Текст книги "About That Night"
Автор книги: Julie James
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“In my defense,” Jack said to Kyle, “you were flirting with my girlfriend at the time. And you called me Wolverine.”
Kyle smiled to himself, having forgotten that part of the story. On the night he’d been released from prison, the U.S. attorney, Cameron Lynde, along with Agent Pallas, had met with him to explain that she’d arranged for him to serve out the remainder of his sentence on supervised release—all part of Jordan’s deal with the FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office, although Kyle hadn’t known that at the time.
Seeing as how the U.S. attorney had been the first woman other than Jordan Kyle had seen in four months, and not having realized that she and Pallas were involved, he may have thrown one or two perfectly harmless, mildly flirtatious comments in her direction.
“Maybe you boys could call it even?” Nick suggested, looking between Kyle and Jack.
With a shrug, Jack turned to Kyle. “Not like I have much choice in the matter.” He nodded in Nick’s direction. “McCall here was just promoted to special agent in charge. I don’t want to get shipped off to Peoria on some two-year grunt-work assignment because I screwed things up with the boss’s future brother-in-law.”
Kyle shot Nick a horrified look. “Brother-in-law?”
From the seat next to him, Dex slapped Kyle on the shoulder. “See? And you were worried we wouldn’t have things to talk about.”
FORTUNATELY, ALL NEED for nuanced conversation fell by the wayside once the game started. As part of his promise to Jordan to make an “effort,” Kyle had specifically chosen a Bulls-Knicks game, since Nick was from New York and apparently a huge fan.
And so the lines were drawn. Team rivalry prevailed, replacing the former divide between ex-con and FBI agent, and the trash talk began to fly. They were men, after all—rare was the issue that could not be at least temporarily set aside within the confines of a sports arena.
Just before halftime, however, they hit their first glitch during a time-out.
“So what’s going on with you and Rylann these days?” Dex asked casually.
Kyle froze with his beer halfway to his mouth.
Such a stupid way to get caught.
He’d been out of town since Wednesday and hadn’t had the opportunity to fill Dex in on the clandestine nature of his goings-on with Prosecutrix Pierce. Nor had he had any idea that Nick would bring Rylann’s boss’s boyfriend to the game.
Still, he’d be damned if their cover would be blown on his watch. He’d promised Rylann that he would keep their relationshi—er, hot, no-strings-attached fling—a secret, and he intended to keep that promise. Because if she thought that her boss thought something was up, she would undoubtedly put the kibosh on all future rendezvous.
And he wasn’t ready to give up Rylann quite yet.
So he stretched out in his chair, playing it casual. “Nothing’s going on, unfortunately. She shot me down that night at the club. Something about not mixing business with pleasure.”
Dex frowned, understandably confused, since Kyle had told him he was going to Rylann’s that night, and opened his mouth to say something.
Kyle subtly shook his head.
Dex paused for a split second, then his eyes flickered over to Jack and Nick, seeming to catch on that something was up. So he, too, played it casual. “That sucks. I thought you were in there that night.”
“You weren’t the only one,” Kyle said with a chuckle. “Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
“You’re talking about Rylann Pierce?”
The question came from Jack. Kyle looked over his shoulder and saw the FBI agent studying him curiously.
“Good guess,” Kyle said, maintaining a look of nonchalance.
Jack shrugged. “Not really. Unusual name. Plus, I know you worked with her. My partner is Sam Wilkins—he mentioned that Rylann had interviewed you as part of the Quinn investigation.”
Damn FBI agents and assistant U.S. attorneys. Apparently, they were thick as thieves when it came to knowing everyone else’s business. “Oh. Right.”
Jack took a sip of his beer. “When you were working with Rylann, did she ever tell you the meth lab story?”
Kyle studied the agent, thinking he suddenly seemed awfully chatty. He also noticed that Nick was watching both of them closely. “Not that I recall.”
“It’s a good one. Made its way around all the FBI offices,” Jack said. “Apparently, a few years ago, your friend Rylann worked on a big drug case in San Francisco—an organized crime group that was running an underground meth lab in the middle of this overgrown wooded area. Anyway, she tells the agents working the investigation that she wants to see the lab in person. But on the day they’re set to go out to the lab, she’s running late because of court or something, and she shows up to meet them wearing a skirt suit and heels.”
