An hour later we still haven’t been able to reach Amanda, and aside from popping his head in to check on me, Chris has spent most of his time with Jacob. Carrying my Ralph-assigned workload, I make my way to my office. Rounding the corner to my doorway, I flip on the light and then stop dead in my tracks, stunned.
It’s bare. Completely, utterly bare. No books. No rose-scented candle on the desk. Not even a computer on the desk, just a phone. I walk inside and turn to the wall, surprised to find the painting of the roses remains, but it’s sitting on the floor. I can only assume there was some insurance reason it had to stay. It bothers me that it’s been moved, to the point it’s like a grinding in my belly. It’s part of her. It’s part of them, of her and Mark. If it’s gone, what’s left? Without the journals, the painting is all I have of Rebecca.
Shaking off my emotions, I stack the files on top of the desk and set my purse in the drawer. As I claim my chair a low whistle draws my attention to the doorway, where my jeans-clad Fifty Shades of Prince Charming appears. “Talk about taking everything,” Chris comments, stepping inside and shutting the door.
“I’m surprised they left the furniture.”
“This isn’t a bad thing,” he points out, coming around to my side of the desk, and leaning against the edge beside me. “The more they know about Rebecca, the better chance they have of finding her.”
I can smell that earthy, freshly showered scent that is so Chris, and so not Rebecca. Her roses are gone. Like she is. “Why’d you shut the door?” I ask. “Did you get some news about the hearing?”
“There was a bomb threat at the courthouse. The hearing has been postponed until two.”
“Bomb threat?”
“David and Blake think it was Ava’s legal team. Blake’s trying to prove it, but he says her people are pretty smart about covering their tracks.”
“Why would they do that? Don’t they want to get her out of jail sooner?”
“Speculation is they’re waiting on a witness that didn’t show up.”
“What witness?”
“It doesn’t matter. I took care of it.”
“What does that mean, Chris?” He just stares at me, and it’s making me crazy. “It’s about me, isn’t it? Just tell me. I’m not a delicate—”
“Flower. I know.” He inhales and lets it out. “There were phone exchanges between Ava’s counsel and Michael.”
I laugh without humor and I think it sounds a little crazy. I feel a little crazy right now. “David was right. Ava’s people are all about character assassination.” My eyes burn.
Chris’s fingers slide under my chin. “I took care of it. I called your father.”
“My father.” My tone is flat, my emotions wild, but at least the threatening tears have dried up. “I’m sure that was a real success. What did Daddy dearest say?”
“He fired Michael, who’s now working for a competitor.”
I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone of Hell. “So my father has no control over him now. Not that I thought he would do anything to help anyway.”
“Yes, he does. He put a loophole in Michael’s exit contract linked to residual income for just this reason. He says the fine print will handle this swiftly and effectively.”
“Of course it will. Why would I doubt him? If his daughter looks bad, he looks bad. I guess there’s a bright side to having an egomaniac for a father.”
“What’s important is it’s handled. I found out about this yesterday and took action, and we wake up to the bomb threat today. Michael had to have backed out, and Ava’s team is buying time to get him back on board.”
“You knew yesterday and you didn’t tell me?”
“I was going to tell you, but—”
“You were afraid I’d freak out. Which was what I was afraid would happen if I told you about my panic attacks.” I sigh. “Is Michael in town?”
“Sara. I didn’t think you were going to freak out.”
“You can’t tell me you aren’t worried about when I’ll have another attack.”
“I’m not. But if you do, I’ll be here to hold you up.”
“I don’t want you to have to hold me up.”
“That’s what we do, baby. We support each other. We made that decision when we decided to get married. For better or worse. End of subject. Okay?”
I nod, and damn it, my eyes are burning. “Okay.”
“Good. And yes, Michael is in town, and in a few hours we won’t be. The sooner we leave for Sonoma, the happier I’ll be.”
“He’s going to go into that courtroom and lie about me. God. He’s such an asshole. I have to be at the hearing.”
“Forget it. They don’t want you there and I don’t want you there.”
“I need to defend myself.”
“Your father assures me Michael won’t be there. And even if he was, the DA would defend you as their primary witness.”
“So far I’ve been attacked on all fronts. Did my father say anything about me nearly being killed? No. Don’t answer that. I know I won’t like the answer.”
He rests his forehead on mine and says nothing, his silence the bitter confirmation I expect. My father didn’t care about my safety. He cared about his reputation.
I can’t think about this now, and I look at Chris. “I assume Blake has men watching Michael?”
“Yes. If he heads to the courthouse, we’ll know. Any word on Amanda?”
“Nothing. I’ve tried to reach her and so has Ralph. I have a bad feeling about her, Chris.”
“It’s easy to have a bad feeling when you’re in the middle of a murder investigation. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have one of the security guys run by her house.”
“I think I should go. She knows me, and she’ll be freaked out by a stranger showing up at her door.”
“No, baby. I know doing something, anything, makes you feel more in control right now, but we have to think about Ricco and the press.”
“Ricco’s angry at Mark, not me.”
