Conviction

by Jane Henry

  Brax watches me calmly from below dark, serious brows. “Go on.”

  “He was taking a shower. He always put his phone away, but I was really sleepy, and I reached for his phone instead of mine. I saw a text come in, and it confused me, because I didn’t realize what it meant at first. I didn’t realize that I was never meant to see it.”

  He nods encouragingly but remains silent.

  “It said ‘The money’s been wired. Zandetti needs to be dealt with. Eliminate him.’ I read it over and over until the sound of the water in the shower stopped, and then I placed the phone back and pretended I was sleeping.” I swallow. “Zandetti was the name of my political science professor in college. And I know in NYC there are so many people, that it’s often only coincidence when people have the same name. But there was something wrong about this. And then all the little things that had set me on alert before started to look very, very different.”

  He nods. “Go on.”

  I take in a deep, shaky breath, then continue. “Hoffman would never allow me to meet him on campus. He always had to meet me at work, and he would have these conversations on the phone that I was never allowed to hear. I just assumed he was a private guy, but that night my suspicion grew. He came out of the shower, and I pretended I was asleep, but then he reached for his phone and mumbled something to himself and swore. A few minutes later he shook me awake to tell me a friend of his was in trouble and needed him and told me to get some rest before I left for class the next day. He left.” I swallow, as my imagination plays out what could have happened over and over again. “The next day, my professor didn’t show up for class. Eventually, word got spread around campus that he was missing.” I sigh, my voice dropping as I remember. “I stayed with Hoffman. I was afraid if I broke up with him in the middle of all this, he’d know I suspected something.” My voice grows shaky. “About one week later, Professor Zandetti was found dead, his body was found in Central Park Lake.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Hoffman never knew I knew anything, or so I thought. But things got weird after that, and I disliked it. I never knew for sure what was happening. I went on to do some digging of my own.”

  Brax lets out a low, guttural sound of disapproval but says nothing.

  “Hoffman has affiliations everywhere. Political ties. He covered his tracks well, but I knew he was into illicit activities. I broke it off with him, when I felt I couldn’t trust him anymore. I’m certain he never knew I suspected a thing.”

  “You can’t be certain of anything,” he says, his voice low but controlled. He still holds my hand, but now his thumb is gently circling, while he thinks. “Are you still in touch with Hoffman?”

  I shake my head. “No. We broke it off about two months ago, but recently things in my place have been missing, and I feel like someone’s following me, and it’s become really clear to me he has friends in high places. I can’t go to the police with this. Hell, I am the police and Hoffman’s connections run deep. So,” I shrug. “I came here.”

  He nods. “You came to the right place. I need to process this and give it to Myers, though.”

  I take in a deep breath. “What if I don’t want it to go that way, though? Why can’t you take me on alone?”

  “Me?” he asks. With a sigh, he shrugs. “I’m here because they need the raw muscle. I can investigate Hoffman and see if there are any connections, but you came here because you need a team to help you.”

  I frown. I like being with him, not the other guys. Even though I’ve never even met the other people he works with, I already know this is what I want. He nods slowly.

  “Tell you what. You never need to communicate with anyone else. I’ll relay information but use their skills where mine are lacking. And I’ll brief you whenever we need to make a move. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I say. That I can get behind. I think.

  To my surprise, he lifts my hand to his mouth and gently places a kiss atop. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Zoe. But I can’t change who I am. I’m the guy who’s going to protect your ass, no matter what goes down. The only way this will work is if you let me, though.”

  Well now that’s sort of a weird thing to say. “Why would I stop you?”

  He raises a brow and cocks his head to the side. “I don’t want you be put yourself in danger,” he says. “So if I tell you to do something, I expect you follow through. Do you get me?”

  “Well, sure. Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

  His shoulders shake with a rumble that I don’t recognize at first as laughter. “We’ll see about that,” he says. “So first, I want you to take me back to your place. I want to be sure it’s safe, and I want to know the location. Okay?”

