Dirtiest Secret Read online

He was about to go run on the treadmill--maybe if he exhausted himself his mind would quit thinking about her for five seconds--when his phone chirped with Jane's familiar ringtone.

  With one quick motion he snatched it up and answered the call. "Hey."

  "You called me?" she asked. "I just saw the missed call on the lock screen."

  "I did. Yeah." He rolled his eyes at himself. He sounded like a teenager again.

  "Oh. Well, what's--"

  "I wanted to say I was sorry again. I pushed. I shouldn't have pushed."

  For a moment, there was only silence, and when she did speak, her voice was low, barely a whisper. "No, you shouldn't have. But you weren't the only one pushing. I guess I owe you an apology, too."

  "Fair enough," he said. "Apology accepted."

  "So was that it?" she asked. "Was that the only reason you called?"

  He thought she sounded hopeful, but that might be wishful thinking. And right then, he didn't have a clue what to say. Hell, he wasn't even sure why he called. To hear her voice, maybe. But now that she was on the phone, he was fucking tongue-tied. Him--the man who'd made women melt with nothing more than the tone of his voice and a stern command--couldn't manage to utter a single coherent thought. Because damned if it didn't feel different when it was real.

  "Dallas?" she said into his lingering silence. "Shit, are you there? Stupid cellphone, I think the call dropped."

  "No." His voice was so low she probably couldn't hear him. "I'm here."

  "Are you okay?"

  He closed his eyes, done in by the genuine concern in her voice. "No," he said honestly. "I miss you."

  He hadn't intended to say that. And, now the words hung there, and he hated how damn vulnerable he felt. He ran a secret covert operation, and yet he was as nervous as a boy calling a pretty girl for the very first time.

  "I miss you, too. I really do. But, Dallas, we can't." He heard the tinge of pain in her voice. "You were right to push away the other night. I should never--I mean, we should never have--"

  "No." He rushed to correct her. "I'm not saying we should. When I say I miss you, I mean I miss talking to you. Our friendship." He didn't say sister. He couldn't bring himself to voice what they both already knew so well. And the truth was, they'd come at being siblings by such a convoluted path, with the adoption and without a single drop of shared blood, that she'd always been a friend more than a sister.

  He thought about the women in the video. Women he didn't care about. Didn't truly want. "I miss that," he continued. "I need it. I'm tired of polite conversation when we're together. I want to laugh with you again."

  "We laugh."

  "Dammit, Jane, don't pretend like I'm not making sense. You know what I mean."

  "I do. I really do."

  "And?"

  She took a deep breath. "Are you in town?"

  A flicker of hope curled inside him. "South America."

  "Oh. Well, come over when you get back. We'll have coffee. Maybe play a game."

  "A game?" He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice.

  "That's what friends do. Play games. Watch crappy television."

  "Is it? I thought friends went to dinner."

  "We don't. Too dangerous. Too much like a date."

  "All right then. Resident Evil it is." Killing mutant zombies never sounded so good.

  "I was thinking more along the lines of chess. Possibly Yahtzee."

  "It'll be fun. I promise."

  He could practically see her making a face. She was terrible at videogames.

  "Okay," she finally said.

  "Okay."

  "Say goodbye, Dallas."

  "Goodbye, Dallas."

  She laughed. And he realized he hadn't felt quite this light in a long, long time.

  He was still smiling when Quince stuck his head through the half-open doorway. "Hey, you got a sec?"

  "Any progress with Mueller?"

  "Bits and pieces. Right now I'm letting him stew. I've been on the phone with Noah going over the specs for the security system on Ortega's property."

  "And?"

  "And I think we may have a way in." He passed Dallas his phone, open to an image of a gorgeous woman with lush dark hair and deep brown eyes.

  Dallas glanced at the image, then looked up at his friend. "I'm listening."

  "Her name's Eva Lopez, and her father owns the land that borders Ortega's. There's a party there tomorrow night. And I think Eva needs to make a new friend."

  Dallas grinned. "Let me guess. There's a weak spot on Ortega's perimeter that's accessible from the Lopez property."

