I shrugged but kept my attention fixed on her features, looking for clues as to how she was going to react.

“For money?” She sounded like the words choked her. “Do you blackmail them for money?”

“No. I use the information for influence.”

“What does that mean, influence? To do what?”

“Real change comes from knowing the wrong people and the right people.” I watched her lips part in surprise. I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I continued. “I make sure information goes to the people who can do the most good with it.”

“So…the police?”

“Not always.” I didn’t know how much she wanted to know, and I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her. Therefore, instead of telling her that I’d sometimes used criminal organizations as a means to administer justice, I answered only the questions she asked.

Her eyes lost focus as she worked to grasp the truth. “That’s why everything is behind those steel doors at the office. That’s why the private security servers are not connected to the Internet and behind encrypted security. That’s why you won’t use open source development apps.”

“That’s part of the reason.” My tone was flat. I’d told her the bulk of it; now it was just about clarifying the details. “The other is because part of the security we offer to private clients is to hack into their personal systems, cell phones, and bank accounts to assess security risks.”

She blinked at me and her eyes moved to my mouth. Her next words were full of dawning comprehension, yet lacked judgment. “You store their private information on your servers. They pay you to keep them safe, and you use their secrets against them.”

I almost laughed. She was so smart, yet frequently missed the obvious.

Her eyes cut to mine—they were without emotion, but far from emotionless. “This is not legal, Quinn. Does Steven know? Why would you do this? Quinn….” She shook her head, her eyebrows drawing together. “After what happened to your brother, why wouldn’t you turn any information over to the police?”

I absorbed the blow, the reminder of my culpability in Des’s murder. I met and held her challenging and assessing glare straight on and did my best to explain my actions, but was careful not to defend them.

“These aren’t petty criminals, Janie. These are powerful people. I could do more good and make a bigger difference using them and their information than I could if these people were behind bars for tax evasion and recreational drug use. They would just be replaced, and I’d have no leverage.”

“Leverage to do what? You said you use the information to persuade them to make good decisions? What kind of good decisions?”

I thought of some examples. Many were selfish, like using powerful families to administer revenge against the crime organization responsible for my brother’s death. I hadn’t stopped until that organization had been completely dismantled and all the heads of the business had been severed—literally or figuratively. I didn’t care which.

Others were less selfish, like using a large campaign contributor to put pressure on a senator. In this case, the pressure was meant to hold a particular CEO accountable for the pilfering of employee pension funds.

Although, that too had been selfish in a way, because my secretary Betty’s husband had worked for the company and lost everything, all of his retirement. I supposed it was also revenge.

This didn’t cover the few people whose information I’d immediately passed through to the FBI or CIA, because their crimes were beyond reprehensible.

I finally said, “It’s complicated. I had a big part in dismantling the organization responsible for my brother’s death, but it was all about putting pressure on the right people.”

She was frowning now, but she didn’t try to move away. “What concerns me is that you got involved in the first place, especially after what happened with your brother.”

“Of course I’m involved.” The words escaped before I could stop them or the flare of temper. “The only way to make a real change is by getting involved, not by burying your head in the sand.”

She flinched, her eyes darted away, and her eyelashes fluttered. I silently reprimanded myself and inhaled a deep breath, my hands moving to her arms.

When I spoke next, my words were measured and carefully calm. “Yes, Janie, my hands are dirty—because I’ve been cleaning up messes.”

“What kind of messes?”

“All kinds,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t want to tell her what kinds of messes, because sometimes you had to prioritize one mess over another. When this happened, someone always lost, and it was usually someone who was innocent.

She pressed her lips together and swallowed, the lovely, pale column of her neck working with the effort. Still avoiding my eyes, she said, “You’re not Batman, Quinn.”

“Like hell I’m not.”

“Really?” Her gaze lifted to mine again. “Are you telling me you’ve never personally profited from these business ventures?”

“Yes, I’ve profited. And if Batman had been doing it right, he would have profited too.”

Her mouth fell open and her forehead wrinkled with disbelief. “You can’t justify using people for gain.”

“I’m not. It’s not about the gain, Janie.” I shook her arms a little and I inwardly cringed at the edge in my voice. “Do you believe—knowing what you do about me, the part I had in Des getting shot—that I was just going to let these people walk away?”

“Is this revenge?”

“In a word? Yes. Or at least it started that way.”

I watched her for a long moment, studied her expression and body language. To my surprise, she didn’t look repulsed. She looked sad and confused.

As much as I wanted to bind her to me, tie her up and restrain her, I knew I was going to have to let her go eventually.

She needed to make a decision: either I was worth the investment, or I wasn’t. Either I was redeemable, or I wasn’t.

I inhaled through my nose and stepped away, her hands fell from my chest. Losing the warmth of her, it felt like I’d abandoned a part of me. I left it with Janie to do with as she saw fit. For safekeeping, or to throw away.

Reaching around her, I grabbed the half-empty glass of scotch and swallowed the remainder, then moved to her side to refill it.

“What is it now? It started as revenge, which—by the way—is just as well documented as being a central theme in Greek tragedy as avoidable misunderstandings. But what is it now?” She asked; she’d wrapped her arms around her middle, like she was holding herself.

“Now….” I glanced at the ceiling. “Now I’m done.”

She turned her head to look at me, paused as though processing my words. “You’re done? Done with what?”

“I’m done with private clients and playing Batman. I’m getting out of it. That’s what the first part of this trip was about. I’m passing over my UK clients to new firms.”

“Is that why I’ve had three guards with me the entire time we’ve been here?”

“No. That’s about me needing to know you’re safe.”

“Am I in some kind of danger?”

“I don’t believe so.” She wasn’t, no more than any random person. What I didn’t say was, even that small unknown felt like too much.

“Is this going to continue in Chicago? The guards?”

“No. It shouldn’t. Some of these people can be….” I searched for the most truthful description of the private clients as a group. “They can be unpredictable, but they’re rarely violent. Most of the US group has already been handed off. I’m only keeping a few. Just a small number of clients that are trustworthy, that have nothing to hide.”

I met her stare and took another swig of scotch.

“Can you do that? Can you just hand them off?”

“I don’t know. But for you, I’m going to try.”

Her eyes darted between mine. “For me?”

“I told you, you make me want to be a good guy.” Because I couldn’t help myself, I placed my hand on her cheek, let my thumb brush against her full bottom lip. Touching her was torture because I didn’t know if she still wanted me.

“Quinn….” She held perfectly still, staring at me with her large amber eyes.

The thickness in my voice betrayed how badly I wanted her, but I wasn’t going to tie her up. “I’m trying to be a good guy.”

CHAPTER 9

*Janie*

“Oh thank God!” Steven threw himself into the plush leather chair of the private jet and stroked the armrests lovingly. “I’ve missed you. Did you get my flowers? Please let us never be separated again.”

I watched through narrowed eyes, though I couldn’t help my smile, as Steven spoke to the interior of the plane as though it were a lover and not a 46,000-pound piece of aviation machinery.

“You took one commercial flight, Steven. One.”

“Shhh!” he pressed his finger to his lips and loud whispered, “He’ll hear you.”

I glanced to my right and left. “Who will hear me?”