True North (Compass series Book 4)

by Tamsen Parker

  *

  It’s almost twenty-four hours until I can get her alone. When I see her walking down the elegant hallway of the Grant-Arthur, I quicken my steps to catch up with her and grab her by the arm.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  She shakes me off with a murderous glare. “That’s too bad. Because I don’t need to do anything.”

  “You’re right. I apologize.” I let go of her and take a step back.

  She cocks her head, her eyes narrowed, but she’s not running away. “What do you want, Slade?”

  “I want to talk to you about—” About what? I think you and your husband might be kinky as fuck, and I want to join you at the freak show? Frustration tugs at the corners of my mouth because I’m so rarely at a loss for words. I hate that she’s seeing me like this.

  She rolls her eyes and mutters, “First rule of Fight Club.” Then she starts down the hall, tossing words over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

  I scramble after her, marveling not for the first time how she can walk in those heels, never mind strut. But she does. She so does. I let myself admire her swinging hips because looking is allowed, and from my interactions with Cris, I don’t think he’d give a shit that I lust after his wife. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d be more likely to sit next to me and stare, offer me a beer bottleneck to clink, and say, “Inorite?” Fucker.

  She lets us into her room, and it’s dark, no cocky brute of a spouse in sight.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  I didn’t mean for it to come out as a sneer, but it does.

  She sighs and grabs a bottle of water off the table, opening it to take a swig before offering me an unopened one. “You’ve got to learn how to be less of an asshole. I’m willing to talk to you, but not if you’re going to be a dick. If you must know, he’s got a meeting with one of his editors and then he was going to play tourist. He’s never been to DC before.”

  I feel chastised. And embarrassed because she’s so cool whereas I’m such a mess. “Sorry.”

  “I get it. It’s hard. But you can trust me. I’m not going to fuck with you. Too much. Probably. So what do you want to know?”

  She sits in a chair, kicking off her shoes and tucking up her feet. It makes it easier, somehow, her looking human and vulnerable, like someone whose feet actually hurt instead of some valkyrie.

  “When we…” My jaw clenches because I shouldn’t say fuck.

  “Fucked, Slade. You can say it. We fucked. And it was good. Nothing to be ashamed of.” She’s so matter-of-fact about it, but then I guess she would be. She clearly enjoys sex and has had a lot of it. Some people probably have some not-so-nice names for that, but if anything, I’m jealous of her embracing her appetites, something I’m fundamentally incapable of doing. But hell if I’m going to admit it.

  “That’s not what your husband seemed to think when he was strangling me.”

  “He didn’t hurt you,” she says, dismissing my sullen tone. I guess he told her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I got lectured for that too. He was right to be angry, though. I did tell him it was my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged you, told you it was okay. It wasn’t, and I know better even if you don’t. So I apologize. I hope you haven’t—”

  Alarm widens her eyes. Even when I broke her down to tears, she didn’t look afraid, but she looks scared now.

  “You haven’t done that to anyone else, have you? Tell me you haven’t.”

  I don’t like her face contorted in panic, so I rush to reassure her. “No, I swear. I haven’t.”

  I leave off the part about not having been with anyone else in any capacity because I doubt she’d understand. Let her think I fuck everything with tits in the District. God knows that’s what most people think.

  “Okay. Good. Don’t.” She takes a long draught of her water and then looks at me. “But you want to?”

  “Yeah. And you told me. You said there are people who are into that shit. That’s what you said. That’s what I want. Where do I find them?”

  I’d wanted to. With Pressly. Hit her, hurt her. But most of all, I’d wanted to fling insults in her face until tears were streaking down her reddened cheeks. But I couldn’t because she was too gentle, too pretty, too sweet. She deserved someone who could treat her like a princess because that’s what she was. My beautiful, polished, descended-from-American-royalty wife. I couldn’t fling filth at her like the sick fuck I really am. I was lucky she never figured out exactly how disgusting and black my soul is. But the slow, painful drift had been excruciating.

