Her Protector

by R. S. Lively

  Her Protector

  R.S. Lively

  Description

  Marriage was the last thing on my mind.

  Then I met the red hair beauty.

  They say love makes you do crazy things.

  Running through a burning building to save Alice. Check.

  Saving her theater. Check.

  Giving her a baby. Check.

  Getting married by mistake. Check.

  I’m a billionaire and I always get what I want.

  But there’s a few secrets I can’t tell.

  Secrets that could break her...

  Everything is on the line.

  But I’ll do whatever it takes.

  For her. For our baby.

  I’ll save and protect Alice.

  From this day on. Forever.

  Copyright © 2019 by R.S. Lively

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Marriage Mistake (Sample)

  About the Author

  Also by R.S. Lively

  Keeping Up With R.S. Lively

  Chapter One

  Alice

  All the Barbie dolls I played with until I was seven years old were G.I. Joe’s in drag. I had no idea. I thought they were kick-ass women with intense physiques, edgy haircuts, and highly developed self-awareness. Not having a TV or any girl children my age in the compound probably did a lot to keep the delusion going. Turns out, my parents didn’t have the money to spend on toys for me, so they rummaged through my older brother’s childhood discards. Mom spent hours stitching together pieces of scrap fabric to make a wardrobe for my dolls, including a tiny tropical assortment perfect for an imaginary island vacation.

  Even when I turned seven, and leaving the compound meant my parents finally had the money to buy me actual Barbies, I kept my G.I. Joe’s close. They were the dolls I loved, and I thought they were beautiful. Knowing what they actually were, gave me role models, showing me I could be secure in myself no matter what I did. Throughout my life, any time I faced a challenge or felt weak and afraid, I’d think of those resort-wear-bedecked soldiers and remind myself I was how I saw them – strong, confident, and resourceful.

  Unfortunately, that doesn’t always work. There are times when there is no softening Joe. No matter how carefully you drape him in the remnants of a pink floral print Hawaiian shirt, everyone can see right through him. So as much as I want to feel like a strong, powerful, influential woman right now, all I’m feeling like is G.I. Joe in a sarong.

  “Sir, if you would just give me a few minutes of your time…”

  “Miss Larkin, this is the third time you’ve come to see me.”

  “I know. And each time you’ve asked me to give you a more compelling presentation. If you’ll just look through the folder I gave you, I think you’ll see the amount of work I put into…”

  “The amount of work you put into this presentation does not equate to the work you actually put into your theater, Miss Larkin. That would be far more persuasive.”

  Poking him in the eye for interrupting me will not help me get the loan. Poking him in the eye for interrupting me will not help me get the loan. Poking him in the eye for interrupting me will not help me get the loan.

  My mantra helps me calm down enough to stretch my mouth into a smile.

  “If you will look at the materials I have provided, you will see not only the work I’ve done in the theater, but also my plans for the loan funds. There is a renaissance of the stage happening right now, Mr. Barnes, and Wonderland could be the centerpiece of that. Its Gilded Age appeal and prime location could draw in community theater troupes, traveling programs, and even special events.”

  “Special events?”

  I might be imagining the slight glint of interest in the gray-haired man’s eye right now, but imaginary or not, I’ll take it. Anything I can cling to that might keep this conversation moving.

  “Yes,” I continue enthusiastically. “People are going all out for events like birthday parties, showers, weddings… even custom proposals. Having the dramatic backdrop of Wonderland, combined with our top-of-the-line event design and catering consultants, could make the theater a one-stop destination for unique experiences tailored to a wide range of discerning clientele.”

  I am talking right out of my ass, but I hope there are enough buzzwords shoved in there to dazzle him with my business mastery.

  “As impressive as that sounds, Miss Larkin…” Well, shit. “…the bank has reviewed the business projections for your theater and compared them to similar businesses in the area. Considering there are several thriving theaters within a small radius of yours, the potential for immediate and substantial growth seems limited. Added to your also-limited financial prospects, it just doesn’t look good. I’m afraid our answer has to stay the same since last time.”

  He keeps rattling on for a few more seconds, but I’ve tuned him out. It’s not like I need to hear it again. By now, the rejection is on auto-repeat in my mind. I could say it to myself word-for-word, and the sleep-deprived bags under my eyes are testament to how many times I have. My chest starts aching as the reality of what this particular rejection really means sinks in. It’s hard to swallow, and tears sting my eyes. I don’t want to do this. In all the times I have tried to visualize getting the funding to keep my little theater going, it’s always been without the words now creeping their way into my mouth. But these are desperate circumstances. It’s time for the big guns.

