White Knight

by Meghan March

  Cannon notices my hesitation and waves the driver off. “I’ve got it.” Then he whispers in my ear. “Warren can’t see you as Memphis. I’ve got you covered.”

  Another wave of wonderment at how capable Cannon is washes over me, and we slide inside. Once the car pulls out into traffic, he adds, “Call your mom. Maybe she just went back to the hotel.” His arm slides around my shoulders.

  Still holding my cell, I dial her number, but she doesn’t answer. I shoot her a text.

  * * *

  Me: I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to upset you at the restaurant. Can you please call me?

  * * *

  Thankfully, the reply is immediate.

  * * *

  Mom: I don’t want to talk to you right now. Call me tomorrow and maybe I’ll let you apologize.

  * * *

  I show the message to Cannon, and he reads it before glancing at my face.

  “Does that sound like something she’d say?”

  I scroll so he can see the previous texts, which include many variations of similar statements.

  * * *

  Mom: I’m too busy to talk. Call tomorrow.

  Mom: Could you please choose a time more convenient to call me? It’s too early. I’m going back to sleep.

  Mom: Why haven’t you called me like I told you to?

  * * *

  “Point taken,” Cannon says as I slip my phone back into my purse. He reaches out to take my hand and squeezes it before pressing my knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry dinner didn’t go as you planned.”

  His kindness is almost enough to make me forget why I needed him there in the first place. “At least there was no sign of them on the way out. What are we going to do about that?” I try to speak in code, because even if Cannon’s not worried about this driver seeing me as Memphis, I don’t want to take any more chances by saying the wrong thing.

  Cannon squeezes my hand again. “First, we’re going to your mom’s hotel and make sure she made it back safely.”

  Whatever my issues with my mom, the thought of her not making it back safely strikes a chord of fear in my chest. She’s right. She’s the only parent I’ve got left, and I absolutely do not want to lose her too, despite everything.

  Cannon must read the concern on my face, because he resituates himself beside me so he can cup my cheek with his other hand. “Everything’s fine. Stop borrowing trouble.”

  I nod and soak up the heat from his skin, wishing I could say all the things I’m thinking right now, and hating that we can’t.

  How has he managed to live like this? Always being on guard and knowing he has to watch every word that comes out of his mouth?

  Oh, wait. That’s exactly how I’ve been living for years.

  But something has changed, and now the personas I used to slip on and off with ease all seem painfully restrictive. And I know exactly why.

  Because Cannon saw the real me and accepted me for exactly who I am. Nothing more. Nothing less. No disguise. It was heady. No, more than that. Addictive. Freeing. And I want more of it, with him.

  When we reach the Plaza, Cannon and I both climb out of the town car after the bellhop opens the door. At the desk inside, I give the attendant a polite smile.

  “Hi, I’m Memphis Lockwood.”

  The woman’s black eyebrows shoot up to her equally dark widow’s peak. “I’ve seen you before. On TV.” She jerks a look to either side, like she’s afraid she’s being watched. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t give you any information for whatever you’re investigating, ma’am. It’s against policy.”

  “It’s not official business, I promise . . .” I glance at her name tag. “Brianna. My mother is staying here. Cynthia Lockwood. We got separated on the way back from dinner, and I want to make sure she made it back safely. She’s not used to the city and her phone is dead, so I can’t reach her.”

  “Your mother?” Brianna looks suspicious as hell, but to her credit, she types something into the computer.

  “Yes, Cynthia Lockwood.”

  Given the fact that we have the same last name, I’m hoping Brianna breaks protocol and can give me something. She looks up from the computer and glances between me and Cannon.

  “I’m not technically supposed to confirm or deny if a guest is registered at the hotel, and I can’t give out room numbers. But if you give me a description of what she looks like, I can tell you if I’ve seen her come through the lobby recently.”

  Cannon curls an arm around my hip and squeezes.

  “That’d be great,” I reply, then give her a rundown of my mother’s perfectly coiffed blond updo and the blue dress she was wearing tonight.

  “I remember seeing her!” Brianna chirps brightly. “She stopped to request softer pillows and a minibar restock before going up.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her with a smile as Cannon’s grip tightens on my hip. “I really appreciate that.”

  As we leave the desk, I glance up at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to slip her some cash to get her to talk.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up and there’s a gleam in his gorgeous eyes. “Did you want me to?”

  “No, but . . .” I reach for his hand and weave our fingers together.

  “You’re the most capable woman I’ve ever met. You had everything under control.” We pause at the revolving glass door, and a burst of fresh air blows by with each new guest that enters through it. “But if you ever want me to jump in, all you have to do is give me a sign.”

  “I think I just fell in love with you all over again,” I whisper just loud enough for him to hear over the voices in the lobby.

  He pulls me tighter into his side and leans down to brush his lips against my cheek. “If that’s all it takes, I’ll have you falling in love with me all over again every damn day.”

  “Can we go back to your place now?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light, but really, I just want to climb him like a tree and show him exactly how I feel about what he just said.

