by Holly Hart
What the hell?
My forehead wrinkles as I play my pistol around the room. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Garibaldi’s house is packed up as though he’s preparing to move. Cardboard boxes are stacked haphazardly on top of each other like massive brown building blocks. Faint shadows mark the walls where – no doubt – expensive artwork once hung proud.
Whatever furniture remains is covered by huge white dust sheets – the sails I saw a moment before.
Maybe I’m too late? Maybe he knew I would come?
But that doesn’t make sense. If the mob was backing Garibaldi’s play, then I’d have come across an extremely unfriendly welcoming party. I’ve spent enough time around dangerous men to know how they think. I wouldn’t have made it an inch inside the place before meeting the barrel of a gun.
So what then?
I decide to push forward. It’s my only choice. I’ll have to get my answers from the man himself.
I creep forward, into the darkness. The barrel of my pistol sways right, then left as I clear the room, before finding myself at the foot of a staircase. I breathe deep, mentally preparing myself to climb it.
There’s nothing scarier when clearing a building than storming a flight of stairs – where your enemies can rain fire down on you from both above and below, and you have no escape route – especially when you don’t have your brothers in arms by your side.
“The only easy day was yesterday,” I mutter under my breath, a phrase that carried me through mission after mission when I was still enlisted. But it’s not empty words carrying me through this right now – it’s the terrifying thought of Skye’s broken voice if she ever has to find out her world’s coming crashing down around her.
But I won’t let that happen.
I put my boots on top of the first step, and then I climb. It’s obvious which one Garibaldi’s bedroom is when I reach the top. It’s the only one that’s door is closed. I freeze, anyway, checking each empty room out in turn.
Just in case.
Then I press forward. I hold my breath as my fingers close around his bedroom doorknob. Part of me wants to storm through. To kick his door down and go in all guns blazing. But that is the old Harlan Wolfe talking.
I’m a new man. I’m newly in love. Madly in love.
There’s no way I’m going back to Skye in a body bag, not after all this. I want to spend the next five decades with her, and that’s just warming up. So I take it slow. The latch barely clicks as I twist the knob and push the door open. I don’t breathe. Even my heartbeat seems to slow.
But the man in the bed does breathe. He’s little more than a lump in the sheets, but his snores fill the room like a foghorn. They are easily loud enough to cover any noise I could make.
I inch forward. A floorboard creaks underneath my weight, and I freeze, but the lump in the bed doesn’t even flinch. I press on. Then I’m by his side.
Gotcha!
“Wake up,” I growl threateningly, pressing the barrel of my pistol to Garibaldi’s temple, while closing my fingers around his throat. “It’s time you and I had a talk…”
232
Skye
I storm into Harlan’s apartment with the blood pumping so furiously in my veins, the thought crosses my mind, I might suffer an aneurysm.
Harlan’s security guy – a huge, burly man with cauliflower ears and a battle-scarred nose – tries to put a foot in the door behind me. I imagine Harlan somehow sent him instructions not to leave my side.
Well I’m not having it!
“Ma’am, can I help?”
“No you can’t,” I growl. A surge of fury wells up inside me like the geyser, Old Faithful, and I slam Harlan’s front door closed behind me, cutting off the man’s protests.
What the hell does Harlan think he’s doing? I can’t believe he just cut me out like that. I feel like a child all over again, pushed out of the room to let my parents have a sensitive conversation.
It brings back a rush of terrible, painful memories. Suddenly, I’m alone again … alone, just like I was after Mom died and Dad began his long spiral into alcohol and depression. I make a fist, digging my fingernails into the tender flesh of my palm, and count to ten, taking long, deep breaths in and out through my nose.
The pain helps break the negative loop I was sliding into. It’s a trick I learned years ago, one I often prescribe to my patients. It does the trick, but only just.
“What the hell are you doing, you ass?” I mutter.
My stomach is a cauldron of acid – seething and cramping – as I pace up and down the luxuriously carpeted entrance hallway to Harlan’s apartment. I’m barely taking in my surroundings.
Both reactions point to one simple conclusion – I’m experiencing a huge overload of stress. And is it any surprise? Over the last few days, Harlan has done something for me that no other man – no other person – ever has. I’m not talking about the orgasm. That was just … a byproduct of his real gift.
He became my anchor, a pillar of safety. The foundation I haven’t had in so long. He became someone I could trust implicitly, someone I could rely on, someone I could confide in. Hell, for a woman whose job involves talking to people all day, I’ve got remarkably few friends. Fewer still who I share anything important with.
That is until Harlan came along.
He showed me that I wasn’t alone anymore. That it wasn’t my fault that Mom died or that Dad spiraled into self-destruction. That I could trust again give myself over to another person. He offered me a bright, happy future. One in which I could have friends, could love, and become whole again.
And now he’s gone – off God knows where, doing God knows what. I don’t know who this mafia money guy is, but the whole thing sounds dangerous to me. Harlan Wolfe is putting his life, his business – and most importantly, his family – on the line.
