Death Is Not Enough Read online

  ‘Because I’m toxic or something?’

  His eyes flew open to stare up at her, horrified to see hurt in her gaze.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He should have known that this was where her mind would go. Unwittingly harboring a killer in her bed had decimated her belief in herself. It shouldn’t have, because the bastard had been a slippery liar. He’d fooled them all. ‘No. God, no.’ But her lip was quivering now, and the truth came barreling out. ‘It was because I’d go ballistic on them. I couldn’t stand the thought of any of them touching you.’

  She looked away, swiping a hand over her eyes. When her gaze returned to his, it was wary. ‘Why?’ she asked simply.

  He felt his own cheeks heat. ‘Isn’t it clear by now?’

  ‘No. You’re the genius lawyer. I just manage a nightclub.’

  She said it lightly, but he could see that she was serious, and it pissed him off. ‘You don’t “just” do anything, Gwyn. You work harder than I do and your job is every bit as challenging.’

  She shook her head. ‘Okay. We’re done.’ She started to stand up and he grabbed her wrist, making sure his grip was loose enough that he didn’t hurt her and that she could pull away if she really wanted to.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You’re blowing bullshit out your ass, Thorne. There is no planet where my job is anywhere near as important as yours. You give me lies like that, and nothing else that comes out of your mouth will be believable.’

  He scowled at her. ‘Did you always think that? Or is this more bullshit from that asshole Evan?’

  The asshole who’d lied to her, made her feel special, touched her body, all while he was using her as a cover for a string of murders that was intended to end both her life and Lucy’s. I want to kill him. Too bad the fucker was already dead.

  She looked away. ‘Don’t go there, Thorne. I’m not talking about him.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll talk about you. How many people does Sheidalin employ, Gwyn?’

  ‘Currently thirty-one,’ she answered promptly. ‘Twenty are part-time. Why?’

  ‘How many of them have families? Someone they are responsible for supporting?’

  ‘All but ten,’ she said. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘How many of those twenty-one employees have children?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘How many are dependent on Sheidalin for their rent, food, health insurance?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘All of them. That’s . . . a ludicrous argument, Thorne, and we both know it. You are protecting people’s rights. Sometimes protecting their lives.’

  ‘You’re protecting people’s lives too, Gwyn. And, I might add, people who are generally more deserving than my clients, because we know for sure that none of our club employees have committed any crimes.’

  Her lips twitched. ‘That’s a fair point. But come on. Really?’

  ‘Really. You manage our club effectively and efficiently, without drama. People who work for us love their jobs. They have security. They know they can provide for their kids. You do that, Gwyn. So don’t be telling me that I’m any smarter than you or better than you. It’s not true.’

  ‘Fine,’ she agreed, far too easily. Then her eyes narrowed to slits, her pretty mouth falling open. ‘You fucker. You totally changed the subject. I asked you why you didn’t want my dates touching me.’

  He laughed. ‘See? You’re smart. I can’t get anything by you.’

  She socked his arm softly this time, and in the only place he didn’t seem to be bruised. ‘Tell me.’

  His stomach tightened, any hope of avoiding the topic evaporating like mist. He drew a breath. Closed his eyes. ‘Dammit, Gwyn. I don’t want to have this conversation today. I’m . . . not myself. When we have this conversation, I want to be in control of my thoughts. I want to say it right.’

  She leaned into his space, and he could feel her frowning even though his eyes remained tightly closed. The scent of lavender tickled his nose and a strand of her hair brushed against his neck. ‘Say what, Thorne? Why would you tell perfectly nice men, vetted by people I trust, to stay away from me?’

  Her questions were flatly uttered, like she was daring him to speak. Or not to speak. Either way he was fucked, and most likely not in a good way. He needed to get this out on the table so it was plain and visible and she’d know it had nothing to do with her.

  And everything to do with her.

  He blew out the breath he’d been holding. ‘Because I want you for myself,’ he blurted, then groaned. ‘I had at least twenty ways to say that better.’

