Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (7 page)

Inside, she winced. He was so sweet, and though lunch would be harmless, she didn’t want to chance giving him the wrong impression or false hope. Yet she’d experienced the bite of rejection too many times to willingly inflict it on another. Especially Walt who, with his unassuming, quiet demeanor, was the antithesis of his father.

“I’m sorry, Tres.” She held up a folder with checks she’d prepared that required Malachim’s signature. “I’m swamped with work. Can you give me a rain check?”

“Oh, sure.” He nodded, shrugging a shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifted in a chagrined quirk. “I should’ve called first. Manners.”

So this was how a heel felt
. “Thank you for stopping by. Really. I miss being at the diner and seeing all of you. This was a nice, and needed, surprise. Truly. You made my morning.”

Pink darkened his cheekbones, and she spotted the pleasure in his dark eyes.

“I’ll let you get back to work then. Have a great afternoon.” He bobbed his head good-bye before turning and leaving. Once his lanky figure disappeared through the door, Danielle retraced her steps past Bethany’s desk and toward Malachim’s office.

Thoughts of Walt dissolved, replaced by the dip-and-roll her stomach executed as she neared her employer’s closed door. Her feet slowed, maybe offering Bethany time to call her back about an emergency phone call. Or providing Travis with an opportunity to require her assistance with a needed-it-yesterday file. Or give Batman a chance to sail through the window and demand her aid in stopping a Joker crime spree.

She sighed. Any distraction, emergency or superhero, would suffice.

For the past week, she’d made an art of evasion. Of course, she hadn’t been able to avoid him completely, especially since he’d enforced the “I Give You a Ride From Now On or We Call the Cops About the Mugging” rule. But even then, she’d worked to limit the conversation to a minimum, and at the office, she ensured their time together was brief and in the company of others. Her aversion to him should seem ludicrous and a bit ungrateful. He’d rescued her. Comforted her.

He’d called her “sweetheart.”

Delicate, fragile wings fluttered inside her stomach. The endearment should’ve had her running in the opposite direction. It should’ve been smarmy—should’ve reminded her of a creepy boss harassing his secretary. But Malachim had murmured the gentle name while stroking her hair. While steadying her when she would’ve fallen back to the ground.

He’d
touched
her…and she’d allowed him.

That
terrified her almost as much as the attack.

Malachim had been in her life for two weeks. One week and three days, to be exact. And already he stirred desires and fascinations she’d believed part of her past. He’d invaded her space, brushed her hair, caressed her face. The butterflies in her belly morphed into a flock of birds. What next? What would she allow tomorrow? Would she confide in him, confess her fears about the attack, about the gifts, Carmen? Would she
trust
him?

Once upon a time, she’d sold her soul for security, stability, and something she’d thought was love. Would she commit the same crime again for a tender endearment, fuzzy feelings, and a body that moved with lethal grace?

The first time, she’d nearly lost her life. This time—if she was foolish enough to be lulled into lowering her defenses—would be catastrophic. She’d forfeit the existence she’d created for herself. Her identity would be exposed. Alex would locate her. Drag her home. Kill her.

Fear coiled around her heart, pierced the organ with its icy fangs, and spilled its venom into her blood stream, chilling every part of her.

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—go back there. Caged. Beaten. Degraded.

She’d run again. Rather than suffer Alex’s special brand of torture once more, she’d run. Or go down fighting; she would die before returning to her ex-husband.

Chapter Nine

Danielle stared at Malachim’s closed office door, willing the terror induced by thoughts of her husband to loosen its bite. She inhaled, knocked on the window engraved with Malachim’s name, then exhaled slowly, deliberately. And waited.

“Come in.”

The deep, cultured voice beckoned her, and for a crazy, frantic moment, she considered resisting its lure, hightailing it out of the office, and returning to Dorchester. To the relative safety of the diner. The impulse only lasted a second, but long enough to shake her.

