by Naima Simone
“For God’s sake, yes,” she groused. “Don’t leave. Nobody inside. Gabe. Sleep.”
He waited, but moments later when a soft snore came from beneath the pillow, he chuckled and exited the bedroom.
Best. Morning. After. Ever.
…
“That went well,” Chay said, descending the front steps of the Belmont Hill McMansion and the site of their meeting with Colleen Taylor, owner and CEO of the T&T Corporation.
“Oh, definitely,” Rafe drawled. “Especially since Colleen couldn’t seem to take her eyes off your pretty-boy face.” He snagged Chay’s cheek in a rough pinch, wagging the skin back and forth. “You’re so pretty, yes you are,” he cooed.
“Fuck you,” Chay growled, knocking Rafe’s hand away and stalking toward his parked SUV. But not before Rafe caught the faint blush staining his face. He hooted in laughter.
“Sorry, big boy, not my type. But Colleen, on the other hand…” Rafe fluttered his lashes. “I’m sure she would take you up on the offer.”
“How a grown-ass man can be such a damn pain in the nuts is beyond me,” Chay snapped, hitting the key fob. The vehicle unlocked with a high-pitched beep, and he glared at Rafe as he rounded the front of the truck. “And you can take that smile and—”
A ping rang in the morning air followed by a low, hollow thud. Rafe stared in stunned disbelief at the small hole in the roof of the truck, inches from where he stood.
A small, bullet-sized hole.
Anger and fear burned off the shock, and he ducked just as the window above him shattered. A furious bellow echoed in his ears as Chay launched himself behind the truck, tackling Rafe to the ground.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, the same anger and horror roiling inside Rafe reflected in his friend’s eyes. “Rafe, damn it! Are you hit?”
“No, I’m good.”
With a nod, Chay rolled off him, crouching next to the driver’s side door. Rafe joined him, their harsh breaths thunderous in the still morning air. Another shot punched the air and glass from the side window showered down on them in a sharp, cutting rain.
What the fuck? Fear left a nasty coating on his tongue. He shifted, and glass sprinkled off his head and shoulders, crunched under his feet.
“Where?” Rafe asked. Woods surrounded the home on all sides, accessible by a long driveway also bordered with towering trees. Dozens of places for a shooter to hide. And damn difficult for them to pinpoint. Shit. Shitshitshit.
“I think the shot came from the left.” Chay craned his neck, peeking through the frame where splinters of the busted window dangled like loose teeth. “I can’t see anything though. Fuck.” He glanced at Rafe. “You armed?”
Rafe shook his head. He was licensed to carry—Chay and most of their employees were. But he rarely carried a piece since most of his work took place at the computer. “You?”
“It’s in the car, under my seat.”
Rafe swore under his breath. “Shit. I—”
The door to the mansion flew open, and Colleen Taylor appeared on the landing. “What’s going on out here?” she demanded. Then her blue eyes widened as she took in Rafe and Chay hunkered down beside the truck, glass sparkling over and around them like fucking fairy dust. “Oh my God.”
“Call 911!” Chay barked. “Now!”
With a jerky nod, she disappeared back inside her house. In response, two more rounds popped off, one thumping the vehicle and another shattering the urn of a potted plant near the base of the steps.
“He’s getting desperate,” Rafe guessed. “Those shots were wild.” He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his pounding heart to calm while his mind raced. “Okay, I’m going to run for the column near those bushes. Get his attention.” He dipped his head toward one of the two palatial, Grecian-like pillars flanking the wide staircase. “You get the gun. It might hold him off until the cops get here.”
“That’s a shitty plan.” Chay scowled, shaking his head.
“Yeah, but it’s all we got. Ready? Now!” Rafe didn’t give him a chance to argue further but charged across the open area, swearing he could feel the scope of that gun on his back, tracking him. Damn, damn, damn, damn. He dove over the waist-high shrubbery, the asphalt where his foot had been a second earlier kicking up where a bullet struck it. His shoulder slammed into the ground, pain driving the air from his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he rolled into the impact, scrambled to his feet, and darted behind the column.
