Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1)
Page 4
I pour us each a glass of 2010 Terra Di Lavoro and I lift my wineglass to his. “To a beautiful evening,” I toast.
“To us,” he says, and our glasses clink.
I swallow the smooth, soothing liquid. I’m caught off guard by a tingling sensation throughout my body, along with a surge of wooziness. Surely, the drink hasn’t hit me that fast. There is only one explanation for this unusual effect, and he’s sitting right beside me.
“This wine has a rich, smooth taste to it. It’s opulent,” Michael compliments.
“Thank you, it’s produced on this tiny vineyard on the slopes of the Roccamonfina volcano in Italy. It’s from my late grandfather’s collection,” I explain.
“Excellent choice,” Michael praises and lifts his glass to savor another taste of the rich wine.
“Thank you.” I take another small sip, letting the wine swoosh around in my mouth and swallow it.
“Stunning view.” Michael says.
“Yes, I agree. Peaceful, like being on vacation.” I drink the remainder of wine and place the glass down.
“The perfect hideaway to escape from a long stressful day. That’s if you ever have one,” he expresses with a smile that will melt down steel.
“Believe it or not, my work is stressful. There is a lot of stress with filming. Several times we’ve encountered electrical issues, battery runs down on the cameras; the manager is not on time when we need her or him to take us for the first round of the hotel. The list goes on. The weather plays a big part. One hotel we went to go film we were caught in a hurricane.”
“That couldn’t have been any fun,” Michael comments shaking his head.
“No, not at all. Especially since it set us back three days,” I laugh, and suddenly I feel tired and drowsy. Maybe some cool air will shake this awkwardness. “Come, let’s go out onto the terrace, so you can see the park.”
“I would like that.” Michael stands, extending his hand out for mine. I grasp it, and my insides explode from the energy penetrating through my skin. I stand up, and he follows. We walk towards the French doors that lead to the terrace. A sudden uneasiness settles over me. My heart is stuttering, my skin turning cold and clammy. I take a few more steps, unbalanced and weak. Everything begins to blur and spin, and I’m beginning to see double, triple. Before I get a chance to grab onto something, my knees buckle.
***
“Ariana . . . . Ariana.”
“Hmm?” I murmur.
“Ariana . . . . Wake up sweetheart.”
I feel a nudge, like someone is trying to get my attention. My eyes open and Michael is sitting beside me. I gasp, alarmed to find myself lying on the sofa, “What happened?” I ask, all disoriented.
“You fainted, Ariana,” he explains, with a wary expression in his eyes. “How do you feel?”
“A little distraught.” I glance at the time. “Oh, Michael, we need to leave if we want to make it to the opera.” I sit up and sway from the dizziness. I take hold of my head, wondering when the spinning is going to end.
I’m startled by Michael’s firm hold on my shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere. You need to lay back down. You don’t look so well,” he says with a stern tone, his eyebrows drawn together.
“Michael, don’t be silly. I’m okay. I would hate to waste the tickets. I’m sure you paid an exorbitant amount for them.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money, Ariana. My concern is you. Did you drink earlier?” He asks, his voice softer.
“No,” I answer. I take a deep breath to calm the whirling around me. What is wrong with me?
He touches my forehead, examining me. “You have no fever. Have you eaten anything since our lunch? Do you take any medication that you may have forgotten about?” He spews out with a disturbed expression.
“I indulged in homemade chocolate truffles from a fan about an hour ago. Well, I ate pretty much the whole box. I did leave you one. It’s sitting on the counter.” I smile pointing in the direction of the kitchen.
The right corner of his lip curves up along with his eyebrow, making him appear sexier. “You left me one out of how many truffles?” He questions me.
“I ate eleven. I couldn’t help myself. They were delicious, coated in hazelnut, almonds, and shredded coconut. What can I say, I’m a chocoholic,” I express with a chuckle, feeling a bit dazed.
Michael stands and walks towards the chocolates. He picks up the box and fumbles through the empty foils but one. “I found a small note in the box. May I read it?” He asks.
“Of course,” I answer. I watch as he skims over the words and his demeanor begins to change. He looks puzzled, anxious, and a horrifying gaze fills his eyes. My heart starts to race. “What’s wrong, Michael?” I ask with apprehension.
He sighs. “Let me read it to you, and you’ll understand.”
This is your number-one fan, my little princess. I was so aroused to hear that beautiful voice when I called you at the restaurant. How is Mr. Grayson?
I imagined my lips kissing yours, my hands over your soft, smooth skin. I look forward to us meeting. I love everything about you. You’re beautiful on the screen, but breathtaking in person. I’m sure you’ve seen me, or maybe not, I’m like a chameleon, I blend into my surroundings. I’m never far from your side.
I hope you enjoyed the homemade chocolate truffles. I added a little something to help you slumber with thoughts of me. Don’t worry, baby doll. It won’t kill you. I want you alive and well when we finally meet. I love you.
Sleep well, baby doll.
Signed,
YL - Your lover
P.S. If you get the police involved, you'll be buried with the flowers I planted.
My eyes grow wide, and a painful tightness wraps around my chest, leaving me breathless. My leg starts to bounce, and my heart is pounding madly in my throat.