  I hadn’t wanted to hold her at a distance, but it had been the only way to keep her safe. Her father would’ve had me killed if he knew a fraction of the thoughts I’d had about his darling little debutante. It had been almost a relief when she’d finally asked for the divorce. But it had hurt too. Even if I hadn’t shown it. Just let her walk away.

  India eyes me carefully, a calculating look on her face. Like she’s deciding if I’m a good bet. I want to tell her I am. Or, at least, I want to be. “I’m going to give you a number. You’re going to call and say I sent you. If you are anything but respectful and cooperative, I will hear about it. I’ll have your ass on a platter, your head on a stake, and I’ll feed the leftovers to a stray dog. Are we clear?”

  I say yes, getting the impression that she’s not at all kidding.

  She reaches into the shoulder bag she’d set at her feet and pulls out a pen and a card, scribbling on the back. When she’s done, she hands it over. I stare at the ten digits, no name.

  “Who should I ask for?”

  “You tell whoever answers the phone exactly what I said. And then you do as you’re told.”

  The urge to argue is strong, but I swallow it down. I don’t want to make her change her mind, shut the door she’s cracked open. I sort through my thoughts and locate the words I’d like to say. They’re buried under sarcasm and cruelty, but I dig them out because India’s been more generous than I deserve. “Thank you.”

  “It’s what we do,” she says cryptically. “Don’t fuck up.”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  The forum on receiverships finishes out with no major disasters, which is as much as I could’ve hoped for. I spend the day after cleaning up messes I didn’t have time to deal with over the past few days and delegating the things I still don’t have time for. I have to head down to New Orleans tomorrow, and I’d like to have enough spare time to at least eat while I’m there. They have some of the best food on earth.

  That was one of the first trips Pressly and I had taken together. She couldn’t believe I’d never been farther south than Norfolk, but her singsong drawl had been especially pronounced and incredulous when I’d denied ever having been to New Orleans.

  “I went there for spring break a few years running. Maybe got in a little trouble.” Her cheeks had gone pink, and all I could think about was those blush-perfect magnolias. That might’ve been when I’d realized I was in love with her. Charming, sweet, pearl-bedecked Pressly with her cashmere twin sets and her perfect blonde ponytails. Trouble for her probably meant having a few too many and forgetting her unfailing Southern manners for a minute.

  “We’ll go sometime,” she’d said, showing off those pearly-white teeth when she smiled.

  “Maybe get you into more than a little trouble?”

  We’d had a wonderful weekend, only leaving the bed-and-breakfast long enough to indulge in the food. Add in a few strolls through the French Quarter and the Garden District with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen while she casually stroked my palm with her thumb and New Orleans had become one of my favorite cities on earth. Except those memories have been poisoned. The jambalaya and etouffée will crumble like dust in my mouth, and the Bananas Foster will stick in my throat. Hell.

  While I’m packing, I think about the card burning a hole in my pocket. I’d resisted dialing the number while the conference was still on. I wanted India Burke and her smug-a
ss husband far away before I called on the off-chance India is fucking with me. I’m pretty sure not because, for however much of a smart-assed bitch she can be, she’s not a liar. Besides, she likely realizes that, though she may be above putting the screws to people for less-than-professional reasons, not everyone is. Including myself.

  The clock says ten fifteen, and I debate whether to call. Phoning a stranger so late on a Sunday? Pressly would have my head for that. But Miss Manners isn’t here to scold me, so I grab a whiskey and settle into the Eames chair she hated.

  After flicking on my phone, I thumb through the emails and other messages that accumulate like dust bunnies in my inbox. Nothing urgent. I’m procrastinating. But the sooner I dial the number, the sooner this will be over with and I can get on with my life. I swear to god if India’s given me some weird-ass phone sex number or something, I’m going to kill her.

