by Jasmin Quinn
“And would it have influenced you?”
Jack narrowed his eyes and considered Isabelle. “I don’t know Isabelle. That was the problem. I didn’t know if they could influence me with you and I didn’t want to find out. I was worried it might and I was worried it might not.”
“And Rusya?”
“My ally. He wanted me to take Vegas.”
“Why would he want that? You’re not Russian.”
Jack barked out a small laugh. “For a second there you sounded worried for me. You know I don’t trust anyone but my brother. Rusya and I will be friends until we aren’t anymore. But that’s immaterial to this conversation.”
Isabelle couldn’t decide what emotion was ruling. Fury or gratefulness. Was gratefulness even an emotion? She should have known there was more to this tale than a beating by Jack because she’d embarrassed him. “Tell me why you want this list of Randall Scott’s so badly.”
Jack gazed at her for a moment, tracing her face with his eyes. “Amber’s dead,” he finally said.
Isabelle jolted at the news. Robert, Jack’s brother, worshipped Amber. It used to make Isabelle’s heart ache to see them together. They had what she wanted, what she and Jack would never have. Isabelle was the opposite of Amber. Where she was brash and unfettered, Amber was soft and stayed close to Robert. It made her hate her marriage to Jack all the more.
She let loose a little sob for Amber and Robert, but also for herself. She thought that she could have had that kind of love with Michael. But now it was too late. Even if she wanted to return to him, he would know she’d betrayed him. She’d been gone too long. And Anto would be whispering in his ear about how it was for the better.
Jack leaned back against the sofa, watching her with his dark impassive eyes. Credit to him that he didn’t approach her or try to comfort her. Both knew that would be fruitless. She got up and went to the bathroom, closing the door softly. And then the let the sobs rack her body. Fuck, this was all so messed up. She was crying for herself, for Michael, for Robert, for Amber. She stayed that way for several minutes, letting her emotions have their way with her. Until she was spent. Then she dried her eyes, blew her nose, and returned to the living room. Jack was seated where he was when she’d left, but somewhere in the middle of her breakdown, he’d refreshed his drink. A bottle of water was sitting on the end table next to Isabelle’s chair.
She studied Jack’s face as she sat down. Her fear of him was settling. He was not the enemy she thought. He’d been protecting her all along. She knew that rationally she wouldn’t have needed his protection if he hadn’t bought and paid for her in the first place. If he hadn’t sent her on those dangerous jobs. But at least he had enough of a soul not to just dispose of her when things got untidy. “What happened to Amber?” she said, her voice breaking.
“She was killed. It was obviously a message to Robert and me. It was not subtle.” The hand holding the scotch trembled. It was so fleeting Isabelle might not have noticed, but for the liquid sloshing inside the tumbler. “Robert is devastated.”
Was Jack feeling the same loss as she? Did he want what Amber and Robert had too? Why not? She used to think that he had no soul, like Anto, but was beginning to realize that wasn’t the case. He loved Amber and Robert and she remembered when the four of them were together. He was relaxed then, letting down his guard, being human. Remorse crept through her. She’d never seen this side of Jack when they were together. Never saw him this vulnerable, his emotions so raw. When they were married, she only ever felt anger or fear. It never abated long enough for her to see the man beneath his unyielding exterior.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth, then let it rest on his chin. “Rusya believes Randall Scott had a hand in it. For whatever reason. In theory, Randall and Rusya are allies. But maybe that’s not really the case. Randall Scott is a manipulative bastard and didn’t grow as rich as he has through his legal practice. That list he keeps is a blacklist of sorts. Criminals he’s worked with. Criminals who have worked for him. Rusya thinks Amber might have been killed at Scott’s request.
Isabelle considered her soon-to-be ex-husband. His face unreadable, his body stoic. He always looked like this. Rarely did he unleash any other side. And he was smart, not easily fooled, or ever fooled, at least in the time she’d known him. She moistened her lips and dared to ask, “If Rusya and Randall are allies, why is Rusya sharing Randall’s business with you?”
Jack didn’t react, and she let out a little puff of breath.
