by Emma Slate
Duncan looked shocked, and I wondered if I could have pushed him over with a finger. My mind started working again.
“Duncan’s not the father,” I repeated. “So you think—”
“My theory? I think whoever killed Lila was the father. We find the father, we find the killer.”
Chapter 35
“I’m not the father,” Duncan said in a daze.
I passed him a bottle of scotch. “Drink.”
He obeyed. We were back in the penthouse suite, leaving Dex to work his magic. He was a technological mole, burrowing and digging for useful kernels of information.
It was early afternoon, and I’d been awake for hours. I hadn’t slept well since the news of Lila’s death. I wouldn’t sleep deeply until Flynn was released. And that might not be for a long, long while. I shoved that thought away immediately.
Allen Masterson had called, telling me that they wouldn’t set bail for Flynn. I was hardly surprised. Charged with murder, Flynn was a flight risk. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I’d have encouraged it. We could’ve left the U.S., taken the boys, disappeared to some remote island with pale blue water and white sand. Leave all this crap behind.
“I should call Ash,” Duncan said, startling me from my thoughts.
“And tell her what?” I sniped. “The baby wasn’t yours, but you still screwed a woman who wasn’t your wife.”
“Enough,” Duncan rumbled. “You have no right to judge me.”
“Like hell I don’t!” I shouted across the living room.
“After what you’ve done?” he wondered. “Dolinsky?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“No?” he taunted. “Do you know how many nights I stayed up with Flynn, watching him drink himself into a stupor because he couldn’t stomach the idea of his wife with another man?”
“If you think what I did with Dolinsky is at all like what you did with Lila, then you’re an eejit and I’m ashamed to call you family. A hot piece of ass paraded herself in front of you and because you were drunk, you thought with your dick.”
Duncan’s anger deflated. “You’re right. What happened with Dolinsky was not—”
“Enough. Enough about Dolinsky. I can’t keep hearing about him. I didn’t let him ruin my marriage, and I refuse to let him ruin my relationship with you.”
Duncan nodded and then he took another swig of whisky. “I just wish I could remember that night.”
“What night?”
“The night I met Lila.”
“You don’t remember?”
He shrugged. “Bits and pieces. Drinking, of course. Gambling. Lila coming onto Flynn and then onto me. My memories of that night come to me in snapshots. Like little blips between black spots.
“I don’t remember getting up to the hotel room. And the next thing I knew, I was awake in the morning, naked, with Lila next to me.”
“How much did you drink?” I asked.
“Don’t remember. Enough to get me blackout.”
“Which has to be what? At least half a bottle of scotch?”
“Aye.”
“And Flynn? Was he keeping up with you?”
“For a time,” Duncan said. “He left me alone to go to do something and then Lila somehow convinced me to leave the casino with her.”
I was quiet a moment. “You sure you were drunk?”
“Aye. Drunk as a skunk.”
“What did you feel like in the morning?” I asked. “When you woke up next to Lila?”
“Disgusted, appalled—”
“Physically,” I interjected. “What did you feel like physically?”
“Hungover,” Duncan said automatically.
“Yeah?” I prodded. “And was this hangover different from your other hangovers?”
Duncan blinked and then cursed boisterously.
Something unfurled in my belly. Relief maybe; Duncan wasn’t an adulterous prat after all.
“That bitch drugged me!” Duncan yelled, looking like he was about to hurl the bottle of scotch at the wall.
“Do not throw that!” I stated, making a grab for the bottle. “That’s Balvenie Triple Cask!”
Duncan relinquished the bottle but not before taking a deep drink. I did the same.
“Think Ash will believe me?” Duncan asked.
“I think we’re going to need some solid proof before we tell her,” I said. Ash was at the height of her anger and hurt—there was no hearing anything through those emotions.
“How do you suppose we get proof?” Duncan asked bleakly. “The only person that could admit the truth is dead.”
A few hours later, Duncan was gone, the bottle of scotch with him. I’d drunk just enough that I was drowsy. I fell asleep on the couch, too tired to even make it to the bed. I dreamed of Flynn, our house in Dornoch, our boys.
A ringing jarred me awake. Sasha’s name flashed across the screen.
“Hello,” I answered, my voice raspy with scotch and sleep. The sun had set while I slept, but my nap felt like mere minutes. Tiredness tugged at my spine, my body sinking into the sofa.
“Meet me for a drink,” he commanded.
“I’m exhausted.”
“Please, Barrett,” he said, his voice low, pleading.
I sighed. “Where?”
“That dive bar where you met Winters while I sat in the corner pretending not to eavesdrop.”
I knew why he’d chosen that bar. It was a dive, it was dark, and the bartender never asked questions.
“See you in twenty,” I said.
“Ten,” he said. “I’m already on the Upper East Side.”
I threw on a fresh shirt, stuck my hair under a Mets baseball hat, and grabbed a pair of sunglasses. Even though I’d slip out the back, I didn’t want to give the media any chance to recognize me.
