Looking at each other and laughing.
Hard.
I glance up at Declan. He puts his hands in the air, like, I’ve got nothin’.
I turn my attention back to the screen. It’s hard to discern their features, but it’s obvious both women are young.
And, judging by their uproarious laughter, probably high on drugs.
“These are the diaper thieves.”
“Aye.”
“Do you recognize either one of them?”
“Nope. No hits in any database on their faces, either, though that could be due to the angle. Hit the right arrow key.”
When I do, another still shot appears. This time I’m looking at the same truck, but from the rear. It’s parked in the middle of a grassy field, tailgate lowered, back doors wide open.
It’s empty.
Declan says, “They offloaded the haul in a rural area about thirty minutes outside the city and abandoned the truck. Tire tracks coming into and going out of the field suggest multiple smaller vehicles were involved.”
I don’t have to ask to know that he tracked the truck to the field by hacking into streetlight cameras near the warehouse, but I do have another question.
“Where did those smaller vehicles go from there?”
“No idea.”
Surprised, I look up at him. He says, “They cut the feed to all the traffic cameras within miles of that field.”
He sounds impressed, which irks me. “So hack a satellite to find out where they went.”
He blinks.
Looks like I’ll have to do the heavy lifting myself. “Forget it. I still don’t understand the diaper angle. If they wanted to steal something from me, there are far more valuable hauls they could’ve gone after.”
“Assuming they even knew you owned that factory.” His cell phone dings. He digs it from his pocket, looks at it, and frowns.
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, he stands and walks to the coffee table in front of the sofa across the room. He picks up the TV remote and hits a button. The television comes on to the local news station.
Standing outside the front of an institutional-looking red brick building, a cheerful blonde reporter beams at the screen.
“In other news tonight, we have a heartwarming story about the generosity of the human spirit. As we reported last month, a fire destroyed the storage facility of the headquarters of Newborns in Need here in Boston. NIN provides care necessities free of charge to agencies and hospitals serving premature, ill, or impoverished newborns throughout the United States.
“As this location is the main distribution hub for those critically needed supplies, the fire was particularly devastating. But today, an anonymous donor gifted two thousand boxes of diapers to the organization to replenish their losses.
“In addition to the diapers, large quantities of formula, clothing, blankets, and toys were also donated. No word on who the anonymous philanthropist might be, but Meryl Hopkins, president of the charity, has called him an angel. Back to you in the studio, John.”
Declan clicks off the TV and looks at me in disbelief. “A philanthropist thief? I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I. By any chance, does Liam own other companies serving the newborn market?”
“No.”
I mull it over for a moment, equal parts confused and intrigued.
A pair of female thieves breaks into a warehouse and steals a truckload of diapers. If caught, they’d be facing first degree grand theft charges with a possible maximum sentence of thirty years in prison, charitable donation notwithstanding.
So why risk it?
And what about the other items, the clothing, food, and toys? If those were stolen, too, that means the diaper theft was part of a larger, organized operation. One that must’ve taken weeks or months to plan.
All with a final payout of nothing?
It doesn’t make sense.
No one in their right mind takes such risk with zero reward. If it wasn’t money the thieves were after, it was definitely something else.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure about human nature, it’s that a person who isn’t motivated by greed is usually motivated by something much darker.
Like amassing power, for instance.
Like taking revenge.
Things I myself am all too familiar with.
When I start to type fast and hard on my computer’s keyboard, Declan says, “What’re you doing?”
“Going hunting.” The Department of Defense website loads, and I quickly get to work.
Ready or not, thieves, here I come.
3
Jules
When I glance over my shoulder again, Fin sighs in exasperation.
“Will you quit doing that? You’re making me jumpy.”
I mumble an apology and take another sip of my margarita, but can’t shake the sensation that I’m being stared at intently.
Considering I grew up under the constant, watchful gaze of several dozen bodyguards, tutors, and nannies, I know the feeling well.
Which is why I’m on edge when I should be celebrating.
Sitting on either side of me at the high-top table in La Fiesta’s noisy, crowded bar, Fin and Max don’t share my jitters. They’re all smiles and easy laughs, flirting with the cute bartender who keeps sending over free drinks.
As usual, I’m the lucky beneficiary of the incandescent glow my friends produce—hence the free drinks—but if I were here alone, I’d be paying.
Not because I’m a dog or anything. Though compared to the curvy, creamy beauty of Fin and the edgy, tough-girl sex appeal of Max, I’m as interesting as the sole of a shoe.
It’s for the same reason I wear baggy clothes and no makeup and go by a fake last name: to blend in. To disappear into the background.
Attention is the last thing I want.
Attention means questions, and questions mean answers, and answers—especially truthful ones—are something I never give.
For a girl like me, attention can be dangerous.
It can be deadly.
So I keep my head down and my mouth shut and stay as cool and detached as possible, even as these two yahoos on either side of me cause spontaneous erections all around.
I wish Fin didn’t have such a fondness for low-cut blouses.
