San Francisco Lost: San Francisco Trilogy: Part Two

by Lila Dubois

  “Christina, how are you doing?” Dino’s voice broke through her detachment. He sounded out of breath.

  She turned her head, looking back at him through a tangle of hair. He was breathing heavily and had transferred the slapper from his right hand to his left and was shaking out his right arm.

  He’d beaten her so hard he was tired.

  It was as if that realization destroyed the detachment, she’d been hiding in. A rush of pain overwhelmed her. Her ass and thighs were on fire.

  She released the chains and staggered back from the St. Andrew’s. Her shaking legs couldn’t hold her, and she dropped to her hands and knees.

  She took a deep breath, and when she released it, it was a sob.

  “That’s right,” Dino crooned. “Let it out.”

  This hurt. This hurt so much.

  Dino took a knee beside her and stroked her back. Christiana scrambled away.

  “I need to give you some aftercare.”

  “N-no,” she stammered. “This was… this was a mistake.”

  “Christina—”

  “That’s not even my name,” she sobbed. “You didn’t even learn my name.” She crawled across the floor toward her dress.

  He stepped around her, picked up the dress, and crouched, handing it to her. “That’s the name you had on your nametag.” He sounded worried.

  Christiana pushed up so she was kneeling, then shrugged her dress on, shivering as it brushed against her ass and thighs. “I need to leave.”

  “I don’t want you to leave when you’re like this, and you shouldn’t go until I give you permission.”

  Christiana didn’t reply. She staggered to her feet. Dino was looking at her with a mixture of concern and irritation.

  She met his gaze and knew that she could never submit to him the way she had to James.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Dino took a step toward her. Christiana held up her hands. “Engineer.”

  He stopped, mouth hardening into a flat line. “Fine.”

  She turned and scooped up her purse, then walked out of the room. She staggered down the stairs, and was running by the time she hit the front door. She didn’t stop to put her shoes on until she was outside.

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when she thrust open the gate and raced out onto the sidewalk. She looked around, realizing it might have been better to wait inside. She’d left her jacket and shivered as she pulled her phone out of her purse and ordered a car to take her back across the bridge to her apartment.

  James was pacing the center aisle of the small jet. It was going to take him nearly twenty hours to get to San Francisco and there was not a damned thing he could do about it. This jet didn’t have the range capacity to go straight from Luxembourg to California, so they were making two stops, one in London since it was the point of origin, and another in Chicago, where they’d refuel. He possibly could have switched to a commercial airline in Chicago, but that might have only gained him an hour or two, and he wouldn’t be able to pace the aisle and make calls to his lawyer in the U.S.

  He’d pulled the man out of a meeting, which James didn’t feel the least bit sorry about given the billable hours rate, and he’d demanded the name and contact information of the top PI firm serving the San Francisco Bay area. That had been twenty minutes ago, and he was waiting for a call back. When his phone rang, he leapt for it.

  “Nolen,” he said in terse greeting.

  “Mr. Nolen, this is Lillian.”

  James sank into one of the seats, bracing his elbow on his knee. “Lillian.”

  “Security in San Francisco was… challenging.” She was speaking slowly and deliberately, as if she was trying to tell him something without coming right out and saying it.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “The location was a building scheduled to be demolished. It was supposed to have its final inspection by the city engineers only a few days after we left.”

  Where was she going with this?

  “On the first night, we noticed a truck with markings from the state agency in the upper parking lot. You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t know the name of that agency.”

  “Oh?” James was mystified as to the point, but didn’t dare rush Lillian.

  “I was concerned. I mentioned it to the owner, but our host in San Francisco assured me that she’d arranged with the head of the state agency that the building wouldn’t be inspected until after we were gone. The host said that the agency may have been using the space as extra parking for their vehicles.”

  “Given the parking situation in San Francisco, that’s plausible,” James said with deliberate patience.

  “Yes,” Lillian said. “We continued with the event, though the host did check to see that no formal inspection papers had been filed.”

  “Did you have cameras on the property?” he asked.

  “Video surveillance was not part of the security system, due to the host’s privacy concerns.”

  James rubbed his head. “You think this has something to do with Christiana?”

  Lillian cleared her throat. “The name of the engineer assigned to assess the building and give final approval on the demolition is listed on the forms as Chris Dell.”

  “Chris?” he asked softly.

  “I’m afraid that’s all the information I was able to gather from here.”

  “Thank you, this helps.”

  “This will mean the end of the Orchid Club.” Lillian spoke softly. “I should have investigated further upon seeing the truck, but there were so many other—” She stopped herself. “No excuses. It was my job and I failed.”

  “Don’t do anything yet,” James urged. “Let me find her. I’ll call you once I know what’s going on.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nolen.”

  James ended the call, then sat there, turning the phone end over end in his hand. Chris Dell? As soon as the PI called, he could have them look into it and…

  James frowned, then stood, reaching for his travel case and the slim tablet within. He sat down and pulled up a search engine. It took him a few minutes to figure out the likely state agency—something called Caltrans—and then he clicked onto the website. He typed in Chris Dell.

