Head thrown back, he downed it in one gulp and smacked the glass down on the counter, the sound like a gunshot. She flinched. He had every right to his anger. The night had gone straight to hell without the hand basket, and here she was being all evasive and shit. In his shoes, she’d be pissed off at her too.
Across the room on the coffee table, Reece’s laptop signaled a new email. He snarled at it. Honest to God snarled like he wanted to rip its motherboard out with his teeth. Bottle still in hand, he stalked over.
Ignore it, she wanted to say. Whatever it was, it could wait. He’d already dealt with enough tonight. But she wasn’t really his wife and it wasn’t her place to tell him what to do, so she slid off her shoes, gathered them up in one hand, and started toward her bedroom with the intention of taking a long, hot shower. She needed to wash off the makeup covering her tattoos. Wash off the grime and lingering stink of the fire. The heat would go a long way toward relaxing the knots of tension in her neck and along her spine. Maybe she’d even stay in until the water ran cold—
Glass shattered behind her, and she yelped in surprise. She whirled, heart hammering in her throat, and spotted the scotch splattered across the living room wall, the bottle in pieces on the hardwood under it. She stared at the mess for a long time, uncomprehending.
He’d thrown the bottle.
Mr. Always-in-Control Reece Wilde had thrown. The. Bottle.
She turned her gaze to Reece as he sank to the floor beside the couch as if his legs no longer had the ability to hold him. He propped his elbows on his drawn-up knees, shoved his hands into his hair. He looked like a man who had reached his limit and then been forcibly shoved over.
She couldn’t leave him sitting there, hurting and alone. She set her shoes down by her bedroom door, then tiptoed toward him, careful of the broken glass. “Reece.” She knelt down, laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed until he lowered his hands and looked up. She expected to see anguish, but he’d pulled on an expressionless mask, devoid of all emotion.
“The blackmailer emailed me again. He knows about your past.”
Her breath snagged in her throat and her chest constricted around her heart. “What?”
He flopped a hand in the general direction of his laptop, still on the coffee table. Oh, no. She didn’t want to see whatever was in that email and stared hard at the glowing Apple logo on the back of the machine, willing the thing to blow up.
No such luck.
Swallowing down the sour taste of dread, she made herself reach for it and turn the screen around. Pictures of her in her wilder days, none of them painting a very flattering portrait of her character. But there was nothing about Steven or her association with The Headhunters or Jason Mallory. She released the breath she’d been holding. The blackmailer didn’t know her entire past. Bits and pieces, maybe, but nothing that was going to get her killed.
The text accompanying the pictures was short and to the point.
Pay up or these photos would be emailed to Irving James.
Shit. Marrying Reece was supposed to protect him from the blackmailer, not make the situation worse. But of course the blackmailer had the ability to find dirt on her. Not like there was a shortage of it out there to find.
And the rest would come out. If he or she had found this much, the rest would follow.
She glanced up at Reece and opened her mouth to—what? Apologize? That would only piss him off more. “Um, are you going to pay?”
He stared back with exhausted eyes. “What choice do I have?”
“Reece—” The words snagged in her throat. “Let’s get the annulment. First thing tomorrow. Then you can just stop paying the blackmailer and if the photos leak…well, make the end of our marriage my fault. Tell James I tricked you. I’m a gold digger and—”
“And you think that will give him the confidence to enter into a business deal with me?” he interrupted with a snort. “In James’s mind, if I’m stupid enough to let a woman get the better of me, I’m not fit to do business with. Whatever I do, I’m fucked. I’m—” He shook his head and lumbered to his feet, moving like a sleepwalker. “I can’t handle this. Not tonight. I’m going to bed.”
Chapter Nineteen
Reece woke up the following morning feeling like he had the flu. He’d only had it once before, when he was twelve, but distinctly remembered the pounding head, the allover body aches, the blasts of brain-melting heat followed by bone-numbing cold.
Yeah, he was reliving it now.
For the first time in his adult life, he considered ignoring his alarm, rolling over, and going back to sleep for the rest of the day. Except he was scheduled to man the Wilde Security office for a few hours this morning, and he needed to see about scraping up a home security contract. He should also spend some time on Vaughn’s search for Lark Warren since Vaughn had held up his end of the deal and looked into the fire at The Bean Gallery.
He couldn’t sleep in. Too many people were counting on him.
Moving required more energy than he possessed, but he still managed to push himself upright. He smacked his lips—his mouth tasted like ash and felt as dry. Had he remembered to brush his teeth before falling into bed last night? Or, for that matter, shower?
Nope. One look down at himself confirmed he was still in his soot-smeared clothes. Apparently, he’d mentally checked out of the real world at some point last night.
Or, wait. It hadn’t been at some point. It had been after the newest blackmail threat hit his inbox. Right. He was fucked good and hard last night, and not in the fun way.
Reece shoved to his feet and plodded to the bathroom to clean up. Twenty minutes later, feeling almost human again, he walked out to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, half expecting to see Shelby had beaten him to it like she had the last few mornings. He’d been surprised by her early bird tendencies and when he commented on it, she’d said owning The Bean Gallery had revised her night-owlishness.
