Make Mine a Marine (66 page)

The prospect of doing the research left a lazy smile on his features, which lingered as he pulled a cup from the dispenser and reached for the coffee.

"My God, she's a tough broad." Wyatt Carlisle and his lawyer sauntered into the break room, sharing a relieved laugh at Emma's expense. "You think there's anything about Consolidated she hasn't asked us? I bet she's a witch in bed. Nah. I bet she's hard on us because she doesn't get it hard anywhere else."

Drew crushed the Styrofoam cup in his fist. He read the letters of the brand name on the glass coffee pot in his right hand, controlling the impulse to break it across Carlisle's face.

So the pudgy CEO was a chauvinistic lowlife. Emma's concerns had been about the legitimacy of his profit margin. She was so damn driven to keep everything legal, honest, and aboveboard. But Drew didn't think Carlisle's business practices needed watching—he wanted to know about the man himself.

Drew schooled his protective temper and decided that a bit of fade-into-the-woodwork listening would be appropriate. Just play the flunky.

He poured himself a cup of fresh coffee and busied himself with cleaning up his mess at the counter, while Wyatt and Daniel Forsythe worked around him. Wyatt took four sugars. Drew averted his face to hide his scowl. So that's how Carlisle got the stomach for all his sweet-talking.

"I think you need to back off a bit, Wyatt," warned Forsythe, pulling out a chair and sitting at the glass-topped table. "Or she won't go for the deal."

"Here ya go." Drew nodded and accepted the wrappers Wyatt handed him to put in the trash. Good, thought Drew. If the bum thinks I'm unimportant, he'll feel free to talk his heart out.

Wyatt picked up a cinnamon roll that had been sitting out since early that morning and sat in a chair across from Forsythe. "I'm not worried, Daniel," he said. "If I'm too nice, she'll get suspicious. She likes playing hardball. If you know what I mean."

"She knows her stuff. She questioned everything we padded."

Wyatt grunted. "She's got too much time on her hands. Now, there's a babe who needs to get laid.  Wouldn't you like to do the Iron Maiden? Just once? Knock the stuffing out of her? I could stand to have those legs wrapped around me." The bile in Drew's stomach turned over with barely contained rage. The idea of that scum touching—the idea that he'd even talk about touching—Emma seared through him with an angry vengeance.

He forced his shoulders to remain relaxed as he glanced over to see Wyatt licking icing off his fingers with a satisfied smile. Forsythe studied his coffee cup, either bored or disgusted with his boss's line of talk.

Fine. So Drew only needed the strength to toss one bastard through the plate-glass window overlooking the garden.

"Wyatt, watch your mouth." Forsythe had looked up from his coffee. Drew turned away and pretended to study the selection of snacks in a vending machine. "LadyTech's big enough to swallow up and spit out Consolidated a dozen times over. You're lucky she's even considering paying top dollar for your company."

Carlisle frowned and tossed his roll on the table. "I don't want to sell. But I wasn't given a choice, and you know it."

Now, there was an interesting tidbit of information. Drew noted Wyatt's forced motivation in his mental log, right next to the notation that said the scumbag should never be allowed to even look at a female, much less mention a lady's name again.

"Wyatt…" For the first time since entering, Drew felt the focus of eyes upon him. But Forsythe was too late in trying to shut up his client.

"If he wasn't paying me good money to do this, I wouldn't have a thing to do with the Iron Maiden."

Drew tossed his coffee cup into the trash and turned. He looked at the half-eaten roll in the middle of the table and shook his head. He gave the lawyer a cursory glance, then stared right at Wyatt Carlisle, memorizing every line in that cheese-puff face. "Gentlemen."

He nodded once and swept out of the room, imagining the silence before Wyatt started chastising his lawyer for warning him off in front of witnesses.

So Carlisle and Consolidated Technologies were just a front for someone else. Emma had suspected something already when she’d studied Consolidated's fourth-quarter profits. Drew climbed the stairs and wondered if his word was good enough for her to stall negotiations on the buyout until he could check out where Carlisle had gotten the money to pad his accounts.

