Chapter 3

3

Lyric

T o say that I’m on edge would be a gross understatement.

Jake Bowman is missing and I’m the only one who knows that he was kidnapped. There’s been no ransom demands. The cops and the Feds are looking everywhere for him. They haven’t reached out to me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ve barely slept since the news of Bowman’s disappearance broke.

At least I’ve got a quiet job here at the library—the hours pass without too much interruption or aggravation. I’m in the middle of rearranging a couple of shelves in the literary fiction section when my phone pings. It’s a text from Shelby.

Apparently, the Feds didn’t get much out of the hotel’s CCTV footage, which tells me that Max, Ivan, and Artur kept their word, scrubbing some, if not all of it. I wonder how they managed to pull that off, but I’m thinking the fewer questions asked is best where the Bratva is involved.

If my father were to learn about my little afternoon tryst with the Bratva, I’d never hear the end of it.

“Miss Phelps?” a man asks, drawing me out of my frazzled thoughts.

I get up and turn around to find a tall, official-looking gentleman in a navy blue suit. “Can I help you?”

As soon as he flashes his Bureau badge, a weight drops in my stomach. I do my best to try and keep a cool exterior in front of Supervisory Special Agent Pete Smith. “I’m here about Jack Bowman,” he says. “I understand you met with him the day before yesterday?”

“No, sir. I was supposed to meet him, but he wasn’t there,” I immediately say.

“But you were in the executive suite of the hotel, correct?”

He measures me from head to toe, his steely blue gaze settling on my face, searching for any clue that might give it away. I suppose everyone’s a suspect at this point in time. It doesn’t help that I feel guilty; I can only hope it isn’t showing.

“I was, yes. But he never showed up.”

“And how long were you in the room for?”

“I can’t remember, honestly. I checked my phone a couple of times to see if he had attempted to get a hold of me. I tried calling him, but it wouldn’t go through. Eventually, I had to leave because I had other things to take care of.”

He nods slowly. “What was your purpose for meeting with Jack Bowman in the first place?”

“Mr. Bowman graciously agreed to do an interview with me for my doctorate thesis paper,” I reply with a half-smile. “It was going to focus on his rise in the financial district, the tools he used for his company’s growth, his plans for the future.”

“Did you notify reception that he wasn’t there?” Smith asks.

I shake my head, my blood thickening. I take deep, calming breaths as I work my way through one of the most uncomfortable moments I’ve ever experienced in my life. “Honestly, I didn’t think much about it. I just thought Mr. Bowman was a no-show. He’s a busy man. I figured he got tied up elsewhere or forgot. I left the hotel and went on about my day. It wasn’t until the following day that I heard the news about his disappearance.”

“Your father is Councilman Phelps.” His quick shift in gears is almost dizzying.

“That’s right.”

There’s a glimmer of recognition and familiarity in Smith’s eyes. I’m no mind reader, but I can tell he knows my father. He proceeds to play his part, making me feel a tad uneasy. “I hear he’s planning a run for state senate,” Smith says. “And that Mr. Bowman is one of his fiercest supporters.”

“I guess. I’m not involved with my father’s political campaign.” All of a sudden, a long forgotten memory pokes at my brain. “Can I ask you something, Agent Smith?”

He simply raises a brow in response.

“If I remember correctly, Mr. Bowman was a federal agent before he moved into the private sector. Right here in Chicago.”

“That is correct. He was the director of our field office before he retired,” Smith confirms. “I was one of his agents at the time.”

“So I assume you know him well.”

“I’d take a bullet for the man.”

“Who’s running the field office now?” I ask.

“I am.”

I find that interesting though I’m not sure why. The more information I gather, the more accurate any situational test will be on my algorithm. I do this often, and it has helped me develop some pretty interesting and realistic scenarios.

“Do you have any suspects regarding Mr. Bowman’s disappearance?” I continue with my own line of questioning, which gets me a wry smile from Smith.

