owns an underwear shop at Masado Towers, Jackson. You’re the man who moved to the sin capital of the world. I shouldn’t have to tell you that a woman as beautiful as that most likely wears the hundred-dollar underwear she sells. And that kind of expensive silk, dear boy, is made to be seen, not kept undercover.” Suddenly eyeing her son’s head, she said, “You’ve cut your hair. What prompted that?”
“The heat.” It wasn’t a lie. Still, he wouldn’t mention he was having boss trouble or she’d start pestering him about moving back to Chicago where he belonged.
She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest to study her son. “It looks good. You look like your father.”
It was still hard to talk about his father’s death and the dark years prior to it. His father’s diabetes had been a nightmare for all of them. “How’s the knee, Ma?”
“Like new.” She swung her leg out from under the table to show him how easily her knee could move without pain.
When she’d had surgery a year ago, Jackson had returned to Chicago for a week. That had been the one and only time he’d been back since he’d relocated to New Orleans.
“Tell me about your partner.”
Jackson hadn’t mentioned Mac to his mother, outside the fact that he had a new partner. She still didn’t know he was a dog. “Mac made the trip with me.”
“Then this is a field assignment, not a vacation?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“You guess? Either it is or it isn’t, Jackson.”
“Okay, Ma, it’s work related.” His mother was studying him with one raised eyebrow. “What?”
“This assignment, can you talk about it?”
“It has to do with the Tandi murder, Ma. But that’s not for public discussion, okay?”
“You know I never talk to anyone about your work.”
He knew that, and that’s why he always felt free to bounce ideas off her. “Okay, here it is. Sunni Blais is my boss’s daughter. I’m here to clear her name.”
His mother’s eyes widened with surprise. “That woman is your boss’s daughter?”
“What about the old scandal, Ma? Could Milo’s death have something to do with the old feud with Frank Masado?”
“It’s true the scandal has never really died out. People still talk, still speculate where Grace is buried. But the rules Vito and Frank play by have never changed. It seems more likely that this woman killed Milo. The evidence is pretty convincing.”
“But she’s innocent, Ma.”
“A few minutes ago you asked me what I’ve been hearing, like your mind wasn’t made up. Now you say she’s innocent.” Lavina shook her head. “I can tell you this much, she doesn’t look like a victim.”
Mouth-watering curves outlined in red silk flashed behind Jackson’s eyes. No, he decided, a woman showing off smother-me-please breasts to the degree Sunni had tonight didn’t look like a victim. But did being beautiful and owning a million-dollar chest make her a murderess?
“Women who look like that are dangerous, Jackson. Look what happened to Frank Masado. Grace Tandi was the most beautiful woman alive. Frank knew better than to sleep with his best friend’s wife, so why did he? I’ll tell you why. Because Grace tricked him into thinking with his Johnson instead of his head.”
Jackson grinned. “His what, Ma?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” She scowled when Jackson chuckled. “Maybe you should warn Joey to be careful. And take a little of that advice for yourself.”
Jackson snorted. “Warn Joe? Like he would listen to me any more than Lucky would.”
“You underestimate yourself, Jackson. I can still picture you boys lined up on the couch in the living room watching cartoons. You three used to belly-laugh together so hard that you would turn blue and almost stop breathing. You camped together. Went to movies. Shared spaghetti off the same plate. Slept out in the rain together in that old leaky clubhouse in the backyard. Those two boys had a hand in shaping you, and making you who you are today. And contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t Frank who made Joey and Lucky who they are. Who they really are, anyway.” Lavina patted her son’s arm, then pushed his coffee cup toward him and raised hers in a salute. “Friends forever, Jackson. To the end and beyond.”
Jackson raised his cup, then downed the strong coffee and stood. He’d left Mac asleep on the couch, and more than likely something in the apartment needed rescuing by now—the desk chair, the bedspread…his T-shirt. “So if I get a chance to pick you up a pair of underwear at Silks in the next day or two, what color do you fancy, Ma? Widow-spider black, or chili-pepper, too-hot-to-handle red?”
Lavina took a wild swing at her son and missed. “What would a woman my age do with silk drawers?”
Jackson leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek, then whispered, “Give Charlie a thrill. It’s his birthday next month, right?” As he headed for the door, he tossed over his shoulder, “Maybe a better present would be saying yes next time he asks you to marry him.”
Chapter 3
A strange feeling raised the hair on the back of Sunni’s neck. It was as if she and Joey had chased a thief out the back door as they had come through the front door.
But that was impossible. She was just spooked, is all. And the blame rested squarely on Rambo’s broad shoulders—that wicked grin he’d flashed her a second before he’d walked away from their table had gotten her so flustered her imagination was playing tricks on her.
Sunni shoved the green-eyed demon from her thoughts and concentrated on getting Joey Masado out of her apartment as soon as possible. She said, “You wanted to talk privately. So talk.”
“Who’s your decorator?”
She glanced toward her dinner date and found him standing in the middle of her living room studying her taste in decor. “Me.” As a good host, she was forced to ask, “Would you care for something to drink? Beer? Wine? Something stronger?”
“Beer would be fine. I like all the color.”
The Crown Plaza was an upscale apartment complex, but the sterility of white walls and white carpets had driven Sunni on a quest to bring a touch of warmth into her home. She loved bold colors, especially red, and had painted the living room raspberry red, and her kitchen and small dining room, a shade lighter.
A sculptured glass coffee table separated a pair of mustard-yellow leather sofas. Wing chairs in raspberry-and-green-rose-patterned tapestry were used as accents. A number of expensive Tiffany lamps also expressed Sunni’s love for color—her favorite a one-of-a-kind Calafar with a giant red-and-amber shade that stood behind one of the sofas. A built-in bookshelf hinted that Sunni’s interest in roses was more than just casual—her book collection was as extensive as the fragrant collection she had in her greenhouse.
A dozen damask and silk pillows scattered throughout the living room gave the space a female-shrine feeling, as did the bone china in her kitchen cupboards, and the fresh-cut roses in colorful vases that could be found in every room—even the bathroom.
“Maybe I should have you make a few suggestions for brightening up my suite at Masado Towers.”
He turned and Sunni was surprised to find him smiling. The spare expression softened his dramatic good looks and made him appear more human. She rounded the island counter and took one step up to enter the kitchen. As she retrieved the requested beer, she said, “I’m sure you can find someone far more qualified.”
Beer in hand, she turned around, knowing that he had followed her into the kitchen. She handed him the beverage, avoiding