“Yet I’m the one who’s smiling.”
Weston shook his head. “I buy her all these gifts, for her scrapbooking, a dress I knew she’d love, all to show how I feel, but I haven’t told her I love her. I physically can’t force out the words, even though I love her so much it hurts. I’m terrified about getting in deeper.”
“There’s nothing wrong with waiting. As much as I’ve gotten to know Annie this year, I’d guess she doesn’t give up on people easily. Tell her when you’re ready, but keep doing the gifts. Women love that shit.”
He hadn’t been around Annie when she’d found her presents, but he’d heard the pleasure in her voice when she’d censured him for the excess. He had no intention of curbing his gift giving. The rest he’d have to figure out, sooner rather than later.
They paid their bill and were out the door when Weston’s phone rang. His spare phone. Falcon’s burner phone. Piss poor timing.
He’d been carrying it on purpose. With his final DJ performance in a week, e-mailing his electrical and staging needs for the video feeds had proven challenging, and playing phone tag with the club owner, Mick, had been even worse. Weston shouldn’t answer the call, not near somebody he knew, Duncan included. With the time crunch, he had no choice.
“Go ahead while I take this.”
Duncan nodded. When he was safely swallowed by pedestrians, Weston dodged bodies and nestled by a liquor store window. “Falcon here.”
“You’re harder to reach than Elvis Presley.”
And as dead if Duncan caught a whiff of this call. Or not. Duncan was his right hand. He was becoming an actual friend. One Weston should hang out with more often. “I’m in demand.”
“You’re something, man. What are those shirts the kids are wearing at your shows? All splattered with your name on ’em?”
A horn blasted. Weston plugged his free ear and tucked closer to the window he was facing. “Freed by the Falcon. Not my doing.”
“I could sell some merch. Take charge of printing for a cut.”
Not the worst idea. He could put his earnings toward more gun-control lobbying. Or a homeless shelter, if Annie liked that idea. He thought ahead to future shows, how much they could earn, then remembered this was his last show. He wasn’t sure why the thought made him antsy. “Go for it,” he told Mick.
“You want in on the design work?”
“I’m a DJ, not a graphic designer. Just send me proofs.”
“Done. As for your stage requirements, they’re gonna be tricky.”
Five minutes later, Weston hung up, pleased to have those details sorted.
The rush of pedestrians paid him no mind as he pocketed his phone. Duncan was long gone. He’d dodged a bullet answering the call in public, but this would be the end of it, at least. He’d quit performing after this show. Work behind the scenes. Keep Leo’s memory alive by talking about him and raising funds in his honor. Not playing would feel odd at first, but this unsettled void would disappear over time. The merger would soon be finalized, all his hard work coming to fruition.
If he could figure out how to quit worrying he’d lose Annie and end up like his glacial father, life would be looking pretty damn good.
Annie was on a mission. She would not be deterred, even by a Dolce & Gabbana-wearing man, whose extensive wardrobe made her closet look like a thumbnail in one of those eco-chic tiny homes. Weston was a mess. She’d known him long enough to see the signs. Sullen silences. Distracted wall-gazing. If he wasn’t all over her at night, or quick to apologize for his preoccupation, she’d worry he was second-guessing their relationship.
The merger and DLP drama were to blame. The other option wasn’t an option.
She strutted down the street, stilettos on, her pencil skirt and red blouse the antithesis to her bohemian style. This was ball-breaker attire. She would sneak into Duncan’s office, demand information on those shady DLP jerks. Sarah had agreed to help her find dirt on the men or women behind the phone scheme, use her private eye skills to gather intel, and find enough evidence to alert the cops. If need be, Annie would blackmail the blackmailers. She would prove to Wes he didn’t have to handle his problems alone.
A couple of blocks from the Aldrich Pharma offices, she skirted around a sidewalk grate, an acrid gust of wind wafting past her nose. A homeless woman was sitting against a brick wall, her meager belongings shoved into a garbage bag. Annie stopped to put a five dollar bill in her cup.
