Keeping Her Pride (Ladies of the Pack Book 1)

by Lauren Esker

  But she was also skulking around his office in the middle of the night instead of approaching him directly. Why?

  Maybe she'd noticed her briefcase was gone and thought she'd left it in the office. Fletcher still hadn't come up with a good strategy for returning that and her makeup to her. He had considered taking the coward's way out, and leaving it outside her apartment door or dropping it off at Chang & Luntz at some point when he was fairly confident she wasn't going to be there. But that felt too ... well, cowardly. Also creepy and stalkery. However, the alternative was calling her directly to arrange a transfer of items, and he hadn't quite worked himself up to it yet.

  As he let himself out on his floor, he wondered if she might not be doing something similar. Maybe she'd realized that she still had his key and meant to leave it on his desk.

  That didn't explain why she'd been in there for at least fifteen or twenty minutes, though.

  ***

  So much for the receptionist's computer. Where did Janice normally work? Debi ventured deeper into the office maze. She hadn't explored beyond the accounting office and break room, but she soon found another office with desks and computers. There was room for several desks, but only one of them looked occupied. The others appeared to be used infrequently for storage.

  From the one occupied desk, Debi picked up a framed photo of a woman with a smiling boy and a heavyset man. The woman was clearly Janice.

  Bingo.

  In contrast to the clutter elsewhere, Janice kept her desk tidy, which at least made the search go faster. Nothing was in the top drawers except carefully organized office supplies. The bottom drawers were locked. Debi booted up the computer, but unlike the one on the reception desk, it didn't respond to any of the office passwords. She couldn't find any sign of a reminder note with the password written on it in any of the usual places. Nor could she find a key to the desk, even feeling under the drawers and along the back of the desk in case it was taped somewhere.

  She considered her options and then, with a slight qualm, gripped the handle of the left-hand drawer and pulled on it with a lioness's strength. Her animal side surged up in her. She felt the first tingling of the shift, a ripple of her muscles starting to rearrange themselves, a twinge from her ankle as the thickening bones pressed against the anklet—and the drawer came free with a sharp snap.

  Sorry, Fletcher. And Janice too, if it turns out you're innocent.

  But as soon as she saw what was in the drawer, she knew she'd found what she was looking for.

  Janice didn't exactly have conveniently labeled FAKE and REAL account books, but she was keeping two sets of paperwork. If Debi hadn't been an accountant, and in particular if she hadn't just spent a week going through Sperlin-Briggs's accounts in detail, she probably wouldn't have thought much of it. She would have assumed these were backups, if she'd thought anything about it at all.

  But they weren't. She remembered some of these receipts and purchase orders from her explorations of the rest of Sperlin-Briggs's paperwork, and she was fairly sure the amounts were different. Some of them had no amounts filled it at all. None of them were signed.

  These were the real ones. Janice must be using this to track the flow of fake money.

  And what do I want to bet there's even more evidence on the computer?

  But she didn't need it. This was enough. She could take this to Fletcher and he could go to the police. Debi, with her anklet and her criminal past, didn't need to be officially involved at all.

  She started to close the drawer, then pulled out a single file folder. It was possible Fletcher wouldn't believe her if she couldn't show him something concrete. This would do.

  The broken drawer needed a hard shove to stay closed. Debi wished now that she'd found a way into it without breaking the lock. The clock was ticking. When Janice came to work in the morning, she would realize someone had been going through her files. And by that time, I need to have Fletcher on my side, before Janice can destroy anything incriminating.

  Her stomach gave a little flip—half nervousness, half excitement—at the thought of seeing Fletcher again. And she would have a gift to take him: the identity of the person who had been robbing him.

  For a moment she had a vision of herself as a lioness returned from a successful hunt, placing the file folder at Fletcher's feet like a fat antelope laid before a tawny-maned male lion.

