Justice For Abby (3 page)

She smiled back, wanting another one of those grins. There was something about that imperfect tooth among the straight rows of whites that made her melt. “By February you might start loosening your tie.” She gave the black silk a tug. “Then I won’t know what to do with you.”

He chuckled.

“By March you could be walking around the apartment in your pajamas.” She gasped and pressed her fingers to her mouth.

The door opened, and he stepped out first. “Who says I wear pajamas?”

She stopped mid-step, pleasantly surprised by his willingness to play. “Mr. Quinn, I do believe I might swoon,” she said in her best southern drawl. “I feel the vapors coming on.” She fluttered her hand in front of her face.

“We should hurry and get inside then. Dead weight’s a bitch to carry, even with someone your size.” He slid the key in the lock, opening the door to the well-lit entryway.

Abby walked in before him, passing the wall of glass showcasing the city beyond, tossing her shoes to the floor and her wrap over the closet doorknob. She turned, really looking at the man she shared such a huge part of her life with, suddenly, oddly, and powerfully attracted. Jerrod was hot, there was no doubt about it with his irresistible baby blues, long lashes most women would kill for, and amazing ass in a pair of Levis, but she’d never seen him as anything more than her good friend and bodyguard. Jerrod was just too serious. He wore his professional mask twenty-four seven, which was a major turnoff. But this guy—the one who indulged her pithy comments and laughed, he was irresistible. She’d seen Mr. Funny on occasion, but tonight his grins and rare show of humor sent tingles of lust shooting through her belly—a first in more months than she could remember.

“I’ll…be right back,” she murmured, surprised, confused, frowning as she headed to the kitchen for a drink and a moment of clarity. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator for the pitcher of filtered water, and poured, shaking her head. The champagne must have packed a bigger punch than she realized.

Shoving the pitcher back in the fridge, forgetting her glass entirely, she started toward the hall, curious to see if her stomach flip-flopped again or if she had fallen victim to a moment of alcohol-induced madness. “You know, I think I might be a little drunk.”

He turned as he hung his coat in the closet, shaking his head. “You’re not drunk, Abby. You’re not even half in the bag.”

She studied Jerrod’s well-muscled build and sexy face, relieved when her belly remained flopless and she only saw her hunky pal instead of a potential love interest. No madness here, thank goodness, just a silly moment of...whatever that was. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I want to show you something.” He closed the closet and turned toward the entrance, reaching for a thin bar, sliding it across the dark, glossy wood of their front door, locking it in place with a click.

The slight scrape of metal made her flinch. “What—what is that?”

“A security bar. I installed it today while you were with Jackson and Alexa.”

She stared at the white metal trapping her in her own home, swallowing the familiar tang of fear as she stepped back. “Why did you do that?”

“Jackson and I thought we should take a couple of extra measures with the trial getting closer. It’s easy to use and unobtrusive.” Jerrod pulled the bar up and sent it home effortlessly.

The piece clicked, scraped and clicked again. Abby stepped further away as past and present blurred.
Get in the closet, little bitch. You want to try to run away, you can sleep in here.
The slam of the door and slide of metal trapping her in the dark echoed in her head.

“…wrong?”

Her eyes darted to Jerrod’s as sweat dribbled down her back, and she clutched clammy hands together, fighting to keep her breathing steady.

“Abigail.” He walked to her. “What’s…”

His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the pounding in her skull.

He touched her arm.

“Don’t!” She cringed, crashing into the table behind her, knocking chunky blue candles to the floor as she shoved at his chest. “Don’t touch me!”

He held his hands palm up and took a step back. “Take it easy, Abigail. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The wave of terror ebbed as the concern in Jerrod’s steady eyes registered, and she was immediately ashamed. Jerrod would no more harm her than Jackson. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

He slowly lowered his hands. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated and turned, hurrying to her room, closing the door as far as she was able. She sat on her bed and switched on her bedside lamp. Why was this
happening
? Twice in one night she’d freaked. She covered her face with her hands and rocked, fighting back tears of mortification. Not only had she lost it, but she’d shoved Jerrod. Why did she
do
that? With a shake of her head, she let loose a groan of misery. Jerrod had witnessed several of her panic attacks; he’d helped her through many, and she’d
never
lashed out the way she did moments ago.

