30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  A sharp frown shifted over Tatyana’s beautiful face. “Sakova,” she corrected.

  “I want that bastard behind bars for what he did to me! I want to teach him he can’t have everything he wants just ‘cause he wants it!”

  “Why are you coming forward now with this information?” Tatyana asked. “Why not when it happened?”

  “Who would have believed me?” she asked. “Yeah I had the panties but I was afraid if I told anyone, he’d do something to me. It was the word of a rich man against mine. He could afford the very best lawyers. Until you, no one has ever called him on what he does. I would have been the first and my reputation would have been destroyed. They would have made me out to be the worst kind of slut.”

  “And you don’t think that will happen now?”

  They had covered just that question during the meeting the day before and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m damaged goods. No decent man would have me so what difference does it make?” she asked bitterly. She clenched her teeth. “McGregor made sure when he fired me that I’d never get another good job. He put the word out as a warning. The only job I could get was tending bar and since then…” She shrugged. “Let’s just say my reputation is no longer an issue. He assaulted you—and God knows how many other poor women—but you had the courage to come forward. One woman they could ignore but two? Maybe other women will also come forward to nail his slimy ass.” She nodded. “They will put the asshole in a cell, let some other pervert shag him ‘til he drops then throw away the key.” She narrowed her eyes. “They don’t like rapists in prison. You and me? We could have been one of their daughters!”

  Tatyana sat back. “You are very vehement about this, aren’t you?”

  “I am determined is what I am, Miss Pavlova.”

  “Sakova!” Tatyana snapped. “My name is Sakova and you have not told me yours!”

  “Chelsea Spinner,” she replied, giving the name of an actual employee fired two years earlier just in case Tatyana and her associates checked. The real Chelsea Spinner was on her way to Cancun—compliments of an anonymous benefactor. Records would show Chelsea worked at the Watering Hole, the bar owned by Rachel’s father Ed Morrison.

  Tatyana looked down at the plastic bag on the table. “Give me that,” she said. “I want to have it tested.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing doing. Until you give me my money I ain’t giving you squat, lady.”

  “Give it to me or I will have Sergei break your wrist,” Tatyana said sweetly.

  She looked over at the cop as though seeking help and Tatyana laughed.

  “He is with me,” she said. “Now hand over the bag.”

  She tightened her hand over the bag. “If you want me to testify—”

  “I don’t need you to testify,” Tatyana said. “All I need to do is show this to McGregor’s attorney and I’ll get what I want.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not he goes to prison. I just want his money and I’m going to get it.” Her face turned glacier cold. “Now hand over the bag or I promise you will wish you had!”

  Removing her hand from the bag, she put a look of helpless anger on her face. “This isn’t fair. He owes me for what he did to me.”

  “Life isn’t fair, Chelsea,” Tatyana said, getting up from the table. “The sooner you learn that, the better off you will be. He owes me too, and I’m going to make him pay through the nose to get this little bag. He pushed me away as though I was shit beneath his feet. He didn’t want to fuck me? Well, I’m going to fuck him instead!”

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, widening her eyes. “He didn’t attack you! Are you blackmailing him?”

  “Shut your mouth, you little whore!” Tatyana spat. “You say one word of this and I swear you won’t live to see your next birthday!”

  She watched the Ukrainian woman and her henchman walk out of the shop. When they were in their car and pulling away, the cop gave her a snide smile and got to his feet.

  “Life sucks, don’t it?” he queried before turning and leaving.

  “There isn’t a cop car in sight,” Jono said as he hurried over to her table. “I doubt that prick is for real.”

  “Oh, he’s for real. His name is Jack Bass and he’s as dirty as they come. He was there to intimidate Lina,” Jake said as he came from the back.

  “Did you get all that?” she asked.

  “Yeah, babe, we got it,” Craig said as he and another man came from around the counter. “Kit got every last word of it and, by the way, you are one helluva actress, Lina.”

  “I had to be,” she said. “His life depended on it.”

  He lay with his fingers laced under his head, staring into the mirror above him. The charges of attempted rape and assault and battery had been dropped. The first thing he’d done when he got home was to take a long, unworried shower and was now stretched out naked on his bed. He wished Melina was lying beside him but after she accompanied Craigie to the police station and signed her statement, she’d gone to work.

  “That’s one cool little sheila,” Craigie had said with admiration as he drove him home from the jail. “You know what? I think she’s in love with you, mate.”

  Those eight words had done things to him like nothing ever had in his life. He’d never known love from a woman. He’d never thought he would. He hadn’t thought he wanted it.

  Until he met her.

  “Is that what’s happening for you too, Synnie?” Craigie asked quietly. “Are you…?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” he’d said and he was being totally honest. “I like her. I like her a lot but love?” He shook his head. “Man, it’s too soon. I haven’t even slept with her yet.”

  “So she’s still a virgin,” Craigie said. “You haven’t sealed the deal?”

  He’d cringed at the question. The bet he’d made with Jono and Craigie was coming back to bite him in the ass and he didn’t like it. It made him feel like a wanker. He changed the subject.

