Rush: A MacKenzie Family Novella (The MacKenzie Family) Read online

  She still got to him and Brant knew it, knew what he was asking. He was one of the few people who did. Too much tequila on a ski trip and Rush had spilled his guts, telling the story of how a gutter kid from Baltimore had reached too high and fallen for the prom queen. The girl from the rightest of right side of the tracks, complete with generations of sterling silver spoons in her mouth and a title…several of them, actually.

  Lady Olivia Rutledge-Cairn.

  His Livvy.

  For a brief time also known as Mrs. Atticus Rush.

  And known to a very few as “Irene Adler”—a name given to her by a charmed Interpol agent who had failed to catch her half a dozen times. As the world’s most infamous modern-day thief, she was uniquely qualified to find the location of anything of great value, including a young girl.

  Rush knew she could do it. She’d stolen his heart and he’d never gotten it back. She was that fucking good.

  Goddamn, he’d loved her. He hadn’t known he was capable until she walked into his life on her ridiculously expensive high heels.

  “I can’t ask her, Brant. She won’t do it for me.” He was about to say that the divorce had been ugly but really, it hadn’t. He’d found out who she was. She left. He filed. She didn’t fight it. It was final on their one-year anniversary. And three years later, he was still reeling from the body blow.

  But maybe she wasn’t. All indicators were that she’d moved on. New lovers. New thefts. Her usual jet-set lifestyle of parties and vacations on private islands. If there was ever a reason to test the waters of how deep her hatred ran, this was the time.

  “Fine. I’ll ask her.” He resumed placing the weaponry in the specially designed duffel, his mind already calculating the hours lapsed, the time to travel, and when they could expect the first call from the kidnappers. They didn’t have a ton of time to fuck around. “Try to get in touch with your guy just in case Olivia isn’t up to playing nice or shoots me on sight. I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes and your pilot needs to file an expedited international flight plan.”

  Brant was nodding, already dialing his phone when he looked up. “International?”

  “Yeah. Olivia is in Mexico.”

  “You know where your ex-wife is at this very moment?”

  He laughed and didn’t try to disguise the bitter edge to the sound. “Marriage to Livvy taught me that knowing where she is at all times is a very good thing.”

  Chapter Two

  She didn’t recognize the car in her driveway.

  SUV. Rental. She wasn’t expecting any guests.

  Olivia didn’t quicken her pace. This was her favorite time of the day, strolling the quiet streets of the waterfront Mexican village where she kept one of her several homes. July in Mexico probably wasn’t most people’s ideal time to visit, but an early lifetime of England’s soft rain and mild summers caused a bone-deep craving for the hottest of days. Heat that penetrated down to her marrow made her feel alive, vibrant, happy.

  The breeze from the ocean swept up the back of her dress and ruffled her hair as she mounted the steps and turned the latch on the gate. Inside the walled courtyard the air was cooler, the shade deeper, and the smell of flowering tropical plants almost overpowering. She followed the sound of voices to the seating area, wondering if she’d forgotten an appointment.

  “Matilda, I’m home,” she called out, rounding the corner with a curious smile on her lips.

  She should have done something cliché, like dropping her straw tote and spilling the fruit, vegetables, and fish across the terra cotta paving stones. At the very least she should have teetered on her high-heeled sandals, had to grab the chair to keep herself steady. But she didn’t do any of that.

  She was Lady Olivia Rutledge-Cairn, only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Lisdale, and she damn well knew how to keep her cool when a ghost appeared on her patio.

  Even if the ghost was Atticus Rush.

  A large, dark, brooding specter rising from the burial ground of her heart, their volatile love and disastrous marriage. Time had changed him a little. There were more lines around his eyes, and a long, nasty scar on his forearm that hadn’t been there three years ago dissected one of his favorite tattoos. The full beard and mustache was new but suited him. But the biggest change was the dark mane of hair, pulled back with a leather thong and ending just below his shoulder blades. It was the polar opposite from the severe Navy-issued “high and tight” he’d worn when they’d met.

  “Atticus, what the bloody hell did you do to your hair?” It slipped out before she could stop herself.

  The man beside him snickered and Olivia recognized that he was Brant Scott, an old friend of her ex-husband. He’d been on the list of people to call if she’d needed help when Atticus was deployed.

  “Why the fuck is everyone so concerned about my hair?” Atticus growled as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. The heated glower on his face, combined with the hostile stance, reminded her of stories of marauding Norsemen depicted in some of the old tapestries covering the walls of her childhood home.

  “You look like a Viking ready to plunder the shores,” she said, hoping her tone was lighter than she felt inside. Gut tight, heart pounding, mouth dry, she had to clutch her fingers tightly around the handles of her tote to keep from taking the few steps between them and kissing him or something equally insane.

  “I won’t be invading any Saxon territory today,” he said, his tone less grumpy but devoid of any soft or suggestive innuendo. She took his words at face value. Whatever brought him here, it wasn’t the sudden urge to reconcile.

  Olivia swallowed down the regret-soaked lump in her throat and turned to the thing she could do in her sleep and in any state of disappointment: hospitality.

