Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (8 page)

“Yes,” the associate said.

She hesitated, the primal part of her psyche shouting at her to keep her mouth closed and protect herself. If she were smart, she would heed the warning. But she couldn’t remain quiet when she could help him. Even if it meant he would have further cause to mistrust her.

“You should check to make sure the construction company is registered with the Secretary of State’s Office. Since they’re new, they may have neglected to register to avoid paying state taxes or maybe they could’ve forgotten. Either way, if they haven’t, the construction company doesn’t exist as far as Massachusetts is concerned, and therefore doesn’t have a standing to file a lawsuit in this state. I can go to the Secretary of State website to verify if any entities show up under the construction company’s name, as well as call the SOS just to make sure.”

A deafening silence dropped into the room. Both men stared at her. Her stomach dipped toward her feet. She couldn’t tear her attention away from Malachim. And as she’d feared, she caught the first glint of speculation enter his gaze.

“That’s damn near brilliant,” Travis exploded, launching to his feet. “I can’t believe it, Mal,” Travis crowed. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Why didn’t we?”

“Well, who the hell cares?” Travis whirled around, grinning at her. Cautiously, she edged back several steps. “You’re a genius, Danielle. You’ll let me know as soon as you find out what the results are?”

She nodded, murmured her agreement even as unease whispered through her. Malachim’s incisive stare hadn’t wavered from her face, and its weight was almost tactile, physical.

“Wonderful! Thanks again, Danielle.” Travis grinned at Malachim. “And thank you for hiring her, Mal.” He exited the office, leaving her alone with her boss and his all-too perceptive contemplation.

“That was impressive,” Malachim said, slowly uncrossing his arms.

“Thank you,” she replied, slightly stunned her voice didn’t shake like a whore’s knees in church.

“You single-handedly saved our asses on a breach of contract case. I couldn’t have done better—well, I
didn’t
,” he continued in the same conversational tone. “You pulled out a loophole I haven’t heard of since the bar exam.” He paused. “Which begs the question, where did you pick up the knowledge? I seriously doubt that topic was on the paralegal certification exam.”

Moisture fled her mouth as if chased. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t form an answer. Definitely not one he would believe or accept.

“Tell me.” He pushed off the edge of the desk and stalked closer to her. Danielle stiffened, but he stopped a couple of steps shy of looming intimidation. “Was today the first time you really met Christopher?”

Taken aback, she stared at him.
Where had that question come from?
“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe you didn’t realize I was his son when you agreed to work for me,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “That would account for the surprise.”

“Malachim,” she whispered.

Nuances. Pain this time. It stained his anger like red wine spilled over a pristine tablecloth. Harsh. Dirty. Entrenched.

She examined his impassive features, the cool mask that hid a maelstrom of emotion. Experience dictated she should be backing away from him, planting more distance between his rigid frame and her smaller, more vulnerable body. But then she glimpsed his eyes.

Maybe they were too shuttered, too inscrutable. Either way, she recognized the look. Had spied it often enough in the mirror.

Something—or someone—had placed that carefully blank shadow in Malachim’s eyes. An inexplicable but strong urge to charge into war on this Viking’s behalf throbbed in her veins. Her blood sang with the melody of battle, and she longed to do for him what she hadn’t been able to for herself. Fight. Champion. Defeat.

Volunteering the information about the breach of contract might have tipped the lid on her jar of secrets, uncovering more than she wanted—or could afford to reveal. But she couldn’t regret her decision. If faced with the same situation—helping him, supporting him instead of hoarding her knowledge to guard herself—she’d make the same choice. Even if his suspicion and mistrust forced him to fire her.

But as suddenly as it appeared, the crazy longing to protect him—go to battle for him—vanished. If anyone existed who didn’t need defending, it was Malachim. Especially by an ex-diner waitress who still hadn’t mastered the art of not flinching when a man raised his hand too abruptly.

