The Heir & I: Precarious Passions

by Hunter, Lara

  I nodded then, feeling better than I had in hours. At least now I had a plan and some semblance of peace of mind; and it was with a slight, self-assured smile that I opened my front door—somehow comforted by the idea of collapsing in my own, comfy bed and getting some much needed rest, also generating some much needed energy for what was sure to be a challenging day ahead.

  My beam dissolved and my thoughts scattered moments later; my eyes flying wide as they were met with a terrible spectacle that almost stopped my heart.

  I stepped through my doorway to see that my modest but neat and clean home had been trashed and decimated beyond recognition.

  Chairs and end tables lay overturned across the floor; a thick carpeted surface also soiled with a mess of documents, newspapers, books and magazines that had been ripped from their places in my bookcases and storage tables were strewn haphazardly throughout my home.

  Tears flooded my eyes as I assessed the true damage that had befallen my homestead; a place I had called my personal residence for more than two years. Indeed, I was distressed to find a number of my favorite collectables—including a photo of my beloved parents encased in a brass photo frame, an exquisite ruby heart sculpture that had served as a Valentine’s gift from an ardent Oliver, and a bronze cast Women in Marketing trophy award that I’d won a few months ago from a local feminist group—fallen and broken beneath my feet and as I froze at the center of my living room and rose my wide-eyed gaze, I witnessed a spectacle even more heartrending.

  My framed print of Lily in Bloom, posted as it was on a far wall just above my entertainment center, had been hideously defaced. The protective glass that preserved Oliver’s most tender, meaningful gift was shattered; the rendering that lie within, ripped and torn beyond recognition.

  “Oh my God,” I murmured, closing and locking my door behind me as I fished around in my purse for my cell phone.

  Finally withdrawing the metallic object that shone bright in the darkness of my living room, I dialed 9-1-1.

  An hour later I found myself parked on the edge of my cushy, ivory hued couch; frozen in place as I offered rote, mechanical answers to a grizzled, middle aged police detective.

  Suddenly my once comfy home teemed with people I didn’t know; investigators that dusted, handled and collected my precious personal possessions; pictures, collectables and pieces of furniture that once had formed a very important part of my life.

  Now they were little more than pieces of evidence; innocent objects shattered in an act of rage that knew no meaning or reason.

  I felt somehow numb as I offered brief, rote answers to the detective’s never ending line of questions and curiosities. Gruff and unsmiling, Tom Benton was an efficient, hardworking police officer who could stand to work a bit on his bedside manner. Even so, I must admit that he left no stone unturned in trying to pinpoint the nature and perpetrator of this heinous crime against my property and person.

  I did my best to answer his questions as correctly and thoroughly as I could. No, I had no idea who did this. No, I had received no threats of forewarnings to anticipate this horrific, inexplicable act. Yes, I would be willing to press charges against the intruder if they were found.

  “Honestly, Detective,” I said at one point. “This was probably just a random burglary. I honestly can’t think of anyone that is out to get me, so to speak.”

  Det. Benton, a fifty something, salt and pepper haired man with a whisky tinged voice, shook his head from side to side in response to my words.

  “I suggest you think harder then, Ms. Ashton,” he told me, adding as he waved around him with a broad, airy gesture, “The creep just invaded your home and didn’t steal a thing, correct? And of the objects they messed with and broke, most of them had very personal, very special meaning to you, am I right?” He paused here, adding with a deep sigh, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I believe that the motivation behind this home invasion was indeed very personal—and that there is someone out there who wants to see you hurt and frightened—if not worse. I think you need to get out of this house, pronto. Find another place to stay, at least until we manage to locate the wacko who did this. Until then, please try to strain your brain a bit about who is out to get you—because rest assured, Ms. Ashton, somebody is.”

  I snorted.

  “Rest assured?” I repeated, arching my eyebrows in a show of disbelief. “Interesting choice of words there, Detective.”

  I fell silent as Benton leaned forward to pin me with a cold, hard stare.

  “Ms. Ashton, please try to take my words more seriously—I assure you that this is no laughing matter,” he barked, adding as he once again gestured around the room, “I have no idea as to who did this—but as I look around I get the idea that this was a hate crime; one that claimed you as its very personal target. Please take my advice and get the hell out of here. Pronto!”

  Making no verbal response to his words, I once again reached for my metallic cell phone and flipped open its shiny lid, quickly accessing my contacts screen and hitting the top button.

  I was somewhat soothed by the ensuing sound of my lover’s deep, sonorous voice; a wave of disappointment followed, however, as I realized that I was listening to his answering machine message.

  “This is Oliver Clark, you know what to do!” he chirped.

  Waiting impatiently for the loud beep that followed this quick, snappy message, I held the phone away from my ear as it finally resounded loud and clear.

  “Oliver, please call me right away,” I said into my phone, my tone serious and strained. “I need you.”

