Framed

by Leslie Jones

  He smiled. “You hit like a girl. And under the right circumstances, you can tie me up any time you want.”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. After everything she’d done, he still flirted with her? An image of him tied up in her bed caused a rush of dampness at her core. If he hadn’t been sent to kill her, if he had, indeed, saved her from Palachka’s thugs . . .

  It might still be a ploy, though. She couldn’t afford just to take him at his word.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. If you feed me, I’ll be in a much better frame of mind to submit to your interrogation.”

  Her eyes widened, thrown off balance. “No way. As soon as I leave, you’ll find a bent nail or a sharp piece of wood and cut yourself free.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Uh-huh.” She threw her hands up, her multiple bracelets jingling. “I’m in The Twilight Zone. Things like this just don’t happen to me. Maybe I’m asleep.”

  Mace tilted his head to look up at her, giving her a warm, slow smile. “Naw, no way. If this were a dream, we’d be together on that bed.”

  She sucked in a breath. Yes. Yes, they would. No, wait. She’d walked away from him at the nightclub, and she could do it again now.

  “I’d’ve strewn rose petals over the pillows.”

  Lark beseeched her inner lust to show some sense and dissipate. “Stop saying things like that!”

  “I saw a restaurant down the road when we came in. It looks like it’s open all night. Probably caters to the college kids up the road at MIT,” he said, giving her a pitiful look and a hopeful smile. “They’ll probably do up a decent omelet. Bacon and extra cheese, please.”

  “All right! Stop it! I’ll get you some damned food. But if you try to escape, I’ll . . . I’ll shoot you.”

  With a revolver she didn’t know how to use. She’d finally loaded it, though. If she did go out and was attacked again, having it might make all the difference. She moved around him, pushing between his shoulder blades to see his wrists. He bent forward agreeably, then slouched back while she checked his ankles.

  “I’ll be here when you get back, chér’.”

  “Stop calling me that!” she snapped. “That means dear, right? Stop it.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She glared at him one more time before picking up the key card, dumping the revolver in her purse, and stomping to the door.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, February 18. 1:57 a.m.

  Hyatt Regency. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, he began working the wool scarf loose. Lark would be gone for at least a half an hour. More than enough time.

  Four minutes later, he sat down at the desk, nudged her laptop aside, and snagged the telephone. Jace answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me.”

  “Where the hell you at, asshole?”

  Mace chuckled. “Nice. I’m feeling the love.”

  “You’re going to feel my boot up your ass while you scrub latrines all weekend. Why did we find your cell in the parking lot next to a gun?”

  Mace blew out a breath. “It’s a little complicated. I saved a woman tonight from being taken against her will. She—”

  Jace broke in with a disgusted snort. “And she was so grateful you’re now snuggled up nice and tight? Jesus, Mace.”

  “Naw, it’s not like that,” he said quickly. As concisely as he could, he filled Jace in. “These guys were thugs. But if I hadn’t been there, they would have taken her.”

  “Is this some sort of prank? Because after scouring the area for an hour trying to find you, I’m not amused.”

  Mace winced. “Swear on my mother’s grave. I wish this were some big joke. I’m calling from the Hyatt Regency in Cambridge. I convinced the girl to go grab us some grub. She thinks I’m tied up.”

  Jace laughed. “Are you serious? Let me guess. She’s blonde with big—”

  “She’s scared.” Mace spoke over him. “The attack tonight was a total surprise to her. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “You are,” he pointed out. “She loaded her peashooter.”

  “True. But if she shoots me, it’d be the worst case of pure dumb luck I’ve ever come across. Trust me. She’s no criminal. She’s a total innocent. And she does need my help.”

  His team leader remained uncharacteristically silent.

  “Jace?”

  He blew an annoyed breath down the line. “Christ. You’re doing your Saint George slaying the dragon thing again, aren’t you? Rescuing a damsel in distress.”

