Page 2 of Irish Brute
“If your office no longer wishes to abide by the laws of this state, then you need to take things up with the legislature, or perhaps the courts. But if you continue to harass Diamond Freeport and its clients, then I am prepared to file suit by close of business today, with”—I tap the folder—“a six-count complaint naming your office and you personally as defendants.”
He splutters.
His face turns crimson.
He eyes the folder, as if it might transform into a living, breathing dragon.
I maintain eye contact—just try me—even as a third email arrives.
Out on the main road, a snow plow goes by. Its blade sounds like someone is excavating the stone foundation of Hell.
Mr. Jenkins looks out the window at the rapidly worsening winter storm. He checks his cheap Timex, as if it offers free legal advice. He licks his lips and eyes the manila folder.
“Mr. Jenkins,” I say, leaning a little harder.
“Fine!” he explodes. “I’ll close my request. But I reserve the right to refile my demands the instant this department learns of anything bringing any transaction by any freeport client under our jurisdiction.”
“Of course,” I say.
My agreement steals all of Jenkins’ bluster. He sits back in his chair, as if he’s not sure who just punched him in the gut. His fellow tax dweebs look like they just got a whiff of sewer gas.
“Mr. Kelly?” I ask, getting to my feet and returning the manila folder to my briefcase.
He’s the ideal client. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the prize. A lot of clients—a lot ofmen—would have to deliver their own cutting words. Kelly’s content with opening the conference room door. He holds it for me before following me to the elevator.
I push the button. Behind us, the conference room fills with the sound of rats scurrying for cover. I wonder if Jenkins is hissing an explanation to his colleagues or if they’re whispering the Riot Act to him. He deserves whatever indignation they’ve got. It was a waste of everyone’s time, dragging us here.
The elevator door opens. Kelly and I step in, automatically spacing ourselves and turning to face out. After I press G, I catch his eyes in the wavering silver door.
My stomach swoops.
I could lie and say it’s a fast elevator with a wicked drop. I could pretend I’m riding the adrenaline high of handing Warren Jenkins his lunch. I could even blame the changing air pressure from the monster storm outside.
But it’s none of those things.
Braiden Kelly is looking at me with a calculating smile that makes my nipples go sharp as stone. And judging from the cocky rise of his eyebrows, his cobalt eyes have some sort of bionic implants, because he just caught that detail in our smudged reflections on the elevator door.
I’m suddenly aware of the scent of him, a blend of cedar and spice that makes it hard for me to swallow. My fingers itch to reach out and press the Stop button, because something tells me Kelly knowsexactlywhat to do with a few stolen minutes.
The door opens before I can make a fool out of myself. And my phone starts ringing as we step into the grim governmental lobby.
“E—excuse me,” I say, surprised to find myself breathless. I gesture with my cell. “I need to take this.”
“Of course.” He crosses to the security desk, giving me the illusion of privacy. I try not to question the part of me that’s pleased he doesn’t leave. He has to drive all the way back to Philly. Hitting the road before the storm gets any worse would be a sound decision.
I look at my phone’s screen for the first time since it started going haywire in the meeting.EC, it says, with a 215 area code.
Philadelphia.
My knees start to buckle.
EC. Elisabetta Canna. A name and number I typed into my phone eleven years ago. Data that has been transferred from contact list to contact list, as I upgraded to newer and newer mobile phones.
I hit the green icon, my mouth suddenly so dry I don’t know how I manage to say, “Hello?”
“Giovanna!”
No!I want to say. I’m not Giovanna. I haven’t been Giovanna since That Night. The night I graduated from college. The night I made the biggest mistake of my life and Elisabetta was the only person I trusted to help me clean up the mess. She promised she’d only use this number in a matter of life and death.
