The Financier (Hudson Kings Book 2)

by Liz Maverick

  “No problem, sir,” she said. I want to see you too.

  “I’ll text you details,” Nick said. “I was thinking around one p.m.”

  “Perfect,” Jane said. “I’m supposed to be at Nana’s at three.”

  “Good-bye, Jane.”

  She waited for him to disconnect, but he waited for her to answer, and she said, “Good-bye.”

  And then he disconnected. After the good-byes, Nick texted the address of the Hudson Kings safe house.

  Bottom desk drawer, he’d said. That was pretty specific. As in, a license to go look. She climbed off the bed and walked through the kitchen, looking up at the video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. With a shrug, Jane put her cell phone down on the island and headed to Nick’s office. It wasn’t locked, which would have surprised her at one point, but not since she figured he would have removed anything personal. Sure enough, it was startlingly clean.

  The office was a small room at the back of the apartment. It was like its own little wing. Jane opened the door and stepped inside. Oh, wow. Whoever had reinvented the rest of the rooms hadn’t stripped this one. Floor-to-ceiling built-ins housed rows of cloth- and leather-bound books. Lots of poetry, lots of classics. This was where Nick Dawes kept his romantic heart.

  The desktop was nearly bare—only an unplugged mouse suggested a laptop had once lived here. Jane ran her hand across the surface and came away with a thin layer of dust. She pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, and right on top, right in plain view where you’d see it every time you went to fetch evergreen stamps or envelopes, was a picture of a neatly dressed young woman in a white blouse and navy skirt, accessorized by a big smile, an afro pulled back from her face by a wide headband . . . and a golden retriever. A news clipping was paper-clipped to the photo.

  Jane unfolded the newspaper. An obituary. Jemilla Johnson, the same woman in the photo, dead at thirty-three. Jane read the contents and then put it away without snooping around anything else in Nick’s office. Then, with tears in her eyes, she picked up her phone and checked in on Nana.

  Nick pocketed his phone and headed down the hall to the war room. After hanging up with Jane, he’d stared up at the ceiling for longer than a healthy person probably should. Flynn and Chase liked to give him shit every so often about “going emo.” In this case, they’d be right. Part wrung out from all that talking and part—hell, part elated from the experience of having someone understand him on such a deep level—hell, yeah, he was fucking going emo.

  I’m starting to feel like I have a real reason to fix my situation. There’s something to look forward to here, if I can work everything out with Sokolov.

  Even now, walking through the Armory, pushing open the door of the war room to talk business, Nick could not get Jane out of his mind. He could not get the intensity of her drunken meltdown over his situation out of his mind. He also could not get the fragments of Jane’s body and the memory of her lacy night shorts out of his mind.

  He could not ignore how much he enjoyed talking to her on the phone, when having that personal of a conversation with any other human would feel as enjoyable as dental surgery.

  He could not ignore the fact that she was the only person in the world he’d told about Ms. Johnson and what she meant to him. If he didn’t tell her how she’d died and how something inside him died with her, it was only because he’d never, ever found it possible to say those words out loud. Bottom line was, he looked forward to having an excuse to call Jane MacGregor’s phone more than anything in his day.

  “Hey, Nick,” Missy said. “C’mere.” Nick settled into a chair next to her. She was putting together a bunch of papers for the next team meeting.

  “Rothgar hasn’t made any assignments yet, but this is seriously right up your alley. You still tight with your Wall Street buddies even though you’re technically on sabbatical?”

  Nick shrugged. “I make it a point to check in with those guys. They’ve been bugging me to rejoin the drinking and whoring. So, yeah.”

  Missy held up a copy of an invitation. “So, do you have an organic way of getting one of these?” Nick looked more closely. It was a party invitation from the Russian consulate. He leveled narrowed eyes on Missy. “You taking the piss?”

  She gave him a look that suggested he was insane. “Not at all. Why would I do that? I just have a notion . . . two birds, one stone. If Rothgar’s cool.”

