After a while of perusing the shelves, my attention snagged on a copy of Brent 29.
I pulled out the worn paperback and flicked through the pages. Patel had underlined sentences in ink. The horror! I shook my head at the defacement but smirked. He’d underlined all the lines I’d highlighted in my e-reader edition.
The book was a runaway bestseller last year by a mysterious author called Griffin Stone. He didn’t share his photo, no one really knew who he was, but it didn’t seem to matter because the guy had sold over two million copies of his book. It was about a man, Charlie Brent, who was wrongfully imprisoned for the death of his son. His young wife, Una, worked relentlessly to have him exonerated and succeeded, but it took her and the lawyer almost seven years. By then, Charlie had been badly affected by everything that happened to him and others while he was in prison, and he convinced Una to go on a devastating journey to find the man who’d killed their son. Through everything that happened to them, the couple’s bond and faith in each other was unshakeable.
The book didn’t have a happy ending.
I cried when I finished it. Not just because Charlie sacrificed himself for justice (or was it vengeance? It was up to the reader to decide) and left Una on her own, but because the story was chillingly relatable. Moreover, the writing style reminded me of Jamie McKenna’s.
The boy I’d loved.
My phone buzzed in the ass pocket of my jeans, making me jolt, my heart racing a little. Pulling it out, shaking off my memories, I opened a text from Asher.
Hang in there. I’m on my way.
He knew me so well.
I’m hiding in the library, I texted back.
My phone buzzed again.
You’re adorable.
Chuckling, I shook my head and put my phone back in my pocket. Asher didn’t mind the parties and the glamor. He grew up in the Hollywood environment and was far better suited to faking his way through it.
Putting Brent 29 back on the shelf, I ran my fingers along the walnut cases as I studied Patel’s collection. He’d shelved the books by genre, then alphabetically. When I found a bookcase of mixed genres and authors, I frowned. Why was this case unorganized? Reaching up for a book by Stephen King, I flipped it open and grew still at the sight of the scrawl across the title page.
It was signed.
My attention caught on a pristine hardback copy of Brent 29, just a few books along from where the Stephen King book sat.
Putting the Stephen King title back, I reached for Griffin Stone’s instead. Sure enough, the pristine copy was signed. I traced my finger over the autograph, liking the way his G and S stood out in big, attractive loops in comparison to the brutal stiffness of the rest of the letters. I wondered how Patel got a signed copy.
And not for the first time, I wondered what Stone was like.
I felt strangely connected to his book.
I enjoyed his ability to make me care for a deeply flawed character like Charlie and a determined, loyal woman like Una, even though she followed love into chaos.
A shuffling noise behind me drew my attention over my shoulder and—
My heart stopped.
A man stood in the doorway.
There was something incredibly familiar about him.
As his face began to make sense, a cold sweat prickled my body as though I’d stepped into a shower of ice water.
“Jamie?” I breathed.
He glared at me with Jamie McKenna’s face. Older, harder, scruff covering his angular jaw. His hair was a little darker, too, but I’d know that moody brow and those soulful eyes anywhere. The book slipped from my fingers, making a soft thump against the hardwood. I took a step toward him. “Jamie?”
He moved swiftly from the doorway, disappearing down the hall.
No!
Heart pounding so hard all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, I hurried after him, hitting my leg on a goddamn coffee table in my rush to keep up. Bursting out of the library, I turned right down the hall, but he was gone.
“No, no, no,” I whispered, frantic, tears burning in my eyes.
I searched the house from top to bottom, all thoughts of Patel’s privacy overshadowed by the blast from the past I’d just seen.
Yet … there was no Jamie.
Stepping into the huge entrance hall where the floating stairs led down to the first floor, I gazed into the crowded sitting room and tried to make sense of what had just happened.
Had I imagined that Jamie McKenna, love of my life, had somehow appeared at a party in the Hollywood Hills? Wasn’t he supposed to be on the East Coast?