  I dial, nervousness stewing in my stomach. God I fucking hate that. Hate the way it feels, like acid is going to eat right through my organs and skin and spill out. And everyone will know I’m not such a hardass after all, that I’m human just like they are. And as soon as they get wind of that, my reign of terror is over.

  The phone rings a couple of times and then there’s a click.

  “Hello?” A man. Now what?

  “Hi.”

  Off to a fan-fucking-tastic start, shit for brains.

  “Can I help you?” He sounds so smooth. Antipathy floods my head, the dismissive, callous words welling to the surface. But going on the attack is not advisable. It’d surely get this cracked-open gate slammed in my face, whereas I want it to be opened wide enough for me to slip through.

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so too.”

  It’s absurd and mortifying, but I can’t deny that my sinuses have started to swell and my throat has tightened. I have to squeeze my eyes shut because there’s no way four words from a stranger that don’t mean fuck-all are going to drive me to tears. No. Fucking. Way. I clear my throat in what I hope is a manly fashion.

  “India Burke gave me your number. Said I should call you.”

  “And who are you?”

  I debate giving him an alias, but the fear of getting shut out makes me tell the truth.

  “Slade. Slade Lewis.”

  “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Lewis.”

  Jesus Christ, why is all this so cloak-and-dagger? “Who are you anyway?”

  “Reyes Walter, at your service.”

  “How do you know India?”

  “You and I are on a need-to-know basis and that, you don’t need to know. But you should know I’ve heard all about you.”

  So he already thinks I’m an asshole. Way to establish that early.

  “What happens now?”

  “I generally meet potential clients in person before I agree to work with them, so I’d say that’s the next step. I’m in San Francisco, but I travel frequently and I understand you do as well.”

  Before I can stop myself—Potential client? What kind of client?—I find myself comparing travel schedules with this man. I’m supposed to be in San Francisco in a month, but that seems too far away so I email my assistant to swap it with a visit to Tennessee that’s on my schedule for next week.

  “Thursday night it is. I’ll text you the address Thursday afternoon,” Rey says after we’ve hashed out the details.

  “Thursday.”

  “Yes. Have a good week, and I’ll see you then.”

  My “Thanks, you too” is an absent mumble at best. I’ve made it through the first hoop.

  *

  Thursday evening I find myself standing outside a townhouse in the Mission District. It’s larger and slightly nicer than the other buildings in the neighborhood but not especially notable. But why would it be? Was I expecting blaring red lights or blinking neon signs?

  I fidget outside the door, which is irritating because I don’t fucking fidget, and I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Like I know someone in this neighborhood, this city. Except for colleagues, I don’t know anyone. I debated going back to the hotel and changing before I came over here, but the suit I have on feels like armor. As if clothes can protect me.

  It’s been less than a minute when the door swings open and a man, barefoot and wearing khakis and an untucked button-down with the sleeves rolled up, steps out. When he sees me, he gestures with a lanky arm.

  “Mr. Lewis, come in please.”

  This is not Reyes Walter. The voice is too melodic, no hint of flinty hardness. His expression is affably blank, and I wonder what he’s been told. How did he even know it was me? Though it’s easy enough to find a photograph of me. Easy as Google. Easy as the occasional evening news broadcast. My stomach tightens at the idea this could be a trap. I humiliated India once, and though it was in the relative privacy of a meeting, it would be easy to humiliate me publicly.

  The risk makes me hesitate, but when the man’s eyebrows go up slightly, I swallow the panic and step inside. Too late now.

  Once inside, the man leaves me standing in an entryway, telling me he’ll be right back. He walks away, and I take the opportunity to look around. Whoever this Reyes Walter is, he has good taste. Expensive taste. I’ve got an eye for these things—I studied it as hard as any other subject in college—and he does too. Aubusson rug and antique furniture. I’d have to inspect them more closely to be sure, but they’ve got the look of immaculately done restorations, not repros.

