by J. Kenner
He takes my advice and we both order, and as soon as the waitress is gone, I start to chat him up about the kidnapping. I've done a lot of interviews--I've been writing articles about kidnappings for years, and I've researched two books--but I've never done research for a dual purpose the way that I am right now. Because with Darcy, I'm interested in how one goes about contacting a vigilante organization for my own research, and also in how Darcy heard the name Deliverance, so I can report back to Dallas and the team.
As for the first, when my phone rings, Darcy is telling me that he was initially clueless about how to contact a vigilante group, but--speak of the devil--it was my brother who helped him out in that regard. He nods to my phone, sitting buzzing on the table, Dallas's name larger than life on the screen.
I ignore it. "Dallas knows how to contact vigilante groups?"
"Oh, not exactly." He frowns at the phone. "Should you get that?"
I scowl, then pick up the phone. "Hey. What's up?"
"Are you on speaker?"
"No."
"Then it's okay for me to say how much I want to rip every stitch of clothing off you and bury my face between your legs?"
My entire body starts to burn and I clear my throat, hoping that Henry can't somehow sense the sudden spike in my temperature.
"Actually," I manage to say, "now's not the best time. I'm in the middle of a research lunch. With someone you know, actually."
"You're with Darcy."
"Exactly."
"I haven't had lunch yet. I could come join you. Listen to what he has to say. Slide my finger into your pussy under the table. He'd never even know."
I force myself not to squirm, then smile at Darcy as I tell Dallas, "I really don't think that's a good idea."
"On the contrary, I think it's an excellent one. Admit it, baby. Admit that the thought of me touching you in a crowded restaurant turns you on. That getting away with something so naughty excites you. Tell me," he prods. "Tell me you'd like that."
I clear my throat and squeeze my thighs together. "Actually, yeah, I'd like that," I say, as if he's offered to help clean my attic. "But I'm guessing that's not why you called." I turn my attention to Darcy. "Sorry. Sometimes my brother has trouble getting to the point."
He chuckles. "You like it when I don't get to the point right away. And the reason I called was to tell you I was thinking of you."
"Oh." I can't help but smile. "Well, me, too."
"You're working all day?"
"Yes. After lunch I'm going back to type up my notes."
"My schedule's pretty clear this afternoon. I should be done by six. Meet me at the Strand kiosk at six-fifteen," he says, referring to the permanent bookstore kiosk on Fifth Avenue.
"Need some new reading material?"
"Just be there," he says and hangs up.
I bite back a scowl, then smile at Darcy. "Sorry about that."
"Fascinating man, your brother.
"You could say that," I agree. "But getting back to the kidnapping. You were saying that it was actually Dallas who helped you find a private team to hire?"
Darcy nods, then sits back as the waiter brings our curry. "We had a business meeting scheduled not long after my girls were taken." His voice hitches as he speaks. "I remember I had canceled it, but Dallas showed up at my house anyway. Said he figured I needed an ear. He was right, of course."
"And he just happened to suggest you hire vigilantes?"
Darcy laughs. "I don't remember how it came up, but I do know that I couldn't get the thought of hiring someone out of my head. I just--I didn't have confidence in the authorities. And I told Dallas that, and he said he had a friend whose son was kidnapped and he'd hired a private team that successfully recovered the boy."
"So he told you how to get in touch with this Deliverance group?"
"Oh, no. Dallas didn't have a clue how to do that. But he put me in touch with his friend. Well, he set up a phone call. It was anonymous--his friend was nervous about his privacy. But we talked, and he gave me a contact number for reaching the group. I called and, well, even though it was clear he was using one of those voice alteration devices, I liked what the guy said. I hired them on the spot--it all happened fast. Had to if I wanted to get my girls back. Anonymous wire transfer to a numbered account. Could've ripped me off, but they didn't. I got my girls back. And I don't give a rat's ass that the slimeball who took them got his throat slashed. I owe a lot to that group."
His mouth curves into a frown. "If it was up to me, I wouldn't be pushing for your husband's investigation," he adds, referring to WORR's efforts to track down Deliverance.
