by Michele Hauf
“It is,” he asserted.
Josephine almost pouted over that reply, but she knew how to hold a poker face. “So can this organization that you work for offer me anything for the information I can give you? Clemency from my past crimes?”
“No. Uh…no.”
But he'd considered it for that split second between words. Hmm… There was a chance it could happen. Probably though, he needed to get approval from some higher-ups. He did work for the law. It made little sense that he'd be on such a magnanimous mission for the bad guys.
Working with him seemed too risky. And while risk always gave her a high—she did love that “screaming no” feeling—this time the high offered an immediate drop. Most likely behind bars. She didn't want to get involved with an organization that forced criminals to do their dirty work by threatening them with death.
Yet what she could get out of partnering with Xavier was the chance to work closely with The Fox. And that had always been her dream. A dream that had clashed with her revenge fantasy, but also had been a requirement for such revenge to happen. And the little taste she'd gotten of working alongside him so far had only whetted her appetite for more.
She could be greedy; that was a flaw she'd never managed to overcome. That's why charitable contributions had been a necessity to offset such avarice. Xavier wasn't fooling anyone; the man gave his booty away to clear his conscience.
“I can't do this without you.” He crossed the room and stood before the window, staring out at the setting sun. The crisp white shirt collar glowed in the beam of light and underlined his masculine profile. “That's the first time I've said that to anyone.”
Bully for him. The confession didn't impress her. Much. Okay, a little. It must have been tough for him to admit such a weakness. Either that or—no, he was working her. Such a careful, painstaking admission couldn't be anything but a ruse.
And yet, she hadn't pushed him out the door and told him never to return.
Damn. She was a sucker for a bad boy with a handsome face. That “screaming no” feeling hummed at the base of her throat. And that meant—damn her!—she was in for the ride.
Josephine exhaled through her nose and squeezed her eyelids shut. “I need a promise of complete anonymity. Your organization can't know me or who you are working with. And when Blackwell is in hand, or you've got the diamond, then I'm out. This time for real. No following me. No tracking. You forget my name, my number, and all the ways I can make you come. Yes?”
He tapped his jaw, thinking. Too long.
“They already know about me, don't they?” she guessed. “Damn.”
“You marched yourself into that one all by yourself. If you hadn't interfered at the ball—”
“Fine.” Josephine put up a hand. She had stepped into that one. No need for him to admonish her. If anyone deserved the blame, she'd slap it across Lincoln's simpering smirk. “How much do they know about me? Do you have a rap sheet?”
“I do... It's not complete. Yet. Kierce is working on it.”
“Good ole Kierce.”
“We have your name and some info about the Phoenix ruby heist.”
A fifty-carat ruby waiting for display at a small-time gemstone show. The security had been ridiculously lax. And a little flirtation with an overweight security guard had gotten her far. “It can't be proven that I actually pulled off that heist.”
“Of course not.” He tilted his head and winked, acknowledging that he knew because—hell, she'd just, in a roundabout way, confessed to that one. “And while I’m not required to divulge to you any information we may or may not have, I will volunteer that what they know is little.”
“Why are they allowing you to work with me? Why not get me to do their dirty work the same way they got you to do it?”
His jaw tightened. And again he thought about the question a few seconds too long. “Because you're not sitting in a prison cell with no other options.”
Josephine closed her eyes and leaned against the sofa. He lied to her. But why was beyond her grasp. No, it was within reach. He lied with ease. It was a criminal's best means to divert and at the same time gather intel.
She could run at any moment. Though it was difficult with Chloe. Owning a cat was like having a child. She couldn’t walk out the door and leave her behind for days. And she wasn't about to abandon her in a pound just because her life had been turned upside-down.
Josephine ran her gaze over Xavier from shoes to crotch—pity, no obvious hard-on—to that firm chest beneath the clean lines of the suit, to his pretty face. Dresden green eyes lingered on her, trying to read her. But she wouldn't give him any more. She couldn't.
Could she? Why was she so conflicted about this man she didn’t think she would ever see again?
Because she had seen him again. And he'd fucked her. And she'd loved it. And she wanted him again. Even with the risk and her better senses screaming “no, no, no.”
The no-sex rule? She wasn't going to follow it. And really, the man had to be kept on a leash somehow. The way to a man's faith and blind trust was straight through his cock.
Curse the mystery organization and the unfortunate cons whom they forced to do their bidding. She could fall for this guy. If he didn't work for the law. Which he did. Much as he didn't want to give up the details, no other organization would be involved in recruiting ex-cons to go after biological weapons.
Unless of course, she had already fallen for him.
No.
Maybe? Argh!
“Fine. But I'm not going to have any contact with Blackwell.”
“I don't believe that's necessary. He'd be suspicious if you returned, asking after a diamond of which you should have no interest. I just need intel. And while we have a dossier on Blackwell, we're not up on his current affairs. That's where you come in.”
“Money laundering, investment schemes, speculative trades,” she offered, because she had no alliances to Blackwell. “The man has his hands all over the foreign markets. He stays away from the United States. Too hot there. And that's where his brother lives.”
Xavier turned away from the window; she'd caught his attention. “Tell me about the brother. Why does he avoid him?”
