Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3)

by Manda Mellett

  But something about this scared woman calls to me. It’s obvious there’s a mystery here; I knew that before she arrived. But what is it about my position that frightens her so much? What is she hiding? And, lurking at the back of it in my mind is the question why would a young woman like her want to come halfway across the world to the volatile country of Amahad? These are questions I need answers to, more relevant, to some extent than whether or not she can do the job.

  She’s looking down into her coffee cup as if trying to find her answers buried at the bottom. Watching, I can almost see wheels turning in her head, different thoughts manifesting themselves as they flit across her expressive face. Then her shoulders slump as if she has given up. A reciprocal drop in my composure mimics hers, and I’m at a loss as to why I don’t like to see this woman so defeated.

  It’s at this point in an interview when I would expect an applicant to start getting out their documentation and appropriate certificates to back up the spoken words. But I’m not surprised when she doesn’t. Richard is diligent with his research. It’s time to show my cards.

  “Miss Ranger, I have to ask, who are you? Any applicant for work in the Palace of Amahad has to be subjected to vigorous background checks; you must have realised that. And I regret the searches we have done don’t reveal anyone of the name you’re using with the qualifications you claim, nor who attended the university you state you did. Either you are lying about your experience, or you are not who you say you are.”

  She seems to shrink into the chair as if I’ve dealt her a physical blow, but it’s the look of complete desolation on her face that undoes me. If she were any other prospective employee, I’d be showing the door by now, but she’s very different to anyone I’ve interviewed before. Telling myself it’s not because she caused such a blatant reaction from my cock which is still half hard, I wait to see what she’s going to do and am not surprised when once again she gets to her feet.

  “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time,” she mumbles, turning to leave.

  “Wait.” My firm instruction has her pausing. “Sit down. Answer my question.” Warriors have flinched at the tone I’m using so I’ve no doubt she’ll obey.

  She complies, and when seated, places her head in her hands. As moments tick by in silence, I start to think she’s not going to speak at all. Her fingers rub her forehead as if to ease an ache there, and for the first time I see she has a disability, she moves her left wrist awkwardly. As if it’s a familiar gesture as she moves her hands back down to her lap and unconsciously rubs it as she raises her eyes to meet mine.

  Then, she says, quietly, “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m using a false name. But I’ll be in danger if I give you my real one. Look, I’ll just go now, and we can forget all about the job. You won’t employ me, so there’s no point continuing this.”

  I regard her carefully, she’s wearing no mask; I can read people well enough to know that her lack of protest at my accusation of falseness shows her inherent honesty. But the question remains, why did she use a name without building a background behind it? She’s no con-woman; Richard could find no history, constructed or otherwise. She’s a mystery I want to solve. Even though, of course, I can no longer consider offering her a job.

  “You’ve entered the Amahadian Embassy under a fake identity.” I point out to her, my voice letting her know this was no innocuous crime. That in itself is a serious offence. Then I soften my tone, “Why, Miss Ranger, or whoever you are? I’d like you to tell me why. Your honest answer, please. You must understand that in today’s world I cannot let such a transgression pass. You must either tell me, or I will summon my guards, and you can explain to them. The UK police will also need to be informed.”

  Her eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and an expression of almost sheer terror comes over her face. “No!” she shrinks back into her seat, “Please no! Not the police!”

  She’s guilty of something; I just don’t know what. If she’s committed a crime, the correct authorities will need to be involved. But just at this moment, I don’t intend to do that. There’s a story here, and I’m intrigued to learn what it is. I encourage her to confide in me, “Talk to me, tell me why you are here. Then I’ll decide whether or not this needs to go any further, or whether I will let you leave. But you need to give me something. And I want to hear the truth.”

  Her head drops lower then she lifts it again, now staring straight into my eyes, making it impossible for me to doubt her when she says, “Because my life’s in danger.” She drops her attention to her twisting hands once more.