  “Please. Please, Mr. Barnes. Just listen to me for a minute.”

  He stops his canned corporate response and stares at me, his watery, pale green eyes blinking like he can’t process being interrupted. That’s his move. How dare I steal it?

  “Go ahead,” he says, almost like a dare.

  I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm my nerves and give myself a few more seconds to piece together the words.

  “I know you look at Wonderland as only a piece of property, a commodity, but it’s so much more than that to me. My childhood wasn’t… ideal. We went through a lot, especially when I was really small. Most of my memories are pretty sketchy, but when they start getting better, the one thing that stands out is going to the theater with my father. It was glorious then. I thought it was the most beautiful place in the entire world, like there couldn’t be anywhere else as glamorous. That was
our special time together. Just my father and me. He’d bring me to the old movies they would put up on a huge screen they pulled down over the stage. We’d eat popcorn and laugh at the actors. Sometimes the theater would host stage productions, and my father and I would get dressed up and have an evening there. It felt like nothing in the world could go wrong when we were there together.”

  “Miss Larkin…”

  My hand stretches across the desk to stop him. At this point, the words are coming out whether he wants to hear them or not.

  “Please. Let me finish. It was called the Goldberg at the time, and it was pure magic. Then my father got sick. We couldn’t go to the movies or the stage productions anymore. We’d already lost my brother and the only thing my mother or I could think about was trying not to lose him, too. Years went by without me stepping foot in the Goldberg. When I finally convinced my mother to let me bring my father back there, he was in a wheelchair. We got there, and it was closed. The theater we loved so much was falling apart.” My voice cracks and I decide to go for the abridged version of the story. “I bought it with the determination to bring it back to its full glory. I will be the first to admit things haven’t gone as smoothly as I’d like them to, and there have been some setbacks. What I’ve planned hasn’t come to total fruition, but that’s temporary. I know Wonderland can be a success. All I need is the time and resources to make it happen.”

  Five minutes later, I snatch my phone out of my purse and call the last number that called me. Essentially the only number that ever calls me. My heels click heavily on the sidewalk, and I concentrate on them to stay focused, so I don’t drift into traffic.

  “They said no,” I say, without waiting for Lee to say anything.

  “I’m sorry, Sweetie. You’re going to figure something out.”

  “This was the figuring something out. I don’t have anything left.”

  “Are you coming up to the theater?”

  “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

  “Ok. I’m here. We’ll make like rock tumblers and see if we can polish up a few new ideas.”

  “And when we don’t?”

  “We’ll take the rocks we have left and smash all the windows in the bank.”

  My best friend always knows how to make me smile, even in the worst moments.

  “See you in about ten minutes.”

  Unfortunately, the smile quickly fades. Going to the bank to try again for another loan really was the last thing I could think of to save my theater. Saying things haven’t been going well is a tremendous understatement. A substantial chunk of my savings had gone into buying the theater and making the repairs needed just to get it open again. The time it took to accomplish that meant not being able to hold down a regular job, so my savings kept dwindling. But I couldn’t give up. I still can’t. Wonderland means the world to me, and I’ve never been the kind of person to just let something go, especially not the theater.

  But it’s starting to look like I might not have much of a choice soon. The theater has struggled since its reopening, and I haven’t been able to keep on top of the finances of it. Even with my savings, I hadn’t been able to buy the whole thing straight out. Instead, I worked with a silent partner who purchased a larger portion than I did with the understanding that I would make payments to gradually buy them out until the entire thing was mine. It went against my better judgment and the stubborn streak I prefer to think of as persistence, but it was the only option I had to save the treasured building from the wrecking ball.

  Now instead of a shiny new warehouse and parking structure, my theater is still standing. But for how long? My payments have been sliding recently, and last month I sent a card and a picture of how cute the corner of the stage looked decorated for Christmas. It did little to impress the partner I know only as Q. Rather than a cheerful ‘Happy New Year’ response, I got a scathing email threatening the partnership and my future hold on my theater.

