Chapter 1 #2
Barrett knows us, obviously, because he’s family – sort of.
And although Quinn works for him, it’s not as if he’d have photos of his brothers scattered about the place.
And even if he did, they wouldn’t include me.
I’m the Griffin brother lucky enough not to be related to that bastard.
He’s the half-brother of my half-brothers.
Thank god I never had a mother like Alice.
In an attempt to appear unfazed, I let my gaze travel the length of Quinn’s body then back up again. I linger on her mouth before our eyes lock.
“And you’re Quinn Jamieson.” I quirk an eyebrow. My only defense right now is my charm and false bravado. “But I’m guessing that isn’t your real name either.”
Mace had carried out a background check on Quinn when she turned up in Poulton Springs a few months ago.
Barrett was interviewing for the role of project manager, and although Quinn had all the right government records, her digital footprint was negligible, which raised a major red flag. Real people are messy.
Quinn doesn’t flinch. From the self-assured way she’s holding the gun, I’d say her current resume doesn’t list all her skills. She’s been trained, but so have I. I just haven’t had much practice in the field. I hope it doesn’t show.
When I broaden my smile, I’m crushed that Quinn doesn’t respond.
My smile is fucking devastating, and my specialty is inflicting it on beautiful women.
And damn, is she beautiful. I just hope the rumors aren’t true.
Apparently, Barrett is in the market for a new wife for his new home, and it’s possible he wants to offer Quinn more than employment.
I hope she crushes him. On second thoughts, I’d rather she crushed me.
“What are you doing here?” Quinn asks.
I shrug. “Assessing your security. It’s what you hired me for.”
“You’re not a security consultant. And as convincing as Ridgemont Solutions references were, clearly the company doesn’t exist,” she says with a snarl.
“And yet you hired me,” I point out. “I can already highlight a few issues if you’d like?
Did you know your security let me through without bothering to check my ID?
And I went to so much trouble getting a nice photo for my driver’s license.
” I slip my hand inside my suit jacket as if I’m reaching for it.
Quinn flicks the gun’s safety off. “Don’t try anything,” she warns.
“Please don’t say she’s pointing a gun at you,” Mace mutters.
“OK, I won’t,” I say to both of them.
I’m still holding the listening device, and I drop it into my inside pocket as intended before slowly removing my hand. I waggle my fingers to show Quinn I’m no threat.
“Reid, play for time. I’ve called for back-up. They’re on their way.”
“Not necessary,” I say. “I can handle her.”
“The fuck you can.”
“The fuck you can,” says Quinn.
“Quinn,” I say patiently. “I came here at your invitation, and I made myself known to your security guards. I’m unarmed.
” I take a chance and step closer. We’re less than ten feet apart.
“And I’m not threatening you, or attempting to steal or damage Barrett’s property.
I haven’t broken any laws, so if you shoot me now, you’d better know how to hide a body and clean up a murder scene, because that’s exactly what you’d be creating. ”
“Jesus, don’t put ideas in her head,” Mace moans. “Next you’ll be telling her where to shoot so there’s less blood to mop up.”
“Are you expecting me to let you just walk out of here?” Quinn asks coldly. “Believe me, it’s worth doing jail time if I get to remove a piece of scum like you from the earth.”
I was about to take another step, but the venom in her voice stops me. “I’m scum?” I ask. “And who exactly do you consort with, Quinn? Should we start with Barrett Emerson?”
“He’s a good man who deserved better from his brothers,” Quinn hits back.
Her eyes narrow on my earpiece. “Is that Mace you’re talking to?
” Her nose scrunches. “I’m surprised he isn’t here to do the job himself.
Is he trying to take control of Barrett’s security systems so you can carry on victimizing him?
” Her gaze flicks to the bookshelves behind me, then back again.
She chokes on a laugh. “You were going to plant a bug, weren’t you? ”
“Don’t admit a damn thing,” orders Mace, like there’s anything about the law he didn’t learn from me.
I ignore my brother. I’m still reeling from how Quinn described her new boss. “You actually think Barrett is a good man?” I scoff. “Ilya hasn’t prepared you very well, has he?”
Quinn visibly pales. Shit. That wasn’t the response I was expecting. I was hoping she’d look confused so we could dismiss the theory that she’s working for the Russians, but her reaction all but confirms it. She’s definitely heard of Ilya.