“Thank you,” the woman said, her voice hoarse.
“I hope things turn around for you.” Annie made eye contact with her. The woman smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Annie’s heart cracked as always.
She straightened, getting her head back in the game, but a man brushed past her, almost knocking her over.
The woman steadied Annie’s calf. “Lots of sharks in these treacherous waters.”
“Tell me about it.” She was about to thank the woman, when she realized the shark in question had been Duncan. A gift from the ball-breaker gods. She wouldn’t have to sneak into his office after all, or lie to Wes if he caught her there. Luck had dropped Duncan Ruffolo into her take-no-prisoners lap.
He stopped a few storefronts down, faced a dumpling shop, his face gleeful as he pulled out his phone. Probably calling one of his lady friends.
She thanked the homeless woman while waving at Duncan. Unable to catch his eye, she hurried over.
“If you want to bury Weston Aldrich,” Duncan said into the phone, his back to her, “I hit the jackpot. Biotrell is as good as yours.”
What in the actual hell?
She must have heard him wrong, misunderstood the context. Duncan wouldn’t sabotage Wes. He’d worked at Aldrich Pharma for years.
She grabbed his arm and yanked. “What did you say?”
“Get your fucking hands off—” He spun around, sneering. Then he jerked back. “Annie?”
He looked as stunned as she felt, a hint of distress in the tightening lines by his mouth.
“What did you just say?” she asked again.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone, not taking his eyes off her. He hung up and pressed some numbers on his cell, then crossed his arms, feigning indifference. “It makes sense now, why you ditched me to hang out with Falcon.”
He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to, not with the calculating gleam in his eye, and Annie’s pulse rocketed with the implications: Duncan knew Wes was Falcon. Duncan had been calling someone who wanted to bury Wes, and Wes had mentioned a possible mole at Aldrich Pharma.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What was she supposed to do now?
Duncan didn’t speak or try to explain.
Her brain spun in a dizzy rush. “You work for DLP. You’re a goddamn spy.” She needed to hear him say it. Confirm this lunacy. But he didn’t agree with her claim or deny it. “That’s why you went out with me and kept texting—to get dirt on Wes. It’s why you kept asking me to talk to him.”
Again, no comment, and a skeezy feeling slinked under her skin. She’d gone out on a date with this man, had pursued a friendship. She’d considered hooking up with this creep. All that time, Weston had warned her Duncan couldn’t be trusted. He’d called him ruthless in business, an attribute he had praised.
She was livid.
“I’ll expose you.” She would destroy Duncan. She didn’t have evidence, but if she kicked up suspicion there would be an inquiry. The minutia of Duncan’s life would be analyzed under a microscope. “If you breathe a word about Wes to anyone, I’ll call the cops. They’ll dig into every facet of your life. What you’re doing is illegal.”
At least she thought it was. This was insider trading, right? Some serious, low-level espionage.
“You won’t.” His nonchalance was maddening.
“Fuck you, I won’t.” He was a cretin and delusional. Weston Aldrich was her person. Her man. One word about Falcon to Biotrell and the rumor would spread. His father would hear about the DJing, and Weston would be fired.<
br />
She’d walk naked down Fifth Avenue before letting him lose his job.
“You won’t,” Duncan said again. He held up his phone. “I was behind Weston when he was talking to some club guy. He said, and I quote: ‘I’m a DJ, not a graphic designer’ and went on to talk about the setup for some show. I taped his conversation. One word from you, and I hit Send. The man on the receiving end of the recording will know what to do with it. If you ruin me, I ruin him.”
Simple math. One plus one equaled disaster.
It didn’t matter that she was in her ball-breaker attire. Looking serious and ready to attack didn’t give her superpowers to burst Duncan’s head with her mind. “I call bullshit. If you say nothing, you’re”—she flung her arms angrily—“screwed? Someone hired you to do a job. They’ll be pissed you didn’t come through. How do I know you won’t squeal like the little rat you are?”
