by Liz Crowe
He sighed. “I never thought of myself as a nurturer. I was spoiled as a kid. And treated women terribly as a young man.” He pulled her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I was taught well.” She stiffened. “Don’t complain. You’re the beneficiary of much of what I was taught by her—a long time ago. But I only felt any sort of emotion for one woman in my entire life—a woman I was not meant to have. Until I opened the door of the Fitzgerald Brewery and saw you, standing there in the steam, your wild hair in a riot, sweat-soaked, and screaming at the staff.” He chuckled. “I was, as the English say, gobsmacked by you. And I haven’t looked back.”
He pulled the ring from his shorts pocket—the ring he’d had specially made for her the week before and had hidden the entire weekend—took her left hand, and slid it onto her finger, kissing her palm before letting her see it. She held it up, still laying across his shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. It was a round diamond, set in a thick band of platinum, with smaller, equally brilliant stones embedded into the precious metal on either side. “It’s beautiful, Ross.”
“I know,” he said, pulling her arm so she was pressed against his back.
“How could you possibly afford it?”
“I’ve spent the better part of twenty years working without ever settling down or buying anything more expensive than decent wine or clothing. And I’m German. We are, as you well know, savers by nature. I may not be as rich as Croesus like Trent or a trust-fund kid like Austin, but I have enough. Enough to provide you with anything you might want or could ever need from me.”
“I will work,” she protested, pulling away. He grabbed her arm and dragged her around to his lip so he could kiss her. Ross thought he could kiss this woman morning, noon and night and never tire of it.
“I know that,” he said, ending the kiss and touching his nose to hers. “But if we open this restaurant…”
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up and kiss me some more.”
He did. And later, they made slow, silent love until long past midnight and they lay, spent, and happy in each other’s arms.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Three weeks later
Elle sat on the hard, wooden bench in the courtroom, turning her engagement ring around and around. She’d not been able to eat much for the past week thanks to her anxiety about this hearing, so the ring was loose, as were most of her clothes. Ross sat next to her, dressed up for the occasion and looking incredible in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. The place was filled with her friends from Fitzgerald Brewing, all there for moral support on this day when it would be decided if she had to stand trial for manslaughter.
After an hour, it seemed as though things would go her way. Austin’s lawyer had spent the last week with her, going over her life in detail—as much as she would give—to establish that she was neither insane nor murderous. He’d called Evelyn to the stand, which was awful and made both Austin’s and Ross’ faces bright red when she told the story of how the asshole Tim attacked her in her office in front of the baby and was about to rape her when Elle had blown his useless brains out.
He’d interviewed Melody about that day as well, so she could testify regarding Tim’s general demeanor and his past, inappropriate activities in the pub, hitting on women then getting angry when they rejected him. Bryan, fully recovered and content in his role as cellar man, told his story—how he’d tried to ask her out and had taken her rejection in stride but had noticed Tim being rude to her face, and talking about her behind her back.
By the end of the long day of testimony, a clear picture of Tim as a sexist, predatory, angry man had been established, as well as Elle’s as the innocent victim who only agreed to file the harassment report at Evelyn’s insistence.
Elle spoke last. Melody and Evelyn had helped her buy a decent, navy blue suit for the event, with mid-high heels and a pair of pearl earrings so she felt physically ready for it. But inside she was a mess. Sweaty under the suit, breathless with terror, horrified that she’d even done it.
But the lawyer—Jack Galyan was his name—had prepared her well and she answered his questions calmly, in a clear voice. Yes, she was licensed to carry the gun. Her credentials were presented. No, she had never shot anyone or anything ever before. Her non-existent criminal record was shown. Yes, she suspected something when she’d pulled it out of her locker but she’d been convinced Tim would come for her on her way out of the brewery, which is why she’d been keeping the weapon at work.
