by Elle Kennedy
“He is,” Luke confirmed. “Where are you now?”
“At home.”
“Good, that’s good. I can be at your place in twenty.”
“But—”
“Angelo’s man won’t see me,” he assured her. “I can get into the building, no prob—”
“No,” she interrupted. “My mother is home. She can’t be around for this. I can’t involve her in this.”
Shit. He scanned his brain for another option and came up short. “All right. I won’t come to you. We’ll figure out an alternative. I’ll call you back, okay? I’m going to talk to my team and I’ll call you right back.”
Silence.
“Olivia?”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“Stay put, darlin’. I promise you, I’m going to help you.”
He hung up without a good-bye, then sprinted into the main room. Trevor and Sully were sprawled on the leather couches, watching the Giants clean up the field with the Eagles on ESPN, while D stood by the sliding door smoking a cigarette. Holden was the only one monitoring the Diamond at the moment; now that they’d determined Carter Dane had probably been taken captive, they’d eased up on the club surveillance.
“Olivia called,” Luke announced. “We’re meeting with her.”
Everyone snapped to attention. “Her apartment?” Trevor asked.
“No. She lives with her mother, doesn’t want her involved. It has to be somewhere else.”
“And how do we know this isn’t a trap?” D spoke up, his tone laced with irritation. “How do we know she didn’t tell Angelo what you two talked about last night?”
“Because Angelo just offed her friend.”
Every eyebrow in the room shot north.
“Cora Malcolm is dead,” Luke said grimly. “Olivia found the body, and then she overheard Angelo say he’s the one who took care of the girl. Now she’s scared shitless. We need to bring her in but Angelo’s got one of his goons watching her. Once she steps out the door, the man will follow her.” He paused in thought. “We need to get her somewhere private, maybe get a decoy in place—” Isabel. They could use Isabel.
Trevor must have read his mind. “Already on it,” the team leader said, reaching for his phone.
* * *
Thirty minutes after speaking to Luke, Olivia left her building and stepped onto the concrete stoop, making a conscious effort not to give her surroundings much inspection. But as she descended the steps, the nape of her neck tingled, which told her that Vince’s thug was nearby. On the sidewalk, she pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt but didn’t tuck her hair into it. Luke had ordered her to wear a red sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white sneakers, and he’d stressed that her hair needed to be loose. She adjusted the hood so that her long brown tresses were visibly hanging out, then shoved her hands in the front pocket of the sweatshirt and started to walk.
Her legs felt like Jell-O, her heartbeat was erratic, and no matter how many times she tried reassuring herself that everything would be okay, she was still a bundle of nerves.
Cora was dead.
No, Cora had been murdered.
As her pulse took off in another irregular gallop, she swallowed hard and forced her legs to move. Luke had sounded so confident on the phone, so sure that this meeting would go off without a hitch, but she refused to underestimate Vince. He might be a sleazebag, but he was smart.
On a whim, she came to a halt by a bus shelter and sent Vince a quick text message. Going to light a candle for Cora. Will be home in a few hours. Short and sweet. She pressed SEND, then resumed walking, annoyed that she was checking in like some clingy girlfriend. But she knew Vince would appreciate the gesture—and it would get him off her back, give her a reason not to answer if he called.
Her hands began to shake, so she laced her fingers together, keeping her head low as she sidestepped a businessman talking loudly into his cell phone. It took three blocks to reach her destination, and when she finally approached the huge granite steps of St. Mary’s church, she was starting to reconsider this entire thing.
Could she trust Luke? Should she?
Hearing Vince speaking so casually about Cora’s death, listening to him admit he’d arranged it . . . it had sent a blast of fear straight to her bones. Her first instinct had been to call Luke, and when his husky voice had filled the line, the urge to confide in him, to trust him, had been so strong.
But what if her instincts had led her astray? Luke Dubois had already lied to her once. He’d pretended to be just some guy curious about lap dances. What if he was still pretending? Making her think he’d help her, only to sell her out to Vince?
