by Davis, Jo
Alex sat up and stretched, picking a fleck of wax off one nipple. “Know a lot about sadists, do you?”
“More than you’d ever believe,” the younger man said quietly. He shook himself, restoring the boyish grin. “Group shower, guys?”
Jason headed for the bathroom without waiting for an answer. Taking Alex’s hand, Liv followed, chewing on Jase’s strange comment. And her earlier worries about his history. That and several broken pieces of conversation were whirling around in her mind, trying to form a picture. A disjointed portrait of something very frightening.
Jason Strickland was not what he seemed.
Neither were all of the people surrounding her husband.
Puzzles weren’t her forte, but then, Alex’s life was at stake. She needed to turn everything over in her mind a bit more.
And talk to Alex. Soon.
The phone blasted Jason’s nice dream all to hell, and he rolled over, trying to shut out the noise and return to the beach, where Olivia and Alex had been rubbing suntan oil into his muscles. And other happy places, too.
But the damned bleating persisted. He grumbled and sat up, disoriented, getting his bearings. Right. He’d eventually come home last night, despite his friends’ protests.
More awake now, he grabbed the phone, having a really good frickin’ idea about the identity of the masochist who was calling him so early. “Strickland.”
“Your man’s getting himself visited. This morning. Seems the Dmitri Baranov thing yanked the director’s weenie. Gotta say, your new fuck buddy really knows how to shove a rainbow up the government’s ass.”
O-kay. So he wasn’t quite as awake as he’d thought. Assimilate, Jase.
A visit from the FBI to his man. Alex? Yeah. Utter the name Baranov without sprinkling fucking holy water and crossing yourself, and it was only a matter of time before they made tracks to St. Louis like their dicks were on fire. And the other comment—
“What makes you think Quinn is my fuck buddy?” A prickle skittered down his spine, and he left the bed. Padded to the window and peered out the blinds, scanned the back of the property. Still and quiet.
Always was, before a man caught a bullet to the head.
Reginald barked a tired laugh. “I know you, Jason. I don’t care where you dip your wick . . . until it becomes a liability, like before. Just don’t force me to put in for your early retirement, kid.”
Jason jerked away from the window, the blood draining from his face. His palm was suddenly cold and sweaty around the receiver.
The sonofabitch would do it, too.
“I’m not a naive kid anymore,” he said, congratulating himself on sounding cool and detached rather than ready to vomit. “Haven’t been for months. I’m doing my job, and I could do it better without my hands tied behind my back.”
Shit. He winced at the inadvertent reference to what had landed him in hot water in the first place.
“Prove it. You got some names for me?”
“Yeah.” He gave his boss the rundown of the names on his rough pyramid and what he knew about each one, which wasn’t much.
“It’s a start. Since Baranov’s hotel room and belongings were clean, maybe one of your names will provide a link to who hired the bastard and his partner. Give this information to Campbell when he knocks on your door.”
“He’s the one visiting Quinn this morning?”
“The same.”
“The cops might be out front, man.”
“The cops.” He spat the word like a foul curse. “They’re the dickheads who moved on Boardman before we could stop them, putting the whipped cream on your clusterfuck cheesecake. For all they have the sense to figure, you’re exactly what you appear to be instead of what you are.”
“And what am I?”
A heavy silence.
“Remains to be seen, kid.”
Reginald hung up, and Jason sat on the bed for a long while, sick to his stomach. Thinking about traitors. Liabilities.
And how the old-school regime, very much alive and well in the United States government, dealt with both.
Thirteen
God, he’d have to stop indulging on a weeknight.
Alex exited the elevator with Ryan and made his way to his corner office, head up, trying not to appear as though he was so exhausted he might pass out on his desk. Not to mention sneaking glances at every woman in the building who’d ever given him a less-than-professional double take and wondering Is she the one?
He might be able to persuade Jenna to tell, but where was the fun in knowing?
Was she Feliz, the voluptuous receptionist on the ground floor? Perhaps there was more to her perky greeting each morning than met the eye.
Or perhaps Lauren, the willowy, beautiful black attorney who was next in line for senior partner, who’d made her attraction to him clear on more than one occasion?
Then again, maybe Jenna had enlisted the seductive skills of her sister. Another wild redhead bouncing on his lap?
Double trouble.
Danielle ended a call as he hurried past her desk. She shot to her feet, jabbing a ballpoint pen in the air. “Mr. Quinn, you have—”
“Danielle,” he interrupted. “Reschedule my two o’clock and set up Henry Boardman for a conference call.”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“Then call Millie Foxx and decline my representation on her case. I don’t consider insanity as a defense for pumping three bullets into her neighbor’s barking pit bull.”
“Of course, sir. If you’ll—”
“And make sure the dry cleaners will have my suits ready by six. Is there any coffee?”
“Yes! Mr. Quinn! ” She slapped her hand on the surface of her desk in an unusual display of emotion.
He stared at her blond hair, normally neat as a schoolteach er’s, escaping the confines of her sophisticated twist. Her pretty face was scrunched into a frown. “What is it?”
