Brock

by Roxanne St Claire

  Seriously, it was no contest.

  * * *

  By the time the meeting broke up, it was pouring, and the dark skies were a perfect match for Brock’s mood. He’d taken enough shit from Graham and Trey to last a lifetime in the past few hours, but among them all—since Logan, Phillip, and Devlin joined them—they were able to get on the phone to put out a few fires and hold off some others. To his credit, Trey saved the McKinney deal with some very smooth talking and a few new promises on the negotiating table, and Devlin recouped the boat order.

  But it was up to Brock to get the photo taken down and get a retraction, so he was going to have to go into town and hunt down that son of a bitch Hazlett, unless Jenna had already succeeded there. At the moment, the picture was still up and gathering comments.

  “Parade’s been postponed for a few hours due to weather,” Logan said, pulling out his phone to read it as they walked out of Graham’s office and headed through the oversize kitchen of the estate. “Better hope Hazlett hasn’t left town early.”

  “I’ll find him, but first I want to find Jenna.” And apologize for being an ass. Unless she was already—

  “She’s gone.” Nana popped her head out from behind a newspaper, where she was tucked away at the kitchen table.

  His blood went cold at the announcement. She’d really left? He’d hoped she would ignore that unfair order, but now…

  “In the Range Rover, a while ago,” Nana said.

  Relief washed over him as he slid out his phone and called her. “Then she’s not gone for good.”

  Logan threw him a look. “I sure hope to hell you didn’t tell her that my dad said she should leave. He was just pissed as hell.”

  “I…” Am an idiot. “I know where she went,” he said, stepping toward the door, listening to the phone until his call went to voice mail. “I’ll find her.”

  On the short drive to the Bickmore, Brock peered through the windshield wipers and rain for any sign of the estate Range Rover, swiping his hair back and blowing out noisy exhales of frustration.

  He should never have left her like that, never let her think he blamed her for something out of her control. He’d explained that in the family meeting, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. His family members were more concerned about undoing the damage to the business than exactly how it happened.

  With no sign of the Range Rover in the hotel parking lot, he left his car with the valet and rushed into the elegant hotel lobby, marching straight to the counter to demand they call Oliver Hazlett. But that wasn’t necessary, because he recognized one of the desk clerks from the Vault.

  She gave him a bright smile, and he returned it, dismissing any guilt if she thought he was flirting, because after a two-minute conversation, he was in the elevator, heading to room 546.

  No one answered the first knock, but when he called Hazlett’s name, the door opened slowly to reveal the little man with wire-rimmed glasses and narrowed, distrustful eyes.

  “Mr. Black—”

  “Get it down,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Hazlett paled. “I’m sure I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you do. Get that rag to take down the picture and issue a complete retraction now.”

  He swallowed. “I can make a call.” When he tried to close the door, Brock blocked it with his foot. “I’ll listen to the conversation.”

  To his credit, Hazlett didn’t try to fight Brock, but let him into the entry hall, where a suitcase was packed and ready to roll.

  Silent, Hazlett pulled out a cell phone and tapped the screen, then put the phone to his ear.

  “On speaker,” Brock demanded.

  His eyes shuttered in frustration, but he did as he was told. A moment later, a voice mail message for John Germaine of Celebrity Watch came through the speaker.

  “Hey, John, Ollie Hazlett here. I was, uh, wondering if you could do me a favor and pull that Insta post about the Blackthorne book? It turns out the source was wrong. So, uh, I know you don’t want misinformation floating around. Let me know when you can pull it. Okay, thanks.” He tapped the phone and gave a tight smile. “Good?”

  “Far from it,” Brock said. “Why would you feed that crap to a tabloid? Just to sell books? To put Jenna in a corner? To ruin her relationship with…” Me. “The family?”

  He snorted, setting the phone on top of the suitcase. “I’ll take door number one: to sell books, sir. Surely you understand that.”