But this morning, the apartment was quiet. Her door was still shut, and he didn’t even hear Poe squawking on the other side. Still asleep.
Probably for the better. He wasn’t ready to face her again after the embarrassment of his actions last night.
He’d thrown the scotch. The memory of it heated up the back of his neck. He’d had a fucking temper tantrum. What was he, thirteen? Jesus.
As his coffee brewed, he studied the living room, searched for the stain on the wall, the broken glass, and found nothing. Guilt and shame hit him square in the gut in a one-two punch. Shelby had cleaned it up.
Yeah, he definitely wasn’t ready to face her yet. As soon as the coffee finished, he poured some into a travel mug, then left the rest on to warm until she woke up. He thought about leaving a note, decided against it, got to the door, and changed his mind. Back in the kitchen, he found a pen and paper…and stalled out.
What should he write?
Something short. Simple. Maybe…I’m sorry? No, that had a ring of finality to it, like the start of a Dear John letter. How about, Your past doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you? Yeah, that wouldn’t send her running like her ass was on fire.
He finally settled on: Went to the WS office. Left the coffee on warm for you. Be home later.
Good enough.
Since it was a Saturday, the drive to the office was peaceful. He didn’t have to battle traffic, and he was grateful for it. He made it in twenty minutes instead of the usual forty and opened the office early even though he doubted he’d have a stampede of clients in that extra half hour. Business had been abysmally slow lately.
Maybe he should look into advertising. Of course, he’d need money for advertisements, and Wilde Security was already operating on a shoestring budget as it was.
He could sell the Escalade and drive his Scion FR-S full time. He actually preferred the scrappy, budget-friendly sports car, but the Escalade made for a better appearance, which was why he drove it more often. All for show. And if he started selling
things off now, people would take notice, eyebrows would raise, and Irving James might get cold feet.
Always came back to that, didn’t it? Irving Fucking James.
Reece was starting to hate the man. Did he really want to align his company with the James name? No. But did he have a choice? Nope. James owned half the damn world, and it wasn’t like other investors were exactly beating down the doors at DMW Systems right now since the economy was still tanked and simulations were such a niche product.
Maybe it was time to talk to Cliff about the artificial intelligence he’d been tinkering with on company time. Reece hadn’t been happy about the side project at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Cliff might be on to something.
Man, he missed the good old days when he would sit around late into the night with Dylan and Cliff, guzzling Red Bull and talking technology. How had they all gotten so far away from their computer geek roots? Well, actually, Cliff hadn’t. The guy was still down in DMW’s basement, playing with his toys, tinkering with artificial intelligence.
Reece wanted that part of his life back. So much. But he wasn’t going to get it, so he needed to stop throwing himself a pity party and get to work.
On his way back to his office, he started another pot of coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Then he booted up his computer and made a few follow-up calls, checking on the home security systems he’d installed for clients and nudging a few people who had previously voiced an interest in the system. He managed to secure two installation jobs, both neighbors of a previous client in Virginia Beach. He’d have to leave town for a long weekend to do the work, but it made him feel better about Wilde Security’s financial situation.
After a quick trip to the coffee maker for a refill, he dove into Vaughn’s problem. A deal was a deal. By the time the twins showed up that afternoon, both looking as ragged as he felt, he’d uncovered two more of Lark Warren’s previous identities and thought he had a lead on the very first alias she’d ever used—Violet Smith. She’d gone through her first several identities fast, as if afraid to stay one person for too long. In fact, it looked like she’d been Lark Warren the longest at nearly two years.
She was definitely running. But from what?
And wasn’t it interesting that she always chose nature-themed names? Made him suspect her real name was something similar, except nobody matching her description with a nature-themed name had been reported missing five years ago, which was when “Violet Smith” miraculously rose from the dead and got a job waitressing at a topless bar in New York City. And he was positive Violet had been her first alias, because he couldn’t trace her beyond that.
As far as her financials, he came up empty. She never used bank accounts, even when she was settled into her life as Lark Warren. If she was smart—and he thought she was—she probably kept her money close at hand for an easy getaway. She didn’t have any loans or credit cards, and her twelve-year-old car had been sold to a chop shop before she left town.
Brick wall.
Reece was so wrapped up in the puzzle of Lark Warren, he didn’t hear Vaughn enter his office until his brother sat down in the creaky chair next to his desk.
“Lark?” Vaughn asked, picking up the printouts of the new identities he’d uncovered.
“Yeah.” He pushed back from his desk and rolled his head around, cracking his neck. He’d been hunched over the computer for too long. “Vaughn, man, she doesn’t want to be found. Maybe it’s time to drop it.”
“No.” Vaughn folded the printouts and slid them into his pocket.
“All right. It’s your call, but I really think you should let her go.” When he only received a dark scowl in reply, he shook his head and changed topics. “You wanted to talk to me about the fire at The Bean Gallery?”
Vaughn settled back in his seat and folded his hands over his abs. “I looked into it like you wanted. I assume you’ve known all along that Shelby owned the place?”
“Yeah, I knew.”
