Rare danger, p.1
Rare Danger, page 1
OTHER TITLES BY BEVERLY JENKINS
The Blessings Series
Bring on the Blessings
A Second Helping
Something Old, Something New
A Wish and a Prayer
Crystal Clear (novella)
Heart of Gold
For Your Love
Stepping to a New Day
Chasing Down a Dream
Second Time Sweeter
On the Corner of Hope and Main
Women Who Dare Series
Rebel
Wild Rain
The Rhine Series (The Old West Series)
Forbidden
Breathless
Tempest
The Destiny Trilogy
Destiny’s Embrace
Destiny’s Surrender
Destiny’s Captive
Historical Romance
Night Song
Vivid
Indigo
Topaz
Through the Storm
The Taming of Jessi Rose
Always and Forever
Before the Dawn
A Chance at Love
Something Like Love
Winds of the Storm
Wild Sweet Love
Jewel
Captured
Midnight
Night Hawk
“Prisoner of Love” (originally appeared in Cuffed by Candlelight anthology)
Contemporary Romantic Suspense
The Edge of Midnight
The Edge of Dawn
Black Lace
Sexy/Dangerous
Deadly Sexy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by Beverly Jenkins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
e-ISBN-13: 9781542037013
Cover design by Leah Jacobs-Gordon
To romance-loving librarians everywhere
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
They cut off his hands!
Outwardly, Elliot Vernon showed no reaction to the phrase echoing in his head like a drumbeat, but inwardly, the terror had his sixty-five-year-old hands shaking so badly on the Cadillac’s steering wheel, he was surprised he hadn’t driven up over the curb.
“It was a nice memorial,” stated his wife, Loretta, seated beside him. “I wonder if the police will ever find his hands.”
Avoiding her eyes, he feigned casualness. “Who knows?”
“People do that in countries overseas—cut off thieves’ hands. You think he stole something from the wrong people?”
Pretending to concentrate on the highway traffic and not his heart-pounding, soul-screaming fear, Elliot shrugged.
The “he” was Elliot’s business partner, Otis “OB” Boyd, found dead a week ago in his new Chrysler on Belle Isle, the city’s island park. His hands had been severed at the wrists. The murder rated only a passing mention in a city as violent as Detroit could be, and the police hadn’t made the missing hands public to avoid copycats. Having seen The Godfather back in the day, Elliot had nightmares of those hands showing up in his bed, or in his car, or in a box mailed to the antiques and appraisal business he and OB jointly owned. He’d no idea who the murderer might be, but the list of suspects could be long. He and OB had been quietly cheating customers for years. That he might share OB’s fate scared him shitless. “I think I want to go up north for a week or two.”
Loretta turned to him. “Why?”
“This mess with OB’s really got me shook up. I need to get away. Clear my head.”
“The police told you not to leave town.”
“I’m not a suspect.”
“They didn’t say you were, but what if they have questions?”
“They have my cell number. They can call me.”
She shook her head. “I think we should stay here.”
“We’re going up north,” he countered firmly. “Soon as we get home, I want you to pack.”
“I have things to do tomorrow! We can go in a couple of days.”
“We’re leaving today.”
“No, we aren’t.”
“Yes, we are.”
Silence reigned for the rest of the drive home. As he pulled into the driveway, he tried to explain. “Look, Loretta. The reason I want to take off is because I’m worried whoever killed OB may want to do the same to me.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know why he was killed.”
He looked into the skeptical but still beautiful brown face of the woman he’d married over forty years ago and lied. “I don’t, but suppose whoever did it thinks I know something.”
“Something like what?”
“I don’t know.”
Her skepticism deepened. “You want to know what I think?”
He didn’t but asked anyway. He was her husband, after all. “What?”
“I think you and OB did something stupid that’s circled back to bite you in the butt.”
“You’re wrong.” But the truth made sweat break out on his back.
“And you’re lying.” She opened her door, got out of the car, and went into the house.
He dropped his forehead to the steering wheel and wailed inwardly. They cut off his hands!
CHAPTER ONE
Jasmine “Jas” Ware was on the worst date of her life. His name was Wayman Childs, supposedly a big-time LA music producer who’d relocated to Detroit. Not only had he been thirty minutes late picking her up in his burgundy Bentley, but he’d spent the entire drive from her condo to the restaurant trying to impress her with his connections to the music industry, how much money he made, and the number of cars he owned.
He’d failed. Badly.
Admittedly, he’d chosen a nice place to eat. The cozy, newly opened spot was inside one of Detroit’s rehabbed Victorian mansions. It was a Tuesday evening, and only three other couples shared the open-concept space. Smooth jazz played softly in the background.
“How many of your friends own Bentleys?” he asked self-importantly. And before she could respond, he replied, “Not many, I bet. You being a librarian and all, you probably don’t run with the elite.”