  “Well, then…” She turned and handed her bag to her housekeeper with a smile. “Matilda, the invaders come in peace. Can you bring out some cool refreshments?” She approached the man standing beside Atticus, leaning up to accept his kiss on her cheek. “Brant, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “You too, Olivia.” He smiled back at her but it faltered when he shifted back, glanced over, and left a clear path toward her other guest.

  She stood still, waiting for a cue from her ex-husband on how this would go. It was awkward when you went from knowing every intimate detail of each other’s bodies to people who only spoke through their attorneys. They both stared at each other for a moment and then she remembered that the last time she’d seen Atticus she’d been the one to blink first and this wasn’t going to be a repeat. She waited him out, only letting out her breath when he spoke.

  “You look good,” he observed in a gruff tone. The brusque compliment was accompanied by a brief nod in her direction. There was no move to touch her or close the distance. It was… disappointing, but she’d never let it show.

  “Thank you,” she said and covered up her nerves with taking over serving the refreshments delivered to the table. Olivia motioned for them to sit as she offered up the icy drinks. “Tea? Beer? Iced coffee?”

  “You drink cold tea?” Brant asked, indicating his choice of beverage.

  “Have you noticed how hot it is? I’m British, not insane.” Olivia turned to Atticus, handing over the iced coffee she knew he would prefer. Actually, he’d want black, hot coffee but the thought of being within five feet of a steaming urn of anything made her cringe. Their fingers brushed but she was ready for it, schooling her features to disguise the leap of her heart and the full-body shiver at the contact.

  Atticus did jump a little, enough for her to tell, and she smiled a the grin growing wider when he glowered and placed his glass on the table without taking a sip.

  “You’re not thirsty? I can get you…”

  “This isn’t a social call, Olivia,” Atticus said. “We need your help.”

  His tone was hard, urgent—in total contrast to the softer plea in both his and Brant’s eyes. Whatever this was, it was serious, and her own fin
gers stalled over the drink tray.

  “Well, let’s get to it then.”

  Brant began. “Katrina Hickman, a twelve-year-old girl, was kidnapped this morning in front of her school. We need you to help us find out where she’s been taken.” He glanced at Atticus. “He is going to lead the extraction team once we locate her but we have no leads about her location.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear this but I don’t see…”

  Atticus cut her off. His tone was even but she could feel the urgency coming off him in waves. She wanted to get up and put her hands on him, soothe him. In some way this was personal for him.

  “We think this could be retaliation against her father, Senator Alan Hickman. My guess is he’s been hanging out with dangerous men, the kind who have no qualms killing a young girl or doing much worse.”

  She flinched. She knew what “worse” meant.

  Brant joined in. “Your connections, your skill set, your ability to locate things on legitimate and illegitimate markets are what we need right now. This is a very short fuse and Hickman is hiding things from us. We’re going to have to fight dirty to get the intel we need to save this girl.”

  She scanned them both, trying to process the information. Yes, she was very good at locating items—especially items that were not on legitimate markets. Her connections around the globe gave her contacts to people who dwelled in the light of day and in the underworld. And yes…she had the gift of taking things. She did see it as a gift; her mind could assess a scene, take apart the puzzle of access, alarms, and security, and then flawlessly and seamlessly remove the item and disappear into the night.

  How Brant knew that she did all those things would be a topic for another day. Apparently her usually close-lipped ex-husband had confided in this man and spilled her secrets.

  “MacKenzie Security has a plethora of employees who can do what I do. Why not use them?”

  “My people are in places where I can’t get them back in time,” he said.

  She turned her gaze to Atticus. “This is acceptable to you? Our working together?”

  “You know Katrina Hickman, Livvy. She was the young girl who sent me the drawings when we were… together.” He stumbled over the word and her throat tightened with the impact of his vulnerability. “The one who you said—”

  “…made me feel like the other woman.” Suddenly it all came back to her. A small, blond-haired girl who worshipped Atticus with an adoration that made your heart ache with its sincerity. She’d been sweet, so lovely. Olivia had liked her, recognizing a girl who was dying for some attention and affection from her own experience. “Oh no, not her.”

  His dark eyes locked on hers and this time she couldn’t suppress the shiver. He was clearly upset by this situation—who wouldn’t be?—but this was also personal for him. She could feel his anxious pain just under the surface of his skin, see it in his eyes.

  If he’d remained cold and distant she could have agreed with no hesitation, but the pain in his gaze over this girl cut her to the quick. His ability to shut down completely had been something she’d gotten used to during their brief marriage. So, it was the rare glimpses of his huge heart, his massive capacity to care about something that rocked her world.

  Even if a sweet little girl hadn’t been in danger, she’d have done it for that look alone.

  “I need to pack a few things. I can be ready to go in twenty minutes.”

  “Great,” Brant said, rising from his seat and grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call the pilot and get us cleared to leave.”

  He walked away, his phone pressed to his ear as he gave directions. Atticus stared at her across the table, his expression as difficult to read as always.

  “Say something, Atticus.” How many times had she said that during their time together? “I know this wasn’t your idea.”

