With Good Behavior (12 page)

Tommy nodded. “Here, let’s get him in a cab.” He knelt down. “Grant, you need to get up!”

Grant began laughing softly. “Donnn think ssso.”

“Shit. Now that he’s on the floor there ain’t no way we’re getting him up on his feet.” Glaring at Sophie, he proclaimed, “This is all your fault, you know! You’re the one who gave him booze.”

Tommy tapped his foot pensively while Sophie bit her lip, trying to figure out how to help. Then Tommy leaned in near Grant’s ear and barked, “Lieutenant Madsen! On your feet!”

Miraculously Grant scrambled up and snapped to attention.

Sophie marveled at this abrupt change. “Lieutenant?”

“He was in the Navy,” Tommy explained. “So was I, and so was Rog. I figured that would get his attention.”

“Huh,” Sophie mused, lost in thought. Visions of Grant in a crisp white uniform that hugged his lean body swam in her head. The perfect man just became more perfect. She wondered what else she would learn before the night was over.

“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” Tommy ordered, firmly grasping Grant’s elbow and leading him toward the stairs.

“Where we goin’, bossss?” he asked.

“Boss?” Tommy asked. “Don’t you mean ‘sir,’ you drunkard?”

A sad frown quietly crept over Sophie’s delicate features. She knew exactly why he was using the word “boss.” It was a term of respect for corrections officers, a word that made her shudder. Apparently Roger had not shared Grant’s prison history with his coworkers.

They made it to the street in the fading daylight and thankfully didn’t wait long for an available cab. A few minutes more and Grant might start singing again—or possibly start vomiting. He seemed more incoherent with each passing moment.

As Tommy helped her stuff Grant into the taxi, grunting with exertion, he asked, “So, you’ll be okay, then?”

“I think so,” she replied nervously, feeling Grant’s warm body close to hers in the backseat. His head lolled against the headrest, and his eyes were closed.

“I’ll lock up and go see about Rog,” Tommy said. “Catch you tomorrow.”

When Tommy closed the door, the cabbie looked at Sophie expectantly. She realized she had no idea where they were going. “Grant? What’s your address?”

He laid there motionless. “Grant!” she repeated, poking his shoulder. “Where do you live?”

“Studio,” he mumbled. “Eggs and sausage.” She scrunched her forehead. His next utterance was not any more helpful: “Snoring. Really 
loud
 ssssnoring.”

She gave up and told the cabdriver, “It’s 900 North Lake Shore Drive.” She hoped Kirsten wouldn’t be upset about an unannounced houseguest.

During the ten-minute cab ride, Sophie wondered how she was going to get an unconscious, six-foot-one man up to Kirsten’s apartment. However, about a minute into the drive, Grant came back to life. His long eyelashes fluttered open and he glanced around, his intense blue eyes coming to rest on the strawberry-blonde returning his gaze.

“Sophie.” He smiled, reaching out to caress her face with his hand. She held her breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her cheek softly. “You’re my angel. My elegant angel.”

Her face burned with his touch, and the heat only intensified when he leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of his full, luscious lips planting soft kisses, starting at her temple and then languorously descending to her jaw. She stroked the length of his thigh, urging him onward. His usual sandalwood scent had been replaced by the sweet, almost nutty smell of agave emanating from his pores. He was a walking tequila shot. Well, the walking part remained to be seen.

“We’re at 900 North Lake Shore,” the driver announced after the fastest cab ride ever. Sophie glanced at the meter and grimaced as she withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her pocket. Living in the city could sure cut down on her profits. As she started to hand over the cab fare, Grant, suddenly lucid, reached out and clutched her wrist.

“No, I got it,” he insisted, energized by kissing her soft skin. He quickly whipped out his own money despite Sophie’s protests. After he paid the driver they both managed to scoot out of the seat and stand at the curb.

“Where are we?” he asked.

She stared into his tired, half-lidded eyes. Grasping his hand in hers she told him, “We’re home, Grant.” He nodded gratefully. Indeed, when it came to Sophie, he definitely felt he had found his home.

T
he cries of seagulls could barely be heard over the pounding surf. A solitary man stood silhouetted against the setting sun’s brilliant orange glow. Frothy ocean waves crashed at the shore and raced toward his cowboy boots before receding once again. Like the repeated screw-ups in his own life, the waves just kept coming.

He was a strong, strapping man, and he cut an imposing figure if anyone were to study him from the beach. His black leather jacket and worn jeans were out of place in Hilton Head, South Carolina. He faced the mysterious and powerful sea, his chiseled features drawn with lines of worry and regret as his deep-blue eyes stared, mesmerized, at a piece of driftwood bobbing in the ocean.

Logan Barberi had been hiding out on this island for a little over a year, feeling as adrift and cast aside as the piece of weathered wood now capturing his attention. He had disappeared the moment Sophie called him, her voice shaking with betrayal and disbelief. It had taken only a few heatedly exchanged words for her to arrive at icy resolve. When she’d coldly informed him it was over, he’d realized she was lost to him forever. 
And
 that he’d better get the hell out of Chicago if he didn’t want to spend a long time locked away with his father.

