Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3) Page 2

  Tallulah’s doesn’t exactly feel shady, but it certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of place anyone closely associated with the Wilders would frequent.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the bartender asks, juicing a lime into a tall Mason jar. He doesn’t stop squeezing to make eye contact.

  “I’m meeting someone. I don’t think he’s here yet.”

  “You’re welcome to wait. Sit wherever you’d like.” He cocks his chin toward an area of the room with a few booths and a smattering of tables scattered haphazardly. He doesn’t ask if I want something to drink while I wait. I haven’t been in Charleston long, but it’s unusual for a local to act like they can’t be bothered. I glance at the half-bushel of limes still to be juiced. Maybe I caught him at a bad time.

  “Thanks.”

  The seating area is situated within earshot of the bar. I eye the booth closest to the back wall where we’ll have the most privacy. I want Sinclair to be comfortable talking because I need answers. Lots of them.

  One of the guys at the end of the bar tips his River Dogs cap as I pass, and his friends greet me with a chorus of pleasantries. The thing about Charleston is that most everyone smiles and says hello. They wield that famous southern charm effortlessly, but despite their impeccable manners, they don’t like outsiders. This makes it almost impossible to get any useful information from them. But I understand. I’m from Boston, and we don’t like outsiders either. The difference is we don’t bother with the pasted-on smiles and polite airs. We’re just plain old-fashioned rude.

  I approach the booth and set my tote on the bench facing the door, pulling out a small notebook with some questions I prioritized this morning. I don’t know how much time Sinclair will give me, and I don’t want the interview to end before I have answers to the most crucial questions.

  While I’m digging through my bag, a man slides into the booth across from me—a behemoth with the neck of an offensive lineman and shoulders that span nearly two-thirds of the bench.

  Sinclair just stares. His face is stern, and he says nothing, not even hello.

  The images on the web don’t do him justice. Sure, they capture his strong features and proud, muscular frame. A few even caught a devilish grin. But he’s not grinning now. And he’s much bigger, and so much more imposing in person. I catch myself gaping, mouth open like I’m on a fly-catching expedition. “Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Smith.” His gaze drills through me like I’m made of cheap drywall that crumbles easily. Sinclair was a Green Beret, and there is a great deal of speculation that he had been a member of the elite Delta Force, but since the US military won’t officially confirm anything about that unit, I can’t be certain.

  “I’m Kate McKenna.” I hold out my hand but he ignores it. It’s a slap in the face that stings a bit, but I hold my temper and disregard the brazen slight. I don’t have the luxury of slapping back. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  His response is to assess me openly, the way a prizefighter sizes up an inferior opponent. It’s unnerving, and instinctively I call up the location of the closest exit. Not that I’m going anywhere—I can’t—he’d have to threaten me with a weapon for that to happen, and even then, I might not walk away. I’m not going back to DC empty-handed. Not this time. “Thank—thank you for meeting with me.” Dammit. I sound as nervous as I feel.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” His voice is deep and rich. There’s a seductive quality about it, much like there was when we spoke on the phone last fall, after I had been assigned to do a feature story on Zack Wilder, the former President’s youngest son. Even though I had hated the message Sinclair very clearly delivered at the time, something about his voice beckoned. I remember it clearly.

  His voice might be intoxicating, but his glare is relentless, tracking my every movement as I tuck a loose curl behind my ear. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I have some questions about Wildflower, the social club Gray Wilder runs.”

  “You want me to answer questions about the Wilders and their business holdings?” His expression is unreadable, but there’s a sarcastic edge to his words.

  I bob my head a few times, the butterflies swirling erratically in my empty stomach. The request sounds foolish and incredibly naïve coming from his mouth. “Mainly about Wildflower. I know you’re in charge of security for all of Wilder Holdings and for the Wilders personally. I just have a few questions about Wildflower.” Stop rambling, Kate.

