Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard #10)

Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard #10) Page 22

“Do you actually believe he’d let you near anything illegal?”

“I could snoop around, find out how he communicates with Keene and how he—”

“There’s no way in hell you’re going to work for that bastard.”

“I really think I’m the one who should make that decision.”

Thus began what Olivia would later refer to as the blowout. Grayson had a dark side, and she didn’t like it one little bit. He thought he could intimidate her and almost did, but she gave as good as she was getting. At least, she thought she did. But in the end, FBI trumped her.

“Are you really that stubborn?” she demanded.

“Apparently I am,” he countered.

In the heat of the moment, Grayson had forgotten Ronan was on the line. His friend was on his way to pick up a date. He tried a couple of times to get Grayson to talk to him, then gave up and listened.

Grayson argued, “You can’t be that naive, Olivia. The only reason Jorguson wants you working for him is to keep an eye on you, and to keep you from testifying against him. That’s also the reason he would pay you an obscene salary.”

“I realize—” Olivia began, and that was as far as she got. She didn’t get in another word for several minutes while Grayson lectured over the foolishness of her suggestion.

The sharp whistle from the phone reminded him that Ronan was still waiting.

“Jorguson called Olivia,” Grayson explained to him.

“I gathered as much,” Ronan said. “I could hear you shouting at her. Olivia’s just trying to be helpful,” he said in her defense. “It’s a stupid idea, going to work for that creep . . .”

“Damn right it is.”

“But,” he said, all but shouting the word, “don’t tell her that. She means well.”

While Grayson talked to his partner, Olivia went into the kitchen to get a bottle of water. When she returned, she paused to glare at him just for the sheer pleasure of it, then took a drink and sat down next to him.

Grayson finished his call, put his arm around her, and said, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I did.”

She made the mistake of looking up at him. He kissed her then, distracting her. He took the bottle out of her hand and gulped down a long swallow before handing it back.

With a calmer voice now, Olivia said, “I was only offering to help.”

“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 ha**ng s*x to get what I want,” she purred.

He laughed again. “Glad to hear it.”

EIGHTEEN

Olivia 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.