She remembered the look in Oliver’s eyes when he’d confessed to her. A look that she could only describe as pride. He had been proud of what he’d done to that poor girl. As if he were the king ape who had punished a disobedient subject.
That’s when she realized he was a sociopath.
Filing those divorce papers had been another turning point in Lisa’s life, and the moment she did it, she felt liberated. Yet, before then, she hadn’t even realized she was a prisoner. She had allowed herself to block out the truth simply because Oliver had provided her and Chloe with a home. A family.
And the illusion of happiness.
When she thought about it now, however, maybe Oliver was right. Maybe she was a gold digger.
Rafe said, “I know you, Lisa. You always did try to avoid confrontations. But if this guy is starting to get violent with you, you need to press charges and file for a restraining order. Deputy Harris is right. He will be back.”
“I can handle him,” she said.
Bea snorted. “By letting him rub you up like a $2 tart? Seems to me he was the one doing all the handling.”
Lisa felt her face flush, but said nothing. With Bea, you could always count on the truth, no matter how unflattering it might be.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rafe said, then moved to the sofa and sat next to her. “You don’t have to file charges, but at least give me his name.”
“Why?”
“I’ll go talk to him. Tell him he needs back off.”
“You’d better take my scattergun if you do,” Bea said.
“Trust me, I’ve handled my share of tough guys. Most of the time they’re more talk than action, and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to leave Lisa alone.” He looked at Chloe, who was still fast asleep. “I assume you have custody?”
The question caught Lisa off guard. “Uh, yeah,” she said. “Sole custody.”
“Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem. What’s your ex-husband’s name?”
“Sloan,” Bea said. “Oliver Sloan.”
And to Lisa’s surprise, Rafe and Deputy Harris exchanged a look that told her they’d heard the name before. The shock on their faces was hard to miss.
“Oliver Sloan?” Harris said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You know him?” she asked.
“Better than I’d like to. There isn’t anyone in law enforcement who doesn’t. Not in St. Louis.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “Oliver’s in real estate. He may have problems and a poor choice of friends, but he’s a glorified salesman. Why would the police care about that?”
“Because of what he sells,” Rafe told her.
Lisa was bewildered. For all his faults, she’d never thought Oliver was involved in anything that would raise the interest of the police—except maybe a bit of real estate hanky-panky that she was convinced he was trying to pull. There was also the incident with his girlfriend, but the woman had never pressed charges.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple,” Rafe said. “Your ex-husband is up to his eyeballs in organized crime.”
Chapter Six
Oliver Sloan.
When the name came out of the housekeeper’s mouth, Rafe wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her right.
Oliver Sloan was a bad man.
A very bad man.
Oliver Sloan was nothing less than the local king of organized crime. Drugs. Prostitution. Extortion. Gambling. If it was a thriving illegal enterprise, Sloan’s involvement was a given.
The problem, unfortunately, was proving it. Despite years of trying, neither the Sheriff’s department nor the St. Louis police had been able to come up with any evidence against him. Too many crime scenes had been sanitized. Too many witnesses had disappeared. Too many suspects had kept their mouths shut and taken their punishment, refusing to reveal who had given the orders.
Oliver Sloan had somehow managed to stay above it all. Had even presented himself to the public as an altruistic businessman. A real estate mogul. But as Harris had said, everyone in St. Louis law enforcement circles knew he was dirty. As dirty as they come.
What Rafe had a hard time stomaching, however, was that Lisa had not only been involved with the guy, but also had actually been married to him. Had a child with him.
That was just one surprise too many.
Rafe had been feeling shell-shocked ever since he entered the house and saw Lisa sitting on that sofa. And the thought that Oliver Sloan had sired that child was almost too much to bear.
Rafe remembered what he and Lisa had meant to each other in college and how their breakup was largely due to their inability to commit. Even though it was only a little over three years ago, they had seemed so young then. So immature.
But they’d both done a lot of growing up since then. And apparently Lisa herself hadn’t had much trouble committing. Not for a while, at least. She had gone straight from that breakup into the arms Oliver Sloan.
But how could she not know what kind of man he was? Was he that good at hiding it?
“Let me get this straight,” Rafe said. “You had no idea your ex-husband was suspected of being part of a crime syndicate?”
Lisa shook her head in dismay. “You must have the wrong Oliver Sloan. I’ve sat in his office, watched him make deals. If anything mob related was going on, I think I would’ve noticed.”
“His company’s a front,” Harris said. “But, trust me, you aren’t the only one he’s snookered. There are a few people on the city council who think he’s God, and he’s got more connections than the pope.”
“I can’t believe this,” Lisa said.
“Well you’d better start wrapping your head around it, because if this guy’s giving you grief, you’re in a lot more trouble than you—”
“That’s enough, Phil.” Rafe approached his partner. “We came here to help Lisa, not scare her half to death.”
He turned to the sofa, chastising himself for letting this go on as long as it had. Lisa’s expression was a mix of fear and disbelief.
