Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite)

by Simone, Naima

  She briefly hesitated. “Yes. Well, no,” she said in that voice capable of coercing gold from King Midas. “I was looking for the office of Jerrod & Associates.” Pause. “Malachim Jerrod?”

  His eyebrows arched high as surprise winged through him. “Yes. Do I know you?”

  “No.” She stepped forward, reclaiming some of the space she’d placed between them. “My name is Danielle Warren.”

  “Okay, Ms. Warren.” Danielle. He silently rolled her name over his tongue as he cast a cursory scan down her body. She shivered beneath a black jacket that was inadequate against the winter night, faded blue jeans, and scuffed sneakers. Curiosity pricked him. Hard. “What brings you by at eight-thirty in the evening?”

  “Actually, I didn’t expect to run into anyone this late.” She dug into the dark messenger bag at her hip. A mass of midnight curls tumbled forward, and he stared, fascinated. It had to be the lighting that made the loose spirals appear like woven strands of silk. Her bowed head lifted as she withdrew a letter-sized manila envelope. “I intended to just drop my résumé through the mail slot.”

  Résumé? Malachim frowned, inspecting the envelope she held toward him. She slowly lowered her arm when he made no move to accept the offered document. Again he noted the worn, simple clothes, the wind-tousled array of curls. Bethany, his administrative assistant, had placed an online ad for a paralegal three weeks ago. Unfortunately, he had yet to get a single decent application from that ad.

  Anger and panic knotted his gut until it resembled a nautical rope. He needed an additional legal assistant to replace the one who’d quit a couple of weeks after the story of Richard Pierce’s murder hit.

  Richard-fucking-Pierce.

  Six weeks earlier, an anonymous sender had mailed a letter to Leah Bannon, a family friend and private detective, that had resulted in her reopening an investigation into Richard’s disappearance twenty years earlier. Leah had approached Gabe for help and advice. What she hadn’t known was that Gabe, Rafe, Chay, and Malachim were very much aware of the details surrounding Richard’s disappearance. And death.

  While Richard had been a loving uncle to Leah, to Chay—and to countless more boys—he’d been a monster…a predator who’d violated their trust and stolen their innocence. Chay had killed Richard when he’d come after him one night. And after a phone call from their terrified and traumatized friend, Malachim, Gabe, and Rafe had helped Chay bury the body in the backyard of the Jerrod family’s second home in Cape Cod. For twenty years, the four of them had protected their secret. But with the arrival of one letter, their skeleton had come busting out of the closet.

  Nathan Whelan, another of Richard’s victims, had been responsible for the note and various deaths throughout the years, including that of Gabriel’s wife and young son. In a twisted plan of revenge, Nathan had wanted to punish the men he blamed for his hellish life and had targeted those they loved. After the four men, with Leah’s help, had brought Nathan to justice, they’d realized they could no longer contain their secret. So they’d gone to the police and revealed everything.

  And two weeks later, the notice regarding Malachim’s suspension from the Bar pending the resolution of the criminal investigation had arrived. Then his clients—and his employees—had started dropping like flies. As of this afternoon—and the arrival of another resignation letter—he would need two assistants. Then again, maybe not. The way his business was headed, one might do.

  But this woman—was that a stain on the thigh of her jeans?—didn’t harmonize with his image of a qualified applicant. He’d pictured professional, not bohemian. Sophisticated, not rumpled.

  Her chin tilted, and in spite of her street-urchin appearance, Malachim suddenly received the impression of a queen staring down her nose at an impudent servant.

  “I applied online yesterday but decided to bring the hard copy of my résumé by after work. Like I said, I hadn’t planned on bumping into anyone since it is so late.”

  “Work?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “At the moment, I’m employed at a diner in Dorchester.”

