Up to Me (17 page)

I hear the soft click of the safety and realize Nash is close to losing it.  “Nash, no!  We need to talk to him first.”

“We don’t need anything from this guy but blood. Lots and lots of blood.”  His voice is eerily calm.

“We need to know what he has that Dad thinks we need, that he thinks we can use.”

For the first time, Duffy, who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the gun in his face, speaks.  “I was a friend of your father’s.”  His Russian accent is so light, it’s barely discernible.  But still, I can tell it’s there.  He must’ve been in the States for quite a while now.

“Then you should die for being a traitor as well as a murderer.”

“Maybe for being a murderer, but never for being a traitor.  I was a friend to both your parents.  A loyal friend.  I knew how much Greg wanted to get out. And not for his sake. For yours.  And Lizzie’s.”

Hearing him speak my mother’s name sets my teeth on edge. It’s like hearing the devil himself whisper it.

“Well, you certainly proved that when you rigged the boat with explosives and then pulled the trigger, didn’t you?”

“You weren’t supposed to be there with the supplies that early.  I had no way of knowing she’d be on that boat.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have blown it up to begin with.  I think that’s something more in line with what a friend would do,” Nash growls.

“Your father knew I had to do it, to keep up appearances.  He knew they’d be suspicious of everyone after the books disappeared.”

“The books? It was
you
that got him the books?”

Duffy nods and I feel a little sick to my stomach.  The more I learn about my family, about my father and his dealings, the more I want out of it all, away from it all.  Away from him.  And probably Nash, too.

“Ask yourself this: if your father didn’t really trust me, would he have called me, of all people, to help you?”

He has a good point, but I still don’t trust a word he says.  To be honest, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around all this shit. There are too few people to trust and far too many criminals. There are too few answers and far too many lies.  Far, far, far too many lies.

“Honestly, I really don’t know.  The only person I trust right now is me.  So I think what you’d better do is tell us how you can help and get the hell out of here.  Because I can guarantee you, the next time either of us sees you, we’ll be seeing your brains, too.  All over the ground.”

Duffy nods.  “Fair enough.”  His docile manner actually does seem like the actions of someone who’s had to live with guilt for a lot of years.  Just like Nash’s irrational, half-cocked behavior seems like the actions of someone who’s had to live with criminals for a lot of years.  Criminals and an insatiable lust for revenge.

“Well then, why are you here?”

“I’m going to blackmail Anatoli, Slava’s right hand man, into getting me the books back.  He’s the only one Slava really trusts.”

“And you think whatever you have on him is enough to get him to do this?”

“Yes, I do.  It’s enough to get me killed, too.  But I owe your father.  He could’ve pointed the guilty finger at me, could’ve told them that I’m the one who took the books, but he didn’t.  And, to repay him, I killed his wife.  I owe him this, to take this chance.”

“I’d say you do, you lousy bastard,” Nash spits.

“But once I get you the books, you have to be prepared to move quickly.  I can give you a little more help with that by providing you with some important lists that will help tie your case together, but the rest is up to you.  If you blow this chance, there’s nothing I can do to help you but attend your funeral.”

“You have to know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that we’d take your word for it, right?”

Duffy nods once.  “Go see your father.  Just be careful what you say.  They have people everywhere.  As you’ve been finding out.”

He’s right.  I have. The hard way.

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll be in touch when I have the books and the lists.  After that, you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I can only hope that means what I think it means,” Nash sneers.

“It means I’ll be disappearing one way or the other.  This country won’t be safe for me anymore.  My family…”

“Oh cry me a river.  Because of you, this is all the family I have left,” Nash shouts angrily.

“Then we’ll be even. I won’t owe your family anything else.”

“You’ll always—”

“Nash,” I say to cut him off.  No sense making threats until we talk to Dad. If we can use this guy and it keeps Olivia safe, I have to leave the possibility open, no matter how distasteful it is. She’s worth it.  “We need to talk to Dad.”

I look at him, hoping he sees what I mean by my stare.  When he takes a deep breath and clenches his teeth, I see that he does.  He knows this is how it has to be if he’s going to get his revenge.

“And you should know that I didn’t know it was your girlfriend they sent me after. I knew I was picking up a girl named Olivia Townsend and she was being used to get some books before being…disposed of. I didn’t know it was you until I saw you at the warehouse.”

