Braveheart, a love story

by Katy Regnery

  He stares hard at me before reaching behind his neck and taking the shirt off.

  My eyes slide down. To his lips. To his throat. To his chest. I lean forward and press my lips against his skin, humming softly with pleasure at the contact. His hands land on my hips, and he lifts me onto his lap so that I’m straddling his waist. As I dust his chest with kisses, he threads his hands through my hair. Under my lips, his heart races, his pulse beating against a million sense receptors and sending the message to my brain that this man, this beating heart, are under my control. At least for now.

  It’s a heady sensation, to know the full force of my womanhood for the first time, the power I can wield over the human being lying beneath me. For just a second, Tig’s face flashes through my mind, and I wonder if this is why she entertained so many men? Because her life felt so chaotic, but for the few minutes a man was lying beneath her, she was omnipotent?

  My thoughts scatter as another part of him throbs against another part of me. A different muscle against different lips. And suddenly I remember that no matter how powerful I feel, I am probably half Julian’s size. Whatever control I have, he is giving me. And by taking it, I’m trusting him not to turn the tables on me. That’s where decency and emotion enter this equation, I think. He is decent. And we are falling for each other.

  I raise my face and drop my lips to his, kissing him madly as he reaches for the hem of my shirt. He fists it in his hands, his question clear, despite the blinding distraction of our passionate kiss. I drop my hands to his and help him slide my shirt up. It swoops over my head and lands on the floor with a soft plop, leaving me clad only in my bra. His hands land on the clasp, and I tear my lips away from his to whisper, “Take it off.”

  It follows the same fate of my shirt—over my head, onto the floor—and Julian sits up, holding me tightly against him. I’m still astride his lap, my naked chest against his as his tongue slides against mine. I moan softly, arching my back, the hairs of his chest tickling my throbbing nipples. I reach for his face, my fingers digging into his cheeks as we kiss fiercely.

  Suddenly he flips us, and I’m on my back, his hips still nestled between my legs, and his breath catches as he thrusts gently against me, the hard zipper of his jeans clashing against mine. The pressure against the secret places between my thighs is glorious, and I cry out, biting his bottom lip as he pushes against me again.

  “Ashley,” he growls, jerking his head back, his tongue darting out to lick his bleeding lip.

  “Sorry,” I pant, my chest heaving into his. “I’m . . . so sorry.”

  His lips tilt up in a bemused smile, his eyes gentle as he reaches up to cradle my face. “You’ve never done this before.”

  This isn’t a remark about my skill. It’s said with wonder, with awe, even. It’s a realization that experience is unnecessary when chemistry is perfect. And ours is off the charts.

  “Neither have you,” I say, taking a chance that the way we feel about each other is as unique for him as it is for me.

  “No, I haven’t. Not like this. Not with someone like you.” He chuckles softly, leaning down to kiss me softly before rolling onto his side. “But I think we should pause here.”

  Like a petulant child, I want to demand, Why? But I already know the answer. Because too much, too fast, leads to regret.

  He gathers me against him—my back against his chest and his arm slung protectively around me, resting under my breasts. His breath is warm near my ear when he whispers, “Try to get some sleep.”

  His erection presses against my bottom, which I like. It makes me feel uncharacteristically sassy. “You try.”

  He laughs again—just a soft rumble of amusement—and the sound makes me smile. “Doudou baby, don’t tempt me.”

  Unbelievably, after the horrific day I’ve had, this makes me smile, and I fall asleep feeling something I have always longed to feel . . . safe.

  For the first time in my life, and against all odds,

  I feel safe.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ashley

  We sit in the living room, where I have laid out a simple breakfast of fresh-baked strawberry scones, hot coffee, cream, and sugar. It’s not fancy, but I want to be useful while these men—Julian, Gus, Jock, and Special Agent Simmons—discuss my fate and the best way to save me from Mosier’s clutches. And frankly I don’t know how to be helpful to them. I feel young and vulnerable and, therefore, endlessly grateful that they are interested in protecting me at all.

