“I’m sorry—” I say but he cuts me off, his lips pressing to mine, fast and hard, stealing my breath and my thoughts.
I try to pull away but he’s holding me too tight…or I’m holding him too tight. Breathless—mindless—I pull back, caught in a tangle of arms and hands and lips and tongue and pure electric fire.
“No,” I plead, quietly, so quietly…but he hears, and he stops. I duck my head and press it to his chest. It’s heaving, his heart hammering. My lips are raw, tears still seeping hot and steady from my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say, my thoughts coalescing, forming out of the fog of upset swirling in my mind.
His fingers loosen, and his lips brush my hair again. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I’m in love with Mulberry.” The words come out weak—low— almost unsure. But my heart is hammering his name. I do love him.
“If you say so.” Robert’s voice thrums through his chest, right into my ear.
A spark of anger ignites, and I want to pull back to look into Robert’s face again, but I can’t risk it. If he kisses me again, I don’t know what will happen.
Robert’s hands drift up and down my back in a comforting stroke. “You left him.”
His words energize me, and I pull back this time. Robert lets me slip from his hold easily, his eyes searching for mine. “For his own good. I loved Mulberry enough to let him go.”
Robert doesn’t move or speak for a long moment—just stands there breathing, his eyes bright and lips glistening. A tug on his mouth almost breaks into a smile, but he turns away, tracing one long finger along the edge of his desk as he moves around it.
Robert reaches his seat and looks up at me again. His eyes are shuttered, dark. “I’d never leave you.” He says it quiet and sure. It’s true.
“Even if you thought it was best for me?” I take a step forward, anger and righteous indignation propelling me into his desk, my palms hitting the hard wood with a slap.
That tug turns into a smile, and Robert nods slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes holding mine, and it’s then that I realize… he just told me he is in love with me.
And that he’ll never let me go.
The force of the realization drives me back until my legs knock into one of the armchairs.
There is more than one way to be a slave.
I turn to the door, my hands fisting. I have to get out of here.
Lenox
Petra smiles at me, her expression easy—a predator in disguise. She looks like any sophisticated, wealthy woman sitting at an outdoor café enjoying coffee: hair pulled back into an elegant twist, silk blouse moving subtly in the breeze, diamond necklace sparkling in the sun. The security men in the SUV watching her could just as easily be her own hires as opposed to those paid by Robert Maxim.
Petra watches me as I wind my way through the sparsely populated tables. She sits up a little taller and reaches for her water glass. A sign of unease. “You look well,” she says, when I reach her.
Taking the seat across from her, I catch the waitress’s eye. Young, slim, and tan, she raises her brows and begins to move toward us. I point to the iced latte in front of Petra, and the waitress smiles and nods, veering off toward the bar. I sit back into the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. They are still stiff from all the flying. “I’m sure I look well compared to the last time you saw me,” I say to Petra, my voice low, neutral. Not unfriendly but lacking warmth. “Last time we met I was running for my life.”
Petra purses her lips. “You looked good then too. You always look good, Lenox.”
Unbelievable. A laugh bubbles up in me, but I control it. The fear of that night drawing it from me as a cold compress draws heat. “Why am I here?” I ask her.
Her eyes flick behind me, and the waitress approaches with my coffee. “What else can I get you two?” she asks, looking between us.
“I’ll have the yogurt and granola,” Petra says, holding out the menu—her sleeve slips back, revealing a faint bruising around her wrist. Sydney must have bound her at some point.
The waitress takes the proffered menus and turns to me. “Just the coffee.”
Petra frowns as the waitress leaves. “You’re not hungry?” she asks, lips pouty.
“I don’t plan to stay long. I have nothing to say, but Sydney asked me to hear you out.”
“I suppose you expect me to apologize,” she sits back a little as she says it, her jaw setting into a stubborn line.
“That’s up to you. Say what you want. I’m listening.” I glance down at my watch. “But I’m leaving soon.”
