Not that she was so very beloved anymore. But then, she’d never been a niece, either, so what did it matter?
Tony set his load down at the foot of the bed, then glanced around. “Was it as satisfying as you’d thought it would be?”
The question startled her, a nice accompaniment to the cool prickling at her nape that had started when she’d reached the landing. She tried to erase the discomfort with a smile. “How did you—?”
“I know you.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she admitted.
“Because Henry wasn’t here to witness it?”
She shrugged.
“He won’t be here to witness it when you bring his empire crashing down.”
Stifling an impatient sigh, she went to slide her arms around his waist. “No, he won’t. But for the first time in my life, I’ll be so totally free that I won’t care. Free to do what I want, to please whom I want. Free to live my own life. To have . . . things.” Love. Marriage. Friends. Family.
He nuzzled her hair back from her ear. “You already please me. Isn’t that enough?”
His question called to mind a line from an old song. Sometimes love just ain’t enough. She’d never imagined that. She’d always thought that loving someone, and being loved in return, could overcome anything. Was she idealistic or just plain uninformed? After all, she’d never felt this kind of normal, whole, healthy love until Tony. What did she know about it?
Instead of answering his question, she kissed him, breaking away only when Gentry and Jamieson entered the room. They left the bags they carried at the foot of the bed, then Gentry said, “We’ll be around if you need anything. Use the intercom.” She gestured toward the panel next to the door before following Jamieson from the room.
Though she longed to return to Tony’s embrace, Selena began unpacking. Her movements felt stiff, forced, as she carried an armload of clothes to the closet, as she emptied a bag full of shoes. She didn’t want to be in this place, didn’t want to let its darkness embrace her. But living there temporarily was the only way she could go back to Tony’s cozy little house on Princeton Court. It was a price worth paying.
As she placed a stack of underwear in a dresser drawer, she glanced at his reflection in the mirror. “You can spend the night if you’d like.”
He looked around again, then his gaze drifted to the doorway. Across the hall was William’s study, where he’d spent so many hours visiting with his godfather. Where Selena had shot Tony. Where he had shot William. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”
She understood. He had choices, and she couldn’t blame him for taking the one she would make, given the opportunity. “Well . . .”
Forcing a smile, he caught hold of her hand and pulled her out into the hall. Their footsteps echoed on the bare stone as they descended the stairs, then walked out onto the porch. There he held her close once more. “Call me.”
“I will,” she promised. “You call me, too.”
He nodded. “I, uh, I’ll see you when I can.” A hard squeeze, a quick kiss, and he was heading toward the steps.
“Tony?” She tried, but couldn’t hold back the plea. “Don’t stop loving me.”
On the top step, he stopped and, amazingly, laughed. “Oh, yeah, right. As if I could. I’ll see you soon, babe.”
5
The mansion, Selena had discovered after an extensive tour, was more of a museum, or mausoleum. Filled with great antiques and priceless art, it was cold, lifeless—not the sort of place she wanted to call home, not even temporarily. But her second-floor bedroom was comfortable enough, and the ballroom that encompassed the third floor offered tremendous possibilities. It seemed a world apart from the stiff formality below—a world apart from William. She could easily envision him in the rooms downstairs, could feel his presence in every object, in every shadow, but she felt no such presence in the ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows that let in an astonishing amount of light, the expansive wood floor, and the extravagantly high ceilings made it the perfect place to paint, to work out, just to breathe . . . or to plot an undercover operation that would, she hoped, result in a lot of arrests and few, if any, deaths. Especially not her own.
By ten Thursday morning, she had turned a corner of the massive room into a gym. Mats covered the gleaming wood, and the lines and pulleys of a home gym cast shadows on the pale blue walls. The FBI had turned another section into a conference area, bringing up a cherrywood table from the library, along with a set of matching chairs.
