The Other Man (Rose Gold Book 1)

by Nicole French

  “I’m not asking you to.” I swallowed thickly. Goddammit. Why was this so hard with her? I had been in this position with how many other women and never had a problem with it. I should be able to do it for her too. “You didn’t let me finish before. If all I get with you is an eternity as the other man…then yeah, doll. I’ll take it.”

  Nina blinked rapidly, like she was trying not to cry all over again.

  “You—you would do that?” she asked.

  I tipped her chin so she would have to look at me. “Yeah,” I said softly, though the reality of that choice twisted my stomach even more. “For you? I would.”

  She stared at me for a long time. Then slowly, she framed my face with her hands and pulled me down until we were nose to nose. When her lips touched mine, the kiss was soft and slow, but no less wanting.

  “And that,” she whispered when she finally let go, “is why I would never let you.”

  In that moment, I knew without a doubt there was no changing her mind. Just as I knew this would be her response from the beginning. I’d never let Nina cheapen herself in any way for me—why would I think she would allow me to do it?

  In reality, I hadn’t come here with the intention of sparring again. Or even trying to talk her into being together, one last time.

  I had come to say goodbye.

  Down the hall behind us, the music shifted. From the hired band this time, a pseudo-punk group doing a slow cover of “Strangers in the Night,” of all things.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Nina murmured to herself as she looked in that direction.

  I cocked my head. “What’s that?”

  She shook her head ruefully. “My grandmother used to play this song to me when I was little—the Sinatra version, not this of course. And when I met you, I thought of it.”

  I offered a smile. “Well, it fits, doesn’t it? Two lovers meeting randomly. It’s sort of our song.”

  “You do look a little like Sinatra.”

  “Nah. I’m more of a Dean Martin fan.”

  She chuckled. “Regardless, it’s the hat, you know.” But then her expression grew sad all over again. “Except it doesn’t turn out ‘so right,’ does it, my love?” A tear glimmered at the far corner of her eye.

  I sighed. “Nina, I’ll still have to come by Jane and Eric’s. Carson, he’s out there. Letour. Those men. I’ll see your family. I’ll—”

  “But you won’t see me,” she said abruptly, sticking her chin out adorably, like a child with its heart dead-set on a particular toy. “I won’t be there. Not anymore. I can’t. For both our sakes.”

  That was another thing Jane had forgotten about the de Vrieses. They were proud, sure. But on top of that, stubborn.

  And, I was discovering—once they had made up their minds about something, there was no changing it.

  “Fine,” I said. “I will. On one condition.”

  Her thin blonde brow rose. “And what’s that?”

  “Dance with me.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  I held out a hand. “If this is our song, doll, then I think you owe me a dance. Just one before we say goodbye.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but then put her hand in mine.

  “Yes,” she said. “That sounds right.”

  I pulled her into an easy box step, humming the familiar tune I’d heard a thousand times before. She wasn’t the only one with memories of this song. How many times had I seen my grandparents sway around their living room? Hell, Nonna had taught me to dance to this song and so many others.

  But now I knew I’d never hear it again without thinking of the woman in my arms.

  “‘Strangers in the night…’” I sang along with the lyrics. I wasn’t much of a singer, but I could croon a little here and there.

  Nina’s eyes closed, and she moved the hand on my shoulder to press over her heart.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, it hurts.”

  I cupped her head and held it close to me. “I know, baby. I know.”

  In the five months since I met Nina de Vries, I’d been a changed man. But that was a dream. It was time to wake up.

  “What’s this?” she asked, her fingers rubbing over my chest. “You’re so…stiff.”

  I tipped my head. “Bulletproof vest.”

  “Oh.”

  More reality. More reminders of what had to happen.

  “If it has to end,” I said, not completely sure what “it” was in the first place, “then, can I…” I worried my lips. Was I really going to ask for this?

  Yes. Yes, I fuckin’ was.

