by M. S. Parker
I sighed as I made my way off the pier and down onto the beach. I paused to take my sandals off again and let my toes sink into the warm sand. The mid-morning sun was coming down strong, so I lifted my hair off my neck and let the breeze coming in off the water cool the sheen of perspiration on my skin.
One of the few things I did miss about where I'd grown up was that my family's home had been in a relatively rural area. I did love most things about living in cities, but every once in a while, it was nice to just appreciate the quiet. Aside from my apartment, there were very few places or times in LA when something this tranquil was possible, so I allowed myself to enjoy it while it lasted.
A child's shout made me open my eyes, and I smiled as a little Hispanic boy ran past me and into the water. Toddling a few feet behind him was a little girl with pigtailed curls bouncing on her head. I couldn't help but smile as they both squealed in delight when the waves crashed over their feet.
“Angelica! Marco!” A woman came into my line of sight. “Nothing over the ankles!” She looked up at me and sighed, shaking her head. “Where do they get the energy?”
Then she hurried off after the kids as they ran farther down the beach. She may have looked and sounded harried, but there was absolutely no doubt of her love for those kids.
Suddenly, it was like I could see a whole other scenario unfolding in front of me.
“Hayley! Owen! Don't go too far!”
I watched as the pair went running across the sand, shrieking as they made their mad dash into the water. Hayley's dark waves were wild today, and I knew they'd be even worse after a day in salt water, but it was always worth it to see the kids so happy. Owen's lighter hair was already sun-streaked, and both kids were tanned. We'd spent a lot of time at the beach this summer.
“They get that from you, you know.”
A pair of strong arms slid around my waist, and I shivered when Dean's lips pressed against the back of my neck. After all this time together, he still had the ability to make me weak in the knees. His fingers teased under the hem of my tank top, sending another shiver through me. He traced the scar on my stomach, my permanent physical reminder of the terrifying ordeal that had led to the birth of our son.
“What do they get from me?” I asked. “Besides their intelligence, of course.”
He chuckled, that same low sound that had led to the creation of our son in the first place. I couldn't pinpoint the exact encounter that had led to Hayley's conception, but Owen's, I knew for certain.
Dean, Cross, and Dalton had been away for a boys' weekend, and I'd gotten sick. I'd refused to call Dean to ask him to come home, and by the time he'd gotten home, I'd been nearly unconscious. I'd spent a week in the hospital, and then Dean had insisted on taking care of me for another week, which included resisting sex until one night when he'd laughed like that, and I'd practically jumped him.
“That wild streak,” he said. “They definitely get that from you.”
I tried to give him an offended look but couldn't manage to hold it for more than a few seconds before laughing. “I suppose the giveaway was when Hayley tried cheating at Uno last night.”
“Nope.” He kissed my temple. “It was when she tried to sell her baby brother to the old woman who just moved in downstairs.”
I found myself still laughing as the vision ended, but then the sound faded and I remembered that I was standing on the beach, alone. A bolt of longing went through me, something so sharp and so real that it almost made me bend over.
I wanted that life.
Shit.
I wanted all of it. A life with an unplanned pregnancy and an emergency c-section. A life with a dark-haired little girl and a blonde boy. Wild kids who drove me nuts. Kids who were scary smart or crazy creative or beautifully average. A man who loved me.
No, not a man.
Dean.
He was the man I wanted that life with, and the realization scared the hell out of me. Sure, I'd been thinking about a relationship with him, and some part of my brain made me think about what that would mean, but this was the first time I'd thought something so clear, seen something so vivid.
I'd read his texts as they'd come in, and I'd been sure that, at some point, he would get tired of not getting a response, but he hadn't. He'd sounded concerned, but not angry. But I hadn't been able to bring myself to reply, no matter how much I wanted to.
My phone buzzed, and as I reached for it, I told myself that I was going to answer it this time. I would talk to Dean. Meet with him. Talk about what happened and make it work. I would be honest about all of this and see if the vision I'd had could become a reality.
Except when I looked at the screen of my phone, it wasn't Dean's name that came up. It was a picture from an unknown number.
A picture that stopped my heart and changed everything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dean
In the past few hours, I'd explored more parts of LA than I had in the previous six months I'd been here, and I still hadn't found Kyndall. I'd checked out all of the cafés, restaurants, and clubs that'd been open on a Sunday afternoon, then started on the stores. I hadn't really had a pattern or any real plan for searching, but as the day had worn on, I'd been forced to admit that I wouldn't find her this way. As much as I believed I knew her, when it came to deciphering where she would go to avoid someone, I didn't have the first clue.
Which meant the person with whom I needed to speak was the last person I wanted to talk to.
Dalton.
Still, I started back to Kyndall's apartment. I was hoping that, this time, when I knocked, she'd answer, that she'd simply been hiding there the whole time. Knowing that I'd been all over searching for her while she hadn't gone anywhere at all would be frustrating, but it was better than the alternative – that she was gone and I couldn't find her. If the latter was the case, however, I would swallow my pride and speak with Dalton and Juliette. Better to suffer through the embarrassment and other possible repercussions of getting them involved than continuing a fruitless search.
