And sad. So incredibly sad.
She sipped from her cup of coffee. Though a huge, delicious-looking buffet covered the large counter customers usually bellied up to, the thought of downing even a morsel of ham or a forkful of green bean salad twisted her stomach into so many knots it probably resembled a contortionist. She’d called Julie Saturday morning about the date and time of the arrangements. All weekend she’d been dreading the coming of Monday—the day she would have to attend her friend and former employer’s funeral and say good-bye. The sorrow that had lurked just beneath the surface since Thursday night had raised its head to sink its sharp teeth into her.
Malachim had been her savior and sanity these past few days. He’d been there, quietly understanding she didn’t want to think, to linger on thoughts of death and loss—Pat’s and Carmen’s. Especially since come Monday she wouldn’t be able to avoid them. So she’d selfishly allowed herself to be distracted. They hadn’t brought up the “home invasion” or the secrets Danielle was certain Malachim knew she kept. They hadn’t spoken of Carmen or the police’s theory of her being “in the wrong place at the wrong time” during a drug deal gone bad. Instead, they’d played countless hands of poker and Go Fish, watched movies, ate…and made love.
Her stomach quivered, but the tremble had nothing to do with food. Images of the previous night in his arms stole across her mind in a vivid, erotic display. Heat streamed inside her as if the blinds to her self-induced abstinence had been flipped, and the sunshine warmth of Malachim’s passion and generosity flooded through. He’d been so free with himself—his laughter, his care, his body. He’d given, and she’d greedily taken, recognizing this would be the only slice in time she had with him. The only chance she would have to experience the intense hunger and passion as well as the healing.
She’d taken because she needed those memories to cling to when she left Boston.
Sighing, she placed the cup and saucer on the Formica table. The mugging, the break-in, Pat’s death, Carmen’s murder—she couldn’t deny the nagging theory that had haunted her ever since the night of the attack in her apartment.
Alex had found her. And those closest to her—those who stood in his way of reclaiming his wife—would pay the price.
It was only a matter of time before Malachim joined the doomed list.
No matter what, she couldn’t allow that to happen.
She had to disappear again. Danielle Warren would have to fade into obscurity and another alias would be born. And this time, she would stick to her rule of not forging friendships or…affections. After the harsh, agonizing lessons learned here, she wouldn’t forget.
“Hi, Danielle.”
She opened her eyes and summoned a small, shaky smile for Walt. He hadn’t been too far from her side since the funeral, his quiet, concerned gaze following her. It was comforting, yet served as another reminder of why she was fleeing Boston. Another attachment she should have avoided. Another target for Alex.
“Hey, Walt,” she said.
He cocked his head to the side. “You’ve been calling me ‘Walt’ all day. That’s how I know you’re hurting. No ‘Tres.’”
“Dead giveaway, huh?” She shook her head. “Thank you, by the way. For…everything. I really appreciate you staying by my side. You don’t have to.”
He shrugged, sliding a small plate of food in front of her. She tried not to stare at the slices of chicken breast, the yeast roll, corn, and green beans. But the scent of the food tickled her nose, causing her belly to protest with a nauseous roll.
“I don’t mind. I can only imagine how hard all of this has been for you.” Since you witnessed his murder was left unspoken, but it stood between them like the relative everyone hated to invite to a party. “Um, I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. “What are your plans about living arrangements? I assumed you wouldn’t return…” His gaze flicked toward the ceiling.
“No,” she murmured, picking up the roll and tearing off a tiny sliver. “I can’t go back there. I haven’t really decided yet. I’m staying with a friend.” Her throat tightened around the innocuous sounding term. “But I’m searching for another place.” Another place, another city, another identity.
“Well, my father owns several rental properties all over the city. We’re not a Disney Channel family, but if I put in a good word for you, I know he would lease you an apartment.”
“That’s so sweet, Walt. Thank you. I’ll let you know, definitely.”
He offered her one of his shy smiles. “You do that. And if you’re not going to eat that roll, you might want to put it out of its misery.”
“Oh.” She glanced down and noticed the bread littered the plate like confetti. Lifting her head, she had her first real smile of the day. “I think it’s learned its lesson.”
He folded his tall, lanky frame into the booth, and she scooted closer to the wall, allowing his legs plenty of room.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Alone,” he said, his dark eyebrows lowering into a frown. “Yesterday, a man came in asking about you.”
Fear skated over her skin, leaving pebbled flesh behind.
“A man,” she repeated, reaching for calm but coming up woefully short.
Walt nodded. “He asked questions about how long you’d worked here, if I knew where you were then. I avoided answering any because he didn’t, I don’t know,” his frown deepened, “sit right with me, I guess. Pat has—had—all types who came in here, but he didn’t fit.”
She swallowed. The inside of her head had transformed to an empty chamber where the faint gulp bounced off her skull.
“That’s weird,” she managed. “What did he look like?”
“Late forties, early fifties maybe. Tall, well-dressed, dark hair. Slick. He reminded me of the men who work for my father. You know, seem friendly, smiles, but don’t seem to think much of you.”
