Authors: Jackie Keswick
“You’re worried about him.” Rio realized, and the thought staggered him. Alexandra didn’t bother to deny it, and that just opened a wholly different can of worms. “What has he got himself into?”
“A new job, a police investigation, and a shed load of old ghosts, if I’m not missing my mark.”
Rio would have sworn blind that the investigation didn’t bother Jack in the slightest. “He hates owin’ favors,” he said softly. “As for the two boys he saved an’ the one he couldn’t, it’s bound to remind him of stuff he worked years to forget.”
“How long have you known Jack?” Alexandra asked, delicately sipping at her tea.
“I think he was twelve when I found him squattin’ in my basement.”
“He… what?”
“Have you never wondered why there are no school reports in that?” Rio pointed at the thick blue folder in Marston’s lap. “Jack’s a street kid.”
“He has two degrees!”
“Didn’ say he wasn’ smart. Or that he was lazy. When he was thirteen, he ordered a daily pizza delivery for the homeless shelter two streets over. Hacked a pimp’s account to pay for it. He ran that for two years, and the ass never realized.”
“And he started to work with you when he was fourteen.”
“He helped catch his mother’s killer even though he had no earthly reason to. I knew then that I could trust him.”
Alexandra’s blank face made Rio sigh. “Really?” he asked and left the room, only to return a moment later with a bottle of Morgan’s and two glasses. “If you don’t even know this much, how can you hope to understand him?”
Alex took the glass and tossed back the deep brown liquid with a deft hand before setting it back on the table. “Educate me?”
Rio contemplated that for a long time while he emptied and refilled his glass. Alex didn’t move beyond shifting the thick file to rest beside her on the sofa, and Rio was grateful for her patience. He had seen Jack grow from a fierce, defiant twelve-year-old, ready to die rather than let someone touch him, into a confident, skilled fighter who cared too much for those around him.
Jack didn’t trust easily. Most of the time, he didn’t trust at all. And Rio would rather disappoint Alexandra Marston than lose the fragile trust Jack had offered him. Because when it came right down to it, Alexandra Marston might be scary. Jack Horwood was a lot more dangerous than that.
“I’ll tell you three things about Jack,” he decided after another long moment. “No questions. ’Kay?”
Alex straightened in her seat and focused. “Thank you.”
“Don’ thank me yet,” Rio grumbled, still not entirely sure if he was making the right choice. Finally, he took a deep breath. “First, when it comes to Jack, treat anythin’ electronic as suspect,” he said slowly. “Especially data that is in any possible way connected to him.”
Alex made a face. “I already knew that pile of stuff was useless,” she said softly. “But I had no idea it was as useless as all that.”
“Yeah, right. Next. Jack’s mother sold him to her pimp. He escaped when he was twelve.” Rio spoke faster now, trying to ward off memories and failing. “An’ last, Jack can never not offer help when it is needed. He’s jus’ not built that way.”
Like the consummate professional she was, Alex didn’t react to any of Rio’s revelations. Her face showed neither rage nor pity, and Rio didn’t try to explain that—for him—it was Jack’s capacity for crusades that turned him into the most valuable ally and asset.
C
HAPTER
FOURTEEN
L
OVE
IN
THE
M
IRROR
“M
Y
OFFICE
,
two o’clock.”
Jack shook his head. “Can’t. I have a meeting with—”
“No, you don’t. I’ve already called Raf Gallant to let him know.”
Jack scowled at the calendar on his tablet, where his lunchtime meeting at Scotland Yard was no longer listed. Rage zinged through him so swiftly he had to catch his breath and snap his mouth shut before he boiled over. Owning his choices was a matter of survival. He couldn’t let anyone take that away from him. Not even Gareth. Not even for something as trivial as a meeting at Scotland Yard.
Jack turned on his heel without another word and caught the elevator down to the basement. Once in the empty, quiet dojo he changed into his gi, wrapped his hands, and went to beat the blue bejeezus out of the heavy tethered bag, kicking and punching until his body slipped into the familiar rhythm, and his mind took a break.
He didn’t stop until his skin was slick with sweat and his muscles burned. Hands on knees, he gulped air as if it was rationed. To his surprise the anger lingered, jabbing at his mind like a rusty nail. It was only when he straightened that Jack realized he wasn’t alone in the room.