“Could you put those things away?” I say crossly, waving a hand at her boobs. “They’re almost in my salsa.”
I grab the dish of salsa out from under her hovering breasts, take a tortilla chip from a basket in the center of the table, and dunk the chip into the sauce. Then I pop it into my mouth, enjoying the spicy, satisfying crunch.
Fin smiles serenely at me. “I know this is hard for you to understand, B Cups, but the girls need air.”
“What they need is scaffolding.”
She arches her brows. “Are you suggesting my glorious cleavage is sagging?”
“No. I’m suggesting you invest in some undergarments that don’t provide the male population of Boston with an anatomical drawing of your chest. It’s like you’re wearing tracing paper for a bra. That man over there is about to have a heart attack.”
Fin turns her green-eyed gaze to the person in question, an elderly gentleman sitting a few tables away. He promptly chokes on his taco when he notices her looking at him.
She says fondly, “The poor things. They don’t stand a chance.”
“Speaking of poor things,” says Max under her breath, “that guy at the end of the bar is fire. My panties are melting.”
She’s staring over my left shoulder. When I start to turn my head in that direction, she hisses, “Don’t look!”
“How am I supposed to judge if he’s fire if I can’t look?”
“I mean don’t look now.” She casually pretends to inspect her manicure. “I’ll let you know as soon as he’s not burning holes into the back of your head.”
So someone is staring at me.
A man.
Not good.
“What does he look like?”
Max glances up, then quickly back down to her nails. A flush of red creeps over her cheeks. She mutters, “Like he could impregnate a woman through osmosis. Jesus, those eyes. That face. That body.”
After a surreptitious glance in his direction that she tries to disguise by tossing her hair, Fin pipes in, “He looks like a cross between James Bond and Wolverine. Only bigger. And hotter.”
Max nods. “And way more dangerous.”
Dangerous? My heart skips a beat. All the little hairs on my arms stand on end.
My tone as stiff as my spine, I say to Fin, “Give me your compact.”
She shares a worried look with Max, then digs into the handbag hanging off the side of her chair and produces the small mirrored compact she never goes anywhere without.
She hands it to me silently.
I flick it open, take a steadying breath, and lift it to my face.
Pretending to check my non-existent lipstick, I check out the guy at the end of the bar behind me instead.
Reflected in the mirror, a pair of blistering dark eyes meet mine.
Sweet Jesus. I feel a jolt like someone plugged me into a socket.
Max was wrong. He isn’t fire.
He’s a fucking volcano.
Big, dark haired, and utterly masculine, he’s got a jaw covered in scruff and a wide, sensuous mouth. His black Armani suit is molded to his frame, showcasing bulging biceps and thick thighs. When he rubs a hand over his jaw, I catch a glimpse of the array of tattoos on his knuckles.
As if he knows my stomach dropped to the floor at the sight of him, his full lips curve into a small, mocking smile.
Horrified, I whisper, “Clean up on aisle five.”
It’s one of our many code phrases. Translated, it means: everything’s fucked, create a diversion, and run away as fast as you can.
Fin freezes.
Max does too, then sighs. “Well, shit.”
As for me, I snap shut the compact, hand it back to Fin, then guzzle the rest of my margarita. I touch the knife in my coat pocket, wishing it were a gun. Then I look back and forth between my friends.
My heart hammers against my breastbone. My blood is molten lava in my veins.
“Ready?”
Fin says indignantly, “I’m not losing another pair of Louboutins.”
Max says, “This is why you should always wear biker boots like me, dummy. Those spiky things you like aren’t meant for running.”
“If I wanted to look like a homeless circus performer, I would definitely dress like you, Maxima.”
“Up yours, Finley.”
Scowling because she hates to be called by her full name, Max stands abruptly and stalks off, pushing through a swinging door that leads to a back corridor of the restaurant where the restrooms are.
Five seconds later, we hear a muffled boom, then screaming. Moments later, the fire alarms screech to life.
The restaurant erupts into chaos.
Panicked men and women stream out from the corridor Max disappeared into, shoving each other and tripping over their own feet in their haste. All the patrons at the tables around us jump to their feet, exclaiming, and stampede toward the front door.
Emergency lights flash red and blue.
The sprinkler system kicks on, spitting freezing water from the ceiling.
Above the opening to the corridor, gray plumes of smoke billow up the wall.
Fin grabs my hand. We start running.
Pushing against the flow of bodies, we head toward the kitchen, dodging toppled chairs and trying not to slip on the slick tile floor. As soon as we burst through the kitchen doors, I drop Fin’s hand and we go in opposite directions.
She makes a hard left toward the employee break room. I run toward the exit at the back. We’ll hook up again at the apartment later after everyone has left the all-clear code on a designated voicemail.
If one of us fails to call, the other two won’t go back to the apartment.
Ever.
Outside, the cold evening air is a stinging slap on my heated cheeks. I’m in the parking lot behind the restaurant. Overflowing Dumpsters flank me, reeking of trash.
