A Million Different Ways To Lose You (The Horn Duet Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  “You okay?” he asked. A nod was the best I could do. I grabbed his face and inspected him closely. Even with broken glass all over his hair and shirt, he seemed uninjured.

  Gideon stormed into the store. “Everybody okay?”

  We both nodded. Once Sebastian was standing, they hoisted me up. Sebastian immediately went to work brushing the broken glass from the store window off my yellow sundress.

  “Did you get him?”

  Police sirens approached. All heads swiveled in that direction.

  “Too many people in the line of fire.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Venice is no longer safe,” Gideon deadpanned. He wiped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his linen shirt. At the sight of my scraped and bloodied hands and knees, his eyes grew soft and concerned.

  “Time to go home.” Sebastian’s countenance and tone could’ve frozen hell. The honeymoon was officially over.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I could not have dreamed of a worse way to end what should have been the best few weeks of my life. Anxiety, escalating to monumental proportions, had me living on the edge of a razorblade. Every night since the attack in Venice, I had woken up in a pool of sweat. And every time Sebastian asked what the nightmare was about, I dissembled. I couldn’t very well explain that I found new and more grisly ways for him to die in my arms each night.

  Upon our return, we holed up on the estate. Interpol and the FBI were contacted as soon as the attempt on Sebastian’s life took place. The day we arrived agent Vasquez and Lewis were there to meet us for a debriefing. Mr. Bernard was at the bar, pouring himself a drink, when we entered the living room.

  “They’re getting desperate. They know that any day now the so called audit for tax evasion will start,” said agent Lewis. She pushed off the door frame she was leaning on and joined the rest of us that were seated.

  Across from us on the couch, agent Vasquez bent forward and placed her elbows on her knees. Clasping her hands into a single fist, she asked, “Whose next in line to be CEO in the event of your death?”

  “David has specific instructions. If I don’t have an heir, the bank would go directly into escrow to be prepared for sale. In the meantime there would be an interim board elected. With Charles being the largest account holder, he would automatically qualify to be a member. Day to day operations would be handled by Shay Savitch, my executive vice president.”

  “What about a wife? Any provisions for a wife?” Lewis inquired casually.

  “I don’t have a prenup––now that I’m married, my wife inherits everything.”

  My gaze cautiously met David’s, whose dark blue eyes stared back at me in collusion over the rim of the cut crystal glass he sipped.

  “So we can assume your wife’s a target as well now,” Vasquez added.

  Sebastian’s burdened eyes flitted to mine. He squeezed my hand and replied, “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Vasquez and Lewis exchanged an understanding. “It’s time to move on Mr. Redman. Tomorrow. At the office. Mrs. Horn, it’s best you be there too. Venice indicates there may be a leak at Interpol––you could be in danger.”

  Mrs. Horn…the first time anyone had ever used my married name.

  “She’ll be there,” Sebastian assured them.

  “We’ll be in touch with the details.”

  I turned to study Sebastian’s reaction and found none. His complete attention remained on the two agents seated before us. Composure was written all over the perfect angles of his face, his expression as placid as a frozen lake. He knew. The knowledge came to me suddenly. He’d known all along that Marcus was involved.

  “Why?” My voice sounded disembodied, untethered from me.

  Agent Vasquez’s eyebrows rose up her forehead. “In the four years Mr. Redman placed the trades for Mr. Hightower’s account he earned a cool fifty million.”

  “But he was already wealthy. Why would he do this?” I asked, my tone incredulous.

  “Because of me,” Sebastian answered. “He was sticking it to me.” His voice may have been present, but his mind was far away. “He’s trying to take me down.”

  By late morning, with Justin driving and Bear riding in the front seat, we were pulling in front of the turn-of-the-century marble building, everyone ready to play their part. Both national and international agencies had their people in place. Security at the bank being some of the most sophisticated in the world, Bear and Justin remained in the lobby while I took the elevator up to the top floor.