Kyle smiled at that part. Of course she did.
“So these two agents, who were likely being smug and cocky about the situation, decide not to tell Rylann the exact setup of this meth lab,” Jack continued. “Then they drive her out to the middle of the forest and take her to this three-foot-wide hole in the ground that’s covered by a metal door—kind of like a submarine hatch. And when they open the door, there’s nothing but a ladder that goes fifteen feet underground.”
“Sounds like something out of Lost,” Dex said.
“Exactly.” Jack cocked his head and looked at Kyle. “Hey, has anyone ever told you—”
“Only people who need to get lives, since the show ended two years ago,” Kyle growled. He rolled his hand, gesturing impatiently. “Let’s get back to this underground hatch.” He could picture Rylann, in one of her skirt suits and heels, standing in the forest with two dickhead FBI agents who were trying to rattle her.
Jack went on with the story. “So Rylann and these two agents are standing over the hatch, and she points to the hole in the ground and asks, ‘Is that where we’re going?’ And they say yes, and of course they’re looking at her in her suit and heels and thinking she’s going to balk at the whole thing. But instead, she takes off her shoes and tucks them into the back of her skirt like it’s nothing, and says, ‘How about if I go first? That way you boys aren’t tempted to look up my skirt.’ And then down the ladder she went.”
Kyle laughed hard at that. Man, this girl impressed the hell out of him sometimes.
Actually, all the time.
“You were right. That is a good story.” Mindful of the role he still needed to play, he shook his head with mock regret. “Too bad it didn’t work out. She and I could’ve had a lot of fun.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jack said dismissively. “I heard a rumor that she and Cade Morgan are getting close. Really close, if you know what I mean.”
Morgan.
His nemesis.
Kyle gripped the arm of his seat so tightly he was surprised it didn’t break off in his hand. “Good for Morgan,” he managed coolly.
Just then, the halftime buzzer rang.
Nick stood up. “The scoreboard doesn’t lie, sports fans,” he said, gloating over the fact that the Knicks were up by eight. “Which means, if I remember correctly, that one of you boys owes me a drink.” He clasped Kyle’s shoulder. “I’ll let you have the honor, Sawyer. Come join me at the bar.”
AS SOON AS Kyle and Nick got to the bar in the stadium’s private lounge, the FBI agent’s expression turned more serious. “You do realize that you’re being interrogated, don’t you?”
“Thanks, I’m aware of that,” Kyle said dryly. And he didn’t like it one bit.
“Pallas softens you up with the meth lab story, then hits you with the comment about Morgan to see your reaction. One of the oldest tricks in the book.” Nick gestured to the bartender. “Two Maker’s Marks, neat.”
“I think your friend Jack needs to mind his own business.”
“Jack’s a good guy. And he’s a fantastic agent,” Nick said. “But his number-one priority is, and will always be, to protect the U.S. attorney. And if he thinks there’s something Cameron would want to know about—like the fact that one of her top prosecutors is fooling around with the Twitter Terrorist—he’s going to be on top of it.”
He nodded when the bartender slid the two whiskeys in front of them and handed one to Kyle. “Here. You look like you need it.”
Kyle took the glass from him. “Is what Pallas said true? Are there rumors going around about Rylann and Morgan?”
“Just office gossip. I wouldn’t get too worked up about it.”
A little late for that.
The idea that Rylann might be “getting close” to Cade Morgan, whatever that meant, struck a nerve with Kyle. “Let me ask you something. If you thought some guy was moving in on my sister, how worked up would you be?”
Nick took a sip of his whiskey. “I may or may not have once tossed a guy out of her store for flirting with her.” He shrugged. “Total douchebag. Wore a scarf indoors.” He studied Kyle curiously. “I didn’t realize you and Rylann were getting that serious.”
“We’re not.”
“Then it really shouldn’t matter what she’s doing with Morgan, should it?”
Kyle shifted uncomfortably, not ready to answer that question. “What is this, another interrogation?”
