Melinda Curtis - Count on Love

He didn’t buy for a minute that she hadn’t at least known her husband was a crook. And then there was the slick way she’d handled the situation at Tiny’s. Obviously, some of her father’s habits had rubbed off…. In the span of less than eight hours she’d tried to confuse Sam about who she really was, but he’d seen through the facade.

He hadn’t heard a word from Sabatinni. Sam was in a bind. And from the looks of the shabby apartment block, so was Annie. Maybe she did have skills he could use, and since she wasn’t Suzy Homemaker, he had no qualms about using them.

Sam rapped on the door.

“Can I help you?” The older man who opened it looked like he’d seen too many late nights in smoky bars. He had to be Brett Raye.

The furniture was dated, and the television was bolted to a stand as if this was a cheap hotel, but something smelled wonderful. Fast food was not being served for dinner. “I’m looking for Annie Raye.”

Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, Annie, barefoot and wearing only that little lace blouse over her skirt, appeared behind the old geezer. “Sam?” Her face brightened. “You called Carl Nunes?”

Much as he hated to clear that smile off her face, Sam had to shake his head.

That quick, he became unwelcome. “How did you find me? And what do you want?”

Sam stepped into the apartment with a grin. “A funny thing happened to me in the parking lot of Tiny’s after you left.”

The old man’s mouth dropped open dramatically and he turned to Annie. “You were at a casino today?”

“Not now, Dad.”

“But—”

“Dad.”

“I left enough messages in Sabatinni’s voice mail that his box was full. And as I watched you pull out, I couldn’t help but think—”

Annie raised her brows.

“—that you were just the expert I needed on this case.” Sam waited.

She didn’t disappoint. “Go on.”

“Maybe we could work something out. You help me for a couple of days and then I help you with Carl.” He didn’t even care if she was bluffing about how much she understood card counting. As long as they found the group of cardsharps, Mr. Patrizio would be happy. And Vince? Sam would have to admit he’d taken the job, and hope his friend understood.

“This sounds an awful lot like blackmail,” Brett said with an assessing look. “I don’t think I like you.”

“Let me handle this.” Annie twirled the towel, as if about to swat someone with it. The woman had fire beneath her conservative exterior. “This is not an even exchange. My services are worth more than the price of a background check.”

He bet they were. “I can offer you a cut if we identify this card counter and any accomplices. Enough to help you out.”

Brett was making incomprehensible noises and working his mouth like a fish.

“How much are we talking here?” Annie cocked one eyebrow.

Damn, she was sharp.

A toilet flushed. A door opened. A little blond kid skipped into the room. “Is it dinner yet?”

Sam stepped back. His hands felt clammy and something unpleasant climbed up his throat. A jet roared alarmingly close overhead.

“Are you all right?” Annie had him by the arm in an instant. “Dad, help me get him to the couch.”

“Who is he?” Brett demanded.

Sam didn’t hear her answer. The little girl was floating in and out of his vision, blending and separating from images of a war-ravaged street. Shouting voices, dark robes and the barrel of a gun propped between the legs of a screaming toddler….

His feet dragged across the worn carpet until hands guided him to a sitting position. He chopped his head between his knees and gulped for air, fighting back images of a desert town and Iraqi insurgents, of bullets and…Someone pressed a glass into his hand and, keeping his eyes closed tight, Sam sucked the water down.

“She took me by surprise, is all.” He waved in the direction of the kid, without opening his eyes. “Can she go somewhere else?”

“No.” Annie’s voice. Close. The smell of strawberries reached him, stimulating and calming at the same time. “She’s my daughter. Maddy.”

Deep breaths sent much-needed oxygen to Sam’s numb limbs. Mucus dripped from his nose. His ears rang as the room spun at carpet level, which was all Sam dared look at. A kid? He had to get out of here.

“Are you all right? You’re dripping buckets of sweat. Maddy, go soak this towel for me. Hurry.”

“It’s all right…” Sam slurred the words. “I’m outta here.” But hands held him firmly in place.

“You’re not going anywhere, buster. At this rate, you’ll tumble down the stairs and break your neck. Then where would I be?” She ran something cool across his forehead and behind his neck, sending shivers down his spine, almost making him lose that hot dog he’d had for lunch.

Annie Raye kept touching him, and Sam couldn’t have moved if he tried.

“GET RID OF THIS GUY.” Annie’s dad took her by the arm and led her to the kitchen. “He’s trouble.”

Annie knew that ten ways from Sunday. Sam Knight sparked reactions in her that should be illegal, even in Nevada. “The man nearly collapsed. I’m not going to shove him out the door.” Besides, he was getting her the job with Slotto.

“You always were a sucker for strays. I’ll roll him out while you look the other way,” her dad said, making a move toward the living room.

“Dad,” Annie warned, tugging him back. “Help me finish dinner.” The water was ready for steaming the zucchini, which she had yet to slice, and the bread still had to be buttered so she could broil it. She handed her dad a small tub of margarine and the loaf of bread, then peaked out.

“Would you feel better if I sang to you?” Maddy asked Sam, as he slouched on the sofa. Without waiting for him to answer, she burst into song. “Three blind mice. Three blind mice.”

With his hands over his face, he groaned.

“See how they run. See how they run.” Maddy was feeling the groove now. She popped out of her chair and began dancing while she sang.

“Maddy has showgirl potential,” Brett said.

“She’s a ham. Don’t get any ideas. She’ll grow out of it.” Annie didn’t know which was worse, him teaching her daughter how to gamble or how to wave a fan in front of her nonexistent bosom.

“She’s so…loud.” Her father grinned. “That’s just what that P.I. deserves.”

Annie stopped slicing to study Brett. “I never said he was a P.I.”

“Didn’t you?” he said innocently, spreading margarine over a slice of bread with the intensity of a brain surgeon.

“Dad,” Annie whispered suspiciously, “has he been after you before?” Was Sam after him now?

“Before? No, no. I recognize the name, is all. Heard the scuttlebutt and such.”

Annie went back to cutting zucchini. “What scuttlebutt?” Most likely it was about Sam and a showgirl…or several.

“Everyone knew his dad. He was a P.I., too, but he specialized in tracking teenage runaways here and in Phoenix,” Brett said respectfully, shaking garlic salt on the bread. “I hear his son works a different side of the business.”

Annie’s radar went off and she set the knife down. “You’re scared of him.” Brett, unfortunately, lacked the gene that enabled him to heed fear.

“No.” The word came out squeaky. He cleared his throat and repeated, “No. It’s you I’m worried about, being with him.”

“Why?” But he didn’t answer, and Sam, who was trying to sit up during the second encore of Maddy’s song, didn’t look like a threat, not with his long limbs folded awkwardly on the small couch and his skin still a sickly shade of green. “I was at Tiny House of Cards today.”