Job Hunt (40 page)

Jack stared, stunned by the pronouncement. The events of the night were having unexpected results. Lisa knew it too, and for a moment, her eyes clouded with an emotion that was too quickly gone for Jack to read. A shrug, a grin, and she was back to being Dr. Lisa Tyrrell, reaching for coffee, calling the meeting to order with her mouth full of apricot danish, and getting down to work.

J
ACK
WAS
ready to head home when Rafael Gallant finally got around to saying what had been on his mind all morning. Right in the lobby, while shifts changed and uniforms milled around, while plainclothes officers waved and called to Raf, and his phone vibrated with call after call, Raf finally held Jack back.

“I hope you realize that you’re wasted as a corporate drone, Horwood,” he said with a crooked grin.

“You recruiting for the Met now?”

“I’m… recruiting,” Raf said. “If you ever need a job… hell, if you want some part-time excitement… look me up.”

All of a sudden, Jack found it easy to smile. At Raf’s delivery that was far too deliberate to fool the spook Jack had been, at the man’s unease, even at the time it had taken Raf to work up to making the offer. As tired and disconnected as he felt, it still amused Jack to wonder whose offer this really was. And why not knowing the answer cheered him in some small way.

He added a few watts to his smile and bumped Raf’s shoulder with his fist as he walked past. “I hear you, Gallant. Thanks.”

L
ISA
CALLED
from the Yard, halfway through the morning. “Jack’s okay, but I’m keeping him for debriefing.”

Gareth leaned back into his chair and stretched his legs, contemplating the dark jeans and sturdy boots that had confused his team this morning. He’d had no time to make it home between securing the private party, rushing to the brothel site, waiting for police and social services for the second time that night, and facing rush-hour traffic. Given that he’d had the easier half of the job, he hadn’t expected to see Jack at work.

“I know that he’s fine. He texted me. Why did he need a new phone?”

“He got blood on his.”

“Of course. Are you okay?” She didn’t sound okay, but it was safer to ask than guess.

“He’s something else, you know?”

Lisa sighed, and Gareth knew then that his guess had been accurate, regardless. “That’s true. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you okay? Curiosity all sated?”

“I’m fine, Gareth. Thanks. Next time you need help….” Her voice trailed off, and Gareth held his breath. “Make sure you call me. Preferably before you let him loose and the shit hits the fan.”

“Before
I
let him loose?” Gareth wished he had that much clout, but he didn’t delude himself. Jack would do what he felt needed doing when it needed doing and worry about the consequences later. “Maybe you should tell him.”

“I will, Gareth. I will.” There was a smile in her voice now. “Clive promised I’d be knee-deep in warrants until Easter, and it looks as if he was right. So… I owe you.”

“Call me when you’re ready to fix your… internal problem,” Gareth reminded her, pleased with the choices he’d made. “Or call me whenever.”

B
AXTER
’
S
CALL
came almost three hours later, startling Gareth. In a hurried tone, tinged with unspoken apologies, the detective asked if he could drop Jack at Gareth’s home.

“He took that bastard down,” Clive explained haltingly. “He’s finished debriefing, and there was some…. And he’s still….”

“Wired,” Gareth supplied after a pause, imagining Baxter waving his hands aimlessly, trying to describe a clammed-up Jack Horwood, face blank and eyes distant.

Baxter’s sigh was audible even through the background noise on the line. “Yes. I… I think he shouldn’t be alone.”

“You think correctly, Inspector. Please drop him off. He has a key.”

“Thank you.”

Unable to concentrate on his work, Gareth called it a day as soon as he finished the report he’d been working on. He wanted to call Jack, hear his voice, but stopped himself. Jack was too good at hiding, and Gareth needed to see for himself that Jack was okay.

After encountering the horrors in Mitrovic’s brothel and having a glimpse of Jack’s history, Gareth didn’t believe that Jack would be okay. Not in a long while.

It made getting home and being there for Jack more important than ever. Traffic and speed limits be damned.

G
ARETH
COULD
hear the bass before he’d unlocked the front door. The house vibrated on its foundations, rocked to each beat, and Gareth was grateful that his home occupied a corner plot, and the neighbors were a ways away. He didn’t want to imagine Jack’s reaction if someone came knocking on the door to complain about the noise.

