"Mary Janice Davidson - Thief Of Hearts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

turned and walked out. She started running when she heard him scrambling behind her and the chase was
on.

Now, in the privacy of her apartment, she collapsed on her thirty-dollar thrift shop couch (tastefully
upholstered in puke orange) and relived the chase. Carlotti was big, but fast…and driven. If fear had
been the fuel for her legs, hatred was his.

Screw up one lousy drug shipment for the guy by siccing the Man on him, she thought moroselyand
that five years ago! And he’s still holding a grudge, still wants to kill me. Guy’s watched a few too
many Godfather movies .

That was Carlotti’s problem—one of his problems, anyway—he fancied himself a Corleone, when in
reality he was a Clouseau. Everyone on the wrong side of the law knew the mob wasn’t the all-seeing,
vengeance-taking organization depicted in the movies. And as for “organized crime”—ha! It wasn’t
organized at all. A few groups of loosely connected dealers, that was all. Sometimes they were successful
in contracting crime to the local talent…most times, not.

These days, the Mob was a lot more interested in legitimate business: video arcades, karaoke bars, and
beauty salons. It was absolutely ridiculous how much a thriving salon could make in a fiscal year,
especially if they also handled manicures. Lucrative and infinitely less dangerous.

Only the real idiots stayed in the drug trade, she knew. Too much heat, the Feds had no tolerance for it
and the fall was long if you got pinched. Carlotti, of course, was a real idiot and thus he fancied himself a
Mob Drug Lord. And, as a faithful disciple of mob movie fiction, he was still after her. As he’d proved
tonight.

Shivering a little, she got up off the couch and headed for her mini-bathroom. No shower, a cracked tub
and a rust-stained sink…the room was so small, when she sat on the toilet her knees touched the wall. It
didn’t matter. It was hers and she liked to think of it as a fox den, a haven from predators.

She sat down on the rim of the tub and started to fill it with warm water—after tonight, she needed to
get Carlotti’s stink off her—and thought about the idiot. She’d run for the hospital, naively thinking he
wouldn’t follow her to a well-lit, populated building. She hadn’t counted on how deserted a hospital
would be at three a.m. He’d finally cornered her and found out that a thief was never more dangerous
than when her back was to the wall.

And the doctor who had seen everything—what wasthat about? He’d watched her, tried to warn her
and she could still feel the heat of his dark gaze. If she closed her eyes she could still see him: so
broad-shouldered he nearly filled the doorway, with lush dark hair and the blackest eyes, strong,
long-fingered hands…and a grin like lightning, a grin that lit up his whole face.

He’d chased her, but, to her surprise, not to hurt her or turn her in. To ask if she was all right. To ask if
she needed a safe place to stay. She must have stared at him for an hour, or so it seemed. Who knows
what she might have said—or done—if Security hadn’t showed up. His gaze had been so curiously
intense and his smile…his marvelous smile…

A sudden thought made her straighten up so quickly she nearly tumbled into the tub. The doctor had
seen Carlotti. And could testify against him. If the D.A. found out, he’d subpoena the doc in a
nanosecond. The doc couldn’t testify to much, but anything was a start—didn’t Capone go down for tax
evasion? The D.A. would be glad to get Carlotti on trespassing and attempted assault, if only so he could