“I swear I’ve never met your father before today,” she murmured. Though she hadn’t figured out the significance behind the vow—other than the possibility of her scheming with his father for a job—the need to reassure him seemed imperative.

His amethyst gaze never wavered from her face, and Danielle held her breath, awaiting his verdict. When he finally nodded, she exhaled and had the odd impression of passing a test. One she didn’t have the questions or answers to.

Silently, he returned to his desk, and she took that as her dismissal.
Keep going
, a tiny voice hissed.
Don’t ask, damn it
.

But when had she ever done what was smart or prudent?

She pivoted just as she reached the door. “Malachim?” She waited for him to shift his attention from the folder of checks to her. “If you suspected I might’ve been conspiring with your father, why did you step in before I could shake his hand?”

His eyes narrowed, and he studied her for a long, unnerving moment before returning his attention to the file on top of his desk.

“Because you needed me.”

She
needed
him
. A confusing mixture of despair, gratitude, and fear clogged her throat. Despair because she’d
needed
before—as a neglected, then orphaned child, as a lonely young woman, and as an abused wife. Gratitude because he’d protected her. For the first time in her life, someone had ridden to her rescue when she’d always been the caretaker, the white knight, the keeper of secrets.

And fear because it felt good. So damn I-could-become-addicted-to-this good.

Unable to speak, she nodded and left the office, pulling the door closed behind her.

Yeah, she should’ve kept her mouth shut.

…

Danielle hustled down the front steps of the brownstone, hiking her shoulders against the brisk December wind. She glanced down at her watch. Two o’clock. A little late for lunch, but after she’d left Malachim’s office, she’d immediately borrowed the Myers Construction file from Travis and jumped on the entity search with the Secretary of State’s website. Even now, satisfaction echoed through her. The construction company suing Mal’s client had not filed with the Secretary of State. Just to make sure, she’d called the SOS office and confirmed her findings. The answer had been the same. And no registration meant no lawsuit.

She smiled. Victory, no matter how small the battle, was always sweet.

“Ms. Warren.”

She jerked to a halt. She swung around, her heart in her throat. Logic reasoned that an attacker wouldn’t first call her name, warning her of an assault. Logic didn’t stop her from sliding her keys in between her curled fingers, though.

Christopher Jerrod offered her an apologetic smile and spread his hands in the age-old “I’m harmless as a fly” gesture. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

“It’s okay,” she said—lied. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jerrod?”
And how do you know my name when we weren’t “properly” introduced?

As if he’d heard her unspoken question, his dipped his head in the direction of the office building. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked the receptionist for your name.”

She did mind. But since she couldn’t say that and remain polite, she opted for silence.

His smile widened. And once more, she envisioned a shark, the perfect hunter and predator. She fought against the urge to stumble back a step and place more distance between her and Malachim’s father. That charming grin didn’t reach his eyes. No, those shrewd eyes remained as flat and watchful as the animal he reminded her of.

“Did you need something?” she asked, careful to keep her voice steady.

“Yes, I do.” He edged closer, and alarm raced over her skin. Still, she held her ground, instinctively knowing better than to reveal discomfort or fear. Unlike Malachim or his friend, Raphael, she suspected Christopher Jerrod would take advantage of the weakness rather than respect it. “Would you have dinner with me? I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you.”

Trepidation stirred within her. Business proposition? What could they possibly have to talk about? And obviously he didn’t want Malachim to know or he would’ve approached her inside. The clandestine nature of this…this ambush left a nasty taste in her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

His lips thinned into a straight line, his displeasure plain. But then his mouth softened, and an understanding smile replaced the grim expression.

“I understand.” He swept an arm in front of him. “Would you mind if I walked with you then?”

Yes, damn it.
“If you’d like.”

She turned, and Christopher kept pace with her as she headed up the street.

“You know, you bring to mind someone I was well acquainted with at one time,” he stated easily. “I met him about ten years ago. We served together on the Advisory Council for the National Lawyers Association and stayed in touch even though he lived in Alabama, and I was here in Boston.”

