Calculated Exposure (5 page)

His sister Jenny hovered nearby, habitually pulling the edges of her cardigan together as she made a meandering circuit around her two young sons.

At the sound of boot heels clicking on concrete within, Curt straightened to spy a female guard escorting a small blond woman, dressed in gray sweat clothes and cheap white canvas sneakers, toward the gate. He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the approaching figures, trying to assess their expressions, anticipate their moods. The small woman’s gaze flitted all over: side-to-side, down, and especially back toward the prison she’d just left.

Something Curt couldn’t see startled her, and she flinched, drawing away from her minder.

The guard put a calming hand on her shoulder and whispered something into her ear.

The prisoner’s lips flattened into a firm line, and Curt imagined her swallowing hard, and rapidly blinking. She always did that when she was anxious.

As they drew near the gate, he pushed away from the wall. He joined Jenny and his nephews near the car and wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders, giving her arm a warming chafe. “’S alright.” When the gates clattered open and the guard led the woman through, he gave Jenny a reassuring squeeze.

“Alright, now, Erin. You behave, love,” the bigger woman said.

Her charge nodded, accepting the plastic bag the guard pressed at her.

The guard stepped inside the gates, waving until the two halves rejoined and the electronic lock clicked.

Curt and Jenny stared at their mother, who stared at her bag and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Nice of you to come get me,” she said to the ground. “Deena would have taken me home, you know. She’s been nice all this time.”

Sighing, he pulled her into a tense embrace, then let go seconds later. Too much, too soon. He’d helped because he knew she was innocent, but there were other things between them, breaches left unmended. He was more an eye-for-an-eye sort of man than one who’d turn the other cheek, but this was his mother. She couldn’t help being what she was, and he was trying to accept that.

“Mum, I was here anyway when they gave the go-ahead for your release. The police wanted me to sign some kind of confidentiality document.”

Her gray eyes went wide. She stopped fidgeting. “Did you?”

“He didn’t sign it,” Jenny said with a ragged sigh.

There was a poignant minute of quiet, then Mum hugged her bag to her chest and fixed her gaze on her eldest child. “Curt, what’s going to happen now?”

He held the car remote up high, clicked the button, and unlocked the doors. “Let’s get you home. We can discuss it once you’re settled in…back in your own clothes.”

“Curt.”

He put up his hands, stilling her. “Mum. It’s going to come out. Do you want to hide away and wallow about all the time that’s been wasted with you in jail, or do you want all those people who maligned you four years ago to know the truth?”

Predictably, her cheeks flushed, and Curt groaned inwardly.

“I don’t want to raise a fuss.”

“Yeah, that’s your biggest problem. You never want to raise a fuss.” He took Mum’s bag and popped open the trunk.

Jenny helped her into the back seat, where she’d sit cramped between her grandsons’ safety seats all the way to Mahon. While Jenny cooed at her, complimenting her on having gained a few pounds since her last visit, Curt sat on the back bumper, shielded by the open car trunk, and rubbed his eyes.

It’d taken three years to convince the Guard to reopen her case, and they only did it then due to the Complaints Board’s probing. No one liked dirty cops…except other dirty cops, it turned out. That’s why it had taken so long.

He hadn’t been there when his mother was arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced. He’d been studying in the US, up to his eyeballs in critical examinations. So while pregnant Jenny and their sister Heather accompanied their weeping mother–and Curt knew about the weeping because the picture was plastered on the front page of every newspaper on the isle–to jail, Curt was somewhere sleeping off the previous night’s bender.

The evidence had never stacked up. Mum? Embezzling money? The same woman who’d find a ten-quid note on the sidewalk and spend five minutes asking every stranger who passed if it was theirs?

So, yes. His PhD work had taken the backburner while he studied what he could access of the evidence. He’d scrutinized years of her company’s financial records–the ones she, the long-time accountant, compiled. The ones someone else had tampered with.

She got set up, and sent off. And the money? Well, they found traces of
that
in the account of a certain police sergeant’s dead uncle.

