by Meg Ripley
Dylan worried at his bottom lip as he watched the scenery flash past the windows of the train. It had been over a week since he had seen Rachel; over a week since she had asked him why he was having sex with her—a question that, in his stunned mind, had nothing to do with the real issue at hand—and then ran out of the apartment. He had been so baffled by her question that it had taken him a few minutes to get his clothes on and follow her; and she had taken advantage of that head start to lose herself somewhere in Rouen, and then leave the city altogether.
He knew that she had left, but he didn’t know where she had gone. Dylan shifted in his seat, taking a slow breath. This is why you don’t get involved with the target, you dumbass, he thought to himself. It had been much easier to track her before; he had been able to remain objective, he had been able to think clearly about where a woman like Rachel would go, what she would do. When Whitley had called him to give him the details on their arrangements—the planned escape from Rouen that he and Rachel would have made if she hadn’t left—Dylan had felt ethically bound to tell his client that he had lost the girl.
“What the hell did you do, Dylan?” Whitley had asked him after a moment’s silence.
“We got into a fight and she ran off.” Another moment of ominous silence.
“When I told you to stay with her at all times, I didn’t mean to stay in her bed,” Whitley told him slowly. “You could have just as easily watched her without sleeping with her.”
“I don’t take my job quite that seriously,” Dylan had remarked caustically. “Look; from what I can gather she hopped a train, probably to Paris. That’s the only place she could really go to get the hell out of dodge from. I’ll see if I can pick up the trail there.”
“Do what you can,” Whitley had replied. “I’m going to take other measures. Do you think Jeffrey knows?”
“If he doesn’t now, he will soon,” Dylan said grimly. “We have to get to her first.”
“One of us does, anyway. Do what you have to do; send me the expenses later on.” With that, Whitley had ended the call, and Dylan had been left to his own devices to attempt to track a woman he thought he might never fully know across the country—and perhaps out of it—without having any idea of what she might do.
It had taken him a few days in Paris and a few persuasive questions to find someone who remembered the woman he described; slowly, Dylan began to trace the path that Rachel had taken, the trains across the country, out of it and into Geneva. He knew that if he was able to do it, Brock with his superior resources would be just as capable—if not more so.
Dylan worried at his bottom lip as he watched the French countryside pass by the window of the TGV. He picked up his phone and flipped through his music library; he had sent Rachel a few messages, a last-ditch effort to get her to reach out to him—but he had gotten no response. She may have ditched the phone, he thought grimly. For all I know I’m sending these messages to some confused French girl who has no idea why she keeps getting songs in her voicemail. As he picked another song from his collection to send to her—not knowing whether she would get it, whether she would understand—the lyrics filtered through his mind. “This indecision’s got me climbing up the wall…How did this come over me, thought I was above it all…Give me some rope I’m coming lose, I’m hanging on you…”
****
Dylan wandered the station at Geneva, sniffing the air as if it could possibly contain some trace of Rachel’s particular warm, spicy scent. He shook his head, clenching his teeth and working to control his irritation. She wasn’t in Geneva, he was somehow certain; she had landed there, dropped by the train, but if he knew her at all—if he understood the strange woman whose life he had been part of for over a month, until he and Brock had ruined the setup—she wouldn’t have stayed. She’d have moved on, prompted both by the need to lose herself even more thoroughly and the less-than-warm Swiss themselves. A big city could conceal her well, but it would also provide plenty of opportunities for her to be grabbed without anyone noticing it. So where would she have gone?
Some keenly refined sense twinged, and Dylan turned on his heel, coming out of his reverie abruptly. Something wasn’t right. He felt the skin-crawling sensation of being watched, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Looking around, at first Dylan saw nothing to alarm—people milling about the station, greeting friends who had come to meet them, rushing out to catch the next train leaving the station. But he became aware of a group of men who were standing a distance away, oddly still in the rush. Brock. Dylan felt his heart speed up. He had a few options; they wouldn’t want to take him down in public. They wouldn’t want to create a spectacle, reveal the falseness of their pretend-uniforms. They’d want to get the drop on him.
There would be taxis outside, along with the bus; Dylan could get into a vehicle, get away from them—maybe lose them, if the driver was good enough. Or he could jump onto another train, take the fine when they came to check tickets and get ejected somewhere. The options flitted through his mind as he moved through the station, doing his best to appear not to hurry; he had no more interest in drawing attention to himself—yet—than the hired hands looking for their opening to drop him. If they started to make their move, that would be the time to make a scene. The Swiss might be standoffish, but they were not about to let a bunch of people tarnish the reputation of their police with impunity.
Dylan started towards the entrance to the station, glancing around him in quick, darting gazes, keeping track of where Brock’s henchmen were, how they were moving to follow him as unobtrusively as possible. As he reached the doors, his heart beating faster, he heard one of them call out for him to stop; they had evidently come to the conclusion about what his plan might be to evade them and decided that a little scene was not as bad as losing their quarry.