Fear—filthy and crafty—slithered between her ribs, thrusting deep and chilling bone and tissue. Her knees locked, and she jolted to a clumsy halt. Christopher stopped, as well, the same placid smile on his mouth. As if he had no clue of the terror he’d stirred in her breast. She didn’t buy it. Not when his narrowed, incisive eyes ruined the guise of innocence.

“When he married, I couldn’t make the ceremony, but he did make sure to send me pictures. He was very proud of the woman he married—a real beauty. Imagine my surprise when he became embroiled in a nasty business a couple of years ago. Domestic abuse. He spent time in jail for the incident.” He tapped a fingertip against his bottom lip. “His name was Alex Rainier. You remind me of the woman in those wedding pictures, the wife he was convicted of abusing. If I’m not mistaken, I think her name was Elena. Elena Rainier.”

Shock and horror coated her tongue, dissolving every bit of moisture in her mouth. Trapped. Ensnared. Like a rat in a cage unsure which way to run.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said through numb lips.

“Really?” He arched an eyebrow in mock astonishment. “I could swear you’re a dead ringer for her. Maybe I should call Birmingham and check. I’m sure Alex should be out of jail by now…”

“What do you want?” Nausea churned in her stomach.

Satisfaction flashed through his gaze.

“After all this time, it’s finally a pleasure to meet you, Elena,” he practically purred.

“Danielle,” she rasped. “My name is Danielle. What do you want from me, Mr. Jerrod?”

“Very well.” He shrugged. “Danielle. As for what I need? Exactly what you’re doing now. Continue to work for Malachim.” He paused, and the edges of his smile sharpened. “And report to me.”

What the hell?
She had to have misunderstood him. There was no way… “Are you asking me to spy on your son?”

Again, he lifted a shoulder. “Not spying. Just periodically check in with me about the state of his firm, the names of his clients, how business is going.”

“Spying,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

“I believe in second chances, Danielle. And contrary to my past association with Alex, the whole sordid business with the domestic violence turned my stomach, and I cut off all ties with him.”
More like you didn’t want your reputation tainted by any association with Alex
, Danielle silently snarled. “I don’t want to interfere with your life here, just add to it.” A sneer twisted his mouth. “I’m sure Malachim isn’t paying you what you’re worth, even if he thinks you are a paralegal. I, on the other hand, can pay you one hundred thousand dollars up front. Consider it an advance. And more every time you provide me with information.”

Hell, no
ricocheted against the walls of her mind, gaining volume with each passing second. What the hell kind of man—
father
—went behind his son’s back? She shook her head, amazed. And she’d thought her family was dysfunctional. As messed up as Carmen was, she loved Danielle and wouldn’t dream of betraying her. Disgust crept in, slowly replacing the shock. Malachim called this man “father.” Why would he undermine his son when he should be supporting and protecting him?

Anger surged inside her like a blowtorch.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jerrod,” she said, her voice as cold as an arctic wind. “But I can’t help you.”

Christopher shook his head, a remorse she didn’t begin to buy softening his features. “That’s too bad. I would really hate to inform Malachim his new employee is a not who she claims and has been lying to him. And what if the Bar discovered he hired a new paralegal with fraudulent identification? Imagine the further negative stigma this would cast on his case that is already under review. And then, of course, the police and media will most likely find out, as well…”

She shook with rage, infuriated at his—his maliciousness, his cruelty. Christopher was contemptible. And she was helpless.

Damn him for making her feel that way. Damn. Him.

“Don’t answer now. Think about it and call me in several days.” He pulled a business card from the inside of his coat and handed it to her. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you, Danielle.”

Before she could tell him where to shove his card and his threat, he turned and strode away in the opposite direction.

She crumbled the little square of paper in her fist before shoving her hands in her coat pockets.

Son of a bitch.

Chapter Ten

On a scale of one to ten—one being FUBARed, and ten being birds chirping and dropping flower necklaces over his head—he might as well bend over, because his day had been fucked.

