Deadly Lies (Deadly 3)

He turned away from the chair. It wouldn’t be empty for long.

Once the news had time to run Jeremy’s sad story, he’d take a new mark. This time, the bastards would know to pay. No one would screw him over now.

He walked back down the hallway and moments later, he opened the front door and saw the first rays of dawn creeping out against the darkness.

His partner came toward him, hurrying in her heels, her breath fogging in the cold. “I think I’ve got the next one.”

He smiled. “No, I do.” Time to move to the next level.

He’d already picked their next victim. Actually, he’d picked them all, months ago. He’d planned out every move, and he wasn’t going to stop. Not until his list was finished, and he’d gotten everything he deserved.

The bastards can pay or they can bleed.

CHAPTER Three

I need money.”

The steady rap of pounding hammers filled the air around Max. Electric saws cut through metal, sending sparks shooting into the air. It took a second for the demand to penetrate the layers of noise, and when it did, Max shoved back his hardhat, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and blinked. “Quinlan? Shit, what are you doin’ here?”

His stepbrother never bothered with his construction business. As far as Max could tell, the guy wasn’t much for getting his hands dirty. The fancy parties, yeah; that was his scene.

But a site like this was all Max really knew. Construction had been his life for over a decade. Long before his mother had hooked up with her prince not-so-charming, he’d chosen this path and busted ass to make his business a success.

Quinlan ducked his dark head and came inside what would eventually be a world-class kitchen. One day real soon, if Max could just get the rest of his damn supplies in on time.

“You heard me, man.” Quinlan glanced around, eyeing the workers nervously, but they weren’t even looking his way. “I need money.”

It wasn’t the first time that Quinlan had come to him. “How much?” His construction company had managed to survive and finally thrive through the years, despite the dive the economy had taken. He wasn’t in the same category as his stepfather, didn’t want to be, but he was doing well enough that the invitations to those fancy parties kept finding their way to his door.

Quinlan shook his head. “No, I want my money.”

Ah, now here was the rub.

His brother’s hands were clenched. “My grandfather left me that trust. The money is mine,” Quinlan snapped.

And it was one hell of a lot of money. Enough money to make a man do some damn stupid things. Max sighed. “You only have two more years, then the trust’s yours.”

“I don’t want to f**king wait!”

Now that snarl did have the guys looking their way because they knew Max didn’t take shit like that from anyone, not even his brother.

“Sorry, I think you’re gonna have to f**king wait.” Max shrugged and reached for the blueprints once more.

“Talk to him. Tell my dad I need more. I need it now—”

“Why?” Max shook his head, aware that his brother was sweating when there was no reason to sweat. “Why do you need the cash?”

Quinlan’s lips firmed into a thin line.

Ah, shit. Max dropped the prints and closed the distance between them, fast. He grabbed his brother’s arms, jerked them out so he could shove up the sleeves of his shirt and see Quinlan’s arms. “You using again?” Quinlan had already been through four rehab programs. Four. The docs would say he was clean, then just a few weeks later Quinlan would be using again.

His brother tried to snatch his arms back. Not going to happen. Max just tightened his grip. “Are you?” The guy wanted money to support his habit. Great, just—

“No!”

There weren’t any needle marks on his arms. But then maybe Quinlan was just snorting coke up his nose again.

“I-I only used the last time because of what happened to—”

“Don’t say her name.” Max didn’t want Quinlan talking about his mom or about the tragedy that had happened to her.

“She said we were brothers,” Quinlan swallowed. “Th-that I could count on you.”

Max dropped his brother’s hands. “You can.” He was the one who’d tossed Quinlan’s ass into rehab. Not the old man. Quinlan’s father hadn’t seemed to care about getting him clean.

“Talk to him, Max. Get me the money. I need it.”

Try earning it. He bit the words back. They’d had that fight already. Quinlan didn’t know what it was like to fight your way up from nothing. To work eighteen-hour days over and over until you thought that you’d collapse.

No, Quinlan didn’t know anything but wealth.

And a prick of a father.

Max had worked until his entire body ached, worked night after night as he struggled to get his life on track. Yeah, he could be in an office now, running things from some plush suite, but…

My projects, my job.

“Please, man, I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

Max gave a curt nod. Fine. He’d talk, for all the good it would do him—and that was none.

“Thanks, Max!” A broad grin split Quinlan’s face, making his dimples flash. “I knew you’d help me!”

Right.

Quinlan spun around and took a few fast steps away. “Oh!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Should have told you last night. That new girlfriend is hot.”

Max stared back at him. Girlfriend? Not quite.

“How’d you two meet?” Quinlan asked.

In a bar. She picked me up. Offered me no-strings sex.

But the strings had come from nowhere last night as he’d just held her and ignored the hard-on that had kept him up until dawn. “Around.” He tilted his head and studied his brother. Were the guy’s hands shaking? Yeah, they were.

Using.

Quinlan gulped. “R-right…. see you, man, okay?”

Yeah, he’d be seeing him again. Max’s lips tightened.

He’d promised his mother that he’d look after Quinlan. A brother, not by blood, but by a mother’s command. He’d promised….

And Max kept his promises. Even the ones he wanted to break.

“Every major newspaper in the area headlined with the Jeremy Briar kidnapping and murder.” Monica Davenport’s cool voice carried easily through the conference room.

Sam shifted in her chair. Yes, she’d seen the headlines. WHO KILLED THE PLAYBOY? Big, bold, in-your-face headlines. But playboy? No, he’d been—