“There was an unexpected emergency.”
I cringe at the pointed comment. “So you’re not here on vacation?”
He lifts his brows and shakes his head. For a faceless power, Erick is actually rather handsome. Had my parents had a choice in the guys I’d been attracted to as a teenager, then he’d have been top of the list. Not genius-less, sick, and weak Jimmy. But strong, smart, superbly turned out Erick. With his perfect hair, face, and body. Christ, he’d make a male model feel antsy. He stands there, looking like he’s about to take part in a photo shoot, hair slicked back in a neat quiff, expensive suit not creased by the air travel, the sleek tailored lines of his clothes hiding a body that is trim and taut. It’s nauseating.
And the sickest thing, I suit him.
God. It’s probably why I avoided him as a kid, when he actively sought me out. Another sore point between Lucy and I.
“A visit with the folks?” I ask, ever hopeful.
He sighs. “No, Murray.”
Rolling my eyes at the nickname, I grunt, “I grew out of that name when I turned eight, Erick.”
For the first time, his face lightens. The instant it does, I’m on edge. Mostly because he has lifted his hands and is resting them on my upper arms. “You’ll always be Murray to me.”
It doesn’t come as a shock to feel Nate’s hand on my shoulder. I can’t deny, I’m slightly confused. The Nate I’d just been dealing with is a new entity. I’m not entirely sure what the fuck’s going on. As it is, that horrible churning in my gut has made itself known again, so even though I’m dampening down how stressed I’m feeling at the moment, my body isn’t having any of it.
“This is Nathan Conroy, Erick.”
“My mother’s told me a lot about you… Nate, isn’t it?” Erick’s eyes switch from my face to Nate’s hand. “So formal, Marina. That’s unlike you. Mother had assured me you’re as vocal as ever.”
“I try not to disappoint,” I bite out. “Unless it’s my parents.”
Erick snorts, a somewhat incongruous sound considering he looks like something from a magazine front cover. “They always were morons.”
Despite myself, I grin. “They were, weren’t they?”
Our mutual amusement has the still-silent Nate tightening his grip on my shoulder. “If you’re not here on vacation, van der Viel, then why are you here?”
“So you know who I am?” Erick cocks a brow.
I don’t blame him for being somewhat taken aback. His very life depends on his anonymity. We only use his original name because he’s a Blue Ridge native. Everywhere else, he has different nom de plumes. It would be facile to think differently. The last time I heard, which was from his mother’s gossip four years ago, he was something powerful in the State Department.
“Dorothy is proud of you,” is all Nate says, but there’s an undertone to his voice. One I don’t trust.
He’s hiding something. I can tell. I’m just not sure what.
Erick doesn’t seem to notice; but he rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, the woman could never keep her trap shut. Even if it’s a state secret.” He sighs. “Natalia, are the arrangements made?”
“Yes, sir.” Natalia steps nearer to our closed group. “The bank transfer has just taken place.”
“Natalia’s accommodation costs have just been transferred over to the commune’s bank accounts. Nate, can you see her to her rooms? I need to talk to Marina.” Erick speaks with such self-assurance, a natural born leader, that it wouldn’t have shocked me if Nate leaped to the order. As it is, Nate doesn’t. Again, I bear the brunt of his fierce grip on my shoulder.
“No, van der Viel.” An annoyed grunt escapes me as I watch the clash of formality between the two men. It’s almost like being pissed on by two wolves claiming territory. Theoretically, Erick has no right to feel, in any way, territorial. That hasn’t stopped him, throughout every part of our acquaintance, from acting as though he does. “I’ll have Sam Denison take care of Natalia. Whatever you need to say to Marina can be said in front of me.”
Erick frowns down at me. “Like that, is it?” He purses his lips. “I’m not sure Marina would feel the same way. I need to discuss personal business with her.”
“Her personal business is my business.”
“Butterflies, Murray. It concerns…butterflies.”