  “Damn right. That’s where we’re heading next.”

  But as I slide into my seat in the town car, my purse starts buzzing.

  Jesus Christ, Mom. Your timing blows, I think as I fish it out.

  But it’s not my personal phone with my mom’s number on the screen. It’s Randi’s number on my Drew Carson cell.

  I flash it at Cannon as the driver pulls out into traffic. “What do I do?”

  “Answer it.”

  With a swallow, I tap the screen and lift the phone to my ear. “Randi?”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, or why you looked different at the restaurant tonight, but you need to get home. Your apartment door is kicked in.” Her voice, in true Randi fashion, is loud enough that Cannon can hear her too. “I called the cops, but who knows how long they’ll be.”

  “Fuck,” he whispers and then rattles off my address to the driver. “Tell her we’re on our way.”

  “I heard him,” Randi says. “And you owe me a fucking explanation, Drew. Seriously.”

  13

  Cannon

  To her credit, Memphis doesn’t ask the question, “Who would break into my apartment?” I think we’re both well aware that her very existence is sending up red flags all over the city.

  “It’s going to be fine. I promise,” I tell her as we pull up and she reaches for the door handle.

  “I really, really hope you’re right.” She looks around, probably scanning for the cops that are supposed to be here, or at least on their way. But no one’s here yet. Typical of the overburdened NYPD.

  “You want me to come up, sir?” Yuri, the driver, asks from the front seat. I keep his number handy for random jobs like this.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with the car. Direct the cops up when they arrive.”

  Yuri gives me a short nod, but I can tell from his posture that he doesn’t like having anything to do with the cops. Given what I know about his past, it doesn’t surprise me. O
ld habits die hard, or not at all.

  Memphis retrieves her keys from her purse and hands them to me to unlock the first door. Then she pulls out her phone and taps at its screen.

  “I have security cameras hidden,” she says, lifting her chin at the lobby ceiling. “Here and near my apartment. We should be able to see something on the feed.”

  “Smart girl,” I say, opening the door and ushering her inside.

  She’s still waiting for the camera feed to load due to the crappy service inside the stairwell when we reach her floor. Randi leans against the hall wall opposite Memphis’s door, and the expression on her face can only be described as supremely pissed off.

  “Good. You’re here. See you later.” She turns to stalk off down the hallway.

  Memphis bolts forward to catch her. “Wait, Randi. I’m sorry.”

  Randi shoots a glance at me, and I can tell she wants to call Memphis out about what happened at the restaurant, but she doesn’t.

  Could she actually care about not blowing Memphis’s cover, even though she’s furious and knows she’s been lied to? As if I’m one to talk. Only yesterday it was me getting gut-punched with the truth, and here I am. Memphis has that unique effect on people.

  “Yeah, whatever. Good luck, Drew. Hope they didn’t take anything important.” Randi turns the corner and disappears, leaving Memphis with her phone in her hand, staring after her.

  I move closer to the door to check out the damage to the handle and locks. “Boot prints. A man kicked it in. Someone big or unusually strong for his size.”

  “I have dead bolts.”

  I glance her way for a beat before pulling down the cuff of my shirt to open the door without getting fingerprints on it. “If someone’s determined, no dead bolt is going to stop them.”

  With a frustrated shake of her head, she looks back down at the phone and taps the screen several times. As I swing the door open, she looks up toward the position where I assume her other camera should be . . . and there’s nothing.

  Memphis meets my gaze, her mouth falling open. “How could they chance taking that camera out without being filmed? Wouldn’t they have to know it was there?”

  “Come on, let’s check out the inside before the cops get here.”

  In the pit of my stomach, I know we’re dealing with a professional. Even with the boot print and obvious signs of forced entry, which would make someone think this was an amateur job, I make a different conclusion. Someone wanted it to look amateur, which is even more telling.

  “Holy shit.” Memphis gasps when we walk into the living room. The entire place has been torn apart. Ballsy as fuck, given the fact that this apartment building could not have been empty when the break-in went down.

  The couch cushions are slashed, erupting with stuffing. The drawers in the tables in front and beside the sofa are tossed on the oak floor, the limited contents spread out on the wood. The kitchen is the same. Every drawer and cupboard open. Food spilled everywhere. The fridge and freezer have been pawed through too.

  Someone was looking for something specific. The only question is . . . did they find it?

  Memphis charges toward what I assume is the bedroom, but I grab her hand. “Careful. I’m going first.”

  “But—” She cuts off what she was going to say.

  Even rattled, she’s braver than most men I know. Still, her safety is something I take seriously, even if she doesn’t sense the danger.

  “You going first isn’t going to change anything. If they found what they were looking for, it’s gone regardless.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She curses but falls into step behind me.

  The apartment’s walls are bare, which goes along with the rest of the place, as it hardly looks lived in. I recognize a crash pad when I see one. Not that I expected this place to be Memphis’s true home, and maybe that’s a really fucking positive thing right now. Because she’s just worried about what’s missing rather than feeling violated by her space being broken into.

