Dangerous Secrets

by Moira Callahan

  “I can do that,” Mallory told her. “Why?”

  “Extra level of precaution,” Robyn explained. “We want to see if you do have any watchers. And a guy walking up the street listening to tunes is a lot less obvious than a car parked across from your building for days on end.”

  Mallory thought it made sense, but she knew nothing about this sort of thing. She was a chef. What she knew about covert tactics and sneakiness came from watching Bond films or cop shows. Which all boiled down to not a hell of a lot.

  “I’m trusting you on that one since I’ve got no opinion one way or another,” she finally said.

  Robyn grinned and shook her head. “It’s all good. Now, let me find a photo of your soon to be “boyfriend” so you don’t wig out when he shows up at your door.”

  She gave Mallory’s hand another squeeze before getting up and moving over to her desk. When she came back Mallory took the iPad from her and blinked in surprise at the photo on display. Short, dark hair, deep tan, blue eyes, slightly crooked nose all in a face that screamed masculinity.

  “His name is Trent McDonald, he’s a former Marine so he can occasionally come off a little gruff and grumbly. Just smack him with a rolled-up paper and you’ll be fine,” Robyn told her. “He’ll keep you safe. Now, I’d recommend you don’t return to work for a while.”

  “Not a problem,” Mallory said. “My boss insisted I take as much time as needed. He knows I’ll need rehab for the shoulder. Likely a lot before I’ll be able to fling around pans and lift the slabs of stone he calls plates.”

  “Good. But I need to ask, just for my own piece of mind, that won’t strain you financially will it?” Robyn asked.

  Chuckling, she shook her head slightly. “No. My parents left me a reasonable amount of money when they passed away. It sat in some sort of fancy account gaining interest. I’m comfortably off between that and the obscene amount of money that I get paid for my cooking. So yes, I’m good and I can pay the bill for whatever this,” she waved a hand around, “costs me.”

  Robyn just waved her away. “Don’t even worry about it. I talked my partner into taking your case pro-bono. The only thing you may have to fork any dough out for would be supplies, should it be necessary. That and whatever Trent eats in a day. Trust me, that could well bankrupt you right there. He can really pack a meal away.”

  Right, she might just have to pick up something at the market then.

  “Well, I think that’s it,” Robyn said, standing up. She went to her desk and came back with a clipboard of papers. “If you’d like to review this contract, we can get it signed and you can get out of here.”

  Robyn sat next to Mallory and handed the clipboard over. “Top one is basic information, and anything we need to be made aware of, like health issues, beyond your recent injury. The second is emergency contact information. The last is the contract for our services. You’ll notice that there is no dollar amount included, for good reason obviously. Take a minute, read it through, and ask any questions you have.”

  Mallory took the clipboard from the other woman. Pulling the pen from where it was hooked on the top sheet, she began to fill out the pages. It only took her a couple of minutes. The contract had her hesitating for a moment. Mallory didn’t like the idea of being beholden to anyone. While she didn’t have a bank full of money to call her own, she wasn’t destitute. With the pen hovering over the page, she chewed her inner cheek before scratching her signature on the bottom line and dated the sheet.

  Robyn took it all from her, flipped through the pages and smiled. “I do believe we are all done here.” She stood so Mallory did as well.

  “You’d best get home. Trent will be by around six tonight. Any trouble at all, you call me immediately,” she said. Handing over a card, she walked at Mallory’s side to the door.

  Chapter Two

  Walking into C&M Security through the employee door, Trent wandered up the hall to the reception area and over to Chandra’s desk. The fiery redhead that was their receptionist grinned up at him.

  “How’s it hanging?” she asked, like she always did.

  “Free and clear and in the wind,” he replied, like he always did.

  She laughed at that and then jerked her thumb to the second floor. “Rob needs to see you. She’s got an assignment for you, one I think you just might like, sexy.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of workplace harassment?” he asked as he headed for the stairs. Spinning, he walked a couple of steps backward. “That’s a two way street, you know.”

  She just laughed again and then cut a loud wolf-whistle when he went up the stairs. “Nice buns, sugar,” she yelled after him.

  Chuckling, he made his way to Robyn’s office. He rapped his knuckles on the open door and stepped in as her head came up. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yup, shut the door and pull up a chair.”

  After doing as she’d asked, he fell into one of her guest chairs and took the folder she handed him.

  “Mallory Thompson,” Robyn said. “She’s a chef over at Carmela’s in the downtown. High-class, high pricetag sort of joint, very hard to get a table in under three months. She was attacked just under two weeks ago. Her attacker, an unknown male, wanted some sort of drive from her. He seemed to think she had it or knew where it was and was willing to kill to get it. She suffered a good amount of time in a lake, being nearly drowned time and again, and a gunshot to her right shoulder. Currently, there is a police presence on her apartment but—” She shrugged.

  “They’re stretched thin as is and won’t be able to stick around for much longer. So, what’s my cover?” he asked.

  “Her boyfriend. You’ve been out of town on business and just got back. You have talked to her a couple of times, but she didn’t mention the attack. You did hear through the grapevine of common friends about the attack so, as soon as your plane landed, you headed straight there.”

