Deadly Pursuit (17 page)

“Huh,” Mateo said. “You gonna let her go?”

Trying to look bewildered and pissed off by such a random question, Jack glared. No way was he in the mood for twenty questions. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The good thing about Mateo was that even if he didn’t always keep his big mouth shut, he generally knew when to back off, like now. “Huh,” he said again.

Jack shot him a final glare, just to put a lid on the subject—forever—when a woman in blue scrubs walked up. Jack teetered on the edge of cardiac arrest, but then she smiled and he nearly passed out with relief.

“Which one of you is Jack? She’s asking for
Jack.”

Down the street and around the corner they went, a muscle in Dexter’s tight jaw ticking down the time remaining before he unleashed the full might of his undoubtedly explosive temper on her. After about two minutes, he pulled into an alley between two brick apartment buildings, parked behind a Dumpster and cut the engine.

His eyes were hot and cold at the same time, full of a flashing fury. His nostrils flared and his lips sneered. And despite all her internal pep talks about being brave, she cowered in her seat, afraid of this man in an unidentifiable way that was entirely different from the way she was afraid of her husband.

In all her desperation to recruit someone to her side, to balance the scales a little because Kareem had all the money, the personnel and the weapons and she had nothing, she’d forgotten that Dexter Brady was a man. At least fifteen years older than her, he was big and strong but not infallible or impenetrable, as she’d thought, with flesh and blood feelings that she’d never in a million years thought she could tap into.

“What the hell do you want, Mrs. Gregory?” he roared.

“Please.
Help me.”

“Why should I trouble myself to save your pretty hide? When did you ever try to save anyone but yourself?”

Now wasn’t the time to lie, much as she wanted to. “Never.”

This truth, perversely, made him angrier, until his walnut skin glowed red and he ejected the words from his mouth as though from one of Kareem’s semiautomatic weapons. “Never. You never did, did you?”

Without waiting for her answer, he snatched up her left hand and waved it in her face, reminding her of the unforgettable. A diamond eternity band, ten carats total weight. Snuggled next to that, a flawless five-carat Asscher-cut diamond engagement ring worth a quarter of a million if it was worth a dime. She intended to take it to a discreet jeweler as soon as she left here and find out exactly because this ring was her only nest egg for when she finally left Kareem. Once, when she’d been too young and stupid to know better, this ring had been her most prized possession. Now she saw it for what it was: a beautiful symbol of Kareem’s ownership and her status as a mercenary who’d done anything for money and what she’d thought was security.

Or was she a plain vanilla prostitute?

Most days it all blurred together.

“Did you ever think where the money for your bling came from, Mrs. Gregory? Did you ever think about all the kids who were using and dying because of your husband’s illegal activities? Did you ever think of any of that while you were living in your
million-dollar house and driving your Benz to church every Sunday?”

“Do you think you can accuse me worse than I can accuse myself?”

The righteous Dexter Brady didn’t like that. His eyes widened with unmistakable surprise and he flung her arm away, turning to his window, propping his elbow against it and staring out at the Dumpster. “Why should I help you?”

That deep voice was calm now, barely audible and back to its bored cadence, but Kira wasn’t fooled. She’d won. She knew it even if he didn’t. “We can help each other.”

“I don’t need your help,” he said to the window. “My boys ran a clean investigation. We got an indictment and a conviction. I’ll bring Jack back in, he’ll testify again, and we’ll get another conviction. Easy as pie. What are you going to do? Bake cookies for us to eat on the way home from the courthouse?”

“Kareem is still dealing, same as ever. I don’t think he’s even broken stride.”

“And you know this—how? Because he discussed his distribution network the other night in bed after he’d finished fucking you?”

She deserved that, yeah. But she didn’t like it.

“You don’t know what it’s
like
,” she cried. “I’m doing the best I can and I am trying to become a better person. I know the great and perfect Dexter Brady has never come down off his mountaintop long enough to mingle with us mortals and make a mistake, but try to understand what I’m going through.”

He stared at her. “You’re wrong about that. Being in this car with you is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. Mrs. Gregory.”