"Ex-husband," I say automatically.
"Right. Sorry. At any rate, that's my mother's mission. Me, I'd just let Deliverance keep doing its thing."
"How do you know that's what they call themselves?"
He tilts his head as if he's seriously considering the question. "The truth is, I don't think they meant to let me hear that. I got a call from one of the men on the team, and he was pissed. I'd fucked up."
"You? How?"
He shakes his head. "My girls--I knew from one of their friends who'd come back early from their Mexico trip that they'd bought some drugs from a guy they met at a club. But I--I didn't say anything because ..."
"Because you didn't want to think of your girls that way," I say after he trails off.
He nods. "Anyway, Deliverance--the team--they learned about it, and one of them called me. Told me I'd wasted valuable time. That I'd withheld important details, and that they'd learned that the guy who sold my daughters drugs was part of their kidnapper's advance team. He said that I'd hired them to do a job, and that's what they were doing. But that Deliverance could only do the job if I gave them all the information."
His eyes are wet with tears. "He was right, of course. And even though he held it back, I could tell he was furious with me. I'd lost them time. Hell, I'd lost my girls time. And if they'd--"
A sob rips out of him, and I cover his hand with mine. "But they didn't. They survived."
"Yes. Yes." He sucks in air. "Anyway, I didn't realize what he'd said until after the fact, but then I made the connection. Deliverance. That's what they called themselves. And that's what they were. They delivered my girls back to me. They saved them. Hell, they saved me, because I would have shriveled up and died if my girls had been hurt."
I nod, understanding. I would have shriveled up and died if something had happened to Dallas, too.
We talk for another hour or so, and even though my primary purpose for this meeting was to get the information for Dallas and Liam about the leaked name, by the time I get back home, change into comfy clothes, and start working, my head is filled with details for my book and I dive in with gusto, ignoring the screenplay that I really should be working on.
I'm so deep into work that I actually jump when my cellphone buzzes, signaling a call from my mother.
I grab up the phone, realizing as I do that I've completely lost track of time. It's already five-thirty. I need to put on something other than sweatpants and get across the park in forty-five minutes.
"I can't talk for long," I say in lieu of a greeting. "I just realized I'm running late."
I save my file and then jog upstairs, figuring I'll change while I talk.
"That's okay, sweetie. I just called to see if you wanted to have dinner tomorrow. I'm going stir crazy in the Hamptons. I thought I'd drive in early and do some shopping."
"I'd love to," I admit. "But I'm having dinner in Brooklyn with Dallas and Colin. He's finally moved into that house he bought a year or so ago."
"Mmmm," she says, and I hear the disapproval in her tone.
"Mom. I know you worry about him, but I'm not just going to write Colin off. You know that." She does, too. Colin was there for me after the kidnapping in a way that my mom and dad couldn't be, and that was despite my mom and Eli having terminated Colin's parental rights years before. He could have washed his hands of me, but h
e didn't, and we've rebuilt what for a while was a very rocky relationship.
I understand why she's worried--apparently the IRS has been looking at Colin again, and she's afraid he's fallen back into the well of white-collar crime--but I just want to maintain a relationship.
"I know, sweetie. And of course I get it. So you're going with Dallas?" Her voice has a lilt to it, like someone forcing herself to make small talk.
"Yeah. Actually, Adele is going to be there, too. Apparently she invited me."
"Adele," she repeats. "That reminds me, why on earth is Dallas interested in a laundry list of the women Colin dated between me and Adele."
I balk. "I have no idea. What makes you think he does?"
"Well, because he asked me. Yesterday? No, the day before. I thought it was the oddest question."
"Can't argue with that." I've put the phone on the bed and have it on speaker as I pull on a skirt and sleeveless summer sweater.
"It doesn't matter. I just thought he might have explained himself to you now that you two are getting along so much better." There's a beat. "I saw the pictures from outside the Balcony."