  Nick blinked. “Thanks, peanut. Nice of you to think of that.”

  “Do you think it will help?” Missy asked. She moistened her lips. “Listen, we’re all trying to pretend we’re not concerned, that we know you’ve got this. But do you ‘got this’?”

  “I’m working on it,” Nick said.

  She studied his face, clearly not satisfied with his answer. But all she said was “Just to be straight, if you call me ‘peanut’ again, you’ll be looking for your balls in the cocktail mix on top of the bar.” With that she got up and retrieved a piece of paper from the bottom of her clipboard, which she handed over. “Per last night’s request, one William Temple. CEO of a packaging company. A lot of money, some looks, no charm. Address. Resume. Bank accounts. Printer’s gone shitty, so the picture’s low-res, but you get the idea. No criminal record. Just a basic guy being an asshole to his ex-girlfriend.”

  “She can do better,” Nick said.

  “I think so,” Missy said, watching Nick’s face a little too closely. “But I’m kinda biased.” They both looked down at the paper in silence. “He was her boss, you know,” she added. “What a jerk.”

  Nick looked for a sign that her statement meant something, but she didn’t follow up, so he thanked her and took the information to his computer. Here was a little puzzle. A small thing, an easy thing, but it had been too long since he’d put his skills—his talents—to good use. The Russian mission Roth was focused on didn’t involve too much in the way of finances at the moment, and with Nick off freelance jobs and lying lower than usual at the Armory, he realized how much he missed staying busy, using his brain.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so hung up on Jane. I’m bored, I have nothing else to do, and she’s the only thing that’s going on right now. Maybe in reality it’s nothing more than that.

  Right, Nick? Hell. It would’ve been nice if that were true, because the last complication he needed was to bring a woman into the middle of a life that had suddenly gone haywire.

  It took him an hour to accomplish what he wanted with good old Bill Temple. Afterward, he started a new file, found himself writing “Jane MacGregor” on it, and liking the way the pen felt in his hand writing out the letters in that order until he’d made her appear under his fingertips.

  CHAPTER 17

  The next day during lunchtime, Jane took Rochester over to Ally and Cecily’s on her way to the PO box. While the puppy romped with Cecily down the tight halls of their apartment, Ally produced a rack of samples from a past feature spread on “larger women” (spelled out on a box of blouses and pants with a Sharpie, thank you very much). And because the clothes were so fantastic, Jane ignored the stupid label. Ally insisted Jane take the ones that looked the best—including an amazing Vera Wang evening gown—and then did her makeup.

  Which explained why Jane kissed the puppy good-bye, rubbed a lint remover over herself, and went off to meet Nick wearing a saucy new blouse featuring a luxurious draped cowl in forest-green jersey over tight black jeans and black boots, plus a full face of makeup involving a wicked cat eye.

  When Jane carelessly observed that she looked like a different person and that between Ally’s natural talents for foreign languages and styling people Ally would make a great operative, her friend went uncharacteristically silent, leaving Cecily to pick up the conversational slack.

  That aside, when Jane left, she was on top of the world. She looked great, she felt great, and she was going to see Nick.

  That thought had her pulling up short in her heeled boots to reevaluate her current state of mind. She’d l
et her friends dress her up for Nick. Worse, she’d started calling him “Nick” in her head right about the time she’d made a drunken scene in front of him that probably revealed too much about her real feelings. No matter how much he shares, he’s still Mr. Dawes. Sir. Partly annoyed at herself for wanting to be attractive to him and partly alarmed that he was so attractive to her in spite of everything she (and Nana) had warned her about, Jane repeated Keep it, sir, sir, sir in her head on the subway barreling toward Nick’s PO box.

  The PO box was located in the post office in Midtown, a huge branch. Jane got off at Thirty-Fourth Street, taking a deep breath before pushing her shoulder into the throngs of tourists moving way too slowly as they headed for Penn Station and Madison Square Garden.

