Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “Some things are delivered better in person, like how I overheard Declan say he was meeting with Tomas MacKenna tomorrow at noon at Whaler’s Waterfront by himself and you have to stop him,” she said in a rush.

  Whoa. That was a lot of information.

  “Someone has to talk that man out of it. And that someone is you.” She pointed at Phoenix. “You're the only one he listens to.”

  Ha! “Where did you get that idea and how did you hear this, anyway?”

  “I stopped by the club to pick up my paycheck so I could finally go pick up those vintage cowboy boots… the ones I've been dying for?”

  “Did you get them?”

  She snapped her fingers. “They're in the car,” she sang.

  “And Declan happened to shout out he was meeting with Tomas MacKenna?”

  “I might have been hovering a little longer than I normally do in the hallway outside Declan's office when I heard Max louder than I have ever heard that man, and you know that's saying something. The boys had some man-meeting this afternoon, and Max kept saying, “You can't.” Well, that's all this girl needed to hear—and I mean needed—to hear more about what Declan could. Not. Do.” She slapped her palms on the last three words.

  “But meeting with the head of the family he's been trying to get away from? It makes no sense.” Or did it? The man was one of them. They could be planning a family reunion for all she knew.

  “Exactly. And it's dangerous. So come on.” She gestured her toward the door. “We're going.”

  “He's a grown man. He can choose what he wants.”

  Cherry turned dramatically. “What if something happened to Declan? What if he was gone from this earth? And you could have done something about it?'

  Her words stung. “That is not fair…”

  Cherry raised her eyebrows. “All is fair in love and war. And you, my girl, are in both.”

  Both? Love. War. What the hell was Cherry going on about? That love thing was one-sided, and she hadn’t declared war on anyone except for one strip club owner.

  Cherry swung open the door and stood there. “You know I'm right.”

  A thousand denials should have risen up, but her belly twisted and held them inside her. Declan gone? That hot truth blazed inside her, got under her skin, and jolted her into a realization. So many people counted on him, including her. She'd been able to hold it together because of his unwavering presence. She did owe him, after all.

  Time to even the score. “I'll get my purse.”

  26

  Declan fingered the gun. So seductive, so lethal. And, unfortunately, more necessary in his life than ever before.

  “You're really doing it?” Trick stood in the doorway of Declan’s office. “You're actually considering going alone?”

  “Stop worrying like a mother hen.” He slipped the gun back into his top desk drawer. “Shouldn't you be out on the floor? Full house.”

  “Nathan and Max are there. Amos and Charlie on the front door. And Dex and Trace in the alley. A lot of muscle for a reason, and all the more reason for you to take one of us with you tomorrow.”

  “Not happening.” He rounded his desk and jogged his stiff leg a little. It had been feeling pretty good lately. Guess all that physical therapy was finally paying off.

  “And no one can convince you otherwise?”

  “No.”

  A waft of cinnamon blew into the room. “Not even me?”

  Trick turned to face Phoenix looming in the doorway, propped up by crutches.

  God damnit. Declan had planned on keeping this meeting from her for a reason.

  Trick sighed, stared down at the floor for a brief second, then looked back up at her. “Give it your best shot.” He skirted past her, giving her a slight smile as he passed.

  She hobbled inside and Trick closed the door behind her.

  “Don't go.” Phoenix limped forward, her blue eyes ablaze. “Why are you doing this? It’s dangerous. People count on you.” A sheen of wet coated her eyes.

  Well, he’d be damned.

  He crossed his arms and bent toward her. “People.” He would make her say it.

  “My sisters count on you.” She hopped to his couch and lowered herself to the leather seat.

  He took her crutches from her and leaned them against the wall. “Ankle hurting?”

  “I'm fine.”

  If he heard “fine” from her one more time… This woman hadn't been “fine” even once in her entire life.

  A drink would be really good right now. After pouring two fingers of bourbon for each of them, he brought them over. Her forehead bunched and the corners of her mouth turned down. She still was the only woman he'd known who could make a frown sexy.

  He handed her a glass and fell down next to her.

  She took a sip. “I usually don't drink.” She angrily swiped her jacket off her shoulders. He grasped the shoulder to help her, which only caused her lips to screw into yet another pout, the kind seen in the old French movies. His own mouth ached to kiss that irritated mood right off her lips.

  Instead, once freed, he slung her jacket over the arm of the couch. “Not taking anything for your sprain?”

  “I don't like to take anything. Ever.” She took another sip of the bourbon. “Except this. Sometimes.” She squared herself to him. “Declan, what are you doing?”

  “Enjoying a drink with you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.” He smiled and sighed. “Tomas isn't going to do anything to me. Or you or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Then why meet with him?” She lowered her chin and peered up at him as if he was trying to pull something over on her—as if he could ever.

  Thoughts crammed his brain for a minute. He then rose. One drink wasn't enough to numb the pain of all the things he needed to tell her. “You hungry?”

  She shook her head a little. “Food? Now?”

  “I'll take you to dinner. Trick's got things covered here, and—” he glanced down at her foot and back up at her “—you appear to have time. I'll explain everything at Trovino's.”

