Velvet Ropes

  “Thanks for seeing me home,” Star said

  “I wanted to see you home safely.”

  She was annoyed that Dermot still thought he was her protector. “I’m the one carrying a gun,” she replied.

  “Excuse me? I don’t believe I came across a weapon on the dance floor.”

  Nearly blushing at the reminder of how close they’d danced, she said tartly, “Seriously, I’m carrying.”

  Dermot stepped toward her and slid his hands around her waist. “Where?” His thumbs hooked under the edge of her sweater and sent shivers along her flesh.

  “Wrong part of the anatomy,” she said, strangely breathless. “Try an ankle holster.”

  She knew she ought to go inside—like right this second!—but she was caught by the magic of the moment. She raised her hands and rested them lightly against Dermot’s chest.

  Her heart quickend. “Dermot…”

  Without answering, he pulled her hard against him. Her pulse doubled as she realized he was going to kiss her….

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  Temperatures are rising this month at Harlequin Intrigue! So whether our mesmerizing men of action are steaming up their love lives or packing heat in high-stakes situations, July’s lineup is guaranteed to sizzle!

  Back by popular demand is the newest branch of our Confidential series. Meet the heroes of NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL—tough undercover operatives who will stop at nothing to rid the streets of a crime ring tied to the most dangerous movers and shakers in town. USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca York launches the series with Undercover Encounter—a darkly sensual tale about a secret agent who uses every resource at his disposal to get his former flame out alive when she goes deep undercover in the sultry French Quarter.

  The highly acclaimed Gayle Wilson returns to the lineup with Sight Unseen. In book three of PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD, it’s a race against time to prevent a powerful terrorist organization from unleashing unspeakable harm. Prepare to become entangled in Velvet Ropes by Patricia Rosemoor—book three in CLUB UNDERCOVER—when a clandestine investigation plunges a couple into danger….

  Our sassy inline continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS ends with a bang! You won’t want to miss Lawful Engagement by Linda O. Johnston. In Cassie Miles’s newest Harlequin Intrigue title—Protecting the Innocent—a widow trapped in a labyrinth of evil brings out the Achilles’ heel in a duplicitous man of mystery.

  Delores Fossen’s newest thriller is not to be missed. Veiled Intentions arouses searing desires when two bickering cops pose as doting fiancés in their pursuit of a deranged sniper!

  Enjoy our explosive lineup this month!

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

  VELVET ROPES

  PATRICIA ROSEMOOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To research her novels, Patricia Rosemoor is willing to swim with dolphins, round up mustangs or howl with wolves—“whatever it takes to write a credible tale.” She’s the author of contemporary, historical and paranormal romances, but her first love has always been romantic suspense. She won both a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award in Series Romantic Suspense and a Reviewer’s Choice Award for one of her more than thirty Intrigue novels. She’s now writing erotic thrillers for Harlequin Blaze.

  She would love to know what you think of this story. Write to Patricia Rosemoor at P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297 or via e-mail at [email protected], and visit her Web site at http://PatriciaRosemoor.com.

  Books by Patricia Rosemoor

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  38—DOUBLE IMAGES

  55—DANGEROUS ILLUSIONS

  74—DEATH SPIRAL

  81—CRIMSON HOLIDAY

  95—AMBUSHED

  113—DO UNTO OTHERS

  121—TICKET TO NOWHERE

  161—PUSHED TO THE LIMIT

  163—SQUARING ACCOUNTS

  165—NO HOLDS BARRED

  199—THE KISS OF DEATH

  219—TORCH JOB

  243—DEAD HEAT

  250—HAUNTED

  283—SILENT SEA

  291—CRIMSON NIGHTMARE

  317—DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

  346—THE DESPERADO

  361—LUCKY DEVIL

  382—SEE ME IN YOUR DREAMS *

  386—TELL ME NO LIES *

  390—TOUCH ME IN THE DARK *

  439—BEFORE THE FALL

  451—AFTER THE DARK

  483—NEVER CRY WOLF *

  499—A LOVER AWAITS

  530—COWBOY JUSTICE

  559—HEART OF A LAWMAN †

  563—THE LONE WOLF’S CHILD †

  567—A RANCHER’S VOW †

  629—SOMEONE TO PROTECT HER

  661—MYSTERIOUS STRANGER *

  665—COWBOY PROTECTOR *

  684—GYPSY MAGIC “Andrei”

  703—FAKE I.D. WIFE **

  707—VIP PROTECTOR **

  745—THE BOYS IN BLUE “Zachary”

  785—VELVET ROPES **

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Dermot O’Rourke—The wealthy psychiatrist has no choice but to turn to Star Jacobek and the team at Club Undercover when he’s framed for murdering one of his patients.

  Detective Star Jacobek—She owes Dermot big for helping her in the past, but can she prove they have a future together?

  Tony Vargas—The ex-con was hung with velvet ropes from the same church Dermot had visited hours before the murder.