  Clutching the folder, she turned off the light and hurried back to the outer office. At the sight of the receptionist's computer, she stopped, realizing that in her excitement about finding the file, she'd forgotten to shut down Janice's computer. It wasn't as if Janice wouldn't realize her desk had been searched as soon as she found the broken drawer; still, there was no need to give her more of a clue than necessary.

  As Debi started to turn around, the elevator gave a soft ding. She stopped in her tracks. That had been on this floor, and now she heard soft footsteps in the hall.

  She'd seen Fletcher leave. Why would he be coming back?

  And if it wasn't Fletcher ...

  A key rattled in the lock.

  Make up your mind! She could hide in one of the empty offices. But the lights in the outer office were on, and with Janice's computer booted up, it would be obvious that someone had been here—

  The door opened. Fletcher stood in the doorway. The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. Then they said together, "What are you doing here?"

  ***

  Fletcher had been almost certain he'd see her here, but it still hit him like a sock to the gut. Debi's knees were slightly bent as if she was planning to sprint down the hallway. She held a file folder in one hand.

  "What are you doing here?"

  She spoke up at the same time as he did; they were almost exactly in sync. Fletcher wanted to laugh, but Debi's slightly wild-eyed expression wiped away the humor in the situation. He'd really startled her.

  "I work here, remember?" He closed the door softly behind him, folded his umbrella and set it with hers, just inside the door.

  "Did you forget something? I waited until you were—" She broke off, clamping her mouth shut.

  "You were watching me from across the street, weren't you?"

  "Of course not," she said, much too quickly. "And that doesn't explain what you're doing here."

  "I saw you cross the street."

  They studied each other warily for another moment, like two cats in each other's territory. The air between them crackled with ... something, some vital element that Fletcher couldn't quite name. It definitely wasn't anger, but it almost made his hair stand on end with its intensity.

  Debi's hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, frizzed around the edges with Seattle's inescapable humidity. He'd almost forgotten how gorgeous she was—no, not forgotten, not exactly. It was only that memory inevitably faded compared to the living, breathing Debi, six foot whatever of muscle and intense stubbornness.

  He had so many things to say, so many apologies to make. And now, of course, the words deserted him just when he needed them most.

  "Here," Debi said suddenly, thrusting the file folder at him. "This is for you. I meant to give it to you. I just didn't think I'd get the chance so soon."

  "One of my own files?" He took it, too startled not to.

  "It's from Janice's desk." Her tone held a bare hint of You idiot.

  Fletcher flipped it open. Columns of numbers ... "What is all of this, a spreadsheet?"

  "It's one small part of Janice's records. Her real records."

  Fletcher's head snapped up. "Wait, what?"

  "It wasn't Chloe." Debi's gaze was intense, and, Fletcher couldn't help noticing, very vividly green, flecked with subtle gold. "It's still possible Chloe might be involved, I guess there's no way to rule it out, but it looks like Janice is the one who's been handling the actual dirty work."

  Her voice was tight, almost brittle. At first he thought it was anger at Janice, but that didn't quite explain the desperate strain aroun
d her eyes. Then realization hit him: She doesn't think I'm going to believe her.

  But he did, though he didn't want to. It was the final, missing piece of the puzzle. Chloe's anger had been genuine, as were her protestations of innocence. While Janice ...

  All this time she's been smiling at me, acting polite and friendly, while I help her out in every possible way, give her all the time off she needs—

  While she'd been using his company to process dirty money.

  Fletcher closed his eyes for a moment. It shouldn't have hurt. She's not even a friend, not really ... just an employee that I liked, that I helped when she needed it ...

  "I'm sorry," Debi said softly.

  He looked up from the papers. Debi's eyes were soft and sympathetic, almost hopeful, her lips slightly parted. The air smelled faintly of her vanilla perfume.

  Which made it all the harder to do what he had to do.

  "I'm sorry," he said, holding out the folder to her. "I'm not the person you should give this to."

  She stared at him, baffled. "You want me to take it to the police?"

  "No. If you give it to anyone, it should be Chloe."