  “Will they let you know when they arrest Tatyana?”

  Craigie shrugged. “If they can find her. We had a bit of a bad run when Bass saw me and Lina at the station. He tucked ass out of there going ninety to the dozen and my guess is his first call went to the moll to warn her. Chances are she’s long gone by now.”

  “And will pull the same shit on some other poor bloke,” he grumbled.

  “Prolly.”

  Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he felt a keen sense of pity for the next man Tatyana targeted. That he would be wealthy and influential was a given. The bitch was after money and wasn’t shy about wrecking other peoples’ lives to get what she wanted.

  He turned his head to the digital clock on his nightstand. It was six and he knew Melina would most likely be at the nursing home visiting Drew. She usually went every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday like clockwork. She never stayed long during the week—and especially not now that she was meeting him at the Room.

  And today was Wednesday.

  In two more days—the gods willing—she would be over the wet season.

  Just thinking about her gave him a hard-on. He stared at it in the mirror and shook his head at the absurdity of it all. He was a thirty-eight-year-old man with more notches on his headboard than a rock star yet he could get easily aroused by simply picturing a woman in his mind.

  Cursing under his breath, he got up from the bed. He went over to the armoire, opened the doors and stared at the shelves of jeans. He grabbed a new pair he’d never worn then took a new T-shirt from the drawer. For reasons he didn’t want to think about too long, he wanted to look nice for her tonight.

  “She saved your bacon, bro,” Jono had told him. “You owe her big-time.”

  And he’d begin to repay her on Friday.

  “Friday’s the day,” he whispered as he pulled on the jeans. “Friday’s the day.”

  Tonight, though, he’d treat her to the
meal they didn’t get to have on Monday.

  He smiled anticipating the look on her face when he came to the door to pick her up instead of Jono.

  The problem was evading the paparazzi who were camped out along the road outside the security hut of his gated community. His smile became a predatory grin. He picked up his mobile and called for his chopper. There was more than one way to skin a stinking polecat as Kit was so fond of saying.

  She leaned over and put her nose to one of the flowers in the crystal vase that sat on the little table in her foyer. The scent was intoxicating and she inhaled deeply. Gardenias were her favorite flowers. She loved their smell, the softness of the petals. The perfume she wore was Gardenia Dew and—miraculously—half a dozen bottles of it were now sitting on her vanity.

  “I think he liked it,” she said as she straightened when the sound of a car pulling into her driveway broke her revelry.

  The weather had turned cold so she opened the closet door to grab her coat. She was thrusting her arms into the sleeves when she heard the unmistakable creak of footsteps on her porch. The doorbell rang and she frowned. Jono never came to her door. Opening it, she was stunned to see the Kiwi standing there.

  “How’s it?” he asked then winced. “That means—”

  “How are you?” she said with a smile. “I’m being given Kiwi-speak lessons from Jonny.”

  “That’s why I keep the wanker around. I knew he’d be useful for something one day,” he replied. He frowned. “Whatcha looking at?” He put a hand to his mouth. “Am I drooling again?”

  “Jonny said she pushed you down the stairs.” She was looking at the dark bruise on his forehead and the strawberry scrapes on his chin and cheeks.

  “Falling down the stairs was embarrassing more than anything, but I’ve had worse,” he told her. His gaze drifted down her. “You look pretty.”

  “It’s the same skirt and blouse I always wear,” she said, “and frankly, I’m getting tired of this particular ensemble.”

  “Wanna go change?” he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I thought we’d go get some greasies.”

  “Not sure I want to know what that is, but yes I’d like to put on a pair of jeans and a sweater if you don’t mind. I hate wearing coats.”

  “Don’t,” he said then grinned crookedly. “Mind that is.”

  “I’ll be right back, then,” she said. “You know the way into the living room.”

  “I’ll wait on the porch,” he told her. He looked past her to the flowers. “You like them?”

  “I love them. Thank you, Kiwi,” she said. The tight-lipped smile he gave her was adorable. It reminded her of a small boy who’d given his mother a handful of wilted dandelion flowers in a grubby little fist.

  When she came out of the house, he was sitting in her porch swing idly keeping it going with one foot while the other rested on the edge of the seat. His left hand was wrapped around the chain. “I like this swing,” he said.

  “Me, too,” she said. “Ready?”

  “I promise we’ll make that dinner at Luigi’s next week but tonight it’s greasies. Hungry?” he asked as he left the swing.

  “That depends on what a greasie is,” she replied.

  “Kiwi-ese for fish and chips,” he informed her.

  “That’ll work,” she said. “I like fish and chips.”

  “I know,” he said smugly as he walked her to his car.

  “Nice,” she said, admiring the red sports coupe. “How many cars do you have?”

  “Just five,” he said then seemed to realize how conceited his admission sounded. As he opened the car door for her he looked away but she was willing to bet he was blushing. “I keep this one in a garage downtown. It’s my getaway car.”