  Frank Jacobek—Star’s uncle was there for her when her father died, but is he the key to finding the real killer?

  Alderman Marta Ortiz—The victim’s cousin is determined that no one will look too closely into her past.

  Johnny Rincon—The former gang leader let Tony take the fall for him in a robbery years ago.

  Luis Zamora—The cop who used to be a gang member owed Tony Vargas big.

  I would like to thank both Sergeant David Case and Officer Susan Heneghan for answering myriad questions about Chicago police officers and procedures.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Tony Vargas slipped into the blackness of his room and leaned back against the door, hugging the laptop to him as if it could prevent his heart from exploding through his narrow chest.

  Then a tic of nervous laughter spilled from him, and he flicked the switch next to the door. A small chandelier—proof that the halfway house on Chicago’s south side had been a posh residence a century ago—lit the barren room with its twin beds, scarred high-boy dressers and rickety chairs. Home, such as it was, if not for long. He’d done it—he’d stolen the sanctimonious psychotherapist’s computer practically from under his nose. Should be worth a couple of C-notes on the street…if not more for what he might find inside.

  And more jail time if you get caught, a little voice in his head taunted him as he threw himself on the bed, opened the laptop and turned it on.

  “I won’t get caught,” he muttered. “Not this time. This time I’m golden.”

  This time everything was going his way. No more days in the kitchen because he was too scrawny for harder work, no more nights being someone’s date because he wasn’t strong enough or mean enough to defend himself. And soon he would be free of the halfway house with enough money to
get him a decent place…a car…women…

  The operating system brought the computer up to speed and Tony went straight to the word-processing program, straight to a folder named Heartland. Just like the halfway house.

  A no-brainer.

  “Too easy, Doc,” he muttered, opening the folder and finding a file on each of the dozen residents.

  Eager to get the dirt on the other ex-cons living in the dump—something that could give him leverage if not cash—he nevertheless couldn’t resist the file named Vargas. What had O’Rourke said about him?

  No need to wonder. He opened the file and skimmed the notes about himself. Basically a shorthand transcript, these were from their last session only. Yada, yada, yada. Big deal. Only the final entry made Tony raise his eyebrows and curse himself for not learning to keep his mouth shut.

  Then he snorted and shook his head. What did it matter what Dermot O’Rourke knew? He was bound by therapist-patient confidentiality. Kind of like that seal-of-the-confessional thing they’d had going years ago.

  But he wanted to sell the laptop on the street, so getting rid of evidence against himself would be the smart thing. Wouldn’t do to let someone have the goods to blackmail him. Before he could exit the file to delete it, however, the doorknob rattled.

  Rattled himself, Tony shoved the still-running lap top out of sight under the bed. “Hey, Bingo, that you?” he called, wanting to believe his roommate had torn himself away from the television downstairs this early.

  “Open the door, Tony.”

  Recognizing the voice, Tony cursed softly, then trying to appear as if nothing were wrong, made for the door and opened it. Far more casually than he was feeling, he asked, “Hey, what’s happening?” His mouth was spitless and the words tumbled out in a rush.

  “Did you think you could get away with it?” his visitor asked, pushing Tony back inside and locking the door. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it was you?”

  “Hey, it was a joke. I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t you learn anything in that cell?”

  Tony backed away nervously, gaze glued to the hands twisting a purple velvet rope like the ones holding back a crowd from a club entrance…or inside a church. He used to put velvet ropes in place outside the confessional at St. Peter’s, part of his job as an altar boy.

  Tightening his hands into fists so he wouldn’t make the sign of the cross and betray his fear, he asked, “Wh-what are you gonna do with that thing?”

  A rhetorical question.

  No one had to tell him he was a dead man.

  Chapter One

  “Tony knows better than to try blackmail…has a death wish…” Detective Mike Norelli looked up from the transcript. “What about it, Doc?”

  Dermot O’Rourke sat back in his creaky wooden chair in the pasty-green Chicago Police Department interrogation room and took in the Violent Crimes tag team assigned to Tony Vargas’s murder. Norelli and his partner, Detective Jamal Walker, were as different as night and day. Middle-aged and beefy, Norelli wore a bland, dark suit, white shirt and forced smile. Younger and fitter, Walker apparently had more interest in being a snappy dresser than friendly. Both men leaned over the table toward Dermot like two vultures ready to pick at carrion.

  Not that he was officially under arrest.

  Not yet.

  But Dermot knew how this could go down. He was no stranger to the system, and they knew that. He’d done a couple of rounds in Juvenile Detention—the last time just for physically protecting himself from a rival gang member. That experience—added to know ing that next time he would be treated like an adult—had been enough to scare him straight.

  If the Vargas case went bad, he wouldn’t be so lucky this time around.

  “What about it?” Dermot finally echoed. “I enter abbreviated session notes on the laptop to be more fully written up later for my files.”

  “Do you always threaten your patients?” Walker asked, pushing his dark face closer.