“Miss Phelps, perhaps you’d like to consider a career in law enforcement?”

“Oh, no,” I chuckle softly. “I’m simply curious. Mr. Bowman is a friend of my father’s. I know my father is very worried about him.”

“We don’t yet know if he simply left of his own accord or if he was taken. There’s been no ransom demand,” Smith says. “I do think we’ll hear something soon, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mr. Bowman was heavily invested in taking down every organized crime family in Chicago, and one of the reasons why he’s been so supportive of Councilman Phelps’s run for senate is because of his dedication to eradicating organized crime,” Smith explains. He then takes out a business card from his jacket pocket and gives it to me. “Please call me if you remember anything else about that day. Even if it seems insignificant.”

“Will do.”

He gives me one last nod and leaves. As soon as he’s out of sight, I feel like I can breathe again. The adrenaline soon wears off, and I’m left shaking like a leaf, my mind darting every which way as I try to recover some focus. But I can’t.

I can’t be implicated in any of this.

Once I’m done in the literary fiction section, I move over to biographies. There are a few new titles that need to find their place among the existing books, and I need something to keep my mind busy until my shift ends. But there aren’t enough titles in this whole damn library to pull my focus away from Ivan, Max, Artur, and the conversation I just had with Agent Smith.

My body remembers every delicious moment of being with the guys. It relives and responds to each second as soon as their faces, their bodies, pop into my head.

I just wish it was only the delicious afternoon I had to remember them by, not the kidnapping of Jack Bowman that comes attached to it. Or the payoff attempt. That was insulting

“You look ridiculously sexy,” Artur’s voice startles me as if summoned by my thoughts.

I almost fall backward as I spin toward him, but he catches me. His strong arms snake around my waist, and I lose my breath as I meet those grey eyes of his once more. His lips are curled into a playful smile that rattles me to the bone, sending my heart on a galloping race as I try to ascertain what’s going on.

“What are you doing here?” I manage as he gently lets me go.

I feel hesitation in his release, and as he takes a step back, I notice he’s not alone. Ivan and Max are right behind him, looking just as sexy and intimidating as the first time I saw them.

“I’m digging the naughty librarian look,” Artur quips. “You should’ve worn this the other day. Not that I had a problem with the power suit, that obviously did a number of its own on the three of us.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask again, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hesitation as I nervously look around. “The FBI was just here, are you insane?”

“We know,” Max calmly replies. “It’s why we decided to stop by for a minute.”

“Oh?”

“What did you tell him?” he asks.

I cross my arms, anger becoming predominant in the flurry of mixed emotions currently swirling through me. “Why? Are you worried I ratted you out?”

“Not at all,” he shoots back with a confident smirk that causes heat to gather between my legs. “I’m simply curious.”

“Are you okay?” Artur asks me. “You look stressed.”

“You think?” I hiss, ignoring my infuriating arousal at their presence. “It’s not every day I’m interrogated by the FBI. Of course I’m stressed!”

“Why? You’re not the one who kidnapped Bowman,” Max replies.

I give him a hard look. “Are you serious right now? Keep your voice down!”

“You need to loosen up,” he laughs lightly and comes closer. Ivan and Artur watch, visibly amused, as Max closes the distance between us. His lips are dangerously appetizing, his cologne quick to invade my nostrils as I look up at him. “You had nothing to do with any of it.”

“Maybe not but I know who did it, thanks to you,” I say.

“So do they,” he replies.

I frown slightly. “Smith said he could have walked away on his own, that they haven’t received any ransom request or anything else indicating he was taken.”

“Smith lied. It’s why we followed him here. He knows we have Bowman,” Max states.

I shake my head and take a couple of steps back. “Okay, tell you what. I don’t want to know anything about it. Plausible deniability is a real thing, and I intend to make the most of it when the three of you inevitably end up in front of a judge. I will not be dragged into the Russian mob’s dirty business.”