  “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

  For once, Nina didn’t look away. Her eyes simply shone with the longing and sadness that I knew flashed right back in mine.

  “Yes,” she said. “You may. One last time.”

  I lowered my head and brushed my lips to hers. Then I covered them completely, relishing in the way her mouth fit to mine with the exactness of a jigsaw puzzle. We stopped dancing and instead just stood there, memorizing each other’s tastes with the savor of two people who knew they’d never get another chance.

  Because this wasn’t a kiss born of fury or lust. It was one of mourning.

  And soon, it would be one of memory.

  For now, we remained in the moment. Two lost souls, sinning together. Forced to make amends by staying apart.

  Much as we might belong together, the world just wouldn’t have it.

  It was time to accept it and move on.

  The song ended, and to my disappointment, Nina pulled away. Several more tears had tracked down her face. She reached up and brushed one from my cheek. I hadn’t even noticed it was there.

  “God,” I croaked. “You are so fucking beautiful it hurts.”

  And she was, too. Between crying and kissing, most of her makeup was gone, including the red lipstick. And yet, her mouth was still plump and red, almost bruised. Did I just do that? I wondered.

  “I’ll miss you, my love,” Nina said softly.

  I opened my mouth to say the same. To tell her I really did love her, the kind of love I suspected would last a lifetime. Promise that I’d save her from her tower if she’d let me. Beg her one last time to try. To stay.

  But instead, just as I started to say the other word that would end things between us forever, my phone blared into the night.

  I closed my eyes and frowned. “Fuck.”

  “You—I’ll leave you to answer that.”

  “No,” I said. “No, just—” I peered at the screen. Derek. Shit. “Just wait a second, doll. This will only take a second—Derek, hey. What’s up?”

  “Zo, you still at the museum?”

  I frowned at the suddenly sharp edge in my friend’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here. Was thinking about leaving, why?”

  “Is Eric there?”

  “Ah, I think so. I haven’t seen him in a while, but Jane is still here so…”

  Beside me, Nina shook her head frantically. “She left just a few minutes ago, before I walked out. She said she was going home.”

  “Jane just got picked up by Carson,” Derek told me.

  I nearly dropped the phone. “What?”

  “Eric’s mom called. They were accosted outside the museum by Carson and his thugs. Jane gave herself up so they would let her go. A couple of units are with Mrs. Keeler and some Russian thug on the south side.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Nina watched with confusion, clearly waiting for me to clear things up. She could obviously hear the conversation.

  “We’re on our way uptown, but it’s going to take some time to get back from Brooklyn,” Derek continued. “Your squad has been alerted, but most of them are gone. Backup’s on its way. Are you still carrying?”

  I tapped where my sidearm was strapped under my jacket, though Derek couldn’t see me. “Of course.”

  “Good. Can you find de Vries and check on his mother? He’s not answering his phone. No one is.”

  I glance
d at Nina, who was already calling Eric. She shook her head. No answer.

  “I’m on it,” I said. “Keep me updated.”

  “My man.”

  Derek hung up, and with that, I turned to Nina.

  “Nina, I—”

  “Go,” she urged. “Go find my cousins. Keep them safe.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I exited the museum at a jog, not even bothering with the maze-like service exit, instead taking the pink-clad steps two at a time through the now-empty press line. Limousines lined up and down Fifth Avenue, their drivers chatting while they had a smoke or leaned against the shiny black doors. They glanced at me as I ran past, but I was too busy with the task at hand to say anything.

  I found Eric’s mother, Heather, another elegant blonde who had probably been a stone-cold beauty in her day, standing in the company of two officers, one reading Miranda rights as the other locked a pair of cuffs around the wrists of a tall man with a large gash on his forehead.

  “Mrs. Keeler,” I called as I approached.

  She had the look of a woman who, for a few minutes, really wasn’t sure everything was going to be all right.

  “And you are?” sneered one of the officers.