I arrived at the dive bar before Sasha and tucked myself into a corner table. It was just past seven, still happy hour, but the bar was fairly deserted and I was grateful for the loud, scratchy speaker system playing some 80’s metal song I’d never heard.
Sasha walked in, found me immediately, and nearly ran to the table. He took the chair next to mine and scooted closer to my side so that we were both facing the entrance.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve got a wealth of your own shit to deal with right now—how is Flynn?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, a lump forming in my throat. “They won’t set bail. I think I’m going to have to contact Archer, ask him to pull a few strings.”
Sasha nodded absently. “He can’t go to trial. He can’t use his alibi.”
I peered at him in understanding. “You know about his alibi?”
“Yes. I was with him. And Marino.”
“And you were…” I prodded.
“Let’s just say it involved Filippi and a host of illegal activities that would land us all in hot water. But Flynn’s not a snitch.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“We’ll find a way to get him out of this mess.”
“I have Dex digging around for Lila’s killer, but until we know more, we just have to wait. I hate that Flynn is…”
Sasha’s hand covered mine. “How are the paparazzi?”
“Still camped out, waiting for me to make a statement. Which I refuse.” I quickly caught him up on what we learned about Duncan not being the father but still not any closer to knowing who was.
“Have you heard from Quinn?” Sasha asked, changing the subject.
I closed my eyes in thought. “She called me a few days ago, after the tabloids came out. But no. I haven’t heard from her. Why?”
“She was heading back to Boston,” he said slowly. “To see her father.”
“She didn’t call you or text?”
“She called and left a really strange voicemail.”
“Strange? How so?” I asked.
“She called me Sasha and reminded me to feed the dog.”
“You don’t have a do
g.”
“I don’t have a dog,” he agreed. “And Quinn never calls me Sasha.”
“What does she call you?” I wondered.
Even in the dim bar, I could see the slight dusting of color on his high cheekbones. “I’d rather not say,” he said. He ran a hand through his blond hair. “I don’t think she made it to Boston, Barrett. I think something happened to her.”
Chapter 36
“I’m sorry, Barrett,” came Don Archer’s voice through the phone. “But my hands are tied.”
“Why?” I demanded. “You’re the head of the—how can you not have jurisdiction to get Flynn released? He didn’t do it, Don!”
I heard Archer sigh. I didn’t know if he believed me or not, but the sigh was telling—I wasn’t going to find help from Archer and the FBI.
“If I get him out, everyone will know we have… an understanding. I can’t have that, Barrett. Our relationship works because it’s unknown. I get him out, people start asking questions.”
I’d visited Flynn just that morning. Dressed in orange, wrists shackled, he still managed to look lazily arrogant, as if he couldn’t be bothered with all this trivial bullshit, like it was only a matter of time before he was out. But I knew Flynn better than anyone, and I’d seen the worry in his eyes. He was afraid he was gong to go down for a murder he didn’t commit, left to rot in prison.
I had to get him out.
Looking around the quiet penthouse suite, I knew my life couldn’t be about raising the boys alone, telling them their father was wrongly convicted. The boys needed their father. I needed Flynn. And I’d do anything to get him free.
“Who has the power?” I asked softly.
“Barrett,” Archer warned.
“Who has the power to get my husband released?” I demanded.
He gave me a name.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The most powerful man in Argentina,” Archer said. “He knows the judge.”
“What will he want as payment?”
Archer went silent.
“I see,” I murmured.
“Don’t do it,” he advised.
“I have to. I can’t wait and hope. I won’t let Flynn go down for a crime he didn’t commit.”
He sighed. “I’ll email you everything you need to know. That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t do more. Truly.”
Without replying, I hung up. Despair consumed me, but I knew what I had to do. If there was a choice between buying Flynn’s freedom or letting him die in prison, then I knew the answer. I just hoped saving him didn’t break us.
“What happened to your eye?” I asked.
Duncan winced. “I ran into Jack’s fist.” He looked at my packed suitcase near the elevator doors. “Where are you going?”
“Tell me more about what happened with you and Jack,” I asked instead of answering.
“He showed up at my suite door, didn’t say a word, and then decked me. Guess Ash told him what I did.”
I shook my head. “Doubt it. But Ash went to Switzerland. She only goes to Switzerland when something is wrong and she has to work it out.”
“I have to go to her,” he said. “Letting her walk out was a mistake.”
“She needs time,” I reminded him.
“Time for what? I’m not the father of Lila’s baby, I didn’t even sleep with Lila—”
“We don’t have solid confirmation of that yet.”
He glared at me. “Ash isn’t answering my calls—and I’ve left her tons of voicemails. I have to go to her and make her listen to me.”
“You want another black eye?” I demanded.
“This is my marriage. Don’t tell me how to fix it.”
I sighed. “Marino called,” I said, changing the conversation. “He says the leader of The White Company is willing to talk with us. Two days from now. In Naples.”
“Is that why you’re packed?”
I shook my head and then rolled my eyes. “He wants to speak to a man. Marino informed him that Flynn is unavailable. It has to be you, Duncan. You’re co-leader of the SINS. You’re a Buchanan.”
