CHAPTER NINE
I don’t hang around to appreciate the fact that Junior has the good manners to clean up after himself or—considering my thoughts on Samantha, I’m going to go out on a limb and say—herself. Nor do I let myself linger on the fact that this person is already my stalker. And maybe the cleanup job was just Junior messing with my head as part of her stalker duties, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve outsmarted Junior, and she’s worried that she left a print behind. It’s a thought that carries me back inside the house, where I secure the property and rush to the bathroom.
On my way, I dial the security company and request camera installation, but it’s apparently too early for them to actually help me. And whatever the case, I’m doubtful I’ll end up with cameras in place before I leave town, but I want them installed no matter what. I’m living across the country. I should have already ensured I had a bird’s-eye view from afar. It’s a thought that stops me in my tracks, my brow furrowing. Why wasn’t Junior worried that I had cameras? Perhaps she simply covered up with a scarf or hoodie in case I did, but what if Junior already knew I had no cameras? Samantha, being close to Andrew, could have found out in even a casual conversation that Andrew didn’t know was plotted to extract information. Bottom line, I think, rushing down the hallway again: I need those damn cameras in place, and really, truly, Junior might think she’s driving me out of town, but she’s wrong. She’s ensured that I’m here to stay until I can deal with her. Whatever the fuck that has to mean. I hit the bathroom and start stripping, contemplating exactly what that means, with no good answer.
By the time I’ve showered, I’m rather delighted with the prospect that while Junior is trying to fuck with my head, I’m already fucking with hers or I wouldn’t be getting so much attention. She doesn’t want to expose my secret. She wants to keep me from exposing hers. And what is that secret? I’m intrigued at the idea of finding out. A thought that has me hurrying to dry my hair, a color that this town would call mousy brown now that I’ve let my highlights grow out, but I call it just the way God made me. And if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. That said, I still like my girly makeup, and I dare to use what I have left in my bathroom drawer, which I hope like hell hasn’t expired and leaves me in hives or some shit like that. Whatever the case, I use it, and I do so without the benefits of coffee, which probably means once I get into the sunlight, I’ll look like the seven-year-old niece I don’t have did my face for me. Lord help me, I shudder to imagine Andrew and Samantha having kids. I mean, would she get a babysitter to go fuck Kane?
Irritated with that thought, I toss down the pale-pink lipstick, smooth down my hair, and head to the closet, where I ignore the expensive pantsuits and dresses hanging here and there, ones I’d adored when I belonged in this town. I don’t belong now, and I don’t want to belong here anymore. Exactly why I toss on a robe, grab my suitcase from the car, and drop it in the center of the closet. Opening it up, I pull out my Express-brand black jeans, and an “LA Rocks” black T-shirt, which declares me an outsider. Once I’m dressed, I reach for my UGG sneakers in my bag and pause before tossing them in the corner. Damn it. Outsiders don’t get squat from these arrogant, self-absorbed assholes. I resist giving up my Express jeans, but I instead pull a black T-shirt from a local charity event I’d taken part in way back when off a hanger and put it on. From there, I choose knee-high expensive-ass Chanel boots and a black Chanel purse to match, along with, you guessed it, a Chanel blazer, bypassing the full trench coat in the corner. My best accessory by far is the one that cannot be seen: my ankle holster, where my service weapon is hidden beneath my jeans. My second best is the badge clipped to my waist that tells everyone in this town to skip all questions and let me do the judging, not them.
On the way to the garage, I dial my doughnut-loving tech expert we all call “Tic Tac,” because, well, we do. I really have no answer other than that. “Holy hell, Lilah,” he answers as I slide into my rental. “Do you know what time it is in LA?”
“Party time?”
“Bedtime, Lilah,” he bites out. “It’s time for me to go back to sleep.”
“I need stuff.”
“I have nightmares where you are on autorepeat, saying, ‘I need stuff. I need stuff.’ And you know what I say?”
“Anything you want, my queen?”
“I say, ‘Fuck you, Lilah.’”
I purse my lips. “Hmmm. Well. Someone needs coffee. I’ll e-mail you details on the reports I need, but I’m also express-mailing you fingerprints to analyze. And this is the important part. Run them, but keep them off the books.”
“You know the risk I take—”
“You know you owe me.”
“I’m way too tired to have you holding me hostage.”
“There was another murder waiting on me when I got here.”
“There’s always a murder where you are, Lilah.”
“Same MO as those two murders I’ve been working there, and the one in Manhattan, too.”
“Like I said. Murder follows you. E-mail me what you need.” He hangs up.
