Killer Curves

by Naima Simone

  He tsked. “We have business dealings, and I believe your mother didn’t want to put me in a tough spot by uninviting him. When I would’ve preferred if she had done just that. I tolerate Phillip—I always have. He’s okay. Adequate at his job. I suppose women consider him handsome.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Still, he always struck me as…oily. And I never did grasp what you saw in him. You two were so different, and frankly, you were—are—too good for him. But since you seemed to love him, I accepted him. Besides, as your father, no one will ever probably be good enough for you.”

  She barely felt the squeeze to her shoulders. She stared at him, her mind trying to compute his stunning revelation. He’d never…why hadn’t he said…

  “But this Ciaran fellow. I must admit I like him so far. Although, your mother thinks he’s too ‘masculine.’” He loosed a bark of laughter. “Not sure if I should’ve been offended by that or not. Besides, I like that about him. He’s his own man. And he seems taken with you. That might be his best selling point.” He chuckled, but before she could disabuse him of becoming too attached to Ciaran, he sobered. The smile fell away, and the tired, almost pensive expression she’d observed her first night home returned. As did her worry. “Promise me you’ll be happy, Sloane. No matter others’ opinions and the pressure they might apply, be happy.”

  The moisture fled her mouth, and she swallowed. Inside her chest, her heart drummed away. Don’t let fear hold you back. Ciaran’s words from the previous day drifted through her mind like a cool, comforting breeze.

  “Dad.” She cleared her throat. “Dad, there’s something I wanted to talk with you about. There’s an opportunity I’ve been offered…” And she told him about the charter school, leaving none of the details out. As she talked, a peace and sense of certainty settled in her soul and heart. She would be taking the job. Even if her father disagreed or tried to argue her out of the decision, she would still accept the position. It was where she belonged. And more important, it was what she wanted. A weight evaporated from her shoulders.

  Look at that. She’d grown up.

  John stared out over the massive backyard, his mouth pursed as if in thought. Finally, with a sigh, he returned his regard to her. “Sloane, if this job is what you want, then I support you. I arranged that position at Kennedy-Lewis because I wanted to help you achieve your goals. Just because they aren’t mine, doesn’t mean they’re not worth pursuing. Will I worry? Of course, that’s my job as a parent. But your dreams and your happiness are important, not mine. They will be lucky to have you.”

  Joy and gratitude choked her, tears stinging her eyes at his unconditional support. Why hadn’t they ever had this talk before? The wasted time. She smiled, though the gesture was more than a little wobbly. “Thank you,” she rasped. Then hugged him. Tight. Pressing her cheek to his chest like she once did as a little girl. Chuckling, he embraced her, kissing the top of her head.

  “All I ever wanted was for you and your sister to find joy and security. Your sister? Now, there’s a work in progress, but I don’t doubt she’ll find her way. But you? You’re the strongest of this lot. You always have been.”

  She lifted her head and studied the lines bracketing his mouth and fanning from the corners of his eyes that appeared deeper. Inspected the shadows that darkened his eyes. “Dad? Is everything okay? With you, I mean?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” he assured her, brushing another kiss to her forehead. He grasped her shoulders and held her. “And in case I haven’t told you so lately. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” a smooth, all-too-familiar voice interjected.

  Phillip. Like a freaking bad penny, he’d turned up again. Once more Ciaran’s voice—his warning—haunted her.

  “…that wasn’t a man with no hard feelings. There was anger there…he followed you out on that patio for a purpose, and he was going to see it through…”

  “Phillip,” her father greeted. “You’re down early. I don’t think the boat leaves for another couple of hours.”

  “I’m an early riser, John,” Phillip replied with an easy-going grin. Oily, her father had called him. How accurate. Too bad it’d taken her so damn long to recognize it. “If you don’t mind, can I borrow Sloane for a moment?”

  “Well, I would say that’s Sloane’s decision.” He glanced down at her, an eyebrow arched. His voice sounded pleasant, but a steely glint in his eyes assured her he would tell Phillip to get lost.