  "Chloe?" Her nose wrinkled as if she'd smelled something unpleasant. "Why on Earth?"

  "Because it's her company now, not mine."

  Debi's mouth dropped open. She was usually so controlled that it startled him to see the open shock on her face, changing rapidly to sympathy and sorrow. "You lost the company. Oh, Fletcher."

  He couldn't let this go any farther. Couldn't—he had to say it, to tell her—but all the right words got tangled up somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and what came out was, "I gave it to her."

  "What?"

  This time, the shock was tinged with anger, but she didn't have a chance to speak, and all the words he'd meant to say died unspoken in his throat as the office door opened again and Casper Sperlin walked in.

  ***

  Debi thought it was probably a good thing for Fletcher that she couldn't shift right now, because he might've had an angry lioness on his chest, snarling into his face. She certainly wanted to.

  You GAVE your company to your ex-wife? The same ex-wife you thought was using it as a front for money laundering?

  Had he completely lost his mind?

  And on the heels of that came the worst thought of all: what if he and Chloe had decided to patch things up for Olivia's sake?

  Fletcher looked horrified—as well he ought to!—but he'd only gotten so far as opening his mouth to say something else when the door behind him opened.

  The man who walked in was dark-haired, very pale-skinned, and somehow familiar, though it was the gentle tingle of shifter recognition that surprised her the most. She'd been too distracted by Fletcher to stay alert to her surroundings.

  "Casper," Fletcher said in a tone of intense dislike.

  "Well, well. You're both here. That saves some time." He gave Debi a smile with no humor in it. "Yes, I know all about you."

  Fletcher moved to interpose his body between Casper and Debi. "What the hell is that supposed to—Janice?"

  Janice was behind Casper, her hands clasped together and her body language apologetic. She sidled into the room and didn't look at either one of them.

  Fletcher reached into his pocket for his phone. "You're trespassing. Get out of here right now or I'll call the—"

  "You'll call no one," Casper said smoothly. The gleaming black pistol seemed to have leaped into his hand; Debi hadn't even seen him draw it. Janice gasped. "Both of you, drop your phones and kick them away from you."

  "Mr. Sperlin—" Janice began, her tone pleading.

  "Quiet," Casper snapped. "You knew what you were signing up for. Just go get rid of the files, idiot. You know where they are."

  Janice gave Debi and Fletcher a helpless look and hurried out of the room.

  "Sperlin," Debi said softly, dangerously. "You're related to Chloe?"

  "He's her brother," Fletcher murmured. His face locked down in grim lines of anger as he tossed his phone onto the floor. "And he's not messing around. He's killed people before."

  "Great. Just great. Thank you so much for this, Fletcher. For all of this." Debi hurled her purse in Casper's general direction. His eyes widened and he jerked, the muzzle of the gun wavering briefly. The purse bounced off a chair and fell to the floor, spilling cosmetics, tissues, and her phone onto the carpet.

  "Are you trying to get us shot?" Fletcher's voice cracked.

  "Right now I don't think I'd mind if he shot you!"

  "I wanted you out of this, Debi!"

  "Which you decided to express by getting me even deeper into it!"

  "Hello? Hey!" Casper Sperlin waved the gun at them until he got their attention. "Think I could get a little cooperation here?"

  "Cooperation?" Debi demanded, baring her teeth at him. The lioness inside her was pressing against her skin. Fletcher's proximity brought out her animal side, anger and longing and arousal blurring together into a firestorm of emotion, filling her with the need to do something. Tearing out Casper's throat with her teeth sounded like a good plan to her right now, and she let a growl rumble up from her throat.

  She was pleased to see fear in his eyes, but only for a moment. "Nice try," Casper said. "I told you, I looked into your background. I know who you are. I know what you did. And I know the SCB put a device on your ankle that stops you from being able to shift. So quit playing games." He gestured at the door with the gun. "C'mon, you two. Let's take a walk."

  "Like hell we're going anywhere with you," Fletcher snapped.

