Finding Grace (19 page)

The rest of the bar had gone quiet by now, so Paul’s
voice, though soft and low, carried easily, “Problem, Thorne?”

The punk leader was the one who responded. “What do
you care about this faggot? He’s just a little freak who couldn’t
make it anywhere else.”

Both Paul and Jack looked surprised, but not as
surprised as she was when it was Farley who stood up and said,
“Yeah, but he’s
our
little freak.” The rest of the crew
stood too and the other patrons began heading quietly toward the
door.

She watched the leader. He was looking over the
Blackridge crew and was at least smart enough to be concerned, but
she doubted he’d be willing to back down in front of his peers.

He didn’t. “He’s yours? Kind of like a altar boy
with a bunch of priests, huh? Is it like that?”

She winced. Not smart enough, not by a long
shot.

The other men had moved to tables and the kid didn’t
notice Jack until he stepped away from the bar. His massive hands
hung loose at his sides; his face looked like it was made of
stone.

His voice was even softer than Paul’s. “Maybe you
wish it was you, huh, tough boy?” He took two steps closer to her.
She was afraid he was going to get all protective before she could
figure out what to do.

Her eyes met Jack’s and she silently begged him to
hold off.

By this time, the bartender had found his voice,
though it was neither soft nor low. “Darryl! Are you fucking nuts?”
he shrieked. “Tara would kill me if anything happened to you in
here.” Turning to Jack, he went on, “Look, Dagger, the kid didn’t
mean nothin’. He’s just real competitive, is all. My sister’s kid.
She was always the smart one, but she married a dumbfuck. How ’bout
a round for you and the boys, on the house?”

Thorne listened to him babbling and watched Jack
struggle to keep his promise to her. “Sounds nice.
After
Darryl here apologizes to Thorne.” He took another step. Hawks and
Markham nodded to each other and moved to cover the doors now that
the other patrons had cleared out. The rest of the men were still
standing, some with their arms folded, others with their hands
loose at their sides like Jack.

Thorne considered her options and came up with a
plan.

“Thanks, Jack, but what I really want is a challenge
game. I think Darryl’s just scared because he knows I’m gonna beat
that ass he’s so fucking worried about.”

She knew he’d take her up on it. He’d have a chance
to save face if he played the damn game. Everyone was surprised
when he beat her at the last minute. She’d been way ahead of him.
She stepped off the machine and offered him her hand, managing to
scratch him when he tried to pull it away. “Oh, sorry, Darryl.”

“Please pour your nephew one on me. He beat me fair
and square.” She bent down and rifled through her backpack,
pretending to look for something. “Uh, say, do you happen to have a
sandwich baggie back there anywhere? It looks like I’ve got a leaky
pen.”

The bartender just shrugged, completely confused and
immensely relieved. He didn’t notice later when she slipped the
shot glass Darryl had used into the bag, along with a discreetly
clipped fingernail.

She sat down with the crew, sipping another ginger
ale while she talked and laughed with them and promised to cover
the money they’d lost betting on her with the thugs. She knew she
hadn’t fooled any of them; it was obvious she’d thrown the game.
When someone asked her why in a whispered voice, she just smiled
her favorite Cheshire-cat smile.

* * * *

“So, Grace, tell me about Darryl.” They were en
route to her place. Dagger wanted this discussion over before there
was something much better for her to do with her mouth.

“He did it. Him and those thugs with him. I knew it
when I heard his voice, the things he said.”

Dagger frowned but Grace answered his question
before he could ask it. “Yeah, Jack, like I sometimes know about
other shit. They beat Trent’s William to death.”

Almost everything made sense now. “That explains the
scratch and the shot glass—your fingernail has his DNA and the
glass has his fingerprints. But why’d you throw the game? I had a
Grant on you to win,” he grumped.

“So there’d be witnesses to his initials on the high
score. Those same initials put him in the neighborhood the night
William was murdered. Besides, I already said I’d cover everybody’s
losses.”

“Never mind. That’s what I get for not reading you
better. Shit, Grace, I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“‘
Our.’” She said it like it was a new word
for her. “It felt great, Jack. The way everyone stood up for me.
They didn’t even know about the arrangement I made with Paul this
afternoon.” Grace was smiling and happy.