When I arrived at the apartment, however, all of that disappeared behind the knowledge that something had gone completely and horribly wrong.
Half a dozen marked police cars and plain cars with dash lights were parked around the building, and at least eight or nine uniformed officers were keeping a fair-sized crowd back. Two ambulances were up on the sidewalk, lights flashing, but sirens off.
“Drop me off here.” I tossed some cash at the cabbie, telling him to keep the change even as I was climbing out of the car.
While still in college, I created my own online company, and I'd taken on the responsibility of being the public face for it as well. As a twenty-year-old, I'd spent time meeting with investors and other businessmen who were always quite a bit older than me, and as a result, I'd quickly learned that the best way to convince someone that I did indeed know what I was talking about wasn't necessarily to explain things. People responded almost instinctually when it came to falling in line behind a person who exuded confidence.
I'd been introduced to the BDSM scene my freshman year of college, and it hadn't taken me long to understand the Dominant personality traits inside me. Using some of those same characteristics in my business practices had simply made sense, and once I'd put them into practice, I'd seen how well it'd gone, and continued to do it even now. Some businessmen were like sharks: if they smelled blood, they attacked. Concealing any doubts and vulnerabilities had become second nature.
Kyndall was one of the few who'd ever gotten to see behind that persona, and I was thinking of her as I started to push my way through the crowd. I didn't apologize, didn't ask for permission. I walked with purpose, as if I expected people to move out of my way, and they did. Once I reached the police line, however, I knew I had to be careful. I had duel citizenship, but any sort of legal trouble could make it difficult for me to maintain my presence in America.
I glanced at the people on either side of me. To the ri
ght, I had an older gentleman with a bad combover and a pair of plaid pants that looked like something from a vintage porno. Based on the half-buttoned shirt, exposed chest hair, and thick gold chain, he'd probably directed and produced all sorts of b-movies, including those of the adult variety.
To my left was a middle-aged woman in a tiny, tight tiger-striped dress and heels that made her at least my height. She had thick makeup, teased hair, and a cigarette of which she occasionally took a drag. Her expression claimed she was utterly bored by everything unfolding in front of her, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise.
Neither one seemed liked someone with whom I wanted to have a conversation, but I needed to know what was happening. Instead of choosing one, however, I decided to put the question out there and let them decide whether or not to answer.
“What's going on?”
“You'd think, with all that money, the place would be a little more secure,” the woman said.
“I heard it didn't happen in the building,” the man joined in. “I heard a van pulled up, guys with masks, guns...the whole Tarantino playbook.”
The woman glanced across me to the man, and then looked up at me. “I didn't know Tarantino did kidnapping flicks.”
I started to smile, then froze as the words sunk in.
Kidnapping.
My stomach churned, and my hands curled into fists. I forced a slow inhale, then exhale, but it did little to calm the anxiety that was rapidly building inside me. Just because I hadn't been able to find Kyndall, and now there were cops around her place. Cops who, according to my neighbors here, were investigating a kidnapping.
The woman was shaking her head now. “I couldn't imagine being those poor parents.”
Parents? A sick feeling washed over me.
“No.” I shook my head as I reached for my phone. “No, no, no...”
“What's wrong, man?” the guy asked.
Thoughts of Kyndall disappeared as I pulled up Dalton's number and dialed.
“Is Kyndall with you?”
The desperation in his voice told me that my secondary suspicion was right, and the nausea in my stomach grew.
“No. I haven't seen her all day.”
“Fuck,” Dalton muttered. “Where are you?”
“Out front.”
“I have a PI coming. Come up with him.”
He ended the call, and I let out a string of curses, earning stares from everyone around me. I ignored them and made my way down the police line to where a pair of suited men were talking to people in the crowd. As I reached them, I saw a stocky, light-haired man pushing his way through too.
“You can't come through,” the cop said as I tried to step past him.
“My friends–” I started to say.
The stocky guy arrived and pulled something out of his jacket. “Mars Roster. I'm a PI working for Mr. Letlow. He called me.”
“I need to go with him,” I said quickly. “Dalton – Mr. Letlow, I mean – asked me to come up with Mr. Roster.”
“I don't know–”
“I can get Mr. Letlow's lawyer on the phone, if you'd like.” Roster gave the cop a stern look. “Or you can let my associate and me up so we can help.”
For a moment, I thought they were going to tell us to get back, but something about Mars must've told them he wouldn't hesitate to make their lives miserable if they didn't let him through, because a minute later, we were heading into the lobby.
“I'm truly hoping that you really do know Mr. Letlow,” Roster said quietly as we got onto the elevator.
“I do,” I assured him. “His sister and I...” I let my voice trail off as I realized I wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. I didn't know how to describe what Kyndall and I were to each other, but that didn't matter right now. “What happened, Mr. Roster?”
I knew what happened, somewhere deep inside, I knew, but I needed to hear it all before I could accept it.