Drew slowed his pace, less worried about exposing Moriarty and saving LadyTech from a potential loss than about a problem that hit him much closer to home. Some problems required patience and savvy and days of investigation. Others required immediate action, like protecting himself when Brodie Maxwell had cut off his windpipe, or scum like Wyatt Carlisle were allowed to walk the planet.

He'd seen Forsythe's locked briefcase in one of the guest offices which Emma's visitors were using as their base away from home. Drew needed answers.

And the best way to get an answer was to go straight to the horse's mouth.

Chapter
Eight

Drew sat in the dark room and rested his body. He propped his legs up on the desk and leaned back in the chair, studying the outline of his shoes. He'd picked the lock on Forsythe's briefcase and found about what he expected—documents full of legalese, a report on LadyTech, and—not too surprising—a cashier's check from one James Moriarty.

At first, the check, made out to Consolidated Technologies, gave Drew a charge of adrenaline. The pieces to this disconnected map were beginning to fall into place. And all roads led to Emma and LadyTech.

But Drew's victory was short-lived. Leaving the check and locking the briefcase behind him, he sat down to think. What kind of lawyer carried around proof that the company he worked for wasn't on the up-and-up? His impression of Daniel Forsythe was of a sharp legal counsel, way too smart to bring such evidence on the site of the company with which he was negotiating a deal.

Drew might be good at his job, but this was too easy. Relying on the telltale clench of his stomach, he suspected that this was some kind of setup. Bread crumbs through a forest of mystery and danger leading him right where someone wanted him to go.

Wyatt Carlisle was a different story. He reminded Drew of Stan Begosian. Though different in size and shape, the man was a weasely, two-bit crook. They both had weaknesses which a tougher criminal like Moriarty could exploit. Just as they, in turn, exploited their own victims.

A rustling sound in the hall diverted him from his thoughts. Drew's focus zeroed in on the doorknob as it turned. The light snapped on, the door opened, and Drew enjoyed a rush of satisfaction at the startled look on Wyatt Carlisle's face.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

Drew entertained himself by watching Carlisle adjust his tie and the sleeves of his jacket, then fiddle with his collar and go back to the tie again. Now this was a moment worth savoring, seeing Mr. Cheese-puff squirm.

"You like Emma Ramsey, don't you, Carlisle?" Drew inspected his fingernails, as if discussing nothing more important than the weather.

Wyatt huffed over to the desk and stood on the opposite side. "I get it. You're the guy she's doin'. I didn't mean anything by that stuff in the break room. It's just guy talk. You know."

When Carlisle's prattling ran out of steam, Drew finally stood. Even in a relaxed stance, he towered over the other man. He didn't raise his voice or make a fist or even lean toward him. He touched the frame of his glasses with his index finger, straightening them on his nose and drawing Wyatt's attention to Drew's narrowed eyes.

"The next time you feel the need to share your crude fantasies about Emma"—the pudgy man caught his breath and stepped back, as if Drew had threatened to beat the snot out of him—"don't."

Wyatt sputtered, searching for a snappy comeback, searching for anything to say, looking like the fool he was. Drew walked to the door. When he heard the unguarded sigh of relief behind him, Drew turned. "Oh, and Carlisle? Tell Moriarty I'm onto him."

Carlisle's visible flinch, and the drain of color from his pasty face, were the only proof Drew needed to know he was on the right trail.

* * *

Emma cursed, calling herself every name she'd ever heard her father use, after lying to BJ and sneaking out of the restaurant where they'd gone for an impromptu moms' night out. She was no fool. She knew she'd been invited out to keep her occupied while Drew returned to Lucky's to check out Clayton Roylott and his cronies.

By the time BJ would figure out the deception, the taxi Emma had called from the restroom would have taken her several blocks away. By the time BJ could get to the house and relieve Brodie of babysitting duties to come after her, she'd be just a nameless patron blending in at Lucky's.

