Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  “If my people had a conscience, they wouldn’t be my people to start with. But if I thought they were tempted to make things right, I’d take care of them, like you were supposed to take care of William’s detective. Except for one big difference—I would succeed.”

  Stiffening her spine, she gave him a haughty look. “I would have succeeded if one of William’s thugs hadn’t gotten in the way. I shot him, too, but unfortunately, he survived.”

  “Yeah, well, the only cop I ever shot didn’t.” Yates glanced at his watch, then grimaced. “This is taking a long time. I have another appointment.”

  She smiled coolly though everything inside her was coiled tightly enough to explode. “You don’t need to stick around. Just leave us your accountant and go.”

  He subjected her to another of those long studies, then strode to the other end of the table, talked to his men there a moment, and headed for the door.

  “Mr. Yates, I almost forgot . . . have you learned anything about the men who attacked us yesterday?”

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. “We know it’s nobody local—at least, no one professional.”

  “I assumed that. If they were professionals, they would have done a better job.”

  “I’ve got people out beating the bushes. If there’s anything to find, we will.”

  “I hope so. It would be a shame to have someone in your territory taking shots at your boss and able to hide from you. It wouldn’t look good for your command of the situation.”

  At that, his entire jaw worked spasmodically, and the color flared in his face, but he gritted his teeth instead of saying whatever was trying to get out. After a moment, he took an obvious breath, then smiled. It looked more like a grimace. “We’ll find them, and when we do, J.T. and I will take care of them.”

  She gestured negligibly. “When you do, you’ll bring them to me. Profit-sharing aside, there will be a bonus in it for you.”

  With a nod, he left, closing the door with a little more force than necessary.

  Sonny walked out the restaurant’s rear door into the narrow cobbled alley and stopped short. There, leaning against his spotless pewter-gray Porsche, was Charlize. Hair up, delicate arms exposed, she looked incredible enough that all he wanted to do was stand there and look at her. Not speak. Not even touch. Just look. Admire. Want.

  As if she knew that, she remained motionless for a time, watching him with the tiniest of smiles playing over her lips. Finally, though, she straightened and maneuvered her high heels with ease over the uneven cobbles. Stopping close, in his personal space but not touching, she prompted, “Well?”

  “She wanted a copy of my books.”

  “And you agreed?”

  He shrugged. He’d wanted to say hell, no, but for one small matter: She was—for the moment, at least—the boss. The records were more hers than his. Besides, he had nothing to hide . . . and that little mouse of an accountant would have given them to her anyway. The man had never tried to disguise the fact that his loyalty was to William. The only reason Sonny kept him on was he was good, and he was loyal to the old man.

  “What do you think of Selena?”

  Charlize tilted her head to one side. “I’ve spoken to her for all of five minutes, if that.”

  “But you have excellent instincts. I trust them more than my own. She says she wants to continue with business as usual, except with a twist—she wants to work as partners instead of boss and peon.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Why would a woman volunteer to pay more money to her employees? Why take a cut in her own income and increase ours without increasing our responsibilities?”

  With a soft, sensual laugh, Charlize smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his shirt. “Not everyone gauges success by money. For some of us, there is such a thing as ‘enough.’ ”

  They’d had this discussion before—enough to pay bills, enough to buy groceries, enough to provide security and maybe a little bit of luxury. Sonny thought it was all a crock. Over dinner the night before, Damon had told LeRoy and Devlin a little about Selena—that she’d been discarded by three sets of parents, that she’d begged and stolen to fill her belly. He’d done that himself, and knew there would never be “enough” to make him forget the experience. “But why offer to pay more? If she had no choice, that would be one thing, but to just say, ‘Here, let me give you a raise’ without even being asked? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Did you ask her why?”

  “She said she’d rather be partners than to have to watch her back all the time.”

  Charlize’s shrug was softer, more expressive, than his had been. “So there you go. Consider it a kind of life insurance.”

  Interesting concept—she paid them enough money, and they agreed not to kill her. “Do you think I should trust her?”

  Charlize’s gaze grew distant. He hated it when she went away like that, and he automatically did what he always did—touched her to remind her he was there, to bring her back. She looked at him with a faint smile. “You know my motto—never trust anyone.”

  “Except me.” He said it as fact, but truth was, he was never really sure. He’d known her for ten years, had been sleeping with her for eight and in love with her about that many, but he always had this suspicion that he didn’t really know her at all. She was so aloof, quiet and private. She said she loved him, said she trusted him, and her actions pretty much bore that out. Still, sometimes he wondered . . .

  Her smile banishing the distance completely, she laid one pale, elegant hand on his. “Of course I trust you, Sonny.”

  The words came easily to her, but he knew the feelings didn’t. She never talked about her life before him, but he knew it hadn’t been good. Sometimes he caught glimpses of the way she must have once been—open, carefree, tranquil— but then the aloofness reclaimed her, burying that innocence under a protective shell. Someone had hurt her badly, and all these years later she was still paying the price. He wanted to help her, wanted to heal her, but didn’t know how. Didn’t know if a healed Charlize would want him the way the wounded Charlize did.

