Hustler Read online

  “...Your fiancée, Caelan Jamison. Your best friend, Walker Smith. And your sister, Xavier Malone.”

  Holy shit.

  “They’re soulless bastards, and their greedy tentacles reach into every branch of law enforcement, every institution meant to protect the population from evil men. But when the good folks can’t be trusted, what’s a woman like me to do? I’ll tell you, gents. You gather together a team of criminals. A cat burglar, a computer expert, a bodyguard who’s not afraid to fight, a con artist… and the greatest criminal of all, a Wall Street investor to lead them.”

  She was talking about us... about the men sitting right here with me. And she’d called us all out.

  “My husband was no innocent in this, but by the time he understood how deeply the corruption ran, it was too late.” She lifted one hand from her leg and splayed it on her collarbone, the first sign of fear she’d shown yet and her voice dropped an octave. I leaned forward, listening.

  “To you, I bequeath my estate. Every penny of my wealth…”

  As her voice carried on, we listened in solidarity to the news that would change the course of our lives.

  One

  The yellow cab came to a stop outside the limestone building, and I checked the address that I’d noted down in my phone. 740 Park Avenue. This was the place, alright. I leaned into the window and stared up… and up and up… to where the fourteenth floor had to be, and took a deep breath, trying to settle the nervous flutter that had begun in my stomach earlier that morning when I’d first contacted Sabrina Fowler.

  This is not a big deal, Haven. Get your shit together.

  The address was swanky, sure, and I wasn’t quite sure who I was going to meet when I got upstairs, but that had nothing to do with my nerves. As a defense attorney, I’d done much more intimidating things on behalf of a client. I wanted to believe it was just worry for my client making me anxious, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the issue either. In truth, I’d developed a sixth sense over the years—a little tightness in my belly that sometimes warned me when something major was about to happen. I couldn’t deny that I was getting that feeling right now—like the universe was about to throw me a gigantic curveball.

  The cab driver cleared his throat, and I turned my head with an apologetic smile. I swiped my card through the reader and added a generous tip, a little more than I could comfortably afford on my salary, especially given the bills that were due this month, but that wasn’t Montrose, the cabbie’s fault. I thanked him politely and slung my briefcase over my shoulder as I stepped onto the sidewalk into the noise and bustle of a Manhattan evening in early September.

  It was warm—Jesus, was it warm—with the sun low in the sky, and not a breath of autumn in the air to justify my structured A-line skirt and suit jacket. I was glad I’d sprung for Montrose’s air-conditioned cab instead of walking here from the office. Within seconds, my thin blouse was sticking to the back of my neck, and my feet were on fire inside my new heels—half a size too small, but shiny red and on sale, so naturally I’d had to have them anyway, comfort be damned.

  My office attire was a little bit like a weapon, albeit a defensive one. Graduating at the top of my class in law school and making a name for myself in the courtroom meant jack-shit if people didn’t take me seriously, which they absolutely would not, if I arrived limping and sweaty.

  Appearances were more important than the truth. It was a sad truth I’d learned from Tad Warner, the master of illusions himself, nine years ago.

  I gritted my teeth and crossed the sidewalk to the imposing front door, which was opened by a uniformed doorman before I could even reach for the handle.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Haven Wright to see Ms. Fowler, on the fourteenth floor?”

  I cursed myself for framing the simple statement as a question. Somehow, even the most fleeting thought of Tad Warner, the lying, sneaky bastard who’d duped me nearly a decade ago, was apparently enough to call forth the sweet, naïve, needy girl I thought I’d buried the day he left town.

  No way would I allow that.

  As the doorman moved back behind the podium, apparently calling upstairs to get authorization to let me in, I straightened my shoulders. I’d come a long way from the idiot teenager who’d let a handsome face worm his way into her bed and her heart. When Tad and his friend had disappeared, he hadn’t just taken my parents’ life savings, but my naivety and innocence too.

  God. It had been months since I’d even thought of the guy, and now that his name had surfaced in my thoughts, it was stuck there like a burr. This was the last thing I needed today. Not when Max was counting on me.

