Sweet Talk (17 page)

“I understand,” he answered, “but these are dangerous people who have done terrible things. If you knew more about them, you’d see.”

Olivia decided to let Grayson win this battle. So much for her superspy ambitions. She realized she couldn’t infiltrate Jorguson’s operation or help Agent Huntsman.

Letting the subject of Jorguson drop, she said, “I hope Ray Martin is the man who tried to kill me. He’s your main suspect, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged, which, in her opinion, wasn’t much of an answer.

“He had motive,” she said. “I got him fired.”

“If everyone who got fired—”

“Revenge is a powerful motive.”

“There are other powerful motives and other people who stand to gain much more than satisfaction or revenge if you’re out of the way. Why do you want it to be Martin?”

“It would make it easy.”

“That isn’t a reason.”

He was gently stroking her arm. She put her head down on his shoulder. “I don’t want it to be a relative.” The fact that she considered it possible that her father or mother or her sister or brother-in-law could go to such lengths made her sick. “You haven’t met my father yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to find out all I could about him before I met him. I’ve talked to a lot of people who know him and have worked with him and for him.”

“I’ll bet every one of them sang his praises, even the ones who lost money.”

“Pretty much,” he agreed. “Ronan has taken the lead on the investigation. He’s met him. He flew to New York and questioned him.”

“But you’re trying not to form an opinion until you meet him?”

“No, that’s not possible. I know what he’s done to you, sweetheart. I’ve got a real strong opinion.”

There was anger in his voice. Grayson had become her champion, and she was a little overwhelmed. A long quiet minute passed before she spoke again.

“When will you meet him?” she asked.

“At his birthday party here in D.C. next weekend.”

She bolted upright. “You can’t go to his party.”

“Of course I can,” he said. “Want to come with me?”

“Absolutely not. You’re not going either,” she insisted. “And quit shoving my head down on your shoulder. I mean it.”

“Do you know you’re even more beautiful when you’re mad?” he said.

She wasn’t having it. “Saying I’m beautiful isn’t going to sway me, Grayson, so you can stop the phony flattery.”

“It’s not flattery, Olivia. You are beautiful.”

She shook her head.

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” he asked.

The question surprised her. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“If I’m all dressed up and everything works, I feel pretty.”

“What do you mean, if everything works?”

Before she could stop him, he lifted her up onto his lap and put her arms around his neck.

“I’m not a puppet, Grayson. You can’t just put me where you want me.”

He ignored her criticism. “What do you mean, if everything works?”

“You men . . .”

“Yes?”

“You have it so easy. Put on a suit and walk out the door. It’s far more complicated for a woman. I’ll give you an example. If I were to wear my all-time favorite white, wickedly sexy dress—which I happen to love with all my heart, as shallow as that sounds—and if my hair is just right, and my complexion is clear, and the makeup works, then I’d feel and see a pretty woman when I look in the mirror.”

“It’s kind of complicated, isn’t it?” he remarked, trying not to laugh. “What happens when you’re not dressed up?”

She didn’t tell him the truth, that some days she felt like that ugly twelve-year-old in the hospital, fighting blisters and welts. “I look and feel drab sometimes. Yes, drab,” she repeated, jabbing him in his chest. “Don’t you dare laugh at me. I’m not so different from other women. We all have insecurities about our appearance.”

He laughed anyway. She was primed for a fight. Apparently, he wasn’t. She leaned in and kissed him, teasing him with her tongue. She knew he liked that because he tightened his hold around her.

“I’m not above having sex to get what I want,” she purred.

He laughed again. “Glad to hear it.”

EIGHTEEN

O
livia was going stir crazy. Work kept her busy during the days, but nights were difficult. She became quite the little housekeeper. She organized her kitchen cabinets, painted the guest bathroom a pale pink, decided she didn’t like the color, and then painted it a dark blue. That didn’t work either, so with her bodyguard at her side, she went back to the paint store a third time and purchased a can of taupe paint. Only after it was on the walls did she realize she’d painted it the original color.