  “It’s fine, Dad. I’ll see you inside.” As loath as she was to be anywhere in the same vicinity as her ex, she wanted to find out what he wanted from her. And then maybe he would go away for good.

  John nodded, and with a last squeeze to her shoulders, exited the patio. As soon as he disappeared inside, the laid back smile vanished from Phillip’s face, replaced by the smirk that had become more common place in the last few months of their relationship.

  “You have been very hard to catch up with, Sloane,” he drawled, striding closer until he infiltrated her personal space.

  “You mentioned that earlier.” As well as employed this little intimidation tactic. He really should see about acquiring a new script. “Dad told me you were looking for me last night. What do you want?”

  “Look who grew a backbone?” he jeered, then with much exaggeration, scanned the patio. “I don’t see your bodyguard around. Still feeling bold without him?”

  Her bodyguard? A trickle of unease filtered through her annoyance. Why had Phillip used that particular term?

  “What do you want, Phillip?” she repeated. “As far as I’m concerned we have nothing left to talk about.”

  “Oh but we do,” he snapped. “It seems that once I got rid of you, your daddy,” he sneered, “revoked all support from me. I’ve been losing clients just because I dumped his precious daughter.”

  What the hell was he talking about? True, her father had recommended several of his friends and business associates to Phillip’s bank, but John wouldn’t…would he? A slow rush of delight burst in her chest, emanating a glow that fairly pulsed “Daddy’s girl.” Was it right? Probably not. But damn if it didn’t make her feel good. Feel loved.

  “You think this is funny?” Phillip shoved his face into hers. “I earned those contacts, and now he’s trying to ruin me. I put up with your lazy ass for two years, so you’re going to talk to your father, and do whatever it takes to convince him to back off.”

  Lazy ass. Lazyasslazyasslazyass. How many times had she heard that phrase over the course of their relationship? And each time it’d sliced deep, wounding her and leaving scars. She sucked in a breath, fury flickering to life in her belly. Not anymore. Not. One. More. Time. He didn’t have the right to demean her. No one did.

  “If you lost clients maybe it’s because they finally saw through the shiny veneer to the shitty-ass truth beneath,” she snapped in return. Jesus, this had been a long time in coming. And now that she’d opened the gate, the words flooded out like a raging deluge. “Maybe they discovered what a petty, insecure, spiteful, small man you are and decided to take their business elsewhere. I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t give a damn. But one thing I do know”—she jabbed a finger at him before slapping both palms to his chest—“You will never speak to me again as you have in the past. As a matter of fact, you just won’t speak to me. You put up with me? I put up with your anger, your vindictiveness, your abuse. But no more. And if the vandalism and assaults are your way of trying to bully me into doing what you want, it’s not going to work.”

  He gaped at her, eyes wide, mouth gaping. But in seconds, rage burned away the astonishment, staining his face an unattractive crimson. His lips curled in a snarl, he spat, “Who the hell do you—”

  “Phillip, I think it’s time you go,” John appeared in the patio entrance. And from the rigid lines of his face, she guessed her father hadn’t gone that far away.

  “J-John,” Phillip sputtered. “I didn’t—
”

  “I figured,” John said, voice harsh and cutting as a December wind. “Leave. You can wait outside while I have someone pack your things and deliver them to you.”

  “John, you misunderstood,” Phillip babbled, a pleading note straining his explanation.

  “I seriously doubt I misunderstood anything about you verbally abusing my daughter. Now, if I need to have someone physically remove you, I will. While I might take a hell of a lot of pleasure in it, you will be embarrassed and so will my wife. So you have a choice. But not for long.” John’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Sloane,” he murmured, not removing his gaze from her ex-fiancé. “Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll make sure this is handled.”

  Wow. She’d never seen her father so angry before. Forget angry. Enraged. Maybe she should feel sorry for Phillip.

