Dead Man's Bluff

The Blackmail

“You’re going finish what you started,” Christopher Blackwell
announced. He casually crossed his boots on a corner of the desk and clasped his
hands behind his head. Balanced on his thigh were three manila folders. A definite
smile was held securely in place. Today was a good day and he planned to savor
every moment of it.

Jonathan Mackenzie outright chuckled at the guy’s
audacity: first for barging into his office like he owned the place, then for
thinking he had the right to bark orders of any kind. Hiking the sleeve of his silver/grey
suit to check his Rolex, Mackenzie realized he had a few minutes to spare, so he’d
play along. Leather crunched as he reclined into a more relaxing position on
the opposite side of the desk, the only side that truly mattered. To anyone
passing by the narrow strip of window in the office door, Blackwell was a
potential client and someone who could be tossed out on his ass as soon as
Mackenzie tired of him. Mackenzie crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, I need
a decent laugh …what exactly am I going to finish?”

“Manipulating your son into Megan’s bed,” Blackwell
replied without blinking an eye.

Surely Mackenzie’s deep laughter could be heard all
the way down the hall. He unfolded his arms and leaned forward, placed his elbows
on the desk, wearing an amused expression. “Sorry, but that little ordeal is
already finished. Drew’s realized her for what she truly is, which is nothing worth
pursuing any further.” He dug a ballpoint pen out of the inside pocket of his
jacket and flipped open the leather binder on top of his desk. “Now, make sure
you close the door on your way out.”

Blackwell didn’t move. “I don’t think you
understand. I wasn’t giving you an option.”

Mackenzie clicked the pen and tossed it down on the
desk, his expression hardening. “Dammit, how did you even get pass the
secretary without an appointment?” When Blackwell did nothing more than raise a
brow, Mackenzie asked, “Why would I want to get them two back together. My son
is a hell of lot happier without that girl in his life.”

“Really?”

“There’s
nothing you can say that will convince me to persuade my son to get involved
with that tramp again.”

Blackwell
picked up one of the manila folders and tossed it over on the desk. It slid to
a rapid stop in front of Mackenzie. “Your first reason is in there. Extortion.
I’m pretty sure your company frowns upon it, not to mention the law.”

Mackenzie’s
face went ashen as he pulled out the convincing documents inside.

The
second folder slapped the top of the desk. “Moving right along…there’s a signed
confession from a mute that states you paid him an ass-load of cash to start a
barn fire, but he refused. Weren’t planning on roasting marshmallows were you?”

“He’s
not mute. He’s a con artist.” Mackenzie growled through gritted teeth. “He’s also
a liar. Nobody will believe him. He has a rap sheet longer than…well, longer
than yours. He has no father and his uncle is in prison, the same place you’re
mostly likely headed.”

Blackwell’s
smile brightened, “I’m thinking you might beat me there. It might be worth the
trip to see you turned into some guys bitch. So who did you bully into your
dirty work?”

Mackenzie
returned, “The fire was an accident, a cigarette not fully extinguished. The
Fire Marshall confirmed it. I’m sure you already know that, since apparently
you have an odd fascination with my life.”

“I
don’t know, a man died, a good man I hear. But we’re getting sidetracked; it
doesn’t really matter if anyone believes the guy as long as Drew does, which
I’m kind of thinking he might. You see, I’ve figured out the only thing capable
of hurting you, what you fear most… is your son seeing you for what you truly
are. He is the one person whose opinion matters to you.” Blackwell swung his
legs down and leaned forward slowly scratching the final folder over the desk towards
a sneering Mackenzie. “Last reason you’re going to do whatever I tell you to do…You’ll
find a paternity test inside. All legit. A 98% DNA match.  It seems Drew does
indeed have a brother, one you’ve known about all along?”

The
two held gazes, a stare down from hell, a Spanish matador waving red in front
of a bull.
 
Silence stretched and settled
heavy in the room. A vein bulged in Mackenzie’s temple.

Blackwell
spoke, “One question. I’m curious. What made you decide Drew was worthy of the
Mackenzie name and not me?”

Only
now did Mackenzie show a faint smug smile, for a brief moment. “Because your
momma was a good for nothing slut. I wasn’t even sure you were mine, hell, I
don’t even think your momma was sure.”

