The Huntress: full-length sexy romantic suspense (13 page)

“He’s bad news,” he said finally. “Keep your distance. In his world, you’re either working for him or you stay the fuck out of his way.”

“He’s importing illegal drugs, right?”

“That and whatever else the law doesn’t want on the streets. Guns, prostitutes, you name it, he’s wiggled his finger into it somehow.”

“Oh…one of those,” she said. Finn stunk of organized crime. Ford had said they thought he was part of something big—nationwide even. There must be some new crime boss pulling the strings somewhere and looking to wrench operations from the local troublemakers.

“One of those,” Butch agreed. “Only bigger.”

No matter how relentlessly she pushed him, he refused to elaborate. She hardly expected him to though. Butch liked to play with his cards held close to his chest, which meant very little sharing.

They each drove their own car to her apartment. Along the way, she tried to reach Fiona on her cell phone to ream her out for trying to convince Snitch to steal her computer files. Fiona’s voice mail picked up. The phone had been switched off, a cheery recorded message informed her.

Vega wondered about that only briefly. It wasn’t unusual for Fiona to switch off her phone when she wanted a break. When she finally reached her sister, she planned to explain, in firm tones, why she should never allow herself to become unreachable while on assignment.

Traffic moved swiftly on the Chrysler Expressway. In less than twenty minutes, she’d parked her jeep in front of her apartment building. Butch pulled his beat-up Crown Victoria into the open space behind her.

“So, here we are,” he said after barging into Vega’s serene apartment. He assessed the stark black and white interior, not able to understand the careful selection and placement of her furniture, and shook his head. “Damn, I was going to buy you something to liven up this place.”

“You’re lively enough for me.” She dragged her hand along his bruised, swollen jaw. “Does it hurt?”

“Not aching as badly as some other parts.” He flicked a downward glance.

She wasn’t quite ready to dive right into the bed. Her dreams had been excruciatingly slow—inching toward the inevitable but never actually achieving a satisfying conclusion.

That’s what she wanted from Butch—only with the satisfying conclusion—and she wasn’t afraid to demand it.

“Ssshhh…” She pressed a finger against his lips. “Don’t talk.”

Chapter Eleven

“Baby, you’re killing me,” Butch groaned when Vega rolled him over on his back and crawled onto his stomach to straddle him. She covered both of their bodies with the bed’s crisp white sheet. Most of their clothes had long ago been abandoned in the living room. She wore her lace panties, no bra. Butch still had on a grungy pair of jeans. He’d removed his hat and carefully placed it on the bedside table a moment before climbing into the bed.

She kissed his nose. Somewhere between the deep kissing and the creative ways he stroked her, she’d lost interest. The realization hit her like a splash of freezing water. Mindless sex wasn't working. He wasn’t the man she wanted here in her bed.

Mentally, emotionally, she was still back in the swamp pressed up against the cooler while Grayson did his best to fry her brains with a kiss. A kiss she’d never asked for but couldn't forget. Damn it. She wanted Grayson…a man she could never hope to have.
Should
never have.

She swallowed hard. Delicately getting out of this disaster wasn’t going to be easy.

Butch caressed her shoulder, encircling her bullet wound.

“Grayson Walker,” he said. Like she needed his name on his lips right then.

She pushed his roaming hands away and kissed his bare chest, his muscles rippled underneath her fingertips. “He’s just a man with my gun,” she said lazily, though she wasn’t feeling it. Her mind raced, trying to think up a plausible excuse to get Butch out of her bed without completely ruining their relationship.

“He’s a hard man to find,” he said. He groaned when she shifted her weight over his hips. “A hard, hard man…how…did…you?”

“The usual digging,” she said. She kissed his nose again. It wasn’t as if she found Butch repulsive. He was devastatingly sexy, in fact. His bedroom gaze could pin her to a wall and leave her panting.

“Couldn’t have been the usual digging. Not with him. Bet you could find him again.”

Wait a minute. What was Butch up to? She pushed the sheet covering them aside.

“Why are you here today, Butch?”

He pulled her flush against his chest. “Baby, I’m here because of you. You’ve got the hottest ass anywhere around,” he whispered into her hair and gave her bottom a tight squeeze.