Trying to breathe through the panic tightening my chest, my cheeks tingled as everything around me began to feel very far away.
I was having an anxiety attack.
Stumbling toward the staircase, I slumped onto the second step as I let the sensation move through me. It took a while for the chest pressure to alleviate, for the faraway feeling to fade, and for the noise of the party to return. Exhausted, I pressed my hands to my forehead and waited. I knew if I got up, it would be on trembling limbs. Nausea always accompanied my anxiety attacks, so I needed a minute to compose myself or I would eject the hors d’oeuvres I’d just eaten.
Releasing a shaky breath, I chastised myself. After the last time I’d visited Jamie in prison, the doc wanted to put me on antianxiety medication, but there was no way. I did not have good memories associated with those meds. Instead, I fought my way through the anxiety and depression and thankfully made it to the other side.
I hadn’t felt anxious in a long while, and I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in an even longer while.
Fuck.
That goddamn book. It reminded me of Jamie. It was making me see things that weren’t there. Shit.
“Okay, I did not expect to find you like this.” Asher’s soft voice brought my head up.
He was there. Lowered to his haunches in front of me, concern creasing his brow.
Relieved to see him, I reached out a shaky hand and he drew it against his chest. I felt his slow, steady heartbeat and relaxed a little. God, I loved him.
“Anxiety attack,” I admitted.
“Honey.” He gave me a commiserating look and pulled me to my feet. Anxiety was something we unfortunately shared. He got it. I cuddled into his strong chest as he wrapped his arms around me. “You want to go?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m just so tired now.”
“Do you want to tell Patel you’re leaving?”
“No. Let’s just go.” I knew it was rude, but I was probably pale and shaken, and truthfully, I didn’t think he’d notice his art director’s absence.
“What brought it on?” Asher asked as we walked out of the house. There was a cool evening breeze, welcome against my clammy skin. Parked cars lined the drive and two valet guys sat drinking coffee near the end of the driveway at a pop-up table. Since Asher’s car was parked near the gates, he hadn’t surrendered a key fob. Not that he could or would.
Asher drove a Rimac Concept Two. The hypercar was fully electric, combining Asher’s eco-heart with his love for horsepower. I waited as the $2 million car scanned his face with its facial recognition software. The doors opened upward, like the Batmobile.
I’d never get used to Asher’s wealth, no matter how hard he tried to insinuate me into almost every aspect of his life.
Sliding into the tan, leather passenger seat, I didn’t speak until the doors closed. “I think I’m just exhausted,” I lied. “We’ve been working flat out.”
I didn’t want to tell Asher about hallucinating Jamie. I didn’t want him to suggest, for the thousandth time, that I see a therapist.
My best friend studied me, and I squirmed beneath his dark gaze. I hated lying to him. Those chocolate-brown eyes were so kind and warm, it felt evil to deceive him.
“You’re doing a great job, Jane. No one is questioning how you got promoted. It’s not about me—it’s about how good you are at this job.”
I gave
him a grateful smile. He was the only one in my life who still called me Jane. To everyone else, I was Margot. I thought I could shed the name Jane easily. However, when our connection deepened, I realized how much I missed just being Jane and had asked Asher to call me by that name. He and Cassie, my friend from college, were the only people who did. It might have been confusing for some people, but not for me. There was still a part of me that wanted to hold on to a piece of the girl I used to be.
As the car reversed out of the driveway, barely making a sound, I forced my tired eyes to stay open.
“Anything on Foster?” I asked.
I hadn’t asked in a while. But hallucinating Jamie tugged at my guilty conscience.
“I can’t get Lisa to talk.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “He’s paid her off. Like he has the last few. And they’re too scared he’ll ruin their careers. I have to be careful too. If Foster discovers I’m investigating him, it’s all over.”
My chest ached with sadness while bitter helplessness burned my throat. “Maybe it’s time I went in.”