  Mace didn’t know what to say to that. His teammates knew him better than anyone else on earth. They knew he couldn’t help himself. As he had for the young boy being bullied at school in Goldsboro, as he had for the Guatemalan woman beaten nearly to death by her abusive husband, his need to defend victims from predators defined him.

  “All right, Saint George. I’ll give you some latitude here.”

  “Thanks, man.” His apprehension eased. Jace had his back.

  He could almost feel Jace’s resigned shrug down the telephone wire. “What do you need?”

  He expelled a relieved breath. “Need a weapon, first off. Maybe two or three. Stephanie Tams to work her keyboard magic to figure out who Palachka is and why he’s after Lark. A safe house while we figure things out—”

  “Whoa. Slow your roll, soldier. I’ll send Alex to your hotel room to pick up your piece, and obviously we’ll help you for whatever time we have left here. But as for the rest, I’m not going to reroute regimental resources on what is probably nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. I get that you want—need—to help her, but I gotta ask. Are you sure you’re thinking with the right part of your body?”

  Mace hesitated. No, he wasn’t sure. But the fierce, fearless pixie brought every protective instinct he possessed roaring to the forefront.

  Jace sighed. “Sergeant Tams is a no-go. She’s working two missions and training the new kid. Archangel’s almost as good, though, and he’s not mission-ready until his ankle heals.”

  “That’ll teach him to miss the landing zone on such a simple night jump. Broken ankles are a pain.”

  “True dat.”

  “Thanks, Jace.”

  He exhaled a laugh. “Don’t thank me just yet. The minute we get the intel we’re waiting on, we all muster. Including you. Understood?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.” He hung up, feeling his muscles relax. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Lark to trust him.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, February 18. 2:00 a.m.

  Viktor Sokolov’s Home. Boston, Massachusetts.

  “Have you found my money yet?”

  Elliott dropped his video game controller, ripping off his headset as he lunged to his feet. What the hell? Uncle Viktor never came into his bedroom. “What are you doing here?”

  His uncle cast a sour look over the mess in his room. “It’s my house, or have you forgotten?”

  Elliott glanced around, forcing himself not to leap to pick up the pizza boxes and empty beer cans littering every surface, nor scrape his dirty clothes off the floor. This was his sanctuary, damn it, and his uncle had no right to barge in without so much as a knock.

  “I can fix it so both of us will be happy.”

  His uncle shook his head, seating himself uninvited on the wicker love seat. “I promised my goddamned sister I’d take care of you after your useless dud of a father died. And then she had to go and overdose, and I got stuck with you.”

  “That was nine years ago, Uncle Vik. I’m twenty-five now. I think you’ve done your duty.”

  To his surprise, his uncle’s face slackened in what he could only interpret as apprehension. “She’d come back to haunt me, I know she would. No, you’re staying put.”

  Seriously? His cool-as-a-cucumber, vicious uncle was afraid of ghosts? Elliott bit his tongue to keep anything stupid f
rom coming out of his mouth.

  He plopped back onto his DXRacer, the best gaming chair money could buy. Through the headphones on his desk, he could hear his friends complaining that he’d abandoned them at a critical point in their mission. He nudged the headphones farther away.

  “Where’s my money? Why are you wasting your precious time playing . . . whatever the hell that is?”

  Overwatch, but his uncle wouldn’t care less. “I’m still looking for the money, but I found the hacker.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s really tough to link just a handle to a person,” Elliott said. “Hackers are really cagy. Although this one’s not real good. Left her fingerprints all over the theft. That’s why I found her so fast.”

  “Fast? It’s been, what, fourteen hours?”

  Elliott rubbed the back of his head. “That is fast.”

  “And?”

  “Her name is Hadley Nia Larkspur. Turns out she lives right here in Boston.”

  His uncle nodded, but didn’t seem surprised. Then again, he didn’t show much of a reaction to anything. “Why didn’t you tell me right away when you found her?”

  “Uh.”