I'm leaning over my vanity, and my hand stills as I apply mascara. "Yeah, that was a fun night," I say casually. "It was kind of a birthday present. We're, you know, trying to get along better."
"I'm glad." She clears her throat. "Jane, sweetheart ..."
"Yeah?"
"Never mind."
I can see her soft smile in my mind as she shakes her head, dismissing her words. Normally, I'd press her. There's something on her mind. But I'm not in the mood to discuss my relationship with Dallas with my mom. Especially not now when I need to get out the door.
"Listen, I really am running late. I'm sorry I can't meet you tomorrow."
"No, no. That's fine. I'll let you go."
"Love you," I say.
"Love you, too," she responds. And then, right as I'm about to end the call, she says, "Jane."
"Yeah?" I'm frowning, something in her voice making my insides tighten with dread.
"Your father--he saw the pictures outside the Balcony, too."
"Oh." I bite my lower lip, wondering what exactly Daddy saw in those pictures. Did he see more than the two of us getting in a limo? Did he see the truth?
Because Eli has known for years how Dallas and I feel about each other. Or, at least, how Dallas feels about me. He's never spoken to me about it. But he's made clear to Dallas that if anything happens, he'd disinherit us in a heartbeat. And years ago, the embers that burned between me and Dallas were one of the reasons that Eli sent Dallas off to boarding school in London.
I hold my breath, wondering if my mom is going to expand on her comment. We've never really talked about me and Dallas except to push the lie that he and I couldn't really be together after the kidnapping because it brought back too many dark memories.
So I don't know what she really thinks. What she really feels.
What she fears.
I don't even know if she sees what's really between her two kids.
She told me once that she sometimes regrets the spiderweb of adoptions that made Dallas and I brother and sister, but I don't know if that's because she understands that those machinations now keep him and me apart. I don't know, and I've never asked.
I'm not going to ask now, either.
"Well, anyway," she says brightly, "you need to run. I just thought I'd mention it. I love you," she says again, and then the line goes dead.
Weird, I think. And troubling. Because as much as I fantasize about not having to hide from the world or my parents, I know damn well that I'm really not ready for that fantasy to become a reality.
Dallas is already at the kiosk when I arrive. He's still in his work clothes, a charcoal suit paired with a crisp white shirt, all of which is perfectly tailored. He looks good enough to eat, and if the unapologetic stares from passing women are any indication, I'm not the only one who thinks so.
"You look amazing," he says as I approach, and I have to laugh.
"I was just thinking the same thing."
He starts to reach for my hand, apparently remembers that we are standing on one of the busiest streets in the city, and pulls it away ruefully. "I thought we'd have a drink at The Pierre," he says, referring to the hotel that is just across Fifth Avenue from us.
"Sounds great." I follow him there--also forcibly keeping my hands at my sides--and we head through the opulent lobby to the Two E bar. The hostess clearly recognizes him and starts to seat us at a prominent table in the center of the room, but Dallas deftly steers her to something more private in one of the corners.
As we order, I remember what he said on the phone earlier today, and a little frisson of disappointment cuts through me when I realize that the tables don't have cloths. Apparently there will be no illicit touching happening. Which, sadly, is going to make happy hour a whole lot less happy.
As if he can read my mind, Dallas's mouth quirks up. "We can find another bar," he suggests, then leans closer so he's certain not to be overheard. "Or I can see if I can make you come without even touching you."
A trill of anticipation laced with desire runs down my spine, but I force myself to keep my cool. "Mr. Sykes," I say. "You couldn't possibly."
"A challenge?"
"A dare," I retort playfully, and when I see the heated look of a man recognizing a gauntlet being thrown, I wonder what exactly I've set myself up for.
"I won't say that I'm accepting your challenge," he says, "but if I were, I'd start by saying that I like your outfit. Your skirt that hits below your knees. Your shirt that's buttoned almost to the base of your neck. It's very proper, Ms. Martin. But I know that you're hiding a secret."
I swallow. "Am I?"
