Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  His grip is that perfect balance between strong and soft, meant to reassure you rather than demonstrate his alpha-ness. “Cass. Nice to meet you.” The name tugs a string. This is the guy Nick resurfaced for, the one who almost ruined his deal. “Any idea how much longer they’ll be?”

  He releases my hand and scowls over his shoulder. “With Dom in charge, probably not much longer.” Hair already disordered, he rakes a hand through it, making it stick up more, and screws up his mouth. “He was about ready to walk out ten minutes ago.”

  I scoot forward to the edge of my seat. “Tough negotiator?”

  “Yeah.” He mutters something unintelligible. “Yeah,” he repeats. “He’s not afraid to walk away from a deal if he’s not getting the concessions he wants.” This time the smile is rueful. “I could stand to be better at that.”

  Something about his “aw, shucks” attitude makes me want to make him feel better. I put my book aside and open the bag of cinnamon rolls. “Want one?” I hold it out for him.

  The way his face lights up has giggles bubbling, and I swallow hard. Less than five minutes, and I like this guy.

  “Chocolate cinnamon rolls. Grateful Bread?” he asks.

  “Yup.”

  He separates one from the pack, then pulls it apart and offers me half. The one I ate earlier sits heavy in my stomach, but I’m not saying no. Not to one of these.

  We spend the next few minutes eating and licking frosting from our fingers, idle small talk easy despite the lies I have to tell. I’m starting to think pursuing Nick is a mistake, especially since Isaiah’s much easier to relax around, when the door to the boardroom opens.

  Isaiah’s out of his chair in a heartbeat, striding over to the men leaving the room. Handshakes all around, and he ushers a small group of suited men to the hallway and the elevator, leaving Nick alone, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He pulls off his tie and unbuttons his collar before stuffing the tie into his pocket.

  I close up the bag of cinnamon rolls and tuck my book into my bag, giving him time to come to me if he wants. Sure enough, he’s heading my way, his expression dark, intense, and immediately tipping my radar to wary. It’s a look I’m unfamiliar with. My body tenses with the need to run and save myself from the big, scary predator. “Ready to go?” I ask.

  I guess not from the way he cups the back of my skull and kisses me, his tongue sliding over my lips in a way that has me thinking of dark rooms, tangled sheets, and sweat-slicked bodies. It’s delicious, being kissed like this, and it’s over far too quickly. “Why do you taste like chocolate?” he murmurs.

  Kiss me again. Kiss me everywhere. For all the kisses we’ve shared, he’s never ventured past my lips. “Chocolate frosted cinnamon rolls.” The words come out shaky with need, and I fist a hand in his shirt to steady myself.

  His smile is just this side of evil, and he slicks his tongue over my lower lip again. His fingers spasm on my neck when I moan. “Tasty.” He kisses me again, softer, more thorough. “You’re getting harder to resist, love.”

  Chapter 18

  His gaze remains locked on my mouth, tempting me to lick my lips, push him further, push him to give me more. “You should stop trying. I don’t bite.”

  He rubs his thumb down the back of my neck. “Maybe I should.”

  All at once, our first kiss replays itself in my head, and the doubts rush back in. “So can I revoke the rule?” Less than a week. He can’t have changed his stance on something that important in less than a week.

  The hunger in his eyes darkens them, turning them almost black. “I really hate that fucking rule,” he mutters.

  That’s what I thought.

  I trace the edges of his mouth with my finger. “It’s there for a reason,” I say softly. “I’m trying to avoid post-coital awkwardness here. I figured you’d want that too.”

  He kisses the tip of my finger. “I forget about it most of the time. Your age. Can’t forget what you’ve done, but you’re right. I’d be a hypocrite for holding that against you.”

  “But?” I prompt, sensing he’s not done.

  “But you’re still twenty-one. I’m still thirty-two. Admitting I want you to strip, sit on the edge of my desk, and spread your legs is easy. Convincing myself you won’t regret it when it’s over isn’t.” His kiss is gentle, innocent, and leaves my knees as weak as if he’d assaulted my mouth with his tongue. “You’re not your average college student, Cassidy. I get that. Give me enough time, and maybe I’ll accept it.”

