Smoke and Mirrors (28 page)

Passion glazed her eyes, drowned out the fear and pain. He wanted to roll her over and thrust into her, but this was her show, her need. So, hands fondling her heavy breasts, he simply held on while she gave him the priceless gift of her body.

And her love.

* * *

Sometime later, as they lay spent in each other's arm, a knock sounded at the door.

"Mr. Mansfield, sir?" came the butler Montford's tentative voice.

Derek ignored him, not wanting to shatter the spell.

"Mr. Mansfield," Montford said more urgently. "There's a man downstairs, says if you don't come down, he'll come up."

A man. Waiting for him. It could only mean one thing. He swore savagely, looked down at Cass sleeping in his arms.

Her eyelids fluttered open. "What is it?"

He hesitated, hating that he'd walked into a trap of his own making. "Wait here. I'll be back in a second."

"What's wrong?"

He rolled from the bed and jerked on his jeans. "I'll handle it, honey. You just stay here."

She climbed from the bed, still naked. "Not on your life."

"Cass—"

"Didn't you say we're in this together?"

He took her hands. Regret shot through him. "There are things you don't know, things I don't want you to find out like this."

"Like how?"

Derek glanced toward the door, back at her. "There's a man downstairs. I'm betting he's a cop."

Her eyes widened. "The bomb?"

Derek had never imagined himself walking the green mile, but now he knew he had no choice. Not if he wanted to keep Cass in his life. "Among other things."

She paled. Glancing toward the door, she drew a hand to her heart. "Dear God, no. Not now."

Her words made no sense, but he had no time to question. "Just give me a few minutes," he said, crossing the room. "I'll explain when I get back."

"I'm going with you."

"Cass—"

"What's waiting for you downstairs affects us both," she rasped. "I'm not hiding up here like a coward." She quickly dressed, then crossed to him. Her hair was tangled, her face flushed. She looked exactly like what she was. A woman who'd spent the night in her lover's arms.

He took her hand and guided her downstairs. He wanted to spare her this, but knew he couldn't stop night from falling.

Downstairs a man waited. A man he recognized. A man he'd talked
with,
argued with. A man whose paycheck he'd cut.

John Dickens. The man Cass called Gray. He stood in wrinkled khakis and a sports coat, his face a grim mask. He stared straight ahead. Not at Derek, though. At the woman by his side. Derek glanced her way, only to discover she returned the man's stare, the same grim line marring her beautiful lips.

A damning suspicion twisted through him.

"Derek Mansfield," John Dickens said, stepping forward. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a black wallet.

Before it flicked open, Derek knew what lay inside.

A badge stared back at him. "Mitch Grayson, Chicago PD."

Derek stepped off the last stair. "Son of a bitch." The light was coming on much too clearly. "Gray," he muttered, the nickname taking on a whole new meaning.

"That's right," Grayson confirmed. "Cass," he said, reaching a hand toward her. "It's time."

She tensed. More than just her fingers in Derek's hand, her whole body. But she said nothing.

"Cass…" Grayson took her free hand and pulled her toward him. "The gig is over."

But she just stood there, one frozen hand encased in Derek's, the other in Grayson's. She barely even looked alive.

And Derek knew.

The truth stabbed through him like a deadly spear. He'd been torturing himself with guilt over entangling an innocent like Cass in his life, but now he knew that wasn't the case. Not even close. He hadn't entangled her—she'd entrapped him.

He looked at her standing there, at her pale, stricken face, and slowly uncurled his fingers from hers. He wasn't sure his heart still beat. Everything inside of him felt dead.

She pivoted toward him, looked up at him with wide, beseeching eyes. "Derek—I can explain."

Chapter 15

«
^
»

H
orror ripped through Cass. Her heart beat frantically, desperately. "I—"

"Don't waste your breath." Derek held out his wrists to Gray. "Let's get on with it, then," he said flatly. "Let me guess, I have the right to remain silent."

"Stop it!" She batted down his outstretched arms and spun toward Gray. "You've got the wrong man, Gray. He had nothing to do with the bombing."

"This isn't about the bombing."

"Then what?" she demanded. Betrayal slapped at her.

Gray frowned. "Trafficking, just like we thought. We found the evidence in the wreckage."

"That's only circumstantial," she insisted. Derek would never forgive her betrayal, but she couldn't let him take the fall. "It's a setup, can't you see that?"

Gray remained calm. "What I see is a guilty man, Cass, the same one we've been closing in on for over six months."

Shame roared through her. She looked at her partner, the man she loved as dearly as her own brothers, and at that moment detested him with every fiber of her being. "You son of a bitch," she snarled, her hand flying toward his face.

He caught her wrist. "You should be thanking me right now, Cammy. Not condemning me. Bud and the boys are less than ten minutes behind me."

"And I should thank you for that?"

"You're damn straight you should. If I hadn't gotten here first, they would have found what I found. You in bed with a criminal. And then your career would be
over."

"I don't give a damn about my career!"

"Yes, you do, damn it.
Mansfield
has clouded your judgment, but not mine. I'm not going to let you throw away everything you've worked for because of one bad decision."

His censure burned. "Hypocrite," she accused, flicking her wrist from his confining hand. "How dare you judge me, when you yourself crossed the line with Dawn?"

"I'm not judging you. I'm judging
Mansfield
." She twisted toward Derek. He stood stiff as a statue, eyes dead as stone, soul plain for her to see.