  She chewed on her lip. “Not exactly dressed for it.”

  It wasn't a refusal. “You're perfect.” The woman could be wearing a flour sack and still doors would still open for her. “Besides, ‘She's beautiful and therefore to be wooed.’”

  Amazingly, he earned a smile with that one.

  “She is a woman, therefore to be won?” She pushed herself to standing with his help. “You do love to quote Shakespeare. But wooing and winning are not on the menu, even at Trovino’s.”

  At least she seemed to agree to dinner. Perhaps it was a sign that Phoenix was open to hearing his story tonight. It was something he'd been waiting to tell her for six long years. With any luck, he'd not end up with a lap full of lasagna but rather the opening he sought.

  Despite the fortress she’d put up between him and her, she was a woman to be wooed, just not in the way any other woman might need. The only time he’d ever gotten inside her was with brutal honesty. Time for a bit more, like opening up his past to her and what it means.

  27

  Phoenix lifted her wine glass and clinked it against Declan's. The privacy of their small dining alcove comforted them. The heavy, thick velvet drapes half-hid them from other patrons, and they reminded her of the stage curtains.

  “You come here often?” she asked.

  “Friends with the owner, though I'm not usually here this early on a Thursday.”

  “I can't remember a time when I went to dinner at a normal hour.” Taking the stage by 8 p.m. most nights pretty much excluded any nighttime activities for her and her sisters.

  “Other than now, when's the last time you've taken any time off?”

  “I don't need time off. I like to stay busy.” Her leg began to jog at the mere thought of having to sit around anymore.

  He twirled his glass by the stem. “You're welcome to come to the club and—”

  “Hang o
ut?”

  “Or perhaps do other things.” He adjusted his jacket. “Naomi came to see me this morning.”

  Phee straightened in her chair. “And?”

  “She's going to come back with an act. Told her I'd audition her. Or perhaps you can.” He took a sip of his wine.

  Her eyelids grew tight as they instinctively narrowed. “What kind of act?”

  “Don't know. But she seems determined, and now you don't have to go back and try to rescue her.”

  “I wasn't trying—”

  “Oh, yes, you were.” He poured her more wine, though she'd barely touched it.

  He himself took a long swallow of wine. “And I admire your tenacity. My mother was not unsimilar to you. She always wanted to be a dancer but she never was.”

  Her hands relaxed. She hadn't realized they'd been twisting her napkin. “She danced? Is that why you own a burlesque club?” Now, this was an interesting development. She really knew so little about the man she'd worked for. But she'd kept it that way, hadn't she? She hadn't trusted herself to learn more and still not care.

  “Not exactly. My mother was born and bred for one thing—to be offered up as a wife someday.”

  “Offered up…”

  “There was a tight-knit group of families who did business together. Their children were expected to marry one another. And my mother? Well, she was a beauty. Considered an asset. Black hair and blue eyes.”

  “Like Carragh. And Ruark.” She nearly spat out the latter name.

  “Yes. But that's where the similarities end. She didn't have the stomach for her family's business. She knew all along what her brother did, and Tomas was a hard sibling. He believed the more she knew early, the better. But she threw a major monkey wrench in his plans to arrange for her to marry the son of a business partner. She was seventeen when she ran away, pregnant, and with a purse full of stolen money out of her father's safe.”

  Anxious pinpricks danced along her spine. “Pregnant with…”

  “Me. Some neighborhood boy. She wouldn’t tell me. And she, ever the rebel, went by a different name, though not changed legally. She had me alone in Kansas City. Stayed hidden until she died. That's when they found me.”

  “How?” A slice of anger cut through her. Was there no end to the unwanted advances?

  “Obituary. Apparently, Tomas never stopped looking for her. Thought he could right one of his father’s life's greatest disappointments.”

  “To lose a daughter? Or sister?” She knew one man who'd have loved to have “lost” three of them—and did.

  “No, to not own a daughter. Or, in Tomas’ case, being unable to turn a sister into a bargaining chip to seal the deal with that other family. To prove he was worthy of running the family business.” He took a large swallow of wine. “My mother refused the men in her family control. And now? Having me run around doing whatever I want? It's considered the worst kind of loose end.”

  “Then why help him tie it up? I mean, don't meet with him.” Her heart hitched at the thought he was going to meet with the MacKennas, a family that probably rode about in cars with trunks full of ropes and duct tape—just in case. His family didn't care about him as her own father hadn't cared about her and her sisters.

  “He enjoys toying with people. I'm not going to be in reaction to him any longer. If I did, I’d lose my own power. I prefer offense to defense.” He rested his elbows on the table as if he was confiding in her. “There are three things Tomas values. Family, being in control, and courage. Not necessarily all in one person, however. He wants everyone who is family under his thumb. He only demands courage from his opponents.”

  Oddly, she could see that. People who craved power over others felt a need to exercise it—often. “Makes it a more interesting game. Gives him something to play against.”

  He cocked his head. “Well put and accurate. I learned that from my mother's diaries. How both he and his father loved to slap their competitors around, see who would rise to the occasion. Tomas loved to fight.” He took a final swallow of his wine. “I want no part of that family.” He dropped his glass to the table—harshly.