  "And that's why you run this show," Quince quipped. "You're a bloody genius."

  Dallas's gaze flicked back down to the picture. The girl wasn't Jane, but the eyes were similar. The cheekbones as round and perfect. Her mouth wide enough to swallow a man's cock.

  He'd meant what he'd told Jane just now--he wanted to be friends. And he also wanted more.

  He might get the friendship, but he knew damn well the more was not only off-limits, but impossible. He wasn't the man for her. He could never be the man she needed. The man she deserved.

  He knew all that--hell, that simple, basic truism had settled into his bones. But that didn't mean the wanting went away.

  The woman on Quince's phone wasn't Jane, but he could pretend she was. If that's what it took to get him through this assignment, then yes, he could pretend.

  It sure as hell wouldn't be the first time. And, goddamn it, that was the job.

  That was the role he played.

  "Dallas Sykes is a goddamned bastard on toast," I say, huffing a little as I try to catch my breath. We've just run three miles in Central Park and now we're back at the Seventy-second Street exit, waiting to cross with the light.

  Beside me, Brody jogs in place. "Because he went with some Argentine babe to a party?"

  "Went to a party?" I repeat. "More like he practically fucked the bimbo on the dance floor." I bend over and wheeze. I hate running--that runner's high myth is a huge load of bullshit--but I force myself to do it, just like I force myself to weight train, practice at the firing range, and go to self-defense classes. I may never be attacked again, but if I am, I intend to do some damage before I race the fuck out of there.

  "You saw the picture," I remind him.

  "How could I miss it? You shoved it in my face at least five times before we headed to the park."

  I scowl, because he's right. I'd been nightmare-free last night, and I'd awakened in a good mood, enjoying a pleasant little Dallas hangover following our conversation. And then I'd turned on the computer, and the first thing in my feed was about eight hundred different pictures of the man I crave, up close and personal with yet another woman who isn't me.

  And suddenly my good day was shot all to hell.

  I'd saved the picture on my phone and then proceeded to share my pain.

  "First of all, I don't think she's a bimbo," Brody says reasonably. "I looked her up on my phone before we started the run, and she's an Oxford grad."

  This doesn't make me feel better.

  "And second--well, I think we both know what second is."

  "That I shouldn't be jealous of who my brother sleeps with? Yeah, we both know."

  I sigh, because he's right. Brody usually is. But somehow that doesn't make the pang of jealousy--and of loss--any less painful. And the fact that Dallas and I don't share a single drop of blood only makes it worse, not better. Because if it weren't for those adoption orders, there'd be nothing keeping us apart. But there is. We're siblings. And that makes it not only taboo but technically illegal.

  Brody is the only person other than Dallas who knows my secrets. All of them. The kidnapping. What happened between Dallas and me. And all the rest. Because it wasn't just that Dallas and I lost our virginity to each other. If it was just that, I think I could move on. I could--rightly--blame what happened on trauma. On fear. On the need for consolation and human contact.

  But i
t wasn't just that. In some weird way, our captivity was an excuse to physically consummate something that we'd emotionally sealed years before.

  And it hurt all the more because once together, fate and circumstance and social mores had ripped us apart again.

  Not that I'd told Brody any of that right off the bat. When I'd first met him, I'd just wanted to fuck him. Or, more exactly, I'd just wanted to get fucked. I'd been acting out. Acting stupid. Fast cars, faster sex, and lots of bad decisions.

  I'd gone to a bar near Columbia and met him there. He wasn't a student--he'd dropped out the previous semester to tend bar, and he'd made me laugh as I sipped house wine and ate spiced almonds. I'd sat there until closing, taken him home, and let him fuck my brains out.

  To say I'd been something of a mess in those days would be an understatement. I'd gone from guy to guy to guy searching for something--someone--to make me whole. To fill the gap left by Dallas.

  I didn't find it in Brody, but I did find a friend, and he's been a steadfast one for over ten years now.

  "Your problem is that it pisses you off that two seconds after he tells you he wants you but knows he can't have you, he's on another woman's arm, looking like he couldn't care less that it's her and not you."

