by SM West
Casually leaning on the desk, he folds his muscular arms and crosses his feet at the ankle. He’s in another suit. A navy pinstripe with the jacket and tie removed. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his firm forearms. Coupled with his disheveled, raven locks, ocean blue eyes and dusting of dark stubble, he’s eye-catching.
Mimicking him, I cross my arms and stare back. He’ll not intimidate me, although I’m more excited than anything else. Why does he have to be so damn sexy?
Coop’s gorgeous. I think of him as my very own Idris Elba, yet he doesn’t cause a multitude of hummingbirds to take up residence in my chest like Wolfe does.
Rylan Wolfe stirs something deep, sexual and daring within me. A part of me I’d forgotten ever existed. So much so, I want to ignore all the flashing red caution signs. He elicits desire and want, both of which I thought had been beaten out of me. And new, nameless sensations that shock me.
“Why are we meeting here?”
“Because you canceled our original meet. Why did you?” he counters, an eyebrow raised in question.
“A client showed up at the gallery. He just got back from Italy and I had to meet with him. I had no choice. So why are we meeting here?”
“Mrs. Thornton, I was meeting your father and didn’t have time to move the location.”
“It’s Tate. How hard is it for you to get that through your thick skull?”
The subtle lift of his lips indicates he’s baiting me. And I just gave in to it. Damn it. Is this a game to him?
As childish and insignificant as it may seem, I’m not a Thornton and will never be. It’s the same reason my gallery’s Conrad-Parker, not Thornton. I have no allegiance to the Conrad name other than being born one. It’s my way of keeping the little bit I have left of my identity. I will not give every last ounce of myself to Bobby.
“My father was here? And what if he saw me? Or did that scenario never cross your mind?” I ask sarcastically.
“He was here two hours ago. We’re on him. He’s nowhere near here.”
Wolfe releases an exasperated sigh like dealing with me is just a big waste of his time.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Mr. Somerset?” I snarl, deliberately flaunting my anger at his stunt. Before he can even answer, I continue, “Do you want me to trust you? Because showing up at the gala without giving me any warning is not the way to go about it.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” His apology catches me off guard. “I should’ve told you. Coop told me you were good on your feet. I needed to see for myself.”
“So, you don’t trust me?” This irks me although the feeling’s mutual.
“No more than you trust me,” he quips. “It was a dick move. But Tate…” his voice hardens as he pins me with his gripping eyes. “You confronting me like you did, never do it again. It was dangerous and stupid. If you pull something like that again, I. Will. Pull. The. Plug.”
It’s clear he means every word. While he’s right, his controlling demeanor has my hackles up, again. Although a small part of me likes his dominance. It’s not threatening like I’m used to, rather it’s strong and commanding. Very alluring. Shaking the silly thoughts out of my head, I gear up to lay into him. He steamrolls right over my words.
“Now to show you I mean what I say, for starters, I’m the other informant. So to speak. I’ve been working Bobby for over six months now. He’s been stalling on an introduction to your father and the gala was me forcing his hand. It worked. Now, tell me why at our last meet you omitted the fact that Bobby was going to Chicago?”
His revelation lessens my tension and ire. Sharing this with me is one step toward trust. A truce. Perhaps it’s time I give a little too? And he’s right about Bobby’s trip, I should’ve known, but I didn’t. Bobby’s been MIA a lot lately. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
“I didn’t know. He doesn’t tell me a lot. I learn most of my information by listening. Bobby and I really don’t talk.”
Without thinking, I grab a shot glass from the bar, open the scotch and pour a healthy dose. Swallowing in one gulp. The liquor smoothly slides down my throat like silk with a slight burn. It takes the edge off the tightrope I feel like I’m teetering on whenever I’m near Wolfe.
“Fuck,” he thunders, alarming me. His incredulous and seething gaze has me on high alert. What on earth?
“What?” I squeak, surprised and still warm from the liquor.
“You’re a recovering alcoholic, yet you’re downing scotch like it’s water. What the fuck,” he roars.
