Page 26 of Perfect Vengeance

The elevator doors slid shut, and the car lurched as it descended. He leaned back against the metal wall and closed his eyes. Thank God she took the deal. Locking her up sat about as well with him as a dislocated shoulder.

He scrubbed his hand along his jaw, the day-old growth of beard pricking his fingers. Like Gina, Jim Spencer’s wife, Tasha, was young and beautiful. Jack had personally delivered the news of Jim’s death. During the funeral, he’d held her hand. It had reminded him of the bookie’s funeral fifteen years earlier. Although he hadn’t held that widow’s hand.

He’d attended the funeral to pay his respects and out of a sense of obligation. Knowing the family wouldn’t appreciate his presence, he’d kept his distance. As he’d driven from the cemetery, he’d glimpsed the widow silently weeping and the tears streaming down his daughter’s face. The girl couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen.

He’d practically been fresh out of Quantico at the time himself. He’d been privileged and flattered beyond belief to be assisting on such an important organized crime case at such a young age. His gut told him he’d done it right, but his conscience would never let him forget the consequences of his actions.

If it was the last thing he accomplished in his career, he’d get that bug planted and make an airtight case against Tino and Franco Falzone. And as long as Gina and her friends were involved in his crazy-ass plan, he’d protect them. At all cost. He’d die before letting anyone else get hurt on his watch.

Chapter Seven

Gina jumped when the intercom on her desk buzzed. The black marker she’d been holding slipped from her fingers, leaving a zigzagging trail on the cuff of her green silk blouse. Wonderful. With only a few hours of sleep under her belt, her mind was so preoccupied she couldn’t even hold a pen.

Noon. Be ready, Jack had ordered. She was so not ready it wasn’t remotely funny. Her stomach had more butterflies than a rainforest.

“I’m going to lunch,” Charlotte, Gina’s fiftysomething secretary announced over the intercom. “You should too.”

“Thank you, Charlotte.” She smiled at her admin’s attentive nature, but her smile quickly faded. The gold-edged clock perched on her ebony desk read 11:55, five minutes to the witching hour.

She was about to start working for the FBI against her will. Just like her father had. Only unlike her father, she was determined neither she nor her friends wound up dead. She picked up the framed photo of herself with Kinsey, Annabelle, and Margo at the last fundraiser they’d attended for the Center. Sighing, she carefully set the picture down, then stood and began pacing the length of her spacious office on the twentieth floor.

As soon as Jack had left her apartment, she’d grabbed the phone and conferenced in her friends to give all of them his ultimatum at the same time. They took it far better than she could have expected.

Kinsey had replied that it would be cool working for the FBI. Margo took the news the way she took everything—calmly and rationally. It was Annabelle who surprised her the most by stating they were bound to get caught sooner or later, and better to be caught by the good guys than by the mobsters they were stealing from. Then again, The Untouchables, that Kevin Costner flick about Elliot Ness and Al Capone, was Annabelle’s favorite movie.

The click of her black pumps echoed on the floor as she made two complete circuits of her office before coming to a stop beside the solid brass coatrack by the door. “Good guys, huh?” The FBI hadn’t taken care of her father. Why should she expect Jack Gates to take care of her—of all of them? She and her friends were merely the means for him to get what he needed. At least he’d been magnanimous enough to leave her the cash in the duffel bag. Gee, what a swell guy.

She curled her fingers around the coatrack. She hated the FBI with every fiber of her being. Despite their role in how her father had died, they’d done nothing to help her and her mother afterward. Without her father’s income, money became tight overnight. They were on the verge of losing their house. Sadly, that was a big reason her mother wound up marrying that evil man a year later.

The system had let them down, and she worried it would again. Could she really trust Jack to keep his word and let them all go with no charges after they’d fulfilled their part of the bargain? A bargain with the devil himself. Was this what her father had felt like when the FBI had given him no choice?

She grabbed her cashmere coat from the rack and took a steadying breath that wasn’t so steadying at all.

Back then, she’d vowed never to be that vulnerable again, never be so completely taken advantage of, but here she was. Essentially blackmailed and working for the big, bad G. Placing her fate in another’s hands, let alone the FBI’s hands, made her sick to her stomach.

Before heading out the door, she reached for her black Gucci tote with its stash of nerve-calming chocolate-covered lychees.

Three minutes later, she pushed through the revolving door of her building, squinting when a shaft of sunlight peeking through the towering skyscrapers nearly blinded her. A wintry blast of air whipped her hair in front of her face and blew her coat open. She fumbled with the closures, all while trying to keep the tote from slipping off her shoulder.

“You’re late,” a familiar voice said from behind her.

Jack gently took her by the elbow and guided her down a short flight of concrete steps to a blue Ford Expedition with darkly tinted windows parked at the curb. A curb, she thought wryly, that no one else in the busy city was permitted to park at.

She slanted him a frosty look, fully intending to remind him she might be going along with his forced labor scheme, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy on him. The snide remark died on her tongue. She had to swallow at just how good the man looked.

Unlike the last time she’d seen him, this time his chiseled face was clean shaven, and the beautifully tailored navy-blue suit he wore made his shoulders appear even broader, his arms more powerful, and his legs even longer. The man was eye-catchingly drool-worthy. Minus the little downside that he carried an FBI badge in his pocket.

He opened the passenger door and waited for her to slide onto the seat. Even stepping onto the running board, she had to grab the handle above the door to haul herself inside. “I suppose you have special parking privileges the rest of us little people don’t,” she quipped as she unceremoniously fell onto the passenger seat.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat, his eyes focusing not on her face but lower. “Perks of the job.”

Despite the freezing cold outside, her face heated to the temperature of a safe-cutting blowtorch. During her less-than-graceful entry into the Expedition, the sides of her unbuttoned coat had parted and her skirt had ridden up her legs practically to her hips, giving him an eyeful of her flesh-colored, lace-trimmed, thigh-high stockings.

Wriggling on the seat, she jerked the hem of her skirt down, covering her upper legs with her coat. “You can close the door now,” she snapped. Embarrassment washed over her in waves. Regular workouts kept her in shape for the constant demands of breaking and entering, but exposing herself to Special Agent Jack Gates hadn’t been part of the plan.

A slight smile tugged at his lips right before he shut the door.

With a groan, she let her head fall back against the headrest. She couldn’t help but notice when Jack smiled for real—even a little—his usual I’ll-crush-you-if-you-defy-me look vanished and… Oh, girl. When he wanted to use it, Jack Gates had a killer smile.