by Jasmin Quinn
“We’re not together Jack. We’ve never been together, have we? It’s just you playing games with me to get what you want.”
Jack pursed his lips as he looked into Mira’s angry face. He ran a finger down her cheek and she jerked back. Maybe she was right about him. Maybe he didn’t have the capacity to love someone so much he would do anything for them. Except his brother. He would die for Robert. He shrugged at her, turned his back. “Maybe you should have a nap, take a break from your shrewishness. You want to blame me for everything, go ahead. I have broad shoulders, I can take it.”
He heard her growl, thought she might hurl her glass of wine at him, but she managed to rein back her temper. She seemed to understand where the line was. What she didn’t know was that the line was receding. With each act of defiance, it got smaller, folding in on her, cornering her.
Twenty-Five
Michael Black sat on the couch in his luxurious suite at the Wynn Tower Suites in Las Vegas watching the news with interest. He accepted the glass of scotch handed off to him over his shoulder, then guided the beautiful woman attached to the finely manicured nails around the couch and next to him. He loved those nails, loved the woman who wore them. Loved how they raked him when he was fucking her. There wasn’t a wrong thing about Isabelle, not a thing he didn’t love, except her ex-husband, Jack Creed, which was why he found the news so interesting.
Isabelle kicked 4-inch black stilettos off her stockinged feet and curled her legs under her as she leaned into Michael, her own glass of scotch firmly wrapped within her long, sensuous fingers. “What’s it about?” she asked, taking a small sip of her drink. Michael gazed at her with his dark eyes, at her body draped against his, her perfect curves, the hint of her breast as her blouse strained against her chest, the bob of her throat as she swallowed the scotch. His anger roiled in his gut, burning him. It was always there now, simmering, each time he held Isabelle, each time he fucked her.
He tried to set it aside, tried not to let it come between them. Jack Creed terrified Isabelle and yet, in her time of need she’d turned to her ex-husband, not Michael. Her betrayal was staggering at first and he struggled between killing her or locking her away to rot. It took him time to hunt her down, which helped with his perspective, helped settle him. She was the only woman he’d ever loved, the only women he wanted to spend his life with, so when they reconciled in Venice, he didn’t savage her, he didn’t destroy her.
That day, on the train, on their way to Germany, she’d promised him that nothing happened between her and Creed. On her life, on her knees, she promised him. And he believed her. But it didn’t hurt any less that she went to Creed without Michael’s knowledge, that she let Creed plan her escape, from Vancouver, from Rusya Savisin, the vicious Russian crime boss, from Michael. He didn’t know how to forgive her for that, thought his current path of destruction against Creed’s operations might help, but as time passed, his interest in bringing the Vegas mobster to his knees waned. Maybe he would have left it alone, walked away, but he’d drawn both his brother, Barak, and his employer, Jackman, into his feud. For Barak, it was a power grab, a way to establish a ground hold in Vegas. For Jackman, it ran deeper than that. Bringing Jack Creed to his knees would be another blow to Rusya Savisin, Jackman’s enemy. And Michael, who had set the ball in motion, had no choice but to see it through or find a way to untangle himself from the mess.
He gazed at Isabelle, her sculpted profile, long dark eyelashes caressing the high curve of her cheekbones as she blinked, and had to restrain himself from flipping her onto her belly and shoving his cock into her. He did that a lot, not the flipping and shoving, but the restraining. He grinned, took a drink of his scotch. “Your ex is in the news.”
Michael knew that Isabelle was trying to school her features, look like she didn’t care. They’d been together long enough for her to understand that she would never win with Michael where Jack Creed was concerned. She stopped trying about a month after they reconciled. All she could do now was attempt to appear disinterested in anything related to Jack, but she’d failed this time and Michael forgave her. This wasn’t just another story about a Creed doing something good or bad. It was far more than that.
