by Reid, Penny
“You’re right. I am.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
I did trust her. If it came down to it, I would tell her everything and hope she could see past the man I used to be to the man I was trying to become. Part of me reasoned that the entire conversation was irrelevant since I was ending my association with those people.
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I shifted a step closer. She was forced to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
I said, “We’re getting married.”
“Yes. We are.” She lifted her hands to my chest, placed her right palm flat over my heart, and gripped the front of my shirt with her left. “And that’s why I need you to trust me, completely. History and classical fiction are polluted with story after story, example after example of the downfall of relationships because one or both parties didn’t speak openly, or hid a secret that didn’t need to be hidden. In fact, I am given to understand that the majority of popular fiction revolves around avoidable misunderstandings as a central theme. I can name ten instances of related Greek tragedies.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will, if you don’t start talking.”
My hands were on her waist, and I abruptly realized that my grip was likely bordering on painful and had already crossed the line to aggressive. I forced myself to loosen my fingers, but pulled her more completely against me and turned her so her back was to the bar.
I briefly considered using my tie to bind her wrists and my belt to immobilize her feet. If she couldn’t leave me, if she were physically incapable, I would breathe easier.
These thoughts I filed away under crazy and desperate.
Instead, I mentally prepared for her reaction to the truth. I didn’t know how else to be other than evasive or blunt.
With my heart in my throat, I said, “I use the intelligence I gather while I provide security to persuade wealthy and powerful people. I use the information to persuade them to make good decisions.”
Janie’s eyes narrowed and stared straight ahead; she lost focus as she internalized and examined my statement. She was silent for several long seconds, and I moved my knee between her legs to press my torso more completely against hers. I thought about re-examining the crazy and desperate file.
At length her eyes flickered back to mine. “You blackmail them.”
I shrugged but kept my attention fixed on her features, looking for clues as to how she was going to react.
“For money?” She sounded like the words choked her. “Do you blackmail them for money?”
“No. I use the information for influence.”
“What does that mean, influence? To do what?”
“Real change comes from knowing the wrong people and the right people.” I watched her lips part in surprise. I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I continued. “I make sure information goes to the people who can do the most good with it.”
“So…the police?”
“Not always.” I didn’t know how much she wanted to know, and I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her. Therefore, instead of telling her that I’d sometimes used criminal organizations as a means to administer justice, I answered only the questions she asked.
Her eyes lost focus as she worked to grasp the truth. “That’s why everything is behind those steel doors at the office. That’s why the private security servers are not connected to the Internet and behind encrypted security. That’s why you won’t use open source development apps.”
“That’s part of the reason.” My tone was flat. I’d told her the bulk of it; now it was just about clarifying the details. “The other is because part of the security we offer to private clients is to hack into their personal systems, cell phones, and bank accounts to assess security risks.”
She blinked at me and her eyes moved to my mouth. Her next words were full of dawning comprehension, yet lacked judgment. “You store their private information on your servers. They pay you to keep them safe, and you use their secrets against them.”
I almost laughed. She was so smart, yet frequently missed the obvious.
Her eyes cut to mine—they were without emotion, but far from emotionless. “This is not legal, Quinn. Does Steven know? Why would you do this? Quinn….” She shook her head, her eyebrows drawing together. “After what happened to your brother, why wouldn’t you turn any information over to the police?”
I absorbed the blow, the reminder of my culpability in Des’s murder. I met and held her challenging and assessing glare straight on and did my best to explain my actions, but was careful not to defend them.
“These aren’t petty criminals, Janie. These are powerful people. I could do more good and make a bigger difference using them and their information than I could if these people were behind bars for tax evasion and recreational drug use. They would just be replaced, and I’d have no leverage.”
“Leverage to do what? You said you use the information to persuade them to make good decisions? What kind of good decisions?”
I thought of some examples. Many were selfish, like using powerful families to administer revenge against the crime organization responsible for my brother’s death. I hadn’t stopped until that organization had been completely dismantled and all the heads of the business had been severed—literally or figuratively. I didn’t care which.
Others were less selfish, like using a large campaign contributor to put pressure on a senator. In this case, the pressure was meant to hold a particular CEO accountable for the pilfering of employee pension funds.
Although, that too had been selfish in a way, because my secretary Betty’s husband had worked for the company and lost everything, all of his retirement. I supposed it was also revenge.
This didn’t cover the few people whose information I’d immediately passed through to the FBI or CIA, because their crimes were beyond reprehensible.
I finally said, “It’s complicated. I had a big part in dismantling the organization responsible for my brother’s death, but it was all about putting pressure on the right people.”
She was frowning now, but she didn’t try to move away. “What concerns me is that you got involved in the first place, especially after what happened with your brother.”
“Of course I’m involved.” The words escaped before I could stop them or the flare of temper. “The only way to make a real change is by getting involved, not by burying your head in the sand.”
