by Unknown
“That fuckin’ asshole,” Michael snaps and he takes my hand and we walk in, both shaken up.
The room is a mess. My printer was yanked from the wall and thrown on the floor with the wires sliced. The chair is leaning up against the closet door face down, the desk drawer open, and hanging over the edge, is my gold letter opener, its tip tinted in red. I scan the room, and lying on the laptop is an envelope addressed to me.
Trent walks over to the desk with caution. He removes a handkerchief from his suit jacket and picks up the envelope sitting on the laptop. He pries the corners open and tears it across with a small Swiss Army Knife he pulled out of his pocket. He tugs the small note card with a pair of tweezers attached to his knife.
“The note’s addressed to baby doll,” Trent says.
Oh God, please. Why? Why? Why does he call me baby doll, and why is he doing this to me? This is crazy. The man is sick. He belongs in a mental institution.
“Read it,” Michael orders.
As Trent reads the note, I feel the rage building up inside me like a violent wave of fury. In less than twenty-four hours, this man has managed to suck all the courage and self-esteem I worked so hard to regain, leaving me with nothing but a crumbling, hollow soul and singed nerves.
Hello, Baby Doll,
I came to visit, but you were away at some seminar. I was so hoping to meet you in person.
I have such plans for you and me. I don’t know how much longer I can wait to have you in my arms. I love you.
I left you a recording of my voice, something to help you dream about me.
Your Number One Fan
P.S. I hope you don’t mind, but I helped myself to your panty drawer. I hope you’re not upset. You sure know how to dress underneath those clothes. I can’t wait to see you without them on. I’m panting with anticipation.
Chapter 7
It’s Gone
Suddenly, I feel as I’ve been hit in the solar plexus with a crowbar. That bastard came into my apartment, in my bedroom, and even searched through my drawers. To top off his mental illness, he leaves a recorded message, which scared the living daylights out of me.
“How the hell did he get in here?” I choke out through the squeezing chokehold around my throat, my eyes wide with fear.
I shove Michael and Trent aside, and they follow. I’m deafened by the loud sounds of blood rushing through my ears as hatred, anger, and fury come barreling out.
I slam my hands against the double doors to my room, causing them to smack into the walls. I yank open one of the dresser drawers, searching with a desperate need to find one small item. I yank out bras, panties, and stockings, tossing them behind me. Some land on the bed and others flutter down onto the area rug.
“Ariana,” Michael calls out, and I ignore him.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it, it’s gone; I can’t believe it’s gone.” I crumble to the floor, overwhelmed with this madness. The gates open up, and the tears rush out like waterfalls splattering on the floor. “That bastard!” I hit the floor with my fist and then clutch them tight, my fingernails digging deep into my skin. This asshole is trying to give me a nervous breakdown. I squeeze my eyes shut and rock myself. Get a hold of yourself, Ariana. Don’t let this bastard get to you. You know that’s what he wants. I say to myself.
Michael kneels on the floor, his knees touching mine and wraps his arms around me, giving me a warm embrace, followed with comforting and soothing words.
“Ariana, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you up.” A numbing sensation begins to weigh over my limbs, and all I want to do is crawl into Michael’s warm skin and stay there until they find this lunatic.
“Trent, find some brandy, whiskey, anything.” Michael pulls me up from the floor and enfolds me in his arms. We walk into the living room, and he sits me on the sofa.
“It’s gone, it’s gone,” is my mantra, and I rock myself back and forth, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s gone.” I can’t believe what this man is putting me through. He’s criminally insane.
“Here, give her this brandy. This will help her relax.” Trent hands the amber liquid to Michael.
“Ariana, honey . . . sweetheart,” he whispers with a gentleness to his voice, his fingers brush beneath my chin.
I gaze up with a trembling chin. I sniffle. I bend over to reach for the box of tissues, but Michael hands me one. I blow my nose. “Thank you,” I mumble, grasping to the tissue for dear life.