  Nick had picked the most prominent post office in Manhattan, probably for the extra anonymity the crowds, lines, and mess would provide. After double-checking the number, Jane found the box. She stood on her tiptoes and used the key, then pulled out a package and some letters that looked like junk mail or donation solicitations. She stuffed everything in her tote bag, closed the box, and headed out, walking toward the safe-house address, which Cecily had recited in the kitchen before Jane had left.

  If this were a mission or some sort of con, I’d walk into Mood Fabrics and walk out again, looking nothing like myself in dark sunglasses and a huge Jackie O swatch of fabric concealing my hair. Or I’d find a convenient Brazilian parade involving costumes and mask, and then I’d knock someone just a little bit unconscious and steal their getup and join the march. Or I’d wait until an enormous bus passed so I could use it to shield myself while I unexpectedly ducked into a noodle shop with a back exit—hey, I know where there’s a noodle shop with a back exit!

  Jane headed for that ramen shop on Thirty-Second. Ichiro, or something. She watched the traffic coming and timed her entrance so that she went into the shop just as an M4 bus completely blocked the view from anyone who might be across the street. For the benefit of anyone who might have been on the same side of the sidewalk, she briskly moved through the maze of the restaurant, shouted “Ojama shimashita!” like the sushi-eating pro New Yorker she was when they welcomed her, and exited right out the back.

  After another few minutes of walking, Jane forgot about keeping it sir, sir, sir and instead thought about how much she was looking forward to seeing Nick in person again.

  He was waiting in a shadow-blocked alcove when Jane arrived; he blew a quiet whistle to get her attention and then quickly waved her up some stairs and through another door to a third-floor apartment that appeared to be a one bedroom with one of those typical New York open floor plans that managed to squeeze a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room into the square footage of the average postage stamp.

  Without a word, he closed the door behind her. Jane looked around. The place suffered from what appeared to be a Hudson Kings curse: the men on the team had used up so much charisma there wasn’t any personality left over for interior decorating. If you liked square things and shades of brown, this was the apartment for you. That said, it was also a private apartment, and Jane faced Nick in silence for a moment until she finally said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Nick said. “Thanks for bringing that over.”

  “No problem,” Jane said, twisting the straps of her tote bag. “It’s on the way to Nana’s. I told her I’d hang a new shower curtain.” She suddenly felt stupid. Why was this so awkward? They’d spoken a million times on the phone; it always felt so intimate. Was it the fat thing? Was she right about that? She tugged at her jeans, annoyed that she was even thinking about it much less caring about it. If he wasn’t into her body, screw him.

  Oh, god. She’d really like to.

  Nick walked over to a dining room table and picked up a piece of paper. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

  Jane walked over and took it. Not a piece of paper. A check. A check for $50,000. She hiked an eyebrow and stuck her tote bag on one of the dining room chairs. “What is this?”

  “I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Nick said. “It’s your money. I took it back for you and stuck it back where it came from.” He pushed a sealed envelope across the table. “Here are your new passwords, a fresh ATM card, and your PIN.”

  Jane stared at Nick, wishing he wasn’t so damn pretty. “Pretty” really did help you get away with stuff. She put the check down and pushed it back toward him. “I told you that was personal. You looked anyway.”

  “Hell. You’d look too.” He added softly, “You already did, didn’t you?”

  The picture of Jemilla Johnson or something else? Jane gaze shifted to Nick’s face. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “This is awkward,” she said.

  “What would fix it?” Nick asked.

  “Um, geez, I don’t know. Maybe you should take your money back. And we start over with ‘Hi.’”

  Nick picked up the check. “It’s not my money.”