“That detective guy is here, and he’s got someone with him named Agent Campbell,” she whispered dramatically, waving a hand at his cracked office door. “From the FBI!”
FBI. In his office.
Jesus Christ in a tutu.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Danielle. Did you offer the gentlemen some coffee?”
She nodded, serious as could be. “The detective accepted some, but the pinhead Fed declined. Guess that says something.”
Yep. That the Fed was in no mood to socialize. Thank God.
And that he needed to have a talk with his new secretary about calling his visitors pinheads within hearing range.
Christ.
“Want me to go in with you?” Ryan asked.
“No, it’s fine. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Cool. Holler if you need me.”
Shoring himself up for whatever was in store, Alex pushed into his office and closed the door behind him. “Gentlemen. I assume you’re not here to vote me citizen of the year.”
The two men occupied the plush visitor’s chairs in front of his desk. Detective Lambert rose slightly and shook Alex’s hand before being seated again. “Mr. Quinn, I wish it were something that pleasant. This is Agent Roger Campbell of the FBI. He’s here because the second attempt on your life overlapped with the bureau’s business on a couple of levels. Agent Campbell?”
The agent was a tall, skinny redhead who looked like he’d be more at home working for Bill Gates than the FBI. If not for the gun peeking out from under his jacket. Alex shook the man’s hand and took his own seat, grateful for the barrier of his desk between them. An illusion of control.
“Thank you for making time for us, Mr. Quinn,” the agent said.
As though he’d been given a choice. “I’m anxious to know how the attempted murder of an average attorney could possibly capture the bureau’s interest.”
“Simple. Dmitri Baranov wasn’t your average assassin. To our knowledge, he’d never failed to take out a target, and he was wanted in so many countries it would be ea
sier to list which ones weren’t seeking him.”
“Which the FBI didn’t deign to inform us about until last night,” Lambert said dryly, fiddling with his Styrofoam cup.
Professional international assassin. Alex absorbed this information. Bad. Real fucking bad. “Implications?” He already knew, but wanted to hear it from the agent’s mouth.
“Baranov’s services were expensive. Whoever hired him has serious money at his disposal, and is willing to throw around a load of cash to see you dead.” The agent rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers. “That’s where we become involved. You have a connection to one of our high-profile undercover operations, and with the hiring of someone like Baranov to kill you, let’s just say we’re real interested.”
“Are you looking at one of my clients, or one of my employees?”
“Henry Boardman. That man isn’t the top of the food chain, as I’m sure you know, or at least suspect. The FBI was working on bringing down the entire racket when the local police fucked us over by arresting Boardman. Now your client is lying low with all the answers we need, content to keep his trap shut so his boss doesn’t shut it for him.”
“Agent, my conversations with Boardman are privileged—”
“Yes, I know. All I’m saying is you’re in a helluva lot of trouble with some dangerous people, and your defense of Boardman is very likely at the root of it all.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” he argued. “I’m his attorney. It’s my job to provide him the best representation possible. He could walk away a free man.”
But something teased the back of his mind. He’d been over this same train of thought before, right here in his office.
“It makes perfect sense . . . assuming you’re not supposed to win.”
The agent’s statement hung in the air like a death knell.
Not supposed to win. And Alexander Quinn rarely lost.
“You’re saying I’m some sort of figurehead to these bastards?” he asked through bloodless lips. “That I was hired to save face, so Boardman appears to have the best legal counsel on his side, when all along they intended for me to lose?”
“So that Palmer Hodge’s boy goes to prison and the law is satisfied, yes. Only somewhere along the way, they decided not to gamble on your losing and opted to take you out.”
Palmer Hodge. The name was new to him, but it proved his suspicions were on the money after all. Boardman, though involved to his ears, wasn’t the top man. He was the fall guy.
“Then Boardman’s case gets reassigned.” Oh, God. “He’s got someone inside the firm.”
“Someone who possibly hired Baranov.”
“Jesus Christ.” He buried his face in his hands.
Ken Brock’s hard, livid face rose in his mind.
“It gets worse.”
He couldn’t stop the bitter laugh from escaping. “I fail to see how.”
“We’ve been screwed on this case at every turn and have ended up with jack except dead ends and an agent recovering from a breakdown. After a while, a guy starts to wonder why.” Campbell stared at him, lips pursed, as though weighing how much to reveal. When he spoke, his voice was grave.
“Palmer Hodge may be calling most of the shots, but he’s not alone at the top of the pyramid.”
“He’s got a partner,” Lambert put in. “Positioned someplace in the know.”
Campbell’s jaw clenched in anger.
“And the FBI has a big motherfucking problem.”
Alex pulled into a parking space in front of Jenna’s condo and turned to Ryan. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
“Gotcha covered.”
He hated this. Ending a dangerous addiction was never fun. More so when the addiction wasn’t something inanimate like drugs or alcohol, but another person, with sticky feelings involved.
He couldn’t have explained his need to break off their brief affair, other than that the urgency to do so had nagged at him like a sore tooth for days. The bloom wasn’t off her sweet rose. No, it wasn’t the sex by any means. Her commendable talents never failed to get him going.