Once inside with the front door safely bolted, Gareth followed the sound to the gym where he found Jack in jogging bottoms and an old army T-shirt with ragged tears where the sleeves used to be attached. Jack’s hands were taped, and he attacked the heavy bag in time to the beat. Sweat soaked his hair and his shirt, but the fluid, graceful way with which he moved sent a rush of warmth through Gareth’s chest. Warmth that morphed into sheer gratitude when he saw that Jack’s face and eyes were calm.

Gareth watched for a long while, enjoying the sight of rippling muscles and sinuous moves, wondering if Jack was aware of him standing in the doorway or if his mind was out to lunch. He got his answer a few minutes later when the music changed, and Jack stopped moving and looked over his shoulder.

“You’re home early.”

“You’re here.”

“And now, so are you.”

Jack came so close that Gareth could smell him. Grapefruit shampoo, sweat, and musk, and damn him if the mix didn’t turn him on. There was something about Jack’s stance, though, that set off Gareth’s warning bells.

The come-on lacked substance.

And wasn’t it just like Jack to try to distract him?

“You need to talk about this, get it out of your system.” Gareth took a step back, out of reach of the warm body before him.

Jack’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, hands on hips, and stared. “I’m not going to break, Gareth,” he said, his voice rough. “Not over this.
Never
over taking down a fucking pimp.”

Gareth didn’t believe a word. “Then why that god-awful racket?”

“Oi, that’s Wolfstone you’re insulting, you heathen!” Jack shot back. “It’s loud because I like it, and you weren’t here.” He pointed the remote at the stereo, and the sound in the room dropped to a level where Gareth could hear himself think.

The next song had a familiar intro, a simple guitar solo that reminded Gareth of the one quiet weekend they’d managed so far. Jack had gone home to pick up fresh clothes and had returned with a guitar case across his back. For the rest of that afternoon he’d lounged in the deep window seat of Gareth’s kitchen, drinking red wine and plucking away at the strings while Gareth cooked. He’d played that very song, and as Jack picked up the lyrics, Gareth remembered its name: “Savin’ Me.”

Jack’s voice was full of shadows, and Gareth’s worry grew. His discerning eye spotted far too many knives in the room. Not to mention the bottle of Talisker Storm that had a good chunk of content missing.

“If you’re not having a breakdown, then what…?” he asked as Jack’s voice died away on the last chord.

Jack reached for the Talisker. He held the bottle up to the sky, brought it to his lips to take a swig, and then held it out to Gareth. “It’s a wake,” he explained soberly. “Ricky’s.”

Gareth had no idea what to say. He hadn’t forgotten the courageous youngster who had died from his injuries after offering to help Jack take down the pimp who had imprisoned him, but in the whirl of having Jack back in his life, hunting the man responsible for Ricky’s death, caring for two traumatized teens, and all the troubles at work, Ricky hadn’t been much on his mind. Now it appeared he’d been on Jack’s. More than Gareth had realized.

He took the bottle Jack held out to him and brought it to his lips. Sweetness and brine mingled on his tongue, morphed into heat that tempered to warmth as the malt slipped down his throat. When the burn had died to embers, Gareth slid his palm around the back of Jack’s neck, drew him close, and sealed their lips together.

Jack didn’t fight. He leaned and let himself be kissed.

“You’ve avenged him,” Gareth said as Jack drew back.

“No.” Jack’s voice was rough with pain. He shook his head to emphasize his point. “I failed to save him.” He took the Talisker from Gareth’s hand and swallowed another mouthful before he set the bottle down and replaced the cap. “But maybe he’ll sleep safely now.”

J
ACK
’
S
CHUCKLE
broke the stillness of the bedroom just as the first rays of sunlight reached the windowsill.

“What’s amusing?” Fatigue dragged heavily on Gareth, and he battled to keep his eyes open.

Jack had been quiet after the end of his impromptu wake. He had showered and changed from his gym gear into ancient ripped jeans and a soft fleece-lined T-shirt, had sat and watched Gareth cook and had eaten his dinner in silence.

When Gareth suggested the hot tub in the garden, he had stared at Gareth for a moment but then followed him without comment. Under the soothing blanket of the jets, with nothing but Gareth and the stars for company, Jack’s tight control began to ease.