He broke into a run, and felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Fuck. Of all the times. Dylan slipped his hand into his pocket, darting out through the doors. He heard another shout behind them; one of the false officers was telling him to stop, that he was being detained—that he could face serious injury if he resisted arrest. Dylan plowed into a woman rushing towards the station and sidestepped, mumbling an apology in panicked, stilted French. Passersby, passengers waiting for their train, watched with morbid interest as Dylan made for the taxi stand, darting between and around people. More shouts from Brock’s henchmen behind him, the sound of one of them colliding with a very indignant Swiss man.
Dylan heard the air splitting crack an instant before he felt the impact of something hitting his back—he had no idea what. He staggered, almost but not quite stopping, as he continued towards the salvation of a cab; whatever it was, he was certain it had come from one of the henchmen, and as the shocking jolt of it settled into a sharp, prodding ache, he knew that if he let himself stop he didn’t want to know whatever other jollies they might have to apprehend him with. It would be in Brock’s interest to have him killed if he suspected that Dylan knew anything about Rachel’s whereabouts. Dylan sucked in a burning breath, feeling the sharp crackling pain settle into a throbbing ache in the back of his ribs. “I’m not bleeding, I can pay you, let me in and get me out of here—those aren’t real cops,” he told the driver. The man looked out at the oncoming men in uniforms and glanced at Dylan, taking in the import of his less-than-ideal French. The doors unlocked.
Dylan threw himself into the back seat and pressed his lips together firmly to muffle the grunt of pain that rose up in him as he was thrown back against the bench when the driver pulled away from the curb in a fast, lurching turn. He took a deep breath and unlocked the screen on his phone—somehow miraculously intact. I found her, it said. Come to this address. I suspect Brock is on your heels. Dylan thought wryly that he more than suspected it and took another deep breath. “My man,” he said, looking up to catch sight of the man through the mirror in the front of the car. “You are about to make the fare of the month.”
****
Rachel co
uld feel the headache gathering at her temples as the slight buzz she had worked up began to fade. She looked at James Whitley closely, trying to decide if it was even worth the effort of thinking anymore. “I understand why you feel manipulated,” James said, returning her regard without a trace of concern. “But I need you to understand where I’m coming from too, Rachel.”
“What I understand is that you could have easily given me some kind of note before I started getting stalked by people,” Rachel said. “I mean, I really appreciate being a millionaire and all, but a simple, ‘Hey, Rach, so there’s this guy who’s going to come after you—I’m sending help, but you might want to vacate your apartment and uproot your entire life right about now’ would have been nice.”
“I’ve been trying to evade him too,” James pointed out. “In case you haven’t noticed, Rachel, you and I have the distinction of swapping places as first on Jeffrey’s list to be eliminated depending on what day it is.”
“Okay,” Rachel said, standing unsteadily. She walked across the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets to retrieve a bottle of water. “Would you like one?” She asked, reaching for another bottle before James replied.
“Thank you.” Rachel returned to the table, handing James his bottle and opening her own before she sat down once more, heavily.
“I’m going to need you to explain exactly what the hell is going on to me,” she said, taking a long sip from the bottle. “Because honestly at this point the whole mess is as clear as mud to me.”
“Jeffrey has been trying to get control of the company for years,” James said, cracking the seal on his own bottle. “Before I was put in charge, his father ran Vantech Incorporated, and Jeffrey thought it was his just desserts to inherit the position.”
“I can see that,” Rachel said, taking another long pull from her bottle. Her impending hangover was not dissipating fast enough. “Where exactly do I come into this?”
“That is a bit complicated,” James told her, a faint smile curving his lips. He drank from his bottle of water and seemed to think for a long moment, spinning the cap on the tabletop. “When I came into my position as CEO of Vantech, Jeff became involved with another company; at first, we were all relieved—it seemed like he had decided to take his ‘loss’ gracefully.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’? The shareholders?” The ghost of a smile crossed James’ face once more.
“The family; Jeffrey is my step-brother.” Rachel’s eyes widened. You bet your sweet ass it’s complicated, she thought. “In any case, the company he was involved with is the one that he’s trying to get Vantech to merge with now; if he succeeds, then he’ll have as close to a monopoly in our industry as the government will allow. And he would use the merger as a way to boot me and take over his father’s company for good.” Rachel absorbed that for a moment. She could see why James would want to avoid the merger; it would remove him from power.
“So you send me the money meant for the merger, I get that. But why does he have to come after me? If he’s in charge of the company now with you ousted…”
“He will have to take legal action to make it permanent,” James said. “There is a will involved—complicated estate issues and lawyers’ problems, ultimately. He’s only in power as long as I’m alive and able to defend myself. And from what you told me before of his explanation to you, he’s telling the truth about one of his motives: while you’re in possession of the money, his position is bad indeed.”
“How would killing me fix that?”
“If he kills you, there won’t be anyone in a position to dispute his claim that the money was transferred in error—and he could get it back with a minimum of fuss from the bank. The people running Vantech other than myself have no real interest in me as a person; they’re interested in results. If Jeff gets results, they have no reason to back me in the courts.” Rachel drained her bottle, shaking her head.
