Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(15)

Seconds tick by, the elevator dings, and the doors open. “And the terror ends,” he says softly.

Now I turn and he grabs the door. “Escape awaits you.”

There is playfulness to his tone, but it does nothing to mask the understanding in eyes that has me feeling like he sees far more than I want him, or anyone, to see ever again. Darting forward and welcoming the solid footing of an unmoving shiny floor, I’m trying hard not to think about fires and earthquakes and other reasons being this high up could be dangerous. Jason steps to my side and we pause in a hallway that forks left or right, with only two penthouses, one in each direction.

“Left,” Jason instructs, but I don’t take the direction. I face him and when he does the same of me, I am again struck by how tall he is, and how small I feel in his big, glamorous world.

I realize right then that once I go into his apartment, I’m at the mercy of my attraction to him, and I halt. “Can you just bring it here?”

He laughs without humor. “No.” His hand settles on my back and he turns me, and starts walking.

“You are—”

“A bull charging and taking you along with me. I know, but I’m not leaving you here to run away.”

“I’m not running or I wouldn’t be here.”

“People change their minds.”

I have no idea why, but I don’t think he’s talking about me. “Do you?”

“Of course,” he says, stopping at his fancy red door that I’m pretty sure is a luck thing, but then, why wouldn’t a gambler be all about luck? I don’t want him to be about luck. I’ve heard that before and it fails. Maybe looks and a plan that includes luck is the lethal combination about to undo his success.

He shoves open his door. I face him again. “Red Bull . . . Jason . . .”

“Trouble?”

“Yes. Trouble. You are trouble.”

“No,” he says, his tone, and his mood, suddenly somber. “I am not trouble. I’m just in trouble, and I need your help.”

There is a rawness to his voice, to the distress in his eyes, that hits a familiar note I can’t dismiss. Needing help and not having it is something I understand. My resistance is officially undone and I walk into his penthouse, a spicy scent of autumn and cinnamon teasing my nostrils. It’s warm and inviting, like family and friends—not sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.

The door shuts behind me and I bite my lip at the open, round foyer before me, with a glass statue in the center that looks distinctly familiar. “Is that a bull?” I ask, as Jason joins me.

“Yes. That’s a bull. A little ode to the game that changed my life, and that of my family.”

“Family,” I repeat, trying to remember the last time I used that word.

“Yes. Family.” He motions to two large cedar doors. “My office.” He crosses in front of me and opens the doors.

“Is your family still in New York?” I ask.

“No. My mom and dad run a bed-and-breakfast in Rhode Island.”

He waves me forward and my heels give on the soft floor. I glance down and then at him. “Is this a leather floor?”

“Yeah. Pretty freaking awesome, right?”

“Yes,” I agree, rather charmed at the pleased, almost excited lift to his voice that says this place, or maybe even his money, is new to him. “Pretty freaking awesome,” I say as I enter a spacious windowless office, a heavy wooden desk in the center.

Jason moves ahead of me and walks behind the desk. I walk toward him, noting the many poker awards on the walls and photos of him with other people. Stopping beside a leather visitor’s chair, I slip my purse off my shoulder and set it on the floor before claiming the seat for myself. Jason opens a drawer and removes an envelope before walking back around to my side of the desk, leaning on it to face me, and offering the envelope to me. “Look inside.”

Cutting right to the chase. No games. I’m both pleased and freaked out. If he’s being blackmailed, it’s a crime, and people who have everything to lose can operate like they have no limits. I swallow hard and open it. Inside I find a photo of two chips, both matching the one I have in my possession. Oh God. Did she want him to find one, to prove she had another? I glance through several pieces of paper, each sealed in a Ziploc bag—all promises that he will be framed for theft, many of them with nasty, horribly graphic messages.

My stomach rolls, and I close the envelope and hand it back to him. “I’ve seen enough.”

He takes it and sets it on the desk. “You’ll let me in the storage unit?”

“What do you hope to find?”

“My blackmailer. I need to find her.”

“And then what?” I challenge. “Kill her?”

He grabs me and pulls me to my feet, hard against his body. “You still think I’m a crazy person but you came here with me?” His words are taut, laced with anger.

“You said there were cameras,” I say flippantly. My hand flattens on his chest, over his heart, and I can feel it racing. “What will you do when you find her?” I ask, totally serious now.

“Set her up. Tape-record her and get her to admit that she’s blackmailing me. What other option do I have?”

“The police—”