Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  Bastard.

  "I'll wait out here."

  She wasn't in the least surprised when he dropped his hand from her arm and stepped back.

  God, she should have stayed with Tony and Jennie. At least they'd only been killing her with kindness.

  Having only met Jason Ames once, Lillian didn't know what to expect when she and Tristan arrived downtown an hour later, but the fourth-floor corner office wasn't what she'd imagined. Jason's office was huge for one thing, and looked more like it belonged in a high rise with a lot of powerful attorneys for another. Dark woods, deep blues, and row upon row of books scrunched between windows stood behind the heavy wooden door. Family photos and historical figure bobble-heads lined the shelves scattered around the room.

  Far more interesting to her than any of that, though, was Jason's rumpled appearance. He looked a whole lot less intimidating with his tie hanging loose around his neck and his sleeves rolled up his arms. A dark purple bruise showed through the blond stubble on his jaw.

  Lillian stared at that bruise for a long moment, a sick feeling roiling in the pit of her stomach. Her gaze drifted between his jaw and Tristan's hand. "You hit him," she said when the pieces finally clicked. Her shocked gaze flew to Tristan. "Why?"

  He shrugged and then pulled the door closed without offering an explanation.

  Obviously, that wasn't one of the questions he planned to answer for her today.

  Jerk.

  "Not undeserved, Miss Maddox," Jason assured her, wincing when he touched the bruise. Giving her a tight smile when he noticed her watching him, he motioned toward the simple chair across from his desk. "Please, have a seat."

  Lillian looked at Tristan again, only to find him staring out a large window into the street below, his back to her and his stance tight and rigid. She narrowed her eyes on him and then lowered herself into the chair across from his boss, refusing to let his attitude bother her when he'd been exactly the same way through the entire forty-five minute drive here.

  Agent Ames waited until she stopped fidgeting to speak. "I realize you probably don't want to be here, so we'll get on with it." He grabbed a case file from the stack on his desk before sliding out a single sheet of paper. "Do you know what Form SF-312 is, Miss Maddox?"

  "No?" She looked at him, confused.

  He held the paper out to her, his expression even.

  Tristan made a soft noise behind her, half grunt, half curse.

  She ignored him and took the paper from between Jason's fingers, looked at it, blinked, and then looked closer. "A non-disclosure agreement?" she asked, her eyes widening.

  "Because of the nature of the ongoing investigation into Teplo, certain information does not leave this room," Jason explained, his tone cool. "You'll need to sign the form before we provide you any details. If you disclose any information revealed to you after signing this form, you can and will be prosecuted under the laws of the United States." He paused, as if realizing how harsh he sounded. "If you'd rather not have Tristan witness, I can have Janet come in and do so, or I can have one of our other notaries come up. It's your decision."

  "I…." Lillian stared at the document, at a loss for words. For some reason, she'd expected this to be easy. For Tristan to sit her down, for her to say "talk", and for him to start talking. This wasn't anything close to that. This was a binding agreement between her and the government of the United States to keep her mouth shut.

  Sweet Jesus.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  "Miss Maddox," Jason said, his voice quiet and grave, but almost gentle this time. "I wouldn't ask if I weren't required to do so. If you'd rather not sign the form, we'll give you what information we can and do what we can to ensure you aren't in danger."

  "Am I?" she asked, looking at him. "In danger, I mean?"

  He didn't answer.

  Tristan made another sound in the back of his throat.

  "Right," she muttered and reached for a pen. "Sign first, ask questions later."

  "Will Tristan suffice as a witness, Miss Maddox?" Jason asked.

  "Yeah," she said, nodding. It didn't matter to her one way or another who witnessed. Who was she supposed to talk to about any of this anyway? Her parents would flip out, and so would Jen and Tony. She wasn't close enough to anyone else to bother trying to explain the chaos her life had become since she'd walked through the doors at Teplo in search of a little hope.

