by Naima Simone
“Rafe has your phone now,” he said, the calm of his voice belying the rage still simmering in his gut. “He’s—” His own cell, set to vibrate, hummed against his desk. He flicked a glance down and noted the number on the caller ID screen. Dr. Hayes’ office. The phone fell silent, the call forwarding to voicemail. His mouth flattened. He had a session scheduled for that afternoon, and the therapist’s office had probably called to confirm the appointment. Fuck.
Why hadn’t the judge just let him serve out his five years’ probation without the mandated therapy? Shit, the murder had occurred twenty damn years ago. He’d learned to cope, to survive, on his own. In all that time, he’d grown to become an upstanding citizen who paid his taxes, owned his own home and security firm with Rafe. What the hell could counseling accomplish? Get in touch with his emotions? He could’ve saved Boston taxpayers a shitload of money in that case. Yeah, he had feelings. But he wanted far from them. Let those motherfuckers stay buried.
Just like they’d buried that bastard Richard Pierce.
He ground his finger and thumb into his eyes, rubbing hard.
Aslyn shot to her feet and paced away from the desk. On the return trip, she paused, her arms locked around her torso. “What? Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said abruptly. “Anyway, Rafe’s uploading an app that will allow us to trace the call next time this guy contacts you.”
“Even though the ID shows ‘unknown’?” Cautious hope brightened her gray eyes.
He nodded. “It’s a project Rafe has been working on. We’ve used the app a couple of times before now, and it’s worked. If the caller is using a burner, we’ll only be able to trace the number and actual phone to the batch it originated from. But still, using that information, we can track down the state it was shipped to as well as the store it was sold to. And maybe we’ll be able to pull security footage if the store has cameras.”
“Okay,” she murmured, tightening her self-embrace.
Exhaustion clung to her. It paled her drawn face, darkened the fragile skin under her tired eyes. He rose, intent on going to her, cupping the nape of her neck, and pulling her against his body. Offering her rest. Or whatever she needed from him.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t cross those few feet. Didn’t dare touch her. Last night more than proved that would be a mistake. He craved her too much.
Fantasies of fucking her had dogged him home, into his bed, and into the darkest hours of the night. Exactly how he’d described to her. His warning had backfired and tortured him with vision after erotic, vivid vision of his mouth on her breasts, sucking her nipples, tracing the shallow indentation of her navel, licking the swollen, wet folds of her pussy. His dick hardened, lengthened, and he gritted his teeth against the throbbing.
What kind of asshole did it make him that she stood trembling from fear and fatigue in his office and he wanted nothing more than to lay her out on his desk and bury his face between her thighs?
Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair. This lack of control was the very reason he needed to maintain an emotional and physical distance. She’d come to Boston to heal, and now some jackhole had decided to terrorize her. The last thing she needed was an entanglement with someone bearing as much screwed-up baggage as him. And the last thing he needed was to become hooked on a woman who was not only leaving but whose very identity would bring the furor of the media into his life. A media that wouldn’t be satisfied with his name but would dig into his past, uprooting the scraps of anonymity that Boston offered.
“Aslyn.” He circled his desk and perched on the edge. Dipping his head in the direction of the chair in front of him, he silently invited her to sit. “While Rafe works on your phone, I have a few questions.” He waited for her to lower into the chair before continuing. “They’re about Quinton Lakes.”
She visibly swallowed, and her fingers clenched in her lap. Still, her chin hiked a centimeter and her shoulders drew back as if bracing herself against just the mention of the man’s name. “What about him?”
Admiration for her surged. Her steady voice revealed none of the terror he imagined had to be crawling through her. Strong. She was so damn strong. And that innate strength was sexy as hell.
