The Negotiator

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "I, ah, yeah," I agreed, nodding. I wanted to claim it was because I was put on the spot. But there wasn't really much debating the matter, was there? He was a good man. A man who would go to any lengths to save his brother, who defended those in his care, who treated his employees with respect, who made sure you were as comfortable as possible while in his home? Those were traits of good men.

  As for keeping me a bit against my will? Well, I had to admit, it was a move I probably could have seen one of the guys at my work doing if they thought it was the only way to get what they needed, or to protect their women. And if I wouldn't fault them for doing it, it was hard for me to continue finding fault in Christopher for doing the same thing.

  "This is Antony. Antony, this is Miss Miller," Christopher supplied.

  "Nice to, ah, meet you," Antony said, giving me a warm smile.

  Assuming he was the previous owner, I gave the place another scan, then gave him a smile. "This is a beautiful home," I told him.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you. It was not so nice when Christopher here came in. He made it very nice again."

  "Antony, I told you that you didn't need to come all the way up here," Christopher said. "This was very out of your way," he added.

  "Oh, no. No problem. I bring my daughter. She is getting the house ready for guests."

  "That wasn't necessary," Christopher told him. "But I appreciate it."

  "We had to make it nice," Antony insisted. "Oh, is this little Alexander?" he gushed, rushing over toward him, making Alexander's eyes go huge as the man hugged and kissed him like old friends.

  "The last time we were here, Alexander was only about nine," Christopher explained.

  "You have a house like this, and you haven't come here in six years?"

  "I've been busy," he said, shrugging. "And it is best to keep this as secret as possible. You can't do that if you holiday here every summer."

  That was fair. Even if it was a shame.

  "He must come here often," I said, moving away from Christopher, checking out the plants on the deck. Among the spices, there were hardy tomato plants with big red fruit, zucchini, various greens, eggplant, and beans.

  "He's fond of the place. He likely stays here on occasion. But he has kept on a small staff of grounds keepers to keep the place from becoming too overgrown."

  "I understand his fondness. This is a little oasis," I admitted. That was a bit flowery for me to say, but it was true nonetheless. I could absolutely see this place functioning as a wellness retreat. Guests who stood on this porch and looked at the view I was looking at must have been able to take their first full, deep breath in a long time, breathing in nothing but clean air and the earthy smell of trees and plants.

  "I'm glad you like it," he said, moving in beside me. "We might be here a while," he added.

  "You're worried about the rest of your men," I concluded.

  "If I had been able to overlook Niko's treachery, I don't feel confident that I have, what is the word..."

  "Vetted," I suggested.

  "Yes, vetted, all my men properly."

  "How are you going to do that from here?" I asked, brows furrowing.

  "I have outsourced that particular problem," he told me.

  "Who did you hire?" I asked. "I probably know him. All us problem-solvers tend to run in the same circles."

  "His name is Holden. He came highly recommended."

  He would.

  He was the best at what he did.

  And the only reason he didn't work at Quinton Baird & Associates was because Quin wasn't the biggest fan of his methods. Which often included various forms of counter-interrogation that could sometimes turn violent. Viciously so, if he thought someone was hiding something from him. And Quin liked knowing his people had a little more restraint than that. I, personally, thought The Inquisitor had a really good ring to it.

  "So, you'll definitely have the answers you need."

  To that, he nodded. "We just need to give it a little time."

  "Well, if we have to be trapped away somewhere, this is the place to be," I told him, finding his gaze on mine, eyes intense, lips about to say something.

  But then Alexander moved in between us. "Way to abandon me," he grumbled. "He kissed me like six times."

  "He's sweet," I concluded.

  "His daughter pinched my cheeks," he added, cringing.

  "It must suck to be so adored," I teased, getting small eyes from him.

  "I'm going for a hike. Or am I in lockdown, Warden?" he asked.

  "Get lost," Christopher said, dismissing him. "Would you like a tour of the house?" he asked me.

  "Absolutely," I agreed.

  This house was in complete contrast to the cave house. For many reasons. One of them being that most of the cave house was rounded in the rooms. This house was a typical architecture with clean lines. The cave house had been almost startlingly white, but this one was all earth tones—browns, creams, greens, a hint of burnt orange and yellow in the pillows on the sectional couch that faced a giant stone hearth.

  The front room—which I guess we would call a living room, though with the sheer size of this place, I ventured to guess there would be at least three or four similarly functioning rooms—was surrounded by large windows. Large houseplants in massive pots were scattered around, letting the leaves soak up the sun.

  Like the cave house, it immediately felt homey, but in a different, more rustic way.

  There were a few knick knacks on the mantle, which reminded me of home, of my collection of things.

  "Through here is the dining room," Christopher said, putting a hand at my lower back, making me think he had tried to get my attention with little success as I looked at the living room.

  Much like the living room, this was a window-lined, oversized space, dominated by a solid wood plank table in a mahogany finish, lined with off-white tufted chairs. Across from where we were standing against the far wall was a long sideboard with a wood-framed mirror.