  Tristan's boss waited as she filled out the requisite information with shaking hands, and then slid the paper back across the desk to him. He looked it over and lifted his head, seemingly satisfied.

  "Tristan?" he called, glancing up from the form. "I need your signature."

  Tristan didn't move, and didn't answer. He continued to stare out the window as if he hadn't heard his boss speak at all. Lillian knew he had though. Those little sounds of disgust he made indicated he heard more than he seemed willing to admit. His lack of cooperation was nothing more than an irritating attempt at being an ass.

  She was tired of the attitude. "I don't know what your problem is," she snapped, turning in her chair to better aim her glare at him. "But you need to get the hell over it and sign the damn paper, Tristan."

  He spun toward her, his eyes smoldering with anger more intense than he'd displayed even when railing at her about working for the Vetrov family. The tension between them intensified tenfold, so thick she needed a machete to hack through it. Fury and something else lurked in those vivid eyes of his, something dark and predatory and possessive as all hell.

  Anyone else probably would have cowered from the dangerous vibe radiating from him, but Lillian didn't waver or back down. She held his angry, dominating glare, her own firmly in place.

  She'd had just about enough of his bullshit. Either he signed the damn paper or he got someone else to come in who would. She wanted him out of her life, and if that meant he signed the stupid form, that's what he'd do.

  It was that simple.

  Tristan didn't want to sign the N.D.A. If he did, Jason would explain all about the Vetrov case, and then he'd ask for Lillian's help. He'd dress it up pretty, make her believe she would be as safe as a kitten in a box, and before all was said and done, Lillian would be working for Jason… all because Tristan had fucked up.

  The night before, when Jason pitched the idea, Tristan hated it. After watching Lillian try to chain the door with shaking hands this morning, after seeing the fear in her eyes when she asked how far she needed to run… he didn't feel any better about what they were about to ask of her. Worse, in fact.

  Like he'd told Jason, she was just a ballerina, a beautiful woman hovering on the edges of his world because he'd been selfish enough to touch her as if he had a right. As he'd come to realize the instant he saw that light burning in her window, however, he hadn't had a right. None at all. The Vetrov family was dangerous, and he'd already risked putting her in the line of fire.

  If he signed the form, he ignored that glaring truth.

  "Sign the damn form, Tristan," she snapped, still glaring at him. "Now."

  "Fuck." He tore his gaze from hers, pissed at himself, at Jason, and the world in general. He felt Lillian relax back into her seat as he scrawled his name, badge number, and the date. The tension between the two of them – running from hot and desirous to angry and frigid and then back again – receded when he tossed the pen down on the desk and strode back to the window without another word.

  The view offered little more than cars on the road below and buildings scattered around, but looking out at the world was better than the alternative. It was safer than vulnerable, angry brown eyes and reassuring, calm smiles from Jason. Saner than silky brown hair glinting red as the play of light and shadow hit it.

  What the hell were they even doing here?

  Lillian said nothing as Jason related the basic facts of the case to her. Even after he wound down, she didn't speak. Silence permeated the room, going on for so long Tristan had to grit his teeth to keep himself
from begging her to say something. When he couldn't take it any longer, he turned to find her staring at the wall, a thoughtful frown on her face.

  "What does that mean?" she finally asked, shifting in her seat to look at Jason. "You say the club is responsible for those people's deaths, but they took the drugs of their own free will. The club owners may be criminals, but that's not murder."

  "Have you ever heard of the Len Bias Law?"

  She shook her head.

  "In the 1980s, a prominent college basketball player died of an overdose days after being drafted to the NBA," Jason explained quickly. "Several new drug laws were implemented as a result. One of those laws, the Len Bias Law, allows a dealer to be held responsible if he supplies drugs to someone who then overdoses."

  "Oh."

  "We try to avoid using it because, as you say, most addicts make their own decisions, but in some instances, the law can be helpful in getting dealers off the streets."

  "And that's what's going on here?" Lillian asked.

