ARROGANT BRIT (A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE) (62 page)

I
spotted some classics, like
Moby Dick
and
The Wizard of Oz,
and
more contemporary titles, like
Gone Girl
and
The Life of Pi.
He
had a wide selection of Asimov’s works near his desk, an executive-style Louis
XVI reproduction that very nearly looked real, and on a small end table near a
hulking stone fireplace, I saw a copy of Machiavelli’s
The Prince.

That
hardly surprised me. It was practically required reading for opportunistic
capitalists everywhere. What I
was
surprised by was how every book in Nathan’s tremendous collection seemed worn
enough to have been read through at least once. I hadn’t pegged him for a
reader, and I’d certainly never seen him pining for books in the times we’d
spent together.
 
He didn’t seem like
he had the patience.

I
turned as he closed the doors behind us and crossed the room to the small
seating area near to the fireplace. “Have a seat,
detective
. If you’re
here for business instead of pleasure, we might as well get comfortable.”

As he
draped himself lazily across a tufted leather settee, I sunk into one of the
high-backed armchairs across from him. I felt like royalty just sitting there,
but Nathan didn’t seem to share my perception. He lounged like a bored lion,
his muscular limbs dangling almost petulantly off the edges of his seat.

“If you’re not here to fuck, you’re here about Peter
Wallace, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I admitted. “His trial’s coming up soon, you
know.”

“I’m
aware,” he answered in a tone that was half a sigh, half a groan. “I watch the
news. I hear the prosecution’s built a decent case this time around, too.”

“
Decent
isn’t going to cut it,” I interrupted, “and you know that. This is
Peter
Wallace
we’re talking about—the same guy who’s weaseled his way out of
prison a dozen times before. And he’ll do it again, unless someone could, say,
provide testimony about the particulars of his business in our fair city.”

Despite
the oppressive heat lurking just outside, I felt a distinct chill in the air.
It was blowing in gusts from Nathan’s side of the room and got stronger with
every mention of Peter Wallace’s name. I almost wanted him to turn on the
fireplace just to drive it out.

“Sounds
like you know a lot about this guy,” he said at last, though he was staring at
his bookshelves and not at me. “If you do, then you know what he does to
witnesses who agree to testify.”

I
nodded solemnly. “I do. And I also know what he does to witnesses who don’t. Last
I checked the only difference is how pretty the corpse looks.”

Nathan
went quiet, his eyes finally meeting mine. I scooted to the edge of my chair,
holding his gaze. “I expect we’ll keep this talk off the record for now?”

“I understand
your concerns, Mr. Hale,” I replied, trying to keep my mind off the dark little
desires that kept bubbling up inside me.

“Off
the record, you’re right. Wallace is not a man to be trifled with. He’s got
connections. He’s got ways of making everybody miserable. But that all stops if
we put him behind bars, and I’m afraid the only way for us to do that is with
your help.”

“And
what do I get in return?” he asked me, raising an eyebrow that made it clear he
was being coy. As I gave him the death stare, he sat up straighter, his voice
taking on a more serious tone. “I mean, sure, there’s some satisfaction in
watching this guy get put behind bars for the rest of his life. And from what I
understand, he deserves it. It’s not like I don’t want to have a hand in
putting him there. But you have to understand,
detective
—the price I’d pay for that… it could be steep. What
guarantee can the police offer me that
I’m
not going to end up in one of those shipping containers?”

I
frowned. I didn’t think we’d released that detail yet, but men as powerful and
rich as Nathan had a way of getting information. Some jaded beat cop had
probably forked it over for a small fee. I counted my blessings that at least
the culprit hadn’t talked to the media—as far as I knew, anyway.

“You
don’t have any family, no wife, no real
girlfriend,
”
I said, watching as he grimaced, “so there’s only you we’ve got to worry about.
We’ll move you to a safe house, someplace that Wallace’s men won’t be looking
for you.”

Nathan shook his head. “I’m staying here.”

“You
can’t. This place—well, I’m sorry to say it, but compared to the rest of the
city, it stands out like a sore thumb. Your address isn’t exactly private
information these days, either. I’m pretty sure half the population’s been to
one of your parties, which means if the mob is looking for you, you’re making
yourself damn easy for them to find. And if they do…”

I
trailed off, hoping Nathan’s imagination would fill in the blanks. He stood up,
turned his back on me, and visited the bar at the far end of the room, prying a
tumbler from the other side along with a bottle of what looked like whiskey.

“This
is my home,” he said as if I’d somehow forgotten. “But I’m not going to pretend
like Wallace’s men don’t scare me, because they do. I’m not the fighter type. I
guess you’d call me more of a lover.”

Although
he wasn’t facing me, I distinctly detected the smirk in his tone when he said
that last bit. A moment later, he cast a glance at me over his shoulder as if
to confirm I understood what he was implying. I shook my head, and he
continued:

“But
that being said, I’m not about to let some IRA rejects run me out of my home.
There are some things a man just can’t abide, and for me, turning tail and
running is one of them. So if we’re going to do this, detective, then we’re
going to do it my way. The city can spare some officers to guard my home, I’m
sure, and if not, there’s always private security—”

I held
up my hand, signaling for him to stop talking. He frowned and opened his mouth
to speak again, but I gestured more firmly this time, settling my gaze on the
floor as I listened hard to the silent, empty house.