But the visit from Detective Lambert and Agent Campbell had left him jumpy. Pensive. His sexual antics with Jenna were potentially habit-forming—one addiction he couldn’t afford to maintain, considering her involvement with the Boardman case.
Besides, if he were honest, he wasn’t losing a thing. His true happiness stemmed from Liv’s gift to him. She’d given him leave to explore untapped desires, and that bargain remained intact. A whole banquet of sins spread before him to choose at will. Or not.
He knocked and waited, listening to the rustle on the other side. Then she was smiling at him, pulling him inside. “I can’t stay.”
“Don’t be silly. Why bother to come over, then?” She sauntered into the living room, short silk robe lapping at the curve of her ass, and sat on the sofa. Legs spread, so he was treated to a hint of her pussy.
His cock responded. After all, he wasn’t dead. Yet.
He remained standing. “Jenna, you know I love my wife. I’ve never made any secret of that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. But you’ve got the open-marriage thing, so what’s the big deal?”
“True, but if you’ll recall, I never intended for our indiscretion to last beyond that first night. I let us go too far.”
Her gaze sharpened, and she tensed. “You’ve got your eye on another lover to fuck, is that it?”
“No.” Thinking of the joy he took in Jason sharing his and Liv’s bed, he knew that for a huge lie. But it didn’t concern Jenna. “We just can’t keep this up. The firm is under enough scrutiny because of the attempts on my life, without an office affair between the two attorneys on a big case becoming public fodder.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
“If you like. But it’s also the truth. So is the fact that I never lied to you.”
Rising, she gave an unhappy laugh and crossed the short distance between them. Pressed her nearly naked body against him. “And what about Olivia? Do you lie to her, Alex?”
“Never. I tell her everything,” he said, taking grim satisfaction from the stunned surprise on her face. “Everything.”
“Y-you’ve told her about . . . us? The details?”
“Every word.” He dipped a finger into the part of her robe, over the creamy swell of her breast. “Every caress.”
“I don’t believe that,” she whispered. “What husband tells his wife about his sexual conquests?”
“One who’s made a bargain to reveal all the juicy details in exchange for sexual freedom. One hoping to spice up his marriage.”
Her voice rose, shrill and upset. “So, what? You, like, give her a blow-by-blow? A total rundown of your day whenever you’ve been with someone else? Whenever you’ve fucked me?”
He backed up a step. Her breasts heaved with anger, and her face was etched with . . . disbelief? “Don’t play the woman scorned with me, sweetheart. You went after my cock like it was buried treasure, and you got it. We both got what we wanted, and now it’s over.”
God, how messy and awful. He should’ve been prepared for her to react badly, but he honestly hadn’t thought she’d be so irate. This wasn’t anything like the cool, poised barracuda he knew. That other Jenna, he could’ve sworn would be the first to agree with him now. Cold and professional.
He felt like a shithead.
With a visible effort, Jenna got her emotions under control. Her hands clenched into fists, but her voice was steady. “I assume this won’t affect our working relationship—or do I assume too much?”
At least he could be honest in a way that might soothe her. “You’re a fine attorney, Jenna. I have nothing but the utmost respect for your dedication and performance in the courtroom. Of course you have my continued support.”
For several moments, she calmed herself.
“Thank you. And, Alex?”
“Yes?”
“Get the fuck out.�
��
Gladly. “I’ll see you at the office.”
After he walked out, she slammed the door behind him. That went well.
He could not dredge up one iota of regret to see it finished.
His mind turned toward the two people waiting for him at home, and he smiled.
The sudden, insistent banging on his front door nearly gave him a heart attack. Each one struck the center of his chest like the bullets he was certain they were.
He had to check himself to be sure. No blood. Though that might change the second he admitted his visitor.
He crept to the peephole . . . and his jaw dropped in astonishment. Panic spurred him to yank open the door, grab Jenna’s arm and look around for neighbors before pulling her inside.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he croaked. “It’s not even dark out yet! What if someone saw you? We can’t be seen together!”
She stalked into his living room, unfazed by his tirade. “This is important or I’d be at home, licking my wounds.” She stopped in front of his fireplace mantel and turned, hands on her hips.
“Well, it must be for you to risk half the county seeing you here. In jeans and tennis shoes, no less.” He’d never seen her dressed down before, her wild red hair uncombed. For Jenna, this was a bad sign.
“Alex gave me the boot.”
“What?” Shit, shit.
“Yeah. It’s not as though I didn’t know it was coming.” She shrugged. “Lasted longer than I thought it would, and I earned every penny of what you paid me to get in his jockeys, so what do I care?”
“Then why are you here?” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. Wondering at the gleam in her eyes. What was her game?
“The open-marriage deal Alex has with his wife? Thought you might find it fascinating to hear the rest of their deal. Seems he confesses every little detail of his encounters with other lovers, and they get off on it together.” She smirked. “Naughty bargain, huh?”
“Wait.” He stared at her. Surely he hadn’t heard right. “Alex tells her everything?”
“Mmm.”
The sickness returned. Deeper than panic. More profound than fear. There was no way to know what Alex might’ve told Olivia. What clues the two of them might assemble if it ever occurred to them to do so.