  If he takes any more time, this will become less about sex and more about feelings I don’t want to have for him.

  He turns me away from him and winds his arm around my waist. “Home. You can make me dinner.” I elbow him in the side, and he grins down at me. “It’s very domestic of you. Cute too.”

  We opt for the stairs, footsteps clattering on the concrete, the sounds bouncing off the cinderblock walls. “What were you reading?” he asks as we settle into the car.

  “The Godfather. I thought it might be educational.”

  He smirks. “And is it?”

  “Luca Brasi is pretty badass,” I admit. “But I’m not so sure about Tom Hagen.”

  “Tom’s the most badass of them all. Just wait.”

  The early evening sun spears through the windshield on the drive home. Nick picks a random, circuitous route that takes over two hours. I unwind the scarf from my neck as we walk in the door. “Any food preferences? Otherwise you’re stuck with what I feel like cooking.”

  He grins. “I’m at your mercy.” He jerks his head toward the bedrooms. “Be right back.”

  I open the fridge and stare blindly at the contents, picturing Nick with his shirt off, Nick in a pair of boxers, Nick in nothing but skin and that evil smile.

  He is definitely not at my mercy.

  I grab a package of chicken breasts and random vegetables, then line them up on the counter. Looks like we’re having stir-fry. I bang pots around until I find a suitable one for the rice.

  His hair is damp and brushed away from his face, wet spots dotting his T-shirt when he makes his way into the kitchen.

  “Hope you like stir-fry.” Crap. Soy sauce. “Can you run to the store and get some soy sauce? Oh, and hoisin sauce. And five spice.”

  He digs his phone out and passes it to me. “Write it down, or I’ll forget.” It rings in my hand. Taking it back, he frowns at the read out. “Kosta,” he barks.

  What is it with guys answering with their last names only? Scott’s started doing it too. It doesn’t make them more intimidating. Honestly? I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes whenever I hear it.

  The glower on Nick’s face is no laughing matter. He stalks the length of the living room and back, his words low and clipped, his face drawn tight with fury. I’ll just go get the soy sauce myself. Good thing I stopped at the ATM on campus.

  Nick’s gone from angry to resigned when I return with the rest of the ingredients for the stir-fry. None of the food I pulled from the fridge is on the counter. “Did you change your mind?”

  “I have to go back to work. Dinner meeting.”

  So why did he put the food away? “Okay. Do you think you could hook me up with a new Netflix account before you leave?” I suppose I could use the time to look through more photos, but an evening free of Nick and death and knife wounds is really appealing.

  “Need a plus one.”

  I arch a brow. “You can’t just go alone?”

  He smirks. “You’re the one insisting I’m your fake boyfriend. I need a fake girlfriend for the night. They’re bringing their wives. I want them to sell me their company, so we’re going to pretend this is a friendly dinner and not talk about business. They’ll be more relaxed if they think I’m like them. Simple manners, Cass. Don’t want to be the odd man out.”

  I’m not going to pretend I understand the world of business. “I don’t have anything to wear. Also? Bandages are not attractive.�
�� I finger the gauze on my neck.

  His eyes track the movement of my fingers. “Lia will have something you can borrow.”

  “Lia’s a good four inches shorter than I am.”

  “Cass.” The warning note in his voice is almost overwhelmed by weariness. “Please.”

  I do owe him. A lot. And there’s always the possibility that being seen together will bring more clues to the surface.

  I tug at the hem of my shirt. “Do you think Lia’s shoes will fit?”

  * * * *

  Lia’s shoes, surprisingly, do fit. Wearing them is like balancing on needles. Literally. The heels are twig-thin. I could never run in these. I’ll break something. Probably the heel, then my ankle.