  I sit on the couch between Julian and Gus, while Jock and Simmons sit in the wingback chairs across from us.

  “Shall we get down to it?” says Agent Simmons, wiping his mouth before placing his empty cake plate on the coffee table. “Great scone, by the way.”

  He has reddish-blond hair with gray streaks at his temples and a smattering of freckles across his nose, and he wears a wedding ring on his left hand. I’m not good at guessing ages, but I’d place his somewhere between thirty and forty.

  Jock nods. “Let’s get Julian and Ashley up to date.”

  Agent Simmons clears his throat before speaking. “The bureau’s been tracking Răumann for years. We know that he’s into nefarious dealings—trafficking and smuggling mostly. He brings weapons in from Russia and the Middle East via his contacts in Moldova, Romania, and Bulgaria. With over ninety percent of the world’s opiates now originating in Afghanistan, Răumann’s overseas operations in Eastern Europe are strategically placed. We suspect that a fair amount of the heroin in New York is being imported and distributed via the Răumann family and its associates.” He grimaces. “This is in addition to human trafficking—stealing children from smaller ethnic groups in Albania and Romania and bringing them to the States to work in the sex trade. Of the estimated 4,000 children being exploited in New York, we suspect a significant percentage were smuggled in by someone in Răumann’s network.”

  My stomach churns as I listen to Agent Simmons speak, remembering the princess room prepared for me at Mosier’s compound and the luxurious suite of rooms where my mother lived. Beautiful things purchased from the terrible suffering of others. I knew he was a bad person, but I had no idea how bad. Suddenly I hate it that I ate his food, washed my body in his shower, and slept in his house. I was a child, of course, not complicit in Mosier’s business dealings, but right this second, it makes me feel sick that I ever accepted anything from him.

  “Stop,” I say. “Please.”

  Simmons sighs, looking slightly annoyed. “Miss Ellis, I’m sorry if this information is troubling, I truly am. But you need to know who he is.”

  “I do know,” I say. I know better than anyone here what he is capable of.

  “Let’s move on,” suggests Jock. “Tell them what you told me this morning.”

  “Right,” says Simmons, looking at me. “I troll the dark web for chatter. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Dark web? No.”

  His lips twitch. “Think of it as a layer beneath the internet.”

  To be frank, I have very limited knowledge of the regular internet, but I nod for him to continue.

  “People can use it anonymously. Post messages. Send out feelers for information. Buy weapons. Sell drugs. Think of it as this huge bazaar where there are endless stalls, and in each one, you can buy or sell anything: people, children, weapons, drugs. No laws, no rules.”

  “She gets it,” says Julian sharply from beside me, taking my hand in his. I’m grateful for the comfort of his warm, strong hand enveloping mine. “What did you find?”

  “He’s looking for her. Răumann has been sending out feelers since last night. Her picture, her description, and a bounty of $100,000 dollars for information that leads to her whereabouts.”

  “He’s hunting her,” says Julian, squeezing my fingers.

  “Yes,” says Simmons. “Actively. Aggressively.”

  Jock clears his throat. “Ashley, tell us about leaving school. Tell us every detail until Gigi and I picked you up
in Charlotte.”

  I tell them about the woman who woke me up when the train stopped in Westport, about the conductor who called me a bitch, about the taxi driver who noted my good manners, and about the ticket seller at the Charlotte ferry who recognized me.

  Simmons shakes his head with a grim expression. “I remember your sister. Her face is memorable, and you look just like her. That’s at least four people who could remember you. And frankly, Miss Ellis, there are probably countless others who didn’t make an impression on you, but on whom you made an impression.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means he’ll find you,” says Simmons, not mincing words. “I don’t know when, but I’d estimate you’ve got less than two weeks before he shows up in Charlotte looking for you.” He glances at Jock, then at Gus. “Your name is Gus Egér? That’s your official name? Your legal name?”

  “No. It’s, uh, Augustus Edgerton,” he says.

  I look askance at Gus, my eyes wide, because I really thought I knew everything about him. “Edgerton?”

  He shrugs. “Egér sounds better, baby doll.”