  I should’ve been paying more attention to my surroundings…I should have. But I wasn’t. I was glancing down at my phone to read a text Sebastian had sent me, a text that told me to remain in the lobby until Gideon came to fetch me.

  I only glanced up when I heard someone step in right behind me. Marcus stared back at me with poorly feigned innocence in his opaque, brown eyes. That ultra neat, boyish exterior didn’t fool me. For a moment his expression was one of surprise, but it quickly settled into something darker. Something malicious. Something that made all the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  “Well if it isn’t the little illegal immigrant shacking up with my dear brother.”

  My posture altered. It snapped ramrod straight. “Step brother. You don’t share blood, thank God.” I don’t know where I found the courage to say that.

  His mouth hooked up on once side in the most smarmy, smug smile I’d ever had the displeasure of witnessing. “I’d really like to know what it is about you that has him so twisted in the head. Is your snatch made of gold?”

  I was starting to sweat. Two minutes of courage was all I had in me, and the elevator ride suddenly felt endless. My gaze darted to the numbers illuminated at the top of the car. Moving swiftly out of his relaxed pose, he stood in front of the panel and hit the stop button.

  “What the hell!”

  I was too scared to reach around him, to touch him in any way. I knew from past experience with him that he wouldn’t think twice about manhandling me. Just how far he would go, I had no idea.

  “Do you know that your boyfriend––pardon, your husband––likes to fuck my wife?” Examining me closely he added, “You know. Then you also know that he likes to choke her while he’s doing it, likes to watch her fight for air while he comes inside of her.” He knew exactly where to hit me, where my Achilles heel was, and he went at it without mercy. The anxiety and discomfort was all over me, impossible to hide as I desperately tried to fend off his psychological assault. “Sometimes he likes to tie her up––”

  “Let me out, you son of a bitch.”

  “Sometimes he likes to fuck her in the ass.”

  “Let me the hell out of here, or I’ll scream!” I started pounding on the metal door.

  “Do you know how I know that? He leaves bruises, his hand prints all over her for me to find.”

  “Help! We’re stuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, and banged and banged and banged with flat palms on the brass doors.

  Undeterred, Marcus carried on in an unhurried pace, as if he were reciting a poem, something pleasant. He certainly looked like he was enjoying himself. “But he doesn’t anymore because he’s too busy fucking you. Which leads me to believe that you must be the lay of the century. And maybe, just maybe, if I fuck you, that magical cunt of yours can help me forget about my wife––just like Sebastian has.” By now I was going crazy on the door, my hands red and swollen from the effort, my voice hoarse from screaming.

  All of a sudden, the double doors opened on the top floor, and a room full of men in expensive suits stared back at me with matching neutral expressions. The one expression that wasn’t neutral, though, was Sebastian’s. He took me in from head to foot slowly and thoroughly.

  I could almost imagine the picture I painted: red faced, sweaty, breathing heavily. When his fiery gaze darted to Marcus, there was no doubt what was coming next. In a couple of long legged strides, Sebastian was on him in seconds, Gideon thankfully there just as
quickly. Both men, swinging wildly, landed punch after punch until some of the other employees joined in to separate the two.

  Agent Vasquez, standing next to the Interpol agents, stepped forward. “Wanted to do this a little more discretely,” she said, an annoyed look on her face. “Marcus Nathaniel Redman, you are under arrest for money laundering, financing of terrorism, intent to harbor assets for terrorist organizations…”

  The list was so long I stopped listening after a while.

  As soon as the Interpol agents had Marcus in handcuffs Sebastian ordered, “Get him out of here.” His gaze, still burning with anger and vengeance, focused in on me. “In my office.” As soon as we stepped inside he turned and barked, “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t touch me.”

  “Bullshit.” He took a handkerchief out of the interior pocket of his jacket and I grabbed it from him. I stroked his face and pressed it under his nose absorbing the dripping blood.