“Oh Lenox, don’t be mad. I let you go.” Crossing my ankles, I fold my arms and wait for more. “The McCain brothers lied to me.” Her voice is firm, as if that’s an acceptable excuse for kidnapping a young woman and holding her hostage, then chasing an old and trusted friend through the woods with the intent to kill or capture him.
“What did they tell you about Elsa? How was that young girl ever a threat to you?” I keep my voice even despite the anger simmering in my chest. Elsa is a child.
Petra breaks eye contact, her shoulders slumping forward under the weight of her mistake. “I regret what happened.”
“Your regrets are not my concern.”
Petra’s eyes find mine again. “Does our history mean nothing?”
“Our history makes this betrayal that much worse.” I suck in a breath, attempting to regain control of myself, but I’ve shown my anger. Exposed my hurt.
Petra reaches for her bag, a red leather clutch with a gold chain. She opens it and hesitates for a moment before glancing up at me again. “Can I make it up to her?” she asks.
“You’d have to ask Elsa that. But I’d guess not.”
She leans forward, her hands still on the purse in her lap. “Can I ever make it up to you?”
“Which part? The exposure of how low and callous and greedy you are?” I shift toward her, my legs coming under me and my arms landing on the table, so our faces are close. “Or the attempt to kill me, chasing me through the woods like a hunted animal? How can you ever make that up to me?”
Petra wets her lips. Her emerald green eyes are still beautiful, still bright…how is it I can see her so differently yet she looks so much the same? “I want your help.” This time I let out the laugh. Then just shake my head, sitting back, my arms crossed over my chest. Petra pulls her phone out of her purse and places it on the table. She looks down at the blank screen. “I need you.”
“You lost me.”
Her eyes jump to my face, and the pain in them is reflected in my own heart. She takes a breath, settling herself before she continues. “I’m going to help take down the McCain brothers.”
“Yes, I know.” Sydney and Merl informed me of the plan.
“That will leave a vacuum.”
I puff out a breath. “One I’m sure you’ll be willing to fill.”
“Will you partner with me?”
“Partner with you?” I shake my head, a laugh dying in my throat—crushed by a sudden wave of despair. We are so far apart.
“Lenox. Be reasonable.”
“I am.” I say it quiet, gentle. “Who wants to partner with someone who has tried to kill them?”
“I did not.” Her voice rises, and she glances around, but no one is looking at us. The only other occupied table is at the far side of the patio, and the couple seated there is very much involved with each other. Petra returns her attention to me. “I could have killed you, Lenox, and I did not. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.” Her voice is fierce, hard. She means it. “I’m sorry.”
I lean forward again, and our faces are close. “It’s far too late for that.”
Petra sighs. “You’re right. Lenox,” she reaches out, touching my forearm, but I retreat. Petra purses her lips for a moment, taking a breath, and then continues. “Someone will take over their business interests. Wouldn’t you rather it be you than someone less scrupulous?”
“Like you?”
&
nbsp; “You can help keep me in line.” A spark comes into her eyes—a challenge, the hint of a game.
“I don’t deal in women.”
“You haven’t. That doesn’t mean you can’t.”
My mother’s face—alive, laughing, her hair wet from the sea—bursts across my vision. Is there anyone who could have kept her safe? “Lenox, think of how much good you can do…” I drop my gaze, looking down at my hands, resting on the white linen cloth. They are still covered in tiny wounds from my escape. “Please—” Petra cuts off as the waitress arrives to deliver her meal.
“Can I get you anything else?” the young woman asks. I force myself to meet the waitress’s gaze, both to acknowledge her presence and drag myself from my own thoughts.
“No, thank you.”
She walks away, and Petra sips her coffee. “At least think about it.”
“I will. If you tell me who is working for you on the island?”
She picks up her spoon and dips it into the creamy yogurt, bringing it to her lips before she responds. “I will tell you, in good faith that you will join me. As I am joining you.”
