Devil's Due. Рейчел Кейн
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“Blended or single malt?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Single malt.”
“There is no other kind.”
“Follow me.”
She was acutely aware of him in the hallway, his warmth at her back as they passed the empty spaces. Jazz’s door was closed. Pansy Taylor, their assistant, was still there, sorting mail, her glossy dark head bent toward her desk. She glanced up, and Lucia caught a fast smile before she turned her attention back to her work.
Lucia shut the office door behind McCarthy and motioned him to the couch in the corner, near the window. He settled. She opened the cabinet in the back and took out chunky crystal tumblers and a sealed bottle of Glenmorangie, then walked back over to sit in the chair next to the couch. She filled glasses, set the bottle aside and contemplated the russet-amber liquor for a few seconds before sipping. The taste was as warm as the color—a harsh bite that faded to a mellow, smoky glow in her mouth, then woke an answering fire in her stomach.
Neither of them had said a word, she realized, and it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. More as if they were in perfect agreement about what a lovely moment it was, sipping single malt.
When his glass was dry, McCarthy said, “I can’t get used to the quiet. It’s never quiet in prison. Always some sound—footsteps, talking, things moving. Crying, sometimes. You can’t sleep deeply. Always waiting.” He held out his glass, and she mutely refilled it. “They thought they’d kill me, putting me in general population.”
“You survived.”
“Yeah.” His smile was weary and bitter and just a touch sad. “You do that, if you can. No matter what it takes.”
“Do you want me to ask what it took?”
“Just saying.” He rested his head against the leather back of the couch, watching her through contemplative, half-closed eyes. “You understand how I feel about the Cross Society, right?”
“I understand that you think they betrayed you.”
“No, it wasn’t that personal. They just stopped having a use for me, that was all. Look, you and Jazz, you got caught up with them. I understand that. So did I. I think you need to get out now, while you can. You get embedded too deeply …” He shrugged. “Consequences can be harsh.”
“I appreciate the warning, Ben.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. So, you and Jazz. Good friends?”
“I like to think so.”
“This Borden guy, he good enough for her? Apart from being a Cross Society asshole?”
Lucia fought back a smile. “Oh, I think he’s very good for her. Good enough? That would depend on your point of view. What’s yours?”
“Older brother. I’d say father, but that’s just depressing.”
“And untrue. You’re only, what? Forty-four?”
“Just like the gun. And I get to say that two years in a row. Ain’t I lucky?”
She laughed and tossed back the rest of her drink. “I like you, Ben.” She meant it lightly, but his eyes flashed, and she felt something bloom hot inside. Insanely hot. Ridiculously so. One glass of whiskey wasn’t enough to make her feel like this. Not even one glass of Glenmorangie.
“Careful,” Ben murmured, and drank the last of his as well. “Men like me, fresh out of prison … only got three things on our minds.”
“Such as?”
“Food.”
“We had breakfast.”
He leaned forward and put the glass on the side table, next to the bottle of whiskey. “Finding a place to stay.”
“Lucky you, you have four of them.”
“You really want me to go on?” he asked. “Because the third one on the list wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”
“Can’t have that,” she agreed. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman so far.”
“You have no idea how hard that is.”
Lucia had a sudden, vivid image. No, not an image, really—a full sensory mirage. McCarthy moving her back to her desk, sweeping the top of it clean. Her legs wrapping around him, their lips meeting and devouring. His hands …
She cleared her throat and stood up, aware that she was flushed, and not sure whether it was a product of the whiskey or her imagination. She reached for the glasses, and he was there ahead of her, handing them over.
Their fingers brushed, and it was like an electric current. The slow drag of his skin on hers made her pull in an involuntary breath, and she saw the answering response in the pupils of those blue eyes.
No, she told herself sternly. This is not you. You are not reckless and foolish. You hardly know a thing about this man, and for God’s sake, he just came out of prison….
Which wasn’t necessarily a downside; ungovernable passions were terrifying and compelling at the same time. She wished she hadn’t thought of that. Gasoline on a brush fire, that thought.
She transferred the glasses to her other hand and reached past him for the bottle. Close enough that their chests touched, brushed. It would be easy to kiss, from that intimate distance. Easy to do a lot of things.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t move away, either.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and looked into his eyes. Just for a second, and then her nerve failed and she turned and walked to the cabinet, where she put the Glenmorangie away and placed the crystal tumblers in the small bar sink. Her hands were shaking, ridiculous as that was; she’d been through firefights with less emotional reaction.
Lucia stayed with her back to him, facing the cabinet, head down, fighting against an unexpected tidal wave of longing that was threatening to drag her under.
“You okay?” His voice came from close behind her. She felt herself flinch.
“Fine,” she said. Her voice was, as always, calm and controlled. “I need to make a couple of calls. Would you mind …?”
“No. I’ll be in my office, going over my important work,” he said, with dry amusement in his voice. He knew. He damn well knew what kind of effect he was having on her, and he knew how much it was angering her to lose control.
She didn’t turn around. McCarthy walked away—she was acutely aware of the sound of his shoes on the carpet—and opened and closed the door. The deep breath she took in smelled faintly of him—the hair products they’d used on him at Lenora Ellen’s, an elegant cologne, an underlying crisp male scent that she was starting to understand was uniquely his own.
She went back to her desk and sat down, hands flat on the surface. The couch at the far end of the room was a nice tan leather, a match for the one in Jazz’s office. The walls were a cool, clean cream. Black-and-white, oversize photographs hung there, plus a selection of color photos that showed her in air force dress uniform, and receiving a civilian commendation from a former president. As much of her history as she wanted to officially remember these days.
She was contemplating the couch, and possibilities, when a knock came at the door and Pansy opened it wide enough to look in. She was a cute, efficient woman whom Jazz had hired—partly out of spite—away from James Borden’s law firm of Gabriel, Pike & Laskins. Her sleek dark pageboy framed a heart-shaped face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a silent movie.
Even, just now, to the wide eyes.
“What?” Lucia asked. Pansy was hardly the wide-eyed type. She’d been cool under fire, literally, when a sniper had taken out Jazz’s