“What arrangement? I
am
a full partner in
Blackridge. How come you do all of this shit with Paul?” It
bothered him more than ever that Paul seemed to know more about her
than he did.

“Because it’s the boring shit that he takes care of.
I like to do other shit with you.” She laughed and slowly ran her
hand up his thigh, pressing along the inside seam of his jeans.

“You’re just trying to distract me.” His complaint
was less than half-hearted.

“So, you gonna just drop me off, then?”

If he hadn’t been carefully parking the caddy, he’d
have wiped that grin off her face with a kiss she’d never
forget.

Chapter Thirteen

Dagger had woken up early, showered, and dressed
while Grace slept. He was watching her chest rise and fall beneath
the sheet, wondering at the strange pulling sort of ache in his
chest. He’d gotten used to the one in his jeans, since it was
pretty much always there when she was near. But this was even more
uncomfortable because he refused to define it. Even thinking about
it made him feel vulnerable.

Dagger did death and mayhem, and the things that
went along with them. He did not do vulnerable.

It was bad enough that they’d spent the whole
weekend pretty much in bed, and it had only made him want her more.
Want more
of
her, too—hell, all of her, all of the time. The
blindfold thing was fun, but it was beginning to make him feel like
she was holding back, as though she didn’t trust him. And the idea
of returning to work today and pretending they weren’t together
bugged him, too. He’d had enough covert bullshit to last him a
dozen lifetimes. They were going to have to get a few things
straight before this went any further, before he lost his—

Her eyes blinked open and met his, soft and warm for
second before her whole body jerked. “You’re up.” She managed to
make it sound like an accusation he wasn’t in the mood for.

“Goddamn it, don’t you dare be fucking pissed at me
because I woke up before you and got ready. I sleep good with
you.”

“It’s a nice mattress isn’t it?”

Her response shouldn’t have hurt. So he ignored it
and said, “If you think I’m going to put on a fucking blindfold
just so you can get out of bed, forget it.”

“At least turn your back.” The thinness of Grace’s
voice, the way the sheet was pulled up to her chin, those
mesmerizing eyes wide—he recognized a plea when he heard one, even
if it came from an unlikely source.

He might have wavered, cut her a break, if he hadn’t
felt so off-balance and on edge. Instead, he folded his arms over
his chest and said, “I’m sick of this shit. Whatever happened,
whoever teased you about a mole or a birthmark, it’s time to get
over it.” No big deal, right? But she just stared at him.

Then she said, her voice cracking, “Get over it? Who
the hell are you to tell me to get over anything? Fuck you, Jack.
Good-bye and get out. Go find a girl who doesn’t have shit to get
over or just fuck yourself, Jack. Just fuck yourself.”

Her words slammed into him like a wrecking ball,
tearing a hole through a carefully constructed and well-guarded
concrete wall, right to the core of his worst memories and deepest
fear. She was throwing him out? Just like that? Like he was some
worthless piece of trash?

“Fine, Grace, whatever. You are one crazy bitch, you
know that?” He slammed the door so he wouldn’t have to hear his
words echoing in his head. Or think about the look on her face when
he’d said them, the way those beautiful silver eyes had filled with
tears.

Dagger stomped to where he’d parked the caddy so he
could get in and drive until he felt better, but it wasn’t there.
He walked around the entire block, remembering how Grace had
distracted him while he was scoping out a parking spot. He
swallowed and pushed the memory away, allowing his fear for the
missing caddy to take over. That was a lot easier to deal with.

Nonetheless, he felt compelled to let out a torrent
of curse words that turned the head of a passerby and caused the
poor woman to cross to the other side of the street, making him
feel even worse. At least the precinct station wasn’t too far. He
could call a cab from there. He turned up his collar and started
walking.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes after Jack left, Thorne walked
outside into what felt like the coldest morning in five years.