  Nodding, he read through the statement Mallory had given the cops. It was pretty detailed, except for the assailant, which was thin. Really thin. Flipping to the next section, he read through his cover story and chuckled. “Military contractor?” he asked, shooting her a look.

  “Hey, go with what you know right?” she asked with a grin.

  “True enough,” he nodded. Any good cover had to have a strong thread of truth to it. He knew the military life, knew how contractors worked and knew the lingo better than most of them. He’d lived and breathed the military daily for nearly twelve years before getting out and joining C&M.

  Once he’d finished reading, he passed the folder back and took the iPad she handed him. Tapping the screen he got his first look at the woman.

  “Mallory Thompson,” Robyn said, confirming his assumption.

  She was stunning. She had shoulder-length black wavy hair, lovely green eyes, skin the color of honey and a smattering of freckles over her upper cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long time.

  Not classically beautiful, but beautiful in a natural, raw way that too few women could ever achieve, even with their four hour rituals. Handing the pad back over, he sat back in his chair. “When’s she expecting me?” he asked.

  “Six or so, though she’ll likely still be surprised to see you,” Robyn said.

  Most people were the first time they laid eyes on him. He was, what his mother so fondly love to point out to anyone that would listen, a bruiser. Broad shoulders, thick chest and heavily muscled. Not a bodybuilder by any sense of the definition, but he wasn’t about to blow away in a good strong breeze, either.

  Rob handed him another set of folders. “This is what the cops managed to dig up before the trail went cold. I didn’t mention it to her, so it’s up to you if you want to share.”

  Flipping open the top folder, he looked over the evidence they’d managed to collect, including the scrapings under Mallory’s nails. Most had been degraded or compromised but the skin sample had been clean. She’d likely
curled her fingers up into a ball to protect it, acting on instinct.

  The lab had gotten a DNA profile from the sample, but there’d been no matches in their database. They were still working international and other agency databases to find a match. So far, no hits.

  “So we know the guy has three good scratches, but given it was ten days ago, they’ve likely mostly healed. Unless they get lucky with him being in a federal database or international, we’re screwed as to an ID.” He looked up at Robyn and cocked a brow.

  “Pretty much,” she said.

  “And we still have no idea what this drive is that he was looking for or why he’s looking for it?” he asked.

  “None. Shawn and I,” she said, naming her co-owner of C&M. “Have put out feelers to various groups we know and who know of such things. We’re looking to see if there was a heist or something. So far, nada. Granger isn’t the sort to spook. He’s been a cop longer than most of us have been out of diapers. But he told me, flat out, he has a bad feeling about this entire thing.”

  “Which means you’re taking the threat seriously,” Trent said. It wasn’t even a question. When a man of Granger’s years said he had a bad feeling, it was best to listen.

  “Yup,” she nodded. “I wish I could give you more, Trent. But we just don’t have it. We’re going into this blind.”

  “Not like we’ve never been in a similar situation. Though, usually, they don’t try to kill a client until we’ve been on the job for a while.”

  She gave him a sour look that had him chuckling. It was the truth, whether she liked to admit it or not. Usually, people knew when they were in trouble or were high profile enough to expect some sort of trouble or retribution. But Mallory Thompson was a chef. Not exactly a high threat job, except for kitchen accidents maybe.

  Shutting the first folder, he slid it under the second and opened it up. It was a review of all those in Mallory’s life, backgrounds, criminal records and anything else that could be of use, or not. It included everyone in the apartment building, the apartment management group and on site caretakers. There were sheets on all the employees and the owner of the restaurant she worked at. There were even police records of incidents that had happened at the restaurant and within twenty blocks of her apartment over the last five years.

  He had to give the C&M geeks their due, they were fucking efficient and thorough. But not a single thing he read threw up any sort of red flag for him. Shutting the folder, he looked to his boss again.

  “I know,” she said. “But we had to look. It’s better to have nothing going in then to have a bomb dropped on us part way through this.” Looking at her watch, she stood. “You’d better head out. You need to pack a big enough bag to look like you’ve been out of country for the last couple of weeks.”

  Getting to his feet, Trent rubbed a hand to his jaw. Good thing he hadn’t shaved recently. It would help lend to the appearance that he’d been somewhere such things weren’t exactly necessary. Dropping the folders onto Rob’s desk, he headed for the door.

  “What should I be taking in?” he asked.

  “We’re going to have to find a way to get the guys into her building and wire her apartment. She doesn’t have a security system, which doesn’t help. Plus, I want to get cameras on all areas, so that if someone comes for her, you have fair warning,” Robyn said as they walked toward the stairs. “Gear up with whatever you think you’ll need. We can supplement you as required.”

  Nodding, he scratched at his jaw. “How old’s her building?” he asked.

  The look Robyn gave him said she just wasn’t following his line of thinking.

  “Find out what company does the repairs for things like the pipes and heating. With an older building they need more repair, so it wouldn’t be odd to see a truck parked in the lot.”