  The scent of lavender faded as she slowly straightened. Dead silence filled the room, silence that went on so long, he opened his eyes to see her staring at him.

  He rolled his eyes, choosing to be embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Because the alternative was the gut-wrenching disappointment that was already rising in his chest, threatening to stomp his heart. Because he’d hoped. He’d really hoped.

  After the way she’d looked at him in the living room, the way she’d held his gaze in that damn mirror of hers . . . he’d hoped. He’d been wrong.

  ‘Really, Gwyn? You really didn’t know?’

  ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t. Lucy suspected, but . . . I didn’t know.’

  He rubbed his forehead. He was getting another headache, the pain a welcome distraction from the pain in his chest. ‘Just forget I ever said anything.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Great. One of the best friendships of his life and he’d totally fucked it up. ‘We’re friends. First and foremost.’

  ‘But . . . you want more.’

  He swallowed hard at her careful tone. He’d heard it in his own voice often enough when he’d tried to let a woman down gently. ‘Can we please talk about this later?’

  ‘No. It’s a simple question, Thorne. Do you want more? You can answer yes or no.’

  He wanted to glare at her, but her face was pale, the bags under her eyes more pronounced than usual. ‘No, it’s not a simple question,’ he snapped. ‘Yes, I want more. But if you don’t, I have to respect that and I will respect that. Because you’re my best friend in the world and I don’t want to lose you.’

  She nodded unsteadily. ‘How long?’

  ‘You mean how long have I felt this way? I don’t know. For sure, for almost five years, but on some level? At least seven years.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘Seven years?’

  ‘That is what I said, yes.’

  ‘But . . . you never said anything.’

  ‘Because we were never free at the same time. And then . . . he came along.’ Fucking Evan, who’d poisoned everything he touched. ‘You seemed so damn happy. Until you weren’t.’

  ‘Until I wasn’t,’ she murmured. ‘All right. Where do we go from here?’

  ‘Right now? This minute? We go back into your living room and talk to the people who hopefully have a plan to keep me out of prison.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay. But we aren’t finished with this.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were,’ he said grimly.

  She lifted her brows. ‘I didn’t say no, Thorne.’

  ‘You didn’t say yes either.’

  She lifted her chin, the pose classic Gwyn. ‘I have to think about it. Consider all the angles.’

  Which was what she did best. She was one of the finest strategic thinkers he’d ever known. He closed his eyes again, fighting the urge to press his hand against his heart. Because it hurt like a motherfucker. ‘Just . . .’ he swallowed hard, ‘don’t run away. I couldn’t bear that. Whatever we have to do to stay friends, that’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘I can agree to that.’ She slid off the bed. ‘Come. We have work to do.’

  He opened his eyes to find her hands extended. As
though she could actually pull him to his feet. ‘That’s okay. I’ll manage on my own.’ Like he’d always done.

  Regret flickered in her dark blue eyes. She opened the bedroom door. ‘Sam!’ she called. ‘Need some muscle back here.’ She backed away. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she murmured, and disappeared through the door.

  What did you expect? he asked himself bitterly. That she’d throw herself at you? She wouldn’t have done that before the asshole murderer came into her life.

  I should have just stayed out of it. Should have never approached her dates. I’ve ruined everything. But he’d waited so damn long for her to emerge from her shell. He’d worked so hard to make her feel safe enough to do so. It was just . . . the thought of her spending a moment alone with another man had made him crazy.

  So crazy that now he’d scared her away. No, she hadn’t said no. But did he want to have to coax her along every step of the way? Would he?

  He should have more pride than that. He should. Whether or not he did was the million-dollar question.

  ‘Here, boss.’ Sam hurried into the room, hand outstretched, and Thorne waved him away irritably.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Sam’s look was knowing. And compassionate. ‘If you say so.’