Malachim sighed and tipped the bottle of Scotch to his lips, having forgone the glass a half-hour ago. Closing his eyes, he relished the alcohol’s warm glide down his throat. Since he’d begun this binge an hour earlier, his esophagus was numb to the liquid fire. Now it was just…pleasant.

He didn’t indulge in alcohol often, which explained why the small bar in his office remained well-stocked and the full bottle of Scotch had been available. But it wasn’t every day a man faced more evidence of his dream being slowly chiseled away.

By his father, no less.

Fury sizzled along his veins, burning away some of the buzz humming in his blood. The son of a bitch had ripped away Malachim’s identity at eleven, did his best to raze his self-esteem to the ground as a teen and adult, and now he was trying to level Malachim’s career and reputation to the benefit of his own. Christopher couldn’t prevent Malachim from existing, so his next best option was making him sorry he’d been born.

The bottle thumped on the desk, and the dark brown liquid sloshed against the sides.

And then there had been the phone call from the assistant district attorney this afternoon. He tightened his hold on the glass neck. A plea deal had been signed off on. Gabe’s, Rafe’s, Chay’s, and his cases would be filed with the Department of Youth Services, where the four of them would be charged as juvenile offenders instead of adults. He, Gabe, and Rafe would face “accessories after the fact” charges. For admitting to the offense, their sentences would be suspended, and they’d serve a one-year probation.

Because Chay had committed the murder of Richard Pierce in 1992, four years prior to the passing of Massachusetts’s tough “Youthful Offenders” statute, Chay’s case would not be bound over to the adult criminal system. Instead, he would plead to manslaughter and, because of the extenuating circumstances, would not serve jail time. His friend was looking at five years of probation and mandatory counseling.

It could’ve been worse. God, it could’ve been so much worse. The different scenarios of how this tragedy could’ve played out had flashed through his head hundreds of times since they’d all made the decision to go to the police and confess their story of that tragic night. But with the imminent conclusion of the criminal case, the decision regarding the reinstatement of his license loomed. The suspension would either be lifted, and he could resume practicing or… He swiped the bottle up and tilted it, guzzling another mouthful.

Or he could be disbarred, and the firm and livelihood he’d fought so hard to establish and nurture would crumble under his feet like sun-scorched earth.

“I thought you left for the day.”

He swallowed a groan along with another sip of Scotch. Danielle.
Damn
. What had he done in a past life to deserve this torture? Written Christopher Columbus’s directions to the new world? Fought on the wrong side of the Revolutionary War? Told Lincoln going to the theater that Friday night was a good idea?

Whatever he’d done must’ve been one helluva cardinal sin, because God had decided to punish him with a woman whose sultry beauty hardened his cock and whose haunted brown eyes clutched at his heart. A woman draped in secrets and wrapped in lies. Not the first beautiful woman to deceive him, but he’d sworn Tara would be the last. Yet, just as he’d done with his ex-fiancée, he’d invited Danielle right through the front door.

Not that he believed Danielle’s heart was the black, cavernous hole Tara’s had been. While greed had motivated Tara’s deception, something much darker and more painful fueled the enigma surrounding Danielle. Something that evoked skittishness around men and a fear of the police.

Fury crackled and threatened to burn away the buzz he had going.
I’ll take care of that
. He regarded her as he downed the potent alcohol.

“I thought you had arranged a ride home from work today,” he said, dangling the glass container between his fingers. The liquid sloshed gently around the bottle as he swung it slowly side-to-side like a pendulum. Another one of his brilliant ideas. Giving her a ride home every night for the past week had been its own special level of hell. Cooped up in a car with her unique scent of soap and skin teasing him, branding itself into his olfactory memory until he could identify it in a blind sensory test. How she could still smell so fresh, like clean sheets drying in the summer air, after a long work day boggled his mind.

“I did, but Pat’s stuck at the diner.” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you drunk?”

