by Unknown
Ian was taking the first shift guarding Berto, who had agreed to stay in the safe house overnight. Whatever Ian had said to the man when he’d first arrived, it was clear that the two now considered themselves to be at least temporary allies. Whether it was money that was behind this alliance, or Berto’s desire for redemption, or something else entirely, Phoebe didn’t know.
The lights were off in the den where Berto had been assigned to sleep, but Ian had parked himself on the sofa, a good distance away from the glass-paneled doors. It was far enough away so that they could talk without disturbing Berto, and without fear of being overheard.
Ian had pulled the coffee table close to him, and was cleaning his guns, one at a time. He was methodical and meticulous, and he seemed to welcome the familiar task.
He didn’t say What’s up? or Why are you here when you should be upstairs, sleeping? in words, but a question was clear on his face as he glanced over at her.
Phoebe sat down next to him. “Francine knows,” she told him, figuring she’d start with the easiest and work her way up to the more difficult topics of conversation. “That we’ve hooked up.”
Ian winced. “If she was rude to you, I apologize—”
“She wasn’t,” Phoebe said. “I mean, not more than usual.”
He smiled briefly at that. “Aaron figured it out, too. He says it’s just a matter of time now, before I push you away.”
His candor surprised her, but she tried to be matter-of-fact as she nodded and asked, “Is that your usual MO?”
“Pretty much.”
“Huh,” she said. “Well, since everyone knows, you shouldn’t be shy about just coming up to my room—our room—when your shift is through.”
That got her a laugh, although she could tell from his expression that she’d puzzled him a little by not jumping all over that push you away statement. “I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being shy.”
“Reticent, then,” Phoebe said.
“A much manlier word,” Ian agreed, then said, “Don’t wait up for me.”
“Would you mind very much if I did?”
He glanced at her again before returning his full attention to his weapon. “It’s late,” he finally said. “And I know you’re tired.”
“It is late, and I am tired, but I’d like to wait up. Do you know you have this slightly annoying, although incredibly selfless habit of defining a given situation by what everyone else is feeling? Aaron’s devastated. Francine’s angry. I’m tired. How do you feel, Ian? Would you mind if I wait up for you?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Would it help if I told you that some generous soul must’ve seen the addition to the list in the kitchen, because a small pile of condoms appeared, like magic, in the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom? And that I snagged us a few?”
That got her another flash of blue from his eyes. “Then yes, wait up,” he told her. “If that’s why you’re waiting. But if you’re looking to talk, please don’t. You heard the story, you now know the facts. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Okay,” she said, and stood up.
She’d surprised him again, but then she blew it by adding, “It wasn’t your fault. When Vanderzee killed that girl in front of you. You couldn’t have known he was going to do that. And besides, if you hadn’t saved his life, we wouldn’t be this much closer to finding and rescuing those kidnapped children.”
“If I hadn’t saved his life, he wouldn’t have kidnapped them,” Ian said, but then closed his eyes, shook his head. “How hard is I don’t want to talk about it to understand?”
“If you hadn’t saved his life, someone else would’ve grabbed those kids,” Phoebe countered. “And I’m not talking about it—I’m just stating a few more facts. When you come up …” She made a classic zipping and locking motion near her mouth, tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder.
Ian laughed. “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said.
“Well, then I’ll see you upstairs, believing me completely, in just a little bit,” she told him.
He sighed. “I don’t know, Pheeb … I just don’t see how this ends happily and, um …”
“Uh-oh,” she said sitting back down. “Is this how it begins? The pushing away?”
He sighed again. But then nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“How about we break the pattern,” she suggested, “and agree right now that when it’s over, it’s over. We get the kids back, when? Day after tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan. That’s kind of soon. I mean, what? We get to spend tonight and then maybe tomorrow night together? I’m not sure that’s enough.”
He laughed at that. “It’s definitely not for me.”
“What if we hop a plane afterward,” Phoebe said. “Go to Vegas. Or anywhere, really. Just get a room and a lot of room service for three or maybe four days. Then we shake hands, say good-bye, and return to our regularly scheduled lives.”
It was a terrible idea. Even as she was suggesting it, she knew that. But it was significantly better than pretending whatever this was between them was real—while watching him start to push her away. God.
And now he was looking at her with something else entirely in his eyes. “To avoid disappointment, you may want to rework your expectations about what happens when this job ends. Usually there’s about four days, possibly a week, of debriefings with the feds. We’ll continue to be in a safe location for that, although sadly, we’ll all be separated and isolated—it’s standard procedure. But then, there’s Davio. You can’t go out into the world with him still looking to find me through you. It might take more than a week to get him to calm down.”
Phoebe absolutely hadn’t thought about that. “How is that going to happen?” she asked.
“I’ll be able to reach Manny through Berto,” Ian said. “Manny’ll keep Davio in line.” It wasn’t so much the way he looked at her when he said that, as it was the way he didn’t look at her.
And Phoebe suddenly understood, at least basically, what Ian had promised Berto, while they were talking in the garage.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re going back to jail, aren’t you? Even though you don’t have to …?”