  Sinclair purses his smooth full lips. I catch a small twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s fighting off an urge to laugh in my face. “What do you want to drink?” he asks, after leaving me hanging for several seconds.

  What do you want to drink? Yes! He’s planning to stay, at least a little while. “I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

  My hands unfurl as the tension begins to dissipate. I’ll have a chance to get some information. How much, though, depends entirely on his cooperation. I’m at his mercy.

  He wiggles two fingers at the bartender, who has abandoned his limes and is leaning over the bar eager to take our order. “Got any of those corn nuts today?”

  “Made a fresh batch this morning.”

  “You’re the man, Beau.”

  When Sinclair’s done with the bartender, he shifts back to me. “Beer. And not a light beer where they’ve siphoned off all the flavor. I’m impressed, Mary Katherine McKenna.”

  Mary Katherine McKenna. It catches me by surprise. Mary Katherine is my baptismal name. It’s on all my official documents, but I never use it. Aside from Nana, and Father Tierney, our parish priest, unless I’m in trouble, everyone calls me Kate. Everyone but Smith Sinclair, it seems.

  I regard him carefully for a moment. He’s testing. I need to turn the tables quickly, otherwise he’ll have the upper hand for the entire interview, and I’ll leave here with nothing.

  I flash him a cheeky smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “I do what I can to impress the fairer sex, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you for noticing—” I raise my brow in a perfectly orchestrated attack, and let my smile fade quietly, “unless you’re insinuating that I should be drinking light beer.”

  I don’t have much of a flair for the dramatic, but that was an Oscar-winning performance. These days most men back far, far away from any comment they make to a woman that might be construed as demeaning. I don’t know what he meant by it, and I don’t really care. I just hope the act was enough to shake him up a bit.

  He sits back comfortably, folding his large hands in front of him on the table, thumbs tapping against one another. His eyes wander from mine, raking over my jittery body, taking it all in—until he’s satisfied. “I’d never suggest that to any woman. Even if it crossed my mind. But you should keep on doing whatever you’re doing. It works for you.”

  Either Sinclair isn’t most men, or the Academy Awards will have to wait. I’m guessing it’s the former as I swallow to soothe a bone-dry mouth, then order my skin to stop tingling. Damn him. He’s still winning.

  Everything about him is unsettling. He’s too big, too forward, too comfortable in his own skin, and he’s taking up too damn much space in my head. At least it feels that way.

  My face is overheated, and I’m not thinking straight. I need to come up with a new plan to win him over because the one I have isn’t working. I should have known better. Yes, I expected him to be a brick wall I’d have to chip away at to get information, but I didn’t expect him to have this kind of presence or to exert this kind of control—he wields control the way Thor wields his hammer: exacting and merciless.

  Getting anything useful from Sinclair is going to be a challenge.

  While I’m still trying to figure out the best way forward, he slaps one hand against the other, rubbing his palms together. “So, Mary Katherine, what exactly do you need in order to stop harassing the Wilders?”

  My stomach coils into a tight ball. Maybe an impossible challenge. “Please call me Kate. When you call me Mary Katherine, I begin to
worry I’m about to be punished.”

  There’s a glimmer in his eyes. “No need to worry in that regard. When I’m ready to punish you, you’ll know.”

  I can’t believe he just said that. And I can’t believe my brain is entertaining the countless ways he might punish me. But what really mortifies me is the unmistakable twinge of arousal between my legs. The kind that happens during a long, hot make-out session with someone who knows how to kiss. The kind of kissing that makes it impossible to stop, even when you know you should. I only hope my puckered nipples aren’t visible through my thin shirt.

  He starts to say more, but the bartender comes over with our beer and a bowl of corn nuts. “Thanks, Beau,” Sinclair says. “I saw your daddy hauling firewood yesterday. Offered to give him a hand loading the truck, but he shook me off.”

  “Don’t get me started on that stubborn old fool.” Beau shakes his head. “The waitress will be here shortly. Holler if you need anything in the meantime.”

