He shook his head, not as if he were denying her, more as if he were trying to shake off a concussion. He glanced around the condo, saw the open suitcase piled with clothes, the cardboard box she’d loaded up with nonperishables from her kitchen: cereal, canned soup, boxed mac and cheese. She knew how to cook but never seemed to get around to it.
“You’re moving,” he said. “Too bad. This is a nice place.”
“It’s okay.” It was more than okay. And it would be hers to keep if she gave up and went back to her old job. But she didn’t want to do online promotions for motor oil or deal with one-star reviews because a customer’s replacement ignition coil failed. That kind of work had sucked out her soul.
He picked up Oinky. “Nice pig.”
She fought the urge to snatch her pig away. “School mascot.”
He took Oinky with him as he sat uninvited on her cocoa-colored sofa. Compared with Officer Hottie’s pumped-up calendar-boy gorgeousness, Graham was rougher at the edges—the planes of his face more rugged, a battle scar on his forehead, another on the side of his jaw. That cleft chin. He was hard as nails, despite the hand clasping her pig. In times of war, Graham would be the commander men followed into battle. In peacetime, he led his team to glory. All in all, a man not to be trifled with.
“Keith and I’ve been friends since college,” he said. “I trusted him as much as I’ve ever trusted anyone.”
“Your mistake.” But there was something about the slump in those big warrior’s shoulders, the burnished shadow in his wolf’s eyes that got to her.
“Don’t let yourself get sucked in,” Duke had said. “Every jackass has a sad story.”
The sandwich had crumbled in her fingers. She dropped it untouched in the trash. “You’re not the first employer who’s been ripped off by a trusted employee. It happens all the time.”
He curled his hand around the ankle he’d hooked over his knee. “I should have seen what was going on.”
“Your so-called security people should have seen. That’s why you hired them. But they’re probably taking a cut.”
His head came up, and he bristled with hostility. “My security people are top-notch.”
She gave him a faintly pitying look. “So rich and yet so dumb.” It felt good to see what he couldn’t. “The reality is that you’re so used to everybody bowing and scraping that you don’t understand most people only show you their best side. You’ve forgotten how many creeps there are. All your fame has made you a babe in the woods when it comes to living in the real world.”
She expected a hot dispute. Instead, he set her pig aside and drilled her with his eyes. “Who hired you to follow me?”
She steeled herself. “That’s confidential. Don’t ask me again.”
He uncoiled from the couch. “Let me get this straight. Even though I have the best lawyers in the city on your ass, and even though your two-bit detective agency is barely surviving—yeah, I did some investigating of my own—you’re still not giving me the name of your client, is that right?”
She had to hold her ground, no matter how much she wanted to cave. “What part of ‘unethical’ don’t you understand?”
“Oh, I understand, all right. So let me put it another way. Turn over the name, and I’ll hire you myself.”
She gaped at him. “For what?”
“For your suspicious nature. I’m a fast learner. It’s obvious I need another set of eyes in the club. Just for a couple of weeks. Someone who can see what I’ve been missing. Security to check on my security, if you will.”
This was her dream job. Exactly what she needed right now—a client with deep pockets offering work that would be both interesting and challenging. Her head spun. There was only one catch. A big one. “And all I have to do is . . .”
“Turn over the name of your client.”
At that moment, Piper hated Deidre Joss. Deidre’s stubborn insistence on anonymity was going to ruin Piper. She should just tell him the truth.
But she couldn’t. She stalked across the carpet to the door, fighting the ache in her chest. “Nice talking with you, Mr. Graham. Too bad you have to leave.”
“You’re not going to do it?”
The urge to give him the name he wanted was so strong she had to clench her teeth. “I don’t have your money, or your power, or your fame, but I’ve got ethics.” Ethics. She’d never hated a word more.
“Once you step over the line, you can never step back. Remember that.”
Duke had probably been talking about sex, but the fact was, if she gave in on this, she’d be giving away her self-respect, and she wouldn’t do that for anything or anyone.
Graham came closer, dangling the golden carrot. “Think of all the money you could make on this job . . .”
“Believe me, I am!” She flung open the door. “I did you a favor. Now do me a favor and get out of here so I can finish packing and move into my cousin’s shitty basement and come up with another way to stay in business without selling my soul.”
The sadistic bastard grinned. A big grin that took over his rugged face. “You’re hired.”
“Are you deaf? I told you! I’m not selling out my client.”
“That’s why you’re hired. Meet me at my condo tomorrow morning at ten. I believe you know where it is.”
And that was that.
***
Piper awoke at dawn the next morning, her mind still reeling from what had happened. After downing two cups of black coffee, she settled on wearing her khaki skirt, a short-sleeved army-green T-shirt printed with a red scorpion, and her scuffed brown ankle-high booties. Semiprofessional without looking as if she was trying to impress him.
She was ready too early, so she killed time by detouring to Lincoln Square and stopping in at the few places that were open. Not surprisingly, nobody recognized the photo of Howard that Berni had given her. Because he was dead.