She cursed again, more gently this time, alternately blaming and loving Drew's failed attempt to keep her away from a potentially risky situation. It was a risk she was willing to take if it meant finding a link to Jonathan.

With the smaller Monday night crowd, she had no trouble getting in and finding a secluded booth in a corner where she could watch the people corning in the front door as well as the curtain behind the bar that masked the hallway leading to the back rooms.

As she waited for her diet soda to arrive, she studied the growing crowd. The dance floor was smaller than she remembered. Maybe that was just an illusion brought on by her need to simply get out of there last Saturday night, and get away from Drew and all the frightening things he made her feel.

She looked for the distinctive shade of his blond hair, but didn't see it. From her position, she could only see the first two tables at the entrance to the gambling area. No Drew there, either. She supposed she could take a walk and explore further, but she had a hunch that anything interesting would happen behind that black curtain.

A polite waiter brought her drink and waited for her to taste it before taking her money and leaving. Emma took another sip and checked out the rest of the staff in their white shirts and black vests and arm bands. Each of them looked too young to have been the man she'd heard the other night.

Maybe he was someone she'd done business with herself. But none of the clients she could think of had a bar listed in his portfolio. And if that man was simply a customer with back-room privileges, she'd have no way to connect him to Lucky's.

What could she do to find out the man's name? Or get a look at his face? There must be something more productive than just sitting here and waiting for the right man to walk by. What would Drew do in this situation?

He'd take action, Em decided. He'd make something happen. She could make something happen, too. If she could just get into those back offices.

"You by yourself tonight?" A gray double-breasted suit appeared in her side vision a moment before she felt the light touch on her shoulder.

Startled from her thoughts, Emma's hand shook, and soda sloshed over the sides of the glass. She mopped the spill with the beverage napkin, but it was too soaked to dry her fingers. She set down her glass and fumbled for a tissue in her purse.

"Here. Allow me." A crisp, white handkerchief dangled before her eyes. She followed the line of the man's arm up and looked into the face of Clayton Roylott.

A shimmer of fear moved through her, followed by a stronger feeling of opportunity presenting itself. She couldn't immediately tell if he recognized her or not, but the gleam of appreciation in his eyes was unmistakable. If he remembered her and considered her trouble, he didn't care. While Emma swallowed her distaste at the realization that she could use her feminine attributes to get what she wanted, she silently applauded her foresight to wear her hair down and dress in the clingy cream-colored sweater dress that hugged her body like a second skin.

"Thank you." She accepted his handkerchief and wiped her hand, making herself smile when he slipped into the seat on the opposite side of the booth. She held up the cola-stained cloth. "I hope I haven't ruined it."

"Cloth is cheap. Coming to a beautiful woman's aid is priceless. Keep it." Despite his pockmarked face and oily line, he was a compelling man, olive complected with large brown eyes and jet-black hair. He wore it short, with nary a lock out of place. How could a woman be tempted to touch that hair-sprayed coiffure? Her fingers suddenly burned at the memory of burying themselves in Drew's silky mane. She made a fist in her lap, trying to dispel the disturbing sensation and ignore the comparison. She needed to stay in the moment, to stay in character.

Act interested
, she advised herself. "It's nice to see that chivalry isn't dead."

He beamed with pleasure and extended his hand across the table. "Clayton Roylott. We met Saturday, but I didn't catch your name."

So he did remember her. "Emma…" She nearly said Ramsey and almost choked at the blunder.
Real smooth
, she chided herself. If he knew the men who worked with Stan Begosian, he would surely know her name But she froze the slight smile on her face, and doctored her maiden name to cover the slip. "Emily Kane."

He held her hand longer than necessary. When she pulled away, he leaned back and asked if she wanted another drink. She turned down his offer and waited while he ordered a neat scotch from a passing waitress whom he called by name, without ever taking his eyes from her. Emma crossed her legs one way, then the other, hiding her desire to squirm beneath his never-ending scrutiny. If he remembered her, he must remember Drew as well. Their little performance in the hallway should have clued him in that she belonged to another man. But Roylott's interest indicated it didn't make any difference to him.

