PLAYED: A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE

by Wild, Nikki

  And that wasn’t fair.

  I’d clawed my way into this detective position, but the Chief seemed determined to keep me from going any higher. For all the talk of equality, the upper echelons of the force were as much of a good old boys club as they ever were… Everything I’d earned up until now hinged on Nathan seeing the light. It made me sick to my stomach to think that he might be holding the future of my career in his hands.

  “It’s detective now,” I said, pulling myself out of the doomsday spiral I’d sent myself into. “May I come in?”

  Nathan shrugged. He opened the door wider, gesturing into the atrium. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes as I stepped past him and into his mansion. Sunlight glinted off the crystal chandelier above us, spraying fragments of light across the dark wood paneling of the walls. I caught a few Technicolor prisms dancing on Nathan’s skin as he closed and locked the door.

  “It’s certainly been awhile,” he said, his voice a thick, honeyed purr that, despite my best efforts to resist, made my skin ripple with goosebumps. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve prepared the good stuff.”

  “I’m here on business, Mr. Hale,” I corrected him as gently as I could. There was no use ruining my chances by bruising his ego. “And I think you know exactly what kind of business I’m talking about.”

  I looked around, taking in the vastness of our surroundings. I didn’t like being out in the open like this, even within the relative safety of Nathan’s house.

  “Is there someplace we can sit and talk?” I asked him.

  Nathan nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets. His grin was gone, and the light in his eyes had faded like the setting sun giving way to twilight. He gestured up the flight of wooden stairs run through with a strip of plush red carpet.

  “Come up to my office,” he said, though he let me mount the stairs first. I glanced up as I began to climb, remembering my first trip up these stairs. Fitting that we would talk there… Knowing Nathan, he was just doing this to make me uncomfortable.

  But it wouldn’t be the only thing making me feel uncomfortable right now.

  Nathan’s home was big, but it felt hollow. Every step I took on the hardwood floors echoed throughout each chamber like an errant round ricocheting in the dark. It was empty, cavernous, and though from the outside it was truly an enviable estate, traversing its innards like this made me shiver.

  Most houses had some kind of life built right into them, the product of the people who lived there spilling their energy and warmth right into the walls. Hell, even in the worst cases, you could still feel something below the surface, some vibrating remnant of what the house had seen.

  Nathan’s mansion was barren, devoid of life.

  Despite all those parties I’d had to interrupt, and all the times I’d let myself get lured inside, there was not a single spark to be found. It was like I was walking a museum for a relationship that never was, and never would be.

  I turned over my shoulder to him, only to find his gaze glued firmly to the steady sway of my ass. I rolled my eyes. No wonder he’d let me go up first.

  We reached the landing, and I felt him lay his hand every so lightly on the small of my back. A chill shot up my spine, then a rush of heat as he guided me toward a door at the end of the hall.

  It’s not a big deal, I told myself as Nathan’s fingers sent little electric arcs to play across the flesh beneath my blouse. Stay focused. I have a job to do.

  I waited as Nathan opened the door for me, ushering me into his private study. I raised my eyebrows as I looked around. I’d expected the cold, sleek and heartless room where Mr. Hale had taken my virginity, but what I found instead was the only room in the whole house that seemed to have a pulse.

  He must have hired an interior decorator… Or maybe it was some small sign that Mr. Hale was finally starting to act his age.

  We were surrounded by bookshelves. They ran from floor to ceiling, each one brimming with the colorful spines of dozens of books. There were too many of them to count, their subjects so varied that this one room could have doubled as a public library.

  I spotted some classics, like Moby Dick and The Wizard of Oz, and more contemporary titles, like Gone Girl and The Life of Pi. He had a wide selection of Asimov’s works near his desk, an executive-style Louis XVI reproduction that very nearly looked real, and on a small end table near a hulking stone fireplace, I saw a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince.

  That hardly surprised me. It was practically required reading for opportunistic capitalists everywhere. What I was surprised by was how every book in Nathan’s tremendous collection seemed worn enough to have been read through at least once. I hadn’t pegged him for a reader, and I’d certainly never seen him pining for books in the times we’d spent together. He didn’t seem like he had the patience.

  I turned as he closed the doors behind us and crossed the room to the small seating area near to the fireplace. “Have a seat, detective. If you’re here for business instead of pleasure, we might as well get comfortable.”

  As he draped himself lazily across a tufted leather settee, I sunk into one of the high-backed armchairs across from him. I felt like royalty just sitting there, but Nathan didn’t seem to share my perception. He lounged like a bored lion, his muscular limbs dangling almost petulantly off the edges of his seat.

  “If you’re not here to fuck, you’re here about Peter Wallace, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I admitted. “His trial’s coming up soon, you know.”

  “I’m aware,” he answered in a tone that was half a sigh, half a groan. “I watch the news. I hear the prosecution’s built a decent case this time around, too.”