My heart flutters, skipping a beat. I don’t know what I would do if Harlan gets hurt while carrying out some misbegotten plan to do … what, exactly?
Protect my honor?
“But you pushed him into it, Skye,” I groan into the enormous empty apartment, grinding my teeth. “It’s your fault if –”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t bring myself to say the words, even in the security of my own head. It feels like tempting fate.
I can’t stop pacing. A surge of nervous energy is flowing through me, adrenaline making my heart beat faster, in no recognizable pattern.
I need to do something. I need to fix this mess of a situation. I need to help Harlan.
But what can I do? Harlan’s gorgeous penthouse apartment might as well be my prison. It’s on the thirtieth floor of some old, converted 19th-century clock tower. There’s no way out other than the way I came in – not unless I want to jump.
A weak, anxious smile teases my lips. I wouldn’t put it past Harlan to have a couple of parachutes packed away in here.
Just in case…
But I can call Harlan. I can tell him that this doesn’t matter to me. I’m a big girl. I can survive having my photos – even those photos – dumped onto the Internet.
Hell, apparently, now I’m worth just shy of three hundred million dollars! If the worst happens, I can buy myself a tower like this and simply lock myself away until all this blows over!
That’s it. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m not letting any harm come to Harlan, I can’t bear it on my conscience. My eyes spring open, and I stride purposefully into the apartment, searching for any form of technology.
I come across Harlan’s study – a magnificent, stone-walled room – one door down. I dart towards the glass desk that sits on the far end of the room, looking out the window onto New York’s jaggedly beautiful skyline.
Thankfully, Harlan has a landline on his desk. Maybe a secure phone, I don’t know. I don’t care. I snatch at it, gratefully.
“Crap,” I groan, bashing the handset against my forehead. “What the hell is his number?”
I’m from the gener
ation that practically grew up with a smart phone in their hands. Okay, not quite – I still remember dial-up Internet and the tune a modem would play. But only just. One thing’s for sure – I sure as heck don’t know how I’m going to get in touch with Harlan.
I sit down at his desk, momentarily beaten. It’s neatly organized, and almost entirely bare – exactly what I’d expect from a former Navy SEAL and a man who plans his life as meticulously as Harlan Wolfe. He hasn’t left a single clue on how to get in touch with him.
I’m stuck.
A vein throbs at my temple, probably spurred on by my dangerously elevated blood pressure. I massage it away, thinking back to how all this started. The events that started this night – the auction, the things that Harlan did to me in that bedroom, the knee-trembling orgasm he coaxed out of me – they all seem so distant now.
I hear a tinkling sound in the background. I don’t recognize what it is at first – it barely breaks through my consciousness. I’m too bound up in worry.
But it returns, stronger this time – a double ring. I look up, and see that the screen of the computer on Harlan’s desk is lighting up. Someone’s calling – it has to be Harlan!
I snatch at the mouse, knocking it on its side in my haste to reestablish contact with the man I’m quickly coming to realize I can’t live without. Maybe it’s love, though it seems too soon, too early.
My eyes are half-blurred with the beginnings of frustrated tears, so I barely see the words written on the screen as I click the green button to accept the video call. An image immediately flashes up on screen.
But it’s not the image I expect.
“Dad?” The little girl says. She’s actually looking away from the camera when her picture flashes up on screen. It actually looks like she’s in a tent, lit by flashlight. “Are you there?”
Oh my God.
My stomach does a backflip. I need to think fast. I quickly wipe the tears out of my eyes with the back of my hand, and run my fingers through my wild hair, doing my best to tame the red mane sprawling over my shoulders.
I must look crazy, but there’s nothing I can do to solve that problem right now.
“Um,” I murmur, racking my brain on how to respond. “You must be Poppy…”
Poppy is looking at the camera. Her forehead wrinkles. “You’re not dad,” she says.
I shake my head. This is so not how I wanted to meet Harlan’s daughter. In fact, I can’t think of a single worst possible way to be introduced to her.
But it is what it is.
I’m going to have to deal with it.
“No,” I say softly, voice catching. “I’m not.”
“Wait, did I–” Poppy taps something on her screen. “Did I call the right number?”
She leans forward, peering into the camera and, I realize, at the picture on her screen. I see the gears turning over in her mind. “You’re in my dad’s office. Where is he, and, who are you?”
Both of those are very good questions. And they’re questions I have no idea how to answer.
“Yeah,” I mutter, chewing my lip. “I’m in your dad’s office. He’s… out.”
What do I do now? Lie?
In the event, the decision is taken out of my hands. Poppy gasps, and shifts her phone. The camera pans jerkily across her face. I realize she’s made herself a tent out of her bed sheets, perhaps in an attempt to hide what she’s up to.
“You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Who?” I exclaim. “What do you know? Did your dad–”
Poppy shrugs. She’s clearly proud. “Puh-lease! I’m not an idiot. I’m ten – well, almost, anyway. I knew my dad was seeing someone. It’s you, isn’t it!”
I freeze. I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to this question. I feel paralyzed. What would Harlan want me to say?
