by Kate Aster
“That’s what I thought, too. Until a few minutes ago.”
“You have a plan?”
A smile eases up his face, challenge sparking in his eyes. “Annie, I don’t open my mouth without a plan.”
Chapter 23
- CAMDEN -
“I want you to do it.”
I glance behind me at Annie as she stands in the doorway to my lanai, white-knuckling the two glasses of fresh pineapple juice in her grasp. Her voice is small and uncertain.
It’s been three days since I told her my idea to get those photos out of Senator Petronel’s wife. It had come to me in a rush—that moment she reminded me of all the damn cameras all over that city. A little research, and I even came up with a story—a bluff—one where the stakes are a lot higher than when I play poker with my brothers. But it just might scare the truth out of that wife, once and for all.
It’s a hell of a longshot. If this was a Ranger mission with the same slim chance of success, we’d never get the green light from command.
So I didn’t blame Annie when she resisted.
And now, as the midday sun shines down on her tousled hair, my brow rises at the determination I see in her eyes.
“You mean, call Mrs. Petronel?” I ask.
She only nods in reply.
I can’t help wondering where this comes from so suddenly. I’d just been showing her the latest changes I suggested I could make on their website before publishing it—a few copy edits and a couple extra photos.
When I’d first proposed the plan to her, I thought she’d probably never want me to do it. And I wouldn’t blame her, even though I’m the one who’s at most risk with the plan, which is the only reason why I’m okay with it.
And if the plan blows up in my face, I hear my family’s got some terrific lawyers to keep me out of the slammer.
“I’m surprised,” I can’t help saying.
Handing me a glass of juice, she sits down next to me and narrows her eyes on the ocean in front of us. “Something about that website you made for Kaila and me, Cam. It’s a good idea—this business. I don’t want this hanging over me all the time. I don’t want it hanging over Kaila by proxy, either. She’s taking a risk starting a business with me. She already knows I want to eventually get back to the mainland and get my master’s, and she’s fine with that. But if someone finds out about me and posts a bunch of online reviews or something—those things will stay on the internet forever, you know? It could hurt her long after I leave Hawaii. I need to see if I can end this. ” She takes a sip of her juice. “Besides, I’m tired of kicking myself about things in my past.”
“Don’t ever kick yourself,” I remind her. “The rest of the world will do a good enough job doing it for you.”
She nods slowly as she ponders my words. “Do you still think you can do it?”
“We have nothing to lose by trying.”
She angles her head at me. “You have plenty to lose if she calls your bluff.”
I chuckle, low and confident. “If something can’t kill me, I pretty much don’t give it a second thought.”
I send her inside to retrieve her cell and pull my own out of my pocket.
It says something about me that I’m not even playing this out in my head more, practicing what Mrs. Petronel might reply. I’m careless, maybe. In the Rangers, we’d rehearse missions so many times our bodies could essentially work on auto-pilot.
But I have such disdain for this wife, I can’t even give her an ounce of my day; I don’t think much of anyone who lets someone else’s name get trampled just to make her own life a little tidier. I consider tapping in the code to block my number, but figure it can only help if Mrs. Petronel does a little sleuthing on my number and discovers I have the Sheridan name.
It’s caused me enough trouble in my life. Might as well reap some of the benefits of it.
Glancing over as Annie extends her cell’s display to me, I tap Mrs. Petronel’s number into my phone. As it rings, I reach for Annie’s hand. When I feel it tremble in my grasp, I consider how nothing would make me happier than to be able to close this chapter of her life for her.
“Yes?” The senator’s wife answers in that clipped tone that tells me she thinks her time is of more value than my own.
It makes this all the easier.
“Mrs. Petronel?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Camden Sheridan.”
“Do I know you?”
“Not any more than the few words we’ve just shared.”
“Then you should be calling Cheryl, my assistant. Not me.”
“More than willing to. I just didn’t think you’d want me talking to her about the photos.”
I hear an exasperated sigh on the other end.
“Are you a reporter?” She doesn’t give me time to answer. “You already have access to the photo and the story. Now let me get back to the business of raising my children through this difficult time for our family.”
Raising her children? Or more likely, letting her children get raised by a nanny.
“I’m not talking about that photo, Mrs. Petronel. I’m talking about the others.”
The pause on the other end is telling.
“What other photos?” she finally sputters.
“Ma’am, have you heard of HALO cameras?”
“I’m sure I haven’t.”
“It stands for High Activity Location Observation. They have them, or something very similar, in most major cities now, including yours.”
“And how does this involve my husband?”
I smile as the other shoe drops. I never mentioned her husband. “There was one near to where the incident involving your husband and your nanny took place.”
As I listen to a brief silence, my eyes meet Annie’s and I squeeze her hand. This has got to work.
“I’m not interested in seeing any more photos,” the wife finally says. “One was enough.”
