what it was… Something like meth maybe…”
Jack watched him search his memory.
“Real big at the time, like meth is now. But had a happy name-”
“Ecstasy.” Jack supplied.
“Yes! That was it. Mother fucker got himself into a real shit hole of a mess.” His voice was very low now, as if to make up for the foul language. “Must’ve taken the drug lab home with him one day because the whole goddamned apartment in his complex was blown to smithereens!”
Jack’s gaze narrowed.
Beckman was on a role now. He went on. “Couldn’t have the whole world knowing that our best and brightest were using their medical training to make and sell drugs under our noses.” He finished off his drink and barely managed not to slam the glass down on the table. “So, I had it covered up. Cost me a fucking fortune.” His expression became grim and his color paled a little. “Paid for it out of pocket.”
Jack digested the information. The cover up involving Craig Brandt went a hell of a lot deeper than even Dr. Beckman knew. If he was telling the truth – and Jack knew that he was – then, as far as the doctor was concerned, Brandt had been involved in illegal activity that had gotten dangerously out of hand.
The truth, however, was far more sinister.
Jack pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of hundreds down onto the table. Beckman stared absently down at them.
“You did the right thing, James. The reputation of the school is too important to allow something like that to shame it.”
Beckman nodded. His gaze was growing distant.
Jack smiled to himself and stood. “Have your secretary contact my office and we’ll set up an account for a deposit,” Jack continued. When Beckman nodded once more, figuring that sounded about right, Jack knew the doctor was gone.
He leaned down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing his attention. Beckman looked into Jack’s eyes and was captured in that intense gaze. “Have someone else drive you home, James.” He spoke the words as a gentle command. “Understand?”
The doctor nodded, but blinked, indicating that he comprehended and would do as told.
Jack straightened. With one last glance around the emptying bar, he pocketed the set of keys he’d taken out of Beckman’s jacket and left the building.
“So, what’s the deal with the old gun Jack has?” Annabelle asked, by way of somewhat nervous conversation.
Sam’s smile never wavered. “The ‘old gun’ is a Kongsberg Colt. Happens to be worth a lot of money.”
“What did he mean when he said you were ‘proving him wrong’?” Annabelle asked, ignoring the jab.
Sam hesitated before answering. He chewed on his cheek a moment and then lowered his head. “Jack and I had a running bet. He didn’t think I could get my hands on the gun, and I was pretty sure that I could.”
Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She didn’t understand, but she wasn’t going to admit this to Sam. It just didn’t make any sense, though. Jack and Sam were both very wealthy men with tons of connections. If either of them wanted an antique gun, all they would have to do is come up with the money and go to eBay or something. What could be so difficult about getting this weapon that Jack honestly didn’t think Sam could do it?
And then she remembered something. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. A No. 2 – engraved on the blued slide of the Colt.
“What does the number two stand for?” she asked then.
Sam’s smile disappeared. His gray eyes fixed on hers. She was desperately tired, but she was proud of herself when she found that she didn’t look away.
After a while, his smile slowly returned. He regarded her, then, as if she’d earned herself a smidgeon of respect in his eyes.
“It stands for exactly what it says, darlin’,” he told her. “It was
Annabelle blinked. “And now Jack has it.”
Sam grinned. “Yep.”
Annabelle had all of three seconds to consider this bit of information before the front door knob jiggled.
Sam pushed away from the sink, pulling a gun from his jeans waist band at the small of his back. Annabelle stood and Sam was instantly in front of her, moving toward the living room. They made their way into the room as Jack opened the door to find Sam’s gun pointed at his head. He glanced at it only momentarily, hardly phased, and then was pulling a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and heading for the living room lounge set.
Sam put his gun back in the waist band of his pants. Jack threw the keys onto the coffee table and had a seat in the love seat facing them.
Annabelle stared at him in wonder. He was no longer wearing his Armani suit. Instead, he was dressed in leather riding gear, from the black skull cap holding back his blonde waves to his black jacket and gauntlet gloves, to the black chaps over his jeans and, finally, a pair of sturdy black riding boots with tough, gripping tread.
He sat back in the love seat and lifted his boots on the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.
Tired as she was, a flood of disquieting heat rushed through Annabelle. He looked as he had the first time she’d laid eyes on him – in that bar on her twenty-first birthday. Ten years ago this Sunday. If he looked good in Armani, he looked like an angel in black leather. An angel straight from Hell, sent to take her spinning end over end into an Abyss of untold proportions.
At that very moment, Annabelle desperately wanted to touch Jack Thane. To run her hands along the back of his neck and feel his soft curls against her skin. To kiss lips that she’d always imagined as cool and soft. To trace her fingers across the perfect muscles of his chest that were so plainly visible beneath the tight black t-shirt he wore under his jacket.
“So?” Sam asked casually, ripping Annabelle out of her lust-filled stupor.
“So, after we rest for a few hours, we’ll check out the dean’s office,” Jack told him, apparently not having noticed Annabelle’s rather indiscreet ogling.
“Did he talk?” Sam asked, coming to lean against the wall that lead to the kitchen.
“Yes, but he may as well have remained silent,” Jack said. Though the sound of it almost made her shiver, Annabelle realized that Jack must have been very tired indeed, because his accent always got deeper when he was tired and, right now, it was the strongest that she had ever heard it.
“Beckman covered up a lie, thinking it was the truth.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “He gave me bugger-all I can use.” He stared at the keys on the table. “Except those.”
Annabelle looked at the keys, desperate to get her mind out of the uncomfortably sexy gutter it had been swimming in. Surprising herself with her ability to focus, she asked, “He just gave them to you, huh?” She already knew that Jack had taken the keys. The question was rhetorical. She was being a smart ass.
“He was too drunk to drive. I did him a favor.” Jack said, flatly. He shot her a pointed look.
She ignored his tone, and the look, and asked another question, this one not as rhetorical. “If the dean doesn’t actually know anything useful, then what can we hope to find in his office?”
“His address, at the very least,” Jack replied, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh. “His class list and schedule… It’s a start.”
Annabelle watched him for a moment, noticing the shadows under his eyes. He’d removed the make-up, probably in the simple act of splashing water on his face to wake himself up. But, somehow, the darkness beneath his eyes bothered her more than any of his bruises. “You need sleep.” Again, she surprised herself, this time by the vast amount of tenderness in her tone.
“Aye,” he agreed, pulling his eyes from the keys to gaze up at her.
