Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (57 page)

Wes walked toward her, picked up her hand. He curled her fingers around her dog tags. They felt foreign and familiar at the same time, a piece of her history returning to her like a ghost, still warm from his skin.

“I imagined you, Sammy—so many times,” he continued, gazing at her. “During my best moments, my darkest hours, late at night, early in the morning—it didn’t matter. You meant something to me. But seeing you again after all these years, I realized you’d brought out the best in me because you have always been the best person for me. You understand me better than I get myself sometimes. You saw the man in me—the man I’d become. You helped make it happen. I just wasn’t ready for it then. We were too young. We had too much living to do on our own first.”

Sam shook her head. “It’s a beautiful sentiment, Wes, but that’s all it can be between us—a bittersweet memory.” She moved to step back, but Wes didn’t let her go.

“I’m not interested in the past. It’s done. Can’t change it. I want to move forward.”

“Then why the hell have you been so focused on how my family died?” she asked. “Why did you say I’m living in the past when you’re the one digging through all the skeletons?” she pointed out, stung by the pinpoint prick of his earlier remark.

Wes pressed his forehead gently against hers. “Because you’re still messed up over it, darlin’,” he whispered. “No man in his right mind wants to see you hurting by yourself. I know you’re strong enough to do damn near anything, but sometimes we can’t do the hardest tasks by ourselves, because it requires more of us than we can bear alone. You’ve been holding onto this hurt for so long, you almost can’t bear the agony of letting it go. If I can help you lance this wound—if I can help you heal it—even just a little bit—then I will. Regardless of what happens between us.”

The pressure of tears built up behind her eyes.

“You’re not that selfless,” she countered, even as he pulled her closer to him, back into the shelter of his body, her arms slipping around him of their own volition.

She felt the shape of his smile against her forehead. “You’re right, I’m not. I’m throwing everything I’ve got at this to show you I’m the guy you knew I could be. The difference is I’m ready now, Sammy. I’m ready for you.”

She shook her head. “I’m not, Wes. You were my greatest failure—the mess that colored everything and everyone else afterward. You’re the reason I can’t have an open and honest relationship with another man.”

He touched a finger down her cheek, smiling gently. “Forgive me if I ruined you for anyone else, but it seems only fair. I haven’t loved anyone since you. Never wanted to.”

They held each other loosely for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, listening to each other’s heartbeats, assuaged by the simple comfort of holding and being held by someone familiar. Samantha realized what she’d been holding onto so tightly was her memory of him; it felt like a dark, closely-kept secret. One she’d held so close to her heart for so long, she’d been afraid to let it go. But it was time. It was time to move forward for them both.

She stepped back, smoothing her hair back as she took a deep breath.

“Wes, you’ve got terrible timing and you’re over a dozen years off, but you have been right about one thing.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting over a dozen years to hear you admit I’m right about anything,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “About what, though?”

Sam sat down on the edge of her bed. She told him about her meeting with Morrissey—the evidence that Wes’d been right about her dad.

“How do you feel about that?” he asked.

Samantha ran her fingertips over the silk of her dress. “I guess I’m realizing how little I ever really knew about him. My dad had this whole other life—an alternate persona he created after my mother died. I never saw him until I was older, and by then it was too late. I was too angry about the slights. And even though we sort of made our peace, I always kept him at arm’s length after that.”

“Makes sense,” Wes said. He pushed a hand through his hair. “So maybe now’s a good time for me to admit that I never stopped the investigation.”

Sam frowned. “I told you to drop it.”

Wes shot her an amused look. “Here’s the thing, Sammy: I’m not one of your boys. You don’t get to order me around. I do what I want.”

Sam crossed her arms. “I may not be the boss of you, but your defiance is killing any chances at reconciliation.”

Wes shrugged. “You just said you didn’t love me anymore. I’d say that just about killed any chances I had anyway.”

“Then drop this.”