He still hadn’t talked much. He recounted small details he’d observed during the fetish night in the dining club, described one or two costumes, mentioned that Lisa could run in four-inch heels and kept handcuffs in the tops of her boots, all the while his body grew soft and pliant against Gareth’s.

When Jack’s breaths came deep and slow and even, Gareth had pulled him close and kissed him. Jack kissed back, eyes wide open, and they’d stayed like this for what seemed like hours just trading air and peace.

They’d retired inside around midnight. Jack moved like a sleepwalker, semi-aware of his surroundings but not completely awake. Once in bed he settled against the headboard and contemplated the air in front of his face. Closing his eyes seemed too big a task for Jack, so Gareth wrapped himself around his lover, let kisses and soft touches remind Jack where he was and who he was with.

Jack didn’t sleep, but neither did he pull away.

Now Gareth’s arm curled around him, drawing Jack closer. Close enough to feel him huff another quiet laugh.

“So what’s amusing?”

“Raf Gallant’s crappy sense of timing,” Jack replied. “Not sure why it needed saying today, but you should have seen it: Scotland Yard at lunchtime shift change, uniforms everywhere, people waving at him, his phone vibrating enough to rattle his teeth—and Rafael had nothing better to do than wonder if I might be looking for a job.”

Gareth growled, not caring that he sounded like a possessive oaf. He tightened his hold on Jack’s form until the younger man was stretched flush against him from shoulder to ankle. “I hope you told him where he could shove that offer,” he said, deadly serious, and buried his nose in Jack’s dark hair. “You’re working for me now. With me. There’ll be no more job hunts for you.”

E
PILOGUE

Eight weeks later

T
HE
DÉCOR
was an exquisite blend of duck egg and white, from the stucco ceiling and delicate tracery around the windows to the tablecloths and Wedgwood china. Dark oak tables, chairs and sideboards contrasted the pale colors and turned the dining room from something frothy and feminine into an elegant, airy space that oozed sophistication. The man who faced Lisa Tyrrell across the dinner table fit into the refined environs like the proverbial bull into a china shop. Square-jawed and olive-skinned with thick black hair and dark eyes, he looked like a bruiser rather than the political animal and expert manipulator he was.

“So you now have an ace hacker owing you a favor?” he asked when Lisa concluded her report. “I must say it: I am impressed.”

“If there was ever a favor owing, sir, he’s repaid it many times over,” Lisa corrected, setting her silverware down to pick up her wineglass. It was late and out of her way, not to mention that she hated the man’s guts, but she never minded coming here. The restaurant’s menu was as exquisite as the décor of the private dining rooms. Despite it being only two weeks to Christmas, there was no turkey on the menu, no Christmas pudding and—thank the Lord for small favors!—nothing that required to be served in vol-au-vents. Lisa had dined exceptionally well on smoked salmon and roast venison, and with the heavy claret warming her belly, she was ready to defend her sources with the fervor of a tigress. Only problem was her dinner partner knew her too well.

“He’ll think nothing of the sort, of course.” He chuckled. “You forget that I’ve worked with Horwood. He’s nothing if not accommodating, and I strongly suggest you keep him that way. Don’t cash in whatever favor he thinks he owes. I want him as the ace up my sleeve. I’m sure there’ll come a time in the not so distant future when a hacker of his caliber will come in handy.”

“Yes, sir.” Lisa kept her head down and her voice low. She was skilled enough at political maneuverings to hide her thoughts, even though she was seething. Jack Horwood had impressed her more than she could articulate, even to herself. He’d put himself on the line without a second thought to help rescue a string of boys, and Lisa couldn’t conceive going to him to demand he use his skills to rig a party leadership election. She knew whom she was dining with, though. Appealing to her companion’s morals was as pointless as praying for snow in June.

It was fortunate, therefore, that he was as clueless as he was arrogant.

Lisa made it to the end of the meal without putting a foot wrong. She walked out of the club and called a cab. She curbed her impatience and waited until she was home and could use the phone she had stashed in the wall safe behind her bed. The one that couldn’t be traced to her and that had only one single, equally untraceable number in its speed dial list. Even with those precautions, she stepped out onto her small balcony before she dialed.