  I’m pretty sure this goes above and beyond the whole private investigator thing.

  “Okay, listen,” I tell him. “I’m not some damsel in distress, okay? I’m a trained officer, and I don’t need your protection. I didn’t come here for that. I came here because I need to find out what’s going on, and I need more than I’m capable of doing on my own.”

  I get angry, then, feeling my chest rising with the effort of keeping myself unruffled.

  “And you will,” he says with maddening calm. “But not without having some rules in place.”

  Rules? What the hell is he talking about? No way.

  “Are you fucking high?” I ask him. “I said I don’t need a keeper.” I roll my eyes and push away from the desk. This was a mistake. I’ve been in law enforcement long enough that I know going to any of my superiors or anyone else on the force would end in disaster. Why the hell am I here? What am I doing with myself?

  “Zoe,” he warns, standing up and pushing the chair behind him as he rises.

  “Seriously, Braxton, I’m fine. I shouldn’t have come here,” I say, and I turn to leave. He walks beside me but says nothing, just takes long, purposeful strides keeping up with mine, pushing his way to the door. With one shove, the door swings open. The secretary in the front gets to her feet, startled, and looks at us with wide eyes.

  “Do you need anything Mr. Cannon?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. For some reason, that pisses me off. Seriously, why does she have to bend over backward like that to please him?

  I frown, and march past her, but he follows by my side. “All set for now,” he says to the secretary. “We’ll talk later. I’ll make sure I fill in Myers. Thank you.”

  He opens the door to the exit, waits for me, and I go through. The bright sky nearly blinds me, and I halt, putting my hand to my eyes to shield them.

  “I’ll see you home,” he says.

  “Seriously, I’m fine,” I say, but he takes my hand then hails down a taxi.

  “I didn’t ask,” he says, as he blows out an angry breath. “Jesus, you need your ass spanked.”

  “You need your balls kicked,” I mutter in a knee-jerk reaction that surprises me.

  He doesn’t respond, but his eyes narrow and the grip on my hand tightens.

  I kinda like that he’s coming with me, but don’t really want him to know how I feel about this.

  He gestures for me to get into the taxi, and right then I feel something totally different than I have before. No one ever looks out for me like this. I’m the one in charge, the one with the power, but his deferential treatment of me is unusual and, if I admit it, a little sweet. A little.

  I won’t let him know that though. I slide into the musty-smelling taxi and he follows suit, his huge frame taking up so much of the seat it’s almost comical as our knees knock into each other. The door shuts, and the taxi driver turns to us. “Where to?”

  “758 Park Terrace, the Gild,” I instruct. “The Gild” is short for “Gild Apartment Buildings,” where my apartment lies several miles away, the little oasis I’ve built for myself that I’ve spent literally years creating. This is where I need to be. I’m suddenly totally aware that I didn’t sleep in my bed last night. I want to. I want to be alone, in my own bed. But as the taxi takes a
turn, my knees bang into his, and I turn to move away but his large, massive hand sprawls over my knee and steadies the trembling.

  “The Gild?” he asks.

  I nod. They’re a little on the high-end side, but this is what I need. Spending years going from one home to the next does something to a girl. I never wanted anything more in my life as badly as I wanted a quiet place of my own.

  We drive in silence, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady. I can’t calm the fuck down if I’m letting my head spiral out of control. Somehow, having him here with me like this, and the visit to the agency is a little too much for me. Overwhelming. Somehow, this situation is far more real now that he’s sitting next to me, as if his very presence makes the danger that lurks in the shadows far more real. This reminds me of our night together, how he held me close. How he kissed me tenderly and rough, then fucked me so perfectly I climaxed with his name on my lips. I remember the feel of his huge, dominant, warm hands on my thighs, on my breasts, cupping my ass. And I can’t help but wonder what else we could’ve done.