Michael is staring at me. No, he’s glaring at me, with his lips pressed in a hard-line. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees, chilling the atmosphere.
“Ariana,” he says with a clenched jaw. He looks ready to snap.
I can tell by his tone of voice he’s on edge, and I know why. I lied to him about the caller.
“Yes,” I say, barely a whisper.
He moves towards me, infuriated, and sits beside me. His leg brushes up against mine, making me jump. He looks into my eyes and then at my lips as if he wants to kiss me and then shakes his head and clears his throat.
“Why did you tell me the phone call you received at the restaurant was a wrong number?” He asks, trying to stay in control, his muscles twitching around his jaw.
“I didn’t want to worry you. This doesn’t concern you anyway,” I ramble on defensively. “Many TV personalities get sick fans harassing them.” I wave a hand in the air, getting hit with another wave of dizziness.
Cold sweats begin to course through me. I wipe the moisture off my forehead with a clammy hand. I’m filled with a million thoughts. What did he mean he added a little something to help me slumber? Oh, shit. What was in those truffles? I thought his e-mails and phone call was just to rattle me, but this isn’t a joke to him; he has a plan for me. I blink several times before turning in Michael’s direction. He stands and stares at me; his features etched with worry.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he orders, his posture stiff.
I gasp. “No,” I choke out.
“Ariana, you don’t have a choice. We need to know what were in those chocolates,” he grounds out, his eyes piercing through me. The tension in the air is so thick I can slice it with a knife.
I shake my head again. “Please don’t,” I whisper.
He sits and lets out a frustrated sigh, rolls his eyes, and pulls out his iPhone from his suit jacket and speaks into the phone. “Call Josh.” Michael hits the speaker on his cell phone.
A few seconds later, a man answers, “Hello, Michael.”
“Josh, are you in the city?”
“Yes. I’m about to walk
out of the office. What’s wrong? You sound upset.”
“Concerned would be the right term. I need you with your medical bag, or whatever you doctors carry, over to a friend’s apartment and fast. Her name is Ariana DiMarco. I’ll explain everything when you arrive. Oh, and bring the drug analyzer you keep in the office.” He stands and paces across my living room like a caged animal.
“Text me with the address, and I’ll be right over. Who’s Ariana?” Josh questions.
Michael messages the address. “You’ll know soon enough. I need you here ASAP, please,” he snaps and ends the call.
Who was he speaking to? His personal physician?
Michael makes another call. “Call Trent.”
I hear a ring, and the other party picks up. “Grayson Investigations and Security. Trent speaking.”
“Trent, Michael. I’m at a friend’s apartment. Her name is Ariana DiMarco. I need you here and fast. I’ll text you her address,” Michael orders.
“Ariana DiMarco,” he repeats, followed by a long pause. “You mean the host from Global Networks? How did you land a date with her?”
“Yes, and don’t be a wise ass.”
“What’s wrong, bro?”
“She has a demented fan.”
“I’m already in the car. Give me ten to twenty minutes.”
“Michael, you’re worrying me. Who are Josh and Trent, and why are they coming here?” I ask curiously.
“Ariana, those men are my brothers. Josh is the eldest. He’s an internist with his own practice in Manhattan and puts in time at NW Hospital. Trent is the youngest, a former FBI agent and owns a private investigating and security company.”
“And they’re coming here . . . for what?” I inquire.
He paces like a restless animal in circles, his tall, sleek form overpowering the room. His hands rest over his hips, his eyes burning with frustration. “My God, Ariana, what am I going to do with you? The substance you consumed concerns me, more like overwrought, and your refusal to go to the hospital is distressing me.”
I have obviously exasperated him. After holding his breath for God knows how long, he releases it, gaping up at the ceiling and then back at me. “He must have added some sort of sedative, according to the note. I won’t know for sure until Josh and Trent arrive,” he explains as his gaze drifts toward the box of chocolates.
He treads across the room, massaging the back of his neck. He seems to be deep in thought, tormented with anxieties. I sense something else . . . sadness, as though he’s fighting his own demons. He paces a few times and heads towards the double glass doors and walks out onto the terrace, gazing down at the flurry of activity in the city. I’m touched by this man whose only known me for a few hours, and yet he is worried about me.
I shut my eyes for a brief moment, and he startles me as he shuts the door closed and asks me a question.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to have my brother Trent help you. My first instinct was to call the police, but if he’s watching you; he'll know you alerted the authorities. We can’t take any chances,” he explains as he lays his hands over his hips.
“I don’t know Michael.” I shake my head, still reeling over the fact that I have a psychopath stalking me. Taunting me with his unsettling e-mails, his phone call and sedating me with drugged chocolates. To add icing on the cake, he threatened to harm me, no, not harm me. He’s threatened to bury me with the flowers he planted if the police get involved. I take a deep breath and clutch my hands over the painful tightness around my stomach wishing this was all a dream.
How do TV personalities handle these situations? I never had to worry about watching over my shoulder or fear opening my e-mails or, even worse, answering the phone. I cringe just thinking about.
