Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) (9 page)

Lillian sat up a little straighter in the bed.

"Miss Maddox, this is Special Agent Jason Ames," the nurse said, a speculative gleam in her dark eyes. "He'd like to speak with you, if that's okay?"

"You work with Tristan?" Lillian asked Agent Ames.

"I do."

Jen rose from the bed to reclaim her seat on the doctor's stool.

Agent Ames stood quietly, waiting for Lillian to make up her mind on whether she wanted to speak with him. She took the opportunity to look him over, her traitorous mind picking out the differences between him and Tristan instantly. Like Tristan, Agent Ames was gorgeous with his chiseled jaw, sharp cheekbones, and muscular frame, but Tristan radiated confidence and danger, an almost feline and feral grace.

Agent Ames looked as if he could be just as dangerous, but the vibe he gave off was different than the protective, alpha-male vibe that swirled around Tristan. Lillian knew for a fact that emotion and instinct guided Tristan. Agent Ames, on the other hand, seemed like the kind of guy capable of setting feelings aside in favor of cold, hard logic. He was a hard-ass, and was completely comfortable with that fact.

What did he want with her?

"I'll talk to him," she decided, and then waited for the nurse to leave the room. When the door closed behind her, Lillian crossed her arms over her chest, watching Ames. "What do you want, Agent Ames?"

"Please call me Jason." He stepped a little further into the small examination room and then leaned against the wall. "I'd like to extend an apology to you for Agent Riley's behavior tonight."

Seriously?

"I'm sure he's very sorry." Lillian rolled her eyes, irritated all over again. "He had to send someone else to apologize. That just
reeks
of sincerity, don't you think?"

Jen snickered and then slapped her hand over her mouth, coughing.

"I can assure you, Miss Maddox," Jason said, his posture stiffening, "Agent Riley would issue an apology himself if he could. As his superior and friend, he asked me to come in his stead."

"If he could?" Lillian arched a brow, scoffing. "I find it hard to believe he's physically incapable of coming to make his own damn apology considering he kicked in my door three hours ago."

Jason's facial expression didn't change, but Lillian noticed the way his pupils dilated. For the briefest of moments, guilt flickered in his green eyes.

Realization dawned.

"You wouldn't let him come," she said, resting on the lumpy hospital pillow again. "Why?"

Jason cleared his throat, his expression hardening. "As I'm sure you're aware, I'm not able to discuss an open investigation with you."

So Tristan
was
investigating
Teplo.

Lillian should have left it alone, but she knew as well as Jason did that whatever kept Tristan from making his apology in person had nothing to do with the investigation and everything to do with him being a coward. That wasn't Jason's fault, but he was here and Tristan wasn't. And unless she missed her guess, she'd only warranted a visit from anyone because they'd figured out who she was, or because they'd realized she was the daughter of a former cop. Knowing that didn't improve her mood, which meant she wasn't going to leave it alone. Not tonight.

"I assume you've informed Tristan that, contrary to his glowing opinion of me, I'm not the Vetrov family's whore?" she asked, glaring daggers at Jason Ames. "Or is there still some question as to whether or not I sell myself for them?"

Jason actually flinched this time. "He's fully aware of who you are, Miss Maddox."

Sometimes, she hated being right. "Ah, so now that he knows who my father is, he's decided I'm not a
good distraction but a heartless bitch
?" she asked, tossing Tristan's last words to her out there. "I'm
so
glad my dad was able to clear that up for him."

The uncomfortable look on Jason's face only served to enrage her further. She wasn't stupid. Tristan had used her. Probably from the minute he'd approached her, he'd used her to cover his own tracks. If he'd looked like another partier, no one would question his presence there. She'd been exactly what he'd called her: a good distraction. But Jason Ames was as big a coward as Tristan. He didn't want to take responsibility for Tristan's actions any more than Tristan did. They were just terrified she'd run to her daddy and spill every detail.

Bastards.

