Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (71 page)

“No way in hell am I going to—” Mack sputtered.

“You’re done with Wyatt Petroleum, you’re done with this town, and you’re done with the United States,” Sam interrupted, standing. “I want you gone. And if you don’t do it, then I’ll not only personally deliver all this evidence to Captain Bill Spears at the Houston PD, but I’ll haze your entire family,” she promised. “I’ll devote all my energy to unleashing a swarm of locusts on their asses. No McDevitt will be left standing. Am I making myself clear?”

Mack’s throat worked. She could feel the fight rising within him, could have sworn she sensed the building confrontation, like the smell of ozone before a lightning storm.

Sam touched her intercom button. “Marv, you get all that?”

“Sure did,” he came back. “Got a gentleman who’s chomping at the bit to come in. Is now a good time?”

“Now’s a great time,” she told him, meeting Mack’s confused gaze.

Roan Rice, the legal counsel of Wyatt Petroleum for twenty-plus years, stormed into Sam’s office. “Tell me you didn’t do it!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Mack.

Mack glared at him but said nothing.

Roan swung to Sam. “I’ll have all the documents ready within the hour. Keep that sonofabitch here,” he said, jabbing a thumb at him.

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Carey smirked. He stood to his full, massive height.

Roan turned back around, storming right back out, muttering. The door slammed so hard on its hinges, the windows shook.

“Why don’t you just go to the police right now?” Mack snarled suddenly. “You’ve got nothing a 700-dollar-an-hour lawyer couldn’t spin.”

Sam rounded the desk and walked to the bookcases lined with photos, knick-knacks, awards, and binders full of petroleum reports. She pulled down a silver-framed photo of Ryland. He must have been about five or six, perched on the back of her horse and wearing an oversized cowboy hat that fell over his brow as he laughed. Sam came back to the desk and set the photo down in front of him.

“I’m showing you mercy, Mack. Because that’s what my brother would do.” She leaned forward. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Mack signed the papers transferring his shares in Wyatt Petroleum that afternoon. The whole ordeal lasted longer than she would have liked, and he did everything from rail, to plead, to bargaining. But not once did he ever ask for forgiveness. Not once did he ever come clean. She suspected it was half because he didn’t want to further incriminate himself and half because he truly believed he’d been in the right. Stubborn bastard.

Carey escorted him home with two other guards. He watched with his own eyes as Mack and his disoriented, disbelieving wife packed bags as if a tornado were coming. Mack’s kids were grown, so there was that—but Carey put him and his wife on an Emirates flight to Dubai that night. What happened to him after that… well, that wasn’t her problem, unless he tried to come back.

“Come home to Chicago with me,” Carey urged her as he packed his own bags in the penthouse later, getting ready to fly out the next day.

She wanted to, badly. She dreamed about Jack constantly, longed for the simultaneous security and pleasure of being held tight in his arms, but she needed time to sort through the upended pieces of her life. She wanted to go back to him with a clear head and a little healing under her belt. She wanted to return ready to start things with him. The only way she could do that was by finishing with what needed to be handled here.

She gave him an envelope to give to Jack.

“Are you sure?” Carey asked her one more time.

“I’m sure.” Sam kissed his cheek, sending him off.

*

May—Evening

The Whitney, Chicago, Illinois

J A C K

Jaime slammed the
heavy glass pane door leading out to the terrace, shivering and rubbing his bare arms.

“It’s too fucking cold to grill!” he declared, handing the barbecue tongs to Jack.

Jack lifted his brows in consternation. “That’s just about one of the wussiest things I’ve ever heard you say, and there’s been a lot. Consider your man card revoked.” He set the tongs onto the counter, then wiped his hands on the dish towel tossed over his shoulder. He’d just finished boiling the super-fine strips of the homemade Tajarin pasta he planned on serving along with the 21-day aged Angus New York strip that Jaime was grilling.

His brother just rolled his eyes. “Look, if we’re gonna do a guy’s dinner, shouldn’t we be stuffing our faces with burgers and pizza? You’re the only one I know who’d serve a forty-year-old vintage and play Sinatra while we’re supposed to be watching the Bulls away game.”

Jack pointed at the glass of wine he’d poured Jaime earlier. “Drink that. It’ll warm you up. The guys will be here soon,” he added.

Jaime swiped the wine off the counter. “Are you sure I should drink around you?”

Jack sighed. “Jaime, I’m not going to expect everyone to be dry around me just because I can’t drink a Bordeaux anymore. Drink or don’t drink—it’s up to you. How I feel about it is that I just want everyone to act normal.”

Jaime took a tentative sip. “I can’t imagine a sober Thanksgiving anyway.”

“Well, thankfully we’ve got a few months to work up to that,” Jack replied dryly, when there was a knock at his door. “That’ll be them. Go grab the steaks, would ya? Dinner’s basically ready after I toss the pasta.”

Jaime disappeared back onto the terrace while Jack strode to the door. When he swung it open, he was pleased to see Carey, Talon, and Rush standing there, each holding bubble-wrapped frames.

“Great to see you guys, alive and well. Come in,” he told them, smiling broadly.

“Thanks for the dinner invite,” Carey said with a grin. “Special delivery from my mama,” he added, gesturing to Wes’s photos. He also lifted a baker’s box. “She sent this along with a thank you card for your generous donation,” he added with a wink.

Jack accepted the box, grinning. “What is it?”