“Sophie …” he whispered gruffly. The painful memories threatened to drown him.

As soon as Logan had entered her office, she asked, “Would you like some coffee? I can just go down the hall and get some from the break room.”

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he shook his head.

“I was hoping you’d come back.”

“Do I have a choice?” Logan retorted.

“We always have choices, Logan. You just might not like the consequences of particular choices. If you choose not to return to counseling, the consequence will likely be prison. That’s not such an appealing consequence, but you still have a choice.”

He shot her an uncomfortable glance. He despised being tied to her, betrothed to her stamp of approval. Once she gave him the thumbs up, confirmed that he was cured of his gambling addiction, he could end this little dance they performed once a week: her asking questions and him evading her at every pass. Nevertheless, Logan had realized he would miss her once this was over. She was beautiful and kind, a real classy chick. Certainly out of his league.

“I was worried that last week’s session might have been a bit rough for you,” she explained, and they both silently recalled him bawling like a baby as he discussed a childhood beating by his father. Sophie had assumed his tears were about failing to protect his brother back then. But she was wrong. What really hit him in the gut, causing him to weep uncontrollably, was his guilt about something that happened to them as adults. What he had done to his brother was unforgiveable.

“It was fine,” he lied.

Sophie gave a nervous smile. It was now time to address the kiss—the smoldering smooch Logan had planted on her as she tried to comfort him last week. The kiss she did not stop. The kiss that heated her to the core.

She cleared her throat. “Uh, I need to talk to you about something.”

He watched her slide her hands beneath her lithe, long legs, tucking the sides of her unusually long skirt against them. Dismayed to find those gorgeous gams hidden, Logan eyed her blushing cheeks curiously.

“The, uh …” She cleared her throat again. “When I sat next to you, and tried to, um, provide support as you were reliving that painful memory, well …”

Logan was amused to watch her avert her gaze, not daring to meet his intense stare. After her countless comments about how he refused to maintain eye contact, he enjoyed this little role-reversal.

“I—I’m flattered that, um, you kissed me,” she continued, her cheeks burning. “But that—that can’t happen again, Logan. That was, um, inappropriate. That was not right for a therapist and client to kiss.”

Although they were discussing a serious topic, Logan could not help but grin. She was absolutely precious all nervous and apologetic, and he felt warmth in his heart just looking at her.

Sophie glanced down and murmured, “I apologize for letting that happen. I exploited my power, and therefore I think it would be best to refer you to another psychologist.”

Logan’s grin vanished. “No way! I’m not seeing another shrink. If you try to refer me to someone else, I won’t go. And then it’ll be your fault when they send me to prison.”

At first she’d looked sympathetic and guilty. Now she was angry. “That is ludicrous! I am not responsible for your choices.” Looking away, she added, “I’m only responsible for my own. And my recent choices have not been looking out for your best interests. I don’t think I can be objective when it comes to you.”

He licked his bottom lip mischievously. “And why is that, Sophie?”

She glared at him. “My ethics code dictates that I am to avoid multiple relationships,” she explained, feeling protected by the intellectual-sounding words she used. “I can’t be your therapist and your … well, someone you kiss. I can’t be both.”

He exuded pure charm. “Well, if you’re drawing a line in the sand, I’m okay with just being the someone you kiss then.”

Her intense, serious expression lightened considerably upon hearing his retort, but she soon grew pensive and sad. “The second you walked through my door as my client, the possibility of romance between us ended. That’s just the way it is. That’s what my professional ethics demand. I have no choice.”

“You said we always have a choice, remember?”

She felt stymied to have her words thrown back at her. “I mean …”

“Listen,” Logan interrupted. “I get what you’re saying about ethics, blah, blah. And I would say I’m sorry for kissing you, but really I’m not. It was an incredible kiss, babe. But I promise it won’t happen again. Just give me another chance. Don’t make me go to prison, Sophie.”

He watched her falter. His false reassurances were starting to get to her. Driving forward, capitalizing on her compassion, he added, “Here I go to the trouble of bringing you a gift today, and then you want to kick me out of here? You want to abandon me?”

Sophie looked startled. “A gift?”

“Yeah.” He smiled proudly, reaching into his jacket. Handing a thick envelope to her, he explained, “This should help you with your student loans.”

Puzzled, Sophie reluctantly accepted the envelope and gasped when she looked inside, finding crisp one-hundred-dollar bills neatly stacked together. Her voice rose shrilly. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s five grand. I wanted to thank you for trying to help my sorry ass.”

“You already pay me one-fifty for each session. I can’t accept this!”

“What’s the big deal?” he asked defensively, his face falling. He’d expected her to be grateful. They’d just robbed a nightclub—effectively eliminating the biggest competitor to Angelo’s club, as well as pulling in a boatload of cash—and he wanted her to share in his good fortune.

“The big deal?” she repeated incredulously. “It’s exactly the same thing as you kissing me. It’s a boundary violation.” She stuffed the envelope back into his unsuspecting grasp. “I can’t take this, Logan.”

