by Meghan March
Dom leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and a strange light enters his eyes. Flickering. Flashing. Scheming.
“You haven’t had a permanent bitch in years, so why her? Why now? Afraid your cock’ll fall off from lack of regular use?”
“You saw her. Is it shocking to think I saw her and wanted to fuck her?” As soon as the words are out, I realize they’re the honest fucking truth. I do want her. I’ve wanted her from the first second I saw her. Saying it out loud just gives it more power.
“You’re fucking already?” He tilts his head to the side in a move that tells me there’s no way he’ll believe me if I say yes. Basically, he’s waiting to catch me in a lie, but I’m smarter than that.
“I’m working on it.”
Dom purses his lips in a move that makes him look like a teenage girl trying to make duck lips for a selfie, and I know what that means. Nothing good.
“Then far be it from me to try to cock-block my own . . . man.”
When he trailed off, it sounded like he was about to say son and then changed his mind. Dom has gone this long without ever officially acknowledging me, so I’m not surprised by how he finished the sentence.
But right now, I’ve got more important things to think about than my paternity. A rush of victorious relief shoots through me, but I don’t let it show in my expression or posture.
I should have known that it was too much triumph, too soon.
“Matter of fact,” Dom says, a cruel smile curling his lips. “How about I help you out with her?”
I clench my teeth together to keep from speaking until I hear what he has to say.
“You can have my table tonight at Per Se. Eight o’clock. She deserves something nice.”
Motherfucker. From that damned gleam in his eye, it’s clear he thinks he’s won. That he’s going to get me to fuck this up, and he’ll sweep in and snatch her away from me, and the lies I’ve told won’t help her any.
Not on my watch.
“Thanks. I appreciate that, Dom. Glad you don’t mind I’ll be taking the entire night off.” I keep my tone casual, but there’s a wholly separate silent conversation happening between our locked stares.
“You can’t fool me, boy. You’re full of shit, and I’ll have men watching the restaurant to report back when you don’t show.”
“I’ll be there, old man. And I’ll spend the rest of the night with her, so you’ll have no question that she’s mine.”
I end the stare-down by shoving my hands in my suit pants pockets. “Is there anything else you need before I head to the club? I’ve got a lot of work to do before dinner.”
One side of Dom’s mouth curls up in a sneer as his eyes turn hooded. “Not unless you’ve managed to bridge the gap with Creighton after you fucked that up.”
He’ll take any opportunity to twist the knife about the brother I lost because I wasn’t willing to lie to him anymore, even though Dom doesn’t need me to shadow Creighton and report back. The old man talks to him regularly. Even attended the fucking baptism for Rose that I barged in on in an effort to warn Creighton that having Dom anywhere near his daughter was a horrible mistake. My interference didn’t go over well. At all.
“No, sir.”
“Then, nah. Get the fuck out.” He uncrosses his arms to wave me off, but I’m already heading for the door and fresh air not weighed down by disappointment and disgust.
When I finally hit the sidewalk, I take a breath and consider what the hell I’ve done.
How the fuck am I going to get Drew to agree?
15
Drew
“Cannon wants to see you in his office,” Tanya says as she sweeps into the kitchen where I’m plating salads for a group of Wall Street bankers having a late three-martini lunch after the closing bell.
My victory of the day, after getting the text from Cannon that it was all clear for me to come into work, was convincing the bankers to buy a thirty-thousand-dollar box of cigars for the table to split.
“About what?” I glance over my shoulder at her as she fills a cup with lobster bisque and sets it on a gold-and-white china saucer. My nerves have been going haywire all day because of the mob boss hitting on me episode last night.
“He didn’t say.” She replaces the ladle and fits the lid on the tureen before shooting me a smug smile. “But I’m sure it won’t take long. He said something about you needing to leave early.”