“Sorry. Habit.” A silence fell between them until Nick cleared his throat. “Look, Kyle, I know we got off on the wrong foot. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told your father the day I met him: your sister means everything to me. And family is very important where I come from. So with that in mind…” He held out his hand. “I would really like it if you and I could put the past aside and move forward.”
Kyle paused for a moment, then clasped the other guy’s hand. “Jordan gave you the speech about bonding, too, huh?”
Nick grinned. “I’m under strict orders to make an ‘effort.’ And then I’m supposed to dig up whatever dirt I can about you and Rylann. Probably, I’ll just tell her how you beamed like a headlight when you heard the meth lab story.”
“Wonderful. Now I’ve got two of you all up in my business,” Kyle said dryly.
Nick slapped him across the shoulders, seeming to thoroughly enjoy this. “Get used to it, Sawyer. That’s what family is for.”
Twenty-seven
RYLANN OPENED HER door to find Kyle standing in the hallway, looking prickly once again.
“I heard an interesting rumor tonight.” He brushed past her and entered the apartment.
Rylann shut the door behind him, not sure what that meant. “Well. It’s good to see you, too.”
Standing in the middle of her living room with a no-nonsense expression, Kyle folded his arms across his chest. His question took Rylann completely by surprise.
“Is there something going on between you and Cade Morgan?”
Rylann cocked her head in confusion, wondering where he’d ever gotten such an idea. “No. Why?”
“Jack Pallas said he heard that you and Morgan were getting very close.”
Rylann paused. “I think the better question is why you and Jack Pallas were talking about Cade and me in the first place.”
“Nick brought him to the Bulls game. He started fishing for information about us after Dex asked about you.” Kyle must’ve seen the look of panic in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I covered. No one knows you’re sleeping with the Twitter Terrorist.” He amended that. “Well, Nick knows. Jordan talked to him about us.”
Rylann exhaled slowly. For something that was supposed to be simple and fun, this was suddenly getting very complicated. “Nick McCall is the special agent in charge of the Chicago FBI office. He works with my boss, Cameron, all the time.”
“He won’t say anything. We’re bonding now.”
At least one of them was comfortable with the situation. “Great. The future of my career is dependant on some ‘moment’ you and Nick had at a basketball game.”
His eyes pierced hers. “We haven’t finished our discussion about what’s going on between you and Cade Morgan.”
“Because there’s nothing going on between me and Cade,” Rylann said emphatically. “Do you really think I’d be with you if there was?”
His jaw twitched. “No offense, counselor, but this wouldn’t be my first blindside.”
As soon as the words registered, Rylann felt like a complete jerk. She’d momentarily forgotten that Kyle’s last girlfriend had cheated on him, in just about the worst way possible. They’d never talked about Daniela—Kyle didn’t seem to be particularly forthcoming about the subject, and Rylann could certainly understand why. But seeing his girlfriend with another guy, something that had ultimately put him in prison, had undoubtedly left him with a few emotional scars.
With that in mind, she walked over to him. She couldn’t undo what Daniela had done, but she could assure Kyle that nothing like that would ever happen as long as he was with her. So she uncrossed his arms, wanting nothing between them, and stepped closer. She peered up and looked straight into his eyes. “There’s nothing going on with Cade. We work together, and we’re friends, but that’s it.”
He made no move to pull her closer. Instead, he cocked his head, his tone quiet. “You’re friends with the guy who called me a terrorist?”
Oh…crap. When Rylann saw the flicker of hurt in Kyle’s eyes, she knew that had been the wrong thing to say.
Obviously, she understood why he would have a problem with her being friends with Cade. Of course, he didn’t know the whole story, that the former U.S. attorney had wanted to send a message to the press and specifically told Cade to go after Kyle hard. But even if that hadn’t happened, Cade still would’ve prosecuted Kyle—and been tough in doing so—because that was his job. Just like it was her job.
She wasn’t sure what all she could say in these circumstances except for the truth. “Well…yes.” She sighed. “And here I thought things were complicated before.”
