Page 20 of Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard 10)

  Henry nodded. “He did, and he said he didn’t believe a car could turn into a robot.”

  Transforming one item into another was the topic of conversation for the next ten minutes, and then the three of them moved to the dining room table. While Grayson caught up on his e-mails on his laptop, she and Henry worked on constructing a filling station with Legos.

  She heard, “You’re doing it wrong,” at least ten times, and she noticed that every time Henry said it, Grayson flashed a smile. Henry thoroughly enjoyed that she was so inept.

  “Grandfather says I need a woman,” Henry casually remarked.

  That statement got Grayson’s full attention. Olivia didn’t seem fazed. “For what purpose?”

  “To boss me probably. Olivia, when we’re finished, do you want to see my room?”

  She was trying to cram a tiny cube into the base of the attached carwash. She couldn’t resist teasing him.

  “I already saw your room. It’s very nice. I liked your bed. I rolled around in it and tested the pillow. Nice and firm.”

  Henry was giggling. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Oh yes,” she countered. “Then I went through all your stuff, played some video games, and when I was finished, I went into your closet and tried on some of your clothes.”

  He had a good laugh. Then he told her she was connecting the Legos all wrong again. She handed him the tiny piece and said, “You fix it. I’ll watch.”

  “Olivia, will you write down your phone number in case I need my own lawyer?”

  “Henry, she doesn’t—” Grayson began.

  She interrupted. “I don’t need to write my number. I’ll give you one of my cards.”

  He followed her to the entry where she’d left her purse and patiently waited while she searched for the case with her cards. She found it and gave him one.

  “Are you worried about something?” she asked.

  “No, but I’m going to try out for soccer.”

  She wanted to ask him to explain why he thought he’d need an attorney for soccer and would have if the elevator bell hadn’t sounded. A few seconds later Patrick arrived.

  She had expected a much older man, but Patrick was in his early forties. He was very tall, at least six feet five, and with his lean frame, he had the physical attributes of an NBA player. He shook her hand and shot Grayson a sly look of approval before heading to his room to change.

  “Patrick plays basketball most Friday nights,” Henry told her.

  He then asked her to play a card game with him. Since Henry was having such a good time with Olivia—he was clearly winning—Grayson waited until his nephew had gone to bed to take her home.

  Olivia was quiet in the car, her mind jumping from one thought to another.

  “Do you worry that Henry’s father will come home and take him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled. “Because my brother knows what’s best for Henry, and right now he needs stability.”

  “But what if . . .”

  “Olivia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you like to worry?”

  She started to say no, of course not, then decided to think about it. “I guess I’m used to worrying.”

  “So, you do admit you’re a pessimist.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  Grayson didn’t argue. “Henry likes you.”

  “That’s because I have the sense of humor of a nine-year-old. He gets me.”

  “What about me? Do you think I get you?”

  She turned toward him. “Probably not.”

  He didn’t look at her as he said, “Oh, I know exactly what’s going on inside that illogical mind of yours.”

  She took immediate umbrage. “Excuse me? Illogical?”

  “About some things, yes, you’re definitely illogical,” he said. She opened her mouth to disagree, but he changed the subject. “Ronan told me you’re reading up on a couple of Jorguson’s old clients.”

  “I was thinking I might—”

  He cut her off. “You aren’t still considering going to work for that prick, are you? Because if you are, you should know I’m not gonna let that happen. If you think I’ll stand by and watch you put yourself in danger, you’re out of your ever-loving mind.”

  Olivia was surprised by his reaction. In the space of a few seconds, he had worked himself into a lather. “You care that I—”

  “Damn right, I care.”

  She put a hand up. “Don’t yell at me.”

  “I’m telling you, Olivia, I won’t let you—”

  “I’m not going to work for Jorguson. And don’t you dare say, ‘Damn right, you’re not,’” she rushed to add when he looked as though he was about to say just that. “I made the decision, not you.”

  “If you want to think—”

  “Grayson, I’m not going to argue with you.”

  He took a breath. “Yeah, okay. Tell me why you were looking at Jorguson’s connections.”

  “I’ve been stuck at home every night, and I haven’t been able to find anything on my father, so out of sheer boredom, a little curiosity, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “My ego,” she said. “I guess I thought I might find something that would help the FBI’s investigation.”

  “Did you find anything?” he asked.

  “I discovered a great deal about Gretta Keene and some of the horrific crimes she might have committed. If Jorguson is involved with any of them, I hope you can find the proof you need to bring him down.”

  “We will,” he assured her.

  Grayson noticed a car parked in a no-parking zone just around the corner from Olivia’s apartment and called it in. The plates were registered to a woman who lived one block over. He parked in front of Olivia’s building, and she waited until he came around to get her. He was being a gentleman, but he was also protecting her. She noticed he always made himself the target whenever they walked anywhere. It was all part of his job, he’d told her. She’d argued she wasn’t the president, and he shouldn’t have to take a bullet for her, but he’d simply ignored her.

