Claiming My Vengeance Read online

  When Dana, the head of HR, had to clear her throat to catch my attention, I realized that I hadn’t heard a thing anyone at the conference table had said in the last five minutes. It was time to go. I wrapped up the meeting quickly, ignoring the curious looks I was getting from everyone, and pushed back from the table. I wanted to go home and find out what Olivia had learned so far, and then I was going to send her back to the hotel. It was too distracting to have her so close.

  I ran into Hunter and Jason in the lobby of my building.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  Hunter grinned. “Poker night. Did you forget?”

  I just stared at them both for a long moment. “You know it’s not a good time.”

  “Yeah, well, tell Beckett and Flynn. They’re already up there.”

  Flynn. Dammit.

  The elevator seemed to take forever, and I told myself to chill out. Yeah, I’d seen Flynn in action, effortlessly charming the panties off women in the bar, but Beckett was there. Beckett would keep him in check. Except Beckett pulled in his own fair share of ladies with that smooth, sophisticated act of his. I caught Jason looking at me oddly and realized I had been cracking my knuckles. Hunter just chuckled like he knew what I was thinking.

  Outside of the apartment, I could hear laughter coming from inside, and barely noticed my jaw clenching. I threw open the door with just a little too much force and it bounced off the wall. The first thing I saw was the three of them cuddled up on the couch. Olivia’s dark hair, Beckett on one side and Flynn on the other. They didn’t even turn around when I came in.

  Beckett leaned over Olivia and said something that made her throw her head back in laughter. She never laughed like that with me.

  “Blazing hell, Livvie, you just blew me feckin’ head off!”

  I wanted to bury my fist in Flynn’s face. He was using that shitty accent again.

  “Who was the one that said girls can’t play first person shooter games?” Olivia said, husky and teasing, and there was that laugh again. And dammit to hell, it didn’t help when I finally registered that they had the PS4 fired up and were just playing Call of Duty.

  Hunter grabbed my arm and steered me toward the fridge. “How about a beer, mate?” he mimicked in Flynn’s rich brogue, sounding amused.

  Jason broke up the cozy threesome. “Which one of you assholes ordered pizza? I paid for it last time.”

  Beckett jumped up, already pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll get it. No one liked that vegetarian crap you ordered last time, anyway.”

  Jason took his spot on the couch, on the other side of Olivia. “I play winner.”

  Hunter took his beer and settled onto the back of the couch to watch the deathmatch brewing between Olivia and Flynn. He tossed me a goading smile over his shoulder and patted the spot next to him. “Plenty of room here, Gabe.”

  I wanted to tell them all to clear out and to fuck right off while they were at it. Each one of them had given me knowing looks and not-so-subtle gestures of approval. But that would just make me look like an idiot.

  Instead, I went upstairs to change.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  Over pizza, the guys talked Olivia into joining our poker game. She’d sworn with the innocence of a schoolgirl that she never played before and proceeded to hustle the other three until they folded, one after one.

  Finally, she and I were facing each other over the table. Someone had given her a thin cigar, and she puffed on it without inhaling, I noticed, squinting her eyes against the smoke as she studied her cards.

  I had a straight flush, and I watched Olivia, looking for a crack in her defenses. She gazed back at me, unsmiling, her face serene. No twitches, movements, nothing. She was a Madonna in a stretchy gray v-neck t-shirt and ripped jeans.

  Then, there it was.

  She was playing with the end of her braid. Brushing the soft, black tail back and forth across the creamy skin over her collarbone. Was that a tell? She took the cigar and crushed it out in the ashtray on the table, poking out the tip of her pink tongue to lick at her top lip. Then, her eyes met mine. Deep, liquid brown, and full of mischief. My jeans felt uncomfortably tight. Was she doing this on purpose? Trying to distract me?

  Jason cleared his throat.

  Fine.

  “All in.” I laid my straight flush down on the table. Five, six, seven, eight, and nine, all diamonds.