  But Nick likes them. A lot if the kiss he lays on me in the elevator is any indication. Or maybe it’s the skirt. Lia says it hits her around the knees, and most of our height difference is in the leg, so you can guess where the hem of the skirt ends up. She finished the look with a three-quarter sleeve scoop neck top and a thin scarf that’s more like a necklace. I’m beginning to despise scarves. I’ll spend the dinner worrying about the ends getting in my food. It’s a necessary evil, though, and I have to admit it does a good job of covering the gauze.

  We switch cars in a run-down garage, complete with spooky lighting and nefarious characters hanging around. The one we drive out in is flashier and likely recognizable as a vehicle belonging to the Kosta organization.

  I sincerely hope the glass is bulletproof.

  The reason for the car switch becomes apparent the instant we pull into the valet drive. The restaurant is a celebrity hangout. Photographers stand around in clumps, chatting, flocking toward each new entrant.

  I step out of the car and resist the urge to fidget with the hem of the skirt. It’s long enough to cover the bandages on my thighs if it doesn’t ride up too much. Nick walks over and places a hand at the small of my back.

  “What do you want me to do? Act dumb? Not talk?” I like the not talking option, although I probably ought to look at this as a learning experience.

  You, too, can find out what it’s like to dine in expensive, trendy restaurants with people who have more money than God!

  I’m going to make an idiot of myself.

  He slides his hand around to my hip when I stumble on a crack in the sidewalk. “Be Cass. And you’re not giving those shoes back.”

  “Oh?” Please don’t let a flash go off in my face.

  The photographers mostly ignore us at first, making more noise the closer we get to the door. “Liana should not have those shoes. They’re inappropriate,” he says.

  Mentioning his sister and I are practically the same age would be a bad, bad idea. “I have a feeling I know what she’ll say to that.”

  He holds open the door and motions for me to precede him. “Yeah?”

  Warm air rushes over us, and I shiver. “Yeah. She’d say I’m her age, and you have no problem with me wearing the shoes. Then she’d tell you she doesn’t like you.” His step falters, and his arm drops away. Biting back a groan, I nudge him over to a corner of the waiting area. “Look. Your dinner guests are probably going to say the same thing, only they’ll use big words and snooty voices. Do you really want me there?” Say no. Say yes. Tell me we can forget about this whole dinner thing and go home and get it on like a pair of rabbits.

  He stares at my shoes. “It’s different,” he growls. “I didn’t know she had them. I see them on you, and I see you wearing them and nothing else. You give them back, and I see them on her, I’m going to be seeing men doing the same thing to her. Which will happen over my dead body.”

  Poor baby. I grin and wind my arms around his neck. “Is this like the other night when you got all broody over your baby sister out causing trouble?” He growls again, and I inch closer. “Go. You have a business to buy.”

  He sobers, one hand sliding up my back. “Thanks for this. For tonight.”

  Feelings. Feelings are bad. Worse than bad ideas. Feelings don’t happen after, what, four days? Five? Swallowing hard, I nod and duck under his arm.

  The hostess falls all over herself, batting her eyelashes at Nick like something’s stuck in her eye. I’d roll mine except Nick does bring on the eyelash flutters. She leads us to a table tucked in the back, two couples already seated. Given that there are two empty seats left, our dinner party must be complete.

  Nick introduces me as his girlfriend, and I spend more time fighting my blush than remembering everyone’s name. When a server comes around and asks what we’d like to drink, Nick orders me a glass of wine. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had wine.

  “Trust me,” he says, leaning in close, his words for me alone. “You’ll like it.”

  He’s right. Tart, very tart, and heavy, and dry. Delicious.

  I curl my fingers around the stem and nod politely or smile at intervals, unsure how to insert myself into the conversation flowing around me. It mostly involves children and the trouble they get into.

  I am so very, very out of place here in this dimly-lit, high gloss restaurant. From the black linen table cloths to the flickering tea lights, I’ve never been anywhere this fancy. The only thing that keeps me from wincing at the prices on the menu is the reminder that Nick can afford it.

  “It’s Cassidy, right?”

  Startled, my hand jerks on my wine glass, red threatening to slop over the rim. One of the wives, blond hair sleeked away from her face, is smiling at me in the way of indulgent mothers. C’mon. I’m not that young. “Yes. But please call me Cass.”