She flinched, her eyes darted away, and her eyelashes fluttered. I silently reprimanded myself and inhaled a deep breath, my hands moving to her arms.
When I spoke next, my words were measured and carefully calm. “Yes, Janie, my hands are dirty—because I’ve been cleaning up messes.”
“What kind of messes?”
“All kinds,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t want to tell her what kinds of messes, because sometimes you had to prioritize one mess over another. When this happened, someone always lost, and it was usually someone who was innocent.
She pressed her lips together and swallowed, the lovely, pale column of her neck working with the effort. Still avoiding my eyes, she said, “You’re not Batman, Quinn.”
“Like hell I’m not.”
“Really?” Her gaze lifted to mine again. “Are you telling me you’ve never personally profited from these business ventures?”
“Yes, I’ve profited. And if Batman had been doing it right, he would have profited too.”
Her mouth fell open and her forehead wrinkled with disbelief. “You can’t justify using people for gain.”
“I’m not. It’s not about the gain, Janie.” I shook her arms a little and I inwardly cringed at the edge in my voice. “Do you believe—knowing what you do about me, the part I had in Des getting shot—that I was just going to let these people walk away?”
“Is this revenge?”
“In a word? Yes. Or at least it started that way.”
I watched her for a long moment, studied her expression and body
language. To my surprise, she didn’t look repulsed. She looked sad and confused.
As much as I wanted to bind her to me, tie her up and restrain her, I knew I was going to have to let her go eventually.
She needed to make a decision: either I was worth the investment, or I wasn’t. Either I was redeemable, or I wasn’t.
I inhaled through my nose and stepped away, her hands fell from my chest. Losing the warmth of her, it felt like I’d abandoned a part of me. I left it with Janie to do with as she saw fit. For safekeeping, or to throw away.
Reaching around her, I grabbed the half-empty glass of scotch and swallowed the remainder, then moved to her side to refill it.
“What is it now? It started as revenge, which—by the way—is just as well documented as being a central theme in Greek tragedy as avoidable misunderstandings. But what is it now?” She asked; she’d wrapped her arms around her middle, like she was holding herself.
“Now….” I glanced at the ceiling. “Now I’m done.”
She turned her head to look at me, paused as though processing my words. “You’re done? Done with what?”
“I’m done with private clients and playing Batman. I’m getting out of it. That’s what the first part of this trip was about. I’m passing over my UK clients to new firms.”
“Is that why I’ve had three guards with me the entire time we’ve been here?”
“No. That’s about me needing to know you’re safe.”
“Am I in some kind of danger?”
“I don’t believe so.” She wasn’t, no more than any random person. What I didn’t say was, even that small unknown felt like too much.
“Is this going to continue in Chicago? The guards?”
“No. It shouldn’t. Some of these people can be….” I searched for the most truthful description of the private clients as a group. “They can be unpredictable, but they’re rarely violent. Most of the US group has already been handed off. I’m only keeping a few. Just a small number of clients that are trustworthy, that have nothing to hide.”
I met her stare and took another swig of scotch.
“Can you do that? Can you just hand them off?”
“I don’t know. But for you, I’m going to try.”
Her eyes darted between mine. “For me?”
“I told you, you make me want to be a good guy.” Because I couldn’t help myself, I placed my hand on her cheek, let my thumb brush against her full bottom lip. Touching her was torture because I didn’t know if she still wanted me.
“Quinn….” She held perfectly still, staring at me with her large amber eyes.
The thickness in my voice betrayed how badly I wanted her, but I wasn’t going to tie her up. “I’m trying to be a good guy.”
Chapter Nine
*Janie*
“Oh thank God!” Steven threw himself into the plush leather chair of the private jet and stroked the armrests lovingly. “I’ve missed you. Did you get my flowers? Please let us never be separated again.”
I watched through narrowed eyes, though I couldn’t help my smile, as Steven spoke to the interior of the plane as though it were a lover and not a 46,000-pound piece of aviation machinery.
“You took one commercial flight, Steven. One.”
“Shhh!” he pressed his finger to his lips and loud whispered, “He’ll hear you.”
I glanced to my right and left. “Who will hear me?”
“Manuel, the plane.”
“You’ve named the plane Manuel?”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Janie. I’ve been thinking about this moment for over a week. Just let me have it.” His fingers flexed into the leather, his eyes beseeching.
Smiling at his silliness, I decided to give him a moment of privacy with the plane and walked to the back of the cabin to use the facilities before takeoff. Total airtime for our Heathrow to Chicago Midway flight would be just over nine hours, and I liked using the bathroom when I didn’t have to fight against turbulence to stay upright.
I was preoccupied with making a mental note to discover the brand of soap stocked in the lavatory when I exited and collided with Quinn.
The man who’d just admitted to me last night that he blackmailed people in order to bend them to his will.
My fiancé.
The man I was going to marry in less than three months.
