On the other hand, if it meant he could put off telling Daisy that he’d been lying to her all along, he was grateful for the interruption. Until he turned and found himself face-to-face with J. Fitzgerald Douglass.
Then he knew he should have jumped at the chance to get everything out in the open the minute Blondie had offered him the opportunity.
22
BLOWING out a quiet breath, Nick turned to Daisy. “Could you excuse us for a few minutes?” When he saw her eyes narrow and her mouth start to form a protest, he met her gaze levelly. “This is my livelihood, Daisy, and that has to take precedence when I’m on a gig. You and I will talk, though, I promise. The minute we get home.”
She snapped her mouth closed, but he knew damn well she wasn’t going to budge. Then she looked at who had interrupted them, and her eyes widened.
“I do apologize,” J. Fitzgerald said, flashing her his no-really-you-mustn’t-canonize-me smile. “It is important that I speak to Nicholas, however.”
And it was, after all, his party.
“All right.” She looked at Nick. “You’ve got five minutes.” Then, shoulders straight, she stalked away.
He waited until he was sure she was out of earshot before he turned to Douglass. “What the hell makes you think I’ve got anything to say to you?”
“You don’t have to say a word,” the older man said smoothly. “You merely have to listen.”
He snorted but said, “You heard the lady: you have five minutes.” He made a point of consulting his Rolex.
“I realize I misjudged you.”
“Damn straight you did. And if you wanna piss away your time stating the obvious it’s fine with me—but if I were you I’d tell me something I don’t already know.”
“My actions were unconscionable—I panicked at the thought of those photographs floating around where anyone might see them,” Douglass said. “I wanted quite desperately to retrieve them.”
“Then you should have just asked me for them. Either that, or you could have taken five lousy minutes to ask around, and you would have learned that I’ve never failed to destroy a compromising negative yet.” He wanted an apology. He deserved a hell of a lot more, but he’d settle for an apology—at least for tonight. Getting into a pissing match with Douglass would only earn him a lifetime of more nasty surprises. An intelligent man would definitely hang on to his cool until he could sit down, think things through, and come up with a plan that would get his dick out of the wringer once and for all.
“You’re absolutely right,” Douglass agreed easily. “And I’d very much like to make up for my lack of foresight now.” He reached inside his tux and pulled forth a checkbook. “Name your price.”
“You think I’m a blackmailer?” Nick was insulted right down to his tasseled loafers. “Take your checkbook and shove it, old man.”
“You’re not being reasonable, Coltrane. By all accounts you’re an astute businessman—”
“Reasonable?” Shoving his face close to J. Fitzgerald’s, Nick sucked in a deep breath against the rage burning a hole straight through the center of his good sense, and said through gritted teeth, “I didn’t give a good goddamn about your sex life until you started messing with me. But you just had to push it, didn’t you? Your gorillas trashed my darkroom and dislocated my arm. They destroyed my Porsche, held a gun to Daisy’s head, and tried to fucking kill me with their car! You think writing a check will just erase all that?” He drew himself erect and did some more deep breathing. He was teetering on the edge of doing something he knew he shouldn’t—something he’d no doubt regret. And he tried to pull back; he really did. Then…
Fuck good sense. That had been eroded away by one hell of a rough week. “You’re right about one thing,” he said. “I am an astute businessman. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.”
J. Fitzgerald straightened, ready to deal.
“I’ll sell my negatives to the tabloids, highest bidder take all.” He bared his teeth in a carnivorous smile. “That oughtta garner me a bundle.”
Douglass looked stunned for a second, but he recovered with record speed and met Nick’s gaze head-on. “You’re not going to do that,” he said with assurance. “You’d cut your own throat. Who do you think would ever trust you after that? You’d be washed up in this town.”
“Hmm, you do have a point.” Nick gave him a look of faux admiration. “There must be a way around it. But…maybe not. Damn. I guess I’ll have to concede to your superior intelligence.”
Douglass started to smile.
“And just send the suckers anonymously.”
For a fleeting instant, the mask fell away and the thirst for power at any cost shone out of Douglass’ eyes. Nick raised his camera and shot off a frame, but he couldn’t be certain he’d captured it, for even as he depressed the shutter button the man’s countenance smoothed back into its familiar benevolent lines.
His voice low and pleasant, J. Fitzgerald leaned into him and said, “I’ll bury you, you little son of a bitch. You think my security team has been tough so far? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Huh. I’m shaking in my boots.” Jesus, Coltrane, what is this—the playground? Shut the fuck up before you dig a grave for yourself clear to Asia. His temper was riled, though, and that meant testosterone was in charge of his thinking—never a good idea, but something that was damn difficult to correct once his control had slipped its leash.
Forgoing the immediate gratification of popping the old hypocrite in the mouth, he focused on the primary goal: finding a long-term solution that, just incidentally, would stick it to Douglass but good. He breathed deeply, sucking air to the bottom of his lungs and holding it in an attempt to harnass the fury running rampant through his system.
He might have succeeded, too, if J. Fitzgerald had just left Daisy out of it.