  "No," Tristan answered for Jason, meeting Lillian's gaze when she looked at him, her expression neutral and full of intelligence. "We aren't sure the victims here took the drug by choice."

  Lillian's eyes widened.

  "Kalani Abrams, the first victim, worked for Anton Vetrov as an assistant of sorts." He leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest to hide his clenched fists as he spoke. "Not long before she died, she quit without reason. When her sister found her, she'd been banged up pretty good. She had a black eye and broken fingers. Her sister says Kalani used Ecstasy occasionally, but Kalani had enough cocaine, heroin, LSD, and Ecstasy in her system to kill someone three times her size."

  "She'd had a physical altercation with her boyfriend," Jason said, picking up where he left off, "so we can't rule out the possibility that the injuries came from him, but we were able to clear him as a suspect in her death. We would have written her case off as an overdose, except a week later, Lisa Dobbs reported her husband, Randall, missing. The morning he disappeared, he requested a meeting with a detective in Seattle's narcotics unit. He refused to talk over the phone, but he swore he had information on something big happening right here in Seattle.

  "He never made it to the meeting. S.P.D. found him in a motel on the far side of the city two days later. Same combination of drugs in his system, only he didn't use as far as anyone in his life knew. Autopsy didn't show any evidence of long-term drug use either. The one common factor we've been able to find is the Vetrov family, Miss Maddox. Randall Dobbs did the books for the club up until four months ago."

  "The other six look like straightforward OD's. Same combination of drugs, different backgrounds, different areas of the city. The only thing they have in common is Teplo," Tristan finished, staring at Lillian as if to impress the seriousness of the situation on her. "All were known to have visited the club, four of them in the days before their deaths. We think Anton Vetrov's people slipped them doses of their drug to test it out."

  "What is this drug? Why is it so dangerous?" she asked.

  "It's a blend of X and LSD, cut with heavy doses of heroin and cocaine. Such powerful drugs are dangerous in and of themselves, but mixing them is something else altogether," Tristan answered, clenching his jaw against the old, familiar anger. "If you survive, the high is supposedly out of this world. Problem is: many don't survive. Their hearts can't take it. You saw the people in the club, Lillian. They're addicted to some pretty heavy shit already. It'd take nothing to get them hooked on this. If this hits the market, we won't be able to stop it. Who knows how many will die as a result?"

  Lillian's face paled. The intelligent gleam in her eye dimmed as fear crept into her expression. Tristan didn't want to go any further when he saw her hands tremble in her lap, but she needed to know the truth. If she agreed to this, she needed to know what she faced.

  "We have to take them down before it gets that far. We're almost certain Anton Vetrov had Kalani and Dobbs killed for what they knew," he murmured. "If you want to cover up a murder or two, why not bury it under a handful of other, similar cases? Make it look like they went on a bender just like the others and simply didn't come out the other end. People like Anton Vetrov… they don't care who gets hurt."

  "Even if that's not the case and the ODs were accidental, we have to shut them down," Jason reiterated when Tristan stopped to seethe. "But we can't prove any of this. All we have are suspicions and rumors. Even if we could get a warrant at this point, we risk losing the supply. We have to wipe it out when we take them down or it'll be too late to stop it."

  And if that wasn't a set-up to ask for her help, Tristan didn't know what was.

  Jason didn't disappoint. "That's the other reason you're here, Miss Maddox."

  "Excuse me?" Lillian blinked at him.

  Tristan tensed, balling his hands into tight fists. He didn't want Jason to go through with this. All night long, he'd warred with himself over taking this step. But he didn't say anything to stop Jason either.

  "We think they've set their lab up in the basement beneath the club, but we can't get into it unless we go in through the club, which is what Tristan's trying to do. Unfortunately, he hasn't been successful, and we have reason to believe he may have garnered some unwanted attention inside. We can't send him back in without a reason, Miss Maddox," Jason said, looking straight at Tristan as if telling him that he could stop this right now.

  Tristan cursed himself silently, and then nodded for Jason to continue.

