The Dangerous Seduction (22 page)

Joseph chuckles and draws in even closer, his leg sneaking between Ryan’s thighs. “Oh, I think you’re worth the wait.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. I never say things I don’t mean. You know that.”

Ryan lets out a sigh of relief, feeling his mouth curve into a tentative smile. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that reassurance. He raises his hands to Joseph’s shoulders and brushes his thumbs over his throat. Joseph’s hand falls off his arm and moves to rest on Ryan’s hip, fingers snagging in his belt loops.

“When the McNeil case is over, I’ll figure out some way to can Sean’s ass for you. I promise,” Joseph says.

Ryan snorts softly and ducks his head so his forehead presses against Joseph’s. “I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I
S
THIS
seat taken?”

Ryan looks up from his copy of the
Sunday New York Times
in surprise. To his reckoning, there were at least four unoccupied tables outside De Angelo’s when he took his seat twenty minutes earlier, and yes, looking around now, he can still see at least three empty tables. The guy who posed the question, however, doesn’t seem to have noticed all the empty places and he doesn’t bother waiting for Ryan to give the go-ahead, but just sweeps the empty chair back and takes a seat, regarding Ryan with an insolent smile.

“You’re trying to place me, aren’t you?” the guy says. The voice is deep and low, the accent pure Texas. It’s oddly familiar, even though Ryan is pretty sure he’s never met him before.

“I can see it on your face,” the guy continues. “You’re trying to work out how you know me. Let me spare you the effort; I’m Jack McNeil. And you’re Ryan Paullson. It’s good to finally meet you, Ryan.”

Ryan gulps back his shock and stares at the man sitting opposite him. Of course. No wonder the face and the voice are so damn familiar. He’s seen this face on the TV, in newspaper reports, and all over the old McNeil Industries annual reports and publicity material. He’s been looking at this face almost every day for the past six months. He can’t believe that he didn’t recognize the guy right away. After all, McNeil has the kind of face and presence that you don’t tend to forget. He’s tall, tan, and imposing, with the air of someone who’s more at home on a ranch than in a boardroom, despite the expensive designer overcoat and the Rolex watch flashing at his wrist. Of course, McNeil actually does own a ranch just outside of Dallas and is reputed to be an accomplished horseman, and he’s definitely still got the broad shoulders, muscled chest and arms of an ex-cowboy.

It has not escaped Ryan’s notice that he’s handsome too, in that older-guy, weather-beaten kind of way—the gray hair peppering his temples and hairline, and the slightly haggard look around his eyes the only clues that this guy is nearer fifty than forty. His eyes are dark, shrewd, and piercing, and he’s meeting Ryan’s stare with a lazy arrogance that’s really grating on Ryan. It’s obvious, just by looking, that this guy is used to getting his own way, that he doesn’t like losing, and suddenly a whole lot of things about the case are making a whole lot more sense. Ryan can understand why the man’s employees might be frightened to go against him, why people like Phil Cartwright might chicken out of testifying, and why even his own father would be so reluctant to speak up. The guy is not used to hearing the word no.

“I know who you are,” Ryan says at last. His voice sounds weak in his ears, and he clears his throat, says more firmly, “What do you want?”

“Just a cup of coffee, like everybody else around here,” says McNeil. He lifts one hand, summoning the waiter with a lack of effort that reminds Ryan forcibly of Joseph. “Triple shot Americano,” he tells the waiter. “Would you like anything else, Ryan?” He hasn’t looked at the waiter, his eyes locked on Ryan the entire time. Mutely Ryan shakes his head. “That’s all,” McNeil tells the waiter, dismissing him with a curt wave of his hand.

“You should stay away from my father,” Ryan says after the waiter has left, narrowing his eyes on the man opposite. “No more meetings at the golf club.”

“Why?”

Ryan hesitates, and a smile spreads across McNeil’s face, showcasing perfectly even white teeth. It’s a sharklike, unpleasant smile, and once again, Ryan thinks of Joseph during the team meetings, Joseph enjoying seeing everybody squirm.