You can still turn back.
She stared at the towering red doors of the church. Swallowed again. Then she remembered Cora’s overdosed body on that bed, pictured the big blue eyes of Cora’s little girl, now an orphan. And she firmly pushed down on the door handle.
She hadn’t been inside a church since she was a kid, back when her mother had been teaching at St. Matthew’s Catholic Academy. Back when her mother had been healthy.
Now here she was, surrounded by endless rows of glossy brown pews. Statues of Jesus and Mary graced the space, and across the room a majestic altar sat on a raised platform in front of an ethereal wall of stained glass. Looking around, she couldn’t help but remember all those times she’d begged God to help her mom. She’d thought her prayers had been answered after the first remission. After the second one, her faith had taken a hit. By the third, she’d given up on the divine.
Choking down her bitterness, she headed toward the confessional booths. A narrow doorway stood to the right of the confessionals, and though there were no signs warding her off, she felt as if she was trespassing as she moved across the threshold. She kept expecting a priest to pop up and reprimand her, but the corridor was as quiet as the rest of the church. She followed it to its end, turned right, as Luke had instructed, and walked until she spotted the emergency door he’d indicated would be there.
She glanced around to make sure nobody was in sight, then pushed the door open. She emerged in the back alley between the church and the chain-link fence that bordered the elementary school in the distance. Just as Luke had promised, a black Range Rover awaited her in the alley.
Heart thudding, Olivia rounded the vehicle and slid into the passenger seat.
Luke sat behind the wheel, and the rush of relief that flooded her body had her sagging forward. He instantly reached out and touched her shoulder. “You okay?”
She shook her head as she met his eyes. He looked calmer than ever, all business in his olive green cargo pants and black bomber jacket. His dark hair fell onto his forehead as he leaned toward her, his expression shining with gentle reassurance.
“I know you’re scared, darlin’, but just take a deep breath. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
He was right. She was dizzy as hell. As she drew much-needed oxygen into her lungs, his scent filled her nose. Subtle aftershave and masculine spice. Nothing like the overpowering stench of Vince’s Obsession for Men, or whatever the hell he used. At the thought of Vince, her breathing went off-kilter once more, and she had to start again. Long inhale, slow exhale.
After most of her panic had dispersed, she sought out Luke’s gaze. “Feel better?” he asked gruffly.
She managed a nod.
As Luke shifted gears, she shot an alarmed look at the back door of the church. “What if the man who’s following me goes inside and sees I’m not there?”
“But you are there,” Luke said lightly. “Trust me, it’s taken care of.”
Again with that trust me. But why should she? She had no idea who this man really was, and although a thousand questions ran through her mind, she couldn’t get her vocal cords to function properly. Instead, she leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking of her friend’s dead body in that loft. Luke must have sensed she was too overwrought to talk, because he didn’t say a word as they drove away. At one point
she opened her eyes and noticed they were heading west, nearing Broadway, and then her lids fell shut again and she continued with the deep breathing. Everything was going to be fine. She would tell Luke everything, and he would help her.
God, he had to help her. Because she simply couldn’t stomach the idea of returning to the club tomorrow night and seeing Vince. Looking into his eyes, all the while knowing he’d had Cora killed.
When the car finally came to a stop, Olivia saw that they were in an underground parking garage. Her legs felt weak as she stepped out of the vehicle and breathed in the odor of motor oil and car exhaust hanging in the cavernous space.
“Elevator’s this way,” Luke said quietly, holding out his hand.
After a second’s hesitation, she took it, and the warmth of his fingers spread into her cold flesh. She gripped his hand as if it were a life preserver, following him toward a door at the far end of the parking garage. They stepped through it, then into the elevator in the fluorescent-lit space. Without letting go of her hand, he pressed the button for the third floor.
