The Closer (6 page)

The boy picked up on the first ring. “Thanks for calling,” he said. “I wasn't sure you'd have time now that you've started your new job.”

He expected so little, poor kid. “No worries,” Griff told him. “What's up?”

Justin laughed nervously, then hesitated. “There's this girl,” he said haltingly, practically blushing through the phone.

Griff chuckled. “There usually is,” he told him. “What about her?”

“She used to date one of my friends, but they've been broken up for six months. Is it poaching if I make a move?”

Hmm. “How close is the friend?”

“He's a former teammate,” Justin told him. “Definitely not one of my regular crew, but I've spent a lot of time with him on and off the field. Not that I'll be doing that anymore,” he said, his tone more rueful now than bitter.

An all-star pitcher, Justin had been playing baseball since he was old enough to join a league, but the freak virus that had attacked his kidneys midway through his junior year had permanently sidelined him. At least as far as his mother was concerned, anyway. It sucked, and Griff couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

“But you see my problem, right? Derrick isn't a close friend, but ignoring him doesn't seem right either.”

“Then don't ignore him. Let him know that you're going to ask her out, but don't let his reaction keep you from doing it. You should give him the heads-up, but if he and this girl—”

“Heather,” he said.

“Right. If he and Heather have been over for six months, then in all probability, they're finished.” A thought struck. “She's digging you, right?”

“I think so,” he said, another nervous laugh echoing over the line. “She texts me a lot.”

“Anything else? Does she smile at you? Has she suddenly joined any clubs or groups that you belong to?”

“She joined the bass-fishing team,” he said. “Does that count?”

Griff laughed. “Bass-fishing team? I didn't know you were on the bass-fishing team.” Hell, he didn't know there
was
a bass-fishing team.

“It was that or the debate team, and I decided I'd rather be on a boat than pressing a buzzer.”

“Good call,” Griff told him, still smiling. “So she joined when you did, then?”

“She did. And she's the only girl.”

Griff settled more firmly against the headboard, and tucked an arm up behind his head. “Are you baiting her hook?”

He snorted. “No. Heather doesn't let
anyone
bait her hook.”

He nodded, impressed. “She sounds like a keeper. And if she's followed you onto the bass-fishing team, then I'd say she's definitely digging you.”

The bathroom door suddenly opened, a cloud of steam billowing out. A tangled mass of long, wet curls tumbling around her face, Jess emerged, makeup free and shiny-nosed, a look he found startlingly endearing. She'd donned the white hotel robe, which gaped open enough to reveal a bit of mouthwatering cleavage and accentuated her small waist.

She'd obviously caught the last bit of his conversation, because her ripe lips were curved into a slight smile and latent humor danced in her misty-gray gaze. She jerked a finger at her bag, indicating she'd forgotten some of her toiletries, then retrieved a wide-toothed comb and returned to the bathroom. She left the door open, presumably to let the room breathe, and he watched as she swung her hair over her shoulder and drew the comb down through the length. It shouldn't have been the least bit erotic—she was merely detangling her hair—and yet the sight of her, of her long, slender hands performing such a mundane but strangely intimate act was somehow the most arousing thing he'd ever seen.

He hardened to the point of pain, felt his throat close up, need and something else—something much more alarming—roared through him.

“Griff? You still there?”

He blinked, startled, the phone forgotten at his ear. “Er, yes. Yes, I'm here.”

“So you definitely think I should ask her out?”

Jess pulled the comb through her hair again. “Yes, definitely.”

“But not until I've told Derrick that I'm going to?”

Geez, he knew she had a lot of hair, but how long did this take? Sweat beaded his upper lip. “That's right. The bro code, remember?”

She shot him a look, mouthed “the bro code?” and arched a humorous brow.

“I remember.” He blew out a relieved breath. “Right. Thanks, Griff. I knew you'd know what to do. Dad is useless at this kind of thing.”

There was an undertone to his voice that Griff couldn't quite place, but it sounded familiar. Like disappointment and resentment. But that didn't make any sense—

“So where do you think I should take her? Should I do the classic dinner and a movie, or something else, something different?”

