Abbie had asked Stu to allow her flexible hours for personal reasons. What did Stuey do? He saw a chance to use it against her to help his position. One day she’d have the money to call her shots and travel the world as an international journalist filming documentaries that made people feel good.
That wasn’t in the cards this week.
“You know,” Stu murmured slyly, his clothes rustling when he moved close to whisper, “I have better things to offer than getting into a fancy party. You could sweeten the pot on the deal… later tonight.”
Stuey thought she was willing to, to… to prostitute herself for a freaking job?
That pig. Like the one I almost married and not near as useful as the ones Dad had raised.
Abbie wheeled her vehicle into WCXB’s parking lot, slid into the first open space, and stomped her brakes.
Stu slammed his hand against the dash, stopping his forward momentum. “What the hell?”
She shifted a steel-hard gaze at him, hands gripping the wheel to keep from locking them on his throat. “Number one, I’m not sleeping with anyone to get anything, much less do that for a job. Number two, you flatter yourself if you think I’d sleep with you, and number three? You’re dating Brittany.”
God, but she hated men some days. Most days.
They lied, cheated, and manipulated their way through life.
Her heart thumped from a dangerous mix of adrenaline and anger. She would never let another man screw her over again.
All of them were dirtbags, especially her boss.
Boss… crud. She’d let her temper boil her brain senseless. She still needed the pass to the damn fund-raiser.
“How’d you know—” Stu caught himself and snapped his lips shut. His face turned a deep shade of guilt.
Hmm. Maybe she could work this in her favor.
She hated having to give Hannah credit for this news scoop, but fair was fair.
“How’d I know you were dating Brittany?” Abbie put the car in neutral and left the engine running. She turned to face him. The possibility of impending triumph surged into her voice. “Brittany’s brother went to school with my sister Hannah, who is now in a book club with Brittany. During their last book club meeting, Brittany started talking about how much she loved being a society reporter for WCXB and said that’s how she met this wonderful guy—Stuart—she’d been seeing for the past month.”
Stu’s face lost the cocky angles and turned pasty. Dating old man Vancleaver’s granddaughter might not have been Stuey’s best idea, even if they were well suited. Abbie would normally have felt it was her duty to clue in Brittany about dating the lecherous Stuart, but Brittany had a reputation for two-timing her men and bragging about it.
Who was Abbie to interfere with a perfect match?
But Brittany wouldn’t overlook his infidelity.
Abbie added, “I’d venture to say she thinks you two are dating. If you’re available you should let her know right away.” She never thought she’d be thankful for having endured Hannah’s recent rambling about her own latest conquest—a self-made millionaire with three houses in different states. But in the midst of her all-about-Hannah review, her sister had suggested that Abbie should take a tip from Brittany, who had nailed a man considered one of the most eligible bachelors at Abbie’s television station.
I do not hate my sister.
Well, at least not Hannah.
Casey, her twenty-five-year-old baby sister, was another story.
Abbie rarely suffered from the green-eyed monster, but hearing how she should learn how to get a man from gorgeous Brittany or conniving Hannah hadn’t made it one of her better days.
Now she pitied Brittany almost as much as she did the poor rich sucker Hannah had in her feminine crosshairs. As the middle child of three kids, and one who hated growing up on a pig farm, Hannah had started sleeping her way to an impressive investment portfolio the minute she’d turned eighteen. She’d made it clear she would not dirty her hands ever again.
As if Hannah had ever helped out on the farm.
Casey had set her sights on more attainable targets. Unfaithful men. Hard to aim much lower than that.
Abbie had loved her dad and his farm. She would one day prove he hadn’t committed suicide and left her mother destitute.
Stu swallowed hard, the sound loud in the car. His fish lips narrowed and turned down at the corners. The shoulders of his navy Brooks Brothers suit slumped. “I, uh, may have given you the wrong impression about my intentions.”
