by Anne Conley
Valerie inhaled deeply, reaching deep inside herself for stillness. She was so tired.
“Yes. I’ve been getting phone calls. And someone planted a black rose bush in my garden. I think it has to be him.”
“Black roses? Do the police know about this?”
“Yes, I called them each time. They couldn’t do anything about the phone calls, and they came and picked up the roses, but nothing ever came of anything. They increased the police presence in the neighborhood, but that’s about it.”
“Black roses,” Quinten mused again, deep in thought. “Were they dyed roses? Or were they grown to be black?”
“Grown that way. Why?”
He was quiet for a bit, and Valerie wished she could amend her rules and meet with the man face-to-face. She had a sudden desire to see him. Really see him.
“Because black roses take a tremendous amount of horticulture skill to propagate. I had a roommate in law school who grew them. Very difficult. And rather expensive, too. I just wish I could remember the guy’s name.”
It was Valerie’s turn to be silent as Quinten rubbed his lip with his index finger. She’d always loved roses. Her grandmother’s name was Rose. They were such a feminine, delicate flower. But the undertones of the black roses had creeped her out more than the phone calls. She only wished she’d realized they were just the beginning.
“Are you aware Argyle Ford is out on parole?”
Wait. What? Panic rose within Valerie at the mere mention of Argyle’s name. She had gotten past the time where she flashed back to that night he attacked her every time his name came up, but the stresses of last night brought them all back.
She could feel herself sinking into the memory. Could feel the strap on her skin. Felt the blade as it cut her face. Stinging hot. Wishing she was dead. Hoping her parents wouldn’t find her the way they had—beaten, bloody, and naked on her bed.
“Ms. Dunaway?”
Warm blood streaking down her face. Throbbing pain as her arms and legs were bound too tightly. Argyle twisting her body to meet his needs, breaking bones in the process. Then tied into position.
“Valerie?”
Breathing deeply, Valerie recognized what was happening. She was losing touch. Movement. She grounded herself in reality with movement—walking around her space, touching things.
She touched her books. She had historical fiction books about overdramatized wars over the English throne that made her own problems seem insignificant in comparison. Her women’s literature books regarded becoming one with your femininity, and they helped her accept her true self. She glanced at her throw pillows at which she had tried—and miserably failed—her hand at embroidery. She calmed as she touched aspects of herself, hidden away in her home.
“Ms. Dunaway? Are you alright?”
Her eyes snapped to her video monitor, another reminder of the reality she now lived in.
The reality where she was too frightened of people to let the man who was sent here to protect her into her sanctuary. She could only watch him through the video monitor.
What if this was all a figment of her imagination? Her mind had been working against her for years now, making her unable to interact with other people like a productive human being. Valerie was stuck, watching Quinten Pierce through a computer, while she clutched a pillow to her chest.
But her reality was a stalker, who had made himself at home in the only place she felt safe. Her reality was this man needed to protect her. Her reality was her ex-husband was out of prison. Her reality was about to change drastically. The choice for her to choose her comfort level had been taken from her. Valerie took a deep breath as her heart thudded in her chest.
“Mr. Pierce, please meet me at the door to the east wing. It’s through the kitchen and down the hallway.” Her voice sounded funny, even to her own ears. She gave him directions through the house, needing another person in her space for once. Something else to ground her to reality—her new reality.
Argyle was a free man. Three years after making her a captive in her own home, he was out to live his life the way he pleased. And she was free to try and live what was left of hers.
A soft knock at the door to her sanctuary interrupted her thoughts, which were taking a turn for the worse. She walked down the hall, patting her mask unconsciously, making sure it was still there. Unlocking the deadbolt, Valerie opened the door.
He was bigger in person than he looked on the cameras, and his eyes were softer, his muscles were bigger, his hands were rougher, and…
She was a mess.
Valerie widened the door, hoping he wouldn’t make her speak right away. Her voice was gone, her throat thick with emotion. Her mind was all over the place right now, and not a single part of it was where it needed to be. No, she was stuck in the past with Argyle and in the present with this guy, and she needed to be figuring out who had spent the night in her bed.
A sob of frustration escaped as Quinten lithely edged past her without looking at her. He seemed to understand she needed his presence but not his attention. It didn’t even make sense to her, but she appreciated he understood it.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He spoke softly, still without looking at her. “I take it you weren’t aware of his parole?”
“No,” Valerie choked out, motioning him down the hallway to the kitchen. His head pivoted as he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Anchoring herself in the present again, she tried to see what he saw. The hallway was lined with colorful photographs of a jungle expedition she had taken when she was working with Doctors Without Borders out of high school. That had been a happier time for Valerie, not because it was a pleasant experience, but because she had been somewhat normal.
“Are you registered with the Victim Services Division? Were they supposed to call?” Quinten’s voice was soothing, but it didn’t work on Valerie. She followed him into the kitchen area and motioned for him to sit while she messed around trying to make some tea for him.