She needed time. A few days to get Sarah on this. Dig up enough dirt to bury Duncan under his own shit. Going along with his idiotic bribe worked in her favor, as long as he held up his end.
He didn’t flinch at the insult, just shrugged one big shoulder. “I did what I was paid to do. I got dirt on the key researchers DLP wanted lured away from Aldrich Pharma, with another one not far behind. I’ve been paid in full. Feeding them Weston on a silver platter was a…last minute request. They asked for skeletons in his closet. I provided.”
It would be the nail in Weston’s coffin, and Duncan didn’t give a crap. Or did he? Something shifted in his expression. A hint of remorse? He could choke on that guilt, for all she cared.
“Fine,” she said quickly, surprised her pounding heart hadn’t punched through her chest. “I’ll keep your secret if you delete that recording and stay quiet.” New York’s cacophony of horns, brakes, intermittent music, and voices blurred as she studied Duncan’s every blink and twitch.
“Deal,” he said. “Under one condition.”
His conditions would be as slimy as him. “What?”
“You break up with Weston.”
“Are you insane?” She was a second from kneeing Duncan in the nuts.
He lifted his phone higher, held it out of her reach. “Then I hit Send.”
She tensed, her knee twitching to make contact. “Why would you ask that?”
“Give me some credit, Annie. I know how close you two are. Even if you uphold your end, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll get it out of you. Besides, I’m doing you a favor.”
“No, what you’re doing is screwing yourself. He might know something’s off when he sees me, but I can make up excuses. Throw him off your trail. If I break up with him, he won’t buy that crap.” Wes knew she loved him. She’d admitted as much that one time in his office, had shown him repeatedly with her body. Duncan’s plan would backfire in his face.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Annie. I just came from lunch with Weston. He told me he’s not in love with you. Said he buys you gifts, scrapbooking stuff and dresses out of guilt. He loves you, but he’s not in love with you and doesn’t know how to end things, because he doesn’t want to hurt you or lose you as a friend.”
The oxygen in her lungs turned to sludge. She teetered on her stilettos. Wes had been acting strange since his father’s call. Less present with her, his smiles sometimes forced, and not sleeping well. She’d told herself the merger and DLP had been the problem: worry over her, stress with work, frustration with DLP. Had she been deluding herself? Wanting him so badly she’d been blind to his true feelings?
“Like I said,” Duncan went on, “I’m doing you a favor.”
Fat freaking chance. He was a lying degenerate who was trying to shove a wedge between her and Wes, ensure she didn’t cave and spill his sordid secrets. And it was already working, infecting her mind. No more. The second she called Wes and told him she was done with him, his Spidey Senses—or Falcon Feels—would be on high alert. This break-up scheme would bite Duncan in his backstabbing derriere.
“Fine.” She matched Duncan’s nonchalance, because she was chalant as fuck. “I was getting bored of him anyway.”
Duncan’s amusement upped her ire. “Whatever you say. He’s in his office. Call him now, then I delete the recording.”
Oh, he was a piece of work, this guy. One who would spend five to ten in a six-by-eight cell. Curling her lip at him, she pulled her phone from her purse and hit speed dial.
She held her breath.
Wes answered after three rings. “Annie, hey.”
Not I was thinking about you. He hadn’t said that in a while, had he? He’d been more friend than boyfriend, when not in bed or sending gifts. And why was she suddenly doubting him when Duncan was the bad guy here, clearly out for blood?
“We need to talk,” she told Wes, injecting as much double meaning into her words as possible. Duncan is your mole. He could expose you. I’m trying to save you.
Telepathic messaging.
Rustling came from his end. “Okay, shoot.”
So much for telepathy. She opened her mouth, bile rising as the words she needed to say got stuck. A cramp seized her stomach. The idea of breaking up with Wes, no matter the phoniness of the circumstances, made her physically ill.
“If I go down, he’s going with me,” Duncan whispered. “Make it believable.”
The choice really wasn’t hers. Not when she’d do anything for the man she loved. Even break both their hearts for the short term.