  On the suitcase, Hazlett’s phone rang.

  “Answer it,” Brock said. “I want proof that picture’s coming down.”

  Without taking his eyes from Brock, he reached down and touched the phone screen.

  “Hey, it’s Roger Platt.”

  Roger Platt? Brock’s stomach tightened as the name echoed through the room. What the ever-lovin’ hell was he doing on the phone?

  “I can’t wait much longer for you, Mr. Platt,” Hazlett said. “I have a plane to catch.”

  “Then catch it,” he said. “I saw that lady writer in the lobby and told her what I needed to tell you.”

  “Which is what?” Brock demanded.

  At the sound of another man’s voice, Platt went silent for a few seconds. Then the phone clicked off.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Brock fisted his hands, ready to wring the skinny guy’s neck if he didn’t get a straight answer.

  “One of Jenna’s sources wanted to give me information for her since she’s been so…unavailable.” His brows flickered. “I do wonder how long she’s just going to ride her mother’s fame.”

  “So you haven’t seen her?” he asked.

  “Not since you two left the party unconscionably early.”

  Then the only person she’d talked to was Platt. And she hadn’t checked in to the hotels, as he’d so horribly suggested. The girl at the front desk confirmed that. So, where was she?

  Without another word, Brock stepped back into the hall and as he walked, tried to call Jenna. Once again, the call went to voice mail.

  Frustrated, he headed back down to the lobby then out to the street, coming to a complete stop when he was soaked by pouring rain and a flash of lightning.

  All he could think was that Jenna was alone in a storm and needed him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A little lightning. That’s all it was. A flash here, a rumble there.

  Jenna gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel of the Range Rover, refusing to let the weather deter her as she found her way back to the Salmon Falls Distillery. It wasn’t listed as a location on her GPS, but the actual falls were, and once there, she was sure this four-wheel-drive beast could get her through the route they’d followed on foot.

  The entire trip, she’d banged out a plan in her head for getting safely up into the loft. First, she stopped at the hardware store and bought a small grappling hook and rope, two powerful flashlights, and a Swiss Army knife. Then she visualized how to create a barrel pyramid to get her higher than Brock had been when he’d tried to get up there. And she’d have her phone to call him if she needed help.

  But right now, she just wanted to find whatever might be left in the barrel with two names, then surprise him with what she found. Not only did she want to prove to him she was on the Blackthornes’ side, but whatever she wrote about them would not be for Filmore & Fine.

  Damn Ollie and his quest for profits.

  The rain intensified as she got closer to the falls, but she managed to spot a side road she remembered them taking that day. Turning onto it, she moved on instinct and memory, eventually rolling up to the dilapidated distillery, sitting in the car for a moment to let her heart rate, and maybe the rain, slow.

  Neither did.

  After a few minutes, she gathered her bag of tools, said a silent prayer, waited out the next bolt of lightning and thunder, then made a dash. With every step, she held her breath in fear until she reached the sliding door that Brock had shown her the last time they were there.

&n
bsp; Inside, the building seemed bigger, darker, and even creepier than that last visit. She stood for a minute in the main, open area, flinching at a bolt of lightning flashing outside the missing windows.

  The sooner she got in and out, the better.

  She headed to the stairs to the basement, using one of the flashlights to light her way. The stairs weren’t nearly as steep as she remembered, but then, she and Brock hadn’t had a light. This time, she could easily see where she was going, but that might not have been a good thing. The basement was filthy, dank, and right out of a horror movie.

  Rain splattered down one wall, turning it black and dripping loudly at the bottom. The barrel that Brock had used to climb was right where he’d left it, though. And so was the barrel with two names on it, up high in the loft. Was the proof she needed in there?

  As she made her way across the basement, she shone the light on the spot where they’d been sitting, with the unopened bottle of whisky right where they’d left it, tempting her with its liquid courage.

  But she ignored it all and moved the beam up to the loft, holding it on that barrel.