“Oh—sorry.” I reached for and held on to the lapels of his jacket even though I was in no danger of losing my balance. I did this for four reasons.
First, we’d gone to sleep last night with silence between us and nothing resolved. He’d shut down, and I’d turtled into the cozy corner of trivial facts. Rather than actually think about the ramifications of his admission, I’d let my mind wander.
Second, he’d barely touched me. In fact, he’d avoided me in bed, turning away from me while we slept.
Then he’d left me this morning and hadn’t returned. He also hadn’t returned my phone calls, even when I used my cell phone. Therefore, having him there, in front of me now, within my reach, made me want to superglue myself to his body.
Lastly, he smelled good—like, really good—much better than the soap in the lavatory.
His hands automatically lifted to my upper arms as though to steady me, and his tenebrous blue eyes settled on mine then darted away.
“No problem,” he said.
My heart pinged with hurt because he was so aloof. His hands fell away. I pressed my lips together and waited for him to return his eyes to mine.
After a long moment of me gripping his jacket front and him standing there like a statue, he lifted his hands to mine and tried to pry them from his lapels, but I held on tight.
“Janie, I need to get in there.”
“Okay,” I said, but I didn’t move out of the doorway. “Where did you go this morning?”
“For a run then…on a ride.”
“On a motorcycle?” My heart ping-morphed into a heart seize. I knew he liked riding, but—irrationally—it made me anxious each time he did it. “Where did you find the bike?”
Finally, his eyes met mine. Though his features were stone, his gaze was piercing and heated. “I borrowed one.”
He stopped trying to remove my fingers from his jacket and, instead, he held out his hands between us, palms up, showing me that they were covered in a layer of dirt and grease.
“I need to wash my hands. They’re dirty.”
“Oh.” I took in his appearance and realized that he was uncharacteristically disheveled. His cheeks and nose were pink, his hair was windblown—which meant he’d been riding without a helmet—and his suit lacked its typical sleek meticulousness. Also, he was wearing no tie.
“I got some on your sleeve…” He was frowning at me and I followed his gaze to the upper arm of my white shirt. His hand had left a greasy imprint when we’d collided.
“Oh,” I said again then returned my attention to his face. He was staring at the stain, and he looked frustrated and angry.
On a sudden impulse, I leaned forward and pressed three kisses onto his white dress shirt—one on the collar and two near the placket of buttons. I leaned back to study my lip-work, pleased that I’d chosen to wear a shocking shade of pink that morning.
“There,” I said, touching the new stain near his neck. “Now we’re even.”
He glanced down at himself, his eyebrows pulling low, then he lifted just his eyes to mine. I was pleased to see that the earlier frustration had ebbed. However, in its place his gaze had grown sharp with a familiar intensity. My heart and stomach tried to out-flutter each other.
Quinn nodded once, slowly. Other than his eyes, his expression betrayed nothing. But then his hands came to my hips, and he walked me backward into the lavatory.
And I let him.
Once we were inside, he closed the door behind him and turned me so that my bottom was against the sink.
“What are we doing?” I asked, all at once breathless, even as I reached for the front of his pan
ts and unbuckled his belt.
Quinn brushed his lips against mine as his hands slipped under the hem of my skirt and hiked it to my waist.
“We’re having make-up sex,” he growled.
Then he kissed me. I moaned because it felt so good and right, and we hadn’t kissed in over twenty-four hours—not since before the ball for the phantom charity, not since we’d gone lingerie shopping.
His mouth separated from mine. He licked and bit a path over my jaw to my ear. I tried tilting to the side to give him better access, but my head connected with the paper towel dispenser.
“Were we fighting?” I asked, though I had no idea how he was going to answer because I was violently pressing his face into my neck—because I just could not get enough of his mouth on my skin. My other hand reached into his boxers and gripped his length, my hips rocking forward in answer to his arousal.
He gripped my waist and lifted me onto the counter. This caused the button for the faucet to be pressed which caused the water to turn on. I felt the spray against my backside and I squeaked.
He lifted his head from my neck, his eyes dazed and questioning, his breathing labored. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing. Kiss me. And take off your pants.” I reached for the band of my white cotton underwear and wiggled my bottom until I could pull them down my legs.
Quinn took a step back and pushed his pants to the floor. I reached for him as I tried to rid myself of sensibly breathable fabric and caught him smirking when he spied granny panties around one of my ankles.
“Nice underwear, darling,” he hissed, likely because I held his erection in my hand and I was stroking it, stroking him, coaxing him toward my center.
“Thank you. It’s also a socially responsible choice, if you recall.”
Quinn lifted his eyes to mine and his face split with a smile, which quickly ebbed and became something else entirely—something beautiful and visceral and reckless—as he entered me. He sucked in a breath, his forehead resting against mine, his hands gripping my bottom, his eyes closing as though he were overwhelmed by his senses.
“We’re getting married,” he said. It sounded like an order.