It’s a thing for me now, I guess. Men hang up on me. I shrug and start the car, my destination a little mail joint I know has a drop box. From there, I’ll down coffee, and maybe, just maybe, I might head to the police station, where my brother and father will make me wish for whiskey that I can’t handle. It’s a good plan, except for one thing: the mail joint doesn’t have a drop box anymore and doesn’t open for an hour and a half.
Spying a diner I know well, I head inside, thankful I know the food but none of the staff. Huddled in a corner booth, it’s not long before I’m working on a second cup of coffee with my case files in front of me. Over and over, I flip through the victim photos, lingering on the tattoo, trying to come up with a reason that one of the victims has it and the others do not but reaching only one conclusion: if this were a serial killer, they’d all fit some sort of formula, and they do not. These people don’t live close, work close, or have the same hair color or age range. They don’t even have similar jobs. Yet, they must have a link that I haven’t found. To me, though, this lack of an obvious connection says to me that all the victims are on a hit list. They couldn’t have been just anyone that fit a profile—they had to be these specific people. If I want to find my killer, I need to find the angry bird picking off players, and there is only one lead I have on that person. The tattoo. And I only know one person who might know what it means.
While dropping off the print, I hear my phone keep ringing.
Ignoring my brother’s ten freaking calls, I drive toward the castle on the ocean side that is Kane Mendez’s sprawling complex and park among a cluster of a dozen high-end vehicles. I don’t want to be here, but deep down, when I brought up that tattoo in LA to Murphy, I knew this is where I’d end up. I knew he’d be where I’d find my answers, and the truth is, I’ve needed those answers for a very long time. My phone rings again, and when it’s once again Andrew, I groan and just take the damn call. “I’m not going to make the press conference that I assume I already missed,” I say, based on the time.
“You were supposed to come here this morning. We talked about this.”
“I did you a favor. The FBI is less important if I’m not seen or heard.”
“The news that you’re here and wearing a badge is already buzzing around town.”
“Because you held a press conference,” I say.
“The big city has made you forget small-town politics. By the time your head hit the pillow, the town knew you were here and wearing a badge. Sis. Damn it. I know my town. If you’re going to operate in it, you need to follow my rules.”
“Work your case, Andrew. I’m trying to do some fact-checking and get out of here.”
“I don’t want you to get out of here, Lilah. You know that. We’re talking about this—you, me, the case, and a whole lot more—at Dad’s for dinner tonight. And if you think about not showing, I will hunt you the fuck down.” And with that declaration, he, of course, hangs up.
Sighing a loud, obnoxious sigh, I open the door and climb out, a chill in the air promising winter is near, the water is cold, and the bulk of the tourists are thankfully staying the fuck home. Wishing for that trench coat I’d left back in my closet, I head for the main castle, which has two smaller, more traditional buildings hugging the sides. A wooden bridge covering a manmade moat is my path to the main arched entrance. I cross it, wondering whether Kane is watching my approach or has been alerted in some way that I’m here. Hell. He might have someone following me. The bastard is a control freak who has his hand in everything. Well, except me. I fixed that. And I fully intend to have it stay fixed, even though I know good and well that is a statement he’s about to test.
Entering the lobby, stone beneath my feet, a towering ceiling above, I walk to the reception desk, an odd, triangle-stone setup that demands attention, much like the man who chose the design. I walk toward the receptionist, a pretty brunette in her twenties, another one I don’t know. I’m liking this trend of knowing no one. I know it can’t last, but a girl can wish.
“Ms. Love,” the woman greets me, proving I’m not as anonymous as I’d hoped. She stands. “I’ll show you to his office,” she says, not even bothering to ask who I’m here to see.
“I know the way,” I reply.
Her red-painted lips curve ever so slightly. “He said you’d say that.”
“Of course he did,” I murmur, turning away from her, needing an escape from the sudden adrenaline rushing through me, I ignore the elevator to my left and head up the wide stone steps to my right. This is it, I tell myself. One meeting. Then we are done. Done. Done. Done. I repeat that word in my mind and stop at the top level, telling myself to find my Otherworld and step inside. To be Agent Love. But this is his world, his place to command, and my Otherworld refuses to intrude.
Inhaling a breath meant to be calming, I puff it out with absolutely no change from one moment to the next in how I feel. Screw it and just do it, I tell myself, cutting left down the hallway to the huge double doors, which are protected by a horseshoe-shaped desk with a familiar blonde as guard and secretary.