  “Still, now that you’ve found her,” he continued, saving Elliott from having to answer, “what do you think my next move should be?”

  Uncle Vik was asking his opinion? Pleased, Elliott straightened from his slouch. “I think you should have Palachka’s goon squad go pick her up. See what she has to say for herself.”

  His uncle nodded slowly. “That’s a good idea. A very good idea. Here’s the thing, though, Elliott. Palachka tells me a couple guys were already dispatched to grab her.”

  Oh, shit. Elliott shrank against the back of the chair.

  “Funnily enough, though, Palachka didn’t send them. The two idiots failed at such a simple task as to find one fucking woman. They finally crawled their moronic asses up to him to try to explain their inadequacy.”

  “Okay,” Elliott said, raising his hands. “Okay. I did that. I tracked the GPS on her phone, so I knew where she was. I figured I’d, uh, take the initiative and get her to return your money.”

  “And how did that work out for you, Elliott?”

  His uncle still seemed eerily calm. Elliott rubbed his palms against his thighs. “I can fix this, Uncle Vik. I’ll go myself. Talk to her. Convince her to—”

  “Since when has thinking gotten you anywhere, you incompetent deadbeat?” his uncle snarled, lunging from the wicker seat. He grabbed Elliott’s collar and yanked him to his feet. “Your job is to find my money. Where’s my fucking money?”

  Elliott grabbed his uncle’s wrists and pulled, but couldn’t break his grip. “I’m trying, I swear to God I am.”

  “By playing video games?” His uncle’s voice splintered with chilly impatience, but he released Elliott’s collar and moved to the center of the bedroom. Elliott collapsed back into his chair. “Those two fools you sent out. Don’t you play video games with them?”

  Foreboding swept through him. “No. I mean, sometimes, but—”

  “Sure you do. That’s why you picked them. No one else would believe Palachka sent you with a message.”

  Yes, that’s exactly why he’d chosen them. Elliott shoved his hands into his pockets. How could he get out of this?

  “Your two playmates won’t be joining you tonight. Nor any other night. They’re decomposing in a landfill somewhere. I’m still trying to decide if you should join them.”

  “I have three algorithms running,” Elliott said, feeling a trickle of sweat sliding down his temple. “I’m backtracking along the hack to find the IP address where the theft originated. I’ll find the money.”

  “When, Elliot.”

  Behind him, one of his monitors signaled. Tink tink tink tink. Taken aback, Elliott spun around in his chair and leaned close to the dark terminal window, where lines of search information had ceased to scroll. A single line at the bottom flashed.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I got it. The originating IP address.”

  He typed in a quick command to back-trace the address, then stared, mouth dropping open. “Huh?”

  “Talk to me, Elliott,” his uncle barked.

  He shook his head to clear it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. No way. No fucking way. This must be some sort of joke. He brought up a public IP tracker in a browser window, and repeated the trace.

  “Elliott. Now.”

  “Uh,” he managed, turning back. “So this IP address—”

  “Explain it in English, not geek-talk.”

  Elliott scratched his chin, unwelcome shivers tripping along his spine. “Okay. Okay. So I followed the trail back to a . . . a unique combinations of numbers that tells me what network the hack came from.”

  “And?”

  “I ran it twice. It’s one of the standard networks used by . . . by the FBI. Why on earth would the FBI want to steal your money, Uncle Vik? What’s going on?”

  His uncle crossed his arms, gripping his biceps on either side. It was an even worse sign than the temper in his eyes. “I don’t know. Does Larkspur work for the FBI? I want to know everything about her, Elliott. Every fucking thing. Get me that information. Understood?”

  Elliott fisted his hands under his thighs. “I will, Uncle Vik.”

  “You better. No one steals from me and lives.”

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, February 18. 2:12 a.m.

  Clover Food Lab. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why had she let her prisoner convince her to leave him all by himself while she waited endlessly for their meals to be prepared? He must be laughing his ass off about her gullibility. But she’d really, really needed a few minutes to process. To think rationally, without Mace’s distracting presence.

