Chapter 5 #2
Nash lifted his phone and took a screenshot of the phone number. “Will do.”
She nodded, looking hesitant. “Can I have your phone number? I left the card, but …”
Quickly, Nash swiped her phone and put in his number. “There you go.” He texted himself so he had her number too. He didn’t want her to leave, and he could feel her fear. “Why don’t you stay here until I’m done with this meeting, and then I’ll go with you.”
She waved her hand at him. “No, it’s fine. I’m just going to gather my stuff and head to your place. Thank you. Thank you.”
On impulse, Nash grabbed her and pulled her in for a hug. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to figure this out together,” he said, knowing that he would do anything to figure this out now.
She seemed to melt against him. “Thank you, Nash. And I’m sorry.”
He pulled back and saw her eyes fluttering. It looked like she might cry. “Why are you sorry?”
She blinked, and then the side of her lip turned up. “For leaving after prom night and not telling you.”
His heart raced, and he let her go. “Well, I think I’m over that.”
“And for the fact I’m probably pulling you into something that really could be dangerous.”
He took her hand and squeezed. He marveled at how easy it felt to take her hand. To hug her. To want to protect her. “I’m all in on this. I’ve been all in on this gold hunt for a long time.”
She held his gaze.
Once again, he couldn’t believe that he had all these feelings for this woman. “I mean it.”
She snorted. “Okay. Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course.”
Nash walked her to the front of his office and watched her go, feeling somewhat scared and hating that feeling. He felt vulnerable too, because this woman hadn’t even been back in his life for twenty-four hours, and he was already invested.
It would be a straight lie to say he wasn’t attracted to her.
Of course he was. And now he was doubly intrigued, because somehow she had ended back in his life after she’d been ripped away all those years ago.
Chills washed over him. Maybe it was God’s work.
He didn’t know. It wasn’t something that felt easy to accept, but he was surprised he was thinking about that at all.
He lingered in the lobby for a moment, watching through the glass doors as she limped to her Camry.
Her blonde hair caught the sunlight, and Nash was transported back to their high school days—to that first moment she’d walked into his AP calculus class and he’d forgotten how to breathe properly. Some things, apparently, never changed.
He had a few minutes until his meeting, so he walked back into his office and called Brooks Stone.
“Nash,” Brooks said quickly.
“Hey, I just talked to Amanda, or Sadie, whoever,” Nash said. “She’s all shaken up. Someone called her phone, did some heavy breathing, and told her to stay out of the Rockwell gold investigation or else the same thing that happened to Bill Harris would happen to her.”
“Not good,” Brooks said in a gravelly voice.
“Right,” Nash said.
Brooks sighed. “So she’s in danger.”
“Yes, she has been threatened,” Nash confirmed, “but I have the phone number of the caller. I told her I was going to have someone look into it.” He rattled off the number to Brooks, who promised to get back to him as soon as possible.
“I actually did manage to dig up some information on Bill Harris,” Brooks said. “It’s troubling.”
“How so?”
“It appears that in the last two years, Harris had some unusual deposits in his bank account. Nothing huge, but regular payments from an offshore account we’re still trying to trace. Five thousand every two weeks.”
Nash frowned. “You think he was being paid for his research?”
“Or for something else. There’s also a connection to a known associate of the Ferrante crime family. A coffee shop meeting caught on security footage three weeks before his death. Guy named Dominic Russo—mid-level enforcer, specializes in acquisitions.”
“Acquisitions?”
“That’s what they call it when they want something obtained discreetly. Usually art, historical artifacts, things that can be moved through private collectors.”
“Ferrante crime family,” Nash repeated. “Never heard of them.”
“East Coast operation, but they’ve been expanding west in recent years. Mostly high-end stuff—art theft, antiquities smuggling. They stay under the radar by focusing on items that aren’t widely known to exist. Things that won’t make headlines if they go missing.”
“Gold smuggling?” Nash suggested.
“Wouldn’t be out of character,” Brooks confirmed. “I’ve got a contact in the art crime division running a deeper check. I should know more tomorrow.”
Nash sat up straighter, suddenly making a connection.
“Wait—this reminds me of what Blaze uncovered a few months back. Remember how some of the conquistador gold had been melted down and sold through the reservation in Wyoming? Ms. Connie was passing it to Kelly’s grandparents, who were selling it on the black market.
