by Diana Duncan
He pulled a box of cornbread mix from a cupboard, dumped in milk, and cracked eggs. “Afraid you’ll have to settle for prefab here, my culinary skills are pretty much limited to chili and anything I can throw on the barbecue.”
She knew him well enough by now to understand he’d given her a task that enabled her to save face by looking at something other than him … while his casual banter was meant to put her at ease.
Okay, they weren’t going to discuss sex—or the lack thereof. The lead ball in her stomach dissolved. “If someone else is cooking for me, I have no complaints.”
He slid the batter-filled pan into the oven. “Do you cook?”
“I make a mean batch of chocolate-chip cookies from a package. And brownies from a mix. And chocolate cream pie fresh from the freezer section.”
He chuckled. “Woman, she doth live by chocolate alone.”
“Why not, chocolate is better than se—”
Biting off the damning word in the nick of time, she slid a cucumber slice into her mouth, then licked her fingers.
Dallas’ teasing attention lingered on her lips, his eyes darker than midnight sin. “Maybe you just need to try a different brand.”
She managed to swallow without strangling. Barely. “So, what’s this about a plan to finish Grayson and Montoya?”
He turned and began ladling steaming chili into bowls. “Have a seat at the bar, and I’ll fill you in while we eat.”
Once they were both seated with hot chili and cornbread, crisp salad, and cold beers, he glanced over at her. “How did you first connect Montoya to the Graysons?”
“The day before Harper fired me, I’d left a brief at the office I wanted to review over lunch. I popped by for it on what was supposed to be Harper and Paul’s usual Wednesday off. I thought nobody else was there, then I heard raised voices from Harper’s office. He doesn’t raise his voice, and the tone of the conversation sounded really tense. So I ah …”
“Snooped.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Investigated. I overheard enough buzz words like ‘cocaine shipment’ and ‘car bomb’ to incite suspicion. I also got a quick look at Montoya. He wasn’t on our official client list. Once I found out the Graysons were playing dirty, I suspected Montoya was one of their playmates.”
“It’s a damned good thing they didn’t catch you, or—” His Adam’s apple jerked on a hard swallow.
“I told you, I’m careful.”
He shook his head. “How well do you actually know Paul Grayson?”
“What part of not flogging a dead horse don’t you comprehend, cowboy?”
“Now don’t go getting your back up. I didn’t mean in the Biblical sense.”
“There was no knowing, Biblical or otherwise. We had one—really disgusting—kiss, and that is all.” Mostly. Why she felt compelled to tell him even that much, she hadn’t a clue.
“But do you know enough about him or his father to Gazoo their computer passwords?”
“Hmm … I’ve known Paul since law school. We hung out a lot, used to be so-called friends, and he told me a lot about his father. So … maybe. Why?”
“It occurred to me if the Graysons are laundering Montoya’s money and cooking his books for him, then they’d keep two sets of figures. One for public consumption, and the real deal. And perhaps, since Montoya is currently missing a million dollars … they might have more than two sets.”
“You think Harper and Paul are skimming off Esteban?”
“They worship the almighty dollar. And they’d have him by the short hairs. He could hardly go to the cops and file charges.”
“If Esteban found out Harper and Paul took his money— Wow! I’d give my right arm to be a fly on the wall for that confab!”
“Fortunately, no amputations will be necessary. When it happens, I’ll be there, and I’ll be wired.”
“No way. You honestly think Montoya will take you to such a sensitive meeting?”
“A smart man would bring his very discreet—and armed to the teeth—head of security to any potentially volatile confrontation. Esteban didn’t claw his way to the top of the cartels by being stupid or careless. But mix powerful men and millions of dollars, and tempers are bound to flare. When they do, even the smartest people say things they ordinarily wouldn’t.”