Fuck. No. He can’t fire me. He can’t. I’m not any closer to finding answers than I was before I started working here. Other than the fact that Cannon Freeman is a contradiction I can’t begin to unravel or explain. I need more time.
She stops next to me, checking over the salads I’ve painstakingly assembled, and smirks. “I’ll finish those. Doesn’t sound like you’ll have time.”
With a steadying breath, I stop myself from flinging micro greens in her face. “Thanks. I appreciate your help, Tanya.”
The triumphant twinkle in her eyes brightens. “Don’t mention it.”
Taking one measured step at a time, I exit the kitchen and cross the floor, smiling at the club members whose gazes I catch as I approach the hidden panel.
Once I’m inside, the muted chatter on the club floor silences. Only twenty feet of red-and-gold carpet and richly stained walls separate me from the potential first roadblock in my journey for justice—Cannon Freeman.
“I’m not going to let him take this from me,” I whisper quietly so that the cameras and microphones that cover every inch of this place can’t pick up my words.
When I reach the door, I knock.
“Enter,” he calls.
I twist open the handle and step inside to be greeted by the library-esque scent of books. No matter how long I live, I’ll forever associate that fragrance with the dark-haired man sitting at the desk in front of me.
When he looks up, my palms are already sweating, which is ridiculous because I’ve been embedded with troops checking the roadside for IEDs. This shouldn’t even cause a blip in my blood pressure. But it does, because never before has any investigation been so personal. Which is probably why Ariel told me to leave it alone and pay someone else to dig into it for me. But I’m convinced no one else could handle this like I could, and I still am.
Which is why I blurt out words I don’t intend to say.
“Please don’t fire me. It wasn’t intentional.”
Cannon’s glittering hazel eyes lift to rake over my face. “Who said I was firing you?”
“Umm. No one, exactly, but . . .” I pause, not wanting to throw Tanya under the bus due to some misplaced sense of loyalty I didn’t know I felt. “I was under the impression you didn’t need me to stay until the end of my shift, and the only reason I could think of to explain that was because I wouldn’t be employed here any longer.”
My explanation comes out stiffer than one would expect from someone who used to broadcast hard-hitting news reports to millions of people.
Cannon tosses the pen onto his blotter and opens a drawer. “You’re not fired, but you are leaving.” He tosses a card onto my side of the desk and waves at me to take it.
I reach down to pick up the thick red card stock, which is stamped with a name everyone in New York knows, but I’m confused by why he’s offering it to me.
* * *
BARNEYS
NEW YORK
* * *
“Go to Barneys. Sally and Britta are expecting you. I’ll pick you up at seven forty-five from the salon entrance.”
I stare at Cannon like he’s just told me I’m going on a quick drug run across the border. “Excuse me?”
“Barneys. Dress. Hair. Makeup. They’ll all be covered on my account.”
A chant starts in my head. Oh, my wig, I’m so fucked. Oh, my wig, I’m so fucked.
“But . . . but . . . why?”
Cannon’s hazel eyes lock onto mine. “Because we’re going on a date to save you from becoming Dom Casso’s next mistress.”
>
I walk out of the break room clutching my purse. A moment ago, if you’d asked me to describe the expression I saw in the mirror on the inner panel of my locker, it would have been shell-shocked. How can I possibly keep this from happening without raising red flags?
When I step onto the floor of the club, Tanya zips to my side like she’s been waiting for me to appear.
“It was nice knowing you. If you forgot anything in your locker, we’ll mail it to you.”
“She’ll be back tomorrow, Tanya.” Cannon’s deep voice comes from behind me.
How the hell does he move so quietly? He’s like a lone wolf, silently stalking his prey.
While I shut down the overactive part of my imagination, Tanya sputters.
“Wh-what? Oh. Sorry. I thought . . .”
“Call Teal. Tell her there’s a driver coming to get her. I don’t care where she is or what she’s doing, she’s making her damn shift and she’d better be sober.”