No, she had no idea he’d go for Evelyn, but something had made her go back up the metal steps to the office overlooking the brewery that night. Partly intuition, but mostly the loud shout that only she had heard. And she’d seen them, Evelyn with her blouse ripped off, her skirt hiked up to her waist and that horrible man, fumbling with himself, while the child screamed from her the carrier on the table right next to her mother. She’d reacted on instinct. And now, he was dead and both Evelyn and the baby were safe.
“Thank you, Miss Nagel,” Jack Galyan said, his dark brown eyes full of sympathy. “That’s all, Your Honor,” he said to the judge.
“You may step down, Miss Nagel,” the judge said to her. She’d made her way across the expanse of marble floor and was almost back to Ross’ side when the door at the back of the courtroom opened with a loud bang.
“May it please the court,” a voice boomed into the high-ceilinged room. “I call a witness on behalf of the victim, Mr. Timothy Harris.”
The judge frowned and banged his gavel to calm the crowd. Elle stood stock still, confused by the interruption. The strange man who’d walked in to declare the witness looked at her, then over his shoulder. That’s when she saw him.
The Monster.
He was here, in the courtroom, standing tall and slim and smug, dressed in a coal-black suit, shiny black shoes and open collar shirt. His long nose, thin lips and slicked-back hair were all the same. His gaze darted around the room, seeking her, she knew.
Nolan Blanchard.
Her tormenter.
Memories flooded her brain, making her sway on her feet. Bile burned her throat. The myriad injuries he’d done to her body all flamed hot, most especially on her ass, where his initials were etched into her flesh. She put a hand to her throat. When their eyes met, his nostrils flared as if he smelled something rancid. She dropped her gaze to the floor and nearly fell to her knees in the sort of sick, Pavlovian way he’d trained into her. But Ross was there, holding her up and helping her back to her seat.
The crowd around and behind her, her friends, all muttered as one, “Is that him? Is that him? Is that Him?”
She pressed her face into Ross’ shoulder, hearing the rumbling in his chest, indicating he was speaking. But she could no longer make out words. She kept her face averted the entire time the attorney argued with the judge and demanded that his witness be heard. It had direct bearing on the proceedings, he insisted.
Finally, the judge allowed it. She felt Ross stiffen beside her. Saw his right hand curl into a tight fist. She put her palm on it, but kept her gaze away from the front as Nolan Blanchard was called as witness for Timothy Harris, the deceased.
After being sworn in, he began to speak. His voice shot a spike of ice straight into her soul. It was thin, presumptive, bossy in the way only the French can be. He was leaning heavily on his accent, she could tell.
By the end of his testimony, the judge called both lawyers to the bench, then excused the witness. Nolan stood, shot his cuffs, sneered at the room in general, and made his slow way out of the witness box and across the floor. When he reached the bench where she sat with Ross on one side and Evelyn on the other, he stopped.
“I am disappointed in you, Elisa,” he said in a low tone. “But I suppose you think you’ve landed well.” He sniffed, indicating his general opinion of Ross. She gripped Ross’ hands to keep him from reacting but he was pulling against her and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him back for long.
“Move along,” a voice said from the bench behind her. Brock, she thought. “If you know what’s good for you.”
Nolan buttoned his jacket and glared disparagingly at the gathered group. “We will meet again soon,” he whispered to her. The sound of his voice curled up in her head, embedding in her brain, and bringing forth a scream from her throat before she could stop it.
“Go,” she yelled, standing up and clambering over Ross’ knees to get at him. “Get the fuck away from me, you god damned monster!”
Nolan stepped back, with a fake expression of fear on his face. He glanced at the judge, shrugged in a ‘I told you she was a crazy bitch’ way, then smiled at her. That tore it. Everything she’d been holding back for a decade—the memories, the humiliation, the filth, the pain and the final betrayal all rushed up from the soles of her feet, into her chest and burst across her brain like fireworks.
