by Skye Warren
At eight o’clock in the morning. In the cheapest motel in Tanglewood.
The driver steps out and nods to me in that deferent, discreet way that drivers have. My stomach sinks. He opens the back door and stands beside it, a silent invitation. A tacit command from the man inside.
My feet move me across the pavement, breath trapped. It’s that moment when you’ve slammed your finger in a door, before the pain has registered, when your mind is all too aware of what comes next.
The shadowed interior hides his face, but I know who it is before he speaks.
“Good morning,” comes the low voice of the man who made me come on his desk. The door shuts behind me, enclosing me in the warm darkness.
“What are you doing here?”
A shuffle of papers. The scratch of a pen. As the darkness solidifies, I see him reclined in the back of the limo, focused on a stack of papers in front of him. Working, like I’m a distraction. “I’m your ride.”
He doesn’t even look up. “Excuse me?”
“To Landon Moore’s office. That is where you’re going, I assume.”
My eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”
Finally he looks up, his golden gaze searing me. “Because you’ll do anything to get your house back. It’s the only place you feel safe, isn’t it? The only place you felt loved?”
My stomach clenches. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I don’t think you need me to answer that.”
Because he knows everything that happens in the city. He could have had me followed after I left his office yesterday, but odds are he knew where I was before. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather walk on nails than ride with you.”
I pull the latch to discover that the door is locked. From the inside.
My gaze flies to him. “You’re kidnapping me?”
“Unfortunately,” he says with fake sympathy. “You’ll have to explain to the cops how I abducted you and transported you in comfort to your previously planned destination.”
The car glides forward, as if connected to his very will.
Asshole.
I glare at him, settling into the warm leather. Are these seats heated? Of course they are. I have to admit this is way more comfortable than the city bus, but everything has a cost. And when it comes to Gabriel Miller, the cost is always too high. “Why are you doing this?”
“Does it matter?” he asks, his voice faintly mocking. “As a gentleman your comfort is my highest priority. It’s enough to be of service to you.”
“You’re not a gentleman.”
“Probably right. In that case I’m coming with you to see sweet old Uncle Landon give you the horrible news, to see your face fall as he assures you there’s nothing you can do.”
My throat constricts. “Can’t you find someone else to torture?”
“No one nearly as pretty. Besides, my presence has some advantages.”
“My very own supply of fire and brimstone?”
“People are more inclined to tell the truth when I’m in the room. My reputation for dealing with liars and cheats is somewhat brutal.” He leans forward, his eyes reflecting sunlight. “All of it true, I’m afraid.”
I’m living proof of that, the fallout from my father’s decision to steal. “Be careful or I might think you’re actually being nice to me.”
A short laugh. “Not a chance. It will be my pleasure to see Landon Moore break. And even sweeter to watch you break, too. A show I can’t pass up.”
Any warm, fuzzy feelings evaporate. I lean back in the seat, arms crossed. “Fine.”
He nods toward the sideboard, where a white paper box sits on the wood inlay. “There’s breakfast if you’re hungry.”
I want to tell him exactly where to shove his food. Except my stomach chooses that moment to growl, squeezing as if to emphasize its emptiness. And when I peek under the flap, the steaming buttermilk waffles look too good to pass up. I’d rather believe that he’s being nice with the limo ride and the food. Maybe then it would feel less like I’m being fattened up for the slaughter.
Chapter Seven
Uncle Landon works in a row of historic houses that have been converted to exclusive office space. It takes both a large monthly fee and personal connections to score a lease here. A wooden sign nestled in a pile of heart bougainvillea proclaims the office of Landon Moore, Financial Advisor. He’s been a family friend since before I was born. A trusted confidant. And the executor of my trust.
I climb the stone steps and knock on the stately door. He normally operates by appointment only, but the James family has never needed them. And he hasn’t answered any of my calls from the pay phone on the corner since I got to the Rose and Crown.
Of course I dread seeing him again. The last time we met was at my virginity auction. That will be the most embarrassing part of this conversation, especially with Gabriel Miller in tow, an amused spectator. But not the most important part.
There’s a sound behind the door. I imagine Uncle Landon peeking through the peephole, weighing his options. He might just ignore me, and I’ll have to come back another day.
But the door opens, revealing the man who got me my first bike, the man I viewed as a family member. The man who offered to marry me because I look like my mother.
“Avery,” he says, sounding tired. His face looks drawn, hair askew. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk. They took my house.”
He waves a hand like it doesn’t matter, gesturing to Gabriel behind me. “And I see he isn’t letting you out of his sight. I suppose I can’t blame him after the obscene amount he paid.”
Then Uncle Landon doesn’t know that Gabriel sent me away after taking my virginity. And I see no reason to set him straight. It’s as good an excuse as any for Gabriel to be here.
I step into the living room that’s been converted to a small waiting area. And realize the lights are off. The desk is empty. “Where’s Patricia?”