Oh, yes, she definitely recognized the type Walt described. She’d encountered such phoniness when she’d married Alex. A poor, scholarship Latina marrying a scion of the old-money Southern community. In many people’s eyes, she’d been a gold-digging illegal who should’ve been standing on the corner waiting for a work truck to stop by, not an educated, successful American attorney and hostess.
“I don’t know if he planned on returning, and I wanted to warn you just in case.” Walt paused, tapped the blue and white spotted Formica tabletop. “Danielle, I know we aren’t close like you and Pat were, but,” he straightened his shoulders and shifted his hands beneath the table, “if you’re in trouble and there’s anything I can do to help, I would. This guy…” He shrugged. “Anyway, please know I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks, Walt. I appreciate—” The automatic denial spilled from her lips almost before he finished offering his assistance, but then she stopped. She did need help. The first time she disappeared, the domestic violence advocate had given her a connection with the means to create a new identity for her. Finding a person to do the same here, in Boston, would be not only next to impossible but dangerous. But with his computer background and skills, Walt might be able to aid her…
But no. She shook her head. As tempting as the idea was to request help from Walt, she couldn’t place him in the sights of Alex or the person who’d come looking for her yesterday. Couldn’t—wouldn’t. Alex had found her faster than she’d thought possible, which meant that now she would have to disappear differently. No fancy identification documents or connections with this “life.” She would have to go completely off-grid as in no cell phone except for throwaways she would use only in case of emergency, low-skill cash-only jobs, temporary-living residences…no paper trails at all. A deep pit of sadness yawned wide under the steely resolve. No roots. No friends.
She inhaled. Exhaled a long breath. And met Walt’s steady gaze.
“Danielle?” Walt nudged.
“Nothing, Walt. I really appreciate the offer.” She summoned a small, shak
y smile. “Just…thank you for being a friend.”
He nodded. “Always. Any time you need me, I’m there for you.”
…
Danielle stepped into the weak winter sunlight. The bell on the diner door clanged merrily as it swung shut behind her. She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and dialed the number for the law office. She’d promised Malachim she would call him when the funeral ended to let him know she’d arrived at the diner for the repast. His concern for her safety still caused warmth to swirl in her belly.
“Jerrod & Associates.”
Danielle smiled at Bethany’s cheerful voice. Even though she’d only worked with the receptionist a short amount of time, she would miss her. “Hi, Bethany. This is Danielle.”
“Hi,” the secretary replied, her tone immediately softening. “Malachim told us there was a death in your family. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine…better,” Danielle amended. “Thank you for asking. Hey, is Malachim available?”
“He’s on a conference call at the moment. I can have him call you back.”
She shook her head even though the other woman couldn’t see the gesture. “No problem. I’ll talk to him later.”
“Hey,” Bethany called out. “Before you hang up, I have a message for you. Christopher Jerrod called about an hour ago and asked me to have you contact him when you came in.”
Shock stole her voice, but after several moments, she scrabbled to find it. “Okay, thank you.”
She hung up, stared at the cell for several long moments before turning and retracing her steps into the diner. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed hard, forcing the wave of nausea down. She rounded the counter, pushed through the swinging kitchen door, and picked up the phone off the mounted receiver. With clumsy fingers, she withdrew his crumbled business card from her jacket pocket and dialed.
“Christopher Jerrod.”
“Mr. Jerrod?” she said, the steady tone belying the tremor in her hands. “This is Danielle Warren.”
“Ms. Warren,” a smooth voice greeted her with a joviality that grated her eardrums. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”
“I’m just returning your phone call.”
“Yes. I know. I hated having to track you down. But”—his voice hardened, went cold, brisk—“We have business to discuss.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Malachim reread the letter for the third time and still the words hadn’t penetrated the dense fog surrounding his brain. Reinstatement. Suspension lifted. He closed his eyes, and the paper trembled in his shaking grip. His license had been reinstated. He was free to practice again. A trickle of relief and unmitigated joy dribbled through the haze. Just like that, the balls of his future that Fate had been juggling in the air had landed. With the opening of one letter, he had his livelihood back. His purpose.
He swiveled around in his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face, and stared out the window into the postage-stamp-sized yard. The overcast sky deepened toward dusk, flinging shadows across the bare ground. But inside…inside, the sun had peeked through the steel-colored clouds, and its warmth seeped through skin and bone to heat his soul.
He had to celebrate. He had to call Danielle—
A perfunctory knock echoed at the door.
“What’s up, Mal?”
He turned from the window. “Why, come on in, Rafe,” he said wryly, treating his friend to a half-smile.
Raphael arched a dark eyebrow, the silver hoop in it glinting. “Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”
“What the hell?” Malachim flicked a hand in Rafe’s direction, the letter from the bar and his good news momentarily forgotten. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d witnessed his pierced and tattooed friend in a suit. The black Armani fit his tall, lean frame to perfection, but… Malachim grinned. “I repeat. What the hell?”
Lip curled in a disgusted snarl, Rafe plopped down in the visitor’s chair. “Shut up,” he growled. “Chay insisted I attend a consultation with a potential client this morning. Apparently, their illustrious sensibilities required me putting on this getup.”
“Aww,” Malachim drawled. “You okay?”