  Dermot didn’t so much as flinch. “I don’t like your innuendo or your tone, Detective. Maybe I should call my lawyer?”

  He was bluffing, of course—he didn’t trust lawyers any more than he did cops. Too much bad experience. But he figured the threat sounded good.

  “Do you have reason to need a lawyer?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Norelli said with a cheesy smile, apparently playing good cop. “We just need to know what you know about Tony Vargas. No accusations here.”

  Maybe not, but there certainly were implications Dermot didn’t like. They hadn’t asked him to come down to Area 4 simply because he’d counseled Tony, the little thief. They could have interviewed him at Heartland House where he donated his time to help ex-cons get back on their feet.

  He hadn’t wanted to go back to the old neighborhood—ever—but he’d gone to Heartland as a favor to Father Padilla, the priest who’d helped him out of the gang wars and set him on the road to a decent life. He’d figured one night a week in the Pilsen neighborhood wouldn’t kill him.

  Hah!

  If he was arrested and found guilty…

  “Be specific, then,” Dermot gritted out. “What do you need to know?”

  “The reference to blackmail in your notes on the laptop. Who was Tony’s target?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He never told me.”

  “And if he had, would you tell us?” Norelli asked.

  Dermot didn’t respond to the baiting. One wrong word and he could be inside.

  “You’re not a priest no more,” Walker said. “No seal of the confessional here.”

  He never really had been a priest, Dermot thought, though he’d worn the cloth for a short time—a huge mistake on his part. He never had what it took. Not the calling, anyway. But guilt had proved to be a great motivator.

  “No, only therapist-patient privilege,” he said so much more calmly than he felt. “But in this case, with my patient dead, I would tell you what I knew if I knew anything that would help catch his killer.”

  “Unless you don’t want the killer caught.”

  “If this was even a murder. How do you know it wasn’t suicide?”

  Dermot knew he was reaching. Tony had never seemed the type, but if he’d gotten himself into enough hot water that he was desperate…

  “Wollensky walked into the room and found him swinging from the chandelier,” Norelli said. “He went downstairs, called 9-1-1, then waited for the uniforms to go back into the room. They figured suicide, but when one of ’em picked up the overturned chair Vargas’d been standing on, the officer spotted the laptop. Guys in halfway houses don’t have computers unless they steal ’em. So the officer grabs the laptop, thinking he’ll run the serial number and see who it belongs to, but it’s still running. And what does he see but your note about blackmail.”

  “So come on,” Walker joined in. “What was that secret you and Tony shared?”

  Dermot started. “Secret?” Nothing in his session notes with Tony indicated they’d shared a secret.

  “Don’t play dumb, Doc. Wollensky was real talkative. He told us the two of you had something you couldn’t talk about—said Tony bragged he had this one thing over you. He thinks you offed Tony to keep whatever it was hush-hush.”

  Trying to appear relaxed when his gut was suddenly tied in a knot—a too-familiar feeling he’d thought was in his past—Dermot said, “I wouldn’t take Bingo Wollensky’s word for anything, Detectives. He, like most of the residents of Heartland, has a problem with the truth.”

  “Do you?” Walker asked.

  And Norelli followed up with, “Let’s look at your situation, Mr. O’Rourke. We find your laptop under Tony’s bed—”

  “He was a thief.”

  “—his roommate says you shared a secret, the guard on duty saw you in your office barely a half hour before the estimated time of death, a parishioner saw you at St. Peter’s the night before—the same night the velvet rope used to hang Tony Vargas from the chandelier base disappe
ared from its stand near the confessional. Furthermore, not only was Tony your patient, but a decade ago, he was your altar boy. He must have known a lot about you, right?”

  Dermot couldn’t keep the irony from his tone. “Why don’t you gentlemen spell it out for me.”

  “This business Wollensky brought up won’t let me go,” Norelli said. “I keep thinking, what if Tony knew something about ‘Father Dermot’ from the old days? Something that—if brought to light now—could ruin your very nice shrink career, if not put you in the slammer? What would you do to keep that secret…well…secret?”

  “Did you kill Tony to keep him quiet?” Walker demanded to know.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detectives.”

  But they didn’t look convinced.

  Sweat trickled down Dermot’s spine. He knew they were only doing their job. But he also knew he was innocent. And sometimes innocent people landed in jail. What a weird coincidence—his going to confession at his old church the night before, the same night the unique murder weapon had disappeared.

  “Look, I can’t tell you what you want to know. I didn’t share any secret with Tony, but I was his confessor. Maybe that’s what he was referring to. Anything you want to know about our sessions as therapist and patient—you’ve got it. I already told you that. But anything he admitted to in the confessional is off-limits.”

  Dermot feared he knew what the ex-con had been jawing about. As a priest, he had listened to Tony’s confession years ago…had offered him absolution…but he’d never repeated what Tony had told him to a living soul, though he’d tried his best to make things right.

  Unfortunately, the seal of the confessional didn’t end simply because a man realized the vocation he’d chosen was a mistake he couldn’t go on making.