  Jenna moved on instinct and hope, wrapping some rope around her waist and knotting it, then tying the grappling hook to the end. She’d never climbed a mountain in her life, but the approach made sense and seemed safe…ish.

  Starting to sweat, she created her pyramid of barrels, two on the bottom and one on top of that. It took her about seven feet off the ground so she could just about reach the bottom rung of the makeshift ladder of two-by-fours. With her phone in her pocket, two flashlights on the floor aimed up to light her way, she started to climb.

  Outside, thunder rumbled nearly constantly, close by and in the distance. With her full concentration on her task, she ignored it. It wasn’t until she had her hands on the wall-mounted rungs that she realized this was the first time in memory that she’d lived through a storm and hadn’t yet thought of that awful day in the closet.

  If nothing else, that made this venture worth the trouble.

  She climbed to the next rung. So far, so good. She was able to climb past the board that had broken under Brock’s weight, getting a kick of satisfaction as she got higher.

  A clap of thunder almost made her lose her grip on the board for a split second, but she held tight and finally got to the loft, which smelled like mold and dust and…whisky. Was there whisky in that barrel? No money and no recipe?

  Time to find out.

  “Please don’t break,” she whispered as she put some pressure on the first floorboard of the loft. When it held, she added some more pressure, and more, and then took her little hook and smacked it into a solid piece of wood for insurance before she climbed up into the loft.

  The floor squeaked, sagged an inch, but it held her.

  Moving gingerly, she crawled the few feet to the barrel, taking out her phone to add more light.

  The now familiar barrel-and-thistle logo was crystal clear up close, burned into the oak, along with the words Platt Blackthorne Distilleries. Contents: Platt Gold Whiskey.

  Careful not to release her safety grappling hook, she stood slowly and pulled out the Swiss Army knife, praying like hell this didn’t end up covering her in a barrel full of hundred-year-old liquid gold.

  She stabbed the seam on the top like she’d seen Brock do during their tour of the distillery, forcing the knife into the crack. Then she wiggled, sliced, and twisted until she heard a pop.

  Very, very carefully, she lifted the lid, bracing for the onslaught of whisky smells, but there was nothing but…a little dust.

  Her heart pounding, she took her phone and shone the light inside, gasping out loud at the gun resting at the bottom.

  “Holy…” She stared at it, blinking at the revolver, almost afraid to touch it. No, definitely afraid to touch it. “What the hell?”

  She squinted, seeing that it rested on a white piece of paper. The recipe? She wanted to reach in, but didn’t want to bump a revolver that might or might not be cocked…or maybe have someone’s fingerprints on it.

  Taking a deep breath and holding it, she reached all the way in and grazed the edge of the paper, just barely managing to get it between her fingertips and slide it out ever so slowly so she didn’t disturb that gun.

  Letting that breath out, she directed the light on the paper and stared at the words written in the same hand she’d seen on that card.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  Let it be known to anyone who finds the body of Alistair Blackthorne that he deserved to die. When you cross the powers that be, you meet the wrong end of our gun. And if you made it this far, you won’t be alive for long. We made sure of that.

  Augie “The Duke” Satrielli

  The Duke? The man Meredith Blackthorne wrote she was scared of meeting? But the mafia didn’t kill Alistair Blackthorne. Fiona told her Alistair died at the ripe old age of ninety-five and was buried at the estate. But The Duke must have thought he killed Alistair…

  They ain’t never found his body.

  She was right. The mafia mistakenly killed Wilfred Platt, and that had to be the reason Alistair had arranged to pay a million dollars a year to the Platt family. It had nothing to do with a stolen recipe. It was guilt for the wrong man taking the mafia’s bullet. It was an act of caring for the Platt family.

  She had to get down. She had to call Brock and—

  The board under her shifted with a noisy crack. Gasping, she rolled off of it just as the wood split from the piece next to it, falling twenty feet with a noisy thud.