“And
you never took the time to ask questions?”

“Didn’t
care to.” Mackenzie shrugged a shoulder. “Either way, it didn’t matter.”

Blackwell’s
smile deepened as he leaned back into his chair. He shook his head. “You never
cease to amaze me. I’m thinking it might be kind of nice having a brother. We
can share our sadness over what a screwed up father we both have.”

The
muscle along Mackenzie’s jaw tensed, hardening under the surface. His eyes
turned a coal color, hatred filling them. “This isn’t about you telling
Drew…this is about blackmail. What is it you’re really after?”

Laughter
rose up from Blackwell’s chest. He whistled through his teeth. “I guess I
inherited your passion for playing games.  I get this intense rush from the
power of being able to manipulate people. Is that how it is for you, pops?”

“Fuck
you.”

Again,
Christopher couldn’t resist laughing. He’d grown so cold inside nothing the man
said could hurt him now. “Not what you’d expect a father to say to the son he’s
just been reunited with, but you never have been predictable, have you? Oh
well, you got this ball rolling…it should be real interesting to see how this
little game of yours plays out for everyone involved.”
♠                  

One

Drew Mackenzie never claimed to be a saint.
In fact, he claimed the exact opposite on more than one occasion. If a woman
chose not to heed his warning, well, then it was her own damn fault.
Sunlight fought its way through a crack in the dark curtains waking a hung over
Drew. He tried to stretch in his bed, but couldn’t for the weight of the girl
tucked under his arm. Oh hell, hadn’t he lived this nightmare before? Yes. He
remembered now—a cheek glued to his bare chest by a puddle of drool. The memory
was a hundred beers ago and too many women to put a number on.
Why was it still only one woman who wouldn’t stay out of his damn head? Maybe
he needed to go see an exorcist and have her exercised out of where she did not
belong.
He carefully removed the arm stretched across his chest. Slid out from under
the sheets, and sat on the side of the bed placing his head in his hands. After
a couple of minutes of soothing the ache behind his eyelids, he glanced back at
the woman laid out on her belly the sweep of richly colored hair obscuring the
side of her face. She stirred in-between the sheets.
With her hair like that, where he couldn’t fully make out her face she almost
looked identical to…now that would just be sick, wouldn’t it?

