When He's Dirty (Walker Security: Adrian’s Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  “And yet she walked home.”

  “She said she’s dangerous, not that she’s in danger.”

  He arches a brow. “Almost as if she’s on Waters’ payroll and knows she’s safe?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”

  He studies me a moment and says, “Just how close to her did you get?”

  In other words, I think, he already knows. “You were watching.”

  “Too close, if you didn’t tell her who you are.”

  “Not fucking close enough,” I correct. “I still don’t know which side she’s on.”

  “Then what’s the plan?”

  “We watch her,” I say.

  “And you get too close again? Because we both know you’re getting too close to her, man.”

  I don’t deny the obvious. What’s the point? “I haven’t decided yet,” I say.

  His jaw clenches but he says nothing. He simply faces forward because he doesn’t have to say anything else. We both know he’s right. I got too close to Pri tonight. I’ll pay a price with her later, but it seems there’s still a little devil left in me, perhaps too much. Because as I confessed to Pri, I just couldn’t fucking help myself.

  Chapter Six

  PRI

  I wear my lucky suit Monday morning, the one with the navy flared skirt, a teal silk tank, and a jacket that hits right at the waist. Good things happen when I wear this suit. As silly as that might sound, it’s true, and I’ll take all the luck I can get. I’m at my desk by seven AM. By nine, I’m in a conference room with the team that’s working on this case, staring at a whiteboard that lists our witnesses, and it doesn’t look good. These are supporting witnesses who frame a bigger story, one with key, crucial witnesses, of which two are now dead.

  Agent Pitt walks into the conference room, dressed in a suit, always Mr. Professional, at least in appearance. Behavior is a whole new story. He walks toward the conference table, clearly intending to take a seat and pretend he hasn’t been ignoring my calls.

  “Can I see you in my office?” I ask, right when he would sit down.

  He freezes, a grimace on his handsome face before he glances my way. “Of course.” He turns and exits the room, with me on his heels, but not for long. I take the lead, quickly walking down the hallway to enter my office. By the time I’m behind my desk, he’s shut the door and he steps just behind the visitor’s chairs.

  “I really, really don’t appreciate you ignoring my calls,” I say.

  “I don’t report to you, Miller. I was on duty, working a case.”

  “Do you intend to actually prosecute someone in that case, unlike this one?”

  He’s back to grimacing. “Is this really how you want to start the day?”

  I press my hands to my desk. “Witnesses are dead, which only adds to Waters’ body count. People are dead. I’m doing this to give them the justice they deserve. I need Adrian Mack.”

  “You think I don’t know people are dead, Pri?” he snaps. “I worked with Adrian for two years, trying to take Waters down. I saw what Waters is capable of. And I’m brutally aware of the body count Waters created, directly and indirectly, which tallies to dozens. As for Adrian, he wanted your file.”

  “My file? What does that even mean?”

  “As you pointed out, witnesses are dead. He’s a target. For all he knows, you’re dirty or incompetent or both. He doesn’t trust easily. Why do you think he’s hiding out on his own?”

  “Since the US Marshall’s, aided by the FBI, can’t seem to keep my witnesses alive, I’d say because he’s smart.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  I run a hand under my hair, across my neck. “I’m sorry. I know you risk your life all the time. I know you’re trying.”

  His hands settle under his jacket on his hips. “Adrian won’t let us down, but he’s going to check you out thoroughly before he comes forward.”

  “Why doesn’t he just meet with me and judge me in person?”

  “Give him time.”

  “I have no time,” I argue.

  “He might not even show up until right before the trial and you have to trust him to know what’s right.”

  “Trust him? I’m not trusting anyone I’ve never even met.”

  “He knows Waters like no one else. He’ll do what the has to do to protect himself and the prosecution. He’s going to stay alive and we need him to stay alive.”

  “The DA wants to know I have a solid case.”

  “You do,” he argues. “Even without Adrian, you do. No jury is letting that man go. We have solid evidence. We have other witnesses.” He leans forward on the desk. “We’re all tense. We’re all targets. Fuck, I’m looking over my shoulder, too. I’m sure you are as well.”

  “I doubt I’m a target,” I say. “I know only what is in the file.”

  “What better way to end a trial than to kill the lead attorney?”

  “I’m not the only attorney on the case,” I argue.

  “Who else would want to take lead if you were dead?” He doesn’t give me time to reply. “I can get you protection.”

  “As in someone following me around?”

  “Yes.”

  The sickness of all I have discovered over Waters colors my reply. “No, and I’m not trying to be stupid. Waters has a habit of turning good cops bad. I’ll trust myself over anyone else right now.”

  “You sure?” he asks, and the very fact that he doesn’t deny my statement, validates my reply.

  “Do you know something I should know?”

  He pushes off the desk. “You know what I know. That’s why I’m a witness.”

  “How did you leave it with Adrian?”

  “I told him to hurry the fuck up and make a decision.” He heads for the door and glances back at me. “If you change your mind on security—”

  “I won’t.”

  He nods and exits the office, leaving me with the realization that my top witness is investigating me. Unfortunately, he might not like what he finds.

  “Miller.”