  A diner. For godsakes. He bit back a groan. The only response to the ad they’d received this week, and it was a waitress or cook. A lovely waitress or cook, but damn. He needed someone who could immediately jump into the chaotic fray his office had become. In the last six weeks, two paralegals and an associate had quit, the precariousness of his practice’s future and his possible disbarment too much of an uncertainty for them. Though it stung, he couldn’t blame them—well, not a lot. Especially in this economy. Still, in an amazingly short amount of time, his staff had plummeted from a thriving, successful law firm of four associates, two paralegals, and a secretary to a skeleton crew of two frazzled attorneys and an administrative assistant. Several of his clients had abandoned ship at the first whiff of scandal, but even the case load that remained bore heavily on Travis and Sharon’s shoulders. And Malachim, having been reduced to a glorified office manager, couldn’t lend them any help. He could only sit back and watch the business—the life—he’d carefully built crumble.

  The last thing he should consider was adding a passenger to this sinking ship. Especially one who had no clue how to swim but would probably drag him under quicker.

  But then again, Danielle Warren seemed to be the only coherent person he’d met so far prepared to hitch her proverbial wagon to a criminal on the verge of losing his law license. A few of the applicants had assumed “legal assistant” meant “glorified secretary,” not certified paralegal. And the one or two who’d been qualified…well, one hadn’t returned his call for a second interview, and the other had quoted a salary that neared extortion. He was desperate, but not that damn desperate.

  So that made Danielle either crazy or more desperate than he was.

  It also made her his only option.

  “Come inside,” he said, turning around and removing the door key from his coat pocket.

  “Excuse me?”

  Malachim paused on the bottom step, his fingers curled around the black iron railing. He glanced over his shoulder, examined the cool beauty in her threadbare clothing standing on the sidewalk like some modern-day Cinderella on the verge of attending the ball. Once more, that disquieting sense of foreboding sidled up his stomach and spread across his gut like the bank of dark clouds across the winter sky. That sense of staring trouble in the face, frozen, unable to decide whether to run or meet it head-on, even while acknowledging the chances of emerging unscathed from the encounter were nil to nada.

  “We can’t conduct your interview for the position out here on the sidewalk.” He opened the front door. “Please come inside, Ms. Warren.”

  Chapter Three

  Danielle followed Malachim Jerrod up the front steps of the Beacon Hill brownstone that housed Jerrod & Associates, L.P. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer on speed.

  Oh, my God, an interview. He’s giving me an interview.

  Joy and trepidation swelled inside her, a tidal wave crashing against her ribcage. As Malachim opened the front door, she shivered. It was damn cold out; she’d been born in Massachusetts, but after spending eighteen years in Alabama, this former Yankee had become a true Southern transplant used to short, mild winters and long, blistering summers. She’d been back in Boston a year, but she’d yet to become accustomed to the drastic weather difference. And of course, the thin jacket she wore was an inadequate defense against the December wind.

  She entered the imposing building and the suite of offices. The first thing she noticed was the quiet. Living above a bustling diner for the last year in the heart of Dorchester, the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, or the murmur of traffic had been her constant companions. At first, she’d been thankful for the constant drum of noise. In her experience, silence was ominous; it meant the dangerous quiet before a storm of accusations, screaming, and slaps.

  But there was something about this place. It was…peaceful.

  Danielle blinked as Malachim fl
ipped a wall switch and light flooded the room. The reception area could have fit into the wealthy home of any Beacon Hill socialite. Light blues, warm browns, and lush greens in the sofa and chairs offset the dark wood of the coffee table and cabinets. Soothing landscape paintings decorated the walls while several issues of Forbes, People, and Boston were strategically scattered for waiting clients to enjoy. The quiet display of wealth and success reminded her of all she’d dreamed of as a girl…all she’d fled as a woman.

  “This way, please.” He led her down a hall, and she fought to keep her gaze firmly focused on the back of his white-blond head. But like a disobedient child, her attention slid south, tracing the width of his shoulders and the tapered length of his back. Even outside, the long wool coat had emphasized his tall, lean build rather than detracting from it. The civilized designer attire should have made him seem harmless; it had the exact opposite effect. The tame clothes emphasized the raw sensuality of a body that moved with lethal grace. Watching him walk was like observing a very dangerous ballet.

