But it had happened, even though my brain constantly tried to convince me that it hadn’t. “Please,” I said to the quiet of the cabin. “Please, end this. Give me back my son.”
Cassie slept on the floor of the plane, and I looked over at her from the bar. I closed my eyes, put my head in my hands. I had told her too much. Manuel somehow knew I was telling her things, and my eyes suddenly flickered around the airplane cabin. There were cameras, of course, and microphones. Safety features, all manufactured specifically for airplanes to keep from interfering with the plane’s signals, designed by my own team. Had he accessed them?
No, I shook my head. Not possible. If anything, the plane was the safest place for us to be. Cassie mumbled something in her sleep and rolled over, wrapping the blanket around her, her arms drawn in to her chest in an almost hug.
“Protect Cassie,” I thought out loud. “Get Antoine back. Do it now.” I commanded myself as Manuel had commanded me so many times. It was no longer an option; this had gone on long enough.
I began to type into my iPad, snippets of thoughts, phrases, all of which I would share with Simon, who was meeting us when we landed. The formulation of a plan began to develop in my mind, and, the deeper I got into my plan, the faster my pain dulled. I had never been a victim, and I would not let Manuel Brown make me one. A victim would not get his son back, and that’s what Manuel was counting on. He was counting on me being emotional, paralyzing myself out of fear.
I wrote down one more phrase, and I closed my iPad.
“I am not a victim,” I said out loud. “I am Brad White, billionaire owner of Legacy properties. I do not lose.”
Cassie
I waited nervously in the bar, my back to the wall to take out one direction for me to look, and I surveyed the entire room. The bar was dark, smoky, and crowded. It was a little after five o’clock, and the bar was a mix of people getting off of work and singles meeting their dates for the night. Music played, the bartender joked with the people at the bar, and the tables were full of people laughing and talking. I observed all of it as if it was a dream; I felt like I wasn’t even there. I had my phone in one hand and my purse in the other, my drink sitting on the bar gathering beads of moisture, in case I needed to make a quick exit.
I was waiting on an informant. He was a friend of Patrick’s, a friend from the NCA, and he had been the “friend” Patrick had mentioned. At least, he was supposed to be.
How will I know I can trust you? I’d texted when he had reached out to me to meet him.
I will bring you something of Patrick’s, something he gave me to give to you.
How will I know it’s his?
You’ll know, had been his response.
So, out of desperation, I’d agreed to the meeting. After Brad had confided in me the story of Antoine and Lorinda on the plane, I’d decided that I needed to change the focus of my research. Rather than looking at Manuel Brown and trying to figure out who he was, what I could do to protect myself, I knew I needed to do whatever I could to help Brad find Antoine.
My first step had been to go through everything I had of Patrick’s. All the files, all the folders. Then, go through my own research once again, only this time paying attention to things I had glossed over before.
Then, out of nowhere, Patrick’s friend had texted me. Patrick’s words from his final email echoed in my brain: You have friends; they will make themselves known to you as needed. You are protected.
The door to the bar opened and I snapped back to attention. The man who walked through was tall, tall enough to need to duck to get through the door. I put him at at least six foot five, and I kept my eye on him as he surveyed the room. He moved to the side of the door and took out his phone, began to text.
My phone buzzed and I looked at it.
Where are you? his message said.
The bar, I texted back. His eyes scanned the bar as he looked for someone texting; it was a good technique. His eyes landed on me, and I nodded. The slightest nod of his head back showed me he had seen me, but he walked in the opposite direction, making a loop near the bathrooms and sauntering around several of the tables. He was wise; he was making it look as though he was looking for a table, but all the ones he wanted were taken. He finally shifted his gaze to the bar and began to scan the open seats. Slowly, steadily, he made his way toward me. He sat down next to me, finally, but didn’t look at me.
“Hello, friend,” he called to the bartender. “Can I get a pint and a menu?”
