by Misty Evans
Smarmy for sure.
“Are you available for another function tomorrow? It’s a small dinner party with the Jordanian Delegation. Ahmed Khourey has requested you attend. He’s important, Syd.”
Grey did a thumbs up.
“I don’t know, Ian.”
Silence.
“Ian?”
“I’m here. Syd, this gig pays three grand. You said you needed money. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, Ahmed Khourey asked me into the library and old Jennifer tells me the library is where women go to get naked. You told me there was no sex involved.”
“No one is forced into anything. If the girls choose to do more than talk, it’s up to them. It’s not my business.”
As if she believed that. All this time she’d respected Ian for his humanitarianism, when he was simply a pimp building his fortune by exploiting women. Bastard.
Syd tapped her fingers against the sofa cushion. “What if I don’t want to get naked?”
“I just told you...”
“I heard you, but what if someone gets handsy and I’m trapped in that library? What’s to keep one of these guys from raping me?”
Once again, silence. Beside her, Grey jotted a note and she read as he wrote. Ask for security.
“What kind of security is available for the girls at these parties?”
“Syd.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ian.”
He sighed.
“Look, I’m not being an infant. I need the money, but a place like that? All those politicians? If something happens to me, that crew will do whatever necessary to save themselves. Get me some kind of security and I’ll go to the dinner party. That’s the deal.”
“I’ll look into it.”
The line went dead.
She pressed ‘end’, flipped the phone from hand to hand and turned to Grey. “Well, there you go. What now?”
Chapter Eleven
Grey smiled, took out his cell phone and called Donaldson’s private number. “The Smoking Gun needs security for its girls...women…for a dinner party tomorrow night. Get me in. Use my security clearance for the Panthera and work some magic with Ian Goldberg.”
Donaldson grunted. Not a yes, but not a no either. “If you step on toes, Greystone...”
Screw that. “I’m protecting my asset and putting eyes on The Lion. That’s all.”
Another grunt. “If The Smoking Gun or Goldberg goes looking for a security specialist, Jason Black will magically come up on their radar. Best I can do.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
He disconnected, gave Sydney another smile. “Cross your fingers, partner.”
Ten minutes later, Sydney’s cell phone rang and she scooped it up from the coffee table. The look on her face told him it was the dickweed again.
Grey nodded for her to answer.
“Hi, Ian.”
“I got you security for tomorrow night. Some guy named Jason Black. He works for Front Range Training Institute and does security work for the Panthera—the place you were at last night—on the side. He comes highly recommended by a few of my sources.”
Sydney smiled at Grey, their eyes meeting for a long second. “He’s not a meathead, is he?”
“How the hell should I know? You wanted security. I got you security. Can I tell them you’re in?”
“I’m in. I’ll need another dress though. Your credit card is going to melt.”
“It’ll be worth it. I’ll have a car pick you up at seven tomorrow night.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, sunshine,” Syd cracked and disconnected the call.
Grey held his arms wide. “Am I a meathead? What the hell is that?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.” She sat back and swung her feet to his lap again. “Where were we?”
He was about to rub more than her feet. Her legs beckoned to him, and it was a good thing they were sitting down because his pants, as usual, were entirely too tight around the groin area. “You were about to tell me one of your deep, dark secrets in exchange for my magic hands doing obscene things to your feet.”
She smiled, but it was forced. Unnatural. He had the feeling her secrets were staying buried. He massaged her right foot anyway, focusing on her toes. Her nails were painted a killer red to match her shoes. “When my little sister was three, she stole my mom’s nail polish and painted all her nails. Then she painted a big S on her shirt, climbed to the top of our swing set and yelled, ‘I’m Superman’ right before she jumped. Ended up with a broken wrist. Needless to say, our mother about had a heart attack.”
Sydney relaxed again. “You mean, you weren’t there to nag her about being safe? You didn’t swoop in and catch her?”