Sniffling, she dropped her hands and stared out at the city through her enormous windows, rushing to her feet as another thought frightened her. What if she was losing ground? Surely she was. Weighty tension settled along her neck and shoulders as she started pacing. What if Dr. Tate was wrong and she wasn’t doing exceptionally well? She’d had her last session with her psychologist just before Thanksgiving. Weeks, only weeks and she was regressing. Dr. Tate had warned of triggers and temporary setbacks, but this had to be more. She’d gone an entire month without a glimmer of panic, and before that a month again. Now in less than two hours she’d had a double-whammy.

She clenched her fists and walked to the window, pressing her head to the cool glass. What if this new pattern wasn’t temporary? What if she was finally heading toward the breakdown she’d barely avoided? She slammed her eyes shut as she slipped further into the depths of her fear, thinking of her mother. Maybe this was how everything started for the woman she hardly remembered—the panic attacks and confusion. Would the alcohol abuse come next, and then the stays at the mental health clinic until she decided life was too much to handle and gave up?

At moments like this she understood her mother’s decision to end it all, which frightened her further. The idea of being helpless and afraid left her as terrified as the damn bar across the door in the other room. She didn’t want to feel weak again or continually fight memories better left buried. She wasn’t sure she would be able to find her way out of the hellish pits she’d freed herself from a second time.

“Stop,” she whispered on a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes tighter as she visualized her mental stop sign. This type of thinking wasn’t productive. With great effort, she emptied her mind, imagining all of her negative thoughts rolling away. Steadier, she turned from the view she loved and moved to the antique cherry writing desk Gran left her—one of the few nice pieces of furniture they’d had in their tiny apartment in Hagerstown—searching for a sketchpad. Drawing new designs for the runway always soothed when she was troubled. Hopefully by the time she finished sketching the flirty skirt she hadn’t been able to get out of her mind she would be ready for bed.

With her book in hand she lifted a stack of fabric orders she had yet to sign off on. As she searched for a pencil, she bumped the edge of the small calendar still turned to December on her pegboard. Pausing, she flipped up the page to January and stabbed the pin home, determined to put 2015’s rocky start behind her. This year was going to be a hell of a lot better than the last. She was finally going to have her life back. No more working from home or black caps and nondescript jackets every time she and Jerrod wanted to go out. No more babysitters watching her every move or paychecks being transferred from the Lily Brand financial offices to Ethan Cooke Security for her safety or the hundreds of other precautions she and Jerrod took to keep her alive.

Eventually she would be able to walk down the runways again and talk to the press instead of hide in the back, leaving before the showstoppers took their marks for each finale. Hopefully she would be able to join the Lily Brand team at Fashion Week in late February instead of wait from the safety of her condo for everyone’s return, like she did in the fall. And maybe this would be the year she finally convinced Lily to help her start the line she’d been obsessed with ever since she wrapped Lex’s sprained ankle with their dresses on Zachary Hartwell’s roof.

She just had to make it through the trial early next month…unless Renzo’s attorneys found another way to stall, which the Federal Prosecutor assured her wouldn’t happen, but she would wait and see. The United States versus Lorenzo Cruz and Zachary Hartwell should have come and gone in late September, then in early October, and again in November, but Zachary’s brutal prison-cell slaying left both the prosecution and defense scrambling, and the trial had once again been delayed.

Flipping to the next page on her calendar she stared at the dark black circle highlighting February eleventh and pressed a hand to her jittery stomach as she thought of coming face-to-face with her captor.

She stepped back from her desk, no longer interested in her sketches as she walked to her bed, unzipping her black dress, letting it slide to the floor. She unclasped her strapless bra and replaced her evening clothes with the maroon camisole she’d designed and sewed herself one afternoon while she was bored.

Sliding the covers back, she lay down, resting her head on the pillow, closing her eyes, willing thoughts of Lorenzo from her mind. There would be no more fear tonight. Every night she fell asleep afraid, Lorenzo Cruz won.

Jerrod stared after Abby as she rushed to her room,
trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Abby had gone from fire-eater to terrified so quickly he didn’t realize something was up until it was too late. He looked from her partially opened door to the security bar resting in its place, clenching his jaw, recognizing that the latest safety feature must have triggered some sort of flashback. “Way to go, Quinn,” he muttered, pissed at himself for putting that wild fear in her big blue eyes. If he‘d been paying attention to Abby instead of clicking the bar in and out of place, he would’ve seen that something was wrong.

“Damn.” He shook his head as he picked up the candles and set them back in place. First her encounter with Darren and now this—definitely not what she needed. Abby was doing a lot better, but she was still fragile. Two emotional jolts in one night didn’t help, especially when she would see them as setbacks.