She shored up her resolve with emotional mortar and bricks and opened the door.

Malachim rose to his feet as she entered the spacious office. As did another man.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, glancing at Malachim, whose unsmiling mouth and guarded stare revealed no reaction at her interruption or apology. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I can come back later.”

“No need,” Malachim said. He turned his unwavering gaze to the gentleman in front of his desk. “We were just finishing up.”

She nodded and shifted back a step, waiting for the men to conclude their meeting. But silence permeated the room. Neither spoke, and slowly she became aware of an odd, tension-heavy current electrifying the space as if the three of them stood over underground power lines. She examined Malachim more closely. His eyes remained carefully blank, but a tiny muscle ticked along his clenched jaw line. The tendon along his neck stood out in stark relief above his collar. And she’d bet her lunch money if the top button of his shirt was opened and his tie loosened, the pulse at the dip in his throat would be pounding like a snare drum.

Puzzled, she switched her attention to the other man in the room. Older, he appeared distinguished and moneyed in an impeccable black suit that fit his tall, athletic body perfectly. His blond hair, several shades darker than Malachim’s, was flawlessly styled and dusted with light gray at the temples. He studied her with an unabashed curiosity and intensity bordering on rude.

Finally, he moved forward, arm outstretched. “Good morning. I’m Christopher Jerrod. And you are?”

She stared down at his hand. Her stomach tightened, but these pleasantries were necessary evils in this profession. Clients—male clients—didn’t understand her aversion to touching them. She swallowed the swell of dread and extended her hand.

But before her palm could press his, Malachim was beside her, taking the file from her and simultaneously shifting in front of her and aborting the handshake.

“She’s busy,” he snapped.

Instead of offended, the older man smiled. While cordial, the polite gesture reminded her of a shark—all teeth right before it bites. “You always did have an eye for beautiful women, Malachim,” he murmured. With a low chuckle, he exited the office without another word. Malachim shut the door behind him.

What the hell?

She glanced from the closed door to her employer.

“I take it he was not a client. At least not a favorite one.”

He snorted. “That was my,” a brief pause, “father.”

She gaped. Christopher
Jerrod
. She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t made the connection. Still… “Father?”

He smirked. “Yes. I have the same reaction.”

Complete strangers had exhibited more geniality than the two men displayed.

“Is he your natural father?” Even though the older man had blond hair and shared the same tall build as Malachim, they didn’t resemble each other. And it had been more than the eyes and facial structure. Malachim was reserved, could be aloof, but Christopher Jerrod had been…cold. She recalled the blade-like scrutiny he’d trained on her. The curve of lips that lacked any hint of warmth.

He arched an eyebrow as he rounded his desk. “You want to talk about my relationship with him? Are you ready to explain why you didn’t want the police called the other night?”

Game. Set. Match.

Like she hadn’t detected the suspicion in his gaze. Innocent people didn’t fear the cops; guilty people did. But what reason could she offer him?

You see, it’s simple. Danielle Warren doesn’t exist. And I can’t afford for her to go into a law enforcement data bank, because then the cops might discover she’s a phantom. Besides, police departments leak faster than a sieve. All it would take is one overzealous cop, a fingerprint, and a call to Birmingham. Nope, no cops
.

Right. That would go over super well.

Even with the legal issues he now faced, Malachim probably couldn’t comprehend being let down by the police and the justice system; he worked within that same system.

After she’d reported Alex to the detectives in the hospital that final time, the Birmingham police had still failed her. In spite of their assurance he would be arrested and picked up, they’d failed to notify her after he’d made bail and was back on the street, a free man. Alex had found her before they did. By then, she’d left Birmingham for Dothan, a small city three hours away and near the Florida border. But Alex had found her within hours of walking out of the Jefferson County jail to await trial. As if he’d had eyes on her the entire time. That time, she’d managed to escape with her life, but with broken capillaries in her eyes from petechial hemorrhaging and a chain of angry bruises around her neck. A neighbor had heard her screams through the paper-thin walls of the apartment she’d temporarily leased. The young man had busted in and saved her life. And her trust in the police had been irrevocably damaged. Especially after she went through the ordeal of facing him in court and exposing every humiliating detail of the hell she suffered during their marriage, and he only got two years—and only served a year and a half. Eighteen months was not an adequate amount of time to rehab anyone. Alex was probably still a danger to her…to any woman.