Patricia has been his secretary for as long as I can remember. When my dad used to bring me, I’d wait on the couch with a Highlights magazine. Patricia would help me with the hidden pictures.
Uncle Landon shakes his head, waving his hand again as if swatting away a fly. “She’s gone. Not important.”
I glance back, but Gabriel has a blank expression. When we reach Uncle Landon’s office I know something is very wrong. Normally he’s meticulous, every stack of paper perfectly aligned, every book in its proper shelf. But now the office is in disarray, books turned over and laddered high, a dark spill of coffee soaking into someone’s tax returns.
“Uncle Landon, what’s going on?”
He mutters something about housecleaning. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’ve been calling you.” Furtive trips to the phone booth on the corner, frantic messages into an answering machine that probably hasn’t been checked. “You said the house would be safe.”
He falls into his chair, looking weary and ten years older than he had at the auction, head in his hand. “I’m sorry, Helen. I know you loved the house.”
Alarm strums through me. “Helen was my mother.”
Cloudy eyes look through me. “I failed you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“What did you do, Uncle Landon? Why did I lose the house?”
Gabriel steps from the shadows. His palm hits the square foot of exposed desk, the sound startling. “Tell her, Moore. She needs to know. I’m sure she doesn’t want this public any more than you do.”
Uncle Landon focuses on me, regret darkening his eyes. “I got into trouble, my girl. The market crash. Bad investments. My clients, some of them are powerful. They would have come after me if I didn’t lessen the blow to their portfolios.”
Dread clenches my stomach. “Is that what happened to my trust? The market crash?”
He shakes his head, silent.
Gabriel picks up a piece of paper from the desk, scanning it briefly before tossing it
to the ground like trash. “Fake paper trails. Moving money around like no one would ever notice. And he almost got away with it, because there are enough naive trusting fools in the world.”
I stand, shaking from within. “And I’m a fool?” I ask Uncle Landon softly.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “You weren’t a fool, but you were trusting. Because your mother and your father trusted me. And you looked at me like family.”
“That wasn’t just my money you stole. It was theirs, what they had put aside for me.” The house my father built for my mother, her pride and joy. “That house.”
“I know,” he says, mournful. “I tried to save it. When you authorized payments for your father’s restitution, I slipped more money out. If you had married me when I asked, you never would have known. We could have sold the house.”
“And lived in a marriage built on lies?” And worse, a horrible substitution—because it’s really my mother he wants.
“What do you have now?” Uncle Landon demands, angry and desperate. “A million dollars! Women like you always end up on your feet, don’t you?”
“Women like me?”
“Like your mother,” he spits. “So beautiful. Everyone wanted her. But I was the only one who really knew her, who loved her. And she chose your father.”
Jealousy fills the air, sick and scented black. “How dare you. My father trusted you.”
“I know,” Uncle Landon says, his voice breaking. “I know.”
And to my horror and shock he breaks down into wrenching sobs.
“He was the fool,” Gabriel says softly.
My laugh sounds sharp, cutting me into pieces on the way out. “Don’t spare my feelings now. I know you think I’m stupid. Gullible. Blind to what’s in front of me.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re loyal and optimistic.”
“Either way,” I say bitterly. “The result is the same. I lost the house.”
“Did you?” Gabriel asks mildly.
“The auction,” Uncle Landon gasps. “You can bid on the house.”
Hope sinks its claws into my heart, painful and unwelcome. “I don’t have the money yet. It’s in escrow until the end of the month. And the auction is tomorrow.”
Uncle Landon rifles through the papers on his desk. “It’s still an asset, one with conditions. You can use it as a guarantee of payment as long as the bank confirms its release.” He freezes without looking up. “The guarantor would have to sign as well.”
The guarantor. That would be Gabriel Miller.
Now I know the real reason he came along. So that he could tell me no. So that he could break me just one more time. I look at him, my heart already breaking.
Except he doesn’t look at me with fake regret, with thinly veiled amusement. He doesn’t smirk and tell me that I look so beautiful when I’m shattered.
Instead he pulls out a pen, businesslike. “It will need to be notarized.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“If you want the representative of the holding company to validate an offer, it will need to be notarized.” He looks completely calm, as if he didn’t just offer me hope.
“Wait,” Uncle Landon says. “You need to think about this. The money in that escrow account is all you have left. If you spend all of it, even most of it, on the house, you won’t have anything left. How will you pay for maintenance, taxes—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Uncle Landon gives Gabriel a brooding glance. “That’s how you got into this mess. You can take the money and build a new life for yourself. Get an apartment. Go back to college.”
My heart squeezes with the desire to have those things back. To join Harper at the parties and late night study sessions. That world seems foreign now. Gabriel wasn’t so wrong when he said it was the only place where I felt safe. The only place I felt loved.
Stay here, sweetheart. Stay small. That’s when you’re safe. Stay safe.
“No,” I say, my voice strong. “I want the house.”
“Why?” Uncle Landon shakes his head, already mourning the loss.