Don’t! Don’t touch me!

Her words echoed through his head, as did her frantic shove to his chest. He’d witnessed some of Abby’s worst moments, but this was the first time she’d ever directed her fears toward him.

Swearing again, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the dozens of partygoers still roaming the streets far below. He should’ve mentioned his plans to add the bar instead of springing it on her the way he did. He knew better, but Adam’s e-mail this afternoon left him more concerned about Abby’s safety than her horrific memories.

His old roommate and Fugitive Task Force team member sent word that authorities in Las Vegas were investigating a possible sighting of Victor Bobco. Potential dangers threatened Abby every day. She was a walking target no matter where they went, yet Adam’s latest heads-up had him more on edge than usual. Credible tips had come in before, but this threat was different. Vegas was too damn close, and Abby’s schedule was ramping up with the trial date moving closer and Fashion Week only six weeks away.

Keeping Abby out of the spotlight was more important than ever. Zachary Hartwell was dead, and Lorenzo Cruz was set to take the fall as the primary leader of the most prolific and powerful sex ring the Mid-Atlantic authorities had ever seen. The Federal Prosecution had been unsuccessful in convincing Blondie Williams, Eric Stevens, or the hordes of other bastards on the ring’s payroll to turn state’s witness and testify, which left Abby in the hot seat. She alone had toppled the ring with the access she’d had to financial records and the organization’s inner workings, which she shared minutes after her rescue.

Brothels and stash houses throughout Baltimore, DC, Philly, and into Jersey had been raided and shut down. Dozens of victims had gone home and several more arrests were made, but two key players remained at large, and they had everything to lose if Abby survived to testify. Victor Bobco and Dimitri Dubov would hunt for her until they silenced the ring’s most damaging witness. And Victor was potentially no more than an hour and a half away by plane.

Jerrod pulled a hand from his pocket and rubbed at the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the painful knots of tension. He and Abby had managed to live off the radar after their return from Maryland in July. The Ethan Cooke Security team had taken every precaution Jerrod adhered to during his three-year stint with the US Marshals’ WITSEC program after Abby refused witness protection and only agreed to testify if her sister was left out of the entire mess. Even with his extensive experience in witness relocation and re-identification he often wondered if the endless measures taken to keep Abby safe were enough. Her career posed a huge threat no matter how behind-the-scenes she stayed. One reporter or photographer in the wrong place at the wrong time had the potential to end in disaster, but he could hardly expect Abby to hide behind the walls of their condo indefinitely. She couldn’t heal if she wasn’t allowed to live her life.

Sighing, he glanced toward Abby’s room again and started down the hall, wanting to be sure she was okay. He raised his hand to knock and dropped it, watching her pull back her covers in her pretty little nighty designed to make a man
want
. His gaze traveled over well-toned calves and smooth thighs, along her tiny waist, pausing on small, firm breast straining against filmy fabric. He tightened his stomach against the sucker punch of longing, studying her goddess-like face—big blue eyes, flawless skin, her small nose and pouty lips that haunted his dreams. She was hands-down the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He stepped back as she lay in her bed, fighting the need to call her name. She’d come such a long way in the months they’d lived together, but she still struggled, as she had tonight. Abby would bite off her tongue before she let anyone know, but he did. It was impossible to spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with someone and not learn everything about her.

In his almost seven years on the job, whether as Marshal or Close Protection Agent, this was the first time he’d struggled with friendly yet professional boundaries. There was something about Abby that demanded tenderness. Over the last six months he’d tried his best to give her what she needed while fighting to keep his guard up in the name of self-preservation. Abby was his principal. She could only ever be his principal. Her safety and his philosophies demanded it be so.

