by Hope Anika
“But she was at practice?”
“Present and accounted for.”
Ash nodded. “Can you get a copy of the police report?”
“I’m working on it. Delaney tells me they think she’s a runaway.”
“She may well be. Kids have a lot more secrets than their parents realize.”
Butch shrugged. “I told Marlene we’d check it out.”
“Retainer?”
“In the bank. She can afford to look.”
Ash slid the file back across the desk. “See where it goes.”
“Any word from Wylie?”
“He’s good,” she said shortly.
Butch’s gaze narrowed, and heat rushed into her face. Damn it, she didn’t want to have to be careful with him. He’d been Charlie’s friend for more years than she’d been alive, and when he was sober, he was a hell of an investigator. But today was the exception, not the rule.
Even if, in her heart, she couldn’t believe he would betray them.
“So that’s how it is?” he demanded grimly. “You’re going to leave me completely in the dark?”
“The case is strictly need-to-know,” she replied calmly. “And right now, you are not need-to-know.”
“And Ruslan? Is he need-to-know?”
Her cheeks burned. “Yes.”
“That’s horseshit,” Butch growled. “I’ve been here longer than either one of you.”
“Yes,” she shot back. “If only you’d been sober.”
He blinked. His face flushed. “I’m sober now.”
“Would you like a gold star?”
Another blink. Ash sighed. “I don’t enjoy being an asshole—really. But I can’t rely on you, Butch. If those jerks grab you again—”
“They won’t. Not again. I’ll see them coming this time.”
“If they grab you again,” she repeated, “I don’t want you to be able to tell them anything.”
“A bullshit excuse,” he muttered. “Is this how it will be now that Charlie’s gone? You’ll just squeeze me out until I disappear?”
The ache in her chest fluttered. “That’s up to you. I won’t babysit; you’re a goddamn grown man. And I need you at the top of your game, not passed out by halftime. That’s the deal. No excuses, no exceptions. I’m not Charlie. You have to carry your weight.”
For a long moment, Butch only stared at her. But he couldn’t argue, and they both knew it.
“There will always be a place for you here,” she told him seriously. “But you have to earn it—same as everyone else.”
He wanted to argue; she could see it. He wasn’t happy that she’d inherited the firm—maybe he’d thought Charlie would leave it to him, or maybe he thought Wylie would have gone easier on him, which just showed how little he knew Wylie—but she was the one in charge now—God help her—and if he wanted to stay employed, he had to stay sober.
“Fine,” he grated and grabbed the file. “I’m on it.”
Ash watched him push to his feet, anger flushing his cheeks, and part of her wanted to reach out and soothe him—because she knew who he was in his heart, a good man, one she liked and still respected—but it was not time to bend.
Because if she gave an inch, he would take a mile.
“Do I need to check with you every five minutes,” he asked tightly. “Or do you trust me enough to do my job?”
“I expect you to tell me what you’d tell Charlie,” she replied steadily. “No more, no less.”
He nodded sharply, but when he swung around to exit, Jesse suddenly appeared in the doorway, looking appallingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“Hey,” he said, looking between them, his eagerness dimming at the scowl Butch presented him with. “I thought maybe I could start today. Working, I mean. Whatever you might need. Is that...is that okay?”
No. Go home. I can’t deal with you, too.
But she’d made a deal, and he was young and seemed personable, and not bad looking—
“Take him with you,” she told Butch, who immediately glowered at her.
“I don’t need any help,” he snapped.
“Who do you think Emery St. Clair’s friends are more likely to talk to?” she retorted. “You or him?”
Butch’s eyes narrowed; they moved to Jesse, studied him. “Goddamn it,” he said abruptly. “Let’s go then. Shit.”
Ash sat back after they left and looked up at the ceiling. “Thanks for nothing, Chuck.”
Seriously.
“Talking to oneself is either a sign of superior intelligence and imagination,” intoned the cold, distant voice of the man she couldn’t seem to escape. “Or one of rampant psychosis.”
“Indeed,” she muttered. She transferred her gaze to Ruslan and tried to ignore the bolt of awareness that jolted through her when it reached him. “What’s your call?”
He only stared at her. His hair was damp, his suit fresh—he must have had it in the Impala—his jaw cleanly shaven. That wintery scent reached her, prickling her skin.
Tempting jerk.
“I do not believe you are insane,” he said finally.
“Well, be still my heart.” She tilted her head and—for a moment—indulged herself and studied him. He really was a damned fine example of the species.
“Are you ready?” he asked, unmoving beneath her perusal.
“Ready for what?”
“I contacted GenTek. We have a nine am appointment with their CEO, Leonard Masters.”
“We do?” Her brows rose. “How’d you swing that?”
“I told his assistant we had discovered a number of confidential GenTek documents during an investigation, and we wished to return them.”
“That’s all it took?”
“No.”
Ash waited.
“When she suggested I leave them at the front gate, I told her they were related to the Primary Project, and if Mr. Masters was not willing to meet with us regarding them, we would be happy to find them a new owner.”