  “Ms. Wright?” the doorman said. “You can go right up.”

  I nodded and smiled, then stepped onto the elevator he indicated. When the mirrored doors closed, I straightened my shirt, tugged down the hem of my jacket until it hung perfectly straight, and ran a hand over the thick, chestnut-colored hair I’d straightened to within an inch of its life earlier this morning. My makeup hadn’t completely sweated off, but I really wished I’d popped in my contacts instead of wearing my glasses; it’d be one less thing to fuss with, and I didn’t need another distraction.

  I had a job to do, a client to defend—one who was looking at life in prison on a murder rap, if he lived long enough to testify—and a deal to make on his behalf. Max Pederson was scared to death, and he’d implored me for help. I could save his life, he’d said, with the help of Masters’ Security. And that’s what I would do.

  The elevator doors slid open as noiselessly as they’d closed, and a beautiful, smiling redhead greeted me with an outstretched hand.

  “Ms. Wright?”

  If I were a fanciful person, I might think I’d somehow taken an elevator to heaven. There was white marble everywhere, and late-day sunlight—searingly gold and plentiful—shone down from high windows.

  Even the redhead was wearing a long, gauzy, loose-fitting white sundress, and I had to blink my eyes and grip the strap of my briefcase tightly for a second, remembering who I was and why I was here, before I could return her handshake.

  “Yes. Thank you for meeting with me. BeeBee Fowler?” I asked in return.

  The redhead grimaced just a tiny bit. “I generally go by Sabrina,” she said, and I blushed.

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. Mr. Pederson so often calls you by your nickname…”

  “Oh, I know.” She raised an eyebrow and dropped her voice just slightly. “And I don’t mind, truly. It’s just a little bit of a touchy subject for certain people,” she said.

  I frowned. Her childhood nickname was a touchy subject?

  “She means me.” A voice to my right startled me, and I turned to see a man standing in a doorway. He had black hair, an ironic mouth, and dark eyes lit with devilish humor. He walked toward me, holding out a hand, and every movement of his body was like a dance. “Anson. Anson Daly.”

  He wrapped his arm around Sabrina’s waist in a proprietary way that left no doubt who they were to one another, and Sabrina’s lips twitched as she leaned against him.

  “Max has known me for years,” Sabrina explained. “But he’s rather… flirtatious. Anson doesn’t like it.”

  “Ah,” I said, as though I understood, and I was pretty sure I did. Mr. Daly was one of those chest-beating Neanderthal types, all possessive and territorial. I gave Sabrina a pitying glance. I’d gone for that type myself, once upon a time. Trusted and believed in it, like a fool. I hoped for her sake that her trust was better placed than mine had been.

  “How is Max?” Sabrina asked, frowning in concern. “I was absolutely shocked when I heard about his wife. And then when I heard he’d been arrested! God. I wanted to visit him, but…”

  She looked up at Daly, who shook his head slightly, confirming my earlier opinion about their relationship.

  “But I didn’t think it was safe, babe,” Daly filled in for her. “Pederson wouldn’t want you to put yourself on anyone�
�s radar just for the sake of a half-hour convo through safety glass. And seeing him would only upset you.” Daly turned to look at me, with something like warning in his eyes. “And I still believe that.”

  “No, I agree,” I told him. “Mr. Pederson sent me because he felt you might have facts and resources that could help him clear his name.” Then turning to Sabrina, I added, “In fact, Mr. Pederson was extremely vocal about not wanting you anywhere near the prison.” I bit my lip, debating how much to tell her, and how fast. “It’s not… a happy place. And he’s changed, even in the past month.”

  Sabrina swallowed hard, and Anson held her more firmly. “Let’s take this inside,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the room he’d come from. “Pederson helped us out, getting us info when we were trying to find the people responsible for my mom’s death. We’re prepared to return the favor.”

  I nodded and tightened my hand on the strap of my bag once again, reflexively, then walked into the room he’d indicated.

