by Sienna Blake
I start to flick open and shut the flap of the matchbook. The phone number winks at me like a blue-inked pupil. I decide I’m sick of doing nothing. I have to call this number. It’s my only link to him. I can’t just lie around like this. Perhaps whoever’s phone number it is can tell me a way to reach him.
I have a prepaid cell phone. But I don’t want to call the number from any number that could be traceable to me. I walk a long way to work through an area I never frequent. The matchbook is searing a hole in my palm as I hold it in my hand inside my pocket. I have worn my hair tucked into a dark cap and sunglasses just in case. I’m being paranoid. But paranoid has served me well so far.
I find an empty grey phone booth on a busy street. I close the glass door of the booth and pull out the matchbook. I have stared at this matchbook for so long that I have memorized the number. I hold it now between my fingers just to make sure. I pick up the phone and squeeze it between my head and my shoulder. The sounds of passing cars outside are muffled and all I can hear clearly is the click of the buttons as I press them. The dial tone sounds like a warning toll and my heart starts to speed up.
“Hello, Valentine here?”
My blood freezes. It’s a woman’s voice. A woman. Caden took a woman’s number that he met in a bar. My stomach twists. A woman named Valentine.
“Hello? Who’s this?” she repeats. She sounds sexy and busty. I’ll bet the bitch is blonde. “Hello?” She lets out a sigh. “Whatever, loser.”
And hangs up.
The dull tone of the disconnected line may as well have been the flat line of my heart.
I have never been to Cha Cha’s. I have never been there, but I know from my internet search that it’s on the other side of town from where I live and work. In Little Italy. I usually stay clear of this area of the city. It feels too much like Jacob territory. This time I’m making an exception.
The next day at dusk, I stand on the other side of the street from Cha Cha’s, the sign is large and red across the entrance. On the outside, the walls are painted black and the windows tinted heavily so that I can’t see inside. They can see me, but I can’t see them. This knowledge is the only thing propelling me away from this sidewalk and towards the plain black door entrance. At the door, I fidget at my bottom lip with my teeth and pause for the briefest of moments – will Cade be inside? I’m not sure whether I do or don’t want him to be there. I push the door open.
Inside I’m forced to take off my sunglasses because of the dim light. Cha Cha’s is a restaurant of exposed brick, the kind that has a wrap-around bar in the center and is trimmed with brown leather booths. Downward-facing lights on the walls spotlight off photos of Italian movie stars and famous people who have visited.
“Are you here for dinner?” a maître d’ in a black vest and button-up shirt asks me.
“Just a coffee, thanks. Can I take that corner booth?”
“Of course, madam.” He leads me to a dark booth in the corner to my right which has a good view of the restaurant. I slide into the seat facing the room and order a latte. Only then do I look around properly. At the moment there are few people in here, just an older guy drinking at the bar, a couple gazing over menus, and a booth full of Asian tourists armed with cameras. Apart from the maître d’ there is another man serving and a woman behind the bar.
The woman is blonde. I frown at her. Is she the one who answered the call before? Is that her number on the matchbook? I stare at her as discreetly as I can until my latte arrives.
I stir a sugar into it before taking a sip. Only then is my eye caught by the framed pictures on the wall beside me. The closest is a still of Sophie Loren, a gorgeous Italian movie star, from a movie titled Man of La Mancha, signed across the empty space in black ink. My eyes glance to the next photo.
It’s of three men, a father and his two sons dressed in suits and smiling for the camera. They’re standing behind the yellow ribbon that drapes like a winners line across the front of Cha Cha’s, and the father is holding scissors. This must have been taken when they opened the restaurant. I stare first at the father. Something about his face looks familiar. Something about his eyes. A curl of fear starts to lick at my bones. Oh my God.
My gaze flicks to the face of the son to the right of him. He too looks familiar. My eyes snap to the final face, the son on the left. My heart stops when I recognize him. It’s a face I haven’t seen for almost three years with eyes that still haunt me in my dreams.