“Rusya wants something from me. Not yet, but he’ll call it in when he needs it. He likes that I rule Vegas, and he likes having me in a position where I owe him.”
“He’ll own you.”
Jack nodded once. “Temporary. He’s a better friend than enemy. Has a very long reach and I can leverage that.”
“He wants the names on that list too?”
“Yes.” Jack took a last swallow of his drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs casually. Such an elegant man, Isabelle thought, a lot like Michael. Maybe Michael was her type, like Jack had been. She’d never objected very hard when Jack declared his intentions toward her. She liked having an unlimited spending account, pretty baubles, elegant jewelry. It had worked for her until it didn’t. Until the darkness outweighed the pampering. And that would happen with Michael too, even though he was kinder towards her than Jack had ever been.
Isabelle shifted in her chair. “I don’t understand. If I get the list for you and Rusya, then doesn’t that repay your debt to him.”
Jack chuckled darkly. “It doesn’t work that way, Izzy. If it weren’t for Rusya, I wouldn’t know about the list; I would still be chasing my tail trying to find the bastard that murdered Amber. I’m merely retrieving it for Rusya and in return, he’ll share the name of Amber’s killer with me.”
Isabelle bit at her lower lip. She sensed Jack’s eyes on her, watching her, raking her. She felt vulnerable again. She didn’t want him touching her, didn’t want him to think he could have one last hurrah-fuck. But she also didn’t know if she could fend him off should he decide he wanted her. She reached for her purse and Jack laughed.
“Am I making you nervous, Izzy?” His voice, his words mocking.
She bit her lip again, then realizing what she was doing, let it go. He laughed again. “You could be bald and wearing a burlap sack and you would still be sexy. But I’m not going to touch you. I want your head on straight when you do this job. No fucking between us ever again. Does that settle your nerves a bit?”
“Yes,” she said as relief crowded out her anxiety. Then stupidly, she found herself thanking him. She felt the heat in her face, embarrassment, anger as she dropped her eyes to her lap. So often in the past, she’d thanked him, after he used her, misused her. Thanked him for fucking her, for letting her come, for letting her blow him. For the little things he allowed her, things that Michael would offer to her freely. So much alike, so bloody different. And here she was, with Jack, not Michael. Her heart broke and she took gulping breaths to stop her tears.
“Are you going to cry, Izzy?” Jack’s voice held no empathy, his face granite.
She looked at him. It helped to see his face, lips a tight line, eyes, sharp and judging. She grabbed hold of her bravado. “Tears of joy, Jack.” She threw the divorce papers on the table in front of him. “They’re signed.”
One side of Jack’s mouth quirked up as he reached for the papers and drew them toward him. He flipped through them to last page, smile fulsome this time. “If I didn’t have such a black heart, my Bella, I would cry too.” His words were soft, not mocking.
Isabelle wrapped her hands around her purse, holding it to her. “What now?”
“Ah, yes.” Jack got to his feet. “Wait here, I have some things for you.” He left the room and Isabelle allowed herself a heavy sigh as she shook her shoulders loose of tension. Just a few more hours, and then
she could walk away from Jack, walk away from this entire fucking world.
Jack returned with a handful of documents and seated himself in the chair next to hers, drawing it closer. She tried to move away from him subtly, but he noticed.
He set the documents on the table and said, “I promise, Isabelle, I’m not going to touch you. The only thing I want from you are the names off those pages.”
Isabelle nodded and looked down at the papers on the table as Jack pushed them towards her.
“New identification, passport, driver’s licence, credit cards – you seem attached to the name Isabelle, so I shortened it to Bella. Bella Leoni. It suits you, don’t you think?” The question was rhetorical. He wasn’t expecting her to answer and he moved on without waiting. “New bank account. New bank. In Geneva. Five million in the primary account. Your jewelry in the safety deposit box.” He pointed to a key, then fished for another paper. “Deed to an apartment in Rome. A place to stay low for a while.”
Isabelle took the deed from him and stared at it. Freedom! Fucking freedom. Jack would know where she was, but she didn’t have to stay there. And she wouldn’t. As soon as she got her feet under her she would disappear. “I don’t know what to say,” Isabelle murmured, genuinely grateful.
