Chosen: Part One

by Josie Litton

  Since then, I’d regularly looked at cherished pictures of children and grandchildren drawn from ragged pockets, heard about vanished homes and shattered dreams, and gotten excellent advice about how to stay safe in a city that could be so impersonally cruel. I’d also cried in the privacy of my small apartment, thinking about the waste of human lives.

  Along the way, I’d come to share Hilary’s absolute determination that Haven House would stay open, despite all the problems raising funds for it. At least, I could finally have the satisfaction of doing something about that.

  I stepped into the office and as nonchalantly as I could, slid the envelope across the desk. Hilary looked from it to me.

  “What this?”

  “Enough to pay the bills for a few months at least.”

  She took the envelope, opened it, and drew out the check. When she saw the amount, her eyebrows shot up.

  “You didn’t sell your soul or anything like that, did you?”

  I flushed, thinking that it was more a case of my body being bartered. Or at least it would have been if I had any intention of doing as Grandmother wished.

  “Nothing that dramatic,” I said. “Just get it in the bank asap, all right?”

  She laughed and glanced at the signature. “Are you saying that your family hands out bum checks?”

  “No, just that I may be about to fall out of favor, that’s all.”

  Her expression turned serious. We’d never talked much about my family but she was far too intelligent not to know that there was more to us than our public image revealed.

  “Why would that be?” she asked.

  I shrugged the question off. “It doesn’t matter. How are things here?”

  Accepting, for the moment at least, that I wasn’t up for a personal conversation, Hilary put the check away carefully in the desk drawer.

  “We had an incident last night,” she said matter-of-factly. “A client who was off his meds. Sam took care of it.”

  Sam was one of the team of security guards who were on the premises at all times. That was part of why the carrying costs for Haven House were so high. The people we served were inherently vulnerable not just physically but also mentally and emotionally. We did our upmost to provide support that they would accept but sometimes that just wasn’t enough.

  Hilary and I talked for a few more minutes before I went on to the kitchen to help get dinner started. We received donations from local food banks but we’d been doing a lot better on fresh food since a Trader Joe’s opened in a nearby, more affluent neighborhood. Some perishable food that they didn’t sell on a given day was delivered to us. It made a big difference in what we could put on the table.

  I was standing at the work island in the center of the kitchen, half-listening to the conversations of the other volunteers while I snapped green beans, when my cell phone rang. When I saw who was calling, I almost didn’t take it.

  I relented simply because I knew that Will had just done what he had to, looking out for himself the same way we all were in one way or another. I could only hope that I’d prove to be as good at it as he was.

  “Hey,” I said as I stepped out into the alley behind the kitchen. Where the family was involved, I wouldn’t take any chance of being overheard.

  “Hey, yourself,” Will said. He sounded relieved that I’d answered. “I’m not catching you at a bad time, am I?”

  “No, but I’m at Haven House so I can’t talk for long.”

  “That’s okay, I just wanted to make sure that you were all right.”

  “Any particular reason why I wouldn’t be?”

  He must have caught the challenge in my voice because he didn’t try to deny what he’d done. “I’m sorry, Grace, but I was concerned and I didn’t think that I should keep it to myself.”

  “Concerned about what?” I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

  Will sighed. “You and Adam Falzon. I don’t know if you realize who he is--”

  “My grandmother spelled that out when I visited her earlier today.”

  “She did…?” I didn’t mistake the pang of guilt that I heard. No one could be around the family as much as Will was without understanding how much power Grandmother wielded or how viciously she sometimes used it.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I never said a word to her, you have to believe me.” He laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “But you did tell Todd.” My oldest brother was a decent guy, so far as I knew. But he was running for Congress because our father and family advisers had told him to. He wasn’t about to risk the future being handed to him.

  “I did,” Will acknowledged. “He was concerned, too, when he heard.”

  “Why?” I knew that I shouldn’t see Adam again but that didn’t make me any the less driven to learn all that I could about him. If Will knew something, I wanted him to tell me.

  “Because Falzon…” He broke off for a moment. I sensed that he was weighing how much to tell me. Finally, he said, “There are rumors… His parents were killed when he was a kid--”

  “I know that.”

  “You do?” Will couldn’t hide his surprise. “He told you?”

  “No, I just know. It’s a terrible thing to have happened to him.”

  “That’s true but if the rumors are to be believed, it wasn’t an accident. It was murder and it didn’t go unavenged. The people responsible for their deaths were all hunted down and killed several years later.”

  He hesitated before adding, “Some even say that Falzon himself personally executed each of them while he was still in his early teens.”

  My stomach clenched as a wave of shock went through me. For an adult to do such a thing would be horrifying enough but to take lives at such a young age… If, heaven forbid, Adam really had done that, what did it say about the kind of man he became?

  “That’s quite an accusation,” I said as calmly as I could. I didn’t know which was worse, the charge itself or the fact that, having met the man, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that it was true.

  “Yes, it is,” Will agreed. “No one would make it lightly. People are afraid of him, Grace, and for good reason. He’s not a man to cross.”

