“Yes, sir?” she answered from the doorway of his office.
“Rachel, this envelope,” he said, holding it out in front of him. “Who put it on my desk?”
“I did, sir.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes at her. “And who gave it to you?”
“A gentleman came in early this morning, around 7:30 a.m. with the envelope. He told me that it was important and to make sure that you received it. I didn’t want to misplace it . . . so I put it on your desk.”
“The man who gave it to you, what did he look like?” Nicholas asked, fighting inwardly to maintain patience with the woman.
“Uh . . . he was tall and thin,” Rachel said, growing nervous. “Is everything okay, Mr. Elliot.”
“His face . . . what did he look like in the face?” he probed, ignoring her question.
“Um, I didn’t get a good look at his face . . . he had on a black windbreaker face mask.”
Nicholas’ eyes darkened, his bright greys metamorphosing into a stormy overcast. “Did he say anything else when he gave you the envelope?”
“No, sir. Only that it was important that I give it to you. Is everything okay?” Rachel asked again, worriedly.
“Contact security and have them review the surveillance footage between the hours of seven and eight this morning. I want the images of the man who dropped off this envelope emailed to me within the hour,” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Rachel answered, hurrying off.
“Shit!” he cursed bitterly, tossing the envelope onto his desk. It was only then that he saw the word soon scribbled on the back. “Soon,” Nicholas read the word, his voice hard, and not his own. Leaning forward he pressed his clenched fists against the dark mahogany, making futile attempts at calming his temper, but his fury refused to be tamed. He felt crazed at the possibility of those images getting into the wrong hands, at the thought of Charlotte seeing them. Inhaling deeply, Nicholas closed his eyes to the notion, refusing to allow his mind to even consider the possibility of Charlotte finding out about Blithe. Without intention, his dark gaze drifted back to the written promise. Soon. Soon. Soon. His subconscious growled at him, mockingly, provokingly until something dangerous inside him snapped. With one quick motion Nicholas flipped over his desk, the force behind the movement causing his computer to fly across the room, hitting the floor with a violent thud. Dragging a shaking hand down his face, he cursed again, his breath coming out in labored spurts. “I can’t lose you, Dimple,” he whispered the understanding to himself. “I can’t lose you.”
Chapter Fifteen
“AH-GAA,” Charlotte groaned aloud. Rising from the comfort of her mattress she reached over Nicholas’ sleeping body for her cell phone. The small device vibrated loudly on her nightstand, the sound assaulting her senses until she finally gave in and answered it. “Hello,” she murmured, her voice groggy.
“Charli!” Adeline yelled into the phone, frantic.
Glancing at her alarm clock, Charlotte sighed softly. 2:47a.m. “Adie, what’s wrong?”
“Babet descendit les escaliers. Nous sommes à l'hôpital. C'est sa jambe. Le docteur a déclaré que c'était une fracture ouverte parce que son os était traversé sa peau. L'os du fémur,’’ she said through sobs. Babet fell down the stairs. We're at the hospital. It ‘s her leg. The doctor said it’s an open fracture because her bone came through her skin. The femur bone.
Charlotte gasped in the dark room, the sound labored in her chest. “Quelle? Est-ce qu'elle va bien ? What ? Is she okay ?
“Non, elle doit faire une opération chirurgicale.” No, she has to get surgery.
“Je serai là dans quelques heures. Arrête de pleurer. Tout ira bien.” I’ll be there in a few hours. Stop crying. Everything is going to be okay.
“Tu arrives, Charli?” Adeline cried, her tone heavy. You’re coming, Charli?
Oui, Adie. Je serai là dès que je pourrai.” I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Chapter Sixteen
It had been a little over a week since Charlotte had arrived in Baltimore, and while the circumstances for her visit hadn’t been ideal she was enjoying her time there. The tension that clouded her last visit had exhausted itself, and for the first time in a long time she felt like she was at home. It was a good feeling, she acknowledged. Even with Marguerite moving back into their parents’ home, and having to wake up to her estranged sister’s forlorn disposition every morning hadn’t put a damper on her mood. Finally, she had a peace- of- mind when it came to the other woman, and what had been done to her.