  Yeah, nope. Sliding past her soon-to-be-vacated ex, she brushed a kiss over her father’s cheek and left the patio without once looking back. Phillip was her past, and she was never going back there again.

  Still, she grinned, climbing the staircase. The look on his face…she chuckled.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Barrett?”

  Sloane halted on the third step, turning around. A staff member she didn’t recognize stood at the bottom of the stairs, a note extended toward her. Of course with the extra people her mother had hired for the weekend, there were more than a few unfamiliar faces around.

  “Yes?” She descended the couple of steps, reaching for the slip of paper. “For me?”

  “Yes, I was told to pass it along to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, flipping open the note. The young man nodded and headed toward the hall and back of the house. She immediately identified Matthew’s spidery handwriting.

  Sloane, I was hoping to catch you before I left today so I could say good-bye. Please come by my room if you return before noon.

  Smiling, she pivoted and strode up the staircase once more to the second floor. Whenever Matt and Grace visited, they always stayed in the same guest room down the hall from Sloane’s. In seconds, she stood in front of Matt’s door. She rapped on the panel, and her uncle opened the door, already dressed in a suit. With a smile, he shifted to the side, and she sailed inside the room.

  “Oh good,” Sloane gushed. “I was afraid I might’ve missed you—”

  A sharp pain radiated from the back of her head. Blinding, sickening. On reflex, she reached behind her, touching the source of the agony. A sticky, warm substance coated her fingertips, and before she glimpsed her hand, she knew she would find blood.

  She jerked her attention to Matt, reached for him.

  Concern and sympathy twisted his much loved features…even as he backed away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Then nothing. Her world crashed into darkness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ciaran ended his call with a client who had left a message on his voicemail and entered the living room from the French doors leading to the gardens. Nothing that couldn’t hold until he returned to Boston. Sloane was his priority now and for the foreseeable future until GDG or the cops caught the person behind the attacks.

  And after? a sly voice whispered inside his head.

  He stared down at the home screen of his phone. But the organized mess of apps jeered him from their colorful display. Hell, I don’t know.

  When he’d taken on this assignment, his goals had been clear, uncluttered. Keep Sloane safe and alive. And keep his dick away from her. So far he’d managed one, and totally fucked up the other.

  All morning—actually from the moment she’d walked away from him in his condo—he’d been replaying her words in his head. Was he the coward she’d accused him of being? No, she hadn’t used that word, but the implication was there. At least for him. Afraid. He, who had dedicated his life and career to placing his body and life on the line for others, was afraid. She’d said he was scared to feel, to risk loving and losing, to feel pain. All of them were true. But she’d missed one.

  He was afraid of her.

  Because some time between the scorching hot bout on the bar and his confession about Sam, they’d ceased fucking and had started making love. He couldn’t place the consuming passion and soul-scattering connection and pleasure they’d shared on the base, meaningless level of what he’d had with other women.

  So why couldn’t you sleep beside her, then? Why did you cop out by staying on the couch all night?

  Shit, was there a way to turn that aggravating, nagging voice in his mind off? Sighing, he thrust his fingers through his hair and stalked over to the tall living room windows. Fear. Cowardice. Neither tasted good or went down well.

  Sloane understood what lying down beside a woman meant to him. And though he’d wanted—hungered—to curl up behind her on his big bed, he’d hesitated. This regal, intelligent, gorgeous woman had everything at her fingertips. The world. But would she want to share it with a physically and emotionally scarred ex-DEA agent trying to build up a new security firm?

  He didn’t know. And after how his last relationship had ended, he was too much of a chicken shit to ask. To take a risk. Loving meant losing. Holding something close meant eventually it would be ripped away from you.

  But what about the risk?

  Was the time he’d spent with her, the secrets and laughter they’d shared, the combustible sex they’d experienced worth it?

  Fuck. Yes.

  More so, she was worth it.