"Miss Maddox-"

"I get it, alright?" she snapped. "Tristan's allowed to come around when he's using me to save his own ass, but any relationship beyond that isn't acceptable to the DEA. You've apologized, so now you can run and tell Tristan he can continue on his merry way with a clear conscience. And no, I won't involve my father. That
is
why you're really here, right?" She arched a brow again, daring him to deny the truth.

He didn't, of course. He couldn't.

"Please also tell Tristan to go screw himself," she muttered, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. She didn't want this man to see how much it bothered her to hear that Tristan had used her. And she damn sure wouldn't let him see her cry.

"Miss Maddox, I think-"

"Frankly, Agent Ames, I don't give a shit what you think. Please get out of my room. I have nothing further to say to you." She turned her face away, ending the conversation.

Or it would have ended the conversation if Jason had taken the hint and left, but he didn't.

"I understand you're angry, and I'm sorry about the way you've been treated, but for your own safety, I strongly advise that you find alternative accommodations for the next few days." He didn't even try to deny that Tristan had used her. He simply warned her to stay the hell out of their way.

"Fine," she snapped, staring at the wall as tears blurred her vision. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry until the door clicked closed. When it did, she sniffled.

"Lily?" Jen said.

The bed shifted.

"I'm fine." Tears rolled down her cheeks, giving away the lie. After everything she'd endured tonight, finding out how insignificant she was to Tristan hurt a whole lot more than it should have.

Chapter Eight

Sweat dripped from Tristan's back, running in rivulets down the lean muscle. Music blared from speakers scattered throughout the room,
Hollywood Undead
filling the penthouse with angry pulses of bass. His eyes watered from the jarring onslaught, but he ignored it, gliding from stance to stance and form to form across the plush white carpeting beneath his feet. Every movement was a blur, a controlled dance. Each one lethal. Precise.

He worked through the
kata
twice, three times, and then a fourth, his momentum never slowing. He shifted from one fighting stance to another, first on the balls of his feet and then spinning, his foot slicing through the air. He ducked, rolled, and came up again. The
nunchaku
whirred in his hands through each practiced move, the whistling of the weapon muted beneath the shattering beats that shook the walls and rattled panes of clear glass all across the room.

His eyes blazed and his chest heaved from exertion as he worked his way across the massive room. Desperation tinged each move he made, driving him onward. He worked through the forms in search of peace that eluded him. Acceptance hadn't come in eight long days, but he didn't stop fighting for it.

Hollywood Undead
gave way to
Avenged Sevenfold
.

His breathing turned to harsh, jagged pants, and sweat soaked his pants. Still he moved through one form after another, trying to silence the clamor of his mind for once.

It didn't work, of course.

No matter how many times he ran through the
kata
or how loud the music thumped in his skull, memory still plagued him. The biting edge of guilt drove him toward physical exertion and some kind of release from the endless scenarios, frustration, and recriminations battering at him. From Lillian's stricken, tear-filled gaze.

He was a world-class prick. He'd accused her of some seriously messed up shit for no reason. That knowledge gnawed, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it because he'd agreed to stay away. Little by little, that decision drove him insane.

He wanted to see her. No, he
needed
to see her.

He'd read her file, scoured the
Seattle Times
archives for more information on her past. What he'd learned sickened him. Marc Rivera had ruined her life for no fucking reason, and the press had shredded her for it. He'd gotten high and almost killed her, but they'd blamed her. And Tristan had accused her of deserving that.

The need to apologize continued to plague him, but even if he could have done so, he didn't even know where to find her. She hadn't returned to her house in eight days.

His lungs hurt.

His heart raced.

Physical exhaustion didn't ease the restless burn inside his skin.

With a sigh, he tossed the weapon aside, grabbed the remote, and then shut off the music. The noise wasn't helping him focus. He felt as caged as a lion behind iron bars and thick chains. Duty and responsibility were heavy weights resting on his sweaty shoulders.