Chapter 4
The E-mails
“Ariana, I want you to be honest with me. Is this the first time this demented fuck, excuse my language, contacted you besides at the restaurant?” He asks, waiting with cautious eyes.
I shake my head. “No,” I answer, biting my lower lip.
He rubs his face with both hands, releasing a frustrated growl. He rocks on his heels, and his muscles begin to relax, as his eyes grow warmer.
“Can you tell me when this started?” He pauses. “Please.” His tone softens.
“Michael . . . I don’t want you caught up in this mess.” He opens his mouth to interrupt me. I wave a hand to prevent him from speaking. “This is my problem,” I answer, feeling heaviness in my muscle.
“Ariana, I am very much involved. From the moment you stepped into the restaurant, you became a part of my existence,” he says in a somber tone.
“I’m speechless . . . again. What you said . . . Michael, thank you.” My eyelids are beginning to feel heavy and all I want to do is close them. I shake my head and blink several times to stay awake. I need to move around, get my blood circulating. I stand up a little unsteady and I start at Michael’s remark.
“Sit down, Ariana,” he orders. “You shouldn’t be standing. I don’t know what kind of drug he laced in those chocolates. I should be rushing you to the hospital.”
“No,” I snap, turning my head to face him. I hate hospitals. It’s where I had to identify my parents’ and sister’s body. I ease toward the kitchen and take a firm hold of the counter. God, I’m so light-headed. I glance at him, trying to figure him out why he’s so adamant to help me. I should be grateful instead of snapping at him. “Listen . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound abrupt,” I say, softening my tone. “You’re a wonderful and caring man, the perfect gentleman, but I won’t have you mixed up in this. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
“I don’t mean to sound authoritative, but you ate close to a dozen chocolates. I’m concerned, and whether you like it or not I am getting involved,” he explains as he runs a hand nervously through his hair.
I roll my eyes. “God, Michael, why are you being such a stubborn mule. I’ll figure this out. I’ll speak to the IT department, see if they can trace the two e-mails he sent me.”
“Two e-mails,” he says, his voice sounding hoarse.
“Yes,” I respond.
“When?” He asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he paces across the room.
“One a few days ago and the most recent one was this afternoon,” I answer, my words slurring. The drug seems to be affecting my speech. I’m sure that big glass of wine I consumed earlier didn’t help. I sway and grip the countertop tighter. I’m so tired.
“Please tell me you saved them.” His eyes are watchful.
I nod. “Yes, I dumped them in the miscellaneous folder.”
“Smart move,” he says with a sigh and paces around the room irritable. He removes his jacket, laying the garment over the arm of the sofa, and Holy Mother of God . . . . Whoa! A true mouthwatering sculpture of masculinity appears before me.
His black slacks highlight his slender, muscular legs and his firm bottom. I crave for a little taste, maybe a touch. I gasp at my behavior. This is outrageous. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
I’m startled when Michael’s voice snags my attention.
“Ariana, are you listening to me?” He snaps irritation seeping through his voice.
“Ah . . . yes, I am,” I say, feeling flushed with embarrassment.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything in life happens for a reason. I came into yours for a reason.”
“Michael, enough! I don’t want you to get mixed up in this mess. Do I make myself clear?” The stubborn mule.
“Why are you fighting me on this?” He asks softly, leaning up against the French doors with his leg crossed over the other and arms across his chest.
I blow out a frustrated breath making my way to one of the stools to sit on. Why is he even questioning me? What if Michael provokes this deranged maniac and he decides to go after Michael. The thought makes me ill.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. Can’t you understand,” I explain, sounding calmer.
“Well, don’t let your head swell. Having one lunch with me does not give you carte blanche to get yourself drawn into my situation. We’ve only just met Michael.”
A devilish smile materializes, and he saunters toward me causing my heart to pump with joy and anticipation. “Ariana,” he says on a long breath, his voice simmering, causing me to go weak all over and turning me inside out. He takes me by the chin, and I jerk away, I’m not sure why. Maybe because he stirs every emotion I’ve never felt . . . or could it be fear.
He stiffens, sensing my tension. “I’ll never hurt you, Ariana.” His eyebrows draw together, staring at me with a watchful eye. He leans back, his tall, powerful physique up against the kitchen counter, and his muscular arms over his chest. “I’d like to help you. Trent has all the resources to find this demented fuck, pardon my ill-mannered words. Please let me do this,” he begs.
I shake my head. “No, Michael,” I say with a firm tone.
He pushes himself away from the counter and settles on a stool beside me. His fingers brush over my arm, spawning a fluttery feeling of butterflies in my stomach.
“I know we’ve only known each other for a small amount of time, but there is no way in hell I’m going to let you handle this mental case on your own.”
I’m bewildered and cannot fathom that this man, who I’ve only known a short while, wants to help me. How is this possible? Most people walk away, have the police handle it and leave it at that?
We both flinch at the sound of a buzzer. “That’s Ryan, the building’s security guard,” I say fixated on his eyes.
He rises from the seat, standing tall, and I grab his bicep, feeling the bulging muscles beneath his sleeve.
“Please, Michael, I don’t want you, or your brothers, involved,” I beg, plead.