Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (6 page)

“We lost them, Mal,” Rafe growled, appearing out of the shadows, Chay on his heels. In the darkness, with his piercings, long black hair, and scowl, he appeared almost as menacing as her assailant. Danielle shuffled back a step. The movement wasn’t lost on Rafe. He, too, backpedaled, granting her space.

With a low moan, she shoved her hair off her forehead, then went as rigid as a statue.

“Danielle,” Malachim said quickly. “This is Raphael Marcel and Chayot Gray, friends of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to offend. I…”

Rafe offered her a small smile. “No worries. I get that a lot.” The teasing was meant to put her at ease, and Malachim silently thanked Rafe when a minute amount of tension evaporated from her frame.

“It’s not you. Really.”

“Danielle,” Malachim clasped her chin between his finger and thumb and slowly tilted her head back to study her face, to assure himself the terror he’d glimpsed in her eyes had abated at least a little. Enough so he could breathe without longing to kill someone. “What happened?”

A soft sigh escaped her parted lips, and her lashes lowered. His heart seized in his chest. For the space of a second, he almost believed she derived comfort from his touch. Needed his touch.

But then she stiffened. Her eyes snapped open, widened. She whipped her head away and lurched backward. Again, that hated, tortured look transformed her face. His arms dropped to his sides, and he hid his tightly clenched fists within the folds of his coat. He suspected the terror deepening her chocolate eyes at the moment didn’t originate from her attack, but from the same thing—event or person—that made her shrink when he brushed too close or invaded her personal space.

Bitterness coated his tongue, scalded his throat.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Danielle,” he growled, rage at whoever had done so roughening his tone.

“I know,” she said, weariness weighing down her voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“We need to call the police,” Chay said into the heavy silence.

“No.” Her sharp objection stunned Malachim. Then the “no” sank in.

“What do you mean?” he snapped. “We have to call the police.”

But she shook her head hard, her curls swishing from side to side. “No,” she repeated. “That’s not necessary. I didn’t get a look at either guy, and I’m okay.”

“That’s not the point,” Rafe said softly. “One or both could come back.”

“I’ll leave earlier,” she babbled. Malachim stared at her, suspicion infiltrating his concern. He would’ve had to be deaf not to detect the nervousness and desperation permeating her tone.

“Danielle,” Malachim growled

“No.” She slammed up a hand, halting his words with her palm. “No cops. I don’t want to report it. I’m fine,” she gritted out. “Please. I just want to forget it. I want…I want to go home.”

The argument hovered on his tongue, damn near strangled him. One look at Rafe’s confused glower, and Malachim knew his friend shared his bewilderment and anger. But it was Chay’s closed expression that tipped his decision in Danielle’s favor.

Damn, damn, and more damn.
He scowled, frustrated. He’d been here before. Twenty years ago. There was only one reason a person didn’t want the police involved. They had something to hide.

“Fine,” he finally said. And her relief only solidified his suspicion. “But I’m driving you home. From now on.” When her lips parted to argue, he narrowed his eyes. “Either I take you home, or we call the cops. Your choice. And you have five seconds to make it.”

Her mouth snapped close, but Danielle returned his glare. Moments later, her head jerked in an abrupt nod. “You win.”

Win
? He choked back a harsh laugh. If so, this was the shittiest victory he’d ever experienced. Malachim studied her as she slowly bent to retrieve her bag and purse from the ground.

Secrets
.

He detested secrets and lies. From the moment of his birth, his life has been filled with them. And now Danielle Warren, with her cool elegance, sultry loveliness, and haunted dark eyes.

She smelled like a lie.

A beautiful, alluring, dangerous lie.

Chapter Eight

“What are you doing here?”

Malachim didn’t bother rising from behind his desk. Christopher Jerrod—a.k.a. the devil—would probably sneer at the display of manners, and Malachim didn’t feel like handing his father verbal ammunition. Besides, if he was sitting, the leather protected his back from the knife Christopher wouldn’t hesitate to bury there…again.