  “Decent isn’t going to cut it,” I interrupted, “and you know that. This is Peter Wallace we’re talking about—the same guy who’s weaseled his way out of prison a dozen times before. And he’ll do it again, unless someone could, say, provide testimony about the particulars of his business in our fair city.”

  Despite the oppressive heat lurking just outside, I felt a distinct chill in the air. It was blowing in gusts from Nathan’s side of the room and got stronger with every mention of Peter Wallace’s name. I almost wanted him to turn on the fireplace just to drive it out.

  “Sounds like you know a lot about this guy,” he said at last, though he was staring at his bookshelves and not at me. “If you do, then you know what he does to witnesses who agree to testify.”

  I nodded solemnly. “I do. And I also know what he does to witnesses who don’t. Last I checked the only difference is how pretty the corpse looks.”

  Nathan went quiet, his eyes finally meeting mine. I scooted to the edge of my chair, holding his gaze. “I expect we’ll keep this talk off the record for now?”

  “I understand your concerns, Mr. Hale,” I replied, trying to keep my mind off the dark little desires that kept bubbling up inside me.

  “Off the record, you’re right. Wallace is not a man to be trifled with. He’s got connections. He’s got ways of making everybody miserable. But that all stops if we put him behind bars, and I’m afraid the only way for us to do that is with your help.”

  “And what do I get in return?” he asked me, raising an eyebrow that made it clear he was being coy. As I gave him the death stare, he sat up straighter, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “I mean, sure, there’s some satisfaction in watching this guy get put behind bars for the rest of his life. And from what I understand, he deserves it. It’s not like I don’t want to have a hand in putting him there. But you have to understand, detective—the price I’d pay for that… it could be steep. What guarantee can the police offer me that I’m not going to end up in one of those shipping containers?”

  I frowned. I didn’t think we’d released that detail yet, but men as powerful and rich as Nathan had a way of getting information. Some jaded beat cop had probably forked it over for a small fee. I counted my blessings that at least the culprit had
n’t talked to the media—as far as I knew, anyway.

  “You don’t have any family, no wife, no real girlfriend,” I said, watching as he grimaced, “so there’s only you we’ve got to worry about. We’ll move you to a safe house, someplace that Wallace’s men won’t be looking for you.”

  Nathan shook his head. “I’m staying here.”

  “You can’t. This place—well, I’m sorry to say it, but compared to the rest of the city, it stands out like a sore thumb. Your address isn’t exactly private information these days, either. I’m pretty sure half the population’s been to one of your parties, which means if the mob is looking for you, you’re making yourself damn easy for them to find. And if they do…”

  I trailed off, hoping Nathan’s imagination would fill in the blanks. He stood up, turned his back on me, and visited the bar at the far end of the room, prying a tumbler from the other side along with a bottle of what looked like whiskey.

  “This is my home,” he said as if I’d somehow forgotten. “But I’m not going to pretend like Wallace’s men don’t scare me, because they do. I’m not the fighter type. I guess you’d call me more of a lover.”

  Although he wasn’t facing me, I distinctly detected the smirk in his tone when he said that last bit. A moment later, he cast a glance at me over his shoulder as if to confirm I understood what he was implying. I shook my head, and he continued:

  “But that being said, I’m not about to let some IRA rejects run me out of my home. There are some things a man just can’t abide, and for me, turning tail and running is one of them. So if we’re going to do this, detective, then we’re going to do it my way. The city can spare some officers to guard my home, I’m sure, and if not, there’s always private security—”

  I held up my hand, signaling for him to stop talking. He frowned and opened his mouth to speak again, but I gestured more firmly this time, settling my gaze on the floor as I listened hard to the silent, empty house.

  It wasn’t so silent anymore. There were footsteps downstairs, heavy and deliberate. I closed my eyes and focused, trying to ascertain how many there were.

  Two… three… four… five…

  There were five men downstairs. I was sure of it. I finally looked back up at Nathan and whispered:

  “Were you expecting any company?”

  He shook his head, flattening his lips into a thin, grim line as I stood and slipped my sidearm out of its holster.

  “I didn’t call for backup,” I told him.

  Then, holding up my hand again to signal Nathan to wait, I readied myself for the worst and approached the study doors.

  I listened carefully. I could hear them talking on the first floor. They all seemed to still be centered in the atrium. I wet my lips, surrendering to the pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

  I hadn’t come here prepared for a fight. Not a firefight, anyway. But that was the thing about being a cop: whether you knew it or not, your life was always on the line.

  Stay, I mouthed to Nathan, hoping to get my point across. I couldn’t have him in the crossfire. If things went south, then it was best he was out of harm’s way. I might need a clear shot.