He was. She knew from the way he glanced over toward the den where Berto was sleeping, and from the tight expression on his face, that Ian had already reactivated the deal he’d originally made with Manny Dellarosa. After this rescue was over, he was going to go back into the state prison system to take up where he’d left off. Somehow or another, he’d get back in there. If the FBI didn’t help him, he’d probably hold up a liquor store and let himself get caught.
“What exactly did you promise him you’d do in there?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Manny? I mean, in addition to serving what’s-his-name—Vincent’s—time.”
She watched as Ian decided whether to tell her everything, or nothing, or something in between the two. She knew him well enough to know that he was going to go with nothing, so she pushed.
“Who does he want you to kill for him?” she asked.
That got her a solid shake of his head. “No,” Ian said. “That’s not … I wouldn’t.”
Well, that was good at least. “Then why does he need you inside?” Phoebe asked.
Ian didn’t say a word, but the way he shook his head again made her realize—with a sudden flash of understanding—that she was asking the wrong question.
“Why do you need to be in there?” she whispered as she tried to further read his mind by searching his eyes. To protect Aaron and his family. She knew that. It was Ian’s mission statement, his raison d’être. But how could he protect them from inside of a prison?
By bringing down the Dellarosas, for once and for all. “Oh my God …”
He must’ve realized that she’d figured it out and that she was not going to stop pushing, because he leaned close to explain, “There’s a sentencing hearing coming up for a man who’s believed to have worked for Manny and Davio Dellarosa. I
t’s a money-laundering case.”
“I read about that,” she said. “The accountant.”
Ian nodded.
She’d read and learned a lot about the Dellarosas over the past few days, but this ongoing case had stood out. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, but according to the record, there had been much excitement in the Tampa DA’s office when he was found to be laundering money. Huge amounts of money. There was believed to be a connection to the Dellarosa family, and there was a statewide Now we’ve got them sense of elation. But evidence tying the Dellarosas to the crime had never surfaced, and the accountant refused to turn against his alleged former bosses.
The accountant’s case had been lost and an appeal filed—but recently denied by a higher court. The guilty verdict would stand. The defendant had been out on bail all this time, but his sentencing was impending—after which time he would go directly to jail.
“I’ve already spoken to Deb,” Ian told Phoebe now. “She’ll make sure he’s sent to Northport, where I’ll eventually flip him.”
“Even though no one’s ever turned against the Dellarosas before this?” she asked.
“This is different,” he said, his attention back on the maintenance work in front of him. “This guy’s never been to jail before. He’s an accountant. I’m going to scare the shit out of him—tell him that Manny told me to kill him—and that’s going to flip him. It might take me a year—I might have to break someone’s arm to stay in longer—but I know that I can get him to testify, and that’ll put both Manny and Davio away for good. Now, do me a favor and pretend you never asked me about this.”
But Phoebe wasn’t done asking questions. “How long have you been planning this?” The trial had happened well over a year ago. The appeal had been in motion as soon as the guilty verdict came down.
“I’m done talking about it,” Ian said.
He may have been, but she wasn’t. She had to assume—since he wouldn’t admit it—that when Ian had first gone to prison, he’d known that this man, the accountant, would end up with him, behind bars, at some point during his eighteen-month sentence.
Talk about a long, long con.
“But we ruined it for you,” Phoebe said. “By pulling you out of Northport. You can’t just go back in.”
“Yeah, I can,” he said.
“It’s too dangerous,” she argued. “How are you going to explain why you were released, and why you’re suddenly back?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Ian …”
“Pheeb, I gotta. I know it’ll work. I need to do this. I’m sorry.”
Phoebe laughed her disbelief, because the alternative was to cry. And she realized in that moment that all of her tough talk was just that—tough talk. Sure, she’d said they’d say good-bye after three or four days, but she hadn’t really believed it. She’d expected, instead, some kind of Hollywood rom-com happy ending. With Ian, as the hero, realizing that he was wrong, and running through the airport to stop her from boarding a plane to Tibet, or pulling up in a stretch limo outside of her apartment to proclaim his love and whisk her away to his billionaire lair, where they’d live happily ever after.
“Well, damn,” she said. “I guess we don’t need to fabricate an end date.”
Ian nodded. “I am sorry. If it’s any consolation, I mean that. Very much. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sorry about anything.” He looked at her directly now, as if he wanted her to see the truth of his words in his eyes. And the stupid thing was that she did believe him—even though she knew he was a con artist, a bullshitter, a professional liar.
“I want, more than anything, to spend this time—these next few days—with you,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to make this worse, or harder for you, or, Jesus, you really want to know how I feel? Like I need to protect you from me.”
“No, you don’t,” Phoebe whispered. “I’m a grown woman, and I know what I’m doing.”
He finally looked away. “Look, I’m just gonna just sleep down here.”
“Hey,” Phoebe said, and when he turned to look at her, she kissed him. And the way he kissed her back convinced her that this was not a mistake. When she pulled back to look into his eyes, she managed, somehow to smile. “Don’t you dare. It is what it is. And I’ll take it. From now, right to the moment it ends. Don’t make choices for me.”