We all have associations we’re not proud of.
For the Griffins, it’s our history with John McConkey, head of the Irish mafia in Nevada.
For the most part, we’ve only been involved in their legitimate activities, and we certainly weren’t aware of the distribution hub they operated from a warehouse on this very site.
Coincidentally, neither did Barrett when he bought the food processing factory. That’s why he’d panicked.
He'd shut down all operations immediately, then panicked some more when the McConkeys started threatening him. Barrett being Barrett, he’d doubled down and burned the place to the ground.
I could make some crass comment about him jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, but it’s no joking matter.
A security guard on duty that night was trapped in the inferno and lost his life.
Despite everything, there was still a chance for Barrett to rectify the situation.
He could have brokered a deal with the McConkeys, or begged us for help, but no, Barrett went to Ilya Barkov for protection instead.
Ilya is a commander in a powerful Russian Bratva headed by his uncle, Vasili Barkov.
The price tag for Barrett’s protection is turning a blind eye while the Russians set up their own little operation on the outskirts of his estate.
Not only did he agree to the deal, the bastard is constructing a series of buildings to the Bratva’s very particular specifications.
Quinn blanches. “You think I’d work for that monster?”
I pray her horrified expression is genuine. “I don’t know anything about you,” I answer truthfully. “Because Quinn Jamieson doesn’t exist.”
“Wrong. She’s standing right in front of you with a twitchy finger,” she reminds me, tilting her gun to draw my attention back to it.
“Isn’t your arm getting tired?” I ask. I have the core strength to hold my briefcase aloft for a good while yet, but it’s getting tedious standing here like a scarecrow.
“We could carry on this discussion like two grown adults.” I’m tempted to ask her out to dinner, but that might be a bit too soon in our relationship.
“If you were any kind of host, you’d offer me a coffee. ”
“And give you the chance to switch the narrative?”
“If it gets us to the truth. Yes.”
“You mean if it gets you what you want,” she fires back. “Which for the most part seems to be deriving pleasure from destroying people’s lives.”
My jaw clenches. “You’ve been misinformed. The person you’re describing is Barrett. Although it could be applied equally to your real boss,” I say, pushing her buttons again. “Or are you going to argue that the Russian Bratva don’t destroy lives?”
“I do not work for Ilya Barkov,” she says through gritted teeth, her cheeks turning crimson with fury.
“And yet you know his full name,” I note, trying not to let the disappointment get to me. I really wanted to believe she had a soul to match her beauty.
“If anyone’s in league with organized crime, it’s you. Your entire empire was founded on dirty money.”
I purse my lips. We might have a questionable past, but we do what we do for the right reasons. We’re not the monsters. “We’ve never taken Russian money.”
“That’s the kind of answer a lawyer would give. Whose money have you taken?”
“Do not enter into this discussion,” Mace warns. “Ignore the gun and walk the fuck away, Reid. Test the bitch. She won’t shoot with a house full of witnesses.”
I bristle at the term Mace uses to describe Quinn. I’m not ready to walk away from her yet.
“So tell me, are the Irish mafia still mad that Barrett closed down their operations?” Quinn asks, continuing to goad me. “Is that why you’re back here? Wasn’t it enough that you burnt the place down to get back at Barrett? Are you looking to reclaim your friend’s territory?”
“Seriously? She thinks it was us?” Mace hisses in my ear.
I don’t know who’s been feeding her this nonsense, but I refuse to stand by and have my family’s history rewritten. It matters what people think of us. More to the point, it matters what Quinn thinks of me.
“Fuck this,” I say, my patience snapping.
I don’t give Quinn time to react as I swing my briefcase to knock the gun from her hand. Her eyes widen a fraction of a second too late, and her finger jerks. Gunfire cracks, and splinters of wood fly from the bookshelves.
As the gun clatters to the floor, I drop my briefcase and make a grab for Quinn. I pin her body to mine, trapping her arms to her sides and lifting her off her feet. She’s almost a foot shorter, and it’s a small mercy that my chest absorbs her scream rather than my eardrum.
“Reid!” Mace shouts. “Are you hit?”
“No. I’ve got this.”
I push Quinn up against the nearest wall, and as I set her down, I grip her upper arms. The amber flecks in her eyes are on fire as she glares at me. I could stare into those eyes all day, but I shouldn’t let my guard down. I’m willing to bet she’s been trained to fight back.