  They entered her apartment building, and when the elevator doors opened on her floor, he walked out first. He took her key from her, unlocked her door, and followed her inside. After he’d checked every conceivable place for someone to hide, he came back into the living room. Just as he was taking off his coat, Ronan called.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Olivia’s.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? What the hell do you mean by ‘ah’?” he asked, inwardly cringing over how defensive he’d sounded. He went into Olivia’s study and shut the door so that he would have some privacy and said, “Look, Ronan, I know I said I was going to distance myself from this investigation . . .”

  “Yeah, you did say that.”

  “And you’ve gotta be thinking it’s Friday night. What am I doing in her apartment, right?”

  “Actually—”

  Grayson didn’t let him get any further. “I know I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Olivia, but I swear from tonight on I’ll distance myself. So stop bringing it up.”

  “Grayson, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He had the answer, but he didn’t say it out loud. Guilt. He knew what he should be doing and what he shouldn’t. Yeah, it was plain old guilt.

  “Are we done?”

  “Depends,” Ronan said. “If you’ve finished ranting, I’ll tell you why I called.”

  Grayson leaned against the desk and closed his eyes. He had been ranting.

  “Ray Martin wants a deal.”

  “That son of a bitch bodyguard punches Olivia and pulls a gun on her, and he wants

to deal. The hell with that.”

  “You’re not being reasonable.”

  Grayson knew he was right. “What does he want to deal with? What’s he got to offer?”

  “He’ll give us the name of the weapons supplier and will testify against him.”

  “Come on. You can’t trust—”

  “He says he has proof.”

  “Like what? A receipt?”

  Ronan laughed. “Something like that. What do you think? If it’s legit, would you press to make a deal?”

  “I can’t be objective,” he admitted, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was appalled. He really couldn’t be objective, and how in God’s name had he allowed that to happen? Hell. “If Martin’s the bastard who tried to kill Olivia, there isn’t going to be any deal made.”

  “You weren’t convinced he was the shooter,” Ronan reminded him. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No, I’m still not convinced, but as long as he remains a suspect . . .”

  “Okay, I won’t argue.” He sounded resigned.

  “Ronan, he punched her and pulled a gun on her. He ought to get a firing squad for that.”

  “Are we still doing firing squads?”

  Grayson ended the call a minute later and went into the living room. Olivia had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa with her feet up on the ottoman, her iPad in her lap. She looked up when Grayson entered the room, saw his dark expression, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He threaded his fingers through his hair and continued to frown at her. “Listen . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I just told Ronan I couldn’t be objective, and that’s just not acceptable. This can’t go on. I need to be able to concentrate on the investigation, but you’re messing with my mind, Olivia. I can’t allow that to continue.”

  She put the iPad on the coffee table and sat up. “I’m what?”

  “You heard me. You’re messing with my mind. I’ve got to get my focus back, stay away from you while I work. I feel like I’m missing something, some detail that might make a difference, but every time I’m with you I get sidetracked. It’s not your fault. You’re a very seductive woman.”

  He thought he was giving her a compliment, but she wasn’t pleased. “I distract you.”

  “Yes. Not on purpose, but, yes, you do,” he said firmly.

  “What did you mean when you said you feel like you could be missing something?”

  “I’m not paying attention, damn it. My focus is all screwed up. I don’t know how else to explain it. This is totally not like me. I’ve got to get back on track.”

  “Okay, I’ll help.”

  He almost laughed. “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll help you focus. Why is that funny?”

  “Olivia, you’re the problem.”

  She took exception. “And you’re not? How about I won’t touch you and you won’t touch me? I have as much self-control as you do, probably more.”

  He laughed. That reaction didn’t sit well.

  “You think you’re stronger willed than I am? Really?”

  “Of course,” he responded, as if there was no doubt.

  “I’m not going to argue with you. You believe one thing; I believe another. I’m hungry for something sweet. Would you like something?”

  “No,” he replied. “Tell me what you found out about Gretta Keene. Anything that might be helpful?”

  Olivia got up, tossed her hair over her shoulder in what Grayson thought was a deliberately provocative gesture, and went into the kitchen. She came back a minute later with a cherry Popsicle and a plate. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  “No,” he said curtly. “Now talk to me about Keene and then I’m out of here.”

  She put the plate on the table, tore the paper off the Popsicle, and said, “I just love these.”

  “Gretta Keene,” he reminded her.

  He watched her use the tip of her tongue to lick the side of the Popsicle.

  “I’m sure Agent Huntsman knows all there is to know about Gretta, but I did discover she’s quite a micromanager. She has to oversee every detail, no matter how small.”

  Her tongue slowly slid up one side and down the other. Grayson couldn’t take his gaze off her mouth. He knew what she was doing, and he was amused. Still, he couldn’t look away.