She was either in or out. And if she said one more word, she could end up regretting ever trusting this man. But really? Life wasn't worth the trip unless she toed the line.
“His stepbrother, Marcus, and he have a vicious rivalry. He never told me much, but I suspect if anyone was going to rat on Lincoln, it would be Marcus Blackwell.”
Chapter 21
Xavier stood in the foyer of the apartment building, waiting for Josephine to gather her things and the cat. He'd offered to help, but she'd told him to wait downstairs. So he put in a call to Hunter Dixon and gave him Marcus Blackwell's name. Dixon said he'd put an asset in the States on him immediately.
Xavier's new orders were to bring Josephine back to Paris. For recruitment? Not until they'd used her to find Lincoln. If they were lucky, in the process she would implicate herself further and give the ECU solid blackmail material against her.
“As you wish.” He tucked away the phone and rubbed his palms together. What had he just agreed to?
To keeping his ass out of prison, that was what. And be damned if Seph suffered the consequences? Apparently.
He paced between the front and back doors, glancing outside and toward the roof. Just in case she decided to make another escape.
He doubted she would this time around. They'd…well, they'd had sex. And then he'd decided his wisest move was to tell her it had been forgettable. He was kicking himself for that now. It had been the least forgettable experience in his life. But he was torn between falling for the woman and turning her over to the ECU. And he shouldn't be. His job had to come first and foremost.
“Fuck.” He kicked the toe guard at the base of the wall. Job? More like prison work-release.
At the opposite end of the foye
r, someone entered the building. The person's silhouette blocked the sun as Xavier turned to assess the man, who much resembled a troll in human form. Fingers of one hand curling in and out of a meaty fist, he looked…like he had come specifically for Xavier. And the knife in his other hand confirmed that suspicion loudly.
Rarely did he misjudge an invitation to defend his life. Reaching behind his waist for the cable-wire garrote that lined his belt, Xavier pulled it free and stepped back, luring the thug with a crimp of his fingers.
“You are Le Renard, the thief?” the man asked with a thick accent that Xavier couldn't quite place. He wasn't Victor Katirci—Xavier had seen that man's dossier, which had included a blurry surveillance shot of his head and shoulders. So this chunk of flesh must be one of his minions.
“Who's asking?” Xavier set back his shoulders and squared his feet below his hips. He made show of drawing the garrote tightly between his hands.
“I've come for the diamond necklace.”
“Don't have it. Sorry, you made the trip for nothing.”
“You will give it to me.”
“Are you as thick in the head as you are in body? I can't give you what I don't have.”
“Then…” The man made a show of glancing up the stairwell. “She must have it?”
Ah, hell. They must have figured out that he and Seph were working together in some manner. And the troll had to be related to the van who had followed and tranqued her—whom Xavier had assumed was Katirci. Apparently whomever the ECU had sent to take them out had failed.
Time to clean up this mess.
Xavier lunged toward the man and swung up his arm, elbowing him in the jaw. Twisting quickly, he volleyed around with his fist and connected with the man's kidney. It was enough to take the wind out of him, but he remained standing.
The hiss of the knife blade cut the air close to Xavier's face. He moved quickly, knowing he had the advantage of size in that he was leaner and could move faster than the behemoth. Swinging the garrote high and snapping it tightly, he got it around the man's neck, but there was an impediment. Thick, meaty fingers had put up a block and were already pulling the cable with incredible strength.
All he had to do was tire the man out. Before Josephine sailed down the stairs with Chloe.
“I will make you a frog, squished under my foot,” the man announced as he flipped Xavier over his head and sent him tumbling against the baseboard and the wall.
Not if he could help it.
Kicking, Xavier managed a deft block, sending the knife flying from the thug's hand. A return blow hit Xavier on the bicep, sending electrical eels through his arm. It felt as if his bone had cracked. Commotion from above clued him that someone was moving about on the second floor. Not Seph's floor. He didn't need innocents witnessing this, so he lured his attacker closer to the back door.
There, Xavier spied the fire extinguisher and grabbed it. Using it as a battering ram, he lifted it overhead and smashed it onto the thug's head. The attacker collapsed with little fanfare.
Xavier set the extinguisher aside and looked over the heap on the floor. “That was much easier than expected.”
Tucking the garrote back into his waist, he wandered toward the foyer. He squeezed his bicep to confirm the new bruises blooming there. Someone skipped down the stairs overhead. A cat meowed.
Seph bounced into the entryway. Her eyes landed on the sprawled thug. “Did I miss all the fun?”
Xavier laughed and took Chloe's carrier. “Come this way. We'll need to go out the back in case his friends are waiting out front.”
* * * *
Lincoln Blackwell had finally gotten a good read on the five-carat stone he'd removed from the necklace. It hadn't been so much a safety measure in removing that stone immediately upon claiming the necklace as advanced knowledge. He hadn't expected Jo-Jo to come back for it, but one can never be too careful. Thieves. Couldn’t trust 'em.
His tech assistant had read the information laser-etched onto the girdle and recorded it for him. The first numbers were latitude and longitude for the position where the limo was parked right now.