Nice try, Stuey, but no free deals today. “Oh, I think I understood exactly what you were saying.” Abbie had an evil side that rose to the surface in the presence of assholes.
He studied her a moment, his eyes flickering with unchecked worry. “About that deal…”
She wanted to smile, just a little, but this was not the time to gloat. Not when she had Stuey dangling by his short hairs. “I want the raise you offered—” Never leave money on the table. “—and the flex schedule, and…”
Stu’s frown deepened with each demand. He leaned forward slightly. A sign in her favor.
“I want an invitation to that fund-raiser tomorrow night.”
His lips parted, some objection hanging there.
What wouldn’t fly? The money? Okay, Abbie could bend on that one, but not the flextime or getting an invitation to the fund-raiser. She had to enter as a guest and not as someone connected to the media. She doubted Gwenyth Wentworth, who avoided the media, would knowingly allow an investigative reporter inside.
Brittany was of the same social class. Not a threat.
Abbie would never be one of them and posed one hell of a threat to the Wentworths. Every passing hour decreased her mother’s chance of recovery from whatever ravaged her body.
“I’ll find the money to give you a raise and approve your schedule, but there is no way I can get you into the Wentworth event,” Stu said almost apologetically, as if he would dearly love to ease his balls out of Abbie’s fist. “Brittany’s using her grandfather’s invitation. She isn’t even taking me.”
“Not good enough.” She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel with great effort and started tapping her index finger. She wanted to give him the impression that she had her own limit on patience. She’d never considered blackmailing anyone, and this didn’t constitute blackmail so much as forcing Stu to take stock of the blank pages in his moral code book.
Thanks to Dr. Tatum, who had been her mother’s doctor for as long as Abbie had been alive, she now had a glimmer of hope, a chance to save her mother. Tatum had told Abbie about how her mother had made visits to the Kore Women’s Center for thirty years.
Three decades of secrets. Tatum had handed Abbie a weapon to bargain with that no public relations firm could spin.
Blackmailing Stuey was the least of what she’d do.
Stuey shrunk back, staring at her with the fear of a weasel that had chased dinner into a snake hole.
Abbie stopped tapping the steering wheel. “I’d hate for our little discussion to get out in public.”
“I can’t, Abbie. I would, but I can’t…”
Bullshit. Stu could make this happen. “Why not?”
“Because the only way you could go is if Brittany doesn’t. Any chance of getting her invitation and giving it to you would end up with her thinking something was going on between us. We’d both lose our jobs. Can’t do it.”
Chapter Three
Could the mole inside the Fratelli de il Sovrano sending BAD intel be trusted? Or was tonight’s mission at the Wentworths’ annual March fund-raiser an elaborate setup to expose BAD’s agents?
Out of instinctive reflex, Hunter checked for the 9mm he didn’t have due to the metal detectors he’d have to pass through. He felt naked without it. The sigh he let escape sounded noisy, a testament to the whisper ride of a stretch limo.
“We’ll be there soon, Mr. Thornton… Payne… the third, Your Highness, sir,” came from the wiseass in the front s
eat driving a limousine so new the leather had a robust scent.
“Fuck. Off.” Hunter was in no mood for anyone’s crap tonight. He had enough on his mind without dealing with the dickhead driving. That sixth sense of his stirred to life with an antsy feeling he couldn’t finger the reason for, but not from concern over executing tonight’s mission. If the mole’s intel was solid, trustworthy, Hunter would walk away one step closer to someone he’d hunted for four years.
The assassin who killed Eliot.
A valid reason to feel edgy.
He would have volunteered to lead this op tonight for that reason alone, but the choice had been made for him before he entered BAD’s mission room. Hunter’s credentials—having been born with a silver spoon in his hand to flip Cheerios across the room—put his name at the top of the list.
A derisive chuckle rumbled from the driver’s seat.
Hunter wished again for a weapon but wouldn’t actually use it on the cretin playing limo driver.
Not worth ruining a tux with blood splatters.
