by Christa Wick
“I thought you could use a chance to sleep in.”
“Thank you.” She blinked, her nose beginning to sting. The gesture was sweet as hell, but she was also sorry that she didn’t get to wake up next to him, maybe while he still slept so she would always have that memory.
“I’ll finish feeding her,” she said, stepping into the room. “She probably needs changed, too.”
He swiveled the chair, keeping the baby out of reach. “Already taken care of.”
She stopped, shocked and pleased at the same time. “You can change a diaper?”
“While it has a few similarities to defusing a bomb, it’s not as complicated,” he laughed. “And I've had to look after a few high profile babies when there were active threats to the family.”
“Oh,” Daniella laughed. “Like some kind of super nanny. Didn’t they make a movie about you starring The Rock?”
He threw a mock glare in her direction. Putting the bottle down, he held Christine out.
“You can burp her,” he said. “I don’t think you would appreciate my jackhammer method any more than a certain member of the British Royal Family did.”
Grinning so much her cheeks hurt, Daniella positioned Christine against her shoulder and began to lightly pat at the infant’s back. Trent stood and retrieved the bottle before planting a light kiss on Daniella’s cheek.
Stepping out off the room, he looked back. “I’ll clean this and get started on our breakfast. I was thinking crepes.”
She looked at him, eyes as big as her smile.
“You don’t like crepes?”
Daniella shook her head, realized that was the wrong answer and rushed to reassure him. “Oh, I love them. Thank you. As soon as I get her settled, I’ll change and meet you in the kitchen.”
His mouth made a funny little twist that set her body to tingling.
“I suppose clothes would be appropriate,” he teased, leaning across the threshold and claiming one last kiss before he disappeared down the hall.
Daniella toed the door shut, her entire body buzzing with joy. Christine was with her, safe and protected, and Trent was—well, he was amazing.
Placing the baby in the crib, her relaxed body and shut eyes indicating she was asleep already, Daniella had to cup her hands over her own mouth to contain the delighted squeak that had been building in her chest with Trent’s last kiss.
Quietly, when she could lower her hands, she opened the dresser drawer. Seeing the dismal choice of clothes, she winced.
Maybe just the robe—and a quick shower—would be better?
Still grinning, she tiptoed into the bathroom and shut the door. She turned on the water, dropped the robe and drew her hair up into a messy bun. Five minutes under the shower head and another five drying off and applying a touch of cosmetics passed and then she was stepping into the kitchen, her cheeks burning from her uncharacteristic boldness.
The instant her gaze landed on Trent, the blood left her face. Her rosy cheeks paled and turned cold. No breakfast was cooking and a solemn mask had settled over his face.
“Is someone hurt?”
Lips pressed together, he shook his head as he stepped toward her. His hands wrapped around her shoulders and he drew her against his chest.
“No. No one’s hurt,” he started, his hand stroking at her hair. “But…” He exhaled roughly, his tone sympathetic. “Reed just called. He found out that there was a fire at your house. And the firefighters did what they could, but the fire was too extensive.”
She looked up, certain she had misheard him.
“I’m sorry, baby. The fire department was able to stop it before it spread to the neighbors, but there’s nothing left. The entire structure burned down to the ground.”
He thumbed at one of the tears running down her cheek. “I promise, I’ll have a recovery team sift through the ashes to find anything and everything they can salvage. Do you want me to have them look for anything specific? Any personal mementos? Any lockboxes with old photos or anything that might have survived the fire?”
She shook her head. “My family weren’t one for taking pictures. And I have photos of Lynn on her Facebook and my phone, same for Christine.”
Her lips began to quiver. Trent cupped the sides of her face and lightly pressed his mouth to Daniella’s until her shaking subsided.
“Reed will have a clone for you tomorrow, all the pictures will still be there.”
She nodded. When Trent had her surrender her phone a second time at his office, she had thought he was being overly cautious. If he would have suggested then that Merl’s associates would burn down her house, she would have called him paranoid.
Now she was homeless.
“Here,” he said, guiding her down the hall toward his office. “You still need to eat. Rest in here and I’ll make breakfast.”
Numb, she settled into the visitor chair he had placed behind his desk now that his big leather chair was in the guest room. He gave her another kiss, tilting her chin up as his lips captured an errant tear on her cheek.
“You and Christine are safe here,” he promised.
Nodding, her brain unable to process Trent’s words, she watched him leave. Almost immediately, she wanted to call him back. He had said no one was hurt, but he didn’t say anything about arrests or witnesses or anything like that. Mr. Cobb had cameras on his property. That was how he had sent her the picture of the man she had shown Trent.
Pondering if she should go into the kitchen and ask him, her gaze landed on Trent’s laptop.
The screen was black.
She ran a fingertip across the touchpad.
A single icon appeared, the rest of the screen remaining black. Fortunately, the icon was for an internet browser. She clicked, then Googled her address. Google Maps was the first result, a local news channel was the second.