  “Oh God.” She flailed for a second, and the next board sagged suddenly, creaking under her like a whine of warning that it was next. On a shriek, she shoved herself farther toward the wall, bumping into another barrel that was leaning at an odd angle. It rocked, rolled, and fell, tumbling all the way down and exploding with a crash of splintered wood and…whisky.

  You won’t be alive for long. We made sure of that.

  By booby-trapping the boards?

  The smell wafted up, making her slam a hand over her mouth and nose and turn away toward the wall, where she saw something behind the remaining barrel. It was round and white and smooth with holes and—

  She screamed so hard the vibrations ripped at her throat, a shout of terror so real and raw that nothing could silence her as she stared at the skull. And bones. A full skeleton lying right next to her in an abandoned basement during a thunderstorm.

  Just as her scream turned into a sob of horror, the last board cracked, making her slide down, grabbing helplessly at the broken wood. The Platt Blackthorne barrel fell past her, landing with a crack and the deafening pop of a single bullet being fired.

  Her board didn’t break, but her grappling hook slipped free, hanging from her body toward the ground. She clung to the last piece of wood nailed to the wall, dangling twenty feet above hard concrete.

  If she lost her grip or the board broke, she would die in a pool of whisky.

  * * *

  All roads led to Roger Platt. They might be muddy, washed out, and difficult to find, but Brock moved on instinct and that old gut feeling that used to spur him on during a lively game of hide-and-seek. Psych out the person you’re looking for, think of the most obvious place they’d be, then go somewhere slightly different but still the same.

  This time-tested formula took him to Salmon Falls, but as he neared the home of Roger Platt, he veered off in a different direction. Too obvious, too simple.

  Gut instinct was sending him to the distillery. The barrel. The heart of this.

  A spidery white line zipped through the slate-gray sky, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder. With each one of those, his heart cracked a little more, and he drove a little faster, imagining Jenna braving the storm to get to the truth. The thunder still echoed as he neared the distillery, coming around the last bend to see…

  The Range Rover.

  “Thank God,” he muttered, throwing the Porsche into park and whipping open the do
or with no regard for the rain. His foot hit mud, but he sloshed to the other car, squinting inside. But any hopes that she might be sitting out the storm were dashed.

  No, she’d gone after that barrel, twenty-some feet in the air.

  He ran full speed to the entrance, which had been left open. Just as he opened his mouth to call her name, he heard a long, muffled, blood-curdling scream almost immediately followed by the deafening pop of a gunshot.

  “Jenna!” He croaked her name, breaking into a run across the floor toward the basement, forcing himself not to call out again in case someone was down there with a gun.

  He paused for one second at the top of the stairs, blinking at the strange uplighting, listening and hearing…a low moan and whimper, followed by fast, short breaths.

  Without making a noise, he headed down, coming to the bottom to see Jenna clinging to the last board of the loft, dangling high over the concrete floor covered with whisky.

  Once again, he kept from calling out, because scaring her with a loud shout might make her fall.

  “Jenna.” He almost whispered the word. “Don’t move. I’m here. I’m going to save you.”

  “Brock,” she sobbed.

  “Please don’t move.” He started across the basement, looking up, trying to imagine how the hell she got all the way up there.

  “There’s…a dead man…up here.”

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “Someone did. Eighty-some years ago.”

  Ooof. “Okay.” His feet splashed in what had to be a barrel’s worth of whisky on the floor. “Let’s just make sure there isn’t a dead woman down here.”

  “Mmm.”

  She was trying hard not to cry, her arms quivering, her legs dangling, her whole body facing away so he couldn’t see her face. But he didn’t want to distract her or take one more second than necessary.

  “There’s a hook,” she rasped. “If you throw it and hit the wood, it might hold me.”

  And it might not, but it would be added insurance if he dropped her when she fell. “Okay, okay. I have it.” He closed his fingers over the grappling hook. “I’m going to throw it.”