“Sometimes people need what they need,” Gabriel says softly. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Doesn’t matter what they give up to get it. It’s a question of survival.”
I turn back, surprised by the gravity of his tone.
Gabriel isn’t looking at Uncle Landon. He’s staring at me, as if his words are about my virginity instead of the house. As if I’m necessary to his survival. Except that can’t be true.
Uncle Landon moves into action, appearing twenty years younger as he lunges for his phone. I only distantly hear him talking to someone, telling them to get to the office right away. Shock seems to hold my body in place, like I’m carved out of concrete at the park. And he’s the sun, perpetually shining down on me, heating me from the outside in.
“You’ll outbid me,” I whisper, clinging to my despair.
I’m not sure I can survive a second blow.
Gabriel shakes his head slowly, gaze trained on mine. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to bid on a house managed by my own holding company. A violation of our contract with the city.” His voice turns wry. “And I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my standing by doing something illegal.”
The bland note is a private joke between the two of us, who both know that he’s done a hundred illegal things, a thousand, and would do them again. But he won’t do this. That’s the promise his golden eyes make in the dank office. He would hurt me, but he wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this.
And that means there’s a chance I can win my mother’s house back.
Chapter Eight
The next two hours are a blur of paperwork and stifling waiting.
Soon after Uncle Landon makes the phone call, the quaint old office floods with people. A haggard-looking Patricia, her hair a dark silver instead of platinum blonde. A representative from my bank. Charlotte Thomas, from Miller Industries. I need to be prequalified to participate in bidding.
Gabriel signs his form shortly after the notary arrives. With a curt nod he takes his leave from the group. He barely glances at me before striding from the room, presumably taking the sleek limo with him. I pretend that’s why I’m disappointed, that I’ll have to take the bus home.
Not because I want to spend more time with him.
Except that when I step outside, the limo idles down the street.
As I watch, the driver pulls closer and then steps out to greet me. My heart speeds up, dangerous anticipation flooding my mouth with remembered spice. Fear? Or arousal?
The limo is empty.
I scoot onto the plush leather, my chest strangely tight at the realization that he left the limo for my comfort. Warm seats embrace me as we ride through the city, leaving the upscale Old Tanglewood where Uncle Landon works and entering the seedy downtown where I’ve taken up residence. From behind tinted glass I see people give the limo weighted looks—covetous or wary. This must be how people look at Gabriel Miller, the man himself.
When we pull into the parking lot, the driver opens my door. “Mr. Miller asked me to tell you I’ll pick you up tomorrow. The auction begins at three p.m.”
“Thank you.”
I watch as the limo glides away, crunching rocks as it goes. What strange gestures, both the rides and the permission to bid on the house. Be careful or I might think you’re actually being nice to me, I told him. But I hadn’t believed it. Except what other explanation is there?
Unless he’s waiting to surprise me at the auction with something horrible.
I can’t shake the dread as I cross the parking lot. Maybe that’s because Will isn’t in his usual spot by my door. Probably just out wandering. Maybe working. Worry makes my heart skip a beat. He’s strong enough to defend himself, but there could be multiple men. Knives. Guns.
A thousand real incarnations for the monsters in old mythology.
And more than any childish character, he reminds me of Odysseus. Longi
ng for home.
Resolved to watch for him tonight, I swipe the card and enter the room. Only to shriek as someone flings their arms around me. “Harper!”
She laughs, only a little apology in her expression. “Sorry! I wanted to surprise you.”
My heart thuds in lingering fear. “Shit. Well, you did. What are you doing here?”
Her hip nudges mine, and I can’t stay mad. “Act like you’re happy to see me.”
A smile breaks the gloom that settled over me after Gabriel left. “God, I am. You asshole.”
“You love me. Besides, I tried calling you.”
“How did you even know where I am?”
“I called the worst motels in the city and offered blowjobs for information,” she says matter-of-factly.
“The worst part is that I believe you.”
“I gave your landlord a bag of peanuts from the plane and a crisp Benjamin in exchange for a key. He seemed chuffed. I don’t think he expected that much, really.”
Based on the economics of the area I suspect he can buy more than one blowjob with a hundred dollars. Maybe from my neighbor Chastity. “You really shouldn’t be here. This area has, oh, I don’t know, a hundred percent crime rate. Your stepbrother would lose his shit if he found out.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” she says cheerfully. “Besides, you’re here. How bad can it be?”
In response I double-check that the door is locked and close the extra security latch. “He really gave you a key? That’s not very reassuring.”
“I’d sell you out for a crisp Benjamin,” she says, hopping on the bed.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, but you’re not staying here. You’re going to call a cab and get a room at the Ritz or something.”
“Please, a cab is more dangerous than staying here. Especially in this part of town. Come on. We can order a pizza and pretend to be camping.”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t use a motel room for that. Or pizza delivery.”
She grins. “And you can tell me ghost stories. About the ghost of your virginity.”
I make a face at her. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