“I did some investigation into Quinton Lakes’ background.” Christian kindness dictated Chay should have sympathy for the obviously deranged man who’d assaulted Aslyn. Yeah, he’d get right on that. “You mentioned him, and I just want to reassure you that from what I came up with last night and this morning, this doesn’t appear to be someone associated with Lakes. He was a loner. No family. Very few friends. The police didn’t find any evidence of a partnership. Although there are similarities between Lakes and this UNSUB, those can be attributed to anyone who followed the news on the stalking case.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t appear surprised, either. At some point between his finding her on the floor surrounded by photos and now, she’d probably reached the same conclusion.
“One thing I did find odd. You never said anything about receiving letters, which Lakes did send to you. Have you or your manager received any?”
She shook her head. “None here in Boston. And Liam never mentioned unusual or threatening letters arriving in L.A. And after everything we’ve been through this last year, I can’t see him not bringing it up to me.”
“That’s what I figured. Which strikes me as funny. We’ve had a few stalking cases, and in our experience, there’s almost always initial communication through letters. Or email, these days. Only when those are ignored does the stalker escalate to personal and physical contact. This guy skipped that step and went straight to criminal behavior with the trespassing, photos, and a call. All within twenty-four hours.”
She propped her elbows on her thighs and dropped her face into her hands. Her whispered “Jesus” reached him. He fisted his fingers, squeezing tight, before stretching them and surrendering to the siren call in his chest. He tunneled his fingers through her thick, red hair, smoothing the strands back and away from her face. She shuddered and leaned into his caress. Finally, she lifted her head and turned into his palm. Her lips grazed his skin and the almost-kiss shot straight to his dick as if it had been the recipient of the feather-like touch.
“Aslyn,” he said softly. “We’re going to keep you safe. I promise you no one is going to hurt you. Not again.”
With a long exhalation, she pushed to her feet and strode to the window. Leaning a shoulder against the frame, she quietly stared out. Since the view from his office offered the spectacular vista of the postage-stamp-size backyard, he figured the small garden hadn’t snared her interest.
“In times like these—when I was stressed or upset—I would’ve sat at my piano and played.” She splayed her fingers wide on the glass. “Just played until peace settled in and the problems faded. I could escape. Nothing could intrude on that place where the music existed.”
He frowned, his attention sharpening and snagging on her choice of words. I would’ve sat at my piano and played. Would’ve. She had that huge, gorgeous grand piano in her living room. Why couldn’t she play it, relieve the pressure? Lakes had stabbed her in the lower back, not in the shoulder or arm that would hinder her. As far as he knew…
“Are you okay?” He rose, slid his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. “I know Lakes hurt you—”
She huffed out a short, humorless laugh. “Physically, I’m fully recovered. Mentally, emotionally…” Another of those grim chuckles. “I didn’t used to be this broken, scared person. I used to be fearless; I attacked life after losing my parents so unexpectedly, because I knew how short it could be. But Quinton Lakes changed me. More accurately, I’ve allowed him to alter who I am. I don’t recognize who I’ve become, and I damn sure don’t like her. Someone who’s always afraid, untrusting. Fucking damaged.”
Damaged. Hearing her apply that term to herself seemed wrong. An anathema. A woman so beautiful, so gifted, so honest, so open couldn
’t be broken or damaged. Hurt maybe. Bruised. Traumatized. But not irrevocably ruined.
“Liam called me yesterday morning about returning home to prepare for a concert,” she murmured, momentarily taking him aback with the switch in subject. “Part of me was scared shitless. Returning to the spotlight before I’m ready terrifies me. But the other part,” she said, voice wistful. “The other part was excited. Leaving here and returning to L.A. would mean I’m finally healed. It would mean Quinton hadn’t won, that I’m whole and me. Going home would mean I’m strong. That I’m a fighter again. I could pl—” She balled her fingers into a fist and pressed it against the window. “But those pictures took me right back to when I lost my power. To when I became a victim. I’d started to believe I was coming out on the other side of this—or at least that I could come out—and those photos stole that away.”