He cocked his head. “Well, see now I’m curious. Because I’ve got two men with motive, and I’ve already told you I’m going to help you whether you want my help or not, because the sooner I solve this, the sooner you can move on, Sammy—to me, preferably,” he added pointedly.

“Who are the men with motive?” she asked, unable to help herself.

He waited a moment, debating. “You won’t like it.”

“I haven’t liked any of it,” she replied. “Hasn’t stopped you before.”

“Mack McDevitt inherited the lion’s share of the power when your daddy died.”

She crossed her arms. “Because I allowed it.”

“He knew you didn’t want it, Sam,” Wes countered. “Heading up one of the biggest and most powerful energy companies in the United States speaks to motive. Plenty of men have killed for less.”

She turned away from him, unwilling to believe it. “Mack didn’t harm my father and brother any more than Uncle Grant did. He was the one who broke the news to me.” She looked around the room, recalling those old ghosts. She could almost see him standing there, pain in his eyes. She remembered Rita’s arm sliding around her shoulders, shaking with sobs so hard she thought she’d fall apart. “You can’t manufacture that kind of pain, Wes. You can’t fake it.”

“You want to hear about the second man, then?”

Did she?
Did she really want to go down this road? As awful as it had been to unearth the past and hear the truth about her father from Morrissey—was she really willing to go there?

A knock at her door snapped her back into the present.

“It’s Carey. Mama told me you were in here. We need to talk. Can I come in?”

She glanced at Wes.

He made no move to leave, sliding his hands inside his pockets, his expression focused, his body language stalwart and challenging.

She moved to the door, unlocking it and letting him in.

“Sammy—we’ve got a—” Carey stopped on the threshold when he saw Wes. “Hey, Wes. Sorry to interrupt but I need to speak to Sammy in private.”

Wes glanced at her in askance.

“You’ve got about three dozen women hankering for your attention on the terrace,” Sam reminded him. “Don’t want to keep them waiting, do you?”

His jaw ticked as he considered her. “We’re not done.”

“We are for now.”

Wes’s gaze swung to Carey. Something unspoken circled between them before Wes nodded. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Carey crossed the carpet toward her, “You okay?”

“I will be,” she nodded. “What’s going on?”

“I just spoke with Sandro. The FBI and the CIA are monitoring all private jets heading into Texas, but there are too many small airfields to cover,” he told her gravely. “Lightner could just as easily land on the east coast, plug in a new flight plan and land anywhere. We don’t know his jet’s tail sign.”

Sam rubbed her brow. “We knew it would be tough. I don’t think he’ll use the warhead. He still needs to cash in on it somehow, but my guess is he’ll go for something showy when he comes after me. Something daring to teach me a lesson.”

“You think he’s going to come after you at the gala tomorrow night,” Carey realized.

“I do.” she nodded. “It’s public, showy, and just his style. Whether I’m there or not, it’d be a huge win for him.”

“How?”

“He’s into explosives, right? Took out a couple blocks in London. Why not repeat that M.O.?” she reasoned. “Doesn’t need much high-tech shit to do that. Just C-4, some charges he can get at RadioShack, and a way to get in the door.”

Carey rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Shit. We should cancel.”

“What good would that do?” she replied. “He’ll just find another way. What if he tries to blow up this building on a weekday? Bear, the best way to get this bastard is to trap him. The gala is too tempting. It’ll be full of movers and shakers. There will be press. Lightner won’t want to pass the opportunity up. Not as angry as he is now that we’ve outed him to the world. He’s desperate too. No one will do business with him, but if he manages to kill me this publicly, that ups his street cred and puts him back in business. People will be lining up to work with him.”

“The manpower required—”

“Bear, this is what we do,” she reminded him. “Our team has already run security on this scale before. We’ll just have federal help now.”

