Laws of Attraction (21 page)

She was safer in his house than anywhere else, but after this latest debacle, he didn’t fully trust her not to bolt.

And why wouldn’t she? He’d pushed her way too far, way too fast. The cutting-board clattered onto the countertop. Where the
fuck
was his brain … besides the tiny one in his pecker that seemed to be doing all the thinking?

He had no business taking Mia to bed. She was just part of this
job
.

He grabbed a chopping knife and started butchering jalapenos and onions. Only. Another. Con.

And when this was done … so was he. Over and out. Like always.

Not to mention that some other bastard had already done a helluva number on her, and she didn’t deserve another.

She was so beautifully responsive to his every look, every touch, he’d been horrified when she’d frozen on him. He cleaved an onion with enough force to stick the blade into the wooden board. What
sonofabitch
had battered her and left her so wary of trusting anyone that she couldn’t even allow herself sexual release?

Dallas yanked open the fridge, jerked out a package of ground sirloin. He’d already blown his only serious relationship. The one woman who’d convinced him to try living together had been a quietly earnest nurse with a mile-wide compassionate streak. But eventually his all-consuming devotion to his mission, his worries about her safety because of it—and his web of endless lies—had driven her away.

No other woman had interested him enough to even
consider
taking another shot at commitment. Until the intriguing Miss Linden.

And wasn’t he a fine one to be poking around in her psyche and giving her advice—when he was packing more baggage than Dallas/Ft. Worth International? Who the
hell
did he think he was, Doctor-Fucking-Phil?

The meat sizzled as it hit the hot cast-iron skillet on the stove. Whether Mia Linden wanted it or not, he
would
protect her.

She had to be safe with him.

Safe
from
him.

Dallas finished slapping together the chili. Then leaving the covered pot simmering, he stalked downstairs to beat the shit out of his punching bag.

He’d damned well better get his act together. Before his negligence was responsible for killing another woman he cared about.

Two and a half hours later, Dallas stepped out of the guest shower. He’d restocked toiletries at the store, so thankfully there’d been no need to disturb Mia, who was still holed-up in his bedroom. He dried himself with a towel he’d found in the laundry room, then yanked on clean clothes. He’d managed to pound off most of his fury during the workout. But a low flame still burned deep in his gut.

Two more weeks, max. That’s all the time he figured it’d take for the mistrust and animosity between Esteban and Grayson to explode. Especially after he lit the fuse. He only had to hold out that long.

After a decade of relentless focus on his singular goal, two weeks should be a cakewalk.

But in order to start the clock ticking toward the final countdown, he needed Mia.

For only fourteen more days.

Ignoring the wrench of pain in his chest, he left the bathroom and strode down the hallway.

* * *

Inside Dallas’ bedroom, Mia sat cross-legged on the floor, showered and changed into new black skinny jeans and a T-shirt the color of pistachio ice cream—courtesy of her husband.

She’d called Val to give her the new cell number and check on Jared’s dad, who was recovering well. Of course Val had known by the shaky sound of her voice something was up, but Mia had claimed a migraine.

After the call, Mia had executed an hour-long concentrated kata before her almost equally long shower, in an attempt to diffuse her roiling confusion.

Now she inhaled, exhaled, in a slow, even rhythm, striving for centered meditation.

Which she might achieve in maybe … a week.

The terrifyingly soft, needy emotions and yearning physical awareness that Dallas had aroused refused to retreat quietly back into submission. Whenever he touched her, she turned into a quivering, begging weakling. She gritted her teeth.
Dammit
, she commanded her emotions and her body—not him.

A brisk knock on her door made her jump. “Mia,” Dallas called.

“Go away,” she ordered, as much to her own traitorous feelings as to him. Facing him was still way too nerve-wracking. “I’m busy.”

“Supper’s almost ready.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Dear Lord. I’ll call 9-1-1. Hang on, honey, help is on the way.”

She choked on a laugh in spite of herself. How did he do that? “Seriously, McQuade, just go away, okay?”

From the other side of the oak panel, he bawked like a chicken. The bastard.