Not that time. Or the next. The memory turned sour in his stomach. So much for getting Sydney to open up. He’d buried himself instead. “No, I wasn’t there to protect her.”
She didn’t seem to notice the gruffness in his voice and slid down an inch on the couch to lay her head back again. “I used to steal my mother’s nail polish too. Until I got older and she decided she didn’t want me calling attention to myself, saying that bad things happened to girls who did. Nail polish was one of the first things to go.” Sydney waved away the memory with a tired flip of her wrist. “How much older are you than your sister?”
“Five years.”
Her lashes drifted down and she yawned. “Ooh, the older brother. Bet you were on her case all the time about the boys she dated.”
Not enough. “I was in the army when she started dating. I only saw her when I was home on leave.” And I didn’t pay enough attention to her damn boyfriend when I was. “I wish I’d been around more. Wish I’d spent more time with her.”
“You would have just pissed her off. A big brother is better in theory than he is in real life when he’s in your face about every guy that looks at you twice.” Sydney’s eyes closed all the way and her calves melted onto his lap. “She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”
“Yeah, I don’t think she saw it that way.”
Sydney didn’t catch the past tense, her lips forming a soft, sexy O as he lifted her foot and started working her calf muscle. “I think you missed your calling, Fed Boy. You really do have magic hands.”
Thoughts of his sister vanished as he stared openly at Sydney, her chest rising and falling, her cleavage taunting him. Silence descended, broken only by her occasional soft moans, and once again, Grey’s pants nearly burst at the seams. That low, sexy sound would be his undoing.
A touch of pink flushed her cheeks. He slowed his fingers, working her calf muscle with firm but gentle circles. She took a deep breath, snuggling closer. The hem of her dress rode high on her thighs and he took it all in. The smooth play of her muscles, the flush of her cheeks, the sensuous skin exposed by the deep V of her dress. A hint of black lace peeking out.
Heat rushed through his body. Mentally, he chastised it and his attraction to her. He repeated the words he’d said to Monroe in his head—Sydney is a tool to bring The Lion down. Nothing more, nothing less—but that was pure bullshit. He wanted to peel the dress off of her and massage the rest of her muscles, taste her skin, lose himself in her luscious curves and sassy mouth.
“See anything interesting?”
Her voice snapped him out of his stupor but he was too crazy with lust to find a retort. So, like usual, he met her gaze and told her the truth. “You. I find you unbelievably interesting.”
Her lips curved in a seductive smile. She licked the bottom one. “Do you, now?”
In one fluid motion, he ran his hands up her sides, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her so she straddled his lap. “Yeah, I do.”
She wasn’t the only one who went after what she wanted. Sliding a hand behind the nape of her neck, he drew her mouth down to his, taking her full lips between his and kissing her.
Up to the task, she kissed him back, hungry, demanding. Her legs spread farther apart and she pressed down on his lap, raki
ng her hands through his hair.
The taste of her mouth, the feel of her soft curves rubbing against him drove him crazy. This kiss was real, not one of those distraction kisses she threw up as a defense. She wasn’t manipulating him away from digging too deep, she was finally kissing him like she meant it. No pretense, no hiding.
Just Sydney.
Grey trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, hooked one under the strap of her dress and was about to ease it off her shoulder when a muffled buzzing noise came from his jacket pocket. A special ringtone he’d designated for his techie bitch. He wanted to ignore it, but figured he’d better not. Teeg might have found something on Sydney’s mother.
Sydney leaned back, tapped his jacket over his heart. “Is that your phone or am I giving you a coronary?”
He looked into her grinning face and shifted her off his lap. “You wish.”
As he retrieved the phone, Sydney stood, adjusted her dress and headed for the kitchen, leaving him in private to answer the call.
“What’cha got for me, Teeg?”
“I found your girl. Edwin Hospital had four admits in 2005. One of them matches the physical description of Renee Banfield. Looks like she’s still there under the name of Gloria Eastman.”
