by Anne Malcom
He waited for me to answer it. He was good, I’d give him that. His stare was harsh yet not overtly accusing, his demeanor brisk but friendly, his words probing and not forceful on the surface yet there was a quality to them that yanked at the human instinct to answer. To comply.
I didn’t comply with anything.
I evenly met his stare, not speaking, making sure my mask was firmly in place.
He blinked first.
They always did.
“Are you sure you don’t know this man?” he said, a small twinkle of appreciation in his eye. Likely he wasn’t used to being bested. And unlike many men, it did not rouse a kind of fury at being bested by a woman, no it was a respect that lay beneath his gaze.
Rare, those men.
“Am I sure I don’t know a man that knows how to kill assailants in a handful of seconds, one who hangs around in dark alleys at midnight and doesn’t hesitate to not just come to a woman’s aide but end a life?” I asked.
More eye twinkle.
A nod.
“Yes, I am sure that I do not have an acquaintance with someone like that,” I said dryly. “And I can say with complete honesty, this man, if we can call him that, is a complete and utter stranger to me. And these acts of violence are as baffling to me as they are to you. I assure you.”
All of those statements were, in theory, true.
Lying only worked best when you used the truth to deceive.
He regarded me for a long moment. “Do you have any enemies, Ms. Crofton?”
I laughed, long and cold. “Yes, Detective Maloney, I have plenty of enemies,” I said, my voice as chilly as my laugh. “A woman does not get to the position I am without them.” I paused. “But do I have enemies that would have me attacked not once, but twice in a rather messy and inefficient way?” I raised my brow at him, pausing for a handful of seconds.
“No. I’m sure a lot of men I’ve stepped on along the way, would love to see me dead. But every single one would be too cowardly to actually do something about it. And the ones that weren’t, and I’ll say this is very few, they’d be efficient. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. I’m sure I’d be in a closed casket while at a tasteful, and impressively attended funeral.”
The detective who I had been sure was little more than unflappable blinked in shock at my words.
I wanted to smile at the expression.
Of course I didn’t. Smiles, like tears, were a form of weakness.
“Now,” I said, standing and positioning my Hermes in the crook of my arm. “If there’s nothing else, I have a company to run. Well, I have four, but you get the point.”
He recovered quickly and stood, rounding the table to lean on the desk in front of me.
He was rather attractive, in a conventional way. Slightly older than me, if the gray in his temples was anything to go by. Then again, I guessed with his job it was an occupational hazard to go gray early. Either that or die before you had the chance.
The rest of his hair was brown, not quite black, but the same whisky color as his eyes. It was short but slightly ruffled, unstyled, and mussed as if he had been running his fingers through it continuously. His jaw was chiseled and free of stubble, nose straight. There were slight bags under his eyes, another unsurprising physical quality. Detectives didn’t keep regular hours, since crime didn’t.
He was wearing a middle of the line button down shirt, slightly wrinkled, open collar, no tie. It was tucked into worn jeans, an expensive leather belt fastened around them. He was trim, lean but with muscles that told me, he most likely ran daily and did weight training a couple of times a week.
So he was healthy, not paid well for the number of hours he did—evidenced by the tidy but inexpensive clothes—didn’t sleep—the eye bags—and was hardened by the world he’d chosen to become his life. But not jaded, if the slight warming in his expression was anything to go by as he crossed his arms and regarded me.
“Someone is obviously looking to hurt you, Ms. Crofton,” he said. “And I fear that the third time will not be lucky for you. If you would like me to organize a protection detail—”
“I appreciate the offer, Detective Maloney,” I interrupted. “But the New York City police force are stretched thin as it is, with not enough funding to combat constant crime. I, on the other hand, have the resources to hire my own protection detail. I am not going to be glib with my safety, I assure you. Nor will I be dense about the obvious position I’m in. I plan on hiring an effective security team to make sure there is no third time.”
A slight lie.
I was going to hire a team. But not to protect me. To find him.
Because I was good at reading people.
At picking up small details and adding them together to give me information to get what I wanted.
And this last attack was not in a darkened alley when I didn’t have time to assess the situation.
There was light.
I had information.
Maybe not enough, but I’d make it enough.
Because I always got what I wanted.
4
“I don’t understand, Mr. Thatcher. Your reputation hails you as one of the best private investigators in the country,” I said, looking down at the paper on him for effect rather than anything else. I’d memorized it. Knowledge was always power.
“The lack of information tells me otherwise. And I’m paying you a lot of money for you to tell me nothing.” I screwed up the paper, focusing on him with my even gaze. “So here’s something I can tell you, for free.” I tossed the paper in the trash. His eyes followed it, but I kept my gaze on him. I waited for him to resume eye contact.
