The most beautiful ring that she'd ever seen before lay nestled in the center of the black, velvet cushion. The princess cut diamond was smack in the center of eight smaller diamonds embedded into the platinum band, becoming the ninth. Her wide eyes met his, filled with expectations and questions, and he nodded slightly.
He wished that he could pull her across the separator to devour her mouth, but he had to ease the car into gear to start driving. "I want you to marry me, Rochelle; please," he whispered, as Morris moved the Range Rover forward ahead of them. He checked the rearview mirror once more for the security detail before stepping on the gas.
Across from him, Rochelle's heart pounded so loudly in her chest as her eyes took in his handsome profile as he drove with ease. He threw her a look of uncertainty and impatience, when she still didn't answer, and she laughed, tears beginning to cloud her vision.
"Yes!"
The smile that accosted his lips had her heart rate quadrupling, until she swore it sounded like a truck's horn. It was a fraction of a heartbeat before she realized that it was a truck's horn. She saw the stiffening of his body, and the panic in his green eyes, when he realized that the traffic left no room to escape the collision. The only free area was the area where the truck was heading from. Without realizing, she too, had braced for impact. The pain ripped through her body as the truck pushed them and the car in the lane to their right, for what seemed like hours of shattering glass, and crunching metal.
✽✽✽
Present day, 2018…
Rochelle sucked in a breath as the gravity of the past hit her when she realized the depth of what had really happened. Her knuckles tightened around the edge of the seat until they became white. She leaned forward in an attempt to ease her lightheadedness and the pulsating of her temple, where a headache had suddenly developed.
"Miss, are you okay?"
Rochelle looked up at the stewardess, the light behind the woman causing her to have to squint to reduce its impact on her already pounding eyes.
"A glass of water, and some pain medication, please," she whispered brokenly, her lips dry.
Rochelle didn't know how long it had taken for the stewardess to return, until she felt a gentle hand on her arm.
"This isn't normal protocol, but I can see how much pain you’re in." The woman paused. "Just promise me that it will be safe if you take them, and that you won't sue if anything happens," she pleaded, her words though gentle, piercing Rochelle's skull; each sounding like a blow to her brain with a sledgehammer. She could barely nod her consent, for fear of passing out or throwing up.
A cool cloth pressed against her sticky brow, and she sighed gratefully.
It had been years since she'd had a flash of memory so strong that it brought on its signature wave of sickness and blinding headaches. After the accident, she had focused on her pregnancy, and then the child, and had forced herself not to remember the accident, or even Carter.
During recovery, her doctor had found out about her patches of memory loss, and he'd told her that they would return if she didn't block them mentally, but she had been too afraid to think about him. Too afraid to allow herself to remember how it had been, and why he had left her. She had believed that her insecurities would have flooded in and swallowed her whole; then she couldn't have allowed that. She'd had someone small and defenseless to take care of, who’d had to come first. Lisa would always come first for her.
Parenting was about sacrifice, right? She cajoled her aching chest.
A cool glass was pressed into her left hand, along with two painkillers in the other. Achingly slow, she tilted her head back, and placed the tablets between her dry lips, before her trembling hand carried the glass to them; she carefully swallowed the pills along with the lifesaving fluid.
"Thank you," she murmured to the stewardess, as the woman removed the glass that was dangerously close to falling from between her shaking, numb fingers.
Rochelle rested her head against the headrest, and closed her throbbing eyes, waiting on the pills to kick in, but instead of settling, her stomach rolled, and not long after, she had to fumble with her seatbelt to rush blindly to the bathroom. Thankfully, there was no one in the cubicle as she went to empty her stomach contents.
She pressed a cold palm to her forehead, as small flashes of red colored her vision. The two white specks that should have dissolved in her stomach, stared at her from the toilet, and she groaned. Flashes of memory had always left her weakened.