Malachim set the file with the checks on his desktop and dropped into his chair, tearing her from memories of the past.

“You’ll be interested to know that Rafe viewed the tape from the building’s security camera, and unfortunately the mugging happened too far down the street to catch a clear image of your attacker or the car’s license plate.”

When she didn’t reply, he grunted and opened the top of the folder. “Just thought I’d keep you informed,” he drawled. “I swear, if I had the sense God gave a gnat, I’d tell you to pack your stuff and go. I have enough plaguing my firm and my life. I don’t need the trouble the secrets you seem intent on protecting will undoubtedly bring.”

She barely managed to stifle the flinch at how close to the truth his incisive deduction struck. Panic flared, hot and bright.

“Hmm. Good move. Silence can never be misquoted,” he countered, his voice as conversational as if they discussed the Celtics’s chances at the NBA championship.

“Are you this suspicious of everyone, or am I special?” she asked dryly.

“I’m a lawyer. Pessimists see a glass half-empty; optimists see a glass half-full. Lawyers see a glass containing possible carcinogenic materials without a warning label. Skepticism is coded in our DNA.” He rocked back in his chair, scrutinized her. “What about you, Danielle? Do you trust anyone?”

“I trust everyone the same.” She tilted her chin up. “Not at all.”

He stared at her. That perfect mouth quirked at one corner then the other, blooming into one of his beautiful, naughty grins.

“I think that may be the most honest thing you’ve said since I met you.”

She shook her head, determined to ignore the wild flight her heart took at the sight of that smile. “This is a silly” —
dangerous
— “conversation.”

“Really? Wanting to become better acquainted with my new employee is silly?”

Since meeting him, her alert level had stayed in the red zone, emitting several blaring warnings to tread carefully. At times, talking with him was like skirting a land littered with IEDs. Treacherous and nerve-racking as hell.

“If you believe I’m dishonest, why am I still here?”

The grin faded, but a faint smile remained. As did the glint in his eyes. His gaze could’ve been the amethysts that shared the same color. Lovely. Hard. Sharp.

“Like I said, I obviously don’t have common sense when it comes to you.” The wry twist of his lips became self-deprecating, slightly mocking. “And my desperation hasn’t decreased in two weeks. It’s increased.”

She frowned. Increased? Had something happened and the firm had sunk in even deeper waters? Neither Travis nor Sharon had mentioned further trouble.

“What—?”

“Besides,” he continued, “you aren’t nearly as adept at maintaining your secrets as you assume.”

Her mouth snapped shut. Again, the image of the minefield popped into her head. What words would shut this exchange down without setting off a bomb of suspicion? How could she tiptoe around this dialogue without exposing herself?

“I can almost see your mind working,” Malachim murmured. He stood, rested a hip on the edge of his desk, and crossed his arms. He studied her, and she resisted peeking down to make sure her shirt and pants hadn’t been replaced with black film and a ghostly image of her skeleton. “You’re trying to figure out a way of putting me off without saying ‘mind your own business’ or ‘go to hell.’” He tapped a blunt-tipped finger against his bottom lip. “Am I right?”

“No.”

“Lie,” he said in the same light tone, but she heard it. The anger. Years with Alex had made her sensitive to the hidden nuances in a voice. They’d guided her in gauging whether she’d be on the receiving end of a vicious diatribe or a whistling belt. Malachim was heated. Not lock-you-in-a-closet-for-days heated, but definitely irate. “And I’m not sure if your dishonesty is because you’d prefer not to offend me because I’m your employer, or if deceit is habitual.”

