Who was playing whom?
As much as Torres would be amused to believe that Parrish was playing Estévez, he didn’t think that man would likely be played by anyone.
What worried him was the timing. There were too many convenient connections for this to be all just coincidence. While Torres didn’t want to lash out and destroy what might be a lucrative new business relationship, neither did he want to take the chance of being played himself.
Then he grinned. He knew of one way to ensure Estévez’s honesty—and loyalty. Estévez had one weakness, and Torres felt nearly gleeful at the prospect of using that weakness against him. That smug bastard won’t be so high and mighty the next time we meet.
He turned back to Carter. “You’ve done well. There’ll be a little something extra for your efforts in the usual place tonight. Thank you.”
“I’d be happy to help you with whatever it is you’re planning to do about Parrish, Estévez…and the woman.”
“Oh, I’m not planning to do much,” Torres lied. “No, I’m waiting for the perfect opportunity to use your talents. Never fear.” He nodded, a clear dismissal.
While Chance Carter didn’t show his emotions the way Kramer did, the man was smart enough to know his place. He left, closing the door behind him. Torres sat back for a moment, thinking about what he needed to do, and the best way to go about it.
Then he picked up the phone and called an old friend.
* * * *
They had work to do, but for the first time since he’d begun this investigation, this quest, Ramón felt as if they were finally making real progress. He agreed with Clint. Consuela had given them a couple of very solid leads. After a quick conversation with Joe Grant, a meeting had been called with the two of them, Joe, and a good friend of his with the DEA—another Lusty denizen named Peter Alvarez-Kendall.
That meeting would take place in a couple of hours, not at the Carstairs Hotel, the site of Ramón’s briefings, but at Benedict Towers. They were to meet Joe and Peter there and then proceed up to one of the penthouses. It was early morning yet. They’d arrived back from their trip to south Texas at about three in the morning, and though they’d both really wanted Marcia, they hadn’t wanted to awaken the Lyonses.
Their woman was safe and asleep. There’ll probably be a lot of times when one or both of us are away overnight.
A shock wave reverberated through Ramón. He’d been thinking of the future—not just days or weeks, but months and years, because cop work wasn’t, and never could be, a nine-to-five job. Did that thought, one that came unbidden and without effort, mean he was actually considering sharing a future with Marcia? Had he finally let go of the past enough to believe he could build a life with the woman he loved? That he deserved to have a happy life?
Maybe it was that he’d finally woken up from the guilt he’d carried for so long. That guilt had become a habit, but it hadn’t kept him warm at night. No, it had in some ways tied his hands and stunted his growth.
When he thought about it now, he’d been only a kid when his parents had died. He’d been a few years older but still basically a kid when his sister had been kidnapped and then murdered. How long was he going to make himself pay for that which had never been in his control in the first place?
Ramón came back to the moment when Clint parked the car in a visitor’s space in the underground parking garage of Chris’s building. “You think she’s going to be pissed that we’re just coming for breakfast and not to take her home with us right now?”
Ramón met his gaze. “Probably. We can make it up to her later.” Then he looked over at his partner. “You have any ideas on how we can do that? I haven’t had any real relationships to use as a guide in that regard.”
Clint grinned. “A couple. I’ll fashion a dress out of rope for her, and you give her a good spanking. That ought to do it.”
“Huh. And here my first instinct was flowers and candy.”
“Maybe for after,” Clint laughed. “The chocolate is good for a sub coming back from subspace. Come on, amigo, let’s go kiss our woman.”
Christopher Lyons opened the door to their knock.
“Ah, there you are. Marcia will be pleased.” He flashed a quick grin. “I didn’t tell her you were on the way because I didn’t want her to think she was going home with you. We’re having breakfast. Come on into the dining room. Rory made plenty.”
He saw it in her eyes the moment she turned and realized they were there. His breath nearly caught at the look of joy she wore. And yes, his conscience kicked him because he knew they were going to disappoint her.
But for now, he simply opened his arms and closed them around her when she practically flew to him.
The heat of her, the strong yet delicate feel of her pressed close stirred more than his libido. She was his woman, and there was something so right about holding her. Just this was enough to lift his spirits, to give him the energy he knew he’d need to face whatever lay ahead.
He eased her back and then covered her mouth but, mindful of their audience, made the kiss less than he wanted to give her. Then he turned her into Clint’s arms and took the chair on Marcia’s right.
“I missed you both.”
“You can be sure we missed you, too, darlin’” Clint sat on the other side of their woman.
“We can’t take you home just now,” Ramón said. He accepted a platter from Rory. The scent of the sausage and the bacon triggered a hunger pang. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until that moment.
Marcia sighed, and he read disappointment on her face. But when he passed her the platter, she took it, put two rashers of bacon on her plate, passed the meat, then met his gaze. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed because I am and it would be a lie. Can you tell me when we can go home?”
More platters made the rounds, and before long, everyone had full plates.
“I don’t really know, but my cop instincts are telling me we’re finally on the right track. We have another meeting with our boss and a friend of his who’s with the DEA.”
Christopher tilted his head. “Would that friend be Peter Alvarez-Kendall?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “Do you know him?”