  At least, I hope so.

  I reach the bedroom, and it’s a repeat of the kitchen. Every dresser drawer is open. Clothes all over the floor. Bedding and mattress slashed. Feathers from the pillows leave a dusting of white on top of it all. The walk-in closet is trashed, and so is the bathroom.

  But thankfully, there’s no sign of anyone.

  Sirens wail in the distance, and I jerk around to look at Memphis. “Cops are coming. What were they looking for, and did they find it?”

  She snatches up something from the mess on the floor and rushes to the bed to climb atop the ruined mattress. Using a metal fingernail file, she unscrews the vent cover above the bed and tosses it onto the pile of fluff.

  “They didn’t find it!” Triumph rings in her tone as she removes a file folder.

  The sirens grow louder as I join her on the bed, taking the screws from her and replacing the vent cover as fast as I can.

  “We’re running out of time. Grab a bag. Bury the file, preferably in a hidden compartment if you have anything like that, and fill it with whatever clothes aren’t trashed and whatever else you need. You’re not staying here.”

  I offer her a hand to climb off the destroyed queen bed and tell her the plan. There’s no room for fuckups, and we need to be on the same page.

  “It’ll take the cops hours to go through the place, but I want your shit out of here before they pull up. I’ll run your bag down to the car through the side door, which is probably how they came in, if they knew about your camera in the entryway. I doubt we’ll see a single face on your feed that’ll help. But first, give your statement to the cops and call the building super. As soon as the door is secured and the cops are out of here, we’re going to my place. Got it?”

  Memphis nods and shoves the file at me. “Give me two minutes.”

  True to her word, I’m walking out of the apartment building three minutes later with a suitcase. Yuri stows it in the trunk just as a squad car pulls up.

  14

  Memphis

  I wait outside my apartment for Cannon to return, along with the cops, but something’s nagging at me. After taking a few steps down the hall, I knock on Randi’s door.

  “Randi, can we just talk for thirty seconds before the cops get up here?”

  I consider she might have left to avoid all the commotion, but then I hear her argue through the door.

  “Why? So you can lie to me some more?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I promise I had a good reason.” Although I’ll never tell her what it was.

  Her door opens an inch, and the fastened chain blocks part of her face. “I thought we were friends, Drew. Or whoever you are. I don’t even know your goddamned name. That’s not how friendship works.” She shakes her head, sending her silver-and-black hair flying. “I told you everything about me, and you just lied.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Part of me wants to tell her why, but I’m not an idiot. The company she’s keeping means she can’t be trusted with the truth under any circumstances. But still, I like Randi, and I don’t want her to end up mixed up in something that’s as bad as the Rossetti family.

  So instead, I ask, “That guy in the restaurant, he was the same guy from the bar?”

  Randi lifts her chin. “So what if he was? I can fuck the same guy more than once if I want.”

  “He’s not a good guy, Randi. I know you might think he is, but he’s dangerous. Please don’t see him again.” She doesn’t have to accept my apology, but I pray she at least heeds my warning.

  This knocks a guffaw from her throat. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? He’s dangerous? Look at your own situation. Who did you roll up with?” She clucks her tongue, and her eyes shoot daggers over my head. “Oh, wait, that’s right. You know exactly who he is because I told you everything I knew when you pumped me for information. Nice.”

  “I know you’re pissed. But please, just listen to me.”

  Footsteps and men’s voices e
cho from the stairwell as Randi shoves her door shut. I stop it with the palm of my hand.

  “Please, Randi. Just be safe.”

  “Watch your own ass, Drew. Mine’s covered.” She shoves her weight against the door, and it slams shut.

  Great. Awesome. Fabulous.

  But I don’t have time to think about Randi for much longer, because another familiar and completely unwelcome person follows Cannon to stand outside my door.

  Detective Clinton Cole.

  “Memphis Lockwood. How ’bout that?” He tilts his head to the side like he’s taking in my appearance with leisure. “Just when I told myself I was looking for things where there was nothing to be found the other night, here you are with Cannon Freeman. Now, who’s going to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  15

  Cannon

  Cole is the last person I expected to show up right behind the squad car, but sure enough, there he was.

  “Can we talk about the break-in? Because as far as I’m concerned, that’s the only thing that matters right now,” I say, interrupting what I’m sure is about to be an interrogation from Cole about why Memphis has been hiding her identity.

  The detective glances from her to me. “You don’t want to talk about your employee’s—or is it girlfriend’s—multiple identities? Assuming you already knew about them, that is. Maybe I should take her into protective custody, just in case you have any thought of doing her harm now that you’ve found out she isn’t who she said she was.”

  Where Cole is getting all this, I don’t know, but I suppose I shouldn’t underestimate the NYPD detective so easily. But one thing is absolutely certain—he’s not taking Memphis any fucking place.

  “I’m safe, Detective,” Memphis says, crossing the hallway to stand at my side. “In fact, there’s nowhere I could possibly be safer than with Mr. Freeman.”