  It’s not long before a man comes toward me, and I’m not terribly surprised to see it’s the other man from the photograph. The Latino guy I assumed India had married. He’s wearing a suit, and I’m glad I’ve kept mine on.

  He holds out a hand, and I take it, matching the firmness of his grip. “Mr. Lewis. Sorry to keep you waiting. Let me show you to the den. Care for a drink? I’ll be having water, but you’re welcome to wine, beer, milk, juice, soda, or Matthew makes excellent cocktails. Your choice.”

  I follow him down the narrow hallway, trying hard not to steal glances at everything. Whatever it is he does for a living, he’s clearly quite successful. And by successful, I mean completely loaded. Everything in here has been selected with care and not in a high-low mix way. He shows me into a comfortable but still expensively furnished room, gesturing for me to take a seat.

  “Water is fine, thanks.” I choose a leather club chair and sink into it, the material giving way with a low creak.

  Mr. Walter says something to the man I’m assuming is Matthew. I hadn’t noticed that he’d followed us, but now he’s on his way out. He moves like the breeze, quiet and swift.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to show.”

  Reyes Walter’s dark eyes are focused on me, studying me acutely. People look at me all the time. A lot of my job involves people watching me. And though this is a single man in a private home, I feel more exposed than I do in front of a full presser covering a breaking scandal.

  “I said I’d be here.”

  “And so you are.”

  The teeth at the back of my jaw grind together as I try to think of what to say that’s not going to break the single guideline of not acting like an asshat. Luckily Matthew appears bearing a tray with a pitcher full of water and a couple of glasses. I expect him to place it on the coffee table and leave, but he pours the water and serves us. With a glance at Mr. Walter, he drops to his hands and knees in front of the chair. Shock courses through me as the besuited man raises his feet, crosses his legs at the ankle, and lays them on top of Matthew’s back. No. Shit.

  I stare so hard I’m surprised my eyes haven’t fallen out of my head. What in the hell—

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. Do you mind?”

  “Mind?” I echo, not tearing my eyes from his feet. Jesus.

  “Yes. I can—”

  “Don’t.” I swallow hard after I’ve said the word, but I don’t want him to stop. I can’t look away. The movement of Mr. Walter settling back into the couch finally breaks my ga
ze, and I blink to his face. His expression has softened, though I couldn’t tell you how.

  “You don’t need to worry about Matthew. He’s the soul of discretion. Aren’t you, Matthew?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’m not into dudes. Just, not. And the sight isn’t turning me on per se. But there’s a definite loosening of something in my body I hadn’t realized I was holding tight.

  “So, Mr. Lewis. What can I do for you?”

  “Call me Slade for a start.”

  He raises his glass and takes a sip. “You’re welcome to call me Rey if you’d like.”

  I gulp down my water, praying I won’t choke on it, but I need an excuse not to talk while my brain flies around my skull like a bat trapped in an attic.

  “To be completely honest, I don’t know. All India told me was your phone number. And not to be a dick.”

  He smiles, fondness lighting his face. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  I grunt, not knowing how else to respond. She’s something all right. A hellcat masquerading as a sex kitten, maybe.

  “She seems to believe you have potential, even if you’re a hot mess.”

  Anger and embarrassment shoot through me, rendering my tone defensive. “A hot mess? Is that what she said?”

  “No. Those are my words. But you are, aren’t you? Unhappy? Unsatisfied? Missing something, but you don’t know what? I know you act out. Verbally abuse your staff and colleagues, particularly the women. Would you like to deny any of that?”

  “No.” The word is gritted out between my teeth because it makes me queasy to hear the truth in what he’s said. I’ve been better since India laid down the law, but god is it hard and I slip sometimes.

  “Good. It’s possible I can help you find what you’re looking for. No guarantees. But first things first. If we’re to work together, you need to knock that shit off. No more mistreating your staff, no hurling abuse at them, no yelling, or any of your other tricks you use to demean them. If I hear about it—and I guarantee you that I will—we’re done. Are we understood?”