  “Gretta has trust issues.” She put the tip of the Popsicle in her mouth, her full, luscious lips closing around it. Then she took a bite and chewed. She was savoring the icy cold feeling against her tongue. “She won’t move away from the money or underlings.”

  “She what?” He was having a hell of a time concentrating. She was driving him crazy, and she knew it. How could eating a Popsicle be so sensual, so erotic, and such a turn-on?

  She repeated what she’d just said and then took another bite. When a drop of the red juice began to slide downward, she slowly drew her tongue across her lower lip to catch it.

  “Gretta wants to keep the men who work for her under her thumb at all times so none of them will branch out on their own and become competitors. There was one employee who went against her orders, and she made an example of him. He was tortured before he was killed. I think she’s here because she has to watch Jorguson, especially if a lot of her money is going through his firm.”

  Olivia sucked the last bit of the Popsicle into her mouth and put the stick on the plate.

  Grayson watched her carry her plate back into the kitchen. He loved the way her hips moved when she walked. Reluctantly, he reached for his coat and pulled it on.

  “I’ll check in every now and then,” he said, his voice gruff. “But you don’t go anywhere alone. Got that? You call one of the numbers and get one of your guards to go with you.”

  She walked him to the door. “For how long do I have to—”

  “For as long as is necessary,” he said. “And by the way, your little seduction didn’t work.”

  His restraint was rapidly shredding, and it was taking all of his concentration to keep from grabbing her.

  She didn’t act innocent or protest that she didn’t know what he was talking about. She stepped out of his way so he could leave, waited until he was closing the door, and then whispered, “Oh, I think it did.”

  NINETEEN

  A week had gone by without a word from Grayson. Olivia kept telling herself she was happy and relieved that he’d stayed away. She was feeling guilty for the seduction game she played with the Popsicle. It wasn’t really fair. He was just trying to do his job, and their relationship was getting in the way. They had been acting like horny teenagers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and it had to stop. It wasn’t right for either of them. Grayson had his job to think about, and she had her heart to think about. She was getting too emotionally involved, and since the relationship couldn’t go anywhere, separating herself was the only decent thing to do.

  She wondered if he would ever get married and decided that, yes, of course he would. He’d probably have children, too. He should, anyway, because he would be such a great father. He was so loving and patient with Henry.

  Every time she thought about her bleak future, she’d get depressed, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. Others might try to convince her that she could have a normal, happy life with a marriage and a family, but she knew better. She had seen the anxiety and suffering that illness could cause, and just the mere possibility that it could rear its ugly head again, as she feared it had done with Jane, made her determined never to let anyone she cared about go through that heartache and sacrifice.

  On Friday evening Emma called and insisted that Olivia have dinner with her. Olivia was delighted to have the chance to get out of her apartment for an evening, but that meant she had to call one of

her guards to drive her. She had promised. All five guards were nice, polite gentlemen who took their job seriously, but she was getting sick and tired of having to rely on them. She longed to be able to get in her car and go wherever she wanted whenever she wanted. Boring but necessary chores, like grocery shopping or picking up her dry cleaning, now appealed to her. Even though she hated shopping for clothes, she needed a new pair of running shoes, but a trip to the mall was out of the question because there was always the worry of bullets flying all over the food court while the man who wanted her dead tried a second time to kill her.

  Her patience was running out, yet every time she was close to throwing up her hands and yelling, “Enough already,” she’d get a look at herself in the mirror and see the raw bullet scars. She’d then decide she needed to be patient a little longer. Besides, the FBI wouldn’t be paying for protection unless they felt there was a real threat. Right?

  Ronan accidentally let the cat out of the bag. He called with a question about Simmons, Simmons and Falcon. He wanted to know how long the firm had been working with Olivia’s father. She didn’t have the answer but said she’d try to find out for him.

  “While I have you on the phone, I’d like to ask you something,” she said.

  “Okay.” Ronan was sure she was going to ask about Grayson.

  “The FBI wouldn’t be paying for these bodyguards if—”

  Before thinking, he said, “They aren’t paying. They stopped. . . . I mean to say . . .”

  Olivia sat up straight, bristling at what he was trying not to tell her. “Who’s paying the bodyguards?” There was no immediate reply, so she asked, “It’s either Grayson or Emma, isn’t it? Tell me.”

  Ronan sighed. “Grayson’s paying.” He rushed to add, “He wants to keep you safe, Olivia.”

  “Yes, I know. Did you have any other questions?”

  Ronan heard the stiffness in her voice. “It doesn’t matter who’s paying. If you go anywhere, you call for a bodyguard first. Understand?” he said sternly.

  “Good night.”

  “Olivia . . .” he began, but it was too late. She was gone.

  She found her car keys, locked the door after her, and took the elevator down to the garage. What an idiot she was, not to have figured it out sooner. If she truly needed a bodyguard, the FBI would have continued to provide the protection. How dare Grayson do this behind her back! She could take care of herself.