Authors: Shiloh Walker

Broken (9 page)

BOOK: Broken

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“I want my wife found. Now.” He paused and then gently asked, “Am I clear?”

Don nodded. “Of course.” Without waiting another second, he turned and left the office. He paused at the receptionist’s desk, a polite smile on his face. As was customary, he let her know that he would be away from his desk for some time.

As he walked away, his mind was racing.

Other matters—James might have been intentionally vague, but Don knew what those
other matters
were. Or rather, who.

Alison Mather—the governor’s daughter. James had set his eyes on the woman after they met during the summer, but it would be hard for the man to really pursue a relationship when he was still legally married.

It had been long enough that James had legal options open to him, but he hadn’t once tried to take advantage of them. Letting his wife slip away just wasn’t tolerable. She couldn’t
slip
away. James had to
throw
her away.

That was the reason for the renewed interest in his wife. His pride might have allowed James to push her to the back of his mind for a time, but it wouldn’t happen again. Pride and the fact that James understood the need to be discreet—while it was acceptable that he desired to find his wife, there were other circumstances surrounding her disappearance that were less than acceptable.

James did not want any attention being focused on those other circumstances.

Or at least he hadn’t. But things had changed.

Don didn’t know how much time he might have, but he did know he couldn’t keep this charade up for much longer.

Locking himself away in the smaller conference room, he settled down at the long, empty desk and took out his laptop. Although he had a computer at his desk, he preferred to handle this matter as privately as possible. He could work undisturbed in the conference room and James wouldn’t think anything about it.

James appreciated discretion.

Don appreciated the fact that when he was behind closed doors he didn’t have to maintain such a rigid mask. He allowed himself to relax minutely, although like most of the other rooms in the office, the conference room was equipped with video capabilities. He wouldn’t put it past James to spy on him as he worked.

With that thought in mind, he brought up his e-mail and settled down to work. But only half of his mind was on his current task. In the back of his mind, he was thinking about plans and options. He worried. He brooded. In the back of his mind, he remembered.

Bruises on pale flesh.

Tears gleaming in dark eyes.

“What happened?”

A low, husky voice shaking with fear . . . possibly anger. Possibly both.

“Nothing.”
A forced smile, a stilted laugh.
“Just my own clumsiness.”

He also remembered the money. He also remembered the threat.

“
One way or another, I want her out of the picture. Permanently. Now . . . you can either take care of the matter, or I will take care of you.”

JAMES Morgan sat alone in his office. Don, the pathetic weasel, had left looking scared enough to piss his pants. Of course, Don was too efficient to do that—it would require a change of clothing and time away from the job, and Don was nothing if not efficient.

It was one reason James hadn’t fired him.

The man knew too much, far too much, and he began to present a liability. That was another reason.

That he appreciated Don’s usefulness put him in a bit of a quandary. He didn’t like the liability, but as far as he was concerned, it was outweighed by Don’s pathetic weakness. He’d played into that weakness several years before, and now he was as much a liability to Don as Don was to him.

That pleased him, because he didn’t want to have to replace Don.

Good help was hard to come by. Although Don had yet to produce results in this particular area, he was excellent in others. Quick, efficient, discreet, respectful. He understood the value of following orders. He didn’t forget the little details. Even fear, like James had just glimpsed in his eyes, wasn’t a bad thing. It kept Don on edge.

As far as James was concerned, those qualities were nearly irreplaceable in an assistant.

Much as in a wife.

Some of those qualities had been why he’d married the woman who’d been missing for close to two years. She’d been discreetly beautiful, a very able hostess for the many business functions that went hand in hand with his job. She had an eye for detail, never forgot a face or a name, and when she chose to, she could charm a snake.

Sadly, she too often forgot her place, and that hadn’t been acceptable.

A muscle jerked in his jaw as he lowered his gaze to study the picture of her that sat on his desk. It was from their wedding day—she’d looked lovely, her dark brown eyes sparkling with happiness, a shy, sweet smile on her lips as she rested her head against his chest.

His hand closed into a fist. He refrained from hurling the picture out the window, just as he had so often in the past two years. The time to put it away was coming. He hadn’t been making idle threats when he told Don that his patience was coming to an end.

It was time that he moved on with his life, and he couldn’t do that until he’d dealt with his wife.

He would have done so long before now except it had proven harder to find her than he had originally anticipated.

Much harder.

If Don didn’t find her soon, then James would take matters into his own hands.

IT was hotter than hell outside, but Quinn was cold.

Almost shaking with it, he was so cold.

Too close.

Way too close.

His hands had a fine tremor to them as he climbed off his bike. He stood there, staring at them. They were clean, but he could still see blood.