“Does that mean you’re having second thoughts about…whatever this is between us?” When she didn’t answer at first, Kyle cupped her chin, making her look at him. “Do you want me to leave?”
Rylann thought about that, then shook her head. “No,” she said softly.
His face remained uncertain, as if he needed more convincing. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.” She reached up, winding her arms around his neck. Though she didn’t have all the answers, there was one thing she knew for certain—that she wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Kyle yet. “See, I’ve been having this problem the last couple nights. My pillows smell like whatever shampoo you use in your freakishly lustrous hair, and now I can’t go to sleep without thinking about you.”
Kyle slid his hands up her back, pulling her closer. “Maybe you should wash your pillows. Get rid of all traces of me.”
“Or I could just invite you to spend the night again.” She stood up on her toes, brushing her lips against his. “Since we never seem to do much sleeping, anyway.”
When their mouths met, everything else seemed to fall by the wayside. Perhaps brought on by their near fight, the kiss quickly turned hot and impatient. Kyle gripped her hips and guided her backward, trapping her against the front door. Rylann tugged his T-shirt over his head and then ran her hands over the solid muscles of his chest as their mouths came back together. She moaned his name, needing to feel all of him against her, wanting to be as close to him as possible right then and there.
Apparently driven by the same need, Kyle yanked her T-shirt off, then hooked his hands into the waistband of her yoga pants and panties and hastily pushed them down her hips. Eager to hurry up the process, Rylann helped him out, kicking her clothes aside as he made fast work of the button and zipper on the fly of his jeans.
As their tongues clashed and fought, she pushed his jeans down, and a thrill of excitement coursed through her when his heavy, hard shaft brushed up against her stomach. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and found a condom.
“Hurry,” she panted urgently, watching as he ripped open the wrapper and rolled the condom on.
He slid his hands under her bottom and lifted her up against the wall, positioning himself right between her legs, where she was wet and ready for him. He gazed down at her heatedly, his hair falling into his eyes. “As long as we’re doing this, for however long it lasts, there’s no one else. Got it?”
She tightened her arms around his neck. “There’s no one else I want.”
Seeming to be satisfied with that answer, he thrust hard and deep, entering her in one stroke. Rylann threw her head back against the door and moaned. “Oh God, it’s so good.”
Kyle held her firmly against the wall and began moving inside her, his voice deep and husky. “It’s perfect.”
LATER THAT EVENING, Kyle sat alone in Rylann’s living room, toying absentmindedly with his glass of wine while he waited. Apparently, she was the “duty assistant” that night, which—judging from the emergency page she’d received from an FBI team wanting a search warrant—was something like being a doctor on call.
They’d been curled up on the couch together, pretending to watch a movie but mostly just making out like a couple of sixteen-year-olds, when her pager went off. She’d checked it, apologized with a quick kiss, then had headed into her bedroom to return the call in private.
The normalcy of the moment, the everydayness of it, had made Kyle realize that this was how things could be between them. Cozy weekend nights together, a good bottle of wine, hitting pause on the TiVo remote while one of them had to sneak off for a work call. A far cry from his “play hard” days spent wining and dining the girl of the week.
But as he sat there on Rylann’s couch, listening to the murmur of her voice from the bedroom and waiting for her to join him again, he knew there was no place he’d rather be.
Yep, it was official.
He was falling for her.
Panic set in upon that realization, and in his mind’s eye he saw himself pulling a Road Runner and bolting lightning-quick, cartoon-style, out of the apartment. She’d come out of the bedroom after finishing her call and would find no trace of him except a half-empty wineglass and the gaping hole of a man running top-speed through her front door.
Or he could go with option two.
Stay and do whatever it took to convince a certain stubborn, sassy assistant U.S. attorney that this was more than a hot, casual fling.
Undoubtedly, that was a risky proposition. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain that he was ready for a commitment, and more important, he had no clue how—or if—he fit into Rylann’s world. She loved her job; anyone could see that. Even when the phone rang at ten p.m. on a Friday night and interrupted a mighty fine make-out session, she’d had a gleam in her eye that said some thug out there was about to be served up a steaming-hot plate of Prosecutrix Pierce whoop-ass.