Pushing to her feet, she tidied herself and the area before slipping out to head back to her seat. For a second, before she resettled, she swore that she had seen a man retake his seat, but her temple was pounding too hard for her to even pay attention to anything.
With her stomach now settled, and the pressure behind her eyes slowly subsiding, Rochelle leaned back and forced herself into a light sleep.
✽✽✽
Carter reached over and slammed his fist against the alarm clock as it announced five a.m. boldly before starting a cheesy hip-hop single. A smile tugged at his lips as memories flooded in hard and fast. Turning his head without opening his eyes, he murmured, "Morning, agape mou."
Silence met him, and his brain quickly began turning as his eyes opened to take in the empty spot. A raw curse spilled from his lips, as he shot to a sitting position, the coldest of the bed barely registering. For without a doubt, he instantly knew that she had left him.
He reached his hand out to find out how long, and surmised that the bed was way too cold for her to have just left; even the stillness of the apartment was telling.
Another swear ripped from his gut, as his heart clenched behind his sternum. Grabbing his cell from the nightstand, he dialed Tyler.
"Boss?" The other man sounded as if he had been fast asleep.
Carter cringed when he heard their son scream in the background, and his wife swore. "Sorry, but I need to know if you had stationed someone to watch the apartment," he stated, somewhat anxiously.
"Yeah, Kwayne was supposed to communicate any movement to you. I know that he booked a flight to Jamaica around two a.m.; you can probably look for an update from him any minute now, or in about two hours," Tyler replied groggily.
Thanking him, Carter rang off and ran a hand through his hair. Rochelle had left him to return home again. With a devastated sigh, he ran a hand through his dark, wild curls a second time, before taking in the very room that he had claimed his one true love in, with one question knifing his brain: why had she run?
A pot banged in the kitchen, as a Spanish melody began traveling under the crack of the door, notifying Carter that his housekeeper had arrived. A few seconds after, a gentle, but firm knock, sounded on the bedroom door.
"Señor de Silva, your breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, and remember that you have a breakfast meeting with the senator in forty minutes!" She stated, her Spanish accent thick.
"Thank you, Rosa," he responded loud enough, as he rose and headed to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, he took a seat around the breakfast bar in a grey pinstriped suit coupled with a navy shirt. Rosa placed a steaming cup of coffee before him and a heaping plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. Muttering his thanks, he glanced at his cell, releasing another breath. If Kwayne didn't call him or email him soon, he was going to go crazy.
"Miguel will be at the front in five minutes to take you to the meeting, and I packed your other cell in your briefcase," she stated, and placed a bowl of diced fruits before him, causing him to forget his comment about the other phone. "Take that with you. I know how you get when you're in a meeting: you forget to eat."
A chuckle passed his lips, as she lectured him in their native language. Rising to his feet, he placed his plate and cup in the sink, before placing a swift kiss on her forehead. "What would I do without you, Rosa?" He laughed.
"Starve to death, and live in junk!" She called after him, intensifying his laughter, as he returned down the hall to retrieve his briefcase.
On his way out, he cracked one of the safes, and looked at the weapons that lined its interior. For a minute moment, he froze, as his eyes caught the pristine silver of the twins that he'd strapped when he'd first met and claimed Rochelle. He hadn't been able to wear them since; it was even taxing to clean them. But even now, with a hesitant hand, he reached beyond them, and grabbed the black handgun before allowing the safe to reseal and re-conceal itself behind a Madonna painting. Holstering the weapon, he grabbed the case and headed to the elevator.
Why did you run? He questioned internally, knowing he would be without a satisfying answer.
He took a cleansing breath, for after his meeting, he was going to find his woman. Her flight in the middle of the night would not deter him from getting answers.
✽✽✽
Slamming the door closed behind her, Rochelle placed her bag on the passenger side of the car just as her pager went off. Rummaging through the expensive material, she grabbed the pager and looked at it.
Call me.
