Grayson (The Kings of Brighton Book 3)

by Megyn Ward

  “I’ve never liked her. Her and her brother are trash.” Went scoffs. “So, if he’s fucking Liz, why is he so focused on my sister?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Conner shakes his head. “To a guy like Vanderhoff, women are just objects—they don’t carry any real value beyond what they can provide for him. Money. Sex. Status. Fame. If Delilah rejected him, it would mostly likely trigger some type of response…” Conner frowns. “How’d he get into her suite in New York? If she broke it off then how—”

  “His print is registered in the elevator scanner,” Went answers him. “Lilah keeps private suites all over the world—we both do. With his prints in the system, he’d have unrestricted access to all of them.”

  Hearing it is like a kick in the gut—not because I’m jealous but because it means she’s been unprotected this whole time. I left her here alone yesterday. All Vanderhoff would have to do is press his thumb to a keypad and waltz right in.

  “It’s him.” I drop my hand and look at Conner. “It has to be him.” I don’t have to say the rest. That he’s dangerous—escalating, just like Conner said he would. That he’s not just a stalker. Not just an attempted kidnapper. He’s also a murderer.

  “Okay…” Conner nods. “Then I guess I need to hurry the fuck up and find him.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Delilah

  FOR THE SECOND TIME IN AS MANY DAYS, I WAKE

  up to find Gray standing at my bedroom window, curtains twitched away from the glass, the wide plank of his shoulders tense like he’s waiting for an arial assault.

  Sitting up a little, I look around the room. It’s obviously been tidied. Last night’s dinner tray is cleared away. Discarded clothes and bath towels have been picked up. Magazines and books stacked on the nightstand.

  “Did you let housekeeping in?”

  When I say it, the tension in Gray’s shoulders disappears and he steps away from the window, letting the heavy blackout curtain fall back into place. “I carry my own feather duster.” He turns toward me, giving me one of his wide, mega-watt smiles. As wide and as bright as it is, the shine of it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Something is wrong.

  “What happened?”

  He’s about to lie to me—tell me nothing or that everything is fine—I can see it in the way his gaze slides away from mine for a split second and I steel myself for it. Remind myself that nothing I’ve ever done to this man has inspired trust or confidence but then he does something I didn’t expect.

  He tells me the truth.

  “Mike is dead.” He says it carefully, watching my face for a reaction. When I don’t give him whatever he’s looking for, he sighs. “The bartender from Level—the one I caught selling drugs to the Cramer kid on camera.”

  I nod, the memory surfacing for a moment before sinking again. “What happened to him?”

  Gray makes a rough, ugly sound in the back of his throat that I think is supposed to be a laugh. “I suppose that depends on who you ask…” he says, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Did you know him?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve done drugs occasionally in the past,” I answer him honestly, eyes glued to the fingers I have twisted together in my lap. “But never at Level and not since last year in Spain when—”

  “You dropped Ketamine with Vanderhoff.” He finishes it for me, his hand slipping into view to rest on top of mine.

  “I didn’t drop anything,” I tell him, suddenly desperate for him to understand. “At least not on purpose.”

  “He drugged you?” His straight, dark brows drop low over his gaze. “Is that what you’re saying? That he gave—”

  “I don’t know...” I shake my head, doing my best to answer him truthfully. “We were staying in my suite in Barcelona… there were a lot of us. It was Liz’s birthday and we’d been partying for days—” I close my eyes as a kaleidoscope of memories shift and flare in front of my eyes—what happened in Spain, all jumbled up with what happened Friday night. The tumble and spin of it makes me nauseous and I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from getting sick. “What does this have to do with the bartender? Was he there? Did he—” I open my eyes and looks at Gray. Expect to see regret. Maybe a little disgust. I don’t see any of those things. What I see sends my heart slamming into my throat on a hard bounce that nearly chokes me. “What’s happened, Gray? I need you to tell me what’s going on. You’re telling me that this Mike person is dead like it’s supposed to upset me or maybe like I should understand what it means but I—” “There was a note left at the scene that claimed the two of you were in a relationship.”

  “What?” It’s like he spoke to me in a foreign language. One I’ve never heard. “I don’t even know who he is. I never—f”

  “He had pictures of you. Video…

  He doesn’t have to say anything else. He doesn’t have to explain what he means. I know. I know what he means and it has me scrambling across the bed and staggering across the floor, trying to the make it to the bathroom in time to beat the surge of acid scorching its way up my throat.

  I barely make it, falling to my knees in front of the toilet just as the first wave of nausea washes over me. Somewhere in the middle of it, I feel something cool and soothing pressed against the back of my neck. My hair being gathered and held away from my face.

  Gray.

  When I’m finally done, he helps me stand and leads me to the shower. Turning it on, he strips me out of my T-shirt before taking off his pants and pulling me into the walk-in stall with him. Like yesterday, he washes my hair carefully. Conditions it before rinsing it clean. Lathers the soap between his hands before gently running them over my body, kneeling in front of me so he can start at my feet and wash every inch of me. Even though I want to tell him he doesn’t have to, that it’s unnecessary, I don’t because the fact of the matter is that I feel better when he’s touching me. I feel stronger. More like the person I want to be.