“Actually, I’m calling about the ones that you have, Mrs. Petronel. The ones taken by your investigator who I can see in the HALO camera’s photos. The ones that show your former nanny fighting off your husband as he assaulted her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her shock sounds either genuine or a well-executed sham; I can’t decide.
“That’s fine,” I volley back to her. “Then I’ll call my family’s contacts at CNN. I’m sorry to have taken up your—”
“Wait,” she cuts me off. “If you have photos that show something different from what I’ve seen, why are you calling me?”
“Because I find it curious that you only anonymously released one to the press, when it’s very obvious from the photos I have in my possession that others were taken.” Of course, I’m bluffing like a Texas hold ’em player. I don’t even know whether there was a HALO anywhere near where the senator parked with Annie that night.
“First of all, I didn’t release that photo to the press,” she denies. “And second, my husband is a United States Senator. If there were photos taken by some kind of surveillance equipment, he’d certainly have quicker access to them than you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m a Sheridan, Mrs. Petronel.” I don’t like throwing around my name, but am willing to take one for the team, in this case. “Google it. And try to tell me that my family wouldn’t have a hell of a lot more resources than yours. I don’t care if you’re married to the goddamn President.”
There’s a slight pause. “Why are you taking such an interest in this, then?”
“I’ve met your nanny. And I believed her story enough to look into it. Call it an overblown sense of justice, but I’m not letting an innocent woman get blamed for something she never did.”
“Are you blackmailing me?” she scoffs.
“I’m not asking you for money. I’m giving you a chance to make it right.”
“I don’t have any other photos.” Her tone is adamant, and I might have believed her if she didn’t add, “A
nd if you really do have something like you’re insinuating, then why are you even bothering to contact me?”
“Because HALO cameras are pretty effective against crimes—like the one your husband committed,” I toss in for good measure. “But from that sample photo you had anonymously released to the press, I’m thinking yours are going to be a hell of a lot more damning.”
Her laugh is forced. “So you actually expect me to help you? To release photos that would end my husband’s career? Not that they even exist,” she quickly tacks on.
“Yes. Actually, I do,” I say, confidence masking any uncertainty, a skill I learned in the Army. “Because if I release these photos that show your investigator snapping away while an innocent woman is getting assaulted, your role in this would look even worse than your husband’s. Some might even say what you did has criminal implications. If I have to take you down right along with your husband, then I will. But Arianna tells me you have two very sweet kids who are going to need at least one parent whose name isn’t smeared across the headlines. So I’m giving you another option.”
“And what’s that?”
“You release the photos yourself. Say that someone put them in your mailbox anonymously. Say you’re disgusted by what happened that night, and you want to make sure that your former nanny isn’t paying for your husband’s misconduct. You’ll look like the heroine in all this, probably get a book deal or two. Maybe go on a speaking tour. Play your cards right, and you’ll be able to maintain your lifestyle. But the alternative—me releasing what I’ve got—would have a very different ending for you.”
The pause is long enough that I’m not even sure whether she’s hung up on me. I glance at Annie again; her eyes are wide with questions. She probably can’t hear the conversation on the other end with the ocean surf in the distance. And maybe that’s for the best. Because the dead air on the other end is unnerving.
“I’ll think about it,” Mrs. Petronel finally says.
It’s not what I wanted to hear. If she thinks about it, she’ll have enough time to make a few calls, perhaps find out whether there even were cameras in the area.
“No. You’ll either do it, or you won’t, Mrs. Petronel. I’m through watching another moment pass in Arianna’s life where she’s blamed.” I move in for the kill. “I’m sure with a few clicks on your computer, you’ll see I have plenty of contacts in the mainstream media.”
I think back to the photos all over the internet of my cousin’s Kaua‘i wedding four years ago. But I don’t pause. I can’t give her another moment to ask me to show her the photos I have as proof. This is one case where “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine” would make my bluff detonate into nothing.
“My next call—in one hour—puts my photos in their hands. Do yourself a favor and call CNN before I do. Paint the story the way that puts you in the best light. You’ll be applauded from coast to coast.”
I hear Mrs. Petronel’s sharp intake of breath before she says, “I never wanted Arianna hurt in this, you know.” Her statement, weighted with guilt, seems the sincerest words I’ve heard from her yet. “I only want to be able to take care of my children, move on with my life.”
For a brief moment, I dare to feel hope. “It’s time to do what’s right rather than what’s easy.” My voice hardens again. “One hour. If I don’t see your photos making headlines, I’ll make the headlines myself.” I touch the display on my phone to end the call.
Setting the phone down on the small end table at my side, my eyes meet Annie’s sheet-white face.
“Now, we wait.”
Her lips form a tight, thin line before she whispers, “You sounded so confident.”
I grin. “I should have been an actor.”
“Do you really think she’ll release the photos?”
I don’t want to give her false hope. “We’ll know soon enough.” I smile at her. “You look like you need a drink. How about a glass of wine?”
“It’s barely eleven in the morning.”
“It’s seventeen hundred hours somewhere,” I point out, standing.
