The Billionaire's Angel (Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires Book 7)

by Ivy Layne

  Anthony waved the knife in dismissal. “Damien wasn't supposed to let you sell the house. He had some idea he'd take over for me. He wanted you out of the way, and he was too squeamish to kill you.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked, aware every word we said was being recorded.

  “He won't be a problem,” Anthony said.

  “Did you kill him?” I asked, pushing harder.

  Anthony smiled, a slow widening of his mouth that telegraphed satisfaction and said, “Among other things.”

  My stomach rolled with nausea. Time to get us back on track. “I'm not coming home with you. I'm filing for divorce.”

  Anthony's eyes narrowed. “You can't divorce me. You're my wife.”

  “That's what divorce means,” I explained slowly as if he were a child and not a full-grown man holding a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. “I'm your wife now, and after we divorce, I won't be your wife anymore.”

  “I won't allow it,” he said as if that simple statement ended the conversation.

  “I don't care,” I said.

  I turned and crossed the room, keeping distance between myself and Anthony but trying to draw him away from Amelia. My new position put me too close to Gage’s line of sight, but it worked. Anthony turned away from Amelia and dropped the hand with the gun to his side. He closed the knife and slid it back in his pocket.

  “Let Amelia go,” I said.

  “No. Someone will find her after we’re gone.”

  “I'm not leaving with you.”

  “Yes, you are. I have a new house, on the side of a mountain, surrounded by trees. You’ll be safe and protected there. We can be alone, just you and me. I've missed you, Sophie. You don’t know how I’ve missed you.”

  “I haven’t missed you,” I said, trying to rattle him enough to make him forget where he was in relation to the back window. Anthony went on as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  “You bring me peace. You can't imagine what it's been like the last two years, staying away from you, pretending I was dead, surrounded by people who didn't care about me. The stress, it was so intense, so much worse without you. I need you. You’re the only one who takes it away. I tried with other women, but none of them were you.”

  His voice was wistful, almost sweet. I fought the urge to throw up. I brought him peace because he worked out his stress by beating me half to death.

  A rush of anger displaced my nausea, and I heard myself say, “You don't want a wife, you want a punching bag. You want a victim. You’re only happy when you hurt someone weaker than you. I'd say you need help, but you’re beyond help. You’re a monster.”

  Anthony's handsome face twisted into a snarl and he took a jerky step closer. Not close enough. I moved my foot back, and the gun swung up.

  “Don't run away from me, you little whore.”

  I froze in place. He kept the gun aimed at me and went on, his calm façade cracking as his eyes burned with fury. “I'm dead not two years, and already you’re fucking some guy? Letting him touch you, letting him soil you. You were supposed to be clean. Pure. You can't take it all away from me if you're dirty.”

  I was getting dizzy trying to follow his twisted logic. It kind of made sense, the way he’d dressed me in those virginal nightgowns, barely touched me sexually, insisted I stay away from men, from people. Isolated and alone, existing only to serve him. I shuddered at the memory and took a step back without thinking.

  Anthony's hand jerked to the right, and he squeezed the trigger. Chips of concrete flew off the wall. I heard myself scream.

  “I said don't move,” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. I'd never seen Anthony so unhinged. Even when he was hitting me, he'd always been in control.

  “You're ruining everything,” he said, the hand holding the gun shaking, thrusting forward, punctuating every word. “I bought us a house. I have money put aside. So much money. I took it all and then I testified against them. We'll have everything. You just have to come home.”

  “I'm not coming home,” I said quietly. “I'm never going anywhere with you again. You can kill me if you have to if that's what it takes to get away from you.”

  Anthony went still. The gun dropped to his side. “You love me,” he stated, flatly, as if it were the only truth he knew.

  “No. I hate you.”

  He looked at me with incomprehension. “I had to do it, sweetheart,” he explained. “It was the only way to get it out of me. And after, I felt so calm. I need that back. I tried with other women, but it didn’t work. Only you take the dark away. Only you can give me peace.”