There was something new and disquieting in his eyes now, something that wasn’t hostility or disgust and that gave her the courage to push him a little further.

“Kira,” she told him.

Mistake. She knew it even before he blinked and looked to the Dumpster … the dashboard clock … anything that wasn’t her.

“What proof do you have that he’s up to his old tricks?”

“None,” she admitted. “Not yet.”

“Brilliant.”

“Look. Kareem’s hired a whole new legal team and they might get him off this time. Don’t you want to have as much spaghetti to throw at the wall as possible to make sure some of it sticks? Or do you want to risk Kareem staying out on the streets forever?”

“What about you testifying against him in open court? You ready for that? And that’s assuming you can testify and Kareem’s lawyer doesn’t block you on account of the husband-wife privilege.”

“I’m ready to do anything that’ll get Kareem out of my life for once and for all.”

His jaw dropped in a gape and he whipped his head back around to face her. “You don’t get it, Mrs. Gregory. He’ll never be out of your life until one of you dies.”

Oh, she got it. “I’m not asking that much.”

He snorted. “And all you want in return—?”

“Is protection when it’s all over. A chance. Which is more than I’ve got now. Do we have a deal?”

“How are you planning to get said proof without getting killed in the process?”

“How the hell should I know? I’m making this up as I go. Do we have a deal?”

“Depends.” He was all business now. “You bring me something to get excited about, and we’ll talk. I’m not going to bat for you on the basis of all the great information you might bring me one day if your schedule permits. You want to be an informant, you need to inform me of something I don’t already know.”

“I’m on it,” she told him.

“Jack,” Amara said groggily.

She was in the curtained-off recovery area with all the tubes, IVs and monitors that went along with it. One of those ugly-ass speckled blue hospital gowns was visible above the white sheet, and she struggled with the oxygen thing in her nose while he crept closer.

He was forcibly reminded of another hospital, another patient, another outcome.

And yet this moment was almost more unbearable because her eyes were still clever and bright and her will strong—he could see it—and she was still Amara.

There was a real danger that he’d embarrass himself. Just drop to his knees and sob with relieved joy until there was no water left in his body. Swallowing hard, he worked on not doing that. “Hey, Bunny.”

Just as she pulled the cannula out of her nose, a nurse swooped in and replaced it.

Amara scowled. “Tell her I’m a lawyer, Jack. I can sue her for this.”

Jack snorted with something that was more laugh than sob but definitely a little of both. “You have no
idea what you’re up against,” he told the nurse. “You should make it easy on yourself and let her take it out.”

The nurse didn’t look worried. “You need to tell
Bunny
here that I’ll cut her pain meds if she keeps it up.”

“There’s no need to get nasty,” Amara said.

Laughing, the nurse winked and bustled off.

And Amara held out her hand, the one with the IV line in it. “Come here.”

Jack hesitated. If she had any sense, she’d eject him immediately, and he almost felt it was his moral duty to tell her so. On the other hand, he would die if he didn’t touch her. Hurrying up, he took her hand and it was so soft, warm and
alive
that he lost it. Pressing his lips to the back, tubes and all, he cried, with shaking shoulders and the whole humiliating deal.

“I’m sorry about Daisy,” she said.

“I’m sorry about you.”

“Hmmm.” Her lids drooped and he could tell he was losing her to the drugs. “Don’t worry. Next time I’m going to duck behind you. I’ve already decided.”

He laughed again and there was less cry in it this time.

“What time is it?”

“I have no idea,” he told her.

“Did you take a nap? You look tired.”

Was this a joke?
He
wasn’t the one with extra ventilation in his side. “I don’t sleep.”

She cracked her bleary eyes back open. “What does that mean, you don’t sleep?”

“I snooze. I catnap. I don’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Would you sleep if someone wanted you dead?”

“Good point. They’re letting me go in the morning,” Amara murmured, her eyes closing again.

“I know,” Jack said. “You’re coming with me.”

Nightmarish as dinner with Kareem was, with Kareem’s hand skimming her bare thighs under the table, making her hot and wet no matter how much she hated herself for it, Kira wished she could extend it. What would he do when they got home? What would she do? Open her arms and legs to welcome him back?