"So what brings you to Lucky's?" he asked, as the waitress hurried away to fill his order.

Emma tried to think of the right questions to ask to elicit information about the man’s boss, the man who had threatened Begosian. But until the right idea came, she'd simply have to play along. "I'm looking for someone."

"Me, I hope."

How could she do this without arousing his suspicions? She saw a woman at the next table tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. Emma picked up her glass and copied the absentminded stroking. Roylott's attention shifted to the glass, away from her face. He'd be less apt to catch her in a lie if he didn't focus on her eyes.

"Meeting you again is a pleasant surprise, and maybe you can help me," she said.

His attention moved to the cleavage behind the glass. "You know how I feel about damsels in distress."

She willed herself not to empty her churning stomach.
Keep it cool, Emma. That's what you do best.
"Do you work here, Mr. Roylott?"

"Clayton. It's more like I work out of here. I use it as a base in the Midwest." Male braggadocio kicked in when he started talking about his job success. "I have business in a lot of cities across the country."

Emma calmed herself a bit. Other than the leering fascination in his eyes, this wasn't all that different from a business meeting. "What kind of work do you do?"

"Now, do you really want to talk business?"

She set down her drink and leaned toward him. "I'm fascinated by it."

He tossed a ten dollar bill onto the table as he stood, and reached for her hand. "Then let's talk on the dance floor."

After a moment’s hesitation, Emma linked her fingers with his and let him pull her to her feet.  “All right.”

Now Emma was cursing her choice of clothes. Clayton held her close enough for her to feel the imprint of his jacket buttons. The palm of his right hand slipped farther down her back with each new measure of the slow dance tune. Before the song reached the coda, his hand was at her hip with his fingers spread toward her bottom.

She tried to keep from bolting by focusing on the busy bartenders behind them. By focusing on what the boss's voice had sounded like. By focusing on Jonathan's image. But nothing seemed to dispel the crawling sense of discomfort that crept across her skin. Forgetting the importance of staying in character, Emma grabbed his wandering hand and returned it to the small of her back. At his grunt of displeasure, she reminded him, "You said we'd talk business, remember?"

As if to punish her for denying his hand open range privileges, he tightened his arm at her waist and pulled her even closer, lifting her onto her toes so that her face was level with his. "I have lots of money and lots of power. That's all you need to know."

Images of her father's controlling anger sprang to mind, and Emma instinctively pushed against him. "I was more interested in who you work for." He pressed his forehead to hers, and for one God-awful moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he drilled his gaze into hers, and Emma went stone cold still. Only now, looking into Clayton's eyes, did she truly understand what Drew had meant when he'd said these men were criminals.

Fear and common sense and the memories of surviving her father's wrath made her suddenly compliant.  She dropped her gaze to his chin. "That is, if you don't mind me asking."

That's better. She got the message as clearly as if he'd spoken the words out loud. Her meek request seemed to calm Clayton's anger. She showed no outward reaction this time when he moved his hand down to her rear and swayed to the music once more. "His name's Moriarty. It's not his real name.  But that's all you need to know. Other than the fact I make real good money with him."

Moriarty? He knew the man behind the journal and the stock buys and Stan Begosian's stalking terror? She needed a real name, a face to go with the information. But she wasn't sure how much longer she could play this part and let Clayton paw her.

"I'd like to meet this man of opportunity."

"Tonight, all you need is me, babe."

How could Drew do this kind of work? How could he subvert his tastes and values and feelings and play along with the bad guys without destroying himself? What kind of job had she asked him to do for her? Shrinking inside at only one night of working undercover, she could barely understand what kind of character and dedication it required of a man to mix it up with these lowlifes like Drew did. How could he become like these people and still walk away a hero? How could he play such a part and come out unscathed?