“Lilah,” Tabitha greets me as I approach, her demeanor—at least to me—as icy as ever, with a big ol’ stick up her ass. But hey. If I were a Harvard-educated attorney who lost my license and was now playing secretary to Kane Mendez, who I want to fuck but who won’t fuck me, I might be a bitch, too. Well, more of a bitch than I am already.
I stop at her desk. “You’re looking as Barbie Doll–ish as ever, Tabitha,” I comment, noting the total absence of lines in her thirtysomething face, which tells me that she, like most of this town, is already a Botox addict. I flick her deep cleavage a look and return my attention to her plastic face. “Are your breasts larger now?”
“My breasts are natural.”
I smirk. “Right. Natural. Got it.”
She glowers and I dismiss her by walking past her desk and straight to Kane’s double doors, opening one of them without knocking and stepping inside. I shut the door behind me and lean on the wooden surface while Kane sits in the center of a half-moon-shaped room framed by nothing but windows and water. It’s a stunning view I doubt many notice but for the man behind the catercorner, massive cherry desk, his powerful presence dangerous to anyone who dares negotiate with him, let alone challenge him.
“Lilah,” he says, leaning back in his chair to study me, his suit a gray number, custom-tailored to fit him to perfection. His tie is a dark blue to match the thin pinstripe running through the material of his suit.
“Kane,” I reply, and while I intend to move, I do not, seconds ticking by until he is arching a dark brow in my direction.
“What are we doing, beautiful?” he queries.
“Lilah. My name is Lilah.”
“You told me to stop saying your name.”
“Semantics, Kane,” I say, crossing the large space between us while his eyes follow my every step. “Stick with Agent Love,” I add, claiming the leather seat in front of his desk.
“I do rather like the way that sounds,” he replies, his voice silk and sandpaper, and I have no doubt it’s by design as everything he does is by design. “Agent Love.”
I ignore what I know is a suggestion of one of the man’s many sexual appetites. “Tell me again where you were last night.”
He leans forward, hands resting on the desk, the air crackling sharply. “Lilah,” he reprimands me softly, throwing my Agent Love directive out the window.
“Were you really with Samantha Young?” I press.
“I have no reason to lie about something like that, while I have one very big reason, which is you, to tell you otherwise.”
More like he needs an alibi, I think. “Were you with her?”
“Yes.”
“From what time to what time?”
“Estimate. Six to eight.”
“Were you aware she’s dating my brother?”
“You mean she’s fucking him.”
“You knew,” I accuse.
“No, I did not. And obviously there’s more to your choirboy brother than either of us realized.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, recognizing the raw nerve my brother opened as taking a direct hit.
“She’s corrupt and that’s not unknown in this town. You know this.”
“And yet you fuck her.”
“She’s a fuck for me. I know what she is and I really don’t care. If he’s telling you he’s dating her, that’s a different can of worms. There’s no way he doesn’t know what she is, which means he just doesn’t care.”
The sister in me goes to my brother’s defense. “Kind of like me with you?”
“Attacking me over my bloodline doesn’t change the fact that your brother is involved with her. That she’s letting him believe what they have is a relationship tells me she wants something from him.”
“And what does she want from you?”
“Things she will never have.”
“And from my brother?”
“Things you had better make sure she never gets.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea,” he says. “But if he’s involved with her, he’s either fallen off his golden pedestal, or he’s being manipulated in some way.”
“He’s clean.”
“She’s not.”
“And yet you just got naked with her. What does that say about you?”
“Is that what this is about? Me and her? Because you’ve come back to that twice, now. Correct me if I’m wrong, which I’m not, but I believe you’ve been doing your share of the same with that blond Ken Doll in LA.”
“I’m not talking about you because of me.”
He arches one of those dark brows of his. “Are you sure about that?”
“This is Andrew’s case. I can’t validate your alibi without him knowing you were with her.”
“Tell him. If he is clean, even if he’s not, maybe it will wake him up.”
“And when he comes after you?”
“Ah now, beautiful. Do I dare believe you’re worried about my relationship with your brother?” He doesn’t give me time to issue an objection. “I can handle your brother,” he says.
“You aren’t an enemy I want him to make.”
“I’ll be gentle on him for you. You know how gentle I can be. If you want me to talk to him—”
“No,” I say quickly. “You say nothing. Let me decide how to deal with this. What if she denies you were with her?”
“There’s an interesting prospect. I guess I would be the one who was fucked then, now wouldn’t I?”
I inhale and stand up, walking around the desk to stand at the window, arms folded in front of me. I don’t have to look to know the moment Kane joins me, close enough to establish dominance but not quite inside my personal space. He knows exactly how to push the boundaries of those around him without going too far. I stare out at the ocean crashing on the rocks beneath us, and remembering the way I’d once loved this view, and this man, is damn near suffocating.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, his tone soft but demanding, because he’s just one big demanding wolf of a man.
