The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel

by Christopher Rice

“Emily Blaine.”

  “I know.”

  She cracks up suddenly. Marcus responds with the closest version of a smile she’s probably going to get out of him for a while—one cocked eyebrow and a tense spot in the corner of his mouth. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, just the thought of my gay friend being tailed by some hot mercenary type. I’m sure Jonathan’s devastated.”

  “Yeah, well, who says the other guy’s hot?”

  Now he’s the one smiling. Because she just called him hot without intending to. And now she’s blushing all over and she feels like pulling the hem of her nightshirt down and folding her shoulders in toward each other, but instead she watches Marcus Dylan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and scan her from head to toe. He takes a deep breath and she hopes it’s because the sight of her ample curves has filled his head with thoughts he’s trying to suppress.

  “Besides,” Marcus finally says. “I saw you two earlier. He sure looked like more than your gay friend.”

  “Huh. How long have you been tailing me?”

  “Since Benoit called me in this afternoon. Picked you guys up at that coffee house on Magazine. Where he also looked like a lot more than your gay friend.”

  “Well,” she manages, her cheeks aflame, “he probably looks super gay to whoever’s tailing him now. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Uh huh. Well, just so you know, we’re not a messenger service.”

  “What does that mean, Prince Charming?”

  “I mean I won’t be using my colleague to tell you what Jonathan’s up to, and whether or not he’s, you know, acting…gay.”

  “Right, ’cause you’re too busy letting me know that Jonathan’s also being shadowed and your colleague is the one doing it.”

  The last time Emily was this satisfied by the shocked expression on someone’s face it was when a drunken customer found himself being ejected from the restaurant for reaching out and smacking her on the butt every time she passed near his table.

  “If you don’t want to be so easily distracted, Marcus, maybe you should try frightening women when they have more clothes on.”

  He’s closing the distance between them suddenly. Her heart skips a beat, but in a frightening, is this an aneurysm and do I have all of my affairs in order? kind of way. When he takes her right hand in his, his touch feels both hurried and clinical. Then he’s sliding a plain gold ring, almost like an engagement band, onto her ring finger. “It’s heat activated. You make a fist three times in a row, ten seconds each, and I’ll be here in thirty seconds.”

  “What if I have to take it off?”

  “You don’t have to take it off. It’s waterproof.”

  “What’s the range?”

  “The northern hemisphere.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The range is what I need it to be. You don’t take it off, Emily Blaine. Got it?”

  Apparently, Marcus Dylan is distracted again, but he’s staring into her eyes with what looks like an angry, disciplinary glare. The only problem is he’s forgotten to release her hand, and together, their entwined fingers have started drifting out to one side, as if they’re about to start waltzing. He lets her hand go and takes a step back.

  “If it’s heat activated, why isn’t it going off right now?” she asks.

  “It’s activated by a temperature differential. Hence, the fist. Three times.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s headed for the door. He’s in a hurry now, nervously trying to put distance between them. Or maybe this is all just part of his float like a butterfly, sting like a soldier of fortune approach to busting in and out of apartments in the middle of the night?

  “Goodnight, Marcus.”

  “Uh huh.”

  He’s halfway down the steps when she calls out to him.

  “The alarm. What time should I be ready?”

  “I’ll text you.”

  “Okay. Just give me enough time to get dressed, that’s all.”

  The shadows on the stairs are too deep to see his expression, but from the angle of his head she can tell there’s a few seconds of hesitation before he heads off into the night. Then she remembers he’s not going very far at all and wonders if it’s possible to feel both safe and violated at the same time. Possible or not, it sounds like something Jonathan’s clients might pay top dollar for.

  8

  Emily can’t pull up to Arthur Benoit’s grand mansion without seeing her father striding down the front walk, his stiff security guard pose cracking under his excitement at seeing his only daughter. But with each visit, the memory gets dimmer and she has to work harder to recreate his half-smile, his bright-eyed gaze, and the way he’d throw the front gate open with one stubby but powerful arm, never once taking his eyes off his daughter until she was safely in his embrace.

  Those were the days when all the guards at Magnolia Gate were handpicked by her dad, most of them former N.O.P. D. officers like him. They were good men, for the most part, all of them happy to have a cushy alternative to the culture of lousy pay and rampant corruption that defined the police department where they all met.

  But now the guards who watch over Arthur and his estate are mostly icy, ex-Navy SEAL types, like her new shadow, Marcus Dylan. And when they see her familiar green Camry, they nod without smiling, probably because they know she’s more than just a visitor. In a few weeks or a few months—no one really knows—this short, smart-mouthed young woman, a restaurant manager with an English degree that makes her vaguely employable—will become their boss. Perhaps the idea seems as absurd to them as it does to her.

  She wouldn’t know. The guards barely say a word to her. Or to anyone, for that matter.

  Now that she’s under the watchful eyes of his colleagues, Marcus has slowed the black Lincoln Navigator in which he followed her across town.

