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She cleared her throat. “Sorry, Zelda Madison, I’m a friend of your sister Faith’s. We met once at St. John the Apostle Academy. You probably don’t remember me, but I…”
“I remember you.” He cut off the hurried explanation as shock was edged out by temper, and the weird pulse of heat in his crotch—which had to be a layover from Mila and the Rocky Road.
Even if he could have forgotten how this woman had nearly got Faith expelled from the boarding school his old man had saved every penny to pay for, he could hardly have missed how her antics had been plastered over the tabloids, not to mention every scandal sheet and glossy magazine in the country, ever since her misspent youth. Not that he read that shit himself. But the woman was legendary, or rather notorious, for her bad choices and her even worse behavior.
An American ambassador’s daughter who’d had every privilege known to man—and woman—and every natural gift God could have given her. And she’d thumbed her nose at it all to indulge in an endless cycle of hedonistic parties, public lover’s spats, drunken antics, and reckless misdemeanors.
The press, of course, loved her, with her outspoken personality, and that killer face and figure, especially when she’d managed to make an even bigger fortune out of her notoriety, falling into a high profile career as a model six years back, and becoming the face of some fancy shampoo that sold for a fortune in Bergdorf’s but probably didn’t smell any better than the two-dollar brand his mom had used. He despised people like Zelda, but he would have been able to ignore all that—her and her class weren’t exactly on his radar—but for the fact he knew Faith had carried on being pals with her. Enough to have her deign to come to Sully’s occasionally—and it stuck in his craw. Like Faith needed to compare her life—spent doing good honest work while running his family’s pub in Bay Ridge—with the all-expenses paid, high-class funfair of controlled substances, globetrotting decadence, and million-dollar shopping sprees that was Zelda Madison’s useless existence.
But none of that explained why the woman was ringing him at two a.m. with that quiver of urgency in her voice.
“Excellent, I’m glad you remember me,” she replied. “That saves me having to waste time making introductions.” The cut-glass accent spiked his temper more.
He happened to know she’d been born in Manhattan—on the Upper East Side to be exact, in that massive Gothic townhouse where the Madisons had lived for generations. And while that may as well have separated her from the people he’d dedicated his career to represent by several million dollars of disposable income, the last time he’d looked, East Fifty-Second Street was still part of America, so why the Sam Hell did she talk with the crisp, holier-than-thou voice of a British royal?
“Doesn’t it just.” he muttered, knowing he was sounding surly but not really caring. It was the middle of the freaking night, he had a lump growing on his forehead the size of a baseball, and a bad case of sexual frustration thanks to the perfectly good erotic fantasy she’d just interrupted. Not to mention a single mom and four kids who were depending on his advocacy skills being razor-sharp for the court hearing he had tomorrow at nine. “So how about you cut to the chase.”
“Um, well the thing is, I’m in a bind. A bind I’d sincerely appreciate your help with.”
She had to be kidding. “Look, lady, if you’ve torn a fingernail or something, call Faith, you’re confusing me with someone who gives a …”
“I’m not phoning Faith, because she’s not an attorney. You are.” Zelda interrupted, the hint of steel in the cut-glass surprising him. “Now will you shut up for two seconds and let me explain. I don’t want to waste anymore of the desk sergeant’s precious time. I’ve only got one phone call and you’re it.”
The desk sergeant? One phone call? What the fuck?
He straightened, his natural instinct to preserve liberty and protect a client, even one as unworthy as her, kicking in despite his better judgment.
“Okay, let’s have it, Zelda. Where the hell are you? And what the hell have you done this time?”
He scrubbed his fingers through his hair as he listened to her explanation—which had more holes in it than a slice of swiss—while a chill shot down his spine. Damn it, did the woman have no regard at all for her personal safety? Then he scribbled down the address of the station house she’d been taken to by a couple of beat cops who had a lot more sense than she did.
The woman didn’t need an attorney—she’d only been given a citation—she needed a damn keeper. And for tonight it looked like her keeper was going to have to be him. He tugged on his clothes in the dark, recalling her sticking her tongue out at him ten years ago, with the dancing light of challenge and defiance in her eyes. His palm twitched as he grabbed his wallet and car keys.
She’d needed a damn good spanking back then. Apparently that hadn’t changed if the dumb stunt she’d pulled tonight was anything to go by.
It wasn’t until he was stumbling up the marina’s gangplank in the dark, though, en route to an assignment he was already regretting, that it occurred to him to wonder how the hell Zelda Madison had gotten his cell number.
Faith was a dead woman next time he saw her.
Chapter Two
‡
“Hey, Ms. Madison, looks like your knight arrived, you wanna grab your stuff? Let’s get you the hell out of here.”
Zelda sent the burly middle-aged sergeant a blinding smile that she knew could knock out any man at three hundred paces—because she’d perfected it for photographers, advertising executives, and even the odd sugar daddy, over the last ten years.
“Thank you, Officer Kelly,” she said, beyond grateful for his relaxed and amused response earlier in the evening to what could have been a very sticky situation indeed. “I appreciate everything you and your partner have done tonight.”
Holding her head high, she did her best Paris Fashion Week walk as she followed him out of the empty interview room she’d been left in for the last hour, to contemplate what an idiot she was after Kelly had let her call someone to pick her up.
A someone who had sounded on the phone like he was a lot less relaxed and amused than Officer Kelly about the prospect of riding to her rescue.
Of all the people to have to rely upon, Tyrone Sullivan aka Mr. High and Mighty, would not have been her first choice. But given the circumstances, she hadn’t had a lot of other options when Faith had given Zel her brother’s cell number and insisted she give him a call.
“All part of the job.” Officer Kelly smiled back at her showing a gold tooth. “We’re here to protect and serve.”
“Even stupid people?”