  My hand holding the phone shook. All I could think of was how unfortunate it was that Will was probably right.

  Twenty-four hours before, the situation I faced had been grim enough. But now it had become incalculably more dangerous.

  I was on a collision course with a man that other men--powerful in their own right-- knew better than to defy. And I had absolutely no idea how to escape.

  Worse yet, some dark, hidden part of myself didn’t want to.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I spent the morning in my office on the top floor of a New York office building that I owned, meeting with the succession of bankers, corporate executives, and government officials who came by seeking a few minutes of my time. I did my best to accommodate them all and to listen to what they wanted--a deal, a favor, or simply to be able to say that they had spoken with me. But I breathed a sigh of relief when the last of them left.

  Alone in the office, I twisted the cap off a bottle of Perrier and drank half of it. I had a great thirst but not for water. The temptation to accelerate my plans for Grace Delaney was strong enough to give me pause. Before I yielded to it, I had to be certain that I was fully in control.

  To that end, I reopened the file that my investigators had prepared. I’d read it several times but I still found it puzzling, not so much for what it contained as for what was missing.

  On the surface, America’s Princess was exactly what she appeared--the cherished daughter of a powerful family. She had gone to the right schools, summered in the right places, and grown into a beautiful woman who bore the public’s attention with poise and charm.

  But there should have been more, some hint that beneath the impeccable social veneer was a living breathing woman. Yet it seemed as though she had never taken a single misstep.
If she had ever gotten drunk, cheated on an exam, shoplifted, been caught with drugs, or wrapped a car around a utility pole, the evidence was buried too deeply to be found.

  The paparazzi hadn’t even managed to get a photo of her sunbathing topless, although they had certainly tried. One had even fallen out of a tree and broken his leg doing so. Grace had called an ambulance and stayed with him until it arrived.

  Even more surprising, my investigators hadn’t turned up any serious relationships, not in high school or college, and not in the months since she had graduated. Yet she was obviously a woman of great passion. I had felt that simply standing close to her and the one brief touch I had allowed myself had more than convinced me. The explanation had to be that she was highly discrete, a quality I could only appreciate.

  And then there was her involvement with the homeless shelter. The surveillance photos of her engaged in menial kitchen tasks and talking with various homeless men and women bewildered me. What was I to make of that? The only possibility that occurred to me was that it had something to do with her cousin Patrick’s death a year ago. That event had clearly hit her hard. In the news photos taken at the funeral, she was composed but only barely. More than anyone else, even the dead boy’s parents, her strained face and sorrow-filled eyes revealed the depth of her grief.

  The more I learned about her, the more I wanted to know. That wouldn’t do. I had to draw a clear line between convincing her family that she was of interest to me and actually allowing her to become so.

  Closing the file, I stood and went over to the windows. The city stretched out below me. I liked New York, its energy, its greed, even its sense of superiority over other, arguably greater cities. Seeing a bit more of it wouldn’t be a hardship.

  But first I needed to work off some of the dark, roiling energy that had been building in me the more I thought about the woman whose life I was about to change irrevocably. I’d learned from hard experience that if I didn’t release that energy, the control I counted on in all things could evaporate in an instant.

  I made a quick call to my trainer, then changed into a black T-shirt and draw string pants before heading to the gym next to my office.

  Jacob Wexler was already there when I arrived. The ex-Israeli Special Forces commando was my age, twenty-eight. His stoic manner only hinted at what he had experienced during his service to his country. I doubted that even I knew the truth despite the thoroughness with which all my employees were vetted. It was enough that he was highly skilled and a good teacher.

  Wexler nodded when he saw me. “Ready to hurt?” he asked.

  It wasn’t a light question and I didn’t take it as such. The workout we were about to engage in would reach a point where it became genuinely dangerous. I’d been injured in the past, no doubt I would be again. But that would never prevent me from doing what I had to.

  Duty came first, above all else. The inescapable reality of that was engrained into my DNA. I had never allowed anything to deter me from it and, I told myself, I never would.

  My answer was as terse as Wexler’s question. “When am I not?”

  We began with the standard Krav Maga moves that the Israelis had developed as a means of unarmed combat designed to disable opponents. That was fine for a warm up.

  After half-an-hour, we moved on to the old LINE system of close quarters combat phased out by the U.S. military more than a decade ago because it was too lethal. The system that replaced it was intended to avoid fatalities whenever possible. I could appreciate that sentiment without sharing it.

  The only sounds in the gym were the thud of our bodies, the occasional grunt, and the even rarer word or two of instruction from Wexler. Mostly, he taught by example.

  Sweat ran down into my eyes. I blinked it away as I blocked a blow designed to shatter an opponent’s wind pipe but failed to miss one to my kidneys.

  We kept going. For a brief time, my mind emptied of everything except the struggle for dominance. I surrendered to it gladly. It both fed and soothed the brutality that I had long since recognized was an essential part of my nature.

