Sweet Talk

by Julie Garwood

  It was three in the morning by the time they reached Olivia’s apartment. Unaccustomed to such late hours, Olivia was exhausted. Grayson, on the other hand, looked as though he’d just started the evening.

  He parked in front of her building. The doorman rushed outside to tell him he had to move his car, but then he saw the weapon at his side and stepped back.

  “It’s all right, John. He’s with the FBI,” Olivia said.

  “Is everything okay, Miss MacKenzie?”

  “Yes. Everything’s fine,” she said. She stopped at the elevator and turned to Grayson. “You don’t have to come up with me.”

  “Sure I do.”

  He pinned her to the wall when he reached around her to push the button.

  “You’re still nervous with me, aren’t you?”

  She looked up into his eyes. She was barely inches away from him. All she had to do was tilt her head ever so slightly and lean in, and she’d be kissing him. She didn’t give in to the urge.

  “No. I’m no longer nervous with you.” It was a blatant lie, but she thought she’d told it well.

  He wasn’t buying it. He flashed that adorable smile again. He could get anything he wanted with that smile, she thought. And probably did. That reminder helped. She knew women threw themselves at him, but she wouldn’t be one of them. He wasn’t her type.

  She laughed. Talk about a whopper of a lie. That was the big daddy of them all.

  The elevator doors opened on three. He stepped back to let her out first, then followed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking you’re not my type, and that was funny to me because . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Because you are.”

  He frowned. “Your type?”

  You’re every woman’s type, she thought. She didn’t tell him that, thank God. Instead, she said, “I’m tired. I’m not making much sense.”

  Her apartment was at the end of the hall. She got her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. Grayson pushed it open and backed her inside. His eyes never left hers as he put his arms around her.

  “I had a lovely time tonight,” she said, remembering the awards gala. “It was really nice . . .” She realized what she was saying. “Except for the two people you had to shoot and except for . . . Oh God, Grayson, just kiss me. I won’t stop talking until you do.”

  He pulled her closer, and his lips brushed over hers. It was a quick middle-school kind of kiss, a prelude, she quickly realized, to driving her out of her mind. As soon as she put her arms around his neck, he stopped teasing her. His mouth opened and his tongue delved inside to rub against hers. She tightened her hold. His mouth was doing magical things to her, and every nerve in her body reacted. It was the most erotic kiss she’d ever experienced, and she never wanted it to end. He made love to her with his tongue, and when he lifted his head he could have taken anything he wanted.

  She sagged against him. Taking a deep breath, she let go of him and stepped back so he could leave, even though she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted . . . him.

  “Be sure to lock the door,” he said in parting. His voice was a rough whisper.

  And he was gone. Her hand shook as she flipped the deadbolt. She kicked her shoes off, walked into the bedroom, and dropped down on the bed.

  She knew she was going to be thinking about that kiss for a long time, and she wondered . . . had it meant anything to him?

  NINE

  Olivia was having a lazy Sunday afternoon. She read The Washington Post and The New York Times, did two crossword puzzles, played three games of Words with Friends on her iPhone, and was now talking to Samantha and Collins on a conference call to give them an update on Jane. It had been two months since her last transfusion, and she was back in the hospital again.

  Although she didn’t mention Grayson Kincaid to them, Olivia couldn’t stop thinking about him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell them about him. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to make a big deal of their relationship. Besides, there really wasn’t anything to tell, was there? In the two months since the awards gala, he hadn’t called her. Of course, he never said he would. In fact, his last words to her were a reminder to lock her door. How romantic was that?

  At the very least, he owed her an update on Jorguson. She hadn’t heard a word about the investigation.

  For the first full week after their alleged date, she was certain he’d get in touch with her. The second week she convinced herself that he was too busy to call but that he would eventually get around to it. After three full weeks had passed and not a word, she decided hell would freeze over before she went out with him. She had wasted enough time thinking about him and vowed she wouldn’t spend one more second remembering that amazing kiss. Yeah, right. That was pretty much still all she could think about.

  Would he have kissed her if she hadn’t asked him to? Now that was the million-dollar question.

  Olivia realized she was daydreaming again while she was still on the conference call. Sam and Collins were discussing Jane’s medical issues, and she forced herself to pay attention.

  “Why didn’t the last transfusion help?” Collins asked.

  “How do you know it didn’t?” Olivia said.

  “Because she’s back in the hospital,” Sam pointed out.

  “Dr. Pardieu told Jane he wanted to run a couple of tests, that’s all. He insists he’s not worried, and we trust him, don’t we?”

  “Of course we do,” Sam said. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. I’m sorry I can’t give her blood.”

  “We all have the same blood type,” Collins reminded. “That’s why we were put in the experimental program. I don’t understand why Dr. Pardieu won’t take some of ours, Sam.”

  “Mine just happens to work better for her,” Olivia answered. “You know, if you’re so worried, you could talk to Jane about this.”