“I’ve taken great pains to ensure my word has weight in this city,” I continued. “In all areas of this city. I’m thinking with your clientele, clientele who listen to me because they respect me, fear me or because I control their companies. If I were to share my disappointment with them, I would hazard a guess into saying you’d never work in New York City again.” I paused as his face reddened. “Perhaps you might afford a ramshackle office in New Jersey with a laboring fan for the summer and nothing but a space heater for the winter, getting measly paychecks from overweight and jealous husbands or pinched faced paranoid housewives.” I leaned forward, placing my palms flat on my desk. “Worlds away from your current offices in Manhattan, with an impressive client list and a paycheck that ensures your wife doesn’t have to work a day in her life and she can shop at Hermes and get massages every week. And so that you can finance your mistress in her apartment in Soho.”
The man’s cheeks had reddened from the moment I started speaking, now his eyes bulged to comical proportions, somehow widening his relatively thin and not completely unattractive face.
But his expression and lack of control over his emotions was what made him unattractive.
It was weakness.
I’d been able to strip him of that smarmy false strength he’d sauntered in here with moments before in mere seconds.
“How the fuck do you know that?” he hissed, using anger to blanket his fear at my words and the very real promise behind them. He wasn’t an overly stupid man, therefore he knew that I had the power to do everything I said and more. I’d done it before. I didn’t do empty threats. Nothing about me was empty, except perhaps my soul.
I tilted my head. “Do you think I look dense enough not to have my investigator investigated?” I leaned back in my chair. “I had to be assured that you are the best, and I do not judge you for your infidelity. I couldn’t care less. I do judge you for your lack of skill that you are charging me thousands of dollars for.”
“It’s impossible!” he yelled. Men did that too, yelled when they were failing in front of a woman. As if the tenor of their voices might cover up the exposed nerve that was inferiority in front of the fairer and in their minds, weaker sex.
“Nothing is impossible, Mr. Thatcher,” I said, my voice still even. Men had yelled at me many times before, and n
othing made them madder than when I didn’t yell back, or blanch in the face of their fury. “And you assured me of much the same when I hired you a week ago.”
His cockiness had all but filled up my office. He had assured me it would be covered. That Wolf Eyes would be found on the little amount of information I’d been able to provide.
Yet here he was, a week later, with nothing.
“Do you know how hard it is to find a man with no name, no places of employment, no residence listed?’ he asked, voice not quite a yell but a low rumble.
“Yes, I am well aware, which is why I hired a professional rather than do it myself.” My eyes flickered over him and his expensive suit, making sure my face was structured in a way that it showed I found him lacking. “Or, more aptly, I thought I hired a professional.” I waved my hand. “I’ll no longer be needing your services. Vaughn will validate your parking on the way out, and that’s the only form of reimbursement for services rendered you’ll be getting from me.”
I held up my hand to silence him as he pushed from his chair, presumably to pace and yell. “And before you try to argue on the point of your paycheck, I’ll remind you of the retainer I already paid that is well above the amount needed to pay for your time and resources since neither seems to have been utilized. If you leave my office without a word, I’ll consider not mentioning this unfortunate experience to my acquaintances and perhaps you’ll still be able to keep your wife in Hermes scarves in a year.” I raised my brow. “Your choice.”
He opened his mouth. Right before the words flew out, the threats, the insults, the excuses, his brain caught up exceptionally fast. Because he knew I had him, proverbially, by the balls.
And not in the way he liked.
The pure hatred and fury in his eyes told me he was liking nothing about this experience, and every instinct he had was urging him to salvage his tattered masculinity.
But he was likely also very attached to his balls.
So he clenched his fists at his sides and stayed silent.
Of course he did.
Before he could storm from the room like an unruly teenager, the door flew open and the entire energy of the room changed.
No, the room became a pulsating ball of energy.
“I have no idea how he got in the building and I honestly value my life enough not to try and physically stop him from getting in here,” Vaughn said calmly as he trailed in behind the person who had opened my doors. He held up his phone. “Security?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
Vaughn would’ve called them already in any other situation. And contrary to what he just said, no one would’ve been striding unannounced into my office unless they first trampled over his dead body.
This wasn’t any other situation.
Vaughn knew this. Because I had explained, in great detail the man that had saved my life. Including the eyes.
The wolf eyes staring at me, locked on me, yanking me up from my chair without my permission.
He was calm. Expressionless. Marble in a man.
He had walked purposefully and confidently into the room, like he owned it, like he owned everyone inside it, despite his worn leather jacket, faded jeans and worn boots.
No one had ever walked into my office in jeans.
Ever.
And the men who strode in wearing ten thousand-dollar suits did not create as much ownership as the man who was standing in the middle of my office, boots splayed out, arms folded, regarding me like he had every right to be here.
Like he had every right to do anything he wanted.
My skin pulsated hot and cold with his stare, with his presence in my ivory world, yanking it from reality.
It was only when his gaze flickered to the red-faced man beside him did I regain some sense of composure.
Vaughn was grinning at this point.
“No, Vaughn, I’ll not be requiring security,” I said, my voice not shaking though every inch of my insides was. “Mr. Thatcher will need to be escorted out, though,” I continued, yanking my gaze from the wild animal in front of me.
“Who is this guy?” Mr. Thatcher demanded, not appreciating the fact that the man beside him dominated the room.