He glared at the amber liquid. “Unfortunately, no,” he snarled. “It’s a curse. Even in college, I was always the designated driver, because all I can achieve is a pleasant buzz. There’s no oblivion at the bottom of a bottle for me, just more…pleasantness.”

Her lips twitched, and he had the impression she was trying not to laugh in his face.
I’d sacrifice another client to see that
. He’d witnessed small smiles and a few smirks curving her pretty mouth. But a full-out belly laugh? What would she look like? Would she throw her head back? Would her serious demeanor brighten? He wanted to see, longed to know. More so, he desired to be the one who incited that joy.

He sucked down another gulp, trying to drown out the feminine side of his personality the Scotch had apparently unearthed.

“Is something wrong, Malachim?”

He grunted. “Sorry. I was never much for the whole Kumbaya, sharing thing. They despaired of me at the circle campfire and eventually gave up.” He studied her, skimming over the gorgeous curls she’d regrettably confined in a bun at the nape of her neck, the ivory, high-collared silk shirt, and the tailored black slacks. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you were into sharing, either. Were you, Danielle?” he murmured.

She lifted a shoulder. “My family couldn’t afford camp, so I wouldn’t know.”

Niiice
. He smirked at the neat deflection of his question even as her comment roused his curiosity. This woman could easily become an obsession. And not just because of her wild gypsy curls, pure Madonna loveliness, or skin-over-satin-sheets voice. No, he wanted to rip away her layers, go Sherlock Holmes on her, and pick apart the mystery that was Danielle Warren.

He knew where she lived, where she last worked, her educational background. But he had no clue if she preferred popcorn or nachos and cheese at the movie theater. When she was alone and lowered that steel barricade, did she like to eat takeout in front of the television or love curling up under a blanket with a good book? Did she sleep in an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants? Or did she slide between the sheets bare, enjoying the glide of the covers over skin he instinctively knew would be soft as a baby’s and as breathtaking as an early morning dawn.

Fuck.
Early morning dawn
? Maybe he
was
drunk.

He set the bottle down on the desk with a
thunk
.

Danielle crossed the room and slowly sank into the visitor’s chair. The first time she’d willingly subjected herself to his presence. She’d have made a covert op specialist proud with how she’d managed to escape his company since the mugging. Yet, even before then, she’d only passed the minimum amount of time with him required to do her job. Nothing less, and definitely nothing more.

So what was her game now? Pick his thoughts about his firm and clients? After a second, he dismissed the idea. Part of him had believed her earlier in the day when she’d denied conspiring with Christopher. Why, he couldn’t pinpoint, but he did. God, he prayed that decision didn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“We lost another client today. To my,” he snorted, “father.”

She frowned. “Are you saying your father purposefully solicited a client away from your firm?” When he nodded, she asked, “Why would he deliberately hurt you or your business like that?”

Malachim loosed a harsh bark of laughter and tipped his head back, resting it on the chair’s headrest. “Because it gives him great joy to tear me down brick by brick, piece by piece. As money-hungry as he is, I do believe having a hand in destroying what I care for most trumps the profit of a new client.”

It seemed once the dam was punctured, the trickle erupted into a deluge. The words surged forth, heavy, fast, and in a torrential downpour that refused to be stemmed.

“Christopher has never forgiven me for being a living, breathing reminder that his wife once found him lacking and betrayed their wedding vows.” Her almost inaudible gasp drew a tight, strained smile from him. “Right. I’m illegitimate, the bastard in the Jerrod midst.”

“Malachim,” she whispered. “I assumed he was your stepfather, not…”

He tried to convince himself he was jerking open the closet door and exposing his skeletons so she would feel comfortable doing the same with him. Maybe she would lower her impenetrable guards and allow him a glimpse into the woman behind the wall, offer a clue to the secrets she zealously defended. And the explanation was true—but not the entire reason. Staring into her steady gaze, he wanted—
needed
—to purge himself of the pain, anger, and bitterness eating at his soul like a malignant cancer.