She clicked the news link and started reading. The total annihilation of the house she had grown up in warranted four short paragraphs detailing when the fire was reported, what fire team showed up, how long the blaze lasted and that arson was suspected.
Ready to click back to Google, her finger froze as her gaze landed on one of those click bait type articles that populated the right menu on pretty much all commercial sites.
Kinky Billionaire Sex Ring Exposed
A few days ago, she would have rolled her eyes and continued on to real news. Hell, she would rather do her taxes than follow a click bait link. So, when she stabbed at the touchpad, it wasn’t the headline that made her do it.
It was the picture.
More accurately, it was the man in the picture—the same man who had cradled her in his arms the night before and was cooking her crepes at that very moment.
Daniella stared at the silver tray with its silver bowl of fresh fruit, the crystal glasses of orange juice, and the fine china plates with the fancy, dessert like breakfast. The man could cook and he could, and would, change diapers. His body, even with the scars, was carved perfection and he was smart, no doubt about that.
She didn’t want to think about how he was in bed. After reading the article on the anonymous and oh-so-iniquitous club the press had nicknamed “The Potomac Ballers,” thinking about Trent in bed with other women turned her stomach upside down, the pain-ribbed nausea giving her some strange variety of heartburn that felt more like an ache than a burn, burrowing its way through her chest cavity instead of her gut.
Most of the article had been about a certain Marine Corps’ general who liked to make the trip inland while his wife stayed on the coast. But the write-up was quite clear on what all the males there did.
They paid for sex, usually sex that involved absolute control by one partner or the other.
Lynn’s battered face at the mortuary flashed inside Daniella’s head as she looked up at Trent.
“You never said why you were at the hotel the day Lynn died. Was it company business?”
He tried to wave it off as he leaned closer for what looked like an i
ntended kiss.
“I’m just glad I was there.”
Pulling back, she saw the subtle change in his expression as he sensed the trap within her question.
Reaching over to the sleeping computer, she hit the enter key. The screen filled with shots of the club’s exterior. A quick flick of her finger scrolled so that a virtual wall of shame came into view, Trent’s picture among a dozen prominent males photographed in the two weeks the reporter had staked out the location.
Next to each name was identifying information, where available. Names, businesses, cities of residence.
Trent’s said, “Unknown. Stark International, Arlington.”
“So it didn’t have anything to do with this?” Daniella asked.
Beneath the olive-gold skin, she saw a flush of red. His jaw tightened at the same time and his nostrils flattened. She guessed he was mad.
Pissed, really.
At being caught by the press and paraded about?
At her daring to question him?
Another click and a picture of a woman who identified herself as Trinity appeared. She was training, the woman had told reporters, to be a UFC fighter. She identified Trent as one of her customers. She didn’t know his name. She had to call him “Sir.” She catalogued in great detail the things he had done to her body in the course of their single session.
Daniella pushed away from the desk. Trent captured her by the wrist before she could get out of the chair.
“You don’t understand—”
“What I didn’t understand, at least not initially, was why I was getting all this help for free,” she started, cheeks heating as a bitchy mask slid into place to hide all the hurt raging inside her. “Now I understand completely.”
“Don’t make it out like that, Daniella.”
“Mr. Kane,” she said coldly, shaking her head then glaring at him. “I understand you like to restrain women, but you will release my arm immediately.”
He dropped her like a fresh lava rock.
She stood and he shot up.
She headed for his office door.
He reached the threshold first.
“You’re staying, Daniella. And that’s final. Think about it, you don’t even have a house to sell.”
She offered a curt, seething smile. “No, but I do have an insurance policy I need to see to. Now move.”
“Only if you promise to stay,” he answered, his voice as rough and unyielding as ever.
But then there was a flash of something in his eyes—something akin to vulnerability, or at least a hint of alarm.
He had a whole lot more to worry about than some charity case he picked up off the street. The story focused on the Marine general, but the reporter had asked his invisible audience a number of tantalizing questions that had to do with the general, national security, favors, possible bribes and blackmail.
Once Trent was identified as Stark International’s Chief Operating Officer, the questions could lead to a Congressional subpoena—and worse.
“I will leave,” he coaxed as she studied him. “Reed will come and show you how to change the access code to whatever you want to set it. But you have to understand, these are the kind of men you’ll always have to be looking over your shoulder for, not because they value what you’re denying them—but for the mere reason that you denied them.”
He reached slowly for her shoulder. She jerked it away.
“Baby, please. It was dangerous yesterday, it’s so much worse now.”
She swallowed, trying to erase the little term of endearment he had thrown out in what sounded like a heartfelt tone.
She didn’t know the truth of Merl’s associates, but she had to agree that the present was so much worse than the day before. She had woken up to so much joy and now it was all ashes. It coated her skin, clogged her nostrils, caked her tongue.
“Were you at the hotel with a woman you were paying to…”
Tie up, abuse, discard. She didn’t know which word to throw at him. She did know that Trinity had said her anonymous “Sir” had a reputation at the club of never using the same woman twice.