He'd had about enough of both.

"About time," Jason panted from across the room.

Tristan grunted and grabbed his towel from the sofa he'd pushed out of his way and wiped sweat from his face.

"I'm too old for this shit." A chair creaked as Jason lowered himself into it, his own
nunchaku
falling to the floor beside him. Paper rustled as he shoved it around on the dining room table.

Tristan tossed the towel aside and headed toward the fridge, forcing himself to push thoughts of Lillian from his mind and focus. "The blueprints are wrong."

"You're sure there's a basement?" Jason asked, sweat dripping down his face.

"Yes," Tristan said, tossing him a bottle of water. "The GPR came back cold, barely even registered a crack in the subsurface, but that's a lot of concrete to penetrate. The building is old, so it may be lined or reinforced with lead. Hell, Anton may have had it reinforced himself. He wouldn't want to risk the bass from the club vibrating something off a table."

With the chemicals the bastard needed to run his little drug lab, a spill would be a disaster. The entire club could blow if the wrong shit mixed. Anton and Paulo were a lot of things, but as Tristan had learned over the last few weeks, they were far from stupid.

Jason took a swig of water then set it aside to massage the back of his neck. "You've got to get in there. Right now, we can't even prove the fucking basement exists."

"Yeah, I know." Tristan shook his head and grabbed a bottle of water for himself. "Is Kincaid checking out the Planning Office?"

Jason nodded. "Not sure how much good it'll do though. Anton Vetrov's owned the building for fifteen years. If he did swap out plans, there's no telling who he paid to do it or when."

Yeah, Tristan knew that, too.

"Show me where the storage rooms are laid out again," Jason demanded, leaning over the table to unroll the set of plans. He set his water bottle on one end and kept his hand on the other to hold it in place.

"Here." Tristan tapped the west wall on the document. He took a swig of his water, waiting for Jason to mark the location before he tapped the blueprints further down on the same wall. "This is the actual storage room in the corner here. Nothing in there but brooms, mops, and extra stock."

"No additional entrances or exits?" Jason asked, scrawling a note over the vertical
X
he made on the plans.

"Nope. Shelves are built right into the walls," Tristan said. "And it's not wide enough here for stairs." He pointed at the space where the bar was located. "Unless they're using a manhole, there's no way the entrance is hidden in there." Both he and Jason knew the Vetrov operation required more than a manhole to bring in chemicals and equipment and carry out the finished product.

"Bathrooms and lounge?" Jason asked.

Tristan pointed them out while Jason labeled them in his heavy scrawl.

"Aside from an emergency exit here," Tristan said as he pointed it out at the end of the hallway near the bathrooms, "there's not a damn thing back there. Offices upstairs are clean too. There's nothing at all on the second floor worth mentioning. And the dance floor is solid."

He stepped back and surveyed the plans laid out on the table, picturing the club in his mind. Jason leaned back in his chair, keeping his hand on the bottom of the roll. Aside from the one unidentified room, there was nowhere else in the club to hide anything, let alone a stairwell to the basement.

"What about an outside entrance?"

"If there is one, it's hidden away from the club." Trying to find it would be like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack, and they didn't have the manpower to start that kind of search. Not to mention, they couldn't afford for Anton Vetrov to figure out what the hell they were doing. Unloading a bus of federal agents in the neighborhood to undertake that kind of search would be the equivalent of hanging a neon sign telling him to move his shit and leave no trace.

"Shit," Jason swore, tossing his pen down on the table.

Tristan didn't say anything. There was an entire level of the building missing from record. It wasn't on the plans. GPR came back with nothing solid. Hell, they'd even tried an aerial thermal image of the building to no real end. The place was too damned big for the tech to trace all heat leaks and come back with anything definitive.

"You're sure it's there?" Jason asked again.

"It's got to be there." Tristan sat his water down on the edge of the table and rifled through the assortment of papers before pulling one out. "No one on Anton's payroll owns any other property in the area. If they aren't manufacturing it in the club, they're bringing it in from somewhere else, and surveillance came up with jack shit on that front. There is nowhere else."