Grey glanced toward the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator open and close, the clink of glasses. “Diagnosis?”
“Diagnoses, my friend. Major depression, anxiety, schizophrenia—complete with delusions—and, get this, dissociative identity disorder. In other words, your girl is looney tunes with a side of whacko. According to the records of the doctor treating her—I hacked into his computer and found patient notes—she has at least nine distinct personalities. Holy fuck, it must be hard to keep track of all those Mini-Me’s.”
Holy fuck was right. Sydney walked back in, an open bottle of chardonnay in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. “Good work,” he said to Teeg. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He disconnected and slipped the phone into his pocket. Watched Sydney pour wine. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about her mother. What had triggered Renee’s mental break? His gut said it had something to do with the foreign ambassador Renee had worked for.
“Now where were we?” Sydney asked, handing him a glass of the chilled chardonnay.
He clinked his glass against hers and took a sip of wine. “When did you start wearing nail polish again? After your mother died?”
She nearly choked on her wine, caught herself, then touched her fingers to her lips and cleared her throat. “Shortly after, yes.”
“She would probably kill me if she was still around. You are definitely calling attention to yourself with this op.”
Setting her glass down, she nodded, but Grey could see the change in her. He had definitely flipped a switch. She grabbed the glass from his hand, sat it next to hers, and resumed her position on top of his lap. Her breath smelled of wine as she kissed him again.
Taking up where they’d left off would be so easy, but this wasn’t the Sydney he wanted. He wanted the one who just moments before was real. He understood her defense mechanism, but he was growing tired of it.
“Enough,” he said against her lips before pulling away. “Talk to me, Sydney. What happened with your mom?”
“My mother is dead. What does it matter?”
Time to press. “How did she die?”
Syd huffed. “Let’s drink more wine, shall we?”
“Screw the wine.”
She snorted. “At least someone will get screwed.”
“Great. Sarcasm again. What the hell is wrong with you? Tell me about your mother.”
She slammed the last of the wine and jumped off his lap, standing over him, one hand propped on her hip. “Why are you so concerned about my mother? And what the hell gives you the right to demand answers from me?”
“We’re partners. I need to know what makes you tick. And newsflash honey, I know your mother isn’t dead. I know your mother is now Gloria Eastman and a resident of Edwin Hospital. I know she suffers from major depression, anxiety and schizophrenia. So, do us both a goddamn favor and tell me what the fuck happened to her—and you—that left your mother in this condition.”
Sydney stared at the fucker. The son of a bitch knew about her mother and all along had been pretending otherwise. No wonder she couldn’t trust him.
“Syd?” He reached for her and she smacked at his hand.
Pressure consumed her, every inch of her body stuffed with it and about to explode. She stalked the tiny room, squeezed the wine glass in her hand, pressed harder just to release the tension stretching her skin to its limits.
Dammit.
The glass shattered, the sound filling the air with a chinking sound. The prick of glass brought a slicing pain, but also relief. At least she could feel something.
“Syd!”
Fed Boy stood when he saw the blood on her hands. The last thing she needed was to be touched.
Splaying her fingers wide, she stared at her bloody palm. Stupid, Syd. “It’s nothing.”
But that was a lie she’d told many times over the years. When had her mother become nothing? Maybe when she’d locked her away in a mental hospital.
Shame crawled over her, hot, slick and suffocating.
“You’re bleeding!”
He went to the kitchen, grabbed paper towels and ran back to her. “Let me help you.”
Please. She was long past needing help. The things she needed help with would never be fixed. Not unless he could go back ten years and return her mother to her. The sane one. That was the mother she craved. And mourned. Not the crazy one she visited every week.
He stood in front of her, analyzing her face, those brown eyes searching for something she couldn’t give him.
She sighed. “What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want. I want you to trust me. Tell me what happened.” He reached for her still bleeding hand. “And I want you to let me clean this.”