As Jen had forecast, it was unseasonably warm for late September, and Piper kept the windows down on her way to Lakeview. At exactly two minutes before ten, she parked in one of the three allotted visitor spaces in the alley behind his residence.
Once part of a Catholic seminary, the brick building had sat empty for years before it was converted into three luxury condos. Graham owned the two-story penthouse, while a local real estate titan and a Hollywood actor with Chicago roots owned the other two units.
She walked along a fern-bordered brick pathway to the front entrance and into a small lobby with a high-tech video security system she’d like to know more about. A computer-generated voice directed her to a private elevator that rose automatically to the penthouse. The door opened, and she stepped out into an expansive living space with brick walls and big industrial windows. The two-story-high ceiling had exposed ductwork painted a flat charcoal. The bamboo floors lay in an oversize chevron pattern, giving the space a sleek edge, and the long bookshelves on one wall held a collection of books she’d bet anything he’d never opened.
Two men with their backs to her sat on a curved oyster-colored couch the size of three normal couches. One of the men—the one she’d come to see—wore a white terry cloth bathrobe, the other, a blue dress shirt and dark pants. He was the man who rose and walked around the end of the couch to shake her hand. “Heath Champion,” he said.
Heath Champion, aka “the Python,” was a Chicago legend and one of the most powerful sports agents in the country. He represented two of the Stars’ great former quarterbacks, Kevin Tucker and Dean Robillard, as well as her own brand-new client. Despite his all-American good looks and courteous manner, she knew a snake when she saw one, and she didn’t intend to drop her guard for a second.
“You must be the incorruptible Ms. Dove,” Champion said.
“Piper.”
Graham didn’t bother to get up, merely jerked his head. “Coffee in the kitchen.”
“I’m good,” she said.
“You’d better be,” he retorted.
Champion gestured toward the cou
ch. “Have a seat.”
She focused on the view through the windows so she didn’t have to look at her employer right away. A shady courtyard three stories below nested inside ivy-covered brick walls where fat yellow mums made bright spots in the shade. The ferns had begun to brown at the tips, and the leaves floating in the basin of the stone fountain announced that fall was approaching.
She forced herself to turn toward the couch. Graham sat sprawled in the center, his crossed ankles propped on a wood-and-glass coffee table shaped like a flying saucer. His white robe had fallen open far enough to reveal bare calves and an angry scar on his right knee. Another smaller scar marred his ankle. How many others did he have? And what was he wearing underneath that robe?
The thrum of female awareness infuriated her. Too much caffeine.
She put down her gray messenger bag. The couch was deep-seated, designed for a large man instead of an average-size female. If she sank back into it, her legs would stick out in front of her like a kindergartner’s, so she perched on the edge.
He took in the scorpion on her T-shirt. “Company logo?”
“Still trying to choose. Either this or a smiley face.”
Graham’s own face was tan against the stark white robe, and the open neck showed a little chest hair. She gave him a few begrudging points for not manscaping, then took them back just because she could.
He smiled, as if he’d read her mind. “What’s your plan for improving my security? I know you have one.”
She wouldn’t let a barely clothed client ruffle her. “Before I reopened the agency, I worked as a reputation manager and digital strategist for a chain of Chicago auto stores.”
“What the hell is a reputation manager?”
“An online watchdog. I monitored business sites and social media platforms for bad press. Pushed down negative search results. Put out Internet fires and fine-tuned the Web site.”
Graham was quick to catch on. “And that’ll be your cover?”
“It’s the simplest. Although that ghoul you call a door manager might recognize me.”
“Doubtful.”
“I need to get going,” Champion said. She caught the glint of a wedding band on his left hand and pictured his wife—an otherworldly buxom centerfold model with two-foot hair extensions and lips inflated like pool toys.
“You and Annabelle ditching the city for a lovers’ getaway?” Graham asked.
Piper hoped Annabelle was the buxom centerfold wife and not an unauthorized sex partner.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Champion said.
“Take some tomatoes with you.” Graham tilted his head in the general direction of the open kitchen, an efficient arrangement of aluminum and steel. “And whatever else you see that you want.”
“I won’t turn you down.” Champion crossed the kitchen and went out through a set of glass doors into what appeared to be another indulgence of the ultrarich—a rooftop garden. She wondered how much it cost Graham to have it tended.
Now that she was alone with him, the penthouse no longer felt so spacious. She needed to get down to business. “How did you figure out your ex-pal Keith had his hand in the till?”
“I followed your suggestion and did my own liquor inventory.”
“And you came up short.”
“For starters.” He rose from the couch and made his way toward the kitchen. “The son of a bitch wasn’t ringing up dozens of orders. He was also comping a crapload of drinks every night and getting big tips in return.”
“Rookie management mistake,” she said. “Letting employees decide who to comp. And keeping the tip drawer by the register makes it all too easy.”
He set his mug in the sink and glanced out the glass doors toward the garden. She didn’t like sitting while he was on his feet, and as she rose, she saw what she hadn’t noticed before. An open metal staircase at the opposite end of the penthouse leading to a sizable bedroom loft. She wondered how many of his hookups had gotten their stilettos stuck in those metal slats.