I close my eyes and sag into Nate’s hold. Papillon is the French for butterfly. It had been wishful thinking to believe myself free from that side of my life. If not free, then detached from it.
Apparently not.
“I know about Papillon, van der Viel. As I said, anything concerning Marina can be discussed in front of me.”
Erick isn’t stupid enough to waste time on a stalemate. He grunts, “Fine, dammit. Then get Sam out here to take care of Natalia. I need to speak to you urgently, Marina. This isn’t the time to piss around.”
“You’re the one making the small talk,” I chide, but take a step back into Nate to force him to move.
Erick states, “Natalia, wait here. Someone will be out here for you in five minutes.” The other woman nods and retreats to the helicopter’s passenger seats, where she sits down.
Spying this, Erick nods and walks over to the cart I’d been driving.
Before he releases his grip on my shoulder, Nate mutters under his breath, “Don’t say a word without me there, Marina.”
The warning has my back stiffening. “It’s not like I can over the sound of those engines.” I shake off his grip. “And if I do, it’s between old friends. I’m not sure where I stand with you now, Nate. When we started down this path, I thought honesty was the key. I accepted your bullshit because I’d been lying and hiding so much from you… I didn’t realize that was a two-way street.”
He hisses, “Don’t think you can back out of this, Marina. Today changes nothing.”
“Today changes everything, Nate. Hypocrite,” I hiss at him and make my way over to the cart. Jumping behind the wheel, I start the engine, and the tires squeal as I reverse. It’s dangerous, but my eyes are glued to his as I make the maneuver.
With my belly churning like I’ve just swallowed twenty habanero chili peppers and my ears deafened by the screech of the motor, I take off for the homestead.
That old song, “What a difference a day makes” plays on repeat in my head. Only in this case, it isn’t a day. But an hour.
Where the hell do the pair of us stand now?
Nate’s lies change everything no matter what he says. His reason for being here… His words alone tell me he’s been two-faced, duplicitous. Actively hiding his purpose for taking the job at Blue Ridge and living here… What else can I do but believe there’s been a reason for him being in a relationship with me?
It’s handy that I’ve been under his thumb these last few weeks. Despite myself and the confidence I’d found in embracing this new part of my soul, I can’t help but wonder if he’s used this time for his own benefit…
The very idea sickens me.
My eyes blur as they take in the dying light of the sun’s rays casting shadows over the ranch, and I know I’m about an inch away from screaming out my confusion in front of Erick. That thought alone is enough to have me tightening my grip on the wheel.
I hate showing weakness in front of other people…all my life, I’ve tried to present a strong front, knowing that the majority seek weaknesses in a person’s soul in an attempt to belittle them and control them. For twenty-eight years I remained in pristine condition, untouched, because I’d let nobody in, always holding some part of myself to my chest to protect the real me.
Until Nate.
He opened the cage, freed the submissive, and while an hour ago, I’d been grateful, now, I can only ask why?
Grinding my teeth, I floor the accelerator and try not to let my thoughts take flight.
But it’s hard.
Too hard.
How can I trust him now?
It’s simple. I can’t.
I r
ace ahead and in the side mirrors spot the distance separating Nate’s cart and mine.
A part of me wonders if he took a few seconds to talk to Natalia. Let’s add that to my list of concerns. Because Nate is one of those guys who is hard to shock. So for him to have been surprised at the other woman’s presence shouts at me. The only problem is the shout is in another language, and I don’t have a goddamn clue how to translate it.
The distance between us is more than just physical. And I take advantage of it, rev up the speed a little more. When I reach the homestead, a few minutes ahead of him, the brakes squeal to a halt as I slam my feet on them.
There’s more at stake than my relationship with Nate. And even though my confused heart feels like it’s being stomped on, if Erick’s here, then it means I’ve done something to damage the country itself.
Fuck, how do I get myself into these goddamn situations?
