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Real men don't apply for rent-a-pig jobs.
Nick Desmond squirmed in the soft waiting room chair. Whoever "Mrs. F" was,
she'd been insistent about meeting him--had promised him top pay with important
perks.
As her bodyguard...
Just thinking about it made him shudder. Well, he was here, but he hated
being here. Hated what he'd become...
Since his third birthday, all he'd wanted was to be a cop--one of New York
City's finest. It was in his blood, just like his old man and his old man's old
man. He needed a frigging family tree to keep it straight.
John Desmond had been proud enough to burst the day Nick--his only child--had
received his gold badge. Dad never finished college, and though he was a well
respected police officer, he would never be a detective. Nick couldn't remember
ever wanting anything as much as that gold badge, or ever being as happy as he
was that day. He'd worked hard for it. Earned it. Deserved it, dammit.
Sure, he wanted a wife and kids someday--a home. Dad would've made a terrific
grandpa. Nick's breath hitched and he cleared his throat.
Fate had other ideas. His second day as a detective, he was added to a
special task force assigned to put an end to the Fazzini drug empire. His third
day as a detective, he received an anonymous threat--either look the other way,
or lose what was most important to him.
The fourth day, John Desmond was gunned down on the sidewalk outside their
apartment building....
Nick arrived while Dad was still alive. The old man's last words had been
about family, and about how proud he was of his son.
The department called it a random, drive-by shooting, but Nick knew better.
He'd been warned. He tried for six months to prove his father's death had been
murder, but for every step forward he took, three new barriers appeared.
Someone in the department was on the take. Someone important. And that
someone had planted Nick to give the task force some credibility--the new
detective with a clean nose. Whoever was in charge didn't want to take Nick out
the same way they'd eliminated John Desmond, because that would have raised
suspicion of an inside job. So, instead, they'd framed Nick. Planted evidence
that he was a cop on the take.
After that, the world Nick Desmond knew and the future he'd dreamed of were
gone forever. Even now, the irony, the unfairness, brought bile to his
throat.
Shit. He needed a drink. Seemed as if he needed a drink more often
than he wanted one these days. And Nick didn't like needing anyone or anything.
He'd been there, done that, and set fire to the damned T-shirt.
Acid churned in his stomach and he forced his thoughts in another direction.
Get a job--get a life. Even framed ex-cops had to eat. He'd spent every
waking moment and most of his nightmares trying to pin Dad's murder on Fazzini.
He'd lived and breathed revenge, revenge, revenge.
What did he have to show for that? Not a damned thing. But he wasn't about to
quit now--or anytime. He just had to have an income, too.
After adjusting his attitude, he worked on the strangling tie, and gave his
collar another tug, for all the good it would do. Who the hell had invented
neckties anyway? Probably a woman.
"Damn." He swallowed the lump in his throat and let his head fall back
against the wall with a soft thud.
A blonde--a direct descendant of the inventor of neckties, no doubt--emerged
from the inner office. A distraction just when he needed one most.
She eyed him over the rim of her black-framed glasses. "Mr. Desmond, thank
you for waiting. Mrs. F will see you now."
Nick gritted his teeth as he stood. Time to face my shitty future.
Nick straightened his tie again and tugged at the hem of his sport coat.
"Ready as I'll ever be. Lead me to Her Majesty."
The blonde arched a brow and pursed her lips. She looked like she'd been
sucking lemons down at Martinaro's Fruit Stand.
"A word of advice, Mr. Desmond." The blonde's voice took on an uppity, nasal
quality.
"Yeah?"
"Treat Mrs. F with respect."
"I treat everybody with respect, unless they give me a reason not to." He
flashed her a grin as she spun around and marched through the door ahead of him.
"Detective Desmond, I presume?" a soft voice with a faint Irish lilt greeted
as he entered the inner office.
Nick sucked in a breath and held it, forcing himself to face the owner of the
voice. He'd come this far, so he'd damned well follow through.
A diminutive woman sat in a huge leather chair behind a massive desk, the
epitome of little old lady--matriarch and Queen Mother rolled into one. A cap of
curly white hair crowned a face delicately marked by the passage of time, but
he'd be willing to bet his first paycheck that she'd been a real babe a few
decades ago.
The old lady peered at him with piercing blue eyes. "My, but you are a tall
one. I believe you'll do quite nicely, Detective."
Confused, he held up an index finger, prepared to question the woman, but
hesitated. After all, he'd come here for a job interview, and she'd practically
hired him on sight. "I'm a little confused. And, in case you missed it, I'm not
a detective anymore."
"Tall, strapping, ice blue eyes, gleaming black hair." She gave a satisfied
nod. "Hollywood would call you Black Irish."