“Your father and I go back a long way,” adds McNeil.

“What do you mean?”

McNeil shrugs; he looks amused, eyeing Ryan like he’s an interesting sideshow attraction. “How about you ask him when he sold his McNeil Industries shares?”

“He’s never owned any McNeil Industries shares,” Ryan retorts.

“Really?” says McNeil, and Ryan is itching to wipe that mocking smile from his face. “Ask him about it; I dare you. Though you might not like his answer.”

“This is bullshit. You just don’t want him to testify against you.”

McNeil doesn’t say anything in response but reaches into his coat and draws out a plain white envelope. He places it on the table, looks at Ryan, and taps the envelope with one finger.

“What’s that?” asks Ryan.

McNeil smirks and tips the contents of the envelope onto the table. They’re two passport-sized photographs, the kind you can have done in any old booth in any public place, the kind Ryan has had done dozens of times. Slowly, McNeil pushes the two photographs across the table. The mocking smile drops off his face and his dark eyes narrow on Ryan.

“I’m doing you a favor, kid. You need to get out when you can. Go back to that sweet piece of ass if she’ll still take you.”

Ryan blinks at him, uncomprehending; then he lowers his eyes to the photographs. They’re old, faded, a little creased around the edges, but he has no problem recognizing the two people in them—McNeil, with a lot less mileage around the eyes, no gray in his hair, a huge beaming smile on his face; and with him Joseph, shockingly young and absurdly pretty with his long eyelashes and green eyes and big smile. Joseph is sitting in McNeil’s lap, with his lips pressed to McNeil’s cheek, his hand in McNeil’s hair—Joseph so young and innocent and beautiful and so obviously in love with the man sitting in front of Ryan.

“He kept the other two. I kept these. I expect he got rid of his copies a long time ago. Not me, though. I still carry them around with me like the sentimental old fool that I am.”

“How? How long? When?” His voice cracks into a whisper as he forces himself to look up from Joseph’s young, smiling face.

“He was eighteen there,” says McNeil softly. “And I was stupid and couldn’t help myself. I was married, but I couldn’t help myself. I left my wife and kids for him. I wanted him so badly. He just—he got in there”—he taps the side of his head—“and he never quit. Never, ever fucking quit.”

“But you broke up? You must’ve broken up?”

“More times than you can count. That first time, I went back to my wife. She was the mother of my kids. And Jesus, someone in my position couldn’t be seen with a teenager! So I gave him up—for a while. But it never went away.” He licks his lips, then shakes his head a little, looking almost rueful. “He never went away. A year or so later, I went looking for him again. He was at Harvard, and he took me back. God, I remember being so damn grateful that he took me back. This punk kid, not even old enough to drink in a bar and I was fawning around him like a bitch in heat, flying to Massachusetts practically every fucking weekend. He played me for all he could get. He got me to set him up here in New York after he’d finished law school, had me pay off all his college loans. I even bought him his first apartment, here in New York. You wanna know where he got those fancy expensive tastes from? Well, it wasn’t me. I was never into any of that crap. Give me a bar and a game and a couple of beers and I’m happy. But I was crazy about him, I lived for those moments when I was with him, and he’d bleed me for everything he could get.”

McNeil breaks off as the waiter comes to their table, depositing his coffee and the check. McNeil reaches into his coat again to draw out his wallet and another of those envelopes. Ryan barely notices. His mind is fixed somewhere else, picturing young Joseph with his perfect face, big green eyes, and curling wicked smile. Joseph, who had Jack McNeil, CEO of McNeil Enterprises, one of the biggest, most powerful companies in the entire country, wrapped around his eighteen-year-old finger, already so smart and focused and knowing exactly what he wanted from life.