He heard her cell phone ring again, then a short moment later she came out of the bedroom.
“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. She set the pager on the coffee table, then picked up her wineglass and curled up on the couch. “I left a message for the emergency judge and had to wait for the clerk to call me back.”
“Did you get your search warrant?”
“We did.”
“What kind of case?”
She took a sip of her wine. “Terrorism. The FBI got a last-minute tip about a guy being deported tomorrow at six a.m. who they believe is connected to a radical fundamentalist group operating in Chechnya. They want to search his apartment and personal effects, but he’s refusing consent.”
Of course that’s what it was. Because everyone took calls from the FBI and helped take down radical terrorists at ten p.m. on a Friday while wearing yoga pants and casually sipping a glass of wine.
“You amaze me, Rylann,” he said, in all sincerity.
And that’s when he made up his mind.
She could set all the rules she wanted—but this was one matchup against a federal prosecutor he intended to win.
Twenty-eight
WHEN THE WEEKEND was over, duty called once again.
On Sunday evening, after a four-and-a-half-hour flight, Kyle handed his overnight bag to the valet and walked up to the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton San Francisco.
“I’ll be in your former neck of the woods,” he’d told Rylann on Saturday morning as they’d stood in her doorway saying good-bye.
“You’re going to San Francisco?” she’d asked. “What for?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
She’d looked him over with a curious expression. “What are you up to now?”
Despite all her valiant efforts, Kyle had refused to give anything up under cross-examination. He had a lot riding on this trip, since the next twenty-four hours would drastically impact the launch of Rhodes Network Consulting. Either his actions would go down as one of the cleverest ideas in marketing history, or he was about to make a complete ass out of himself.
Only time would tell.
The front desk clerk smiled as Kyle approached. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. How can I help you?”
“I have a reservation, under Kyle Rhodes.”
The clerk glanced up from the keyboard, her sudden recognition evident, then went back to typing. “I see we have you booked in one of our Club Level suites, staying with us for one night.”
“Could you arrange for me to have a late checkout tomorrow?” he asked. “I have a morning meeting that might run long.” Or maybe not. At this point, he gave it 80/20 odds he didn’t even make it past the front door.
“Certainly, Mr. Rhodes.”
Just then, Kyle’s cell phone vibrated. He checked and saw he had a new text message from Rylann.
KNOCK ‘EM DEAD, DIMPLES. WHATEVER THE HECK IT IS YOU’RE UP TO.
“Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?” the front desk clerk asked.
With a smile, Kyle tucked his phone back into his jacket. “Nope. I think I’ve got everything I need.”
SHORTLY BEFORE TEN the following morning, Kyle climbed into a taxi outside the hotel.
“Seven ninety-five Folsom Street,” he told the driver. When the taxi pulled to a stop a few minutes later, Kyle peered through the window and checked out the modern, six-story office building before him. After paying the driver, he stepped out of the car and adjusted his tie.
Time to face the music.
Portfolio in hand, he pushed through the double doors and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He watched as the floor indicator counted upward at what seemed to be an excruciatingly slow pace, finally springing open to reveal a simple, minimalist-style reception area.
A receptionist sat behind a white and gray marble desk, her eyes going wide as saucers as soon as Kyle stepped out of the elevator. The wall behind her was devoid of any artwork, bearing only the company’s all-too-familiar name in lowercase letters:
“You actually showed up,” she said incredulously. “We’ve been betting for a week whether you would keep the appointment. A lot of people thought this was some kind of joke.”
Kyle had spent hours on the phone with the company’s lawyers just to get the appointment—no way would he have backed out after going through that torture. “I take it I don’t need to introduce myself?” he asked.
“That would be a definite no. You’re quite recognizable around this place.” The receptionist picked up the phone and pushed a button. “Kyle Rhodes is here to see you.” She listened for a moment, and then looked up at Kyle, still speaking into the phone. “You and me both.” She hung up and gestured to a waiting area. “Mr. Donello will be with you shortly. You can have a seat if you like.”
Kyle eyed the brown suede couch with two blue throw pillows cross-stitched with the words “Home Tweet Home.”
