Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  “So once he supported your tale and kept you out of jail, you broke it off with him.”

  It’s over. Selena didn’t believe Tony would end it, couldn’t believe it...her throat tightened, but she still managed to smile. “Once he’d served his purpose, what was the point of keeping him around?”

  “Cops have other purposes. We all take advantage of them when we can.”

  So William wasn’t the only dirty cop in the organization. She hadn’t been naive enough to think he was—nor was she naive enough to try to get more information from Yates just yet. “Not this one. Detective Ceola believes in the law. He can’t be bought. Don’t you think William would have gone that route if it was an option? Killing a police officer can create more problems than it solves.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “So you broke his heart, and that’s that.”

  Desperate for a change of subject, Selena folded her hands together. “Tell me about this fishing boat.”

  Sonny waited as the two waiters returned bearing salads and baskets of bread. Apparently, he’d taken the liberty of ordering for both of them, not that she cared. What she ate was her last concern.

  “The boat supposedly went down in a tropical storm a few weeks ago with both the load and the crew.”

  “But you didn’t believe it did?”

  He shook his head. “Captain Rollins had been with me a long time. He was one of the best. He would have stayed hell and gone from that storm. Either he wanted to die, or to make us think he was dead. There was no indication that he wanted to die, and two hundred fifty thousand reasons for him to want us to think he was dead.”

  Apparently William wasn’t the only arrogant one around, Selena thought as she took a bite of salad and swallowed without tasting it. Rollins had surely known what kind of man Sonny Yates was, and yet he’d stolen from him anyway, believing he could fake his death and sail off with a small fortune. “You located him and the crew?”

  “I did. We got the product back, the crew have been dealt with, and no one’s gonna think about ripping us off again for a very long time.” Yates removed a roll from the bread basket, tore it, and buttered one half. “So . . . you’ve got something for me?”

  Her hand stilled as she forked another bite of salad. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Annoyance flashed across Yates’s face, quickly disappearing behind that bland expression. “Odd. Seems like the finer details of the business would have been one of the first things William would have explained to you.”

  She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the fork, her lungs reluctantly expanding with the breath she forced in. “Uncle William explained things in his own way in his own time. Since he apparently overlooked this, why don’t you tell me?”

  His gaze pinned her, steady, cold, speculative, until abruptly he looked away. “It’s no big deal. William and I had an agreement. I do something above and beyond, and I get something above and beyond. A bonus. A reward.”

  She glanced at Long, clearly listening in spite of the conversation at his own table. He raised both brows in a parody of surprise, and mouthed, “Oops.”

  Bastard. The smile on her face wanted to sink to her toes, along with her stomach, but she fixed it in place and hoped her voice remained half as steady. “Now, there’s a thought— rewarding an employee for doing his job. No wonder Uncle William didn’t want to tell me he worked that way.”

  “He did. I still do.”

  Selena delayed, cutting through a tomato slice, delicately stabbing it and a mouthful of greens with her fork, raising it to her mouth. She chewed deliberately, this time noticing the flavor of the dressing, the freshness of the vegetables, as she wondered how to respond. Clearly Yates expected money, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with the fifty bucks in her purse. How much did he expect? How much would Robinette agree to pay? How long would it take him to get the cash?

  You want to make decisions, this is where you get to, Robinette had said. Straightening her spine, figuratively if not literally, she faced Yates again. “How about this? We do away with the reward system, and I’ll increase your share of the profits.”

  He looked suspicious, but too curious—too greedy—to turn her down without hearing her out. “How big an increase?”

  “I’ll know that after I’ve gone over the books.”

  “William never asked to see the books.”

  On the surface, that statement was probably true, but the impression was misleading. William probably hadn’t seen the books, because he had employed people to do that for him. The request would have come from Long, and very well might have bypassed Yates completely, but it had come.

  “You and I both know, Mr. Yates, that there’s no way Uncle William operated the financial aspect of his business on faith,” she said mildly. “Besides, I’m not William. Our methods of conducting business might not be the same, but you’ll benefit from the differences. Trust me.”

  The final words seemed a foreign language to him. Understandable. She wouldn’t trust him, either.

  She’d already made that mistake with Long—not a big deal this time. But the next time it could be fatal.

  8

  Selena McCaffrey had a sense of humor, Sonny thought. Trust me. No more than he could breathe underwater.

  He sipped his wine as he gazed through the archway into the main dining room and wondered which of those innocent diners was there to protect her. No one had shown excessive interest in her, but a good bodyguard wouldn’t. She was too new, her position too precarious, to travel with no one but Damon. Hell, he wouldn’t lift a finger to help her unless his own hide was on the line. After all, if something happened to her, Damon was the next in line to take over, and his position wouldn’t be precarious. He already commanded respect from everyone who knew him, while Selena still had to earn it.

  In ways, she was exactly what Sonny had expected. William had always had a taste for beauty, for elegance, sophistication, and all things exotic, and she fit in every way. But her race had taken this born-and-bred Southerner aback. Being part black wasn’t necessarily a strike against her. Just a surprise.

  He didn’t like surprises.

  “You said earlier that William was still teaching you. Just how prepared are you to take over this business?”