With the first sheepish look I’ve seen on her face, Tanya slinks in the direction from which I just came.
Who is Teal, and why are we worried she won’t be sober?
My neck prickles as Cannon comes closer to me, and I slowly turn to face him.
“Now I understand why you thought you were getting fired. I’ll talk to her about giving you shit.”
“No. Don’t,” I say quickly, wanting to cut that idea off as quickly as it came to life, especially since he told me to deal with her on my own, which I’ve been doing just fine. “It’ll just make it worse. I can handle her.”
His gaze sweeps over my face. “I don’t doubt that. Now get the hell out of here. Your car is waiting out front.”
16
Drew
Getting the hell out of the club is absolutely no problem for me, but the car waiting for me on the street is. I can’t dodge Warren because the Escalade is double-parked, and he opens the back door as soon as he sees me step onto the sidewalk.
“Ms. Carson, it’s a pleasure.”
“Hi, Warren,” I say with a tight smile, my brain still battling over my fight-or-flight decision.
Pedestrians dodge around where my heels are glued to the concrete. In one direction is Barneys, where I face possible discovery. In the other direction is my apartment, where I can hide and pretend this isn’t happening, but then I risk being claimed as the mistress of a man I’m only here to put in prison.
Stay cool. Act cool. Be cool. I glance up at the sky and take a few seconds to just breathe. And yet, no solutions magically appear.
Really, universe? Is this how you want me to play it?
Clearly, there’s no reply. At least, not until someone slams into my shoulder.
“You’re blocking the sidewalk. Get the hell out of the—” Before the man finishes speaking, Warren is between us.
“Don’t say another word to the lady, or you’ll regret it.”
The man in a suit glares at Warren for a half second before Warren’s jacket flaps open to reveal a gun. The man’s eyes widen, and he backs away. “Whoa, man. Sorry.”
“Move the fuck on,” Warren says in a low tone, and then leads me to the SUV. “Sorry about that, Ms. Carson. It won’t happen again. I’ll escort you from the door. Mr. Freeman would have my ass if I didn’t make sure you arrive safe and sound.”
And that’s how I find myself settled in the back of a Cadillac, heading for Barneys. It reminds me of how my father would tell me, “Not making a decision is the same as making one. You’ve always got a choice, even when it’s refusing to choose.”
Sadness scores my chest, and I fight the mist of tears coming over my eyes. It’s been almost eight months, but from the sharpness of the pain, it still feels like yesterday.
They say time heals all wounds, but that’s bullshit. Nothing will ever heal this wound. Justice is the next best thing. Which means if I have to go on one date with Cannon Freeman to save my investigation, so be it.
Warren slides into the driver’s seat and pulls into traffic. It takes us twenty minutes to get to Barneys. He helps me out of the car and tells me he and Mr. Freeman will pick me up in the same spot at 7:45.
With a smile, I head inside the flagship department store, ready to face my next test, and a high-pitched voice squeaks, “Lizzy? Is that you?”
Oh. Fuck.
Thankfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve answered to the name Lizzy, so I don’t acknowledge the hesitant question. I keep walking forward until the woman, a contact I used for an investigation four years ago, rushes up to me. Mindy Vick. That’s her name.
But as soon as she sees my face, she jerks back.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else. My bad. Have a good one.”
I smile and nod, not trusting my voice right now, because the moment she called me Lizzy, my British accent bubbled up in my throat, just like every time I used that alias.
With perfect timing, a dark-haired woman sweeps up to my side, and Mindy scurries out of earshot.
“Ms. Carson?”
I meet her clear gray gaze and force the British accent down. “Are you Sally or Britta?”
“Yes, I’m Britta. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you need a dress for dinner at Per Se.”
I can only imagine what Cannon told her, but from the way she’s sizing me up, I have a feeling I’m not what she expected. This isn’t a Richard Gere sends Julia Roberts to Rodeo Drive because she has no decent dress situation, and for some reason, I get the sense that’s the scene she was expecting to play out.
