by Helena Maeve
“And now you think you can save him from us just like you saved me from prison? I’ve heard of history repeating itself, but this… This I didn’t see coming.”
“What did you think would happen when you told him about me?” Elijah wondered. Jules had set the scene before she’d fished him out of police custody. She had given Nate advance warning that he would find himself playing host to an unlikely house guest. “You played me.”
Jules’ roster of sins was at least as long as Nate’s. Using Elijah to further her ends barely made the top twenty. To her credit, she didn’t attempt to deny it.
Elijah sighed. “I know you want him to turn on his current handlers. It’s not gonna happen.”
“It’s his only option.”
“Yes,” Elijah replied, “because someone conveniently informed Section that he was meeting with a Russian mole.” He knew better than to expect a reaction out of Jules. Her silence was confirmation in itself. I may not be one of you, but I know how your world works. Jules and her cohorts had rattled Nate’s cage, putting him in real danger in order to bring him closer. “I’m going to guess that you want him to remain active as part of Section because of who his father is, yes?”
“The Russians have the same idea.”
“Then stop handing them ammunition against him!”
Jules arched an eyebrow when he raised his voice to her.
“Look, I won’t run interference between you,” Elijah said, minding his tone, “but you owe me one. What I did for you… I deserve one favor.”
“For yourself?”
“Indirectly,” Elijah allowed. “Can you clear up this SVR thing?”
Jules ran a finger under her lip as though pondering her options. The way her mind worked, Elijah doubted she needed more than a split-second to come to a conclusion. “We might be able to smooth that over.”
“Good.”
“If we have his cooperation.”
Elijah flexed a hand against the sticky surface of the table. “Deliver and we’ll talk.”
He was already on his feet when Jules let out a belly-deep guffaw. “Look at you… All grown up and playing in the big leagues!” Her expression hardened. “You’re my brother, Eli, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you hold the cards here.”
“Believe me, I’m done making mistakes.” He fished The Magus off the table and turned for the exit.
“Since when do you like to read?” Jules pitched at his back.
Elijah shrugged. “People change.”
He waited to see if Jules would follow him out, felt slightly disappointed when she didn’t.
Soon he was alone in the thick of pedestrian traffic, buffeted by the crowd through wide streets with six separate traffic lanes and back alleys familiar only to those used to moving in the shadows.
Two blocks away, he saw the nondescript sedan with out-of-state plates that he’d arranged for via Silk Road. Nate leaned against the sun-baked hood in jeans and a wife-beater. He tipped his shades down for a better look when Elijah approached.
“How did it go?”
“Battle was waged,” Elijah reported. He hooked a finger in Nate’s belt loops and tugged him forward. “Were you nervous?”
“I just filed a false report with my handlers in two rival spy agencies,” Nate replied.
“So… No?”
His smile was warm, if a little incredulous. His kiss told Elijah everything he needed to know.
Coming Soon from Pride Publishing:
Caught in the Undertow
Helena Maeve
Released 1st March 2016
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Why do you wish to attend Ledwich University, Mr. Parrish?”
A single magpie hopped along the manicured green, peering around the vast stretch of lawn bordered by rose bushes and hedgerow before promptly taking flight.
The many-paned bay window behind the dean’s desk offered a poor vantage point from which to observe the bird’s path across the campus grounds. It was more of a hothouse screen, blasting morning heat into the austere office.
Ward blinked the splash of sunlight from his eyes.
“A small, private college with a reputation for churning out America’s future leaders? I’m surprised you ask. You must have prospective students breaking down your door.”
“We do,” Dean Larsen allowed, “but almost none in senior year.” Sunshine lined her reddish-brown hair in gold, leaving her features largely in darkness. The broad mahogany desk concealed the curves of her hourglass figure, but Ward had noticed—and had noticed his father noticing—when they shook hands half an hour ago.
With Parrish Senior stepping outside to take an important call, Ward had been left to muddle through the remainder of the interview alone.
“You want the truth?”
Dean Larsen waved a hand. Please.
“Only way I’m graduating is if Dad funds another campus library. He could do that at Yale or he could do it here. Difference is, Yale has a board of trustees who need to be convinced that a bribe is not a bribe. You, on the other hand…”
“We’re happy to hand out diplomas to whomever has the deepest pockets?”
Ward smiled. “You understand market forces.”
Dean Larsen pursed her lips, unmoved. “If you have such a low opinion of our establishment, why bother coming to speak to me? Simply to please your father?”
It was the same question Ward had been asking himself since he’d left Connecticut.
He hadn’t been able to come up with an answer as he’d boarded his father’s jet and he lacked one now. He should have been yawning through his Econ class at this hour, or more likely sleeping off a hangover. There were bars he wanted to become better acquainted with and people who didn’t despise him yet who could be persuaded to join him.
He shrugged. “Yale’s got enough libraries.”
A gust of air stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck. It was his only hint of the office door swinging open and shut. Dean Larsen was no help. Her inky black gaze was like a laser.