  She was an expert at those cool, aloof smiles. “I admit, there are some gaps in my education, but I’m a big believer in on-the-job training. Mr. Long is helping me, and truthfully, I’m counting on you, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Munroe to help as well.”

  “Damon’s more likely to help himself.” Then, in a moment of candidness, he went on. “We all are.”

  “I know. Unless I make it worthwhile for you to continue doing business with me.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “That’s part of what I’m here to find out. What would it take to ensure that you, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Munroe continue with business as usual?”

  “I can’t speak for the others.”

  “But for you?”

  “A bigger cut is a good start.”

  “And a start I’m willing to make once I’ve examined the books. When and where can I do that?”

  Sonny didn’t like anyone looking over his shoulder. It made him feel like a kid. But if she really was willing to give him a larger share—possibly the only thing that would keep him working with her . . . “How’s tomorrow morning? Nine o’clock?”

  She nodded regally, as if she was granting him some great favor. “Where?”

  “Bar outside town. Clancy’s. Damon knows how to find it.”

  Another nod, this one accompanied by that damn smile. “We’ll be there.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Sonny signaled the waiter outside the arch, and he quickly came in to clear the salads from the table. He frequented a number of restaurants in town, but he liked Pawley’s best. He never failed to dine there without remembering his early days in Atlanta, when he went hungry more often than not. If he had even
set foot inside such a place then, he would have been tossed right back out. Now everyone at Pawley’s knew him by name and catered to his every wish.

  Including the owner.

  As the waiter returned, balancing platters of filet and shrimp, crusty baked potatoes, and steamed asparagus from the chef’s private garden, Charlize Pawley glided into the room. She rested her hand on the back of his chair and greeted him like an old acquaintance—warm, friendly, but with a bit of reserve. “How is everything so far?”

  “Outstanding, as usual. Selena, this is Charlize Pawley. She owns this lovely establishment. Charlize, Selena McCaffrey, a . . . business associate from out of town.”

  He watched the two women size each other up. They were about the same age, both beautiful, but where Selena was dark, Charlize was blond and fair, her pale skin looking as if it had never been exposed to the Georgia sun. Selena’s hair curled wildly down her back, while Charlize’s was pulled back in a severe style that emphasized the delicate lines of her face. Selena’s turquoise dress shouted for attention, while Charlize’s was simple, the color so pale that naming it was difficult. But they were both elegant, cool, moneyed, and privileged.

  Both important to Sonny.

  “Where are you visiting from?” Charlize drawled, all honey and softness.

  “Oklahoma.”

  “Really. I confess, I don’t know much about your state, except that there seems to be a preponderance of cowboys, oil, and football.”

  If Selena took offense at the stereotypes, she didn’t show it. “It’s a lovely place. You should visit sometime.”

  “I’d like that.” Charlize turned her attention back to Sonny, moving her hand to his shoulder in an intimate touch. “Sonny, it’s always a pleasure.”

  “For me, as well.” Every damn time.

  He watched her walk away, stopping to greet this diner, to question that one. When she was out of sight, he realized that Selena was watching him.

  “She’s a lovely woman.”

  If he had had less self-control, he might have flushed. Instead, he knew he showed nothing he didn’t want seen. “Yes, she is. Her family has been in Georgia for generations. Her great-granddaddy was right-hand man to the governor, and she’s got ties all the way up to Pawley’s Island in the Carolinas. I swear, if you pricked her, she would bleed blue.”

  “Does she know what you do?”

  “What I do?” he repeated innocently. “I provide steady support for her business. Pawley’s is my favorite restaurant in the city. I recommend it to everyone, and she’s well aware of it. As for anything else . . . my business is my business.”

  And Selena’s. Though who knew for how long?

  Sliding away a dish filled with remnants of peach cobbler and melted ice cream, Damon shifted in his chair to look out across the restaurant. It felt strange being there. The place had been William’s favorite during his time in Savannah— hell, it was the favorite of all the socially prominent in Savannah, as well as the wannabes—but Damon had gone there only on rare occasions, and never with the old man.

  It hadn’t changed at all, but then, that kind of enduring tradition held a lot of appeal to old-money Southerners. Every house William had lived in had been a historic old mansion, with only small changes like central air to make life more comfortable, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Damon liked change. The hell with tradition—he’d take new and improved anytime. His only concern with history was that it didn’t repeat itself, not where he was concerned. He wasn’t going to live the next twenty years answering to someone else, and he damned sure wasn’t going to spend them rotting in jail.

  He drained the last of his wine, then slid his chair back. “Man, I’ve gotta take a leak. Where’s the john?”

  “Past the bar, turn right,” LeRoy replied.

  Selena’s gaze jerked his way as he got to his feet. She was pissed at him about the reward thing, but that was okay. It had taught her a valuable lesson—don’t believe everything you’re told and don’t assume you’re being told everything.

  Leaving his chair pushed back, he faced her, both hands lifted from his sides. “Hey, I’ve got to piss.”

  “Jeez, Damon,” Sonny muttered.