  "We'd like to ask for your help, Miss Maddox."

  "My help?" Lillian looked at Jason and then Tristan, her expression rife with confusion and skepticism.

  "He wants you to pose as my girlfriend, Lillian," Tristan said, his voice so soft it barely carried. "I'd live with you until the investigation is complete, and you'd come with me to the club to help me blend in." He pleaded with his eyes for her to tell them both to go to hell.

  She didn't though. She just kept staring at him, searching for something, some answer or sense… God only knew what she hoped to see on his face. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to demand she give an answer right then and there. He didn’t have that right, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer anyway. Asking this of her went against everything he'd ever believed, but goddamn, they needed her help, and he wanted her enough to justify asking.

  "You would be compensated for your time, of course. And since I understand you've decided to remain in your home, Tristan would also be able to ensure that you can safely continue to do so," Jason said, trying to sweeten the deal.

  "What happens if I say no?" she asked, still holding Tristan's gaze. Her tone gave away nothing. It was level, calm. Her expression was neutral, too.

  How could she remain so composed when he felt like she'd just punched him in the gut?

  "We'll make sure you aren't targeted either way," he said, promise vibrating in his tone.

  She nodded, seeming hesitant. "And what happens to the investigation?"

  "We try to find another way in," Tristan lied.

  "You'd try," Lillian said, another shadow flickering through her eyes. "There isn't another way in, is there?"

  Tristan bit his tongue, torn between telling her the truth and keeping her out of this. It wasn't her fight. She didn't need to do this. And yet…. And yet, part of him wanted her to say yes.

  That part shamed him.

  "Is there another way?" she asked when he didn't answer her question.

  He hesitated for a long moment before sighing, defeated. "Not that we're aware of."

  Lillian nodded as if she'd expected that answer.

  When she glanced up, their gazes caught and held. Just like that, Tristan felt like he'd been bowled over. How could one woman make him feel so off-balanced? So keyed up and calm at once?

  He didn’t know, but she accomplished both without even trying.

  "They'll get away with murder," she murmured into the heavy silence hanging between them. Her
calm façade cracked. Her tone wavered, caught between uncertain question and sad statement of fact.

  Tristan flinched when she licked her lips, and then he nodded, reluctant to give her the truth, but too much an agent to stop himself. "More than likely. We could try to prosecute under the Len Bias Law, but we have no proof the drugs are coming from them. All we have are rumors. Until we're sure we know where they're keeping the supply, we can't risk it."

  She stared at him for another long, silent minute. Determination and resolve shone in her eyes, lighting them like torches. She didn't have to speak for him to know her answer, but she did anyway.

  "I'll do it," she said, a faint tremor in her voice. "Whatever you require of me, I'll do it."

  "Lillian…." Her name tumbled from his lips, half plea, half sigh of surrender.

  "I have to," she said before he found the voice to argue with her.

  "Lillian…." He tried to ask her to say no, but when her warm brown gaze tangled with his, the words died in his throat. He tried a different tactic instead. "This might not work," he cautioned.

  "I know," she said, and then shrugged one shoulder. "I want to try anyway."

  "If they do suspect me, you'll be a target. If you walk through those doors with me again and they figure out who I am, they will come after you, Lillian. And they won't stop until you're dead."

  "If they're watching you, they've already seen me with you," she countered. "So how's that any different from where things stand right now?"

  Tristan didn't have an answer for her because, dammit all, he couldn't guarantee that she wasn't already on their radar because of him. Because he'd been selfish enough to drag her back into Teplo when he fucking knew better. He hadn't stopped to think or consider what that might mean for her. He hadn't wanted to stop and think where she was concerned. But he couldn't tell her that.

  "You'll be in the club with me, night after night," he said instead.

  "I know that."

  She might have been determined, but she wasn't an agent. She didn't know what she was agreeing to do. Or how badly this could go for her. People like Anton and Paulo Vetrov didn’t care who they hurt; they'd already proved that much.