is one thing, keeping is another."
He resolutely kept his gaze on my face. A real gentleman, this guy. "It's a bit soon to play for keeps."
But apparently he did want to play. So did I. If the game got out of hand, I had a borrowed car and one hell of a right hook. What I didn't have was a date for Valentine's, as Mom had been reminding me all evening.
"You mean it wasn't love at first sight that made you trail me all the way from downtown?"
His mouth lifted a fraction of an inch and he nodded to admit he'd been busted, but there was no hint of apology. "Why were you taking my photo?"
"I wasn't. You just got in the frame." I grinned and gave him the once-over. "You're kind of distracting."
"As are you." His lips curved a little more and I found myself anxiously awaiting his smile. "What was a sweet lass such as yourself doing there anyway, eh?"
"A job. Why were you there?"
"A job." He returned my deadpan expression in kind then reached across the bar to offer his hand. "Cameron Stone."
"I'm Steele Mezzanotte."
"You don't look like 'steel.'" He smirked, as most guys do. I've got my Papa's bone structure, my Mom's curvaceous figure and, so I'm told, an innate sex appeal all my own. No matter how smart or how tough she is, nobody takes a pretty girl seriously.
"Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving."
As his large, calloused hand closed over mine, energy- unexpected and potentially lethal-shot through my palm. It reminded me of when I was five and stuck a knife into a wall socket. Every nerve in my arm vibrated with sensory overload and I caught my breath. A little shaken, I dropped his hand and stepped back. I felt myself blush as I cleared my throat.
"What can I get you instead of the McEwan's?"
"Surprise me, why don't you."
"I just might." Letting a slow grin spread across my face, I was suddenly feeling very lucky, indeed....
However, I woke up the next morning alone in a hotel suite, unsure of which was worse, my hangover, my heartache or the trouble I had gotten into this time.
The Waiting Game
The porch light was on. A sign of invitation, welcoming him for his efforts these past couple months. He smiled in the darkness.
He'd been careful to park around the corner, but still close enough to get a clear view down the street to her house. The sun was stealing over the mountains in the distance. He had to leave soon. Some early-bird neighbor might notice a strange car and it was almost time for her morning run.
A dog barked nearby, startling him. But he continued to watch the house, wondering which room she slept in. Wondering if she slept naked. He pictured her long dark hair fanned across the pillow, her blow job-worthy lips parted slightly as she breathed.
He shifted in the driver's seat. The thought of her mouth always got him hard.
Letting his mind stretch further, he imagined she did sleep naked, her bare skin slick with sweat, the bed sheets twisted around her long athletic body. One hand would part her thighs while the fingers of his other tangled in her hair...
He wanted to hear her voice, if only a single word. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. Anticipation had his heart racing, his body tense. He ought to speak this time-
"Huhlo?"
He closed his eyes, savoring the sleep-roughened rumble of her greeting...then disconnected the call. The time wasn't right.
Soon.
But not yet.
Through a Glass Darkly
Blinking against the late spring daylight, I checked the bedside clock. Christ, did that thing really say five-fifty? I reached for the phone to stop the damned ringing.
"Huhlo?" My voice sounded as raw as it felt. I must have been screaming in my sleep again.
Silence greeted me in return. The heavy menacing kind that made the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. I sat up, wide awake now. I couldn't hear so much as an inhaled breath, let alone any identifiable background noise. But I knew someone was on the line. Waiting. Intimidating.
Just like the other calls.
And, again like the others, my caller ID didn't register a number. The line disconnected abruptly, leaving me to hang up with an ineffectual bang. Shafts of early May sunlight streamed across the bed but I was shivering, the sheet twisted beneath me damp with sweat. The sun had barely risen, but going back to sleep wasn't an option.
I swung my legs off the bed and padded down the hallway to the kitchen in nothing but my panties. Twinges of pain had me glancing down. The bruises on my ribs were as muddy as day-old coffee and the one on my face probably didn't look much better. Both of my jobs seem to make me a regular target.
The freezer yielded a half-empty bottle of Armadale vodka. I hate taking any kind of medicine. A double shot in my orange juice would hold off the worst of the pain and wash away the aftertaste of uneasy sleep. I'd been dreaming, the kind of dark, restless nightmares that leave a metallic taste in the mouth.
A few minutes later, I had three slugs in me-one from an old bullet and the other two from the vodka. I stood there in my gradually lightening kitchen, feeling the alcohol begin to warm my blood. One of these days I needed to quit drinking. Not today.
Back in the bedroom I threw on a T-shirt and bike shorts, sunglasses and a baseball cap. I used to run track in high school. There are probably still some ribbons and trophies in my parents' attic. I usually do between three and five miles, depending on my route. But my heart wasn't in it-I'd barely covered a mile-so I turned around.
After a quick shower, several ounces of hair goop and a half hour with my professional-grade ionic blow dryer, I started on my face. Normally I just wear moisturizer. But I was going to need some of Mom's stage makeup tricks to disguise the black eye I got last night.
My dad's place is not a dive, I swear. But with the restaurant being right across from UNLV, on weekends the bar clientele includes a lot of students blowing off steam... Sometimes in my direction.
Getting dressed only took me about five minutes. I hate having to think about clothes, so for everyday I just pick from my fifty pair of jeans and a hundred T-shirts. I slipped on the one that read, Have A Nice Day Elsewhere, grabbed my backpack and helmet and headed for work.
Traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard-otherwise known as the Strip-sucked, as usual. Caught by one of the city's many lethargic traffic signals, I braced my feet on either side of my Harley. The sun beat down on me from out of a pale blue cloudless sky, piercing the dark glasses shielding my eyes. The temperature already felt like eighty-plus degrees.
Sitting next to a diesel-belching tour bus didn't help. Still, as I glanced around me, a chill slipped down my spine.