“Yes, I’m registered, and yes, they were supposed to call. But their automated system is glitchy, and I’m sure they are sorely understaffed.” Valerie tried to be understanding of the underfunded State departments, but it was frustrating. A long sigh escaped as she tried to get her emotions under control. Her mother would be so disappointed in her right now. If she were here, she’d be ushering Valerie to her bedroom to lie down with a cold compress over her eyes and a gin and tonic by her bedside. But Valerie wasn’t going to hide from this.
Turning to the immense man folded up at her table, she explained, “Argyle’s family wasn’t happy with the way I handled the situation. They would have preferred a quiet divorce with a hefty settlement and were willing to pay for everything. But I’m not the type of person who sweeps things like that under the rug. I made my family’s name being an advocate for abuse victims, for Christ’s sake.” She slammed a glass on the countertop hard enough to break it, and Quinten jumped up to help. Shards of glass scattered across the counter and onto the floor.
“I got it,” he murmured, his voice gentle. He reached for her, but she flinched. She didn’t mean to, but it had been so long since she’d been touched by anyone but her therapist, until last night, and she still wasn’t totally over that. “Go. Sit. I can get this.”
Valerie was still shaking as she made her way to the kitchen table and sat, relishing the distance he gave her. It allowed her to dwell on the strange situation in which she found herself. Quinten moved around her kitchen, asking her questions about where things were. It was domestic. It was nice. It was different.
“How many people know your routine?” His voice washed through the room. He spoke quietly, yet the sound filled the airy space.
“My housekeeper, Imogene, and Rudy, my driver.”
A bark of laughter escaped Quinten. “Your driver?”
Valerie blushed, knowing exactly what he was thinking. A woman who never left her house didn’t need a driver. But his face when he laughed distracted
her from answering. He had dimples. Straight, white teeth. His smile changed everything about his face. It morphed from serious intensity to childlike exuberance with one flash of emotion.
“Why do you need a driver?” His question brought her back down to earth, and she quickly explained.
“He used to be my driver, but I trust him so much, I sort of changed his job description when…” Waving her hand around absently, Valerie prayed he understood what she meant without her having to explain she’d gone crazy. “He’s my left hand. Imogene’s my right.”
He nodded, as if he understood.
“This man last night… Any chance he could be your ex-husband?”
Valerie thought. It had been a long time since she’d seen Argyle, but even still, she didn’t think they were the same man. “No. I don’t think so. I can’t be sure, because I’m sure prison changes things, but the voice was different, and his hands were wrong. His build was different, too. He was the same height, but his chest was more like yours.” She ducked her head, hating to admit she’d been looking at his chest. “It was rounded like yours. Argyle was more of a slight build.”
Truth was, Argyle had been into role-play stuff, and one of his favorite roles to play was the intruder. But he’d done everything differently. He’d been more aggressive, coming into the house specifically for sex. Last night was different. That guy had been more passive, acting like he was the intruder role-playing the husband.
“You said you saw his hands? I thought he wore gloves.”
Valerie cleared her throat. “He, um, took them off before he got into bed. He chewed his nails. Argyle was meticulous about manicures.” She thought, biting her cheek as she did. “Also, his clothes were too cheap for Argyle. He would never have worn anything like that.” Trying to backtrack, since she wasn’t the superficial bitch she’d just sounded like, “I mean, he has to have designer everything. This guy was wearing discount stuff. Not well-made.”
Quinten’s eyes narrowed on her, but not suspiciously. She dreaded what was about to come out of his mouth. She knew. The police had asked the same question.
“Did he violate you?” His voice was eerily quiet.
“No. I put him off. I told him I was menstruating.” Even now, she felt stupid for giving him an excuse like that. He’d been ready to rape her, and just those words had stopped him. If only she could have come up with an easy excuse like that to get him to leave her home.
Quinten seemed to relax at the words, though. His dark mahogany eyes were on hers, intense and vivid. She got a little bit lost, until he spoke again.
“Valerie, I want you to know I will do everything in my power to protect you from him. He will not get into this house again. That man will not hurt you. I will find out who he is, and I will stop him. You have my word.” He held out his hand, a massive paw with dark, wiry hair on the back of it, leading up his wrist. A tingle started low in her belly as she imagined what the rest of him looked like.
She wished she could touch him. Valerie imagined what reaching out to him would feel like—her dainty hand in his strong grip. Would his potency dissipate into her? Make her stronger?
To his credit, Quinten didn’t push the issue. He only looked at her hands gripping each other in front of her and shrugged.
“I need to walk around your house and get an idea of the scope. I also have some phone calls to make. I need to assemble a team. We won’t stay in the east wing, that’s your space, but we will need to make rounds. One per shift, at least. We’ll put a tap on your phone, and we’ll hack into your video feed. Do you have cameras in this part?”
“No. I don’t have them in the east wing. It’s just this kitchen, living area, and two bedrooms.”
“I’ll install cameras in this part as soon as I can get them from Evan. You’ll be safe with us, Valerie.”
His use of her name, along with the short, decisive sentences, were a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. Relieved, she nodded again.
With a nod, Quinten walked down the hallway and out of her domain. “Lock up behind me. Watch me through your monitors if you need to.”