“No,” Asher snapped. “We will not have this conversation again.”
At my dejected silence, he sighed. “Jane, a honey trap is too dangerous. And who’s to say whatever you discover would stand up in court? Worst-case scenario—and the most likely scenario—he takes what he wants from you and you’ll be just another one of his victims.”
I flinched at the thought. “It’s been seven years,” I whispered. “And I’ve done nothing.”
“We’re trying.” He reached over to rub a soothing hand down my arm. “And we’ve got time. This isn’t a movie where the bad guy gets his within the two-hour run time. Foster is smart, but one day he’ll slip up, and we’ll be there when he does.” He suddenly grinned at me. “Here’s something that might cheer you up: he’s got a black eye and he’s cradling his left side like he has cracked ribs.”
I frowned. “Huh?”
“Someone beat him up.”
“Why?” Not that I cared. I would’ve liked to have seen it.
“No clue. But he’s not talking, so whoever it was managed to get one over on him. You should see him. He’s using makeup to try to hide it.”
His laughter made me chuckle. I rolled my head toward him, my hair rustling in my ear with the movement. “I love you, Ash.”
His face softened. “Love you too.”
Chapter 17
JAMIE
* * *
The black Porsche Taycan glided down the hills toward Glendale with smooth quietness, and the view of LA from Laurel Canyon barely registered. It was a valley of lights in the distance, of life and humanity. Where once I’d seen the beauty in it, all I saw now were the shadows in between the lights. The dark places where dark deeds were done.
Seeing her for the first time in two years didn’t help my mood.
Jane.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and seethed.
She left the party with Asher Steadman.
And for the first time in two years, I felt my control slip.
The one thing Irwin Alderidge taught me was to keep my emotions locked down tight. When you were a cold, emotionless bastard, no one could guess what you were thinking. What you were planning.
I thought I’d heeded his lessons well … but whenever Jane entered the equation, my fucking heart raced and a cold sweat dampened my skin. Watching her leave with the son of the bastard who destroyed my life was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. And I’d done a lot of difficult shit in my life.
I locked down. Stopped myself from racing out of Patel Smith’s house to confront Jane.
It wasn’t part of the plan.
I’d spooked her. Just like I’d hoped. It was the beginning.
When I first discovered Jane was working in Hollywood, I felt betrayed. Sure, the job was art related, but our plans involved a quiet, creative life away from the glitz and lights of Hollywood. Money had never been our priority. Fame was to be avoided at all costs. Yet, there she was: Steadman’s woman. Captured in gossip rags in her bikini on a resort vacation with him. I hated those photos when I first saw them online. Jane sprawled across the pages for any fucker to fantasize over.
It was out of my hands, and now I couldn’t care less. I stopped caring the moment I found out she was sleeping with the enemy.
Traitor.
“Anything on Foster?” Jane’s voice filled the Porsche.
The question made my breath catch.
Getting into Patel Smith’s party had been way too easy. These people needed to up their security. What was even easier was planting a listening device in Asher Steadman’s $2 million car. It shouldn’t have been. But Asher’s friend, Kent Bishop, had an expensive drug problem and was willing to do anything for cash. He’d put the bug in his friend’s car when they drove out to Malibu for a surf that morning.
Asher hadn’t said anything of importance so far.
Hearing Jane’s voice, though, made my heart pound.
“I can’t get Lisa to talk,” Asher replied. “He’s paid her off. Like he has the last few. And they’re too scared he’ll ruin their careers. I have to be careful too. If Foster discovers I’m investigating him, it’s all over.”
What the fuck? My hands tightened around the steering wheel. Did this conversation mean what I thought it meant? Were Jane and Asher investigating Foster too?
“Maybe it’s time I went in,” Jane said.
“No,” Asher snapped. “We will not have this conversation again.”
What was she talking about?
