kissed-by-moonlight by Rakhibul hasan (ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📕

want kept buried.

 

A skeleton knocking on the walls of their closet.

 

It’s the best part about investigative journalism. The dirt digging.

 

It took a little research, a few phone calls, and a quick trip to a sketchy part of town to get it all together, but by the time I’d gotten what I needed Evans had managed to convince A.I. to send another group of representatives.

 

They agreed under two conditions:

 

That they be allowed to bring their own security.

 

That they’d be meeting directly with Evans and not a subordinate.

 

 

 

I didn’t see a problem with it, but I advised Evans to make sure that Penelope Jensen was also present at the meeting; once all the terms were agreed to, we convened in Gabriel’s office. Even with the three people from A.I. and three security guards, there weren’t nearly enough of us to fill up all the seats at the overly large conference table. Seated at the head of the table, Evans looked perfectly at ease while the rest of us, Marcus included, seemed dwarfed by the sheer space. I was afraid we’d have to yell to be heard, but thankfully the acoustics in the room were nothing to sneeze at.

 

“What’s all this about?” Penelope Jensen spoke up almost as soon as Evans took a seat. “You don’t honestly think we’d listen to anything you had to say after what you did to Fredrichs this morning?”

 

As she spoke, I pulled a small digital recorder out of my purse and set it on the table. Then I shrugged. I’d asked Evans to let me lead things and he seemed content enough to do so.

 

Curious.

 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jensen,” I began, “but I’m afraid I don’t know who Fredrichs is.” I could only assume that he’d been the guy who’d gotten his ear bitten off before passing out, but no need to rehash the past. “I am, however, close friends with Georgina.”

 

At the name, she frowned, looking to her companions for clarification. I almost felt sorry for her. Penelope Jensen was an older woman, refined, poised. Her steel gray hair was cut into a flattering pixie cut and sources told me that her husband, Judge Jensen, was hoping to run for governor one day.

 

Fortunately for us, sources told me a lot of things.

 

Sources had big mouths.

 

“Please. This should explain everything.” I pressed play on the recorder and watched, emotionless, as Jensen’s complexion turned an alarming shade of puce. For a moment the room was silent, but for the hoarse pleas and moans coming from Judge Jensen as he was rammed from behind by Georgina, the six-foot tranny ho (I just called her Genie). The silence lasted until someone choked. It was Evans, and whatever struggle he was waging with himself lasted only until Judge Jensen’s orgasm had him singing a warbling, breathless rendition of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid before he dissolved into outright raucous laughter.

 

I stopped the tape and Jensen looked at me as if she’d very much like to bury her stiletto in my eye. Smiling, I asked sweetly, “Does your husband often sing Disney when he comes?”

 

“There’s no proof it’s him,” she snapped. The attitude told me that he was indeed a fan of the Disney musicals. Eh. Not that I was judging. Some people were more “spank me, daddy; pull my hair” than “it’s better down where it's wetter.” But in the end, all of it was the same thing.

 

Dirty talk.

 

I shrugged. “No proof it isn’t, either,” I told her, not unkindly. “And Georgina can be very convincing when she wants to be. Things like this have a way of making life…difficult,” I warned her. “Aggravated assault charges are like that too. Unnecessary trouble.” I sent a significant glance towards a still laughing Evans, before raising a brow at Jensen. Then, popping the recorder open, I took out the mini tape and slid it across the table to her. “You can keep it. I have copies.”

 

Jensen’s jaw tightened, her teeth ground together, and her icy blue eyes spit rage.

 

“Where’s. The damn. Contract.”

 

Jackpot.

 

“No one ever sheds a tear for the wolf. Not anymore.”

 

—Sinclair Morrison

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

 

 

 

“I like not being in jail,” Evans’s comment was slow and golden with pleasure.

 

“Jail likes not having you,” I assured him, feeling rewarded when he turned and smiled at me.

 

“Miss Conners,” he said slowly, stepping all up in my personal space to grip my hands in his own, “that was cold, calculated, and devious.”

 

“Thank you,” I said, truly touched.

 

“No, thank you.” Lifting my hand, he pressed warm lips against my knuckles, his eyes trained on me the whole time. It brought on a little shiver that I hadn’t felt in a long time, and, to my surprise, I felt heat rushing to my face.

 

The dimples appeared, but before I could swoon at the sight and make an ass of myself, Marcus cleared his throat. Funny. I’d completely forgotten that he’d been standing there the entire time.

 

Shooting him a look of pure irritation, Evans released me.

 

“I’d like to take you out.”

 

“Like. For dinner?” I squawked. Jeez. I’m so smooth.

 

He laughed. “Yes. For dinner. As a thank you. You have no idea how important this was.”

 

He was right. I didn’t know. And the reminder that I’d been planning on digging the information up somehow at a later date, took away a lot of my pleasure at being asked out. Going out with him, being alone with him, liking him, was wrong on so many levels, even if I was just who I was pretending to be.

 

“There’s no need for thanks,” I told him, unable to squelch the disappointment in my voice. “I was just doing my job, Mr. Evans.”

 

I’m not sure what expression came over him at that, because I’d already turned my back on him to gather my purse from the now abandoned conference table. But if the uncomfortable way that Marcus shifted was any indication, it wasn’t at all pleasant.