“You think that blond bodyguard you’re fucking is going to save your butt?” Douglass demanded. “Think again. Hell.” He lowered his voice and smiled benevolently. “She’d be even easier to arrange an accident for than you’d be, and who would miss a little nobody like her, anyhow?”
Faster than thought, Nick’s hands whipped out to grip J. Fitzgerald’s lapels. Hauling the older man up onto his toes, he bent until they were nose to nose. “The Oakland PD, for starters,” he snarled through the mist of red rage in front of his eyes. He retained just enough sense to keep his voice low. “They tend to get damn testy when one of their own is hurt, even if she is retired from the force.” He tightened his grip until Douglass was all but en pointe. “But understand this, asshole—if anything happens to Daisy, it won’t come to the cops, and you won’t have to worry about the circulation of a few lousy pictures that show you banging your brains out with a girl young enough to be your granddaughter.” He drilled Douglass with his glare. “Because I’ll kill you myself.”
It wasn’t until he abruptly released J. Fitzgerald with an insolent flick of the backs of his fingers against the magnate’s lapels that he realized they had attracted an audience. A pocket of silence surrounded them as those nearest stared at him aghast. Daisy was watching him with her soft mouth slightly agape and a perplexed frown pleating her eyebrows. Reid looked faintly amused, but Mo looked downright horrified. She cocked a brow at him demandingly the moment she caught his eye, asking, What the hell is this?
He flashed the small crowd what he hoped was one of his most charming smiles. “Sorry, folks. I get a little passionate about my soccer team.”
They weren’t about to take his word for it—everyone looked to J. Fitzgerald for verification. He tugged his lapels straight and nodded. “I guess he does! You don’t ever want to—what’s that word the kids use these days for not showing respect?”
“Diss,” Nick supplied.
“Right. You don’t ever want to diss the Galaxy to this boy. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
“Damn straight.” Nick essayed a cocky grin. But he couldn’t help but suspect he’d just made a huge mistake.
One that had the potential for disaster written all over it in foot-high letters.
During the ride home, Daisy tried very hard not to jump to unwarranted conclusions. It would be the height of unfairness to go off half cocked on Nick before she’d heard so much as a drop of evidence against him. Especially when all she really had was a feeling.
Not that her instincts were to be sneezed at. She’d learned long ago never to sell them short, for they were generally right on the money.
On the other hand, she had taken a huge step tonight when she’d acknowledged her feelings for Nick—at least to herself—so she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t she?
She straightened infinitesimally in her seat. Yes. She did. Trust, in the end, was pretty much what love all came down to.
Why, then, did she have such a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach?
She snuck a look at Nick as they sped up Divisadero. His features sprang in and out of clarity beneath the streetlights they blew past, and he looked remote, very unNick-like. She’d already asked him more than once tonight what was going on, and he had managed to ignore his sister’s grilling after the incident with Douglass. So what was the point in starting something now when his attention was definitely divided between her and the road?
They pulled into the carriage house a short while later. Remaining in her seat while he reached across her to pop open the glove compartment, she watched as he retrieved the slim stack of envelopes he’d collected earlier from his post office box. His expression didn’t change as he slid them inside his tux jacket, and he barely glanced her way. Frustrated but struggling not to overreact, Daisy reached for the door handle.
“It’s a funny thing,” she said, meeting his gaze across the top of the car as they climbed out, “but since you and I have hooked up, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you tune in to a single soccer match.”
He merely shrugged.
Oh, God, Nick, what are you up to? “It’s way past time you and I talked, Coltrane.”
“I know.” He hiked up the strap of his camera bag, arranging it more securely on his shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He followed her into the apartment and dumped his duffel on the floor by the couch when she turned to face him. “No matter what else happens,” he said, “I want you to remember one thing.”
She found herself gripping the back of the chair. “And what’s that?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, God, Nick, what have you done?”
That elicited a faint smile. “Trust you to assume that whatever it is, it must be my fault.”
She felt a thrust of hope. “It’s not?”
“No. Well, I didn’t start it, anyhow. I admit I’ve made some pretty poor choices, though.”
Frustration escaped her in a sound that could give a teakettle a run for its money. “Tell me!”
He untied his bow tie and slid it out from beneath his collar. “Unarm yourself first.”
She pulled her gun out of its inside holster and set it on the trunk. Yanking off her jacket, she removed the knife sheaths from her forearms and tossed them next to the gun. Then she straightened, hands on hips. “What does Mr. Douglass have to do with all this?”
He picked up the weapons and carried them over to the entertainment center, where he set them on the uppermost shelf.
As if she’d ever—
“He’s the guy you’ve been protecting me from.”
She was sure she must have heard him wrong. Then the implication hit her like a body slam. “My God. You slept with Mrs. Douglass? She must be sixty years old!”
His mouth dropped open, but he closed it with a snap. “Do you hear yourself, Blondie? I figured you for a feminist.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Douglass is sticking it to a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, but Mrs. D can’t have a little fun with a younger man?”