Nick held himself rigid. He'd sunk low enough to even discuss this position.
The least he could do was hear her out, even if she didn't make sense. "Yeah.
So?"
The old woman's eyes narrowed and an intensity shot from them and right
through Nick. "Blood will tell," she said.
Nick tilted his head at an angle, studying her. "Whose blood?"
The ghost of a smile parted the woman's lips, revealing papery fine wrinkles
in her fair skin. "No one's, if you do your job right."
Nick had to laugh. Shaking his head, he said, "You want a bodyguard?" It's
just a job, Desmond. Just a job. He held his hands out to his sides, palms
up. "I'm your man."
"So you are." She folded her hands on her desk. "You're dismissed, Trish,"
she said to her assistant.
"Yes, ma'am."
A moment later, Nick was alone with the most unusual woman he'd ever
encountered. She seemed downright royal, sitting across from him in that
oversized chair. A frigging throne.
"Have a seat, Mr. Desmond," she said, indicating a chair much smaller than
her own. "We'll discuss your duties."
Nick arched a brow as he lowered himself onto the soft and, no doubt,
insanely expensive leather. "I haven't heard a job offer yet," he said.
"Ma'am."
Again, the regal nod. "True. I reviewed your credentials and checked your
references before contacting you. You're the man I want for the job." She
drummed her meticulously manicured nails on the desk's surface for a few
minutes, then added, "Your salary will be five thousand to start."
"Five thousand a month is sixty grand a year. As a bodyguard?" He held
his breath, trying to act cool when he really wanted to pump the air with his
fist and shout Yes! Instead, he sighed, realizing this fell into the
too-good-to-be-true category. "What do I have to do for that much money? If you
have something illegal in mind, you're talking to the wrong guy."
"I know that, too."
She smiled and he realized she wasn't as frail as she appeared. Her brain was
razor sharp. The old woman was manipulating him, and definitely up to something.
Something big. The gut instinct he'd relied on while on the force kicked into
full gear.
"You misunderstood me." Her expression was bland--deceptively so, no doubt.
"Your position will be twenty-four and seven. Live in, if you wish. Therefore,
I'm offering you five thousand per week, Mr. Desmond."
"Holy shit." He shot out of the chair. To hell with cool. "Lady, you
must be high on some kinda drug."
"Not at all."
"That's...over a quarter million bucks a year." He sank into the chair again,
the sound of a cash register ringing in his ears.
"I'll make a note that you're adept at mathematics, and I hope I won't
need your services for the full year," she said, smiling like the proverbial cat
that had caught the piss-ant canary. "Will you accept the position, Mr.
Desmond?"
Nick steepled his fingers beneath his chin, trying to remain calm and
rational while visions of dollar signs danced through his mushy brain. He had to
clear his name--keep his nose clean. "You're sure nothing illegal is involved?"
"Probably not."
He snorted. "What, exactly, does 'probably not' mean?"
The woman fell silent for a few moments, obviously contemplating her next
words with great care. "Some facts must remain confidential. You might consider
that unethical. I consider it sacred."
Nick chewed his lower lip and stroked his five o'clock stubble with his thumb
and forefinger. The rasping sound in his head wasn't loud enough to drown out
the sound of money. Lots of money. More importantly, he'd be paid for doing
something similar to police work. All right, so that was a stretch, but this was
as good as it could ever be again until he nailed the bastard who'd destroyed
him.
And murdered Dad.
He drew a deep breath, forcing calm, cool logic to his mind. It's
too good. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pinned Mrs. F with
his cop-after-answers look. "Why?"
"Why what?" She lifted her chin a notch, her expression emotionless.
And that made him even more suspicious.
"Why me?" He drew a deep breath. "And what do you expect for five grand a
week? I'm not exactly your typical boy toy."
Her cheeks pinkened and she stiffened. "I assure you, I am not after a...a
boy toy." Her expression softened. "However, if I were, I think you would
do quite nicely."
Heat flashed in Nick's cheeks. The old broad had made him blush. Jeez.
He'd seen it all and done most of it. No one--especially not a little old
lady--should be able to make Nick Desmond blush.
"Well..." He combed his fingers through his hair again, knowing she probably
realized by now it was a nervous habit. "So what do you want for all that
dough?"
"I believe we get what we pay for." She lifted one shoulder and an innocent
smile curved her lips. "I want discretion, loyalty, and the best bodyguard money
can buy. I believe that's you."
"Hmm." She could've hired him as a simple bodyguard for a lot less, and he
had a hunch she knew it. It wasn't as if he'd kept his dismissal from the police
force a secret. In fact, he'd mentioned it when her assistant first called him
to arrange this meeting. Honest to a fault. "Someone threaten you?" he
asked, holding her gaze as he watched for any sign that she could be lying. He
found none. Yet.
