Alison Kent - Goes Down Easy

Jack watched as Perry stood there, naked and dripping. Her hair hung in wet hanks to the tops of her breasts. It was jet-black, the same color as her big bright eyes.

Her skin on the other hand was lily-white, a delicate porcelain pale, the only color that of the dark cherry centers of her breasts. He’d tasted her, made love to her, had her mouth on him, but there was something about seeing her like this that wound him up hot and tight.

“I want to know something,” she said, backing up when he started toward her.

He climbed into the shower, breathing deeply of the spice and the steam. “What’s that?”

“The case. What are you going to do next?”

It was hard to take her interest in his business seriously when they were both wet and naked. Jack sighed. “Don’t do this, Perry.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Get involved with me…make this into something it’s not.”

She paused. “Then tell me, Jack. What is going on here?”

“It’s just sex, Perry. That’s all.”

Yet they both knew that was a lie.

Dear Reader,

I hope you’ve read the special Blaze anthology Red Letter Nights (Nov. 2005), and the follow-up book by the fabulous Karen Anders, Give Me Fever (Dec. 2005). In February 2006 watch for another sexy story in our New Orleans–set series, Going All Out, this one by the talented Jeanie London.

This month, however, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Jack Montgomery and Perry Brazille. Perry you met in my Red Letter Nights novella, “Luv U Madly.” And Jack first came onto the scene as the bass player for “the deck” in my 1999 Harlequin Temptation novel, Four Men & a Lady.

The reunion story’s opening chapters found Jack onstage fronting for his band, Diamond Jack. Later, at the picnic and ball game, he talked about his days in military service, about seeing enough of the world. Well, this is where I finally learned more about what Jack had seen and where he’d been. I also discovered what he’d done and what he’d suffered.

Goes Down Easy is the story of two people for whom no other love exists. It also wraps up the tales of the final three of my original four men. I hope you enjoy Jack’s adventure and the great romance he shares with his very own Gypsy woman, Perry Brazille. Please visit my Web site at www.alisonkent.com to learn more about what I’m now writing for my favorite line in the world—Harlequin Blaze.

Alison Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for the readers whose letters keep me going and whose daily visits to my blog help keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds. You all are the best.

A special acknowledgment goes to Laurie Damron, who graciously took the time to read this story in its initial incarnation and helped me make it better.

Also, thank you to Colleen Collins and Shaun Kauffman for answering my question about P.I. legalities. Any and all gaffes are my own.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

THE TRAIL went cold in New Orleans the same time as the weather, a double header for which Jack Montgomery wasn’t prepared. Since hired by Cindy Eckhardt to look into the kidnapping of her husband Dayton—chief executive for Eckton Computing and missing since New Year’s Day—he’d reveled in all kinds of heat.

First there was the temperature that had the Gulf Coast in an unseasonably sweaty grip. Next, the series of hot leads that had him hoofin’ it across the state line, from Texas into Louisiana. Finally, the burning in his gut that made him believe this case was going to go down like cream.

But then the tables had turned, flipping him a big fat bird. And now he found himself standing in the middle of Jackson Square, a week into the new year, freezing his ass off and wondering whether he’d be doing better to turn left or right.

It wasn’t that Cindy, the trophy wife nearly thirty years her husband’s junior, didn’t trust the cops or the feds to get the job done, as much as it was her needing to know someone had her back. Especially since Dayton’s heart medication had been found on the ground at the kidnapping scene, and a week into the case the authorities were no closer to a solution than they’d been on day one.

He started walking aimlessly. The sign for Café Eros came into view, reminding him that he was hungry enough to eat a six-foot submarine sandwich. Café Eros, eh? Well, he’d never been one to turn his back on love—even if right now the only affair he was interested in involved his stomach and a whole lot of food.

Burrowing into his hooded sweatshirt, Jack headed for the building’s courtyard. He jogged up the stairs to the small eatery’s second floor, hoping it wasn’t busy, not in the mood for a crowd.

Too much noise interfered with his ability to process information, to analyze, to reason, to think—which was why he and special ops had made such a good fit for eight of his twelve years in the Marines. The missions he had run required secrecy, and communication was often accomplished with hand signals and nothing more.

When hitting a dead end like this one, however, he doubted even total silence would help. What he needed was a sign. But first he needed a sandwich.

At the counter, behind which was painted a mural of a swaggering swashbuckler, Jack ordered a bowl of gumbo and half a muffuletta. When in Rome, and all that. He took a seat at a table decorated with a purple, green and gold Mardi Gras tablecloth and picked up a copy of the Times-Picayune.

He scanned the front page, listening to the smoky jazz playing from the café’s corner speakers—God, he loved jazz—sipping at a hot chicory coffee blend, the warmth of the mug thawing his fingers and doing a good job of heating up the iceberg in his gut. He was not cut out for the cold.

He’d lived most of his life in Texas for that very reason. His three tours of duty were the only years he’d spent away from the Lone Star State. Bring on the heat and humidity; that was his motto. Even the mosquitoes and the ragweed couldn’t drive him away.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for what he’d suffered during his years in special ops—the lack of food, of sleep, of shelter, often of contact with another soul whose native tongue was the same as his. And weather so hot and humid, the air so heavy with moisture that there were days that just breathing had been hard work.

Ending his trip down weather lane, he turned to page two, eating as he skimmed the paper. The coffee was hot and biting, the gumbo steaming with spicy sausage and the tang of tomatoes, okra and bay leaf. At this rate he might dig in and stay for awhile.

Sounded a lot more appealing than admitting he’d screwed up somewhere, and that the job he’d taken at the request of the Eckhardt family was quickly heading down the tubes. He’d been surprised when Becca Nelson, the University of Texas coed who ran his Austin-based private investigation business between classes from her Blackberry, had told him of Cindy Eckhardt’s call.

He had a reputation for finding people who didn’t want to be found. The sixteen-year-old Dallas trust funder who’d wanted to play in a rock ’n’ roll band. The bride from Fort Worth who’d changed her mind on the way to the church. Most recently, the San Antonio bank executive who’d left his position in the midst of a midlife crisis, taking a new name—and a whole lot of his employer’s money with him.