It
wasn’t so silent anymore. There were footsteps downstairs, heavy and
deliberate. I closed my eyes and focused, trying to ascertain how many there
were.

Two… three… four… five…

There
were five men downstairs. I was sure of it. I finally looked back up at Nathan
and whispered:

“Were you expecting any company?”

He
shook his head, flattening his lips into a thin, grim line as I stood and
slipped my sidearm out of its holster.

“I didn’t call for backup,” I told him.

Then,
holding up my hand again to signal Nathan to wait, I readied myself for the
worst and approached the study doors.

I
listened carefully. I could hear them talking on the first floor. They all
seemed to still be centered in the atrium. I wet my lips, surrendering to the
pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I
hadn’t come here prepared for a fight. Not a firefight, anyway. But that was
the thing about being a cop: whether you knew it or not, your life was always
on the line.

Stay,
I mouthed to Nathan, hoping to get my point across. I
couldn’t have him in the crossfire. If things went south, then it was best he
was out of harm’s way. I might need a clear shot.

He
sipped his whiskey like the sounds downstairs were nothing, but I could see his
hand was shaking. His emerald eyes stayed trained on me as I quietly opened the
door and slipped out into the hall.

Outside
of the study, I could hear their voices much more clearly. They weren’t being
subtle in the least. Were they hoping to flush Nathan out?

If so,
that probably meant they’d come prepared to subdue him. I hoped to God that
they hadn’t considered the possibility that Nathan owned a gun.

There
was a lilting brogue that might have been charming under any other
circumstances coming from the stairs. “Oi, make sure you get the rugs and the
drapes. Don’t leave any room untouched.” I took that to mean he was the leader,
and most likely the one I should be speaking with.

Nathan’s
mansion wasn’t exactly easy to get to. Though it was still within the city
limits, it toed the line. It’d take backup ten, fifteen minutes to get out here
in full force. I didn’t have that kind of time. I’d have to negotiate.

I
stopped at the end of the hall leading to the rail. Through it, I could see the
man on the stairs. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans with a pair of
scuffed-up work boots, but I didn’t see any weapons on him.

As I
surveyed the rest of his crew, I didn’t spot any on them, either. That was
good. That meant that these were just thugs hired to beat a little sense into
Nathan.

Or,
judging by the gas cans they were carrying, burn down his house.

Maybe
both.

I came
around the corner fast, gun drawn, and aimed at the one on the stairs, their
blue-eyed leader with a pathetically stereotypical Celtic band tattooed on his
bicep.

“Police,”
I said, breathing evenly to steady my gun. It was easy to let nerves and
adrenaline get the better of you, no matter how experienced you were. “Drop the
gas. Now.”

The
other four paused, glancing at their ringleader, who regarded me with one of
the coldest stares I’d ever suffered. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders
and set the can down on the stair beside him, holding up his hands, his palms
facing out.

“We
don’t want any trouble, miss,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and filled
with dark promises. Despite his hulking frame, there was something distinctly
serpentine about him. “Just came to have a little chat with Mr. Hale, is all.”
He looked past me and down the hall. “Is he in?”

I
narrowed my eyes. “I’m
Detective
Williams,” I replied. I wasn’t about to
give up any more information than I had to. “And you’re trespassing on private
property.”

“Well,
I’m Francis O’Rourke, and the garden door was wide open,” he insisted, those
glacial eyes sending icicles straight into my core. “Figured we’d come in and
see if our
friend
was about. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

There
was no way I was bringing Nathan out here. We’d be swarmed in seconds. A cool
bead of sweat raced down my spine. I was glad that I was sweating in places
this guy couldn’t see. I didn’t want him to think I was nervous.

But
somehow, I got the impression that he already knew. I felt like he could smell
it on me, like his crooked grin mocked the blood rushing in my ears. This was a
bad situation. There was no denying that. But there was also no reason to add
any fuel to the fire.

So to speak.

“I know
who you are,” I said, keeping an even tone. “You’re Peter Wallace’s men. And I
doubt, given Mr. Hale’s sizable estate, that you’re carrying those gas cans in
here to help ease the burden of his fuel costs.”

Not a
single one of them uttered a word. I had their attention, though. That had to
count for something. There was no way these guys were going to let me arrest
them without a fight, and I wasn’t ready to die protecting Nathan’s pompous
ass. Rules be damned.

I
continued: “I’m giving you a chance to walk away. Get out of here and don’t
come back. Tell whoever Wallace’s right hand man is to back off, or…”

“Or
what
?”
O’Rourke sneered, eyeing me defiantly. “You’ve got no backup, girl. You’re all
alone here with me and my boys. Sure, you might be able to take out a few of
us, but not all. I’m willing to bet that you miss at least once, and that’s all
it’ll take.”

“And
then you’ll go away for killing a cop. You know what they do to cop killers on
the inside?”

He
smirked and glanced down at the gas can near his feet. “Nothing, Detective. Not
a damn thing if they never find the body.”

I
clenched my jaw. This was not going well. “You’re threatening me? I’m giving
you fair warning. Leave now, before things get ugly.”

“And
I’ll say it again,” he replied, taking one step up toward me. “Or
what
?”