A dark-haired man leaned against the door that led to the changing rooms. At a shade over six feet, Jack had never considered himself short, but the man had at least four inches on him. And he was built to match.
“Horwood, right?” he asked in a voice that was all gravel and waited for Jack’s curt nod before he pushed away from the door. “If he pisses you off that much you really should tell him. He’s crap at the mind-reading stuff.”
That, Jack thought, was probably the best advice he’d been given all week. Not that it helped solve his problem. He was wiping sweat from his forehead when the man spoke again.
“You done with your warm-up? I need a sparring partner.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He let his eyes trail from bare feet to shoulder-length hair and back down, before he shrugged. “Why the hell not?”
They stepped onto the mat. They bowed. A moment later Jack no longer had time for anger or distraction. He was simply busy.
“You got some nice moves there, Horwood,” his adversary praised twenty minutes later as he rolled to his feet, breath slowly evening out. He held out a hand to haul Jack to his feet. “Aidan Conrad,” he introduced himself.
Jack smirked. “I’m aware.”
Aidan Conrad might not look the part—certainly not right now with his hair disheveled and a bruise blooming on his jaw—but the man was Nancarrow Mining’s company solicitor and legal counsel. He sat on the board of directors and had chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. Aidan Conrad had other interests too, but Jack kept that knowledge in reserve. He had a dossier on the man, just as he had dossiers on the other directors and department heads. All of them… except for one Gareth Flynn.
Jack knew that he would never have missed someone as obvious as a company director. He wouldn’t have missed the man whose department he was planning to join. If he’d had his head in the game that day, rather than staring in shock at Gareth Flynn in a suit, he would have realized that the moment Gareth had stepped out of his office.
His customary smirk turned into a scowl. “Why are you keeping Flynn off the books?”
“How d’you mean?”
“I had no idea he even worked here when I came for my interview.”
“And?”
The lawyer had a smirk to match Jack’s. And wasn’t that annoying?
“That doesn’t happen.”
“You’re that good, eh?”
“Ah, fuck you, Conrad!” Jack was done. Right now, his head might be in six places at once, but he’d been focused when he researched Nancarrow Mining in preparation for his interview. He wouldn’t have missed the fact that Gareth Flynn worked for the company. Hell, he wouldn’t have applied had he known.
And that was an interesting conclusion, but one that wouldn’t calm him down any time soon. Jack filed it for later, much later, and turned toward the changing rooms. He had a meeting to reschedule.
“Just one more thing.” Aidan stopped him before he could close the door. “Running doesn’t solve arguments. Just makes you fight tired.”
J
ACK
DROPPED
the paper bag on the kitchen table. The spicy scent of his favorite curry should have been soothing, should have made him look forward to a bit of R & R. But not even the idea of a beer or two could soothe him tonight.
He had kept a lid on his ire while he met with Raf and Lisa at Scotland Yard to strategize. Spending time with Daniel and Nico in the hospital had taxed his mind and his emotions enough to keep his anger at bay. But now that he was home, he was clean out of distractions. All he could think about was Gareth treating him as if Jack was… what? Four?
Raf had laughed his ass off when Jack had called him, seething, to reinstate their meeting. He’d still been laughing when Jack had turned up at the Yard before advising Jack to let it go.
Jack couldn’t. Trivial, but not. Harmless, but not, and Jack felt unsure of his footing, felt the steady base he needed to function slip and slide beneath him.
He went into his bedroom to change into tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, and the bed caught his gaze; the pillow that had offered comfort only a couple of days ago was now a mockery.
“He’s shit at the mind-reading stuff,” Jack muttered as he stripped the bedclothes, his movements savage. Aidan Conrad had been right about that. And Jack was used to seeing Gareth as his CO, to treating Gareth with the respect that position deserved. Calling him on his bullshit was so close to out of the question, it was laughable.
Jack had no idea where that left them.
B
RIEFING
. 10.30.
Julian’s office. And turn your fucking phone on!
Jack frowned at the terse message. He had ten minutes to get his notes together and his ass upstairs to meet with Julian Nancarrow. And a very pissed-off Gareth, judging by the way the exclamation mark had nearly ripped through the paper.