“Drink this.” He hands me the crystal glass.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I didn’t say there was an option, Ariana. Drink the brandy, or I’ll call Josh, and he’ll sedate you. So, you decide,” he orders, as his dominance fills the air in the room.
He’s such a damn bully. I grip the glass and take a sip of the harsh, pungent brandy. I make a face. “Yuk, this stuff is nasty,” I squeal, quivering at the taste.
“Why do you buy the stuff?” Trent asks.
“For Blake, a close friend of mine.” I place the remainder of the drink down, and Mr. Bossy intercepts.
“Finish the rest,” he says, lips pressed in a hard-line.
“I can’t, Michael.” I push it toward him.
“Trent only poured you a shot. You barely drank anything. Drink, Ariana, and when you’re done, we are going to talk,” he commands.
I guzzle the remainder, and the liquid hits me hard, sending a burning sensation down my throat and through my veins. Michael takes the small shot glass and tissue away from me.
“Now, Ariana, let’s start with your last statement. What’s gone?” He asks.
I take a deep breath and utter out, “My gun.”
Both Trent and Michael gape at one another in a state of disbelief and turn to glare at me. “You own a gun? Do you carry a license?” Trent asks and sits beside me.
“Of course, I do,” I snap. I’m appalled he would even think I’d hold a handgun illegally.
“Is there a reason you keep a firearm in your apartment?” Michael questions.
“For protection,” I answer and twirl the chain of my locket around my fingers.
Michael was mystified. “Has anyone ever threatened you before, which prompted you to purchase one?” He leans back stretching his arms over the sofa, exposing his well-defined abdomen against his shirt.
I’m not going there with these two bullies, one in particular. Why should I disclose the real reason I bought the revolver? It was to protect me against Danny, in case he decided to get delusional, and hunt me down like a fox, in the hopes I would come crawling back to him, the bastard. “I moved from Galveston, Texas, to New York City. You know, a single young woman out on her own in a big city,” I explain.
“Makes sense. What’s the make and model of the gun?” Trent intervenes.
“A Smith & Wesson Centennial 442.” I shrug.
Trent grins with an expression of approval on his face; Michael is more confused.
“Sweet, perfect weight and size for a woman and yet powerful enough to stop a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man on drugs,” Trent says, sounding impressed with my purchase.
“The question is, do you know how to use one?” Michael asks with interest. He crosses one leg over the other and rubs the back of his neck.
These two are riding on my nerves. I’m about ready to explode. “Why all the questions. I’m getting a little irritated with you guys. To answer your question, yes, I can shoot damn well. I hit the bulls-eye every time.” Ah! They are impossible, I could scream. I need to walk around, but when I stand up, I sway, almost falling onto the table. Trent rushes up to support me by the elbow. How does Blake drink this stuff? Blah.
Michael springs off the sofa; his warm hands touch my shoulders sending fireworks through my bloodstream. “Ariana, are you all right?”
“Michael, too much brandy, I’m not used to drinking hard liquor. I’m fine.” I blow out a frustrated breath. I glance at the time, twelve thirty! Where did the time
go?
I hear chuckling coming from Trent and shake my head muttering to myself, “Men.”
“Ariana, let’s discuss our stalker, starting with the time the call came in,” Trent says as he sits back down on the sofa.
I plop myself down with hands at a praying position. “Eight forty-five. I happened to glance at the clock. I thought it was Michael, so I answered greeting him and…” I lose my train a thought for a moment, and a shiver rushes through me.
“Take your time, darlin’.” Trent pats my knee.
I nod several times, sucking in a deep breath. “His voice was raspy, real creepy.” Another shudder seeps through me.
“What did he say?” Michael prompts.
I squeeze my eyes shut, recalling the event word for word. “I said, ‘Hello Michael.’ The caller said, ‘Well, well, well, sorry to disappoint you, baby doll.’ I didn’t respond. I froze, gripping the receiver in my hand. Then he continued. ‘I love you sweetie, please don’t be scared. I’ll never hurt you. You belong to me. We are going to marry one day . . . Hello?’