  We were at a BDSM Club. There were people half-dressed who were doing all sorts of things I had no idea about, and they were liking it. Why am I pushing away the one man who had the balls to take me on in freaking ever? Maybe this can work.

  The man identifies as a dom. Is that why Bea didn’t want me to leave with him? Does that mean Zack is a dom or something, too? Why wouldn’t he tell me? We’re hardly superficial people, but there’s something to be said for needing some privacy. Part of the downside of being on the force means that your life is not your own.

  The cab pulls up in front of my apartment building, and Brax gets out first, after handing a wad of cash to the driver. Frowning, I yank the money out of the man’s hand and slip my own in. Brax doesn’t see it because he’s already out of the car. “Thanks,” I say to the driver, ignoring Brax’s hand as it’s held out to me. I get up and move past him and as the taxi pulls away. I hand him his money back.

  “I can take care of myself,” I insist. He eyes the cash with a frown, but says nothing, just shoves it in his pocket. “I don’t think that following me to my apartment was part of our agreement,” I remind him. “In fact, if I remember correctly, we don’t have an agreement and we never have.”

  “You know what…” Brax says.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Do you think you can stop being bitchy for a minute and listen to me, instead of making your mind up about me before you ever even have the time to form an honest opinion?”

  Bitchy? Jesus. Who the hell does he think he is?

  He takes me by the hand and leads me into my building.

  “I’m not being a bitch, Braxton,” I protest. “God.”

  “I didn’t say you were a bitch,” he says. “I said you were being bitchy. There’s a difference.”

  Dude. Hardly.

  I roll my eyes and lead him to my apartment.

  “God,” he mutters. “Like I said. You need a good spanking.”

  “Hey!”

  “What?”

  We’re at my apartment now, and I wish my body didn’t respond to him so powerfully. At the word spanking, and the memory of what happened the night before, my heart flutters in my chest. Jesus, he’s hot, all big and strong and growly like this, even if I do want to sorta push him down the stairs. I eye him with curiosity when we reach the third floor and I open the door to my apartment. If push comes to shove, I could probably take him. I’ve been trained in self-defense, and I bet I could handle him just fine.

  The door swings open to my apartment and I gesture for him to follow me, but before I can get a word out, I see a dark blur out of the corner of my eye, like there’s some sort of meteor or comet falling from the sky, but in a moment, I realize it isn’t anything like that at all, but a man, screaming with maddening vehemence as he charges toward us. This is total bullshit.

  Instinctively, I assume the fighting stance, feet spread, and my knees bent slightly, ready to protect myself. My assailant swings a fist straight at me, but I duck, then block a second blow, pivot, and grab the arm that was swinging to attack me. With a rapid tug, I bring both of us to the ground, but I’ve got the upper hand now. I take him by the back of the head and slam his face into the ground, blood spurting from his nose in crimson rivulets. Now that he’s pinned to the ground, I hold his wrists in my hand. Fuck, I don’t have my cuffs or any weapons on me.

  “I need you to keep him down while I make some calls,” I say to Brax, but that second of lost attention on the guy beneath me is my downfall. He shoves up so fast from the floor I lose my balance. Brax reaches to help but the man slashes out, his hand fisting a knife that almost slices through Brax, but he dodges just in time. I lunge for him, but he’s too fast, and before I know what’s happening, the door to my apartment is swinging open and the son of a bitch is escaping. I run, needing to catch him, but Brax’s deep, booming voice halts me in my place.

  “Zoe, no!”

  I’m startled too much to act and by the time I realize I’m listening to Brax and not meaning to, my lead on the guy is gone. I growl in rage, furious he stopped me, and nearly shake my fist at him in a fit of temper as I race into the hallway. It’s too late. The guy’s gone.

  I storm back into my apartment and glare at Brax.

