Deadly Seduction (4 page)

Much to my dismay, I ended up at Kyra’s place.
Neither of us wanted to be near Pine Bluff, Birch Tree or Black Oak therefore we both owned condos in a high tech building in Lake Tahoe. The views were brilliant and we were on the same floor one below the penthouse condos, of which there were only four.

At least if I drank too much, I only had to wander down to my own condo and despite our ages and professions, we both could put away a serious amount of booze.

I stuck to an outrageously expensive bottle of Pinot Noir while she opted for Macallan 30, a very strong and gracefully aged scotch that would have you on your ass before you could say “hello.”

“So, is it on for this Friday night?” Kyra rattled her crystal glass, which only contained ice and the remnants of a scotch and soda. “Evan can have any woman he likes, you know. You should be flattered he’s paying this much attention to you.”

“I don’t know what would be worse.” I sipped from my red wine and clutched the stem with both hands. “I don’t want to be anyone’s old lady, Kyra. I don’t want to be part of some mafia family either. I’m not ready to move on. Not yet.”

She sat up and lit her tenth cigarette for the day. “Then when will you be ready? Christ, Gisela, get over it! Relationships end and you made an awful mistake when you were a teenager but what is your great plan? Will you punish yourself forever and never allow yourself to feel a shred of happiness? Do you
honestly
think a selfish, sociopathic prick like Cillian thinks about you? Do you think he has any sleepless nights with that fuckin’ skank he
chose
over
you
?”

I didn’t know what to say to that comment because it cut too deep and I felt like I’d been wounded by a knife. “I honestly don’t know.” I could barely get the words out and there I was, tears streaming down my face like that lost sixteen year old girl again.

I was twenty-nine fucking years old. When did I plan to move on from my turbulent past? I hated how much that man could affect me, even now.

And yes, I wondered whether he thought about me at all or was I nothing but a memory? Someone he thought about occasionally or maybe not at all. That hurt if it was the truth because I could never stop thinking about him and I hated him with a burning passion. I hated how he took my girlhood away from me and I despised how he left me.

There was one thing to be said about Cillian Cox: he didn’t arouse feelings of apathy in
anyone
he met. They either loved or hated him. There was absolutely no middle ground with him and once I’d loved him so much, I would have given the very air from my body to allow him to breathe. Now, he wasn’t worth the effort of pissing on if he was set on fire.

“Well,” Kyra exclaimed in an elated voice as she stood, walked over to her private bar and made herself another drink, “I’m going to set up that date for you with my brother. You’re going to go out and be free and happy. You’re gonna live a little and stop concentrating on work for at least five minutes.”

“Jesus, you’re incorrigible and a younger carbon copy of my mother. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a twenty-nine-year-old single woman. I’m not interested in a man right now and I certainly don’t want one I have to constantly look over my shoulder while we’re together.” I finished my Pinot Noir and set the empty wine glass on her coffee table.

“I don’t understand you at all. You’ve lived around crime your whole life and now, no one in our circle is
good
enough for you? If you feel that strongly about how we live, and why our way of life is so wrong, why didn’t you become a prosecutor?”

“Because life isn’t black and white but various shades of gray and I didn’t want to prosecute criminals when the really big ones are all in Washington, D.C.” I stood and the wine hit me immediately.

I’d drank way too much and would have a hangover from hell come tomorrow morning. Fortunately, my bed was calling me in the worst way and I was beyond exhausted.

Thank God tomorrow was Friday,
I thought casually. At least I would have a whole weekend of working out followed by take-out and the latest releases on DVD waiting for me to devour.

That, to me, was my idea of a good time. Not going out on a date with a biker when I knew what the culture was like and I would never make a good old lady. I was too mouthy and much too bossy. I liked to be in control and that lifestyle didn’t fit the image I’d worked so hard to cultivate in the various social circles of Northern Nevada.

I was never meant to ride on the back of a Harley with the wind whipping through my hair and my arms wrapped around a man as I held on for dear life. The feeling of excitement mixed with the danger of all that power between our legs a pure rush of adrenaline straight to the brain.

I’d been there, done that and owned the motherfuckin’ tee shirt.

Never again.

Those days were behind me and as dead as the relationship I’d had with Cillian Cox. Like him, they were a flash of a long-ago buried memory. A time so innocent and pure when neither of us knew anything about life. We were blissfully and ignorantly unaware that our actions would have consequences.

I couldn’t go back—ever.

Unfortunately for Kyra, she would have to find another woman for Evan because I’d taken myself off the market permanently. I had absolutely no intention of ever turning back.

Regret wasn’t in my vocabulary and I constantly strived to look forward in life because there was no rewind or re-set button. Thinking about the past was a waste of time, and didn’t do a damn a bit of good for anyone.