Jacob Tyrell.
Chapter 8
Five years ago
A package arrives at my college dorm from my grandparents. I make the mistake of admitting to Trisha, my nosy roommate, that it’s my birthday this weekend. Trisha and I get along well enough, but we’ve only been living together in our college dorm for seven months or so. I suppose you could call us friends, but we don’t really hang out in the same circles. Which is why I’m a little surprised when she insists that we celebrate. She doesn’t let up until I agree to let her dress me up and take me out. Which is how I end up here.
“It’s your buuuuuuurthday!” Trisha shrieks in my ear. I nod and try to hide my grimace. We’re at the bar of some fancy club and she’s just had her fourth or fifth shot. Her breath now smells like the foul liquid she is drinking. Oh God, that stuff could strip paint. She points to my near-full birthday drink she insisted on buying for me. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
“I am.” I grab the drink. “I’ll be back. Bathroom.”
She nods, or is she nodding to the music?
On my way to the toilet I slip my unwanted drink onto a table. I happen to look up and I catch a pair of dark eyes in a booth staring at me. For a moment I stare back. The owner of the eyes reminds me of a panther. Sleek and beautiful but with something inherently deadly about him. The man smirks and raises his glass at me as if he’s amused at my behavior. I keep walking.
On the way back I get lost. Stupid club. Every damn level looks the same – a mass of wriggling bodies and lights that make everything look like an Andy Warhol painting on speed. When I finally get back to the spot near where I had left Trisha she isn’t here. I turn a few times before realizing how lost and vulnerable it makes me look. I straighten myself up and walk with purpose to the bar. I lean against the counter as I gather myself, hoping to look less conspicuous as I glance around.
I can’t see Trisha amongst the faces around the bar nor can I recognize her amidst the bodies on the dance floor. I turn and scan the booths that line the edge of this section of the club. They’re filled with beautiful people wearing suits and skimpy dresses. Ice buckets of large frosted-bellied bottles of booze decorate the tables. I notice one of the guys in a booth looking my way. It’s the same guy from before. I ignore him and keep scanning. I can’t see Trisha there either.
Damn her. I knew coming out with her was a bad idea. I sigh. Leaning against the bar I wave away one of the bartenders and send her a text on my phone.
Where r u?
I look around again and thumb through the cash in my purse, mentally calculating whether it’s enough for a cab. I’m out of luck. Dammit. Trish and I were supposed to split the fare, but now that I’ve lost her I don’t have enough money to get myself back to the dorm alone. These stupid heels that Trish made me wear are already killing me. I can’t walk home unless I want to walk barefoot, risking tetanus, broken glass and needles. Ugh. No thank you. Besides, I don’t really know where the hell I am.
I run my tongue across my teeth. I look down at my phone that I am clutching in my hand, mentally urging it to buzz with either a call or a text. Nope.
I turn around and catch the eye of that same guy again. I glance away immediately. The last thing I want is to encourage the attention of some idiot whilst I’m alone. I turn back around to the bar as I mentally try to sort my way out of this. Perhaps I’m early enough to catch a bus. Maybe I can get a cab to drop me off as far as my limited cash will go and I can walk the rest of the way?
Some jerk takes up
the space right next to me. He stands too close even though there’s plenty of space along the bar. His presence feels menacing and he’s at least a foot taller than me. I try not to cower away. Stay strong. Don’t be intimidated. I can feel his gaze burning into my profile as he stares at me, but I won’t look at him and give him the satisfaction of knowing I have noticed him.
The man leans in, his breath smelling sharp from some kind of liquor. “Excuse me, miss.” His voice is oddly soft. “My boss wants a word with you.”
His boss? Who the hell talks like that? I turn towards him so I can retort, but the words die on my lips when I see him. He’s huge with milk chocolate skin and a thick neck. He has a black patch over one eye and long dreadlocks that drape over his shoulders to his nipple line.