  “I swear he didn’t. It was all talk. He was just taunting me.”

  Suddenly uneasy, he said, “What did he say?” His eyes unblinking.

  “Nothing I ever want to hear again, let alone repeat.”

  “Vera,” he pleaded.

  “No, Sebastian. I’m not discussing it.”

  I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself it had all happened before me. But when my head hit the pillow that night, I stayed awake ’til dawn with those ugly images running through my head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The road to Montreux was breathtaking in its bucolic majesty. Steep, emerald green mountains jutted up arrogantly, penetrating the cerulean blue sky with impunity. Their permanence inspired awe, their stark beauty admiration.

  My gaze moved from the open sunroof of the Bentley, to the man in the driver’s seat. Sharp angles, stark beauty, fierce and arrogant. I smiled at the similarities. Lost in contemplation, he was quiet for most of the hour and a half drive. I could feel the tension pulling him apart. We had no idea what awaited us at Charles’.

  After Marcus was arrested, Interpol and the Feds moved quickly on The Crescent Foundation, freezing assents and arresting one Dr. Farshid, the head of the charity. Marcus gave them all up, no coercion necessary. Two days later we were on the road to Montreaux.

  “You love him,” I claimed the obvious.

  “Charles? He was like a father to me.” Then, shaking his head, he clarified, “He was more than that––he was a friend when I had nobody.”

  My chest caved in on itself, an enormous weight squatting on it. It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned how alone, or how lonely his childhood had been.

  “Ben?”

  “We couldn’t speak much when he was training. Then the war.”

  “And your father?”

  His eyes slid to mine. He scoffed. “If it hadn’t been for Charles, we would never have reconciled. He’s the only one that ever got through to him.”

  “As hard as I try, I can’t understand your father. Loyal to his friend, and yet, neglectful of his only son? It’s just bizarre.”

  “Preaching to the choir. I’ve been trying to figure it out for thirty five years, and I still don’t have a clue.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” No explanations were necessary. He knew what I was implying. There was so much at stake. We both had harbored hope that Charles was somehow innocent of everything other than poor judgment, but after Marcus’ arrest that chance had withered away.

  “I have to be––don’t I?” he said in a resigned voice, his disappointment palpable. The one person that had ever been there for him, and he would soon lose him as well.

  Impulsively, I sifted my fingers through his hair and his expression softened. Sighing deeply, he trapped my hand and brought it to his soft lips. One, two, three kisses on my knuckles. His touch reverent. He was always reaching for me, always so affectionate. Baring my open wrist, he brushed his lips on my pulse, making me shiver while certain other parts of me grew hot and bothered.

  “Pull over.”

  His face snapped in my direction. In the mirror of his sunglasses, I saw my reflection. Cheeks flushed. Spark of lust in my eyes. There was no doubt where my thoughts were headed. His brow wrinkled and pulled together in question. Sliding his sunglasses off, his eyes where two, mischievous crescents trying to asses the situation.

  “Pull over now,” I repeated more forcefully, pointing to a deserted clearing off the road where he could park the car. I almost laughed when he did as he was told. He parked the Bentley under the shade of a tall conifer.

  “Vera…” he drawled, his husky voice filled with wonder and poorly hidden excitement, my name a supplication on his lips. How could one word imply so much?

  Before the engine was off, I had my greedy hands on his belt buckle, undoing it and yanking the tiresome thing from his waist. He chuckled as I quickly ripped open his pants. His eyes bright, scintillating with anticipation, complemented the smile kicking up the side of his sensual mouth.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You,” I replied, a fierce need to please him, to make him feel loved seizing the reins of my self-control, overriding the sense of propriety that I still held onto. I wanted to do things with him, and to him that, in my wildest dreams, I would’ve never entertained with anyone else. But most of all, I wanted him to never feel alone again.

  My eyes held his as I fisted him tightly and lowered my head. I watched amusement turn into lust, turn into pleasure.