It was the first argument she’d won with Robinette. He’d suggested using the second-floor study, and she’d refused. The brief times she’d spent there were filled with more bad memories than she could handle. She’d suffered such disappointment and heartache within those walls. She didn’t think she could set foot inside again.
Robinette hadn’t made the suggestion out of spite. He was analytical by nature, cynical by experience. Emotion, she suspected, held no place in his life, and certainly not in his job. He wouldn’t feel guilty if anything happened to her, but he would do his damnedest to make sure nothing did. It was a matter of pride for him, of doing his job efficiently.
She had lost their next argument. He’d prohibited her from running along the river that morning, so she’d made endless laps instead, back and forth along the rear fence, with Gentry following at ten paces and the guards stationed at the back gate watching. It had given her the opportunity to note the recently installed motion sensors, as well as the greatly extended surveillance system. William had been overly confident with his security setup, which had allowed her to break in twice. The FBI, she’d been pleased to see, were doing serious upgrades.
“You know how to spar?” she asked Jamieson as she finished up on the home gym and dried the sweat from her face.
“Sure.”
“Come on.” Rising from the bench, she picked up two sets of sparring gear and offered one to him.
He gave her a dubious look. “I don’t fight girls.”
“Afraid she’ll kick your ass?” Robinette asked from his seat at the head of the table.
Jamieson tilted William’s antique chair back on its rear legs. “My mother would kick my ass if I even thought about hitting a girl—”
Selena gave the back of the chair a shove. His arms swung wildly as he tried to catch himself, then he crashed to the floor with a grunt. “Hey! That was a sucker move!”
“You’re right. Sorry. Let me help you up.” She offered her hand, and he grudgingly took it. As he pushed away from the floor with his other hand, she pulled, taking advantage of his forward momentum to execute a flip. The ballroom echoed with the slap of his body against the wood. He lay there, his mouth working but lacking the air to produce sound.
“Another sucker move, huh? Sorry again.” She turned . . . and walked into a punch that sent her reeling. Regaining her balance an instant before stumbling into the gym equipment, she shook her head, then focused on Gentry.
The woman stood, weight evenly balanced, a faint smile curving her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, her apology no more sincere than Selena’s had been.
Selena worked her jaw side to side, decided it was all right, then tossed the sparring gear at Gentry before donning her own. All her past sparring partners had been men—at the gym in Key West where she’d trained, at the Tulsa gym where she’d worked out—and her only real fights had been against men, as well. She figured she could more than hold her own against the smaller woman.
Gentry struck first with a kick that sliced through the air mere centimeters from Selena’s head. Selena’s responding kick connected low on Gentry’s back and sent her sprawling. She regained her feet an instant after hitting the mat and tried a heel-palm strike. Selena blocked it, but the other woman grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard.
“Okay.” Robinette set aside the file he’d been studying and glanced around the room. “Can you listen while you do that?”
“Sure,” Selena responded, as Gentry forced h
er to the floor. A knee to the back knocked her flat on the mat, and an instant later, the full brunt of Gentry’s weight held her there. The woman was trying to maneuver her arm around Selena’s throat, but she resisted, tucking her chin tightly to her chest, until an opportunity presented itself.
When she’d bitten Damon Long the night he’d broken into her bedroom, he’d bellowed in pain and smacked her across the face. Gentry merely grunted and eased her grip long enough for Selena to wriggle onto her back, then dislodge the woman with an upward heave.
“Davis kept a lot of records,” Robinette said. “Unfortunately, most of them are encrypted. Even the parts of his journals that deal with the business are written in some kind of code that we haven’t figured out yet. We’ve learned a little there, and we’ve conducted extensive interviews with the people arrested after the incident. We’re also working with local law enforcement in Boston, Savannah, and Philadelphia to determine which drug operations in those areas might be Davis’s. Long can help us with that, though he can lie to us, too. We’ll take his word when we have to. We’ll try to verify everything else. Jamieson did a preliminary check of Davis’s family. He’s got a sister, and she’s got a husband and a son. Husband’s a lawyer in Alabama, the son’s a stockbroker in Florida. They’re all clean—no arrests, names have never come up involved in anything illegal, they’re not on any known associates list. Nothing to suggest that they even knew about Davis’s business, much less participated.”