So much needed to be said, but deep inside, where the truth dwelled, she knew he would never believe her. Not now.

Not ever.

Derek Mansfield was not a man for forgiveness, not a man for second chances. She had only to look at the stern angles of his face, the savagery of his stance, like a warrior standing defiantly before the enemy. And she knew.

Derek Mansfield looked exactly like what he was. A man betrayed.
Badly
,
betrayed.

She reached for him, but he sidestepped her touch. An insolent smile twisted the mouth that had worshipped her body only hours before. "I got to hand it to you, doll
baby. You're one hell of an actress. I never once imagined
you'd sell your body for the sake of the job."

The comment almost knocked her flat. She began to bleed, not on the outside, but on the inside, from her heart. Yet she said nothing—because he was right. She was no better than a prostitute, trading her body for the good of the investigation.

"Derek Mansfield," Gray said, "you have the right to remain silent…"

* * *

"Cass, talk to me."

She stood on the veranda, one hand curled around the railing. Bud and the boys had taken Derek away minutes before, Gray's cuffs securing his wrists behind his back. Only a faint uprising of dust could be seen where the car vanished down the road. An eerie stillness permeated the day. The naked trees just stood there, as though they, too, were paralyzed.

"Cass?"

She bit back a sob. Her fault, all of it. In trying to protect, she'd destroyed.

"Cass." Gray wiped at the tears sliding down her face. "I'm sorry."

The crushing reality of what she'd done closed in on her. "I can't … b-breathe," she panted, wrapping her arms around her waist and doubling over, gasping for air.

But it wouldn't come.

I never once imagined you'd sell your body for the sake of the job.

"He's r-right," she cried, straightening. "I'm no better than a whore."

"That's not true." Gray's hands closed around her arms. "You're a woman, Cass, a woman who fell for the wrong man."

"He's not the wrong man, Gray." Clear now, disgustingly clear. "We're the ones who are wrong. Dead wrong."

* * *

"I told you to never come here."

"Relax, my friend." Santiago Vilas set down a large box and pulled off a baseball cap. Outside, a truck sat waiting, the name of a national delivery company emblazoned across its side. "I was careful, which is more than I can say for you."

The caustic insult fueled the anger burning through Derek. Out on bail, he'd barely been home an hour, and even though he'd been working nonstop, there was still much to do. Close. He was so damn close. He'd be damned if he let it slip away now.

"I'm not going to do you a hell of a lot of good if I'm
behind bars."

"The charges will never stick. We both know that."

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Derek roared. He wanted to charge the slimeball, but somehow held himself back. "We never talked about a bomb."

Vilas laughed. "But we did talk about luring your rats out of hiding, and I did that quite nicely. You can rebuild the hotel. If the cops hadn't been found, the price would be much stiffer."

Derek didn't share Vilas's nonchalance. The man had set him up, used him as bait. And Derek could end up paying the ultimate price. His lawyer, the best money could buy, had grimly informed him of the evidence against him. It was damning, just as it had been intended to be.

Thank God his grandfather's connections were strong enough to secure bail. But being out from behind bars did not equal freedom. His every move would be monitored, making it difficult to complete what he'd started.

"The house is under surveillance," he reminded Vilas. "Unless you want to get dragged into this mess, I suggest you leave." He glanced at Vilas's crisp uniform and cut him a hard smile. "Deliverymen don't stay longer than a few minutes."

Vilas narrowed his eyes. "You should know by now who gives orders,
who
follows them."

Images came back to Derek, of the destruction at his grandfather's hotel. Images of Cass came, too, of her staring vacantly at the fireplace, sprawled out naked on his king-size bed, standing stone-faced among a circle of pigheaded cops.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that," he told Vilas, his voice deceptively calm. "I know exactly where everyone stands."

And, most important, where they would fall.

"That is what I like to hear." Vilas pulled the cap back down on his head. "Quite frankly your lack of manners surprises me, my friend."

From the beady gleam in Vilas's black eyes, Derek knew the Latin man was baiting him. "I would invite you for tea, but the Feds outside might become suspicious." He narrowed his eyes. "If you're willing to risk it, however—"

"I sniffed out your rats, didn't I?" Vilas squared his narrow shoulders. He looked so damn proud of himself, so cocksure. "Now it's time for extermination."

* * *

Derek raised a hatchet and swung it toward the battered tree stump. Splintered wood chips exploded upon impact, flying up,
then
crashing onto the brown grass. He reared back and swung again and again and again. Brent had been by earlier, bemoaning the destruction at the hotel. The insurance company was refusing to pay, pending an investigation, believing the cops' accusations that Derek planted the bomb.

So much for innocent until proven guilty.

Sir Maximilian was on his way back to
Chicago
. It had been hell telling him what happened, especially his arrest. He hadn't been sure how his grandfather would react, but he sure as hell hadn't expected the wholehearted support the older man immediately threw his way, nor his insistence on returning to
Chicago
.

Derek's throat tightened at the memory.

He reared back and slammed the hatchet into the stump again. His body responded to the exertion, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes.

"Thirsty?"

Hatchet high over his aching shoulders, Derek swung toward the low, throaty voice. Cass stood there, entreaty in her eyes, a glass of water in her hand. She looked oddly fragile, like a woman, not a cop.

The sight hit him hard. "Sorry, doll baby, but I only drink with friends."

The naive hope drained from her face. "We need to talk."

She stood there so benignly, a faded flower on a brutal winter day, as though all that stood between them was a trivial misunderstanding.