  “Isn’t it too soon for you to give blood again?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Olivia assured. “It’s been almost eight weeks. If she needs it again, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I wish I were there. I can tell how Jane’s feeling just by looking at her.”

  “She’s going to be fine,” Collins insisted. “But you know the last thing she needs now is stress. Olivia, Sam told me that creepy brother of hers is hanging around again.”

  “Actually, Logan is really trying this time. I think he might make it. He lives in a halfway house, and he’s working. Jane says he hasn’t missed a single day.”

  “That’s different,” Collins admitted.

  “He cares about Jane, and he’s trying to make up for all the pain he’s caused.”

  “That will take a lifetime,” Sam said.

  “If Jane can forgive him, we can, too,” Olivia said. “She went back into the hospital last week, and Logan has been there every day. He comes to see her on his lunch hour and after work. When she’s home, he brings her dinner. He’s trying, Sam.”

  “Okay, I’ll give him another chance,” Sam said. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Quickly, Olivia, tell me how your search is going.”

  “I can’t get access to my father’s records, so I’ve run into another dead end,” she answered. “I have been able to get copies of some of the statements for his fund, though, and reading them is like gazing at the stars and trying to identify each one. There are lists of thousands of investments. Some of them I recognize as legitimate but the rest are really obscure. It appears that there are a great many in foreign countries. It also appears that the portfolio changes constantly. I swear he’s Houdini. He might be committing the perfect crime because I can’t find the fraud.”

  “You can’t find it yet,” Collins said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime. At least that’s what they
tell me.”

  “Are you still determined to become an FBI agent?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes,” she answered emphatically. “And I think I’ll be a good one.”

  “When do you begin your training?” Sam asked.

  “I’m still waiting to hear. I know the academy will be a challenge, so I’ve decided to get a head start. I’ve been going to a firing range to get some practice.”

  “Have you shot anyone yet?” Sam asked with feigned alarm.

  “Of course not,” Collins answered indignantly, “but there have been a couple of close calls.”

  She shared a few stories about her first experiences with a firearm. By the time the friends ended their conversation, she had them laughing uproariously.

  Olivia had just disconnected the call when another came in. Her boss, Royal Thurman, was on the line. He had never called her at home before, and an alarm was sounding inside her head. Something bad was coming, she thought.

  “There’s a problem I need to discuss with you,” he began in his deep baritone voice. “Do you have any time this afternoon? My wife and daughters are shopping at Tysons Corner, but they’re going to meet me for dinner at Neeson’s Café at six. My girls love their macaroni and cheese. The restaurant is quite close to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Could you stop by the café at five? It’s important, Olivia, or I wouldn’t bother you at home.”

  She didn’t ask him to explain what the problem was or even to give her a hint. She was supposed to have dinner with her aunt, but Emma had decided to go to Palm Springs early for a seminar to get away from the cold.

  “I’ll be there,” she told him.

  Don’t borrow trouble, she warned herself. The nurses used to say that to her when she was worried about the results of one of her tests. And for a long while, the results had been bad. It didn’t seem to matter if she borrowed trouble or not. She took a deep breath. This wasn’t the chemo isolation unit, and she was now an adult. If Thurman was going to fire her or let her go because of cutbacks, so be it. She’d find another job. But wouldn’t he do it during office hours?

  Olivia had told her boss about her horrid interview with Jorguson. He hadn’t laughed, but she could tell he wanted to. He’d assured her that, when the cutbacks came, he would do everything he could to protect her.

  Maybe that had changed.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have long to stew about all the possibilities for the meeting. It was already three thirty. She jumped into the shower, washed and dried her hair, and pulled it back in a ponytail. She dressed in a heavy, dark green sweater, skinny jeans, and knee-high boots. She even took time to put on some makeup and dab perfume on her wrists.

  She pulled on her heavy sheepskin coat, a bright red wool scarf, a knit cap, and gloves. The inside of her coat had a large pocket, so she put a credit card in it, added her driver’s license, three twenty-dollar bills, her cell phone, and her keys. She zipped the pocket closed and headed to the elevator.

  John was on duty in the lobby. “It’s awful cold out there,” he warned.

  “I’m going to Neeson’s to meet my boss,” she said. “It’s close.”

  “I love Neeson’s. They’ve got the best mac and cheese in the city. My stomach’s grumbling just thinking about it.”

  “Would you like me to bring you some?”

  “Oh no, no. I wasn’t hinting.” He opened the door for her.

  “I’ll get you some,” she promised as she walked past.

  The blast of frigid air entering her lungs as she stepped outside reminded her that she’d left her inhaler in her apartment. She turned to run back up to get it but changed her mind. Neeson’s Café was six short blocks away from her building, and if she took her time, she’d be fine. She didn’t want to keep Mr. Thurman waiting.

  By the time she was halfway to the restaurant, she was frozen solid. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wet, blustery wind. The lighted display on the bank across the street said it was eighteen degrees. She increased her pace the last two blocks. When she walked into the tiny vestibule, the warm air stung her cheeks, and her lungs felt like they were burning.

