Frannie and The Private Dick (Night Fall Book 7) Read online

  Frannie and The Private Dick

  Delilah Devlin

  Copyright © 2016 Delilah Devlin

  Kindle Edition

  Bent on catching her cheating fiancé in the act, Frannie Valentine got sidetracked by a little thing like dying. When she awakens, Frannie learns her pampered life will never be the same, so she turns to the man responsible for her undeadness and demands he take on the responsibility of giving her a little job training—in the PI biz.

  Niall Keegan never intended to make himself a mate, but Frannie’s string of minor disasters, which ended with her dying in his arms, took the decision right out of his hands. While the mating part isn’t bad, making the disaster-prone Frannie a PI may just be the death of him.

  From the Author

  To those of you who’ve read me before—hello, friends! To new readers, welcome to my world!

  When I began the Night Fall series, I thought about a vampire’s journey into the next life and wondered where it might start. What better place than a funeral parlor? I actually did a little research into the funeral parlor industry for this book. I wanted to know the gross stuff most writers just gloss over. If my heroine dies and an autopsy is performed, what condition is the body in when it arrives at the funeral home? You can imagine the looks I got from the funeral parlor directors when I asked them for specifics. But they were only too happy to explain what they do to the body after it arrives—after all doesn’t everyone like to talk about their work to an enraptured audience?

  Then I started hearing Fran Drescher’s voice in my ear as I followed my heroine’s journey from death to undeadness—and she was complaining the entire way. Of course, nothing was her fault—not her fiancé cheating on her, not her dying, not her lack of vocational skills… She was a spoiled little princess who expected to be taken care of by the men in her life.

  But I’m also a big fan of The Sopranos, so my Frannie needed to be Italian—and connected, ya know what I mean? When she finally comes to the realization that everything that has happened to her is her own responsibility, she decides to take charge of her life—but she needs the hero’s help to do it. I felt very sorry for Niall Keegan.

  I love hearing from readers, and have a very active blog and Facebook friend page. I run contests, talk about my favorite TV shows, what I collect, what drives me crazy. I tend to ramble a bit. I’m doing it right now. But if you’d like to learn more about me and what I’m doing or writing about, be sure to check out the “About Delilah Devlin” page after the story.

  And if you enjoy this story, please consider leaving a review on your favorite retail site or simply tell a friend. Readers do influence other readers. We have to trust someone to tell us whether we’ll have fun when we open a new story!

  Sincerely,

  Delilah Devlin

  Visit www.DelilahDevlin.com for more titles and release dates and subscribe to Delilah’s newsletter at newsletter.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  From the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  About Delilah Devlin

  Night Fall Series

  Excerpt from Night Fall on Dark Mountain

  Chapter One

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  Francesca Valentine had died and gone to hell. No other explanation made sense. She swam back to awareness through a molasses-thick void to find herself suddenly spat out from a dark womb into a cold, hollow space. Blind, and so still she knew she didn’t breathe, her mind turned over like a sluggish engine before revving into high gear.

  Quickly, she assessed what she knew. She lay on a hard surface, covered with a scratchy square of thin fabric, unable to move a muscle. A low whine, like that of an air-conditioner, came from the opposite side of the space. Harsh light shone from above, warming her face, but hurting her closed eyes. So, she probably wasn’t blind after all. But she was definitely dead. Stone-cold. Her chest wasn’t moving in and out, but she didn’t feel starved for air.

  She knew who she was and what had killed her, but hadn’t a clue what new fix she’d landed herself in. From nearby came the scrape of footsteps and a tentative humming, then…

  “Bee-ooot-ee-foll Dreeeeamer, wake unto me…”

  She was in hell all right. A demented spirit hovered over her, emitting an off-key warbling that set Frannie’s teeth on edge. By the rusty sound of the grating voice, her tormentor must be an ancient female, and the she-devil was trying to remove the skin from her face in slow, abrasive circles with…apricot-scented facial scrub? Frannie’d had a chemical peel the week before. The last thing she needed was a dime store product applied to her professionally maintained skin.

  God must be punishing her for the sin of vanity—for all the hours she’d spent being teased, plucked, painted, and waxed. Each moment endured to make her the perfect trophy for Vinnie to parade around his “business associates” for them to kiss, pinch, and swat.

  Now she wished she’d gone to Mass more often, or hadn’t lusted after the young Irish priest, or hadn’t snuck out her bedroom window to canoodle with Vinnie. Especially that.

  Her mother had predicted just such a fate when Frannie got engaged to Vinnie Ricchione, and had even sworn to wear black to the wedding.

  But Mama had described the fire-and-brimstone version of the ultimate southerly location in vivid detail. Obviously God hadn’t designed hell as a one-size-fits-all-sins destination.

  “Star-liiiight and dooo-drops are waiting for thee…”

  She could almost see her mama now, shaking her finger at Zia Grazia. “What did I tell that girl? Vinnie’s no good.”

  Zia Grazia would nod her gray head and masticate on her slipping dentures, too deaf to care about Donatella Valentine’s latest tirade.