  “Can I take your jacket, Ms. Warren?” he asked, stepping back and allowing her entrance into his spacious office. She slipped past him, careful to keep distance between them. Not that it prohibited his fresh, clean scent from reaching out to her.

  “No, thank you,” she murmured.

  He shrugged out of his coat, hung it up, then turned toward her. His closely clipped hair accentuated the sharp angles and shadowed hollows of his lean, patrician face. For a disquieting moment, her gaze lingered on the full curve of his disarmingly sensual mouth, with its full bottom lip and the light indentation above the slightly thinner top one. Next to his urbane but still very masculine elegance, she felt like a bedraggled ragamuffin.

  Shame—the sneaky bitch—infiltrated her happiness. Moving from Alabama to the east coast, locating an apartment, and paying a couple of months’ rent had required most of her precious savings. When Patrick Duncan, the owner of Pat’s Diner, had offered her a waitressing job to accompany the small residence above his restaurant, she’d been overjoyed. But between the low pay and spotty tips, she earned just enough to cover rent and the basics she needed to survive. And those “basics” did not include splurges such as a new wardrobe. Danielle had noticed Malachim’s disdain and skepticism when she’d informed him of the purpose behind her standing on his doorstep well after quitting time. Again that thread of embarrassment wormed its insidious path into her thoughts.

  She’d tried to nonchalantly shift her messenger bag forward and hide the stain on her jeans leg, courtesy of a greasy hamburger. But his all-too perceptive gaze caught the movement. She had a feeling those sharp eyes rarely missed anything. Those eyes…

  Another shiver skated over her skin. But not from desire. Her mind stutter-stepped away from that idea as if it were poisonous, scaly, and rattling. It’d been years since a man had incited an emotion in her other than mistrust, trepidation, and fear.

  No, the trembling portended a warning, a blaring red caution light to be vigilant, careful.

  From the research she’d conducted about him online, Malachim was a man well-acquainted with protecting secrets. And as he rounded his desk, her bogus résumé in his hand, Danielle would’ve bet a month’s worth of tips he was just as adept at sniffing them out. For a woman whose entire existence was a lie, this terrified her.

  Not enough to make her turn around and walk out of this office, though.

  “Just give me a few minutes to read over your résumé,” he said, lowering into his chair. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Soda? Water?”

  She shook her head, her stomach roiling at the thought.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you for offering.”

  He nodded then shifted his attention to her education and employment history. She’d memorized the information—when a person handed over a fabricated list of her skills and accomplishments, the prudent choice would be to know it by heart. The paper detailed her high school education and two years of community college in the Chicago area, a long eight-year break, and a certification from an online paralegal program. All fake, and for three thousand dollars, all 100 percent verifiable.

  “I notice you’ve recently moved to the Boston area.”

  If by “moving,” you meant sneaking out in the dead of night to flee one state for another with one’s life packed into a single suitcase, then sure. “Yes. From Chicago.”

  “You have family here?” he asked.

  “No. I just wanted a change.” That sharp gaze studied her as if he could peer beneath her skin to the truth beneath. “I grew up in Massachusetts before my family left years ago.” Truth. “When I needed a fresh start, it seemed the place to go. At one time, it was home.”

  He bent his head, scanning her résumé once more. His hair gleamed under the ceiling lights, the strands like a cap of white gold. Would his hair feel soft to the touch like silk? Or would the short length be coarser? The inane thought popped unbidden into her head before she could shut it down.

  I’m not his damn barber, so I don’t care. And she shifted her attention away from his head to the painting behind him.

  The art depicted a lone, shadowed figure of a man standing on an outcropping of rocks. A lighthouse, proud and solid, soared to the sky as waves crashed onto the boulders below. It wasn’t a cheery picture; the mass of clouds in the gray sky was too dark, too menacing. And to Danielle, the man appeared to lean forward, gazing into the turbulent waters as if searching for something—or someone—among the swells.