“Things just get better and better, don’t they?” she sighed. “So, what do I do?”
“You stay out of his clutches, and give me time to get everything the way it should be.”
“How exactly does that benefit me? Brock offered me five million to give back the money you gave me.” James laughed.
“He would have had you killed the moment the transfer was complete,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I know my step-brother very well.”
“How do I know I can even trust you?”
“I don’t seem to have given you many reasons, have I?” James chuckled. “How about this: I have a contract at the hotel I’m staying at in this area. It is absolutely legally binding and states that in return for assisting me, you will receive an additional five million dollars.”
Before Rachel could respond to the offer, there was a knock at the door. She jumped, nearly tumbling out of her chair. “Shit, shit, he found me,” she said. James shook his head.
“Not just yet, I think. That will be Dylan.”
“Dylan?” Rachel stared at the man across from her at the table in disbelief.
“I’m going to have to cut his pay, I think; I managed to find you before he did.” James shook his head and stood, walking to the door.
“Do I get to have any control or say over anything that happens in my life anymore?” Rachel asked, directing the question to the ceiling.
“Welcome to the life of wealth and prestige,” James said wryly from behind her. Rachel heard the door open.
“They’ll be here soon, I think,” Dylan said, and Rachel deliberately kept her eyes in front of her. She didn’t want to see him; even if the effort in his voice implied that he was struggling in some way.
“Were you followed?” James asked. “I see they caught up with you at some point at least.”
“Cracked rib, not much of a thing; I don’t think they could get their hands on legal guns, felt like a bean bag.” Rachel felt her stomach lurch—Dylan had a cracked rib? She turned her head almost involuntarily and watched as he approached the table in a slow, slightly staggering walk, with little of his usual upright cockiness. “Hello, Love,” Dylan said, smiling. “You learned well from me, picking an out-of-the-way place like this.”
****
“So,” Rachel said, looking from Dylan to James as they watched her. They had managed to get Dylan to a hospital using James’ car, and after a five-hour wait, Dylan’s cracked ribs—both of them—were taped down, and he had taken some ibuprofen for the pain, not wanting to dull his senses with narcotics. “What’s next?” She tried to focus more of her attention on James rather than on Dylan. He’s being paid. The galling thought that he might only have started having sex with her due to convenience or because it would keep her close still hovered in her mind.
“We get you out of here,” James said, glancing at Dylan. “I can pay someone else to take over guarding you.”
“I’m fine, James,” Dylan said, shifting slightly in his chair. Rachel saw him wince as the movement sent pain through him and couldn’t quite help feeling a flicker of guilt and remorse that he’d been hurt tracking her down.
“You have two cracked ribs, Dylan. You don’t have a gun, and Jeff’s people are going to want to take you out as much as they do Rachel.”
“I said I’m fine,” Dylan said, setting his jaw in a way that Rachel immediately recognized. He was going to be stubborn about it. She didn’t know why; he had already made plenty of money from protecting her—something that James had confirmed while they were waiting as the doctor saw to Dylan’s injuries. Dylan was not making quite as much money as the amount that Rachel was seeing, but it was enough that he could take a good, long vacation once his service was over.
“You’re sure you can keep her safe?” James asked Dylan.
“As long as she doesn’t go running off without me,” Dylan answered, glancing at Rachel.
“Maybe if people would have given me the full information I kept asking for in the beginning, I wouldn’t have run off,” Rachel countered, pinning him down with a scowl
. It wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it; she had run off not only because she didn’t know who to trust—but because she didn’t want to be around Dylan, sleeping with him, being protected by him, when she didn’t know what his motivations were or whether she herself mattered to him as a person at all.
“Well, Love, you’ve got all the information now. Jeff wants the money back, and he wants you out of the way so that he can clean up this mess that James here made.” Dylan gestured to her benefactor and Rachel rolled her eyes. She could understand that James had made decisions about her—about his company—with self-interest in mind, but it had certainly made her life a lot more difficult, being the person who apparently was going to keep his company from going out of his control.
“I wouldn’t say I have all the information, but I have enough to know that running to Brock isn’t going to prolong my life any.” Dylan held her gaze steadily for a long moment and smiled slightly.
“So, where are we headed, boss?” he asked, glancing away from her to look at James.
“You can’t go to Geneva, that’s for damned sure,” James said. “I’m going to make a few calls and arrange for the two of you to get on a train at Annecy, head north towards Belgium. That probably is not going to be your destination, but it’s a start.” James stood and stepped away from the table, taking his phone out of his pocket and moving towards the other door to step outside, leaving them alone.
“Are you hungry, Love? You seem cranky.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes, frowning. “I am not going to get sucked in by that ploy again,” Rachel told him firmly. “Besides, I ate while you were in the hospital.”
“Aw, Love,” Dylan said, smiling slightly. “I will say that you picked a good hideaway. I don’t know how James figured it out, but I’d have had a hard time finding you here if he didn’t give me your address.”