  If the foyer had been heaven, this room was like a scene from a period-drama—something English, with breeches and hunting. The furnishings were dark wood and dark leather, and every available wall seemed lined with books. If Mr. Darcy had been parked on a settee inside, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but instead, there were two gentlemen who looked decidedly out of place in their surroundings.

  “Guys,” Daly said, as he and Sabrina stepped in behind me. “This is Pederson’s attorney, Ms…”

  “Wright,” I supplied.

  “Yeah. Ms. Wright,” he repeated, guiding Sabrina to a sofa. “This is Caelan.” He pointed to a giant of a man—bald and built, like a bouncer at a particularly rowdy nightclub—who was sitting sedately in one of the leather club chairs, drinking a cup of tea.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and although his voice was low and rumbling, he had the demeanor of a man who was used to frightening people unintentionally and was therefore determined to set me at ease. It worked.

  “Hi,” I returned.

  “And the one with his head buried in his tablet is Walker,” Anson said, pointing to the man closest to me, whose face was obscured by a mane of longish black hair. “Walker!” he said more loudly when this introduction got no response.

  “Huh?” Walker looked up from his device and seemed to do a double-take, like he wasn’t sure how I had gotten in the room, or maybe how he had gotten there. “Oh, sorry. You’re the lawyer?”

  “Haven,” I said, leaning forward to shake his hand. “Haven Wright.”

  He smiled, flashing even, white teeth, and his voice was a low, accented purr. “Well, now. Might be worthwhile going to prison, if I had you to defend me, Haven Wright.”

  I blushed, but Anson snorted derisively. “Right. Go back to your dark realm, or whatever the fuck you were doing.”

  “Dark… realm?” Walker shook his head. “You mean dark web? Jesus. I try and try to teach you shit, and it’s like you deliberately try to hurt me with your ignorance.”

  Anson’s unrepentant grin said he did, indeed, do it deliberately, and I felt myself release a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. These men were like brothers, of a sort, and I found myself instinctively wanting to trust them—a feeling I wasn’t accustomed to anymore. Trust wasn’t something I easily gave.

  I took a seat in the chair Anson indicated, directly across from Caelan. He perched himself next to Sabrina on the couch to my left, and I set my briefcase on the low table before me.

  “As you all know,” I began, “Max Pederson is my client…”

  “Hang on just one second,” Caelan said, holding up a palm. He turned his calm blue eyes to Walker. “Where are the others?”

  I glanced at Sabrina. There were more?

  “X is down the hall, on a call that should be ending any minute,” Walker said. He typed something on his tablet. “I let him know Ms. Wright was here. But Ethan’s still out with Randi. I messaged him an hour ago, and sent him three emergency texts since then, but he hasn’t replied.”

  “He’s out with Randi? Still?” This was from Sabrina, in a tone that was both fond and disapproving.

  “You know he’s meeting her because she used to work at Silver,” Anson said. “She worked until three and it’s only five now.”

  “And they’ve just been meeting all this time?” Sabrina said with a smirk. “Two hours over a cup of coffee?”

  “Ethan has his job just as we have ours,” Caelan chided her. “He does what he does to get the assets we need. That doesn’t mean he likes it.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes he does,” Walker said with a broad grin. “And Randi’s a hell of a dancer.” He held out his hands in front of his chest and made a curving motion I hadn’t seen since junior high school. “She’s got a lot of assets for him to…”

  “I dare you to finish that sentence, Walker,” a voice from behind me said. A blond Adonis of a man stepped into the room, shooting Walker a killing glare. Walker’s mouth pursed, and he sighed.

  The Greek god paused by my chair to shake my hand. “Xavier Malone, Ms. Wright.”

  “Of the Madison Avenue Malones?” I asked, blinking up at him in surprise.

  The men in the room chuckled, like this was some kind of inside joke, and one corner of Xavier’s mouth twitched. “More recently of Masters’ Security.” He made a shooing motion with his hand and Walker rolled his eyes as he obediently shifted to the other end of the sofa, giving Xavier his seat. “I understand you need our help.”