“Actually, you kind of dragged yourself into it the minute you accepted our proposal,” Max says. “But you don’t have to worry about anything, Lyric. That was the last you’ll see of SSA Smith. I promise.”

“As long as you keep your end of the bargain,” Ivan reminds me.

I’m tempted to give him a proper sneer, but as soon as our eyes meet, I lose myself in the depth of those dark pools. I’m conquered by the memory of him pounding into me, his fingers loosely wrapped around my neck as he bent me over and gave me everything he had.

I take a deep breath and manage to look away, but Max isn’t cutting me any slack, either. His hand comes up, knuckles subtly brushing against my shoulder. I can feel his warmth through the white satin of my shirt. His touch sends sparks flying through my core.

“Those are dangerous thoughts you’re having,” he says, his voice low and burning hot.

“What thoughts?” I whisper.

“You know exactly what thoughts. They’re written all over your face, Lyric. What happened at the hotel between us was a one-time only kind of thing. You’re too sweet, too pure, for who we are and what we do.”

“Then what, you’re just here to threaten me?”

“Threaten you? Never. Call it micromanagement, at worst,” he replies, the shadow of a smile dancing across his face. “It’s best if you forget about us, Lyric. You don’t belong in our world.”

“It’s mightily audacious of you to presume I want anything to do with you,” I say.

The three of them give me one last look before they turn around and leave. I hold my breath, waiting for them to walk out the front door. Much like with Smith before, it’s not until they’re out of my sight that I am able to regain my senses.

A few days pass in relative silence.

I do my best to pretend that everything is okay. I know I am innocent and did nothing wrong. Technically speaking, that is true if I’m to disregard what I said to SSA Smith. Or, better yet, what I didn’t say.

It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m in the clear. Whatever the guys do with Bowman, it’s their business, not mine. I’ve got an algorithm to hone, a paper to write, a doctorate degree to earn. Bigger fish to fry.

I keep telling myself that but all I can think about is what happened in that executive suite. Whatever switch they flipped on me, I’m starting to worry that they’re the only ones who can flip it back off. But do I want that? Max, Ivan, and Artur lit a blazing fire inside of me, and it burns so sweet, so scorching hot, I need more.

Shelby keeps me apprised of the Bowman situation through text messages. Although they know nothing about the information I have, I’m still riddled with uncomfortable emotions. I’ve added all the data I have on the matter into my computerized algorithm.

It’s rudimentary software that needs time to process in order to deliver at least one reasonable scenario. The last time I checked, it was still doing its thing, so all I can do is keep my focus on work and on writing the rest of my dissertation. I’m doing exactly that when Max shows up at my library desk.

This time, however, he’s brought coffee and a lovely box of French pastries, along with his debonair smile.

“I figured you could use a little pick-me-up,” he says. “Something tells me you skipped lunch again.”

“Again? Have you been watching me?” I ask in surprise, trying to keep my eyes on the computer screen. It’s hard to concentrate when this mountain of a gorgeous man is standing so close to me.

“Gotta keep our eyes on the prize,” Max replies, half-smiling as he looks down at me.

I take a deep breath and muster the courage to meet his wild, green gaze. “What are you doing here, Max? Don’t you have a hostage to tend to? A ransom to negotiate? I don’t know, people to torment and kill?”

“Is that what you think the Bratva does?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t seem all that offended. “Truth be told, my brother and I are trying a different approach these days. It’s people like Bowman and his lackeys who make it harder for us to turn the page.”

“The former head of Chicago’s FBI field office? He’s the one getting in your way?” I let a dry chuckle escape. “It couldn’t be the century of crime sprees that you and your predecessors are notorious for.”

“Is that playful tongue of yours always that sharp?” he narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t remember… oh, wait, it was busy doing something else during our brief time together.”