Now I can sympathize with Nash a little more. I see red.  Or black maybe.  All I can think of is that this guy had come for Olivia.  The fact that he wasn’t the one who took her, that he took Marissa instead, makes no difference.  The fact of the matter is that he intended to kidnap and then kill Olivia.

“Calm down, right brother?  Wait until we talk to Dad, right brother?”  There’s smug sarcasm in Nash’s voice. I should’ve known he’d enjoy this.  But at the moment, I could care less.  I’m struggling with every ounce of self-control that I possess
not
to beat this man to death with my fists, to see his blood spraying all over his face and dripping down his shirt as I pound and pound and pound on him, not stopping until I feel better, until I’m no longer picturing him holding a gun to Olivia’s head.

I turn and walk out of the shack.  I need air.  Lots of air and lots of space.  Being so close to the man that not only killed my mother, but that was contemplating doing the same thing to Olivia is just too much for me to bear without ripping someone’s throat out.  I’m smart enough to know when my control is slipping, though.  So getting out is my only option. I’ll leave Nash to follow me when he’s done.  And at this point, if he kills the guy after I leave, then so be it. We’ll find another way.

I hope.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE- Olivia

I bet I’ve looked at the office door ten thousand times, hoping each time to see Cash’s face there.  I’m on pins and needles.  It’s like a sharp knife to the gut every time I think of him not returning my confession of love.  But, I love him. I’m
in
love with him.  I can’t imagine living the rest of my life knowing he died to save me.  If I never get to be with him, never get to live the dream with him, never get his whole heart, it would never change the fact that I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. And just the thought of him leaving this earth, this life because of me is unbearable.  Even if I can’t have him, just knowing he’s alive…and healthy…and safe…would be enough.

Just knowing he’s out there…somewhere…

For the thousandth time, I feel the burn of tears at the backs of my eyes. 

Please God, please God, please God.

That mantra has gone through my head almost continually.  I don’t know how in the world I’ve made a single drink tonight.  I must have a pretty freakin’ awesome autopilot.  As long as it’s not dressing me, that is.

Once more, I glance at the door.  As my eyes are drifting away, rife with disappointment, they pass Marco. He smiles. It’s not a flirtatious smile or a particularly happy smile. It’s more a smile of sympathy.  I wonder what he’s thinking, what he knows.

I’m not sure why I even care anymore.  If things don’t work out with Cash and me I won’t be working here any longer anyway, so what’s the big deal?

You’re an idiot.  That’s the big deal.

True.  Very true.

I see the house lights dim.  That’s how I know a slow song is coming up in the rotation.  That’s just what I need right now—a sappy love song to finish ripping my heart out.

I recognize the Saigon Kick song after the first few bars.  My father taught me well. 

As I suspected, it feels like a knife to the chest.  The worry over Cash coupled with the lyrics is enough to take my breath.  Literally.  For a few seconds I feel like I can’t breathe. 

But then, suddenly, I can.

There, standing in the doorway of the office, is Cash.  His eyes lock with mine and I feel them, really
feel
them all through my body.  It’s like standing naked in the middle of the night during a warm summer rain. He’s everywhere.  He’s on my skin, under my skin, in my heart, in my soul.

I feel like I might burst with the desire to go to him.  It takes every ounce of my willpower to stay put, to school my expression. To pretend.  But I do it. Somehow, I do it.

Until he starts toward me.

And then I stop.  Stop everything.  Stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking.  All I can do is stare as Cash’s long legs eat up the distance between us.  Without a single word, he shoulders his way through the crush of people.  When he reaches me, he steps up to the bar, reaches across it and offers me his hand. 

His eyes are still on mine and the rest of the world has disappeared.  Suddenly it doesn’t matter who’s watching. Nothing matters but Cash.  Nothing ever has.  And nothing ever will again.

I slide my fingers into his and he tugs on my hand.  I step onto the rail and put one knee on the bar.  Cash releases my hand, reaches forward and sweeps me off the slick countertop and into his arms.

I can feel his breath, coming hot and fast, fanning my cheeks. I can feel his need, wild and hungry, searing my soul.  And, for just a second, I think I can feel his love, too.  It burns me, but in a completely different way.  Like a brand that says I’ll always be his and he’ll always be mine.

