“You can’t,” he said. “You swore a blood oath that you would not leave the restaurant until I came to get you. Remember?”
A shivery burst of laughter shook her. “A blood oath?”
“Fuck, yes. Take it. Don’t fight me on this. Keep it until I have a chance to take you phone shopping. My number’s programmed in.”
He looked straight into her eyes, his fingers clamped around her wrist, and she realized that she could not win. He simply would not let her go unless she gave in, and for God’s sake, why didn’t she? She was fighting just on principle, just to be contrary. She couldn’t afford this silliness.
She slipped the phone into her purse. “Thank you,” she said.
“Keep it in your apron pocket at the restaurant, while you’re working,” he said. “I’ll be calling, to check on you. And I’m going to give you holy hell if you’re not reachable. Believe it.”
She snorted at him. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
The guy worked fast. Fucking her, already.
John chewed the inside of his own cheek until he tasted blood.
Antonella disappeared into the Sunset Grill, still smiling. Her face rosy red. Probably saddlesore from being fucked all night long. Slut.
Burke’s silver Mercedes pulled out into Eighth Avenue traffic.
It made him angry, and he was already chronically angry, dealing with Haupt night and day. He was starting to consider recreational murder, just to unload, or he was going to start having panic attacks.
Amazing, that the guy was fucking her already. She’d been so celibate all those weeks that John had been watching her. Such a good little girl. Sleeping alone, with her piles of books, like a sexy, succulent little nun. Not anymore. Dirty whore, spoiling it. She would pay for that.
Not that John wasn’t still going to enjoy his own turn when it came, as it inevitably would. But he would have to punish her severely for spreading her legs. Soiling herself with that rich prick. Just like her sister, cheating on him with that randy carpenter. Who was slated to die a slow and ugly death. Just as soon as it was convenient for John.
Maybe Burke would join the carpenter on John’s special short list. He wondered idly if the youngest girl was as much of a slut as her sisters were. Probably more so, with that tattoo, her nose ring, her painted van. What the hell. He’d fuck them all. Punish them all. And punish them, and punish them. Thinking about it made him hard.
But speed dialing Haupt’s number on his cell wilted him fast. He gritted his teeth, resigned to the scolding he was about to receive.
The stinking geezer picked up, with no salutation. He just waited for a report, line open. Telegraphing his disgust with silence.
“She’s back at the restaurant,” John said. “Burke brought her in his own car. Looks like he’s fucking her.”
“And upon what do you base this deduction?”
John’s lip curled at the old fart’s choice of words. “The way he stuck his tongue down her throat was my first clue.”
“Tell me about Burke,” the old guy challenged him.
John rifled through the documents he’d spent a long night collecting. “Bad news,” he admitted. “Ex–undercover field agent from the NSA, turned successful businessman. Designs software for the NSA, the CIA, Homeland Security, and various others. Close connections with various law enforcement agencies. I had difficulty getting info on him. Most of it’s top secret.”
“Ah. You must be happy, John. Now you have a plausible justification for your incompetence, eh?”
John tapped the console of the SUV with his fingernails and considered various tasty options in killing this old shitbird. After he’d gotten paid, of course. In fact, he was starting to consider fucking the old goat out of the entire prize. It was the only thing that could make this constant, grinding humiliation worthwhile.
“It does make things more complicated,” he said carefully.
“Yes, and the idiot carpenter with his violin complicated things for you too, eh? And he was no secret agent. Did Turturro have any luck with the younger sister?”
“No,” he said, after a painful pause. “He combed that crafts fair for hours. Apparently she never showed up.”
“Of course she did not. She is not an idiot, unlike others I could name. Stay on Antonella, John. Do not delegate. Do not lose her again. Your hired muscle so far has not failed to disappoint. Did she take anything with a listening device with her when she went to Burke’s apartment?”
“Just the laptop. It has a short range, however.”
“I’m no longer interested in excuses. Find a place to receive the frequency, no matter where she is. Failure is no longer an option.”
Haupt hung up on him. John’s teeth ground until his jaw ached.
He was going to need to kill something soon. And he had a feeling it was going to be that prick who was fucking Antonella. Yes, that would be good. John was still smarting from the man’s brazen challenge.
You’re not getting her. Fuck off and die, shithead. Yeah? His ass.
Burke would die for that. And Antonella would pay, and pay.
It was the strangest sensation. Duncan observed it curiously as he drove to the office, parked, and tipped the astonished garage attendant. Like a helium balloon in his midriff. The buoyancy floated him along. People were giving him strange looks.
He realized that he was grinning like a fucking idiot.
Jesus, it wasn’t totally abnormal to be in a good mood, was it? Then the middle-aged lady behind the coffee counter in the building lobby gave him a strange look when he told her he liked her as a redhead. It was the truth. She’d looked like hell as a blonde.
Strange. Like nobody’d ever seen a guy in a good mood before.
He headed up to the office, whistling. The grizzled divorce attorney in the elevator gave him a dark look. Duncan grinned back. The man harrumphed. Maybe dealing with divorce all day gave a guy gastritis.
He strode into the lobby. Derek was there, briskly collating something, dressed for Saturday in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Good morning, Derek,” he said.
Derek looked at him as if he’d sprouted wings. “Uh, hi, boss.”
“I appreciate you working Saturdays,” Duncan told him.
Derek’s eyes bulged even more than usual. “Uh, it’s no problem.”
Duncan clapped him on the shoulder as he passed Derek’s desk. “You get paid extra for Saturdays, right?”
“I get time and a half for overtime.” Derek’s face was fearful.
“Good. I’ll tack on a bonus. You deserve it. Keep it up, Derek.”
Odd, Duncan mused as he nodded and smiled at the die-hard Saturday-morning types. Derek didn’t blink an eye when Duncan snapped and barked, but a simple compliment scared him to death.
Come to think of it, all his employees were giving him that nervous look. Duncan glanced down to see if his shoes were mismatched, his fly unzipped. Nope. Everything was in order.
He shrugged, inwardly. Fuck it. He was having too much fun floating on his own private helium balloon to worry about it.
The phone began to ring the second he walked into his office. His private line. Nell, maybe, calling to tell him she was in as good a mood as he was. This daydream was quickly deflated by the recollection that she did not possess his private office number. Only his cell.
Answering the phone became suddenly a lot less appealing.
He sighed and grabbed the phone. “Burke here.”
“So, you finally came into the office!” his mother said. “What on earth is going on?” She paused expectantly.
“Nothing,” he said. “Business as usual.”
“Whatever you say. If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to find out some other way. Have you talked to Elinor?”
Duncan’s good mood began to sink. “I haven’t had time yet.”
“Duncan, it’s so important that she change her mind! She’s determined to rebel. Please, you have to back me up on this—”
“I’ll call her,” he promised. “As soon as you get off the phone.”