"Mmm," he says, leaning back in his chair as the waitress brings our two martinis. She leaves, and Dallas takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "A lacy bra," he continues. "And under that skirt, I bet you're wearing no panties at all."
I just lift a brow, trying to look unaffected. "I'll never tell," I say. "And you're not allowed to find out for yourself."
"Oh, but I will," he says. "I'll put my hand on your knee. On the soft cotton of that skirt, so simple it's sensual. I'll slide it up slowly, until I can brush the skin on your knee with the pad of my thumb, and you'll feel the shock of my touch all the way to your cunt."
"Dallas," I say, my voice hushed. I'm squirming a little, and I'm sure he can tell. "Someone might hear."
"They might," he says. "Does that turn you on?"
I look away, because he knows it does. And I don't like that it does, because I'm too damn scared of the reality. I draw a breath and turn back. "Dallas, we shouldn't--"
I don't finish, though, because my phone rings, the sharp tone startling in the quiet bar. I blush as the people at nearby tables turn to look at us while I rummage through my purse for my phone, then feel my chest tighten when I see who the caller is.
"Daddy," I say, my eyes meeting Dallas's as I answer.
He sits back in his seat, any sensuality still lingering between us vanishing like cotton candy doused with cold water.
"I saw that you and Dallas were at the Balcony."
"Um, you did?"
"Your mother said it was some sort of celebration for your birthday?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it was."
"So you two are getting along better?"
I look at Dallas. "Yeah. We're getting along." I frown. "Daddy, what's on your mind?"
He sighs, and for a moment I'm afraid he's going to tell me that he knows I'm fucking my brother and that I'm no longer a Sykes and that tomorrow Dallas and I are going to be the feature story on Page Six.
It's not a pleasant feeling.
Then he says, "Bill came by. He knows about the kidnapping. He's going to pursue it."
Relief crashes over me. I'm not thrilled about Bill poking around the same places where Deliverance is poking, but this is a conversation I can have with my dad. The me-and-Dallas
conversation? Not so much.
"I know," I say. "He told me. He's pretty much dead set on it."
"So he said. And I ..."
"Yes?"
"I'm just afraid it's going to be hard on you. On Dallas. I wonder if now is the time for you ..."
He trails off again, and I honestly have no idea where this conversation is going.
"Daddy?"
"Oh, hell. It's just that you and Dallas have kept your distance for so many years. And while I'm all for family reconciliations, I'm afraid that Bill's investigation is going to bring back a lot of memories. I'm afraid that it's going to hurt you. Hurt Dallas."
"Oh." I blink, holding back tears. The truth is that while my mom and I have a great relationship, my dad and I haven't ever talked that much. Especially not since the kidnapping. "Oh," I repeat. "We'll--we'll be okay, Daddy. I promise."
I hear him draw a breath as if he was starting to say something else, but changed his mind. For a moment, there's only silence. Finally, he says, "If you see Dallas, tell him what Bill is doing."
"He's right here with me. And he already knows."
"You're together?"
"Yeah."
"I see."
My gut twists again. "Dad?"
"Sweetheart, I have to go. I love you," he says, and then hangs up before I can even respond.
Dallas looks at me, his eyes searching. "What was that about?"
"He's concerned about Bill's investigation."
"No." He drags his fingers through his hair. "That's a front story. He's concerned about you and me."
I realize I'm hugging myself and force my hands back to the table. "What makes you say that?"
"Because he's always been concerned." He meets my eyes. "Because he's always had a reason to be."
I feel my cheeks warm. He's right about that.
"He's convinced it's all on me," Dallas says. "That I'm my father's son. That I'm just as much of a fuckup as Donovan was. And that I'm determined to corrupt my sweet, innocent sister."
"I'm not sweet," I say. "And you're sure as hell not Donovan."
Donovan is Dallas's birth father, Eli's brother, who drank and got high and fucked around and eventually drowned in the Pacific.
"No," Dallas says, "I'm not. And it would be nice if my father realized that."
"He does, Dallas." I start to reach for his hand, but he pulls his back with a shake of his head as he glances around the full bar. Shit.