“As a matter of fact”—Christopher ate a fork full of scrambled eggs—“he’s married to Tracy and Jordan and lives in Lusty, Texas. He and Joe are actually cousins by marriage. From all I’ve heard, he’s a damn good cop. They all are, your new boss included.”
“That’s good to know. We have a few threads to tug. I know how all of the agencies are supposed to be cooperating more fully since 9/11.” Ramón bit into a sausage and nearly groaned. He chewed it quickly, wanting to forego the rest of the conversation until he’d stuffed himself but knowing he couldn’t. “However, more often than not, there’s still that barrier between agencies. Likely, with Joe and this Alvarez-Kendall being family, this next part might go smoothly.”
“I’d say you can count on that.” Christopher turned to Daisy. “You want to say something. I can see it all over you, love. We’re not on protocol here.”
Daisy reached over and brushed her hand over Chris’s. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She looked from Ramón to Clint. “Marcia has been practically a prisoner since she first came to us. She and I would like to go shopping. Rory has agreed to take us to the Galleria, if you give your approval.”
The fact that Marcia had been more understanding than he’d had the right to expect did soften his response. He looked at Clint, who shrugged.
“As long as you stay together, the three of you, it should be fine. It’s possible that we’re worried for no reason. But Sérgio Torres is a vicious little bastard, and I don’t trust him at all when it comes to Marcia.”
“I’ve had bodyguard training,” Rory said. “I’ll also be armed.” Then he grinned at Daisy. “I’m not a fan of shopping, love. I’ll expect a serving of gratitude…later.”
Daisy laughed. “Oh, yes, Sir. I’ll be very grateful, I promise.”
“Thank you, Sirs. I haven’t really felt like a prisoner, but I would like to go out for a while.” Then she nodded to Christopher. “Master Christopher took me downstairs to his private gym. I hadn’t sparred for a few weeks. It felt good.”
“Marcia’s got some moves,” Chris said. “If you end up staying in Houston, I’ll give you the name of a reputable jujitsu dojo where she can continue the discipline.”
“That sounds like a plan.” Clint sat back from his now empty plate. He looked at Marcia. “We have every intention of fully taking care of you to the point that you shouldn’t need to use your training.”
“But we both believe you should be able to defend yourself, regardless.” Ramón shrugged. “Even the most thorough security isn’t always good enough.”
“Starting martial arts training was my first solid step toward being self-sufficient after I left my uncle’s not-so-tender hospitality.”
“It was a good first step.” Ramón took her hand and brought it to his lips. “We’re proud of you for doing so.” He considered it a statement of fact as well as a compliment and felt humbled that she blushed in response.
That’s one thing we’re going to have to do, make certain she gets used to being complimented. And they would. For now, he reached into his wallet.
“I have something for you.” He gave her a credit card with her name on it. “I’ve been to the Galleria, so I know it’s a pricey place.”
“Oh!” She looked at the card then leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you. I have some money of my own. I tend to be frugal.”
“Frugal is good,” Clint said. “As long as it’s not taken to extremes.”
Something that could be said about a lot of things. A part of him wanted to change his mind. He wanted to keep Marcia wrapped up and stored safely so nothing bad could ever happen to her again.
But he knew he had to respect her as a woman and give her the freedom she needed if he wanted to keep her happy—hell, even if he wanted to just keep her, period. Turning into a controlling bastard would likely be one way to lose her fast.
The uneasy feeling that wound like a serpent through his stomach was probably just his own doubts and fears. He never thought to love, and now that he did, he couldn’t shake the fear that someone would take his woman away from him.
Chapter 14
Lance Kramer had done his job, and he’d been loyal. He was a hell of a good poker player, and he wasn’t as stupid as he let himself appear to be. He’d done everything he was supposed to do and had even gone a little beyond what had been expected of him.
Through smart maneuvering and outright lies, he’d worked his way up to being Sérgio Torres’s main go-to man for his Houston businesses. He’d held that position for the last two years, but he was smart enough to know his time in that organization had come to an end.
He knew of men who didn’t read the signs, didn’t manage to straddle the razor’s edge, and had ended up a pile of bones rotting somewhere no one would ever look. For the last two years, Lance had displayed amazing balance.
The shakes surprised him and worried him. Maybe he’d been walking that tightrope for too long. It took him a good half-hour and a shot or two of Jack to stop that shaking. First the cops then that sociopath, Torres. He’d been a good soldier, even gotten his hands dirty—that was Torres’s sick little insurance policy. You didn’t get close to him without doing something he would have evidence the law could convict you of, just in case. That evidence he would hold over your head or pass on to the cops he had on the take—whichever suited his purpose.
Lance asked himself, as he often did, if it was all worth it. For the first time, the answer came back a resounding “no.”
He was in deeper than he’d ever planned to be, and he needed to get out—now. Fortunately, Lance Kramer was also a man with a plan.