I turn to face him as he does the same to me, and I’m resisting an urge to back away or step forward and punch him. Or kiss him and then bite his damn tongue. “What do you know about my brother?”
“Nothing.”
“Kane,” I say, and I hate the way his name becomes a plea. “I need to know.”
“There are rumors about your father but not your brother.”
I blanch. “What? My father? What about my father?”
“His run for a higher office and favors promised to the wrong people.”
“What higher office?”
He tilts his head. “You don’t know?”
“Just answer the question.”
“New York governor.”
I stare at him, fighting the fury, as this is the first I’ve heard of this idea.
“You really didn’t know,” he says, sounding as shocked as I feel.
“No. I didn’t know. What favors to what people?”
“The Romano family.”
This is a punch in the gut. “As in the mob family you think killed your father?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean for you?”
“Romano and I made peace years ago, Lilah. You know this.”
“You drew a line in the sand. You didn’t make peace.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Are you now my father’s enemy?” I ask.
“Right at this moment? No.”
“But you could become his enemy?” I hold up a hand. “Don’t answer. Why didn’t you call me? If you cared about me at all, you would have told me.”
“A few rumors and meetings do not make a crisis.”
“It’s fucking Romano, Kane. Damn it, you should have called me. You watched me like a damn stalker, but you didn’t call me about this.”
“I would have, had it become an issue.”
“I need to stop it from becoming an issue.” I inhale a sharp-edged breath and breathe it out in an equally sharp change of topic. “What do you know about the man from that night?”
“He’s gone.” His tone is hard. “That’s all we both need to know.”
“Do you know his name? Who sent him? Anything?”
“Lilah—”
“Answer,” I command.
“No to all your questions.”
“How can you, the Kane Mendez, who knows everything about this town, not know those answers?”
“Someone made sure I couldn’t get them without bringing attention to things neither of us wanted attention on.”
“Had you ever seen the tattoo on his arm before or since that night?”
“Lilah,” he orders. “Hear me and hear me now. You will leave this alone.”
His intense need to control what I do or do not do regarding that night is exactly why I make the choice in this moment to keep Junior to myself. “What do you know about the tattoo?”
“Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “You’re lying.”
“Why are you asking about this?”
“That wasn’t a denial of the lie. Why are you dodging and weaving?”
“Why are you trying to get yourself on radars you don’t want to be on?”
“And yet you don’t know who’s involved. Right. Lies. Just so many lies.” I don’t give him time to reply. “I’ll be confirming your alibi. I’ll be in touch once I do.” I turn and head for the door, but the moment I reach for the knob, his hand is on the door above my head, his big body so damn close he’s damn near touching me. So close I can smell him. And he smells like a life I once found addictive, a life I loved and now hate.
“Let me out,” I order softly.
“You will not ask questions about that man or that night, Lilah. You aren’t the only one that has something to lose.”
I rotate to face him, cursing the decision that now puts me a lean away from touching him. “What happened to you trusting me like I trusted you that night?”
“I do trust you, Lilah.”
“Seems to me you were glad to have me on the other side of the country.”
“Because I didn’t call.” He leans in closer. “You want to know why I didn’t call?”
“Because I told you not to call.”
“Do you think that would stop me from calling you? Or coming for you if that’s what I wanted?”
The words are a blow that hurt more than they should and also prove that I’m a fucking fool every moment that this man touches my life. “We’re done here.”
“We are never done, Lilah, and if you think my silence was about us being done, you’ll soon discover that’s not true. Do not ask questions neither of us can come back from.” He pushes off the door, and for several long beats we stare at each other, the charge between us a weird mix of sexual tension, anger, challenge, and something I can’t name. I turn away from him and exit the office, and now, now I’m in my Otherworld, my safe zone, my disconnected place, where I feel nothing. Where Kane and the past cannot reach me. I walk down the stairs, slow and easy, and through the lobby. I exit the building into a gust of wind off the ocean at my back, and I weave through cars until I’m standing next to my rental, where I find an envelope with a red ribbon attached. I inhale, certain this is from Junior.
Still in my Otherworld, I walk to the car, cover the handle with my sleeve, and open it before retrieving a rubber glove from my bag. Returning to the window, I pick up the note and climb into the car. Pulling on a second glove, I remove the note that reads:
T is for TRUST.
You TRUSTED him.
F is for FOOL.
That’s YOU.