Christopher sat—uninvited—in the chair across from Malachim, a small smirk playing over his lips.

“Good morning to you, too, Malachim.” The words seemed innocuous enough. But Christopher was about as harmless as a dingo with a baby fetish.

He didn’t respond. Instead he leaned back and studied the older man as a sharp wariness sliced through him. This morning visit was unprecedented. Christopher didn’t do “I just stopped by to see how you were doing.” Not once in thirty-five years had Christopher given a rat’s ass about his son’s welfare. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He’d enjoyed when Malachim messed up—the rare detention after school, the occasional blowing of curfew. Those opportunities had hand-delivered Christopher opportunities to ridicule and punish.

As a hurt, confused child and angry teen, Malachim hadn’t formed adequate armor against Christopher’s verbal attacks. But now, as an adult and successful attorney well-versed in the game of words, Malachim had developed into more than a fair adversary for his father.

“What did I do to warrant this—” Malachim twisted his mouth into an insincere smile “—pleasure?”

“I was headed to a business lunch when I remembered your mother’s birthday dinner next week. I thought I’d stop by and remind you,” he said.

“Phones aren’t working?” Malachim asked, not accepting Christopher’s explanation for one nanosecond. If it were up to his father, only one son would be present in his home—Christopher Raymond Jerrod IV, the heir apparent. Unfortunately, Chris detested them all—father, mother, and brother—so instead of subjecting himself to family affairs, Malachim’s brother had opted to move out of the country and make his living as an attorney in England. Malachim silently snorted. As far as excuses went for not being able to attend family functions, they didn’t get much better than a long-distance, transatlantic commute.

Unfortunately, his mother and three best friends resided in Boston, and he couldn’t abandon them. Didn’t want to. Gabe, Rafe, and Chay—they were the anchors who kept him grounded when he wanted to go ape-shit and do something crazy.

Like patricide.

“I decided in favor of the personal touch,” Christopher clarified, then
tsked
, shaking his head. “You’re so suspicious and…tense. But then I can understand why,” his father drawled. “With this entire sordid affair involving Chayot Gray and Richard Pierce. I warned your mother years ago that her association with those women would result in trouble. She didn’t listen then, but now…”

Malachim stiffened. He didn’t doubt Christopher had inundated his mother with I-told-you-so’s since the truth about Richard’s murder had been revealed. Pamela Jerrod yielded to her husband’s orders and mandates in most things, but not when it came to her friendship with Chay’s, Gabe’s, and Rafe’s mothers. No matter how loud and vehemently Christopher objected, Pam had maintained her relationship with the three women who were her best friends. And she was fiercely protective of the three boys she considered nephews.

Mothers and sons shared bonds nothing, not even Christopher’s cold disapproval, could sever. Keeping her friendship with the three women was the only act of defiance Malachim had personally witnessed from his mother. Even when it came to her own son. As a child, she’d wiped his tears after Christopher’s diatribes, had comforted and encouraged him after Christopher’s rejections…but she’d stayed with her husband. Once, when Malachim was fourteen, he’d asked her why she stayed with a man who hated her son so much. She hadn’t answered, just drew him close and hugged him. And after she’d pulled away, and he’d glimpsed the tears in her eyes, he hadn’t questioned her again. As an adult, he could guess at her reasons. Duty. Stability. Fear… Guilt.

“I still can’t believe that boy killed Richard and smeared his reputation with those wild allegations of abuse,” Christopher scoffed. Richard Pierce had been a well-respected, wealthy, and successful Boston businessman—the only requirements necessary for Christopher to hold a person in high esteem. Character and integrity could be overlooked as long as one’s connections were impeccable.

“They weren’t allegations,” Malachim ground out. “Just because you and Richard were acquainted doesn’t make him any less of a pervert.”

“And you would know the intimate details, wouldn’t you?” Venom laced Christopher’s silky murmur. “You were right in the middle of it, aiding and abetting a criminal. But again, I’m not surprised. After all, blood will tell.”