“Did you hear me, miss? My boss wants a word with you?”
I blink. He is definitely talking to me. I frown. “Your boss?”
Dreadlocks nods his head in the direction of one of the booths and I know before I confirm with a look that he’s nodding to the man whom I had caught staring at me.
“Look,” I say slowly. I don’t want to insult someone the size of a God damn tank. “Tell your boss thanks, but I’m not interested.”
Dreadlocks frowns at me. “But the boss wants to speak with you.”
“Well, it seems we are at an impasse because I don’t want to speak to him.”
“But…” now Dreadlocks seems a bit flustered, “he’s the boss.”
I fight the urge to laugh. Seriously? Who does this “boss” think he is?
“He might be your boss, but he isn’t mine.” I wave my hand to a group of three women nearby who are giggling and grinding on each other with their skirts up around their crotches with one eye open for the men who are watching them. “I’m sure one of those lovely young ladies would be happy to speak to your boss instead.”
Dreadlocks doesn’t answer. He walks away and I sigh as a rush of relief floods over me.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Trisha.
Gone w hot guy. I mean HOT. Can u find ur own way home? Thnx!
I blow out a lungful of air through my lips. I shouldn’t be surprised. Now what?
I feel his presence at my side again. I sigh. Great. Not only do I have to deal with finding a way home but this numbnut has to be persistent.
I don’t even bother looking at him when I speak, “Look, just tell your boss that I’m a raging lesbian if you don’t want to bruise his precious ego.”
He laughs and it’s deep and rich and thick enough to cut through the noise around us. That’s when I realize it’s not Dreadlocks by my side. Oh shit. I get an odd feeling. I slowly turn my head to look. Double shit. It’s the guy who was staring at me. The boss. He came back himself. I swallow hard.
He isn’t as tall or as wide as Dreadlocks, but he still looks like he’s strong and well-defined under his tailored suit and black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal the top of dark chest hair. Up close he’s handsome in a very exotic way, dark hair and even darker eyes framed by thick, stern eyebrows. He’s smacking his teeth with his tongue behind thick closed lips. His arrogance fills out his muscled shoulders and pushes out at his pecs, making him seem bigger than he is. I try to ignore the curl of interest tickling my insides.
“You wanted me to come get you myself. So here I am.” His voice is rolling and there is a slight accent in there that I can’t pick up.
“Excuse me?”
“Granted Garfield isn’t the most approachable-looking of people. But you should be glad I didn’t send Snake. Snake is most definitely not a people person. If I didn’t like you, I would have sent Snake.”
Snake? Who the fuck names their kid Snake?
I realize a second later that Garfield must be the man with the dreadlocks who approached me first. “I never told Garfield to have you come over yourself.”
“You didn’t have to say it for me to know what you want.”
I laugh. Is this guy for real? He doesn’t seem perturbed. He whistles at one of the bartenders and it makes me flinch. Who the hell whistles at the bar staff like they are dogs? The bartender ignores the next few people who are waiting in line and rushes over to the Bossman and me. I frown. Who the hell gets that much priority?
“A bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee and two glasses,” the Bossman says to the bartender, but he keeps his eyes on me as he says it. He has such beautiful dark eyes but his gaze is probing and uncomfortable and it makes me squirm inside. The bartender fusses about behind the bar.
“Please,” I say before I can think about it.
Bossman frowns at me. “Please what?”
“You didn’t say ‘please’.” His frown deepens. “When you ordered,” I clarify.
He breaks out into laughter and the sound matches him, loud and thick and confident. An open bottle of champagne stuck in an ice bucket – silver with a crest on it – and two flutes are deposited in front of us.
He pours two glasses and holds one out to me. I notice that he hasn’t paid the bartender nor has he said, “Thank you.” I fold my arms to my chest. “You haven’t even said ‘thank you’. I don’t make a habit of talking to people who have no manners.”