“Be different,” Griff advised him. “But don't ask me how, because I don't know. It just needs to be something that you've thought of, that you've planned. She'll appreciate the sentiment.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Justin suddenly asked, startling him. “It's just, you've never said.”

“Not at the moment, no,” he told him.

“A boyfriend then?” he queried, shocking Griff even further. “Because that's cool,” he hastened to add. “Whatever makes you happy, bro—”

“No, not one of those either,” he said, choking on a laugh. Jesus, this kid...

“Right. Well, I'll keep you posted on how things go with Heather. And if, you know, um...you ever need any advice, then I'm here for you.”

I'm here for you.
Griff swallowed, touched. “Sure,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Against his better judgment, more than likely, but yes, no doubt he would. He sighed, muttered a goodbye and disconnected. His gaze tangled with Jess's, sucking the air from the room, and the phrase “from the frying pan into the fire” suddenly sprang to mind.

Either way, he suspected a burn was forthcoming.

6

“W
HO
WAS
THAT
on the phone?”

Justin started, his gaze swinging to the doorway where his mother stood. She'd lost more weight, he thought, noting the sharper cheekbones, the jeans hanging off her rail-thin frame. She always did this when his father left, lost her appetite, but it seemed worse this time. Like whatever food she did eat refused to stick to her bones.

He set the phone aside, leaned back onto his bed and picked up his remote control. “Not Dad,” he said, knowing that was really the question she'd wanted to ask. “It was Griff.”

“Oh, that's nice,” she said, her eyes lighting with the first bit of pleasure he'd observed in a while. She tried to be happy, for his sake, he knew, but could recognize the difference between a real smile and one that was forced.

He hated his father for that, more than anything, for making her pretend that everything was fine when it wasn't.

Selfish, cheating bastard.

Initially she'd lied about his absences, had credited his father's long stretches away from home as part of his job, that traveling was necessary. It wasn't until Justin was twelve that he'd learned the truth, and only then because he'd stumbled upon it. He'd joined a travel ball team at the end of his regular season, hoping to keep his father around longer because, regardless of “work,” he was never away during baseball season. In fact, his dad made every game, helped with practices, took him to the batting cages, the whole shebang. It was the only reason Justin had kept playing, really, to have his father home, his mother happy...to be a real family.

When his travel ball team had visited a park in a neighboring county, he'd spotted his father out with another woman at the restaurant where they'd stopped to eat after the game.

To his everlasting shame, everyone else had seen him, as well.

It had been
mortifying
.

He'd never forget the look on his father's face when he'd approached his table, watched his amorous player's smile capsize as recognition surfaced, then guiltily scramble away from the woman. She'd been young, with unnaturally red hair and a smear of marinara sauce on her chin.

“Working hard, huh, Dad?” he'd said, then simmering with rage and humiliation, he'd turned his back on him and rejoined his friends.

He'd never told his mother—he just couldn't bring himself to do it—and neither he nor his father had ever mentioned the incident again. But not mentioning it didn't lessen the knowing, and things had never been the same between them since. His father's drinking had escalated and his time at home had grown even more infrequent. And now that he'd never play baseball again, Justin knew that seeing him regularly was unlikely.

His mother knew it, too, but wasn't ready to accept it yet.

“How is Griff?” she asked. “Still doing well?”

“Yeah, I think so. He's started a new job, so he doesn't have a lot of time to talk.”

His mother took a seat on the edge of the bed, laid a hand on his arm. “I'm sure he has time to talk to you,” she said. “You're family.”

“Not really,” he said, wishing the words didn't hurt quite so much. “His mother is his family. Glory is his family.” His lips twisted. “I'm just some shared DNA whose existence wrecked his childhood and ruined his career.”

His mother inhaled sharply and squeezed his arm. “That's not true,” she said, frowning fiercely. “Your father made the decision to leave Griff's mother, to cut all contact. That's not your fault. It's his,” she insisted.

“He left Griff's mother because you were pregnant with me.”

Had she forgotten that he knew the truth? That all of it—the whole horrible tale—had come out when his kidneys failed? When they'd had no other choice but to contact his half brother and sister to see if either one of them would be a match? Had he not gotten sick, he'd have never known about them, never even known they existed.