Still smell it.

“God, please, mister . . . don’t hurt him. He didn’t mean nothing by it.”

The girl’s words had been hard to understand, because her lower lip was bruised and swollen. As was her left eye. She had bruises ringing her arms and wrists.

Quinn had been sitting in the agency car, waiting outside for one Marc D’Angelo to leave his latest girlfriend’s apartment. D’Angelo had a nice little rap sheet, ranging from petty theft to assault. He was all of twenty-three and so far, it looked like he had the makings of a career criminal.

By all rights, Quinn could have just taken the door down. A reliable witness had seen D’Angelo entering the house. But Quinn hated doing it that way. He had seen a few little toys littering the cracked sidewalk in front of the apartment. As he had parked his car, he’d heard a baby crying from inside.

So he’d waited.

But then he’d heard a sound that turned his blood cold—a child’s cry, followed by a woman’s desperate scream, “
Marc, don’t, please!”

That scream was one he already knew was going to haunt his dreams. One more guilty weight he’d have to bear. He should have gone in. Because he hadn’t wanted to take down some thug in front of kids, those kids had seen that thug pounding on their mom.

God.

He’d gone through the door and found a child huddling by the couch, holding a crying baby in his arms and sniffling, while across the room, his mother lay on the floor, huddled in a ball.

Something had snapped. Even now, he couldn’t quite remember what he’d done. A blur—grabbing D’Angelo. Taking him down. The satisfaction of flesh striking flesh.

Then a hand on his arm—“
Oh, God. Please. You’re gonna kill him . . . he didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Does she really believe that?” he muttered to himself. Three hours later and he could still see the tears in her dark eyes as she begged him not to hurt her boyfriend. Begging him not to hurt the bastard who had hurt her.

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to drive the memory out, but another one replaced it. A memory even darker, even uglier than seeing a man beat on a woman.

Elena. Lying on the ground while her blood mixed with the dirt.

Bruises covered her body. Blood. Semen.

In death, her face had been a terrified mask, so severely beaten, he barely recognized her.

A laugh shattered the spell, and Quinn flinched, spinning around. But there was nobody there. The laugh came again and recognition hit. Nausea pooled inside him as he recognized it as Sara’s. Distantly, he could hear her voice, and Theresa’s.

“Shit.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and then jammed them deep in his pockets. He didn’t want to see them right now—didn’t want to see anybody, talk to anybody, not until he got his head together.

Then you need to move to Antarctica, man. You aren’t
ever
going to get your head together.

He slid through the door, keeping his gaze on the ground. He heard Theresa call out his name, but he ignored her. He needed to get inside. Needed to be alone. Needed to climb into a scalding hot shower and scrub the blood away. Scrub away the blood, and then maybe drink away the memory.

“No. Can’t do that.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his dry mouth. Couldn’t drink the memory away—that was how he’d started that slide down the last time, using alcohol to numb the pain. He’d just have to take it.

Have to live with it.

As he jogged down the stairs, the phone on his belt started to ring and vibrate. He grabbed it, just barely resisted the urge to crush it into the ground under his heel.

It was Luke. He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t want to talk to
anybody
, including his twin. Not right now.

As he pushed his key into the lock, he used his other hand to flip the phone open and turn it off.

There.
Now nobody could call. Alone. He could be alone.

His hand shook as he tried to unlock the door. Shaking too bad. Gut felt like ice. Acid burned its way up his throat. Shaking. Cold. Fuck.
Inside. Get inside
.

“Quinn?”

He froze as Sara said his name.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he gave the key one last desperate twist and, thank God, it unlocked. Without glancing up the steps, without even answering, he pushed the door open.

Blood roared in his ears as he started inside.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He reacted blindly and until he had her body trapped between his and the brick wall of the stairwell, he hadn’t even realized he’d moved. Now he found himself staring at Sara Davis, her dark brown eyes wide and locked on his. She gasped, a soft, pained sound, and Quinn jerked back from her, letting her go so suddenly, she stumbled.

“What the hell is the matter with . . .” she started to demand, cradling her wrist to her chest. Then her words trailed off and she stared at him. “Quinn?”

Quinn wasn’t looking at her face. He was staring at her wrist. It was red, vibrant, angry, and red already; it looked like a bruise was forming.

A bruise . . . he’d put a bruise on her. He’d hurt her—

The shaking got worse. His vision tunneled down until the only thing he could see was that mark, so ugly against her soft white skin. A harsh, rasping sound hit his ears, and he realized he was gasping for breath, all but sobbing.

Tearing his eyes away from the mark he’d put on her, he looked into her eyes and snarled, “Get the fuck away from me.”