His prominent brow furrowed. This was not going as expected. People did not usually say no to him.

“Where did this money come from?” Sophie asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

“We got a consulting contract,” Logan lied. A few sessions back he’d finally answered her repeated questions about what he, his uncle, and his cousin did for a living. His initial responses of “run the family business” had not satisfied her. He’d told her his family owned a consulting business, figuring nobody knew what the fuck consultants did anyway. “Consultant” was an excellent cover for organized crime. After all, he would often demand that drug dealers or other thugs on the payroll “consult” with his fist if they didn’t stay in line.

Continuing to stare at him, her expression a mixture of anger, compassion, and uncertainty, Sophie had no idea what to say.

“Look, sorry I tried to do something nice for you, okay? I won’t do it ever again. Can we just forget this and move on?” Returning the envelope to his jacket, he began massaging his temples. “Um, could I get that cup of coffee you offered me before?”

She gave him a look of sympathy. “Caffeine headache?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Sophie frowned. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” she said, her voice softening. “It was sweet of you to try to help me. It’s just that this relationship has to have rules to make it work, okay? I can’t be an effective therapist if I’m your friend or lover.”

He stared at the floor, his rough hands moving from his temples to rub his scalp, appearing deep in thought.

“I’ll go get us some coffee,” she said.

Once she was gone, Logan took the envelope back out of his jacket and turned it over and over in his hands. He did not have a safe place to keep cash like this. He could hardly deposit the dirty money in a bank, and stashing it at his apartment was unwise as well since his cousin Carlo had a tendency to make unexpected visits. If he kept the cash on him, it would just be a matter of time before he gambled it away. Sophie believed he was making zero progress on his gambling addiction, but he really was trying to cut back. He didn’t want to disappoint her.

Hearing her footsteps outside the door, Logan swiftly stuffed the envelope underneath the sofa. It was the best hiding place he could think of. When she entered the office, he suppressed a grin. She’d accepted his gift after all.

Logan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, shaking him back to the warm beach. Seeing 
Restricted
 on the caller ID, he cautiously answered, “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Angelo Barberi informed him.

Logan exhaled slowly. “Godfather.”

“How ya doin’? You outside or somethin’?”

“Yeah, I’m at the beach. How you been?”

“Ah, same old, same old. Business hasn’t been great.”

Logan closed his eyes. For the past year, his uncle had been moaning about running the business without him, his right-hand man. The complaints and dropped hints had become louder of late, and Logan suspected he knew the nature of this call. Angelo wanted his godson to return to Chicago and resume his rightful place as heir to a Mafia throne.

“Sorry to hear that,” Logan responded. “How’s the heat in Chicago these days?”

“
Caldo
. Our police contact confirmed that you are still very much a wanted man.”

Logan exhaled. He had nobody to blame but himself for the police heat. They’d discovered too late that the Chicago PD had tapped family bodyguard Anthony Tanketti’s phone. Logan could still remember the conversation that had likely led the cops to Sophie:

“What do you want, Tank?” Logan growled into the phone.

Tank sounded offended. “Good to talk to you too, Logan. The, uh, ‘profits’ from our activities last week … they safe?”

Logan hesitated. “Who wants to know?”

“Carlo. He told me to ask you about it.”

“Carlo has nothing to worry about. I know how to take care of profits.”

Tank blurted, “You know how to lose it all in a poker game, too.”

“Fuck you, Tank.” Logan’s hands itched with the desire to punch him again. Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson the first time.

Tank backpedaled. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. You know how Carlo can get. He was having a hissy-fit about the cashish—you know what he’s like.”

“Yeah, I know,” Logan said, nodding. “Look, you can trust me. It’s safe. I’ve got someone on the side, taking care of things.”

“Who?” His voice was insistent.

“None of your fucking business. She’s fine—she won’t talk. And she’s got a real nice office. Nobody will find the money.”

Tank sounded impressed. “You getting yourself a little tail, Logan? Nice … very nice.”

Logan said nothing.

“Just watch out,” Tank warned. “Girls can weaken guys like us.”

“Logan, you still there? When’re you coming back?”

Angelo’s voice in his ear returned Logan to the present.

“How can I come home? It’s too soon, too dangerous.”

“Maybe,” Angelo acquiesced. “But I’m not calling about just business woes.” He took a dramatic pause, and Logan’s heart rate increased. “Your brother is out,” he finally said.

“Grant?” Logan’s voice rose. “He’s out? I thought he had another nine months.”

“According to Enzo, he got released with good behavior. Your brother was always a goody two-shoes, Logan.”

“How long has he been out?”

“About two weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”Logan practically shouted into the phone.

“Relax! It took me a while to secure a safe phone. The fucking feds have been riding our asses since Blackfoot.”

Logan sighed, recalling the botched delivery of stolen goods to the Blackfoot casino in Gary, Indiana. Several of their men had been arrested in the melee, though none of them had turned on the Barberi family. Yet. Carlo had arranged the delivery, and Carlo had fucked up once again.

Biting his lip, Logan inquired, “Does Carlo know Grant’s out?”