It seemed to her that she was constantly tripping over the bodyguards following her around. She was allowed to go to work or stay home. There were no other options as far as Grayson was concerned. Even Aunt Emma’s house was considered out of bounds.

An off-duty policeman drove her to work, then returned at five or six, depending on her schedule, to drive her home.

Another guard sat outside her office.

Olivia put her foot down about the twenty-four-hour protection, insisting that it was ridiculous to have a guard standing outside her apartment door. Once she was inside her home and had locked the deadbolt, she was perfectly safe. Besides, there was a doorman on duty twenty-four hours a day in the lobby. She gave Grayson the same argument about work. There was absolutely no reason for a bodyguard to sit outside her office.

Grayson relented as long as she promised not to go anywhere alone. He gave her five different cell phone numbers to call for the bodyguards. One of them would always be available to accompany her.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she got the news that Ray Martin was behind bars. He had been denied bail—the prosecutor convinced the judge that Martin was a flight risk—and Olivia didn’t think it was coincidence that there hadn’t been another attempt on her life since he was locked up. She pointed out the obvious fact to Grayson, but every time she brought it up, Grayson asked the same question: What did Martin have to gain by killing her? Revenge apparently wasn’t enough of a motive to suit him.

Monday evening she video-chatted with Samantha, who couldn’t stop raving about her jet.

“I wish you could go up with me,” Sam said. “You’d love it.”

Olivia thought she might like it, too. “As long as you’re the pilot, I don’t think I’d worry.”

“Tell me about Jane. How is she doing?”

“Have you talked to her?”

“She was throwing up when I called and couldn’t come to the phone. Logan answered. He told me he’s really worried about her. He said she’s losing weight, and he can’t understand why the doctor can’t fix her.”

“Fix her?”

“Yes, that’s what he said. Olivia, has it come back?” she asked, fear radiating in her voice.

“Dr. Pardieu says no, there aren’t any signs that our disease has come back, but her cell count is down, and her symptoms aren’t consistent. He’s still in France. I’ll be happy when he gets back and can take over again.”

“When are you giving her blood?”

“Soon,” she answered. “The hospital will let me know.”

“Collins is there. She can give her blood, too.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Maybe Jane’s just got a bad case of the flu. Some viruses stay in your system a long time, don’t they?”

“I think you’re reaching,” Sam said. “I feel so helpless. So does Logan,” she added.

“Jane’s brother has only just reconnected with her, and it’s heartbreaking for him to see her so ill. He was never around when she was in the unit with us.”

They continued to talk for another ten minutes. Sam told her there were several good-looking men around her, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. “I’m so much younger than most of them,” she said.

Olivia told her about Grayson and how she had gotten so involved with him.

“His nine-year-old nephew lives with him.”

“How come?” Sam asked.

“The child’s mother died, and the father is absent.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re just like me. We’re fatalists.”

“Yes.”

“We can’t plan futures. Happy endings don’t exist for any of us.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t live our lives . . . waiting. You know?”

Sam agreed. “I’m going to cram all I can into the time I have.”

By the time they said their good-byes, Olivia was feeling an overwhelming sadness, but she didn’t allow herself to wallow in self-pity long. Since she was stuck at home, she decided to catch up on her reading. She had two unread novels and at least twenty-five journals stacked on her desk.

When she couldn’t read another article without falling asleep, she went shoe shopping on the Internet. After that, she decided to do a little investigative browsing. She remembered Grayson mentioning a couple of Jorguson clients. One name in particular, Gretta Keene, came to mind first, so she decided to focus on her. She typed her name into the search engine and was surprised by the number of articles she found. As it turned out, the woman had quite a résumé. According to the reports, she was a Belgian emigrant who had become a major player in the American drug scene. After a long investigation by the government, she was finally charged with drug trafficking, but the case never got to court because of a technicality. Shortly after her release, the Belgian government instigated their own attempts to have her extradited. They were anxious to get her back so they could prosecute her for murder. Unfortunately, before any formal action could be taken, Keene disappeared, and she hadn’t been heard from since.

