Authors: Jackie Keswick
The phone. Right.
He rolled across the expanse of deep green quilt, wincing at the hammer blows inside his head, and snatched the phone from the bedside table.
“Horwood.”
“Good morning, Mr. Horwood,” said a voice that was far too chipper for early morning. It grated against the insides of Jack’s head. “This is Alexandra Marston, calling from Nancarrow Mining. We would like to offer you a position with our corporate security team. Can you visit the Strand office this morning to discuss your contract?”
Jack stared into the dimness of his bedroom, noting his keys on the dresser where he’d tossed them on coming home. The mostly empty whisky bottle lay on the carpet beside his shoes. His suit jacket and tie hung on the wardrobe door.
“Mr. Horwood?”
Jack roused himself a little. Answers. Decisions. A job he would love. A place to belong. Home.
“Sorry, Ms. Marston,” he said slowly into the handset. “I am flattered that you think me a suitable candidate, but I have to decline your offer. I will not be able to work for Nancarrow Mining. Thank you for your time.”
He disconnected the call before he changed his mind or she tried to do it for him. The phone dropped to the bedspread. Jack knew that he should get out of his suit trousers and shirt, should find some aspirin and a bottle of water, should get some more sleep or go take a shower. The knowledge didn’t translate into movement. He continued to stare at nothing until the early autumn sun burned off the morning mist and bathed his bedroom in a light so bright it left no room for shadows.
A
T
CLOSE
to eight o’clock in the evening, traffic around Wimbledon was dying down. Gareth Flynn slid his Range Rover into a parking space close to Jack’s house, a little surprised to find himself on a leafy street full of meticulously restored Victorian redbrick terraces. Given his penchant for petrol-powered crotch rockets and high-tech computer equipment, he hadn’t expected Jack’s taste in homes to run to Victorian splendor. Neither could he have guessed that Jack’s house would be one of the best kept on the street.
The deep red front door sported stained glass inserts set aglow by the hallway lights. The bow windows and porch trim were painted white, while black cast-iron railings edged the steps down to the basement, surrounded the small parking space for Jack’s motorbike, and marked the path to Jack’s front door. And the matching black and red tiles that covered the whole area looked like something out of a TV makeover show.
The house proved just as unexpected as he remembered Jack to be. Gareth had never been able to determine if the about-turns, false trails, and surprises had been deliberately crafted to confuse, or if they were… simply Jack. Gareth turned off the engine and sat in silence for a time, eyes narrowed in thought.
Am I an idiot for going after the brat like this?
He had been disappointed but not surprised when Jack turned down the offer of a position with Nancarrow Mining’s CorpSec team. Jack could argue himself out of a lottery win given enough incentive, so rationalizing why he didn’t want to work with Gareth again wouldn’t be a difficult task.
Alexandra’s comment that Jack had sounded as if he was suffering from a gargantuan hangover had made Gareth wonder if there was still a chance to change the younger man’s mind. Determined to try, Gareth crossed the road to Jack’s front door and leaned on the bell.
“For fuck’s sake don’t you own a watch?” came Jack’s voice from inside the house. “You said I had two hours, and that wasn’t nearly enough time. I’m not a miracle worker!” The door opened, and the rant stopped abruptly as Jack saw who stood on his doorstep. “Gareth?” he asked, voice uncertain. “Are you moonlighting for the Met now?”
“Holy Mother of…!” Gareth knew he stared, but he couldn’t help himself. Jack looked barely legal and was dressed like…. Words failed him, and even swearing would only get him so far. So he stared. At leather, tanned skin, and hard muscle. At what had to be one of the hottest sights he’d ever seen.
Jack Horwood was a mirage of smooth flowing lines and sharp angles. From long legs that looked even longer encased in sinfully tight black leather and knee-high boots, to the high collar on the sleeveless green shirt, the man looked simply edible. Bare arms showed off perfectly tanned skin and muscled biceps, and the waistband of the trousers sat so low, the tips of Jack’s hipbones peeked out. And the ridges of his toned abs….
Jack Horwood was a vision. Shocking, jarring, and utterly and totally wrong.