  She stared at him. Willing him to remember her threat on the sidewalk? Wondering whether she could trust him to do his business, then return? She couldn’t. But she couldn’t ask Sonny to send Devlin or LeRoy with him, either, not without rousing his suspicion, and the last thing she wanted from Sonny was more suspicion.

  “Be back,” Damon said with a grin and a wink, then he walked out of the room and into the main dining room. The bar was ahead on the right, set in its own alcove, dimly lit and paneled. William had often had drinks there after an honest day’s work at the police department, before moving out into the courtyard to dine next to the fountain. Damon couldn’t count how many times the old man had gotten his picture in the paper with this influential person or that. Savannah society had loved William, making it even more important that no one in the business discover his real identity.

  And now Selena had told them flat out. If the old man was in a grave, he’d be spinning.

  Damon really did go to the bathroom, unzipping and relieving himself. If the scene had been a book or a movie, there would have been a window opening into a back alley, and he could have slipped out and been long gone before anyone noticed he was missing. But there wasn’t a window, just the door he’d come through. He walked back out and stopped in the shadows near the end of the bar. To the left, just out of sight, sat Selena and Sonny. To the right, down a short hall and through a crowded foyer, was the main entrance.

  He didn’t have any money. No clothes besides what he wore. But money, he’d learned before he was ten, was easy to come by. And all he needed was enough to get to Dallas. There he had a new identity waiting to be taken on, along with an old fortune ready to be accessed. He could disappear, and Selena and Ceola and the fucking FBI would never find him again . . . until he showed up to destroy her. All he had to do was turn right. Walk out.

  That was what he did, so casually that no one gave him a second look. Five feet, ten, twenty, and he was pushing the door open, stepping out into the muggy night, really free for the first time in weeks, to do what—

  “Going somewhere?” Brian Jamieson leaned against the Mercedes, parked directly in front of the door. His ankles were crossed, his hands pushed in his pockets, looking as relaxed and bored as a driver could get. But the way his jacket was pushed back ensured Damon saw the butt of the pistol in the shoulder holster. He waited a moment, then straightened and stepped away from the car and toward Damon.

  Fuck. Only Selena would choose a goddamn computer wiz who knew which end of a pistol was dangerous. Heinz was a weasel, and Sonny’s guy was afraid of his own shadow, but not Jamieson. He looked like shooting Damon wouldn’t bother him in the least.

  Damon glanced one way down the street, then the other. Traffic wasn’t bad, but there were plenty of people out, wandering through the park across the street, window-shopping, waiting outside restaurants. One-on-one, with nobody around, he could take Jamieson without breaking a sweat, but not in front of witnesses. Not when he needed to make it out of town and halfway across the country to be safe.

  He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Just getting some fresh air. Thought maybe I’d bum a cigarette.”

  Jamieson patted his coat pockets, including the breast pocket that brought his hand in contact with the pistol. “Sorry. I don’t smoke. But then, neither do you.” After a pause to let that sink in, he went on. “Maybe you’d better go back to your table. And Long? Don’t try going out through the kitchen.”

  Fucking Robinette was probably hanging out back there. And Damon knew that cold bastard wouldn’t think twice about shooting him.

  Scowling, he took Jamieson’s advice—as if he had a freakin’ choice—and went back inside. Okay, so he’d tried, and failed. Anoth
er chance would come. He would be ready.

  When he got back to the table, the dishes had been cleared and the check had arrived. The men looked bored, but Selena was pretty edgy. The glance she shot him could have cut ice.

  “Jeez, we thought maybe you fell in,” Devlin joked. “We were just arguing over who had to go check on you.”

  Shaking his head, Damon sprawled in his chair but didn’t scoot it back up to the table. “Hey, when nature calls . . .”

  Before he’d had a chance to get settled, Selena laid her napkin aside and stood. “It was a lovely dinner, Mr. Yates. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Sonny finished scrawling his name on the credit card slip, then, like the gentleman he was pretending to be, he stood, too. Following his lead, Devlin and LeRoy lumbered to their feet. “Some people don’t do well bright and early”—he gestured, and Damon grinned his shit-eating grin in response— “so feel free to leave him at home. Clancy’s is my territory. It’s secure.”

  It is that, Damon thought. Secure. Isolated. An excellent spot for killing people.

  All Selena did was nod and smile, then she made a gesture of her own, a simple lifting of her hand, a wave of slender fingers, that meant Damon was supposed to lead the way out. It was so much like William that it was goddamn freaky.

  She waited until they were in the backseat of the Mercedes to turn that icy look on him again. “You lied to me.”

  “About?” He drew the word out, accompanying it with the best innocence he could muster. “Oh, the bonus. I didn’t lie.”

  “You said William would never give Yates a reward for merely doing his job.”

  “Yeah, well, reward, bonus—they’re not quite the same things. You’ve got to be specific, Selena. In this business, it’s the little details that matter.”

  She sat rigidly, hands clenched in her lap, probably wishing they were around his throat instead. “Pay attention to this little detail, Mr. Long. That was your first screwup. One more, and you’re going back to jail.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You tried once, and got a concussion for your effort. Remember?” She let the reminder hang between them, looking so goddamn smug, making him hate her so goddamn much.