“Well, that was fun.” Erick’s dry drawl brings about another glare in his direction. His lips twitch at my annoyance, and I guess I should take that as a positive. He wouldn’t be teasing or mocking me if the situation was irreparable.
Regardless, I turn my head away and rest my forearms on the wheel. Planting my forehead atop the slight bridge I’ve made of them, I mutter, “How bad is it, Erick?”
“Bad.” His somberness, so quick on the heels of his amusement, has me clenching my eyes.
“What? What’s happened?”
“A suicide.”
“Who?”
“One of the naughty boys that used your services.” I’ve long since ceased to feel any amusement that one of the top government officials knew and condoned my brothel. Naughty boys is our code for a high-level politician.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Blackmail?”
“Blackmail, extortion…you wouldn’t believe how much mess you’ve caused by pulling the stunt you did.”
His head has my head jerking up. “I didn’t pull any stunt. The fucking mafia came after me and demanded I give them my client list. With all the pies your fingers are stuck in, you’ll know Nate’s only just got out of hospital for a gunshot wound. We weren’t practicing down at the range,” I bite out. “They shot him.”
“Who are they, Marina?”
“Like I said, the Russian mafia. Or at least, they are as far as I’m aware.”
He snorts. “Is that what they told you? Clever bastards.”
He falls silent, and it takes that length of time for the sound of Nate’s motor to broach the place we’ve parked.
He takes a second to absorb my dejected pose and then grits out, “What the hell have you said to her, van der Viel?”
Ignoring Nate, I jerk my head away from my arms and turn to face Erick. “Why are you here?”
Expecting him to say he’s here to arrest me, it comes as a relief to watch him grimace and mutter, “Damage control.”
IV
End of the Beginning
Chapter Twenty-Three
Six years earlier…
Naples, Florida
Nate Conroy was sick of hospitals. He was tired of the beds, bored of the TV, weary of the food and desperate to be out. So, it made no sense that at the prospect of leaving the place he hated, he was scared.
Why?
In the world beyond the sterile walls of the hospital, he would have to deal with the repercussions of his past choices. He would have to come to terms with being an amputee.
The thin, bright pink nylon blanket covered the space where his lower left forearm should have been. But as soon as he left the ward, he could no longer hide from the truth. Not unless he fancied walking around with the shitty comforter twenty-four-seven. And yeah, he was twenty-five years too old to be carrying a blankie.
He’d have to wear clothes that were adapted to his new ‘status.’ Maybe he’d have to pin up his shirtsleeves if he couldn’t get used to the prosthetic the doctors were trying to urge him to wear. The stump, where his lower forearm had once been, was sensitive. And covering it with the prosthetic caused him pain of nightmarish proportions.
In all the places he’d filmed documentaries, of all the accidents that had happened over the years, Nate had come to think of himself as invincible. Untouchable. Then fate had decided to teach him a lesson for his arrogance.
Eight weeks after being shipped into that first of many hospitals on Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti, stinking and half-dead, baked from the Somalian sun, crisp with the salt from the sea air...he’d just made it before fate had snatched more from him than his hand. He’d been on the brink of death.
Sucking in a breath at the memories, he looked around the expensive suite and compared it to the shitholes he’d been treated in over the last hellish two months. In comparison, this was like staying at a six star spa retreat. If it weren’t for the doctors, the beeps, and the faint tang of antiseptic, he could have imagined himself anywhere else but where he really was.
In the middle of a nightmare.
This setback meant the end. How could he travel around the world, rucksack on his back, directing his production crew and commanding a strident presence on the screen when he was disabled?
Oh yeah, he’d heard the bullshit from the shrink: this didn’t make him any less of a man. He was still Nathan Conroy. The piss-take was, that if he’d been anyone else, if he’d been anyone but a child reared by the Conroys, he’d have believed the psychiatrist. Being raised by a family where perfection was demanded, being without a hand was like losing the Midas touch.