That’s enough to bring fiery roses to my cheeks. Heat spreads through my throat as I raise my chin in defiance and hold his gaze. “What do you want from me, Max? I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

“I know.”

“Okay, so?”

He leans forward and his cologne captures my senses again. There must be something in it, some kind of pheromone designed specifically to rattle and distract me. I have no other explanation as to why I seem to melt so easily in his presence. At least my tongue is sharp enough to not make me look like a mumbling fool. I just feel like one.

“Lyric, I’m just being courteous and checking in on you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that’s all it is?”

“Truth be told, you’re hard to stay away from,” Max admits. “Not for lack of trying. I drove around the block three times before I decided to come in.”

“You’re the one who said I had no place in your world.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Here you are.”

Max smiles again. This time, there’s an inviting warmth about him that lingers as he subtly moves around the desk and comes closer. I swivel in my chair to face him, my gaze darting all over the place, wondering if anyone is paying attention to us.

Thankfully, there’s barely anybody here. A couple of high schoolers bumbling through the geography section, a few kids on the other side of the aisle, perusing the comic book racks.

“I wonder if the universe brought you to that hotel room on purpose,” Max says.

“I had a meeting with Bowman.”

“There you go, killing the mysticism right away,” he chuckles softly.

I shrug in return. “It’s the truth.”

“Then it’s clear.”

“What is?”

“The universe wanted this to happen.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “The universe wanted you to kidnap Jack Bowman and potentially get me in legal trouble?”

“No, I mean this,” he says and cups my cheek.

A split-second later, his mouth crashes into mine, his tongue slipping past my lips, conquering everything in its path. I moan against his mouth, fire bursting through my whole body as I instantly surrender to him. Max is unforgiving, devouring, consuming, as he claims me yet again. His other hand comes down. I don’t even notice until it slips between my legs and under my skirt, finding me hot and wet for him. “Your panties are soaked,” he growls against my lips.

“It’s not my fault,” I manage.

“Your body is naturally reacting to what it wants.”

His fingers press against the fabric of my panties, against my overly stimulated clit. My hips buck and sway forward, a reflexive reaction to his devastating touch. His index finger slips over the hem, and he pulls it aside. I’m exposed against his fingertips, burning tenderly for him.

“This is wrong,” I whisper.

“Then ask me to stop,” he whispers back.

“I can’t,” I reply and steal a glance to the side, just to make sure that no one can see us.

This is insane. It is shameful and scandalous. Yet all I can do is kiss him, hungrily, desperately, as his fingers work their magic on my tender nub. He takes it one step further, penetrating me while pressing the base of his palm against my clit. I gasp, feeling the pressure gathering in my core. A ball of thunder and lightning threatens to unravel with each stroke.

“You want this as badly as I do,” Max whispers in my ear.

“Don’t stop,” I moan.

“I have to.”

“No.”

But he does. He withdraws his hand then takes a moment to lick his fingers, one at a time. They’re slick with my arousal, his eyes twinkling with delight as he looks down at me. “We should do this again sometime,” he says.

“You’re devious,” I groan with frustration, flustered as I straighten my skirt. “And mean.”

“There is something about you that’s troubling, Lyric.”

I give him a curious look. “You’re the one who had his hand up my skirt just now.”

“You’re dangerously addictive,” he says. “We might have to go back on our word. We might have to have you again.”

“Not going to happen,” I chuckle as I shake my head.

He leans down, maintaining eye contact until I lose my breath. “Don’t lie, Lyric. I know you’ll give in to your desires.”

“You’re insane.”

“Keep Friday night clear for us. We obviously have unfinished business.”

I want to deliver another sassy comeback but I can’t find the words. Max gives me one last smile before he straightens his back and walks away, leaving the coffee and the pastries atop my desk.

“Be a good girl in the meantime,” he adds.

I huff and plop down in my chair. A minute passes as I sit there, turned on and annoyed by this man’s teasing, realizing that I will most definitely be keeping this Friday night open.