  I fought the urge to tell him he was crazy. Completely, totally, insane. Did he really think I was going to come back to him?

  “How many people did you hurt in the last two years?” I asked. I had to know. I wanted to make him say it out loud, to admit what he was. He cocked his head to the side and studied me for a long moment before answering.

  Did he know about the wire?

  If he did, he’d kill us both.

  Finally, he said, “I didn’t hurt anyone, Sophie. It’s never me. It’s the darkness.” His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “Without you, Sophie, the darkness was hungry.”

  “Then why did you leave me?” I asked, taking a tiny, sliding step back, drawing Anthony forward, just a little. Caught in memories of the things he’d done, he barely noticed as we shifted a foot in the wrong direction. Then another.

  “I thought I could feed it other ways, just for a while,” he said, in that same hoarse whisper. “But it took longer than I planned and it got to be too much.”

  “Is that why you left the marshals?” Another small slide back. Almost there.

  Anthony gave a dismissive shake of his head, seemingly unaware he’d stepped forward to match my careful retreat. “I got away from the safe house when I needed to. But it wasn’t the same. Those other women, they weren’t you. They couldn’t make it happy. Couldn’t take it away like you did.”

  “What did you do to them?” I asked, conversationally, sliding my foot back another step. “The same as you did to me?”

  “No, Sophie, no,” he said, tracking me, stepping closer, almost in Gage’s line of sight. His voice was entreating, just short of begging. I’d never heard so much emotion from Anthony. “I’d never touch them like I touched you. They weren’t clean, weren’t pure. They only made the darkness hungrier. It needs you.”

  I suppressed a shiver. I had no idea what that meant, but I had a terrible feeling he’d done far worse than beat them with his fists and feet. I didn’t want to hear any more. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t play a game with this monster of a man.

  “Do you want me back?” I asked, softly.

  Anthony nodded, slowly.

  “Then come and get me,” I invited. I held out my hand as if waiting for him to take it.

  Anthony carefully placed his gun on the floor and walked toward me, his dark eyes relieved, his face relaxed. Just as his fingertips brushed mine, his body jerked to the side, the sound of a gunshot and breaking glass echoing through the empty room.

  He hit the floor and rolled, groaning. I heard a voice shout, “Sophie, get out.”

  I ran for Amelia, pulling frantically at the duct tape binding her to the chair. The voice shouted, “Sophie, move. We've got Amelia covered. Clear the room, now.”

  I did as I was told, standing and bolting for the door. I heard a shuffle behind me, one shot, then another. A cannonball hit me in the back, and I went down, my shoulder and the side of my head smacking into the concrete floor.

  I couldn't get air in my lungs.

  I scrabbled at the floor, sweaty palms slipping, my chest heaving for air, my back burning with pain. Feet rushed by me. Shouts echoed against the concrete walls.

  Then Gage was there, his hands patting me roughly, yanking up my sweater, tugging at the Velcro of the vest and smoothing over the unbroken skin of my back. He pulled me into his lap, gathering me close, and pressed his forehead t
o mine.

  “Don't you ever fucking do that again, Sophie. Do you hear me? He fucking shot you.”

  His arms tightened around me, squeezing out what little breath I’d managed to suck in.

  “The vest?” I whispered.

  “Did its job,” Gage confirmed, “but you scared the hell out of me. No more confrontations with armed madmen.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Agreed.”

  I opened my eyes and peeked over Gage's shoulder to see police officers surrounding a groaning Anthony. In a low voice, Gage said, “He's going to jail for a long time, Angel. He's not going to bother you again.”

  I let my eyes slide closed and pressed my face to Gage's chest. “Are you still mad at me?” I asked.

  His arms went tight again, and he said with a growl, “I'm fucking pissed at you, Angel. You almost got yourself killed. It's going to take a long time for me to forget him pointing that gun at you.”

  I had a feeling it would take me a long time to forget that, too.

  “Do you still love me?” I asked, hoping I already knew the answer.

  “Always, Angel. Always.”