  That is exactly my problem, and I scowl at him for stating it so succinctly. "You're sounding a lot like a shrink this morning," I say. "Trust me, I know. Over the last seventeen years, I think I've had a session with every therapist in the city."

  He laughs as we push against the flow of Sunday morning pedestrians flooding out of the Seventy-second Street subway station and heading into the park.

  "That why you moved to LA?" he asks as we cross Central Park West, then turn left toward my block. "Fresh blood?"

  "And a comedian, too. Who knew?"

  "Yeah, well, I may not have a couch, but I'm pretty damn therapeutic for some of my clients."

  "That, I believe." Brody's a professional dom, and, yes, I've played the sub on a couple of occasions, thinking it would help. That it would soothe whatever it is inside me that has shifted off kilter.

  The truth is, kink has never satisfied me. It's not that I didn't like it--I actually did, although we never really pushed any boundaries. And we certainly never did bondage. I'd had my fill of being tied up in captivity, and I really, really couldn't go there. Just the thought of it brought on a major panic attack.

  But even doing the safe stuff, I could never manage to let myself go. Brody said it was because I have control issues, and suggested I top, at least until I felt more comfortable, but that wasn't what I needed, either. It hadn't felt wrong. Just off. As if I was trying out kink for all the wrong reasons, and with the wrong man.

  But that was a long time ago in college. Before Bill. Before I started writing.

  Now, I'm working out my issues through my words. Or, at least, I'm trying to.

  We've reached Seventy-first Street, and as we turn toward my granite and brick townhouse, he eyes me sideways. "You know my door's always open. Best friend discount."

  I give him a hug. "I know. Right now I'm good. Or, at least I'm doing okay." The truth is, doing a scene with Brody really wouldn't be torture. The guy is positively gorgeous with his olive complexion, dark eyes, and just a hint of beard at the cleft of his chin. He reminds me of a pirate, and when his shirt is off, I remember why he was Mr. November in a charity calendar some of the city's sexiest bartenders put together back in the day.

  Even so, I still wouldn't ever go there again. Brody's married now. And even though his wife is cool with what he does--which, honestly, impresses the hell out of me--that's a line I just can't cross.

  I start to head up the stairs to my door, then pause when I realize he's not following. "No coffee? I was going to make egg white omelets, too."

  "Can't. Got a client coming in two hours. I need to get things ready. But you're still coming over tonight, right?"

  Brody's wife, Stacey, started a book club about a year ago when she was going crazy after quitting her job as a specialty travel agent. The chemo had made her too sick to work, but despite the nausea and exhaustion, she'd been going stir crazy.

  She's in remission now and back at work part-time. Book club, however, still goes on. And although most everyone does the reading, the real purpose is to get together, eat, and gossip. Honestly, it's fun.

  "I'll be there. And I'm bringing champagne instead of wine. I landed a spot on Evening Edge to talk about Code Name: Deliverance."

  "No shit? You're not even done writing it."

  "I know." I grin. "That's what makes this appearance so amazing." Evening Edge is a television news magazine with a huge viewership, and I could kiss my publicist for landing this gig. I'd told her I wanted to do as much media as possible. I may not have the kind of job Bill does, but I think I can make a difference. More than that, I need to. Because I know only too well what kind of damage vigilante involvement can do.

  "And they just plucked you up?"

  "Not exactly. Apparently Evening Edge is doing a segment with Bill. He's coming to talk about WORR and how one of its objectives is to put an end to vigilante involvement in kidnappings. And one of the producers had read The Price of Ransom and saw a blurb about Code Name: Deliverance on my website." I shrug. "Pretty cool, huh?"

  "Cool? It's amazing. When do I set the DVR?"

  "The Saturday after Poppy's party. At seven." I do a little jig on my stairs. "I'm so totally psyched."

  "You should be. And you do not need to bring any champagne. We will provide all sparkling wine products. Cake may even be involved."

  "Sounds perfect. Now go get ready for your client. I'll see you at five." I toss him an air kiss, then head to my door as he starts the Harley he's left parked in front of my building.