Gentry was circling, and Selena kept pace with her, her gaze shifting constantly from face to hands to feet. Gentry was good, though; she didn’t telegraph her intentions, but came in with a jab to the abdomen that Selena blocked, and a chop to the upper right arm that she didn’t. Though Gentry had pulled the punch—if she hadn’t, Selena’s arm would be broken—intense pain radiated from the blow.
Selena took a step back and massaged the spot. When she lowered her hand, Gentry mouthed something around the mouth guard that might have been, “I’m sorry,” but just as easily could have been, “Fuck you.”
Then she struck in the same place again.
For the first time since Monday’s ambush, Selena’s left arm provided the least of her pain. Sweat dripped off her, and her right arm was rapidly swelling. So far, she’d gotten the worst of this workout, a position she wasn’t accustomed to. She’d walked away from many a sparring match bruised and battered, but able to say she’d given as good as she got. This one wasn’t going to be any different.
She stripped off the red vinyl-covered mitts, loosened the strap that secured the headgear, then approached Gentry, her hand extended. Warily Gentry offered her own hand for a shake, drawing back at the last instant but too late to save herself. Gripping the woman’s hand, Selena took her to the floor with a sweep kick, then swiftly flipped her onto her stomach. Keeping her there with her knee centered in her back, Selena pinned her wrists together and raised them high between the shoulder blades. With her free hand, she pulled out the mouth guard and said, “You’re not bad.”
“Not bad, my ass. I’m damn good. You’re taller and heavier, and I still inflicted the only real damage.” Gentry didn’t waste any energy trying to free herself but waited until Selena let go and got to her feet. Then she stood as well and moved both shoulders in an exaggerated shrug to ease their strain.
“If you two are done, can we get back to work?” Robinette asked impatiently. “Jamieson’s got to leave to pick up Long, and we need to be ready.”
Drying her face with a towel, Selena took two bottled waters from the small stainless-steel fridge against one wall, tossed one to Gentry, then drank deeply from the other. “I’m listening.”
“When Long gets here, you introduce us to him. You have our backgrounds.”
She nodded. He’d given her the typed information the night before—a little bedtime reading, he’d said with what passed for a smile. Their assumed identities came with assumed criminal backgrounds, much of which she’d committed to memory as she’d tried to distract herself from where she was . . . and who she wasn’t with.
“Lay out the rules for him right up front—no weapons, no access to a phone, no going anywhere on his own. Give him whatever story you want—it’s the terms of his release, you don’t trust him, whatever. Start off strong with him. Otherwise, since he has all the knowledge, he’ll think he’s also got all the power.”
Pretend that she had power. Why not? She was pretending about everything else.
“What does he know about Ceola?”
She shrugged. “I told him Tony was no longer a concern.”
“Then maybe he shouldn’t come around here anymore.”
Selena’s chest tightened. If she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, and Tony wasn’t allowed to come to the estate . . . The operation would take weeks, probably months. With no contact with Tony? “We’ll have to negotiate that,” she said, aiming for that strength Robinette had recommended moments earlier. When he opened his mouth, she raised one hand. “Tony isn’t a threat to me, and as large as this estate is, there should be no problem with keeping Long from knowing when he’s here.”
“Ceola’s a cop, and you’re a drug dealer.”
“He’s a cop with a legitimate investigative interest in this house and in me. If that interest requires an occasional visit . . .” She shrugged. Even bona fide criminals had occasional contact with law enforcement. She’d been involved in a major homicide case that had been wrapped up in that very house, and no one—not William’s associates, not any hit men waiting out there for her, not even Long—would be surprised if the lead detective showed up a time or two.
