Passing His Guard

“All seventy-five-thousand of it.”

Okay, so that could be a problem. “I umm . . . might be a little short.”

“How short?”

“Ten thousand.”

He chuckled, that insidious rumble chilling the blood in her veins.

“You’re going to have to suck a lot of cock for ten grand, sweetheart.”

Revulsion sent a surge of bile burning up her throat. God, she hated this man—this faceless stranger who’d played a starring role in her nightmares for the past month. The calls began the day after her father died. Not a day had gone by since where she wasn’t reminded that time was ru

“You’re being unreasonable. This isn’t even my debt.”

“Sins of the father, Ms. Andrews. It’s unfortunate the life insurance policy wasn’t large enough to cover what he owed. We’ve been more than patient with you.”

That was debatable. If by patient he meant hounding her day after day and threatening her with bodily harm if she didn’t pay, then yes, he’d been patient. The line went dead, and she willed her clamoring heart to calm so she could think. Ten thousand dollars . . . How in God’s name was she going to come up with that kind of cash? It might as well be a million. There was no way she could earn ten grand in two weeks—not even if she did take that prick up on his less than helpful suggestion, which she’d rather die than do.

Between her father’s life insurance and exhausting her credit with the bank, she was still short. The only thing she had left was her father’s business, Andrews Private Investigation Services, and now even that was slipping through her fingers. The house, the business—all of it, mortgaged to support her father’s secret gambling addiction.

She’d known her dad had a penchant for cards, but he’d hidden his vice well—too well. She had no idea he’d squandered it all, or that he owed seventy-five thousand dollars to Vincent Moralli, the don and patriarch of the infamous Moralli family. Not until a man approached her at her father’s funeral last month with a pile of debt notes, all bearing her father’s indisputable signature.

She knew the “accident” that claimed her father’s life was no accident. She’d spent the last month doing her own investigation because New York’s finest certainly weren’t trying very hard to find her father’s killer. Unfortunately, she’d found little evidence to support what she knew in her heart to be true—Vincent Moralli had murdered her father. His enforcer had all but admitted as much, but proving it was another matter entirely, and the police weren’t interested in hearing what they called her “conspiracy theories.” She’d spent the day at the precinct—again—trying to light a fire under someone’s ass and ru

After an exhausting eight hours of senseless paperwork and being shuffled from one detective to another, it was obvious that Moralli’s reach extended deep into the pockets of the police department. Her suspicions were confirmed when an officer pulled her aside as she was leaving today and told her, in no uncertain terms, that unless she wanted to end up like her father, she’d better let it go.

The thought of giving up, of letting her father’s killer get away, went against every fiber of her being. But after today, it was glaringly evident the police weren’t going to help her. At this point, she saw little alternative than to just pay the debt. Which brought her around full circle to one blatantly obvious problem—she didn’t have enough money. What was she going to do? Desperation clawed up her throat, suffocating her as she fought to stave off the rising panic.

“Excuse me.”

She startled at the unexpected voice, letting out a surprised yelp. Her head jerked up to meet the impatient scowl of a woman standing in the doorway of her office, flanked by two guys who looked like the Men in Black. Before she could greet the fifty-something brunette, who was dressed in a calf-length fur coat, the woman snapped, “I’m looking for the private detective Ryan Andrews. Is he here?”

Her dangling diamond earrings weighed heavily on her lobes, stretching the skin u

“I’m Rya

Disdain oozed from the woman, as potent as her heavy floral perfume. “There must be some mistake.”

“I assure you, ma’am, there is no mistake. I am Rya

The woman’s disapproving scowl deepened, putting all that Botox to the test.

“What can I do for you?” Rya

She held the woman’s bold stare as she waited for the aged diva to state her name and business. Something about her pricked Rya

“I was told Ryan Andrews specializes in missing-persons cases.”

The woman spoke her name as if she were still unwilling to accept that “Ryan” had a vagina and was sitting across from her right now.

“Oh, Rya

Agent J nodded his approval.

“But she’s a woman,” she hissed under her breath.

“Then perhaps she’ll have better luck than the last man you hired,” Agent J replied, a mumbled response probably not meant for her to hear. “It’s unlikely he’ll put this one in the hospital.”

And that was definitely not for her ears. Seriously? In the hospital? Oh, hell no!

“Very well.” The woman exhaled an exasperated sigh. She turned back toward Rya

Rya

The man was breathtakingly gorgeous. Even from the picture, Rya