Jack didn’t respond, instead he handed her an envelope. “Plane ticket out of town. One-way. Leave and don’t come back. If you stay put in Rome, I’ll keep an eye on you from afar. But after you bring me the pictures of the pages, we will never see each other again.”
“Thank you, Jack.” She stared down at the papers, the identification, the plane ticket. Everything she would need to start over. Everything but Michael. She leaned forward to gather it all together, but Jack stopped her, a hand on her arm. She froze, looking down at his hand then meeting his eyes.
“Not yet, Izzy. Not until the job is done. All of this is payment for it. You don’t have to thank me. It’s business.”
Isabelle sat back and pulled her arm from Jack’s grip. She nodded. “I’ll be doing the job tonight. 10 pm. I’ll need a driver to get me there and back.”
“Not going back to the boyfriend?”
“No.” Isabelle’s voice was barely audible. She dropped her eyes to her hands. She didn’t want to talk to Jack about Michael. It was none of his fucking business. She knew that the moment she entered Jack’s suite, she shut the door on a future with Michael. He wouldn’t want her back after she’d turned to Jack instead of him. He wouldn’t forgive her. Her heart broke, but she did her best to keep her emotions hidden; no tears, no sadness. Not in front of Jack.
Jack shrugged when she didn’t answer, picked up his drink and walked over to the bar. “We have some time to kill, Izzy. Want to play checkers?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael stood in the sun, the sidewalk wet and slushy from melting snow. He was holding his phone to his ear, listening as it rang. A woman’s cool efficient voice answered, immediately putting him on hold. He waited, looking around him, wondering if anyone knew who he was, wondering if someone with a scope and rifle was targeting him from a roof top, wondering if this was his final minute on earth.
And then his heart plunged to the pit of his stomach as Isabelle’s face flashed in front of him. He didn’t want this to be his final moments. Not with Isabelle in his life. Before her, he thought his job would ultimately lead to his death. But now, with Isabelle, he wanted to live forever. He thought that this must be what love is. He dwelled on this until he was interrupted by the voice on the phone, her voice.
“Hello beautiful,” he said, picturing her the way he saw her last, rich brown hair in disarray, little lacy panties torn, skirt around her hips, blouse unbuttoned exposing beautiful lush breasts. Tearful, upset with him, with herself, for how easily he seduced her and how easily she let him. She’d told him not to come back. He didn’t let her have the last word though. Because he owned her now. And she knew it.
Silence at the other end. Michael waited while she caught her breath. “What do you want?” So much more hostile than when he was last in Scott’s office, when she was on her knees begging him to take her.
“A wee chat, Emmaline. I’ve noted that your boss has just left the building. How long will he be gone?”
Silence again. Michael filled it. “Don’t lie to me Emmaline. I’ll know.”
“He’s gone for the afternoon. Please don’t come. I won’t be here when you get here.”
He pictured her in his mind. The first time he’d laid eyes on her he almost tripped over his penis. She was exotic, a little sachet of sweet umber skin, warm cinnamon hair, and soft nutmeg eyes. And she smelled like angelwing jasmine. His cock perked up, his lust took over and he seduced her on the spot. She was that easy. But not afterwards. Afterwards she was angry, appalled and embarrassed. She wanted him to go. He wanted her to answer his questions. There was no starry eyed acquiesce. No willingness to cooperate with him until he threatened to share their encounter with her boss. She tried to hold fast, but she was no match for him. No one was, until now, until Isabelle.
He frowned as he walked into Scott’s offices. Emmaline was there, standing in front of her desk, arms crossed, eyes stony, lips a hard, thin line. Defences up. For a moment, he relished the challenge, wondered how quickly he could breach her walls. But then the thought was gone, because there was no longer any desire, just the silly notion of winning. He didn’t want to fuck her and he didn’t want to bully her.
“Emmaline, lovely to see you.” He walked a steady, confident line towards her.
“Don’t you touch me,” she breathed, her tone a shaky blend of anxiety and resolve.