  Finally finished, Gray stands in front of me, gently smoothing my wet hair away from my face. “Better?”

  When I nod, he leans in to drop a quick kiss on my cheek. “Finish up—I’ll be right outside,” he tells me before exiting the shower. I watch as he pulls a towel off the stack and uses it to rub his hair dry before slinging it around his hips and walking out the door.

  When I come out of the bathroom, the bedroom door is open and I can hear Gray talking—a one-sided conversation that tells me he’s on his phone with someone, his voice getting louder as I walk down the hall toward the sound of it. Standing in the doorway, I can see him in the living room, standing at the window again, dressed in another pair of jeans and a T-shirt I lifted from Went’s closet. Looking at the dining room table, I can see that the flowers are gone. The gift box too.

  “How long is it going to take?” He pauses for a second before sighs, lifting a hand to scrub it over his face. “Alright—I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Just let me know when it’s done,” he says before ending the call.

  “You said no room service,” I remind him, staring at the food spread out on the coffee table. Another fruit plate. Coffee. A basket of pastries.

  Jamming his phone into his pocket, he turns toward me with a sheepish grin. “I think we’re past that now,” he says, watching me as I make my way toward the couch. He meets me there, lowering himself carefully into one of my grandmother’s antique chairs like he’s afraid it’s going to collapse underneath him.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him, laughing a little while I pour myself a cup of coffee. “They’re sturdier than they look.” I sit back, taking my coffee with me, feeling the sting of embarrassment over the way I fell apart. The fact that the way he said he had pictures of you tells me that he’s seen them. At the very least that he knows what they’re of. That they’re of me…

  “I don’t remember taking them.” I look up at him, feeling stupid for saying it out loud because that doesn’t mean anything. There are a lot of nights in my life that are a blur.
Just because I don’t remember doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. That I didn’t… “I’m sorry, Gray.” I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  He scowls at me, his dark gaze pinned to mine so intense I have to look away. “You don’t apologize to me, not for shit like that—do you hear me?” He dips his head, catching my gaze with his. “Even if those pictures were real, which they’re not, you wouldn’t owe me or anyone else an apology for anything that you’ve done—are we clear?”

  I nod, feeling some of the shame abate enough for me to understand what he’s telling me. What he’s suggesting. “What do you mean they’re not real?”

  Gray shakes his head. “I mean they’re not real—they’re photoshopped to look like you but it’s not you.”

  “I don’t understand…” It never occurred to me that the pictures and video were fake. I always assumed that they were real. That I actually did those things but just couldn’t remember. Knowing that someone edited photographs and video to look like me is somehow worse. “Who would do something like that.”

  “I think you know.” Gray sighs. “I think you’ve known the whole time—you just either didn’t want to admit it or you didn’t want to tell me.”

  Nik.

  He’s talking about Nik.

  Before I can try to explain, Gray stops me with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter—all that matters now is finding him and stopping him.”

  “How?” I can feel the panic start to bubble in my throat again. “I mean, he’s royalty. He has diplomatic immunity—even if we can prove that he’s the one who—”

  “How doesn’t really matter either.” The way he says it scares me a little, almost as much as it calms me. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Of course, I trust you.”

  “Good because you and I are leaving Boston and we’re not coming back until this thing is over.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Grayson

  THE PLAN IS SIMPLE ENOUGH.

  We’re going back to New York long enough for the two of us to meet with the detectives investigating Mike’s death. After that we’re leaving.

  Conner filed two flight plans—one under Delilah’s name, heading for London and, since we have to assume he knows who I really am, one under the Bright Group corporate ID, headed for Australia.

  We won’t be on either of them.

  Henley’s stepfather is flying to San Francisco on business tomorrow morning and we’re tagging along. On the way we’ll make an unscheduled stop in Wyoming. He owns a five-thousand-acre horse ranch there, complete with its own airstrip. When Conner laid out the details, I couldn’t deny the fact that it sounded like the perfect hideaway—who the hell would look for Delilah Fiorella on a horse ranch?

  “Are you sure he won’t mind?”

  “Spencer?” Conner shook his head and laughed. “No—he’ll just be glad someone is getting some use out of it,” he told me, his expression growing serious. “You sure you want to go with her? I’m sure Went or maybe Rivers—"

  “No,” I told him, my tone making it clear that I consider the matter closed. “She’s not going anywhere without me and I’m not going anywhere without her.”

  When he hears it, he laughed again. “I guess you figured it out, huh?”

  I don’t have to ask him what he means. “Yeah—I figured it out.” I didn’t tell him that I’ve been in love with her all along. That I fell for Delilah years ago and was just too dumb and stubborn to figure it out until now.

  “Good.” He gives me a nod. “I’ll reach out to the police and set up an interview and meet you there. Afterward, you guys can head straight to the airport.”

  It kills me, knowing that whatever happens to Vanderhoff, I won’t be the one to do it to him. Like Delilah pointed out, as a member of the Dutch royal family, he has diplomatic immunity. He can literally get away murder. I just have to trust that whatever Conner has planned, it’ll be enough.