  Sitting back sharply, my forehead furrows as my eyebrows rise. The words seem incredible, but there’s so much sincerity in her voice I have no doubt she believes them. Who the fuck would want to hurt someone like her? “Miss, er…” I skip the introduction as I have no idea what to call her. “I am Sheikh Kadar, Emir of Amahad. You are at the Amahadian Embassy, and thus on Amahadian soil, and hence, if there’s a valid reason for it, under my protection. I would like to know your real name, and why you believe you’re under such a threat.”

  In response, she shakes her head, so when I continue, my tone is cold and formal, “You have come to my embassy using a fake identity. You must understand that in the current circumstances of political unrest, I need to ensure you are not a terrorist trying to gain illicit entry to Amahad, to the very Palace of Amahad in fact, our seat of government. Perhaps for some nefarious purpose which could cause my country harm. To gain information maybe, or to plant a bomb?” Inwardly I believe the chances that this innocent and ill-prepared woman is a suicide bomber to be less than none, but I use the extreme example in the hope she’ll confide in me.

  I see the moment the implications hit her. Again her eyes come up to meet my unyielding stare, and this time, she’s shocked. Her voice is just a whisper as she rejects the accusation, “I’m not a threat to you. I’m not a terrorist.”

  I’m sure she isn’t, but I lean forwards quickly, making her flinch back, “Tell me who you are, and give me a reason for not turning you over to security.”

  Another silence. Her head turns away as if looking anywhere but at me. I’m just about to prompt her for an answer when I hear her say, so softly that I almost miss the point when she decides to trust me, “Zoe Baker,” she sounds defeated as she repeats, “My real name’s Zoe Baker. But I can’t prove it. I have no documents to show you.”

  Though I don’t believe she’s on some reprehensible mission, I don’t want to give asylum to a criminal. I probe further, “So we would be able to find Zoe Baker graduated with a first class honours degree if we looked?” Has she even got the qualifications she says she has?

  Although she’s looking down at her feet, there’s positivity in her voice that assures me she’s speaking the truth. “Yes.”

  “What about your birth certificate? Driving licence? Passport? Can you produce at least produce them?”

  Now her head shake shows she’s going to answer in the negative. “I’m unable to get hold of them.”

  The question is, of course, why not? “If you’ve lost them you should be able to get copies.” I provide the obvious answer.

  Again that shake of her head, this time, more violently, and she raises her eyes to mine momentarily. “No, that’s not possible.” She sounds utterly crushed.

  Tilting my head to the side, I try to understand. Why can’t she get copies? It raises one obvious problem that she must already be aware of. Shrugging I point it out to her, “Without a passport, Miss Baker; it’s hard to see how you could come to Amahad at all. Even if you hadn’t lied about who you are.”

  This time when she meets my gaze the look in her eyes is almost challenging, “I know, I’ve explained that to Sheikha Cara, but she said it’s been done before. She said if you told me that would be a problem I was to remind you of her.”

  Despite the seriousness of our conversation a laugh barks from me. Oh, Cara, you can make me smile from three and a half thousand miles away. Yes
, indeed there’s been a precedent set when my brother Jasim and I kidnapped Cara and brought her to Amahad to force her into an arranged marriage with our younger brother Nijad. But it was a gamble misusing my diplomatic immunity in that way. I’d done it once and had thought never to do it again. Is it a risk worth taking for this unknown woman? I can’t understand why the thought even crosses my mind.

  “Apply for new documents. Have you looked into it properly?” I suggest again. It’s the most straightforward route. Maybe Richard could help her if she doesn’t have the nounce to do it herself? With a passport, she could travel to Amahad without a problem. Fuck! Why am I even thinking about that? I can’t risk letting a woman we know nothing about, and who’s already lied to me have the run of the palace. What am I doing even contemplating it?

  While I’ve been lost in my thoughts I realise she’s said something I don’t catch, her face is turned back down facing the floor, her voice muffled. One hand seems to be gripping her other wrist, rubbing it as if relieving pain.

