by JJ Knight
“I guess we should have gotten a baby monitor,” I say.
Dell takes a sip of his drink. “What does that do?”
“Just transmits noises from the nursery to a handset in another room. So you can hear if she cries.”
Dell waves his hand. “Bernard can manage.”
“Bernard will have to sleep,” I say.
He frowns, as if he hasn’t considered that his butler is a normal person who does human things.
“I’m going to let Maximillion out for a little while, if you don’t mind,” he says.
“Okay.”
He carries his drink out to the breakfast nook, then on to the door to the atrium. I watch from the doorway.
At first Maximillion bounds toward the glass, but when Dell holds up a finger, the dog stops and sits.
Dell nods and tugs on the door handle.
The greyhound walks regally beside Dell as the two of them come back to the sofa. “Sit,” Dell says.
The dog obeys, planting himself at the end of the sofa.
“Now we can also take a breather,” he says. “It’s been quite the hellish day.”
He relaxes into the cushions near the dog, reaching out to scratch the dog between his tall pointy ears.
I choose a chair at the other end of the sofa, angled toward them. Dell is acting like his old self again, shoulders square, stiff and formal. I don’t see why the dog would bring this out in him.
“Can I call him to me?” I ask. I’m curious about this large lean greyhound. I’ve never seen one up close. Of course, I’ve never been to a greyhound race. Our family stuck strictly to quarter horses.
“Sure,” Dell says. “He doesn’t get to meet many strangers.”
I wonder what that means. That no one comes here, or that they don’t get around to petting the dog. I remember what the housekeeper said. He almost never has guests. Maybe he has his trysts elsewhere.
“Come, Maximillion,” I say.
The dog stands and trots over, then sits again, eyes on mine.
I reach out a fist for him to sniff, then I pet his head. He ducks a little at first, then allows it.
“Was he mistreated at some point?” I ask. “He’s a little skittish.”
“Racing is a hard life,” Dell says. “Probably someone along the way did not handle him with proper care. He trusts me, but he can still do that with strangers.”
Poor puppy. I run my hand under his jaw and cup his long neck. He is so lean and elegant. Like his master. “Is he your first greyhound?”
Dell takes another drink, watching me. I’m not sure why he doesn’t answer. Maybe something happened to one of them, and it’s a sore point for him.
“No,” he finally says. “I’ve had many.”
“Takes a big place,” I say. “He’s a big dog.”
“Actually, racing greyhounds are accustomed to life in crates. So they can live pretty much anywhere.”
“Huh.” I lean into Maximillion and press my forehead to his. “I guess you’re lucky to have an entire room to yourself.”
Dell swirls his glass. “So you say they are not good with children. Why is that?”
“I understand most rescues won’t give a greyhound to a family with small kids.”
“I can’t imagine Maximillion hurting anybody,” he says defensively.
“He is well trained.” I run my hand along his back “Maybe little kids running trigger that urge to chase. Don’t they have to wear muzzles during races?”
“Yes, they’ll attack each other otherwise.” Dell looks thoughtful. “I suppose small children do run a lot, and not all greyhounds are well behaved. I guess as a baby she’s fine, though. Right?”
I nod.
After a moment, Maximillion tires of my attention and lies down.
“Have you given a thought to your future if she’s yours?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t see that happening. I’ve asked the building security to review the footage of the cameras.”
“You have some here?” My eyes dart to the corners of the room.
“No, and not in my hall either. I don’t like giving anyone the opportunity to spy,” he says. “But there are some in the lobby and outside the other stairwells. They’re just searching for anyone with the carriage. It’s such an obvious thing.”
True. It should be easy to spot in footage. “How long will that take?”
“I should have had a report already.” He tugs out his phone. “We’ve just been so busy.”
He taps a few things. “They found it. Now we’ll see. I’ll project the footage.”
The wooden cap to the arm of the sofa flips down and reveals a compartment. He pulls out a remote. After a moment, the doors to an ornate carved armoire open with an electronic hum. A large television is inside.
When the monitor blinks on, he switches it to an auxiliary mode. For a second, I see the home screen of his phone.
“You play Panda Pop?” I ask, amused.
“You saw that?”
“I did.”
“I take it we have two terrible vices in common, then,” he says. “Sugar cereal and time-wasting app games.”
“I only play it on the subway,” I say. “It doesn’t require a connection.”
“I haven’t ridden the subway in a long time,” he says. “Since I acquired a helicopter.”
“When do you have time to play?” I ask.
“When my mother calls,” he says. “It keeps me from going mad.”
My mouth falls open. “You are terrible!”
“I never said otherwise.”
The lobby of the building fills the screen with blocky digital footage.
“You’re not going to be able to recognize anyone with that,” I say.
“Too bad there isn’t an ‘enhance’ mode like on movies,” Dell retorts.
The video moves forward in jerky frames.
“There it is!” I say, pointing at the white carriage.
“Looks like a woman pushing it,” he says.
We both stand up to walk closer to the screen.