“And while a warrantless wiretap won’t be admissible in court, all we need is just one tangible piece of evidence of crimes being committed to get the FBI or DEA or Homeland Security … or all of the above … to launch a full-scale investigation! Proof of one fraudulent bank account, or emailed details of one illegal transaction, or payment for one arranged hit. And once Grayson and Montoya get investigated, they’re going down.”
“Yep. The Montoya cartel has been linked to drugs, dirty money, and terrorism for over a decade. But no concrete evidence ever survives. A lot of different agencies have been trying to nail Montoya for a long, long time. They’d jump at the intel.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve made it my business to know.”
“This could work!”
“We’ve a better than average shot at it, if we can get into the Grayson’s computer files, find any damning emails and another set of books. Even locating which offshore banks he deals with would help. If we can prove Harper is stealing from Montoya and set up a confrontation—we can play one off the other. And bust this wide open.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Harper and Paul keep their computers in their locked offices. With security cameras on duty 24/7, and security guards patrolling at night. The building itself as a whole also has crackerjack security. You don’t think … would he feel it’s secure enough to keep his illegal dealings on file there?”
“It’s worth a shot. Stashing them on the business computer, he could try to disavow all knowledge if they’re ever found, pin the blame on someone else in the law firm.”
Mia lost her appetite. Harper and Paul were experts at playing pin the blame.
“Do you know Janet, and would she have access to the office keys?”
She took a sip of beer, hoping it would help ease her anxiety. “She has them for the main office. I doubt the Graysons would trust her with their personal ones. Janet’s worked there for years, and is a favorite target of Paul’s harassment. She was privately one of my staunchest supporters when Harper fired me. How do you know about her?”
“I met her last week when I escorted Esteban to see his lawyer. I put a stop to Paul’s unwanted advances, and finagled her a raise.”
“You bargained a raise out of Paul? He’s as tight with his money as he is sleazy.”
“I managed to persuade him to cooperate after I saw the jackass hitting on her.”
“Okay, I’m impressed. You definitely have skills, Dallas McQuade.”
He grinned at her. “And you know it, sugar.”
Not enough beer in the universe to cool her sudden hot flash.
Dallas finished off his cornbread. “I’m pretty sure I can convince Janet to give us a hand, especially if she knows I’m working with you.”
“There’s no way we’re getting into that building at night, much less upstairs. Even having Janet’s office keys won’t work. Every floor is locked down. The elevators are locked down. And it’s too well-patrolled.”
“Then I go in during business hours.”
She dropped her spoon. “Giant. Clanging. Brass. Balls.”
Dallas chuckled. “Are there any times when both Grayson Senior and Junior are out of the office?”
“When they’re in court together, but— Wait! Oh my God, yes! Harper and Paul golf, wine, and dine affluent clients every Wednesday. They’re both at their exclusive club all afternoon. And most of the other attorneys practicing on that floor leave for lunch, giving us a thirty to sixty minute window of opportunity!”
His steady gaze held hers. “Then damned lucky for us, Wednesday is day after tomorrow.”
Mia inhaled a shuddering breath. “You real
ize what you’re risking?”
“No guts, no glory, sweetheart.”
But he had no idea what she was risking. Excitement edged with apprehension tightened her muscles. This was the break she’d been waiting for! And in order to grab it, she’d have to walk right back into the lion’s den.
The consequences for her could be far more disastrous than Dallas realized. If she were caught, Harper and Paul already had the ammo to send her to prison … for a very long time.
With the moment at hand, did she have the guts?
She swigged the rest of her beer. Plunked it on the counter. “Let’s do it.”
“All right,” he said evenly. “To start with, you won’t be going inside.”
“What? Why not?”
“You’ll be safely in the car, feeding me password possibilities through my earpiece once I access the offices.”
She swallowed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m familiar with every nook and cranny, including the private back corridor to the offices. If you’re going in, so am I.”
“No.”
“Don’t argue with me, McQuade. You know as well as I do this is the fastest way, and carries the least risk to both of us.”
“No.”
“I know exactly where everything is, and I won’t fumble around and waste time. Including wasting precious time ping-ponging passwords back and forth when I could just be typing them in.”