“Look, Lisa, I won’t kid you. You’re probably making the right move, not pressing charges. But that doesn’t mean Sloan won’t answer for what he did here tonight.”
“You’re still going to talk to him?”
“As soon as I get off duty. I don’t think a civil conversation will hurt, and I doubt he’ll do anything stupid. He’s not a stupid man.”
Rafe felt Harris’s gaze on him, probably wearing a look of disbelief himself. Probably thinking Rafe was the stupid one. But Harris had maintained a career as a patrol deputy by playing it safe, and what he thought right now wasn’t of much interest to Rafe. He was merely a ride back to the station house.
Lisa got to her feet and approached them, pulling Rafe into another hug. He smelled the familiar scent of lavender and was pleased to know she still used the same perfume. He knew it was an odd thing to remember or be comforted by, but that scent had defined her somehow and smelling it now sent a cascade of memories tumbling through his head.
“Thank you,” she said. “But be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not the scrawny kid you knew in college.”
She laughed. “Believe me, I noticed.”
She squeezed him tighter, then pulled away, her look telling him that she suddenly felt awkward about this whole situation. They both needed to step back for a moment, evaluate this unexpected reunion, then proceed from there.
But Rafe hoped she wouldn’t mind if he called her. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”
Their gazes connected for a moment, then Lisa moved to a table along the wall, opened a drawer and scribbled something on a scratch pad. Tearing the top sheet off, she folded it twice and handed it to him.
“My cell,” she said. “But whatever you do, don’t let Oliver get hold of it. Otherwise,
he’ll start texting me day and night.”
“It’s safe with me,” Rafe said, then looked across the room at little Chloe, who was stirring on the sofa. She was indeed a beautiful child, a reflection of her mother.
Too bad her father was scum.
Rafe nodded toward the girl and said, “My grandmother always told me that children are God’s way of granting us eternal life. You’re a lucky woman, Leese. And I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother.”
She smiled wistfully. “Thank you, Rafe.”
He gestured to Harris and they went back into the foyer. And as he turned at the front doorway for one last look at the girl he had once loved, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
* * *
“ARE YOU OUTTA YOUR MIND, Franco?” The words flew out of Harris’s mouth before he even had the cruiser’s engine started. “You think you’re just going to walk up to Oliver Sloan and tell him what’s what?”
Rafe shrugged. “You have any better ideas?”
“Damn straight I do. Walk away and leave it alone. There’s a reason we’ve never been able to pop this guy. Rumor has it he’s even got the mayor in his pocket.”
“I’ve never been big on rumors,” Rafe said.
“Well, I hope you aren’t too big on your job, either, because this guy can ruin your career with a snap of his fingers.”
Rafe chuckled. “You watch too many crime shows.”
“What I watch is my back, and you’d better watch yours, too. But if you are stupid enough to confront this clown, leave my name out of it. I don’t need him knowing I’m alive.”
Rafe wasn’t surprised by Harris’s lack of internal fortitude, but it grated on him nevertheless. “Come on, Phil, are you a cop or a glorified Girl Scout?”
“I’m a guy who knows his place in the world. And until somebody with more juice than me puts this stinker behind bars, I plan on doing my shift and keeping a low profile. I’d suggest you do the same.”
“Sorry, no can do.”
Harris shook his head in disgust and finally started the engine. “I don’t know what that lady means to you, but after what I saw, I’ve got a pretty good idea. And if you don’t start thinking with the brain in your head instead of the one in your pants, you’re gonna be knee-deep in trouble.”
Rafe supposed he had this coming, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was just doing his job.
“Doesn’t matter how many times you say it, Phil, I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t see any harm in having a nice, civil talk with the man.”
Harris huffed and put the cruiser in motion. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you, hotshot. Say hello to St. Peter for me.”
* * *
BACK AT THE STATION HOUSE, Rafe typed up an incident report on the shooting at the garage and dropped it off on Kate’s desk. It had taken considerable effort to concentrate on the task, his mind continuously drifting back to Lisa.
Had Phil been right?
Was he thinking with his libido?
The scene in Lisa’s living room kept replaying through his mind. Seeing her on that sofa with a sleeping child in her arms. Thinking how time had a way of expanding and contracting. How three years seemed like an eternity—and had been when you considered the changes they’d both been through. Yet as he had pulled her into that hug, it felt as if no more than a handful of minutes had passed since he’d last held her.
The feel of her body pressed against his had been so familiar, so comforting—so electric—that he’d had a hard time letting her go.
He thought about the dream he’d had. The one that continued to haunt him. Lisa holding him by the hand, urgently pulling him along a tree-lined trail toward a house near the water.
“Where are we going?” he had asked.
“I want to show you something. Something wonderful. Something glorious.”
She continued to pull him along.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
She threw her head back, the air around them coming alive with the music of her laughter, a high, sweet trill that had always filled him with joy. “It’s a secret, silly. But you’ll find out soon enough.”
