by Nancy Gideon
And though the clothes said it and this place said it, there was something about her that didn't say call girl for hire.
But that was for him to find out.
She didn't move as he approached nor did her gaze ever leave his, but locked solid as if in challenge. She did none of the usual body language things women did when he drew near—none of the subtle thrusting of the chest, sultry pouts or inviting droop to her thick lashes. She waited with a combative readiness. A Green Beret in a Givenchey gown.
His interest meter hovered at the breaking point.
"Hi."
"Hi, yourself."
Her voice was low, softness disguising steel.
"This isn't a pick up line, but we've met before. Not really met, I guess."
"At the Grovers. Yes, I remember you. Someone said you were a lawyer."
She'd asked about him. Heat flooded through his groin in an embarrassingly powerful surge. “Yes, I am. Nick Flynn. And you are?"
"Rae."
"As in Ray of Hope or Ray of Sunshine?” He gave her his best dazzling smile only to have it collide with the deflector shield of her indifference.
"Whatever."
"So,” he continued, trying not to feel as flustered as a high school boy trying to score with an upperclassman, “what were you doing at the Grovers?"
"I wasn't working, if that's what you mean."
Her tart tone actually brought a flush to his cheeks. “That's not what I meant."
"I knew Ginny Grover. A long time ago. I was paying my respects. Did you know Ginny?"
"No."
She nodded slightly and seemed to run out of things to say. All sorts of things came to his mind, crazy things like “You drive me crazy,” “I can't think straight when you look at me,” and “What's a classy lady like you doing turning tricks?” Wisely, he spoke none of those things aloud.
Instead, he picked a safe alternative.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"Anything?"
Her mouth quirked, holding back a smile. “Club soda."
"Wait right here. I'll get you one.” And then they could talk about this thing ... this whatever kind of chemistry thing that they had between them.
He went to the bar. As he started to order a bourbon for himself, he changed his mind, making it two club sodas with twists of lime. Like the lady, bubbles with a bite of sass.
Glasses in hand and anticipation percolating like the effervescent drinks, he turned. And went blank with dismay.
She was gone.
Normally, he would have felt like a fool to have been so easily brushed off, but with this woman, it was a sense of disappointment, a feeling of regret for what might have happened that made him go all flat inside.
Damn.
Rae, what?
He hadn't gotten her full name.
* * * *
When she saw him, Rae knew his punch to the gut effect on her hadn't been a fluke or exaggerated over the past two sleepless nights. He was simply the most astounding man she'd ever seen—a dark, dashing cross between Gable and Grant, swarthy, sinfully gorgeous and sexy as hell. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Until she told herself that this man might have been involved in Ginny's murder.
She wasn't thinking accident anymore. Not since Thomas Grover had taken his own life. Sorrow wouldn't have made Grover pull that trigger. But guilt would.
It had something to do with the slick, high-powered lawyers who were the last to see her surrogate father alive. What kind of deal had gone down behind those closed doors? Had Ginny served as an example of what would happen if compliance wasn't obediently given? Had Tom been involved in a shady deal gone sour and, when he tried to pull out, Ginny was sacrificed as his punishment?
Who were these two men?
One of them had been having an affair with Ginny.
She'd gotten that much out of the girls at the accountant firm were she'd worked. Dark and exotic, they'd told her, Ginny's mystery man of no name. She'd introduced the law firm of Meeker, Murray & Zanlos to her father, and what a price she'd had to pay for that association.
Rae had done some snooping. Dark and exotic. Marvin Meeker was retirement age, balding and soft around the middle. The Murray part of the firm was female and was said to be working in offices overseas. That left Kazmir Zanlos, the third partner, who was sleek, deeply tanned and South African. And Nicholas Flynn, equally dark and delicious, from the sultry heat of Louisiana. The rest of the firm's employees were women or didn't fit the profile.
Zanlos or Flynn. One of them had romanced a naive Ginny Grover to get close to her father's business. She'd learned that Zanlos had a quiet partnership in the classy night club Noir de Nuit that catered to kids below and passed out call girls above, and she'd paid one of the D.C. patrolmen a healthy sum to call her the minute he or Flynn showed up there. She wanted to get an up close and personal look at them without them knowing she was doing the looking. When the call came stating both were expected in house that evening, she was on scene, dressed for sin to catch a sinner. She'd slipped inside the private club by dazzling some myopic congressman with her attention. Once past the doors, she'd hoped to escape notice by pretending to be a visiting member of the same sisterhood as the ladies plying their age-old trade inside. But as she drew their curious then territorial looks, she realized she'd have to work fast to find out which one of the handsome lawyers had manipulated Ginny to her death.
And when she saw him across the room, all dark and debonair, she knew she didn't want it to be Nicholas Flynn.
Okay, so his approach wasn't terribly unique, but it was delivered with style and sizzling charisma. She could have lost herself for days in the dark liquid of his stare—like black satin sheets. She liked that he maintained eye contact when most men would have been delving down her cleavage. And she liked his voice, a silky drawl on the surface with the rough cut of whiskey sluicing underneath. He made a woman think of those sheets all rumpled the morning after with him still between them. And that wasn't the way she usually thought about men at first sight.