  She laughed. That full-throated, sexy chuckle sent a prickle of awareness through me.

  “C’mon, luv. Let’s see your cards.” Obviously enjoying himself, Flynn nodded at her encouragingly.

  Carefully, Olivia fanned them out on the table.

  Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. All hearts. She beat my straight with a royal flush.

  “Beginner’s luck?” Hunter grinned.

  Olivia just shrugged modestly, her smile saying it all. She was a player.

  That pissed me off. Her innocent side was contradicted by her experienced seductress act, just like her “Gee, I don’t know how to play poker,” was just a front for an experienced card shark.

  Who was Olivia, really? A victim of the Cunninghams, like she’d said? Or a liar? What was her motive? Had I put myself right where she wanted me?

  “I’m calling it. Go home.”

  There was some good-natured grumbling, but the guys had obviously picked up on my tension and stood up from the dining room table.

  Beckett’s smile for Olivia was warm and friendly, and I wanted to knock one of my best friends down, just because I didn’t like the way he told her, “Good game.”

  “We’ll have to play again sometime. Maybe you can give me pointers.” Flynn cuffed her on the shoulder like she was one of the guys, but I bristled when he touched her.

  Even Jason broke into a rare grin. “Thanks for taking Gabe down. He usually cleans us out.” I could count on one hand the times I’d seen the ex-Marine smile.

  After they all left, Olivia turned to me, all bubbly high-spirits that just irked my nerves even further. “I like your friends.” She busied herself cleaning up the empty bottles, putting the poker chips back in their case, neatly stacking the cards and rubber-banding them.

  “Leave that,” I growled, and she looked up at me in surprise.

  “What’s wrong with you? Sorry that I beat you in front of everyone?” she teased.

  “Isn’t one rich guy enough for you? You had to try your luck with a few more?”

  Her happy expression melted away, leaving her face set and still, and I told myself I didn’t care.

  “What are you talking about? We were all just having fun. You saw Flynn. He treated me like one of the guys.”

  “Maybe. When he wasn’t trying to get a look down your shirt.”

  Olivia looked down incredulously at the barest amount of cleavage shown by her v-neck. “Don’t be an idiot,” she scoffed. “You’re just pissed that I took you at your own game. Stop being a jerk.”

  “Better than playing a whore.”

  She drew in a sharp breath, her face paling as if I’d slapped her.

  “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, Gabriel. If I broke some kind of ‘no girls allowed’ poker night rule, I’ll apologize for that, but you’re acting like a jealous high school boy. And I’m not going to sit here and take being called a whore just so you can soothe your dented masculine pride.”

  She turned around and headed for the stairs.

  “Yeah. Run away. Just like you always do.”

  She ignored me, continuing up to the second floor. That had been a low blow. I was trying to push her away, and I’d admit that, but I was already starting to feel like a complete ass. There was no reason I had to do it like this. She was back downstairs in just a few minutes, her bag over her shoulder, her phone against her ear.

  “Yes, just two nights, please. I’ll have my business in Chicago finished up by then.” She shot me a glare, daring me to challenge her. “Thanks, I do appreciate it.�
� She hung up and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the St. Clair.”

  “And you’re going to have everything wrapped up in two days?”

  She whirled on me, her eyes flashing. “Whether I do or whether I don’t, I’m leaving. Go ahead and call hotel management on Latrisha. That’s right. Latrisha Jones, front desk daytime manager at the MGM Grand in Detroit. I called in a favor from her and made her give me your room key, and for that, you should feel completely justified in getting her fired, taking away her household’s only means of support, and effectively pulling food out of the mouths of her three children.” Her nose turned pink and tears gleamed but she blinked them away. “I’ll give her a job and make sure she gets paid more than she would as a hotel manager. My bar is a closer commute for her, anyway. You have no hold on me, Gabriel. You may be rich as fuck, but that doesn’t entitle you to treat people the way you do. I’m worth more than that, whether you think so or not.”