“Aslyn,” he breathed. The ugly seed her earlier words had sown took root, spread until it bloomed into an even uglier idea. He stood, crossed the room before he could convince himself touching her would shoot his control and resolve to hell and back. “Baby.” He paused in back of her, a gasp of air separating his body from hers. He palmed the window frame so his arms and chest created a shelter, a covering, for her. A section of him loathed asking the question ricocheting off his skull, but he had to know. “Can you play the piano?”
She stiffened, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. But then the tension seeped out of her, leaving a weary slope to her shoulders.
“No,” she whispered. “Since he hurt me, I can’t touch the keys. I can’t play. I can’t compose.”
Her pain and confusion whipped around him like a cyclone wind, tearing at him. How did she stand it? Murmuring her name, he closed his eyes. Pressed his lips to the top of her head. And waited.
“The piano, the performing, the creating—they’re my passion. They’ve been my best friend, my comforter, my purpose since I was a kid. When people didn’t understand me, hurt me, betrayed me…died…I always had music. But now when I need it most, it’s gone.” She shuddered, and he shifted closer, relaying without words that he had her back. Nothing could touch her while she was at her most vulnerable. “But it also brought me to Quinton’s attention. The thing I love most is the very thing that put me in danger.” Her voice cracked on the admission.
In that moment he wanted to dig Quinton Lakes up from whatever potter’s field grave they buried him in, beat the shit out of him, and then stomp him six feet under…again.
Explanations about how trauma affects the psyche swirled in his head. The same rationalizations his therapist quietly offered him when Chay sat on his couch in those damn sessions. But none of them coalesced into a suitable, comforting reason. And none of them rang true.
“People like Quinton Lakes,” he paused, gritted his teeth. Started again. “Predators like Quinton Lakes…there’s something missing inside them. Call it neurological, chemical, mental—there’s something missing.” In the eyes. In his darkest dreams, he always saw pale blue, empty eyes. If the saying was true and they were windows to the soul, then the soul behind those eyes didn’t exist. “They see something beautiful, good…innocent, and their first inclination is to capture it so no one else but them can have it. Even if it means twisting, hurting, or silencing the thing or person until they—or no one else—no longer recognizes who or what they first were. They’re selfish, greedy, and a poison. A deadly poison, but only if you let them.”
He’d allowed Richard to change who he was. For twenty years, he’d lived with a burdensome secret, and it’d shaped him. But she didn’t have to be consigned to the same fate; Lakes didn’t have to taint her. She didn’t have to live with him ten years from now because she’d never discovered how to purge him.
“You were innocent. Are innocent. There’s nothing you could’ve done to escape his focus on you, just as there’s nothing you could do to deter it. Don’t let him contaminate and silence you. Your music…” He lowered his head, grazed his lips over the top of her ear. “It brings joy, peace, escape. Peace. That’s who you are, what comes out of you. Don’t let him have you.”
Her harsh, rapid breathing echoed in the silence like small explosions. Her back rose and fell against his chest. She didn’t cry. Didn’t crumble. The hoarse gasps of air reflected her struggle for control, as if she were afraid to let go. Unlike the previous night when he’d found her, this would be a conscious choice to trust him with her pain, with the exposure of her raw fears and heart.
He brushed a kiss over her temple.
“Shh,” he soothed. “You’re safe with me.”
As if his assurance unlocked the door on her ragged emotions, the first sob broke free, rough and animal-like. Murmuring softly into her hair and ear, he steadied her, allowed her to lean on him. He promised her safety when he was the one in jeopardy. With her in his arms, his heart aching for her even as his body throbbed with hunger, he stood in the direct line of danger. “Professional distance” had been demoted to a buzzword, a powerless phrase in the face of his desire for this strong, beautiful, but hurt woman.
And if he surrendered to the greed and forgetfulness he would find in her arms and body, what happened then? He could pretend her loveliness and honest heart wasn’t as much of a lethal draw as the lure of her curves and taste… He could pretend she didn’t affect him, excite him as no other woman ever had… But when she left for Los Angeles, for the place she considered a haven, a home, he wouldn’t be able to deny no woman had been able to penetrate his shields since he’d first erected them at fifteen.