This clearly wasn’t working.
Jack hadn’t slept a wink; the fresh, lemon-scented sheets neither comforted nor relaxed him. When he wasn’t mad at Gareth for treating him like a child, his mind dwelt on images his body found far too enticing. Like Gareth in a suit. Or Gareth wrapped around him in Jack’s bed, hands warm and firm on Jack’s skin.
At 2:00 a.m. Jack had given up on sleep. He’d taken a quick shower and dealt with his most pressing problem before he had packed his bag and ridden to work looking for distractions. The corporate security office was the haven of peace Jack hadn’t been able to find at home, and he worked at a steady pace surrounded by the soft hum of electronics and lights turned low, escaping to the roof when the sky outside the windows brightened, and the office was no longer his alone.
Jack was avoiding Gareth Flynn. A childish and temporary measure, sure, but Jack just couldn’t help himself.
He didn’t deny that he was attracted to the man.
He accepted that he was stubborn, independent, tricky to work with, and a dozen other epithets that superiors and shrinks had bestowed on him over the years.
What he had deluded himself about was his ability to work with Gareth Flynn outside of a chain of command.
Jack’s past had never impeded his work. And nothing had ever been more important than his crusade. Until Gareth had reappeared and made a mess of Jack’s carefully constructed life with his need to feed him and protect him and boss him around as if Jack was six and away from home for the first time. Nobody had ever tried to run Jack’s life… and he knew he wasn’t handling it well.
He could deal with attempts to order him around—his long-suffering handler would testify that he’d done it for years—but Gareth wasn’t just bossy. He was fun to be with, loyal, protective, infuriating… and damned hot.
Jack’s watch alarm interrupted his musings. Meeting, right. He shoved a stylus behind his ear, grabbed his tablet, and headed for the stairs.
Could he be mistaking physical need for attraction?
It had been a while—a long while—since he’d bothered to hook up with anyone. Maybe all he needed was a night of hot, sweaty sex to get rid of the tension that had been simmering all week, to make him realize that there was nothing else left when they were done.
Caught between wanting to strangle Gareth Flynn and wanting to tie him down and kiss him all over, it seemed as good a plan as any. Jack took the stairs two at a time and stepped into the executive office a moment later, back straight and face blank.
G
ARETH
’
S
EYES
strayed from the stack of documents before him to the security feed running on a monitor off to one side. The feed showed Jack’s desk. Without a sign of Jack, who had been the epitome of professional while briefing Julian Nancarrow only to disappear at the end of the meeting without giving Gareth a chance to apologize.
“Got a minute?” Aidan Conrad leaned in the doorway, dressed in a light gray shirt and an immaculate charcoal gray suit that screamed Savile Row.
“Sure.” Gareth pushed the papers aside and straightened in his seat. “I’m hardly making headway with this stuff. And you sound as if you could use a drink.”
“Thanks.” Aidan settled in the visitor’s chair and accepted the teacup Gareth held out. “Thought I’d come tell you that Horwood’s caught on.”
“Told you he’d be quick.”
“So what d’you do to piss him off?”
“He told you?”
“If he’d told me, I wouldn’t have to ask,” Aidan lectured, fingers trailing over a faint bruise on his jaw.
“It’s this fucking crusade of his,” Gareth groused. “He works all hours, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, runs himself ragged. I just tried to give him a break.”
“How?”
Embarrassment heated Gareth’s neck and the tips of his ears. “I may have rescheduled some of his meetings,” he mumbled, palm coming up to rub his neck and stopping in midair. He thought he’d cured himself of that giveaway gesture, but add one Jack Horwood and all bets were off.
“Without telling him.”
“Obviously.”
“You blindsided a spook.” Aidan shook his head. “No wonder he’s a barrel of laughs.”
“Jack’s damn good at what he does.”
“Never argued that. But there’s more to him. Hell, you just have to look at that fucking tattoo to know that.” Aidan scrubbed a broad hand through his hair and pulled out the tie that secured it at the base of his skull. He didn’t look any softer with his hair loose. “Problem is, he could be too good. We have no idea why he really quit. Why he’s here.”