  I jolt and I look up to find Ed Melbourn, the DA standing in my doorway, a moment before he steps inside my office and shuts the door. He’s fifty-something, fit, a big man, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders, and a broader presence.

  “Where are we on the Waters case?”

  “Exactly where anyone would be after two key witnesses were murdered,” I answer, always direct and honest, which has served me well with Ed. I think. It’s hard to know where you stand with Ed. “The team is rattled, but we’re pushing forward, reframing our case. We can still win this.”

  “What about that FBI agent that was undercover with Waters?”

  “He’s not keen on coming forward, at least not now. Pitt seems to think he might be a last-minute addition.”

  “Last minute is not a good plan. What’s his problem?”

  “Two dead witnesses. He doesn’t want to be dead right along with them. He doesn’t trust law enforcement to protect him, and frankly, sir, I understand.”

  “What I understand is that we need Waters to go down.”

  “We still have a solid case,” I argue.

  “Until another witness ends up dead? Or has sudden memory loss? For all we know, they’ll get on the stand and have that memory loss there. Your daddy’s a beast. He does whatever it takes to win. Be your daddy, Miller.” He opens the door and intends to exit.

  “If I wanted to be my father, I’d still be working for him.” It’s out before I can stop it and I’m not sure I would have even tried.

  He half turns and eyes me. “And yet, you got this case because of your track record with your daddy. If you lose it, some might think you can’t make it without him. I will.”

  He turns and exits.

  I rotate away from the desk, facing the wall, and give myself about two seconds of self-doubt before my spine stiffens and I rotate
again and head for the door, intent on pursuing Ed. That’s when Cindy, the newest ADA, straight out of school, and working under me, steps inside the office. She’s petite, feisty, and a pretty blonde who has proven to be a real asset. “Zara Moore, Waters’ ex-girlfriend, says she’s no longer willing to testify. She remembers nothing.”

  I can almost feel a fist punch me right in the chest. “Where is she now?”

  “She left protective custody. That’s all I know. What now?”

  “We find another witness,” I say, but I already know we’re out of options. Except one: Adrian Mack.

  ***

  About six-thirty, Cindy and I head to the coffee shop by my house, the scent of fresh baked cookies stirring old memories of a nanny who baked often, while my mother did not. But to my mother’s credit, she did love to eat the tasty treats over shared story time while my father was always at work.

  For now, I pass on my cookie craving, and Cindy and I order drinks, before spending another hour working. “Three key witnesses feels like enough,” she says, as we’re wrapping up.

  “It should be,” I say, “but my gut says Zara won’t be the last witness to get cold feet.”

  “Or die?” she asks. “Talk about being intimidated in a big way. This case has gotten outright creepy. Do you ever get worried we’re on the hitlist, too?”

  I sip what’s left of my coffee, and do so with the intent of hiding my reaction. Pitt said the same thing. It’s not a pretty idea, not at all. In fact, it’s an ugly idea.

  “You’re fine,” I assure her, setting my cup down. “And this is the best way to start. Everything you face after this case will feel a little less intimidating.”

  “Do you still get intimidated? I mean, you worked on some really big cases in the private arena.”

  “Every time I take a case, I affect someone’s life. Every time, I’m intimidated by the great, but welcomed burden and responsibility to do right by people who have only me to count on.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I can see that. If I didn’t want to do right by people, I wouldn’t be working for pennies. I could have taken a job with a firm for more money. But I,”—her lips purse together—“it feels a bit political here, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything’s a little political,” I say. “And I don’t worry about the DA pressuring me for a win if the victim’s guilty. If he wasn’t guilty, that would be another story. Or if this was another case and the victim was innocent and he was forcing me to convict.”

  “What would you do if he forced you to convict an innocent man?”

  “Refuse. You decide who you are, Cindy, and your choices reflect who you are.”

  “But if it’s my job—”

  “This isn’t just a job. It’s a moral obligation and if you can’t be on the right side of your morals, well, I guess that’s really between you and your maker.”

  She studies me a moment and then says, “You’re a good influence.”

  “I haven’t always been. Go home. We have some busy days ahead of us.”

  “What about you?”

  There is a punch in my gut at the idea of walking into my house alone. “I’m going to grab another coffee and take some notes before I leave.”

  “I can wait.”

  “I’m good. Go home.”

  She grabs her things and right before she stands, she says, “I’m glad our paths crossed.” She doesn’t wait for a reply. She heads for the door.

  I’m a good influence. I doubt Adrian Mack is going to think that when he digs into my history. Which means I can’t count on him to show up. All the more reason to stay awhile and find the holes I need to plug in this case. Leaving my things behind—I’m the only one in here right now—I walk to the counter, pay for another coffee and splurge on a giant iced sugar cookie. I might not have a man in my bed, which is perpetually empty, despite that kiss in the bathroom, but my belly will be full this night. And I can run off the cookie. The wrong man tends to be a bit harder to recover from, as I’ve proven quite decisively.

  With my cookie in hand, I turn away from the register and find myself running smack into a hard body. “Oh God. I’m sorry.” My hands land on a hard wall of muscle and I glance up to find Rafael staring down at me, amusement in his brown eyes.