  Jane stared at the check in his hands. Bill had taken that money from her; Nick took it back. So, was there a problem? It was just that given what her parents liked to get up to, she knew more than most that gray areas only looked gray until you decided they looked very white against all that really terrible black stuff. “This is what you do, isn’t it?” she asked, testing out the idea that his occupation as a “financier” could also be described in less attractive terms like “money launderer” or “thief.” She knew all about people like that. She knew how shitty it could be under certain circumstances, but she also knew how justifiable it could be. Anyway, maybe if she thought of him as a “wealth redistribution architect” it would be better. And maybe she was letting her feelings get in the way of her common sense. The problem was that, more than anything else, she wanted Nick to at least be a good guy; her gut told her he was a great guy.

  “I see,” he said into the void of her silent analysis. Then he frowned, almost like he was in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Jane asked in alarm.

  “I’ve been making a lot of wrong guesses lately,” he said. He sighed and did that ruffling thing he sometimes did.

  Jane fought the urge to fix his hair and focused on his words. “Wrong guess? Am I one of them?” she asked, really, really not wanting to be one of Nick’s wrong guesses.

  Nick looked at the check in his hands and folded it. “Looks like it.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to be one of your wrong guesses.”

  A small smile played at Nick’s lips. “I don’t want that either.”

  “And, well, it was my money first. If you’re going go Robin Hood on my ex’s ass, I’m not sure why I should stop you.” Jane reached out and took the check back and stuck it in her back pocket.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” Jane said, unpacking her tote bag and piling the mail next to the package on the table.

  “How does the daughter of con artists let herself get bilked out of fifty K?” Nick asked gently.

  Jane blinked. It was not the first time she’d heard this question. In fact, she’d asked herself the same thing many, many times. “I wanted something to believe in, Mr. Dawes. I thought he could be an anchor. Nana’s my anchor, and she’s . . .” She choked up a little. “She’s getting old, and I guess I just really wanted to believe in him, even though . . .”

  “Even though what?” Nick asked.

  God, this was hard to explain. Even harder to talk about, now that she knew the difference between wanting to love somebody and being simply unable to stop your heart from hurtling toward that person regardless of what you want. The latter was something you couldn’t control; it just was. It just was . . . God, Nick, can you tell what I’m feeling when I look at you? Jane stared at Nick and forced herself not to let it show how hard she was falling for him. “I wanted so badly to believe in him,” she said. “He asked me to move in with him and then set up a joint account and started sending my paychecks there. Ob
viously, that didn’t work out so well for me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said. And then he added politely, “I’d like to break his legs for you.”

  “Please don’t,” Jane said with a grin. “Although, I do appreciate your support. And anyway, thanks to you, I’ve got my nest egg back. I don’t need money as badly as I did before. I can pay for Nana, and I can rent a place while I look for a permanent position,” she added, knowing full well she was testing . . . him, the situation, her own heart.

  Nick stared at Jane. Why is he looking at me like that? His eyes took in her face and then slowly traveled down her body. Then he kind of smiled to himself and forced his gaze to the wall. Wake up, Jane. He likes what he sees. You let Ally doll you up so Nick would notice. He noticed. Her temperature hiked; she could only pray she wasn’t blushing. Too much, anyway.

  “You made a commitment to me,” he said.

  Man, I like the sound of that. Jane swallowed hard. “That’s true. And there’s the fish.”

  “Right,” Nick said. “There’s the fish.”

  “So I think I should just complete the job as per our original agreement,” Jane said.

  Nick visibly relaxed, sitting down at the table with a muttered “Great” and taking what seemed like excessive interest in the mail, given it was mostly junk.

  “I’ll be home late tonight,” she blurted, staring at that gorgeous face, emphasizing her total lack of cool as she sat down in the chair next to him with an undignified thump. “Just . . . saying. In case. You call to check on the fish. Or . . . something.”

  Nick looked up. There was a long pause. “Or maybe you should just call if you feel like talking,” he finally said in that quiet, quiet voice.

  What? Really? Why? What does that mean?

  “Or if you don’t, just shoot me a text so I know you’re home safe.” He didn’t seem to notice when he did it, but he reached out and pulled a scrap of paper, left from the ripped envelopes, off her sleeve.