Suddenly the fears I had before – about Harlan’s life, and his safety – they seem to fade away into nothingness. Because what could be more important than potentially ruining his relationship with his own daughter?
My heart rate speeds up. Blood pounds in my ears. I feel like if I put one foot out of place, Harlan will never forgive me.
“That’s,” I finally say, wringing my hands underneath the desk – where Poppy can’t see – “Something you need to ask your dad. It’s not my place to say.”
Poppy waves her hand airily, knocking the flashlight lighting her tiny pillow forward. She reaches for it and rights it.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep this between us,” she winks.
God, Poppy has so much of her father in her, it’s hard to believe. I feel like this little ten-year-old – nine-year-old – is running rings around me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
My cheeks are burning. What the heck am I supposed to say to that?
“Promise?” I mutter.
“I told you,” Poppy grins madly. “You don’t need to worry – this is between us. I won’t tell if you don’t. Deal?”
“Why do you sound so grown-up?” I groan. “I’m almost three times your age, and half the time I’m just groping around for the way forward …”
Poppy shrugs. She looks at me with concern, and that almost hurts more than anything. Now I’ve got a nine-year-old feeling sorry for me!
“I guess I had to,” she says solemnly. “After mom died, and everything…”
“I’ve been there, kid,” I whisper. “Deal?”
Poppy nods vigorously. “I can’t wait to meet you!” she says. “It’s a deal. Anyway, I better go before one of the teachers catches me. We’re not supposed to use our phones after bedtime. Have fun with my dad!”
Poppy’s goodbye hits me like a haymaker to the gut. The screen goes black, and I choke with worry. I don’t know how I would survive if something happened to her father … and I was the cause of yet more sorrow in this beautiful young girl’s life.
Because Harlan’s right – his kid is something special. I never thought he was lying to me, just that he was like any parent … overcome with love for his daughter. But in Poppy’s case, the praise, if anything, undersells her true brilliance.
And it reinforces my need to get in contact with Harlan – to tell him that I don’t care – that he doesn’t need to risk himself.
And you can.
The second the idea strikes me, I hit my forehead and groan. How could I have been so stupid? There’s one sure way to get in touch with Harlan, and he’s standing right outside the front door –
– where I left him.
I stand up so fast Harlan’s office chair falls over behind me. I don’t stop to pick it up, don’t even look back. I sprint for the front door and throw it open, with only one goal on my mind.
233
Harlan
Garibaldi’s eyes spring open. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to punch the man directly in his square, pig-ugly Italian face. Not that I’ve got a problem with Italians, just this one. He deserves it.
“Who –” He squeals – pig-like – I cut him off, squeezing my fingers around his throat until he chokes. He’s wearing a necklace, a gold chain, and its links bite into my skin.
His fat body struggles underneath the bed sheets. Little arms spring up, smothered by his duvet, and attempt to fight me. I hold him off easily. I’ve fought men in cave tunnels in Afghanistan, in the deserts of Syria, Yemen and Iraq. This fat little banker doesn’t scare me.
“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I spit each word out.
I make no attempt to hide my complete and utter disgust at this odious little man. “Surprised to see me?”
Garibaldi continues to struggle against my grip. I smash the barrel of my pistol into his temple – not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough to make his eyes water, to get it through his head exactly who is in charge here.
Hint – it’s not fucking you.
“Do you plan to settle down?” I say in a low, murderous rumble, “or do I have to do that all over again? Because trust m
e, piggy, I will.”
Like a trapped deer in the woods, Garibaldi freezes. I’ve got half a mind to just put a bullet through his head right here, right now.
He deserves it. Skye is the only woman I’ve loved since Ashley, the only woman I’ve even thought about. The fact that he made her afraid, even for a second, is almost enough temptation for me to put him in an early grave.
Only one thing stops me – Skye. She’s at once the reason I’m here, and the only thing standing between me becoming a murderer.
“Who are you?” Garibaldi whimpers beneath me. Hot spittle flies out of his mouth as he struggles – choking because of my fingers digging into his windpipe – to talk. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” I say, leaning down so that my face is only a couple of inches from his. “Remember me, little piggy?”
Garibaldi’s eyes spring open wide as the recognition hits him with the force of a transit bus. The “oh shit” moment is palpable. It’s enough to make my lips curl back in an evil smile that makes my enemy quail.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, are you going to give me what I came for, or am I going to have to start cutting bits off of you?”
The truth is I would never torture anyone. I’m not evil, and it doesn’t work. But Garibaldi doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just an insane billionaire who’s broken into his house in the middle of the night, fueled solely by a desire to do him harm.
Well, he’s almost right. I’m here for two reasons. To get the photos back, and scare this little prick shitless.
I release my grip on the pig’s throat. He sucks air in greedily. His chest pants and strains underneath me as his lungs cry out for more oxygen. When I’m sure he’s had enough – enough not to pass out, anyway – I squeeze his throat once again.
“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to give me what I came for, and maybe I won’t kill you. How’s that for a deal?”