  And in that mirror, I couldn't help but see the two of us reflected. I also couldn't help but notice that we made a pretty good picture. Him a bit more than me because, let's face it, the man literally rolled out of bed and committed homicide while looking like a friggen Gucci model.

  "Back through here is the kitchen," he added, leading me through a set of swinging doors.

  I'd gotten used to the cramped efficiency of his cave house kitchen. This was not that. This was a gourmet kitchen. It was the kind of place meant for a staff of people to work comfortably together to create meals for dozens of guests.

  There was a long, wide island down the center of the room with a stainless steel top, matching the two massive refrigerators, the dishwasher, the fancy stove with ten burners, and the sink. The cabinets were a warm honey color, and like the other main rooms, the sun was streaming in through a myriad of windows.

  "Has Cora ever seen this place?" I asked, moving forward, running my hand across the cool edge of the counter.

  "Unfortunately, no."

  "She could do wonders in here."

  "You can too."

  "I can try," I corrected, shaking my head. "I'm not like Cora, though. I don't have a dozen recipes memorized."

  "You will figure it out."

  "Or we'll all starve," I said, snorting. "Alright. What else does this place have?" I asked.

  It turned out, a lot.

  The main floor also boasted a library full of books and chairs begging to be sunk into. There was a game room complete with a pool table, an air hockey table, and a card table.

  "Trust me, you don't want to play cards with me," I told him when he suggested it was likely the only thing in the room he'd ever put to use.

  "No? Sore loser?" he asked, lips twitching. Teasing. He was teasing me.

  "I wouldn't know," I shot back, chin lifting a bit. "I never lose."

  "That sounds like a challenge," he concluded.

  "We can't play for money. Since I seem to be missing all my
personal belongings."

  "We'll play for something a lot more valuable," he said, tone deep.

  "What's that?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat quicken with the intensity in his eyes.

  "Information."

  "What kind of information?"

  "Winner's choice."

  That was risky.

  For so many reasons. I had many stories I had never told anyone. The idea of doing so made my stomach cramp painfully.

  That being said, I had to imagine Christopher felt the same way about some of his past, about sensitive parts of his life.

  And if he was willing to take that risk, why should I chicken out?

  "Alright," I agreed, nodding. "After dinner."

  After bringing me to the lower floor where I found an indoor pool, a hot tub, and a sauna, we went back up, finding the level with the bedrooms.

  "What do you mean, pick one? Where are you staying? Where is Alexander staying? I can't just pick any one."

  "Alexander is in the attic room. He claimed it when he was young. Back when he was interested in astronomy. He still has his telescope up there. You can choose any of these."

  "Alright, well, this one overlooks that view out back where you can see the river. So... I am going with this one," I concluded after glancing in the second to last one in the hall. "What?" I asked, brows furrowing.

  "Nothing," he told me, but it wasn't convincing in the least.

  It wasn't until much later—after enjoying a meal prepared by Antony and his daughter, Maria—when I had gone to my room to change into something a little warmer, that I realized what Christopher had found so interesting about my room choice.

  Because as I was standing in the bathroom in my panties and a tee, a pocket door slid open, revealing Christopher and the bedroom behind him.

  Adjoining rooms.

  That was just... altogether too damn tempting, now, wasn't it?

  "Did you pick that room because of this?" I accused, eyes going small.

  He moved a step back, waving an arm inside his room, inviting me to investigate.

  And there was no denying that this had been his room for many years. He'd had a desk moved in, complete with another of those fancy leather binders of his, a giant TV which all the other bedrooms were lacking, and a closet full of suits.

  "Just an interesting coincidence," he told me, watching me as I moved around, reminding me of my lack of clothing on the lower portion of my body. "But also good. We're safe here, but it is smart from a logistical standpoint to be close by."

  "Alexander is in the attic," I reminded him.

  "With a staircase that pulls up and locks from the inside. No one can get up there unless he wants to let them. I know this from experience."

  "He's taking this all pretty well. All things considered. It can't be easy to be pulled out of school, away from friends and girls. Especially at his age."

  "At least here, he can go into town if he'd like. So long as he keeps his mouth shut about who we are and why we're here."

  "He's smart enough for that."

  "You'd think that. But then there might be a pretty girl. And fifteen-year-old boys are notoriously stupid around pretty fifteen-year-old girls."

  "He already has a girl," I reminded him.

  "Fifteen-year-old boys can also be fickle."

  "Thirty-year-old men can be fickle, so I guess we can't fault him too much."

  "He'll learn through his mistakes. Much like the rest of us."

  "Do you plan for him to work for you when he's older?" I blurted out, not sure why I was asking, how I could possibly consider it any of my business.

  "That would be up to him. After high school. After college. Then he can decide. You're disappointed," he concluded as I moved past him, back into the bathroom, then through to my bedroom with its queen-sized bed with a cream comforter and about a dozen pillows.