  But that wouldn’t stop Mama. She’d scoot closer to shout into her aunt’s ear. “Do you think a daughter listens to her mother? Now look at me. No daughter. No grandbabies. I told her Vinnie’d come to a bad end—and her along with him!”

  Well, Mama had only been half-right.

  Paralyzed, forced to submit to a facial flaying and the demon’s ear-shattering trills, Frannie’s penance had a certain poetic justice.

  She was dead because of Vinnie.

  While her death hadn’t been precisely his fault, she’d never have followed him if he’d been the faithful sort of fiancé.

  He’d said he was meeting the boys. “Don’t wait up, hon. We got shipments comin’ in.” But Frannie had known better. One time too many, he’d come home smelling of cheap whiskey and even cheaper perfume. This time, Frannie would catch the cheating bastard in the act.

  That night, she’d teetered on three-inch boot heels on a wooden crate behind his shipping company office, peering into a darkened room. She’d almost decided Vinnie had slipped the noose when she heard a commotion coming from beneath the window where Vinnie’s desk sat. At first, she hadn’t understood what she heard, then the sounds had grown louder—punctuated by groans, bumps, and slurps too large and energetic to be two mice doing the bunny-hump.

  Irate, she’d screeched and toppled off the crate. But falling into the trash bin wasn’t what killed her.

  “Sounds of the ruuude world heard in the daaaaay…”

  She’d crawled backward out of the dumpster, glad the only things clinging to her hair were bits of packing peanuts, when she heard a door slam and footsteps entering the alley. She brushed herself off, picked up her purse from beside the overturned crate, and stalked toward the
street.

  “Hon, what the hell are you doin’?” Vinnie shuffled toward her, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Now, baby, I can explain—”

  She raised her chin, held out her hand, and stomped right past him, proud she kept her chin from wobbling. The bastard’s not gonna make me cry.

  “Frannie—honey, wait!”

  She quickened her pace and turned the corner onto the sidewalk. As luck would have it, a taxi was driving straight toward her. She started to run, waving frantically at the car, but it didn’t slow. She stepped into the street, but her foot tilted on the edge of a gutter, and her ankle turned. The heel of her boot snapped, and Frannie threw out her arms as she stumbled into the path of the taxi.

  But the taxi hadn’t killed her either.

  The cab screeched to a halt, and the driver flung open his door. “Lady, you okay?” He was a big, burly guy—Irish, she’d have guessed, by the look of his dark brows and square, rugged jaw if his faintly accented speech hadn’t already given him away.

  “Please!” She held out her hand in his direction.

  “Francesca! Honey, don’t move,” Vinnie shouted.

  She didn’t have to force a tear into her eye. Her ankle throbbed. She stared at the driver and gave him what Vinnie called her “diamonds-or-flowers” look—the one guaranteed to make a man do her bidding.

  The Irishman straightened his shoulders and pushed back his shirtsleeves, revealing thick wrists and muscled forearms. “Is this man botherin’ you, ma’am?”

  She nodded and let her chin wobble.

  The driver bent down and swept her easily to her feet. Frannie let herself lean against his broad chest just long enough to test the depth of his indrawn breath. She could tell a lot about a man’s attraction from a telltale gasp, and she needed this man’s attraction to flare long enough for Vinnie to notice.

  The driver’s chest expanded, and the arms that held her tightened fractionally.

  “I’m not a man—I’m her husband,” Vinnie shouted. “Get your hands off her!”

  “You’re not a husband until we share joint checking and a last name!” she shouted back. The driver hesitated, and she clutched his sleeve. “Please, help me! I swear he’s not my husband.”

  “Near enough!” Vinnie said.

  Looking up at her rescuer from beneath her lashes, she added softly, “I have to get away.”

  His gaze locked with hers for a moment before swinging to pin Vinnie to the spot. “Looks like your lady doesn’t want anything to do with you at the moment.” The driver gently pushed her behind him. “Ma’am, you go ahead and get inside.”

  As she limped toward the cab, Frannie looked over her shoulder.

  Vinnie’s face was a mottled red. “Now, look here—”

  “I think you’d better back off.” The burly Irishman clenched his fists.

  Vinnie peered around the mountain-sized man at Frannie as she ducked into the back seat of the taxi. “Frannie, you come back here. We gotta talk. What you seen wasn’t nothin’, I swear! It wasn’t even me!”

  Frannie pulled the door shut and waited for the driver to back his way to the taxi.

  Vinnie stood in the middle of the street, his shoulders drooping. She almost felt sorry for him, until the door to the company office swung open. Raeline Curtis, Vinnie’s secretary, hurried down the street, tugging at the seat of her tight skirt.

  Frizzy, over-bleached blonde hair, broad hips, and cheap shoes—Vinnie’d cheated on her with Raeline? Confused, Frannie peered through the back window as the taxi drove away, Vinnie’s swarthy, slender face and slumped shoulders growing smaller in the distance. He’d wait at home—and be truly, miserably sorry for the pain he’d caused her. And she’d probably forgive him—after her pride had been soothed with lots of groveling and gifts.

  But tonight, she needed to make the snake sweat.

  “Where can I take you, ma’am?”

  “To another life?” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Drop me at Lizards ’n’ Suds.”