“Jealousy and vengeance make people do crazy things. We talked about this. So we aren’t underestimating Ricco. I’ll go check on Amanda. She knows me, and I can call you and put her on the line with you while I’m there.”
“I’ll just go with you.”
Chris shakes his head. “You stay and help Ralph get out of here. I want to pay Ryan a little visit after I check on Amanda, and I’m not taking you along for that ride.”
“Good. Just call me as soon as you get to her apartment.”
“Of course.” He runs his hand down my hair. “I don’t think you’ll see Mark today. My understanding is they called him in for last minute questioning this morning, but text me if he shows up.” His voice lowers, roughens, and he tugs me to my feet. “Just remember. You’re mine, baby, and I protect what’s mine. I won’t let anyone hurt you in any way.” He kisses my forehead and leaves.
• • •
Thirty minutes later I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear from Chris, but I’ve managed to be productive, sorting files and righting papers that are an absolute mess. How can the police justify leaving the gallery’s records like this? I’m about to head to Ralph’s office again when I hear the exterior door open.
Hoping for news, I reach my doorway just as Mark stops in front of me. We are toe-to-toe, a lean away from touching, and I am captured by those icy gray eyes. For several moments I can’t breathe, and he knows it. I see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the hint of satisfaction that tells me he misreads my reaction as something it is not—and never will be.
Jolted back to sanity, I step backward.
“My office, Ms. McMillan,” he snaps, and leaves me staring after him.
My shoulders slump. So much for not seeing him today. My fist balls at my chest, where my stupid heart is racing. I hate that he can still do this to me; that any man can do this to me.
Mark hits the same hot spots that Michael and my father do, both of whom are very much on my mind today.
I respond to him more out of conditioning than by free will, like I do with Chris.
I walk down the hallway toward Mark’s office with trepidation, replaying his words from yesterday. You remind me of her. It’s rather ironic, how I remind him of his past, and he of mine.
Entering his office, I find him leaning against the front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the powerful, unapproachable “King.”
“Shut the door,” he orders.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“The door, Ms. McMillan.”
I hesitate, but my worry for Ralph’s uncanny ability to overhear things wins. I shut the door, and hope it’s not a mistake.
Sixteen
Mark’s spacious office shrinks the instant I’m sealed inside with him. His energy and power radiate through the room, a sharp, familiar sensation that I now realize always stirs a bit of my past, and my defenses with it.
“Why are you and Ralph still here?” he demands.
I force myself to stand my ground. “Ralph can’t do the reports you want from home. I’m helping him since Amanda was a no-show today.”
“Jacob told me about that.”
I wait for him to express concern or offer a game plan or explanation, but he just gives me silence. “It’s not like her to not show up. Chris went to check on her.”
“I made sure she won’t be given entry into the club, should Ryan choose to take her there.”
“Did you talk to Ryan?” I ask hopefully.
“I told you, Ms. McMillan; it’s not in my or Ryan’s best interest for me to communicate with him at present.”
I bite back a snarky remark that would only lead me into a battle I won’t win, opting for an information dig instead. “You think he’s involved in Rebecca’s disappearance, don’t you?”
“You asked that yesterday.”
“That’s right,” I agree, “and I’m asking again.”
“You really don’t know your limits, do you, Ms. McMillan?”
“I most certainly do,” I say, my sureness returning, my hands finding my hips. “It’s yours I’m pushing. You said Ryan knew that Rebecca returned to San Francisco.”
“Correct.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Correct again.”
My mood softens again with the certainty that this is a betrayal of friendship to Mark. “Could he have thought it was a difficult subject for you?”
“I don’t allow Ryan to know what difficult means for me.”
“You call him a friend.”
“A socially acceptable term, better described as a business acquaintance.”
“But one you trust,” I counter.
“Trusted. Past tense.” He changes the subject. “I understand Ricco paid you a visit last night.”
“He showed up at the restaurant and cornered me by the restroom door.”
“And he did this why?”
“To warn me away from you.”
His lips twist wryly. “At least he and I agree on something.”
I ignore the reference to our conversation yesterday and push forward with what’s important. “He hates you, and he thinks you killed Rebecca. That spells dangerous to me, especially when you consider he threw away more than most people have in a lifetime to try to ruin you.”
He arches a brow. “Worried about me, Ms. McMillan?”
“Yes, Mark, I’m worried about you,” I say, refusing to be baited. “And I know you and Chris have had issues, but he’s worried, too.”
“Issues,” he repeats flatly. “Are you referencing his warning to Rebecca to stay away from me? Or mine to you, to stay away from him? Or perhaps the ‘issues’ lie in the way he left you alone and miserable, and I tried to fuck you to your senses.”
If he intends to shock me, which I’m certain he does, he fails. I cross my arms and level him with a frosty look. “What is it with you being crass all of a sudden?”
“I wasn’t aware you had such delicate sensibilities. I’d have thought Chris would have remedied that by now. I certainly would have.”
My hands go back to my hips. “Stop it, Mark.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what Rebecca said to Chris. We see how well that worked out for her.”