Mia got up and stomped to the door. She flung it open to see Dallas lounging against the frame in a white T-shirt that sculpted his wide shoulders and powerful torso to male perfection, his long, hard-muscled legs molded by snug Levi’s, and his feet bare.
Temptation a la mode
.

Her mouth watered, and she flushed hot.

One devilish brow arched. “Hungry after all?”

She smothered her desire. “Depends on what’s on the menu.”

“Five-alarm chili.” He grinned fiercely. “And during supper, a strategy to finally hammer Grayson and Montoya to the wall.”

The breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding escaped in a rush. “Oh, I am so
in
.”

She followed him to the kitchen, where he put her to work chopping veggies for a salad.

He pulled a box of cornbread mix from a cupboard, dumped in milk, and cracked eggs. “Afraid you’ll have to settle for prefab here, my culinary skills are pretty much limited to chili and anything I can throw on the barbecue.”

She knew him well enough by now to understand he’d given her a task that enabled her to save face by looking at something other than him … while his casual banter was meant to put her at ease.

Okay, they weren’t going to discuss sex—or the lack thereof. The lead ball in her stomach dissolved. “If someone else is cooking for me, I have no complaints.”

He slid the batter-filled pan into the oven. “Do you cook?”

“I make a mean batch of chocolate-chip cookies from a package. And brownies from a mix. And chocolate cream pie fresh from the freezer section.”

He chuckled. “Woman, she doth live by chocolate alone.”

“Why not, chocolate is better than se—”

Biting off the damning word in the nick of time, she slid a cucumber slice into her mouth, then licked her fingers.

Dallas’ teasing attention lingered on her lips, his eyes darker than midnight sin. “Maybe you just need to try a different brand.”

She managed to swallow without strangling. Barely. “So, what’s this about a plan to finish Grayson and Montoya?”

He turned and began ladling steaming chili into bowls. “Have a seat at the bar, and I’ll fill you in while we eat.”

Once they were both seated with hot chili and cornbread, crisp salad, and cold beers, he glanced over at her. “How
did
you first connect Montoya to the Graysons?”

“The day before Harper fired me, I’d left a brief at the office I wanted to review over lunch. I popped by for it on what was supposed to be Harper and Paul’s usual Wednesday off. I thought nobody else was there, then I heard raised voices from Harper’s office. He doesn’t raise his voice, and the tone of the conversation sounded really tense. So I ah …”

“Snooped.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Investigated. I overheard enough buzz words like ‘cocaine shipment’ and ‘car bomb’ to incite suspicion. I also got a quick look at Montoya. He wasn’t on our official client list. Once I found out the Graysons were playing dirty, I suspected Montoya was one of their playmates.”

“It’s a damned good thing they didn’t catch you, or—” His Adam’s apple jerked on a hard swallow.

“I told you, I’m careful.”

He shook his head. “How well do you actually know Paul Grayson?”

“What part of not flogging a dead horse don’t you comprehend, cowboy?”

“Now don’t go getting your back up. I didn’t mean in the Biblical sense.”

“There was no
knowing
, Biblical or otherwise. We had one—really disgusting—kiss, and that is all.”
Mostly
. Why she felt compelled to tell him even that much, she hadn’t a clue.

“But do you know enough about him or his father to Gazoo
their
computer passwords?”

“Hmm … I’ve known Paul since law school. We hung out a lot, used to be so-called friends, and he told me a lot about his father. So … maybe. Why?”

“It occurred to me if the Graysons are laundering Montoya’s money and cooking his books for him, then they’d keep two sets of figures. One for public consumption, and the real deal. And perhaps, since Montoya is currently missing a million dollars … they might have
more
than two sets.”

“You think Harper and Paul are skimming off Esteban?”

“They worship the almighty dollar. And they’d have him by the short hairs. He could hardly go to the cops and file charges.”

“If Esteban found out Harper and Paul took his money— Wow! I’d give my right arm to be a fly on the wall for that confab!”

“Fortunately, no amputations will be necessary. When it happens, I’ll be there, and I’ll be wired.”