I shine my brightest smile on her as I shake my head in what I hope is an indulgent fashion. “He really does go overboard with wanting to spoil me sometimes.”
I don’t know why I make it sound like this is a normal occurrence for Cannon and me, but I’m following my instincts here. Something tells me Britta might want Cannon for herself. Or maybe she already had him. I brush the thought away as Britta’s smile falters.
“How lucky for you. Why don’t you come with me? I have a selection already pulled based on his comments, but now I’m wondering if you wouldn’t rather just pick your own.”
Yep, she was totally expecting Pretty Woman. Maybe even hoping for it?
I follow her trim figure, graceful in her Manhattan uniform of all black, toward the area where the couture gowns and dresses are displayed. “Simple and elegant. That’s all I need.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I don’t want to put it on his account either, because I have my own, but that would be the height of stupidity. It won’t be weird to wear something he paid for. Consider it a costume, I tell myself, but even I know that’s not true.
There’s something very alpha and dominant about a man clothing a woman, and therefore, I shall pretend it doesn’t affect me. And here I am, lying to myself.
In the lavish private dressing area, meant for personal shoppers and their clients, she shows me an array of dresses. Five of the six are ugly as sin. High fashion, expensive as hell, and proof once more that it doesn’t matter what label and price tag you put on things, some are just freaking hideous.
The last is a simple black A-line cocktail dress with a low-cut bodice and almost no ornamentation.
“If you don’t like any of these, I’m happy to bring in a selection more to your taste.”
I shake my head. “I’ll try the black one. I need a size—”
“Mr. Freeman provided your dress size. I just need your shoe size, and I can pull some heels for you to try on with it.”
“Eight,” I murmur, and she hands me the dress and disappears in search of shoes.
How the hell did he know what size I wear? A wave of heat washes over me as I close the door to the private dressing room and stare down at the tag. He was absolutely right about the size, though. Is he really watching me that closely?
As I slip out of my uniform, I’m utterly aware of the slide of fabric across my skin. It’s almost as if I can feel him watching me right now. Another
unwelcome punch of arousal slams into me.
I am not attracted to him. I can’t be. This isn’t a real date. It’s a fact-finding mission. An interview. That’s it. That’s all.
But as soon as I have the black dress on, I can’t help but picture him taking it off of me.
Dammit.
I close my eyes, but I can’t get the vision out of my mind. Cannon’s wide, capable hands sliding the cap sleeves off my shoulders and letting the bodice slip over my bare skin.
Shit. Stop. No.
I flick open my eyes to bring me back to reality, because the liquid feeling low in my belly means nothing good for me and my investigation.
Giving the mirror one last quick glance, I can’t get out of the damn dressing room fast enough.
With my dress bag in hand, now containing my work clothes while I wear the gorgeous black number and the heels Britta selected, the personal shopper escorts me to the salon. Sally, the revered owner, crosses the floor to greet us.
As soon as Britta leaves, Sally tilts her head to the side and studies me. Before she speaks, I know she knows my secret.
“You’re wearing a wig. I wasn’t told to expect that. Why? What are we working with here?”
Activity buzzes in the salon, and I lower my voice to whisper my rehearsed lie so only Sally can hear me. “He’s into blondes . . . but my hair is dark, and I love it too much to kill it with peroxide and bleach. But after tonight, I don’t think he’ll give a damn what color my hair is, if you know what I mean.” I add a little wink for effect, hoping I’m not overplaying my hand.
For a moment, Sally’s face stays stony. Then she throws her head back and laughs so loudly that every woman in the salon pauses to look at her. When she finishes cackling and chuckling, she smiles widely at me.
“You are a smart woman. I like you. He will never know—until it’s too late.”
A shiver of foreboding skates down my spine, and it almost feels like Sally’s making a prediction that applies to a hell of a lot more than hair.