CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On the way to gym that evening, Michael tried to reach his father’s friend once again. Becky answered, but when he asked for Sanders, she said, “He’s busy for a few days, hon.”

“Busy with what?” Michael asked, trying to sound casual rather than suspicious, even though he was starting to feel that way.

“He got called out of town. He has things he needs to get done before he finishes work,” she said as he turned on the blinker of his black BMW to exit the highway.

“Hmm. Okay. But I’ve got to see him soon, Becky. Can you have him call me as soon as he can?”

“Of course, love.”

The line went dead.

As Michael hoisted a barbell a little later, he replayed the conversation with John, then the brief chat with Becky, trying to read between their words, to line them up like missing puzzle pieces alongside his conversation with Annalise earlier. As he pushed up the heavy weight in his bench press, he zeroed in on some ideas, but they were fuzzy, hazy around the edges, and he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. He lowered the bar, wondering if there was more to Becky’s odd behavior, to Sanders’s absence, and to the conversation T.J. had with his father.

Now, that—he’d sure as hell like to know more about that.

He’d seen Sanders a few weeks ago, along with his dad’s other friend, Donald, at the Golden Nugget. That was where Donald dealt cards, and Michael had joined them for a few rounds, winning handily each time.

“Just like his dad. Thomas always beat us at poker,” Sanders had said, shaking his head and laughing, a hint of pride in his voice. Michael had reined in a grin because he loved those comparisons and ate them up like candy.

Anything to connect him to his dad.

They’d all got to talking when Donald’s shift ended, and the older men mentioned something about trouble at his dad’s company way back when. They didn’t have a ton of details, nor did Michael, but he could recall his father mentioning something similar at one of their Chinese restaurant meals. He just wished he knew what sort of trouble, and if that trouble was connected to Luke. He had nothing to go on now, since West Limos had come up clean in his research into the company. But the details nagged at Michael as he poked and prodded at his own memories of things his dad had said to him.

He wished he had Annalise’s memory—precise and, not surprisingly, photographic. His was blurrier, and he often wondered if it was because of how he found out his dad was gone. The image splashed cruelly before his eyes, and he grimaced as he jammed the weights back in the holder. He sat up straight with his hands on his knees, trying to shake off the scene that sometimes replayed unexpectedly.

Taking measured breaths, he focused on the small details around him now. The pounding music in his earbuds. The clang of barbells. The whir of bicycle machines.

They reset him to the present.

But the problem was the present was mired in so much uncertainty. He was on the outside, peeking in, trying to assemble the picture while only having access to the barest bits and pieces. He tried to fill in the blanks as he cycled through all the weights then headed to the rowing machine. Sixty sweaty minutes later, he called Mindy, his sounding board, as he drove home.

“Should we get Morris to look into the company my dad worked at, too?” he asked, mentioning the private eye’s name after he’d relayed his conversation with the detective.

“Hmm,” Mindy said, seeming to mull over the idea. “I’m not so sure. That’s a bit different than having Morris tail Luke Carlton.”

“I know,” Michael said with a sigh. “That’s the issue. Which path to send him down.”

“Honestly, I think we need to keep him on Luke, since you know there’s likely a connection. And I think you need to talk to the people your dad knew then. Donald, Sanders—those guys. See if they know anything about the conversation with T.J.”

“If I can even get Sanders to return a fucking call,” Michael said with a huff, as he turned onto his street.

“Go see him, then.”

But something about that idea seemed unwise. With Becky acting odd, Michael wasn’t so sure how well her husband would take to a surprise visit. He shook his head, even though Mindy couldn’t see him. “I’ve got to work other angles. I’m going to see what I can dig up. I’ll let you know what I find.”

He said good-bye, then pulled into the parking garage at his building and headed up the elevator to his home. Once inside, he went straight for his computer, logging into some of the databases that he and Ryan relied on for security and background checks at work. He entered the name of the limo company his father had worked for, but nothing new surfaced. He’d been down this road before. When the investigation had been reopened, he’d looked into West Limos. He wasn’t suspicious, per se. Just being thorough. It was owned by some guy named West Strassman. For years the same guy had owned it from his home base in Dallas. Now he was retired, living in Canada and keeping busy fishing. But he still owned a bunch of businesses around the country, with managers at each to run the day-to-day operations.

Michael leaned back in his desk chair, sighing heavily. Maybe he was reaching. Maybe the connection was simply that his mother had happened to meet her lover when he’d been playing piano at a work party. Got to know him, started selling drugs for his Royal Sinners to make some cash on the side. Got greedy and wanted more dough to cover her debts. Wanted to run away with her lover.

Killed her husband.

Yeah, that seemed as plausible as anything. The West Limo connection was simply the way in which her world collided with that of Luke Carlton. Luke then became the connection to the gang, the drugs, and the murder for hire. Hell, maybe the conversation T.J. had with his dad was about his mother’s affair.

He shut his laptop, padded to the kitchen, poured two fingers of scotch, and let the liquor scorch a path down his throat. He set the glass on the counter and headed for the shower.

Time to put aside the clues that remained cloudy. He had a trip to take to New York, a woman to focus his energy on, and business to attend to.

As the water beat down on him, he bent his head under the spray, letting the heat soothe his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, and soon enough the questions stopped chasing each other. They circled the drain, and he imagined letting go of them until he could talk to the man who might have the answers. As the shower steamed up, his thoughts returned to that afternoon with Annalise.

For the first time all day, he let himself accept that he was going to have some kind of tryst with her. He was going to touch her in all the ways he craved. He could still smell her when he closed his eyes. She didn’t smell like rain today. She’d smelled like longing. Like lust. Like the woman she’d become, not the girl he fell in love with.

The woman was like a sexual jack-in-the-box. Wind her up and she exploded beautifully, like diamonds shattering into brilliant pieces. What would she sound like when he tasted her for the first time? How would she move beneath him?

The water pounded his shoulders as he took his dick in his hand. He stroked, slowly at first, and then as desire started to pulse, he tugged faster, imagining sliding his cock into her wet heat.

He’d jacked off to the vision of Annalise more times than he could count, but never in recent years. He’d denied himself that pleasure. Or really, that pain. He’d successfully shoved her out of his mind the day she unintentionally broke his motherfucking heart in Marseilles. The shield had gone up, the walls had risen, and he’d resisted all thoughts of her.

Not now.

Not when he was seeing her again.

Not when he was sure she wanted the same thing he did. She wanted him, and hell if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.

As the water poured down his back, his fist curled tighter.

He breathed out hard, a rough, gritty exhale as his hand worked faster and his mind replayed the dressing room. She’d melted into him, but it was more than that. She vibrated—like she was on some other frequency, strung tight, hot, and desperate. The way she’d gripped his hand, rubbing up against him, fucking his fingers, drove him crazy then and consumed him now.

The image stirred up lust all through his body, as carnal pleasure built low in his gut. He groaned as the water pounded mercilessly. His muscles tightened everywhere, his quads tensing as his hand flew up and down his dick. God, he wanted her. Wanted to know how it would feel to strip her to her lacy panties then rip them off. Kiss her, taste her, lick her, fuck her, take her.

His breath raced fast from his lungs, release in reach.

Right now, under the water, in the privacy of his own home, he was free to say her name, to imagine her face, to picture her as he came.

Later, as he lay in bed, he told himself that this reunion was temporary. It was one day, one moment, one chance. Then he’d move on.

He almost believed it.