  Although she was ten minutes early, Mr. Thurman was already there in a large booth in the back of the nearly empty restaurant. He looked relieved to see her. It was bad, all right. She reminded herself not to borrow trouble and almost laughed at the notion.

  Mr. Thurman, the ultimate gentleman, helped her with her coat and hung it up for her, then waited until she was seated before he slid into the booth across from her. He pushed his empty coffee cup to the side and stacked his big hands on the table. When a waitress came over with a coffeepot and refilled his cup, Olivia requested hot tea and an order of mac and cheese to go.

  “I’ll get right to it,” Thurman said. “I was about to sit down for Sunday breakfast when I received a call from Carl Simmons of Simmons, Simmons and Falcon. You’re familiar with the law firm?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said. “I mean to say, I’d heard of the firm, but I’d never had a conversation with any of them until today. You can guess what the topic was.”

  She smiled. “Me.”

  “Exactly so,” he said. “You must also know that the firm represents your father.”

  “Yes, I know. But why would he call you?”

  “Carl . . .” He paused to smile and said, “He insisted I call him by his first name because he’s certain we will become good friends who—according to him—will help each other. I could almost hear him winking over the phone,” he added. “I didn’t care for the man one little bit.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He felt it was his duty to warn me about you. He believes you may be abusing your position as counsel for the IRS. I asked him what proof he had, knowing full well there wasn’t any, and he hemmed and hawed. Then he got to his obvious agenda. He specifically mentioned your father. Simmons believes you’re trying to manufacture evidence to discredit him. If that happens, his investors will lose faith in him, and before you know it, they’ll remove their money, and his fund will go belly up.”

  “And it will be all my fault.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “I’m not manufacturing evidence, sir.”

  “I know that, Olivia,” he said, his voice kind and sympathetic. “I’m merely repeating what he said to me.”

  “I’ve worked on cases I’ve been assigned and only those cases,” she assured him. “I certainly haven’t looked at my father’s file. That would be illegal, and besides, what would be the point? It’s all a fairy tale. I came to the IRS to learn.”

  “You told me about your father before I hired you, remember? You do exceptional work. Researching your father’s dealings outside of your job hasn’t interfered with that.”

  “But?”

  “But I want you to be ready for what’s coming. Simmons hinted . . . strongly hinted,” he stressed, “that you were mentally unstable and needed help. He also suggested that your family is determined to see that you get it. He kept saying ‘in my opinion’ and seemed to think slandering you is perfectly okay if he’s only giving his opinion.”

  “That’s a new tactic.”

  “He didn’t come right out and say that you’re unfit, but I’ll tell you, Olivia, he’s going to try to get you fired. He’ll go over my head, but I don’t think he’ll be successful. If what you say is true about your father’s investment fund, I’m guessing that Simmons is raking in profits right along with him. He isn’t going to let you ruin it for him. He’s shrewd, all right. He’ll get out right before the bubble bursts. I’ve seen it before, and it saddens me to say I know I’ll see it again. Greed has a way of overtaking morals.”

  The hot tea was placed in front of her along with a carryout bag. She
thanked the waitress and handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

  She stared out the window and wasn’t surprised to see snow falling. “I can’t find anything,” she whispered.

  “Could your judgment be impaired because of past experiences with your father? Could you be wrong about him now? What if he’s innocent? Have you considered that he might have learned some valuable lessons over the years and has made up his mind to be honest in his dealings? Your father is thought by many to have a special knack when it comes to picking stocks. His portfolio performance is quite impressive.”

  She wondered if he realized how naive he sounded. “No, I don’t believe he’s learned any lessons. I think he’s just gotten better at hiding his crimes.”

  “From what I’ve heard, his fund has gone through the roof,” he pointed out. “His clients have made enormous profits.”

  “Oh, sir, you aren’t one of his clients, are you?”

  He laughed. “And suffer your wrath? No, of course not. I just want you to consider the possibility that your father might be a changed man.”

  Mr. Thurman wasn’t familiar with the details of her father’s history. He, therefore, wasn’t convinced that her father was doing anything wrong, and she didn’t have any evidence to prove that he was. Still, her boss was loyal to her. After pointing out the possibility that she could be mistaken, he let it go.

  His family arrived promptly at six. They asked her to have dinner with them, but she declined, explaining she had made plans to see her friend who was in the hospital.

  “We’re supposed to get snow tonight,” Mr. Thurman said. “If you have to drive, be careful.”

  Olivia counted herself lucky to have such a great boss. He genuinely cared about her. She knew he was trying to protect her from being laid off, and now he was trying to help her with the Carl Simmons situation.

  She had just left the restaurant when her cell phone rang. She stepped back inside the warm entry to answer.

  Judge Bowen was on the line. “Olivia, I just received a call from an attorney named Carl Simmons . . .”