His family hadn’t approved of his career. But they had approved of his success, of his earnings, and of his standing in society. His name was well known in certain circles, and didn’t his mother just love that?
The same mother who now, whenever she came to see him, looked at him as though she’d have preferred for him to have died rather than withstand the shame of a disabled son.
So yeah, it was pretty hard to come to terms with a loss of such magnitude, when his nearest and dearest would have preferred to change into their funeral blacks rather than give him any support.
Flashbacks to the explosion, to the ship he’d been stationed on being eaten alive by flames as the Somali pirates’ rudimentary but deadly IEDs did their business, were just one of the latest torments to add to his list.
Oh, and don’t forget to add being dumped by Natalia, his now ex-significant other, to the shit falling overhead... Oh yeah, life was just brilliant.
Fuck.
He was in self-pity mode and he hated it.
For the last two months, stuck in countless wards, glued to the bed, agonizing over the pain throttling him in every part of his body, as well as the hideous phantom pains worming through his non-existent hand, he’d been the main attendant at a huge-ass pity party.
It wasn’t his way. This, the weird funk he’d settled in, was not Nate Conroy. But saying that and believing it didn’t change a damned thing. He didn’t have a clue how to get himself out of the rut he’d been buried in and even though his mother was due in five minutes, ready to take him back to the family manor, he wasn’t ready to leave the hospital; a place he hated, but with it, came a peculiar variety of comfort.
Here, he wasn’t a freak. He was just a patient. There were people in worse states of health than he, others with happier prognoses.
In the world outside of this sterile hotel-like ward, he was something to be gawked at. Or at least, in the city of Naples, he’d be gawked at. Everyone knew him, knew his parents, knew the family mansion. He was on the brink of becoming an object of gossip, something to be pointed at and whispered about. Something that didn’t exactly perk up his mood any.
Fuck. He was glad to be alive.
Really.
He just forgot that sometimes.
Make that every day.
Every hour.
Every pain-filled, agonizing minute.
* * *
Seven days at home and Nate was already dying to leave. Okay, u
nfortunate choice of words there. He’d already been way too close to the die word and he didn’t fancy a repeat. Truly. He didn’t. He was gradually coming to terms with his loss, but still, he wanted out.
If his mother came into the guest suite one more time with tears in her eyes, looking anywhere but at him and his still-bandaged arm, he’d pull out his hair.
If, whenever he paid his duty visit to the disabled son, his father cleared his throat or drummed his fingers against his knee one more time, Nate would probably throttle him.
Things were so bad; he’d taken to the attics. Yeah, not out of a suicide bid, looking for a decent joist from which to hang himself, but out of a desire to do something. Any-fucking-thing.
He could have started editing the documentary he’d been working on when he’d been injured, Pirate at Sea. The dozenth edition in his ‘Man at’ series, Nate had documented Somali pirates as they terrorized the high seas. But it was too close...too...he didn’t know what, but he wasn’t ready to come face to face with the man he’d been and the one he was now.
Just the thought of seeing himself whole was enough to make his throat clog. He’d like to deny it was tears doing the clogging, but there was no point in lying to himself.
He hadn’t come to terms with the loss of his hand, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would. He was grateful to be alive, but that didn’t make accepting the loss any easier.
In the attics, there were the relics of a man who had come to terms with his disability: his great-uncle John.
The Kellys, his mother’s side of the family tree, had a streak of genius running through the branches. His father’s side were business moguls, but the Kellys, with their inventions, were equally as wealthy.
Twenty-five or so years ago, John had sequestered himself on what the family had classed as a lunatic commune for the very, very smart. A place that harbored geniuses and their talents. In truth, the majority of the Kellys had been relieved when John had toddled off to Blue Ridge, and it had come as no surprise to the lot of them when news had arrived stating John had killed himself.
Sinfully Mastered: Naughty Nookie Page 30