“Tell me because it is the right thing to do, and I will consider working with you.”
She nods. “His name is Mitchel Swan.”
The name is instantly familiar: Dan’s right-hand man. I’ve met him a few times. Tall, almost nondescript, but his eyes are lit by a rare intelligence.
“What do you have on him?”
Petra casts her gaze down to the bowl of artfully designed breakfast. “I don’t know.”
“Is he the only one?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” Disgust leaks into my voice.
“How can I be sure of anything now?” Petra asks. “They lied to me—never in a million years did I think they would be dealing in”—she lowers her voice to almost a whisper—“war slaves. It’s disgusting.”
“Yes, it is.” And so are you.
Her eyes jump to mine, as if she’s read my thoughts. Petra’s jaw tightens. “I did what I thought was right.”
“And you were wrong.”
Her cheeks brighten in a rare blush. “I know that.” She holds my gaze. “And I will do whatever it takes to make amends.”
I nod once, believing her intention but not sure if what she seeks is possible. “I have to go,” I say, rising. She does not try to stop me.
But as I turn to leave, she says my name. “Lenox.” Her voice is high, almost childlike. I turn back to her. “Please,” she says. “Think about joining with me. I won’t do this alone.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. She’s backed me into a corner. There is no right way out. I either have to scale the walls or blow a hole through them. Taking over the McCains’ business is of no interest to me, but if we leave the vacuum then another bad actor is likely to take their place.
So I don’t answer. I just turn and walk away, reaching into my pocket for my phone. I’ve got to call Dan and give him some bad news.
Chapter Seventeen
Dan
The phone is light in my hand, but I’m gripping it like the thing is an anvil. My mind is tripping over itself. I knew it was possible. But I didn’t want to believe.
I must have missed signs.
Anger flushes through me, washing away the confusion. The bastard is one hell of a liar.
Mitchel. What the fuck?
I stand up, adrenaline shooting through me. Leaving my office, I race down the spiral steps and rush through the command center to the elevator. Waiting for it, I tap my toe, gritting my teeth, repressing the urge to punch at the metal doors.
They finally open, and I step into the empty space, flashes of my ride with Tom pinging through my mind. I assumed my enemy was a stranger. Should have known it was someone closer.
Once on Anita’s floor I break into a jog, headed to her room. My fist pounds on the door, louder than I mean it to be, my furious frustration needing an outlet.
Blood is rushing in my ears, and when there is no answer, I knock again, even harder this time. I need to hit something badly. The door swings open, and Anita, her usually silky hair mussed into a teased mess, stands on the other side, wearing a robe and a look of concern.
“It was Mitchel,” I say, my jaw clenched to keep from screaming it.
Anita’s eyes widen, and she glances over her shoulder toward the bedroom. It’s then I realize what I’ve interrupted. Shit. It’s the middle of the freaking day. Anger flares anew. Irrational this time, misplaced and tinged with the scent of jealousy. “We need to go,” I tell her.
Anita turns back to me and nods. “Yes. Give me a few to get myself together.”
“I’ll wait right out here.” I don’t need to be in there with that smell.
In the few minutes it takes her to get dressed, I call Tanya and tell her to locate Mitchel. It’s his day off, and he usually goes out paddleboarding in the morning then hangs in his rooms. This would all go much easier if we could confront him in private.
I must find out what he did to my systems.
As Anita steps into the hall, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail, wearing jeans and a bright blue tunic, Tanya calls me back. “He’s in his room.”
“Meet us there,” I say. “Mitchel is the mole.”
Tanya’s intake of breath is the only hint of her surprise. “On my way.” Her voice is hard. Ready.
We convene outside his door, and I knock, my anger leashed. I've found my control now. With Tanya and Anita by my side, I am grounded. Supported.
But can I trust it?