  “Leaving?” Delilah looks at me now, confused by what I’m saying. “Where?”

  “Henley’s stepdad has a horse ranch in Wyoming.” Saying it makes me realize I should’ve asked her—at least included her in the planning. “I should’ve asked first. I shouldn’t have just assumed. If you don’t want to—”

  “No.” She shakes her head, a dizzying mixture of resolve and relief swirling across her face. “I want to go… is that what you were talking about on the phone just now?”

  “No… not exactly.” I shake my head. “The trip is set—we leave Boston in a few hours, but we have to make a stop first.” I explain about the cops—that with Mike’s apparent suicide and the nature of the confession spelled out in the note left at the scene, that the NYPD wants us to come in for questioning.

  “But I don’t know anything,” she tells me, a frown crumpling her brow. “Even if I did know him, I don’t remember anything about what happened Friday night.”

  “Then that’s what you tell them.” I give her a shrug. “The important thing is that we’re as cooperative as possible. We go back to New York and talk to the cops and then we disappear until this whole thing is over.”

  “Okay.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “When do we leave?”

  FORTY

  Delilah

  BEING BACK IN NEW YORK MAKES ME REALIZE

  how much I hated living here. Not the city itself—I love the city. I love that you can order Chinese takeout at 3 AM and then take the subway to Little Italy for gelato. I love Central Park. I love the summer picnics in Strawberry Fields and that kids race their motorized boats across the reservoir.

  What I hated is that for as long as I lived there, I never did any of those things. I was too busy being Delilah Fiorella to be myself. I hated that I was alone. That I’d exiled myself here as a way of trying to prove to myself that I didn’t care that no one really loved me. Cared about what happened to me.

  River’s picks us up at the airport. “Miss Delilah,” he says in his normal reserved tone as he reaches for my bag, but I can see it flit across his stoic features—he’s been worried about me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, giving him a small headshake. “Everything happened so fast and—”

  My apology confuses him because even though this isn’t the first time I’ve disappeared for days at a time, it’s the first time I’ve ever apologized for it. “Nonsense.” He flicks Gray a quick, guarded look over my shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says while opening the rear-passenger door of the limo and ushering me inside. As soon as we’re secure, Rivers rounds the front of the car and climbs in. A few minutes later, we’re on the road.

  While we drive through the city to the hotel, Gray fields about a dozen phone calls—from his brothers and employees at the club—each one more tense and abrupt than the last. It reminds me that he has a life—a real life. That I’m not the only person in it that needs his attention.

  Finally, he says, “To be honest, I don’t really give a shit, Jase. I’m not going.” Before he hangs up and tosses his cell onto the seat across from us.

  “Is everything okay?” It’s a dumb question. It’s obvious that something is wrong but instead of telling me what’s going on, Gray smiles.

  “It’s fine.” Reaching for me, he pulls me closer, tucking me against him. “Our interviews with NYPD are set up for tomorrow morning. Conner will meet us at—”

  “Gray.” Tilting my head back on his shoulder so I can look up at him, I sigh. “Something is going on. I need you to tell me what it is.”

  “No, you don’t.” He tips his chin down, bringing his mouth to within an inch of mine. “Because it doesn’t matter.” Tipping it a little lower, he gives me a light kiss designed to distract me.

  “You can’t do that,” I tell him, even as my arm slips up to anchor itself around his neck. “You can’t just decide what matters and what doesn’t without giving me a—”

  “Okay…” Reaching up, Gray cups his hand around the back of my neck. �
�You’re right—I’m sorry. I just…” sweeping the callused pad of his thumb over my cheekbone, he frowns. “the arson investigator is at Level and one of us needs to be there and since I’m the only one actually here, I—”

  “Should be there,” I finish for him quietly.

  As soon as I say it, his frown deepens into a scowl. “No—I’ve already told Jase to fuck off.” He shakes his head, his grip on me tightening. “I’m not here for that. I’m here for you. We’re going to go back to the hotel and pack your shit. Then I thought maybe we’d head over to my place so I can—”

  “I can go back to the hotel on my own,” I say, even though the thought of walking into my suite on my own is terrifying. “Conner removed Nik’s prints from the system so he can’t access the elevator. You spent the entire morning briefing hotel security on what to do if he shows up.” Forcing a smile onto my face, I nod when all he does is scowl at me in response. “Rivers can drop you off at the club and then take me to the hotel. He’ll walk me to the elevator and make sure I get in alone and that security is posted outside the car like you instructed—then he’ll drive back to the Level and pick you to bring you to the hotel—easy-peasy.”

  “I don’t like it.” His grip tightens even more while he shakes his head at me, fast and tight. “I can’t just leave you. I need to be there. What if—”

  “Nobody has even seen Nik since Friday night,” I remind him. “For all we know he’s halfway around the world, under a rock somewhere—”

  “You are not helping,” he growls at me. “The last thing I need is a reminder that your psycho ex is in my blind spot—especially if you expect me to just leave you alone for—”

  “I won’t be alone,” I remind him. “River’s will be with me—I’ll be okay. I promise.”