She eyed him over the top of her menu. He was nice looking in a Hollywood kind of way. His hubris was not. She was on this adventure thanks to her best friend, Terri, whom Jas planned to strangle as soon as she located a place to hide Terri’s body where it wouldn’t be found.
The server, a young Black woman with a crown of dreads, appeared. “Are you ready to order?”
Due to Childs’s incessant pomposity, Jas’s appetite had left the building thirty minutes ago, taking with it most of her patience. “I’ll just have the Caesar salad, please.”
“Oh, come on,” he challenged with a laugh. “Everybody knows how boring librarians are, but you could at least order oysters for later, if you know what I mean.” He grinned at her like a wolf in a cartoon.
Jasmine glanced up at the server, who responded with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Just the salad, thanks.”
“And you, sir?”
He ordered a steak—rare—mashed potatoes, and oysters as an appetizer. Jas wondered if her Uber account was still active.
As they waited for their meals, he stopped touting himself long enough to ask, “What do you like to do on vacation?”
“Sit on a deserted beach and kick back with a good book.” She’d been an avid reader her entire life. Books were her thing. In fact, her boutique business, CODEX, was a book supplier to a small but growing clientele.
“Really? A book. Not with a man?”
“Since I’m not married or currently seeing anyone, a book.”
“Going on vacation with a book? No wonder you’re single.” He viewed her critically. “I mean, you’re real cute. Some guys may think you’re a little heavy, but I could work with a big girl.”
“If calling me a little heavy is meant to be insulting, try again. I’m real happy with these God-given curves,” Jasmine responded coolly.
He showed shock, then embarrassment. “My apology. I didn’t mean for us to get off on the wrong foot.”
“Wrong foot, wrong shoe, wrong size.”
He raised his water glass. “Touché. I like you.”
She rolled her eyes.
His nonstop self-glorification resumed, focused now on his favorite vacation spots and the bikini-wearing women who’d accompanied him. While he babbled on, she casually looked around the restaurant and took in the framed old-fashioned portraits of distinguished-looking African Americans gracing the room’s whitewashed brick walls. Her hometown had such a rich cultural history, and she wondered who the people were. She promised herself a return visit to ask about them and to enjoy the music and ambience. Sans Childs.
Their food arrived, and as they began eating, he asked, “So, do you like being a librarian?”
“I do.”
“Do you work at the main one downtown?”
“No. I own a librarian-type business.”
“What does that mean?”
“I provide books to my clients.”
Responding to the confusion on his face, she explained. “When someone wants a personal library created for their home or office, they call me.”
“Who are your clients?”
“Sorry. That’s privileged information.”
“So not anyone I may have heard of, in other words.”
She chuckled bitterly to herself. What a jerk! “I’m sure you have. Some are NBA ballers. Super Bowl winners. Emmy- and Oscar-nominated actors. Platinum-selling rappers.”
He choked on an oyster.
She contented herself with her salad and waited for him to either recover or keel over. When he could breathe again, he viewed her with uncertain eyes, as if wondering if he’d underestimated her.
She added, “One of my clients owns a Bugatti La Voiture Noire. In his world, Bentleys are like VWs.”
His eyes widened.
She smiled falsely.
He had nothing further to say.
In fact, he remained silent for the rest of the meal. He appeared sullen, too. She guessed he hadn’t cared for her VW remark, but she refused to be bothered by his mood. She was just glad he’d finally stopped talking.
When they finished the meal and the check arrived, he was still grumpy faced.
She asked, “How much was my salad?”
“Why?”
“We didn’t discuss whether this was dutch or not, but I’d like to pay for my food.”
“You don’t think I can afford the bill?”
She sighed. Surely he wasn’t going to pick a fight over something so mundane. “How much?”
“Twenty-five.”
She withdrew two crisp twenties from her wallet and placed them on the table. “Add my change to the tip.”
Glowering, he picked up the bills and stuffed them in his wallet.
Once the server returned with his credit card, he stood. “Let’s go.”
Jas couldn’t wait to be free of him.
Outside, the summer night’s breeze was the highlight of the disastrous evening. Jasmine drew in deep breaths of the cool, fresh air and felt her irritation ease. As she walked with him toward the restaurant’s small, well-lit parking lot, he said, “I won’t be calling for a second date.”
“I wouldn’t answer the phone if you did.”
He stopped. “You really think you’re all that, don’t you?”
“I am. Always have been.”
He looked her up and down. “Then find your own way home. Get your friend with the Bugatti to come get you.”
He stalked off.
Jasmine stared, speechless, and then fury arrived. Cursing under her breath, she turned to head back to the restaurant when a male voice, soft and velvety as the night, said, “You might want to stay a minute and watch the show.”
A tall, dark-skinned man stepped into view, and she froze. Even in the low light, she could see he had the lean, chiseled face of a bearded Black god. Her inner self screamed “Stranger danger!” but he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen outside of a magazine or a movie, and she was mesmerized. His short-sleeved black tee showed off sleek, muscled forearms. A silver chain circled low on his throat, and a small silver hoop accented his earlobe.