“No way. You honestly think Montoya will take you to such a sensitive meeting?”

“A smart man would bring his very discreet—and armed to the teeth—head of security to any potentially volatile confrontation. Esteban didn’t claw his way to the top of the cartels by being stupid or careless. But mix powerful men and millions of dollars, and tempers are bound to flare. When they do, even the smartest people say things they ordinarily wouldn’t.”

“And while a warrantless wiretap won’t be admissible in court, all we need is just
one tangible piece
of evidence of crimes being committed to get the FBI or DEA or Homeland Security … or all of the above … to launch a full-scale investigation! Proof of one fraudulent bank account, or emailed details of one illegal transaction, or payment for one arranged hit. And once Grayson and Montoya get investigated, they’re going down.”

“Yep. The Montoya cartel has been linked to drugs, dirty money, and terrorism for over a decade. But no concrete evidence ever survives. A lot of different agencies have been trying to nail Montoya for a long, long time. They’d jump at the intel.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve made it my business to know.”

“This could work!”

“We’ve a better than average shot at it, if we can get into the Grayson’s computer files, find any damning emails and another set of books. Even locating which offshore banks he deals with would help. If we can prove Harper is stealing from Montoya and set up a confrontation—we can play one off the other. And bust this wide open.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “Harper and Paul keep their computers in their locked offices. With security cameras on duty 24/7, and security guards patrolling at night. The building itself as a whole also has crackerjack security. You don’t think … would he feel it’s secure enough to keep his illegal dealings on file there?”

“It’s worth a shot. Stashing them on the business computer, he could try to disavow all knowledge if they’re ever found, pin the blame on someone else in the law firm.”

Mia lost her appetite. Harper and Paul were experts at playing pin the blame.

“Do you know Janet, and would she have access to the office keys?”

She took a sip of beer, hoping it would help ease her anxiety. “She has them for the main office. I doubt the Graysons would trust her with their personal ones. Janet’s worked there for years, and is a favorite target of Paul’s harassment. She was privately one of my staunchest supporters when Harper fired me. How do you know about her?”

“I met her last week when I escorted Esteban to see his lawyer. I put a stop to Paul’s unwanted advances, and finagled her a raise.”

“You bargained a raise out of Paul? He’s as tight with his money as he is sleazy.”

“I managed to persuade him to cooperate after I saw the jackass hitting on her.”

“Okay, I’m impressed. You definitely have skills, Dallas McQuade.”

He grinned at her. “And you know it, sugar.”

Not enough beer in the universe to cool her sudden hot flash.

Dallas finished off his cornbread. “I’m pretty sure I can convince Janet to give us a hand, especially if she knows I’m working with you.”

“There’s no way we’re getting into that building at night, much less upstairs. Even having Janet’s office keys won’t work. Every floor is locked down. The elevators are locked down. And it’s too well-patrolled.”

“Then I go in during business hours.”

She dropped her spoon. “Giant. Clanging. Brass. Balls.”

Dallas chuckled. “Are there any times when both Grayson Senior and Junior are out of the office?”

“When they’re in court together, but— Wait! Oh my God,
yes
! Harper and Paul golf, wine, and dine affluent clients every Wednesday. They’re both at their exclusive club all afternoon. And most of the other attorneys practicing on that floor leave for lunch, giving us a thirty to sixty minute window of opportunity!”

His steady gaze held hers. “Then damned lucky for us, Wednesday is day after tomorrow.”

Mia inhaled a shuddering breath. “You realize what you’re risking?”

“No guts, no glory, sweetheart.”

But he had no idea what
she
was risking. Excitement edged with apprehension tightened her muscles. This was
the
break she’d been waiting for! And in order to grab it, she’d have to walk right back into the lion’s den.

The consequences for her could be far more disastrous than Dallas realized. If she were caught, Harper and Paul already had the ammo to send her to prison … for a very long time.

With the moment at hand, did she have the guts?

She swigged the rest of her beer. Plunked it on the counter. “Let’s do it.”

“All right,” he said evenly. “To start with, you won’t be going inside.”

“What? Why not?”