“A new owner,” she repeated. “Nice. You play dirty, Ruslan.”
His brows rose.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I like dirty.” And then she realized what she’d said. Heat slammed into her cheeks.
“Indeed.” He watched her with that predatory stillness.
“With work, I mean.” She stood, painfully aware of the color filling her face. Goddamn it. “Playing dirty at work. While working. On a case. When you have to, I mean, sometimes it’s necessary and...”
He was silent, his pale gaze glittering.
“Oh, put a cork in it,” she muttered.
“I said nothing.”
Ash only grabbed her coat. “I can see it.”
“See what?”
“You,” she told him. “I can see you.”
And then she swept past him, careful not to touch, and led the way out.
CHAPTER
-11-
He can’t fucking have you, baby. That I promise you.
Jesus Christ. What the hell had he been thinking?
Wylie scowled as he descended the private stairwell of The Butterfly Club. It was quiet and empty, except for the noisy recriminations sounding in his head.
Have you lost your damn mind? Why would you say something like that?
Worse, he’d meant it. The thought of anyone putting hands on Wanda—especially that asshole from last night—made fire lick through Wylie’s veins. Anger rose, volatile and hot and more than willing to act. It was intense and unwavering, something he hadn’t felt since he was policing the streets of Fallujah with his fellow jarheads, trying to convince the local population they were more than just despotic occupiers.
Something he thought he’d left behind in those streets.
“Stupid son of a bitch,” he muttered. Because he didn’t want to mean any of it.
Saving people had been Charlie’s MO. All of his broken birds, squawking and hungry; an entire collection of people whose lives Charlie had changed forev
er. But Wylie was not his father, and if there were things Charlie had done—had been—that Wylie respected and wanted to emulate, his penchant for rescuing people wasn’t one of them.
No.
Too much bullshit, too much responsibility. Wylie was not built to carry that kind of load, nor did he want to.
He liked his simple life. He planned to keep it that way.
So why the hell make that promise?
Because promises were serious business. Wylie didn’t make promises for the simple reason that he had no desire to keep them. Not to family, not to friends. And never to a woman.
Not that Wanda would hold him to it; hell, as far as she was concerned, she’d already been caught.
You can’t win. I have to run.
Remembering the despair in those words made the anger simmering in his blood flare. Made him wonder just what—exactly—she’d already been through.
“Six years old,” he snarled softly, and threw open the metal door that led from the stairwell into the elegant lobby they’d avoided the night before. “Who the fuck does that?”
He is very powerful. My parents considered it an excellent match.
A growl welled in his chest as he stepped into the empty lobby. He’d left Eva reading her book and Wanda still sound asleep. They’d shared the bed while he crammed his six-foot-plus frame onto the loveseat.
It hadn’t improved his temper.
Stupid asshole. Because being on the run, responsible for a child currently being hunted by armed men, that wasn’t enough. He’d had to add promises to the list. Promises he didn’t want to be tied to. Goddamn it.
And what of those armed men? They were still lying in wait, somewhere. Who—exactly—were they? And what the hell did they want with little Eva? Eva, who was freakishly calm no matter the circumstance—which totally weirded Wylie out—and who seemed far older than her handful of years. Who’d given him an oddly reproachful look last night after he’d left Wanda in the bathroom, and who seemed to feel no fear whatsoever, which was just damned near impossible.
Just twenty-four hours earlier, his hardest choice had been deciding between five-card stud and blackjack. Budweiser or Heineken.
Pizza or a burger.
And now... Now he held two lives in his hands. Now he was all that stood between those lives and the death that stalked them.
Now it was all on him.
To get them to Charlie’s cabin. To shelter them until the cavalry arrived.
To save them.
And there were more questions than answers. Ash hadn’t been able to tell him squat, because even the CB could be monitored, and while he was glad to know she was alive and under Spock’s watchful eye, he still didn’t have any answers about who was chasing them or why.
How far they would go, or where it would end.
Goddamn it.
He didn’t want the job. He wasn’t the man for it; playing hero had been Charlie’s gig, and he’d been good at it. The only thing Wylie was good at was saving his own ass. He could handle being part of a team when necessary, but he didn’t want to lead that team. He was content to follow, to do his bit and walk.
He didn’t want to be relied upon.
“Henri said you were upstairs,” said a voice, and Wylie turned to see The Butterfly Club’s madam, Mistress Ana, artfully posed in the pale, early-morning light spearing through the window she stood beside. Her short, golden blond hair was styled in a sleek pixie cut, making her look younger than their shared thirty-four years. She wore black—she only ever wore black—a narrow, tailored pantsuit with spiked black heels and a string of gleaming black pearls. Beneath the suit coat she was bare, her skin the palest ivory. “You didn’t come down to Follow the Queen; I thought perhaps you’d left.”
“No,” he said brusquely, and then because he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “What time did it start?”
“It hasn’t.” She smiled, a sharp curve that hardened her features. Ana was not a beautiful woman, but she had charisma to spare, and the bold, uncompromising lines of her face were intriguing. “The Monarch Room at seven.”