“You can’t have me, Nolan,” she said, moving close to him and shaking Ross’ hand off her arm. She stood, glaring up at him, directly into the eyes she’d been trained defer to, to look away from out of ‘respect’ for his dominance over her. “You are not a real man. You only pretended to be. But I got away from you, in more ways than one. I’m free of you. And that’s making you crazy, isn’t it, you fucking asshole. I have a real man with me now.” Her voice kept rising, clanging around in the cavernous space.
“Miss Nagel,” the judge warned. “One more outburst and I’m holding you in contempt of court.”
“I told you she was unstable, Your Honor,” Nolan said in an apologetic tone.
“You can stop talking too, Mr. Blanchard.” The judge glared at him. She hoped lawyer Jack had filled the good judge in on how, exactly, Mr. Blanchard knew her.
Nolan turned to her, his eyes snapping with fury. But for the first time since she’d met him and he’d seduced her so he could later hold her hostage in mind and body for his own sick pleasures, she didn’t drop her gaze. “You have lost, Nolan,” she said, keeping her voice light and conversational. “Now that you’re here, I’m going to blow your little sick life right out of the water, do you understand me?”
In a flash, he grabbed her wrist, bruising her almost instantly and making her yelp in pain. “You always were a useless bitch,” he hissed. She sensed the crowd around her rising, reaching for them.
In a slight trance, she raised her other hand and slapped him, hard, twice, then again for good measure. Before she could do anything else, Ross lunged past her, had Nolan pinned to the floor, and was pounding his face into a bloody pulp.
“Ross,” she screeched, trying to pull him off. But arms were around her, pulling her back from the ugly scene.
The judge hammered on his desk so hard his gavel broke. Brock and Austin dragged Ross off the now inert form of Nolan Blanchard. The other lawyer was screaming about more lawsuits. The bailiff had her by her arms and wrestled her out of a door next to the judge’s bench as she screamed Ross’ name over and over again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ross sat in the holding cell, seething with rage, sick with worry but mostly satisfied that he’d had the singular pleasure of beating that bastard’s face in. He stood when the officer appeared and called his name. Austin stood beside him, pinched-faced and pissed-off.
“Let’s go, Hoffman. I posted bail.”
He got up slowly, bruised and bloodied hands dangling at his sides and shuffled out of the piss-stinking jail. They walked out once Ross had collected his suit jacket, watch, phone and wallet. Austin stayed silent the whole drive to the brewery.
“Thanks,” Ross said after they parked. He was at a loss and wondering where in the hell Elisa might be right now. She’d been so brave, slapping the guy, but Ross had not been about to let the opportunity pass without exacting some revenge on her behalf. No fucking way. He looked down at his raw knuckles. “Where is she?”
“They held her in contempt, like the judge said he would.” Austin was gripping the steering wheel so tight Ross could see the bones of his fingers under the skin. “It’s a God damned bigger mess and now the press is up my ass like a colonoscopy.” He sighed and let his hands fall to his lap. “Let’s just say that Elisa’s outburst cost her, big time. They’re holding her without bail for reasons no one can explain to me. The celebrity chef is recovering after the brutal attack by the brewer with the famous temper or some shit. Jesus, please us.”
Ross sighed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Austin shook him off. “We have to meet with the lawyer in an hour. That asshole’s attorney is threatening to sue you for assault, me for harboring you and her for all this time. He’s out for blood and my company is gonna be the one that bleeds. I’m not in the mood for your shit.” He climbed out of the car and stomped to the back door of the brewery without a backward glance.
Ross’ heart pounded as he watched his friend wrench open the back door.
He’d done this. Or at least he was directly complicit and Austin, who’d never done a damn thing wrong, was going to pay the price. He got out and went to the rental that he’d left at the brewery, as they’d all ridden in Austin’s giant SUV to the courtroom, in decent spirits, thinking all would be over and done with soon.