Laying on her bed, Charlotte scrolled through pictures of her and Nicholas on her cell phone. Pictures of them laying lazily in each other’s arms, pictures of them making duck faces at the camera, of them kissing and laughing. She had missed him tremendously. It was the longest they had been apart in the two years that they had known each other, and it was beginning to hurt like hell. Exiting out of her photos she went to her messages, frowning when she’d seen that he still hadn’t texted her. It had been two days since she’d last heard his voice, and while he did send her messages throughout the day, they seemed too structured, too planned out, like he had set a reminder for his phone to send out prewritten messages out of sheer duty. Like clockwork she received daily texts reading, “How are you . . . enjoy your day . . . hope all is well . . .” nothing showing that he missed her, nothing worth opening. Charlotte pouted, sulking inwardly at the thought. When she had left for Baltimore to take care of her mother, Nicholas had been beyond supportive. Without thought he gave her his car insisting that she drive instead of flying out, knowing that she’d want her own means of transportation once she’d arrived. And once she had settled in and unpacked she’d even found a credit card in her suitcase with a posted note attached reading, For whatever you need, no limitations. Still, even with all that, her subconscious screamed at her . . . something wasn’t right. It wasn’t like him to not invest his time into her. Knowing Nicholas, there was no way that he wasn’t going crazy with missing her. They had been attached at the hip since they had made their relationship official two months earlier, practically lived together, barely ever apart. Yet, when she had told him that she would have to go away for a few days he almost seemed relieved at the thought of her leaving, and even insisted that she stay in Baltimore longer than what she had originally intended, and now when she was gone, they barely spoke. Sighing, Charlotte slammed her phone down beside her. Yes, something is definitely wrong, she assumed. But what? She wondered how work had been for him. Her last few days in the office had been quiet enough. No one had treated her any differently, no one called attention to the conversation between her and Penelope. Either the other woman had kept her mouth shut, or her colleagues had finally lost interest in her personal life. Whichever the case, she was grateful.
“Charli!” Babet called from her bedroom. “Charli! J’ai besoin de ton aide.” Charli! I need you.
Crawling off her bed Charlotte made her way toward her parents’ room, grateful for the interruption of her paranoid thoughts. “What’s wrong, maman?” she asked from the door way. “Are you hungry?”
“Non. Je suis seul. Viens me tenir compagnie.” No. I’m lonely. Come keep me company.
“Aish,” Charlotte groaned, walking into the room. “Lonely? You’ve been surrounded by people all day. You refuse to give me a moment’s peace while I’m here,” she complained, forging irritation.
Babet smiled at her daughter’s hard words, knowing that she didn’t mean them. “You’re never home, and so I’m going to take full advantage of the time that I have with you.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
Climbing onto the bed Charlotte laid down beside her mother, her head resting on the older woman’s breasts, an old habit that instantly cured her anxiety. “Mère. Quelle est votre maladie? être honnête avec moi.” Mother. How bad is your illness? Be honest with me.
“Pas mal.” Not bad.
“Mother,” Cha
rlotte protested, not believing her, but not wanting to force the truth from her either. Her mother was a proud woman, and being diagnosed with a degenerative disease must have been a difficult pill to swallow. Absentmindedly, Charlotte stroked her thin fingers along her mother’s forearm, her eyes closing on their own volition.
“Charlotte,” Babet spoke her name softly.
“Hm,” Charlotte cooed, half asleep.
“Vous avez été fort sur mon esprit ces derniers temps. Je ne sais pas ce que cela signifie, et j'ai prié pour la protection de Dieu sur vous. Promets-moi que tu feras attention.” You've been heavy on my spirit lately. I don’t know what it means, and I've been praying hard for God's protection over you. Promise me that you’ll be careful.