  I was a hunter and, when necessary, a killer. I didn’t enjoy inflicting pain but I certainly wasn’t averse to doing so. On occasion, it could provide a release, however temporary, from my own inner demons.

  Meeting Grace Delaney--watching the interplay of thought and emotion across her expressive face, hearing the sound of her voice, breathing in her scent, touching her--had only made the need for that release all the more urgent.

  Finally, Wexler and I stepped apart. We were both breathing hard but otherwise unscathed, more or less. As always when a workout was over, we shook hands. The small ritual was our way of acknowledging the discipline we had exercised, honing lethal skills while also practicing the restraint essential to their control.

  Even so, before we went our separate ways, Wexler said quietly, “You’ve got an edge on you today.”

  He was a man of strength and honor. I respected him too much to deny the evidence of his own eyes.

  Wiping the sweat from my face, I said, “I’ve taken on a project that I would have preferred to avoid.”

  “Why would you do that?” he asked.

  I gave the answer that I knew he would understand. “It’s a matter of duty.”

  He nodded picked up his gym bag. “In that case, I hope it works out for you.”

  So did I but a few minutes later, standing under the shower, I had to allow for the possibility that the surprises I’d already encountered in dealing with Grace Delaney might be only the start. I would be a fool to think that I could be sure of what lay ahead for either of us.

  All the same, my course was set. No matter how much a small, unacknowledged part of me might wish otherwise.

  Chapter Five

  “Go home,” Hilary said. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night and besides, for once we’ve got more volunteers than we actually need.”

  I glanced around in surprise and saw that she was right. A dozen young men and women who I’d seen off-and-on helping out at the shelter were suddenly all there at once. Moreover, I noticed several new faces.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Beats me. All I know is that some blogger posted a video of you talking about Haven House in front of the Plaza Hotel yesterday evening. Nice contrast, by the way. The glamorous elite climbing out of their limos, all set to party, while you’re going on about treating homeless people with dignity and respect. Whatever you said seems to have had an effect.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. For months, I’d tried to get publicity for Haven House in the hope of encouraging volunteers and raising money. But my family had made no secret that they didn’t approve of my involvement with the shelter. Their influence, working behind the scenes, assured that the media would avoid any mention of it. Everywhere I turned, I encountered empty smiles, blank stares, and shaken heads. Until now.

  Bemused, I said, “Well, good…I guess. But I can still stay--”

  “Go! Put your feet up, take a bubble bath, watch TV, whatever, but get some rest. We’ll be here tomorrow and the next day and the next… Thanks to you.”

  Hilary put an arm around my shoulders and pointed me toward the door. I stopped resisting. I was tired but I also felt weighed down by the situation I faced, especially the turn it had taken.

  I’d managed to keep Adam Falzon from my thoughts--mostly--for a few hours. But the moment I stepped outside Haven House, I could think of nothing but him.

  If only because he was standing directly across the street.

  I stopped in mid-step, unable to believe what I was seeing. Rich, powerful, dangerous, drop dead gorgeous Adam Falzon. In the flesh. On Staten Island. Hanging out in front of a homeless shelter.

  Which was more likely--that I was hallucinating or that he was really there?

  I was tending toward the first choice when he straightened away from the dark, sleek Rolls Royce Wraith that he’d been leaning against and st
rolled across the street toward me.

  The night before, he had looked devastating in a bespoke tuxedo. Now, dressed simply in jeans and a cream, cable-knit sweater, he was even more so. A strand of his jet black hair fell across his brow, giving him even more of a rakish, bad-boy look. He moved with lithe, effortless grace, never taking his eyes from me.

  I watched him come with rising alarm. Logically, I knew that I should fear how he would respond when--not if--I defied him. But more honestly, I understood that the real threat he presented came from inside me. I was weak where he was concerned when what I desperately needed was to be strong.

  “Miss Delaney,” he said with a smile. The tantalizing dimple that I had noticed the night before made a reappearance, momentarily distracting me. “How nice to see you again.”

  “You’re here.” I felt like an idiot, stating the obvious, but the words were out before I could think better of them.

  His smile deepened. “I am.”

  The mocking note in his voice gave me the strength I needed. I’d be damned if I’d be a source of amusement for him.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “I wanted to see you again.”

  His directness caught me off guard. I had to remind myself that given the wealth he possessed and the power he wielded, he would have no reason to deny even his most passing desire or whim. On the contrary, he would be accustomed to stating his wishes and having them obeyed, instantly.

  My back stiffened. It was past time for him to discover that not all the world would jump at his command. The treacherous need I felt for the sight of him, the sound of his voice…his touch…all dismayed me. I was smarter than that, stronger. I had to be.

  Pushing aside all thought of how dangerous he was supposed to be, I said, “You’ve wasted a trip, Mister Falzon.”

  I started to turn away, intending to put as much distance between us as possible before my resolve could weaken. A light hand on my arm stopped me.

  Our eyes met. I stared into the chill blue vastness of his, drawn to whatever might be concealed behind it.

  Quietly, he asked, “Why is that?”