  “Pardon?” I ask her to repeat her comment.

  Again her face lifts, and now I can’t miss the sight of tears glimmering in her eyes, making me believe there’s a background to her story that I cannot begin to guess.

  “I can’t,” she whispers. And then she anticipates my next question, answering before I ask it, “I can’t let him find me.” Now she shows some animation, “I’m sorry. Please, this has all been a terrible mistake. Please let me just go.”

  “Sit!” I wait to make sure she’s not going anywhere. “Define ‘he,’” I instruct sharply, using my most dominant voice.

  Her eyes close as though in pain, a tear escapes and she brushes it impatiently away, she sighs loudly and seems to come to a decision. “My ex-boyfriend. If he finds me, he’ll kill me. He abused me. Mentally and physically.” As if to offer proof she raises her left hand and gingerly pulls back the sleeve. I recognise the twisted and gnarled healing of an untreated injury; a simmering rage begins inside me as I suspect there are other less visible wounds she carries. As she covers her wrist again, she continues, “I escaped from him, but I had to leave everything behind. All the documents proving who I am. He’ll never stop trying to find me, and he’ll succeed if I come out of hiding and apply for replacements. That’s why I wanted this job. It would take me far out of his reach.”

  The damage to her wrist suggests she isn’t exaggerating that he’d hurt her, but would he actually kill her? Who could this man be if she believes he’d know if she applies for replacement documentation? Is there any real basis for her concern? Perhaps if I weren’t the emir of a country where part of the population seeks to depose me, if I weren’t daily aware of threats against my person I would dismiss her fears. But the expression in her eyes mirrors that which I see so often reflected in mine; and that tortured, but silent appeal for asylum makes me realise that, at least to her, her fears are real. I wonder just who is threatening her, and what is his power that he could have so much assumed reach? As I find myself accepting what she believes is the truth I feel a chill running down my spine; the same feeling that has kept me alive in battle before, the sixth sense of something very wrong. With an audible indrawn breath, I ask the obvious question. “Just who is this man?”

  She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter as though the very words cause her pain, “Ethan St John-Davies.”

  Cupping my hand around my chin, I wonder; I’ve heard the name before, my brother Nijad had a run in with him, oh, it must be four years ago now? I don’t know much about him, just that he on that occasion he proved himself to be violent. A rather nasty man, if I recall correctly. And that’s enough to convince me to press the button on the intercom, summoning Richard. He enters immediately.

  “Miss Ranger, I’m sorry, Miss Baker I suppose I should call you now. Will you please go and wait outside with Richard for a few moments? I need to make a phone call.” I expect her to comply immediately, but she hesitates, and I’m shocked by the desolate expression on her face as if all hope has gone.

  “You’re ringing Ethan?” Her eyes grow wide in shock and horror, “Please…”

  My hand slashes through the air. “Do you think I’m a man who’d send someone back to their abuser? I’m trying to help you, woman!” I get to my feet, and she takes a step back, apparently frightened by my outburst. Immediately I feel remorse, realising she’s wary of any man exuding this type of anger, whatever the provocation. I make an effort to calm myself, holding my hands out, palms facing her, trying to convey my rage is not directed at her, “Please. Just give me a few moments and we’ll talk again. Trust me.”

  She stares at me as if trying to read my thoughts, and it hits me how hard it will be for her to trust anyone if she’s on the run. I put everything I can into my expression to appear honourable and watch her give a defeated shrug as it slowly dawns on her that I hold all the power here, and whatever my plan is, she has no choice in the matter. Accepting she’s leaving her fate in my hands she walks out of my office, shoulders down, her spirit crushed. Her defeated posture makes me angry; no woman should ever be made to feel like that.