Trent’s jaw tightened. It was clear he had no intention of dignifying her question with a response.
“Answer me or I’m leaving.”
His lips drew inward. She could see that he gnawed at the inside for a few seconds, his gaze darting angrily around her face as he studied the minutia of her expression.
“Just what is it that’s worth risking Christine’s safety?” he countered, his tone turning cold and calculating. “Your pride? Your integrity?”
Her face crumbled at his interrogation. He wouldn’t answer her question about the night of her sister's death. And she realized she wouldn’t leave—at least not immediately.
“I need to check on Christine,” she said, weakly gesturing at him to move aside. “And you need to pack a bag.”
He let Daniella pass, her head filled with answers to his ruthless question. Staying meant she was losing her heart, her optimism, her faith. But he was right about one thing. None of her feelings, none of her hurt, was worth endangering the child who had been placed in her care.
Christine was everything to her, and, somehow, Daniella would have to figure out how to live the next eighteen years without that dedication becoming a visible burden like it had been with the Marquardts.
At least, she thought, coming to a stop in front of the crib, any sacrifice she made would be made out of love.
Managing a faint smile, she stroked the baby’s cheek.
Made out of love and repaid with love.
11
Trent
Bag packed for show, Trent waited for Reed to arrive. When the elevator doors opened, he let his subordinate step off, then he stepped on, not a word exchanged between them.
Everything the man needed to know, Trent had conveyed by text.
When the elevator doors closed, he pressed the button for the lobby and held it until the security panel reset. Finished punching in a sixteen-digit code, he felt the cage begin its long descent.
The upscale residential building nestled in Raleigh’s business district had been built the year after the failed Bay of Pigs invasion. The developer had put in a communal bunker three levels below ground. The attorneys, bankers, and dentists who once rented its office suites, had bought into the promise of safety at work, even if the Soviets launched their nukes.
Then came Nixon and detente followed by Carter and an economic slump. The professionals moved out and the building remained empty until Clinton’s presidency, when it was turned into an oasis for yuppies working in Raleigh’s tech corridor.
Now, the entire bunker level was his, its interior renovated by a specialty contractor to include labyrinthine turns and apparent dead ends.
If the decor upstairs seemed severe, downstairs was a shadowy mausoleum lit mostly by the small power lights on the electronics that permeated the bunker.
Entering the tactical area, he switched on a bank of monitors. The penthouse appeared across the many screens. Reed was in the kitchen with Daniella, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the island. Trent turned up the volume then walked over to the espresso machine.
The conversation sounded like Daniella was once again leaning toward striking out on her own. Reed was talking her down. As Trent had discovered after the scene in his office, Daniella’s elderly neighbor had been severely beaten after the arsonists spotted his outdoor security cameras. The old man had given up his outdoor feed to their brutal interrogation techniques, but the long-retired veteran hadn’t revealed his separate indoor security feed.
When the cops showed up to ask about the cameras they had also spotted, they found him near death. He was in a coma now, but he had been conscious long enough to tell them about the second feed and how to access it.
Tears streamed down Daniella’s face as she listened to Reed fill her in on those ugly details.
“We’ve identified the men,” he told her. “
They have rap sheets thicker than a bible. Sex and drug trafficking, extortion, battery, kidnapping—”
A sharp gasp from Daniella cut Reed off before he could add the final polish to the men’s list of misdeeds.
Murder.
Not once or twice but over three dozen times between the two of them.
Trent listened with a voyeur’s mix of shame and victory. Certainly the stubborn woman wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave his net of protection after Reed’s report.
Famous last words, he realized as his attention glanced from the kitchen’s feed to that of the guest room.
Her bags were on the bed, ready to go.
He looked back to the kitchen and saw her shaking her head, her beautiful face filled with uncertainty and fear.
She must have been whispering because her lips were moving but Trent couldn’t hear what she was saying. He turned up the volume as Reed began to speak.
“You only know part of the story,” he assured her.
Another one of her stubborn head shakes had Trent’s hands curling around the armrests of his chair and squeezing.
“He could have told me the rest.”
No, Trent thought, she wasn’t going to listen. And he had tried to talk to her, just not on the information she was demanding.
On screen, Daniella shrugged. “But it’s all one and done with him, isn’t it?”
The hurt in her voice stabbed deep into his chest. She was wrong, so wrong. His intent with her hadn’t been to fuck and forget. He had only wanted to keep her safe while keeping his hands off her.
But there was something hypnotic about the woman, something he couldn’t explain.
“I’ve never heard of another woman being in here beyond Lindsey,” Reed gently argued. “But you’re going to believe what suits you. All I’m asking is that you don’t run off—for Christine’s sake.”
She threw her hands up. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“It could be a feint,” he answered. “We’ve had to guard a lot of unwilling charges. When they’re compliant, that’s when it’s time to start worrying.”