  “Carrie on tonight?” Sinclair asks, almost too casually. Beau glances over his shoulder with an easy grin that Sinclair returns.

  For the record, he’s still winning. He’s now established that this is his place, and these are his people. It’s a game for him. Like he’s trying to psyche me out before the pissing contest starts. Good luck, buddy. I have an umbrella in my bag, and I’m not afraid of bodily fluids. I’ve been pissed on before. Shit on too, for that matter.

  Focus, Kate. Focus. You need to regroup. Make a little small talk to warm him up. “How long have you been in Charleston?” I ask, sipping my beer.

  “Three years.” He grabs a fistful of corn nuts and nudges the bowl in my direction. “Why?”

  I shrug, pull a single crispy nut from the container and devour it. Even if I wasn’t starving, I can totally see how these salty little nuggets could become addictive. I try not to seem too greedy as I reach into the bowl for more and pop them into my mouth one after another.

  Sinclair watches with great amusement as the punishing heat creeps up and sets my mouth on fire. I take a big swig of beer while the bastard sits across the table, smirking, those damn dimples winking at me.

  “Go easy with those if you’re not used to spicy food. Or even if you are. The burn sneaks up on you, and it can be brutal. Especially when the nuts are fresh.” He couldn’t have mentioned this before I shoveled them into my mouth?

  I don’t want to guzzle the beer or give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm. “I love spicy food,” I announce brightly. He lifts his glass, but not before I spy that damn smirk again. I take a few more sips, but put down the beer when I realize it’s not helping.

  “Most people I’ve met here are exceedingly polite, but they hold out-of-towners at arm’s length.” I manage to steer the conversation back to Charleston in a steady voice, as though the whole corn nut fiasco had never happened. “How long do you have to live here before the natives stop treating you like an outsider?”

  “You thinking about making this home?” he asks, a big paw gripping the glass.

  “No.” The word comes out quickly. It’s automatic. I don’t need even a nanosecond to think about it. Boston’s home. At least it used to be. And it will be again. I hope. I rub my hands up and down my arms to ward off a chill. “Just trying to figure this place out. It’s somewhat of a mystery. There’s something about the Holy City that makes me believe it’s hiding dark secrets—like maybe it’s not so holy.”

  I glance at him, hoping his expression will give something away. But he doesn’t blink, so I prod some more. “Maybe because it’s such an old city with a complicated history. Not sure. But I can’t shake the feeling that the layers of charm are concealing a black heart.”

  “That attitude certainly isn’t going to win you any friends in these parts. People from here take exceptional pride in the city, and they don’t take kindly to strangers pointing out the flaws in their complicated history.” He draws out each syllable, mocking me. “There are a lot of transplants in Charleston. Many more than the locals would like. Some of them will live out their entire lives here, and they’ll always be outsiders.”

  “So what’s your secret?”

  “What makes you think I wasn’t born and bred here?”

  “Because you grew up at Fort Bragg.” I did a little research too, and now that I’m beginning to settle in, the details are starting to come back to me.

  “When I get to a new place, I adapt to the customs. People are generally proud of where they live, of who they are, and they don’t take well to know-it-alls bringing their own ideas and customs to town—and trying to shove them down everybody’s throat.”

  “That must have served you well in the military.”

  “Ah. Ms. McKenna did her homework.” He rubs the back of his neck and smiles. It’s not warm or sincere, and it fades before ever reaching his eyes.

  “Ms. McKenna always does her homework.” Unlike her mother, she’s not talented or experienced enough to wing it.

  “You’re from Boston. I went to college there. They don’t like outsiders, either. So don’t act like you’re experiencing culture shock.” There’s a sharpness to his voice. He expected me to research the Wilders, but it bothers him that I dug into his background too. The tables are finally turning in my favor, so I push a little more.

  “You went to college in Cambridge,” I say matter-of-factly. He cocks his head to the right, his lips thin and tight. “Harvard is in Cambridge. That’s not Boston.”