  I adjusted my glasses and nodded. “Not for myself, but for my client, Max Pederson.”

  I looked to Sabrina, who tilted her head in acknowledgement. “My late father’s close friend and business associate,” she confirmed.

  I nodded again. “He asked me to get in touch with you. He believes his cellmate has information that might be pertinent to one of your past investigations? And… well, not to put too fine a point on it, he needs your help quite badly in return. The situation doesn’t look good.”

  “Ugh.” Sabrina pushed her red curls off her face in frustration. “His wife was such a bitch, but there’s no way he killed her. I want to help him, if we can.”

  I found myself wanting to smile at the straightforward description of Emma Pederson. By all accounts, the woman had been nasty and conniving, but everyone seemed to be afraid to say so, now that the woman was dead. I liked Sabrina all the better for telling the truth.

  “Indeed,” Xavier said. “And more than that, I’m curious to know what information he has that might help us. Please, Ms. Wright, tell us what you know and what he needs.” To Caelan, he said, “We can fill Ethan in when he gets back.” Caelan nodded his agreement reluctantly.

  I licked my lips, trying to organize my thoughts, reading down the list of bullet points in my mind.

  This was the hard part. I needed them not to simply buy the possibility of Max’s innocence, but to have enough faith in Max’s side of the story that they would go out on a limb and help him. Since I was pretty sure I didn’t have a strong enough case to convince a jury not to sentence the man to life in prison, I didn’t expect this to be easy. But there was no one to plead for him except me.

  I opened my mouth to speak, when the elevator dinged in the foyer and a voice called out behind me, “Christ alive, Walker, is the penthouse on fire? Has the zombie apocalypse finally begun, and you’re patient zero? Did we acquire a cat and lose it up a tree while I was gone?”

  “Ah. Ethan’s home,” Caelan said with a satisfied smile, and Sabrina snickered.

  I smothered my own answering grin by wriggling my size-eight feet inside my size seven-and-a-half shoes until the throb of resumed blood flow sufficiently distracted me.

  “I was just keeping you updated,” Walker defended lazily. “I knew you’d want to be here for this meeting.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But a man can only get a certain number of 9-1-1 texts before he starts to ignore them entirely, my friend,” the newcomer said, the proximity of his voice telli
ng me he’d entered the room at last.

  “Ethan, meet the latest client of Masters’ Security,” Xavier said, cutting through their good-natured ribbing. “Max Pederson’s defense attorney, Haven Wright.”

  I smiled as I stood on my aching feet, extending my hand in friendly greeting before the man’s features had fully registered—the dark, auburn hair with the carefully styled wave in front, the guileless summer-blue eyes I’d stared into a thousand times, the lightly-stubbled cheeks that had only ever been smooth when I knew him, the perfectly pressed button-down and tailored slacks that gave him an air of quiet competence.

  When it did register, with the devastating force of a fragment bomb eradicating every logical thought, I felt my entire body freeze, going ice-cold and locked-down just as I’d been on that April day nine years ago when I’d waited and waited and waited for him to come, to make good on his promise… and had realized in one shocking instant that he wouldn’t and had never intended to.

  I was ashamed to admit that, despite the way I’d tried to erase every memory of Tad Warner from my mind, I could recall every detail of that day, every emotion I’d felt, with stunning clarity. I would never forget that face. I would never forget those eyes. I would never forget what he’d stolen from me.

  Even if, for one second, I’d been uncertain that the man I was looking at—this person they all knew as Ethan—was my Tad, the way he looked at me would have confirmed it. The quiver of his throat as he swallowed, the false-brightness of his smile, the way he hesitated for a second before shaking my hand heartily would have told the tale. I’d learned a lot from Tad Warner about how to spot a fraud. And I knew without a doubt that I was looking at one right now.

  “Ms. Wright,” Tad said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m, uh, sorry I was late. Unavoidable.”

  Unavoidable. Of course. Because he’d been out with Randi… and her assets. Charming her out of whatever information or money or favors he needed, heedless of what she needed or wanted or believed.