  She jumped a little at that gesture. Declan's composure didn't slip easily.

  A woman wearing a white shirt and black apron approached, her arms laden with dishes. Her smile widened. “Ah, here we are. The spaghetti marinara for the lady and the lasagna for you, Declan.”

  The woman’s eyes fired as if saying his name was a turn-on.

  “I’ll have some of the parmesan.” Phee nodded at the cheese grater the woman held under her arm.

  “Oh, of course,” as if she’d forgotten her role for a second. Declan really did have that effect on women, didn’t he?

  “I will as well, Mary.” He winked at her and the woman flushed.

  Heat rushed through Phoenix's cheeks at the exchange. Any woman with any understanding of quality could see Declan was a man of taste. The man invited flirting with his beautiful tweed coat and mahogany cane nestled against the curtain, but did Mary have to do it in front of her?

  A garlicky, cheesy scent rose up and lured her to study her plate. “Wow, that's a lot of carbs.” It looked and smelled delicious, but without her dancing, she was going to have to watch it.

  “Helps with healing.”

  “You made that up.” A smile floated to her lips, though she tried to stop it.

  “Yes, I did, but trust me, this spaghetti and meatballs will be worth it. No one makes meatballs like Rosalina.”

  “That's true.” Mary beamed down at her but finally turned away to leave them in peace.

  Phoenix swirled her fork in the pasta and rose it to her lips. The tomato laced with cheese hit her tongue and she nearly groaned in pleasure.

  “I see you like it.”

  She nodded and took a big mouthful of spaghetti. Too much. Declan hadn't yet dug into his lasagna, instead studying her face. She must resemble a squirrel with fat cheeks stuffing its nuts in its mouth. He didn’t hide his amusement.

  She put her fork down and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “Declan, I have a favor to ask…” She took a sip of wine.

  He searched her face. “Anything.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable that you notice so much about me.” Uncomfortable didn't come close to it. He was just so much. Remarking on her appearance. Complimenting her. Tracking her moods. Telling her he loved her.

  “Luna warned me not to tell you too much.” His smile didn't waver. “Clearly, I failed at that warning.”

  “Why would she do that? I hate being pitied.” She cut a meatball in half and stabbed the portion with her fork. They really were fantastic.

  “I don't pity you, Phoenix Rising. I love you, and love has no room for pity.”

  Her fork clattered to her plate. After choking down the incredible meatball, she wiped her mouth with a napkin once more. She gripped the sides of the booth and leaned forward. “You don't want to be just friends, do you?”

  “No, but it's what I'll settle for.”

  She slowly shook her head, twirled more pasta on her fork. “You should never settle for anything, Declan.”

  “You do.”

  She sat back. She should have never gone to dinner with him. He must have understood he’d crossed a line as his hand rose up.

  “I apologize. Friends care for one another so you can't ask me to not worry.”

  “There's nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, yes, there is. You avoid being loved and that is no way to live.”

  “I'm living fine. I just prefer things to be uncomplicated. So, stop seeing me as the one who needs to be rescued.” She nearly gasped the words.

  “I don't see you that way at all. I see you as a survivor.”

  The air was so still, not even the sound of traffic or sirens so common in this part of town sounded.

  “I thought I was the resident bitch,” she spat. That's what she was, wasn't it? The one who couldn't stop being angry if she tried. It was like a beast
out of control inside her.

  “I have never called you that. And if you are angry, you have good reason for it. Next to my mother, you're the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You had to be. When you were young, your bed was closest to your bedroom door, wasn't it? And you made sure of it to spare your sisters. You stepped between your father and them.”

  Words were potent weapons that could stop a heart—like hers did at that moment. In three seconds, she'd been catapulted back, like being yanked through a wormhole to the past. How would he have known? And how dare he bring that up? Did Luna tell him?

  For a minute she'd been lost in the scent and taste of parsley and oregano, and now a bitter black truth coated her tongue. She was damaged goods—and he revelled in it? Why else bring it up?

  Where were her crutches? She glanced around frantically.

  Mary approached their table. “Anything else I can get you?”

  Damnit. In her periphery, Declan's stare might as well carry X-ray vision as he drank her in, took her in. Through an ocean of blood running through her ears, she heard his rumbling voice. “I think we're okay, Thank you.”

  Okay? They weren't okay by a long shot. Her hands found the table edge and then the velvet curtains. She yanked herself up and a stab of pain through her ankle brought her back to the present. She was panting.

  Declan was standing and handing her crutches. She clutched at them, positioned them under her arms, and began to move.

  Declan Philips could wrestle with hell, but he wasn't taking her with him. She’d already been there and back.

  28

  “Forgetting something?” Declan's voice rumbled behind her. She knew he was there. She could tell his footfalls from anyone’s, anywhere, at any time.

  She kept her face held up to the sky. Kept her eyes closed despite the fact she stood on a public sidewalk. The damp cold cooled the fire raging under her skin.

  She'd overreacted. He shouldn't have brought it up. Both were true. Therein lay yet another problem between her and Declan—neither was right, neither was wrong in their stance about each other.