All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  “If you’re not going to help, just say so and be done with it. I’m a big girl. I can handle rejection.”

  I eye her carefully.

  “You sure about that? Because your slinking off into the dead of night—after I refused your previous request—springs to mind.”

  “Janus.”

  “I get it, I get it,” I say, waving a hand dismissively.

  I need to keep her at arm’s length, or I’m in danger of making a mistake again.

  I turn to face her properly.

  “I’m not saying I’m going to do it…” Dani’s eyes light up at that, as if I’ve just said that I’ll help her for certain, “…because I’m fairly certain I won’t, but I won’t leave until I’ve asked Leviathan to do some web snooping for me, first. If I don’t like something on what he’ll find, I’m leaving. And you should, too.”

  Dani laughs.

  “You really think that will work on me when it failed the first time? If you don’t like the look of it, all the more reason there is for me to stay.”

  This fucking woman is impossible. I suddenly need another drink.

  I clench my cheap jacket.

  “Well, this has been wonderful, as usual, but I have somewhere I need to be. I’ll be in touch.”

  Danielle makes a face. I can’t help but love the way she wrinkles her nose—it’s adorable.

  “Do you really have to be so…cordial? After everything we’ve been through?”

  “It’s precisely because of everything we’ve been through that I’m so cordial.” I incline my head. “Good day, Dani.”

  As soon as I’m back in my room, I go straight to the mini fridge and pull out some whiskey.

  I’d prefer some semi-decent scotch, but Jameson will have to do.

  I finish it in one go.

  The woody and nutty tones of the deep amber-colored booze burns my throat, but it doesn’t do what I want it to.

  I change into something more presentable and make my way downstairs to the hotel’s bar.

  Its lounge is lightly populated and the bar itself is nearly void of any guest.

  I sit at the far corner of the bar and order myself a glass of scotch.

  A woman sitting at the other side gives me a tentative smile. I humor her with a charming smile of my own.

  She’s attractive enough, with auburn hair and eyes that match her flowery sundress. Even though Greece is currently unseasonably warm, I still personally find it far too mild for her to be wearing such an outfit.

  But she’s no Danielle. If I’m resolute to never go near her again, this other woman is certainly no acceptable substitute.

  When she moves to come over and speak to me, I shake my head, indicating that she should most definitely leave me alone. Somewhat put out, the woman leaves the bar, leaving me blessedly alone.

  The barman dutifully slides my drink and then leaves me to my solitude, which I’m grateful for. Another place that values quiet service. I mentally note down to make use of this hotel again.

  And with nothing but my alcohol for company, I commit to mulling over my entire situation with Danielle.

  I know I shouldn’t get involved with her again—both for my sanity and to avoid the impending, very obvious danger that comes with trying to tackle a human trafficking ring with dirty police involved.

  Yet…

  There’s no denying the case is interesting, very interesting. And there are very real, very scared people that need to be saved. I can’t help but think of those who have already suffered or even died at the hands of the people responsible.

  Anymore suffering would be blood on my hands if I choose to do nothing when I could’ve helped.

  But it’s still far too dangerous. There’s an unreasonable, unforgivable chance of genuinely dying by trying to take this trafficking ring down. And I’m not ready to die yet.

  We’ll all die someday, but you can be damn sure I’m delaying that day for as long as I fucking can.

  I sigh heavily, letting my head droop over my scotch.

  I know I’m acting like a selfish twat. Before meeting Danielle Robinson, Janus O’Connell would’ve attested to me being careful and diligent instead. But the Janus of today knows better.

  I’ve regretted not agreeing to help Dani in South Sudan from the very moment I realized she had abandoned me. I just didn’t want to admit it.

  So much for a smooth operator. If she could see me now.

  I sit up straight at the mere thought. Appearances still very much matter to me, after all. I can’t be seen moping.

  It shouldn’t matter what Danielle thinks of me.

  We’re in different lines of work. Her understanding of my world, and likewise my understanding of hers, crosses only very tangentially. It simply shouldn’t matter.

  And yet here I am, discovering that it does.

  But she left you.

  And that’s the stickler for me.

  I looked out for her best interests, cared for her—allowed myself to be vulnerable with her, no less—but that wasn’t enough.

  The only reason she contacted me now was because she needed my help, not because she wanted to see me as Janus O’Connell.

  She needed The Jackal. She needs The Jackal, but it’s Janus who has needed her for three years. I laugh under my breath at my own stupidity.

  This is why love can get you caught. Or worse—love can get you killed in my line of work.

  It’s why I shouldn’t get involved with Danielle Robinson.

  But there’s Griffin and Kalista, laughing and embracing tantalizingly on the very edge of my mind.

  Why should Griff be allowed to have made it work, when I can’t?

  I don’t wish my brother any ill will, of course. He deserves to be happy, and I wish him and Kali all the best. But I’m jealous.

  There. I’ve admitted it. I’ve been jealous from the very beginning.

  Finishing my drink, I settle my bill and bid goodbye to the barman, who inclines his head politely.

