The Red Roots (4 page)

On the outside, all his financials were dormant, personal and business, and she knew that wasn’t possible. Isla slammed down on the keys. Her computer sounded off, not appreciating her tantrum. What was he up to? Did he find the device? Did he know she was listening and screwing with her? Maybe a call into Detroit was in order.

Her cell phone chimed. Ironic. She tapped the speaker.

“Crosby’s dad was arrested,” a panicked Carys said.

“Shit. What happened?”

“He was pulled over last night. Cops found drugs under his seat. It’s bad. We’re talking felony bad.”

“Was Crosby with him?” Isla said.

“No, thank goodness. She would’ve punched the cops out.”

“That explains Martin.”

“Martin?”

Isla picked at the ends of her hair. “I listened to a piece of recording, and Martin was on the phone talking about him. He set this up.”

“Because of Mia?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Does my dad know?”

“I just listened to it right before you called. I assume so since the recording is delayed. Martin mentioned Pierce calling it in.” The house’s security alerted Isla of a visitor. “Damn. Someone is here, I’ll call you back.”

She ended the call as the security system announced, “Isla, you have a guest at the front door.”

“Identify, Mabel.”

“One moment, please . . . Joseph Abbott,” the electronic voice responded.

Isla tipped her head back. “Really?”

She closed her laptop and slid it under the bed. In crumpled jeans and a t-shirt, her mess of tangled hair bounced around her while Isla darted down the stairs to the front door. Her lips stiffened when she saw a side-part of black hair and dark eyes searching through the strip of lattice glass. Isla input the code and flung the door open.

“Joe Snake, I mean, Abbott.”

He gave her a slight nod. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Pierce. May I come in for a moment?”

Isla sidestepped from the doorway and he brushed past her. Their conversation wasn’t going to end well.

JOE WAS MARTIN’S minion. His stench followed her from New York. She watched him walk around the living room, scanning the white walls, glancing down the sides of the furniture. He made her skin crawl. Interesting enough, he came from Detroit. Zagotta never took claim to Joe. Isla didn’t blame him—who would—but she didn’t trust what Zagotta said either.

“What do I owe the displeasure of this visit?”

“Have you watched the news this morning?” he asked in a bubbly tone.

“I’ve been busy, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it.”

“Familiar with the phrase ‘an eye for an eye’?”

“Philosophy this early gives me heartburn. Spit it out.”

He stuck out his dimpled chin. “Get Mia out and Crosby gets her daddy back, simple and easy.”

“No.”

“Perf—what? No?”

“No.” Isla crossed the living room and reached into a large ceramic vase. “I have a better idea.” As she pulled out a stacked and wrapped pile of cash, Joe’s close-set eyes widened. “Let’s play secret double agent.”

Joe wasn’t any different from any other warm-blooded creature. He was a man; therefore, the majority of his thinking came from his dick brain. Joe craved respect. He regarded himself a lady’s man, but the only ladies he attracted charged by the hour. The thought repulsed Isla, but Joe craved money more. With enough, power followed. Snitches loved kickbacks.

“You’re underutilized Joe, and poorly paid.”

He cocked his head to the side. “How much?”

“Five.”

“Hefty price for a little intel.”

“No.” Isla tossed him the money. “One now, the rest when you set up a meeting with Vinny.”

“I don’t know—”

“Don’t lie. I’ll find out the truth.”

“Aren’t you the fancy tech girl? Can’t you contact him?”

Isla crossed her arms over her chest. “I could, but Martin is watching me. He’d never suspect you and me working together. Come on, Joe. Straddling territories and bosses. You’re an evil genius or an absolute moron. Either way, you’re my in.”

Joe stared at the cash, stroking it with his thumb. Isla had a catch, but he was mesmerized by the money and didn’t even bother asking her for it. He was a moron but an agreeable moron. Isla escorted him to the front door.

“I’ll be in touch soon.” Joe said but stopped. He looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Just to let you know, your husband was spotted at The Ives Inn with a young woman, quite beautiful. Did I mention young?”

Raided of sensibility she bared her teeth. “For how long?”

“Two nights.”

Fire swept over her skin, she shoved Joe out and secured the house. Her head throbbed. Isla stomped back into the bedroom and swiped her phone from atop of the dresser. She tapped her contact list and thumbed a text message to Reed.

Isla: I know you’re back in town and not alone. We need to talk. Now.

Stripping from her wrinkled clothes, Isla walked into her closet and pulled a soft blue tee from the hanger. Even if Reed didn’t respond, she was going to Ives. If he wasn’t there, she’d track him down. Isla yanked her favorite ankle jeans from the dresser drawer. Who did he think he was? Lecture her about cheating, and he’s the one screwing around. Joe was thrilled to share his little tidbit with her. She didn’t have time to deal with Reed acting like a pendulant child. She had to get Crosby’s dad out of jail. Isla had lives to ruin, and now her husband was at the top of her list.

With a mouthful of bobby pins, Isla gathered her hair into a loose ponytail and slid the pins near the elastic band. Her phone vibrated.

Reed: I can’t fulfill your request at this time.

Isla: Are you really going to do this?

Reed: I am.

She growled. Her thumbs pounded the glass screen.

Isla: I’m on my way to Ives. You ducking better be there.

“Damnit.”

Isla: Fucking. Fucking better be there.

