Hotter Than Wildfire Read Online Free Page A

His eyebrows furrowed. “Money! That’s what you want! Take it, in my pants pocket.” In his excitement he forgot his hands were in restraints. He scrabbled for his pockets. Finally, he lifted one hip. “In here. I’ve got three credit cards, you’re welcome to all of them. I won’t report them as stolen. And I’ve got two thousand dollars in cash. Take it. Take everything.” His hopeful face lifted up into the light.
    Montez waited until it became clear even to the idiot on the chair that he didn’t want money. Fisher slumped, defeated.
    After another long silence, Montez finally spoke.
    “Where’s Ellen Palmer?” he asked quietly. Be great if they could do this the easy way. Get the intel, ice the guy and go. Montez had a lot to do before this mess was over, and time spent away from business was money lost.
    “Who?” Fisher’s forehead scrunched up in confusion, utterly, completely clueless. He couldn’t possibly be that good an actor. Not with the stress he was under. Not a soft civilian.
    “Eve.”
    Fisher’s features cleared. “Oh, Eve . I’m sorry, that information is highly confident—”
    All the breath went out of him at the punch Trey gave him. It wasn’t even a real punch, just a shut-up-and-pay-attention punch. Still, this Fisher asshole started wailing like a siren. Jesus. Montez waited until the noise died down and Fisher was sniveling.
    “Eve,” Montez said again.
    Fisher shook his head. “Can’t, man. My contract says—”
    Another whack upside the head, not even hard enough to rattle teeth, and the wailing began again.
    “Okay, okay! I’ll talk!”
    Christ. If he hadn’t had a deep personal interest in the outcome, Montez would have left this to his men. What a waste of his time, interrogating this moron.
    Montez moved his chair forward so Fisher could see him, opened a file he held on his lap and pulled out a number of photos. He held up the first photo, the formal portrait that had been on the Bearclaw website, turning it so Fisher could see it clearly.
    Montez tapped the photo. “Is that Ellen Palmer?”
    Fisher’s eyes widened. “No,” he said, then held up his restrained hands in defense when Trey’s hand moved back. “Don’t hit me! I know her as Irene Ball. She uses the name Eve for her singing. I’ve never heard of an Ellen Palmer.”
    Trey looked at him and Montez nodded slightly. Trey’s hand went down and the dickhead’s breath whooshed out in relief.
    “So.” Montez leaned forward a little. “How did you meet her and where?”
    Fisher was moving into familiar territory, Montez could tell. He even relaxed a little, which just went to prove that civilians are terminally stupid.
    “I’m a talent agent, working out of Seattle. You ever hear of Broken Monkeys, or Pursuit, or Isabel?” Fuckhead actually looked hopefully at Montez, trying to impress him. Montez simply stared at him until his eyes dropped to his knees. “Well…” he drew in a deep breath. “I make the rounds of clubs and bars, because the Seattle music scene is great and throws up a lot of talent. One night I was in this club, the Blue Moon. I was there to talk to a guy, not talent scout. Blue Moon’s had this pathetic singer for like, forever—got no voice and his keyboard playing sucks, but what the fuck? Beer’s good and the chairs are comfortable. I’m thinking, talk to my guy and get out. Only turns out the singer was dead and this chick is singing. And man…halfway into her cover of “Every Breath You Take” I knew she was gold, pure gold. Asked the owner who she was and he shrugged. Said she was one of the waitresses, girl just showed up one day. Didn’t have papers or nothing, but the owner—he’s not particular. Half his staff is off the books. Five minutes after she started singing, there wasn’t a sound in the club, and when she finished, she got a standing ovation. Never seen anything like it. So I go over to her, thinking she’s unknown, she’s hungry—she’s a