  I stare at the closed door for longer than I should. No longer having to control myself, I to give rein to my rage, my hands clenching into fists. What kind of a man is violent to a woman? The sight of her wrist! What other scars does she carry? My nails dig into my flesh, stopping only just short of drawing blood as the thought of what she must have been through making me want to murder this bastard with my bare hands. How could anyone mistreat her? How long was she with him? Her words suggest he held her captive. I’d thought her timid, unsure, but now I realise she’s broken, damaged. Who is the real Zoe Baker? Surely not this beaten and crushed woman I’ve seen today? The woman who unwittingly calls to the Dom inside me, exciting me to rise to the challenge of putting her back together? It hits me that I can’t let her walk away without taking care of her problem. I vow to do whatever is necessary to keep her out of his reach. And if that means taking her to Amahad, that’s what I will do. Damaged goods, no, damaged is too mild a word for it; the woman I see today is shattered into pieces.

  Once the decision is made, I hesitate no longer before taking action, reaching for the phone and dialling a pre-set number.

  I’m lucky; Ben’s available and answers immediately. “Carter.”

  “Kadar.” My introduction is equally short.

  “Sheikh? Or should that be emir now?” It’s not particularly new; I’d been the ruler for more than three months now. I hear the grin in Ben’s voice, though; our friendship is too old to be tied up in formality. He’d come to my rescue when I foolishly ditched my bodyguard one day, many years ago, when I’d been following my cock rather than my head. An ex-SAS man in the process of setting up his own security company, Ben had foiled a kidnap attempt and managed to keep the incident out of the ears of the palace saving me a whole heap of embarrassment. I owed him for that and had given him a hand starting his business, Grade A Security, in return.

  “It’s good to hear from you. I heard you gave quite a demonstration in the club last night. Impressed a few people. Are you coming for another visit? Always an experience to see a good rigger in action.”

  “Flying visit, Ben, so not this time, unfortunately. Just here for a few meetings then I’m going back. Last night was my one break away from work.”

  “Not a social call, then?”

  “No, I’m after some intel.” I consult the pad where I’d written down the name. “I want to know all you can find out about a man called Ethan St John-Davies.”

  I can hear his sucked in breath whistling through his teeth. “Sinjun. Ethan Sinjun Davies” He corrects my pronunciation. “Nasty piece of work. What do you want to know? Do you need an in-depth report or just the headlines?”

  “You know of him? Give me what you can, now.”

  “Okay,” there’s a pause, I presume Ben’s pulling his thoughts together. When he starts speaking again, it’s interesting how much he
knows of the man straight away. “Right, he’s landed gentry, parents are dead, so he inherited the lot. Even after death duties, he’s one of the richest men in the UK. He’s also the CEO of ElecComs; it’s a huge company specialising in electronics and communications, including military and surveillance equipment. You can’t go far in this country without coming across his software. Or, for that matter, him knowing about it. Nearly all the CCTV and such like in Britain, and some countries abroad, use his systems. There’s a lot of suspicions he abuses his power, and rumours he has certain influential individuals under his thumb.”

  “Such as?”

  “He works very closely, too closely some say, with the police. And some politicians, and has some senior government officials in his pocket. Word is he’s got info on them that he uses to keep them in line. As I said, through his company there’s not much he can’t find out if he wants to. And his hackers would probably give Cara a run for her money.” My sister-in-law’s hacking ability has put her in deep water before, but I know she’s quite exceptional, and if he’s got better…

  “Shit.” No wonder Zoe was so paranoid, he’d be able to find her.

  “He’s not a man you want to cross. Too fucking powerful; too many friends in very high places. Chatter says he has his own army of mercenaries and people who antagonise him do so at their risk. Are you going up against him, Kadar? Because I’d think twice about it if I were you.”

  I’m thinking hard. “Ok, Ben, here’s the story. I’ve got his ex-girlfriend in my office, well, she’s with Richard outside at the moment. He was abusive, she left him, and now she’s so terrified for her life that she wants to take a job in Amahad.”