“Jane, a honey trap is too dangerous. And who is to say whatever you discover would stand up in court? Worst-case scenario—and the most likely scenario—he takes what he wants from you and you’ll be just another one of his victims.”
Fucking hell. She was talking about luring Foster Steadman into … what? Trying to attack her? Was she insane?
And why do you care?
Well, thirty seconds ago, I didn’t. However, if Jane and Asher were trying to find evidence against Asher’s father, it was because of what he did to Skye. Because of what he did to me. It had to be.
But that didn’t make any sense.
Shit.
“It’s been seven years,” she whispered. “And I’ve done nothing.”
My eyes widened. It was about Skye. Maybe even about me. “Jane?” I murmured, feeling a little sick. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’re trying.” Asher spoke again. “And we’ve got time. This isn’t a movie where the bad guy gets his within the two-hour run time. Foster is smart, but one day he’ll slip up, and we’ll be there when he does … Here’s something that might cheer you up: he’s got a black eye and he’s cradling his left side like he has cracked ribs.”
My brows pinched together.
“Huh?” Jane asked, mirroring my confusion.
“Someone beat him up.”
Who? I wasn’t aware of that.
“Why?”
“No clue. But he’s not talking, so whoever it was managed to get one over on him. You should see him. He’s using makeup to try to hide it.”
I heard them chuckle together over Foster’s misfortune, and again, I questioned everything.
All my plans suddenly hovered in the air, suspended.
“I love you, Ash,” Jane whispered.
Just like that, my plans were back in place.
“Love you too.”
Jealousy, a thick, writhing, painful feeling that turned my blood so hot I couldn’t think straight, cut through me. I thought I was past the jealousy.
Yet somehow, knowing Jane hadn’t forgotten about Skye made everything that little bit more complicated again. She hadn’t moved on from Skye but she’d moved on from me. And I hated her for the latter.
Maybe I could’ve gotten over it if she hadn’t moved on with my enemy’s fucking son.
Screw whatever plans Jane had in motion. I was still coming for them all.
/>
Silence filled the Porsche as my ex and her boyfriend’s conversation drew to a halt. Lost in seething thoughts, it surprised me to realize I was almost at the small house I was renting in Glendale.
For now.
Sheila had agreed to my price, which meant I was moving to Silver Lake.
Shaking my head, I cursed how clammy and slick my palms felt against the wheel. I had to get my shit together. Sweaty palms were not the palms of a guy in control.
Look how far you’ve come, I tried to calm myself.
Never would I have imagined my book would become a runaway best seller, that I’d have the financial freedom to come to California and plan my vengeance.
Two years I’d been out.
Two years it had taken me to get to this point, and Jane Doe or Margot Higgins or whatever bullshit name she went by wouldn’t stop me now.
Swinging the car into my drive, I noted the red Lotus parked on the street in front of the house.
Dakota.
Hoping that meant news, I parked my rental and eyed the Lotus as I got out. The driver’s side door opened, and a long, gorgeous leg set off by a red stiletto appeared first. The rest of Dakota Jones followed it.
The tall, exceptionally built madam, wearing a tight dress, short on bottom but conservative on top, sashayed up the walk to the small porch. For once, I couldn’t see her. I kept seeing Jane standing in that library.
Separated from everyone else.
Finding refuge in books.
Holding my book in her hand.
Still so fucking beautiful, just one look cut me off at the knees.
“You okay?” Dakota asked, yanking me back to the present.
I grunted and turned toward the front door, letting us inside.
“Drink?” I offered.
“Water if you have it.”
The house was an open concept, and I could see Dakota settling into a leather armchair as I strode into the kitchen to get her bottled water from the fridge. I took one for myself, enjoying the chilled sweat on its surface. My skin burned; it had since seeing her.
Immersing myself in an ocean of cold water didn’t sound so bad.
I handed Dakota her bottle and took the seat across from her. We watched one another in silence as we each took a swig.
Keep This Promise Page 213