I leave work early, since I'm not able to concentrate. All I can think about is what's going to happen when I see Max tonight. I keep hoping I'm wrong about the "mugging," but the sick feeling in my stomach tells me I'm not.
Max had to have ordered the beating Ramon took. There's no way it's a coincidence that his injuries are so similar to the ones he inflicted on his now ex-girlfriend. And I can't help but wonder if that's one of those extra jobs Gabe does for Max in addition to security.
Just the thought of it is horrifying. It's one thing to be involved in less than legal enterprises, to cross the line into things like money-laundering for people like Gino and Joey D. But the idea that Max could sit behind his desk like some kind of movie godfather giving orders to hurt people or maybe even worse, is making me feel ill.
Martina assumes I'm still upset about the incident with the man who followed me and tried to get me into a car, and says she'll text me if there's anything at the office I have to deal with. There's no harm in letting her think that's what's bothering me. I don't want to tell her the more serious reason I'm upset - as if almost getting kidnapped wasn't bad enough. Especially not my suspicion that the guy she's sleeping with probably beat up our client and put him in the hospital, on orders from the guy I'm sleeping with.
The person I need to talk to about my suspicions is Max himself.
So I go home, which was probably a mistake because I have nothing to do with myself but just wait. I don't even change out of my work suit, other than to discard the jacket and kick off my shoes. I probably should have just stayed at the office and tried to distract myself with some work.
By the time Max gets to my condo at seven I'm pacing back and forth. My nerves are raw, and I just want to get this over with.
Max, however, has other ideas.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asks me as soon as he's through the door.
"What do you mean?" His accusation and his tone catch me completely off-guard. I'm the one who is upset about what I finally figured out today. So why is Max the one who's angry?
And he's definitely angry.
He must have had important meetings today, because he's dressed in a suit, much like he was the first time I met him on the plane from Philadelphia. It might even be the same Armani suit, although I'm sure he has dozens of them. No jacket, but he probably left that in the car.
There are diamond cuff links at his wrists, and his white button-down shirt looks as fresh and crisp as it must have been when he put it on this morning. He looks like any other wealthy and successful businessman who runs perfectly legal businesses, supports local charitable foundations, negotiates deals and sits at the head of a board room table.
Then the glint of his signet ring catches my eye, and it's a reminder of who and what he really is.
He puts both hands on my shoulders, holding me facing him.
"Don't play games with me, Hadley. You know exactly what I mean. You suspected someone was following you on multiple occasions and you never said a word about it. And as a result of ignoring the danger, you almost got yourself shoved into a car today." His expression hardens.
"If you'd told me what was going on I'd have taken precautions."
"Precautions?" The word bursts out of me. Max's eyes are dark with anger, but my own temper, fueled by how miserable I've been feeling ever since my meeting with Ramon this afternoon, isn't that far from flashpoint as well.
"Precautions like walking me to court and waiting for me to come out?" I ask, glaring right back at him. "Maybe joining me on my visit to the state attorney's office? I have a job to do. I can't go to work with a bodyguard." And what's seething inside me right now is that I wouldn't need anyone protecting me if it weren't for Max in the first place.
"You just leave the 'how' to me," Max says, his voice cold. "I'd think you'd have been a little smarter after what happened in Vegas. What kind of people do you think you're playing with?"
"What I'd rather know at the moment is what kind of person I'm sleeping with."
His eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Ramon Suarez. The employee of yours whose case I'm handling."
"We'll get to him. Don't try to change the subject."
"Max, I-'
"No," he say, cutting me off. "We're going to deal with this issue right now. Then you can ask me whatever you want about Suarez and you can tell me how things went with the state attorney's office today. But at the moment, I don't give a damn about Ramon Suarez. I want to know everything you didn't tell me about someone following you."
I'm staring at him and I'm so angry at him and this just isn't how I expected this conversation to go. I thought we'd sit down, and I'd ask him, and maybe he'd have an explanation that isn't what I'm so afraid happened.