  Thorne glared at him, but Sam didn’t shrink away. He’d always liked that about the younger man. Thorne knew he intimidated people with his sheer size, but Sam had never been one of those people. Never a yes-man, for damn sure. It was why Thorne trusted him with such a critical part of his business. Investigating clients and their claims could be tricky and sensitive, requiring both a quick mind and the ability to read people. Now he was trusting Sam – and the others – with far more.

  Helping him mount his own defense. Because if someone found a way to make the murder setup stick? It wouldn’t matter what Gwyn did or didn’t want. He’d be spending the rest of his life behind bars.

  Thorne sighed, then shoved himself to his feet. ‘Are you guys gonna save me from prison?’

  Sam gave him a decisive nod. ‘Absolutely. Come on, boss. We’ll get you some food and then present your options.’

  ‘Give me a second.’ Thorne picked up his phone, thumbed through his messages. Ninety-five percent of them were requests for media interviews or statements. Ignoring those, he continued to scroll until he found the one he was looking for.

  And frowned. It was the reply he’d been hoping for and dreading all at once.

  All quiet. No one planned you ill. Altho now gunning for your club. BOLO snow, blow and TNT.

  Wonderful. He’d texted Ramirez as soon as Frederick had gotten him a new phone. No way was Thorne trusting that his own phone hadn’t been tampered with by whoever had been in his home that morning.

  Ramirez was his contact in Cesar Tavilla’s organization. A rising star in local organized crime, Tavilla had been the first person Thorne had thought of when he’d considered who had the motive and means to construct such an elaborate frame. The drug lord had hated him for years, blaming him for the incarceration of his son. He’d made attempts on Thorne’s life before, causing Thorne to seek out a Tavilla insider to warn him of the next attack. Tavilla had been quiet for several months, but he certainly had the cash and staff to carry off this scheme. Ramirez had, however, provided Thorne with accurate and verifiable information for several years now, and Thorne had no reason to doubt that had changed.

  He’d wanted it to be Tavilla, simply because he’d wanted an actual target. But he’d dreaded it being Tavilla because the man was ruthless and powerful. Thorne had managed to stave off the drug lord’s bids to take over his club and his career, but he’d always known it would come to a confrontation.

  At least Tavilla only wanted Sheidalin at this point. And at least Thorne knew what to be on the lookout for. Snow, blow and TNT. Heroin, cocaine and fentanyl.

  Wonderful.

  Six

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  Sunday 12 June, 10.15 P.M.

  Gwyn dragged the milk crates Frederick had been sitting on to the side of the room and claimed them as her own. Tweety, sensing her mood as he always seemed to, lumbered over and sat by her side, resting his head on her thigh with a sigh. She scratched behind his ears as she studied Thorne, who was lowering himself to the sofa and looking anywhere but at her.

  To be fair, there was a lot around the room for him to look at. The team had stuck large chart pads to the walls, with tape that Clay had assured her wouldn’t damage the paint. They were covered in scrawled notes and bulleted next steps. Each of the pads was ‘owned’ by either an individual or a team because they’d divvied up the leads, each developing a plan. Frederick had supervised and Gwyn had been incredibly impressed with the clinical way his mind worked.

  If she ever got in trouble again, she’d totally want him on her side. She was so glad he was on Thorne’s. Just looking at all the notes, the completeness of the plans . . . it made the knots in her gut loosen. A little.

  Mostly because the knots weren’t there because of Thorne’s current situation. That was clearly a frame-up. She had no doubt that he’d be cleared, and quickly. Her primary goal was to minimize the fallout to his personal life as they proved his innocence. Even if prison was something Thorne was worried about, it was nowhere near the top of her concerns.

  No, the majority of the tension she was feeling was because of Thorne himself. Seven years. He’d wanted her for himself for seven fucking years?

  And he never told me. Never gave me a single goddamn clue.

  Except that he had, now that she thought about it. The notes. The little gifts. The teasing flirtation. The long looks when he thought she wasn’t watching. She hadn’t taken any of it seriously, though.