She left him with that, and made it all the way upstairs and into her room—their room—before she let herself start to cry.
But when Ian finally came up—and he did, closing the door behind him with such heat in his eyes—she was able to smile before she kissed him. And, as he took her to heaven, she even managed not to talk.
At least not too much.
The morning was gorgeous. The air wasn’t quite crisp—Miami didn’t do crisp, not at this time of year. Still, the sky was blue and the humidity was bearable. And the weather forecast—sunny all day—was perfect for an evening cruise.
Of course this was Florida, where the sky could go from clear to towering cumulonimbus in the blink of an eye. Still, Ian took the sparkling sunlight as a good sign.
He was fed, he’d slept well, he was wearing dry clothes, and he’d just gotten laid. Again.
He’d woken up to find Phoebe, soft and naked in his arms. They’d slept that way all night—spooned together with her back to his front—and despite that, he was loath to let her go.
His breathing must’ve changed, or maybe she just sensed that he was awake, because she woke up, too, with a sigh and a smile, pushing her hair back out of both of their faces, even as she reached between her legs to find him in his full boy-howdy morning state.
The temptation to just shift a little and enter her was powerful. Ian didn’t want to move away from her, not even long enough to reach for one of their few remaining condoms.
There was one under his pillow. When he’d put it there last night, Phoebe had teased him about expecting a visit from the sex fairy, and he’d laughed and kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her …
It was right there. He could grab it, open it, and put it on. It would take less than a minute, even if he only used one hand.
But God damn, he didn’t want to. For the first time in his entire life he wanted … more. And it wasn’t him wanting the pleasure of sex with nothing between them—he respected them both too much to risk everything for that. No, it was the idea of sharing himself with this woman, and of having her share herself so completely in return.
Herself and her life.
It wasn’t fifty-fifty, Aaron had told him. It’s a-hundred-a-hundred, because you give everything, and you get everything in return.
Ian wanted that. And he knew that he had it—right there, in his arms.
Phoebe, meanwhile, was playing with fire. She was touching him, stroking him, using him to stroke herself, daring to push him—just a little bit—inside of her.
“Ian,” she breathed. “I want you.”
He wanted her, too. But she wasn’t his to have, to hold, to keep.
So he dug for the condom, and gently pulled himself away from the silken touch of her hands, and made damn sure that she was safe.
She breathed his name as he came back to her, as he pushed himself home. And he took his sweet time, touching her in all of the places, in all of the ways that he knew gave her pleasure, until she came in slow motion around him, and he let himself go, too, still wishing for the impossible.…
He’d gotten out of bed almost immediately after, unable or maybe just unwilling to talk, murmuring, “I need to get moving,” and she’d let him go.
He’d showered, gotten dressed, and gone downstairs, where Francine was watching Rory, and Martell was making breakfast and watching Francine. Hard to tell if that was for Berto’s sake, or if Martell had become genuinely enamored. And that—the idea of Francine finding happiness—was probably just more wishful thinking on Ian’s part.
He took his coffee out onto the back lanai, where the morning
was beautiful, even with the privacy shades pulled down. But it wasn’t as beautiful as it had been just minutes ago, with Phoebe in his arms. And then he gently pushed her from the forefront of his thoughts and took out his phone and dialed the number that the Dutchman had given him.
The man picked up on the first ring. “Vanderzee.”
Ian had expected to leave a message, and he had to work to sound pleased that he’d made human contact. When in need, channel Captain Kirk. In other words, go big. “Georg. It’s Ian. Good morning.”
“It is a good morning, my friend. I was hoping to hear from you.”
Words to warm the cockles of his heart, assuming both that his heart had cockles and that he was as big of a douchebag as the Dutchman. “About that business situation we spoke of yesterday—I’m afraid my time line has moved to now,” Ian told the man. “I’m experiencing a clusterfuck and … I’m calling on a scrambled line—is yours secure?”
“It is.”
“Okay.” Ian exhaled hard. “That’s good. And, look, I’ll understand completely if you’re unable to help. I realize I’m asking a lot, but it’s also a financial opportunity, so.” Another deep breath. “I’ve got six point five mill of product—good-quality crystal meth. It’s not top tier, but it’s very good—except my buyer just bailed. I’ve got to move this shit fast, it’s on fire, and I’m in a cash hole, which, as you know, is not a good combination. I’ve got an asshole breathing down my neck, looking to seize the entire shipment in lieu of the million-one that I owe him, and while I’m willing to take a loss, one that big would …” He laughed. “Jesus, it would cripple me.”
Vanderzee murmured words of consolation.
Ian continued. “I’ve got to get this out of the country tonight, I’ve got a safe way to do it, but I don’t have warehousing overseas, so it needs a destination. It doesn’t matter where, I can get it there, as long as it’s OCONUS. If you’ve got a connection to anyone who might be in the market for it outside the U.S., I’ll take a deep cut. I’ll let it go for four mill, maybe even three point five, plus you’ll get a finder’s fee, but only if and when the deal goes down. And I apologize if that last part sounded hostile, that was not my intention at all. After yesterday, I owe you my life.”