“Sorry about that. Had to put out a few fires…” At fifty-one, Ward’s father was the kind of man people described as having presence. It was a nicer way of saying that although broad-shouldered and built like a Hollywood mobster, he was also richer than Croesus and therefore worth the detour.
Dean Larsen offered him a tepid smile. “Ward was telling me how much he’s looking forward to attending Ledwich in the fall.”
“Was he?” Benjamin Parrish rested a proprietary hand over the backrest of his son’s seat. “What a welcome surprise.”
Everyone was baring teeth so Ward went ahead and joined them, mustering a grin of his own. “Music to the ears, right?”
A muscle twitched under Benjamin’s eye.
The Parrish charm didn’t work on the Parrish blood.
“We’ll need to discuss tuition,” Dean Larsen went on elegantly. “As I mentioned to Ward, we don’t usually take students in their senior year…”
Benjamin nodded. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you making an exception. The details shouldn’t be a problem… Ward, why don’t you take a look around while we go over the details?” He was already reaching into his inner pocket for checkbook or cell phone, whatever means of payment was quicker.
Maybe they take credit cards.
Ward buried the thought. He had done his part. He’d shown up for the interview, resisted the impulse to sink his father’s ambitions past what money could save.
He had until September to worm his way out of actually attending this hellhole.
The door closed behind him with a click.
Dean Larsen’s office was separated from the hallway by a wood-paneled waiting room inhabited by a lone secretary sporting cat-eye glasses. Ward avoided her gaze as he made for the exit. The sooner he was out from under the judging stares of paper-pushers, whether living or long-dead school founders peering down at him from their portrait frames,
the better.
He followed the glare of daylight through the silent corridors of the administration building, his footsteps echoing behind him. Ledwich University had a roster of three hundred students and yet sprawled over six faculty buildings and three student dorms. Lavish grounds took up forty-three acres of woodland, stream and recreational facilities.
That steep tuition fee had to be justified somehow.
Crisp March gales buffeted his cheeks as soon as Ward stepped outside. A piney scent filled his lungs, wind-borne from the nearby mountains. He patted the pockets of his navy reefer for cigarettes.
Oh, that’s right. Dad confiscated them.
His gaze landed on Benjamin’s car, a silver whale that gleamed in the midmorning glare like a taunt. If not for the chauffeur reading a newspaper behind the wheel, Ward might have given into the urge to scratch the paint in sign of protest. He made himself walk away instead.
The soles of his white trainers dragged through the gravel of the horseshoe driveway. With the administration building behind him, the ground underfoot quickly turned to paving stone and neatly sectioned bike lane. Sunlight glinted through the verdant branches overhead, occasionally glinting off the sleek plumage of some magpie or thrush.
It was almost idyllic—birds singing in the boughs, bumblebees darting around in a dizzy dance—until Ward factored in the shouts. They seemed out of place in such a sleepy copse, but as he tracked their echo, he began to guess their origin.
North of the oval driveway and the colonnades of faculty offices presiding over it lay a boxy gray building, all angles and glass, the image of Benjamin’s choice money-sinks. It lacked the attempts at classicism on display everywhere else around campus and looked in bad need of refurbishment. Beyond it, Ward discovered a smaller structure. As he drew nearer, he made it out to be a timber and stone boathouse, a wide dock stretching like a tongue into the green-blue river.
Three boys stood on the water’s edge, yelling invectives and encouragement at five others fighting against the current. They might have been triplets—all dressed in white shirts and white boat shorts, their biceps bulging when they cupped hands around their mouths to project their voices.
“You lost?”
Heart jouncing against his ribs, Ward wheeled around to face the speaker.
This one was a little shorter than the rest of the pack, but he wore the university’s colors in addition to an Omega watch.
At least it’s not another Child of the Corn.
“Spying,” Ward corrected. Over the stranger’s shoulder, he noticed racks of shells and oars, and farther back, an unmistakable row of ergometers. “Pretty sure Yale does its sculling trials in the fall.”
“Yale? That’s a long way to travel just to get our schedule.”
“Technically I’m visiting the grounds.” Before I’m moved here. Not one to balk before a wolfish grin, Ward jerked his head toward the river. “Yale also does its trials in shells, but—”
“Rule number one of prospecting at Ledwich is never question the rules.”
Ward cocked his eyebrows and nodded to the stranger’s beer bottle. “Rule number two had better be sharing your juice.”
That earned him a grin—not a genuine one, but in Ward’s circles falsity was par for the course.
Order your copy here
About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email: [email protected]
Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.pride-publishing.com.
Also by Helena Maeve
Courting Treason
Misfit Hearts
Flight Made Easy
In the Presence of Mine Enemy
Fault Lines
Seat Sixty-Five
Shadow Play: Best Kept Lies
Shadow Play: Price of Freedom
Shadow Play: Splendid Isolation
Shadow Play: The Truth About the Liar
Shadow Play: Counterfeit Conscience
Racing Hearts: The Secret of Delville Wood
What’s his Passion?: Fistful of Lies