He scowled. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. You do have to admit it’s the smartest option. And do you think if you’re caught that I’m going to let you take the rap all by yourself? I’ll step right up and accept my share.”
His scowl blackened. “Shit!”
“No guts, no glory.”
“Lord, save me.” He sighed. Got up and yanked open a drawer, pulled out a legal tablet and pencils. Brought his laptop in and booted it up. “Step one—we plan every detail.”
* * *
Three hours later, they sat at the island surrounded by charts, maps, lists, printed schematics of the building Dallas had accessed on his laptop, and half a dozen empty beer bottles.
“That’s it. We’re as prepared as we’re gonna get. I need to call Janet.” Dallas stood, stretched sinewed arms. “The Action Channel is running a Bruce Lee marathon. When I’m done, want to watch it?”
“Sure. Great idea.” Mia suspected, and appreciated, it was Dallas’ way of distracting her from their looming hazardous mission. She jumped up and strode to the sink. In an effort to burn some of the adrenaline coursing through her, she opened the dishwasher and started loading supper dishes. “I’ll clean up here while you call.”
He nodded. Pulling out his cell, he strode into the living room.
Because he wanted privacy, or because she was clattering dishes? Mia shrugged and continued the chore. Either way, Dallas wouldn’t keep anything from her that would jeopardize her safety. She knew that as well as she knew her own name.
She took her time, wiping down the stove, island, and counters, and scouring out the sink. Both to give him plenty of time to complete the call and to try and settle her clamoring nerves.
Then she made three bags of microwave popcorn, dumping the fragrant, fluffy kernels into a big red bowl. Finished, she headed into the living room, stepping softly in case he was still talking.
She stopped short. Dallas stood beside the sofa clutching the remote with shaking fingers. Body rigid, chest heaving, his stunned profile was riveted to the flickering images on the TV screen.
A shattered airplane summersaulting through space, passengers screaming as dropping cabin pressure sucked a woman out a jagged hole in the fuselage. Flying shrapnel sheared off limbs and blood spurted. Then the crippled plane hit the ground, exploding into a raging inferno while the crying, shrieking, terrified survivors fought to escape.
Horror gripped her before she recognized the main actor silhouetted against the flames. “Dallas, what’s wr—”
He turned, his skin ashen. Stark, haunted eyes met hers as his throat worked. “Crash.”
Dropping the bowl, she rushed over to him. “This isn’t a news broadcast. It’s not really happening. This is an old movie … it’s been around for ages.”
He stood frozen, shaking violently.
“It’s not real.” Grabbing the remote from his unresisting fingers, she stabbed the off button, making the screen go black. She flung the remote aside, cradled his face in her hands. “Dallas, it’s okay, the plane crash didn’t really happen.”
He flinched back. His Adam’s apple convulsed, and his fingers flew up to touch the ruby stud in his ear. “It. Did.”
Mia’s stomach twisted as terrible certainty snaked through her. “Dallas?” she said very gently. “Was Tyler-Anne killed in a plane crash?”
He clenched his jaw, inhaled a long unsteady breath. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Here, sit down.” Gripping his shoulders, she pressed him down onto the sofa. She knelt on the cushion beside him and hugged him hard. “I’m sorry.”
Dallas turned toward her, wrapped his arms around her and clung. He buried his face in her hair and she felt his every muscled tighten with the effort to regulate his breathing, slow his trembling.
“I can deal,” he finally said, his voice graveled. “It was a long time ago. Seeing that … carnage … on TV … caught me by surprise. Sometimes even when I see raging flames and smoke, I just kind of … lock up.”
“I know. It’s okay.” She held onto him. “I understand about flashbacks.”
He slowly inhaled. Exhaled. His big body steadied. “Who hurt you, Mia?”
She drew back, looked at his strained features. “I hardly think now is the time or place to get into that.”