As he drove to his hotel, he self-justified his motivation for beating the guy bloody in the courtroom. His first call was to Jack Galyan’s office, asking if Elisa could have a visitor. After being told that process, he got a quick shower, changed into jeans and a polo-style shirt, then drove to the county lock-up. But when he told the giant lady guard in charge he was there to see Elisa Nagel, he was told she didn’t want any visitors.
Ross frowned. “Tell her it’s her fiancé.”
The woman rolled her eyes, wandered back to some mysterious place in the prison, then returned, her lips set in a firm line. “She don’t want visitors. She knows who you are and says she especially don’t want to see your…let’s see how did she put it…your ugly, stupid face ever again.”
Ross reeled backward until his legs made contact with a chair. He dropped into it, stunned into immobility for a few seconds. Finally, he got up and approached the wall of blue uniform. The woman lifted her face and scowled at him. “You again, blondie?”
“Listen, I know she’s upset. But tell her I need to ask her something important. Something that will help her out…of this…mess.”
The woman sighed, got up, lumbered through the door that snicked shut behind her. For a hot second, Ross contemplated crashing through it, his need to lay eyes on Elisa and make sure she was all right was so strong.
But as before, the woman came, back, her face set in stone to inform him that if he didn’t leave in the next five minutes, she’d have him removed.
Fury tickled his throat as he clamped down on the urge to bellow her name, to demand to see her, no matter what. She had some nerve, pushing him away now. He flopped down onto the front steps in the bright, hot sun trying to get himself back under control. Finally, he raked his fingers through his hair one last time, and headed for his car.
If she wouldn’t see him, or talk to him anymore after he’d repeatedly told her how he felt, after they’d planned a trip home to meet her family, talked about names for their fantasy restaurant—then fuck her. A man could only do so much. This rejection, when he knew damn good and well she needed him too, was the final straw.
“Fuck her,” he growled as he screeched out onto the road in front of the women’s prison. He threw the SUV in park then ran up the steps to his stupid, ever-temporary living space. Ignoring the zillions of texts and missed calls from Austin, Evelyn and Trent, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he wanted.
He dropped onto the cheap hotel couch, opened a beer, drank half of it without tasting it, then hit Call.
“Hello? Ross? Is that you?” Holly’s smooth, southern-inflected accent made him smile around the mouth of the bottle.
“Yeah, babe. It’s me. You busy? I need someone to talk to.” He closed his eyes, hating himself, but kno
wing this was the right move to make. He required action, and he was going to by God take some.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Five weeks later
Elle sat staring down at her hands as her second hearing got underway. Jack the lawyer was the only visitor she’d allowed herself for the past month, mostly as self-punishment. She knew she’d screwed everything up. If only she had kept her mouth shut, let Nolan spout his self-aggrandizing nonsense without reacting, she’d not be here, hungry, miserable, afraid to talk to anyone, much less make friends within the shocking array of humanity she’d encountered as a guest of the Kent County prison system.
She missed Ross so keenly it was a physical ache in her chest. It closed her throat when she tried to eat the random slop that passed for meals. It forced her eyes open through the long nights while women all around her snored, farted, sobbed, or had sex with each other for lack of anything better to do. It made her chew her fingernails until they were ragged and bloody. They’d taken all of her belongings, including her engagement ring, promising to keep it safe. But she figured she’d seen the last of it anyway, considering.
But still she refused to see him, or Austin, or Evelyn, or Melody. She only met with Jack, to try to salvage her future.
After stripping her of everything, including every item of jewelry she had on or in her body, they’d put her to work cleaning the infirmary, given her early training as a nursing assistant. She did her mopping and disinfecting, the emptying of bedpans and other disgusting jobs without comment. The horrific condition of the place flabbergasted her. She’d always held the common European misconception that American prisons must be pretty cushy, since people seemed to keep going back to them over and over again. But this place was god awful, understaffed, dirty and dangerous.
After a couple of weeks, she’d requested, politely, to change to kitchen duty and had spent her last few days helping make heads or tails of the god-awful, many times spoiled slop that passed for food.