  Discouragement has turned my walking into dragging my feet by the time I walk through the brass-edged glass doors at the front of Wonderland and into the lobby. The persistent smell of wood and popcorn hits me like it always does. Even when I haven’t cranked up the big old-fashioned popcorn maker in weeks, the smell of the butter and salt lingers in the air. It’s the same smell from when I was little and came here with my father. I like to think every batch of popcorn just adds to the smell, so I’m still breathing in the kernels Daddy used to pop in his mouth so fast his little red and white box was empty by the time we got to our seats. That was always fine with me. It meant I got to run back through the burgundy velvet rows and into the grand lobby for another glimpse as I stood in line to buy a second box.

  I can hear Lee singing before I open the door to the main theater. Like I expect him to be, he’s standing in the middle of the stage, serenading no one in the dim glow of a single lowered spotlight.

  “West Side Story today?”

  He squints down the aisle, then jumps off the edge of the stage to rush up to me. I keep telling him to use the steps on either side of the stage, but he refuses. One of these days he’s going to end up on his ass, and an ambulance is going to have to squeegee him off the polished marble floor of the orchestra pit. Maybe not. We might not be here long enough for that to happen.

  Silver linings, I guess.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He wraps me in a warm hug, and I give myself a few seconds to just wallow in the familiarity and comfort. Lee is one of those rare friends everyone is supposed to have but almost no one actually does. He’s been a part of my life since soon after my sarong-wearing G.I. Joe’s started making fun of my Barbies for not going to the gym enough. There were a few years in there where we drifted apart as life took us in different directions, but our paths brought us right back together, and he’s been by my side all the way through sobbing over my father’s casket and promising him I wouldn’t forget our theater.

  “We’re going to figure it out,” I tell him.

  Lee’s the one who’s supposed to be comforting me, yet reversing the roles helps distract me from what I’m feeling.

  “Did they even give you a reason?”

  “Just the same,” I sigh. “Not enough potential. Not enough money.”

  “Did you tell them about the special event opportunities?”

  “I started to, but I detoured into weddings and birthday parties. Somehow I didn’t think they would be impressed by one bizarre thirteen-year-old renting the theater out for his ghost-hunting-themed Bar Mitzvah.”

  “That could be a major selling point! How many other theaters around here can say a brand-new man channeled the spirit of a murdered Shakespearean understudy from a sleeping bag centerstage?”

  “Probably more of them than we’d like to admit.” I take Lee’s hand and we walk up to the stage. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I feel like I failed myself and Daddy.”

  “You haven’t failed anyone.”

  “Not yet, but there’s no telling how long it’s going to be before Q swoops in and wipes out my portion.”

  “He’s still being a jerk?”

  “That’s a really squeaky-clean way of saying it. He’s gotten meaner and more aggressive. His last email had an ultimatum. Essentially, either I pay up or he executes the takeover clause and buys me out.”

  “Have you thought about looking for another investor?”

  “I have, but that’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone else owning my business. This has to be my thing. Besides, even if I did want to go that direction, there’s no one who’s interested in being another silent partner.”

  “Two investors and you in the middle of the theater,” Lee shudders. “That’s a threesome from hell, right there.”

  “Yes.” I look around the beautiful old theater, the tug of nostalgia aching in my heart. “I just have to figure something out. I can’t lose this place. My father worked so hard to get us away from all that shit when I was a little girl. This theater represented that.
Now it’s going to be gone, and it’s my fault.”

  Chapter Two

  Dean

  Bucket List for James Pfeiffer:

  Wants to have bucket list.

  Wants to do amazing things.

  Doesn’t know how to do it.

  Did I already check down that tunnel? Shit. I don’t know.

  The flashlight on the front of my helmet is nowhere near as powerful now as it was when I first came down into the cave, and I have the sinking feeling if I don’t finish up and get out of here soon, I’m going to be trying to get through it in pitch blackness. I’ve spent enough time below ground to know there is no darkness up on the surface that even compares to cave-dark. Blindly flailing my way through the caverns isn’t exactly my idea of a fun evening.

  For the tenth time in the last hour, I unclip the pouch on my belt and pull out my phone. So far, I’ve been too deep underground to catch any signal, but one thing I insist on in my line of work is the best technology money can buy. Fortunately for me, that is not a euphemism when I say it. It seems the cash I splashed out for this phone a few weeks ago was well worth it, because even though I’m still well below the surface, my little bars have sprung to life.

  Pressing the first number in my contacts, I swing the beam coming from my head back and forth a few more times to try to choose which of two tunnels to take next.