Curt was responsible for the conspiracy being blown wide open, and now the good Irish people wanted him to shut up about it.

He wouldn’t. With all the notoriety they’d pinned on his mother, he figured the least she could do was hold up a mirror and reflect some back. She’d never get another job otherwise.

His shirt pocket buzzed and he plucked out his phone. “Yeah?”

It was Grant. “Are you coming back through here on your way to Mahon?”

“I can. Why?”

“You left your lucky shirt.”

Curt laughed for the first time in two days. “What’s so lucky about it? Isn’t that the same shirt Seth nearly set on fire at the international student luau?”

“I think so. I figured you’d want it since you have a slip of paper and a business card in the pocket.”

“Ah. Hang onto it. Just bring it the next time you fly over.”

“You want the phone numbers?”

Did he? He nudged down the trunk lid and made his way to the driver’s door. Thoughts of swaying, dark hair, the scent of violets, and succulent lips grinning behind a camera filled his mind and hop-scotched straight down to his cock. The woman who’d been teasing him in his dreams for the past two nights. The distraction.

“Uh, nah.” He adjusted his crotch before opening the door.

“You sure? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I’m probably getting sick or something. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a temporary interruption of service. I’ll be back to myself in no time.”

Chapter 4

“God.”

As Erica entered the lobby of the
Charlotte Times
the following Monday, her first day back after her sabbatical, her stomach felt like it’d fallen through her feet. She stood in front of the double doors, frozen, swallowing the bile rising up in her throat. Finally, she spun on her heel, figuring she’d go home and call the secretary. She’d tell her she caught some bug on the flight on the way home.

The hairs at the back of her neck pricked up, warning her of his proximity. She hadn’t gotten far.
Shit. It’s like he has Erica ESP.

She sighed her defeat.

“Look who’s back!”

She didn’t respond to the deep male voice originating from the back of the newsroom’s cube farm. Instead, she studied the insides of her eyelids and silently counted backward from five while squeezing her spare lens cap.

Four
.

Three.

Two.

The heavy press of arms over her shoulders made her sag. The scruff of an untended beard abraded her cheek and made her draw back, farther into his grasp. Hot lips against her cheek made her open her eyes to see the hirsute forearms nearly skimming her breasts. She stifled a retch.

Do. Not. Touch.

She wrenched her body free of her boss’s embrace with as much dignity as she could muster. They had an audience. Tact was in order. By the time she met his gaze, she’d smeared a smile onto her face.

“How are you, Tate?”

“What’s this
how are you
shit, huh?” He laughed and reached for her again, but she pretended to be very concerned with one cuff of her skinny jeans.

“Did you forget about me in the six weeks you were gone?” he pressed.

When she stood again, she put several paces between herself and the newspaper’s bureau chief. He’d given her the gig. In a way, he’d owed it to her. “Who could forget?” she asked in her cheeriest voice, grinding her teeth all the while.

“Tell me about it. Where’d you go? You stopped responding to my emails, what, a week in? That wasn’t nice.” He rubbed his hand over his beard and licked dry lips. “I had to ask Maria-Elena if you were still alive.”

Little traitorous bitch. Last time I tell her any of my business.
“That wasn’t really necessary. Sometimes I was in remote areas with unreliable Internet access. Hell, checking my email was low on my list of concerns. Besides, I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been taking care of myself since–”

He put up his hands and peeled his thin lips away from his teeth into a grin. “Now
that
I disagree with. I was there, remember? I witnessed your fall from grace.” He closed the distance between them and put his lips against her ear.

Her body drew back, but he held her tighter to whisper, “Aided and abetted it.”

When he let go of her, he winked.

She wanted to fix that eye for him so it’d never wink again, but she had the sort of self-restraint that got people sainted after death.

The receptionist, at the other end of the lobby, caught her eye and waved a stack of pink message slips at her.

Glad for the interruption, Erica approached the desk’s high counter and leafed through the notes, hoping Tate would go away.

He didn’t.