“There are some things we need to get straight,” I say, but then I take a breath of air laced with an achingly familiar scent, and my thoughts are immediately derailed. “You smell of roses.”
Confusion knits Quinn’s brow. “What?”
Mace clears his throat loudly. I need to get back on track, but I’m being assaulted by unexpected emotion, transported back to the house where I grew up.
My dad had planted the rose bushes that Mom lovingly tended, and when cancer took her from us, the roses had withered.
So had my dad. We lost them both within the space of a year.
Quinn’s scent reminds me of love and loss, and I have an overwhelming urge to handle my enemy as if she were as fragile as one of Mom’s blooms.
“Reid?”
I forget I’m supposed to be restraining Quinn, and when my grip loosens, she acts fast and drops to the floor. I manage to keep hold of the sleeves of her gym top, but she simply raises her arms and slips out of it. I’m left holding a piece of Lycra.
I know what’s coming and I step back so the punch she aims at my crotch misses its mark. Her fist connects with my tensed thigh instead, and judging by her cry, it hurts her more than it hurts me.
Her flaming eyes briefly meet mine as she kneels in front of me in her white lace bra. The steep rise and fall of her chest is mesmerizing, and my body responds in the most inappropriate way.
Quinn doesn’t pause long enough to notice my thickening cock.
She leaps to the side, swinging out a leg in an attempt to hook it around my knee to topple me.
Thankfully, not all of my blood has been diverted away from my brain and I manage to dodge it.
As well as being an avid gardener, Mom was a yoga teacher, and thanks to her training, my movements remain centered.
There’s still no way I can compete with Quinn’s agility, but I’m built on a scale she can’t outmaneuver. When I dive for her, my tackle isn’t graceful, but it is controlled. I twist as we fall, taking the brunt of the impact, then continue to roll so I have her pinned face down on the floor.
Quinn fights back, and I ease off just enough for her to twist onto her back so we’re facing each other again. My legs straddle hers, and I hook my feet around her calves so she can’t kick out.
Before I can pin her arms down, she goes on the attack. She slips her hand between us, aiming for my weakest point. I’m tempted to let her go ahead and grab my cock, but I’m almost certain this isn’t foreplay.
I drop my weight back onto her chest, cutting off her access to my genitals. And oxygen.
“I think we’re going to have to get to know each other a little better before I let you hold my dick.”
“OK, now you’re going to have to explain what the hell is going on.”
“Fuck you,” Quinn wheezes.
I ease the pressure on her until her face is a little less puce. “Who do you work for?”
She rolls her eyes. “Barrett.”
“Who else?”
“Myself,” she hisses. “Who do the Griffins work for?”
I tilt my head. Whoever conditioned her to hate us did a good job, but her reeducation starts here.
“Anyone who needs our help.” As I adjust my position, I will my erection to go down, but moving makes me even more aware of where our bodies connect.
It doesn’t help that the scent of roses is intoxicating. “Do you need my help, Quinn?”
“Reid, if you’re fucking hitting on her…”
“What I need is for you to lift up and stop pressing your fucking erection into me!” Quinn hisses.
“Are you on top of her?” asks Mace. He pauses. “Actually, that’s good. This doesn’t have to be a complete disaster. If you can cut off some of her hair, I might be able to do a DNA trace.”
Does my brother think I carry around a pair of hairdressing scissors? “Right now, I’m more likely to leave a sample of my own,” I mutter, groaning as I have to adjust myself again.
“What the hell?” Quinn hisses. She might not be able to hear Mace, but from the look of disgust on her face that I’m sure my brother shares, she’s figured out what sample I’m referring to.
When I lean in, her eyes widen. She thinks I’m about to kiss her and snaps her head to the side.
Quinn has multiple piercings in her ear, and my nose brushes the stud in the upper cartilage.
“Sorry about this,” I whisper before curling my tongue around a few strands of her hair.
I bite down and slice through them with my incisors.
In possession of the precious DNA sample, I should call it quits, but I’m enjoying this moment of calm. Quinn isn’t resisting, and I’m tempted to turn this fight into a very different kind of wrestling match. Unfortunately, I don’t think Quinn and I are on the same page. Not yet.
I straighten my arms and as my chest lifts off hers, something cold touches my temple.
“Get off her before I blow your brains out,” a woman says.