Wicked Intentions

39

I cross my arms over my chest and drawl, “So she told you she likes me.”

He grits his teeth so hard, I think they might shatter. “Get out.”

I c**k my head, pretending to think, then say, “Nah. I think I’ll just wait for my buddies from Interpol to show up and take a little gander ’round the place. You looked me up in a database? Well, I looked you up too, brother. Real nice establishment you got here. Real legit. Squeaky clean, at least on paper.”

I peer over his shoulder toward the back of the shop. “I’m sure you don’t have anything to hide, right? No random ruby necklaces hangin’ around? Big ones, maybe a hundred carats?”

I already knew it wasn’t Reynard Mallory who bruised Mariana’s neck, even before I set foot in his shop. I pegged him as her fence the minute I entered his address into Metrix’s search program and took a look at his business. If anyone can move a hot, one-hundred-carat ruby necklace, it’s Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions. It has branches all over the globe and a sterling reputation unvarnished by its secret, long-standing ties to every underworld organization that exists.

He says stiffly, “Your bluffs are as unfortunate as your fashion sense, Mr. McLean. I have a high-ranking friend on the police force who would have alerted me if Interpol were about to pay me a visit.”

Then, with no small satisfaction, he says, “But I do have a GPS tracking device you might be interested in. It’s small and extremely light, excellent for hiding in clothing. Unfortunately it’s nonfunctional, due to being smashed by the heel of a shoe—whose owner was spewing some rather colorful language at the time, I might add—so it won’t do you much good.”

So that’s why I lost the signal. Somehow Mariana found the tracker and destroyed it.

Which means she knew I’d come here…which means she’s gone.

Again.

Shouldn’t have ordered that cheeseburger.

As a jazz number that sounds like five different guys are playing five different songs comes on the speakers, Reynard and I glare at each other. After a while, I say, “Okay. Two things. Number one, I’m gonna give you a cell phone number. It’s unregistered and untraceable. Only one other person in the world has it—”

“Your therapist?” he asks sweetly.

“Funny. I’m gonna give you my number, and you’re gonna give it to Mariana.”

His expression sours. Before he can tell me to go jump off the nearest bridge, I add, “In case of an emergency, she can call me twenty-four seven on that number. I mean it. Day or night. From anywhere in the world, she can call me, and I’ll come.”

I grab a pen from a cup next to the cash register and scribble my number on a yellow Post-it note, then stick it to the center of Reynard’s tie. He peels it off with two fingers, his pinky held out and his lip curled. I’m surprised he doesn’t pinch his nose.

He mutters “Stupendous” and puts the Post-it between the pages of a book he lifts from under the counter. Then he tosses the book back into place with derision, dusting off his hands.

Cheeky son of a b***h.

“Number two, I want you to tell me who did that to her neck so I can have a talk with him. And by talk, I mean beat him to a pulp.”

Reynard freezes. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. McLean,” he says with a strange stillness in his entire aspect, even his voice.

I send him a hard stare. “I’m not playing any game, Reynard. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Someone hurt my girl. That s**t doesn’t stand. He’s lucky if I leave him breathing.”

He blinks rapidly, as if clearing his vision. “Your…girl?”

I make a dismissive gesture, then park my hands on my hips. “She’s not a hundred percent on board with the program yet, but I’ll get her there. I’m irresistible, as you can tell.”

His laugh is faint and disbelieving. He reaches for the porcelain teacup sitting to his left on the counter and gulps from it, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he reaches under the counter again, this time to produce a slender silver flask. He uncaps it, pours a small measure of what looks like whiskey into the tea, then decides to drink directly from the flask instead.

When I say, “She loves you, you know,” he violently coughs, spraying a mist of golden liquid over the counter. When his coughing fit is over, he stares at me with watering eyes and an open mouth.

Man, I dig shocking the s**t out of people.

“At least I’m assuming you’re the person Mariana was talkin’ about when she turned down my offer to take her back to the States with me because it would be a death sentence for someone she loved. She ran straight here like she was runnin’ home. Figured this had to be her safe place.”

He makes a strangled sound and clutches his throat. He wheezes, “Take her with you?”

“And you, if she wants. Both of you would have my protection.”

He looks me up and down with wide eyes, like I’m off my f*****g rocker.

“Christ,” I say, insulted. “The two of you are really s**t for my ego, you know that?”

“She took advantage of you. She lied to you. Why on earth would you offer to take her anywhere but prison?” Reynard asks, like he really can’t fathom it.

I shrug. “Because I care about her.”

He gapes at me. “Are you on drugs?”

“She moves me, Reynard. You have any idea what it takes for a man like me to be moved? By anything? Ever?”