“She’s rather stout,” I say. “Not your usual type.” The woman wears a common khaki trench coat, a scarf, and large sunglasses. She does not look right nor left, but pushes the carriage straight through the foyer.
“I don’t have a type,” Dell says. “I see no reason to limit myself to anorexic girls.”
“Then I stand corrected.”
And chagrined. Maybe it was the websites that preferred to show him with the bombshells. I make a mental note to do another search later.
Dell moves the footage frame by frame, peering at the image.
“Do you recognize her?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “If she’s the mother, I don’t think I’ve bedded her.”
He steps back and crosses his arms, the remote tucked inside his hand. “Someone unrelated to me brought the baby.”
“But how did she get to this floor?”
“I don’t know. This is all they have so far.”
“Well,” I say, “it does tell us a few things. She didn’t use a service elevator or go in a back way like a building worker would.”
“Who would do this?” Dell asks. “I thought for sure it would be an employee.”
“Does anyone else have one of these?” I remember the elevator card and tug it from my back pocket. I set it on the coffee table.
“Sure. Bernard. Myself. There are a couple extras.”
“What about the housekeeper? That shopping lady? The doorman?”
“No,” Dell says. “They all have to be keyed in from the bottom floor.”
“Did the doorman key this woman in?”
“She didn’t even look at him,” Dell says. “She went in as if she lived here.”
“Does Harry stop people if he doesn’t know them?” I ask. “Or does he only speak when someone asks him a question?” I don’t know, because he’s always known me. I introduced myself when I leased the apartmen
t.
“He’s very observant. I think he would address someone who looked out of place.”
“But she doesn’t,” I say. “Her coat is expensive. And her shoes. The scarf and sunglasses make her look sort of famous, kind of Hollywood.”
The woman disappears into the elevator. Unfortunately, we can’t see what number she pushes, or if the elevator goes directly to the 40th floor. It’s not in the range of the shot.
“They’ve checked all the other floors for this time frame,” he says. “But she doesn’t come out.”
“So she went straight up,” I say. “Sounds like she knew where to go. Do all your …” I’m not sure what to call them. “Did all the twenty-five possibilities come up here?”
“None of them,” Dell says, turning off the screen and dropping the remote on the table. “I don’t bring women up here, ever.”
“What about your key cards?” I say, trying to cover my shock at what he just said. “Are any of them missing?”
“They are in a safe,” he says, frowning. He picks up his glass from the coffee table and downs the rest of his drink. “I guess we should go see if any are gone.”
He heads out of the living room, and I guess I’m supposed to follow him.
Chapter 19: Dell
Damn distractions. I should have looked at the footage hours ago. But no, I was playing house with Arianna instead of attending to business. Speaking of which, I guess I don’t get to go to work tomorrow either. No nanny, no work.
Bloody hell.
I storm down the hall to my master bedroom. Arianna follows. Probably she shouldn’t know the location of the safe, but maybe it doesn’t matter. She couldn’t do anything worse to me than this other woman. Walked right in my building and came straight up to my penthouse.
The safe is a cliché, inside the wall behind a painting. I squeeze the latch beneath the frame and swing the picture aside. Arianna stays discreetly near the doorway as I key in the code. The latch pops and I open it.
There isn’t that much here. I keep important things in a vault at another location. My birth certificate and name change documents. A few jewels, all gifts I never got around to giving. And the codes to the security panel of this penthouse as well as spare elevator key cards.
All are accounted for. I shut the safe. “Nothing missing,” I tell her.
“She could know someone who works here,” she says. “Someone who maybe waters the plants or cleans the hall outside your penthouse.”
“Those are my people,” I say.
She stands in the doorway, looking more delectable than she knows in her little flat shoes, fitted jeans, and off-the-shoulder top. More hair has escaped, making the look all the sexier. But her expression shows concern. Her lips are all twisty again.
“It seems like you don’t know your staff very well,” she says. “So it might be pretty easy for someone to help a friend in trouble sneak a baby up.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. I’m tired of thinking about this. And I’m concerned about tomorrow. And every time I look at those bare shoulders, I want to release this frustration between this woman’s legs.
“Did you finish your drink?” I ask her.
She steps back. “What?”
“The brandy,” I say, my tone harder than I intend.
“You’re asking about my alcohol consumption while the fate of that baby is still in the air?” Her voice is all high pitched and angry, like after I called her business a kiddie spa.
“You’re touchy,” I say. “I’m just checking on your comfort.” I pat the bed. “Come here.”
Normally I don’t bring women to my penthouse. It’s too easy for them to try and drop by after their stint is done.
But if they’re already here, it’s fair game. Like the real estate agent. And the decorator.
I’m determined to turn this situation around with Arianna. She’ll be here all night. The baby is sleeping. Maybe a solid orgasm, or two or three, will soften her up enough that she’ll stay with the child tomorrow.
But Arianna hasn’t moved from the doorway. “I’m not your dog,” she says. “Don’t pat the damn bed.” She steps into the hall. “I’m going to set up near the baby. The reason I’m here. Saving your stupid ass.” Then she's gone.
