Red (Love in Color Series Book 1)

by SM West

  Till then, the sun rose and set on my father. I believed he’d kill to protect me. It quickly became apparent that his hands were indeed covered in blood, and forever stained with mine, not in protecting but rather in dominating. My daddy was a monster, my mother a follower and my brother and I were merely pawns.

  Warren Conrad, my father, was a businessman. Head of a multi-million-dollar real estate corporation. He hobnobbed with the most powerful across the eastern US. My mother, Taya, once a supermodel from Sweden, was now a stay-at-home mom. She adored my father. We went to the finest private school in the city. Our friends were from wealthy, respectable families. We had no clue of the truth.

  Now, it’s clear as day, all the pieces were there. I just never put the puzzle together. Sometimes Max would say things to suggest he knew more. He didn’t. He was just more astute, less naïve. He suspected and in time, his suspicions would prove to be true. Not me. Smitten with my daddy, I was blind to the bloody truth right in front of me.

  Every little girl believes her daddy’s a hero. A good man. A protector. I used to believe that. I wanted to believe that. Not anymore. Not when he willingly gave me to the devil, Robert Thornton. My daddy’s a bastard. A cutthroat thug and murderer. And so is my husband.

  HER BLACK YOGA PANTS SCULPT the curves of her perfect ass. Damn, she’s one mighty fine woman. I don’t usually ogle my assets, and I’m trying real hard not to now, but her assets are hard to ignore.

  She’s beautiful. Nothing I didn’t already know. Over the past couple of years, I’ve watched her countless times from afar. I don’t know her, only what I’ve read in her file. Yet each time I see her, I’m hit with a strange and undeniable pull. She intrigues me. A puzzle I can’t quite figure out.

  Naturally, her connection to Griffin, the boy I love like a brother, has me curious. She’s my in, to learn everything about his death. And now, finally, being in the same room with her is unnerving. Her interrogation pushes my buttons. She didn’t back down. In fact, she took every opportunity to get closer, more in my face. Her passion and fury, eyes intent and head held high, turn me on like a bloody wake-up call to my senses.

  Unease and something akin to betrayal slithers and tightens low in my belly. This is Griffin’s woman. I shouldn’t be thinking about her this way. This stops now. I will remain strictly professional. Nothing else is an option.

  Tate peers back at me, her golden locks cascade down her back. Her wariness is evident in her rigid posture. I need her to trust me.

  From what Coop’s said, she’s living a nightmare, one most people can’t fathom. Her father handed her over like a commodity to a scumbag who is now her husband. He keeps her locked in a cage. She’s just as motivated as we are to bring them down.

  “I’ll see you next week, Special Agent Wolfe,” she says, walking out the door.

  In addition to being Griffin’s girl, and an asset, Tate is the linchpin of our case. That alone is reason enough to not blow this. Keep this only business. Nothing else.

  Warren Conrad, her father, and Bobby Thornton, her husband, aren’t the biggest criminals in New York. Yet they’re close to the big guns: La Cosa Nostra, Bratva and, to some extent, the Triad. Apart, we wouldn’t waste our time on them. They could easily be wiped out in a moment’s notice.

  In fact, it almost happened to Warren years ago. He was a well-known arms dealer with some illegal gambling and extortion until he got greedy. He wanted more power; drugs were his answer. He needed scale. Adding drugs meant getting into bed with the Cartel.

  Everything was fine until the Cartel decided to fuck with him. Warren sensed trouble and approached Joe Thornton, Bobby’s father, to team up. Joe was small fish too, but not ambitious. He flat out refused. He was smart, knowing an alliance with the Cartel was trouble. If anything went wrong, they didn’t have the manpower, the weapons or the reach to fight the Cartel. And wrong it went.

  The Cartel severed ties with Warren, taking almost everything. He’s lucky they left him alive. Our guess is he’s still breathing because he wasn’t any real threat. In the grand scheme of things, he was a small fish.

  To get back on his feet, Warren tried Joe again. Joe wasn’t interested. He was dying of cancer and soon passed away. Bobby stepped in. Unlike his father, he jumped at the chance to play with the big boys. Together, they are a formidable force. Not the mob or Bratva but big enough to swim with the sharks.