But they
had
known about him...and never made an effort to contact him. He swallowed, his throat tightening with disappointment.

“I didn't know that he was married, Justin,” she said, sighing wearily. “And by the time I did, it was too late. I've explained this, as best I can already. I encouraged him to see Griff, to see Glory, to at the very least send some support to Anne-Marie.” She shook her head, her gaze turning inward. “But he wouldn't do it. You know how your father is.”

Yes, he did. He was a shitty husband, and an even shittier father.

Maybe that's why it was so important for him to get to know Griff, so that he could show his brother that he wasn't like their father, that he'd been worth saving, that he'd been worthy of the sacrifice he'd made for him.

That it wasn't his fault.

And as far as big brothers went, Griff was definitely the jackpot. He'd been an army ranger, for heaven's sake. A straight-up badass. He was brilliant, tough and above all else, steady. If he said he would do something, then he did it and, after living with a man who broke promises faster than he made them for the better part of his life, Justin had to admit, he found that quality the most admirable of all.

Though Griff wasn't on Facebook, Glory was, and Justin had pored over her page, looked at all the posts and pictures, several of which had included Griff. Glory often talked about him, about how wonderful he was, even called him her “rock.”

To be fair, his mother had always been his rock, the one person he could count on, so he didn't necessarily need one of those...but a brother would be nice. And a sister, too, of course, though admittedly he felt closer to Griff. How could he not, given the surgery? Given the fact that Griff had saved his life?

“You hungry?” his mother asked, snagging his attention with the subject change.

He was, actually. He lifted a hopeful brow. “Do we have any tuna?”

She blinked, seemingly astonished, then laughed. “Tuna? Since when do you eat tuna? You've never been able to stand the smell, much less eat it.”

“I don't know,” he said, shrugging. “I've just got a craving for it.” He'd had a few others as well, like carrot cake when his favorite had always been red velvet. It was odd.

“All right, then. How about I make you a sandwich?”

Justin aimed a hopeful smile at her. “How about you make a casserole so there's enough for both of us?” She needed to eat as well and he intended to make her match him bite for bite.

She stood, a ghost of a grin on her lips. “Casserole it is, then.” She walked to the door, then paused and turned around to look at him. “Keep checking in on Griff,” she said. “It had to be hard for him, hearing from your father after so many years, but you're not his father—you're his brother—and I'm sure he'll come around.”

Then she obviously knew more than he did, Justin thought, because he wasn't nearly as certain.

One could hope, though, and he did. He really, really did.

* * *

T
HOUGH
SHE
'
D
NEVER
admit it, Jess was actually mildly relieved that Griff was the one behind the wheel as they drew closer and closer to the city. Traffic was a snarled-up mess, lanes were only used as suggestions and she'd seen more single-finger salutes this morning than she could ever recall. She inwardly shook her head. Insane. She cast a glance at her driver—razor-sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, auburn curls—and felt heat bloom beneath her skin, concentrate in her nipples, as desire slammed into her once again.

You'd think at this point she'd be used to it, Jess thought, that prolonged exposure would lessen the reaction, but...no. If anything, heaven help her, it was worse.

How could it not be after last night?

Hour after hour of listening to him breathe, the faintest rustle of sheets when he'd move, and there'd been something particularly stirring—intimate, even—seeing his long muscular leg slung out from beneath the duvet this morning. Of course, if she hadn't drooled at the sight of his bare chest last night when he'd walked out of the bathroom after his shower, then seeing his mere leg shouldn't have been a problem. She bit her lip, squashed a sigh, remembering.

Her imagination, which she liked to think was more than adequate, hadn't done his body justice. It had miscalculated the breadth of his shoulders—impossibly, they were wider—and hadn't fully anticipated the scale or delineation of his muscles. His pecs were broad, the muscle curving just so, making his nipples cant at a mouthwatering, purely lickable angle, and his abs were so perfectly proportioned that if she'd seen him in a magazine, she would have sworn by all that was holy that they were airbrushed on.

A smattering of copper hair dusted his skin, then formed a tight line and slid low. She'd noted two small scars on his abdomen—war wounds? she wondered—and had been curiously moved and heartened by the minute imperfections. It didn't seem fair that he wouldn't have any. Additionally, she'd glimpsed a tattoo on his shoulder, a single Latin phrase written in a pretty, scriptlike font—
facta non verba—
which she'd used her cell phone to translate.