  Because Sloane wasn’t Sam. At some point between watching the sun rise and pulling up in front of her parents’ home, he realized Sloane was not Sam. He’d loved Samantha, but she’d had her flaws. Not being truthful with him. Not allowing him the choice of becoming involved with her by being honest from the beginning and telling him about her family and her connection with the FBI. Sloane didn’t live a life riding the edge between law-abiding and criminality, surrounded by underworld figures. She didn’t place herself in harm’s way, in spite of being the target of some asshole who got off on terrorizing women. Sloane was strong, honorable, a survivor. And that same character had seen her through an abusive relationship, rising from the ashes of it like a beautiful phoenix burning bright.

  By not trusting that strength, he was not only underestimating her, but belittling the courage and indomitable spirit she’d maintained and still kept after emerging from years of denigration. In his need to avoid being hurt, he’d hurt her.

  No wonder she’d call him a coward.

  Suddenly impatient to lay eyes on her, he strode toward the room’s entrance and the staircase leading to the room where he’d left Sloane with her sister.

  His phone vibrated in his palm.

  “Damn,” he growled. But then a glance down revealed Maddox’s number. His irritation vanished as he swiped his thumb over the screen. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Ciaran.” The sound of his given name and not his friend’s usual annoying “Key-Key” sent disquiet rattling in his chest. “I have some information.”

  “Go ahead,” Ciaran said, the calm in his voice belying the beginning of dread clenching his gut.

  “First, we looked into the angle about Sloane’s father.” Pause. “Did you know he’s about to be bankrupt?”

  “What?” Shock sucker-punched Ciaran. The hell? The revelation seemed incongruent and outright ridiculous when he was surrounded by the signs of the man’s wealth. “What do you mean?”

  “Jake did some digging into his financials, both personal and business. In the last year he’s made several investments that went belly-up. He and several investors have pretty much lost their shirts. If he can’t find a fast and significant infusion of cash, he’s going to be broke before the year is out. Did Sloane not mention it?”

  “I don’t think she knows,” Ciaran murmured. “I don’t think any of his family knows. Shit.”

  He could only imagine the impact this news would have on Sloane. Pain for her father, not over losing the money a
nd lifestyle. She’d been paying her way for a while and didn’t live off her family’s wealth or status. But Sloane’s mother and sister—damn. They would be devastated.

  “Yeah, like I said, we had to do some digging to discover the information, but if the financial bleeding continues the way it has been these past months, I can’t see it remaining covered up for much longer. But there’s more.” If possible, Maddox’s tone became even more serious. “We also ran a check on the list of party guests and crossed it with her father’s business associates.”

  The dread deepened, thickened, crawled up Ciaran’s chest to the back of his throat.

  “Of course there are several, as to be expected. But one stood out,” Maddox continued. “Matthew Daniels. He’s a longtime friend of John Barrett’s and has had some dealings with her father in the past.”

  “Yeah,” Ciaran murmured. An image of an older man coalesced in his mind’s eye. Tall, slender, salt-and-pepper hair, quiet. “Sloane introduced me to him. He’s her godfather, I think.”

  “Well, about four months ago, Matthew Daniels’s son committed suicide. But a month before his death, he’d lost everything in an investment…an investment John Barrett had spearheaded.”

  “Goddamn.” That quickly the jagged pieces that had never seemed to fit gathered together and formed a very ugly, deadly picture. The personal attacks, the intimidation, the attempted kidnapping, not murder. Yet, the inability to locate enemies other than a punk student and a disgruntled boyfriend.

  Because the enemy hadn’t been Sloane’s. It’d been her father’s.

  Murder wasn’t the only motive here. Retribution was.

  Jesus Christ. And Ciaran had brought her back to the man behind the entire thing. “Maddox, Matthew Daniels is here at the house. And it’s going to take for-fucking-ever to search,” Ciaran growled. “I need to get Sloane, secure her, and then go look for Daniels while he has no idea we’re on to him.”

  “We’re on our way, and I called the detective investigating the incidents at her house and the school. They’re probably coordinating with the police out there, but I have no clue how long that will take. If they’ll do anything at all since all we have is a theory.”