A frown pleated her forehead at the message. Lisa only used the pager when she couldn't get through to her cell. Throwing the pager onto the seat, she set out to find the cell, but came up futile. Frowning, she concentrated, trying to remember where she'd last had the phone. A swear passed her lips as her memory seized her. She had left her cell on the kitchen counter in the apartment, and Lisa's picture was the background image. If Lisa called, then her picture came up, along with the title, 'My Daughter.'
Cold sweat instantly broke over her skin; there was no way Carter would miss her bright red cell.
Chapter Fifteen
“I feel that what was done in the dark will come to light. There are secrets everyone’s gonna find out about.”
—Tupac Shakur
CARTER DUG INTO HIS FRUIT bowl as the meeting progressed steadily.
"The shares in the telecommunication hub is sealed as of this morning," Morris stated, and relaxed in his executive chair across from Carter at the end of the long table.
Carter nodded in acknowledgment, before turning to his Italian top manager. "Carlos, what about the taking over of the vineyard in Italy?" He questioned. Carlos' lips tilted into a satisfied smirk.
"The deal has been sealed from last week, as a matter of fact—"
Carter raised an eyebrow as a cheesy hip-hop song began playing, shattering the businesslike atmosphere of the conference room. "Would someone like to tell me whose cell that is?" He demanded, shooting Martin a callous look when he chuckled.
"I think that's yours," he murmured, indicating to Carter's briefcase as it jingled and shook on top of the dark, glass table.
A frown pleated his forehead as he reached for the case, Rosa's words vaguely coming back to him. He plucked a cherry red, shiny cell from the front pocket of his case with a deeper frown until he remembered where he'd seen it before: Rochelle. The instant he flipped over the iPhone, his cell began vibrating, and he bit back a curse. Quickly retrieving his, he answered and pressed it to his ear as he flipped over Rochelle's cell. His eyes briefly grasped the words on the screen, before his chest tightened at the picture.
How had Rochelle gotten a picture of his baby sister?
His mind only vaguely registered that the little girl in the picture was much too old to be his baby sister before Spanish words sucked the life out of him. His dark features paled as the rushed words of his grandfather's doctor gripped him.
He couldn't recall what he'd said to Martin when he'd questioned if he was alright, all he remembered was telling his pilot to make it quick.
Now, thousands of feet in the air with Martin and Morris across from him, something hit him like a bolt of lightning. Retrieving the cellphone from his jacket pocket, he looked at the screensaver and swallowed shakily. "Morris, tell me you don't know about this," he whispered softly.
Morris must have missed the chill in his words, because he answered jokingly. "Your new love for shiny, red things?"
Carter stiffened, his spine snapping into place. "My fucking daughter!" He spat, and instantly saw guilt, but not regret, flash through his friend's eyes.
"I didn't want to cause you any more pain," Morris murmured, flinching, as he watched anguish conceal his friend's expression.
"I would've come back sooner," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"You couldn't have, Carter, and they might've targeted you there if you had. That's why I kept it from you," Morris replied.
"That was not your fucking job description. You were way out of line!" Carter snapped, anger darkening his already harsh features.
"Then whose job was it? The first thing you asked me to do when we pulled you from that wreckage was to protect her! That's exactly what I did, you asshole," Morris spat, and watched the anger in his friend’s expression begin to turn to grief.
"She had no idea that I had been flown to Spain as soon as they'd gotten me stabilized," he murmured, his words more a comment than a question, but Morris answered anyway.
"No. She was still deep in a coma; so were you."
Carter swore viciously, then placed his head in his hand before running his tanned fingers through his wild curls. "No wonder she hates me so much. She's even trying to protect our daughter from me," he spat, disgusted with himself as ever.
"I tried to reason with her—"
"But it was already too late," Carter finished for him, tersely. "I need to go for her now!" He stated firmly, rising to his feet, as if forgetting that he was on a plane more than halfway across the Atlantic.