  He wasn’t proud of it, but he would rather have her wounded than not at all.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked.

  “I have a meeting at Clancy’s.” Just like any businessman, he had shipments coming in that required receipt, quality control, payments, distribution. “If you get a chance to talk to Ms. McCaffrey”—he gave her name a scornful twist—“I’d like to hear your impressions.”

  “Will do,” she said with one of her phony smiles, bright and warm. She started toward the restaurant door, but stopped halfway. “Be careful.”

  “Always.” He watched until the door closed behind her, and even after. They might disagree on how much money or power was enough, but in every other aspect of his life, he knew exactly what was enough: Charlize. With him.

  For a lifetime.

  Selena shifted her gaze to Long. “Who is J.T.?”

  “William’s hitter for this area.”

  Such an innocuous nickname for a killer. But then, “Damon” wasn’t exactly a name to put you in mind of a cold-blooded killer, either. “Have you met him?”

  Long shook his head. “Hitters don’t tend to be real sociable folks. All I know is he’s been with William a long time, and he keeps a very low profile.”

  She looked at the other two men. “Have you met him?”

  They exchanged glances—surprised that she’d spoken to them? Unsure whether to answer truthfully or even at all? After a moment, they both shook their heads.

  Swiveling in her seat, she faced Jamieson. “What do you think about the records?”

  His expression was distracted when he looked up from the computer, his mouth quirking as if he’d rather not be bothered while he was playing with his numbers. “Mr. Yates runs an efficient organization, minimizing risks and maximizing profits.”

  “Though books can be made to say whatever a person wa
nts them to say, can’t they?” she asked.

  Yates’s accountant blustered in his seat. “I’ve worked for Mr. Davis for more than half your life. He never accused me of showing him phony books.”

  “I’m not accusing you, either,” she said with a placating smile. “I was just making a comment. Of course, you’re smart enough to realize that if there were any irregularities in the records, Mr. Jamieson would eventually uncover them. Besides, if Uncle William kept you on all those years, he must have had great faith in you.” Or someone keeping an eye on you, Selena thought.

  She stood up, slid the chair in, then started toward the door.

  “Where are you—” Jamieson broke off abruptly, apparently realizing that an accountant shouldn’t question his boss.

  She gave him a wry look. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

  A glance at her watch showed it was nearly eleven. The lights had been turned up in the dining room and hallways, a woman in a crisp white shirt and burgundy bow tie was setting up behind the bar, and the waitstaff were readying for the first diners. None of them appeared the least bit curious about her.

  She was on her way back to the private room when Charlize came out of the kitchen, two plates in hand. The woman smiled serenely when she saw Selena. “There you are. Since Mr. Yates had to leave, I was hoping I could tempt you out of the meeting long enough to share our chef’s latest creation with me.”

  “I really should get back inside.” Though Jamieson, no doubt, had things under control, and Long’s cell phone was providing a record of any ongoing conversation for Robinette’s people.

  “Oh, come on. The spirit must be nourished, and it won’t take long.” Charlize lifted one of the plates closer, and a tantalizing aroma drifted into the air.

  The dish held a salad—torn greens providing a bed for vegetables and seafood, drizzled with a lemongrass dressing. Her bagel suddenly seemed a long time ago. Selena smiled. “Let me tell my companions.”

  That task took all of sixty seconds, then she settled at a corner table with Charlize. The restaurant was officially open and the staff was seating early diners, keeping them far from Charlize and Selena’s table.

  Charlize took a delicate bite before speaking. “So you and Mr. Yates are . . . friends?”

  Was that hesitation merely searching for the right word or jealousy? Selena wondered as she chewed a bite of squid, shrimp, and pickled carrot. “This is delicious,” she said, then casually added, “We’re business associates, actually.”

  “Really? And what kind of business are you in?”

  “Customer satisfaction. We see a need, we satisfy it.”

  “That describes all business, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” Without giving her a chance to go on, Selena asked, “How long have you been in the restaurant business?”

  “Twelve years. We started out serving only lunch in about half the space. As the profits grew, so did the restaurant. Now we’re so well established that our customers can hardly remember a time when we weren’t a part of their lives.”

  “Mr. Yates is certainly a fan.”

  Charlize’s smile was reserved. “Oh, yes, he’s one of our best customers.”

  “I understand Uncle William was also one of your best customers.”

  “Uncle William?”

  “You probably knew him better as Henry Daniels.”

  “Of course I knew Chief Daniels. Everyone in town did. I didn’t realize he was your uncle.” One brow arched up. “I had no idea he used a different name.”

  “One for family, one for others,” Selena said with a careless shrug. The curious repeating of his name, the surprise evidenced by the brow lift, seemed sincere, but there had been something more. The slightest hesitation, no more than an instant, before the curiosity, the casual surprise that felt a shade too casual.