  She grinned up at him. “Damn, there really is a smart little brain hidden in there.” “Good thinking. I’ll get on the phone with the management company and we’ll arrange to have our guys come in. We’ll do it during the day so that, hopefully, we can avoid as many of the residents as possible as they’ll be at work.”

  “Good,” he nodded.

  After chatting a few more minutes he left her to her task and went to get ready for the part he’d be playing for the next however long.

  Chapter Three

  When the buzzer rang, Mallory jumped, dropping the romance novel she’d been unsuccessfully trying to read. Picking it up, she tossed it onto the coffee table and looked to the clock.

  Six on the nose. Wiping her suddenly damp palms on her slacks, she depressed the button. “Hello?”

  “Mal, it’s me, let me in,” the deep voice said.

  While she didn’t recognize the voice, she pressed the button to release the door. There was only one person coming to see her right then. Her new “boyfriend.”

  Swallowing hard, she moved to the door and pressed a hand against it to brace herself. Unlocking the deadbolt, Mallory slipped the chain off and pulled the door open. Stepping into the hall slightly, she nearly swallowed her tongue as the face Robyn had shown her came into view from the stairwell door.

  He was fucking massive! Holy shit.

  “Hi,” she managed to whisper when he got close.

  He cupped her cheek gently and then urged her inside. A nice, short and sweet display of concern for any neighbors that might have been watching.

  Once the door was closed he dropped his bag and held out his hand. “Trent McDonald,” he said in his deep voice.

  Squelching the shiver that went up her spine and down to places she didn’t have time to think about, she stuck her hand into his. “Mallory Thompson.” His hand was warm, rough and he squeezed just enough, but not too much.

  “Nice to meet you.” He let go slowly and then stuck his hands into his jean pockets.

  “Oh, uh, come on in,” she said, waving a hand to the apartment. “Sorry.”

  He smiled then, just a little, and chuckled. “Don’t apologize. This can’t be a comfortable situation for you.”

  “No, definitely a little strange.” She didn’t know what to do. Thankfully, the timer she had on the oven saved her. “That’s dinner. I, uh—” She shrugged.

  Damn it. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry and I likely went overboard. I cook when I’m nervous and apparently babble, too.” Making a face, she turned and headed for the kitchen. He could follow if he wanted.

  Apparently he did, since he stood in the opening between the kitchen and the living room when she turned with the dish she’d pulled from the oven. She’d been hopeful he might eat, setting the table for two.

  Carrying the dish to the table, she set it down on the towel she’d laid there and took the lid off. Then, she went back to the stove and dumped the vegetables into bowls. “Sit, dig in, if you want to, that is.” She put the bowls down. “I have water, milk, beer and wine,” she told him, playing with the hem of her shirt.

  “Water’s fine by me,” he said.

  But he didn’t sit down. He stayed right where he was as she grabbed a bottle of water for each of them. Only when she’d sat did he settle into the chair opposite her.

  “So, what is all this?” he asked curiously as he took the water she passed him.

  “Garlic fried potatoes, honey-dill carrots and a new version of a barbecue chicken I’m trying out. I’ve been playing with the recipe a bit over the last while to get it just right. I always mess with recipes at home before I present them to my boss and see about getting them on the menu,” she said.

  Trent dished up for himself as she put some food on her own plate. Buying time while he tried everything, she sipped at her water and watched him. She smiled when his eyes went wide after a bite of the chicken.

  “Holy shit, this is good.”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” she said with a laugh.

  “I didn’t mean to, but damn, this is really good.”

  “Well, it’s still in the initial stages of getting the barb
ecue sauce just right. That’s why I bake it instead of grilling. I need to ensure everything is balanced before I add in the smokiness of a grill. The flavors have to stand on their own and have the right after notes, but they can’t be the sort that will be affected by the grilling process either. It’s a balancing act,” she said.

  “Honestly, I can say that I’ve never thought that much about food. But I guess you’re right, if the flavors aren’t there then people won’t want to eat it.”

  “Not just flavor. The first sense that a chef needs to engage is the sense of smell. Smell is a huge part of an enjoyable dining situation.”

  “How so?” he asked, taking a drink of his water.

  She was distracted for a moment by the way his throat worked, but blinked and looked at him. “If you’ve ever had a cold and eaten, you’ll know what I mean. When you’re stuffed up nothing tastes right, does it?”

  He tipped his head a bit and then nodded. “Now that you say that, I think you’re right.”

  “That’s because smell helps us taste the food better, makes it enjoyable and more of a sensual event. If it’s done right. Too many people just stuff food into their mouths without taking a moment to fully enjoy the scent, taste and textures. You have to treat a good meal like you would a fine glass of wine or an aged scotch. You absolutely must appreciate and utilize as many senses as you can before just digging in.”

  He was staring at her and Mallory knew her cheeks were pink. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I tend to take it a little personally when I see people just shoveling back their food without any consideration to the time involved in getting that meal to their table.”

  “I’m guessing you aren’t just talking about the kitchen prep,” he said with a grin.

  “No, I’m not, but,” she wrinkled up her nose. “I don’t mean to get into a lecture. Especially since you are here to help me out and all that.”