  They’re a weak link in the larger network. And with Tate on our side, they’re even weaker. With her help, we’ve gotten close. A few more pieces must fall into place and then they’ll be behind bars.

  I’m staring at the space she just vacated when my mobile rings, “Wolfe.”

  “So, how’d it go? How’s Tate?” Coop asks.

  Davis Cooper’s a good friend and my partner. We met ten years ago, two FBI recruits paired up for a training exercise at the Academy in Quantico. Since then, we’ve been inseparable.

  I’ll never admit it to him, but I wish he were here. Once he’d been exposed, getting him out of New York had been one hell of a close call. I was the natural fit to step in as Tate’s handler. I’ve been on the case as long as Coop, yet Tate knew nothing about me. I was in the shadows, working another angle. Now I’m doing double duty. Another agent is supposed to fill Coop’s spot. The end is near, who knows if they’ll come through in time.

  “She just left. She’s not happy with you and even more ticked at learning we had other informants. I’m also not too sure she likes me.”

  “Told you she’d be pissed. You told her I had no choice, right?” Before I can respond he continues, “Tell her I’m sorry. Damn, I could ring Trina’s neck for folding.”

  “Hey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re torn up about this. You got a crush on Mrs. Thornton?” I tease.

  “Fuck you, man. It’s not like that. I care about her.” His sincerity rings loud and clear. For this brick wall of a man who can press two-eighty and pummel a linebacker into the ground, Tate Thornton brings out the softer side in him. Fuck, I know where he’s coming from and I just met the woman. “Although…if I didn’t already have my Leanne, I’d be all over that.” Of course, he can’t resist bringing it back to baser things.

  “Yeah. Her pictures don’t do her justice.”

  “Look who’s crushin’ now,” Coop barks with a laugh. “You leave my girl alone. She’s had it rough and doesn’t need the likes of you.”

  “What’s wrong with me, fucker? Before Leanne, you fucked anything with a hole,” I quip in jest. Well, almost. What I say is true and he knows it. Since Leanne, he’s a different man. Between the two of us, I’ve had my fair share of women. Yet I’m a choir boy compared to him.

  “Whatever man. Just stay away from TT. That girl needs a break from assholes,” he says solemnly.

  “Hey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re lumping me with her deviant husband, which I’m nothing like,” I snarl, unable to contain my contempt.

  “Easy man, I’m not. You’re nothing like that motherfucker,” he’s empathic. “How’d she look? Any bruises?”

  “No. Fine,” I say. Better than fine.

  “You sure? She tries to hide that shit,” his agitation is evident in his clipped tone. “I’ll never forget the time she didn’t show up for a meet. She gave Noel some dumbass excuse, and then when I saw her the following week, she looked like she’d been hit by a car.”

  “Fuck,” I curse. Just thinking about it boils my blood. “What kind of man beats a woman?”

  My comment’s rhetorical, no man would do that.

  “Fuckers with little dicks. Men like Thornton that beat on their wives, or other women, deserve to pay. We need to bury him. He can’t see the light of day,” Coop growls with conviction.

  Like I need another reason to put these bastards away for life, this only fuels my drive. “I know. We will,” I reassure, ending the call.

  Not all criminals are murderers, torturers and sadistic. These men are. Bobby
has a predilection for cruelty and violence. In addition to beating his wife, we suspect he almost killed a woman with his fists and then had her murdered.

  Melanie Rogers was a cocktail waitress at an upscale club in Brooklyn. Beaten within an inch of her life, she came forward and agreed to testify. Before we could get her into protective custody, she was murdered. There’s no doubt it was Bobby. We just can’t prove it.

  We have our suspicions about Warren, pure speculation. And Tate’s in their clutches. She’s been married to Thornton for five years. We know very little about their relationship. I need to get Tate to talk, with that comes trust. Building trust is my job.

  There’s also Griffin. While she’s not mentioned him, we suspect they murdered him. Again, we have no proof. When his body was found, we considered all angles. The only plausible lead was his relationship with Tate. He knew nothing of her past. But I’d bet my life Bobby knew about him.

  My phone vibrates with a text from Noel, Tate’s returned to her penthouse. I need to get ready. Another text comes in an hour later, they’re on the move, headed to the fundraising gala. Show time.