She stalled, reading each twice, although none were particularly relevant to her job. The usual solicitations and kids asking about internships. She didn’t do interns. That was Tate’s MO.

He was still there when she looked up. “You got pictures to show us? We can set up the projector in the conference room during lunch. Order some sandwiches from Jason’s or something.”

“Um…” She balled the messages up and lobbed them neatly into the trash receptacle behind the reception desk. “Other than the ones on my cell phone, I’ve got nothing. My memory stick shat out when I got to Dublin. Totally corrupted every photo. Gave up after that.”

Tate cringed. “You know better than that, woman. You should have been backing up to your computer every night.”

She shrugged in a
whadda ya gonna do?
fashion. “It was a sabbatical. I was careless.”

He sniffed, dragged his shirtsleeve under his nose, wrapped an arm around her once more, and guided her toward the newsroom. “Back to business, huh? Listen, Charlotte-Mecklenburg has two new principals this year. We’ve got write-ups scheduled for the print edition on Wednesday. Need you to get out there and get some shots of them. Good ones if you can manage. I hear one of them has a face like a bulldog, but is sweet as can be. Maybe you can make that sweet shine through during digital correction. Don’t want to scare the parents off before the school year even starts, right?”

She mumbled her assent.

“I’ll get you the info.” He gave her a swat on the bottom before she could shift away, and did a fake jog to his office–one of the kinds of jogs that were so slow he might as well have been walking. A show jog.

Eyes closed tight, she sighed and wondered what had made her get into his car all those years ago.
What a fucking idiot.

Barely nine o’clock and already dejected, she wound her way through the cubicles, waving here and there at coworkers she liked and returning polite hellos until she arrived at her own seat. It might as well have been an electric chair for all the joy seeing it gave her.

Her best guess was she’d have five minutes before her reporter peers rolled over to ask about her solo adventure. The very one she’d taken against Tate’s explicit guidance. When the discourse became too animated, Tate would perk up, hustle from his office and break it up. Wouldn’t want anyone to get too close–that wouldn’t do.

Truth was, she’d already uploaded the photos she had to her computer at home. And that reminded her of something. She woke up her phone and scrolled through her missed calls, hoping to find one with a Triangle area code. Nope.

“That fucking Irishman.” She stabbed the power button of her Mac and scanned the walkway behind her before pulling up a browser tab. Navigating to Curt’s university website, she scrolled to the public directory, entered his name, and found him listed under the graduate school.
Interdisciplinary mathematics.
She whistled low. “Who the hell gets a PhD in
math
? Nerd.”

She giggled as she thought it. He wasn’t the typical nerd. Since when did nerds come hot and broody? Maybe she’d missed the memo.

No sign of Tate nearby, so she dialed the university-issued phone number listed in the directory. When Curt’s voicemail greeting queued up, she let out the breath she’d been holding and jotted down the cell number he recited at the end.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Her momentum wouldn’t last long, so she dialed the next number as soon as she’d ended the first call.

He answered after three rings. “Curt Ryan.” He sounded tired.

Stupefied by the sound of his brogue, she mentally fumbled for an appropriate introduction.

Say something, stupid.
“Are you in America?” she managed in a light, but trembling tone. If he caught her hesitance, he didn’t call her on it.

“More or less. I’m in New York City at the moment, waiting on a flight home. Who is this?”

Damn
. That burned a bit. Still, she pressed on. “Either the woman of your dreams, or some
bruja
who’ll make your life a living hell. You decide.”

A pause. “Hmm. How about the
bruja
of my dreams? That could be interesting.”

Oh, he’s cute.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be offended you haven’t called, seeing as how you’re not quite home yet.” She stilled, expecting his creative brush-off.

He was quiet. Too quiet.

Her stomach sank.

“Pretty sure my roommate’s at the house to let you in. If you’d like, you can be waiting naked on my bed for me when I get home. It’ll give me a reason to ignore the Russian.”

She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. This putting-yourself-out-there stuff was really overrated. “The Russian?”