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Marco Russo.

“Lena,” he calls, not bothering to exit the car. “A little birdie told me you were here. Lucky I was in my office. Come on. Let’s go.”

She doesn’t immediately move, her eyes still on mine. For a moment, I have the strangest sensation of something passing between us, a strange familiarity.

Then acquiescence.

Finally she slips on her sunglasses and turns, walking to the Cadillac with unhurried grace, hips swaying under her coat.

Russo’s gaze shifts to me, assessing, territorial. I meet it with professional neutrality, though something primitive and possessive stirs unexpectedly in my chest. His eyes narrow slightly before the window rises and the car pulls away, carrying Lena with it.

I watch until the Cadillac disappears into the Hollywood traffic, trying to ignore the irrational surge of…what? Jealousy? Concern? Both seem equally inappropriate for a woman I’ve met exactly twice.

Yet as I walk back to my car, her scent—something feminine and sexy, like night jasmine and vanilla—lingers in my consciousness. The memory of her voice, the way her eyes seemed to see past my carefully constructed professional facade, the electricity that sparked when our hands briefly touched as she returned my card—all of it occupies more mental real estate than it should.

I need to focus. Elizabeth Short’s killer is still out there. The Europeans she mentioned could be the key, and Lena Reid knows more than she’s telling me. Far more. I can’t afford to be distracted by inappropriate attractions or territorial impulses toward a woman who’s clearly involved with one of Mickey Cohen’s enforcers.

Still, as I slide into my car and start the engine, I find myself looking at the phone number written on the back of my card in Lena’s red script. Careful not to smudge it, I tuck it into my wallet rather than my case notebook—a small but telling decision.

The morning stretches ahead, filled with leads to follow, witnesses to interview, breadcrumbs to gather. But as I pull into traffic, joining the stream of dreamers and schemers thatpopulate this city of fallen angels, I know with unsettling certainty that I’ll be seeing Lena Reid again. Soon.

And not just for the sake of the investigation.

7

LENA

Marco’s hand tightens around my upper arm. Even through my coat, I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh, his attempt to mark me.

“You think you’re clever, huh?” His voice is dangerously low, the way it gets before the storm breaks. “You think my boys don’t tell me when some detective comes sniffing around my girl?”

We’re standing in the narrow hallway of my apartment building. After he picked me up outside the Musso & Frank’s, I knew I was in a world of trouble. He kept his cool for the entire ride but I knew his anger was only simmering underneath, ready to erupt. The problem with Marco is that you never know when.

“He’s investigating Elizabeth’s murder,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Of course he’d question me.”

Marco’s eyes narrow. At forty-three, he still has the boxer’s physique that made him useful to Mickey Cohen—broad shoulders, thick neck, hands that can both caress and crush with equal ease. The broken nose and the scar along his right cheekbone only add to the dangerous aura that drew me to him initially. Now they just remind me of his capacity for violence.

“You had coffee with him.” He spits the words like an accusation. “In public. At Musso’s. Why did he lie to Leo if he didn’t have nothing to hide, huh?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission to drink coffee,” I say, immediately regretting the edge in my voice.

His grip tightens, and I have to focus on keeping my true nature in check. The urge to bare my fangs, to remind him just how outmatched he truly is, pulses beneath my human façade. But exposure means death in this world—if not mine, then certainly his.

And bodies create questions I can’t afford right now.

“Don’t get smart with me, Lena.” He yanks me closer, breath hot against my face. “That pretty mouth of yours is good for singing and dick-sucking, but don’t test me.”

I meet his gaze steadily, trying to compel him. It’s how I’ve gotten out of this so many times before. “Let go of my arm, Marco.”

For a moment, I think he might escalate. I can see the calculation in his eyes—we’re alone in the hallway, no witnesses, in an apartment where people mind their own business a little too much, and I’ve never fought back before. He doesn’t know I can’t afford to.

But, gosh, do I want to.

Then his subconscious obeys. He releases me with a little shove toward my door.

“Stay away from the detective.” It’s not a request. “Mickey’s got interests in this Dahlia business. We don’t need some ex-boxer with a PI license stirring things up.”

The mention of Elizabeth by that horrible newspaper nickname makes my stomach turn. “You knew her too, Marco. Don’t you want to find who did that to her?”