“From my earliest memory, he’s resented my existence, detested me. When I was sixteen, I started dating the daughter of one of his business associates. It wasn’t anything serious, but her father caught us kissing and told Christopher, who was furious. He told me I was a mutt and to stick to the girls who hung around Gabe, Rafe, and Chay, because the others—like his associate’s daughter—were too good for me. That blood will tell. And if my girlfriend discovered I was a bastard, the Jerrod dirty secret, she would be disgusted.”

He locked his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Hell, he hadn’t thought about that in years. Why the hell was he spilling his guts about it now? He sighed, not wanting to glimpse the sympathy—pity—sure to be lining Danielle’s face.
Poor little rich boy
. He uttered a grunt of disgust.

“Anyway, family’s a bitch.”

A moment of silence passed. And the need to discover her reaction, even if it was that awful kindness, proved too great. He lowered his arms and met her unflinching scrutiny. No pity shadowed her eyes, just understanding and acceptance.

“I never knew my father…and I don’t think my mother did, either. At least when I asked, she wouldn’t tell me. She was a crack addict, and my conception could have possibly been payment for a coke deal.” Her horrifying words laid over that factual tone pummeled him like tiny fists. He sucked in a hard breath. Unbidden images of Danielle as a child with her unruly cloud of hair and large, dark eyes surrounded by filth and turmoil popped in his brain.

“My older sister and I witnessed a parade of men tramp through whatever house or apartment we lived in at the time,” she continued. “There were so many because sooner or later the rent money went up her nose or to one of her men, and we were eventually evicted.”

Her quiet expression didn’t alter, but her voice did lose some of its matter-of-factness.

“Sometimes—” She briefly closed her eyes. “Sometimes, I wished she would have screamed at me or hit me. At least then she would’ve paid me some attention. But my sister and I were neglected, sometimes abandoned for days at a time. Though she was only three years older, Carmen would make sure I made it to school, was fed. My mother’s drugs and boyfriends were more important than her girls. And when she died after I turned eleven, I didn’t miss her. I barely knew her. It was kind of a…relief because we didn’t have to live in fear anymore of who she’d allow in the house or if she would walk through the door again. After her death, we were sent to live with my aunt and for the first time I slept with a bedroom door unlocked.” She paused. “Do you think any less of me?”

He slowly straightened in his chair. Anger for the child she’d been and admiration for the woman who sat in front of him eddied in his chest. Was she serious? Think less of her? Hell, he wanted to drag Danielle to her feet, pull her into his arms, and whisper foolish promises that nothing else would hurt her. Vow he would stand in the gap, protecting her from anything or anyone else who intended her harm.

Instead, he remained glued to his seat, hands gripping the chair arms to keep him planted and from doing anything stupid.

“Of course not,” he rasped.

She leaned forward, and her voice lowered to an urgent murmur. “Then do me a favor and don’t call yourself a bastard. You didn’t do anything to earn his hostility then or his disloyalty and enmity now. And no one with a fully functioning brain in their head would respect you any less because of circumstances before your birth. It’s to Christopher’s shame that he does.”

He stared at her, taken aback. Had that been why he’d confessed to a woman he barely knew, giving her information he’d only confided to his best friends?

Yes
. Hadn’t he been trying to drive her away? Maybe he’d expected her to somehow reflect his most secret and disquieting fear—that if anyone found out his true paternity, they would reject him as his father had. That Christopher’s loathing of him would taint him in everyone’s eyes, including hers. But it hadn’t. Instead, he’d met a kindred soul—one who understood spirit-changing damage.

“Is that who hurt you?” he asked softly. “One of your mother’s boyfriends?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. But he observed the moment her wall slammed back into place, shoving him back out the infinitesimal amount she’d allowed him in.

“No.”

He had to give her credit; at least she didn’t deny it. And he would get nothing else out of her tonight.