I don’t even wait for her reply, walking into the condo. I need to break my eyes from her somehow.
I’m familiar with fear. Only a fool wouldn’t be, having done what I’ve done in the Rangers. But fear for someone I love is completely different.
Halting in front of the refrigerator, I stare at the Chardonnay in my view.
Wait—love? When did that word fall into my vocabulary?
Reaching for the bottle, I glance out to the lanai, looking at the back of Annie’s head as she stares out at the ocean that way she always does, as if all her answers are there for her somewhere between where the waves meet the sand and the watery horizon in the distance.
In truth, I would do this for any woman who’d been wronged the way Annie had been. Love doesn’t need to be in the picture for me to want to right a wrong. It’s just the way I’m built.
But I do love her.
Holy shit, I really do.
That’s apparent from the weight I feel inside of me for what I’ve just done—as if Annie’s future rested in each word I spoke to that damn wife. As if it all depended on whether or not I succeeded. Whether or not I was good enough.
I wrap my fingers around the stem of a wine glass and bring it out to Annie. She reaches for it with unsteady hands, and I see her throw it back as though she’s doing shots at a wedding.
“Now there’s something you don’t see a babysitter doing too often.” I grin and wish I could join her. But with a kid in preschool, I need to stay stone sober in case a fall off the monkey bars or an onset of a cold has me high-tailing it up to Waimea to pick her up.
I call my brothers. Because in an hour, we might have a hell of a show playing on the TV. Either that, or I may have cops showing up at my door for threatening a politician’s wife with photos that don’t even exist. And in that case, I need them nearby.
Fuck. I grin slightly at the feel of my heart thumping double-time in my chest.
Adrenaline rush: I’ve missed you.
Chapter 24
~ ANNIE ~
With Cam and Fen at my side, I settle into their leather sectional to watch the news. Dodger is the last to join us, sparing me a concerned look as though he’s about to write me a prescription for Xanax.
“How are you holding up, Annie?” he asks.
“I’m hanging in.” I force the words past my heart which is lodged in my throat. I shouldn’t have let Cam do this. It wasn’t until he was actually talking to Mrs. Petronel that I realized just what kind of a risk he was taking.
My life—my name—is already in the gutter.
But now, his own is in peril, and possibly his brothers right along with him.
Yet as nervous as I am, I feel an odd assurance settling over me as I sit with the three of them. Here, with the support of Cam and his brothers, I feel stronger somehow—like these men are my support system.
My six.
Cam turned on CNN within five minutes of ending the call with Mrs. Petronel. And as the hour deadline approaches, the uncertainty inside of me can’t be subdued by the confidence I see in his eyes. He is, after all, a guy who used to jump out of airplanes into enemy territory.
I glance at my watch even though I see the clock on the DVR. It’s like I need to verify that there are only fifteen minutes left.
Cam takes my hand. “Remember, I gave her an hour. But she doesn’t have control over how much time it takes the networks to put together a story. And who knows? Maybe this story isn’t big enough to get air time on the big networks.”
I nod inwardly, though in my heart, I know how quickly D.C.’s reporters would jump on this. I know, because I’ve already seen it happen once in my life. D.C. loves a scandal.
The hour-marker passes without fanfare. Just a sense of dread—this worry that now I might have ruined Cam’s life right along with my own.
“What if she called the police, Cam? Or a lawyer? Or—”
He only shrugs in answer.
“His word against hers, Annie,” Fen reminds me.
“She might have recorded the conversation,” Dodger, always the practical one, suggests.
My eyes dart to Dodger. “Don’t you need consent for that?”
“Depends on the state,” Cam answers simply. “It was the crack of dawn there when I called, though. I don’t imagine she was sitting around with recording equipment at the ready.” He takes my hand. “Look, don’t worry about me in this. Let them come after me. I’ve got two brothers, six cousins, and a platoon’s worth of Rangers who’ll vouch for me.”
“And a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.” Fen grins. “Who’d go after a war hero? It’s un-American. Now how about we order a pizza? I’m sitting here watching news on the mainland. You need to feed me to watch this shit.”
“Okay. Grab the—”
“Guys!” Dodger interrupts Cam and points to the TV.
And we read the headline appearing at the bottom of the screen.
Wife accuses Senator of nanny assault, it reads.
Holy shit. It worked—a thought that is echoed out loud by all three brothers.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out.
I feel heat rise to my face, my heart thunder in my ears, and my palms grow thick with sweat. As Cam turns up the volume, I struggle to even hear the words of the newscaster as she leads up to the sight of Mrs. Petronel, sitting in her living room talking to a reporter I recognize from D.C.’s local news broadcasts.
“I should have known that night.” Mrs. Petronel has tears in her eyes as she says it. “Arianna returned early that night from her class, along with a friend. She was visibly upset when she quit. No notice. It was so unlike her. Then when I saw the photo that made headlines of my husband and her in the car, I assumed she had quit out of guilt.” She shakes her head. “I was so wrong.”