And then he drops his head and his lips cover mine.  Vaguely, I hear shouts and hollers and clapping, but I don’t care. I don’t care who sees or who knows or how they feel about it. I care about the man carrying me.  Always carrying me.

When Cash lifts his head, his mouth is curved into a mischievous smile.

“Have I told you that I love you?” he asks.

My heart does a triple somersault right inside my chest, one I feel is mirrored in my beaming smile.

“No.  I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered that.”

Cash starts walking toward the side stairs, the ones that lead to the VIP room where I first met him.  I don’t care where he takes me, just as long as he doesn’t let me go. 

Ever.

“Well it’s your own fault.  Every time I had a great opportunity to tell you, you beat me to the punch.  And you know as well as I do that I’m not the kind of guy to let someone steal his thunder.  I like my thunder big. And loud.”

“Oh, I know you do,” I tease.  “And this time,” I say, tipping my head back toward the cheering crowd, “you’ve got it.  In spades.”

“The funny thing is, the only thing I want is you.  Just you.  If it was up to me, I’d make the world disappear and it would be just us.  Just you and me.”

“I wish you were a magician.”

“Well, I’m not magician, but I do have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he says with a wink.

“You do?”

“I do.  Wanna see?”

“Of course.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, at the top, Cash bends so I can open the VIP room door long enough for him to slip inside. It closes automatically behind us.

He carries me to the center of the room and sets me on my feet.  I look around at the interior that signified the day my life would change forever.  It doesn’t look any different physically—black carpet, black walls, crazy lights, one whole wall of two-way mirrors that look like windows, and the bar that sits in front of them—but it feels like night and day.

As if someone —cough, Marco, cough—knew we were coming up here, the music cranks up and a song called
Lick it Up
comes on.  I walk to the windows and peek down at the bar.  Marco is smiling up at me.  He salutes as though he can see me and I laugh.

“I seem to remember some unfinished business up here.  Does any of that ring a bell?”

“Why, I can’t
imagine
what you could be referring to,” I say with wide eyes and my most innocent southern accent.

“I think I’m wearing too many clothes. And I think you need to take care of that.  Now.  Starting with this pesky shirt.”

Cash holds out his arms, much like he did the first night I met him.  I walk slowly toward him and reach around his waist, untucking his shirt, much like I did the first night I met him.  My breasts brush his chest and his eyes set my body on fire,
exactly
like they did the first night I met him.

I tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside. 

“Now the jeans,” he commands.  One brow shoots up and he adds, “On your knees.”

Obediently, I drop to my knees in front of him.  My eyes on his, I reach out and unbutton his jeans.  I can feel his impressive hardness straining against the seams as my wrist grazes his zipper.  I start to lower it, but he stops me with his words.  “With your teeth.”

A little thrill of excitement races through me, but I comply.  Reaching around him, I plant both my hands on his firm, round butt and I lean in to nuzzle his jeans until I can get to the tiny golden pull on his zipper.  I use my tongue to pick it up and grab it between my teeth, and I see Cash catch his breath.  I smile as I tug the zipper open, freeing him.

Getting into his little game of torture, I squeeze his butt and pull him closer to my mouth as I run my tongue from the base of his thick shaft all the way to the tip.  I hear him groan as I close my lips around the head.  His fingers dive into my hair and contract, holding me to him for just one second. 

“Pull them down,” he croaks, his voice hoarse.  I’m pleased with his level of excitement.  Two can play this game.

I don’t tell him what a pleasure it is to run my hands inside his waistband, to let my palms glide over his smooth, perfectly rounded cheeks, to let my fingertips coast down his powerful thighs.  I don’t tell him how flawless he is, that I’ve never known a more impeccably built man.

When I get to his ankles, he kicks off his shoes and steps out of his jeans. I rise slowly to a stand, letting my eyes and my fingers trail over every hard inch of him as I do.

He leans forward to kiss me, but I dart quickly away, doing my best to strut to the bar.

If he wants to play, we’ll play
.

I push my shoes off my feet and turn to lean back against the bar before hoisting myself onto it.  My eyes never leaving his, I stand to my feet, towering over him as I move my hips to the beat of the heavy bass.  I know by the look on his face that he wants inside me.  Right now.  Right this minute.  And very badly.  But I won’t let him.  Not yet.