“We’ll see,” Robinette said dismissively. “Tell Long you want the quick course on who’s who in your organization. Concentrate on the big names, the ones responsible for each of the East Coast operations. Find out the status of operations at the time of Davis’s shooting. Get names, contact information, details.”
Selena nodded. Pretend to be strong and in control while acknowledging that she knew nothing about the business. Piece of cake.
But at least Long knew she knew nothing. It was the others, those responsible for the operations, that she had to fool.
“Okay.” Robinette glanced at his watch. “Jamieson, you’d better get going. You two”—he nodded at Selena and Gentry in turn—“need to hit the showers. Meet back here as soon as Jamieson’s back with Long.”
Selena trailed Gentry to the door, then turned. “In the meantime, Mr. Robinette, why don’t you see about the lunch?”
His grumble followed her down the stairs. “See about lunch? What does she think I am? Her goddamn personal assistant?”
With the unfamiliar discomfort of the electronic bracelet chafing his ankle, Damon followed the corrections officer through a doorway and into the reception area. Outprocessing hadn’t taken as long as he’d expected. A few more yards, and he would be outside and free . . . more or less.
The guard stopped in front of a man waiting near the door. “This is Damon Long,” he announced uninterestedly before leaving them alone.
“Nice to meet you.” The stranger offered his hand.
Damon ignored the hand and instead looked him over head to toe. His jacket was expensive and well cut, but didn’t quite disguise the shoulder holster underneath. His watch was pricey, as well. He looked like a banker or an accountant—book-smart, soft, harmless. “Who the hell are you?”
“Brian Jamieson.”
“Yeah. Who the hell are you?”
“I work for Ms. McCaffrey. Same as you.”
Selena hadn’t said a damn thing to him about bringing in strangers. Personnel had always been his responsibility—hiring them, firing them, and, except on rare occasions when William’s temper got the better of him, killing them.
Restraining a snort, Damon pushed the door open and stepped outside. Hell, he’d decided, would bear a strong resemblance to summertime in Oklahoma, but it was a damn sight better outdoors than it had been inside. The air
smelled better, things looked clearer, and life had possibilities. It had restrictions, too, he acknowledged, as the bracelet shifted with his movement, but that was all right. He was experienced at escaping restrictions.
Jamieson gestured to a car in the nearest parking space— William’s Cadillac. “Where are we going?” Damon asked as he opened the passenger door.
“Mr. Davis’s estate.”
So one of Selena’s old wishes had finally come true—she was living in William’s house. He would have figured she’d want to stay hell and gone from there, considering the bad memories the place must hold for her. Then again, maybe all those memories hadn’t been so bad after all. Maybe neither he nor William had known her nearly as well as they’d thought.
“When did she hire you?”
Jamieson fastened his seat belt, looked over both shoulders, then backed out of the space. Before pulling out of the lot, he repeated the double look. Afraid someone might be waiting to spring Damon from his custody? Or just cautious by nature? “Recently,” he finally replied.
“Huh. How’d she find you?” When Jamieson glanced at him, Damon shrugged. “You didn’t work for the old man. She damn sure didn’t run an ad in the Tulsa paper. She didn’t ask me for recommendations, and she doesn’t know anyone to turn to for help of this sort.”
“You’d have to ask her that.”
Gazing out the side window as they turned onto Riverside Drive, Damon asked, “Exactly what is your job?”
“I do what Ms. McCaffrey tells me to do.”
Ms. McCaffrey. Not Damon. So Selena wanted him to teach her everything, wanted to work together, but she’d gone out and hired someone—multiple someones?—to help protect her interests. Interesting.
Definitely multiple someones, he saw when they turned into the estate drive a few minutes later. None of the guards at the gate were familiar. Neither was the man fixing a cup of coffee when they entered the kitchen through the back door, nor the woman sitting at a table, impatiently tapping a pen against a pad, in the third-floor ballroom. He wouldn’t mind the chance to get to know her better, though. He’d always had a weakness for redheads.
Deep Cover Page 7