I was Raymond Jackson’s daughter, and if he’d taught me anything, he’d instilled a steel-spine and strength in me most women didn’t have. I was strong enough and had enough gumption to withstand the worst life offered me, come back for seconds, and still, I’d weathered the storm.

“Are you heading home?” Kyra sipped from her scotch and soda before she glanced at me with face filled worry and concern.

“Yes…and please stop looking at me like that. I’m not a total nun. I have a regular bootie call when I need to get off and really, I prefer it that way. No love, no complications—just sex.”

“Yeah, Cillian is a regular fuckin’ Romeo. He’s ruined my best friend for life and there is nothing I can do about it. I’m mad enough to stalk him down and cut his dick off.”

We both laughed out loud at this statement. “Listen, I told you I would be fine so stop worrying about me. See you tomorrow at work.”

“See ya,” Kyra sing-songed as I reached her door, opened it and closed it behind me. I didn’t leave until I heard her slide the bolt lock and walked through the carpeted hallway. I lived just down the hall, cater-corner to Chiara Bassi, one of the only other people besides Kyra I would consider a friend. She was three years younger than me and worked for my father.

It was my bad luck I dropped my keys after I fumbled them out of my designer hobo bag and knelt down to pick them up. Chiara’s door opened and she wore a black silk robe that clearly outlined her naked body beneath it. She pressed her lips against a man’s lips and I knew exactly who he was from the way his silky brown hair fell and the tattoos on both his arms.

For some reason, he’d yet to get a tattoo on his chest—as far as I knew—but he did have the Lucifer’s Saints insignia on his back: a sneering skull with six horns while the body was a motorcycle surrounded by licking flames.

What was
he
doing here?

I knew he was one of her regulars but I was surprised she’d brought him home to her place. She usually entertained her whole clientele list in Reno at one of the luxuriously built, designated hotels. I suppose he was considered special, and therefore received the royal treatment.

I turned around and my eyes wandered toward hers. They met her gorgeous face and her olive skin immediately turned crimson in color as her amber eyes widened in surprise and the shame became palpable as her shoulders slumped and she began to play with her long silky dark hair to hide her face from me.

I quickly looked away, embarrassed by the awkward encounter myself, bent down to retrieve me keys and quickly slid the key into the lock but not fast enough.

Chiara whispered, “Night. See ya next time,” and closed the door in his face before he could say anything further.

I was too drunk to do anything with any grace and I immediately smelled him before I sensed him behind me.

He’d showered and smelled of expensive body wash for men and Camel cigarettes. My heart thudded in my chest and my breathing became erratic. I didn’t want to be this close to him. It’d been a long time I’d been this close to him at all.

This sucked and there was nothing I could do about it especially when his hand touched mine and I snatched it away as if he’d burned me. Cillian easily turned the key and opened the door to my condo.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as he took the key out of the lock and held my keychain in his hand.

He wouldn’t give them back until I faced him and I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t do that and hope to live with myself. There was too damn much history between us and we’d both caused one another pain. Why did he want to fuel the fire? Did he enjoy hurting me—and himself in the process—that much?

I tried in vain to calm myself down as I whipped around to face him and my chignon, barely holding itself together, drooped. Cillian reached out and undid the pins from my hair before it fell around my shoulders and back in long waves.

“Where’re youse comin’ from at this time of the night,
Ms
. Jackson?” he inquired in a brogue Irish accent he’d picked up from the five years he’d stayed in Belfast.

It was actually kind of funny because Belfast changed the both of us but his was much more apparent than mine. He’d gone from a lanky, all-American teenager to a grown man with all the mannerisms of a genuine native to Belfast.

“Kyra’s,” I explained though I didn’t owe him any explanation at all. “I had one glass of Pinot Noir too many but I’m fine. What the fuck are you doing here with Chiara? Don’t get me wrong—I know you’ve been seein’ her on the sly for a while now. What? Are the Saint slappers not doin’ it for you anymore you have to pay to get
laid
, Mr. Cox? I honestly never thought I would see the day you would have to
pay
for pussy. It’s quite funny in a twisted, ironic way.”

Cillian filled my doorway with his presence as he looked me up and down with clear crystal blue eyes. “She knows what I like and I enjoy her company. I’d actually be with
any
woman—no matter the cost—if she helped me forget about you for five fookin’ minutes and Chiara does that quite well.”

I’d suddenly gone from being hot and bothered to ice-cold within two seconds flat. “How nice for her. What do you want and can you please vacate my condo so I can close the door?”

He leaned in closer to me and I looked at the rings on his fingers that were an “L” and an “S” in sterling silver, one on his middle finger and one on his ring finger. He’d never worn a wedding ring though everyone knew he had an old lady and a skanky one at that who should be a Saint Slapper instead of married to the VP. However it wasn’t any of my business and everything between us was murky, dark, diseased and polluted water under a sagging, dilapidated bridge.

No use trying to change the past now when it is etched into me like the silly tattoo I have left like a scar on the small of my back.