I can’t even hold back my laughter despite the disgust in his eyes. “I’m not an alcoholic,” I respond casually, deliberately not saying anymore.
“You expect me to believe that?” he shakes his head. “You were in rehab. I’ve seen reports of you being blotted years ago, several times.”
Not liking his tone or his fierce glare, I dive into attack mode. “Years ago? You’ve had me under surveillance for years?” I ask, shocked when I shouldn’t be.
The idea of trust, a truce, goes out the window. I feel violated although he hasn’t done anything wrong. Sure, I’ve been violated, but not by him or the FBI.
“Not you. Your father and husband,” he responds. “Now answer my question because from where I’m standing, you just fucking relapsed. Explain now,” he orders with skepticism and something else, perhaps disappointment, on his face.
“I went to rehab, but it’s not what you think. Rehab was an escape and yes, I did get clean. Again, it’s not how it appears.”
He’s still looking at me like I’m a liar, which is true but not about this. Before he drills me for more or decides to take the moral high ground and reprimand me for my duplicity, I forge on, “I discovered purely by accident that Bobby left me alone when I was completely wasted. The man lives to make my life a living hell.”
Feeling exposed and not wanting to share more than needed, although I’m sure he knows about Bobby, I choose to be deliberately vague. I could give him so much more. I’m finally the one holding all the cards. Who’s in control now, asshole?
“I was in a luxury rehabilitation center for three months, and frankly, it was a vacation,” I spit, my response dripping with sarcasm.
Yes, contrary to my very public history, I’m not an alcoholic. I drank to forget, to escape, and ironically, to survive. I stumbled upon my inebriation ruse purely by accident.
One night of binge drinking had Bobby so disgusted with my drunken sloppiness that he stayed away. I continued to fake it to keep the monster at bay or when seeking numbness and sedation.
Between his agonizing blows and invasion of my body, I was slowly dying. He was killing me, defiling and damaging my body and soul. Stripping me of not only my clothes, but also my dignity.
I’m not sharing any of this with Rylan Wolfe nor am I telling him that the counselors were onto me within the first week of rehab. Luckily, the facility head took pity on me and let me stay. I’d have stayed for forever if they’d let me. It was a blissful breakout, just like the alcohol had been, from my abysmal confinement.
Looking back, I was standing at the precipice of a chasm. Alcohol had become my crutch, more drinking less faking. No doubt, without rehab, I’d never have had the clarity to devise my plan and to regain my will to survive. And I most definitely would be an alcoholic. The scotch had been my first drop in more than a year. I don’t crave it.
I crave my husband’s excruciating death.
I crave my father’s eternal suffering.
I crave their pitiful downfall.
I crave vengeance.
I crave freedom.
I don’t even consider craving peace because I’m sure that’s not possible.
“Does Coop know?” he growls.
“Why Rylan, didn’t Coop tell you? I thought you guys debriefed?”
His eyebrows arch at me using his name. I file that away for later pondering. Still staring, his penetrating eyes peer into my soul. I almost regret pushing him. Alm
ost. Who the hell does he think he is?
“No, Coop and I never talked about it. No one knows it was a ruse,” I add.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” Wolfe clenches his fists, his knuckles now white. This is where my confession stops. He knows more than most. And I don’t owe him anything. Why is he so mad?
“What’s your problem?”
“I’m wondering how you’ve managed to get away with this. We’ve been watching. What else are you hiding?”
“There’s nothing else to tell,” I shrug. My lips are sealed.
“You’re playing with fire. If Bobby or your parents find out you lied, you’ll bring a whole world of trouble down on yourself,” he states.
I don’t know how to answer that. I’m in trouble, no matter what. I won’t let that stop me from surviving and trying to get out of this. We both remain silent. The only sounds are the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table and the subtle in and out of our breaths.
“I don’t fear for my life,” I admit, surprising myself as much as him as his eyes widen. “The only thing I fear is getting caught before I can finish this.”
He scrutinizes me like a puzzle with missing pieces. His intent on solving me is clear in his sharp eyes and determined jaw. I don’t regret my confession.