“Damn. I really wanted to go to Ash and Carys.” His wounded eyes hardened. “But Ash will still be pissed at me in a few days, right? That’ll keep.”
“There’s the dark humor I know and love,” I teased.
“So if you’re not the one going to Naples, why are you packed? Where are you going?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Barrett,” he began.
“I don’t have time for this,” I said quietly.
Sasha was still worried about Quinn, Dex was strung out on Red Bull trying to find Lila’s killer, Ash wasn’t speaking to anyone about anything, Flynn was in jail, and the last thing I needed was Duncan asking questions about what I was going to do to free Flynn.
“Do you trust me?” I asked.
He groaned. “I hate it when women ask that. No good comes from a question like that.”
“What would you do if it were you? And Ash was in trouble?”
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
“Good.”
His eyes pinned me. “But will Flynn?”
“Guess we’ll see.”
“Are you going alone?”
I nodded.
“Why?” he demanded. “When Flynn finds out—”
“I’ll handle Flynn,” I said. “Because God willing, this will get him out and then he and I can have one of our infamous rows.” I shook my head and looked at the ceiling so that tears didn’t fall from my eyes.
“I never thought I’d want the day where Flynn and I fought,” I said.
“It’s better than the alternative, aye?” he asked dismally.
A cold numbness had spread through me the moment I stepped foot on the private plane. I was in an insulated bubble, focused, detached, cool. I got a call from Sasha when I was thirty-thousand feet in the air. Not even the news that Quinn was officially missing penetrated it.
“I’ve called her father,” Sasha said.
“Good,” I said.
“I tried calling Duncan, but he didn’t answer. I could really use his help.”
Duncan was called The Tracker for a reason. He was able to find anyone and anything. “He’s on his way to Naples,” I explained. “To meet with The White Company.”
Sasha cursed violently in Russian.
“I’ll call Brandon Kilmartin.”
“How is he going to be of any help?” Sasha growled.
“He’s a friend of Quinn’s. And he’s Flynn’s cousin. And,” I emphasized, “he’s got skills we can use.”
Sasha made a noise but said nothing.
“Pride,” I reminded him. “This is Quinn we’re talking about.”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “Where are you?”
“Taking care of some of my own stuff,” I said evasively.
The only person who knew my true whereabouts was Brad Shapiro. He hadn’t tried to talk me out of it or stop me. He even volunteered to go with me. As much as I wanted a familiar face with me, it would be more signifying if I went alone.
“We’ll get her back, Sasha. I promise.”
I hung up and shoved all of that to the back of my mind. I picked up my iPad, opened the document Archer had sent me, and began to read about the most dangerous crime lord in Argentina.
Chapter 37
Mateo Sanchez was fucking loaded. And not loaded like Flynn and I were loaded but loaded. The guy’s yacht had a helipad. I knew next to nothing about yachts aside from the fact that they floated. But even I knew this was no ordinary yacht.
It was wealth epitomized. And it was gorgeous.
I waited for Sanchez on the second tier private deck. Standing at the railing, I gazed out at the expanse of the ocean. I dragged in a breath full of sea and sun. I closed my eyes and briefly pretended this was a vacation and nothing more.
I fe
lt him before I heard him.
I turned.
Mateo Sanchez stood ten feet away from me, hands in his white linen pants, the air teasing the dark hair gracing his forehead. His white linen shirt was open at the neck to reveal tan skin and a smattering of hair the same dark shade of brown on his head. Though I couldn’t see his eyes because a pair of sunglasses shielded them, I knew Mateo Sanchez was looking his fill.
A slight smile played about his lips. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Campbell.” His words were tinged with a slight Spanish accent and I knew, even if he hadn’t had the power to his name, women still would’ve wanted him.
“Call me Barrett,” I said automatically.
He strode towards me and held out his hand. I placed my hand in his and he brought it to his lips and briefly kissed my knuckles.
“Barrett,” he repeated with a nod. “Call me Mateo.”
I held in the urge to laugh. The most dangerous man in Argentina and I were on a first name basis.
“Mateo,” I murmured.
His hand tightened ever so slightly on mine. “Have you eaten? I have lunch prepared. And then after, I thought I could give you a tour.”
“Lunch sounds wonderful,” I said, not having to lie. I was famished, not having eaten much since I’d left New York only twenty-four hours ago.
“Come,” he said, a hand going to the small of my back as he led me inside. Though the full-length glass sides of the room let in sunlight, the interior was cool. A table with white linen and china had been set, a bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket nearby.
Mateo helped me with my chair and then moved to his seat across from me. I took off my sunglasses and set them aside. I looked around, marveling at the beauty and craftsmanship of the yacht, smiling and shaking my head.
“What is it?” Mateo asked, pulling my attention back to him. He’d taken off his sunglasses, his dark eyes curious and pinned on me.
“I was just thinking, that if I had a view like this, in a place like this, I’d never leave.”
Mateo smiled, showing genuine amusement. “It is difficult,” he agreed. “To pull myself away. The ocean is so peaceful.”