Risky and Wild(47)

“It's nice to meet you,” the man says, taking my hand in his. Like his partner, his grip is strong and sure, full of confidence and cool, careful professionalism.

“How can I help you both?” I ask as I move around my father's desk and take a seat in his expensive leather swivel chair. It's a position of power, and I find with an unsurprising twinge that I love sitting in it. This is where I belong, I think, and then, but I'll never get here by dating an outlaw. Fuck. See, that word again. It's the only appropriate syllable.

“Well,” Special Agent Shelley—I think my dad said her name was Heather yesterday—starts as she takes a seat back in one of the two chairs opposite me and folds her hands over her knee. She's got on black slacks that are eerily similar to mine, a royal blue button-up, and a pair of pearl earrings. Her partner's dressed in much the same fashion—black slacks, white shirt, loose black blazer that hangs off his slender shoulders. “We're here investigating the death of Brent Gilman.”

I nod my head and plaster a regretful expression on my face. To be fair, I do feel kind of guilty about our last meeting, the way I told Brent off. Granted, he was being an asshole, but … if I'd known the guy was going to be murdered later, I might've been a little nicer.

“Brent was a wonderful man,” I lie, trying to use the old college infatuation I'd had for him to my advantage, hoping my words sound genuine. “He's going to be missed.”

“There's no doubt,” Heather soothes, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “I hear you two were close?”

I affect a small smile as I glance down at my father's desk in remembrance, the black leather top neatly stacked with files and pads of legal paper, a few carefully arranged pens and an ink blotter.

“We were, once upon a time,” I say with a small laugh, looking back up at Heather and feeling that familiar thump and pulse of my heartbeat. I make myself breathe slow and easy, trying to calm it down. “But he dumped me in college,” I joke, my smile becoming wry. “I'd sort of … well, I'd hoped since he was in town that we might …”

If Heather knew me, personally, she'd know that I don't often stutter. People that stutter don't get taken seriously. In my line of work, that can be a death sentence for a career. But, Heather doesn't. So I play this to my advantage.

“Get back together?” Heather supplies for me, sympathy in her voice. Whether it's real or pretend, I'm not sure, but it's a good sign. I glance over at the other agent, José I think his name was, and pretend to be embarrassed.

“But I guess … that's not why he was in town,” I say and then take a deep breath, letting my eyes flutter shut for a moment, like I'm gathering myself together to continue. When I turn my green gaze back on the agent, it's placid and even.

Heather nods knowingly, her mouth soft, gaze gentle and molten.

“Do you think,” she starts sympathetically as I fold my hands in my lap and meet her eyes, “that maybe you guys didn't work out because you're dating the president of an outlaw motorcycle club?”

Fuck.

Told you. Word of the day.

Fuck.



“Excuse me?” I ask with a small, gentile laugh. Inside, I'm screaming. How is this happening? How the hell do you know about Royal? Why are you still fucking smiling at me? “What did you say?”

Heather smiles at me, the sympathetic expression falling away to reveal a colder, more calculating look. Her partner remains stoic, but his hands tighten on the arms of his chair. Huh.

“I asked if your failed relationship with Brent Gilman was the result of your current relationship with Royal McBride?”

If I were anyone else, I might stumble here, make a mistake, tremble, act outraged … but no. I am my father's daughter, and I'm a professional first and foremost. Even though my heart starts its gallop again, I remain calm on the outside, curling my lips up at the corners in a sad smile.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean,” I begin, continuing on before Special Agent Shelley can interrupt. “Brent Gilman and I were on good terms last we spoke. In fact, we'd made tentative dinner plans for …” I pause, brows pinching in consternation. “Today, actually. If he was upset about some purported relations with Mr. McBride, he didn't let on.”

“Are you saying you're not in a relationship with Royal McBride?” Heather asks me point-blank as her partner stares at and through me, like his brown eyes are lasers cutting through my skull. I kind of … don't like him at all.

“I'm saying,” I begin, and this time it's Heather that cuts me off.

“Before you answer, I want you to think really carefully about what you're going to say. I understand that a … sexual relationship with a criminal like Royal McBride might seem scandalous to someone like you.” A tight smile thrown my way, Heather's mauve painted lips curving up at the corners. “But lying to the FBI, now that's a real career killer. Not to mention a federal offense.”