“Mmhm. Je promets.” I promise.
Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas rounded the punching bag, skillfully hitting the heavy weight as it swung toward him, the sound violent in the calmness of the room. One. Two. Three hits, all made in the same rhythm, waiting, watching, swinging. Gripping the boxing bag between his forearms, he squeezed, forcefully flexing his firm muscles against the weight and then pushed forward, forcing the black sack away from him only to begin again. It felt like ages since he’d last hit the punching bag, a pastime that he’d thoroughly enjoyed. But being that he hardly ever stayed home anymore, it had become a leisure that he’d rarely thought about. Since returning from the Hamptons, Nicholas had practically moved into Charlotte’s apartment, only returning to his condo to occasionally check his mail and pick up extra clothes, and while it had only been two months since they had gotten together, the sudden space between them had been difficult. He missed her, missed everything about her . . . her smile . . . her laugh . . . her smell . . . her lips, her voice, everything. Frustrated, Nicholas threw double jab after double jab until his arms began to tighten from fatigue. Though he had missed her, the time that she spent away in Baltimore was necessary. In her absence, he had utilized his means to figure out who was blackmailing him, but to no avail . . . he hadn’t made any leads. The security tape offered little assistance, only showing a blurred image of a man in a black windbreaker mask and nothing more. Stopping the bag in midair, Nicholas rested his forehead against it as sweat dripped steadily down his hard body. Taking a long breath, he backed away from the punching bag ready to begin again when the sudden buzzing from his cellphone alerted him of a message. Walking over to the pub table where his phone lay idly, Nicholas picked up the device and with quick fingers unlocked the screen in hopes that it was Charlotte reaching out to him.
Unknown Number: LeBlanc @ 5:30p.m. Be there, and come alone.
Nicholas scowled, his mouth becoming a thin line as he typed, “Who is this?” When there was no response he glanced down at his watch, frustrated. 5:04p.m. Quickly making his way to his bedroom he rummaged through his chest pulling out a grey long sleeve polo and a pair of denim washed jeans. Meeting up with the stranger who was potentially behind the blackmail probably wasn’t the smartest decision, still, it was a meeting that was going to take place. Even if his life depended on it, and it just might, he’d find a resolution, of that he was certain.
***
LeBlanc was an upscale restaurant located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan not two blocks from Nicholas’ loft in Lenox Hill. Hailing a cab in his neighborhood had been easy, but the woes of being stuck in rush hour traffic hadn’t escaped him. Glancing down at his watch he let out a breath of frustration. 5:21p.m. “Hey, just let me out right here,” he said to the cab driver, handing the man two twenties before opening the back door.
“Wait, your change,” the older Middle Eastern man shouted over the loud sounds of horns and car engines.
Nicholas climbed out of the car, his left hand wrapped firmly around the manila envelope he had received a few weeks prior. “Keep it,” he uttered, and then he was off, running in between stilled cars, quickly making his way to the sidewalk. Sprinting down 5th avenue between E. 64th street Nicholas turned right on 65th, his pace steady until he reached the Industrial Modern establishment. The exterior was simply large windows exposing the dim lit dining room, and rustic décor. Impatiently waiting for the door man to move aside, he glanced down at his watch once more. 5:28p.m.
“Will you be needing valet this evening, sir?” the short stout man asked him.
“No, but I’m in a hurry . . . could you open the door please?”
“Oh! My apologies,” the door man smiled, opening the tall glass door, and hurriedly moving out of the way.
Once inside Nicholas scanned the large dining room, not knowing who to look for, his eyes heavy with intensity. Turning his head to his left, and then his right he took a step further into the dim lit room, despising the feeling of anxiousness crawling down his spine.
“Mr. Elliot, sir,” spoke the host from just behind him. “Your dinner guest is waiting for you in our VIP room. Please follow me.”