He looked at Abby once more as she settled against her pillow. Turning, he walked to the next room over and closed his door. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt as he stared out the massive wall of windows, wondering how long she would fill his thoughts before he was finally able to sleep.

~~~~

The blasting techno beat pulsed in Victor’s chest and feet as he descended Club Tronic’s stairs to the basement. Luka followed close behind.

“You’re sure it is her?” he asked.

“Yes. The tip was good. She was working at the department store in Boulder City. Anton grabbed her on her way home.”

Victor stepped into the crowded room, walking past boxes of assorted liquors stacked to the ceiling. He smiled, savoring the rush of relief, eager to exact his revenge as he studied the woman they’d been looking for. She sat in the metal folding chair in a white blouse and navy trousers, quietly sobbing, visibly shaking with her hands bound behind her back and her long black hair cascading from the bag covering her head.

He stopped in front of her, lording over the bitch who had ruined everything. “You hid well.” Gritting his teeth, he let his hand fly across her face. He nodded his satisfaction as she yelped her surprise and fell from her chair, landing with a nasty thump on the dirty concrete. He crouched down next to her, close to her ear. “Dimitri told you we would always find you, and I’m now here.”

She breathed out primal grunts of pure terror, and he laughed, pulling the burlap from her head. He blinked, surprised by the black eye and her swollen, bloodied mouth.

“She fought me,” Anton supplied.

He frowned, grabbing her chin, yanking her face up for closer inspection as his momentary relief vanished into disbelief. “You idiots! This is not Abigail Harris!” He rushed to standing, blinded by a wave of pure fury. “How do you make such stupid mistakes?”

“I followed the tip!” Anton shouted.

Victor pulled his gun free, firing twice into Anton’s chest, making the woman scream. “This is what you get for being dumb.”

Anton clutched at his wounds, gasping and gurgling, falling back into the stacks of boxes, creating a cascade of broken glass as he collapsed to the floor.

“Idiot!” Victor shouted, directing his temper toward Aleksey. “You know what she looks like. And you.” He pointed the gun at Luka. “She was in your brothel!”

“Victor, it has been months. We are working off our memories.”

“And pictures!”

“She looks much like her.” He gestured to the woman. “She is badly beaten.”

Victor glanced down at her raw face in disgust. “But it is
not
her.”

“It is hard to see through the blood and bruises.”

“I could tell right away.” He shoved his weapon into the holster. “Dumb shits. No more excuses! I wear disguises and fly here. I risk getting caught because you say you are sure. We cannot make such mistakes. We must find her, or she will send us all to hell!”

“We will find her, Victor,” Aleksey assured.

“There is only me and Dimitri left to put this organization back together. Now I have to call and say we do not have her. Get rid of his body.”

“And her?” Aleksey gestured to the woman.

Victor stared at the trembling woman curled in a self-protective ball. “I will take care of her.” He kicked her leg. “Get up.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she sobbed.

“Stand.”

She struggled to sit up with her hands still bound. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He knelt down, his patience thin, slapping her. “Stand
up
! You will make this useless trip worth my time.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she got to her knees, then stood on trembling legs.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head sideways as he pushed her backwards, slamming her into the boxes.

“Please,” she whispered.

He gripped her white blouse, ripping the silky fabric, exposing her breasts in a simple cotton bra. “Your tits are disgraceful.” Shaking his head, he tore her clothing for the second time. “Pitiful.” He stared at small swells, twisting her nipples as she sobbed. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear this. I cannot get hard when you whine.”

“I want to go home.”

“You will not go home.” He unfastened her trousers and pushed his fingers inside her. “Like a desert.”

She moved her hips in her attempt to dislodge him. “You’re—you’re hurting me.”

He bunched his fist and plowed it into her stomach, smirking as she crumbled forward on a sharp expel of breath. “That hurts more.”

She coughed violently, gasping, and vomited, spewing bile on his shoes.

His breathing grew ragged in his rage, and he fisted his hand again, landing a blow across her face. “Bitch!”

Her head lolled back as she groaned, half conscious.

“Stay awake while I punish you.”

“I—”

“Useless whore!” He grabbed her by the neck and shoved her to the floor.

She cried out as her elbow smacked against the concrete.

“Make another sound and I will punish you more.” He yanked on her pants and underwear, pulling off her clothing.

“No,” she murmured but did nothing to fight as she stared at the ceiling through her battered eyes.

He worked his way into her dryness, finally moving when blood covered him, and he took her in violent thrusts. He gave an unsatisfied grunt as he came. “You are a bad fuck and no use to me.”

“Please let me go.”

He gripped her face in his hands, staring into her terrified blue eyes, wrenching her neck, causing a quick snap. Standing, he spit on her lifeless body, giving the bitch a kick, and turned. “Get rid of this one too.” He zipped and fastened his pants. “We are running out of time.” He lit a cigarette, sucking hard, waiting for the rush of nicotine as he glanced from Aleksey to Luka. “The next time my phone rings, you better have the right one, or you two are next.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Dimitri as he climbed the stairs, leaving the remains of his distasteful night behind him.