He reached for the flattened pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, took one
out and lit up. Smoke made a slow climb toward the vaulted ceiling. Numbly, he
came to his feet, wedged the cigarette in-between his lips to free his hands so
he could retrieve a pair of jeans to pull on. He quietly walked out to go start
coffee. He needed a cup, black and strong, strong enough to screw his head back
on straight.
It couldn’t have been no more than five minutes later when his guest emerged
from his room.
“Why’d you let me drink so much last night? My head is pounding,” she groaned,
attempting to comb through some of the tangles in the back of her hair. She was
wearing one of his buttoned-down shirts. White. A stark contrast against her
olive complexion. The top three buttons were left undone showing off the
substantial swell of her breasts.
He filled a mug, slid it over the black granite countertop in her direction,
and came around to rest a hip against the corner of the island, a wicked smile
already in place. “Baby, once you get started, I don’t think there’s a man
alive that can stop you.”
A corner of her mouth edged up. “Is that so?” She crossed the distance between
them, pressed the length of her body into his, a hand sliding seductively up
over his naked chest to the nape of his neck. She tilted her face up, her
gorgeous mouth hovering near his. “I didn’t hear you complaining about anything
I did last night.”
His hands settled on her waist, and his head dipped so he could have a taste of
her. “You’ll never hear any complaints coming from me, but I’m afraid I don’t
remember much about last night. Maybe we should take this into the bedroom where
you can refresh my memory.”
“What’s wrong with right here?” she purred as one of her legs came up to rest
on his hip that special part of her rubbing along the growing erection under
his jeans. His hand slid along her bare thigh.
He smiled against her lips. “Are you offering to be my breakfast?” In one swift
movement—fingers firmly gripping her ass—he lifted her and flipped her around
setting her on the counter top, the perfect height for what was coming next,
which was him. They kissed while undressing each other quickly. He had her
shirt unbuttoned, and she had his zipper halfway down when he moaned, “Damn,
you feel so good, Meg...”
Her body went stiff. His stomach fell and his lips froze over hers. He opened
his eyes to find her green eyes giving him the look of a woman scorned. She
pulled back, “Did you just call me Meg…as in your ex-girlfriend Megan?” Clearly
she could read the shocked expression on his face. “You did, didn’t you?” Her
palms smacked into his chest causing him to stumble backwards. She leapt off
the counter, buttoning her shirt as she plopped down on the leather sofa with a
sigh. “It’s obvious you’re not over her yet.”
Wait. How the hell did she even know about Megan? He hadn’t shared any of his
personal shit with anyone, especially not her. He shook his head, and some of
his common sense returned. What was the ultimate goal here? Sex. This little
slip of the tongue was a minor bump in his plans to enjoy a well-rounded
breakfast. The morning was still salvageable. He kneeled in front of her and grabbed
her wrist pulling her to him. “Come here, you’re being ridiculous. I am
definitely over her.”
She wrenched her wrist out of his grasp, moved her arms so he had no chance to
capture them again. “That’s a lie. You’re always bringing her up.”
His head snapped back, “When?” Why the hell did it matter? His baggage was his
to deal with, not hers.
“I don’t know. In your sleep.”
He sat back on his hunches and raised a brow. “Okay, now you’re sounding like a
jealous girlfriend.” He stood, still staring down at her in disbelief. This
non-relationship was suddenly becoming too complicated. Prickly sensations
crawled up his spine. He’d seen, Fatal Attraction. The movie had scared the
living shit out of him. “Jill, we’re not together. You know that, right? We’re
not dating. We’re not a couple.”
He was vaguely aware that her hands were fisted in her lap. Shit. How had he
missed the moment they’d moved into dangerous territory? What had it been, two,
maybe three dates? Women are unpredictable as hell. He raked a hand through his
hair searching for the appropriate words to explain it was just sex. Are there
any appropriate words? Or did using the term “fucking” pretty much sum it up?
She just wouldn’t let it go. “It’s because of Megan, isn’t it?”

He
exhaled all the breath in his lungs, exhausted. “It’s not Megan! It’s been two
years since I’ve seen the damn girl!”
Her face bled of all color. Oh hell. What had he said wrong now?
Jill surged to her feet, and got right up in his face. Her cheeks flamed with
color. He took a step back. Her green eyes narrowed. “Two years?” She held up a
hand. “So…I’m not sure I understand. Did you or did you not just break up with
your girlfriend? Because by the way you act…I’ve always assumed…”
“First of all, Megan was never my girlfriend.” He stopped, his brows creasing
with confusion. He’d never really thought about it. How would you define his
relationship with Megan? “It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Like you and me?” she returned.
When he didn’t answer she turned and headed towards the bedroom. He assumed she
was on her way to dress and leave. Thank goodness! His head hurt. His chest
hurt. And he had a feeling it was more than a hangover. All this “Megan” crap
was turning and twisting his gut, tying him into a damn pretzel. What he needed
was something stronger than beer, and he knew exactly where to find it. He went
straight for the kitchen cabinet beside the refrigerator, and took out a bottle
of Tequila. He contemplated a glass, but decided the means of delivery didn’t
really matter as long as the liquor done its job. He unscrewed the lid from the
bottle and poured the tequila straight into his mug of black coffee. In a
matter of seconds he’d downed the entire contents of the mug. He took hold of
the edge of the counter and shook off the chill that raised the hair on the
back of his neck and arms.
Jill exited from the bedroom and watched him. He could sense her standing
there. His gaze met hers over his shoulder and he hated what he saw reflected
in her eyes. Pity. She felt sorry for him. “You haven’t seen this girl in two
years, but you still act as if she is someone you lost recently. How many girls
have you been with since her, Drew?”
Hell. So this was it. She wanted him to lay it all out for her. The truth. His
voice cracked and he avoided meeting her gaze straight on. “Enough to know it’s
not helping.”
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the sight of her wiping tears from her
cheeks. Her chin came up, and she straightened her posture reminding him what
had attracted him to this certain girl in the first place. It was her refusal
to let an asshole like him define who she is. “Wow. Do you really love this
girl that much?”