Nicholas’ brows drew together in agitation. Following a few feet behind the waiter he continued to scan the large dining room, his breathing growing more rigid with every step he took. Exiting the main dining area, the shorter man turned left, pausing just outside a wide glass door as he patiently waited for Nicholas to catch up to him. “Just inside here,” he said, gesturing toward the door.
“How did you know my name?” Nicholas asked, his expression serious.
The host pulled a small picture from his pocket and handed it to him. “The gentleman waiting for you gave it to me. Your name is on the back.”
Nicholas stared down at the picture of himself shrewdly before turning it over to see his name scribbled on the back in what looked to be a familiar calligraphy. Shoving the small piece of paper into his jean pocket he moved past the other man, pushing through the glass door with more vigor than he had intended. Once inside, Nicholas frowned, the empty tables filling the center of the room caused heat to spread through his alert body, irritation a living, breathing entity. What the hell is going on, he wondered, angrily.
“You still have an ugly temper,” came a hard voice from the left of him.
Nicholas turned then, his silver eyes squinting to see the figure in the dark corner, but to no avail. With long strides, he made his way over to the stranger, stopping just short of the small square table when the man’s image became clear. “You,” Nicholas said, his voice low. “I should have known that it was you,” he laughed bitterly, throwing the envelope that held the shredded pictures of that awful night in Dean Proctor’s sunken face. Nicholas’ heated gaze drifted over the other man. He was thinner than what he’d remembered, thinner and paler, his facial hair wild and unkept, his hair long and untamed. He reminded Nicholas of a withered plant that was slowly fading away from lack of sunlight.
Dean ignored the assault, his gaze on Nicholas as the manila file fell to the floor. “Have a seat, Mr. Elliot,” he smiled, gesturing toward the wooden chair across from him. “We have plenty to discuss, and time is not on your side.”
Nicholas stared at the other man, his most practiced poker face intact. Silently he assessed Dean’s words. Does he know that Charlotte and I are together? No. When I fired him, there was only speculation that we were involved . . . he had no proof. And the pictures are only from the night of the New Year’s party targeting me and Blithe . . . what’s the possibility of him knowing that Charlotte was there too? There’s a chance that he doesn’t know about Charlotte being there at all. And even if he does know that Charlotte was there, who’s to say that we weren’t spending the holiday together as friends? I have to make him believe that the pictures are irrelevant . . . that he has nothing to stand on.
After a long moment Nicholas laughed again, this time the sound was light, airy. “This is what you’ve been reduced to . . . lurking in shadows and photographing private moments. I’ve known you to be many things, but I didn’t know pervert was one of them.”
“I’m not a pervert,” Dean defended.
“You’re pathetic. How exactly do you
think this is going to play out? You show people the pictures, and my private business is put on display for a few days? So, what? Who cares? It wouldn’t be the first time someone of my stature got caught having sex, and it won’t be the last. Sure, it’ll be entertaining for a second and people will comment about how indecent it was to behave in such a manner, but that’s the bounds of what your blackmail will accomplish. And even after all that I will still be Nicholas Elliot, multimillionaire, inheritor of Plotus Cosmetics, a billion- dollar enterprise, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”
Dean stared up at Nicholas straight faced, his thin lips pressed tightly together. Readjusting his weight in the hard chair, Dean removed his hands from the table allowing them to fall idly to his sides. Letting out a low breath of protest he opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it once more, his voice failing him.
Resolve. Finally. Nicholas thought, taking the man’s silence as a quick victory. “So, go ahead, sell those pictures to the highest bidder, and make a small profit for your troubles because by the time I’m finished with you− charges for stalking, trespassing on private property, and blackmail will be the least of your worries,” Nicholas continued, needing for this nightmare to be over once and for all.
Dean shook his head defiantly, a slow smile softening his expression. It was a grotesque sight to behold. “Have a seat,” he repeated, un-swayed by Nicholas’ threats.
“You’ve always been one to take my kindness for weakness. Last chance. This is all I’m giving you, one last chance to walk away, and stop wasting my time with pitiful games,” Nicholas said.
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