“What’re you so pissy about?” BAD agent Korbin Maximus looked more like a corporate bodyguard stuffed in a dark suit than a reserved limo driver. Mexican genes mixed with who knew what else to give him his muscular six-foot-one build and eyes that were more black than brown. He laid heavily on the barrio accent that came and went with need. “You get the cherry assignments with champagne, limos, and women… how tough is that?”
“Yeah, my life’s a cakewalk,” Hunter muttered, unwilling to engage in another round with Korbin after the argument this morning in Nashville. The muted ding of Korbin’s phone followed by quietly spoken words meant Hunter might be spared any further conversation for the rest of the ten-minute ride to the Wentworth mansion. They both knew tonight’s plan and their jobs, so the less said for the duration of this trip the better.
Hunter could hold the peace but doubted Korbin would.
Cherry assignment? Not from his vantage point.
The team should be thanking him for having the juice to pull an invitation to this fund-raiser with one phone call, not giving him grief over refusing to take a female BAD agent as a companion.
Some might see his assignment tonight as just another advantage of being one of only two Thornton-Payne heirs.
Hunter loathed spending an evening enduring mindless chatter from the perpetually self-consumed almost as much as dealing with the damned media that hovered with a vulture’s eye for opportunistic misery.
But he’d attend fund-raisers every night for a year if it meant the chance to find Eliot’s killer.
And he’d do it for Joe Q. Public, BAD’s director. Joe had brought him into the organization seven years ago when they met in a complicated situation that should have ended with Hunter’s death.
A male snitch in Poland, known only as Borys, had saved both Hunter and a female CIA agent from being made while deep undercover inside the Russian mob. Four months later, the CIA cut a deal with the same crime family to trade Borys for information.
When Borys disappeared before the exchange could be made, the CIA cornered Hunter. Joe pulled off a maneuver to save Hunter’s neck that would have impressed a wizard.
The CIA allowed Hunter to walk away as long as he never interfered with one of their operations again.
If they ever located Borys, Hunter’s life would be worth less than the snitch to the agency.
Entering the Brugmann home four years ago could have resulted in a breach of his agreement with the CIA if not for Joe’s quick action. Unbeknownst to Hunter and Eliot, a camera at the back of the safe had filmed both of them. Mere hours after the FBI’s raid on Brugmann’s property, a team of BAD agents stole the film from an FBI evidence locker before the CIA had a chance to review the images.
Ass saved once again.
If only Eliot had survived. Hunter had gotten Cynthia into the funeral home after-hours so she could have a private moment with Eliot since his family didn’t know she existed. Her anger had rivaled Hunter’s. She’d railed at him for bringing Eliot home in a box. Regardless of what she thought of him, Hunter watched over Cynthia and her son. He’d put aside his feelings over how she’d trapped Eliot and do his duty to his friend forever.
But tonight he had to pay back more than one debt. If he followed his mission instructions, he would only stay long enough to recon the guests attending and pick up the USB memory stick Linette Tassone—their mole inside the Fratelli—dropped at some point during the event, then he’d eavesdrop on the Fratelli meeting if he could locate the three expected to attend.
If. Small word with too much room for autonomy.
During the mission briefing, Joe had told Hunter the CIA had tied the killer at Brugmann’s in Kauai—better known as the Jackson Chameleon—to a series of linked deaths. They wanted the JC assassin.
The CIA should have made better use of the last four years while Hunter had patiently spent his time proving to Joe and Retter he would not go rogue. Waiting on his chance to find the killer who had laughed when Eliot cut his rope. And fell…
“Yep, Joe’s right,” Korbin said, interrupting the silence. His cell phone call had obviously ended, to Hunter’s chagrin. “You are the perfect choice for this gig.” He shrugged with feigned acceptance. “Guess it’s like you said about Rae. No one can play in your league if they’re not born to it.”