  “Yes, Chief Daniels was a regular here. He’s an impressive man—intelligent, capable, compassionate . . . and, of course, he has exquisite taste in restaurants.” Charlize shrugged to excuse her immodesty. “I have a photograph of the two of us together. Let me get it.” She crossed to the bar with long strides, removed a frame from the wall, then returned. “We call that our wall of fame, featuring all our local celebrities. This was taken . . . oh, we were celebrating the restaurant’s expansion, so it must have been about seven years ago.”

  Selena accepted the photograph, taking note of the courtyard scene, the sparkling fountain, the luxe linens covering the tables, the women’s jewel-toned dresses, the men’s summer suits, before she let herself focus on the two people at the photo’s heart. Charlize, in a vivid-hued dress, looking beautiful, elegant, and cool, and William.

  Her heart tightened at the sight of him—a few years younger, always handsome, smiling that broad, encompassing, charming smile. All his life people had loved him, admired him, looked up to him, and he’d accepted it as nothing less than his due. Such arrogance, and such confidence that no one could hold the arrogance against him. He had been an impressive man.

  Except for the twisted, ugly nature of his soul.

  She studied the photograph a moment more—the way Charlize smiled at her guest, the way his arm rested proprietarily around her waist. William had been proprietary about everything. The world had revolved around him, everything in it there for his use, his amusement, his satisfaction, his gain.

  Subdued, she handed the photo back to Charlize, who gave it a fond glance before setting it aside. She signaled to the bartender, who brought over two glasses of wine, then leaned forward cozily. “So . . . tell me about your art career.”

  The mention of her other life startled Selena, though she was certain she hid it. “How do you know about that?” Surely William hadn’t told her, not when he’d pretended she didn’t exist. Perhaps Yates had checked her out. After all, William had. So had the FBI.

  “Actually, I own several of your paintings. I’ve had them for years. I have to admit, I didn’t pay much attention to the artist’s name when I bought them—I just fell in love with them—but when I met you last night, your name sounded familiar, so I checked.”

  “I’m very flattered.”

  “You have a great talent. Something to fall back on if the family business doesn’t suit you.”

  The comment sounded innocent enough, but it sent apprehension creeping down Selena’s spine. If any other business didn’t suit, the solution was easy—quit. Find another job. Walk away. But how many people walked away from this business?

  However few the number, she intended to be one of them.

  The conversation turned to polite chitchat about the weather, tourist sites, museums. Their salads were done, their wine gone, when Charlize gave a delicate sigh. “I suppose I should return to work and let you get back to your meeting.”

  Thinking back to the morning’s conversation with Robinette, Selena opened the small purse she wore bandolier style and removed a silver compact. Out of sight under the table, she gave it a quick polish with her napkin, then, holding it by its edges, she held it out. “You have something at the corner of your eye.”

  With a chuckle, Charlize accepted it. “I pay a fortune for makeup that promises not to smear, but I always seem to manage.” She flipped the compact open, raised it so she could see her eye, then made an expression of surprise. “Except this time.”

  “Sorry. It must have been the lighting.”

  “Better safe than sorry.” She closed the mirror as she rose, then offered it back. “Thank you for the company, Selena. I hope to see you again before you return to Oklahoma.”

  Careful once more to hold the compact by its edges, Selena slid it back into her purse. “That would be nice,” she said. Lied. When all this was over, she never wanted to see any of these people again.

  10

  It was past noon when Jamieson and the accountant completed the transfer of files from one computer to another. Selena thanked the mousy little man, and she, Jamieson, and Long walked through
the now-busy restaurant to the entrance. The others, like the rodents they were, slunk into the kitchen and, presumably, out the rear door.

  At the entrance, Jamieson paused. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go get the car.”

  It was the middle of a busy, sunny day, the car was only a half block away, and Robinette and Gentry were somewhere out there on the street with the surveillance team. The risks in walking that half block were minimal. If someone was set up outside to shoot her, he could easily do it in the ten feet from the door to the curb, and walking to the car eliminated the need to be alone, even for a few minutes, with Long. But she nodded and chose a spot against the wall to wait.

  Long stood near the window, alternating quick glances out and more thorough studies of a group of women waiting to be seated. Two of the three were returning the attention. At one time Selena had been foolish enough to fall for his charm, but the price for those few hours’ flirtation had been dear.

  So had the reward. If not for Long, William never could have blackmailed her into going to Tulsa, and she never would have met Tony.

  “There he is.” Opening the door, Long mockingly gestured for her to precede him.

  With a thin smile, she stepped outside. The sun was radiating all its summer intensity, bringing an immediate sheen of moisture to her skin, warming her from the outside in. If she were home on a day like this, she would set up her easel outside and simply luxuriate in the heat and light. Shaking off the longing the mere thought of home and painting stirred, she looked to the right, saw nothing out of place, then checked to the left.

  The Mercedes was a few car lengths away, caught in the traffic that jammed the narrow street. Gentry stood in front of a store a few doors down from the restaurant, looking like a tourist in denim shorts and a T-shirt bearing the city’s name in neon colors. Her gaze flickered over Selena and Long without the slightest hint of recognition as she strolled along to the next shop, where she paused to look at the window display.