  She slammed the door behind her, and I waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t come. With distance would come perspective, though, and I needed to get mine back. Still, I texted Beckett and let him know that she was going back to the St. Clair. And I also texted Jason and asked him to put a security guard in the lobby until she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Liv

  I punched the elevator button for the lobby. Hard. I was fuming.

  How could I have been worried about having feelings for such a cold, insulting, manipulative asshole?

  The further away I got from Gabe, the better I felt. It wasn’t far to the St. Clair, but with a heavy bag carrying two laptops and my overstuffed backpack, I flagged down a cab for the short ride. Jeremy, the St. Clair doorman, greeted me enthusiastically, standing under the newly replaced awning, and I noted that the bruise on his forehead was already fading and the efficient staff had replaced the cracked window glass.

  “Glad to see you back, Ms. Redmond!”

  I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but I chitchatted for a few minutes with him, pasting a smile over my tired face before heading inside to check in. I was immediately recognized by the desk staff and briefly wished I had booked a room at another hotel.

  The perky little blonde behind the counter, though, assured me that my room had been comped for the duration of my stay, courtesy of Beckett St. Clair himself. And she was having a bottle of champagne sent up, in gratitude, she said, blushing, for the fact that I’d saved their doorman.

  Get that sappy look off your face, I wanted to say to her. All men are shit, probably even cute, puppy-dog-eyed ones named Jeremy.

  I reined in my bitterness and thanked her nicely. Finally, I was in my suite — the same one I’d occupied before Gabe had so high-handedly moved me to his apartment — with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and a small dish of beautiful red strawberries to keep me company.

  Color me glad.

  No million-and-one buttons to control simple things like light fixtures. No tricky sound system. No irritating alpha male to clutter up the simply decorated space with testosterone and angst.

  I poured myself a flute of champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose as I drained it. Another glass, and I was ready for a soak in the tub, and after a third or fourth glass when I got out of the tub, I’d also likely be ready for a hangover the next morning.

  ***

  I wasn’t wrong. The day dawned dark and drizzly, and my head felt three sizes too big when I woke up from vivid, sensual dreams of Gabe and his big, callused hands, alone in a king-sized bed with the sheets tangled around my legs. I extricated myself and downed a few ibuprofens, and after I’d hit the in-house restaurant for a surefire hangover cure of bacon, eggs, and hash browns, I was fit enough to hit the computer.

  This time, I opened the old laptop to go over it again. It was outdated and clunky compared to the sleek loaner I had from Ainsley Holdings, and I’d basically memorized everything on the hard drive years ago, combing through it again and again in my quest for revenge, but now, I was looking for something different.

  Property.

  Chicago property, to be specific.

  I had only a gut feeling to go on, and the suspicion that Devlin had been responsible for my near-miss with the “drunk driver” the other day, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that for whatever reason, Devlin was still in Chicago.

  I found what I was looking for about midafternoon: a spreadsheet of addresses with no other identification. There were several Illinois addresses, as well as some as distant as Honolulu. Three property listings were in Chicago, all within a few miles of where I was sitting right now. Cross-referencing them with records from the Cook County Assessor’s Office, I saw that they were registered to TrePat, LLC.

  Huh.

  Coincidentally, it was the name of the company Devlin had made several deposits to. I didn’t believe in coincidences, and I felt a little buzz of excitement cut through my rotten mood.

  I thought about sending the info to Gabe, but I didn’t want any contact with him right now. Not even through impersonal texts. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control the impulse to spam him with a few million middle finger emojis.

  Forget it. I’d been cooped up way too much lately and was about ready to lose it, I was so stir-crazy. I’d pull a Nancy Drew and investigate this one myself.

  I wished I had my bike, but in absence of my own wheels, I pulled up the Uber app. I waited in the stairwell until the app showed that my driver had arrived.

  My Uber was a vintage baby blue and cream VW Bus. I never would have thought it was there for me if it hadn’t been for the magnetic decal on the side of the vehicle identifying it as an Uber car.