“Sure thing,” the bartender said, and, within a few moments, the bartender brought him a pint, slightly overflowing, and a bar menu.
“Scratch the menu,” my stranger said. “The pint’ll do.” I watched him as he spoke. He had dark, curly hair, and a jaw cut severely from his chin to his ears. He was thin; ten more pounds of either fat or muscle would have done him good, but he was quite attractive all the same.
The bartender nodded. “Open a tab?”
My stranger took out his wallet and slapped down a five in response. “Keep the change.”
The bartended nodded, “Thanks,” and moved back down to a group of college age locals.
“Your drink is getting watered down,” he said, still not looking at me.
“I like it that way,” I said.
“I sincerely doubt that’s true,” he said.
“You said you would bring me something. Something to show me you are who you say you are.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He tossed it onto the bar between us, and sipped his pint while I grabbed it.
I turned to face my drink, and I opened the small, white piece of paper. It had been folded in half, then in half again, and the ink written on it brought tears to my eyes.
It was the receipt for my breakfast with Patrick…on the day of my abduction. When I had gone to the bathroom, before I had been gone for too long, he must have paid for breakfast. Kept the receipt… as a business expense? Then, realizing it would serve as a way to identify someone, to build trust.
“I trust that means something to you?” the stranger asked.
“What’s your name?” I asked in response.
“Julian.”
“Yeah, Julian, this means something.”
We talked to each other without facing one another or looking at anything other than our drinks for more than an hour. His body got closer to mine as we talked, shoulder to shoulder, and I could feel warmth coming off of him.
Once more, during our conversation, the bartender had returned. “Get you another, Friend?”
“No,” Julian said. “I’m set, thank you.”
“Miss?” the bartender looked at me.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I’d said.
We finished our drinks and Julian finally looked at me for the first time. Our eyes locked, and I felt a jolt of … something. Not electricity, not desire, exactly, but his eyes—his eyes were so green, so intense, I think I gasped to myself.
“I want to meet you again here tomorrow, same time. I’ll have information for you. You know some of what Patrick investigated, but, as he told you, it was just the tip of the iceberg. I’m going to do some recon. When we talk tomorrow, I’ll have some answers. I’ll have a way to help you move forward.”
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
“Patrick was a good man, and he liked you more than I think you probably know. He kept his distance out of respect, but…” he stopped, almost as if he didn’t want to speak too much of Patrick’s truth. “But, he would want me to help you.”
I stood up, nodded, and threw a five down by my empty glass. It was understood that I would leave first. He would wait, walk slowly and indirectly to the door. No sign that we were together. No sign we had even said more than hello.
I walked down the street back to Legacy London. The chill in the air gave me goosebumps and I breathed in, realizing that my breath held the tinge of excitement, the possibility of getting answers, getting Anto
ine back to Brad, and having a future with the man that I loved.
The Billionaire’s LEGACY
His Fate
Sarah J. Brooks
Cassie
I woke up in the plush bed in Brad’s London suite, stretched, and smiled. I’d never in a million years ever thought that I would come to think of a hotel as “home.” Even though I knew, as a journalist, I’d likely be traveling the world and would be spending most of my time in hotels, far more than in any sort of home I had to call my own, I’d still always imagined that they would be simply a “home away from home.”
Another thing I never imagined was having someone I loved sharing the bed beside me. I reached for Brad’s side of the bed and felt his warm frame there, his warm, regular breath showing me I was not alone in the room. I reached my hand across his waist toward his chest. He grabbed it and squeezed my fingers lightly, then held my hand to his chest. I slept again.
When I woke a second time, the sun was brighter in the sky and there was movement from the street below. I felt to Brad’s side of the bed, but it was empty, and I could hear him in the kitchen, probably brewing coffee. The doorbell rang and he answered it, then closed it again, and the smell of bacon and eggs filled my nostrils. I’d give Brad one thing: he knew how to get me out of bed in the morning!