  “ADA Matthew Zola,” I snapped, pulling the badge I rarely used out of my pocket. It was heavy, similar to a police badge, and generally I only used it to get into crime scenes. Which, since the perp in custody currently had blood streaming from his forehead, this currently was. “I’m a prosecutor with the Brooklyn DA’s office working on a case with this woman’s family. And I swear to God, if you ruined a six-month investigation”—I glanced at his badge—“Officer Johansson, I’ll make sure you’re writing traffic tickets for the next three years. I need to talk to Mrs. Keeler here and this gentleman now.”

  Normally I wasn’t so confrontational with cops, but I didn’t have time for this one’s bullshit. Not with so much on the line.

  Johansson, thankfully, seemed to understand the urgency. He held his hands up respectfully and stepped aside to give me access to Heather.

  “Mrs. Keeler.” I reached out to touch her hands. “Matthew Zola. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  She nodded fiercely. “Of course I do. Yes, I do very well.”

  I gestured at the tall man in handcuffs who didn’t look like he was going to talk to me even if I wanted.

  I was wrong.

  “She attacked me!” he screamed in a loud Russian accent. “That crazy bitch tried to blind me!”

  “Easy!” I snapped at him before turning back to Heather. “Mrs. Keeler, what is he talking about?”

  “Jane did it!” she said, her voice taking on a hysterical edge. “This man attacked us right here. I was on my way home from the party, and he grabbed me. And then Jane appeared, on her own way home, I believe. A car pulled up, and that man and two others jumped out—”

  “Which two others?” I demanded, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

  “Carson,” Heather said. “And that other man. The one with the goatee.”

  Jude Letour.

  “Then what happened?” I urged her on. I had a feeling we didn’t have much time to spare.

  “Oh, dear Jane. She—she tried to fight them all, valiant girl! She took her shoe—her shoe, of all things—and used it to fight this one off!”

  I glanced back at the Russian’s wound, remembering the sharp spikes lining the heels of Jane’s shoes. Yeah, I could eerily imagine someone wielding those things as a weapon. Good on her.

  “And after that?” I prodded.

  “She left!” By this point, Heather was practically hysterical, which made the cops next to her look around uneasily, as if someone might jump out of the bushes to come after her.

  “Ma’am, we really should take the rest of your statement at the station,” one started, but she quickly cut him off.

  “She gave herself up to Carson and the other one. To—to save me!” Heather choked on the last word. “To save me,” she repeated, this time weaker. “She got in their car—a big black thing—and they…they just left me here. With this horrible man, who was supposed to take me to my apartment. Luckily, my son’s bodyguards were just down the street, and they found us and held my captor still until these young policemen arrived.”

  I perked up at the news of Eric’s bodyguards. “Was Eric here too?”

  Heather shook her head. “No. And poor Jane, if she’d just waited…”

  The Russian said something unintelligible, then spit on the ground, dangerously close to Heather’s shoe.

  “Hey, asshole,” I snapped. “Didn’t you listen to your rights? Anything you say and do can and will be held against you in a court of law. And I should know, because I’m the one who’ll be doing it! So show a little fuckin’ respect, eh?”

  His lip curled with a sneer, but he had the good sense to remain quiet as I turned back to Heather.

  “Come on,” said the other officer, roughly steering the man toward one of the two squad cars at the curb.

  “Which way did they go?” I asked. “We don’t have much time here, Heather.”

  “The traverse,” offered the officer after he finished putting the Russian into the back of a car.

  I looked to Heather for confirmation. She nodded.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m leaving. Officers, if you can please escort Mrs. Keeler to the station and take her statement, Detective Derek Kingston will be in touch. Nineteenth Precinct?”

  Johansson nodded. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” I said, already ready to jog again toward the traverse across Central Park. I only prayed I wasn’t too late.

  “ADA Zola.”

  I turned impatiently. “What?”