Well, damn. She doesn’t operate like most of the women I encounter. They seem intrigued by the idea of a short-term tryst. But I can’t even get that far with this one.
There has to be some way to make her crack, see the benefit of making the best of our situation. I’m not a hedonist. I’m all about her pleasure as well as mine.
The unmistakable cry of the baby is faint and distant. I wonder if Arianna woke her on purpose to avoid me.
I stare at the floor, picturing the footage. The trench coat. The scarf. It’s like Arianna said. Purposefully Hollywood. Would she know I have this video? That I would see her? If the woman doesn’t want the baby, why should I find her?
But she practically dared me to do the DNA, knowing I could. Did she think I would take the baby out of altruism if it wasn’t mine? Or did she think the dare was strong enough that I wouldn’t bother?
The doctor mentioned some one-day clinic. Maybe it is time to do that. Even if I don’t act until I get the official results for court, at least I would know.
Down the hall, the baby’s cry persists.
I sit up, wondering if Arianna is struggling. I move out to the hall. The cries are louder here. Despite my reluctance to see her after her attitude, my feet just go.
Inside the baby’s room, Arianna is rocking Grace in the dining chair. She has her pulled up close against her chest, both arms holding her in. She watches the baby intently, and only when I’m there a second or two do I catch that she is ever so softly singing to her.
This gets to me, my throat thick. If I thought she was beautiful before, that’s nothing compared to how she looks now, maternal and gentle in the soft glow of a table lamp. I can’t tell if Grace is asleep again or not. But Arianna seems perfectly happy to rock her regardless.
My shoulder braces up against the door frame as I relax, arms across my chest. I’m content to watch. After a moment, I sense her movements slowing. Then she ever so carefully stands, turning back to the baby bed.
She successfully lays her down without a fresh bout of crying. When she moves toward the door, she finally notices me.
Her soft expression moves to a frown. “Good night,” she mouths. Then she scoops up her bag and crosses to the connecting bathroom, leaving the door open.
A light pops on in the room on the other side.
I know she’s keeping the door open so she can hear if the baby wakes. But it also enables me to follow her.
She spots me as she sets the bag on the bed. “Mr. Brant, give me a break. It’s late and she’ll probably be up every few hours. I will need to sleep while I can.”
“I just wanted to make sure she was all right. I should know what sets her off.”
“Why?” she fires at me at a rough whisper. “It’s not like you’ll be handling it.”
She’s right. I can see I should just punt tonight. Let her sleep. “Thank you for being here,” I say. “It’s deeply appreciated.”
This mollifies her and she turns back to her bag. She pulls out a tiny pair of sleeping shorts and a spaghetti-strap top as thin as thread. My cock stirs so fast I get a head rush. I must see her in this. I simply must.
I let her be, but I’m not giving up yet. She’s under my skin now, and I’m determined to get a lot more intimate knowledge before she’s gone.
Chapter 20: Arianna
Well, that got him.
I hold the tiny shorts and shirt in my hand. I totally noticed his reaction when I unpacked.
Expectations.
Men are a mess. He begs me to help him. Asks me to do this impossible thing. Then he somehow feels it is a good idea for us to sleep together. I’ve known him all of what — fifteen hours?
But it was an action-packed day, tha
t’s for sure. I’m pretty sure I haven’t spent that much time alone with a man, well, ever.
I shove the outfit back in the bag and take out the baggy cotton pants and T-shirt. The safe choice. I kick off my shoes to change.
But then I think of the time with Dell another way. If you divided those fifteen hours into five three-hour dates over two or three weeks, maybe in some warped relationship time, it would make sense that we’d be sleeping together.
But nope. Being stuck all night in Mr. Hottie Cock’s penthouse isn’t going to change what I want in a sex partner. Besides, Grace is fussy. She has tummy issues, and we have no gas drops. She’s also bound to be feeling unease that she’s someplace new and unfamiliar.
Surely she misses her mother.
There’s a popular theory that even a newborn has a memory. The watery sounds of her mother’s voice from inside the womb, the cadence of her speech, the pattern of her heart. The way her footfalls pace themselves. The creak of the door, then three steps down, and a certain space of time before she sits in her car or at a bus stop.
These are all the memories a fetus might have, and when every familiar sound and movement is wiped out, they know it.
Grace has even more memory than that. The smell of a house. The things they cooked. Real voices. Real sights. Real sounds.
All obliterated when she was left at Dell’s door.
Thinking of this makes me want to rock her again. To never let her go. But instead I head into the bathroom, careful to leave the light out since the door to the nursery is open, and quietly take off my makeup and brush my teeth.
The penthouse is quiet. It’s amazing how silent even a New York apartment can be when you’re at the tippy top of the building. No one’s heavy footsteps above. No barking dog or loud video games on the other side of the wall.
Too high even for the sounds of the city. Traffic. People. Sirens.
So quiet.
I tiptoe into Grace’s room, careful to avoid bumping Dell’s space pod swing. I admit to being wrong about it. It is definitely useful.