"Not directly. Let's just say the threat is implied." Her expression
hardened, but she still didn't look away.
"Again, why me?"
"Because I can meet your price."
"I'm not for sale."
"I have something you want."
"What?"
"A man of many words, I see." She pursed her lips and folded her hands on the
desktop. "Do you want to know who I am, Mr. Desmond?"
He shrugged, feigning disinterest. Damn straight I want to know who you
are, Granny Warbucks. "What's the F stand for?"
She hesitated. "A name that shall live in infamy, I'm afraid." Something
resembling regret clouded her eyes. "My husband was..."
Nick stiffened, sensing some serious shit was coming down. "Who?" He kept his
voice steady, though the sudden urge to shout and slide into Bad Cop mode
struggled for supremacy. "Who was your husband?"
"Angelo Fazzini."
Fingers of ice burst from a frozen lump in Nick's gut and spread outward.
Surely he hadn't heard her correctly. "Float that one by me again," he said, his
voice as steady as he could manage.
"You heard correctly." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'm not proud
of who and what he was. I didn't learn the true extent of his villainy until
after his death."
"Villainy?" Nick hissed through clenched teeth to stave off the fury. The
hatred. "Talk about your classic understatement."
She inclined her head for a few seconds, then finally met his gaze again.
"Forty-two years ago, Angelo Fazzini swept me away from Ireland with romance and
pretty words. He was powerful and worldly. I was young. Innocent. Foolish." She
rolled her eyes. "Now I am none of those things."
"Yet you stayed married to him." Nick gnashed his teeth. "You must have known
about his connections." Say it, Desmond. Say it. "Mob
connections."
"I denied it to myself. And, Mother Mary help me, I loved him. At least, I
loved the man I thought he was." Self-deprecation etched itself across her face,
furrowing her brow. She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I looked
the other way, because I was raised to believe marriage was forever. The church
would never have seen it any other way."
"So what changed your mind?"
A haunted look came into her faded eyes. "When I discovered our son had
followed his father into the...business. By then, it was too late to prevent the
inevitable."
Nick snorted again. Fazzini Junior's New York drug operation was one of the
most profitable and deadly in the whole damned country. The real culprit who had
murdered Dad and destroyed Nick's career had gone free. Angelo Fazzini, Junior.
Free.
The Fazzini operation had friends in high and low places. Cops on the take,
politicians in their beds, and their thumbs on the national media. One dead
officer and a destroyed junior detective didn't amount to shit compared to the
big picture.
And now...he pinned his gaze on Junior's mother. The irony of it tasted
bitter. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, elbows locked, every
muscle in his body ready for action.
He tried to think of one good reason why he should accept the offer.
Besides the money.
Bad money. Drug money. Blood money. The guilt would gnaw at him, and his
ancestors would rise from their graves and hunt down any Desmond on the
take.
Of course, Nick wasn't a cop now. Might never be again...
"I need a bodyguard who's as desperate as me. Someone I can trust," the woman
said, her voice revealing some of the tension she'd managed to hide earlier.
"For myself...and my granddaughter."
"You think I care what happens to Junior's kid?" Nick barked a derisive laugh
and pushed to his feet. He had to get the hell out of here before he told the
old lady all the horrors her husband and son had caused.
"Yes, I think you care," the woman said on a sigh. "Like I was four decades
ago, my granddaughter is an innocent. My daughter-in-law found her escape
from reality in the bottom of a bourbon bottle until she died." Mrs. F stared
into the distance, then swung her gaze back to Nick and stood. "Help me save my
granddaughter from her grandfather's evil legacy, Mr. Desmond. It's too late for
me. My life is all but over, but I'll do anything I can to protect Erin.
Anything."
The woman's words reverberated through his head. There was something wrong
with her story--something he should remember. "Wait..." He rubbed his temples
and stared at her. "How many kids does Junior have?"
"Only one." The old woman shifted her gaze just enough to alert Nick that she
was hiding something.
"What are you up to, lady?" he asked as he remembered the case in question.
"Angelo Fazzini's only grandchild was kidnapped and never found. I was fresh out
of the Police Academy when it happened."
The woman lifted her chin a notch. "That is correct."
"Well, gosh," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "color me confused."
"Erin wasn't kidnapped. Exactly."
"Holy..." Realization made him cough, but he couldn't prevent the seeds of
admiration germinating in his brain. This woman had grit. "You?"
"Indeed."
"Why?"
She drew a deep breath and released it very slowly. "I asked my son to give
up his life of crime for his child. He refused."