 

“Fine,” he said, his voice overly careful. “Another time then. And please, call me Gabriel.”

 

From most men it would have sounded like a polite suggestion. From Gabriel Evans it bordered on an outright order. It was all about inflection I supposed. I swung my purse strap over my shoulder and turned to him with a smile.

 

“Of course. And you can call me Phaedra.” I wrinkled my nose. “‘Miss Conners makes me sound like an elementary school teacher.”

 

My attempt to lighten the mood fell flat. He just looked at me, amber eyes quiet and thoughtful, and head cocked to one side.

 

“Phaedra,” he breathed, voice like music against the syllables of my name. Turning it into something magical and unfamiliar. “Phaedra.”

 

Hearing him say my name like that, as if it were something sweet to roll around on his tongue and savor, had me shivering again, and wide-eyed I found myself looking to Marcus for help.

 

“Come on, big guy,” he said, slapping Evans on the shoulder and bringing him out of whatever spell he’d fallen under. “The lady is heading to lunch, and you and I have another meeting to go to.”

 

It was like someone offered a kid a puppy and then told them they couldn’t touch it. His expression was a paroxysm of disappointment, before he sighed and straightened his shoulders.

 

“Enjoy your lunch Miss—” Hesitation. Then, mischief and a naughty, naughty smile. “Phaedra.” He purred darkly.

 

My back went ramrod straight, and my nose went in the air, but no matter how quickly, or stiffly, I moved, I couldn’t get the sound of his chuckles out of my head or make the red fade from my face. I marched out of his office wondering if I could somehow convince Dawson that I wasn’t a coward for canceling the investigation because the mark made me react like a pre-adolescent girl with a crush.

 

* * * *

 

“Do you ever notice how everything that you’re supposed to stick up your vagina is all in one shelf?”

 

The old woman bypassing the aisle I was currently standing in turned her head enough to glare at me before continuing on.

 

“Will you focus?” Sonya snapped, her voice an irritated warble in my ear. I stopped examining the condoms, tampons, and douches long enough to roll my eyes at my cell.

 

“Oi. Tame that shrew. I don’t have time for your attitude. I’m trying to engage in a friendly conversation,” I said, turning to wander off, only to pause with a sigh of disgust. “Correction, I told Sonya, my gaze burning holes in the baby diapers and infant paraphernalia directly adjacent from the contraception and vibrating sex rings. “Things that go in your vagina and things that come out of your vagina? All in the same aisle. It’s like this in every store. Every time I go to buy tampons I know everyone who sees me is wondering whether I’m pregnant, horny, or in need of some good old fashioned feminine wash. It’s actually really stressful.”

 

“Phaedra.”

 

She sounded exhausted. Poor thing. After a final grimace at my surroundings, I moved on.

 

“There’s not really anything else to tell,” I assured her, wondering for what felt like the hundredth time where these people kept the chocolates. It was basic human fucking rights to keep all sweets within arm’s reach of patrons. Or at least in their direct line of sight. What sort of sicko designed a pharmacy this way?

 

“And you really couldn’t get anything?”

 

I understood her frustration so I allowed my voice to soften. “I searched the office while they were at some meeting and there was nothing. They have a second room, but I couldn’t get past the lock. The only hard evidence I have is that Judge Jenkins is a freak in the sheets. Not exactly what you were hoping for, but it’ll sure as hell give me a chuckle or two. Along with a quiet sense of satisfaction.”

 

“Damn.” The expletive was without heat, and silently, I echoed the sentiment. “We need to get those cameras and microphones up ASAP.”

 

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said, my spirits lifting as I stumbled upon the holy grail of candy aisles. “What’s the status on that anyway?” I asked, filling my little hand basket with caramel filled goodness.

 

Sonya laughed, but not like she was happy. “Turns out Mark is using them for some investigative report on the plastic surgery of the rich and famous. We won’t be able to get our hands on any of it until he’s done.”

 

“You’d think our story would take precedence.”

 

“He called dibs.”

 

“Prick.”

 

“Don’t I know it.”

 

We both sighed at the same time, and, satisfied with my spoils, I headed up to the cash register. “There’s something I want you to look into,” I said finally. “There’s a group calling themselves the Huntsmen running roughshod over Evans and his people. How about you see what you can dig up on them for me?”

 

I’d been chewing on this bit of information every since Evans and Marcus had told me about them. While I’d love nothing better than to do the digging myself, I knew Sonya would appreciate something more hands on. Plus, I had no idea how deep she’d have to go to get anything good, and if Evans caught me anywhere near the Huntsmen…

 

Let’s just say I was fond of both of my ears and leave it at that.

 

I couldn’t afford even the slightest rumor of dishonesty. I needed him to learn to trust me, but we also needed more leads. I wanted to know why a group of self-proclaimed rebels had made Gabriel Evans their target. What had he done to make them hate him so much?

 

Sonya was brimming with as many questions as I was by the time I’d finished filling her in on what I knew. Her voice was tight with excitement, and I found myself smiling a little as I parked my car in front of my building.

 

“I’ll start working on it tonight. I know a guy in the police department who may be able to give me a few names. It won’t be much, but it’ll give us a start.”

 

“Sounds great,” I told her, phone pressed