“I asked who he was, and his answer to me was… ‘You’ll know soon enough, baby doll,’ and hangs up.” I rub my hands over my arms to ease the chill. I still cringe at his frightening words.
“When was the last time you were in your home office?” Trent questions.
“Tuesday, when I left for the seminar in Colorado. I arrived late Thursday night. My flight was delayed a few hours. I went straight to work the next day without any thought to taking the laptop. Right before meeting Michael for lunch, I received his second e-mail.”
“Anything else out of the ordinary, like mail, unusual packages with no return address, messages left on your machine?” Trent continues to question.
“No, just the e-mails, the box of chocolates, the phone calls, and the fact that he was in my apartment.”
“Does anyone have access to your apartment . . . like a housekeeper?”
“My cleaning lady, but she only comes when I’m here,” I answer.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to question her,” Trent asks.
“Why? Do you think she may know something?”
“She may or may not. However, I’d like to speak with her. She may have noticed someone lurking outside the building or a stranger approached her asking simple questions about you. You have to remember, you are in the public eye. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, of course. Her name is Melinda Candles, 555-2424.” He jotted down her name and number.
“How about ex-boyfriends?” Trent asks.
“I don’t have any. I was divorced three years ago. My focus was my work.”
“Where is your ex-husband now?”
“He’s dead.” I say, grasping hold of my locket.
“When?” Trent asks.
I blink several times at him. “Danny died six months ago.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
I threw my head back. Whoa! Trent sure caught me by surprise, and even Michael seemed blown away by the question.
“Yes, of course, and before you ask me how, I needed to identify his body. The Galveston Police Department called me since I was his only next of kin. According to the lawyer, he never changed his will. He has no other family. Both parents’ and grandparents’ are deceased. He had no uncles’, aunts’, or cousins’. He was an only child.” I sigh, and I begin to feel a little light-headed from the brandy.
“Take your time, Ariana.”
I nod with a shiver. “The last time I had to identify a body . . . they belonged to my parents’ and sister.” I let out a stuttering breath. Trent continues to jot down notes.
“I couldn’t bear to go alone, so Blake came with me. I recall how cold and depressing the morgue was. They pulled open a long drawer, exposing his body, and I turned away.” I leaned over and placed my hands over my face, cringing from the memories of how gray he looked.
“After I composed myself, I examined the body. I had no doubt this was Danny. His face, his hands, and he had a small birthmark right above his left ear.” I shut my eyes trying to erase the gruesome image.
“That’s enough, Trent,” Michael orders.
Trent nods and stands up to pace across the room like a cat planning his next move. He runs his fingers through his short, blond hair, a trait he and his brother’s share. He turns to face us.
“I’m calling one of my guys in to do a sweep of your apartment. We’ll check for any bugs, video, or recording devices and hope we pull up some fingerprints.” Trent blows out a breath. He pulls out his cell phone from the inside of his jacket, dials a number, and began barking out orders to a person by the name of Peterson.
My head is spinning in so many directions with visions of this deranged person watching me, listening to my every conversation. Knowing when I come and go, where I live, and knowledge of my whereabouts, just like yesterday when I had lunch with Michael.
A dreaded thought rips through me as I picture this man getting his rocks off watching me undress. Holy crap, this man has stripped me naked, violated my privacy, and is tormenting me with his vile messages. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling vulnerable and insecure.
“Ariana, I can tell the wheels are rotating in your head. Stop analyzing the situation. I’m sure this is the routine Trent and his team need to follow.” He holds my hand, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
I scrub my face, inadvertently forgetting the bump over my temple. “Ouch!” I cry out.
“Careful, Ariana.” Michael scolds and inspects the bump as he calls for Tina. “Mrs. O’Conner.”
Tina rushes in from the library. “Yes, Mr. Grayson, what can I do for you?”