Rage poured through him in a blistering torrent. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that phrase; it wouldn’t be the last. The barb was one of Christopher’s classics. It was his way of twisting the proverbial knife in Malachim’s chest that he wasn’t—and never would be—a true Jerrod.

For over thirty years ago, Pam had betrayed her marriage vows—the other act of defiance she’d spent Malachim’s entire life paying for—and her one indiscretion had produced fruit. And the blood that flowed in his veins didn’t belong to Christopher Jerrod.

Blood will tell
.

Bad blood. Inferior blood. Tainted blood.

Thank God.

Bad, inferior, or tainted, he wasn’t his father’s son.

“You’re right,” he said, studying Christopher with a calm that belied the fury churning inside him like a cauldron. “My blood does show the loyalty, love, and trustworthiness I must have inherited from my father.”

A white ring formed around Christopher’s tightly compressed lips, his mouth all but disappearing into a grim, thin line.

Malachim could play word games, too. He’d learned from the master.

“I heard of the suspension letter issued by the Bar. Do you know how humiliating it was to have my name attached to this mess?” Christopher snapped. “Did you think of anyone else before dragging your mother, brother, and me in the dirt with you and your
friends
?” Christopher sneered the last word, but at least he refrained from calling them his usual affectionate moniker: “the little band of bastards.” Even though technically, only Gabriel, Chay, and Malachim were truly illegitimate.

“Frankly, twenty years ago, I was too busy trying to figure out how to hide the body of a perverted pedophile, and, a few weeks ago? Again, too preoccupied with preventing a deranged murderer and victim of said pedophile from killing any more people,” he said coolly.

“Well, what are your plans now, Malachim? Hmm?” Christopher arched his dark blond brows. “No self-respecting client would look to you for representation now. Not with this mess hanging over your head. It’s only a matter of time before this half-rate firm fails, just as I predicted.” A satisfied smirk tilted the hard line of his mouth. “What? Do you think I’ll take you in? Give you a pity position in my office? Maybe let you assist the paralegals? That’s all you’ll be good for by the time this clears up.”

“Wouldn’t you just love that?” Malachim murmured. “So that’s the real reason behind this visit, right? Not an invitation to a birthday dinner or even rehashing how all the bad press has impacted your life. You’re here to gloat. Well, you’ve done it. Mission accomplished. Are you done?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Christopher said, satisfaction coating his voice. “I always said you were nothing and would contaminate everything you touched. I came here today to witness the fruition of my prediction. But, I also came bearing news.” The smile he wore was terrible, and Malachim’s gut clenched with a sense of foreboding. “I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me. The Tyler Association has decided to forgo your services and opted to hire my firm to represent them.” His grin widened. “Of course, I assured them we would carry less…baggage than your practice. That our reputation—unlike yours—was above reproach.”

Anger, fear, and—
damn it
—hurt swelled in his chest, filled it until it seemed as if his heart pumped the nauseous emotions throughout his body. Damn. How did this man still maintain the power to get under his skin?

“
Now
are we through here?” Malachim asked softly. “Did you get it all out? You have your pound of flesh?”

He swore Christopher’s cat-that-ate-a-whole-damn-flock-of-canaries smile would remain permanently branded into his head.

“Face it,
son
,” his father sneered. “You’ve lost.”

…

“C’mon, Carmen,” Danielle grumbled.

She paced the short length of her office floor as the phone continued to peal in her ear, her sister not answering. After the phone went to voice mail for the third time, Danielle lowered the cell, pressing the
end call
button.

“Damn. Where are you?” she murmured, setting the phone down on her desk and staring at it as if the answer would miraculously pop up on its black screen. Nibbling on her lower lip, she tried to beat back the nervousness and anxiety slithering across her soul. As capricious as her sister could be, Carmen had never missed their Monday night call. Not once since Danielle had left her old life behind a year ago. Of course, disappearances had been part of her sister’s MO over the years when she was using. But she’d claimed that wasn’t the case now. And it was Thursday morning—over a week since they’d last spoken.