“Frankly, I think it’s equally creepy either way. I mean, I can see maybe a ten-year age difference, but twenty or thirty years? Ick.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them to his sides. “Listen, we’re getting off track here—”
She kept remembering the look on his face when he’d hauled the guest of honor off his feet at tonight’s shindig. “Are you in love with her?” He couldn’t be. He’d said he loved her.
“Huh?”
“Mrs. Douglass. Are you in love with her?”
“I don’t even know the woman!”
“Then who did you sleep with? Do they have a daughter?”
“Beats the hell outta me. Listen, let me start from the beginning, okay? I know I can make you understand—”
A chill began to trickle down her spine. “Tell me about the compromising pictures.”
“Good idea; that’s where it all started. See, it has to do with two pictures I took at Bitsy Pembroke’s wedding. Only I didn’t know what I’d taken until later, because I was worried about a jam Mo had gotten herself into and wasn’t as observant as usual. It wasn’t until I walked in to find my darkroom being trashed by the goons that I realized I must have caught something in one of my frames, but I didn’t know what. As soon as I was sprung from the ER Sunday night, I made prints of everything I’d taken that weekend, to see what they were so damn hot to get their mitts on.” Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he faced her earnestly. “Even then, I had to blow the frames up to find anything at all. But eventually I located him through the window of a caretaker’s cottage that was in the background of a shot of the bride and groom.”
“Douglass?”
“Yeah. Going at it hammer and tongs with a nubile young thing who wasn’t his wife.”
What the hell did that have to do with Nick sleeping with someone’s wife? “He brings on heavy-duty muscle over a picture you had to blow up to even find? I don’t get it.”
“Probably because it doesn’t make sense.” He shrugged. “Over the years I’ve caught more compromising moments on film than I can remember. I always destroy them, and that’s the end of it. Everybody and his brother knows I destroy them, too—my discretion is a widely recognized part of my reputation.”
“So what happened this time?”
“I guess he didn’t trust that I’d do what I’m known for doing.”
“So let me get this straight. J. Fitzgerald Douglass is the man responsible for all the attacks on you. There is not and never has been a married woman whom you took naked pictures of.”
“Yeah, that’s the good news—”
“The good news,” she repeated flatly. “That you lied to me. That from the very beginning you’ve lied to me.”
He gave her an earnest look full of charm. “I’ve got a good reason for it, though, Daise.”
Years of professionalism went up in smoke, and she took a swing at his head.
She didn’t even get close. He must have expected something of the sort, because he tackled her before her fist connected, and they tumbled to the floor, sending the trunk skidding. He rolled on top of her and grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the floor on either side of her head.
Nick stared down at her as he shifted his weight to secure her beneath him. He had no intention of being on the receiving end of some martial arts move that would land him on his ass.
Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes nearly black with rage and hurt, and she was all but bursting out of her glittery little bustier. Its boning held it rigidly in place, and their tussle and the position in which he’d locked her arms put her dangerously close to popping out the top. He watched crescent shaped slices of blush pink come and go as her heaving breasts exposed and then concealed the uppermost curves of her aureoles. Knowing that his chances were pretty damn slim of ever seeing her nipples in their entirety again—never mind getting within tasting range—his jaw tightened.
“Dammit, Blondie, is that your answer to everything? To pound me?”
She tried to buck him off and growled
. “No,” she snapped. “Sometimes I consider shooting you instead.” She suddenly went limp beneath him. “You think I like acting this way? This doesn’t happen with anyone but you. I was a cop for four years, dammit—it taught me to sublimate my emotions and act rationally no matter what the provocation. Then you came tramping back into my life and, in less than a week, I’ve become a wild-eyed reactionary.”
She tested his grip on her wrists, looking him squarely in the eye when he maintained a tight hold. “Get off me, Coltrane. I don’t like what you’ve turned me into, and I’m getting the hell out of here while there’s still something left to salvage.”
He rolled off her but had no intention of letting her walk out the door. She didn’t mean it anyhow—she was too professional to walk away and leave him unprotected.
He watched her climb to her feet. She gripped the boning of her bustier and tugged the top up while shimmying to settle everything within. Then she walked over for her knives and began strapping them back on.
“Why the big song and dance, Nick? Why didn’t you simply tell me what the story was from the very beginning?”
“Because Mo desperately needed money, and I knew that if I told you my plans to raise it for her—not to mention get even with the guy screwing up my life—you’d never agree to be my bodyguard.”
She paused with one arm thrust into a jacket sleeve to stare at him. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but…what were your plans?”
He hesitated but then pulled the envelopes out of his inside breast pocket and extended them to her.
She finished donning her jacket, then reached for the stack, opening the top envelope and pulling out a sheet of paper. The color leached out of her face as she read, and by the time she looked at him again her eyes were like two burn holes in a blanket, dark and hollow. “Tabloids? You planned all along to sell the photos you took to the tabloids?”
“Was going to sell them. Past tense.” The agonized betrayal on her face didn’t lessen and he rushed to explain, “I no longer need to, though, don’t you see? And I didn’t want to do it in the first place, but Mo was in a real jam, Daisy. She’s always been there for me; I had to so something to help her, and I just couldn’t think of any other way to raise a lot of money fast.”
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