I raised my brow, thankful for the opportunity to be distracted and play the part I knew how to play so well. “It seems you can’t even do your job when it’s literally staring you in the face,” I commented dryly. “I’m rethinking my generous retainer. I’ll expect the balance back in my account by end of day tomorrow. Otherwise, I’d be looking at real estate in New Jersey.”
I paused, dared him to speak. The silence hung on for a long while. I didn’t blink. The man I was speaking to blinked profusely, red-faced, hands clenched at his sides, expression structured into a hateful grimace.
I didn’t change my expression. “That’s all.”
I gave Vaughn a pointed look.
“Mr. Thatcher, I’d advise you listen to Ms. Crofton’s generous offer,” he said, voice holding a bite that was dampened by his obvious amusement. And he’d obviously been listening to the entire conversation through the intercom, as he did regularly.
I reached down and pointedly turned it off.
He only grinned wider.
Mr. Thatcher stayed rooted in his spot, out of shock or malice I wasn’t sure. Maybe a mixture of both.
“My time is money, Mr. Thatcher,” I said. “If you keep wasting it, I’ll add my bill to the amount you’re refunding me. And I’m not cheap.”
His eyes flickered with more rage, but not enough to have him be stupid enough to say anything.
He turned on his heel and stomped out, just like I predicted.
“Please go and add him to the blacklist,” I instructed an awaiting Vaughn. “Make sure he never works in this city again.”
He grinned. “I thought you told him you weren’t going to do that?’
“I’ve changed my mind. Women tend to do that. Emotionally unstable and all that,” I said, my voice cold.
Vaughn nodded once, still grinning. “Can I get you anything Mister...” he trailed off, waiting for Wolf Eyes to follow with a name, a title to somehow encompass everything in front of me.
In front of me as in, in my office.
Not in my dreams.
Not in my nightmares where he’d resided for the past fortnight.
But here, without explanation.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t even offer up the small sliver that worked as a social nicety.
“Water?” Vaughn probed. “Coffee? Herbal tea? Whisky? The blood of your enemies?”
I gave Vaughn a look.
He nodded once and left the room, not before winking at me as he closed the door.
Wolf Eyes didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
My knees wobbled as they struggled to hold my weight and I forced myself not to brace my body on my desk. That would be betraying my weakness, showing him that he had power over me.
As would speaking first.
I let the silence take over the room. Regulate my breaths. His stare flayed my very skin, making me want to crawl into myself to escape it.
“I won’t wear a suit,” he all but growled.
Him speaking first should’ve given me the power I needed.
But he still grasped everything in his hands, in his stare.
I tilted my head, regarding the weathered leather jacket and the plain white tee underneath. Nothing special. Yet somehow they did more than a five thousand dollar suit did for GQ models. They molded to his muscles and size like they were made for him.
“Why?” I asked. My tone was curious, nothing else. The sharp bite I usually reserved for people who refused me was absent here.
Even if I wanted to, I didn’t think I could call it up.
He regarded me, the wolf in his eyes glowing, glimmering with the wild air. “Because they’re cages,” he said after a beat. “Suit and a tie. Chains to a world, a life, that I’ll never belong to. That I don’t want to
belong to.”
I stared at those eyes, imagined a wild animal at the zoo, all spark gone from a creature torn from everything they once were. I nodded once. “You don’t belong in a cage,” I replied. “Wild things don’t belong in a cage,” I all but whispered. The words and the soft tone of them surprised me. Never did I speak without calculating my words, measuring them.
His jaw hardened and his gaze flickered as he stepped forward, with surety that had been absent from his earlier demeanor.
Yet the eyes still danced with something not entirely human.
“You think I’m wild?” he rasped, his voice cutting through the air, and dampening my panties, along with his proximity. He was still a few feet from me, still keeping his distance, yet my heart sped up as goosebumps erupted on my arms from the taste of him. Or the possibility of the taste of him.
I didn’t move my eyes from his gaze. Nor did I answer. He seemed to be plucking everything from me, every idiosyncrasy I clung to. Every consistent fact about myself. All my power.
“You’re right,” he said, taking my silence as confirmation. “I am. Too wild for you. Your world.”
“We live in the same world,” I whispered.
A ghost of a smile kissed his lips. But it wasn’t pleasing, nor happy. No, it was filled with bitterness and pain. “No, Boots. We don’t.”
The words were final. Resolute.
“Perhaps you could...commute,” I said once I found my tongue. “From your world to mine. I’d pay you handsomely for the journey, of course.” I slipped back into my tone I reserved for business and instead of the comfortable cashmere sweater it usually felt like, it was wrong, unpleasant. Itchy.
I didn’t want to be like that with him.
That false and sanitized version of myself.
His eyes darkened. “I don’t need that. Don’t give a fuck about money.”
The harshness of his words and of his gaze was doing things to me. Shaking me up, making me clench my thighs together against the need for him. Against the desire so chaotic, it almost repulsed me. Because it was nigh on uncontrollable.