Read Online Power to the Max by Jasmine Haynes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jasmine Haynes
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hookers next time I take her to dinner. Worse, she’ll probably want me to take her to the same place you two went. You don’t know my mother very well, Max.”
“Oh yes, I do. And she wants to enjoy herself. No harm in that.”
“You’ll be sorry, Max. You’ve created a monster.”
More than one monster, that was for sure. She kept the thought to herself; it would only mean more argument. Or more explanation. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him he was disturbing her peace of mind, especially not when Miss Pink Poodle was heading their way again, batting her stiletto-long lashes and puckering her cream-puff mouth.
“Decided who—I mean what you want.” The girl tittered like a teenager.
Max refused to do battle with a bimbo over any man. “He’ll take the stack.”
“And bring two forks.” Witt turned the most adoring gaze on Max, twining his fingers through the hair at her nape. “We share everything, don’t we, sweetheart?”
“We sure do, my little sweetie-boy.”
He grinned, eyes a deep sparkling blue like a mountain lake. “God, I get hot when you call me that.”
Little Miss Pink Poodle backed off, stumbling against the stainless counter and knocking the eight-slice toaster askew with her butt. That, in turn, banged into a tray of mugs stacked precariously. Max’s ears rang with the crash. Glass on metal made for a terrific smashup.
“Don’t hurt yourself, dear,” Max cooed, then nudged Witt. “Go help her clean up.”
“Haven’t forgotten the original subject, Max. My mother and a hooker. Don’t try to dodge it.”
She eyed Witt, making sure he wasn’t eyeing the girl’s butt as she bent over behind the counter. “I thought you were a gentleman.”
“She’s already in danger of losing her job, Max. Having a customer down on his knees with her will only make it worse. Her boss would be terrified I was thinking of suing.”
“Who are you kidding? She’d love to get you down on your knees.”
He sighed. “What about the hooker, Max?”
Two busboys and the manager arrived on scene. The manager, a small man, wrung his hands and clucked like a chicken. The busboys swept, mopped, and flirted with the Pink Poodle. The girl even managed a trembling chin and watery eyes. With a face like that, she’d never get fired. She did, in fact, have the manager checking her fingers for cuts. They disappeared into the back trailed by the duo carrying the ceramic disaster.
“Max.”
“The hooker.” Max huffed, then leaned her chin on her hand. “No motive. Why kill your meal ticket? Especially when he was about to give her a furnished apartment.”
“He had plans for an apartment?”
Max rolled her shoulders, then shrugged. “I saw it in the dream. That’s why Ladybird called to ask you about a key in his pocket.”
He shook his head. “Forget to tell me that today?”
“Actually I did.” She held up her hands when he scowled. “Honest.” Not one to miss an opportunity, she added, “Did you find out if the key and that bracelet were still on him?”
“No such items on the deceased’s person.”
Having no idea what that meant to the case, Max rolled her lip between her teeth. “All right”—back to the original issue—“he was getting her an apartment, fully intending to support her. Isn’t that what every hooker dreams of? Like Pretty Woman or something?”
“Lance La Russa was no Richard Gere.”
Max shuddered. The thought of Lance La Russa’s hands on her was sort of like jumping into a pit of snakes. “He had money. He would have given her anything.”
“Wouldn’t have married her.”
Max rolled her eyes. “Believe me, the big M she was looking for was money.”
Witt stretched his fingers. A sign of agitation perhaps? “Fine. Then she’s a dead-end.” She had no idea if he really believed that. “What’s next?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call her a dead-end. She was there the night he was killed. She was
“Oh yes, I do. And she wants to enjoy herself. No harm in that.”
“You’ll be sorry, Max. You’ve created a monster.”
More than one monster, that was for sure. She kept the thought to herself; it would only mean more argument. Or more explanation. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him he was disturbing her peace of mind, especially not when Miss Pink Poodle was heading their way again, batting her stiletto-long lashes and puckering her cream-puff mouth.
“Decided who—I mean what you want.” The girl tittered like a teenager.
Max refused to do battle with a bimbo over any man. “He’ll take the stack.”
“And bring two forks.” Witt turned the most adoring gaze on Max, twining his fingers through the hair at her nape. “We share everything, don’t we, sweetheart?”
“We sure do, my little sweetie-boy.”
He grinned, eyes a deep sparkling blue like a mountain lake. “God, I get hot when you call me that.”
Little Miss Pink Poodle backed off, stumbling against the stainless counter and knocking the eight-slice toaster askew with her butt. That, in turn, banged into a tray of mugs stacked precariously. Max’s ears rang with the crash. Glass on metal made for a terrific smashup.
“Don’t hurt yourself, dear,” Max cooed, then nudged Witt. “Go help her clean up.”
“Haven’t forgotten the original subject, Max. My mother and a hooker. Don’t try to dodge it.”
She eyed Witt, making sure he wasn’t eyeing the girl’s butt as she bent over behind the counter. “I thought you were a gentleman.”
“She’s already in danger of losing her job, Max. Having a customer down on his knees with her will only make it worse. Her boss would be terrified I was thinking of suing.”
“Who are you kidding? She’d love to get you down on your knees.”
He sighed. “What about the hooker, Max?”
Two busboys and the manager arrived on scene. The manager, a small man, wrung his hands and clucked like a chicken. The busboys swept, mopped, and flirted with the Pink Poodle. The girl even managed a trembling chin and watery eyes. With a face like that, she’d never get fired. She did, in fact, have the manager checking her fingers for cuts. They disappeared into the back trailed by the duo carrying the ceramic disaster.
“Max.”
“The hooker.” Max huffed, then leaned her chin on her hand. “No motive. Why kill your meal ticket? Especially when he was about to give her a furnished apartment.”
“He had plans for an apartment?”
Max rolled her shoulders, then shrugged. “I saw it in the dream. That’s why Ladybird called to ask you about a key in his pocket.”
He shook his head. “Forget to tell me that today?”
“Actually I did.” She held up her hands when he scowled. “Honest.” Not one to miss an opportunity, she added, “Did you find out if the key and that bracelet were still on him?”
“No such items on the deceased’s person.”
Having no idea what that meant to the case, Max rolled her lip between her teeth. “All right”—back to the original issue—“he was getting her an apartment, fully intending to support her. Isn’t that what every hooker dreams of? Like Pretty Woman or something?”
“Lance La Russa was no Richard Gere.”
Max shuddered. The thought of Lance La Russa’s hands on her was sort of like jumping into a pit of snakes. “He had money. He would have given her anything.”
“Wouldn’t have married her.”
Max rolled her eyes. “Believe me, the big M she was looking for was money.”
Witt stretched his fingers. A sign of agitation perhaps? “Fine. Then she’s a dead-end.” She had no idea if he really believed that. “What’s next?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call her a dead-end. She was there the night he was killed. She was
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