“Her prize-winning strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

“Oooh-wee! I’ve been looking forward to home cookin’ all day.” Rush sniffed the air, catching the delicious scents permeating the air from the kitchen.

“We’re officially calling this dinner the
‘Thank God We Didn’t Die in Texas’
meal,” Talon laughed as he trailed them in, carefully setting down the frames he was carrying.

“Good to see you, assholes!” Jaime called out as he came in from the terrace carrying the steaks in on a tray. He closed the door with his foot. “Who’s ready to see the Miami Heat get spanked tonight?”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Talon fist-pumped. “I’ve got good money riding on this game.”

“You’ve got good money riding on every game.” Rush rolled his eyes.

“Get comfortable, guys. Dinner’ll be ready in a couple minutes,” Jack told them as he set down Hannah’s pie and began tossing the Tajarin in warm truffle butter.

“Let me help,” Carey offered.

“Help yourself to some wine,” Jack replied as Carey leaned on the counter across from him as he worked.

Carey made an approving sound as he checked out the vintage. He poured a healthy measure for himself, Talon, and Rush, helping pass out the glasses as Jaime finished setting the table.

Dinner was a relaxed affair, with the guys chatting amiably about everything from the latest box scores to asking when Jack and Jaime planned on taking their boat back out onto Lake Michigan.

“We should sail up to my family’s reservation,” Talon offered. “Make a weekend of it.”

“Maddie would love that,” Jaime nodded. “She’s been asking after you. I think she’s got a little fixation with your long hair,” he said with a laugh.

“Most girls do,” Talon replied with a wink.

“Lord Almighty, don’t get him started!” Rush punched Talon’s arm. “You get his ego up and he’ll be unbearable for the rest of the night.”

They joked and laughed for a good hour, and it was the lightest that Jack had felt in ages. They also demolished the meal, groaning and patting their bellies by the time he served Hannah’s pie warmed with a side of cream he’d whipped up.

“Best I’ve eaten in ages!” Talon declared as they moved toward the living room where ESPN was rolling the pre-game predictions.

“Carey, a word?” Jack asked.

Maybe it was his quiet tone, or the fact that there seemed to be a tacit, unspoken agreement not to mention Samantha during the evening thus far, but Carey sent him an alert look, nodding, “Sure thing, Jack.”

Jack led him into his office, offering him a seat as he leaned back against his desk.

“How is she?” he asked, straight up.

Carey fished out a card envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I was going to wait to give this to you when we were leaving—but she asked me to give this to you.”

Jack accepted the envelope, recognizing the same ivory linen card stock. He opened it, heedless of Carey’s presence and pulled out the single card under her letterhead:
“Wait for me.”

“She loves you, you know,” Carey added meaningfully, his blue eyes sincere. “If she could be here right now, she would be.”

Jack nodded gruffly, staring at the card before looking up at Carey. “I need to ask you for a favor.”

Carey cocked his head. “What is it?”

“I need you to let me into Sam’s apartment. I’d like to put Wes’s photos in there for her.”

Carey’s expression softened. “So that’s why you bought them.”

Jack shrugged. “I think he would have wanted that, don’t you?”

Carey nodded, expression thoughtful. “Let’s do it.”

Carey and Jack excused themselves from the guys, who were already talking shit about the GM and who would advance to the conference finals.

“Where you going?” Rush called out.

“Just going to put these into Sammy’s place,” Carey replied, nonchalant.

“Need help?”

“Nah, we got it.”

Jack owned the building. Of course he could have walked right into Samantha’s home without asking for permission, but he didn’t want to do it that way. He wanted, at his most instinctual level, to be welcomed into the secret cabal of her heart, into her safest places, because she wanted him there. But for now, this would do. Carey knew her better than anyone, and if he okayed Jack’s idea, then he’d take it.

“She has a room,” Jack told him as they entered her silent home with the brass key Carey had on his keychain. Carey disabled the alarm. “At the end of the hallway upstairs. Have you seen it?”

Carey crossed his arms. “Once,” he answered grimly. “I hate it,” he added. “Place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“I’d like to take the cranes down,” Jack told him. He went to her kitchen and rifled around until he found some box cutters. He went back to the photos and started removing the tape and the bubble wrap protecting them.

“You want to put those up instead,” Carey realized. “Change it up.”

“That’s about it,” Jack said with a nod. “I know it’s heavy-handed, but I hate that she’s put up a mausoleum in her home. She’s raked herself over the coals enough, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

Jack stepped back as he looked at the first photograph he’d unwrapped. The long, creamy expanse of her neck appeared, her hair long and wild, trailing over the pillow behind her. She was turned away from the camera, asleep. It was a tender and beautiful portrait. The camera loved her as much as the man who’d taken it did.

“I want her to see love when she walks in there,” Jack told Carey honestly. “I want her to see how much she’s treasured.”

“
Tesoro
,” Carey murmured, getting it. “That’s what that means.”

Jack nodded.

Carey went toward the laundry room, disappearing for a few moments. When he returned, he was carrying a small toolbox. “I’ll help you hang them.”

May—Late Night

The Whitney, Chicago, Illinois

S A M A N T H A

I
t had taken
her longer than she would have liked, but by the time Sam returned to Chicago, she had a short list of CEOs to take over Mack’s position. She and Chris had also set up a trust for Wes’s work, managed by a talented young curator from Austin who was already working with the Met to set up an exhibition in honor of his most famous pieces.