A former DA prosecutor seemed to be at the forefront. Mira Richardson. Her name and face were plastered everywhere. The news station kept playing a sound-bite of her addressing the press on the steps of the courthouse the day she sent Jack Creed’s brother, Robert, down for second degree murder. “She’s pretty,” Isabelle said, and Michael gave her a squeeze. Another thing he loved about Isabelle. She wasn’t shallow or insecure – she gave women their due when they measured up in her eyes, but then why not? No other woman compared to Isabelle. Michael thrilled as he thought this – and she was here, next to him, loving him.
“I love you, Isabelle,” he murmured, his breath raking her ear.
She glanced at him, her eyes surprised because it was something he seldom said except after love-making. Her smile told him everything and she brought her lips to his. “I love you too, Michael. With all my heart.”
She settled her head on his chest as his heart sped up. He knew how this happy hour was about to end, but he wanted to hear the rest of this news bite, figure out how he could twist this interesting soap opera to his favour.
He admired the prosecutor as she addressed the press. She was articulate, careful with her words. She looked shaken, off-balance but still seemed to manage her way through the questions. Until one reporter alluded to a past relationship she may have had with Jack Creed. He watched her face, her eyes as she responded to the question, direct and without anymore inflection that any of her other answers. Whatever her association was with the Creeds when she was an articling student under the employ of Sugarman and Bryson, more than five years ago was irrelevant to the outcome of this particular case. Then she dismissed the reporter as if he were nothing more than shit on her shoe and moved on to the next question.
Cut to today, she’s resigned from the DA’s office, is now convinced Creed is not guilty, and is representing him as the DA moves forward on a first-degree murder charge. The prosecutor on the case, Aaron Leeds, assured reporters that there would be no plea bargain, that Robert Creed would not plead out to manslaughter.
Michael sipped his scotch as he speculated on this turn of events. Something occurred between Robert Creed’s conviction and the media circus currently on the TV. Someone had gotten to Mira Richardson. It was obvious that someone was Jack Creed. He looked down at Isabelle, still tightly pressed to his chest. “What do you think about this?”
Isabelle never hesitated to share her opinion on anything with anyone, except when the topic of Jack Creed came up. Michael knew why. He couldn’t handle it, her association with Creed, her history, her betrayal and so as he asked, she stiffened in his arms, pulled away from him and sat up. “Do you really want to know what I think, Michael?”
He nodded, tried to put his mind in neutral, tried to think like a strategist, not an asshole in love.
“I think that Rob is capable of a lot of things, deserves to go to prison, but he didn’t kill Amber. He worshipped her.”
A hard bolt of anger pierced Michael’s brain, making it hazy, unreasonable. But that didn’t stop him from continuing down the destructive path. “Maybe it was a crime of passion.”
Isabelle placed her drink on the table, then took his whiskey from his hand and set it beside hers. She knelt in front of him on the couch, leaning toward him, bringing her hands to his face, kissing his lips softly. “It wasn’t, Michael. He loved her like I love you.”
Michael closed his eyes to her words. She was trying to diffuse him, bring his anger back to a level that she could manage, but these were wrong words, these words of hers. How could a Creed possibly understand his and Isabelle’s depth of love? He yanked her to him, crushing his lips on hers and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling awkwardly. She cried out as he pushed her back on the sofa and ripped her dress open. She’d
be wet already, and she’d come for him as he claimed her again out of anger, out of betrayal. She would come for him and be his.
♦ ♦ ♦
After, they sprawled on the couch, her body on top of his, her arms hugging his chest, her ear welded to it, not looking up at him, not sharing her thoughts. He lay there, catching his breath, eyes closed, fingers rubbing his temples. How many more times would she let this happen, how many more times before she had enough and left? And if she did try to leave, would he let her go, or would he bar the door?
The TV was still droning on in the background. Still the news, still the Creeds, but the newsman was on a different topic. A raid of a warehouse owned by the Creeds. Four known associates of Jack Creed’s dead. Whatever was in the warehouse gone. Michael smiled to himself. When product disappeared, dangerous men got mad. When that happened, more people died. Creed was getting backed into a corner and he didn’t yet know that Michael was the one holding the smoking gun.