He’d gone straight from his meeting with Torres to Leathers. The place had been tossed the day before. The yellow tape had been taken down, which meant his people were inside and they’d open as usual later this afternoon. Some of the crew were tidying the mess the cops had left behind. He’d bolted the Jack, told them to carry on, and joked how they really were pulling in the wrong kind of clientele if those pricks were going to get them tossed by the cops on a regular basis. Then he left, but not before taking the key he’d had taped in a little cubbyhole no one else knew about.
Lance understood, as he headed out, that he really couldn’t trust his senses. Two years crawling around in the muck had dulled those senses. He didn’t think either Torres or the cops would have him followed, but he behaved as if he did, indeed, have a tail.
Since it was near lunchtime, he eventually drove his car to an older section of the city. He lucked out with a parking spot less than a block away from his destination. Even better, there were no parking meters on this street. A car could sit here for hours, and no one would think anything of it.
That stroke of luck gave him heart. Maybe everything would work out, after all.
Lance stepped into Jenny’s Café, a moderately sized restaurant that drew a good midday, blue-collar crowd. He got a table and focused on appearing relaxed. The waitress came over, flirted a little, and took his order. He looked around and then got up and headed toward the washrooms. The corridor from the dining room was narrow and led only two places—the washrooms on the left and the kitchen on the right.
He turned right and wove his way through the kitchen. A discreet nod from Freddy, the cook, and an earlier recipient of Lance’s money, let him know he would keep the two waitresses’ attention. That could be considered either another good bit of luck or good planning, depending.
Out the back door and behind the restaurant, there was a small parking lot, a narrow alleyway, and, on the other side of the alley, a nondescript building that could have been a small barn, one that had definitely seen better days. The only thing not run-down looking about it was the wide garage-type door in front. Anyone looking and wondering would imagine that the newness of the door meant the contents inside were secure.
As Lance walked toward that building, he scanned the area. No one was watching, at least no one that he could see. His gaze darted high on the door frame of the side door. The tiny piece of tape appeared to be intact, just as he’d left it. Satisfied, Lance used the key he’d retrieved from Leathers, entered quickly, and closed the door behind him.
The car was a 2013 Chevy, dung brown, nothing special to look at. Under the hood was a different story. Lance didn’t know all the technical shit. He just knew the car would move like a son-of-a-bitch, if necessary.
It started first try and had a full tank of gas. A flick of the control box anchored to the visor and the wide garage door began to open. He took a moment to slip on the ball cap and sunglasses that had been on the passenger seat. Then he put the car in gear and sedately drove out into the alley, with the door closing behind him. He passed the car he’d left parked on the street and wondered when it would be reported as being abandoned. Then he dismissed the thought as he wound his way toward the interstate. He had a bolthole an hour north.
For the first time in days, Lance Kramer relaxed as he navigated his way out of the city of Houston. First, he’d stop and grab some clothes and cash from his hole. Then he’d head toward Oklahoma and another place he had set up and waiting for him. He’d have to make a phone call, but his top priority was getting himself off the grid before he reported in to his handler.
* * * *
Marcia didn’t expect to actually buy anything at the Galleria. Shopping, for her, had always been an exercise of necessity. She’d shop for groceries, and because her mother had taught her that a person could eat well for less if they used a list and had a weekly menu, that was what she did. They’d never had a lot of money. Mary Crane, Marcia was certain, had invented the word frugal. Marcia had taken her mother’s long-ago lessons to heart. Spending money on things she didn’t need was a habit Marcia had never cultivated.
Anythin
g other than groceries that she needed, well, that was what dollar stores were for. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t, from time to time, dreamt of a more affluent lifestyle. And yes, once or twice she had allowed herself to walk through pricey malls in ritzy areas, mostly just to look through the glass.
Once, she’d entered a Dior store, only to be guided out, almost immediately, by a man in a suit. At first, she’d thought he wasn’t a very good salesman—until she realized he wasn’t in sales at all. He was in security.
That experience had stung her fragile self-esteem, and she wondered, briefly, if today would just provide her with yet another exercise in humiliation.
Instead of a scowl, security in the first-high end store they walked into—Chanel—nodded and stayed out of their way. Marcia wondered if perhaps her companions were well-known there.
Daisy didn’t have any of Marcia’s hang-ups when it came to shopping. Her friend fairly vibrated as they entered the mall. Marcia found her fun in following in Daisy’s wake and enjoying her enthusiasm.
“Oh, look at this! Isn’t this wonderful?” Daisy held the outfit up for her to appreciate.
The “this” was a skirt and top outfit so busy with colors Marcia nearly reached for her sunglasses. Though not to her tastes, she could tell Daisy loved the bright colors and disparate patterns of the two pieces.
“Are you going to try it on?”
“I think I’ll look it up online and show it to Christopher, first.” Daisy flashed a grin at her. “He’d be fine with me buying whatever I want, but I like to get his opinion, before I do.”
“In other words, you don’t have much chance getting him in here in person to see it?”
Daisy laughed. “Not usually, although we do go shopping together a few weeks before Christmas.” She shrugged. “I’m fine with that. Usually Rory accompanies me, as he doesn’t seem to mind it too much, despite what he said at breakfast. A lot of men don’t like shopping at all. So I’m pretty lucky.”
Avenging Angel [Tales from the Lyon's Den 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 13