In her research, Olivia saw Jorguson’s name mentioned several times as a business associate, but he wasn’t linked to any criminal activity. If the FBI was so convinced that Jorguson was laundering money for Keene, Olivia surmised they had some pretty good evidence, just not enough to convict him. She now understood their determination to connect the dots and to prove that Keene and Jorguson were working together.

Olivia was really getting into her research and thinking it was kind of fun, that is, until she happened upon photos of a crime scene, bloody bodies amid bags that were to be filled with drugs. The article printed with the pictures stated that Keene was believed to be connected to the killings, but that hadn’t been proven either. Olivia found several more references to the same incident, and those led to other articles. After an hour, Olivia couldn’t look at another crime scene or read about another bloodbath between rival drug cartels. These people were monsters. If Jorguson was aiding them in any way, Olivia prayed the FBI would catch him soon.

She turned off her computer and looked at the clock. The evening was still young, so she decided to try to make dinner. She chose a recipe from her one and only, new, never-before-opened cookbook and went to work. The result was a disaster. Emma’s cook, Mary, saved her from starvation. Olivia pulled one of Mary’s chicken-and-noodle casseroles from the freezer and popped it in the microwave. As she sat at her kitchen island eating out of the casserole dish, her thoughts went to Grayson.

She thought about him all the time. Whenever she had a spare minute, there he was. As far as her relationship with him went, she was certain that, when the threat was over and he was convinced that the proper arrests had been made, she wouldn’t see him again. And that was for the best, she believed; yet, whenever she thought about never seeing him again, she’d feel an ache deep within her chest.

Was this just a fling? Maybe . . . except, she didn’t do flings. She knew exactly what had happened and finally found enough gumption to admit it. She’d fallen in love with Grayson. What she didn’t understand was how she had allowed herself to be vulnerable. This was all her fault. She couldn’t blame Grayson for any of it. He’d never done anything to lead her on or make her think he had these feelings for her. She had likened him to James Bond when she’d first met him, and she’d seen all the movies. In every one of them Bond made love to the woman and moved on. And so would Grayson. Wasn’t that for the best?

Olivia decided not to think about the future.

* * *

On Friday she left work early—Fridays were always slow for some reason. She arrived home, changed into jeans and a periwinkle-blue sweater, and went to the kitchen to see what she could microwave.

Grayson changed the plan when he showed up at her door and told her he was taking her out.

He looked wonderful. His face was ruddy from the bitter cold outside. His coat collar was up, and his hair was damp from the falling snow.

Olivia hadn’t seen him since last Sunday when he’d dropped by unexpectedly. He had been able to stay for only a few minutes then, but he’d called her every day, sometimes twice, to check on her. Now, with him standing in front of her, she wanted to throw herself into his arms. Resisting the nearly overwhelming urge, she forced herself to step back so he could come inside, and still not trusting herself, she put her hands behind her back.

“Come on. I’m taking you to dinner,” he repeated.

“You don’t tell me we’re going out to dinner. You ask me. That’s how it’s done. And then I decide if I want to go or not.”

His hand moved to the back of her neck, and he jerked her toward him. His open mouth came down on hers, his tongue penetrating, tasting, teasing, tempting. When he lifted his head, she sagged against him.

She came to her senses and moved away from him. “We can’t go out to dinner,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. “It wouldn’t be safe. Those were your words, Grayson.” She opened the refrigerator, then closed it. “You told me I couldn’t go to a restaurant or a shopping center or—”

“I remember what I told you. Office and home. I don’t recall adding paint store to the list.”

The bodyguard had told on her. She said, “We went in at closing and were the only customers.”

Grayson noticed the open cookbook on the island. “Did you already make dinner?”