Dark indigo eyes compelled her. “You said you’ve never told anyone.”
“Not after the initial attempts to get someone to believe me failed.”
“Not even Valerie?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What good would it do? It’s over now.”
“Not for you. It’d help you, to get it out.”
“And be highly selfish of me to start talking about myself when you—”
“I’d much rather talk about you. Besides, it’d help me, too. Help take my mind off … things I’d rather not dwell on.” Another inhale. “Mia, we’re almost done with this, and when it’s over … well … we— My work takes me all over the world, and I’ll be leaving. I’d like to think I left you with something.”
Her heart wrenched. They’d be going their separate ways, and she’d probably never see him again. And how like Dallas, to push aside his own pain, and focus on her. She’d never met a more unselfish person in her life.
She shivered beneath an onslaught of sudden chills. “Could we light the fire?”
“You bet.” She moved to sit beside him, and he picked up the remote from the coffee table to switch on the gas. As cheerful flames burst to life, he draped her legs with the lap quilt from the back of the sofa … a star pattern in bold blue, red and gold. “This’ll help, too.”
Mia traced the intricate stitches with a glossy pink fingertip. “You said your mom owned a quilting shop. Did she make this and that awesome quilt upstairs on your bed?”
“Yep. It’s darned near an obsession. I’ve got them all over the house.”
“What a great obsession. She’s talented. I’ve seen much less detailed work than this for sky-high prices at craft markets.”
Dallas draped an arm around the intriguing woman snuggled next to him. Smiled at her. “She gives them away by the bushel. Hell, half the U.S. is sleeping under Mama’s quilts. Ever heard of Project Linus?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“They donate cuddly new blankets to kids who are seriously ill or have been traumatized.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman,” she replied softly. “My mother … she used to make pottery.”
“Used to?”
<
br /> “Yeah. I found some of her stuff in a box in the attic when I was packing to move out before college. A lot of it was smashed, but there were a couple of whole pieces. She was really good. Good enough to be a big success selling them if she’d continued.”
“Why did she quit?”
“She claimed she’d lost interest, but—” Mia hesitated. “The Colonel hated anything that took time and energy away from his needs. Mom ran herself ragged to please him and every time he ordered her to jump, she desperately strove to leap higher.” Bitterness edged her voice. “Maybe that’s why he never hit her.”
Sickness roiled in Dallas’ gut. “Your father is the one who beat you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” A lump lodged in his throat. “Your daddy is supposed to love and protect you, not hurt and betray you.”
“I survived.”
He stroked her hair. “Mia, honey … how bad did it get?”
“I … um … I had it worse than some, but not nearly as terrible as other cases I’ve seen.”
“Would you tell me about it?”
“Why? Why would you want to hear something so ugly?”
“Because when you bottle up the hurt, it eats away at your soul.” Been there, done that, woke up screaming. “Wouldn’t it be a relief to finally share the burden?”
“I …” Shadowed amber eyes sought his for a long, uncertain pause. “Yes,” Mia finally admitted. “Yes, it would.”
“When did it start, sweetheart?”
She sighed. “As lash-outs … when I was a toddler. I’d do something and get a smack across the butt. Or say something and get a smack across the mouth.” Her tongue touched her lower lip. “The more I got hit, the more I rebelled. My mother called me ‘headstrong and unmanageable,’ and delegated all the discipline to my father.”
He ground his back teeth together. “And his idea of discipline was the liberal use of his belt.”
She nodded. “It escalated from there. When I was four, he knocked me down a flight of stairs and I cracked my ribs. I told the doctor at the base hospital what had happened. But … My father was a high-ranking, respected officer with power and influence. It was his word against a child who’d been labeled ‘difficult.’ And back then, abuse awareness wasn’t part of the curriculum. It was shameful, something to be hidden.” Mia’s fingers bunched the blanket in her lap. “They didn’t want to believe me, didn’t want to deal with the red tape and repercussions. So they taped my ribs and sent me home.”