  Epilogue: Part One

  Gage

  Sophie handled Anthony Armstrong with a steely nerve I hadn't expected, but the aftermath was messy. Not his arrest. Thanks to Sophie, they had him admitting to murder and repeated spousal abuse, on top of the charges of kidnapping.

  With an irate Mrs. W as a second witness, at least to the kidnapping, he wasn’t getting away with anything. He’d snatched Amelia from the parking lot outside her doctor’s office, leaving Mrs. W tied up in her sedan with a bump on the head, but fortunately no serious injuries. Between her testimony, the camera in the parking lot, and Sophie’s wire, there was plenty of evidence to send him away.

  Anthony went straight to prison, and after his disappearing act on the marshals, the judge wasn't inclined to grant bail. Her divorce was proceeding—complicated slightly by Anthony's uncertain legal status—but it was proceeding. It was the rest that was hard.

  Neither of us slept much the week after Anthony shot Sophie. Her back was black and blue, and her cheek bruised from her fall, but her body was otherwise undamaged. Her mind, on the other hand, struggled to process everything that had happened.

  At night, she barely fell asleep before she jerked awake, gasping and crying out in fear and pain. I was there, every time, drying the tears on her cheeks and holding her until she slept again. I had my own bad moments. I'd been doing better since I'd been home, feeling more grounded, less on edge, but seeing Sophie go down after that gunshot had knocked me off balance.

  I tried to hide it from her, but the few times I fell asleep I was forced to watch the same scene play out in my mind, only this time Sophie wasn't wearing the vest. This time Amelia was dead, her throat slit, and Sophie bled out on the floor.

  It was a good thing we'd scheduled those appointments. We needed them. By the time we went, Sophie was looking forward to hers. I'll admit I was still reluctant. I didn't want to talk to some stranger about all of the shit swirling around in my head, especially after Sophie's close call. It was too personal.

  I didn't have a choice. Sophie needed help. She needed sleep. And when I'd suggested I might postpone my own meeting with the therapist she'd squeezed my hand and said, "I'll go if you go." Fuck.

  So I went. It wasn't that bad, in the end. I was never going to be buddy-buddy with the guy. He asked way too many questions, made me explain too much, but it turned out he'd done two tours himself, mostly in Afghanistan, and he'd seen a lot of shit firsthand. He'd also worked with a lot of guys who had the same problems I did, and he assured me that if I stuck with it, things would get better.

  Sophie and I both went in twice a week. It wasn't a miracle solution. That first month, Sophie’s nightmares didn't improve at all. I think they may have gotten worse, though we were so sleep deprived it was hard to judge anything. By the end of those first weeks, her skin was so pale I could see the blue veins beneath, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

  Gradually, something inside her settled, began to ease, and she started sleeping for longer and longer stretches, waking less often with her breath caught in her throat. And when she started to sleep, so did I.

  By the third month after Anthony's arrest, we were back to where we'd been before the day he'd taken Amelia. Still waking in the night, but mostly chasing off the nightmares with sex. If I had anything to be grateful for in Sophie's horror of a marriage to Anthony Armstrong, it was that he hadn't seemed interested in her sexually.

  I didn't want to imagine what a man like that could've done to her, the way he could have destroyed her natural sensuality. He'd left that part of her untouched, and it was mine from the beginning.

  We were in a waiting game. Anthony was doing everything he could to fight the divorce. Out of delusion, or spite, we didn't know. It didn't matter. He had money, so was immune to bribery. I’d tried that avenue more than once.

  The only thing he wanted was Sophie, and she was the one thing he couldn't have.

  Cooper Sinclair had told us to be patient. His guess was Anthony would never see trial. He'd testified against the Accorsi crime family after stealing from them. He was in solitary confinement for his own protection, but Cooper was positive it wouldn’t be enough. He'd violated his agreement with the marshals when he'd taken off, and they'd washed their hands of him. So we waited.

  I was working full time at Winters, Inc. by then, slowly moving out from under Aiden’s shadow and finding my own place in the company. I still didn’t have an official title, but I didn’t care. We all owned equal shares in Winters, Inc., which made titles kind of irrelevant.