  She laughed, watching him as he walked around the front of the vehicle. He moved with such effortless grace—so masculine—and with such self-assurance. He didn’t walk so much as swagger, but instead of finding it irritating, she liked it. The way he walked told the world he was a man with whom to reckon. The set of his shoulders said he didn’t back up and he didn’t back down and he’d never go around an obstacle in his path. If you didn’t move out of his way he’d walk right over you.

  “A force of nature,” she said as he opened the door.

  “Eh?”

  “Just woolgathering,” she said.

  Half an hour later they were sitting in a fast-food place with fish, French fries, corn on the cob, cole slaw and hushpuppies on Styrofoam plates in front of them. Two mugs of ice-cold root beer dripping condensation on the Formica tabletop completed the meal. She was pouring malt vinegar from a little packet on her fish when he cleared his throat in such a way she looked up quizzically.

  “Ah, Jono said he told you I’d been in trouble with the law before,” he said quietly.

  “He mentioned it,” she said, directing her gaze to her meal.

  “I don’t want to tell you about it but I think I should.”

  She shrugged without looking at him for she could sense the tension in him, the unwillingness to open his past to her. “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Raising her head, she looked right into his wounded blue eyes. “Then let’s wait until after supper, okay? Let’s enjoy our meal then we can go somewhere private and talk.”

  He glanced around them at the other diners. Although no one was paying particular attention to them, he nodded his agreement. “Gotcha,” he agreed.

  It was chilly as they walked along the river walk. Overhead the mercury lights cast a pale-yellow glow over the intricate wrought iron benches that were spaced evenly along the red-brick walk. Large concrete containers now devoid of the flowers of spring and summer held artificial evergreen trees that would soon be decorated with Christmas lights.

  Her hand was in his as they went to stand on the overlook that jutted out twenty feet over the rippling waters of the Chattahoochee River. Lights from the city were reflected in the river like diamond studs on a dark bolt of fabric. There was a light breeze but he thought she was warm enough beside him. When she leaned against the wrought iron fence, he slid his hand from hers to lean forward and brace his forearms on the top of the barrier. He threaded his fingers together and stared out over the water.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” she said, leaning into him. “A good place to think.”

  “I can see why you come here so often,” he said and though she craned her head to look up at him, he didn’t answer her silent question. He knew she understood there wasn’t much about her he hadn’t been able to learn.

  “Is there a place like this in Auckland?” she asked, giving him an opening.

  “My mother was a prostitute,” he said.

  The abrupt change threw her for she whipped her head toward him. He couldn’t look at her as he began his tale.

  “She was thirteen years old when she got pregnant with me. She liked to go to Piha Beach with her two best mates to watch the surfers. Sean had come with some of his fraternity brothers to try their luck at the notorious wild waves that pound the shore.”

  “Sean McGregor? Your father?” she asked.

  “Yeah. By all accounts he was quite the ladies’ man and my mother looked older than her years. She was full-blooded Māori. It was said she was the most beautiful girl in West Auckland and when my father saw her, he made a bet with…”

  He stopped and for the first time realized the implication of what he’d done. He had described his slender, virginal mother—with her long dark hair and green eyes—in the ads he’d placed in the newspapers.

  “Kiwi?” she asked and ran her hand over his, tugged his hands apart to lace her fingers with his. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Merciful Mary,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head in complete mortification. “Why didn’t I see it before?”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she suggested. “Or not talk at all.”

  “I’m
one fucking sick bastard,” he said.

  “No you’re not,” she told him.

  “You’ll change your mind about that when I’m finished,” he said, his teeth clenched.

  “Kiwi, you—”

  “He seduced her,” he said, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out her voice. “She was thirteen years old and he took her back to his fuck truck—his panel van—and got her pregnant. He was her first and all it took was one time. Just that one time and they made me. How sweet is that?”

  She said nothing—no doubt shocked by what he’d just revealed. He felt her fingers tightened around his.

  “She hid her pregnancy for as long as she could but when her mother found out she was pregnant, they kicked her out. They were ashamed of her. She had brought māteatea—disgrace—to her family. They wanted nothing more to do with her so they sent her to live with her father’s sister in Rotorua. They weren’t doing her any favors. The aunt sold her to a madam who carted her back up to Auckland and put her to work right after I popped out.” He glanced at her. “I was born in and grew up in that stinking brothel.”

  To give her her due, she didn’t bat an eye at his revelation. She continued to hold his hand and kept silent. He was grateful for that.

  “She hated me,” he said. “My mother. God, how she hated me. She blamed me for getting kicked out of her home, for being sent to live with her aunt whose boyfriend and his mates raped her every chance they got. Thankfully the aunt provided birth control for her so she never had any more children.”

  He became aware of her stroking their clenched fingers with her free hand. It was a sweet, supportive act that underscored the bitter, uncaring attitude of his mother.

  “Not once do I remember her ever holding me or singing to me or sitting beside me when I was sick but she used to beat me. Man, did she beat me! All the time. I could never do anything right, couldn’t do anything to please her. I loved her but she despised me. It was the other women who took care of me. I think they thought of me as a pet but at least they were good to me. That’s more than I could say about Olivia.”