Twenty-Six
The day of the hearing was a nightmare. Mira thanked God and Jack for putting both Andre and Hector on her. No other city had weirdos like Vegas and it seemed they all showed up to pelt her with words, with hate, one even with stones, calling her Jezebel and promising she would burn in hell. The police seemed slow to respond but moved in when Andre threatened to do their fucking jobs for them.
The press was no better. They were piranha’s swarming her, their questions cutting her to the bone. Jack was beside her, holding her elbow and guiding her up the steps of the courthouse. She turned when she reached the top. “As you are aware,” she said to media zoo. “A press conference will take place immediately following this hearing. I will address any and all of your relevant questions at that time.”
She caught the quirk of Jack’s lips at her use of the word relevant and she rewarded him with a little, chagrined grin. The rest of the week had gone a little better between the two of him, Jack respecting her space and she, respecting his rules, keeping her swearing to a minimum, keeping her anger under control, keeping her moments of hurt behind her closed bedroom door. Shonan Rosedale showed up the following day. Tall, blond, gracious, in jeans and a T-shirt, commenting on how nice it was not to have to wear a suit. Mira couldn’t argue with him. Now that they were on the same side, they seemed to hit it off well. Shonan had a small struggle giving up the lead on Rob’s defence, but Mira’s approach was so collaborative that it quickly became a respectful partnership. And both were relieved to have an ally in each other under the heavy presence of Jack Creed.
The courtroom had been cleared for the hearing, no spectators except family, no media. Judge Gerald Kearny, the court reporter, the guard, the prosecutor, Jack, Shonan, Mira. And Robert, brought in from a side door, in a suit and tie, cuffs removed as he was led to the table and seated between herself and Shonan. Tall, dark like his brother, but if possible, more brooding, more indiscernible. Where Jack was open, charming and somewhat approachable, Rob rarely spoke or smiled, a set to his face that would make a charging grizzly think twice. Mira nodded to him as Shonan leaned over and had a brief quiet conversation. Rob looked behind him at Jack and they exchanged nods, serious and meaningful, something passing between brothers, uninterpretable to all others.
After the judge entered and the preliminaries were dispensed with, Aaron stood, introduced himself as the lead prosecutor on the file and requested that the plea bargain made between the State of Nevada and the defendant, Robert Leslie Creed be overturned on the grounds of misconduct, conflict of interest, and contempt of court.
Mira expected nothing less than that, but it still hurt that Aaron would be so vindictive. The judge turned to her, “And how does the defence respond, Ms. Richardson.” The man’s face was guarded but his eyes told Mira everything she needed to know. She was judged before opening her mouth.
She stood. “Your honour. Defence is not opposed to the plea bargain being overturned. Defence requests immediate release of Robert Creed on his own recognizance until a new plea bargain has been reached or a trial date is set.”
“Objection, your honor.”
“Hold on,” Judge Kearny said. “It’s my turn.” He shifted his attention to Mira. “If I overturn the plea-bargain, who will represent Mr. Creed in future?”
“I will be the lead on Mr. Creed’s file, your honour.”
“And how will you do that from prison, Ms. Richardson?”
Mira wasn’t completely taken off guard, but his bluntness and hostility shook her. She took a few seconds to compose herself so that she didn’t stammer when she spoke. “The prosecution’s charges of misconduct, conflict of interest and contempt have not yet been established nor proven. I will continue to represent Mr. Creed until I have been disbarred or jailed.” She heard a small growl from Jack.
“Or both,” the judge said.
Mira gave a slight nod of her head then continued. “The defence supports the states motion to overturn the plea bargain on the grounds of conflict of interest given that the prosecuting attorney, namely me, who bargained on behalf of the state of Nevada has now joined the defence team for Robert Creed. The plea bargain can no longer stand. The defence requests that all charges against Robert Creed be dropped and Mr. Creed be immediately released from custody.”