Before they reached that house, however, the house that held the secret, the sound of his alarm had jarred him awake. He had opened his eyes feeling cheated, the remnants of the dream swirling though his head, leaving him with a vague, undefined yearning in the middle of his chest.
In the middle of his heart.
It had been an effort to shake it off and go to work, but he’d done his best, never suspecting that he was about to walk right into that dream. To feel Lisa’s touch again, after accepting long ago that she was gone for good.
Was he some kind of psychic?
Was it fate that had brought them together again?
Rafe didn’t know or much care. It had been a shock, and a delight, and maybe Phil was right. Maybe he was letting his emotions, his desire, override his reason. But he had been trained to protect and serve, and who better to protect than someone he knew? Someone he had loved?
Oliver Sloan was a bad man—worse yet, a bad man with connections—but if Rafe didn’t confront him about Lisa, who would?
Rafe had seen Sloan’s type time and again, and he knew full well that unless someone called him on his behavior, it wouldn’t change. Unless Sloan was told, in no uncertain terms, to leave Lisa alone, he would be back, and the violence would escalate.
It always did.
So when Rafe finished his report and dropped it on Kate’s desk, he didn’t bother to shower, didn’t bother to change out of his uniform. He ran a quick address check, then went straight to the department garage and signed out a new patrol car.
Then he headed across town to talk to Oliver Sloan.
Chapter Seven
Sloan despised himself sometimes.
It didn’t happen often, and it was never because of the things he’d done—and he had done quite a few sketchy things in his life.
No, this occasional self-loathing came down to one thing. How he felt. About Lisa, in particular.
His entire life, Sloan had never had trouble getting women. He was, after all, a good-looking guy—something he’d been well aware of since his second birthday.
His mother used to dote on him, call him her little movie star. The girls in middle and high school used to stare at him as he walked the halls, hoping he’d grace them with a glance of his piercing blue eyes. And if you were to put him in a lineup with Brad Pitt and George Clooney, well, let’s just say those two cretins would have to fight for attention.
This wasn’t ego at work. Sloan merely saw what he saw when he looked in the mirror, and knew what he knew. And when he snapped his fingers, the women came running as if they hadn’t had a meal in a week and were just dying to get a taste of Oliver Sloan.
But that Lisa, she was different.
No amount of good looks and charm could crack its way through that cement wall she’d built around her, and that aggravated Sloan no end. Yet she had gotten so deep under his skin that he felt an itch every time he was around her. A desire so strong that he lost control. Almost felt powerless in her presence.
And Sloan didn’t like feeling powerless.
Sloan despised feeling powerless.
As a consequence, at those moments—as rare as they were—he despised himself.
* * *
HE HAD WANTED HER the moment he met her, and could still remember the day with great clarity.
He had taken a field trip to the Chicago branch of his real estate firm, and the moment he walked in the door, he saw her, sitting there behind the reception desk. A fresh-faced twenty-three-year-old with a look of innocence that could only be measured in terms of what it did to his body.
Sloan had seen his share of beautiful women in his time, but the sight of Lisa had nearly stopped his heart—a reaction no woman had ever before had on him.
First, there was that face. Like an exquisitely lit photograph of feminine perfection, wi
th flawless white skin, cobalt-blue eyes, and a pouty mouth that was made to do naughty things to naughty boys.
Then there was the body. He couldn’t see much behind the reception desk, but what he saw sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he knew he had to have her.
She smiled as he stepped off the elevator, and said, “May I help you?”
Apparently, she hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d be visiting today.
“I’m Oliver Sloan,” he said, thinking she must be new if she didn’t already know that. “I’m here to see Gary Orbach.”
She got to her feet then and held out a hand to shake. “Mr. Sloan, I’m Lisa Tobin, and I want thank you for giving me a chance here. This job couldn’t have come at a better time.”
Sloan didn’t do the hiring or firing—that was beneath him—but he was all too happy to take credit for hiring her. To his surprise, however, now that she was standing up, he could see a slight bulge in the front of her dress.
Was she pregnant?
Not that this killed the effect. In fact, in some odd way it made her even more attractive to him. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t a stranger to the kind of carnal activities he was imagining at that very moment.
To his further surprise, he found himself checking her hand for a wedding ring.
There wasn’t one.
So did this mean she was one of those unconventional brides who had decided to forgo wearing one in some lame attempt to show her independence? Or was she simply not married at all? And if she wasn’t married, was there a boyfriend in the picture? A biological father?
The fact that he even cared was a bit disconcerting. He had never hesitated to hit on a married woman. He was, after all, Oliver Sloan, and nine times out of ten such advances were successful. In fact, eight times out of ten even the husband knew what was going on and had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and stay out of the way.
But for some unknown reason, Sloan wanted this one—this Lisa Tobin—this specimen of perfection with the alluring pregnancy bump—to be unattached.
Because he knew the moment he saw her that he had to have her all to himself.
From now until forever.
Internal Affairs Page 4