Behind him more gunfire blasted.
Then quiet. Ominous, heavy quiet.
“Chay,” Rafe roared. Had he been hit? Oh, Jesus. Not for me.
“I’m good, I’m good,” his friend called out.
Relief flooded Rafe. In the distance, the wail of sirens split the silence. His chest rising and falling on deep, rough breaths, he straightened, shoving to his feet. He cautiously rounded the stone pillar, sweeping the driveway and focusing in on Chay, who remained kneeling beside the SUV. As the first of the squad cars peeled up the driveway, Chay lowered his gun, pointing the barrel at the ground.
Slowly, he stood to his feet. Glared at Rafe.
“Who the hell did you piss off now?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I can’t believe it,” Greer whispered. Again.
Behind her, Gabriel Devlin chuckled. Somehow she managed to drag her gaze away from the easels, canvases, drawing pads, paints, pens, and pencils stockpiled in the sunroom, and turn around to face the sexy, Tom-Brady-look-alike version of Santa Claus who’d delivered the art supplies.
When Raphael’s best friend had arrived, she’d immediately recognized him. Not just from the images on the internet when she’d researched Rafe back in December. She’d read Gabriel’s best-selling legal suspense thrillers long before she’d heard of Raphael and was enough of an admirer to have a fan-girl moment when he walked into the house. But even the appearance of one of her favorite authors couldn’t supersede the shock and joy at the boxes and bags he’d carted in with him. Completing the task had required two trips out to his vehicle. By the time Gabriel finished rearranging the sunroom, setting up the easels, stacking the canvases, and laying out the other supplies, her eyes had ached from how wide they were. And her jaw had been seconds away from locking in the open position.
“This”—she couldn’t resist surveying the room again—“is too much. I— Why?” she asked, spreading her hands wide.
He crossed his arms and shrugged a wide shoulder. “Rafe called me yesterday morning and asked me to pick up and deliver some things he’d ordered from a supply store.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she shook her head. He worked the laconic writer thing to perfection. Yet while he might be economic in words, his smiles were warm and freely given. She—like the rest of the world—had read about the loss of his family several years ago. But she suspected that the woman who’d called him shortly after he’d arrived could be credited with the light and peace that seemed to emanate from him. Good. He deserved happiness.
“Thank you, Gabriel,” she said belatedly.
“Gabe,” he corrected. “And no problem. I actually thought Rafe would beat me here. I would’ve been here earlier, but a signing this morning went over.” He arched an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth kicking up. “So…I take it you’re an artist,” he observed drily.
She laughed, still a bit breathless. Raphael had done all this? Bought all this. For her. Gabriel—Gabe—had said when. Yesterday. With the morning doctor’s appointment, the lunch date, his clandestine meeting with Chay and Justin Durrin, and then the attempted kidnapping… Well, the day had been busy, so she understood why Raphael had asked his friend to help him out. But that still left why? Why had he done all this?
“I’m applying to art school,” she said.
“So? Doesn’t make you any less of an artist. Before being published, I was still a writer.” He nodded in the direction of the easels. “What do you plan to study?”
“Illustration.”
“Illustrat
ion, huh?” He gave a little hum in the back of his throat. “Do you have anything I can look at? If you don’t mind, that is.”
The instinctive denial rose inside her. And not because of the stereotypical “sensitive artist” claim of not letting anyone see her work when she wasn’t finished. The reluctance ran much deeper. Too many years of being scoffed at, of being told her drawing was a waste of time, that she wasn’t talented. The ridicule and rejection had taught her to hide, to protect her work…and herself. But when she’d vowed to take her life back—well, more accurately, to get a life, one she desired and owned—that promise had included not allowing her father’s derision and her mother’s disregard to cripple her anymore. To no longer be afraid of displaying her art, whether it was to an admissions board or a person who just asked to view it.
So, she inhaled. Time to put up or shut up.