  A photo popped up. It was a group shot of twenty smiling people, all posed in front of rows of matching white agency trucks. They wore matching uniform shirts and hard hats. They were all men, except one. Front and center was a slim, dark-haired woman. Her face was shadowed by the hard hat, so he couldn’t see her features well. The caption below listed the names. He counted and cross referenced. The woman was Chris Dell.

  “My God.” James stared at the picture.

  That was his Christiana.

  How had a woman sent to inspect the building ended up participating? It didn’t make any sense. Looking at the photo, he was now sure why she’d been so sad the last night. Their time together had been a lark, a little adventure, one she hadn’t wanted to end, that much was clear, but not something she would pursue.

  She’d let him make a damned fool of himself, gushing over her and making plans. The jeweled collar he still had in his pocket seemed to grow heavy.

  When the phone rang again, his voice was hard with anger. “Nolen,” he barked in greeting.

  “Mr. Nolen, this is Timothy with Bay Investigations. How can I help you?”

  Good. His lawyer hadn’t just given him a name, he’d preemptively contacted the firm. James didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I need you to find someone.”

  “We can do that for you.”

  “I’m going to land about 2:00 p.m. your time,” he said. “I want to know where she’ll be when I land. I want a car waiting at the airport to take me to her location.”

  “Assuming I’m able to find her in that amount of time, that should be possible.”

  “Find her,” James all but snarled.

  “I’ll need whatever information you have.”

  “Her name is Christiana Dell. She goes by Chris.” He
checked the website. “She’s an engineer for Caltrans. Or so it seems.”

  There was a barely perceptible pause. “In that case, I’m confident we’ll have a location for you. I’ll meet you at the airport myself.”

  “Good.” James hung up.

  He threw his phone onto the seat across from him, then turned back to his computer. He knew her name and where she worked. He was going to find out everything he could about the woman who’d tricked him before he confronted her. It was possible the engineering job was just a cover for her real occupation, but he still had trouble believing she was a corporate spy, or an investigative journalist. If she had infiltrated the club with the intent of exposing them, he’d let Lillian do her worst, and someone with Lillian’s resources and connections would be able to make sure that Christiana rued her deception until the day she died.

  He didn’t want that.

  James pushed to his feet and resumed pacing, damning himself for a fool. He was angrier now that he had proof she had lied and it wasn’t some sort of misunderstanding. Yet, through the anger, there was still a thread of worry for her.

  He wanted to confront her, to demand she explain herself.

  He wanted to look at her, touch her, make sure she was okay.

  It was utterly ridiculous. They’d spent three nights together, and on the surface, there hadn’t been anything particularly extraordinary, yet those nights had impacted him in a way no other scenes had before. Perhaps it was just chemistry; there was no denying they had it. Maybe her deception, unknown to him at the time, had added something to their time together.

  Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be free of this feeling until he saw her, until he confronted her.

  James walked to the bar at the back of the plane and poured himself a drink. He still had hours of travel, so he needed to sleep, but he doubted sleep would come easily. His thoughts were moving at light speed. He downed the first drink in a few long swallows and poured a second.

  Christiana lowered herself into the tub of cool water, hissing in relief as her thighs and abused butt sank into the numbing cold.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering as goose bumps pebbled every inch of skin. The expensive cab ride across the bay to her apartment in Oakland had been torture, and the driver asked her several times if she was okay as she shifted from side to side, trying to find a way to sit that didn’t hurt. She’d stripped the moment she came in, then started filling the bath. She didn’t look in the mirror. She didn’t want to see the marks Dino had left.

  The past month had been an emotional roller coaster, one entirely of her own making. She’d moped. She’d cried. She’d tried to convince herself that what she had with James, what she felt with him, wasn’t that special.

  All that had led her to the third-floor playroom of a stranger, where she’d voluntarily let herself be beaten, at least in part as a way to punish herself.

  This was crazy—it had to stop.

  She stayed in the bath for as long as she could stand it, then got out and wrapped herself in several layers of towels. Her skin was pink from the cold, and she bundled herself into some winter PJs—thick sweats, socks, and a tank top under a sweatshirt.

  Next stop was the kitchen for some tea and aspirin.

  Grabbing her laptop, she laid on her stomach on the bed. The one thing she hadn’t done that she’d forced herself not to do, was to Google James. She knew almost nothing about him, so a search might have been fruitless, but still she’d avoided the temptation.

  No more. She and James had something special. She was going to find him, go to him and confess who she was. Then, if he laughed at her and sent her away, at least she would know she’d tried.

  It was time to stop being a coward and fight for her man.

  Despite her throbbing ass and thighs, she was smiling, her heart practically fluttering as she started to type.

  It was nearing 5:00 a.m. when she found him, on a list of eligible billionaire bachelors compiled by an English-language Dutch gossip blog.