  The half-circle of a street used to be lined with five massive residences before Arthur bought them up one by one. Of the old houses, only two are left, both perfectly restored, two-story Greek Revivals, with blue and yellow pastel paint jobs that make them look like brassier, younger sisters to the antebellum palace that is the main house. In any other neighborhood, these two smaller houses would be considered mansions, but here on Chatham Circle, they are dwarfed by the grandeur of Magnolia Gate.

  Within each one, in rooms cosseted by lush custom draperies and Oriental carpets, Arthur Benoit’s legal team and financial advisors work side-by-side, conducting with the disarming gentility of a bygone era business more suited to the offices of a downtown skyscraper. On any given day, Arthur’s staff is more likely to send her a handwritten note than a text message.

  High above Magnolia Gate’s long, flat roof, the interlocking oak branches entwine so harmoniously they always seem as if they’ve been positioned just so by a giant hand moments before Emily’s arrival. At various times throughout the day, the great trees have the same filtering effect as a stained glass window, and the swirls of pollen and brief rains of blossoms appear electrified by the shafts of golden light.

  The front porch is a vast arcade lined with fat Doric columns. Its ceiling is painted sky blue, an old device for tricking insects out of nesting there. Enormous ferns spill from hanging brass planters, and there’s enough wicker furniture to fill several living rooms in the Jefferson Parish neighborhood where Emily grew up.

  Emily tries to take it all in without thinking mine, mine, mine over and over again like one of the seagulls from Finding Nemo. Because she suspects, even after she inherits it, none of this will ever feel like it truly belongs to her. It will always feel like she’s living in a museum of Arthur Benoit’s life. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe seeing things that way will help keep the infinite potential of Arthur’s vast fortune from going to her head.

  She is expecting to meet privately with Larissa Danneel, one of Arthur’s most trusted attorneys, so she’s shocked to see Arthur waiting for her in the dining room, alone, his wheelchair pushed to t
he far head of the twelve-person dining table. Through the wall of French doors, concrete steps lead down to a vast, flagstone patio terminating in a rectangular swimming pool with a dark, stone-colored bottom. The view is lovely but the light streaming through the glass falls harshly upon Arthur’s bloodshot eyes and blotchy, pale skin.

  When she kisses him on the cheek, he manages a weak smile, then he pushes a fat brown envelope across the table toward her with one talon-like hand.

  Her new identity.

  When she tears it open, a passport and driver’s license slide to the hardwood, followed by a clatter of credit cards. She sits and flips through them slowly, as if they were each endowed with a particular heat. Their authenticity is astonishing.

  “Lily Conran,” she says.

  “You are the owner of several paper mills throughout the Gulf South and even though they’re barely profitable, you’ve invested wisely over the years. Wisely enough to own a beautiful house right on the beach in Destin. Which is where you’ll be living when Mr. Dugas makes his reference.” Arthur lifts a larger manila envelope from his lap to the table. “Here are the details you’ll need to play the part convincingly.”

  “You own the paper mills?”

  “In a manner of speaking. They’ll be sold as soon as this business is over.”

  “And the house in Destin?”

  “A friend’s rental. Not much of a connection to me. On paper, anyway.”

  “Do I own the paper mills or does Lily?”

  “Lily.”

  “Who doesn’t technically exist.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Is any of this legal?”

  “Not a whit.”

  She nods.

  “Getting cold feet?” he asks.

  She wants to tell him that her cold feet have nothing to do with The Desire Exchange, and everything to do with their sparkling, palatial surroundings. But first she checks the doorways and her view of the adjacent hall; they’re all empty. No sign of the ever-present team of housekeepers, or the nurses who have joined their ranks in recent months. Arthur has cleared the house for this secret meeting, which in his current state entails some risk.

  “At least I’ll have protection,” she finally manages.

  “So you’ve met Marcus?”

  “Indeed. He’s a charmer.”

  “Yes, well, charm school is not where they teach you how to blast your way into a terrorist hideout.”

  “So he’s seen combat?”

  “He’s seen a great many things he’s not at liberty to discuss. As I imagine you will too. Soon. Nowhere near as violent, of course…I hope.”

  “Marcus seems to bring a touch of violence wherever he goes, so…”

  “So I’m sensing your first meeting didn’t go so well.”

  “He’s very direct. I’ll say that much for him.”

  “So are you, Emily. So was your father. That’s why I valued his advice.”

  “I’m not sure Dad would have known which paper mills to buy and sell.”

  I’m not sure how he would have felt about me infiltrating a sex club to find your long-lost son either, so let’s not tell any Ouija boards, okay?

  “No, but he knew which men had character and which men had only the illusion of it. And at times, he was willing to point out when I had…lapsed into the latter category, if you will.”

  Even for a man who has become something close to her surrogate father, this is a startling admission, and Emily can’t help but wonder if it’s the result of whatever medications he’s been given that day. His eyes have wandered to the empty head chair at the opposite end of the long table. “I’m sorry you and Marcus aren’t getting on,” he says, but he sounds distracted. His words have returned to the present but his tone and his gaze can’t quite make the trip. “But I think you’ll find some common ground…at some point…”

  “Common ground?” she asks.