Her damn scars. She had known all along that it
would lead to them. How had she let things with Jack go so far? How
had she let herself believe it could work? “Get over it…a mole or a
birthmark”—yeah, if only. Didn’t he understand? She allowed that
Jack couldn’t understand what he didn’t know, but neither could she
face him if he did. Not seeing anywhere to go from where they were
had hurt so much she’d been unable to breathe. So she’d gotten
angry instead.

Thorne only admitted she’d held out a tiny hope of
finding Jack waiting for her when a quick scan of the street turned
up nothing and her sinking heart forced her to concede the final
truth. He always insisted on warming the car up for her in the
morning. Thorne pulled up the hood on her parka and shouldered her
backpack as she headed for the bus stop.

She climbed the back stairs and slipped quietly into
her office after a workout that left her feeling drained instead of
powerful. Turning her stereo on might alert others to her arrival.
Since she had no desire to talk to anyone, she kept it off.

After a quarter of an hour of fruitlessly staring at
her computer screen and ripping out more knitting than she was
keeping, she wondered why she’d come in at all. Another look at her
door, the relentless spark of hope flickering at each sound, and
she cursed herself, knowing damn well why she’d come.

Exasperated, she threw her knitting in her backpack
and had just turned off her computer when she heard the muffled
sound of voices before the men came crashing through her door.

One of them was Paul, but another was a face she’d
hoped like hell never to see again. That sanctimonious asshole
Darmfelder.

She leapt up and jumped back, leaving her stomach
behind, but two soldiers already had her by the arms. At least her
mouth could move. “Well, if it isn’t Major Field-of-Shit and the
cow pies.” She cast a disparaging look at her captors. “What brings
you out from under your rock to darken my door? Again. After all
these years, I thought you’d found someone else to dog.”

Her stomach clenched and twisted. Darmfucker could
take it all away from her—the job that made her feel happy and
useful for the first time in years, the feeling of belonging she’d
never had before, and any chance she might still have with
Jack.

“Oh, I could never give up on you, Dr. Thorne.
Although I admit, your, ah—setback, shall we call it?—was
temporarily discouraging.”

Setback,
huh? Thorne glared at the small man
with the pencil mustache and looked over at Paul apologetically.
“I’m sorry boss, it appears that I had some old shit stuck to my
shoe and now it’s stinking up the place.”

The look on his face was such a mixture of guilt and
frustration that she would do her best not to add to it by letting
him know just how scared she really was. Besides, by this time,
everyone in the big office had wandered into the hall and the
audience had grown to include more people she’d come to care for.
Had any of them heard the major call her Dr. Thorne?

Darmfelder’s oily voice brought her back. “You can’t
imagine how pleased I was to discover that you were well enough to
work again; better than ever if those designs at the patent office
are any indication. And that little incident with the infrared
satellite a few weeks back, we traced it here. I knew it had your
clever little fingers in it. You’ve always had a smart mouth to go
with your genius, Dr. Thorne, but I don’t recall it being so
filthy.”

“I’m just better at expressing myself these days,
Major Shit-for-Brains. You can’t just come stomping in here with
your goons, drag me off and force me work for you. I said ‘no’
eight years ago, seven years ago, and six years ago. My answer
hasn’t changed and it never will.”

“Oh, but I can, Grace.” His smile didn’t reach his
eyes. “May I call you Grace? Especially since we’ll be working so
closely together, you and I.”

Collective eyebrows raised. Shit. He was blowing
everything.

He turned to the crowd,
her
crowd, dammit,
and sighed dramatically. “I really have tried to play nice with Dr.
Thorne in the past. Of course, I couldn’t offer her as much money
as a private concern. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, our country is
in graver danger than it has ever been. I can no longer just sit by
and allow her to whore out those very special skills of hers. Not
when our troops need all the help they can get.”

Thorne tried to tell herself that she didn’t care
about the doubt she was seeing in the faces of men who, just three
days ago, had stood to defend her.

But Darmfelder had only paused for effect. He turned
back to her and kept his voice loud, tapping his little fingers
against his little hip as he went on. “You’re criminally insane, a
killer and a traitor to your country. You can’t deny it, Dr.
Thorne. You’ve sold your secrets to foreign interests, you’ve
escaped from several psychiatric hospitals, and committed three
premeditated murders.”