Rafe’s middle finger shot up. Malachim snickered.
He shifted the neglected report back in front of him. “So other than whining about your individuality being threatened by the fashionable confines of corporate America, what brings you downstairs from your wired and steel-reinforced loft?”
Rafe’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “You mean other than Chay lying to our potential clients and telling them I had an outside appointment? I’d like to believe he was sparing me, but more than likely he refused to push his luck and decided to get my ass out of the office as soon as possible before I fucked up and said something offensive.”
“Smart move.”
“Pretty much,” Rafe agreed. He rose, stripped his jacket from his shoulders, and tossed it on the back of the chair as if it were an Old Navy hoodie instead of half of a four-hundred-dollar suit. Next, he attacked the tie and top buttons of his shirt. With a sigh he dropped back into the chair and resumed his sprawl. “But I do have another reason I needed to see you. Where’s Danielle? I noticed her door was closed.”
“Her friend’s funeral today.”
“Ah.” Rafe nodded. “Right.”
Malachim had informed his three friends about the attempted robbery and Pat’s murder as soon as he’d arrived home with Danielle. There wasn’t much he kept from them, wasn’t much he didn’t confide or ask their advice about, including Danielle’s admission about the enigmatic words uttered by the would-be burglar.
Rafe had immediately stated the suspicion skulking in Malachim’s mind from the moment Danielle had uttered, “He said we…didn’t get to spend time together.” It seemed as if Danielle had been the target, not her belongings, not Pat. Since then, keeping her within his sight had become a mission. Fucking Mission Impossible. He couldn’t imprison her in his home, no matter how much appeal the idea held.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with her,” Rafe observed.
Malachim grunted, shot from his chair, and tossed the reinstatement to the desk. Agitation crawled like an army of ants under his skin. “I wanted to, but she wouldn’t let me.”
A corner of Rafe’s mouth lifted. “Let you?”
“Yes, damn it. Let me.” He scowled. “She said she didn’t need a babysitter, and I had an office to run—”
“True,” Rafe interjected.
“So I asked Gabe to watch over her until she returned to my house this afternoon. Just to make sure she’s all right.”
Rafe shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
Malachim glared at him, and Rafe just shrugged in return. “Besides, I think it was more than her wanting me to return to work and not tag along with her.” Maybe she’d needed space after spending the last few days together. Maybe she didn’t want to rely on him more than she had lately. Hell. Maybe he should check between his legs for a vagina, because he was definitely starting to sound like a woman.
Danielle had been working in his office for a little less than two weeks, yet with her absence it seemed like something was missing. Maybe it was his awareness of her, of knowing he could just walk down the hall and see her dark head bent over her keyboard. Or glimpse the slim line of her spine in one of her tapered suit jackets.
Hell, he missed her.
And he was worried.
“Something’s not right,” he said quietly, more to himself than Rafe. He’d sensed her gradual emotional withdrawal. This morning before she’d left for the funeral, she’d been cool, reserved, the same woman who’d applied for a job in his law office. Not the woman who’d kissed his lips or arched over him as she accepted him deep into her body.
“You’re probably just nervous because she’s returning to the diner. She’s probably safer there surrounded by all those people than anywhere else.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mala
chim murmured, but Rafe’s cool logic still didn’t suffocate the unease growing like a weed in the pit of his stomach. “I’m just…nervous. Damn, I should be there with her. She shouldn’t have to face this alone. Especially after finding out about her sister’s death.”
Rafe didn’t reply for a long, heavy moment. Malachim glanced over his shoulder and found the man’s sober, speculative gaze fixed on him. “I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t warn you to be careful, Mal. You don’t know anything about her for real. She seems like a good woman—if a little spooked. But…”
“Yeah, I get it.” Malachim sighed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He got it. Rafe had the right to express his concern; he, Gabe, and Chay had been there to pick up the pieces after Tara’s betrayal. He vowed then never to be led by his dick again. To be more vigilant for the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He recognized Danielle wasn’t all she appeared to be—had called her on her lies. And yet, he’d invited her in his home, offered her a refuge under his roof, comforted her, made love to her.
She hadn’t snuck past his defenses; he’d fucking lowered them, rolled out the red carpet, and then presented the fatted calf, calling for her to enter.
Damn it. He paced to the window, flattened a palm against the wall, and stared out of the glass. Instead of the winter-sleep yard, though, he saw Danielle’s face twisted with grief. Her sorrow over Pat and her sister hadn’t been an act; her anguish had been too deep, too raw. But was that the only real thing about her? Even though she’d admitted she’d lied to the detective in the hospital, he sensed she continued to hold something else back. She was wrapped in secrets; she hoarded them.
And though he believed she’d allowed him closer than any other person, she still didn’t trust him with the truth…and without the truth, he couldn’t trust her.
Rafe sighed, drawing Malachim’s attention back to him. “Which leads to the other reason I came down here to see you.” He hesitated, and that, more than the restless drumming of Rafe’s fingers on his thigh, sent foreboding skating down Malachim’s spine. Rafe might do restless, but he never did hesitation. To-hell-with-it bluntness was more his style. Whatever was bothering him had to be bad.
Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) Page 17