  “You sure about that? That joint’s kinda rough for a lady like you.”

  “A lady like me?” I live in sin with a man whose “business associates” send Christmas cards from the federal penitentiary. Frannie sniffed. “Thanks for your help back there, but I’ll be just fine.”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Whatever you want. It’s your dime.”

  What she’d wanted was something she’d never have now.

  “Lull’d by the mooonlight have all passed awaaaay…”

  That’s me all right—all passed away. A tear trickled down the side of her cheek.

  “Well, that’s one for the books,” the quavering, aged voice said. “Wouldn’t think you’d have any juice left.”

  Something soft and spongy swept away the tear, and then the sponge was back with the familiar smell of makeup. A cheap musty foundation, if Frannie’s nose was any judge. This place was hell all right.

  “Such a shame. You were a pretty little thing. And that man of yours is cryin’ buckets over you.”

  As well he should—the lying, cheating bastard! She hoped he was very, very sorry, that his privates shriveled to nubs, and that he’d be haunted by her beautiful face for the rest of his life.

  Then maybe he’d feel a tenth of the hurt she’d felt as she’d tried to drown her sorrow at that skeezy bar. The first beer had tasted sour, and the bubbles made her burp. She’d looked around to make sure no one noticed, but the music was so loud she quickly lost her inhibitions and burped again. The second beer was much sweeter, but her tummy pressed against the waist of her skirt and everything felt tighter.

  Especially her engagement ring.

  She’d glared at the shiny solitaire and tried to tug it off her finger, but couldn’t get it past the first knuckle. After a stealthy glance over her shoulder, she dunked her hand into her icy-cold beer. Perhaps the chill would make her skin contract.

  “You know, most people drink their beers.”

  Frannie blinked and glanced to her right.

  The taxi driver slid onto the stool beside her.

  She glared. “Are you following me?”

  He grinned. “I was due a break. Decided I’d hang around and see if you needed a ride home.”

  His smile was killer—white teeth, full lips framed by dimpled cheeks. She hadn’t noted much about his appearance before—just his immense size. But even in the subdued light shining from behind the bar, she could see he was a very handsome man—if you were into black-haired paddies with blue eyes. His hair was on the long side and scraped back into a ponytail. The dark-blue shadow on his jaw added to his rangy, masculine appeal.

  She realized she’d been staring. “I don’t need a ride—in your car, that is.”

  Oh God, she’d just said that out loud.

  His lips curled at the corners, but he looked at the bartender and raised a finger. A cold brew was deposited in front of him, and he took a long draw before setting it down. “Is there a good reason your hand’s in your glass?”

  “Oh!” She pulled out her hand and dried it with a napkin. “I was just trying to get this off.” She tugged the ring again, but it still didn’t budge.

  “Let me try.” His large hand enclosed hers, and he pulled it toward his face.

  Frannie’s heart fluttered, and then heat swept across her cheeks. Was he going to kiss her hand?

  Instead, he opened his mouth and swallowed her finger.

  She was so surprised she yelped and tried to draw back her hand.

  His grasp tightened. Then his gaze never left hers as his teeth closed gently around the ring and slid it slowly off her finger.

  Sure she was well on the way to melting into a puddle at his feet, Frannie sighed with relief when he released her tingling fingers.

  The diamond sparkled brightly between his white teeth as he grinned. He plucked it from his mouth and dipped it in his own beer before handing it back.

  Frannie clasped her hands firmly in her lap. “
I don’t want it,” she said, her voice flat.

  “You’re just angry. You’ll want it later.” He slid it over the tip of his pinkie finger. “I’ll keep it for you—for now. What’s your name?”

  Frannie jumped. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just in case I lose you in this crowd—I’d like to know who to return the ring to.”

  Frannie watched his expression closely for a clue to his true intent. The explanation sounded reasonable enough, but Frannie knew every guy had an ulterior motive for every good deed—and it usually had something to do with sex.

  He held up both hands. “Honest. I’m not askin’ for a date—I don’t go for almost-married ladies.” He wiggled the finger with the ring. “This doesn’t look like a knock-off. When you’re over bein’ mad, you’ll want it back.”

  Frannie sighed and stuck out her hand. “Francesca Valentine.”

  His much larger hand swallowed hers, but he gave her the gentlest squeeze and let her go. “Niall Keegan.”

  Frannie felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips. “I knew you were Irish.”

  He lifted one dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow and grinned deliciously. “Must have been my stunning good looks.”

  That she couldn’t deny, but she’d be the last woman to feed another man’s ego. “You’ve a trace of a brogue in your voice,” she said, imitating his accent.

  “Me mother would be mortified, she would,” he said, exaggerating the lilt. “She sent us all to school to learn to speak like Americans.”

  Frannie tilted her head. “Why? I think your accent’s lovely.”

  “She didn’t want us taken for every other Irisher straight off the boat.”

  “That’s kind of an archaic sentiment in this day and age. Who in this city isn’t right off the boat? In your profession, especially—I don’t know when the last time was I caught a cab with someone who could actually speak English.”

  Niall shrugged. “Well, it was a long time ago. Things were a little harder in her day.”