They rode up in silence. When the doors dinged open, Luke led her down a carpeted hallway. He kept his hand on her shoulder the entire time, just as Vince had done earlier, only Luke’s touch was soothing rather than suffocating. Strong but gentle.
“Everyone’s inside,” he told her as he opened the door and gestured for her to enter.
Olivia was taken aback by the luxurious surroundings. The apartment offered endless ceilings and huge windows with a breathtaking view of the city skyline. There was a gourmet kitchen to the left, featuring granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, and frosted tiles. It spilled out to a dining area with a mahogany table that seemed big enough to seat thirty, and a living area with L-shaped leather couches, an array of stuffed armchairs, and a humongous flat-screen TV screwed into one of the walls. The place was incredible, ten times the size of her apartment and most certainly expensive. The cost of it would probably make her faint.
A handsome dark-haired man wearing gray trousers and a black turtleneck sat in one of the armchairs. On the couch was a second, equally handsome man in faded jeans and a white wife-beater, running a big hand over his close-cropped blond hair. A third male loitered by a door leading out to a massive brick terrace—he was smoking a cigarette, his broad back all she could see.
Wary, she looked from Luke to the others, then started noticing a bunch of other details. Like the butt of a weapon poking out from the smoker’s waistband. The collection of handguns on the coffee table. The fact that none of these men wore badges or resembled law enforcement personnel in any way.
Fear shivered up her spine. Had coming here been a mistake? She’d naively assumed that Luke was a cop, or an undercover agent, or at the very least military, but even though he moved like a soldier, she didn’t get an official feeling about any of this. Especially when the man at the terrace door turned around, and she found herself staring into a pair of coal black eyes that glittered with danger.
“Who are you people?” she blurted out.
* * *
Luke wasn’t surprised that the sight of D succeeded in wiping away all the color on Olivia’s cheeks. With that cold gaze and predatory way of moving, Derek Pratt was capable of scaring anybody shitless, even people who knew him. It didn’t help that the massive arms coming out of his black muscle shirt were covered in tats. The guy was a head-to-toe menace, and Luke instinctively stepped closer to Olivia in a protective move.
But hell, she seemed to need it. Wound tighter than a drum, her long slender body radiating fear. When he’d seen her back at the church, the look in her eyes had nearly done him in. Frightened, shocked, and bewildered. Just like she was now.
Actually, add suspicious as hell to that list, which was evident when she spun around to meet his eyes. “You guys aren’t cops, are you?”
“No.”
“Military?
“Most of us are former military.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
And oh yeah, the color returned to her face, staining her silky cheeks rosy red. Despite her I-want-answers-now glare, she was still a fucking knockout. Those incredible green eyes, cosmetic-model cheekbones, lush mouth. Even her dark brown eyebrows were stunning, thanks to that graceful arch of theirs.
Across the room, Trevor rose from the armchair and headed toward them. “We’re private contractors,” he explained. “I’m Trevor.”
Olivia stared at Trev’s outstretched hand before leaning forward to shake it. “Private contractors,” she echoed dully. “Soldiers for hire?”
Trevor nodded, then gestured to the others. “Blondie over there is Sullivan, and the mean-looking one is D. And Luke you know, of course. Come on, sit down. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Moving as if she was in a daze, Olivia allowed Trevor to lead her to the couch, where she flopped down next to Sullivan. Luke bit back a burst of annoyance, but the fact that she’d accepted Trevor’s suggestion to sit without so much as a protest bugged him. Or maybe it was the way she’d relaxed at the sound of the other man’s voice.
When his chest got hot and tight, he realized he was actually jealous. The entire ride over here, Olivia had been tense as shit, her expression blank, her fists pressed into her knees. But now, a couple of words from Callaghan, and she calmed down. Then again, he’d seen it happen before. Trev might not lay it on thick the way Luke or Sully did when it came to females, but the man exuded a quiet strength that women went wild for.
Luke’s spine went rigid. Well, fuck that. For some reason, he felt possessive about this woman, and he didn’t want anyone but him reassuring her.