“Thing is,” she told Wes, those cramps worsening, “something’s been off between us. It’s given me time to think, and I realized I got carried away.” Her voice cracked and tears burned her eyes. “I think we rushed into things and…and I don’t love you the way I thought I did. I think it’s better we stay friends, go back to how things were. Not that there’s any going back from here, but I don’t feel the way I thought I would. And I…” She swallowed another rush of bile and steadied herself. She would kill Duncan for this. “I don’t love you. I think I loved the idea of you.”
She waited for Wes to raise hell, read her mind, question her sanity. Yell at her and tell her she was just having a momentary freak-out. She’d have to push back, be as convincing as possible. Anything to save his job. She waited so long for some kind of reaction that the phone turned slippery in her shaky hand.
Then he said, “Okay.”
Okay? One word? Was he not going to fight for her? Demand answers? “I just, I don’t know. I think it’s the right thing?” She sputtered out the words, while shrinking under Duncan’s steady stare.
“Yeah, fine. I get it.”
She didn’t get it. She couldn’t fathom his neutral reply, the flatness of his tone.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll do next weekend’s show on my own. We’ll take some time apart. Speak when we’re—once we’ve had time apart. I have a Chicago business trip coming up, a few dinners with investors next week. And a golf tournament. I’ll be busy. I’ll call you when I can.” Did he have a hair appointment, too? A manicure scheduled? Another ridiculous reason for why he wasn’t begging her to change her mind?
Then he hung up. Just like that. Shut her out.
As though their time together had meant nothing.
Her bones turned dense, heavy with so much hurt. Duncan hadn’t been lying. Wes didn’t love her. He never had. She’d given him the out he’d actually wanted, and she didn’t know how to blink or breathe or press End on that sickening call.
Duncan angled his phone toward her, played a snippet of Wes’s incriminating call, then made a show of deleting it. “Pleasure doing business with you. And my ‘benefits’ offer hasn’t expired. You know how to reach me.”
There was that skeezy shiver again. She averted her gaze from him, couldn’t focus through the hurt, but she swiveled back and called his name. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you hurt the man who took a risk offering you an amazing job?”
Duncan’s confidence slipped briefly. “DLP has ways of getting to people.”
He di
sappeared in the walking crowd, just another man strutting down the sidewalk, as though he hadn’t just exploded Annie’s life.
She wanted to sink to the cement, curl into a ball and cry until she was nothing but a salty puddle. But that would mean Duncan had won, and the more she thought about Wes’s reaction, his quick jump to cut his losses and run, the more she didn’t buy it. He’d warned her he might freak out and bolt, hurting her in the process. This could be his instinct to run from real feelings, protect himself from getting hurt. Protect her in the process. That reasoning made a hell of a lot more sense than Duncan’s bullshit about Wes not loving her.
She knew Weston Aldrich, every damaged, infuriating, amazing, loving inch of him. That man would pack his feelings into his internal bomb shelter, building his defenses, precisely because he loved her, not because he didn’t.
She knew, and she’d let Duncan prep her to believe otherwise.
She sniffled, wiped the corners of her eyes, and dialed Sarah. Weston loved her, and she loved him so hard it hurt. She wouldn’t believe otherwise until she’d explained her call and spoke with him face to face, but that would have to wait. Whatever DLP had on Duncan was a doozy. There was no telling how far they’d push him. Duncan could still find another way to drag Weston down.
When Sarah answered, Annie bit down on her teeth. “The mole’s name is Duncan Ruffolo. He’s a long-time employee of Aldrich Pharma, Weston’s executive assistant, and we need to crush the life out of him.”
23
Weston stared at his office door, waiting for his father to barge in. It wouldn’t take him long to hear they’d lost another researcher. Their final Biotrell meeting was in three days. All Weston’s hard work would spiral down the drain, Aldrich Pharma would suffer the consequences, and Victor S. Aldrich might fire his son.
Weston should make phone calls, reach out to Karim and Biotrell and get ahead of this latest cataclysm. All he could do was stare at his office door and wait.
The Beat Match Page 23