Mitchel answers, and when he takes in my expression he steps back into the apartment, looking suddenly exhausted. "Why?" I say as I follow him, Anita and Tanya flanking me. "How could you?"
His tired eyes harden. "I had no choice."
"There is always a choice," Anita says, her voice steely.
"What did you do?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything yet." Mitchel is in the center of his living room now. He stops backing up, his spine straightening. "But if anything happens to me, the whole thing goes down." His eyes light with triumph. I recognize the spark in his gaze. The sense of power—it's a hacker’s drug, the power we take. We control the machines, and the machines control the world.
But Mitchel can’t beat me.
Anita steps forward. "Tell Dan what you did now, so he can fix it.”
His gaze falls on her. "No. I'm sorry, Anita." his voice drops low. "But I can't. If I don't follow through, they will kill my mother."
My own mother flashes across my mind's eye. Her voice over the Alexa stream fills my ears—the soft sound of her weeping. Would I betray all this to save her? No. I've betrayed her to create this.
To create justice.
And this asshole isn't going to take it all away.
Tanya moves forward with fluid strides and grabs him by the collar before Mitchel can backpedal. "If anything happens to me," he says quickly, “Joyful Justice will be destroyed. All our data—the names and locations of our operatives—everything will be sent to Interpol, the CIA—” His voice cuts off as Tanya punches him in the stomach, and he bends over, gasping for air.
Tanya gives a short laugh. "You cannot destroy Joyful Justice," she says, her accent thick but her words clear. "We are not our computer system. We are not individuals. We are a collective vision. We are justice."
"How could you do this?" I ask. "Why didn't you come to me?" The hurt in my voice is terrible. Anita looks over at me, and deep sympathy wells in her gaze. Shit. I sound pathetic.
Not taking her eyes off Mitchel, Tanya says, "He is a coward, Dan; that is how he can risk us all. This is a great act of cowardice." She lets him go but only long enough to step back and deliver another nasty blow to his stomach. "Give me your phone," she says. "I'm not fishing around in your pockets."
Mitchel stumbles back, both hands to his gut. His eyes are bulging. Mitchel is not used to physical confrontation.
"If you take my phone then the virus will go off. Only I can stop it."
Tanya steps forward and grabs his shirt, straightening him again. “Give me your phone.” Her voice is steely.
Mitchel looks over her shoulder to me. "You know, Dan. You know I've got you trapped."
"Give her your phone,” I say. We don't have much time.
Mitchel reaches into the pocket of his shorts and takes out the slim device, handing it to Tanya. She passes it to me. It’s warm and light. And dangerous. “What do you want me to do with him?" Tanya asks.
"Take him down to George's rooms. They can stay together." I've secured that room. There is no way for them to communicate with the outside. No escape.
She grabs Mitchel’s arm and starts to move him toward the door. "Dan!" Mitchel says, his eyes wide. “It will go off if I don't stop it. I have to manually extend the time every six hours."
"Why haven't you set it off yet?" I ask.
"They told me to wait for their communication, and they have not contacted me."
"Who?" I ask, needing to confirm what we already know.
"I don't know their real names." He says it like it's obvious.
"But they know yours." I shake my head. What an idiot. How did he let this happen? His face goes red at the implied insult. "We found them,” I say, my voice weary.
“Do you have my mother?" he asks.
Should I lie and say we do? Blackmail him into giving me the code to his bomb? "Yes, she is in our custody, so you can turn it off now.” It sounds like a lie even to my own ears. Shit, I should have thought this through before storming up here.
Mitchel’s lips tighten into a straight line. "You’re lying. I want to speak to her. Then I'll end it."
Tanya jerks him. "I'll kill her myself," she says, close to his ear. “She will die a painful death if you do not give Dan the information he needs.”
Mitchel shakes his head. "Threaten me all you want. I'm not risking her."
"You'll risk all of us, all the operatives in the field?” Anita asks.
"She gave me life,” Mitchel says, his voice almost a whine.
Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11) Page 15