  "I didn't say that," I told him, dropping down on the bed.

  "You didn't need to. You're easy to read."

  "I've literally never heard someone say that about me before," I told him, feeling a bit taken aback at the idea. The whole reason I was so good at my job was because I had a great poker face. You would never know if I was bullshitting you during a negotiation, or if I was being genuine. I'd have been killed a long time ago if I hadn't carefully honed that particular skill.

  He shrugged that off. "Your eyes give you away. You think I should want better for my brother than I have," he concluded.

  "That is usually the goal for parental figures toward the young men and women they are raising."

  "I want for him the same things I wanted for myself when I was his age. A stable profession. An income that will prevent him from worrying. The freedom to enjoy downtime, to take holidays. Maybe he will find that in starting his own business. Maybe he will find purpose in being a doctor, saving lives. Maybe he will write books or open a bar. Or maybe he will choose to find those things the same way I have."

  "Working for you would be much more dangerous than writing books or running a bar."

  "Being alive is dangerous," he shot back.

  "Yes, but your life more so."

  "And yours isn't?" he asked, brow raising.

  "We're not talking about me."

  "When you have a daughter, will you tell her not to do what you did for a living?"

  When.

  Not if.

  It was an interesting distinction that my body physically responded to, my stomach flip-flopping, my breath catching.

  I hadn't given much thought to children. There had never been any reason to. My life was too crazy for kids. Not to mention my complete and utter lack of a man I would ever want to mix my DNA with to make a human being.

  Just the mention of a daughter conjured up strange images, ones I found oddly fascinating.

  A round belly.

  The fluttery sensation of a kick.

  A swaddled baby in my arms.

  A little girl looking up at me with a face that looked a lot like mine.

  It was an odd, but fascinating thing to consider. Even if there was slim to no chance of it ever becoming a reality.

  "I would want her to be loved and supported and protected enough to never need to choose a dangerous profession."

  I realized I had managed to give away too much of the very carefully concealed parts of my past when Christopher's eyes went thoughtful, seemed to penetrate into me, searching.

  I thought he was going to press it, to demand more. But when he spoke, what came out from between his lips was unexpectedly sweet.

  "Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother, Melody."

  The impact of those words was something I found hard to process, let alone label. But I felt warm under that kind of praise. Reassured. Comforted.

  But I didn't want him to see that, to expose that sort of vulnerability to him.

  "You only say that because you don't know that I once taught a kid of one of my clients how to undo the parental blocks on their computer so they could watch Game of Thrones."

  "How old was he?" he asked, lips curving up a bit.

  "She was thirteen."

  "Now I am starting to wonder if I should've had parental controls on Alexander's devices."

  "I was watching people get limbs sawed off when I was ten or eleven. And I turned out halfway decent."

  "Halfway decent is pretty good," he agreed.

  "Besides, if a teenaged boy wants to watch porn, he is going to find a way to watch porn. So, really, they're pointless anyway."

  "We're far from the days of trying to get an adult to buy you a dirty magazine."

  "Tried to bribe old dudes to buy you dirty magazines, did you?" I asked, watching that flush creep up his neck.

  Fascinating.

  That was what that was.

  To see a man who was so composed become unmistakably bashful.

  It was charming, actually.

  Who'd have thought?

  "I asked adults to get me many thin
gs when I was underaged. But when it came to women, I liked to learn things... firsthand."

  That should not have been sexy.

  It was just a statement, not even an innuendo really.

  But what can I say, anything that involved him and his hands and what he may have learned to do with them over the years? Yeah, that was hot.

  I knew exactly what those lips of his were capable. One could only imagine his hands were equally skilled. Along with a couple other very specific parts of his anatomy.

  God.

  No.

  I needed to stop thinking about that. Especially with him standing there looking all proud of himself in a suit that might have looked better on my bedroom floor.

  Thankfully, Christopher interrupted the silence, knocking those sexy thoughts out of my head.

  "Tequila, right?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  "Your drink of choice," he clarified, making me realize he tucked away that information on Fenway's yacht. You had to respect a man who had a fine attention to detail. There was something very appealing about a man who paid attention, wasn't there? Not that I needed any more reasons to find this particular man attractive.

  "Yes, tequila."

  "I will get some while you get changed. Then we have a game to play," he told me, making his way to the door, leaving me alone.

  To remember what game we were playing.

  And just how high the stakes were.

  I should have been freaking out.

  I should've had a nervous sweat breaking out across my back.

  At the idea of giving him some of the ugly parts of my past, the parts of myself and my story that I chose not to share with others.

  All I could feel right then, though, was an unexpected anticipation.

  Because maybe—just possibly—I had found someone that I wanted to give all those parts of me to.

  It was terrifying.

  But, somehow, I knew I could trust him with that information. I knew he wouldn't look at me differently because of it.

  What that said about me, about him, about this dynamic between us, well, I had no idea.

  But for the first time in my entire life, I found myself wanting to lose, to know my poker face failed me.