  An hour later I remained seated on the edge of my couch staring silently at my phone as the officers continued to dust, clean and collect, in what seemed an intense investigation.

  “Where could he be?” I gritted my teeth, shaking my head from side to side in a show of overt impatience.

  “So have you heard from Loverboy yet?”

  I jumped in my seat as a loud voice disrupted my troubled meditation; one that I recognized all too readily as the gruff tones of Det. Tom Benton.

  “No,” I said, without looking upward.

  Det. Benton made no verbal reply and only continued to stare at me, long and hard, until I raised my gaze to meet his.

  “Do you think we need to question him?” he asked finally.

  I shook my head.

  “Absolutely not!” I barked in return, tone indignant. “I know that man like the back of my hand.”

  It was the detective’s turn to shake his head—and vigorously.

  “Then why isn’t he here when you need him?” he asked.

  Without awaiting an answer, Det. Benton turned away.

  I stopped just short of flipping him off in response to his disrespect; instead using that specific finger to hit Oliver’s preassigned button in my cell phone contacts list.

  Seconds later I found myself listening to his voicemail message, once again; and an hour later I remained on the edge of my couch—still staring at a phone that stubbornly, obstinately refused to ring.

  Only this time I was alone. Finally the police officers had left; leaving me with all manner of report copies and business cards and spoken advice.

  “Get out of this house,” Benton had repeated, pointing an authoritative finger in my direction as he finally cleared the door.

  “Sounds like good advice,” I said now, rising to my feet as I grabbed my purse and headed for the door myself. “I’m not going to sit here like a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued. If Mr. Clark won’t come to me, then I’ll go to him.”

  Soon I was back in my car, struggling to steady my nerves as I cleared my modest neighborhood; headed instead for an exclusive neighborhood on the northern border of Bennington.

  This world of sculpted edges, cobblestone streets, trimmed shrubbery and excessive deed restrictions had—at one point—seemed remote and alien to working class me, yet after being deeply involved with one of its residents for more than five months, this elite,
ritzy part of town had become my second home.

  I couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief as I pulled up to the luxury three-story, dark brick townhome where I had spent many a night. Yet while I usually took a few seconds to admire its classic architecture, its broad windows and sweeping arches, its fronting rose bushes that shone brilliant scarlet in the beams of the waning moon, tonight I saw the home merely as a site of refuge; and it was with frenzied steps that I approached the stained glass double doors that fronted this elite home.

  After pressing the doorbell several times and hearing its resounding chimes, I folded my arms before me and awaited a response.

  No matter how many times I rang that bell, finally pounding outright on the door that accompanied it, I was concerned to note that silence met my summons.

  So whatever it was that took him from my side, is keeping him overnight, I pursed my lips, finally turning from the door with a frustrated groan.

  For just a moment I stopped stock still on the sidewalk, biting my lip as I considered my options, as limited as they were.

  The police told me that it might take several days for my home to be secured; i.e., for the locks on my doors to be changed and for a security system to be installed. I knew that I wouldn’t sleep a wink in my own bedroom until then and that thought alone made me nothing short of furious.

  Who was doing this to me? And why?

  Of course, an even more pressing and immediate question was, where would I go until my intruder/stalker/general crazy person in my life was brought to justice? This is the question that plagued my mind as I retreated to my room just long enough to retrieve an overnight bag and toss some bare essentials (a nightgown, a toothbrush, and a shirt and jeans) in its modest cloth depths.

  My parents, for their part, lived too far away to be of much help and, as they were older, I didn’t want to plague them with worry. Thanks to my hectic work schedule I didn’t have a whole lot of close friends; although, come to think of it, one of my co-workers had become a close confidante in the past few months. A close confidante that just happened to be of the male persuasion.

  Oliver would not be pleased if he knew that I was turning to this dude for help, I sniffed, once again digging into my purse for my cellular phone. It’s his fault for not being there when I needed him. And it’s not like I’m going to sleep with the guy or anything—I just need a place to crash.

  Nodding decisively, I once again pushed the button that produced my list of contacts; this time hitting the fourth name that appeared on the list.

  “Hello, Kirk? I’m sorry to be bothering you at such a late—or, depending on how you look at it—early hour. Is it OK if I came over—now?”

  ~

  Chapter Five

  ~

  Lily

  I had to say one thing for Kirk Taylor. He looked darned adorable first thing in the morning.

  Standing in the doorway of his modest apartment on the less than celebrated south end of Bennington, Florida, Kirk’s ruffled golden hair shone in the rays of a new born Florida sun. His wide gem blue eyes sparkled in this same radiant light. And OK, it didn’t hurt matters any that he came to the door shirtless; his firm, trim chest and solid abs fully exposed above the border of some tight fighting, figure forming blue jean shorts.