Rae got the feeling that she might have to look pretty hard to find a reason to dislike Nick Flynn.
Unless, of course, he'd arranged for her best friend and her friend's father to die.
As much as she wanted the combustible meeting to go on indefinitely, the second he denied knowing Ginny, she forced herself to abandon the unlikely fascination.
She believed him about not knowing Ginny. When men told a lie, they usually said more than they had to in order to appear innocent. Flynn's simple “No” told her all she needed to know for the moment.
Kaz Zanlos was the one she was after.
She sent Flynn for drinks and ditched him. From the shadowed fringe of the crowd, she couldn't pretend his wounded surprise at finding her gone didn't nudge a chord of regret.
Another time, Nick Flynn. But not tonight.
She found a secluded alcove from which to watch Zanlos without being observed. And as she followed his trail of seductive overtures from one flustered woman to the next, a granite block of loathing massed within her breast. Slick described Kaz Zanlos. Good looking in a dangerous, pirate-like way, with his dark complexion, piercing black eyes and regally hooked nose, he had an agelessness about him, though she guessed him to be in his forties. If Flynn was a dashing Mark Anthony, Zanlos was a hawklike Caesar. While he had none of Flynn's spontaneous charm, Zanlos exuded an air of inescapable conquest and control. There was nothing playful or flattering about his agenda. She didn't even think it was the sex as much as it was the power that he was after. He liked being in charge, dominating weaker wills with a cold effortlessness that was truly frightening.
Just the kind of man that made her blood run icy.
Ginny hadn't stood a chance.
And from the looks of things at Thomas's funeral that afternoon, neither would Bette.
After Ginny's drizzly send-off, her father's burial was
awash with sunlight and fragrant breezes. Arlington, always an emotional sight with its endless white markers and aura of heroism, embraced Thomas Grover in a way it hadn't her own father. Both had died at their own hands, but Frederick Borden's sins went far beyond that last selfish act earning him, instead of a triumphant exit, a coward's burial, alone and unmourned in a small, insignificant plot in an unremarkable suburb.
Thomas Grover exited with pomp and circumstance. He would have enjoyed it. He'd loved serving his country, both in its foreign confrontation and at the helm of government contracts. And he'd loved his family even more.
Rae didn't weep as the final words were read. She supported a sobbing, black-shrouded Bette Grover and stared suspiciously at the handsome lawyer who watched the two of them from the other side of the open grave. Inevitably, he approached them to offer somber condolences and then, somehow, it was his arm about Bette Grover and his comfort she leaned upon. Smooth operator didn't even come close.
He'd taken her out to dinner. The invitation had been extended to Rae, but she was no fool. And she knew she wouldn't be welcome as a third wheel.
Bette Grover didn't know how to survive without a man in her life. She was the perfect hostess, an exemplary helpmate but she hadn't a clue how to function on her own. She clung to Kaz Zanlos like a drowning woman to a life preserver, swept away by the attentive flattery of the younger man. And Rae had to wonder why the man offered to keep her afloat.
So she'd called in favors back in Detroit after finding no help at the local level. To her dismay and disappointment, she discovered the D.C. police had already marked both cases “Case Closed.” Her inquiries met with a solid wall of resistance. She faxed one of the women in the Metro records department who'd taken her self-defense class. The woman swore to repay her after the techniques she'd learned stopped a carjacker cold. In minutes, the information came humming across the lines, and Rae learned everything there was to know about the elegant South African while he was out wining and winning over the not-so-distraught-any-longer widow. She'd discovered he had left his homeland under a cloud of suspicion and disgrace just a step ahead of the law. And he'd quickly reestablished himself in the same illicit and most likely illegal doings here in Washington. Everyone knew it, but no one could prove it.
Having had no sleep for three days and reeling with the one-two punch of loss, Rae, unlike the D.C. police, didn't need proof to know the truth. Kaz Zanlos was responsible for taking her loved ones cruelly away. And for that, he would pay.
She waited for her opportunity and was rewarded at last. Alone, he left the merriment, heading down a long, dimly lit corridor toward the rest rooms. And Rae followed. She waited until he went inside and for two other men to exit. Then, after surveying the surroundings and finding them all clear, she reached for the thigh holster, for the small but still deadly caliber pistol strapped where it wouldn't ruin the sleek line of her gown. With the comforting weight of retribution in her hand, she pushed the door open just far enough to see inside.
Kaz Zanlos stood at the sinks, rearranging his tie as he hummed a Broadway tune. He looked like a man who was confident in his control of his circumstances.
Rae thumbed the safety off.
He was wrong.
Just as she started to shove open the door to confront the man who'd destroyed her only claim to family, a hand clamped over her mouth to silence any outcry. A strong arm banded her waist, lifting her bodily, turning her into the hall and away from the image of Zanlos primping in the mirror, totally unaware of what had almost happened.
Rae struggled. She didn't wriggle ineffectively the way most women would when grabbed by an attacker. She knew how to fight back. But this enemy seemed to anticipate and evade her every move as he carried her easily down the hall and out the fire door into the darkness of an alley. There, he released her, and she spun about, all clenched fists and fury.