“Blows my fucking mind, but figured as much. It went down about like the arson investigator said. Molotov cocktail through the front window. There might have been a little something extra in the mix to give it some oomph, because the place barbecued fast. But of course you already know that because you were there, you sneaky bastard. Here’s the weird thing. Security cameras monitored the store, and the fire never reached the back office so the computers were salvageable. Everything was there, employee schedules, financial information—and surprisingly Shelby was making a solid profit—but the security footage was missing.”
“But Shelby and I were the only two people there before the fire and neither of us touched the computer.” A ripple chased down Reece’s spine. Excitement, dread. Probably both. His blackmailer had sent him the security footage with the first email. Was it possible Shelby’s fires and his blackmail problem were connected?
“Except,” Vaughn continued, “the footage didn’t disappear until after the computer was collected into evidence. The investigators hadn’t even looked at it yet and were all shocked that it was gone.”
“Who would have access besides law enforcement?”
“Nobody.”
Reece sat back in his chair and rubbed at the unshaved stubble on his chin. Why would a cop blackmail him? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense and he was so fucking tired of having more questions than answers.
“There’s something else,” Vaughn said.
Reece groaned. “There always is.”
“Cam told you about the fire at the house across the street from Eva’s a few years back? I looked into that too. Eva was out of town, and Shelby had just moved in after breaking up with a boyfriend. The guy, Steven Moore, was the number one suspect in that fire. The going theory is he wanted to get back at Shelby for ending things, but flambéed the wrong house. He disappeared shortly afterward and hasn’t been seen since.”
“So he could be behind the Molotov cocktail at The Bean Gallery. And…” His parents’ house, the last link he’d had to them, was gone. His stomach lurched at the reminder and he cleared his throat. “And last night.”
Vaughn inclined his head. “It’s a possibility, if Moore’s back in town.”
“We need to find him.”
Vaughn said nothing for a beat. “I’m not dropping my search for Lark.”
“I didn’t say you have to. But, man, I seriously need your help right now. If there’s a firebug gunning for Shelby, we need to stop him. She’s escaped two fires already. Odds are not on her side that she’ll escape another.”
Another stretch of silence. Finally, Vaughn nodded and shoved out of his chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Vaughn paused at the door and glanced back. “Have you heard from Greer?”
“Nothing. You?”
“Nope.” He scratched at his chin. “I know it’s not the first time he’s pulled a Houdini on us, but…this time feels different. Should we be worried?”
It did feel different. And, yes, his gut told him something was wrong. “I’ll go over to his place when I leave here, look around.”
Vaughn grunted. “I’m going to kick his ass when he turns up.”
“I’d pay to see that. Especially given your recent fashion accessory.”
Vaughn scowled down at his walking cast. “Fucking thing comes off in a week, and then I’m burning it.”
Since the twins had the office covered, Reece decided to pack it up and go get some work done at DMW Systems. But, first, a trip to Greer’s place.
Greer lived on the other side of a postage-stamp-sized park out behind the Wilde Security office. It was usually faster to walk over, but the wind had bite today and Reece opted to drive around the block. He pulled into the complex’s parking lot and scanned for Greer’s ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee, but didn’t see it.
Inside, the apartment building was light-years away from his in terms of style. Where his looked like a swanky
hotel, Greer’s building opened into a drab corridor with mailboxes on one wall, elevators on another, and stairs in the back. There was also an empty desk, presumably for a security guard, but in all the years Greer had lived in the building, Reece had never seen anyone manning that desk.
Greer lived on the second floor, so Reece didn’t bother waiting for the elevator, which was notoriously slow, and pushed through into the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time and strode to apartment 211, a man on a mission.
His knock received no reply. He waited a moment. Pounded on the door again, harder. Still nothing. Or at least nothing from Greer’s silent apartment. The door across the hall opened, though, and a pretty woman with short dark hair peeked out.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said gently, not wanting to scare her. “I’m looking for my brother. He lives here. Have you seen him?”
“No,” she said after the briefest of hesitations. “I picked up a package that was left by his door after it had sat there for a week. I thought you were him returning home, was going to give it to you.”
“So he hasn’t been around for a while?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I usually pass him on the stairs or see him at the mailboxes, but it’s been almost two weeks since the last time I saw him.”
“I’d better take a look around his place.” Reece dug in his coat pocket, found his keys, and searched for the extra Greer had given him. The door opened easily, and he flipped on the light. Nothing moved. The apartment smelled abandoned even though Greer’s few possessions were exactly where they should be. There was food in the cupboards and some leftover Chinese still in the fridge, but he’d bet it was past its best-by date since the milk was also outdated by a few days. The sink was empty, the dishwasher full, but it looked like the dishes inside were clean, so it had been run. There was a blanket wadded up on one end of the couch and a pillow at the other, as if Greer had taken a nap there before he pulled his vanishing act. The bed in the bedroom was made with military precision, and his suitcase from Vegas sat next to the dresser, still packed. A quick scan through the closet didn’t tell Reece much. Greer didn’t have a lot of clothes, but it was impossible to tell if anything was missing when he had no idea how much had been there to start. Only things he didn’t find were Greer’s cell phone and wallet.
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