He’s already ripping away at my seams of control. I won’t let him get too close. Let him glimpse inside of me, see me bare, see my truth.
THE CAB STOPS OUTSIDE THE Conrad-Parker Gallery, a place I’ve staked out many times over the past few years. Buttoning my jacket, I prepare for Tate’s wrath. Surprising her seems to be my specialty. Another dick move on my part, but this is about her husband.
Warren put Bobby on point for our deal and the bastard’s left everything at a standstill. It’s been a month since my meeting with Warren. Bobby’s freezing me out. Paying his wife an unexpected visit, something he’ll know about as it’s going down, is my way of letting him know I’m not going anywhere.
I cringe at Tate’s name in large black letters over the doorway. I should have warned her. When we met last week, I didn’t have this planned. I suppose I could have got a message to her through Noel once I knew. I chose to do it this way. Exactly why? I’m not sure.
I could argue the element of surprise. That’s not it. There are several ways I could get my point across to Bobby, involving Tate is for one purpose and one purpose only, I want to see her. And that fucked up shit is screwing with my head.
Fuck. I’m used to getting what I want, but this? Playing games on the job for personal reasons, because I want to spend time with a woman, that’s not me. I take my job seriously and I’m damn good at it. This case is important to me. Beyond important. I must avenge Griffin’s death.
So why am I choosing to do this? And make no mistake, I’m fully aware it’s my choice to arrive unannounced at Tate’s place of business. I know full well I’m stirring the pot.
Sure, having Thornton lose his shit is certainly a bonus in doing this. Although, it’s not a smart move. From age eleven, being an FBI agent was my destiny, born the day I stared at the lifeless, bloody body of my father. His murder and the deaths of my best friend’s parents is forever burned in my mind.
Shattered glass, splintered wood, upholstery and shell casings everywhere: my father’s dream and life senselessly annihilated by organized crime. His death was a result of a colossal fuck up. A hit was put out on some low-life degenerate and some asshole got the name of the bar wrong.
Since that day, together with my two best friends, Tripp and Van, we’ve wanted justice. Getting a degree and then applying to the Bureau was my focus, next to taking care of my mother and sister. Tripp and I stuck to that plan. Somewhere along the way, Van, although he lost both parents that day, chose a different path. He joined the military.
To this day, I’ve never regretted it or knowingly done something to put that in jeopardy. Showing up here isn’t career ending. Still, it’s a slippery slope. This is my attempt to move things along. I hope I’ve got this.
With blond hardwood, stark white brick walls, and art strategically placed and lit, I slowly meander through the gallery. I pass the empty desk of one Eloise Jones, the young lady who works for Tate and her partner, Julia Parker.
I glance at the art as I head through the wide maze towards the offices. I’m halfway through when a petite redhead, with a curvy figure, bouncing curls and a dazzling smile, greets me.
“Good morning, welcome to the Conrad-Parker Gallery, I’m Julia Parker. How may I help you?” she asks, extending her hand.
“Ms. Parker, Clint Somerset, pleasure to meet you. I’m actually here to speak with Tate Conrad.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Ah, no. But I’m sure she’ll want to speak with me.”
With a mischievous grin, she quips, “Oh, I’m sure she will too, Mr. Somerset. Please have a seat and I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Tate’s bodyguard, Anthony, spots me. Given Tate is his sole responsibility; we watch him closely. What’s interesting is that we can’t find any dirt on him. On paper, he’s a boy scout, yet I’d bet my life he’s got blood on his hands.
Recognition flashes across his face. Taking out his phone, he begins typing. No doubt texting Bobby of my arrival. A frazzled brunette barrels down the hallway, arms flailing, glasses precariously perched on her nose.
“Julia, I’m so sorry. Ellie’s on lunch and I’m supposed to be out front,” she flaps.
“Clara, it’s okay. Relax. I’ve got it,” her tone’s soothing.