  ***

  THE GRAND BALLROOM IS LAVISHLY decorated in black, white and gold with at least forty tables, each seating ten, placed throughout the dimly lit room. A large dance floor is at one end of the room with a band and singer on stage playing Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon. Sidling up to the bar, I order a scotch.

  Surveying the room, it takes two sweeps before I spot them. He’s like a human jail cell. One arm anchors her waist, his hand cuffing her wrist. Fuck, my chest tightens at seeing a woman caged like that, especially when she now looks nothing like the vibrant, fiery woman I met earlier today. Her face is vast emptiness. Now it makes more sense. With the abuse, I wondered why she didn’t leave him. Divorce him. She can’t leave. She’s trapped. From what I know, if he’s obsessed with his wife, which he blatantly is, her leaving him would very well mean her death.

  Nursing my drink, I silently watch them. Throughout the entire hour, Tate’s frozen, a mannequin. He’s not said one word to her, and neither has anyone else, yet he’s beaming from ear-to-ear like he won best pumpkin at the county fair.

  Despite her stoicism, she’s stunning in her long red dress, high heels and hair up. The dress is classic and tasteful. The deep, hypnotic red fabric is like a beacon of desire. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She’s elegance and sin. Many men have cast glances her way.

  Even with her beauty, there’s something dejected about her. No one appears to notice, or if they do, they don’t give a fuck. Everyone wears a mask. Many, like Tate, play a part to survive. Warriors fighting to live another day. While others conceal their depravity. Here in this room, they are monsters lurking in masks, hiding behind money and power.

  I want to see beneath her mask. I got a glimpse today. She pushed my buttons and got me red hot under the collar. There’s more to her than meets the eye. I want to see more.

  Watching her blank expression, her eyes briefly narrow before glazing over once more. If I hadn’t been looking, I would’ve missed it. Glancing in the direction of what, or more accurately who ruffled her veneer, I see Warren and Taya Conrad.

  Swirling the ice in my empty glass, I watch as they exchange greetings. Time to make my move. I’ve patiently waited six months for Bobby to introduce me to Warren, and the asshole always has an excuse. Tonight, I’m forcing his hand.

  Extending my hand, I say, “Bobby, so good to see you.”

  Briefly glancing at Tate, for the first time tonight, her mask slips. Her eyes widen with surprise, she sinks her teeth into her lower lip and her cheeks redden.

  “Clint,” Bobby booms, warily shaking my hand. His grip is limp. For a brief yet satisfying moment, I imagine ramming my fist down his throat. I’d like nothing better than to end him. For Griffin. His eyes zip quickly between his father-in-law and me. The stench of his fear permeates the air, his fear of being cut out of the deal.

  “Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?” I ask.

  “Ah, yes. Clint Somerset, this is my beautiful wife, Tate.”

  “Pleasure,” I say, gently kissing the top of her hand. The scent of honey vanilla invades my space. Our connection teeming with turmoil and tension. Her eyes narrow to slits, glaring at me for the briefest of moments.

  Quickly removing her hand from my grasp, she responds tersely, “Mr. Somerset.”

  Bobby watches with interest. His jaw tightens and eyes narrow, zeroing in on us. Shit, was it too much? I admit, I was trying to unnerve her. Her lifelessness has troubled me all evening. My guess is she’s closing off her emotions to cope. It’s scary how robotic she becomes. It’s obvious she’s had years to perfect it.

  “And this is my father-in-law, Warren Conrad and his wife, Taya.”

  “Mr. Conrad, it’s an honor to meet you and you as well, Mrs. Conrad.” I take each of their hands in turn, also kissing the back of Mrs. Conrad’s hand so as not to draw further attention to my earlier actions.

  Warren’s in his early sixties, dark brown hair peppered with gray. He’s not a tall man but fit. His austere stature makes people take notice, respect him out of fear. His wife’s almost a decade younger and striking with platinum blond hair and crystal blue eyes. No surprise, she is model tall and thin. Her dress drapes her body seductively.

  She’s attractive, but she’s frigid. Her eyes are calculating. I’ve read scary things about Warren’s wrath but looking at Taya, I’m more alarmed by her wintery stare, deeply penetrating like she’s capturing my thoughts.