The waiter glides away again, and Ryan watches McNeil open up the second envelope. He takes out another picture, a Polaroid this time, and pushes it across the table. Ryan seizes it, stares down at the two people grinning back at him. Joseph and McNeil again, an older version of Joseph than the kid in the passport pictures, maybe in his early twenties, but still looking so young and beautiful that it makes Ryan’s breath catch. The two of them have their arms thrown around each other in the picture, faces flushed and rosy and beaming, McNeil’s face slightly turned toward Joseph, watching him like he can’t quite believe he’s that lucky.

“That was Valentine’s, 2001. He dragged me to this goddamned gay bar, all these queens in drag and twinky kids with their asses on show and guys in leather. Never felt more out of place in my whole damn life. I was terrified someone would recognize me, but he insisted. First and only Valentine’s I spent with him, and he made sure I hated every minute of it. He could be one vindictive bitch when he wanted. ’Course when we got back home, he made up for it. He got down on his knees and sucked my cock with that pretty mouth of his. God, no one can suck cock like my boy.” His mouth curls up at the corner, a gesture that reminds Ryan suddenly and sickeningly of Joseph. “You’ve probably noticed that,” he adds.

Ryan swallows, acid and bile choking the back of his throat. He feels nauseated, the coffee and cigarettes tasting rank and sour on his breath. He keeps his gaze on McNeil. He’s not letting the bastard see how much he’s affected by this—by the thought of this guy and Joseph—
my boy
—
he’s not giving him that pleasure.

“When did it finish?” he says finally.

McNeil stirs a couple of sugars into his coffee, taking his sweet time to answer Ryan’s question. He sips his coffee, then resumes the narrative like he’s delivering a bedtime story. “He was doing work for me by this time. Nothing on the books, but I’d give him shit to read over. He was really fucking smart. He understood all that lawyer crap better than the useless sons of bitches I had on retainer. I never went in for a big deal without having Joseph go over the paperwork first. He knew my company as well as I did and I trusted his judgment completely. He never steered me wrong, not for fucking years. Until the Penrose acquisition. You probably know about that?” Ryan nods, and McNeil smiles ruefully.

“Yeah, that fucking deal. Joseph worked on that deal for me—off the books of course, as normal. But he insisted that he wanted real compensation for it. He said he’d been doing all this work for me for free and he wanted some real payment. For free? That was a fucking joke, like the apartment and the presents and the accounts at Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdales and every other fucking high-end tailor in the city didn’t count! Like the thousands I’d paid out on his fancy education counted for shit! No, he said he wanted real money this time. He’d already gotten himself an offshore bank account; Joseph was always good with money. And so I arranged to have the money channeled there as a consultant’s fee like he wanted. Only a couple of other people knew about it.”

“Phil Cartwright,” Ryan murmurs. “Was Phil Cartwright one of those people?”

“Yeah, Cartwright knew. He was one of the few people with clearance to set it all up.”

Everything is slotting into place with a terrifying, horrible kind of sense. The Penrose account payout, the one he’d seen in Cartwright’s paperwork that fateful day in Houston, the one he’d shown to Joseph, the one Joseph had insisted wasn’t important or part of the case.
That was Joseph’s account, Joseph’s money
. Joseph, who was supposed to be defending the ex-employees of McNeil Industries against their old boss, had secretly received payments—fucking huge payments—from the same company.

“I bought Penrose because of Joseph. I voted against the board to buy that company on Joseph’s advice because I trusted him. But it was a setup. He was playing me and I had no fucking clue. I was in love with him; I was crazy about that kid, and like a stupid fool, I listened to everything he told me. And he told me that company was good for the long-term.” He pushes out a breath and shakes his head. “It was all lies; that company was a poisoned chalice. Two years after I bought it, we’d made huge losses, the share price was sinking, and I was urging my employees to buy to prop us up.”

“So you admit it, then? You admit that you deliberately misled your employees? You threw them to the dogs to save your own sorry ass?”

McNeil takes another sip of coffee, eyes him over the rim of his cup. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, kid.”

Ryan leans over the table as he gazes into McNeil’s face. “I think I just heard the truth. If only I had a wire on right now, then our case would be over. You’d be found guilty and paying out the billion in compensation you owe them.”