And then Blaze tracked some of it to Kentucky and even back to South Carolina. ”
“That’s right,” Brooks said, his voice sharpening with interest. “The horse-racing circuit was one of the channels they used to launder the gold coins. And if I recall, there was an East Coast connection that was never fully explored.”
“It could be the Ferrantes,” Nash said. “Maybe they’ve been after our gold all along, not just whatever Bill Harris discovered.”
“It’s possible,” Brooks admitted. “Let me look into whether there’s any connection between the Ferrantes and the buyers Blaze identified in Kentucky.”
Nash ran a hand through his hair, trying to process how this connected to Porter Rockwell and his family’s gold hunt. “Wait a sec,” Nash said, his mind racing. “Have you found anything else out about her witness protection?”
“Not yet. I have some feelers out. It’s complicated—those records are sealed tight. But I’ve got a contact at the Marshals Service who owes me a favor. In the meantime, you could try something.”
“What’s that?” Nash asked.
“You could just ask her.”
He hesitated, then let out a short laugh. “Right. Good plan … I’ve got to run. Thanks for your help.”
“Bye.”
Nash got off the phone with Brooks feeling like an idiot.
Of course he could just ask her. But the truth was, he hadn’t really felt like he could last night.
That wasn’t really an option until today, when she’d shown up at his office.
And oh man, she’d come to him because she thought he could help her. She’d come running into his arms.
Nash felt foolish thinking about the whole thing like some stupid romance book that Kensi Stone would write. No, no, no.
He was distracted during his meeting, finding it impossible to focus on the corporate merger being discussed when his mind kept returning to Sadie, to the threat against her, to the bizarre coincidences that had brought them back together.
Twice he had to ask the client to repeat a question, earning a puzzled look from Jeremy, who had never seen Nash anything less than laser focused.
Afterward, he decided he should cancel the rest of the day. He told his secretary to also cancel the next two days. When she asked why, he said he was taking some personal time.
“Is this about the Levitt girl who came by?” his secretary asked.
Nash was annoyed. He didn’t want anyone at the firm knowing anything. “No,” he said. “Please remember that my personal life is personal.”
The secretary looked bewildered. “Of course. Sorry.”
He felt like a fool for being so defensive.
As Nash was heading toward the elevator, a voice called out behind him. “Nash? Got a minute?”
He turned to see Malcolm Owens, one of the senior partners, standing in the hallway with a questioning look on his face. Malcolm was in his sixties, with steel-gray hair and the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent arguing high-profile cases.
“Sure, Malcolm. What’s up?”
Malcolm gestured toward his office, and Nash followed him inside.
The corner office was lined with law books and framed newspaper clippings from Malcolm’s most famous victories.
A scale model of his sailboat sat on a side table—Malcolm’s pride and joy, which he never missed an opportunity to discuss.
“Just heard from Brenda that you’re taking two days off,” Malcolm said, settling behind his desk. “Everything okay? The Harrington case—”
“Is in good hands,” Nash finished. “Jeremy’s been working with me on it. He knows all the details.”
Malcolm studied him with the sharp gaze that had intimidated opposing counsel for thirty years. “Must be important for you to take time off. You haven’t missed a day since you started.”
Nash maintained a neutral expression. “Family matter. Nothing serious, just needs my attention.”
“Family back in Wyoming? Your brother Porter, right? The one who took over the ranch?”
Nash nodded, impressed with Malcolm’s memory for details. The senior partner made it his business to know everything about his associates’ lives. “Everything’s fine at the ranch,” Nash assured him. “Just something I need to handle personally.”
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Nash’s face.
“You know, when I was your age, I tried to do it all—sixty-hour weeks, perfect case record, juggle a marriage.” He smiled ruefully.
“Lost my first wife that way. Sometimes the most important cases aren’t the ones in the courtroom. ”
The unexpected personal insight took Nash by surprise. “I appreciate that, Malcolm.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No, but I appreciate the offer.”
Malcolm nodded, clearly not fully satisfied but willing to let it go. “Alright. Just make sure you’re reachable if Jeremy needs you.”
“Always am,” Nash assured him.
Nash walked out the door and then got a text. It was from Sadie.
I got settled in, but you don’t have any food here. I mean, that’s fine. I’m just hungry.