“Our family will be there,” he said quietly. “Everyone we care about—”

“Yes, they will.” Sam put her hands on his shoulders, meeting his troubled blue eyes. “But let’s tell Uncle Grant, Aunt Hannah, Jack, and our team exactly what’s going on and let them decide. This doesn’t have to be a last stand if they don’t want it to be.”

*

April—Early Afternoon

Wyatt Towers, Houston, Texas

W E S L E Y

He didn’t go
back out to the terrace. Instead, Wes decided to do more snooping on the executive floors of Wyatt Petroleum, feeling more bull-headed and determined than ever to prove his point after his conversation with Sammy.

The elevator doors dinged quietly as they opened on a whisper. Wes stepped into the mahogany-lined private elevator, pressing the button he knew would take him directly to the private suite of offices occupied by Mack and a handful of others. If Wes remembered correctly, he’d be able to walk right into Mack’s office without having to go through the circus hoops of making an appointment and pretending that the meeting was going to be anything but a direct confrontation.

There was no way he was going to drop this now. Not when he was so close, he could practically see all the puzzle pieces falling into place—especially now that Sam seemed to need proof that it wasn’t just a ploy to get her back, even if it had started that way. She could tell him she didn’t love him anymore. She could tell him there was no chance in hell they’d ever be able to find their way back to each other—but none of that changed his determination. He’d only just bitten into the apple. He knew it was rotten. Every instinct he’d developed in his years as a journalist told him to see this through.

Some small, doubtful part of him recognized he was swimming upstream, but he’d known going in that this wasn’t going to be easy. Loving Sam was as simple as breathing to him by now, but doing the right thing by her was the hardest challenge he’d ever faced.

Wes pulled her dog tags out of his pocket, staring down at them for a few silent moments as he rode the elevator down. He felt naked without them now. The simple metal chain plates felt like a crucifix. A symbol of his faith; his faith in her—and in himself. Wes slid the necklace back on as the elevator opened directly from a private alcove into Robert Wyatt’s office. It was Samantha’s now, though she rarely used it. Like the penthouse, the office had high ceilings and breathtaking views of the city. She’d changed the furniture since taking over as chairwoman of the board. It looked like her—a balanced mix of elegant and modern with a sleek Carrara marble desk, a high-backed Eames chair, and a silk Shiraz rug with a cool blue hue depicting a thrush of delicate nightingales.

Wes tucked the dog tags under his shirt as he passed the private sitting area to the office next door, smiling blithely at the startled assistant as he opened Mack’s door like he had every right to be there. That was the key to getting your way most of the time—having the cockiness to walk right in and take what you wanted. Most never dared. Wes dared. He goddamn lived for it. And it helped that he felt a little reckless after leaving Sam, their conversation and her words still a fresh wound.

Mack glanced up in the middle of jotting something down in a notebook, surprise delineating his heavily lined features. Wes clicked the door shut before he could react.

“Sorry to barge in like this, but Sammy told me you wouldn’t mind,” he lied smoothly, striding forward with a
good-to-see-you
smile and a relaxed gait.

Mack McDevitt blinked once, standing from behind a heavy mahogany Chippendale number with a well-worn leather blotter. Old school—like the man who ruled from it.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mack responded with a cordial look of curiosity as he recognized him. “That you, Wes? I haven’t seen you in—what’s it been now? Ten years?” he asked, shaking Wes’s hand.

“Longer, if you can believe it,” Wes replied. “How have you been, Mack? You’re looking good.”

“Well I ain’t buzzard bait yet, but I’m no spring chicken like you,” Mack said with a pseudo-polite affability. “Must admit I’m surprised to see you though. How can I help you?”

Mack still had the long-legged, rangy look of a man who’d spent years in the field, with the kind of deeply-lined, leathery skin earned from toiling under the unrelenting Texas sun. His once-dark hair was slicked back and silver, his dress clothes understated but expensive. All in all, he had the physical presence of a man who’d come to success on his own terms, a certain kind of unyielding ambition, and a tomcat charm that Texan men had refined to an art since the Alamo.