"So it has to be the club," Jason said, the same conclusion they'd come to weeks ago.

"Yeah." Tristan was ready to go hand-to-hand with Anton Vetrov's people and fight his way inside that damned room. It'd almost be easier than trying to go in covert.

"We need a mole," Jason sighed.

"You'll never get one inside."

Anton was damn careful about who he hired to work in the club, which was why the DEA had put Tristan on the case. They couldn't get anyone placed in Anton's circle. And who else was crazy enough to stroll through the front doors every night when doing so could end in bloodshed?

"Yeah well," Jason answered, "we may have to bring in outside re-enforcements. Someone unrelated to the DEA."

"Forget it, Jase," Tristan warned him. "They'd tear a civilian apart or have him addicted in a matter of days." The last thing the DEA needed was another dead civilian, and Jason knew it.

"Son of a bitch." Jason grabbed the water bottle, allowing the set of blueprints to roll up on itself.

"Give me time," Tristan urged his friend. "One fucking way or another, I'll find the damn lab. You know I will."

"Yeah, well, you better fucking hurry," Jason muttered, shaking his head. "Before they figure out who you are."

"Lily, you can't go home," Jen argued as Lillian packed her things into her suitcase. She'd been in her friend's guestroom for eight long days, stewing, and she was tired of it. She loved Jen and Tony. She appreciated that they'd taken her in without hesitation, but enough was enough already.

She missed her bed. She missed her house. She missed the absolute silence and solitude it afforded her during the day when she needed it. She was going home. Jason Ames and Tristan Riley would just have to deal with it. She'd given them eight days already; they weren't getting another one.

"The door is fixed, and I've had a security system installed. Aside from Tristan, no one has bothered me since I moved in. I'm going home, Jennie," she told her friend firmly, folding a shirt and placing it into her simple black suitcase. "I'm not going to keep hiding out here because Jason Ames demanded I leave."

She didn't owe the man anything, and she wasn't going to let him keep her out of her house because it made Tristan's life easier. After Marc had attacked her, she'd spent months hiding out in Oregon with her parents, too afraid to face life on her own while she endured hours of physical therapy. Staying with Jen felt a little too much like the same thing, and she was done hiding.

She'd promised Jason that she wouldn't tell her father about Tristan, and she'd kept that promise, even going so far as to lie to him about why she was staying with Jen and Tony. She'd upheld her end of the bargain as far as she was willing to uphold it. Jason could take it or leave it. And if
Special Agent
Tristan Riley had a problem with it, he could kiss her ass.

Whatever was really going on in the club, it hadn't affected her life until he'd appeared on the scene, and she wouldn't let it affect her now. This was
her
life, dammit, and she was done rearranging it because he was an ass. Not that she expected him to care if she returned home or not. He'd gotten what he needed from her.

Eight days later, that truth still hurt more than it should.

That sad fact did nothing to soothe the anger brewing inside. If she saw Tristan again, God help him.

She had an entire list of things she wanted to say to him, and one of these days, she was going to say every single one of them. Starting with how he was an insensitive, clueless idiot. She'd just keep to herself how often she'd thought about him since he stormed out… and how often she'd dreamed about him.
That
she planned to bury deep in her subconscious. He'd humiliated her enough already, thank you very much.

"Lil, we don't mind you staying," Tony said from the doorway when she tossed another shirt into the suitcase, not even bothering to fold it this time. Another followed in the same vein.

She stopped tossing clothes and mentally cursing Tristan long enough to turn to Tony. "I know," she told him, offering the brightest false smile she could muster. It looked more like she was ready to bite someone. "And I appreciate that, I really do. But I didn't come back to Seattle just to be forced out of my house because the DEA doesn't know what they're doing. I love you both, but I'm going home." Her tone left no room at all for argument.