  I’ve got to think of something else. Anything.

  The case. I’ll think about the case.

  I did promise to contact Leviathan, after all. I’ve planned to do that all along. I’m not doing it to distract myself from Danielle at all.

  If I had the audacity to punch myself in the face, I’d do it.

  “Get a grip, Janus,” I mutter when I make it back up to my room. “Get a fucking grip.”

  But I don’t see that happening any time soon.

  Chapter 10

  Danielle

  You’d think, eventually, people would get tired of telling me ‘no.’

  I’m certainly sick of hearing it.

  But it annoys me more, when I hear Janus say it.

  It hurts—not that I’d let him know that—to see how much he underestimates me. Janus might say that it’s because he doesn’t want to see me hurt, but if people just let me get on with my investigations the way I want to, I’d be fine.

  Maybe throwing South Sudan in his face was a low move.

  I probably shouldn’t have done it.

  But bringing up the past was what it took to get Janus to shut up about my plans for the future, so I can’t feel fully regretful on doing it.

  I don’t know where Janus went yesterday after our talk about his undercover work at the police station, but I almost wished he had stayed. If that was going to be our last night as allies, then I wish that we could have ended it like we did in South Sudan.

  But he was probably back to whatever pied-a-terre or hotel room he’s got in the city, and if he wanted to, he could’ve picked up a girl from a bar on the way. It’s not like the capital city is lacking of hotels, tiny apartments, and women. The whole place is a tourist trap.

  People pass in and out of temples and ruins, go to museums, take selfies in front of statues, and take boats out to the island monasteries. If one of those boats doesn’t make it to its destination, it’s unlikely anyone would notice.

  That’s not
even counting the natives or the ex-pats who’ve moved to the city in their retirement.

  And on top of that, there are refugees coming in and out of Greece, trying to find safety anywhere that they can in the whole country. Refugees who are weak and vulnerable and who don’t have family to miss them or identification to keep them safe within the system.

  It’s perfect for someone to lie low, to not be seen—like Janus and me.

  It’s also the perfect place to form a human trafficking ring. Vulnerable people go missing all the time, and the world rarely cares for them.

  But I care.

  I’m meeting my contact at a little café near the acropolis and the temple of Athena. It’ll be bursting with tourists who need to escape the sun, so I doubt that the two of us will be overheard. Not that it will stop me from checking over my shoulder every couple of minutes as I walk through the streets.

  Paranoia causes me to try every trick that I know to make sure that I’m not being tailed. First, I pretend to stumble and crouch down, pretending to fix the straps of my shoes whilst looking behind me to see if anyone has stopped.

  I see a man slip into a nearby storefront as soon as my head peeks through my arm.

  He’s wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt, with short brown hair and a strong jaw. I commit these details to memory and keep walking.

  Next, I simply do a case of simple misdirection—doubling back on myself and walking a completely alternate route. I’m not even thinking about the café; instead I’m strolling as a tourist would—pausing at interesting locations, taking photos on my phone, and constantly checking to see if I recognize anyone.

  I see the well-dressed man again, except now he’s wearing sunglasses. They seem to be designer glasses—probably upper level Ray Bans or Armani. So, he’s not the usual type of goon that they send on after me.

  If anything, he’s worse. Usually, I don’t notice them until they’re breathing down my neck, but that’s suspicious in itself.

  Does he want me to see him?

  Given the amount of times I’ve paused and stopped for ice cream and taken a picture, this goon has had ample time to grab me and give me the good ol’ fashioned shakedown.

  He’s probably just here to listen to whatever I learn.

  Well, the joke’s on him.

  I walk back through the streets—clutching my purse and my can of mace tighter against my body—and head to the café. I’m almost certain that I can lose him in a tiny, family-run coffee shop, where you can rarely find a seat and have your order heard, let alone overhear a stranger’s entire conversation.

  I see the familiar dark crop of hair that belongs to my contact sitting at the window bar, watching the streets, and waiting for my arrival.

  I know her as Pandora—for the numerous times she has opened the box of secrets for me and let all the ugly in the world spill over the front pages. I’m fairly certain she’s a journalist, too, and somehow, she has contacts with the Athens police, but she’s never told me exactly. It’s safer that way, for the both of us.

  I wait five minutes for my latte to be made and join her. There are no seats at the bar, so I perch beside her.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask with a smile of faux nervousness.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  I’m also standing right by the door, so our conversation is drowned out by the constant opening and closing of the door, and the air conditioning unit that barely keeps the whole place cool.

  “You’ve been drawing attention to yourself.”

  “With an ass like this, when don’t I?”

  I smile still, but Pandora’s face is stony serious. She’s usually got a stick up her ass, but the weight of her scowl feels heavier than usual.

  “You can joke, but when they take you, that ass will be your biggest regret.”

  “Are they going to take me?”

  “If you keep going, you won’t give them much of a choice.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re everyone, everywhere. They’re the authorities, and they’re the bums on the street.”