A week since the mugging/attempted kidnapping. She swallowed a groan and closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the terrifying memory as easily. Her mind refused to cooperate, though. Seven days had elapsed, but she could still feel the cold, sharp edge of the knife pressed to her skin. Still shivered in revulsion at the malicious lust that had filled her attacker’s voice and groin. Still jerked awake at night with nightmares about how close she’d come to losing her life.

She could call it a mugging—could allow Malachim and his friends to believe that’s all it was—but the men who’d accosted her last week hadn’t been interested in her money or valuables. They’d wanted
her
.

Get her in the car. She isn’t supposed to be hurt.

The hissed words taunted her. Terrified her.

Her brain had twisted and turned that night, analyzing it from different angles. The low-traffic location. The uncanny timing. The waiting car. The specific order of delivering an unharmed “her.”

She had come to one conclusion.

She’d been stalked. And targeted. A mugging was a crime of opportunity usually in areas with regular foot traffic where a criminal could snatch a purse and run. Malachim’s office was located off of busy Charles Street with Comm. Avenue, one of the city’s central thoroughfares, nearby. The road was mostly deserted after five, when the neighboring businesses ended their day. Either her attackers were lazy, apathetic thieves or thugs intent on kidnapping, not purse-snatching.

Her heart thudded, and she covered her chest with her palm, as if she could prevent it from bursting free. Paranoia. When on the run, a person wore paranoia like socks and underwear. Yet, she mused, rubbing a circle over her chest and the two quarter-inch, thin scars left behind from a belt buckle, this was more than the garden-variety conspiracy theory.

Alex had been out of jail for three weeks now. Then there were the flowers on Wednesday, her first day of work—one of Alex’s methods of apologizing after a “lesson.” There was the so-called mugging the week before.

And now Carmen wasn’t answering her phone. Were the flowers, the mugging, and her sister’s disappearance connected? What if Alex had something done—?

“No,” she said, stalking around her desk. Can’t go there. Carmen was okay; she had to be. Because if not, then any harm to her would be Danielle’s fault. And Jesus, she couldn’t handle knowing Carmen had been hurt protecting her.

She sank into her chair and turned to her monitor where another brief awaited. Not that she minded. Losing herself in the law and legal research allowed her temporary escape from the bedlam her life was becoming. Again.

An hour later, she left her office and went to the reception area.

“Hey, Danielle, I was just about to buzz your phone. You have a visitor,” the firm’s assistant announced.

Danielle dropped a legal-sized envelope containing a contract in Bethany’s outbox.

“I do?” She glanced toward the small seating area and grinned. Surprise and pleasure suffused her as she crossed the short distance. Walt rose from the couch where he’d been perched and shyly returned her smile. “Tres, what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry I dropped by without calling first,” he said, but she waved away his apology.

“No problem, really. I’m just surprised.”

“I had a meeting with my father this morning. Hence the suit.” He stretched out his arms, a wry twist to his lips.

She chuckled. “I wondered. This is the first time I’ve seen you in anything other than khakis.”

She wouldn’t have imagined Walter Adam Lawrence the Second—not Junior—would have appreciated his son’s perpetual uniform of tan pants and Polos. Though she’d never met Walt’s father, the business mogul had graced many covers of
Forbes
and
Boston
and was a regular mention in the
Wall Street Journal
. Walt had inherited his dark brown hair and eyes and strong facial structure. But not the imposing,
kneel-before-Zod
presence. Some might have deemed Walt a professional student, but she quietly believed his acquisition of degree after degree in Computer Science and Information Systems allowed him a viable excuse from entering the business world where he would invariably be compared to his father and have to compete for his own identity. Not to mention be expected to manage and interact with hundreds of people. For an introvert like Tres, the idea of the future awaiting him had to be truly frightening.

“So what brings you by?”

“Well, since I was in your area, I wanted to see if you were free for lunch? I’ve missed you around the diner, so I thought we could catch up.”