Her chin came up. “Risotto.”

He looked around. “Where is it?”

“In the sink . . . soaking.”

When he saw the wooden spoon sticking straight up out of the glue-like substance, he began to laugh. He took the spoon handle and attempted to move the congealed goo in the pan, but it wouldn’t budge. “When did you make this?”

“Last night,” she answered. “Grayson, it’s not that funny.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She opened the refrigerator again. “Thank goodness for Mary.”

“You don’t want to go out?”

“You were serious? Of course I want to go out. I’m going crazy staying in all the time. I’m getting a vitamin D deficiency, for Pete’s sake. I need sun and fresh air. I’m even trying to learn how to cook, and if that doesn’t tell you how far gone I am, I don’t know what will.”

“A vitamin D deficiency?”

She folded her arms. “It’s real.”

“Where we’re going you’ll be safe.”

Suspicious, she asked, “Where? Your office? No, I’ve got it. Vending machines at the police station.”

“My place.”

She shook her head. “I can’t be around Henry. It wouldn’t be safe for him.”

“He isn’t home tonight. He went to a movie with his grandfather and then is spending the night. It’s the only other place he’ll sleep.”

Curious to see what his home was like and desperate to get out of her apartment, she agreed. “Okay, but no funny stuff.”

He grinned. “Funny stuff?”

Ignoring him, she rushed into her bedroom to get her shoes.

Grayson was holding her coat when she returned. She slipped it on, grabbed her purse and cell phone, and unlocked the deadbolt. Grayson saw her inhaler on the table and picked it up.

“What are we having for dinner? Are we doing carryout?”

“I’m cooking for you.”

“You cook?” She sounded shocked.

It was a short ride to Grayson’s building, a grand five-story structure at the intersection of two quiet streets in a very exclusive neighborhood.

“I’m guessing you’re a minimalist,” she remarked.

Grayson used an app on his iPhone to open the iron gates that led to a parking garage below the building.

“How do you figure that?” he asked.

“Your home,” she explained. “I’m guessing it’s sleek, modern. Everything has a function. Am I right?”

The garage was empty. He pulled into a parking slot next to the elevator. “Have you forgotten I have a nine-year-old living with me?”

“Okay, cluttered minimalist.”

“Until Henry moved in, the only furniture I had was my bed and a chest of drawers. The living room was empty. Once I’d finished remodeling, I planned to put it on the market. Everything changed, of course. I ordered furniture, and the last of it just arrived.”

“Are you still thinking you’ll sell?”

He shook his head. “Henry needs stability, so no more moving.”

“Are you the only tenant living in the building?”

“Yes. I bought the building, remodeled the top floor, and the architect I hired is working on plans for the others.”

“You should have become an architect.”

“No, it’s just a hobby.”

The elevator doors opened to his foyer, gleaming marble floors and a wide-open space. The living room was straight ahead. Facing them was a wall of windows, and the view was spectacular. Area rugs in muted tones adorned dark hardwood floors. The furniture was sparse and did have the sleek lines she’d imagined. Two mahogany leather club chairs sat adjacent to a taupe overstuffed sofa. The contemporary fireplace was encased in black granite that went all the way to the ceiling. There were lots of neutrals, and on the wall next to the fireplace was an abstract painting she thought might be a Richter original. Beautiful splashes of color and thick drapes gave the room dimension and texture.

The dining room was surrounded by windows as well. On the round, dark cherry table, she noticed a pad, no doubt to protect it from the Lego kit strewn about.

There was evidence of a nine-year-old everywhere. A handheld video game was on the arm of a chair; a pair of gym socks were under the dining room table, and there were three other Lego kits half completed behind the sofa.

To the left of the foyer was a long hallway. From what she could see, there were at least three bedrooms. To the right was another hallway that led to the kitchen and the pantry beyond. Grayson took her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She followed him, but stopped at the entrance to a gourmet chef’s dream come true.