Thanks for reminding me of the low shot I had to take at Rae to keep her out of danger tonight. Hunter couldn’t allow anyone to be tied to him once he walked into the Wentworth complex. Rae Graham would do anything BAD required of her, and at a level of expertise that impressed them all, Hunter included.
She deserved to know if she was walking into a dangerous situation, but Hunter could tell no one his plans. “I did Rae a favor.”
Korbin’s harsh laugh was vacant of humor or understanding. “Forgive me if I don’t see the generosity in your argument, amigo.”
Can’t let it go, can you, jerk-off? “If she tried to enter as a guest, someone in tonight’s crowd would nail her as a poser and lacking. Her presence would draw the kind of attention we can’t afford. The minute one woman got a hint of any shortcoming the rest would turn on her faster than a pack of cougars at a frat house.” Hunter cringed internally against the snick of guilt his lie triggered. His job required lying, but he hated doing it at the cost of a teammate’s pride.
Rae and Korbin were fairly new to BAD, on board for just over two years now.
Both had proven to be elite agents.
At five-eight with a buff body, one hell of a brain, and sharp feminine features, Rae would have actually been the perfect companion and made Hunter’s job a whole lot easier this evening. As it was, she’d still be on-site tonight, but as part of the catering staff. Any other time, Rae would have had no issue inserting as a servant, but she didn’t care for being snubbed publicly.
Hunter sympathized. He didn’t care to be the asshole doing the snubbing, but he had a personal agenda that would put his neck in a noose if he got caught.
And might pressure an assassin to act even if Hunter didn’t get caught.
That could put Rae in a sniper’s crosshairs without any warning.
Not going to happen.
And if anyone at BAD knew what he was up to he’d get yanked out of the field so fast he’d have vertigo. He could live with the team pissed off at him for openly dissing Rae, but he couldn’t live with putting any agent at an unfair disadvantage in a dangerous situation.
Neither would he pass up the chance to find Eliot’s killer.
Which made him the scourge of this mission.
What the hell.
Most agents at BAD didn’t like him on a good day. They respected his skills and intelligence-gathering capacity, but no one would partner with him after Eliot’s death.
Maybe because he told them he had cut Eliot’s rope, using cold logic when he explained how Eliot couldn’t climb so getting him down would have been impossible.
Wou
ld it have been possible?
Hunter’s gut contracted. Don’t replay what-ifs again.
His lie to Joe and Retter had been the simplest way to prove he was still the ruthless agent BAD expected him to be. Sad to recall how easily everyone at BAD had accepted it as truth, that Hunter could cut the rope on a friend and teammate.
They’d taken an internal step back, eyes judging him as soulless. Which suited Hunter.
He’d never trust another person as much as Eliot.
Never get that close to anyone again.
Never allow someone else to sacrifice their life for him.
Korbin’s dark gaze shot into the rearview mirror, the black eyes stirring with an unfinished battle. “You screwed Rae this morning.”
Didn’t think you’d give up yet. Hunter shrugged callously.
“She fooled everyone as the wife of an American diplomat at the queen’s shindig in Great Britain last year. Rae’s damn good—”
“—at handling weapons and neutralizing threats,” Hunter cut in, getting tired of sounding like a bastard. “But she’d be culled the minute she walked through the door. Plus, no one would believe I was involved with her.”
Let it go, Korbin.
Black eyes continued to damn him via the mirror.
Hunter drew a breath of resolve and added one final slam he was glad Rae couldn’t hear and doubted Korbin would share. “She might fool world leaders attending tonight, but not those raised with old money. The Wentworth guest list is based on financial power first, political markers second. All the training in the world doesn’t cover the tiny nuances these women learn from birth.”
“Men bring trophy brides to these things, right? I think she could handle walking around looking gorgeous. Looking happy to be with you might have tested her skills.”
Hunter noted the ping of irritation in Korbin’s voice and the relentless defensiveness on Rae’s behalf.
Big mistake, Korbin.
Silent Truth Page 4