"Let me get this straight." Nick held up one finger. "You kidnapped your own
granddaughter and have kept her hidden all these years?"
"Correct." No sign of remorse crossed the woman's face. "I will do whatever
is necessary to protect her, though I failed her mother."
"What do you mean?"
She lifted her chin and her eyes blazed. "I have proof that my
daughter-in-law did not commit suicide. She was helped. That knowledge was the
catalyst that made me... move Erin."
Nick released a low whistle. "You're talking about your own flesh and blood
here."
Her lower lip trembled a little, and she bit it. After a moment, she drew a
deep breath. "My own son. My baby. Now a monster. A killer of innocents."
Nick didn't have to tell her about the extent of Junior's crimes after all.
Even more importantly, he believed her. A mother wouldn't turn on her own
kid without damned good reasons. She had those in spades. "Where is your
granddaughter now?"
"We haven't reached an agreement yet, Mr. Desmond."
"You're slick, lady."
"Thank you."
Nick grinned. "What's your plan?" he asked, wondering why the hell he was
still here, yet knowing he would not--could not--leave now.
"My granddaughter has spent these past years abroad, in a private boarding
school." She lifted her chin a notch, her expression unwavering. "Now, at
eleven, Erin wants to leave there. She wants to live with me--her only living
relative. So she believes..."
Nick released a low whistle. "But you can't bring her home."
"So you see my dilemma." Mrs. F lifted a shoulder. "My granddaughter is far
too high spirited for her own good sometimes."
High spirited sounded like trouble to Nick. "Does she know who she is?
More importantly, who her father is?"
"She doesn't remember, thank the Blessed Virgin," the old woman explained,
shaking her head. "I placed Erin in an abbey school with a generous monthly
allowance for the Sisters. The only name they, or she, know is my maiden one.
I've visited often over the years, and taken her to the Continent for holidays,
so Erin knows me well. As I mentioned, she and the Sisters believe I am her only
living relative."
"Clever." Nick nodded his approval.
"Necessary."
"Now what?"
Angelo Fazzini's widow set her jaw and her blue eyes flashed with
determination. "I've promised to take her to my home, though not here, of
course."
"Keeping her hidden from your son's tentacles won't be easy."
"Angelo believes his daughter is dead." The woman's expression was solemn.
"Besides, they won't think to look where we're going."
"And where is that?"
She narrowed her eyes again. "You haven't accepted the position yet, Mr.
Desmond," she repeated. "How can I trust you not to reveal our destination until
you've made a commitment?"
"Besides the money, give me one good reason to accept this crazy job."
A victorious smile spread across the woman's face. "A reason no red-blooded
Irishman can refuse, Mr. Desmond."
"Try me, lady." He folded his arms across his abdomen and waited.
"Revenge."
Nick's heart skipped a beat and his breath lodged in his throat. "So that's
why you chose me."
"Precisely." The old woman's smile had vanished. "I have the evidence you
need. All of it. I can prove who murdered your father, and also who framed
you."
He clenched his fists, his head pounding. "All right," he said. "I'll play.
Give me the evidence."
She arched both brows, her expression one of open disbelief. "Once I'm
certain that Erin and I are safe, you'll have the key to a safe deposit
box."
He wanted the evidence now, but he could tell this woman wasn't about
to give it to him yet. Nick forced himself to concentrate on her words, though
his lust for vengeance raged through his veins like a fever. "When?"
"A year at the most. Surely we'll be safe by then."
"A year?" He gritted his teeth. It sounded like forever, but he'd waited this
long, and he could wait a little longer. He would have his revenge. Finally.
"Not one day more than a year. Where are we going?"
"In a moment. You're a man of your word. Please remember that. A child's
life--and mine--could be at stake."
Junior's mother was toast if her son ever learned what she'd done. The old
lady had guts. "You have my word, and that's that. Where?"
"To the village your grandfather's family is from," she said. "Ballybronagh
in the southernmost tip of County Clare."
"Ireland?" It might as well be another planet. He resigned himself. He'd be
counting the days. "Good hiding place."
"I think so. My people were from County Cork, so no one there should
recognize my maiden name." She pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze never
wavering. "You're a man in search of his roots, and your connection to
Ballybronagh will help establish us there. Once that's accomplished, you will
have your evidence and may do with it as you please."
He held up one finger, struggling against the urge to get soft. The lady had
grit. "Not one frigging day more than a year."
"Agreed, Mr. Desmond." She narrowed her eyes. "And though I abhor violence,
let me assure you of this."
"Yeah?"
"If you betray our location to anyone, even after that year...I will
kill you myself."
<END>
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