  “No. It wasn’t.” He stood, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off the tension weighing down the air between them like a humid veil. “But Brant is right. You are the best for this job.”

  She rose to her feet, walking over to him. He was much too tall for her to look him directly in the eye but with her heels on, she didn’t have to crane her neck to at least gaze at his chin. He turned and she fought the impulse to step backward. They were closer than she’d planned but she wasn’t going to be the one to yield ground.

  “This isn’t a trick, is it?”

  “What?” His eyes searched her face, his expression of confusion a welcome change from the glowering he’d done since he’d arrived.

  “This isn’t a ploy to get me back in DC and turn me over to the FBI?”

  “What? No.”

  His hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her close. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the brush of his hair against her bare shoulder. She swayed on her heels a little, enough to cause her to reach out and grasp his hip for balance.

  “You can’t blame me for asking,” she said. “The last time we were in the same room together you planned to turn me in.”

  He inhaled sharply. “You have my word.”

  “Do I?” His eyes narrowed at her question, not liking the fact that she’d questioned him. Well, that was just too bad. “Do I?”

  She leaned up before she knew what she was going to do, shock racing over her skin and causing goose bumps when their lips met. It was barely a brush of skin on skin, the heat of their breaths slickening the slow glide of their lips. It wasn’t until she did it that she realized how much she’d missed it, wanted it.

  Olivia pulled away, backing completely out of his zone.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked, his body turning away slightly as if he needed even more distance between them.

  She said the first thing that came to her mind, the truth of the matter. There was no honor among thieves but Atticus had his own personal code and it was unbreakable.

  “With our past, this bargain had to be sealed with a kiss.”

  He let out a sharp bark of taut laughter, the first hint of a smile, and she responded in kind. When he did that, she couldn’t fail to respond. It had gotten her in trouble with him before. She needed to be careful. “Judas betrayed with a kiss, Livvy.”

  She gave him a long, lingering look before turning toward the house. She needed to pack clothes and her tools.

  “You might be many things, Atticus Rush, but you are no Judas.”

  Chapter Three

  Rush really hated pretentious pricks.

  He didn’t like many people, period, but he really despised pretentious pricks.

  Senator Hickman was the pretentious prick that every up-and-coming prick in Washington, DC aspired to be. He was also a criminal and had a morality that was so far into the darkness it resembled those weird mutant fish that existed in the depths of the ocean. Blind and oddly colored like C-4 explosive.

  A bottom dweller. That’s what Hickman was. And if it wasn’t for an innocent young girl, he would’ve kept his promise to never do anything for him again.

  “Mr. Scott.” The senator rose from behind his desk and extended his hand to Brant. The office was huge, decorated in “early presidential aspiration” and spanned almost the entire width of his expensive DC townhouse. “Thank you and MacKenzie Security for handling this for me.”

  Brant shook his hand, his own smile equally fake and tight. “As I told you, our firm is booked with other missions but I’ve brought on the best to lead in the rescue of Katrina.” He motioned to Rush. “I know you’re familiar with Rush.”

  The senator stilled, his face losing all trace of civility. The cold, harsh expression on his face was the real deal and when you saw it, you realized that the other was a mask. Unfortunately enough people were fooled that he kept getting reelected.

  “Is he the best you can do, Scott?” the senator asked, his voice loud and ugly. He was obviously going to act like he hadn’t requested for Rush to do this for him. He couldn’t even be straight up when his daughter’s life w
as on the line.

  “He’s the best,” Brant said and Rush got tired of being only the subject of this conversation.

  He advanced into the room, his heavy boots thumping loudly on the hardwood floors. They all turned to face him—Brant frustrated at his failure to follow directions to make nice with the assholes and Hickman’s face flushed an angry red. Rush stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed and eyes sharp.

  “I’d love to keep discussing how big my dick is but we’ve got a little girl to save and you asked for me because I’m the one to get it done. So, why don’t we cut all the bullshit and you tell me who you’ve been playing with, Alan? What dirty pig have you been rolling in the mud with and what did you do to put your daughter at risk?”

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” Hickman fumed.

  “I don’t look like I’m in uniform anymore, do I?” Rush looked down at his clothes and back up with a smirk on his face. “I can talk to you any way I want.”

  “Gentleman, we have a young girl who needs our help. Do we need to whip them out and measure or can we just move on? I’m sure I have a little ruler in my purse.” Livvy walked right into the middle of the testosterone circle and stared them all down, one by one. Dressed all in black—high heels with a sexy ankle strap, dressy short-shorts, and a top that slipped down and exposed a creamy shoulder—she was pretty fucking magnificent. She stuck out her hand for Hickman.

  “Lady Olivia Rutledge-Cairn,” she said, casting her eyes in a slow circle around the room, her smile sweet with a hint of wicked. “I’m here to help in any way—”

  She tripped and lurched forward into Hickman. He reached out and caught her, his disgust morphing into a leer and hands wandering in dangerous proximity to her ass. Rush growled and Livvy laughed and scooted out of grope range while still sending out a “catch me if you can” vibe. He didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit. Every part of him screamed that she was his but he had a court issued document that said otherwise.