  He sipped his whiskey like the sounds downstairs were nothing, but I could see his hand was shaking. His emerald eyes stayed trained on me as I quietly opened the door and slipped out into the hall.

  Outside of the study, I could hear their voices much more clearly. They weren’t being subtle in the least. Were they hoping to flush Nathan out?

  If so, that probably meant they’d come prepared to subdue him. I hoped to God that they hadn’t considered the possibility that Nathan owned a gun.

  There was a lilting brogue that might have been charming under any other circumstances coming from the stairs. “Oi, make sure you get the rugs and the drapes. Don’t leave any room untouched.” I took that to mean he was the leader, and most likely the one I should be speaking with.

  Nathan’s mansion wasn’t exactly easy to get to. Though it was still within the city limits, it toed the line. It’d take backup ten, fifteen minutes to get out here in full force. I didn’t have that kind of time. I’d have to negotiate.

  I stopped at the end of the hall leading to the rail. Through it, I could see the man on the stairs. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans with a pair of scuffed-up work boots, but I didn’t see any weapons on him.

  As I surveyed the rest of his crew, I didn’t spot any on them, either. That was good. That meant that these were just thugs hired to beat a little sense into Nathan.

  Or, judging by the gas cans they were carrying, burn down his house.

  Maybe both.

  I came around the corner fast, gun drawn, and aimed at the one on the stairs, their blue-eyed leader with a pathetically stereotypical Celtic band tattooed on his bicep.

  “Police,” I said, breathing evenly to steady my gun. It was easy to let nerves and adrenaline get the better of you, no matter how experienced you were. “Drop the gas. Now.”

  The other four paused, glancing at their ringleader, who regarded me with one of the coldest stares I’d ever suffered. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders and set the can down on the stair beside him, holding up his hands, his palms facing out.

  “We don’t want any trouble, miss,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and filled with dark promises. Despite his hulking frame, there was something distinctly serpentine about him. “Just came to have a little chat with Mr. Hale, is all.” He looked past me and down the hall. “Is he in?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’m Detective Williams,” I replied. I wasn’t about to give up any more information than I had to. “And you’re trespassing on private property.”

  “Well, I’m Francis O’Rourke, and the garden door was wide open,” he insisted, those glacial eyes sending icicles straight into my core. “Figured we’d come in and see if our friend was about. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

  There was no way I was bringing Nathan out here. We’d be swarmed in seconds. A cool bead of sweat raced down my spine. I was glad that I was sweating in places this guy couldn’t see. I didn’t want him to think I was nervous.

  But somehow, I got the impression that he already knew. I felt like he could smell it on me, like his crooked grin mocked the blood rushing in my ears. This was a bad situation. There was no denying that. But there was also no reason to add any fuel to the fire.

  So to speak.

  “I know who you are,” I said, keeping an even tone. “You’re Peter Wallace’s men. And I doubt, given Mr. Hale’s sizable estate, that you’re carrying those gas cans in here to help ease the burden of his fuel costs.”

  Not a single one of them uttered a word. I had their attention, though. That had to count for something. There was no way these guys were going to let me arrest them without a fight, and I wasn’t ready to die protecting Nathan’s pompous ass. Rules be damned.

  I continued: “I’m giving you a chance to walk away. Get out of here and don’t come back. Tell whoever Wallace’s right hand man is to back off, or…”

  “Or what?” O’Rourke sneered, eyeing me defiantly. “You’ve got no backup, girl. You’re all alone here with me and my boys. Sure, you might be able to take out a few of us, but not all. I’m willing to bet that you miss at least once, and that’s all it’ll take.”

  “And then you’ll go away for killing a cop. You know what they do to cop killers on the inside?”

  He smirked and glanced down at the gas can near his feet. “Nothing, Detective. Not a damn thing if they never find the body.”

  I clenched my jaw. This was not going well. “You’re threatening me? I’m giving you fair warning. Leave now, before things get ugly.”

  “And I’ll say it again,” he replied, taking one step up toward me. “Or what?”

  “Or,” Nathan said, coming out behind me with his drink still in his hand, “she’ll shoot that gas can at your feet and ruin your whole day.”

  That seemed to give O’Rourke pause.
I could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he glanced down at the can.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  Nathan shrugged. “All it takes is a spark, and you’ve already soaked half the first floor. I’m willing to bet that from this angle, the shot will knock the can backward down the staircase, torching every single one of you before you can even think to run.”

  “Of course, there’s always the possibility she doesn’t hit it on her first shot,” he continued, and for a moment, my guts twisted. What the hell was he doing? But he shot me a sideways glance and smiled, and I kept my mouth shut. “And hey, maybe the can won’t explode, but that gun she’s holding is a standard issue Sig P220 full of .45 ACP. Ten in the magazine, one in the chamber, and she’s got the high ground. Do you have any idea how big of a hole that will leave at this range?”