  Or maybe she’d just been too scared to. She was scared right now. Scared of this thing that simmered between them. She was scared of taking a next step with him. Because what if it didn’t work out? He’d said their friendship was the most important thing, and with that she agreed.

  But as scared as she was about taking the next step, she was equally scared about not taking the next step. What if it did work out? What if she had someone . . . forever? Like Lucy had JD? What if Thorne and I could have something like that?

  What if they fucked it all up? Argh. She wanted to yank her hair out.

  Lucy came over to sit on the floor beside her, resting her head against Gwyn’s other thigh. ‘I’m worn out,’ she murmured. ‘And I have to pump again. When this is all done, can I use your room?’

  Gwyn stroked Tweety’s head with one hand and her friend’s hair with the other. ‘Of course you can.’

  Lucy sighed happily, as much a glutton for having her head stroked as Tweety was. But her next words were serious. ‘Are you okay?’

  Gwyn might lie to anyone else, but she couldn’t lie to Lucy. ‘No.’

  ‘He told you how he felt?’ she murmured, so quietly that Gwyn had to lean in to hear her.

  ‘Yes,’ Gwyn whispered back.

  ‘And?’

  Gwyn glanced around the room to be sure no one was listening to them, relieved to see that the others were having their own conversations about the plans on the walls. She bent her head to Lucy’s. ‘And . . . I’m considering the angles.’

  Lucy rubbed her cheek against Gwyn’s thigh comfortingly. ‘Don’t consider too long, okay? And before you do anything, run it by me, if you don’t mind. I have to be forewarned if there’ll be pieces to pick up. For both of you.’

  That Lucy actually thought she might tell Thorne ‘no’ was . . . unsettling. And a little liberating, if she was being honest. But mostly it was sobering, because a ‘no’ would have consequences that impacted them all.

  ‘All right,’ Gwyn promised, then turned her focus to the group surrounding Thorne, whose handsome face was intense as he took everything in.

  Frederick took point for leading them
through the plans. ‘We divvied up the work. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version, okay?’

  ‘I think that’s about all I can cope with,’ Thorne murmured, which wasn’t true. His eyes were narrowed and sharp, his concentration absolute. He did that. Dropped into a situation and gave it one hundred percent of his focus.

  At the very beginning of their friendship, Gwyn had wondered if he applied that same complete focus to his lovers. But she hadn’t had to wonder about it long. The long line of Thorne’s women had been happy to brag about his expertise in the bedroom. It had made her grind her teeth. It still did, she realized, and she forced her jaw to relax.

  At least everyone but Lucy would believe she was just worried about the situation. Which Frederick seemed to have well in hand.

  ‘So, the leads so far,’ he said, ‘are Bernice Brown, who called you through the switchboard; the connection to the murder of Richard Linden; your arrival at and abduction from the bar; and the setup of the crime scene in your bedroom.’ He pointed to the various chart pads. ‘Also of interest is the victim herself, Patricia Linden Segal, her relationship to her husband, the judge, and her movements – and interactions – in the days before her abduction . . . because we assume she didn’t willingly show up at your house, strip herself naked, and offer herself up like a sacrifice in your bed.’

  ‘I think that’s a fair assumption,’ Thorne said grimly. ‘I haven’t really been able to wrap my mind around Patricia’s being there. And the fact that she’s dead. I have only a vague recollection of her from high school. She was two years younger than us, so we didn’t hang with each other. I didn’t know her. And now she’s dead. It hasn’t sunk in enough for me to even feel bad for her and her family.’

  But that would come, Gwyn knew. It was a sadness, a regret that Thorne battled with every case he took, with every client, whether they admitted to guilt or maintained their innocence. He represented each one with equal rigor, because they were entitled to a fair trial or the best plea he could negotiate.

  But regardless of guilt or innocence, every one of his clients left victims. Some were victims of the crime of which they were accused, but others were their own family members, who often struggled without them while they did their time.