  It snagged at her soul, and in that moment her inspection of the painting was no longer a carefully affected façade but true fascination. That’s me. In such a dark, seemingly hopeless and storm-battered place. Yet, like the man who peered into the angry night, she stared into her future with hope, desperate to spot the lifeline capable of keeping her from drowning.

  “It’s called Still Waiting.”

  She glanced down where Malachim watched her, not the painting. “It’s by a local artist.”

  Silence hijacked the room. Why would Malachim Jerrod have this piece of art in his inner sanctum? Why would it call to him, of all people? Yes, he was presently embroiled in a legal mess, but he was still wealthy, still successful.

  I don’t care, she reminded herself. Not my business.

  “It’s lovely,” she said and cleared her throat. She gestured toward the paper in his hand. “I know my work history doesn’t contain much experience, but—”

  “That’s an understatement.” He laid the résumé on the desktop, and his steady contemplation never wavered. “There is a gap for almost eight years.”

  She’d practiced the story in the mirror until she could repeat it without the smallest pause or hesitation. Her facial expression—chagrin and the slightest bit of defensiveness—had been perfected until Julia Roberts would’ve been jealous of her acting skills. She notched her chin up.

  “I was in a long-term relationship that didn’t work. After it ended, I decided to pursue something for myself, which was the move to Boston and a career as a paralegal.”

  “For the last year, you’ve been working at—” he cast a fleeting look down “—Pat’s Diner?”

  “Not many firms are willing to take a risk on a newly minted legal assistant with only book knowledge.” An image of Patrick Duncan, the diner’s owner and the only person she’d been able to call “friend” in the last year, charged to the front of her mind. “And waitressing is hard, honest work.” Good going. She squelched a wince. Snapping at the man is the perfect way to convince him to hire you.

  The firm set of his mouth softened the slightest degree. “I agree, Ms. Warren, and I apologize if my tone suggested differently.” He leaned forward, setting his clasped hands on the desk. “I’m going to be honest. Right now, we have two swamped attorneys. You would be stepping into a zoo. What I’m questioning is if you’re prepared to jump into this and hit the ground running. It wouldn’t be easy.”

  Easy? Since when had anythin
g ever been easy?

  “I’m prepared,” she assured him. Hope shook inside her like a schoolgirl on her first date. Please, God. One break. Just one…

  He leaned back in his chair, and because she watched him so closely, she caught the brief battle between indecision, remorse, and—thank God!—resignation.

  “When can you start?” he finally asked, and though he didn’t sigh, his voice was heavy with the weight of it.

  His reluctance should’ve stung—maybe later it would. But at the moment, with the offer of a new job in a field she loved, her chest had room for only joy and triumph.

  “Wednesday.”

  Surprise flared in his gaze. “It’s Monday night. Are you sure you don’t need to provide longer notice than a day?”

  She tamed her answering smirk into a half-smile. He didn’t know Pat. The crusty diner owner would call her a “dunderhead” if she didn’t start right away…before Malachim could change his mind. “No, my boss is aware I was searching for another job and waived a two-week notice.”

  Malachim nodded, then rose. She stood, as well, and as he neared, her heart set up a rapid patter in her chest. Her stomach clenched as if a vise had suddenly gripped her insides and tightened. He intended to shake her hand—to touch her.

  Even at the diner, she allowed men only so close, ignoring the flirtation and rebuffing the few advances. Enduring the slight graze of fingers over her palm without flinching as a customer gave her money had required months of determination and practice. The only man she allowed in her personal space was Pat—and that had been difficult. But hours in his company and his gruff brand of caring had slowly dismantled her mistrust and skittishness. And except for the diner owner, she was never alone with anyone.

  Now, the spacious office seemed to shrink to the size of a closet. And he stretched his hand out toward her, expecting her to press her palm to his.