  “Lil?” He blinked his sleepy eyes and shook his blond head in what seemed a gesture of complete and utter confusion. “Weren’t you and Oliver supposed to be in Miami for another few days? What are you doing back home so soon? And are you OK? You sounded really stressed out and worried over the phone, and you look like you haven’t slept all night. What can I do to help?”

  “Whoa there dude,” I interrupted, holding up my hands in a sign of surrender. “One concerned, angst ridden question at a time, please. And before I answer any of them, may I ask one of my own?”

  Kirk nodded.

  “Anything, Lily!” he exclaimed, looking as though he was about to burst at the seams with empathetic worry.

  “Now careful, dude, this is a pretty tough query to navigate first thing in the morning—so, with that in mind, I’ll phrase my question slowly and carefully. Can I come in?”

  Kirk blinked, gaping openly at this inquiry.

  “Um, sure!” he said finally, immediately stepping aside.

  Sad to say that the state of Kirk’s apartment did not reflect his personal appearance in terms of overall cuteness. This compact, four room apartment seemed to burst at the seams with papers, newspapers, magazines and video game equipment scattered everywhere.

  “Sorry the place is such a royal mess,” he mumbled, running some soothing fingers through the strands of his golden hair.

  I chuckled.

  “Well this is about how my place looked last night,” I told him, adding with a shrug, “Of course, I have an excuse. Some nut job broke in and ransacked the place.”

  His eyes flying wide, Kirk rushed forward and swept me up in two strong arms, holding me closer than close as he whispered in my ear, “Oh my God, Lily. Are you all right? Tell me what happened!”

  Without awaiting an answer, Kirk set me down in a big plush comforter that looked a bit worse for wear; I didn’t care though, as its comforting confines served to cradle and cushion my weary body.

  Also comforting was my friend’s gentle presence as he parked himself on a pleather clad foot rest just opposite my chair.

  “Tell me what happened,” he repeated, leaning forward to pin me with a penetrating gaze.

  I sighed.

  “I wish I knew, my friend,” I released on a second sigh, adding as I relaxed in the chair, “Yesterday morning, I swear I thought I was living a dream—sharing the beauty of Miami Beach with the man I adored. Then I go out to the beach and then most literally wake up from the dream—awakening from a nap to find that Oliver has left for home with a mysterious, rather flimsy explanation. I flew home last night to get some answers—only to find that my apartment had been totally trashed and ransacked. I just now finished up with an exhausting round of police interviews and when I drove to Oliver’s place to find a place to crash, I found that… he wasn’t home.” I said these last words in a low, hushed tone as I averted my gaze to the wall.

  My eyes flew wide moments later, as Kirk once again swept me up in a tight, all-consuming embrace; rocking me back and forth as he whispered, “You have a place to be now, Lily. You can stay here as long as you like. Just don’t worry about anything, OK? I’ll take care of you.”

  Emphasizing his words with some very tender actions, Kirk lifted me out of my chair and walked me to his kitchen table where a pile of freshly flipped blueberry pancakes awaited us.

  Taking a seat across from me at the table, Kirk retrieved his serving fork and plunged it into two of the steamy buttered hotcakes, depositing them on my plate and encouraging me to, “Relax and eat.”

  While I hungrily dove in to this impromptu—but admittedly delicious—breakfast feast, I watched in silence as Kirk retreated to the room that I assumed to be his bedroom, returning moments later with two fluffy pillows and a worn but colorful patchwork quilt, which he tossed atop the surface of the comfy couch I’d vacated moments earlier.

  “Unfortunately I do have to go into work today, Lil,” he said over his shoulder, spreading his soft, luxurious quilt over his couch before tossing the pillows at its edge. “So once you finish your breakfast, I want you to lay down here and relax; try to forget about everything and get some sleep. I’m sure you’ll feel much better after a nap.”

  Managing a small smile, I said between bites of some mighty good pancake, “Thank you, Kirk. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” I paused here, adding in an affectionate tone, “What would I do without my friend?”

  Turning to me, Kirk warmed me with a tender smile as he assured me, “As far as I’m concerned, Lily, you’ll never have to find out.”

  Soon I found myself collapsed and ensconced in my readymade personal haven; my exhausted being wrapped in a cradling comforter as
my head reclined in the cottony depths of two luxurious pillows.

  My eyes drifted shut as fully and finally, I surrendered myself to a deep sleep; drifting gently into a delicate dreamscape that offered a soothing aura of solace and escape.

  I pictured myself floating free into a mass of whispery clouds; celestial formations that I hoped would shelter me from the traumas and problems of the last few days.

  For a time I skipped and traipsed light on my feet; racing through the clouds as I seemed to seek out a certain destination.

  Or, perhaps, a certain person.

  I squealed like a school girl as my eyes beheld a beautiful bronzed man; one whose golden skin, dark eyes and cocoa brown hair proved a startling contrast to his ivory hued surroundings.