I dressed in jeans and a sheer, light colored shirt with a pink cami under it. He’d given me the shirt, and it felt perfect on me when I wore it, accentuating all of my features and revealing just enough—without too much. I brushed my hair and put it up into a messy bun, applied some make up, and made my way into the living room.
“Good morning, Gorgeous,” Brad said, greeting me with a cup of coffee and a mimosa. I took the mimosa first, and he set the coffee on the table and picked up his mimosa.
“Cheers!” I said.
“Cheers,” he said. “To a future of safety. A future that will bring my son back and we can be together, a family of three.” He clinked glasses with me and smiled. “I have a plan.”
I sipped the mimosa, feeling the sweet taste of the bubbles slide down my throat, pleasantly scratchy.
“I have some ideas, honey,” I said. “I think that, if we work together, we can get Antoine back. But, I think it’s going to take the two of us, together.
He looked at me for a moment, pausing in his action of distributing the plates to our paces at the table. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed it. I cocked my head.
“What?” I asked. “Say what you’re thinking.” I started to get a weird feeling in my stomach.
“Cassie, the answer is no.” He set the plates down with a sense of finality, and he turned to walk back into the kitchen.
“The answer to what is no?” I called after him, confused. “The answer to getting your son back? The answer to working together? What’s going on with you?” I was trying to keep my voice calm, but the change in his demeanor, the subtle shift that I knew him well enough to have seen, spoke volumes. He didn’t trust me. He didn’t want me to have anything to do with this.
And, I was right. He came out of the kitchen with a grim look on his face and the pot of coffee and a pitcher of creamer.
“Sit, Cassie, please,” he said.
I sat, staring at him as he began to eat his breakfast.
“Eat,” he said, nodding at me with his fork. “Your body has been through so much; you need to eat to preserve your strength. You should actually be in bed, not thinking about ways to save the world.”
I nodded, and began to take small bites of my eggs. I watched him watching me, and, when he saw I was eating, it seemed like he began to calm down.
“Cassie, I can’t let you participate in Antoine’s rescue mission. I have people, hundreds of people, gathering munitions and working themselves into positions as we speak. The plan I created while we flew back from Morocco is being put into action. You have no part of that plan.”
I winced, hurt by his suggestion of “no place.” “Brad,” I said, “you need me. Without me, you would never have come in contact with Patrick. Would never have learned what he knew.”
“And Patrick is dead now,” Brad finally snapped, his fork falling from his finger and clattering onto the floor. “Do you think Patrick would be dead today if he’d avoided his involvement with this situation? And he’s not the only one,” he continued without waiting for me to answer. “It’s only a matter of time before he comes after you. He knows you exist. He’s seen you, he’s been in your home. He’s touched your things.”
All of Brad’s words were working; my body felt twisted, horrified, repulsed, yet I still stayed strong, insistent that I help.
“But, Brad, I’m not saying I need to walk up to Manuel Brown’s house myself, knock, and ask for Antoine. I’m just saying I can be of use. I’ve lost people in this, too! And I don’t want to lose you.”
“It’s too dangerous. You’re a journalist, not a militant. Have you ever even held a gun?”
“Simon would teach me,” I said. “And I’m not a complete idiot. Remember, I was the one who was kidnapped, and I managed to hold my own just fine!” I was indignant. Part of what Brad had fallen in love with was my confidence, my tenacity, my ability to stand on my own two feet. I reminded him of us.
He looked at me and said nothing. “Are you going to eat any more?” he asked, coldly, staring at my half-eaten breakfast. I considered my options.
“No,” I said, pushing it away. I knew I was playing games with someone who had invented the game of holding out, of gambling, of the poker face, of winning. But, I knew I was right. “If you could do all of this alone, you would have done it already. If you could, you’d already have Antoine home with you, rather than being tortured and god-knows-what at the hands of Manual Brown. But, because you want to go in and save the day singlehandedly, because your ego can’t handle any help, he’s sitting in danger.”