“I’m working on pieces for my portfolio now. I have some of those in the bedroom.”
Ten minutes later, Gabe silently studied the painting she’d started after arriving at Raphael’s home. He’d already examined a couple of the live-situation pieces and three-dimensional object canvases she’d finished. Not her passion but required for the admission portfolio. He’d spent the most time thumbing through her sketches, drawings she’d completed for her joy and amusement. When he flipped to the ink and pen picture of Raphael, she fought not to cringe. The illustration was one of her favorites. She’d drawn him in his lair, sprawled in his office chair at his beloved computer. In reality, Raphael fairly vibrated with a raw, vital energy that made him impossible to ignore. Longish hair, tattoos, piercings, and the I-will-kick-your-ass-and-like-it vibe aside, he pulsed with magnetism and charisma. And she’d captured the brilliant gleam in his near-black eyes, the hard sensuality in his wide, full mouth, the controlled tension in his lean, tall body. She’d paid careful, loving detail from the hoop in his eyebrow to the bare feet peeking out from under the frayed hem of his jeans. Anyone studying the drawing would detect her fascination with her subject.
She doubted Gabe, whose profession included weaving details together, missed it either.
“You’re very good.” He turned from the easel, his expression inscrutable. “Very good.”
Pleasure cascaded through her like a refreshing, needed rain over parched land. The blunt honesty, sans flowery praise, warmed her in a way the most effusive acclaim could not.
“Thank you, I—” She fumbled over her tongue. “Thank you.”
“I really like your sketches.” He picked up the pad, and skimmed through the pages until he arrived at the image of Raphael again. She didn’t try to duck his narrowed, contemplative scrutiny. What would be the point? Her absorption, her affection, her…her convoluted feelings for his friend were there for Ray Charles to see. “I can see why your main study will be illustration. This”—he tapped the paper—“is amazing. And so Rafe. You’ve captured everything—the way he slouches, how he squints when he’s thinking, the rubbing of his eyebrow…everything.” He set the pad down, slid his hands in the front pockets of his faded jeans. “My agent is negotiating the option rights for a Michael Rice graphic novel series. Would you mind if I sent her a sample of your work? I don’t know what your eventual career goal involves, but if you’re interested, I think you would be perfect. The realism and detail in your work…”
Her heart raced along with her mind. Work on a graphic novel for a book series she adored? I’m not ready. I’m not that good. I can’t— Stop! She halted the inner voice that sounded like her father’s mid-rant. Excitement and tremulous hope stirred in her breast like a baby bird, ready but nervous to fly.
“Yes,” she whispered. Cleared her throat. “Yes, definitely.”
A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “Great. I’ll let you know—”
The doorbell pealed, and the almost-there smile fell, replaced by a frown.
“Were you expecting someone?”
She shook her head. “No. Just you.”
“Hmm.” He exited the room, and she followed close on his heels. “Mal, Chay, and I have keys, so it’s probably not either one of them.”
He paused at the front door, tapped a button next to the jamb, and a tiny mounted monitor blinked to life. An image of Noah popped onto the screen.
A high-tech peephole. Wow.
Gabe glanced over his shoulder. “You know him?”
“Yes, of course. It’s my friend Noah Granger.”
His dark eyebrow winged up. “And you weren’t expecting him?”
“No. But it’s okay. He’s a very good friend of mine.”
He didn’t budge, and she squelched the impulse to nudge him out of the way and open the door. It seemed the protective streak didn’t stop with Raphael and Chay.
After a long moment, Gabe slowly nodded. “Okay. But I’m staying until he leaves or Rafe gets here.” When Greer parted her lips to object he beat her to the punch. “I’m staying.”
She sighed at the soft but steely resolve in his deep voice. Protective and stubborn. No wonder he and Raphael were best friends. They shared so much in common.
“Fine,” she conceded. Not that she had much choice in the matter.
She skirted around his large frame and opened the door.