Baiting him. She knew him too well.
“Henri said there was trouble,” she murmured. “He also said this stay will cancel out our debt. Is that what you told him?”
Wylie nodded. “Thank you.”
Her brows rose. “You know that debt will never be repaid.”
“It’s done.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said sharply. “One night of sanctuary is nothing.”
“I need a car, too,” he said. “For a few days.”
“That can be arranged.” She walked toward him. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
Wylie only shook his head. He wasn’t dragging her into this mess; she already had her hands full.
“Wylie,” she said quietly.
It was the same tone she’d used when they were children, and he was trying to talk her into something that would get them both into a boatload of trouble. They’d been friends for most of their lives, and he didn’t know what had happened to turn her from his good pal Annie—the tomboy he’d spent his childhood dragging from one misbegotten adventure to the next—and into Mistress Ana, madam of The Butterfly Club, Las Vegas’ most influential and exclusive private gaming den. And bordello.
That metamorphosis had happened while he was overseas, and when Wylie tried to broach the subject, she shut him down cold.
You don’t like to talk about your war; don’t ask me to talk about mine.
“We’re square,” he told her seriously. “I won’t ask for anything else.”
“Everything I have is yours,” she replied, just as seriously. “None of it would be if not for you.”
Which was an exaggeration. It’d been pure luck that he’d been hanging out downtown at the cop shop, waiting to check in his run-away bond jumper on the day the vice cops had been bragging—loudly—about their anticipated bust of The Butterfly Club.
Their hubris and overconfidence had pissed Wylie off, and he’d called Ana and tipped her off. By the time the vice squad arrived, the place was clean, and Ana had an army of lawyers waiting.
Charlie had not been pleased, but Wylie didn’t care. Annie was his friend—no matter how she made her living. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department—Vice Division—wasn’t.
“You have a woman with you,” Ana continued, eyeing him curiously.
“Yes,” he bit out, annoyed all over again.
“Interesting,” she murmured, smiling a little.
“Don’t,” he told her. “It’s nothing.”
“Really? Because Henri said the Ambassador you ran into last night was quite insistent that it was...something.”
Wylie stilled. “What did Henri tell him?”
“Nothing, of course.” Ana shrugged. “We protect our own.”
Wylie exhaled roughly. “Thank you.” He ran a hand over his scalp and winced. Too short. Made him feel like he was back in boot camp. “Is he still here?”
“No, he left this morning.” Ana paused. “But his car remains parked on the street outside.”
Of course it was, because the men in black weren’t enough.
“You can leave through my private entrance and exit onto the side street,” Ana said and shrugged. “Our vehicles all have darkened windows and state of the art security systems; I doubt you’ll have any trouble.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I know.” Another small smile. “I can help, you know.”
He met her gaze. “You are.”
She only shook her head. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No. That’s why I came down. Food and wheels.”
“Then I’ll have something sent up. Breakfast for three?” She tilted her head. “Or perhaps you’d like to Follow the Queen for a bit?”
Wylie rubbed his face, far too tempted. The idea of focusing on something as black and white as a game of poker for an hour—just to clear his head—was a siren�
��s call. A controlled environment where he understood the stakes, and there was no deviating from his norm.
“I shouldn’t,” he muttered.
“Froman and Long are playing.”
He shot Ana a dark look. “Baiting me again.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a soft laugh. “But it’s self-serving. You’re good for business. You keep them playing and you piss them off; they drink more, bet more, and need to work off some steam before they leave.”
“Well, as long as it helps you out,” he said wryly.
“Take the break, if you need it.”
“I don’t have the buy-in,” he told her bluntly. “Or the time.”
“The house will spot you, you know that. And your companions can have breakfast and get cleaned up.” Ana slid her arm through his and turned him toward the wing where the private gaming rooms were located. “I’ll retrieve you if you’re needed.”
Just an hour. Maybe two. Which made him a selfish prick. But Wylie had never had any illusions about who and what he was—or wasn’t. And he needed a fucking breather. A step back.
An escape, if only for a little while.
Self-centered shit.
Yes. Something nothing was ever going to change.
“Playing is the only thing you seem to truly enjoy,” Ana said softly. “And if you won’t let me do anything else, let me do this.”
Wylie stared down at her, knowing he should get his ass back upstairs. But Wanda and Eva were safe enough, and Ana was right, they could have breakfast and some privacy. He’d play for an hour—two, tops—and get his head on straight. And then they could head up to the cabin.
It would be fine.
“Alright,” he conceded and thought of Froman and Long, and how lovely it would be to hand them their asses. “A few hands.”
“Excellent,” Ana murmured.
Just a few.
What could it hurt?
*****
“The only reference to eugenics on the GenTek website is a genetic screening program they call the ‘Vetting.’ The program is designed to profile prospective parents for genetic diseases and calculate the likelihood of giving birth to a genetically defective child. There is no mention of altering or correcting the profiles, but it is likely a service they offer.”