  James Khaled Nolen, once a billionaire bad boy, is now a most eligible bachelor, poised to take over his family’s vast empire. Raised in Britain, he’s the son of billionaire real estate tycoon Henry Nolen and Princess Reem bin Ahmas Al Mualla, the daughter of Sheikh Mohammed of Umm Al Quwain in the UAE.

  He was the son of a princess. A literal prince.

  Christiana closed her laptop, no longer smiling.

  He was out of her league. So far out of her league that it was almost funny. It had been bad enough when she thought he was just some uber-wealthy businessman.

  He was more than that. He lived in an entirely different world than she did.

  And what did it mean he was once a billionaire “bad boy”?

  Billionaire…

  She shook her head and put her laptop on the floor, then crawled under the covers, lying on her stomach.

  She’d been determined to throw caution to the wind and buy a last-minute plane ticket to anywhere in the world in a dramatic quest to chase him down and, when she found him, explain everything. That determination was fading along with the dark of night. In the cold light of dawn, she was reminded just how stupid that sounded, how ridiculous it was of her to think he would even care enough to listen to her explanation. What had been, for her, a life-changing event was probably nothing more than a standard, forgettable encounter for him.

  She laid in her bed, unable to get comfortable, for hours. At 10:00 a.m., she gave up, made a strong pot of coffee and called Ginger. She’d texted her friend during the painful ride home. Luckily Ginger hadn’t seen the first message until after receiving the second. That meant she’d been relatively easily persuaded that there was nothing really crazy going on in Christiana’s life.

  Christiana had been avoiding Ginger for a month, which was easier than it should have been since Gin had left for Dallas two weeks ago and would be there for several months as part of a major project she was working on with her consulting firm.

  Still, it was Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon in Dallas. She called, but when Gin didn’t answer, she hung up rather than leave a voicemail. A few minutes later, she got a text.

  Working this weekend. Talk soon? Want to hear about last night.

  Working. That wasn’t a bad idea.

  Christiana typed out a reply. Sounds good.

  Though her division with Caltrans was technically closed today, the facility was always busy on the weekends, as that was when a lot of roadwork was done. Christiana could use the time to catch up on paperwork, file some reports, and make up any work she’d missed because she’d called in sick on Friday. She shed her PJs and put on her uniform, wincing as she pulled on a thong and pants. Her ass and thighs ached and burned. She carefully didn’t look at herself in the mirror.

  Two hours later, she was riding shotgun in a work truck with one of the electrical engineers, Gerald, headed back to Treasure Island. They were about halfway done with demolition on the warehouse, and she was going to do a surprise progress inspection. It was something she wouldn’t normally have bothered with—she had enough to do—but she’d run into Gerald as he was on his way out, and when he’d found out she was the structural point person on his current demo project, he’d offered to let her tag along.

  Maybe it was fate. Maybe watching the building where she’d met James being demolished would help her put all this behind her.

  She shifted in her seat, her ass and thighs still aching even with the painkillers she’d taken.

  As they pulled off the bridge onto the island, taking the winding road down to the warehouse, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back her feelings.

  They parked and she climbed out, shrugging into her safety vest and clapping her hard hat on her head. The once-deserted area around the warehouse was now filled with dump trucks and heavy equipment. She first examined the scene with a professional detachment, making sure the building was being demolished the way she’d designated. Gerald wandered off
to check with the demo company electricians.

  Christiana strode into the site, picking her way along the shoreline until she was at the far end of the warehouse. They hadn’t started demolition here yet.

  If she hadn’t known, if she hadn’t been here, she never would have guessed that anything had happened. She headed toward the metal door the Orchid Club had used as an entrance. A rusted chain held it shut.

  “Lillian thought of everything,” she said quietly. She had no doubt that if she went inside it would be an empty shell, with no traces of the amazing space that had so briefly inhabited the building.

  Christiana turned and walked back toward the other end, where the buzz and crack of jackhammers and breaking concrete drowned out all other noise, even her thoughts.

  Chapter 3

  “We found her apartment, and have had people keeping watch since 4:00 a.m.”

  Tim walked beside James as he stalked from the private plane to a chauffeured car. The PI had been waiting at the foot of the steps when James disembarked.

  “You have the address for me?” James asked.

  “I do, but at approximately 10:38 this morning she left her apartment, taking the bus to the Oakland offices of Caltrans.”

  “She went in to work?”

  “It appears so. We kept watch on the facility, and at 12:41, she left in a work vehicle with a male driver.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Preliminary investigation identified him as Gerald Gutierrez, another engineer. We followed them to the site of a warehouse demolition on—”

  James held up a hand. “Let me guess. On Treasure Island?”

  Tim nodded, with no indication of surprise. “Yes.”

  James stopped beside the car. The driver wore a polo with the same small logo that was on Tim’s shirt. “Do you know how to get to the island?” James asked the driver.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, with almost military promptness.