I recall from surveillance, Clara, Tate’s assistant, is a bit of a basket case. She’s chewing her fingernail, her eyes cast downward with her other hand shaking at her side. Julia rubs her hand up and down Clara’s arm, comforting her.
“Go on, Clara,” she encourages. Clara nods once and skitters towards the front desk. Julia gives me another beaming smile before heading into an office.
“Darling, I’ve no clue who this man is. Well, his name’s Clint Somerset. Where the hell have you been hiding him? You’re married for crying out loud, let me have this one.”
Julia’s voice is as clear as a bell. She either has no clue her voice carries or she doesn’t care. My money is on the latter. Tate’s response is inaudible, so my guess is correct. I like this woman.
Tate met Julia at school in Chicago. She’s the closest thing Tate has to a best friend. Julia followed her to New York and became part owner of the gallery.
Julia laughs, “Oh relax, who cares if he can hear. I’m not ashamed to let him know I’m interested. Seriously Tate, if he’s a new client, let me have him. It’s not fair that you get all the fun and the eye candy to boot.”
She’s like a teenager swooning over her favorite rock star. I’m flattered and amused. This will get Bobby’s attention. I’m sure he always has Tate’s office audio on, listening. Sick fuck.
Tate exits her office, eyes narrowed on me, lips thin and tight. She’s not amused. Standing in the doorway, I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Her beautiful breasts are emphasized by the crisscrossing V of the bright pink, floral wrap dress. Her small waist and long sexy legs are on full display. Her hair is loose, cascading golden waves resemble a halo of light. Like a siren beckoning me, I head toward her, giving her my best please don’t be mad, go with it smile.
“Mr. Somerset,” she states tersely. She’s all business as she takes my hand.
“Tate, you’re as lovely as ever.”
Anthony’s close behind. He doesn’t deter me. I can’t resist. Holding her small hand, my lips meet the top of her warm, silky skin, welcoming her alluring scent. Her breath hitches, verdant eyes wide with hunger. Her long, slender fingers tighten around my hand, and then abruptly, she twists on her heels. The view from behind is just as tantalizing as the front.
“Jules, please shut the door on your way out.”
“Sure thing.”
Julia eyes me with a discerning smirk; she saw my reaction to
her friend’s gorgeous body. Her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkle. Anthony steps in behind me. Julia deliberately clears her throat to get Tate’s attention.
“Anthony, outside, please,” Tate directs.
“I have orders to stay with you.”
“Mr. Somerset, does this have anything to do with my husband?”
“It has nothing to do with your husband.” Anthony’s fists clench and the muscles in his neck tense. “Please wait outside. This is gallery business. You can wait outside the door and if I need you, you’ll be sure to hear,” she says with a tinge of sarcasm.
He reluctantly leaves, with one final glare my way. We’re alone. Tate stands behind her desk, hands on her hips. Her eyebrows arch in expectation. She lets me take the lead. We both know her office is bugged courtesy of her husband.
At the outset of this arrangement, we had all her electronics and office swept for bugs – audio and video. We even got lucky and were able to sweep her penthouse. The penthouse is clean, go figure.
All her electronics and car have some kind of tracking device. No video in her office but her office is wired. There’s also a feed into the existing cameras throughout the gallery. The cameras are everywhere except the offices.
Of course, we can’t touch them or else we’d tip him off. We must be extra cautious. Bobby’s likely listening at this very moment.
“Tate, my apologies for this surprise visit. I’ve just moved back stateside, and your father spoke highly of you.”
What she doesn’t know is that I speak the truth. As much as the man’s a monster and treats his daughter like dirt, he does brag about his children’s accomplishments like they’re his own.
“I’d love to have you acquire the art for my home.”
“Mr. Somerset…”
I interject, “Please, call me Clint. All my friends do and I hope we’ll become good friends.”
Her cheeks flush, her brows furrow. My innuendo is not lost on her. And if her reaction is any indication, she’s aware that my comment will send Bobby into a fury. With one quick glance to the door, most probably to check on Anthony, she flips one hand up in question and mouths, what the hell?