  “I think you’ll get along eventually is what I’m trying to say,” he says quickly, adjusting the blanket across his lap.

  “Did you pick him yourself?”

  “Oh, no. He picked you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he was overheard making some…choice comments about you after one of your visits.”

  “Choice?”

  “Suggestive.”

  Don’t blush, she orders herself, but she feels a surge of both desire and relief to know she wasn’t imagining the sexual tension in her apartment last night. The last thing she wants to be is that woman who goes around trying to convince everyone that the whole world is just dying to sleep with her. People only buy it if you’re Angelina Jolie, and she’s not Angelina Jolie.

  “And so you thought it would be a good idea for him to be my security guard?” she asks.

  “You know, Emily, personally I don’t buy into all that nonsense about emotional detachment being the key to success. Sometimes we do our best work when we’re trying to protect something we really care about.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call suggestive comments—”

  “Oh, come now. You know what I mean.”

  “I certainly know why he felt the need to bust in on me when I was in my underwear and give me a lesson in personal security.”

  “Did you mind?”

  I could have done without the windpipe action, she thinks.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” she asks.

  “I had Larissa meet with him at his apartment and give him his…documents there.”

  “I see…”

  “What? What do you see, Emily?” The sight of a wry smile on Arthur’s wasting face is such a welcome sight it brings a smile to Emily’s face as well.

  “God, you’re good. No wonder you’re so rich.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asks, playing coy.

  “When we were here yesterday, you could tell. You could tell that something happened between us.”

  “The energy between you two was…different, that’s for sure.”

  “I see…”

  “So something has indeed happened between you two, has it?”

  “It’s a…moment, that’s all. We’ll get past it.”

  “But things are essentially alright between you two, aren’t they?”

  “Of course. There’s no reason not to let him go with me if that’s what you’re—”

  “No, no, of course not,” he says so quickly that she knows it was exactly what he was asking. “But…let’s just say I’m not very confident in Jonathan’s ability to ensure your safety. Emotionally, perhaps. But not physically. That’s why I’ve involved Marcus.”

  “And because he made suggestive comments about me in the guardhouse.”

  “Let’s call them admiring comments. How does that sound?”

  “Like a reach, but I’ll go with it. For now.”

  Arthur’s smile fades. He rests his clasped hands against his dry lips while he studies her. The intensity of his gaze lights hairs on the back of her neck. “Your father was always concerned about your relationship with Jonathan, you know? He feared you two hid out in one another. That’s how he put it.”

  “Yeah, well, Dad had a learning curve when it came to the gays.”

  “Perhaps, but these concerns were more recent than that.”

  “He never said anything to me.”

  “I know. But still…he was afraid the two of you didn’t quite extend yourself as far out into the world as you should have because you always knew you’d have each other.”

  “Our friendship’s a crutch. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It’s what your father said. And I’d hate to see you brought down by a moment of confusion, Emily. Jonathan’s. Or yours.” Arthur’s words are hard to swallow. She’s heard some version of them for most of her adult life, but usually from her girlfriends after they’ve had one too many. Not from a man of Arthur’s stature and maturity and intimate knowledge of her background.

  “So Marcus is supposed to unconf
use me, is that it?”

  Arthur spreads his hands in a gesture of supplication and gives her his best wide smile. She can’t help but laugh.

  “I thought perhaps they could bring us a bite to eat,” he says quickly, studying the empty table in front of him as if expecting a bowl of gumbo to suddenly appear before him. “Then, perhaps you could stay a while and we could take a walk around the grounds. Have some tea. I know you love tea. And—” But just listing these activities seems to have exhausted Arthur past the point of being able to execute any of them. And Emily can see his sudden nervousness for what it is.

  She reaches across the space between them, closes her hand over his. “You’ll be here when I come back with your son, Arthur. You’ll be here and you’ll be up and around and you’ll have the chance to say everything you need to say to him. I promise.”

  His eyes are moist and he brings his left hand down to rest atop the one she’s placed across his right one. “I’ve never been a man who’s had to rely on people’s promises until now,” he whispers.

  9

  When Emily hears the siren above the shower’s rush, she assumes police cars are speeding past her duplex in the direction of the bayou. Then there’s a terrible crash in the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle.

  She does the math instantly. Forty-eight hours of answering Jonathan’s voice mails with dismissive texts plus a brand new burglar alarm divided by one soldier of fortune who claims his only job is to watch her everywhere but the shower equals the current chaos outside her bathroom door.

  I’m so not rushing for this, she thinks. But she towels herself off in half the time she usually takes, if only because neither one of the Ultimate Fighters in the kitchen has decided it’s a good idea to kill the screaming alarm. Her towel tucked across the top of her breasts, she flips her still damp hair behind both bare shoulders and throws open the bathroom door with the stiff upper lip she’s seen on celebrities appearing in court on a DUI charge.

  By the time she enters the kitchen, Marcus has Jonathan pinned to the linoleum with one hand around his wrist and a knee against his lower back.