That stung. God, it hurt in a place too far, too deep to rub. With a drug-addicted mother and, later, sister, Danielle had made a decision to be upright, dependable, and open. But marriage had warped and destroyed those values.

Rainier Rule #5.
Gossip is for the vulgar-mouthed and -minded
.

Malachim was right; deceit was a habit for her. Before she’d fled to Boston, lies had been a way of life. Lying to co-workers, friends…to herself. It was second nature to play fast-and-loose with the truth. Especially when reality was so much more humiliating. Terrifying.

Dangerous.

Yet, his accusation still pierced her in the heart like a thin, deadly blade.

A knock echoed at the door. She turned toward the sound with relief that bordered on desperation.

“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem,” Malachim assured the associate, beckoning him in with a wave of his hand. “What do you need?”

“Myers Contractors. The breach of contract suit?” Travis swiped a hand over his head as he strode into the office and dropped into the chair in front of Malachim’s desk. “Myers finished installing the drywall throughout a recently constructed home for this new company, Wright Construction. Now—whether to cut costs or maybe they went over budget—Wright doesn’t want to pay our client.”

“Because they installed the wrong drywall.”

“Yes.” Travis nodded, frowning. “But Myers already had this conversation about switching the drywall with the construction company. The particular type the construction company requested wasn’t available, so they agreed to the change. Only thing is they had a verbal agreement—Myers didn’t get the change down on a request or amendment to the contract. So now the construction company is claiming it didn’t happen, that Myers breached their contract, so they’re not obligated to pay.”

The tension that had filled her ebbed, replaced by the excitement thrumming through her. She’d missed this—the thrill of the challenge, of going to bat for her clients. Her first instinct was to settle in the chair next to Travis and discuss the case, bandy suggestions back and forth. But she couldn’t. Elena Rainier was the attorney—Danielle Warren was the paralegal with no experience and whose ink was barely dry on her certification.

“Verbal, Travis?” Malachim rocked back in his chair. “Greg Myers should know better than that. He’s been in this business twenty years. You can’t alter a written contract with a verbal amendment.”

“I know, Mal. But Greg figured since he and the owner of the construction company had been friends for several years, he could trust their word without the hassle of paperwork. Bet he’ll never make that mistake again.” Travis shook his head, growling a curse beneath his breath. “Anyway, I’ve done some research, but as of right now, I can’t find a way around the breach.”

Danielle’s heart pounded, the hard, rapid beat resonating in her throat. She studied Malachim’s contemplative frown, willing him to come up with the answer. It was clear to her. So clear. But offering the solution would mean possibly exposing herself and holding her lie of being a fresh-out-the-gate legal assistant up for closer inspection. Though many law offices were run off the knowledge and skills of their legal assistants, not many experienced paralegals would be aware of that obscure a technicality.

And he was already suspicious of her…had accused her of being deceitful. If she remained silent, they just might figure out the solution, and she wouldn’t offer up more reasons for Malachim to dissect her story…

Malachim scowled and dragged a hand over his head.

“No one was there to witness or validate Greg’s claim?” he murmured.

“No,” Travis said. “Just his word against the construction company owner’s.”

You know this
, she silently yelled at Malachim. But as his frown deepened, she had to wonder if the meeting with his father and their confrontation afterward had addled him. From her research, she knew Malachim was a brilliant litigator. He should’ve come up with the answer as quickly as she had. But he seemed…distracted. And he didn’t have the luxury of time to determine the solution for himself.

So what did she do? Protect her persona? Quietly let him sink or swim?

She swallowed. Leaped.

“You mentioned the company is newly formed?”

Malachim’s gaze snapped toward her, and she struggled not to flinch under the intense scrutiny. Travis turned in his chair, facing her.