She glanced down at the blood seeping from her palm. Idiot woman. Now that cut was really starting to hurt. Her gaze went to the floor where remnants of shattered glass lay sprinkled around her bare feet. Idiot.
She let out a long breath. Maybe it was time to tell someone. She didn’t know. She’d been hiding her mother’s condition for so long she wasn’t sure she knew how to tell someone. Did that make her a protective daughter or a selfish one?
And then she was airborne, her feet coming off the floor as Fed Boy boosted her into a fireman’s hold.
“Hey!”
“Shut up. You’ve got bare feet. If you step in that glass, it’s gonna hurt. Plus, you won’t be able to walk in those stilt shoes tomorrow night.
He tossed her on the sofa. That’s what it all came down to. Her being ready for duty. “Maybe you could be a little gentler next time?”
“Really? Maybe when you start being honest, I’ll be gentle. If you want to fight, Syd, I’ll fight. If you want to talk, I’ll do that too. Your choice.”
Bastard.
She glanced up at a looming Grey, his arms folded and apparently waiting for her to say something. Oh, she’d say something. “Well, don’t stand over me like that. Sit down or move. Those are your choices.”
He grinned. “Atta girl, Syd.”
He dropped on the sofa next to her and she eased away. Childish maybe, but tough luck. She was pissed at him. She just wasn’t altogether sure why she was pissed at him.
Maybe because he knew. And worse, she’d allowed him to get close enough to know. What a mess. And still he waited.
Why not? He knew anyway.
Sorry, Mama.
“Yes. My mother is hospitalized. She’s...” Syd sat back, breathed in, “…God, I don’t know what she is. One second she’s number two, the next she’s bitchy Number Seven and I’m looking at her, seeing my mother, but not knowing where she went. The mother I loved, and still love, is locked inside there somewhere and there are moments she comes to me and
I think, thank you. Thank you. And then she tells me I’m dressed like a slut. That’s Number Seven. She’s a flaming bitch that one.” Syd laughed. She had to. The alternative was crying and there was no room for that crap.
She dared a glance at Fed Boy. What could he be thinking right now? Or did she want to know? Because really, any respect he had for her probably flew right out the window. What kind of person tells people their mother is dead?
I’m losing it. They’re gonna lock me up next.
“So, there you have it. The story of my mother.”
“What happened to her? What made her so ill?”
He’s not running.
Part of her had hoped he would. Tough to admit, but true. His running would save her from facing it all. His running would allow her to keep her secrets. His running would ensure she remained alone. Locked inside her cocoon where only she and her mother existed.
Syd threw her hands over her face, sucked in a massive breath to hold the sob at bay and the sound echoed through the quiet house. Times like this she’d usually just start screaming. Howling like the lunatic she was. Anything to get rid of the agony. But this time, she sat on the sofa next to Fed Boy, the pain in the ass who wouldn’t leave her alone and felt...well...not so alone.
“You okay?” The pain in the ass asked.
She nodded. “Oddly enough, yes. I’m okay.” Finally, she looked over at him, so sure and steady while he waited. Maybe he was crazy too because by now he should be miles away. “I’ve never told anyone. It didn’t seem fair to my mother. She was once so vibrant and somehow, it seemed like a betrayal. I was almost eighteen when she was hospitalized. She’d been working for a foreign ambassador for three years. I found out, from Number Seven, that four months into her employment the dickhead she worked for raped her.”
“Jesus. Why didn’t she file a report?”
Syd made a gagging sound. “Are you kidding? She was a single mother trying to make a life for her and her kid. For the first time, she had a job that paid well and she didn’t have to wonder how the rent would get paid. Plus, her boss told her no one would believe her and he’d make sure she never worked in D.C. again. So she put up with it. Never knowing when he’d come at her.” She turned to Fed Boy. “Every day she went to work, wondering if she’d be raped.”