I run as fast as I can to the street, not looking behind me. Once there, I make a sharp right and head to the next street, a busy boulevard with four lanes of traffic zooming past at top speed.
I don’t hear footsteps pounding behind me. All I hear is the wild thunder of my heartbeat and my panting, panicked breaths.
When I hit the corner of the boulevard, I glance over my shoulder, but no one’s there.
He isn’t following me.
I escaped.
Gulping air, I slow my pace but keep going, headed to the bright lights of the building ahead. It’s an old-fashioned movie theater, the kind with a tiny box office near the sidewalk and a gilded Art Deco marquee. A small crowd mills in front, waiting for the doors to open.
Like a gift from the universe, a taxi pulls to a stop at the curb right outside.
I break into a run again.
Beating out a young couple just about to open the back door of the cab, I dive inside, slam the door shut, and slide low in the seat, peering out the window for any sign of danger.
I tell the driver breathlessly, “Beacon Hill, please.”
A low voice to my left says, “Fifty-nine Mount Vernon Street, if I’m not mistaken.”
The voice has an Irish accent. My blood freezes to ice in my veins.
I turn my head, and there he is on the seat beside me, smiling like some testosterone-jacked version of the Cheshire Cat.
The volcano.
AKA Liam Black.
AKA the biggest, baddest, most ruthless mobster on both sides of the Atlantic.
The man I stole a truckload of diapers from.
Shit.
4
Jules
When I merely sit and gape at him in horror, he says, “Swanky neighborhood you live in.”
His smile grows wider. Light from the theater marquee glints off his perfect white teeth. “I guess that old saying ‘crime doesn’t pay’ is wrong.”
The cab pulls away from the curb into traffic. I manage to detach my tongue from the roof of my mouth and sit up straight in my seat. Then I level him with a look that attempts withering disdain, but probably falls miles short of it considering how many of my body functions are on the verge of complete failure.
I say tartly, “You should know.”
“Ah. Sass.” He chuckles. “I wondered what you’d go with. Most people in your situation choose denial. Then the bargaining starts.” He pauses, smile fading. His voice drops an octave. “Then the tears.”
“You won’t get tears out of me. And if you think you intimidate me, think again.”
He arches his brows. “Have you had a recent head injury? Because that’s the only logical reason you wouldn’t be intimidated. I have to assume you know who I am, considering the dramatic exit you and your friends made from the restaurant.”
He waits, watching me with those laser beam eyes and that small, smug smile, radiating danger and masculinity in equal doses.
I hate him.
I’ve known men like him my entire life, and I hate them all.
Holding his gaze, I say, “I don’t have a head injury. And I know exactly who you are. And you should know that no matter what you do to me, how much you hurt me or how long you make it last, I won’t tell you anything.”
A strange look crosses his face. Disgust or disappointment, I can’t tell which. But then the cab goes over a bump in the road and the look disappears, as if it were never there in the first place.
“Are you so eager to meet your maker?” he murmurs, dark eyes glittering.
“I’m eager to get away from you,” I snap back. “So hurry up and shoot me or strangle me or whatever it is you’ve got in mind, so we can be done with it already.”
His strange look returns.
The drive
r has a strange look now, too, sending a startled glance to me in the back seat as I demand his other passenger kill me.
“Why the hostility?” Liam inquires, sounding as if he’s actually interested. “After all, I’m the victim here.”
A harsh laugh bursts from my chest. “Victim? You’re as much of a victim as I am an orangutan.”
He looks me up and down, his gaze razor sharp as it rakes over my body. His Irish brogue thick with sarcasm, he drawls, “Where could you be hiding your tail, I wonder?”
I stare at him in astonishment.
He’s toying with me. He’s laughing at me. He’s going to kill me, but has decided to have some fun with me first.
The nerve!
I say through clenched teeth, “Orangutans don’t have tails.”
“I thought all monkeys had tails.”
“They’re not monkeys. They’re apes.” Since I’ll be dead soon, I decide to add a little zinger for good measure. “Like you.”
“An ape? I’ll take it. I’ve been called much worse.”
He doesn’t look offended. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying himself. He’s smiling again, the psychopath.
We ride in silence for a while, staring at each other, until I can’t stand it anymore. I demand, “At least tell me how you’re going to do it.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. He moistens his lips. “Do it?” he repeats, his tone gravelly. His gaze flashes back up to mine. Now his eyes are burning. “Do what?”
“Kill me.”
The taxi driver swerves then overcorrects, throwing me against the door. Liam remains undisturbed in his seat, staring at me with the scorching intensity of a thousand suns.
He says, “I’m curious—”
“You’d like to have a sexual encounter with another man? Good for you. More men should admit they’re heteroflexible. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
A muscle slides in his jaw. His gaze drops to my mouth again. His tone deadly soft, he says, “Oh, I’m crystal clear on my sexual preferences, little thief.”
His dark lashes lift, and now he’s incinerating me with his stare. “I’d give you a demonstration if I didn’t already know how much you’d love it.”
Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2) Page 2