The judge sighed, turned to Aaron and said, “Let it be decreed that in the case of the Robert Creed versus the state of Nevada, the plea bargain is overturned. Mr. Creed is free to go until new charges are laid.” He banged his gavel.
Aaron stood. “Thank you, your honour. The state wishes to proceed with the charge against Mr. Robert Leslie Creed, of murder in the first degree for planning and carrying out the death of Amber Theisen and the accompanying charge of causing an indignity to a body. The state requests that the accused be remanded into custody immediately until a trial date is set and the trial concluded.”
Mira rose to her feet. “Defence requests that an arraignment take place to formerly set the charges and that Mr. Creed’s bail be set as it was prior to the plea bargain. Mr. Creed has proven that he can be trusted not to flee the jurisdiction.”
“Objection,” Aaron said, his voice a baritone of boredom. “Mr. Creed is a flight risk, particularly since he is now facing first degree murder.”
Mira still on her feet, countered, “Mr. Creed was facing first degree murder charges before the plea bargain was overturned. A plea bargain is still a future possibility.” She could sense Jack’s eyes searing into her back. He’d made it clear that there would be no plea bargain. It would be first degree or nothing. He knew the prosecution could not prove first degree. He was smarter then the lot of them, Mira thought as bitterness burned her. He played them all.
Aaron brought her attention back to him as he addressed her directly, “The district attorney’s office will not allow the defendant to plead out.”
Mira turned to Aaron, “Then the district attorney’s office is a fool.”
“Enough!” Judge Kearny snarled. “Both of you. Bail is set at $1 million. Mr. Creed is free to go once the bailiff is paid.” He banged his gavel. As he stood, he said, “Ms. Richardson, Mr. Leeds, my chambers, now!”
Mira followed the judge and Aaron from the courtroom without sparing a glance to Jack or Robert. She didn’t want to risk losing her composure. She was a lamb surrounded by wolves. Hostility, danger, intimidation battering her from all sides, threatening to tear her apart. It was a lot to handle, maybe too much. And it wasn’t over yet. She still had the press to handle. They weren’t the wolves, though, they were the vultures. They’d pick clean whatever was left of Mira before this day was out.
Once in chambers, the judge sat behind his desk and indicated that she and Aaron should sit in the chairs opposite him. Mira folded herself into a chair, letting fatigue and stress brush over her. She’d won the first round, met Jack’s deadline. Kearny said, “Mira, are you being coerced by the Creeds?”
Oh god, what a question. How could she answer that? She was and she wasn’
t. Aaron knew it too. “I’m not, sir. I’m doing this because I no longer believe in Robert Creed’s guilt on this charge.”
Kearny turned to Aaron his brow raised.
“Mira came to me asking that we take a closer look at the plea bargain, Creed’s guilt.” Aaron responded with a grunt. “I denied the request. It’s not what prosecution does, it’s up to his defence team to sort that shit out. So Mira crossed the floor. No coercion. Complete willingness.”
“Why would you do that?” Kearny asked her.
Mira shook her head. “I’m sorry, Judge, but I can’t have this conversation with you and in front of Aaron. If the DA’s office is going to press charges of misconduct and contempt, then I have to be judicious with my information.”
Kearny considered Mira. “That’s fair. Go celebrate with your client, Mira.” To Aaron he said, “Stick around.”
Mira didn’t like that Aaron and the judge were going to have a private conversation, but what could she do? Aaron could blow her world apart if he wanted to. If that happened, she’d have to live with the consequences. She doubted she’d go to jail, but she’d be disbarred. And notorious. There would be no place for her to hide.
When she stepped outside the judge’s chambers, Andre and Hector were waiting for her. Jack and Rob had left, which had been the plan, but she felt hollow and deserted again. She wanted to be part of the reunion, wanted to hear ‘well done’ from Jack’s lips. It was so messed up, these things she wanted.
She walked into the room set up for the press conference. Packed. The minute she stepped through the doors, the clicking of cameras started. Shonan was already there, sitting at the table, his head down. Mira sat down beside him. “How’re you doing?”