It probably would have been better if I had not told him that.
“You bitch,” he said, when I’d finished spilling my thoughts. He grabbed me by my wrists and pulled me up from the table, shoving me against the wall behind my chair. His face was screwed up in anger and I’d never seen someone struggling so much to battle anger and hurt and love. I didn’t fight back; I stared into his eyes, let him see me as deeply as he could. Let him see the woman he had rescued that first night in Belize, let him see how much he loved me.
He kept my hands bound, and he kissed me, hard. His lips attacked mine and I knew that it was driven by an emotion far deeper than any lustful passion. He pressed his body to mine until he was supporting me against the wall. He took my hands down, one by one, and held them behind my back with his left hand. With his right, he pulled away from me, slightly, just far enough to undo the buttons on my sheer shirt. He slowly undid them with his incredibly dexterous fingers, one at a time, until my lace cami was exposed to him. He kissed my breasts through the fabric, while still keeping my hands bound to my back. With his right hand, he reached under my cami and, tugging my hands back to arch my spine, lifted my breasts into his hands.
He stared at me, a smile both sad and hungry on his face.
“You will allow me to do this to you,” he said. “In this way. So violent.”
I nodded. “I trust you, Brad,” I said. My voice was shaking, and I shamed it into straightening out.
“Then you must trust me now. I know that you think you know how to fix everything, but this has been going on a lot longer than you know. One false move;” he pulled on my arms and, this time, it did hurt; pain radiated through my shoulder heads and I gasped, tears springing into my eyes. “One false move, and your life as you know it is over.”
“But,” I began.
“What would Patrick tell you to do?” he asked quietly, looking at the floor. He had relaxed his grip on my arm, but my shoulders still pulsed.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what he would say,” I said. “He’s in the same boys’ club you’re in.”
&nb
sp; “He would say you should let us, him and me, get Antoine back while protecting you.”
“Yes,” I said. “But Patrick is gone!” And, my voice raising, “I can’t lose you! I could barely lose him. Losing him made me want to die. If I knew that I could never do this again,” and I reached forward for him, kissing his mouth. “Or this,” and I yanked one of my hands free and wrapped it around his waist, squeezing his ass cheek in my hand. “Or this,” and my other hand, which he had released, slithered through our bodies to his chest, where I trailed my fingers from his broad chest down his belly all the way to his cock, which was awakening, engorging and hardening in my hands.
“Yes, my love,” Brad whispered. “But how for me? If I could never do this,” and he pulled the straps of my cami off my shoulders, revealing my breasts to him. He grabbed them in both hands and greedily pulled them toward him, the skin stretching in arousing pain, pinching my nipples and sucking them. “Or this,” he said, pulling back and looking me up and down before dropping to his knees. I stood while he undid my belt and pulled down my jeans and fluorescent peach panties. He kissed my labia, sent his tongue exploring between my thighs, spread them with his hands to kiss me deeper. “I always get what I want, Cassie; you know that. I want Antoine… and I want you.”
He stood up and grabbed my hands, trying to bring me into the bedroom. I stopped, pushing away the hypnotic feel of his touch.
“No, Brad, I want to help.” I pulled my hands out of his and turned away. I began to dress, pulling my jeans back on. “I will help you. You need to trust me that I’ll be okay, that I have just as much to lose here as you do, if things go wrong. We need to work together!” I pulled my arms through my sheer shirt. “And, if you can’t work with me, then I’ll work by myself, and I’ll do it alone.” I slid on a pair of shoes by the door, grabbed my purse and phone, and I walked out, closing the door behind me.
Brad
Cassie closed the door and I leaned my head against it. She was just like Lorinda, stubborn as hell, bossy, and with no full awareness of the danger she was in. I pounded on the door angrily, vowing that nothing would happen to Cassie. I couldn’t let the woman I loved die a second time.
Naughty and Nice Page 80