She wiggled off him and wrapped the sheet around herself. How he was acting—far too nice for him—and the loving way he was looking at her, it all came across as contrived. Butch and emotion? The two just didn’t mix.

“I missed you these past several weeks. And I was worried.”

“Uh-um…”

He propped his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable. “A woman likes to talk about these things. Get it all off her chest.”

“Talk?” She picked up his cowboy hat and tossed it at him. “I’m not green. I know what you’re after.”

Butch was literally planning to pump information from her. He expected her to mindlessly create a golden trail to Grayson? The very idea smoldered in her chest. How dare he? How dare he try to use her?

Not that she was surprised. She wasn’t. But that didn’t mean she was willing to let him get away with his dirty ploy. She wouldn’t give him the chance to steal the two hundred thousand dollar prize for Grayson’s capture away from Skip Tracers.

“Get out,” she said.

“Baby…Vega, please.” He tilted his head and smiled in that endearing way that usually turned her legs to jelly.

“There’s no
please
involved with this, Butch. Get out.”

As she watched him gather his things, dress, and leave, she knew she shouldn’t be angry with him. The only loyalty Butch ever had was to his money. His character, slimy as the mold growing in his refrigerator, came part and parcel with the whole package. Besides, she’d invited him over to her apartment with the thought of using him too.

What a pair they made. Butch was most likely the only man on the planet she truly deserved.

* * * *

“Don’t poke the hostage.” Grayson twisted a broom out of Matt Lockler’s hands before he could jab the wooden handle into Fiona’s side.

Matt had spent the afternoon circling the chair where Fiona sat bound with nylon ropes and her lips sealed with a single strip of duct tape. He reminded Grayson of a feral dog, anxious to dig his teeth into the juicy morsel held just out of reach.

Grayson tossed the broom aside, sank into a nearby plastic chair, and rubbed his aching temples. Bringing Fiona back to this crazy house had been a mistake. He peeked at her. Her eyes sparked with naked terror and her nostrils flared as she sucked in air. She kept her gaze locked on him, not Matt, glaring at him as if he were the big bad wolf. The girl needed to work on her instincts.

As dead to the world as she was when he’d rescued her, Grayson just couldn’t bring himself to set her down somewhere alongside the road. He’d fought that demon inside himself that had even suggested it. Of course, a hospital had been out of the question, since those places were crisscrossed with security cameras now. Same reason he wouldn’t leave Fiona at a convenience store. Unlike in South Carolina where he’d left Vega, he wasn’t planning on running. Not yet. Not until he had the evidence, he needed to prove that Joshua Whitfield had ordered Greg Harper’s death.

“Could put tape over her eyes,” Matt said. He’d been making all sorts of helpful suggestions the entire day. He ripped a long length of the duct tape from the roll.

“That would be cruel, Matt.” Grayson had tape wrapped over his eyes once in South America. Removing the damned stuff nearly ripped off his eyelids.

“So, can I do it?” Matt persisted.

Grayson stood and snatched the tape from Matt’s fingers. “No, you can’t.” He whirled around to Fiona. She flinched, sinking in the chair as far as her bindings would allow. “What the hell am I going to do with you?” he shouted at her.

“You said her sister…” Matt started to say.

“Vega.” An idea struck a dull chord.

“She pretty, too?” Matt licked his lips. “Get her. We wouldn’t have to share then.”

“Vega,” Grayson repeated the name, letting the idea sink in. He really didn’t want her anywhere near Atlanta. She was too intelligent, which made her dangerous. By holding Fiona hostage, he was nearly begging for Vega’s interference though. Fortunately, whether he liked it or not, he held the upper hand. If he played the game real careful, he might just be able to dupe Vega into joining his team.

The very challenge of it excited him. “Good idea, Matt. I’ll start planning something.”

Fiona shook her head back and forth vigorously, her terrified doe-eyes widening.

* * * *

Tyree Robinson’s family lived in the Ford Historic District of Dearborn. Their cozy home on Nona Street was one of the first houses built for Ford employees in the early nineteen hundreds. The streets were plowed clean, the yards fastidiously landscaped. The area broadcasted an air of stability and security where the dangers of illegal drug trafficking could easily be overlooked.