Deeds, not words
.

A noble sentiment to be sure, but significant enough to ink permanently on one's body? As an ever-present reminder? Significant enough to him, evidently, Jess thought. Which naturally begged the question...why? Were they just words to live by? Or was a broken promise to blame? Considering how seriously and deliberately he did everything—case in point, the bra had gone into the bathroom with him last night—she imagined the tattoo was a combination of both, leaving her with even more questions. Intuition told her he wouldn't give up the answers easily, but then when had that ever stopped her?

His cell chirped from the cup holder—something it had been doing the majority of the morning—and she watched him glance at the display, his lips form a whisper of a smile.

“Your boss again?” she asked, knowing that it wasn't. He'd scowled each time he'd received a message from Ranger Security. The last call had been from someone named Charlie, who'd given him the grim news that their supposedly impenetrable computer system had been hacked and that the hacker had “hooted” at her. Her outrage had echoed loudly enough across the line that even Jess had heard it.

“No,” he said.

And that was it. He didn't offer more. Just...no. It was infuriating.

“Girlfriend?” she queried.

He offered another faint smile, one that was somehow sexier than the last. “No.”

So no to the question, but not to whether or not he had a girlfriend? She resisted the urge to grit her teeth. All right, then. Hardball time.

She arched a brow. “Mother or father? Brother or sister? Granny, grandpa, aunt, uncle, cousin? Friend, enemy or acquaintance?”

He chuckled, his eyes widening at the barrage of questions, seemingly surprised at her persistence. “Strictly speaking, none of the above.”

Jess sucked in an outraged breath and leaned closer. “That's not possible. I've listed every potential connection.”

“Clearly you've done this before,” he drawled, his mouth still curved into that panty-melting half smile. “You know, since you've put so much thought into it.”

She had, actually, but what difference did that make? She leaned back into her seat, picked a tiny piece of lint from her slacks. “I like to know things.”

“Things that aren't any of your business?”

She grinned, not the least bit repentant, and shrugged. “
Especially
those things. Oftentimes I find they're the most interesting.”

A bark of laughter burst from his throat. “The most interesting?” he parroted, shaking his head. “You're—” He struggled to find the right word, one that would fit her description, without being insulting, she imagined.

She took pity on him. “Honest,” she finally supplied.

He laughed again, the sound deep and low. It was nice, that laugh. Genuine and steady.

It wasn't always that way. She'd once been set up on a blind date with a guy who was quite good-looking, but laughed like a little girl who'd taken a hit of helium first, staccato and high-pitched. It was creepy, that babyish girlie sound coming from a grown man with day-old stubble. She inwardly grimaced. Needless to say, it had been a deal breaker.

“Honest works,” he said magnanimously, nodding wonderingly as though he was still unsure of what to make of her.

“So?” she prodded.

“So what?”

“The text?” she reminded him.

“Oh, right.” He checked the rearview mirror, something he'd been doing frequently since they'd left the hotel this morning. “It was my half brother. Justin.”

Ah, she thought, inclining her head. Half brother—not technically a brother, but close enough. “Is that who you were talking to last night?”

She'd wanted to ask at the time but had been sidetracked with talk of the Owl and all his exploits. They'd spent the better part of an hour going over the files Ranger Security had forwarded to him, as well as doing their own internet searches. Given the thief's practically legendary status, Jess knew that she should probably be worried, but strangely enough...she wasn't. Whatever happened—whether the bra was ultimately stolen or not—she knew that Griff would move heaven and earth to protect it, or if need be, to get it back.

Deeds, not words, she thought again. The phrase perfectly described her security expert. He was a former ranger. She'd learned that last night, when he'd been extolling the virtues of his firm and all the reasons why she shouldn't be concerned with the so-called threat against the bra's safety. She hadn't thought about it then—she'd been too distracted with other things, like the shape of his mouth and the Owl—but now she wondered... What had made him leave the military? Was he burned out? Tired of war? Or did it have something to do with those scars she'd noticed last night?