  A man in a business suit reading his newspaper in the lobby looked up at me strangely as I laughed out loud, but I zipped through the doors before I could apologize for my outburst.

  I expected the driver to look like a pot-smoking Shaggy character, straight out of a Scooby Doo cartoon, or maybe a Beach Boys-era hippie, but instead, an incredibly large, very dark-skinned man with a head full of long, graying dreadlocks as thick as my wrist jumped out and held the passenger’s side door for me. He grinned, showing off very white teeth and introduced himself as Jude.

  “I hope you don’ mind riding in the front,” he said in a beautifully smooth Caribbean accent. “I just came from my other job.”

  The back of the vehicle was stuffed with house plants of all varieties. It was like climbing into a jungle on wheels. “No problem.”

  “This address you gave. It is in a very bad part of town,” Jude warned as he climbed into the driver’s seat, the springs groaning under his weight.

  “Actually, I’m hoping you won’t mind driving me past a few places and bringing me back here when we’re done.”

  “Sure ‘ting.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s your money.”

  Jude accelerated away from the curb, the VW purring loudly. He headed for the first location, southeast of where we were at. After a short drive and a few minutes of circling the area, re-checking the address, the place I was looking for appeared to be a burned-out factory building. The damage didn’t appear to be new, and what windows remained in blackened frames had been smashed by vandals.

  “Why you want to spend your time at this?” he asked me, curiosity clear on his face as he entered the second address into his GPS.

  “I’m looking for a criminal.”

  He snorted a light laugh. “There’s a lot of those around. Shouldn’t have to drive too far.”

  “Maybe I should have said I’m looking for a specific criminal.”

  Jude gave me a doubtful look. “Most people dat go looking for trouble eventually find it.”

  The second location was a large, plain brick multiple-family apartment building with a couple of kids playing in the overgrown front yard. It was one of many similar barracks-like buildings on the same street and looked like a low-income housing proj
ect.

  “You want to get out?” Jude asked. “Talk to some people? I’ll go with you, so you don’t stick out so much.”

  I couldn’t see Devlin hiding out in an anonymous apartment in the projects. I shook my head. “Let me see what the third one looks like.”

  The last address was in an area that wasn’t too bad. It was a turn-of-the-century brick row house with one of the tall, black iron gates that were so common to all the rest of the houses in the area. There was nothing about it that jumped out at me, except for the black car parked on the road out front. There were a lot of black cars in Chicago. I had no reason to believe that this one just happened to be the same one that jumped the curb at the St. Clair. Especially since it didn’t have any body damage that I could see.

  “You ‘tink this is the place?” he asked as he pulled to the curb. It looked like a quiet street, despite the close location to the expressway. The only action currently happening was a FedEx delivery guy getting into his truck a little way down the block.

  “I don’t know.” I was getting frustrated again, and I took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself down. I wasn’t sure if I’d planned on just driving around Chicago until I spotted a place with a sign that read “Devlin Cunningham’s Hideout,” but as excited as I’d been this afternoon to turn up those three properties, I’d planned on at least finding out something.

  I was about to ask Jude to take me back to the St. Clair when the front door of the row house opened. We were just a couple of car-lengths back from where the black car was parked, but I slouched down in my seat a little. Who wouldn’t notice a baby blue and cream VW bus idling out in front of their place amongst the neighbors’ Camrys and Jettas?

  Sure enough, the man who stepped out of the house was halfway down the front steps when he looked our way. I froze. Without a hoodie this time, Devlin Cunningham was unmistakable. Stocky build, thick arms, close-cropped brown hair. He looked exactly like he did the last time I’d seen him.

  “That him?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s looking at us.”

  “He is. We should go.”

  I wanted to shrink down in my seat further, but there was no point. I watched Devlin’s shoulders stiffen, his eyes narrow, and his thin lips curl into a humorless grin and then form the words, “Hi, Olivia,” as we passed.