  After what seems like an eternity, Sinclair leans across the table, heavily muscled forearms flat on the wooden surface. He’s encroaching on my side of the booth, scowling. His beautiful face and sandy hair, gilded with the kind of highlights some women pay a fortune for, aren’t doing a single thing to soften his appearance. If it weren’t for the gold flecks in his eyes reflecting light, he could be easily mistaken for the kind of monster you wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alley. My heart is pounding again.

  “Now that we’ve established you know my shoe size and how long my dick is, why don’t you just tell me what the hell you want.”

  3

  Kate

  I see. He only likes to play if he’s in control.

  Although his tone is rough and uncompromising, he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. Sinclair is attempting to intimidate me with his sheer size and vulgar language. If I allow it, I’m finished.

  I sit up taller and force myself to lean toward him, gripping the bench for support. “I want to know about Wildflower.” My mouth is pasty and the words get stuck in my throat. They emerge desperate and weak, and just like that, my attempt to project some authority falls flat—in a dazzling fashion. It’s all over his face. His jaw is slack, and the glow of victory shines brightly in his eyes. But he doesn’t rub my nose in it. Not yet.

  “It’s a social club,” he responds coolly, checking his phone.

  “A men’s club?”

  Sinclair slides the phone back into his pocket and takes a drink. “Don’t waste my time with questions you already know the answers to. Most of the social clubs and societies in Charleston were founded by men. You already know this.”

  “The older clubs, but Wildflower hasn’t been around that long.” He peers at me over his glass, but doesn’t respond. I need to know if it’s truly a men’s club. Historically, it’s the all-male clubs that close their eyes to, or even support, human trafficking. “Does the club have female members?”

  “Women have all the privileges of belonging that men do.”

  He’s dancing around the question. But why? “What kind of privileges?”

  Sinclair takes a handful of corn nuts, tossing a few into his mouth, chewing and swallowing like they don’t have the devil’s spice sprinkled all over them. “The spa, tennis courts, gym, dining,” he finally answers.

  This is like pulling teeth from a lightly sedated bear. I need to move slowly, with razor sharp precision. One wrong move and he’ll bite my head off and
run into the woods. “Anything else?” I ask cautiously. I’m careful not to chase him away—or to get bitten.

  “I’m sure there are other perks, like the sweet swag bag members get for joining, but I can’t remember every little thing. I’m not much of a detail man.”

  “I don’t believe that.” It comes out as an accusation. And in a way it is—I don’t believe him. But calling him a liar won’t help my case, so I smile sweetly to temper the impact of the words.

  The waitress comes over, Carrie I assume, and Sinclair chats her up. It’s small talk, with some friendly banter but no real flirting. He doesn’t bother to introduce us. I doubt it’s an oversight. I doubt he does anything that’s not calculated.

  “I see you’ve almost finished off those nuts. Still hungry?” she asks, just at the moment I’ve decided to introduce myself.

  “I—” I don’t get to finish my introduction or to answer her question about food. Not that it matters. She isn’t talking to me.

  “We’ll have two burgers, medium rare. One with a side of fries. The other with onion rings.” Two burgers? He has an enormous appetite. Probably in all things. I adjust my butt on the seat to quiet a small zing between my legs. Wait. We’ll have two burgers? He ordered for me without bothering to ask what I wanted? Of all the overbearing, misogynistic—I’m going to stab him before this interview is over. And no one will blame me.

  “Cheese?” the waitress asks Sinclair. He glances across the table as though it just occurred to him I’m still here and might have an opinion about what I eat.

  “Pepper Jack on the one with the onion rings,” he instructs the waitress when I don’t immediately chime in. “Something mild on the other.” I’m sure his little smirk is meant for me. “I’ll take a refill, please,” he tips his mug, “and bring Miss McKenna one when you bring the burgers.”

  She flashes him a warm, pretty smile. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all for now. Thank you, ma’am.”