"I can't believe you're actually made at me because who you are and what you do has put me in danger."
"Oh, hell," Max says, and the next thing I know he's yanked me close and his mouth is on mine. He's kissing me and I can't help responding. Every emotion I'm feeling - the anger, the hurt, the betrayal - is just pouring through me. My heart is pounding and the blood seems to be racing through my veins.
One of us moans and I'm pretty sure it was me. In seconds now we'll be on the floor pulling each other's clothes off, and it will be too late to stop.
That's not going to solve anything. It's just going to make things harder. What's wrong with me that all I can think about is wrapping myself around this dangerous man and letting him do whatever he wants with me, when what I ought to be doing is running as fast as I can in the other direction.
His hand is under my shirt now, pushing my bra up out of the way so he can run his fingers over my breasts, already aching for his touch. I'm aroused almost beyond the point of no return.
"You scared the hell out of me, Hadley," he mutters as his mouth leaves mine to move down my body, until it closes over one of my nipples, sending fresh shock waves straight to my center.
I press my hands against his chest. We can't do this. I have to stop.
"Max."
The answer is some kind of guttural growl. His mouth is still working my breast, and my body is arching on its own volition to give him better access. He has one arm around my back holding me up, and the other hand already has my skirt unbuttoned and the zipper sliding down.
"Max!" I say louder. "Max, no! Stop!"
As much as my body and my soul are craving him right now, I can't do this.
My words seem to register and he stops, lifting his head from my swollen nipples and moving his hands to my waist, straightening me up but still supporting me. My knees feel weak. If he weren't holding onto me I might just crumble onto the floor.
"You want me to stop," Max says. His voice is measured, with no inflection.
"Yes. Yes, I want you to stop." I actually don't want him to stop, but I need him to. It would be so easy to just push this whole horrible weight out of my mind and lose myself in sex with Max right now. But when it was over, the issue would still be there and I'd feel even worse about myself.
He stands there, still and silent, his arm still supporting me, his expression unreadable.
"I just . . . I can't do this right now," I tell him, even though I'm breathless, and still trembling with arousal.
"Tell me why you're pulling back," Max says.
"I need to ask you something. I need you to tell me the truth."
"I told you I'd never lie to you," he says evenly.
I pull away, walk across the room to the windows with the amazing view of the city lights of Miami, but right now I'm not even seeing it.
I turn back toward Max.
"I met with Ramon Suarez today after my appointment at the state attorney's office."
He just watches me.
"The prosecutor showed me the photos of the victim. Ashley. Her injuries. Her face, her wrist, the bruising on her ribs." I take a deep breath. "And then I met with Ramon. I saw his injuries. The battered face, the broken arm, the cracked ribs."
Max still hasn't said anything. He's not going to make this easy for me. So I steel myself, and I just say it.
"I thought maybe you could tell me how Ramon ended up with worse versions of the same injuries he caused when he abused Ashley."
Max is looking directly at me, but I can't read his expression.
"Did you ask Ramon?" His voice is calm. He sounds reasonable.
"Yes." Maybe I'm wrong. I so hope I'm wrong.
"What did he tell you?"
"He told me he was mugged."
"But you can't leave it at that, can you, Hadley." The tone of his voice has changed. It's not anger anymore, or even the cool dispassionate tone he was using a moment ago. It's more like . . . resignation.
"No, I can't." I steel myself. "Max, did you send someone to give Ramon a beating that mimicked Ashley's injuries? I know you'll tell me the truth."
"I'll always tell you the truth. And if I can't share something with you, I'll tell you that directly." Max walks into my kitchen, opens the cupboard and pours himself a shot of whiskey in a short glass. I'm thinking this is not a good sign.
Then he looks at me and answers the question.
"No, Hadley, I didn't send anyone to beat Ramon."
I feel a quick surge of hope. Maybe I was wrong about this. Max might omit some details, but I do believe him when he says he would never lie to me.
But that hope evaporates with his next words.
"Some things in my business," Max says, "I take care of personally."