  “Why’d you do that?” I snap, marching over to him and without conscious thought, shoving my hands on his chest so he reels backward and his lower back smacks into the counter in my kitchen. I feel a pang of guilt as he stumbles but I immediately suppress it. I want to beat the shit out of the guy. I advance on him before he has a chance to fully recover and swing my fist out to deck him. God, he’s got me so mad I can hardly see straight, blood pounding in my ears, my head light with heat and anger but my purpose clear. I want him to know he doesn’t pull this with me. But as I swing, he ducks my blow, then dives, arms straight out so he grabs me around the torso and wrestles me straight to the floor.

  I’m flat on my back and he’s above me, one knee on either side of me, his massive hands pinning my wrists by my side. I try to flail but can’t, naturally, pinned like this. I may be trained, but even training doesn’t move a mountain off your chest.

  “You asshole,” I grit out, trying to push him to no avail. “I needed to see who the fuck that was and you had the nerve to stop me? What did you think you were doing?”

  His nostrils flare, his eyes flashing at me, and I can tell he’s restraining himself. “You have no idea how many people he was with, who’s still fucking out there. Who could be in here.”

  “What? There was a break-in. God! Some jerk was trying to steal my shit, and he didn’t expect to have some blowback to that. You’re acting like I was just ambushed or something.”

  He rolls his eyes heavenward, but his grip on me doesn’t diminish. “You think this was an isolated incident? Jesus, Zoe. Get your head outta your ass.”

  I squirm and try one more time to push him off me, but he only looks mildly amused and doesn’t budge. He continues. “You come to a private investigator for help, and magically an assailant appears in your apartment. And you don’t think the two are related?”

  Of course I think the two are related, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

  “I’m gonna go check this place to make sure it’s clear, and you’re gonna stay right here and not move a muscle.” He glares me into submission. “Do you understand me?”

  “Fine,” I spit out, just wanting to sit up and rub my wrists.

  He watches me for a full minute before he lets go of my wrists and stalks past my kitchen and through my apartment. I hear doors opening and closing.

  Someone could be in my closet. I close my eyes briefly. To my utter shock and disgust, my throat is tight, and my nose is tingly. And just that easily, I’m that kid again, hiding in a closet to save her ass. I know what it’s like to be hurt by someone who could beat you just because they were bigger. I know what it’s like to fear the s
ound of a door opening and wonder if tonight is the night he’d come home drunk and take out his anger and self-loathing on me. I made up my mind the day I broke free that I’d never let someone attack me again without a fight.

  But Jesus, the anger burns in me like a furnace, steady, scorching, like embers in a bonfire, ready to ignite. And when I suppress my anger, it comes out in my emotions. If I cry now, I’ll never be able to look at him again.

  Who was I last night? Why’d I ever let go of the control I cling so tightly to and let this guy fuck me? Now he thinks he’s some sort of boss of me. Who does that?

  I sit up and rub my wrists when he comes back in. “Coast is clear.”

  And then he does the unthinkable. His voice softens as he kneels beside me, and he’s talking in a low, soothing tone instead of one riddled with anger. “Listen, Zoe. Can we talk calmly? Or do I need to tie you up?”

  I glare at him, not moving, trying to quickly assess the situation so I can take him down if necessary, but I hesitate too long. He bends down and takes both my wrists in hand, pinning them by my side. “Do I?” he repeats, his fingers flexing on my flesh.

  He’s not joking. His eyes meet mine in bold challenge. I stare at him, not sure how to respond at first, and then a corner of his lips quirks up. “It’s sort of my specialty, you know.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “Bondage.”

  I huff out a breath. “Leave it to you to make this whole thing sexual. Jesus. Sleep with a guy once and now I have to put up with the jokes forever?”

  His eyes narrow. “Yeah, I’m not joking.”

  I don’t know if it’s because he fucked me senseless the night before, or because I’m still buzzing from the ridiculous amount of alcohol I consumed or what, but my mind immediately begins playing tricks on me. I imagine myself in the room where we were the night before, but now I’m tied up, his ropes around my wrists, crisscrossed around my body. A part of me wants to feel that. To experience that level of trust. To relinquish all control.