  Simmons asks, “Is your home owned by Egér or Edgerton?”

  “It was mine before we met,” says Jock. “It’s still under my name only.”

  “That’s good. What about the gallery?” asks Simmons. “Is it registered under Egér or Edgerton?”

  “Edgerton,” says Gus.

  “That could buy a bit of time,” says Simmons, “but not much. Once Răumann figures out that Gus Egér and Augustus Edgerton are the same person, Ashley’s one step away.” Simmons glances at Jock. “You two should leave town. Go on vacation. Stay away until this is sorted out.”

  “No!” says Gus, putting his arm around me.

  Jock clears his throat. “Gus, honey—”

  “Don’t you honey me, Mr. Mishkin. I’m not leaving Ash! How can you even suggest that?”

  “Because I love you,” Jock says simply. “Because if a priest is expendable, you’re less than expendable. And I can’t lose you, baby. I won’t.”

  My heart thunders as I look at Gus. Be brave, Ashley. Be brave. “Gus-Gus. You need to do what Jock says. If he says you need to go, you need to go.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Gus says.

  Simmons interjects. “You should. It’s stupid to stay.”

  “Excuse me,” says Jock, flicking a furious glance at the agent, “but that’s not necess—”

  “You know,” says Gus, interrupting Jock as he turns to Simmons, his brown eyes flashing with irritation, “you show up here last night, ordering us around, telling us we need to shut down the galleries. Now you’re telling me that I need to leave my goddaughter—”

  “Do you want a way out of this or not?” Simmons demands. “Do you want to help her or not? Because I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels here.”

  “Do you have a plan?” I ask, turning away from Gus and staring at the FBI agent.

  “I do.”

  “And do you think it will work?”

  He tilts his head for a second, then straightens it and grimaces. “I think it’s your best chance.”

  “Then tell us what it is.”

  “Ash, honey—”

  “Gus!” I cry. “We need help! We need to listen to him!”

  His face is stoic and hurt as he stares back at me. “Fine.”

  “Tell us the plan, Simmons,” says Julian, sitting forward on the couch, still holding my hand in his.

  “Jock and Gus close their galleries and leave town. Get away from here. Somewhere obscure. Somewhere inconvenient.” He looks at Jock, who nods, avoiding his partner’s exasperated gasp from across the room. “I’ll move into the barn. Ducharmes,” he says, looking up at Julian, “I understand you were Secret Service?”

  “I was.”

  “I read your file.”

  Julian grunts softly.

  “I wasn’t impressed.”

  “It’s in the past,” says Julian, his body tense beside mine.

  “Is it? Can you stick with the plan this time?” asks Simmons, his tone intentional and tinged with doubt. “Or will you get distracted?”

  I slide my eyes to Julian, wondering yet again why this man, whose dream was to be a Secret Service agent, ended up losing his job.

  “Yes, I can stick with the plan,” growls Julian. “I learned my lesson. You can count on me.”

  “I hope so,” says Simmons, “because we’re using Ashley as bait. I’ll be staying in the barn, watching surveillance of the galleries and the house. I’ll know when he makes his move and when he’s getting closer. You stick to her like glue. Together we’ll trap him.”

  “Done,” says Julian, his tone grave.

  “It’s a matter of days, a week or two, tops, before Răumann tracks Ashley to Shelburne and Shelburne to Gus. When he does, he’ll send men to the galleries looking for Gus, to press him for information about Ashley’s whereabouts. We’ll plant the location of this house in Gus’s desk, and then we’ll wait. If I know Răumann, and I do, he’ll come for Ashley himself. This is personal to him so he won’t pawn off the job on some lackey. He’ll come. And when he tries to take her, we’ll arrest him for attempted kidnapping. With Ashley’s additional testimony about Dragomir Lungu, we should be able to file a murder charge too. We’ll subpoena his employee and financial records. Once we have them in hand, we’ll get a search warrant for his Westchester property. We’ll nail him and his entire operation. He’ll go away for life. His sons too. And since Răumann never trusted anyone besides his sons with the entire operation—unlike other organized crime bosses, Răumann has no lieutenants-in-waiting—the business will collapse.” He’s excited, his eyes shining, when he finishes laying out his plan. Looking around the room at the four of us makes him calm down a little, and his shoulders relax. “But Ashley’s the key. Ashley makes it personal. He’ll come for her.”