  Pandora sighs and takes a sip of her half-empty Americano.

  “You need to drop this investigation.”

  “Not fucking happening.”

  I feel a flash of indignation and anger. Pandora’s usually paranoid about what she tells me, but she’s never actually told me to stop before.

  “Why should I stop?”

  “If you succeed with your investigation, it’ll mean jail time for a lot of people, and it’ll hurt the pockets of so many more.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good enough excuse not to rescue people from slavery, Pandora.”

  “The Greek economy…”

  “Fuck the Greek economy! These are women and children —wives, mothers, and daughters. If you were taken next, wouldn’t you want someone to look for you?”

  Pandora chews on her lower lip and runs a manicured hand through her hair as she thinks. She’s only trying to look after me, but I’m not a little girl to be taken care of.

  I look around the café, wondering if the well-dressed goon from earlier has managed to find a seat. I see him—or I think I do—on the other side of the café, perched on the arm of a leather sofa, holding a teacup and saucer in his hands.

  He catches me looking at him, and smirks in my direction.

  The penny drops.

  I know that’s a cup of Earl Grey—with a sugar and the barest splash of milk.

  And I know it’s fucking Janus.

  I turn my head back to Pandora, who seems to have finished thinking.

  She sighs in defeat.

  “I don’t know anything else, except that they’re noticing you.”

  “Honestly, I’d be surprised if you did, Pandora.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt. If you’re not careful, this really could be the last lead you’d ever follow.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “That’s what scares me. At least, promise me that you’ll be careful. I’d hate to lose you.”

  Pandora has a point. After the years that she’s been my informant and I’ve been hers—to a lesser extent—we have developed some semblance of friendship.

  It’s dangerous, especially in our line of work, but sometimes you can’t help it when you develop feelings for someone.

  It almost reminds me of Janus.

  But that might just be the weight of his eyes on my back.

  “I’ll be as careful as I can, Pandora.”

  “Which is not very careful at all,” she smiles weakly and finishes her coffee.

  For a moment, Pandora looks at me sadly—a lingering gaze that tells me she does know something. Perhaps not a lot, but she understands at least how dangerous this story is.

  I smile back with a grin that shows off my teeth.

  It’s almost scary how concerned she is, but I won’t let her see my fear.

  It’s quickly replaced anyway, by determination. If Pandora thinks that I won’t make it through this, then she’s just another person I’ve got to prove wrong.

  “Here, have my seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sit in the window, resting both my elbows on the bar and watching as Pandora slips into the crowd and out of sight.

  Time to plan my next move.

  Chapter 11

  Janus

  I have to admit—Danielle can take care of herself.

  She knew all the tricks in spotting a tail. If I had been some underpaid henchman with only three brain cells, she would’ve spotted me in a second.

  She did spot me—but that’s because I wasn’t trying very hard to hide.

  And it was clever of her to use a tourist trap like that to meet with her informant. The whole place was writhing with people and foreign languages. I could barely hear a word she said over the sounds of a frazzled French woman in my ear.

  I still worry about her, though.

  Dani
can handle herself—as she has reminded me—and she proved that in South Sudan. But if I had been with her, she wouldn’t have needed to ‘handle’ herself at all. Dani wouldn’t have met danger if I had been by her side.

  But I couldn’t stay. And she shouldn’t have either.

  In my line of work, it’s best to look after yourself first. Catching feelings is a death wish. Either that, or you get caught and arrested.

  Dani already proved how much of a liability she could be by ratting me out to the GSG9 in Berlin. I could count the number of people who knew about that flat on one hand, and it was for good reason.

  I should get out now, while I still can.

  And yet, as I swipe the keycard to my hotel room, I know that’s not going to happen.

  I throw my Armani sunglasses onto the sofa as I step into the room and loosen my shirt by one more button.

  I open the mini-fridge and pour myself a glass of whiskey over some ice.

  It’s not even early afternoon, but I need something to take the edge off. I should probably find a way to get rid of all this tension. Maybe I’ll go down to a local bar later and see if I can find a nice woman.

  Ideally, I’d rather be fucking Danielle. But I can’t.

  It’s wrong to mix business and pleasure—again.

  It never works, or at least that’s the lie I tell myself.

  I open the balcony doors and begin to sweep the room for bugs—checking all the usual spots: in the lampshades, the inside of the bookshelf, under the vanity. I checked for some this morning, and found nothing, and this search has yielded the same result.

  But I’m not surprised. No one even knows I’m in the country. The room is booked under an identity that I’ve never used before, and a separate identity is indicated in the passport I used at the airport.

  I don’t expect anyone to be listening in on my conversations. If they did, the sound of the traffic would drown them out.

  I fish out one of my burner phones, and I type in Leviathan’s current phone number. The line rings a couple of times—probably whilst he’s scanning the call to ping my location and figure out if he recognizes the number—but then I hear his cheerful voice.

  While it’s never usually good to hear from Leviathan, he’s always seemingly happy to talk to me.