The kitchen didn’t look as though it was used for much more than brewing coffee, which made his rooftop garden even more of an indulgence. “From what I observed . . .” she said, “. . . and remember I was at Spiral to keep an eye on you, not your staff . . . Your pal Keith might have had a side deal going with a couple of the servers. Claiming a drink had been returned when it hadn’t, then voiding the sale and pocketing the money. That kind of thing.”
“Which servers?”
She wasn’t throwing anyone under the bus without evidence. “That’s what you’re hiring me to find out.”
Heath Champion came in from the garden carrying a grocery bag with green carrot fronds sticking out of the top. “You’re the only guy I know who’s growing brussels sprouts. Tomatoes I understand. Jalapeños, sure. But brussels sprouts?”
“Deal with it.”
She’d forgotten to turn off her cell, and it blared out the theme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Graham arched an eyebrow at her. “Very professional.”
She grabbed the cell from her messenger bag. The call was from Officer Eric. She turned off the ringer and reached back inside. “I have an agency contract . . .”
Graham tilted his head toward his agent. “Give it to him while I put some clothes on.” He headed toward the stairs, and for the barest moment she imagined standing under those open metal stair treads and looking up. She thrust the folder toward Champion.
He set down his garden produce and took it from her. She watched nervously as he studied the contract. Even though she’d resisted the urge to inflate her flat rate, he might still think she was too expensive.
Champion pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and clicked it. “He can afford a little more than you’re charging.”
She tried to absorb that. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting his best interests?”
Champion smiled, but didn’t respond.
Graham appeared a few minutes later dressed in jeans and a chest-hugging Stars T-shirt that did an exceptional job of displaying his remarkable shoulders. His agent handed him the contract. Graham studied it, raised an eyebrow at Champion, then looked at her. “Knock off five hundred,” he said, “and you can have the apartment over the club instead of moving into that shitty basement apartment you mentioned.”
“Cheap bastard,” his agent said cheerfully.
“There’s an apartment over the club?” Piper said.
“Two of them,” Graham replied. “One’s occupied, but the other’s free. It’s noisy when the club’s open, but you can always buy earplugs.”
“She’ll knock off three hundred,” Champion said. “That’s as low as she goes.”
Which put her right back where she’d begun, except she’d have a place to stay.
Graham squinted at his agent. “Remind me again why you’re still working for me?”
“Because you need a conscience.”
Graham didn’t seem to take offense. Instead he turned his attention back to Piper. “Move in whenever you like, but I need you on duty tonight.” He pulled a set of keys from a kitchen drawer and tossed them over. “I’ll introduce you at the staff meeting. Eight o’clock sharp.”
She had a job, and she had an apartment that wasn’t in her cousin’s basement. As she gathered up the contract, she wanted to kiss Heath Champion. But there was one more thing.
She gazed at a spot right between Graham’s dark eyebrows. “This means you’re not still suing me, right?”
She didn’t like the quick flash of his crocodile’s teeth. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
***
“There’s something I’m missing here,” Heath said as the elevator doors shut behind Piper Dove.
Coop investigated the contents of Heath’s produce bag with more concentration than it warranted. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you offer her that apartment?”
“The closer I keep her to the club, the more bang I get for my
buck.”
Heath retrieved his bag. “I hope your buck is the only thing you’re thinking about banging. That woman is not one of your actresses.”
“I’ve noticed. Besides, as you may have observed, I’m not too fond of her.”
“I got that.”
“And she flat-out despises me.”
“Definitely not one of your fans.”
“But the thing is, the woman’s got guts and integrity.”
“She’s got more than that. Great eyes, an interesting face, and a very nice pair of legs.”
“Not interested.”
“No entourage?”
Coop was damned if he’d let Heath land any more digs about either his ex-girlfriends or Piper Dove. “Get the hell out of here and go see your wife.”
“I’m on my way.”
With Heath gone, Coop wandered through the kitchen into his garden, his favorite place on earth. He’d always liked growing things, and he hadn’t seen why living in a city should change that. His big, multileveled wraparound terrace had brick walls high enough to protect the garden from the wind, making this an ideal growing place. He’d built the raised beds himself—hauling up every bag of dirt, every plant, and every pot.
During the football season, the green, earthy smells had taken his mind off the pain of his injuries. Whether he was amending the soil, deadheading flowers, or harvesting the vegetables he gave to the food pantry, out here he hadn’t been able to hear the clash of helmets, the grunts of hard hits, the roar of the crowd that swept over the field like a rogue wave. Out here, he’d been able to forget the adrenaline rush of being in control of the whole savage ballet that made up an NFL game.
Now that he was no longer playing, he came out here to get away from himself—away from the constant churning in his head as he thought about the future. But today the peace of his garden wasn’t working. A week had passed since his last meeting with Deidre Joss, and he hadn’t heard a word. She’d said a decision would take time, but he wasn’t good at waiting. In another few months, Spiral would break even, and he’d be ready to move on to the next phase of his new career—building a franchise of nightclubs around other big-name athletes who were too busy or not smart enough to set out on their own.