“That’s enough,” I snap, and it’s all I can do not to say more, to remember he’s hurting and motivated by who knows what emotion. “Ricco accused you of setting him up. If that’s what he’s saying to me, that has to be what he’s using as a defense to the police.”
“Not a very subtle change of subject, Ms. McMillan. But then, subtlety isn’t exactly your strong point. Tiger told me about the accusations and they aren’t surprising. Ricco’s entire objective is to ruin me and he has deep-enough pockets to make a valiant effort. Do I care? No. Ricco Alvarez is the last thing on my mind right now.”
Though his expression and tone are as unreadable as ever, there’s an unspoken message in his words. Nothing Ricco can do to him comes close to what losing Rebecca has, or what fearing for his mother is doing to him now. “When do you go back to New York?”
“I’m flying back this evening to attempt to head off any bad press that might land on Riptide’s doorstep today.”
“I warned Crystal about today’s events and the potential media frenzy to follow. I didn’t want to risk her being surprised and walking out on you.”
The ice is back in his impenetrable gray eyes. “Go help Ralph finish the reports and then leave, Ms. McMillan.”
I’m stunned by the sharply spoken dismissal. “But—”
“Don’t argue, Ms. McMillan.”
I want to, but he’s stone now, and I might as well have already left the room. I turn on my heel and go to the door, before I do something insane like try to shake some sense into the man.
“Ms. McMillan.”
My hand freezes on the knob in a déjà vu moment. This is reminiscent of the many times in the past when Mark sent me fleeing his office in a mess of mixed emotions, only to stop me to land one final blow. I pause, holding my breath with the expectation this one will rock my world, as he always intends.
“Chris and I are far more alike than you think,” he says, repeating what Chris himself has said to me on more than one occasion. “Rebecca held on too long. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Anger begins to burn through me, fiery and hot. Afraid of what I might say, I yank open the door and exit into the hallway. I am not Rebecca, and Chris isn’t Mark. I refuse to let him mess with my head.
My pace and my erratic heartbeat don’t slow until I’m in my office, behind the desk. I stare at the painting of the roses that’s so much a part of who Rebecca and Mark were together, and I can’t help but think of the roses on my wedding band.
My cell phone beeps with a text, and I grab it to read the message from Chris. She’s not home. I’m on my way to Ryan’s.
It’s not the news I’d hoped for, but expected. Knowing what I have to do, and dreading his reaction, I type, Mark’s here.
It takes about three seconds for my phone to ring. “I knew I chose that dress for a reason,” Chris says, and while it’s spoken playfully, there’s an undercurrent of tension.
“He’s more overbearingly impossible than usual,” I tell him, “and as eager to get me and Ralph out of here as we are. I dared to ask him about Ryan and he shut me down, of course.”
“Well, I’m no fan of his silence, or Ryan’s timing with Amanda. If we can get her out of the center of this, I think that’s smart. I’ll be at Ryan’s office in about fifteen minutes.”
“What about his apartment?”
“I bribed the doorman into telling me Ryan left hours ago, and he was alone.”
“That’s not good. Where’s Amanda?”
“I’m hoping he can tell us. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. In the meantime, stay away from Mark.” While I don’t regret returning to the gallery, since it still feels like the window to finding Rebecca, I’m ready t
o leave.
I make a coffee run to the break room and catch a glimpse of Ralph disappearing into the gallery with Jacob on his heels. Frowning, I set my coffee on my desk, grab my cell phone, and head to the showroom to find it empty. The sound of voices draws me toward the front door and I see Ralph and Jacob standing outside, their backs to me. Crossing the display floor, I push open the door to find two of Blake’s men flanking the entry. I start toward Ralph and Jacob’s direction, only to stop dead in my tracks when I realize who’s with them.
Seventeen
“There she is,” Detective Grant says, looking far from courtroom ready with a two-day beard and a navy blazer he’s paired with jeans and a loosened tie. “Just the woman I was hoping to talk to. Your bodyguard here said you weren’t available.”
“She’s not,” Jacob snaps tightly, his spine ramrod straight, his jaw set hard. “Go back inside, Ms. McMillan.”
“Yes,” the detective agrees. “Go back inside, Ms. McMillan. I’ll chat with Ralph.”
The look of utter terror on Ralph’s face tells me how direly he needs saving, and I squeeze his arm. “Go finish your reports.”
“He’s already agreed to talk to me,” Detective Grant insists.
Irritated at the way this man throws around his power, my gaze snaps to his. “Schedule a meeting so he can have an attorney present.”
“I need an attorney?” Ralph exclaims. “Since when do I need an attorney? I barely knew Rebecca. I liked her, though. I really liked her.”
Oh, crap. “Relax, Ralph,” I say quickly, stepping in front of him, my hands coming down on his upper arms. “Don’t overreact. It’s just a precaution. You’re fine.”
“You’re not a suspect,” Detective Grant assures him from behind me. “I just want to talk to you about this.”
Certain that I don’t want to know what “this” is, I turn to find him holding a book. My stomach plummets as I recognize it as my journal.
“What is it?” Ralph asks.
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