  “You’ve gotten into me,” I murmured, licking the broad head of his shaft, slick with the evidence of his excitement. Salty like the Mediterranean. Like tears. I traced the slit with the tip of my tongue and heard a strangle moan surge out of him. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to bend steel, his fingers flexing repeatedly. I took him down my throat, and watched his head fall back on the headrest, his eyes drunkenly flutter shut. I cupped and stroked and squeezed his sac, heavy and velvety and warm in my hand.

  “Fuuuck me,” he mumbled, the words barely comprehensible.

  I intend to, I thought. And went about doing just that.

  We followed an endless gravel driveway that led to a late eighteenth century manor abutting Lake Geneva. The car hadn’t even come to a full stop and three very large and very intimidating men were already on the front steps. As soon as we parked, they began opening car doors, the trunk, unloading our bags. The bulge in their closely tailored black suits was easy enough to spot from a mile away. I glanced at Sebastian and caught the cautious look in his eyes, the heightened sense of awareness reinforcing his posture.

  “My dear boy!” The jovial greeting caused both our heads to turn in the direction of the open doorway. Charles stood with his arms stretched out, looking like a character in The Great Gatsby. His white linen suit was without a wrinkle, the grin he wore infectious. Sebastian smiled back tenderly. Some of the concern that only moments ago was stamped on his features faded. “Come in, come in. Lunch will be ready in ten.”

  Charles walked back into the house with us trailing close behind. Catching Sebastian’s attention, I mouthed ‘dear boy’ and raised an eyebrow indicating my delight at this. He shrugged, and the side of his mouth hooked up.

  “I was expecting you half an hour ago.” Charles threw the remark over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, we…uh––took in the scenery,” Sebastian answered.

  Charles glanced directly at me and said, “And how was it?”

  The second I caught the twinkle in his eyes I turned cherry red. Pursing my lips to stop from laughing, I said, “Majestic.”

  The interior of the manor looked like a world class museum. Artwork worthy of the Hermitage, spanning from the fourteenth to the twenty first, covered the aged stucco walls. Furniture that looked too precious to sit on crowded every room. Fabrics in jewel tones, emerald green to royal blue, from the most luxurious mills in northern Italy, covered every chair and sofa. I was afraid to touch anything.

 
“Your home is amazing,” I said as we walked from room to room, looking around with an awed expression I couldn’t have concealed even if I wanted to.

  “My dear girl, this is just the summer house. My home is in England.”

  Shocked, my eyes slammed into Sebastian’s while a small smile played on his sensual lips.

  Lunch was served on the veranda. The table was adorned with heirloom quality crystal and silverware complete with food you could only find at a Michelin rated restaurant. Bordering the lake, the patio was trimmed by stone balustrades topped with vases overflowing with shocking pink geraniums and purple petunias.

  It was a scene out of a movie and I, the spectator. That’s how I felt most of the time anyway. I cupped my fingers over my eyes and looked out at the horizon, the water as smooth as glass, the sun blinding. One of the butlers unspooled the candy-striped awning over the table, shielding us from the steady glare.

  “Any news on the foundation?” Charles inquired. The butler brought him a bottle of wine, which Charles inspected before giving him a curt nod. Charles tasted it and gave him the green light to pour.

  A strange melancholy washed over me. Here we sat, exchanging pleasantries while overlooking a small slice of heaven, when in just a short period of time everything would change.

  I turned to watch my husband. He could never hide anything from me and this moment was no different. Even though he wore a smile, even though his countenance was relaxed, all I saw was sorrow.

  “The girls school in Zambia is finally done, thanks in part to George Bush. Bono brought him in and we got the additional funding needed when it ran over budget.

  “Bono and Bush. What strange bedfellows,” Charles remarked with a saucy grin.

  “Effective ones,” Sebastian countered.

  “I’m traveling there at the end of October. I’ll swing by and take a look.”