“Would you please get Miss DiMarco, an ice pack? It’s to numb the pain.
“Of course, sir.” She rushes off and is back in a flash.
She hands me the ice pack, and I place it over the bruise, feeling relief as the cold ice numbs the area.
“You’re all set, my dear. Don’t apply too much pressure.” She faces Michael. “Mr. Grayson, if you won’t be needing me, I’ll be leaving for the day and return tonight at nine.”
“No, Mrs. O’Conner, that will be all and thank you. I’ll see you this evening.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to come back,” I rush out before she leaves.
“Ariana, she is returning.” He gives a curt nod to Mrs. O’Conner.
“We’ll discuss this later, Mr. Bulldozer,” I say through gritted teeth, feeling the steam coming out of my ears.
Trent chuckles and Michael gives him a wicked glare that would melt the Antarctic. Trent sits back down, leaning forward with his elbows over his knees. “Ariana, my guy Peterson is on his way. The procedure shouldn’t take more than two hours. Did you need to lie down for a while, nap maybe? We can always leave your bedroom for last,” Trent explains.
“No, I’m fine. I think I’ll go for a walk and get something to eat. Would you like me to pick up lunch for you gentlemen?” Both men scowl at me.
“What did I say?” I question.
“Sweetheart, you are not going anywhere by yourself,” Michael snaps and stands up.
“And why the hell not?” I ask, unsettled, holding the ice pack over my head.
Michael frowns; he seems ready to erupt. He paces a few steps and spins on his heel to face me. “Okay, let me go over a few reasons, shall I,” he says with a sarcastic tone, holding up his hand with a smirk across his face.
“One.” He flicks a finger in the air. “You just had a blow to the side of your head with a possible mild concussion from the way you kissed the floor last night.”
“Two.” He flicks another finger. “A deranged fuck is out in the streets stalking you and your every move, sending you e-mails, chocolates tainted with Xanax and phoning you with his pleasant calls.”
“Oh, and let’s not forget number three.” He flicks a third finger. “He’s been in your apartment and supposedly has your gun,” he recites, with three fi
ngers in the air, his eyes hard and cold. He crosses his arms over his chest and paces around the living room restless. If he continues, he’s going to wear out the Persian rug.
I can only imagine what’s going through Trent’s head as he nods, supporting Michael’s statements.
For a moment, I’m mute and bewildered until the anger roars through me as a disturbing thought snags my attention. I have lost the complete freedom and independence to come and go as I please, all because there is an obsessive maniac after me. Chills rush through my body like razors slicing through my skin as an image of this psychopathic freak rummaging through my personal things flashes before me. The thought of him searching in my lingerie drawer, contaminating them with his filthy, grubby hands nauseates me.
I sigh with frustration, acknowledging Michael’s legitimate points. “You’re right, I’m assuming you’ll be escorting me,” I comment sarcastically.
He slowly walks across the room, sleek and powerful, not once removing his beautiful eyes from mine as he beams a wicked grin. “I will be honored,” he says and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”
I face his brother. “Trent would you and Peterson like something to eat?”
“No thanks, when we’re done I’m heading back home, making a few calls, showering and then picking up a beautiful blonde model for dinner.” He grins, showing off his sexy pearly whites.
“Who?” Michael asks.
“I’m sorry, big brother, it’s a secret, but she’s been on the covers of Vogue and Cosmo many times. You guys enjoy your lunch.” He winks those green cat-eyes of his.
Now, he has my curiosity at a peak. I have to laugh. I think out of the three Trent has to be the cutest and has a great sense of humor.
***
We walk through the double glass doors, and the attendant greets us. “Good afternoon, Miss DiMarco,” he says, and tips his hat.
“Good afternoon, Jeffrey,” I say with a smile.
Michael’s fingers lace into mine, making me tingle all over. A cool breeze rushes by us causing Michael’s wavy black hair to sway over his eyes, making him look all hot and sexy.