Jack had never looked his age. Not at seventeen when he joined Gareth’s unit, not at twenty-two when he left it. He’d grown up since then, had added muscles and acquired that stupid tattoo, but very few people would guess his real age on meeting him. Gareth knew that. Was used to it. Had called Jack
baby face
more than once.
But in all the time Gareth had known him, Jack had never looked so achingly vulnerable. Or so innocent. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and not even a hint of shadow darkened his jaw. Liner and mascara had turned his eyes into pools of the deepest green, ready to snare and trap anyone foolish enough to look into them too long.
“Maybe you’d better come in, and I’ll explain,” Jack muttered and stepped away from the door.
Jack’s living room was cluttered with duffel bags that spilled their guts across the carpet. Two of the large bags held clothes, a third one smelled strongly of leather, and the fourth one—a large foldout case like the ones used by plumbers, traveling mechanics, or makeup artists—qualified for its own defense budget. At first glance, it appeared to hold a specimen of almost every edged and pointed weapon ever invented.
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Gareth stopped him. “If you’re going to say that it isn’t what I think it is, I’ll hit you.”
Jack closed his mouth, then his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Whatever else had happened over the years, Jack’s tried and trusted remedy for keeping his temper on a leash hadn’t changed. It looked just as adorable as it always had. “Are
you
moonlighting for the Met?” Gareth asked softly, and more for confirmation. The quantity of weapons in the room almost made it a foregone conclusion.
“I just help out now and then,” Jack replied, gaze level.
“By playing bait.”
“I’m good at it.”
“I can see that.” Gareth’s blood had caught alight the moment Jack had opened the door. Even irritated and distracted, Jack was devastating. Gareth didn’t want to imagine what Jack would be like once he focused on his role. He might spontaneously combust if he did. He needed to distract himself, but asking if helping the police was the reason for Jack refusing the job at Nancarrow Mining was a bad idea. Jack vibrated with tension, and it wasn’t in Gareth’s nature to push when it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“Is it legit?”
Jack’s lips quirked up at the corners. “They can’t take exception to what they don’t know….”
“I see. Whom are you baiting, anyway?”
The doorbell rang before Jack could answer. “It’s open,” he yelled in the direction of the hallway, and a moment later, a lanky blond walked through the door. He was dressed in dark blue slacks and a shirt of light blue silk that reflected the color of his eyes. A black leather jacket was draped over one arm.
“We’re late,” he said before Jack could greet him.
“
You
may be late,” Jack shot back, rummaging in the smallest duffel bag. “I’ve told you before that I need three hours. Not two. Not one. Three. If you have a problem with that—”
“You can’t take any weapons,” the blond interrupted. “They’re frisking.”
Jack sat back on his heels. “You have
got
to be fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not. No patrons through the door without a search—not even the kids.”
“Call it off,” Jack ordered, and his voice didn’t waver.
“Jack, I can’t.” The man’s bravado evaporated until he sounded desperate. “It’s the only lead I have.”
Jack shook his head, and Gareth was proud of him. His visitor pushed all the right buttons, making Gareth wonder how well he knew Jack, but Jack didn’t give in.
“I’ll not set one foot in that fucking place without a weapon! Not after the lousy intel you gave me last time,” Jack said. “Can you call for backup?”
“I’ve nothing but rumors, nothing that will convince a magistrate to give me a warrant.”
“Then I go armed or we call it off. You have two choices.”
“Three,” Gareth said and grinned when two startled faces turned his way. It was comical to see Jack recall his presence with a snap, while the blond stranger stared at him with clear suspicion in his eyes. “There are three choices.”
“What’s the third?” the man asked, but Gareth kept his eyes on Jack, not wanting to miss his reaction.
“What if I tag along and watch your back?”
C
HAPTER
THREE
H
ARD
F
ACTS
“Y
OU
’
D
DO
that?”
Jack’s wide-eyed stare was a balm for Gareth’s doubts. Jack wasn’t shying away from the idea of working with Gareth. Rather the opposite, if the gratitude in the green eyes was anything to go by.
“Fill me in, and I’ll keep you out of trouble,” he said, expecting a typical Jack briefing—where, what, and how in six sentences. Instead, he found a lanky blond planted in front of him, hands on hips and glaring.
“You can’t be armed, either.”