Aslyn would leave. Of that he had no doubt—she may be traumatized, her creativity stifled now, but she was too much of a force to be reckoned with to remain in this painful place. So she would eventually return to her home. And he wouldn’t follow. She needed someone to stand by her, support her both personally and professionally. That man wasn’t him. He wouldn’t be able to stand the spotlight she lived and thrived in. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the invasion of privacy, the intrusive media. What he craved most—anonymity, obscurity, solitude—she abhorred. While most of her life read like a triumphant feel-good Lifetime movie, his belonged on a horror reel. And if she ever discovered just how ugly, how violent…
No. She couldn’t. He refused to allow it to happen.
But as the fervent pledge echoed in his head, a small, nearly silent voice whispered underneath the noise.
Who would protect him from her?
Chapter Ten
Chay strode up the front walk to his home as if the hounds of hell snarled at his ankles.
“Do you blame your mother for bringing Richard into your life?”
“Do you resent her for not realizing he was hurting you?”
“Do you feel guilty about killing the man she loved?”
The therapist’s questions stabbed into his skull. He jabbed his key into the door and opened it wide. When the door slammed shut behind him, he ripped his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor. By the time he hit the bathroom, his pants, socks, and shoes littered his path like a trail of breadcrumbs. He desperately needed a shower to scrub away the last hour.
He twisted the knobs in the large stall, turning the temperature one degree past more-than-I-can-stand, and stepped under the pounding water. Flattening his palms on the white tile, he bent his head. The hot, stinging cascade beat down on flesh that seemed flipped inside out, but he didn’t flinch. He was flayed. Emotionally, mentally. Every wisp of steam and bead of water scraped him raw and exposed.
A half hour later, he yanked a pair of jeans over his hips. Though his skin might be clean, his mind continued to whirl and wail like a furious, raging storm. The shower didn’t quiet it. He’d inhaled deep breaths until he damn near hyperventilated, and it didn’t silence the questions, the thoughts. The rage and grief.
“Is it any wonder you can’t trust, Chayot? The first woman in your life, the most important woman, let you down when you most needed her.”
; Chay clenched his jaw, the white T-shirt he’d snatched from his drawer balled in his fist. After the truth about Richard’s disappearance and death broke, his mother had questioned him about that night…about killing Richard. The blinding pain and agony in her eyes had devastated him. She’d never asked again; she hadn’t been able to deal with the truth. And if his own mother hadn’t been able to, if he couldn’t trust her to handle the ugly reality, how in the hell did he expect another woman to? How did he trust another woman to?
The doorbell pealed. Dragging on his T-shirt, he stalked barefoot through the house to the front door, a “go away” ready on his lips for whoever stood on the other side. He peered out the window bordering the door and cursed.
Not her. Not now.
He jerked the door open and stared down at Aslyn.
“Hey,” she said, her eyes flicking to his still damp hair and down to his bare feet before returning to his face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I got another phone call.”
“Damn.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “Come in. What did he say?” He whirled around and snatched his cell phone from the couch end table where he’d dropped it upon entering the house. Missed call and voicemail.
“Same thing. You’re mine. Get ready for me.” He detected the fine tremor under her flippancy, but remained silent as Aslyn’s shrewd gaze skimmed over the trail of clothes he hadn’t picked up yet. She arched an eyebrow. “Um, maid’s day off?”
He didn’t reply as he tapped in the code that would bring up his messages and waited for it to click on.
“Hey, Chay,” Rafe’s voice echoed in his ear. “Just letting you know Aslyn received another call, and the trace is working. Hopefully we’ll have some preliminary information later tonight or tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something definite.”
Grim satisfaction surged within him. Good. If they were lucky, they just might nail this asshole in the next couple of days. He ended the voicemail and tossed the phone onto the couch.