Isla fumed, she didn’t wait for his response. She stomped down the stairs. Martin seemed to believe Reed would love the breaking news along with his eggs and jelly toast. What was hidden beneath those words? Everything that was said within the families had another meaning.

“If he’s behind this, so help me . . .” She jabbered and grabbed her leather backpack.

ISLA SHOOK HER fist as a burn beat through her fingers.

The first boy she ever punched was in first grade. She’d climbed the steel jungle gym, even in her saddle shoes and pink skirt; she beat the boys to the top. It was school picture day. Isla’s curled pigtails bounced with each hoist. Though she had white tights on, Ben Wyatt peeked up her skirt and mocked her underpants. The seven year old perv, in his sailboat sweater, was photographed with a bruised, swollen right eye and cut lip.

Why couldn’t she have fought back when Ronan was ripping her to shreds and stealing her innocence? She had no problem knocking her husband down with an upper cut and a kick to the groin. God, she was screwed up.

When Reed swaggered toward her with bed head and a sleepy gaze, she lost control and attacked.

The corners of her lips curled upward as she watched Reed squirm on the floor, payment for the visual Isla concocted in her brain of her husband screwing the mystery whore in the hotels silken sheets.

“I think I’m—I’m going to throw up.” He said in a higher octave.

“Good.”

He dry heaved and gasped. “My jaw.”

“Good.”

“What’s your problem?”

Isla stood over him holding her hand. “You’re my problem. You arrogant, narcissistic ass hat. Joe Abbott told me where you were, and that you were with another woman. How do you think that looks,
Pot?
”

Reed reached for the edge of the counter and pulled up. “You don’t—”

“Did you have something to do with the set up of Crosby’s dad? Is that why you are hiding out here with some slutbag?” Charges poured from her mouth. “Are you trying to prove something to Ellis? To the families? To prove you can hurt me?”

A pale Reed wrapped ice cubes in a paper towel and offered it to Isla. “Your knuckles are swollen.”

“I don’t want your stupid ice. I want you to tell me why you are
here
and not home. Your father is looking for you, Carys is worried, and you think of only yourself.”

He held the makeshift ice pack to his chin, Reed’s bloodshot gaze stayed on Isla. She felt claustrophobic, like his stare was pulling the walls in around her and she was unable to move.

“Are you done?” He said in a calm, low tone.

She blinked and gathered air for another vomit of verbal insults but stopped. “For now.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact you barged in here and assaulted me for reasons you psychotically prattled on about. I don’t know anything about Crosby’s father. I haven’t spoken to Martin in weeks. I’ll call my father back, and Carys has her own problems to worry about. And furthermore, I don’t have to justify anything to you.” He dumped the ice and paper towel in the trash and wiped his hand on the back of his t-shirt. “You’ve made it clear our marriage was nothing but a business transaction.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“Vulgar, Isla. I don’t know of any woman, I’m here alone.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I love you. God help me, I do, but you don’t give a damn about us so stop pretending you do.”

She did though. She hated Reed for it, but she hated herself more.

In a moving glance, Isla saw his hurt. The same hurt she walked away from the night he accused her of cheating. He crossed the kitchenette; a burst of sun hit her eyes. Reed’s watch reflected off a stream of light, he picked up her purse from the floor and handed it to her.

“You need to cool off.”

He didn’t let go when she grabbed the strap. The flicker of a distorted emotion passed between them. “Martin Sutton is an evil man. Stay away from him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“Will you?”

His lips thinned and he let go. Isla’s cell phone vibrated in the outer pocket, she walked around him but stopped just short of the door and glanced over her shoulder.

“For the record, I never dirtied our vows with an affair. I would never do that to you.”

She didn’t know why she said it. Isla left the penthouse suite but didn’t want to wait for the elevator. She hurried down a few flights of stairs and pulled her phone out.

Ellis: Come to the office.

Isla: On my way.

The echo of a slammed door kicked up her downward pace. Winded, she pushed open the heavy door and entered the underground parking garage. Her rubber soles squeaked against the polished cement floors. Though the garage was fully lit with wands of fluorescent light, it was false security.

The stench of exhaust and oil pricked her nostrils as she drew closer to her car. Across from her a windowless van idled. A loud thud came from inside, Isla paused. The van rocked back and forth, then stilled. Her fingers wound tight around the straps of her bag. Fluttered heartbeats rippled up her throat. The van’s back doors flung open. A woman jumped out, her heels pounded the ground as her long dark hair swung behind her in a tight gathered ponytail.

Isla held her breath while the woman scanned the garage. The woman set her sights on Isla and crossed with sleek but firm strides. She pressed her finger to her lips. The woman was scary and reminded Isla of a posh assassin in leather pants, and stud-toed boots. Blots of red were on the woman’s white blouse.

Her adrenaline spiked.

“Don’t try to run from me, Isla Pierce.”

Her name rolled elegantly but rough from the woman’s tongue. She was the woman cussing out whomever on the phone, in Martin’s lobby.

“You’ve been following me.”

She smirked. “My name is Kata. You’re husband wanted a watchful eye kept on you.”

The two stood face to face between a pillar and a sports car. Kata’s defined facial structure could cut glass. She was gorgeous, and Isla hated her because she was positive this was the woman with Reed.

“How do you know my husband?”

“Don’t be jealous.” Kata teased.

“I’m not,” she said, but she was.
“I was informed of your affiliation with my husband here at this hotel. I don’t like it, I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you.”