“Hey, Greer. I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced…” Noah’s concerned greeting trailed off as he noticed Gabe standing behind her in the doorway. “Oh. I didn’t know you had company,” he said, his tall frame stiffening along with his tone.
“Don’t be silly. Come in.” She shifted back, waving him inside. “Noah, I’d like you to meet Gabriel Devlin. Gabriel, this is my best friend, Noah Granger.”
“Nice to meet you, Noah,” Gabe rumbled, extending his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Noah accepted it, pumping Gabe’s arm once before releasing him. “I was just about to go brew some coffee. Would you like a cup?” he asked Noah, who murmured a “no, thank you.”
“Greer? Tea?”
Surprise took her aback for an instant, but she quickly rallied. “No thanks, Gabe. I’m fine.” So he knew about the pregnancy. Of course he does, she silently scolded herself. The four friends most likely didn’t keep secrets from one another. Not after sharing one faithfully for twenty years. But still…he hadn’t given any indication since he’d arrived.
Gabe dipped his head then pivoted and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“Come on.” She smiled, grabbing Noah’s hand. “We can talk in the den.” She guided him through the house to the spacious room at the rear of the first floor.
“Uh, wow.” He pulled up short in the entrance, surveying the cavernous room with its massive, built-in flat-screen television, expansive entertainment console, scattered couches, fully stocked bar, and refrigerator. The area was a less Spy vs. Spy version of Raphael’s basement man cave. “This is…wow.”
“Watch it there, Noah,” she drawled. “You’re drooling.”
He coughed, tossed her a slightly glazed look, then chuckled. “I think I’m in lust.”
She stepped down into the room, snorted. “Men. You’re so easy.” As he continued to ogle the room as if it had boobs with a wet T-shirt stuck to them, she lowered to the couch.
“Sorry. It’s impressive. I may not care for Raphael, but I can’t fault his taste,” he said, sinking next to her. Then he sobered, and the concern he’d arrived with returned full blast. “I really am sorry just to drop in, but I couldn’t stay away. I’m so worried about you.”
“Oh, Noah,” she murmured. She leaned her head on his shoulder, entwined their fingers. “We’ve been friends for how long?”
“Sixteen. But who’s counting?”
“Sixteen years, and you think I don’t know you? You’re beating yourself up because of yesterday.” She squeezed his hand. “Let it go. How could you know some masked guy lurked in the women’s restroom?”
He untangled his hand from hers, rocked forward, and propped his elbows on his thighs. With a groan, he tunneled
his fingers through his blond hair.
“On my watch, Greer. I failed you. I should’ve been there, but where was I? On my phone outside the restaurant while you were seconds from being forced out the back.” He ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Like shit, damn it. Like grade-A shit.”
His tortured whisper tore at her heart. She’d noted his devastation after he’d raced back into the restaurant to discover she’d almost been kidnapped. She’d ached for him yesterday, and she did today.
“Look at me.” She tugged on his arm. “Even if you’d been sitting at the table, you couldn’t have known.”
“Raphael did,” he spat, bitterness engraved in his scowl and the two words. “He came looking for you—saved you—while I wasted time on the phone, and Ethan sat on his ass.”
“Noah, please.”
“No.” He lunged to his feet, paced away from her, strode back. “No,” he repeated, lower but no less vehement. “I know I screwed up yesterday, Greer. But give me a chance to show you I can take care of you. We all realized yesterday that you’re not safe here. Whoever’s behind this has already located you here and followed you to the restaurant yesterday.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, clasping her hands between his. “We need to totally disappear. Leave town where we can’t be found. Let Raphael continue to investigate, but let me take you away to my parents’ cabin in the Berkshires. No one will think to look for you there. You’ll be safe. I’ll keep you safe,” he pleaded.
“Noah,” she breathed.
“You’re mine, Greer. You’ve been mine since I tripped over my own feet and knocked you down on the playground. Even when you were dead-set on marrying that asshole Gavin, you were mine. I waited while you opened your eyes to what a cheating dick he was because you were mine. Mine, Greer. To protect. To…love.”