  "You want to do it in a body bag?" Casper pointed the muzzle of the gun at Debi's chest. "Or you want me to shoot the lady instead?" He stepped to the side, clearing the way to the door for them. "Let's go."

  Fletcher opened the door and held it for Debi. Casper brought up the rear. "You can't shift at all?" Fletcher whispered.

  "Not if I want to keep all the feet I was born with."

  "Hey!" Casper said from behind them. "Enough chitchat."

  Rather than taking the elevator, he herded them into the stairwell. Debi's heart sank. There was no opportunity to bolt without taking a bullet in the back. Maybe they'd run into some of the cleaning staff, but she hadn't seen any so far. The vacuum cleaner's drone was very distant now; it sounded like it was coming from one of the higher floors.

  Fletcher's office was on the eighth floor. Debi's knees ached by the time they made it to the bottom. "Hold the door," Casper ordered Fletcher, and when he was content that the lobby was clear, he gestured them forward.

  Outside, the rain was falling in earnest now. Debi shielded her head with her arms and wondered if this would make it easier or harder to escape. It didn't look like they were going to get a chance anyway. A large dark car was waiting for them, illegally parked with two tires on the sidewalk and the engine running. A heavyset man with "goon" written all over him hopped out and opened the door. Inside, Debi glimpsed another, similar goon at the wheel.

  "Our dear friend Janice is still upstairs," Casper told Goon A. "Go make sure she finishes her job, and clean up after her—you know how things are done."

  The henchman nodded and hurried into the building.

  "You two, get in the back," Casper ordered Fletcher. "I'll be in front with my little friend, Mr. Glock 9 here, just in case you get any ideas."

  "Where are we going?" Fletcher demanded.

  "We're just going for a nice little drive. Get in."

  Chapter Fifteen

  They drove south through the rain-washed city, heading toward Tacoma. Debi tested her door, but the child locks must be enabled; she couldn't get the lock to pop up. She wondered if she was strong enough to break the door open. Maybe if the car was stopped. She didn't like her chances if she had to throw herself out into traffic at highway speeds. Attacking the driver seemed like a bad idea for similar reasons, especially since Casper had a gun, and the driver probably did too.

  If only she could shift! />
  Or send a message to Nia somehow. But she couldn't think of anything that might work. Nia thought she was at her apartment, and had no reason to check in with her until tomorrow at the earliest.

  Normally, the ankle monitor would set off an alert if she traveled outside the greater Seattle area. But she'd been authorized to go to Wyoming with Nia, so she didn't even think she could count on her SCB keepers right now.

  The idea of deactivating the anklet occurred to her. If it stopped sending a signal, the SCB would have to come check it out. But it was rugged and tough, meant to stand up to abuse from extra-strong shifter prisoners. She'd have to bash the absolute hell out of it to destroy it, and she didn't think Casper was going to sit quietly by and let her beat the hated thing to death. There was nothing in the backseat to do it with, anyway.

  The one time being a federal prisoner would really have come in handy, and I can't even think of a way to use it in my favor ...

  And she was all too aware of Fletcher beside her, his arm resting against hers. Every time he breathed, every time he moved, she was caught in an agony of conflicting impulses: she wanted to lean closer, wanted to press herself against him, and at the same time she wanted to push him away, to fling herself out of the car, to never have anything to do with him or his beautiful eyes or his kissable lips or his stupid wrong-headed decision-making—

  "What were you thinking, giving your company to people like these?" she whispered fiercely.

  "I was thinking I put the company ahead of you," he whispered back. "And I never wanted to do that again."

  Debi lost her mental footing, anger spinning into confusion. "What?"

  "I made the wrong choice."

  She looked at him cautiously. It was dark in the backseat, his face lit in flashes by passing street lights, just enough to keep wiping out her night vision and giving her strobing glimpses of expressions with no transitions between. She couldn't help noticing that his hair was starting to come ungelled, the unruly, touchable curls springing free to straggle in random directions.