Morris stood to block his path to the cockpit. "Your grandfather is in a critical condition, Carter. He could die within the next twelve hours," Morris snapped, placing his heavy hand on his friend's broad shoulder.
For a moment, the very green eyes darkened in anguish before the emotion was quickly masked. "Grandfather would understand," he stated tactfully, trying to convince himself, more than his friends.
"Are you forgetting that there's something he urgently wants to tell you before he goes- if it is his time?" Morris finished firmly, and Carter grumbled like a petulant child. "He said that he didn't want you to find out about this in the will," he reminded him resolutely.
Carter's frown deepened ever so slightly, but everyone could feel the intensity of his agitation. No one knew what will his grandfather was talking about, but it had curiosity gripping his stomach. His battered heart also ached from being torn between two of the people in his life that he loved the most. With defeat, he reclaimed his thick-cushioned, butter-leather seat, not happy with the choice that he was forced to make.
"That old man better be up to something good," he muttered under his breath.
✽✽✽
A gentle, but firm shake, dragged him from the recesses of his dream, where he'd been trying to reach out to Rochelle, but with every step closer, the darkness had begun swallowing her, until he could no longer see her, no longer find her. With a shaky breath, he opened his eyes to see the stewardess looking down on him.
"We've landed, Your Majesty."
With a dismissing nod, he removed the seatbelt that he vaguely remembered putting around himself before sleep had claimed him savagely. With wandering eyes, he searched for his devious friends and business partners, and found that they too had been held by the clutches of sleep. Currently, they were being summoned to Earth by the stewardess.
Fifteen minutes later, with bags cleared and stowed in the trunk of a state limo, the prince and his peers tore off to the royal hospital.
A shrilling sound pierced the vehicle's silence, as Carter's cell began ringing. Quickly, he retrieved it, briefly pausing to acknowledge the caller. His gut tightened when he saw that it was the hospital.
"De Silva."
A troubled, yet relieved sigh, traveled over the line to him. "Your grandfather has refused to undergo the surgery until you arrive; and the longer he takes to decide to allow us to enter his chest cavity, the less likely it is for him to awaken after the proced
ure," the older man murmured.
"I'm only five minutes away," Carter stated, flicking his sharp, green eyes to the police vehicles before the limo that were making a smooth, clear path for them to the hospital. "Will he hold until then?" He questioned, somewhat harshly, his jaws flexing as he struggled to contain his anger, along with a thousand other emotions.
"Barely," the man replied.
"If there is any sign of worsening before I get there, put him under," Carter ordered, but received utter silence. "Do I make myself clear, Dr. Rodriguez?" He demanded, his olive complexion darkening from anger.
"Crystal," the man muttered, and Carter severed the call, before throwing the phone upon the thick glass table that stood in the middle of the vehicle.
"I don't know what the fuck that man is thinking!" He hissed, following it with long streams of expletives between his native language, Spanish, and English.
"What's wrong?" Morris questioned, as soon as he calmed down.
"The fucking man is denying surgery- life-saving surgery- until I get there." Another string of expletives followed his terse statement.
"He's a fighter, Carter; he'll get by while we crawl there," Martin murmured dryly, bringing a smile to his friend's lips.
"That he is," Carter sighed. "That he is."
With skill and finesse, Carter’s trusty driver, Miguel, swung the limo into a parking space, and alighted out in order to open the door, but Carter was already reaching for it until a hand held him back. Carter looked back, and for the first time, realized that the head of his security team was in the limo, blending in with its black upholstery.
"You know that's not the procedure, Carter. Everyone might revere you, and the throne here, but you need to remember that whosoever had targeted you ten years ago, is still out there," Tyler stated firmly, and watched his boss's jaw muscles flex once more, his biceps tightening under Tyler's fingers. After a very tense fraction of a second, Carter nodded, allowing Tyler to precede him from the vehicle to briefly scan the area along with the other twin, Antwan, who had appeared from the crowd- half of which were journalists.
From A Harlot To A Princess Page 15