  “Cass, then.” She kicks her smile up a notch, then lets it slip down gradually. “Are you a student?”

  I clasp my hands together in my lap, fingers tapping my knuckles. “I’m at UCLA. It’s my last year.”

  “How nice. Any plans for after you graduate?”

  Everyone’s attention is on me, their eyes burning holes in my skin. I tap harder. “I’ll be applying to graduate school and Teach for America.”

  “Teach for America?” The blonde’s eyebrows don’t quite draw together, and I stifle a snort. Botox much?

  “It’s a sort of intensive program. Think of it as doing a master’s in education through hands-on experience rather than confined to a classroom for the first year. Most of the schools are in lower income neighborhoods and hurting for teachers.” I reach for my wine and take a long swallow, my hand caught by Nick’s as I set the glass down.

  Someone screams.

  The sound is from the front of the restaurant, and Nick’s halfway out of his seat, dragging me with him since he’s still holding my hand.

  Crack.

  A gunshot.

  There’s more, a rapid crack crack crack accompanied by more screams, some shouts. Without waiting to see what his dining companions do, Nick pulls me away from the table. I trip forward and almost fall to my knees, my ankle re-twisting itself. “Wait.” Gritting my teeth against the pain shooting up my leg, I pry off the shoes and toss them away.

  It’s not as bad as when I twisted it in the alley. I’m able to put weight on it, and as the noise and gunfire increase behind us, we wind through the tables, heading for an entryway on the far side of the restaurant.

  Chaos rises in waves, people scrambling away from their tables in a mass of humanity rushing to the front of the restaurant and the exit. Chairs are overturned, plates shatter on the floor, and another spray of bullets rips through the dining room. I point toward the darkened entry. “Think that’s the emergency exit?” I shout, and he grunts in response, continuing to tow me through the crowd.

  The screams multiply along with the gunshots, and when a woman goes down in front of me, so do I, the hard floor bruising my knees. Nick’s down, too, and we start crawling along.

  Someone steps on my hand. Feet are everywhere, clattering on hardwood, punctuated by bullets. I lose sight of Nick and sit up on my aching knees, glancing around. With the tables at
the same level as my head, it’s difficult to see anything else.

  The doorway we were aiming for is close. Close enough I could stand and run for it. I opt to continue crawling, heedless of showing the restaurant my underwear. Personal safety wins over decorum.

  The mouth of the hallway is empty, and I crawl in until I’m confident no one can see me. A green exit sign glows at the end, and I hobble toward it. A bullet slams into the door above my head as my hands hover over the crash bar. I drop to my knees, hissing at the pain singing through my legs.

  But nothing else happens.

  I glance over my shoulder to see Nick holding a blood-slicked knife, an ugly, barrel-chested man going to his knees, hands clasped at his throat, blood seeping past his fingers.

  Nick jerks his chin at the door, and I push it open without a word. I get a glimpse of his expression as he passes through. Calm. I recognize the calm. It’s the place you go when destruction stares you in the face.

  We dash through the gathering shadows to the parking lot, away from the madness inside.

  Chapter 19

  Some gods must be smiling down on me because we both manage to escape without injury. Well, unless you count my bruised knees and twisted ankle. I hand my scarf to Nick and swipe the keys from his pocket to open the door for him. It went without saying we’d abandon the car as soon as possible, and while our fingerprints would be all over it, someone else’s blood shouldn’t be. The scarf, as narrow as it is, only helps clean him up so much. He clenches it in his fists as I zoom out of the parking lot.

  I don’t have the patience for the zigzaggedy driving needed to ensure we’re not followed. Lapses lead to stupid mistakes, though, and I force myself to do it anyway. Twenty minutes later we’re switching cars, and I’m as amped as I was when we ran out of the restaurant.

  The feeling doesn’t fade the longer I drive. Nick holds himself rigid in the seat beside me to prevent any random blood from transferring. A little over a half hour later, we’re at the condo in Manhattan Beach, and he yanks his shirt over his head on the way to the bathroom.