At this rate? Yeah, she probably would.

Because she was a slut.

On the ride home, her jumbled thoughts nearly overwhelmed her. Dexter Brady’s image flashed through her mind, a bolt out of nowhere that lingered when she wanted him gone. His features were harsh, unforgiving and utterly fascinating, and his fingers, unlike Kareem’s, were the plain, unbuffed but neatly trimmed and strong fingers of a man who worked rather than a man who lied, cheated, killed and primped.

Don’t think about him, Kira.

Until she found some evidence to use against Kareem, she had to focus on hanging on. Had to be as cunning and cold-blooded as her husband. Had to somehow keep him out of her bed, which was damn near impossible when her weak body wanted him there.

Something intangible had changed between them today and suddenly the rules were different and the stakes were higher. Her whole
I need more time to rebuild the broken trust between us
gambit was no
longer working. He wanted her back,
now,
and she was so scared she could barely breathe. Every hour, minute, second and nanosecond of every single day of her miserable life, she was scared out of her freaking wits because an impatient Kareem Gregory was a dangerous man.

She had to play her cards exactly right. There was no room for error.

So when they got home and Kareem suggested a drink, she plastered that damn good-wife smile on her face and said, “Great,” like she meant it.

And, wouldn’t you know, just when she thought the night had gotten as bad as it was going to get short of Kareem barging into her bedroom in the middle of the night, it got worse. Wanda, Kareem’s mother and Satan’s Gucci-clad surrogate here on earth, waited for them on her perch in the leather armchair in the corner.

Kira pretended she was Halle Berry and really started to act. “How was your evening, Wanda? I thought you were playing cards tonight.”

Wanda sipped her scotch before she answered. “Betty canceled on us, so we didn’t have a foursome.”

“That’s too bad.”

Wanda turned to Kareem, stood, and received his kiss on the cheek. Kira tried not to snort because they did the whole kissy routine every time they saw each other, which was several times a day.

“How was your steak, Baby Boy?” Wanda asked him. “Was it cooked right?”

Kareem grinned. “Wasn’t bad. Wasn’t yours, though.”

Kira worked on not rolling her eyes. Neither Kareem nor Wanda had ever seen the need to cut the apron strings, so Wanda’s living here with them was the perfect arrangement. That way, Wanda could fawn
over Kareem’s every burp, fart, and sigh, and receive, in return for her never-ending devotion even in the face of the mounting evidence of Kareem’s evil, unlimited access to Kareem’s platinum cards, luxury cars, furs, and enough diamond jewelry to have a collection to rival the queen’s.

Kira was the only outsider here, but she was used to the feeling.

Kareem sat next to Kira, bringing the sporty scent of his cologne with him and frowning at the dog, who’d trotted in and climbed on her lap. “You’re getting hair on your dress, baby.”

“Leave the girl alone, Kareem,” Wanda said. “You know she doesn’t worry herself about clothes.”

Translation: your ungrateful wife doesn’t appreciate the expensive things you buy for her, son, but I appreciate you enough for both of us.

Kareem put Max on the floor and ignored his mother. “It’s time for bed.” He stroked Kira’s nape and, God, it felt good. All he had to do was touch her there, and she unraveled. She was sick, obviously. Her ongoing lust for this man was a sickness that could kill her, the same as AIDS or malaria.

With rising desperation, she scooted to the edge of the sofa and stood while Kareem tracked her every movement. His white-hot gaze scraped over every inch of her body, stripping away the dress, the bra and the panties until only his remembered intimate knowledge of her body remained, offering no protection whatsoever.

Kareem stood and extended his hand; she took it. What else could she do?

“Good night,” they both told Wanda, who craned her neck to watch them with sour interest as they
headed down the hall to the enormous curved staircase, and then they were climbing toward God knew what with Kira leading the way.

On the fourth step, he skimmed her bare thighs.

Eleven more steps to the top … ten … And then there was the cool rush of air below her waist as he raised her skirt high, baring her to the waist.

“Have mercy, Kira,” he muttered.