Oh, she would. She definitely would.
Quinten spent the next two hours acclimating himself to the enormous house. There was another living room—less formal than the one he’d been in—as well as a den. Every new and decadent room brought him more and more off-kilter, and he didn’t understand why. Quinten had been raised around stuff like this. He’d guarded a Saudi Princess for crying out loud, a spoiled woman who had booked the entire top four floors of the Four Seasons while her dad had been in business meetings all week. Why was this little mouse’s house, which incidentally could have belonged to his grandparents, getting him so flustered?
He walked around, noting entrance points and counting bedrooms, calling the office to get Andrew to bring Evan’s bug-finders, in addition to the cameras, when he came for his shift.
There was a game room with a pool table, a bar, and a small dance floor. He also found a home theater room, eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a couple of offices, and three sunrooms. Quinten knew there were bigger houses, but he’d never seen one with only one occupant. It was all decorated and kept immaculately clean.
Two of the sunrooms looked out over Lake Travis, a stunning view of recreational boats, fishermen, and jet skis. Quinten added it to his notes of possible entrance points and turned to go to the last sunroom of the house.
This was an odd room. It was a sunroom like the others, but instead of opening to outside, it opened onto a solarium, an indoor tropical garden full of lush greenery and color.
He opened the door and stepped out into it.
Most of the color moved, and Quinten stood, enraptured by what he saw.
Birds everywhere.
Tropical birds.
Exotic birds.
There was every color of bird out there, some he’d never seen in his life, only in books. There was a Hoopoe, with its black and yellow crest waving frantically on its head, a pair of Quetzals preening for each other, and a Rainbow Lorikeet up in the tops of the trees. While he watched, a family of Golden Pheasants ran across the ground and into a small thicket of bushes for protection. When he’d come outside, his presence caused a ruckus of loud bird calls of every variety, and Quinten knew, without a doubt, there were more birds he couldn’t see.
Awed, Quinten looked around the tropical landscape. There were all types of birds. Birds he’d had some long-forgotten dream to see in the wild someday. He’d always had a passion for birds, even going so far as being a level three certified birder for this area of Texas. Not that he talked about it much. The guys already teased him about his stained glass hobby. He had the upper hand, though, with the boys at Pierce Securities. They could make fun of him as much as they wanted, he could still beat their ass in the ring. Even so, he didn’t need to give them any more fodder.
While he watched, an African Grey Parrot flew down and sat on a perch near him.
“And who might you be, matey?” the bird clucked out in its garbled bird voice.
Quinten reflexively held out a finger, chuckling to himself. The bird chuckled back and climbed on his finger, walking directly up his arm and perching on his shoulder.
“I’m Quinten. I’m here to watch out for things for a while.” He knew the bird didn’t understand him; African Greys were the world’s best imitator, but he couldn’t help but answer. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Batman,” the bird responded in a spot-on Michael Keaton impersonation.
Another chuckle escaped Quinten, and before he knew it, the bird was imitating it as well.
“Well, Batman, I’ve got to go see the rest of this house. Talk to you later?”
“I’m Batman,” the bird said again, but he got off Quinten and swooped over to his perch.
Still chuckling, Quinten decided regular trips to the aviary were in order. He’d never seen a more beautiful place in his life.
He walked back to the entrance and s
tood just inside the door, looking out at the flora and fauna. Then movement caught his eye.
Standing just on the other side, hidden among the lush fauna, was Valerie. She was tall and lithe, wearing black, stretchy pants and a long, green sweater. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and a mask like one would wear to a costume ball was affixed to her face. It was different seeing her from a distance, yet he still felt the reverence of the first time he’d seen her an hour ago, with tears in her eyes, dampening the mask she wore.
A shiver passed through his body as he froze, watching her like he would a wild animal. He was unsure if she would bolt at the thought of him seeing her, but she didn’t; she was just as frozen as he was.
As Quinten watched, his heart pounded and blood rushed in his ears. His eyes skated over her slim body, every muscle tensed, as if she was poised to run. His groin tightened as waves of heat pounded him. He suppressed those sensations, though, ignoring them. But he had to admit she was pretty.
Gorgeous, even.
So Valerie Dunaway did come out of the east wing occasionally. Quinten flashed her a small wave and turned to finish exploring the house and making notes.
When he got to the east wing, it was closed off by a locked double door. He knocked and waited patiently. Within seconds, Valerie’s voice floated over the speakers. He found he was getting used to it, as well as the sensation of being watched constantly.
“I’ll unlock it. Please, look around all you need. I’ll expect you and your men to do checks of this area periodically, I would just like some notice. And I won’t want your men to see me.” Her voice had lost its edge, as she’d grown accustomed to him being in her space. It actually lilted now, a conversational tone Quinten enjoyed. He actually wanted to hear more of it and missed the way it sounded without the electronics filtering it.
“We’ll check it each shift and let you know in advance. I promise,” Quinten assured her before a soft clicking sounded. He entered but didn’t see Valerie. But he sensed her, and he fancied he could smell a soft scent matching the elegant woman who watched him outside the aviary.