It was creeps like the elusive Finn Kayne who brought the real world to their doorsteps. Vega parked in front of the Robinson’s two-story clapboard home, painted a friendly yellow with pale green trim. Though the Christmas decorations had been removed, the houses still reeked of holiday cheer. White smoke puffed from the chimneys. Snow banked in gentle mounds around the front entranceways. Vega could almost picture families gathered around the fireplace, singing songs while the mother was in the kitchen brewing something sweet and warm to drink. This neighborhood was the carbon copy of the cute holiday village her mom displayed under the Christmas tree.

The inside of Tyree’s house didn’t disappoint. Mrs. Robinson offered Vega a cup of hot cider and homemade cookies while ringing her hands in despair over her missing child. From her, Vega learned that Tyree’s best friend, Candice, lived just a few doors down.

Candice, like most frightened teens, kept her mouth shut. She didn’t know anything about Tyree…not in front of her parents, anyhow. Besides, Tyree was a tough girl. She could take care of herself.

By the time Vega left Candice’s house, the temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees. A brisk wind swirled powdery snow down the silent street. Vega walked into the wind back to her jeep, hoping Tyree had found someplace warm to stay the night.

There really wasn’t anything more she could do right now to find the girl. She’d laid the groundwork. This was where patience took over. It took time for information to bubble up. Tomorrow morning she’d be back on Candice’s doorstep.

Candice knew how to find Tyree. Of that, Vega was certain. She hadn’t acted worried about Tyree because she believed her safe. Tonight, the seeds of doubt Vega planted were going to grow and shake the girl’s confidence. As long as she confronted Candice before she got the chance to run to a peer for advice, she’d have Tyree safely back into custody before noon.

Her thoughts were still with the green-eyed, perfectly coiffed beauty queen, Tyree, when she returned home. Tired and slightly distracted, she didn’t notice anything wrong until she was almost on top of her front door. Not that she would’ve run from trouble, no matter the size of the package.

A halo of bright security lights shone on Butch as he leaned against Vega’s apartment door. His arms cinched across his chest, holding himself against the biting cold. Seeing him here, at her door, surprised her. He wasn’t the type of man who’d come crawling back so quickly.

She stopped several feet away and pushed her keys back into her pocket.

“What do you want?” she asked casually.

“To apologize. I admit I was trying to use you this afternoon. I shouldn’t have used you.” He studied his boots when saying that. It weakened his sincerity. A man who couldn’t look her in the eye was a man hiding something.

“I was using you, too,” she said. “We’re square.”

Surprise showed all over his face. “Using me? How?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She thumped his chest. “Go home Butch. I’m not going to let you in tonight.” She’d had enough of lust and unfulfilled desires for one day. The only thing she wanted to do in her bed was sleep…and hopefully avoid those pesky erotic dreams.

“Wait.” He grabbed her arm and twisted it.

Vega stared daggers at the hand that held her and wondered just how much of that arm of his she should remove while prying him off her. Butch must have read her intent. His hand flew off her faster than if he’d touched white-hot steel.

“Wait,” he said again. This time the word gentled into a request instead of an exacting demand. “Let me explain.”

The bruise on his jaw had darkened over the past few hours. The injury must have been fresh when she first saw him at Skip Tracers that afternoon. He looked rather pitiful, beat up and sulky.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

He paced the length of the apartment’s covered walkway. The growing wintry wind howled past him. A lonely wanderer, no one could play the part better.

“I want that information you’ve got on Grayson Walker,” he said. “I need it.”

She expected he’d say something like that. Grayson had killed Butch’s partner and had tried to do the same with her. Naturally, Butch itched to tear Grayson’s head off.

“I can’t let you blow Skip Tracer’s chance at collecting the two hundred thousand dollar bounty. My feelings for you aren’t that soft.”

Butch’s pacing had brought him within arm’s reach. He grabbed Vega’s shoulders. “
My
feelings for you
are
that soft. I can’t tell you how worried I was about you.” He gave her a shake.

The bullet wound piped up, reminding her exactly where on her shoulder Grayson had shot her. Butch’s thumb pressed directly on the stitches. She twisted free and held up her hands, warning him not to try that again.