  Tate scowls at me. A slight pang of guilt stabs my chest. I could’ve told her about my cover. But really, can she blame me for going this route? Coop trusts her. I’m still figuring out if I can. Throwing her this curveball was a test. So far, she’s passing.

  I’ll have to tell her that I’m the other informant. The one infiltrating Bobby and Warren’s organization as Clint Somerset. I must trust her if we’re going to work together.

  Fortunately, no one notices the tension between us. Tate goes back to abject boredom with her mother watching her closely. Almost to the point of creepiness. I have no clue how she lives like this.

  The men exchange pleasantries while Taya brings Tate into a conversation of their own. Tate has a smile plastered on her face, yet it doesn’t reach her eyes as she listens to her mother. Her eyes are distant, her fists balled at her sides. Listening with half an ear to the ladies, I talk about my current business venture. The bait. I’ve Bobby hooked, I just need Warren to bite.

  “What’s the return?” Warren asks.

  “It varies, depending on what venture you’re interested in and what your time horizon is,” I respond.

  “Let’s take this to the bar,” he says turning to leave without waiting for a response. His actions suggest he’s used to people following his demands.

  One hour and two scotches later, we’re set to meet next week. Bobby’s distressed. He’ll be in Chicago and unable to attend our meeting. Does this mean Tate will go with him? She never mentioned his trip. Why?

  Riding the elevator to the parking garage, I contemplate how well the night went. I’ve finally met Warren and hopefully he’ll bring me into the fold. On route to my car, Tate steps out from behind a concrete pillar. I’m alarmed and then heated when I realize it’s her.

  “What the hell was that?” she demands.

  Her cheeks flushed and eyes vivid, she’s ready to pounce. My cock thickens as a crimson wave of excitement ripples along my spine. She’s painfully gorgeous, yet absolutely arresting when riled. Her passion is potent and striking. This woman is beyond lethal.

  Her indignation is also kind of cute. I can totally see what attracted Griffin to her. I fight the urge to smirk. Something tells me she’d tear me a new one if I did. While I’d certainly like to test that theory, now is neither the time nor the place.

  “Tate, go back to your husband or go home. You and I can’t be seen together,” I say dismissively. What
the hell is she thinking pulling a stunt like this? Stupid.

  “Sorry, Wolfe,” a voice comes from behind her. It’s Agent Murphy. He’s assigned to watch her tonight. “I tried to stop her, she was creating a scene.” His ruddy complexion is an even brighter red. The poor sap’s ashamed for having failed at controlling her. And he should be. I’ll deal with him later.

  “Murphy, get her out of here,” I order, sliding into the driver’s seat.

  Tate’s close behind me. I shut the door before she can get in the way. Banging on the window, she calls my name, angrily. Murphy pulls her off the car as I back out. I refuse to look her way. Her coming down here is beyond stupid and dangerous.

  My hands strongly grip the wheel, tension mounting. Despite my anger, I’m still hard. Fuck. Why does she get to me so easily? I almost lost my temper earlier today and now, her anger nearly sends me over the edge.

  My body betrays me in her presence. My heart skyrockets and my cock lengthens. Fine, she’s beautiful. Who fucking cares? She’s like thousands of women in this city. I obviously need a good, hard fuck. It’s been too long.

  A quick flash of Tate, fire in her eyes, runs through my mind. The nerve she has to question and confront me. It enrages and turns me on. It has me wanting to both devour and spank her. Never going to happen. Never. Even with my steel resolve, I can’t shake the feeling she’ll be my undoing.

  BLINK. BRIGHT LIGHTS BLUR MY vision. Blink. Cold seeps into my jaw and cheek. Blink. A pool of blood and puke lay before me. My eyes finally manage to stay open. I’m sprawled on the marble floor with pain radiating throughout my body. How long have I been out? Last I remember, it was morning. I strain to see through the doorway into my bedroom, darkness blankets the floor-to-ceiling window in my bedroom.

  The sharp incessant throbbing intensifies and bile rises in my throat as I try to sit up. With deep breaths, I slowly stand. Everything’s fuzzy and swaying. Suddenly, my legs give out. Red, hot pain shoots through me as my knees hit the floor. An excruciating groan escapes my blood caked-lips. I need a drink, anything to numb my pain, my existence, my hell. Inebriation is my usual state of being, or hiding when Bobby’s on a rampage. Where’s the vodka?