“I heard you the first time.” Gareth kept his face blank and his temper even, and he got a co-conspirator’s smile from Jack as his reward. Just a tiny tilt of lip, but it acknowledged a truth neither needed to voice.
“Clive, relax,” Jack counseled. “By the way, this is Gareth Flynn. Gareth, Detective Inspector Clive Baxter from the Met. Why don’t you get acquainted while I finish getting ready?”
“Skin trade?” Gareth asked as Jack turned and disappeared through the door and up the stairs. Given the way Jack was dressed, it was the most likely option. Baxter nodded, and Gareth wanted to ask how well the detective knew Jack, but he pushed the thought aside. “You do this a lot?” he asked instead.
“Not really, no. I was a liaison on one of Jack’s cases when he was…,” Baxter hesitated, and Gareth just waved for him to continue. He already had chapter and verse of Jack’s official activities. “We kept on working… together… afterwards, I mean.”
Jack came back into the room to grab yet another bag. The tattoo on his temple now looked like a clumsily applied sticker. He’d also changed from his green, sleeveless shirt into a long-sleeved, mustard-colored one that was just slightly too big across the shoulders. Just that tiny change made Jack look younger, skinnier, and somehow much more vulnerable.
“What he means to say is that we both want to get the rats off the street, so we keep sweeping,” Jack explained.
“Don’t mix your metaphors. To catch rats you need a piper not a sweep.”
“Not if they’re dead rats.” Jack paused on his way back upstairs to watch the detective stare at the clock for the umpteenth time. “Clive, stop fidgeting.”
“I don’t want to miss him.”
“Then go ahead and set up. We’ll catch up with you.”
Baxter hesitated for just a moment. Then he nodded and turned toward the door. “Don’t be too long,” he admonished before he went out.
“Or all the ice cream will be gone,” Jack grumbled and turned to Gareth. His smile held an apology. “You don’t have to do this, sir.”
“I know.” Gareth hesitated but then forged ahead. “I saw your face when you told him to call it off.”
“It was the right decision, but…,” Jack broke off and started over. “I would have hated it,” he admitted. “Word on the street is that this fucker grabs the youngest and most vulnerable boys. He’s a gorilla… uses violence to keep the kids in line. And Clive has nothing to….”
“What’s your objective tonight?” Gareth’s calm tone fought Jack’s rising agitation. It worked, just as it always had in the past.
“We have nothing on the man. And I mean nothing. So, ID. Photos, fingerprints… any evidence.” Jack’s eyes locked with Gareth’s. “And you still don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I don’t know. After the day I’ve had, a spot of violence sounds appealing.” Gareth pulled out his scariest grin and laughed when Jack rolled his eyes. “Tell me this isn’t why you quit your job.”
“This isn’t why I quit my job,” Jack parroted and inspected his reflection in the hallway mirror. “It’s not always like this, either,” he said and waved for Gareth to follow him upstairs. “Most of the time, I don’t even leave the house.”
Gareth leaned against the doorframe and watched Jack use both hands and a tub of product to turn his dark hair into a spiky mop. He had no trouble believing Jack’s words. Jack and computers went way back. He’d had a reputation for being hell on a keyboard before he was old enough to vote—a reputation that had grown steadily over the years. And even without the data he had offered to support his application to Nancarrow Mining, it was obvious that he now played in a completely different league.
“I hope you’re taking precautions,” he said in a gruff voice, feeling like a parent giving
the talk
to their wayward offspring.
Jack didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Clive’s the one who wants to put perverts behind bars,” he said. “I just want them stopped. I don’t care how we go about it, but I do not plant or manufacture evidence. Ever.” He threw Gareth a look over his shoulder. “Just so we’re clear, sir.”
“So what do you do?”
Jack reached for a small bottle and uncapped it. He tipped his head back and dribbled clear liquid into each eye. When he turned to look at Gareth, his pupils were blown so wide and dark that Gareth had to swallow. Hard.
“Belladonna,” Jack commented drily and dropped the bottle onto the dresser. He slung a belt around his hips and cinched it. “I find men who use children for sex and make sure they’re taken out,” he said simply, in answer to Gareth’s question. “I don’t much care about a few dirty pictures here or there, but the bastards who are buying… their choices have consequences. I make it easy for Clive and chums to find the evidence they need to prosecute. And if they’re told not to look….”