Page 54 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“It’s Reynard,” he interrupts. “Please refrain from calling me any more nicknames. A grinning American addressing me as friend, buddy, and pal is quite literally my definition of hell.”
“No need to get pissy. And what d’you have against Americans, anyway? We saved your asses in World War II. If it wasn’t for us, you’d all be speaking German.”
“Let’s not get into a debate about history, Mr. McLean. I never enter into a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.”
Bypassing the zinger—which I have to admit is a good one—I say smugly, “So she told you about me.”
From his coat pocket, Reynard withdraws a pair of glasses. Snooty as shit, he puts them on and looks down his nose at me. “Don’t flatter yourself. I looked you up in a database.”
By now my grin must be blinding. “But you had to know my name in order to look me up.”
After a pause, he says, “I’m jealous of all the people who haven’t met you.”
“Tell me where she is.”
His irritation is palpable. “Mr. McLean—”
“I can help her,” I insist, bracing my arms on the counter and getting into his face. “Whatever trouble she’s in, I can get her out of it.”
He stares at me for a long time, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You’re an interesting man, Mr. McLean, I’ll give you that. But you seem to be operating under the mistaken impression that your help is wanted.”
“You talkin’ about you, or her?”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
I drop the nice-guy act. “And I think it’s time for you to realize that dumb motherfuckers who stand in the way of something I want have extremely shortened lifespans,” I growl. “Tell me where she is and where she lives, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”
His patience finally snaps. Eyes blazing with fury, he whips off his glasses and lays into me.
“This might surprise you, you gargantuan idiot, but you’re not the first man on earth to threaten my life, nor would you be the first to cause me harm for protecting her. And if you had even one functioning brain cell, you’d realize that a woman in her position would never tell anyone where she lived—especially someone like me, who could be pressured by someone like you into giving up that information. For the love of all that’s holy, I have no idea what she sees in you! You’re proof that evolution can go in reverse!”
Red-faced, he huffs, jerking the glasses back onto his face. Then he peers at me through them and shouts, “Why the bloody hell are you smiling again?”
I cross my arms over my chest and drawl, “So she told you she likes me.”
He grits his teeth so hard, I think they might shatter. “Get out.”
I cock my head, pretending to think, then say, “Nah. I think I’ll just wait for my buddies from Interpol to show up and take a little gander ’round the place. You looked me up in a database? Well, I looked you up too, brother. Real nice establishment you got here. Real legit. Squeaky clean, at least on paper.”
I peer over his shoulder toward the back of the shop. “I’m sure you don’t have anything to hide, right? No random ruby necklaces hangin’ around? Big ones, maybe a hundred carats?”
I already knew it wasn’t Reynard Mallory who bruised Mariana’s neck, even before I set foot in his shop. I pegged him as her fence the minute I entered his address into Metrix’s search program and took a look at his business. If anyone can move a hot, one-hundred-carat ruby necklace, it’s Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions. It has branches all over the globe and a sterling reputation unvarnished by its secret, long-standing ties to every underworld organization that exists.
“Your bluffs are as unfortunate as your fashion sense, Mr. McLean,” he says stiffly. “I have a high-ranking friend on the police force who would have alerted me if Interpol were about to pay me a visit.”
Then, with no small satisfaction, he continues. “But I do have a GPS tracking device you might be interested in. It’s small and extremely light, excellent for hiding in clothing. Unfortunately it’s nonfunctional, due to being smashed by the heel of a shoe—whose owner was spewing some rather colorful language at the time, I might add—so it won’t do you much good.”
So that’s why I lost the signal. Somehow Mariana found the tracker and destroyed it.
Which means she knew I’d come here…which means she’s gone.
Again.
Shouldn’t have ordered that cheeseburger.
As a jazz number that sounds like five different guys are playing five different songs comes on the speakers, Reynard and I glare at each other. After a while, I cave in. “Okay. Two things. Number one, I’m g
onna give you a cell phone number. It’s unregistered and untraceable. Only one other person in the world has it—”