  Johansson tapped his belt, and his meaning was clear. I didn’t know what I was headed into—did I have the means to keep myself safe?

  I opened my jacket to reveal the butt end of the pistol strapped under my arm. “I’m good. Just bring that asshole into custody. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  I caught a cab almost immediately, and before I even had time to consider where a thug trying to backtrack might go, I had given the cabbie Eric and Jane’s address. I took a moment to check the chamber of my Beretta—not standard issue for the NYPD, but the same sidearm I’d carried since entering the Marines fifteen years ago.

  “Is that a gun?” demanded the driver once we were moving. “No guns in my car.”

  I slapped my badge against the plexiglass. “I’m law enforcement, sir. Just keep driving.” I replaced the gun in its holster and pulled out my phone.

  “Zola?” Derek answered on the second ring. “We’re in Tribeca coming up the West Side Highway. What’s the status?”

  “Jane’s with Carson and Letour,” I said. “They picked her up off the street, a trade for Eric’s mom. She ran into some luck—two of Eric’s security were waiting for her along with a couple of patrols who just arrested some Russian goon. Everyone is headed to the Nineteenth.”

  Derek swore profusely. “Where in the fuck is de Vries?”

  “I don’t know, but he knew something about this. I’m on my way to his house now.”

  “Zola, don’t go in there. Wait for the real cops.”

  “Derek, I can handle myself. I served for four years, and I’ve accompanied you on countless arrests in the last seven years, haven’t I?”

  “That’s a lot different than taking on two fucking psychopaths alone, Zola. Don’t be a hero, you jackass. Wait for us!”

  But the car had already stopped in front of Jane and Eric’s townhouse, and I was halfway out. If they were up there with Carson and his goons, there was no telling what might happen. I couldn’t wait to find out.

  “Then get here sooner,” I said. “Because I’m here now.”

  I tossed the cabbie a twenty and jogged up the steps to bang on the front door.

  “Come on, come on,” I muttered as I banged again. The buzzer was broken—they were in the middle of
renovations on the house, and it had been disconnected. “Jane! Eric!”

  “Mr. Zola?”

  I turned to find Tony, the de Vrieses’ head of security, standing on the sidewalk flanked on either side by two other members of their detail.

  “Tony!” I looked down the street, but there was no sign of his boss. “Is Eric with you?”

  Tony looked up toward the apartment. “He left the party a while ago and asked me to meet him here as soon as Mrs. de Vries left the party.”

  He looked slightly guilty, like he felt somehow responsible for whatever was happening. At least I knew I wasn’t the only one being snowed by Tony’s boss.

  “So he’s here?” I turned back to the door as the other men approached. “Let me in.”

  “Mr. Zola—”

  “Tony, I’m in no damn mood,” I snapped. “Your boss gave the slip to investigators from the Brooklyn DA’s office and a squad of NYPD. Now his wife is in the custody of a known criminal, and I’d bet my fuckin’ job they’re up there too. Either Eric has been jerking New York City law enforcement around or he hasn’t. And either you want me to help them or you don’t. Which is it?”

  But before Tony could answer, a shot rang through the air from the top of the building. Everyone’s heads swiveled upward.

  “Fuck,” Tony said.

  “Unlock the fuckin’ door!” I ordered.

  In a sudden hurry, he did. That was all I needed to take off up the stairs, all of the security members on my tail.

  “Jane!” I shouted. “Eric!”

  Our footsteps echoed up the dark, dusty stairwell as we climbed, me and three gorilla-shaped security guards.

  “Jane!” I shouted again as I reached the fourth floor and started pounding on their front door. “Eric!”

  There was a rumble of voices within—one distinctly male, whose tenor I recognized.

  “Eric!” I yelled. “Open the fuck up!”

  “Move, sir.”

  I stepped out of the way just in time for Tony to barrel through the door, not even waiting to unlock the thing, which broke immediately on its hinges.

  What lay inside the room brought us all to an immediate stop.