  “I don’t like it,” says Gus, but Julian’s voice is stronger: “If it works, it’s worth it.”

  Jock leans forward, staring at Julian, searching his face. “Can you protect her? Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” says Julian. “With my life, if it comes to that.”

  “Okay, then.” Cocking his head, Jock gives Gus a loving look. “It’s the only way, Gigi.”

  “What happens to Ash after that?” asks Gus. “As long as her stepmonster’s alive, he’ll still come after her!”

  “From jail?” I ask.

  “It’s possible.” Simmons grimaces. “She can go into the program.”

  “Witness Security?” asks Julian.

  “Yeah,” says Simmons. “It’s the only way to guarantee her safety.”

  I gulp. “So I’ll have to leave? Leave here?”

  Leave Julian and Gus and Jock? Leave this wonderful place? Start over somewhere totally unknown and utterly alone?

  “I’m afraid so,” says the agent. “Or you can take your chances here, of course. We can’t force you to go anywhere. But if he puts out a hit on you, you’ll be a sitting duck here. Good luck.”

  I inhale shakily, all my dreams about staying here and making a life here disappearing with a pitiless poof.

  “There’s no other way?” I ask. “No way I can stay here? Afterward?”

  “Remember when I said that you make this personal for Răumann? It’s possible, even from prison, that he won’t be able to let you go, to imagine you with someone else,” says Simmons. “He may prefer you dead.”

  Jock huffs softly. “Come on, Simmons.”

  “You want me to sugarcoat it for her?” asks the agent, nailing Jock with an impatient look. He turns back to me. “Like it or not, Witness Security will be the best way to keep you safe for the long term. But it’s up to you.”

  “She’ll go into the program,” says Gus softly. “Won’t you, baby?”

  I lift my eyes to Gus, but I can’t see him because my eyes are swimming with tears. I just got him back, and I’m about to lose him again? And
what about Julian? Will I ever see him again after all of this is over?

  But here is the thing about being out of options: you do what you have to do. And I have no choices left. My grandparents are gone. My mother is dead. My confessor is dead. My dearest friend is in danger. A madman will stop at nothing to get to me. Here and now is the end of the line, and just as I suspected, it doesn’t include a happy ending.

  But at least I’ll be free.

  “I’ll go,” I whisper, slipping my hand from Julian’s so that I can swipe at my eyes.

  “Then that’s settled,” says Agent Simmons, leaning forward to grab another scone like the entire course of my life wasn’t just altered forever.

  Gus stands up. “Well, I’m hella upset. I’ma need a stiff drink.”

  Jock stands too, looking down at the agent. “This better work, Simmons.”

  “I’m confident it will,” he says between bites of scone. “Hey! Are you two fly fishermen by any chance?”

  “Do we look like fly fishermen?” asks Jock, who is wearing a silk cravat with a tailored button-down shirt and charcoal-gray trousers.

  “No. No, not really,” says Simmons with a shrug. “But Montana is the shit this time of year, you know. Salmon up the ying yang.”

  “Great tip,” mutters Jock, shaking his head as he heads into the kitchen.

  Simmons finishes his scone with a satisfied groan, then turns to me and Julian, and grins like we’re old friends. “So. Who wants to give me the nickel tour?”

  ***

  Julian

  Though I’m glad he’s here and I appreciate his quirky confidence, I’m not a big fan of Special Agent Simmons.

  Besides having zero bedside manner and scaring the shit out of both Ashley and Gus this morning, he spent the afternoon rearranging my barn as his new office. He’s had technicians install cameras at both gallery locations, and a live feed is being sent to a computer monitor he set up in the barn. Four more cameras are being installed here at Jock’s house, and he’ll be monitoring those too.