“I think I’ll stand,” he told the receptionist. He half-expected Donello to make him wait all morning, and then blow him off anyway, but the receptionist’s phone rang just a few minutes later. After speaking in a hushed voice, she hung up the phone and stood up. “Mr. Donello is ready for you. Follow me.”
She led him past the reception desk, through a set of frosted glass doors, and then into the main office area. Virtually everything was painted white except for the light maple hardwood floors. The office contained several rows of cubicles, with each row divided into four workstations.
And every person, at every single one of those workstations, had stood up to watch as he walked by.
They stared silently with a mixture of expressions on their faces, most of which Kyle would not describe as particularly friendly. When they reached the large corner office at the end of the hallway, the receptionist half-smiled. “Good luck.”
Kyle stepped into the office and saw Rick Donello, CEO of Twitter, sitting at his desk. He was a relatively young man, in his midthirties, with glasses, thinning hair, and a look in his unsmiling eyes that fell somewhere between disbelief and disdain.
“I’ll say this: you’ve got balls the size of watermelons, Rhodes.” He gestured for Kyle to have a seat, then nodded at the receptionist, who closed the door after she left.
Once it was just the two of them, Donello got right down to business. “You have sixty seconds to tell me why I should do anything other than toss you out on your ear.”
Fine with him. Kyle was perfectly happy to skip over all the bullshit. “As half the world saw seven months ago, you have cracks in your network that I could drive a truck through. My company can help you with that.”
Donello laughed humorlessly. “I’m not an idiot, Rhodes. We updated everything after you hijacked us. I doubt you’d find us so easy to hack into now.”
“How much of the revenue from your seven hundred advertisers are you willing to bet on that?”
Donello’s gaze was steely. “You’ve got forty seconds left, so finish whatever it is you’ve come to say. If nothing else, it’ll give me something laughable to tweet about later.”
Kyle sat forward in his chair. “I’ve read all the interviews, Donello. When you took over the company a year ago, you pledged to focus on Twitter as a business by turning what has become a massive communication network into a major advertising platform. You’ve emphasized the need for reliability—yet I managed to shut you down for forty-eight hours from a single computer while half-drunk on Scotch.”
Donello rested his arms on his desk. “So your proposal is that I hire you, the guy who made us look like clueless dickheads seven months ago, and pay your company some outrageous consulting fee to come in here and fix our security problems? That’s what you’re suggesting?”
“Yes.” Kyle held his gaze. “Except I’ll do it for free.”
Donello paused at that. “For free.”
“I’ll build a goddamn cyber-fortress around this place—and it won’t cost you a penny. I figure I owe you that, at least.”
Donello studied him and then leaned back in his chair. He spoke slowly, musing aloud. “You want the publicity that will come with this.”
The corners of Kyle’s mouth turned up in a smile. His sixty seconds were up, yet there he still sat. “Yes. And so do you.”
TWO HOURS LATER, the CEO of Rhodes Network Consulting LLC walked out of that modern, six-story office building having landed the company’s first client.
True, the client wasn’t paying him, but Kyle was a happy man nevertheless. As he’d hoped, at the end of the day Donello had acted like the businessman he was and seized on the unique opportunity Kyle had offered: better security and a ton of free publicity that would highlight that fact. They’d even worked out the wording of a joint press release that would be sent to the media at eight a.m. Eastern time the following morning.
Now it was time for Kyle to implement the second phase of his marketing strategy. After his arrest and conviction, and then again after his release from prison, he’d been bombarded by interview requests from virtually every media outlet—yet he’d never answered so much as a single question.
But he’d held on to the contact information for one particular person who’d asked for an interview for just this occasion.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of Twitter’s headquarters, Kyle dialed the cell phone number of David Isaac, correspondent from Time magazine. After getting the reporter’s voicemail, he left a message.
“David, it’s Kyle Rhodes. There’s going to be a press release tomorrow morning—you’ll know it when you hear it. If you can get me the cover, I’ll give you an exclusive. The whole sordid story, directly from the mouth of the Twitter Terrorist. Trust me, you won’t want to miss the part about the cactus in Tijuana.”