The PI gave me a sideways look. “Earlier today, Mrs. Letlow was coming back from a walk with Anthony when a white, unmarked van pulled up to the curb and two masked men, armed with automatic weapons, got out, knocked Mrs. Letlow down, and grabbed the stroller.”
His voice may have been matter-of-fact, but I caught the anger in his dark eyes. He might've been hired as a PI, but this was definitely not just a job to him. Then again, I didn't know of many good people who'd be okay with a child being kidnapped.
“Is Juliette okay? I mean, physically. I'm assuming the answer is no to any other way.”
“I didn't get any details, but she wasn't taken to the hospital, so I'd go with okay.”
My relief was brief, but there. Once Anthony was found, Dalton and Juliette would be grateful that she was there to welcome him, but right now, I knew she would be feeling guilty that she hadn't been able to stop the kidnappers.
By the time we reached their floor, I'd managed to put my own issues aside and was focusing on being there for my friends.
The moment I stepped inside, however, I was faced with a new and complete understanding of what it meant to be helpless. Dalton's face was drawn, like he'd been ill for a long time and wouldn't be getting better any point in the near future. Juliette leaned against him, the gash on her temple a deep, raw red against her pale skin. A paramedic stood nearby, and at least six cops and detectives were walking around the apartment.
“If there's anything I can do,” I said as I approached, “please don't hesitate to ask.”
“And you are?” A man in a rumpled suit stepped in front of me. A stocky man in his late forties, he had the look of someone who was counting the days until retirement. “Detective James Bison.”
“Dean Stokes,” I said. “I'm a friend.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Stokes, but we don't need any more civilians here.” He sounded tired.
“He's dating my sister,” Dalton interjected. “So he's more than a friend.”
“Let him stay, Bison,” a younger woman spoke up as she glanced my way. In one quick sweep, she seemed to size up and dismiss me before turning back to Mars Roster.
“As I was saying,” the PI continued, “a source got back to me about fifteen minutes ago and said two local guys snatched a baby.” Roster glanced at the detective, then at Juliette before turning back to Dalton. “I don't know for sure if their employer is behind it, but they work for the same guy so I wouldn't rule it out.”
“Who do they work for?” Detective Bison asked.
“Stanley Maverick.” Roster pulled out his phone and called up something on his screen. When he turned it, I could see it was a picture.
A familiar picture.
“Shit.”
All eyes turned to me.
“Do you have something to say, Mr. Stokes?” the female detective asked.
Dalton was going to be pissed when he heard all of this, but now I had a horrific feeling that things had just taken a turn for the worse, and I knew I couldn't hold anything back. If I was wrong, or if Maverick wasn't involved in Anthony's disappearance, then I'd be betraying Kyndall's trust for nothing, but she wasn't here, so I had to do what I felt was right.
And that meant telling them everything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kyndall
This was all my fault, and I knew it wasn't unjustified guilt I was feeling. Stanley Maverick had kidnapped my one-year-old nephew in partial retaliation, and partial blackmail, because I'd kicked his ass in poker twice. And the worst part of it was that I hadn't even had a good excuse to be gambling in the first place, and definitely not to clean him out. It wasn't like I'd been desperate for money for something important, or even something unimportant.
If I hadn't been screwing around with my life instead of finding a real job, instead of being a responsible adult, then I wouldn't have received a picture of my nephew four hours ago. A picture that showed him playing with today's newspaper and laughing at the masked man who held him. Before my brain had been able to fully process what I'd seen, I'd gotten another
text with simple instructions and an address.
When I'd arrived here, Stanley Maverick had been waiting. He'd at least been clear about what was expected of me, and what the consequences would be should I decline or fail. Simply put, I was the one playing for the house today, and if I didn't take everything from everyone, my nephew would be the one to pay.
But I couldn't think about any of that right now. I'd been playing for three hours straight, and even a brain like mine needed a break now and then, especially with outside stressors. I couldn't ask for one though. Maverick had guys watching my every move, and I'd had to stay at the table when others had gone off so no one would notice that I had a little entourage.
Maverick was technically playing for the house so no one else could know that I was too. While Stanley had money and power, he was hardly the only one at the table with it. I might not have recognized the other faces or names, but I knew expensive suits and watches.
And I knew how to spot a man who was used to scaring, buying, or bullying his way into whatever he wanted.
Every man at this table had that look.
The knot in my stomach tightened even more, and I was thankful – not for the first time – that I hadn't had much to eat today. I shot a sideways glance toward the heavy-set Puerto Rican to my right. He'd taken two cards and was now scratching his eyebrow.
A tell.
Which meant I'd counted correctly and he had three of a kind. Fives.
Good.
I flicked my gaze toward Stanley who was working overtime to try to keep his expression blank, but that was another tell. Some people thought that no reaction at all was the best sort of poker face, but I'd learned that most people leaned toward that with one extreme or the other, when they were either going to attempt a bluff or if they had a great hand. If their hand was mediocre, they'd relax a bit more.
According to the count I'd been keeping – including the dealer swapping out the deck once already – Maverick was holding a straight flush in hearts, from a six up. Tough to beat.