  By now, he’d probably freed himself and was lying in wait for her. She couldn’t risk going back to the hotel. Her safest option would be to get into her Jeep and drive home. Better yet, she could go upstairs to Kaley’s suite and sleep on the couch. Her dress and shoes were up there already.

  Nothing, not even a gorgeous assassin, would keep her from her sister’s wedding.

  Lark couldn’t leave without her laptop, though. She’d modified the standard FBI-issued one, and needed those special programs to help her decipher the code from her current project. That meant returning to her hotel room. Or, she thought, she could come back the next day, after housekeeping found and released her prisoner.

  But what if Mace didn’t leave, just patiently waited for her to return? Or Palachka’s men staked out the hotel? At least if she went back now, there was a chance Mace would still be tied up.

  She paid cash for the food and bundled it and herself into her car. The best option was still to go back and talk to him. It would serve her right if he escaped, after how she’d treated him. She’d never struck another human being in her life. Shame burned in her gut. True, she’d hesitated at the last minute. Now he had to know she wasn’t equipped to beat the truth out of him. Assuming he hadn’t yet freed himself, how would she get any answers? Maybe he’d take pity on her.

  Parking the car in front of the hotel, she unloaded the bags, rode the elevator up, and approached her door warily. She pressed her ear against it, but heard nothing. Well, what had she expected? If he planned to attack her, he certainly wouldn’t be playing the radio or singing. Biting her lip, she slid the card into the reader with fingers that shook, then eased the door open by degrees, ready to run at the first suspicious noise.

  “Finally,” came a deep voice. “I’m starving.”

  Lark released her breath in a rush. Her prisoner still sat in the armchair, just where she’d left him, arms behind his back and boots strapped together with her filmy scarf. She set the bags on the desk, her glance flicking to him and away.

  “Did you think I’d get free and plan your demise?”

  “It occurred to me, yes,” she admitted. “I don’t think Donna Karan had t
his in mind when she designed that scarf, though.”

  Mace laughed. “Hey, it brings out the blue in my eyes.”

  “Huh.” She glared at his feet. His eyes, like the rest of him, were gorgeous. “I didn’t notice. It’s time to tell the truth, Thomas Beckett.”

  His stomach growled, loudly enough for her to hear it. “Could we eat before the interrogation? Pretty please?”

  She wished he would stop giving her the melting gazes and amiable smiles. Why wasn’t he angry? Fuming? Spewing threats? He did have beautiful eyes, though. And smile. And . . . she cut her thoughts off.

  “I guess so. I need to eat, too.”

  “Great,” he said with enthusiasm. “You’ll need to feed me, though.”

  What? Aw, hell. She groaned as she realized she hadn’t thought this through. She either needed to cut him loose . . . or hand-feed him. “No way. You’ll bite me.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Only if you want me to, chér’.”

  “No. No no no. God.” She pulled two Styrofoam boxes from the bag and a couple of bottles of water, then dragged the desk chair close to him. His large frame dwarfed the armchair. The grooves along his mouth deepened as he watched her fidget with the box. Shit. Get on with it, she ordered herself. And while you’re at it, quit looking at his perfect lips. He ran his tongue across his full lower lip, the corners tipping up very slightly.

  “Fine. Open up.” Flipping up the lid on his omelet, she grabbed a plastic fork and jabbed it into the eggs. She scooped out a bite and thrust it at him. The egg fell off the fork and into his lap.

  He grinned. “I guess tha’s better than egg on my face.”

  Lark’s cheeks reddened. She glanced at the glob and away again.

  “Can you get it off? It’s hot. I’m getting burned here.” The look on his face suggested he was enjoying her predicament too much.

  No way was she touching him, there or anywhere else. She thought for a minute, then reached down and flicked it off with the fork, scooping the mess into a napkin and pitching it into the trash can.