  “Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”

  Chapter Seven

  PRI

  My beautiful new neighbor is back with his goatee, dark hair, and chiseled features looking better than ever, right here in my favorite coffee shop, standing so close. The mix of masculine spice and freshly baked sugar cookies is ridiculously, unexpectedly erotic. So much so that I have to remind myself that I’ve made an enemy of the King Devil, and who better to send to watch me, set me up, or even kill me than a beautiful monster? He’s also still touching me and I yank my hands back. “I should get my coffee.”

  I start to turn and he catches my elbow, and Lord help me, heat rushes up my arm and across my chest. As if that’s not enough, my nipples pucker beneath the lace of my bra. “What just happened?” he asks. “Why are you running from me?”

  Damn him for being so perceptive, or maybe damn me for being so obvious. “Nothing. I just wanted to let you order.” He glances at the manager. “Whatever she had,” he says, tossing a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  All the while, he’s still touching me and I don’t know why I’m not pulling away. His attention returns to me, though somehow I feel as if it was always on me, even when he was looking away, his body shifting just enough to shelter me from the manager’s eyes, as he softly asks, “Is this about the kiss?”

  “No. Yes. I mean no.” My lashes lower and then lift, “God, what is it about you that makes me forget how to make a point?” I don’t wait for his reply. “It’s not the kiss. The kiss was—” I hesitate, not sure how to finish that sentence, considering where I’m at in my life right now.

  He arches a brow. “It was?” he prods, not about to let me off the hook on this one, clearly.

  I don’t make him push hard and with good reason. I hate lies and games, so I speak honestly, “Good and bad. The bad is that now is not a good time for this.” I twist away from him, grab my coffee and head to my seat. Once I’m settled behind my computer, I sip my coffee, which is a butterscotch latte. It’s an acquired taste, and I’m aware that Rafael just ordered what I ordered. Somehow, I’m watching as he retrieves his order and I tell myself to look away, I do, but he’s addictive, pure sex. I thought I favored men in suits, but not so much right about now. Now, I seem to favor denim, tattoos peeking from T-shirt sleeves, and boots. His jeans and T-shirt are both dark blue and snug enough that I can appreciate his broad shoulders and perfect ass.

  He begins to turn and I quickly eye my computer screen, sipping my coffee. About twenty seconds later, he slides into the seat across from me, setting his cookie and cup on the table. When I look up, I melt in a pool of his warm chocolate brown eyes as he says, “Here’s a good reason to get to know me.”

  I smile. “Okay. What’s the good reason?”

  “I tell bad jokes and I laugh at them so you don’t have to.”

  But I do indeed laugh. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll bite. Tell me a bad joke.”

  “You didn’t think that was a joke?”

  “You can do better,” I challenge, surprised at how easily I’ve relaxed into the moment with a man I’ve only just met.

  “Okay,” he says. “You asked for it.” He pretends to roll up his non-existent sleeves, and I notice the skull in the midst of a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. He sips his coffee. “Butterscotch,” he says. “I like it. I’m inspired to tell a really stupid joke.” I smile and he adds, “We’re in Texas A&M joke territory so that’s where I’m headed. Did you hear about the Aggie who won a gold medal at the Olympics? He was so proud of it he got it bronzed.”

  I laugh. “That was indeed cheesy.”

  “I specialize in cheesy. And it did ma
ke you laugh.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I needed that, actually.”

  He leans in closer, sobering as he does. “About our timing.”

  Our timing, I repeat in my mind. There is something about the way he represents us as one that does funny things to my belly. “What about it?” I ask.

  “I’ve learned that now is always better than later. There might not be a later.”

  He hits ten nerves all at once. “Exactly,” I whisper rather fiercely. “I want you to have a later. And me, too.”

  His eyes narrow, sharpen. “What does that mean? Talk to me, Pri.”

  “I don’t even know you,” I remind him. “And you don’t know me.”

  “I want to know you. Do you want to know me?”

  He wants to know me. I want to know him. Instead, I say, “I told you. Now is not a good time.”

  “Now is exactly the right time. Do you want to know me?”

  “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  He studies me a long moment, his eyes never leaving my face. “I work for Walker Security. Check us out.” He picks up a pen and scribbles information on the napkin. “That’s us,” he says, sliding the napkin in front of me. “I gave you our company name and Blake Walker’s number. He’s one of the founding brothers and my direct boss. He’ll be easy to check out. He’s widely respected, even as high up as the White House.”

  “White House?” I ask, ever so curious now. “What exactly does Walker do?”

  “We handle protection, recovery, even airport security, and supplement law enforcement investigations at all levels. Check the references.”

  “Even if I do, and they’re all wonderful, that doesn’t mean you, or people around you, can’t be bought.”

  He tilts his head, and quite astutely says, “You think someone close to you is dirty?”

  “The defendant loves to turn good people into bad people, including law enforcement. Witnesses in protective custody have died. Others are running scared. What do you think?”

  “And you think you’re a target?”

  “An FBI agent told me to watch my back because I could be a target today. So yes, I do.”