Striding toward the couch, he shot Sullivan a look that said, Go sit somewhere else. The Australian raised a brow but got up without a word.
Luke promptly claimed the seat. “Tell us exactly what went down today,” he told Olivia.
She shifted, angling herself so that she was facing him as well as the others. “Last night one of the dancers . . . Cora . . .” Pain flashed through her eyes. “She showed up at the club and pretty much freaked out at me. She implied that Vince had made her do something, something awful, but she stormed out before I could get any answers. So today . . . I went over to her loft to check on her, to see if she was okay . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head in distress.
“And you found her body.” Trevor filled in the rest of her sentence.
Olivia turned toward his voice, giving a small nod. “The paramedics said it was an overdose. Heroin. But Cora never used drugs . . . She hated them . . . She . . . God, it didn’t make any sense. But then Vince came by to comfort me—”
That stupid streak of jealousy reappeared. Damn it, he didn’t like the idea of her with Angelo. Ever since he’d seen her dance that first time, he’d started to think of Olivia Taylor as his. Total caveman bullshit right there, but he couldn’t help it. And he didn’t like it.
When he realized Olivia was still talking, he forced his head back into the game. “He said it was taken care of, and something about Cora not being into it, and—”
Trevor interrupted by holding up his hand. “Let’s slow down. Tell us his exact words, as much as you can remember.”
She released a shaky breath. “He was telling someone that it—I’m assuming he meant Cora’s death—was taken care of, and that it wouldn’t be tied back to the club.” She paused in thought. “He said they didn’t have a choice because Cora was going to the cops, and then he mentioned a name . . . De something . . . De Luca.”
Luke exchanged a quick glance with the others, who were all frowning.
“You sure it was De Luca?” Trevor spoke up.
“Yeah, that was definitely it. Vince said that he didn’t care what De Luca thought about it because De Luca’s the one”—her voice cracked—“who asks Vince to send him girls. So that . . . so that his associates can . . . have sex with them.”
She fell silent, torment etched into her features.
>
“Anything else?” D barked. His tone was far from gentle. Or understanding.
Olivia flinched at the harsh demand. “Ah, something about a shipment. He said there was a lot of money riding on it, and he told the person on the other end to worry about the shipment, and said that he would worry about his . . . his bitches.”
Now her face was overcome with shame. Was that how she viewed herself? As another one of Angelo’s bitches? For some messed-up reason, Luke felt the impulse to yank her into his arms and stroke her hair or some shit, but he rooted himself to the couch.
“So . . . what do I do now?”
Her voice sounded so small and forlorn that Luke’s heart squeezed. Fuck it. Without looking at the others, he took Olivia’s hand and gripped it tightly. “Now you tell us how you got tangled up with Angelo in the first place.” He hesitated. “Angelo killed the customer who attacked you, didn’t he?”
Her mouth fell open. “What? No. I did.”
Chapter 9
Luke’s eyebrows shot up as Olivia’s confession hung in the air. “You killed him?”
She nodded, looking more than a little stricken.
As surprise continued to ripple through him, he exchanged a look with Trevor, who looked equally startled. So much for their theory about Angelo murdering a man for Olivia.
“Do you want to tell us what happened that night?” he asked, injecting some gentleness in his voice.
After a second of reluctance, Olivia released a ragged breath. “I was leaving the club after my shift. It was late, and one of the bouncers offered to walk me to my car, but I foolishly said no. There weren’t any PCs that night—”
“PCs?” Trevor cut in, wrinkling his brow.
“Problem customers,” she clarified. “It was a pretty tame night, and I thought I’d be fine. I had my whistle on me—every dancer at the Diamond has one. The girls call it a rape whistle. But it didn’t do a lick of good when I got jumped from behind. I dropped the whistle, and the next thing I knew, this man was dragging me into the alley next to the club.”
Luke’s gut flooded with anger. “Did you know the guy?”