He stares at me for a moment then raises an eyebrow. I don’t give in. He sighs, puts the two glasses down on the bar and whistles at the bartender again.
“Can I help you, sir?” The same bartender is back. I can’t help but notice the beads of sweat on his forehead when he looks at Bossman.
Bossman clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable. “I just wanted to say thank you. For the champagne.”
The bartender blinks and it’s a war between them as to who is more uncomfortable. “Oh, er, that’s fine, sir.”
Bossman nods and snaps his attention back to me. His mesmerizing eyes have hardened again with confidence. He grabs the two glasses and holds one of them out to me. I take it only because I feel like I should reward his good behavior. He lifts up his glass in a toast and smiles. I can’t help but notice how good he looks when he smiles. “Cheers to you, princess. I can tell already that you are going to keep me on my toes.”
He clinks the glass to mine and knocks back the whole thing. I take the smallest of sips. I’m not in the habit of accepting alcohol from strange men. To be fair, I’m not really in the habit of accepting anything from any man. He begins to pour himself another glass. He frowns when he sees my glass is still full.
“You don’t like it?”
“I, um, no. It’s fine.”
He snorts. “‘It’s fine.’ Krug is one of the most expensive champagnes in the world and, ‘it’s fine,’ she says.”
I gawk. Who the hell buys a stranger a bottle of expensive champagne?
“Listen, buddy. Don’t make out like I owe you anything. I never asked you to buy me champagne. Jesus, I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
He purses his lips and I can’t help but glance at them when he does. They look thick and kissable and I wonder if he would be as forceful with his kiss as his current imposition on my time and space. For a moment I think he might yell at me. He doesn’t. The anger dissolves and is replaced with a soft smile that I’ll bet is the one he uses when he wants to disarm someone.
“You’re right, princess.” I start to protest his nickname for me but he silences me by taking the flute out of my right hand and replacing the flute with his fingers. He brings my hand up close to his mouth. “I’m doing this all wrong. Forgive me, I’m out of practice. I don’t think I have ever met any woman who has made me work as hard as you, just to get you to have a drink with me.” His eyes remain on me as his lips devour my knuckles and I feel the small touch of his tongue through his parted lips as he tastes my skin for the first time. I fight the shiver that rushes down my spine.
“I am Jacob Tyrell.”
I try to take my hand from him, but he won’t let me go and he won’t stop licking the sensitive space between my knuckles. A flicker of heat sparks in my belly. H
e really does have beautiful eyes.
“Look, Jacob,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I can’t let this guy know that he unnerves me. “This is all very nice with the champagne and everything, but I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not saying this just to you, I’d say this to any man who approached me tonight.”
“Maybe I just want to talk to you.”
Now it is my turn to snort. I roll my eyes over his assured smirk and his open-hipped stance and his shiny designer shoes. “No offense, but you don’t look like the type of guy who just wants to talk.”
“Maybe I could be different with you. Let me try.”
I shake my head and turn my body away from him. This time he lets my hand go.
He leans in close. “What if I promised you that I won’t even try to kiss you tonight? Would you come and sit and talk with me?”
I turn my head and raise my eyebrow at him. “You just want to talk.”
He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I laugh a little. “You were never a scout.”
He pouts and pretends to look hurt. “How can you accuse me of lying to you?”
I pull at one of his fingers and unfold it so that he’s now holding up three. His hands are warm, and touching him creates a little buzz under my skin. “You need three fingers for scout’s honor.”
He grins. “Okay, fine, you got me. I was never a scout. But I promise you that if you give me a little of your time just to talk, I shall make sure you get home safe, unkissed and with your virtue intact.”
I pause. Did he just offer me a ride? As much as I don’t think it is smart to let this stranger know where I live, I don’t really have much of a choice at the moment. Besides, the university campus is huge. I can make him let me off at the campus gates and he would still not know which dorm building I live in.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