To face an empty street.
Perplexed, she did a full circle, only to find herself alone.
What the—?
"Forgive me if I hurt you."
The quiet words were spoken right behind her where a fraction of a second ago no one had been standing. She turned, too alarmed and surprised to offer resistance. As it happened, she had nothing to defend against. The man she confronted was not an enemy.
And then he offered a startling proposition.
"If you want to get Kazmir Zanlos, I can show you a better way."
Chapter
Four
They rode into the night and, after a while, Rae was too tired to try to figure out where they were. South. Towards Alexandria, was her guess.
Looking even more like a rock star in his studded leather coat and dark glasses after dark, Gabriel McGraw offered little in the way of conversation. He responded succinctly to her questions.
"Are you really a policeman?"
She caught his small smile.
"For longer than you know."
"Where are we going?"
"That's not important."
"What were you doing there tonight?"
"Keeping you out of trouble."
"Why?"
He glanced at her briefly. “Because I was told to.” His grin flashed megawatt bright. “And because I like you."
"It's good to have friends.” She leaned back into the all too comfortable rolled and tucked seat of the big old Mercury convertible he drove. She didn't know street rods. She guessed this one had at least twenty years on her in age, but it rode like a dream. She should have so much class when she was an old dame.
"Let me ask you one?"
She didn't open her eyes. “What's that?"
"Would you have killed him?"
Her smile was Mona Lisa mysterious. “I guess that's not important now, either."
He chuckled softly, and that was the last of their conversation.
Sapped of energy from fatigue and the adrenaline ebb, Rae wondered herself if she would have pulled the trigger. Had she planned to burst into that restroom to force a confession, or to end a life? She wasn't sure. Now that the intensity of the moment's emotion was over, her actions surprised her. How had anger and frustration so quickly gained the upper hand? Usually, her levelheadedness and self-control were legendary.
But no one had snatched her stability away before ... or at least, not for a very long time.
She must have dozed off because the gentle jerk of the hot rod coming to a stop brought her up in the seat. It was too dark to get a fix on their location. She got the sense of a building, and she could smell the waters of the Potomac. Then Gabriel was opening the door for her, leaning down to help hoist her from the low-slung seat. Standing on the wharf with the chill seeping in off the river, she realized how much of her was left bare to the night breeze and to her escort's scrutiny. But thankfully, he appeared disinterested in her state of undress. Now that they'd reach their destination, his mood became one of focused intensity.
"This way. And watch your step."
He glanced at her, and for an instant what little light there was outside on the uncomfortably cloying evening flashed across his gaze turning his eyes a sudden, incandescent silver. An unnatural fire burned behind them.
Before the shock could settle, he turned away.
Just fatigue. Rae shook off what she'd seen as a play of imagination before following him toward the warehouse. She asked no questions, intuiting that no answers would be given. At least, not from him.
Her footsteps echoed through the large empty storage space, a tap tap tap of needle-sharp heels on concrete. Oddly, his boot heels made no sound at all as he led the way toward the back of the building. A chill took her. Just the scanty dress and the night air, she told herself. But deep down, she knew it was more than that. She responded instinctively to the aura of danger. Her senses sharpened, reached outward for evidence of threat. Her muscles bunched and readied as she continued toward she knew not what.
Gabriel opened a door at the back of the warehouse. Muted
light pooled out, illuminating him, haloing his spiky blond hair, basking his lean figure like some hallowed gatekeeper opening the way to the beyond. Beyond what? She wouldn't know until she stepped across the threshold. He moved back, giving her room to go ahead of him. She proceeded with caution into what appeared to be an office with desk, filing cabinets and a big leather couch. One wall of windows was shuttered off from the view by tightly closed blinds. Inside the room was uncomfortably hot, airless.
"Ah, Miss Borden, good evening."
The deep, lightly accented voice greeted her from the shadows. The accent was French, and the speaker unknown to her.
"It's been a long day. I haven't slept for over thirty-six hours. Cut the pleasantries and get to the point. Why have I been brought here?"
"She speaks her mind, Gabriel. Not unlike my daughter. But is it bravery or foolish bravado? That we need to discover."
Her host stepped into the light of the room. He was dark and strong of build, broad shoulders straining the bulky knit of his sweater. Why wasn't he perspiring in the heavy garment within the pressure-cooker hot room? Then she forgot about his wardrobe as his gaze affixed hers. His eyes were black yet bright with some inner light that glimmered just there behind his stare. Like Gabriel's when he'd turned to her in the doorway. Strange, compelling eyes. She couldn't look away.
"My name is Marchand LaValois. You will not know it and others will not recognize it. I have been careful to keep my anonymity. Please sit down, Miss Borden."
She sidled over to the couch on her treacherously high heels and sat, keeping a cautious eye on LaValois and upon Gabriel who still lingered at the door, a silent sentinel. “What do you want with me?"
"Such directness. I like that.” LaValois perched on the corner of the desk, posture relaxed, but Rae felt a pulse of constant movement and energy from him. As if this composed mien was for her benefit alone. “I had Gabriel bring you here because we could not be of help to one another if you were in jail for shooting Zanlos tonight."