  I love my house. I didn't grow up here--my mom preferred the quieter life of the Hamptons--and so coming to the townhouse for weekends and holidays in the city felt like going on vacation. The place was built in the late 1800s for my great-great-grandfather. And over the course of the years, the family has seen it through two sets of museum-grade renovations. Truly, the place is as luxurious as any of the fancy hotels I've stayed in throughout my life.

  It's a huge house, honestly too much for me. But I couldn't sell it, even if I wanted to, which I absolutely don't. For that matter, Dallas can't sell his Hamptons house, either. Both of the properties are ours to live in for our entire lives, but ultimately, they belong to a family trust.

  The kitchen is at the back and I head in that direction, thinking I'll make a carafe of coffee, then take my laptop and go work on the rooftop terrace. I hear the radio, and assume that Ellen, my housekeeper, is working in there despite it being her day off. But when I get there, it's not her trim figure I see at the table by the garden window but a slender man with salt-and-pepper hair.

  "Colin?"

  He puts down the newspaper and smiles at me, a broad smile that I know has the potential to not only make deals happen, but to get him in trouble.

  "I know I say it every time, but I still wish you'd call me Dad."

  I pause at the refrigerator on my way to him and top off my water bottle. "I used to." I keep my voice light and teasing, but every word is serious. "You blew it. And I have another dad now."

  "I'm still your birth father, little girl."

  I sigh and drop into the seat across from him. I've gone from adoring this man to being scared of him to needing him to actually respecting him. He's done a pretty stellar job of pulling himself out of the quagmire of indictments and felonies, bad choices and debt. At least I thought he had until Mom mentioned this new IRS investigation.

  Most of all, he was there for me after the kidnapping when I really needed to just get away.

  "You are," I say begrudgingly. "But let's not get into it. I'm not in the mood to play the game where we examine how completely screwed up my family tree is. And for the record, I'm not going to ask why IRS agents are calling Mom about you."

  He waves
a hand. "Routine," he says. "I promise. I'm on their radar now. That's all. Don't you worry about me."

  "I'm not. I've got plenty to worry about without adding you to the mix."

  "I'm sorry, kiddo. Of course you do." He leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of his coffee. "You went and saw him? After you talked to me?"

  Him, of course, is Dallas.

  "Well, yeah. He had a right to know that WORR has Ortega in custody. Just like you did."

  "And you're okay?"

  I take a sip of my water. " 'Okay' is a relative term."

  "I know it's hard seeing him. You two went through something no one should have to, and those memories will haunt you. Being near him makes it worse, but being away is like abandoning a friend. Am I right?"

  I nod. Of course he's right.

  His mouth curves into a sad smile. "I still remember the day you gave him your stuffed rabbit. What was he called?"

  "Mr. Fluffles." I smile, too. "I wonder what happened to him."

  "You can talk to Adele if you need to," he continues, shifting back to our original topic. "We might be divorced, but we're still close. She's an excellent therapist, and it's a short train ride to Westchester. There's no shame if this news about Ortega has sideswiped you."

  "It has. But I don't need to talk to Adele. And honestly, it would be too weird."

  Maybe legally she's no relation anymore, but from a pragmatic standpoint, the woman was my stepmother. I just can't go there.

  "Well, the offer is always open. And, sweetheart, don't get your hopes up."

  I frown. "Don't get my hopes up? All I have left is hope." God, I want to wallow in hope, but here Colin is telling me to hold back, and there Dallas was, pissed that it was Bill who caught the bad guy instead of some anonymous federal agent.

  "I don't mean it like that." He's been calm through this conversation but now he looks a little flustered, like he's afraid of upsetting me. Frankly, it's probably a legitimate fear.

  He starts again. "I'm just saying that while it really is an incredible thing that Ortega is in custody, it's been seventeen years. Even if he does have solid information for the authorities, it might not lead anywhere. You have to come to terms with the fact that you may never know who did that to you and your brother."

  For a moment I think he's going to say something else, but all he does is swallow the rest of his coffee and then stand. He heads to the coffeemaker and reaches for the carafe, but he doesn't pour.