Smoothing a manicured hand down his silk tie, Lincoln glanced out the back window. The Bourse de Paris, the stock exchange, sat just up the street, a place he knew well but avoided for the love of freedom. Immediately before him stood a nondescript bank with an ATM machine tucked into the side of the building. It was most likely used by tourists more often than locals. Not ten feet away from the ATM, a blue tarp had been fashioned into a tent and duct-taped to the concrete by one of the many homeless that littered the area.
The finest streets in the city were frequented by the dregs of society. Wasn't as if jobs were lacking. Lincoln wagered more than half the sidewalk dwellers were intelligent and qualified to hold even the most menial of tasks. Of course, drugs tended to suck the smarts right out of a person, which is why he never touched an illicit substance. Nor did he drink alcohol. He wasn't stupid.
He eased his fingers over his right shoulder, tenderly touching the spot where he'd removed the gauze that morning. The knife wound still hurt like a mother.
But not as much as the pain of looking over his foreign bank accounts this morning. His accountant had alerted him that something terrible was up. Three accounts had been reduced from millions to zero. What. The. Hell? And while the accountant had been able to move his other funds quickly, he couldn't guarantee whomever had launched the cyber-attack on him would not be able to follow his tracks. He would keep a close eye on all accounts and report back to him.
Seventy-five percent of his wealth had been distributed amongst those foreign accounts. Lincoln had no idea who would have it out to get him. On the other hand, everyone he had ever dealt with had good reason. Including his own stepbrother. But Marcus hadn't the talent for sneaking in and removing funds via a cyber-attack. Had he?
Lincoln had dispatched a team to locate Marcus and was currently waiting for a report. He'd requested the men not do anything more than observe. For now. But if that bastard was going to fuck with him….
Suppressing the urge to punch the back of the front seat, Lincoln closed his eyes tightly. Now, more than ever, he needed one thing to go right for him.
Turning his wrist, he brought up the notes app on his iWatch and swiped to the code—the evidence from the diamond's girdle. He opened the back door and stuck out a leg. Scanning the sidewalk and streets, he verified that the foot traffic was minimal. In the distance, laughter echoed out from the city park plunked on top of Les Halles, the biggest underground mall in the city, and the entrance to its snarliest and most maddening metro station.
His bodyguard already stood near the ATM, because while gonzo financial risk was Lincoln's thing, personal risk was another arena entirely.
When he received a confirming nod from the bodyguard, Lincoln got out, tugged at the lapel of his Armani suit fashioned from needle cord cotton—hot off the runway—and approached the ATM. The bodyguard had swiped an antibacterial wipe over the keypad. One never knew. And with such elite neighbors occupying the grounds nearby….
Lincoln stifled a shudder and waggled his fingers over the keypad. He wore thin latex gloves—not because of germs, but to keep his fingerprints to himself. He entered the code into the ATM. It was an override sequence. The tiny screen flashed white, then red text scrolled across the screen. It prompted to enter today's date, which Lincoln did. Then it paused, the date blinking.
Casting glances over each shoulder, he spied a trio of giggling girls crossing the street. They looked at him, then the tarp tent, and veered a wide curve away from the distraction on the sidewalk.
The screen scrolled a message in red LED: Premature completion request. Task not complete. Execute assigned protocol within 36 hours.
The screen went blank. Then it flashed the word BOOM and disintegrated into pixels, like the aftermath of a tiny bomb.
“What the…?” Lincoln slammed his palm against t
he screen. “Task not complete?” Of course it wasn't complete. The 8th arrondissement was still alive and very much standing. As it should be.
The screen should have prompted him for his account number and transferred five million dollars. That was the payment for setting off the biological weapon. He hadn't expected—well, yes, he should have anticipated such a warning.
“Shit.”
The only way to get the cash was to ensure the task was completed. But he couldn't do that without the ingredient list on the necklace. Which he didn't have. And which he'd not the stomach to actually initiate. Take out an entire neighborhood? Not that he was averse to such an act of terrorism, but only if his hands were not in the mix.
A mix he'd inadvertently stepped into and was now trying to reverse. As a side investment his accountant wasn't aware of, he'd transferred funds to a shell company over the years. He'd trusted Ashwood—a code name; he preferred dealing with them—to invest in gold and Icelandic real estate. Thinking it was time to pull out—his assets growth had hit a stalemate— Lincoln had followed Ashwood for a few months. Tapping his phone had revealed the destination for the missing five million.
Never had he expected Ashwood would use the company's funds to kill others. That money was Lincoln's. And now, more than ever, he needed it back. Without having to shake off blood from it. He would not be dragged into an international terrorist event.
Not only had a trusted investor turned on him, but now there were the funds missing from his accounts. Bad luck had landed in spades. And he was not the man to stay in and ride it out. He had to take care of this immediately.
And yet…could his accountant somehow be involved in Lincoln's missing funds and the stolen shell funds? He'd sounded as surprised as Lincoln had been during their earlier phone conversation. Of course, Lincoln had not mentioned the shell debacle. But if he were involved with Ashwood in any way…. No, he would have said something over the years. Asked him about those diverted funds.