  What mattered was that I was home, things were right with Aiden, and I was moving forward with my life. I’d never regret my years in the military—the last six months aside—but living in Winters House and working with Aiden, I finally felt like I could put my demons behind me.

  I just needed one more thing. A wife. Not just any wife, I needed Sophie. She refused to discuss the future until she was divorced from Anthony. My girl was sweet, but she was stubborn as hell. And old fashioned. Not only did she refuse to talk to me about getting married, she wouldn’t move into my room.

  She said it was inappropriate for her to move bedrooms, never mind that I slept by her side every night. As long as she was legally married to another man, she wasn’t moving in with me. Like I said—stubborn.

  Finally, four months after Anthony Anderson was arrested for kidnapping Amelia and trying to shoot Sophie, Cooper got word that he’d been found by a guard with his throat slit, despite his seclusion in solitary. It might have been the original locked room mystery, but no one wondered who’d killed him. Testifying against one of the biggest organized crime families in the Southeast, after stealing a chunk of their cash, was a death sentence. I was only surprised we’d had to wait for so long.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to tell Sophie. I wanted to celebrate, but I knew she wouldn’t find that funny, no matter how relieved she’d be that her tormentor was dead. After a detour with Cooper to verify that Anthony wasn’t going to come back to life this time, I headed home.

  I found Sophie in the library with Amelia. I have no idea what they were up to, but from the guilty look on their faces and the scramble to hide what looked like dark fabric in a shopping bag, I guessed I’d find out soon enough.

  Amelia had dialed back the pranks in the first few months after the kidnapping when Sophie and I were exhausted and jumpy, but now that we were better she was back to her old tricks.

  Just the week before she’d talked Sophie into putting bubble wrap beneath the hall carpets, so they popped with every step. To be honest, no one really minded that one. I even caught Mrs. W doing a little dance down the hall by the kitchen when she thought no one was looking, each step punctuated by cheerful little pops.

  Sophie’s eyes brightened when she saw me come in. She was off the couch and in my arms before I�
��d cleared the threshold, her sweet, sultry scent filling my lungs as I kissed her temple. I wanted to kiss her mouth, but not with Amelia looking on, an avid grin spread across her face.

  Stepping back, I said, “I need you to sit down, Angel. I have some news.”

  Sophie’s eyes darkened, and she bit her lower lip, sitting obediently and waiting, braced for bad news. I hated that the life she’d lived left her assuming that any news was automatically bad. Now that Armstrong was dead, that was finally going to change. I sat beside her and took her hand.

  “Anthony was found dead in his cell this morning.” Sophie just stared at me, disbelieving. I went on, “Cooper got us in to see the body, Angel. He’s dead. It’s not a trick.”

  “He’s really dead?” she whispered, taking a quick, deep breath. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I promised.

  She still looked unconvinced. I could understand why. The last time someone told her Anthony was dead, he’d knocked on our door two years later, very much alive. After going through so much, my Sophie was afraid to hope it was really over.

  She blinked and took in another quick, deep breath. She was fighting tears. I wished she’d just let go, but she had this idea that crying made her weak. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Sophie was one of the strongest women I knew.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and brought up the last pictures I’d taken. It was gruesome and totally against regulations, but I’d known what I’d need to set Sophie’s mind at ease. Without a word, I handed her my phone, a picture of Anthony’s dead body filling the screen.

  He lay on a metal tray that had been pulled from a wall of similar trays, his skin grey with death, his eyes closed. His neck gaped in an open wound, bloodless and dark, like an obscene grin beneath his chin. Sophie cradled my phone in both hands, staring down at the picture.

  Amelia leaned over and took a quick look, grimacing and saying, “Couldn’t have happened to a better man.”

  I expected Sophie to scold her, but she remained silent, still staring at the picture of her dead husband. She stared so long I started to wonder if I’d done the right thing in showing her Anthony’s body. Just as I was about to reach for my phone, she clicked the screen off and handed it back to me.