He grinned as he stopped in front of her. She was already his. And she would do as he asked. “You’re as beautiful as ever, Emmaline. But I’m not here to touch you.” He almost said no matter how much you want me to, and he grimaced internally. He was spending too much fucking time with Anto.
“Why are you here then?” She jutted her chin and narrowed her eyes as she hugged herself tighter.
Michael smiled. Now that she understood her virtue was not at risk, she was more fearless. She didn’t understand how dangerous Michael really was.
He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope, which he opened. He watched Emmeline’s eyes grow bigger as he pulled out a bundle of bills. “$20,000 here for you, lovely girl. Take it and go shopping for an hour.”
Emmaline’s eyes strayed from the bills to his face, but she didn’t reach for the cash he proffered. “What makes you think I would take your money?” she snarled at him. “What makes you think I’ll allow you free access to Mr. Scott’s office? Do you think I’m greedy or easily bought? If that were the case, I’d already be a rich woman, living somewhere far from the likes of you.” She faltered then, her words depleted.
Michael leaned forward, reaching with his free hand and pinching her chin between his fingers and thumb. Not painful, but forced, so she couldn’t look away when he spoke. “I love a girl with upstanding principles.” He stroked her cheek with his forefinger, not relinquishing her chin. “This is what I think, Emmaline. You’re not loyal to Scott, you’re afraid of him. More afraid of him than anyone else who’s approached you. But he pays you shit.” He dropped his hand from her chin to the collar of her shirt, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “You try hard, try to look professional, try to fit in, but your clothes are bargain basement. Your jewellery is cosmetic, and your shoes are cheap and plastic.”
She crumbled under him. He felt no remorse and for that he was glad. He was still Michael Black despite Isabelle. “Get your hands off me,” she whispered with a shaky breath.
He straightened her collar and then moved his hand to her hand, drawing it palm up, forcing her elbow to bend. He placed the bills in it and folded her fingers around them. As he continued to hold her hand, he said, “I also know that you have a little sister who has some issues with drugs. I’ve forgotten. What’s her name, Emmaline?”
&nbs
p; Emmaline’s face shuttered and she didn’t respond.
“Ah, yes. It’s Lisle, right? You’re soft on her, aren’t you, even if she doesn’t deserve it. Maybe this money would help in her rehab. I hear she’s trying to get clean.”
“How do you know this?” Emmaline’s lips trembled.
Michael shrugged. “Last chance, my beauty. You can take the cash, go buy yourself a pretty cashmere sweater or a Prada bag. Use the rest to help Lisle. Or I can keep the cash, and you can stay here with me and help me look for what I want.”
Emmaline chewed at her lower lip, then tightened her fingers around the bills and pulled her hand out of Michael’s grip. She cautiously slid from the front of the desk, doing her best to avoid touching him, watching him carefully as she stepped backwards behind the desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out her purse, shoving the cash into it. As she circled around him, giving him a wide birth, she said. “You must never tell Randall Scott I did this. He’ll kill me if he finds out.”
Michael reached with his arm and wrapped his fingers around her bicep, halting her exit. Her eyes startled as she looked at him. “You must never tell Randall Scott I did this. I’ll kill you if he finds out.”
Her face paled and Michael sensed her terror. He dropped her arm and she scurried towards the office door.
“An hour, Emmaline. Be gone an hour.” He called as the office door swished shut.
Michael waited until he heard the elevator doors open and shut, then he locked the door and turned off the lights. To anyone who passed by, it would appear as though the office was closed over the lunch break. But it was lunch time and the floor was as silent as a graveyard.
Michael scanned the offices, recalling the layout from his last visit, barely a week ago - when he was looking for the Disappearist, when time was of the essence. This time he could be a little more deliberate, he thought as he slid on a pair of thin black gloves. He walked to Randall Scott’s office, tried the door, but it was locked. Nothing less than he expected. He turned to Emmaline’s desk, thought about searching it for the key, but decided it was a waste of time, even if Scott entrusted her with it. He picked the lock instead and was inside in less than a minute.