The power in his eyes was intense, yet gentle. “Watch.”
At that moment, just as Wayman reached his Bentley, a large truck pulled up beside it. A metal ramp slowly descended from the truck’s rear, and three men dressed in black exited the cab. Under the lot’s lights, one of the men handed the startled Wayman a sheet of paper.
“Court order,” the stranger explained to Jasmine.
“For?”
“Repossession of the Bentley. He’s months behind on his payments.”
She covered her mouth to smother her burst of laughter.
“He a friend?” the stranger asked.
“No. Blind date from hell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Then again, maybe not.”
Jasmine’s startled eyes flew to his. Was he flirting with her? Had to be her imagination, but she was so aware of him standing a few nonthreatening paces away, steady breathing was difficult.
The remaining couples from inside the restaurant stepped out into the night. While they headed for their cars, she refocused on Wayman, now cursing, yelling threats, and angrily jumping up and down like Yosemite Sam in the old cartoons her mother loved. One of the truck’s occupants used a clicker on the Bentley’s door. When he placed his hand on the handle to open it, Wayman punched him low in the back.
The stranger sighed. “Bad move.”
It was indeed. The other two men snatched Wayman up and took him down to the pavement. Hard. Jasmine guessed she should’ve felt some sympathy, but nope.
While Wayman staggered to his feet, and the other diners stopped to stare, the Bentley was steered up the truck’s ramp and secured. The angry Childs could only watch helplessly as his prized possession was driven away. She saw him pull out his phone and place it against his ear. She guessed he’d have to find his own way home too.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” the stranger asked Jasmine, reclaiming her attention.
His voice made her want to say yes, just so she could hear the soothing, sexy tones until sunrise. “No. I’ll call my sister.”
“You sure? My mother raised me to be a gentleman. I’d get you there safely.”
For reasons she couldn’t name, she believed him. However, as fine and gorgeous as he was, he could still be a serial killer. “No, thank you.”
“Understood. Make your call. I’ll wait with you.”
“That isn’t necessary. I can sit inside.” As she said that, the restaurant’s interior went dark. She pulled out her phone. Ten o’clock. The place was closed.
“Call your sister,” he urged softly.
A large black SUV pulled up and stopped beside where they were standing. “My driver,” he explained. “I’ll be here until your sister arrives. Have a nice rest of the evening.”
“Thank you.”
As if not wanting to scare her or make her feel uncomfortable, he walked over to his ride and stood. She called her sister Paris.
It took her twenty minutes to arrive, and until she did, the mystery man stood beside the SUV with his arms folded casually—true to his word. As an overwhelmed Jasmine opened the door of her sister’s Honda, she glanced his way. He gave her an almost imperceptible farewell nod, and she did the same.
When her sister pulled off, Jasmine turned around in her seat and saw him watching their departure before he got into the SUV and it drove away.
Paris asked, “Don’t tell me that fine man was the date from hell?”
She’d given her sister a thumbnail version of her date with Childs during their phone call. “No, but I think I just had a meet-cute.” Jasmine and her three sisters were big romance readers.
Paris laughed. “It’s about damn time. Okay. Start from the beginning.”
Later, Jas slid into bed and thought back on the evening. She never wanted to see or hear from Wayman Childs again. When she and Paris had driven off, he’d still been in the parking lot, phone to his ear. She hoped he’d wound up walking home. It was a good thing the matchmaking Terri, with her Grammy Award–winning self, was in Asia touring, otherwise Jasmine would be pounding on her condo’s door right now so she could cut up their Friends card. Instead, she sent her a text promising an ass kicking once Terri returned to Detroit for putting Wayman the Jerk into Jas’s life. She and Terri had been joined at the hip since middle school, so Jas should’ve known better than to agree to the blind date. Terri had been married and divorced three times. She had terrible instincts when it came to men.
But Terri’s bad taste had put Jas in the right place at the right time to meet that fine and protective Black knight. She doubted she’d see him again, but it was the best meet-cute she’d ever had. Sighing like a contented romance heroine, she turned off her small nightstand lamp and settled in to sleep. Maybe he’d visit her in her dreams.
CHAPTER TWO
When Jasmine opened CODEX three years ago, her strip mall neighbors had been a dollar store, a shrimp takeout place, a nail salon, and three empty storefronts sporting FOR LEASE signs on their plywood-covered windows. Eighteen months later, a new landlord arrived, and gentrification followed. The dollar store turned into a coffee shop, the shrimp takeout place became a national chain drugstore, and the nail salon was now a bicycle repair shop owned by two twentysomethings from the suburbs. Jas was pleased the new landlord hadn’t raised the rent, and that her morning coffee was now only a short two-door walk away.