If he wants a stripper, I’ll give him a stripper.

Slowly, I cross my arms over my chest, curling my fingers in the hem of my tank and I drag it, inch by inch, up my body and slide it gently over my head.  I shake my hair loose of the neck and throw the tiny snatch of black material at Cash.  He catches it and, with a wicked grin, brings it to his face and inhales.

Letting the pleasure I feel in my soul ooze out, I smile at Cash as I unbutton and unzip my jeans, wiggling my hips as I push them down my legs. I see his eyes travel with them. I feel them like a touch—heated and urgent.

I step out of the material and, with a flick of my foot, kick them at Cash as well.  He catches them and, just as he did with my tank, he brings them to his face and inhales.  His eyes sparkle at me from over top of them.

I slide first one bra strap then the other down my arms, revealing most of the tops of my breasts, but not the nipples.  Coyly, I turn my back to him, peeking at him over my shoulder as I unhook the lacy band and pull it off.  He grins and cocks one eyebrow at me.  I wink and toss him my bra. 

Again, he takes the cloth and buries his face in it, breathing in deeply.  He closes his eyes as he does, like he’s breathing in a part of me, a part of my soul. 

I wait for him to open his eyes before I slide my hands down my sides and under the band of my panties.  I can almost taste his anticipation. It’s thick in the air.  So I pause.  And I smile.  His perfect eyes are on mine and his perfect white teeth are biting into his perfect lower lip.  He nods once and I see him reach down and palm his erection, sliding his fingers slowly up and down the length.

I feel an ache low in my stomach that assures me I’m as much a victim of this game as he is.   But I can’t stop now.

I ease my panties down just a fraction. Cash’s eyes fall to my butt and I see him take a breath and hold it.  I turn ever so slightly to the side and, as slowly as I can, I drag the material down my legs, bending sharply at the waist.  I hear Cash make a noise that tells me he’s very much enjoying what I’m doing, what he’s seeing.  I let my hands trail up my legs and over my hips as I straighten. 

He speaks so quietly, so gruffly, I almost don’t hear him when he says, “Don’t move.” 

He walks toward me, stopping at my feet and looking over my entire back side.  His gaze is scorching.  Or is it just my mind? 

He leans in and I think he’s going to touch me, but he doesn’t.  He stretches across the bar and grabs a bottle of Jack from the shelf beneath it. 

I’m watching him from above, every nerve in my body alive and waiting for him to touch me.  But still he doesn’t.  Instead, his eyes locked on mine, he unscrews the bottle of Jack and pours a shot.

“Turn around,” he commands.

Tingling with excitement, I do as he asks, stopping myself from
crossing my arms over my chest self-consciously. I stand proudly before him, too eager for what’s ahead to feel overly insecure.

“On your knees.”

I sink to my knees on the bar in front of him.  His dark eyes embody everything naughty and sexy and dirty and hot and taboo that I can think of, and I feel the warmth of them all the way to my core.  I’m so ready for him, I ache from the neck down.

“Spread your legs.”

Edging my knees apart, again I do as he asks.  I watch his eyes as they skim over my breasts, down my stomach and stop right between my legs.  I swear I can actually feel him there, feel his tongue, feel his fingers, feel him moving inside me.  I gasp, thinking I can’t take it one more second, but then his gaze flickers back up to mine.

He hands me the shot glass.  “Don’t swallow it.”

I take the liquid into my mouth and hold it there, watching him, waiting for him to speak, wondering what comes next.

“Now open your mouth.  Slowly.  Let it run out.  Down your chin.”

I part my lips and let the fiery liquid ooze from between them.  It trickles down my chin and throat, veering to the left and traveling over my nipple then dripping off onto my left thigh.  From there, the stream starts to drift inward, toward my center.  Cash bends forward and stops it with his tongue. 

Starting just to the side of my knee, he licks the liquor from the inside of my leg all the way up to the bend at my thigh.  He traces the crease there, coming dangerously close to the throbbing that never seems to cease when he’s around.  But he stops just shy of it, just shy enough to make me feel like screaming.  He laps his way up my stomach to my nipple, where he licks and sucks until every drop of alcohol is in his mouth.