by Tara Wylde
That is until Harlan came along.
He showed me that I wasn’t alone anymore. That it wasn’t my fault that Mom died or that Dad spiraled into self-destruction. That I could trust again give myself over to another person. He offered me a bright, happy future. One in which I could have friends, could love, and become whole again.
And now he’s gone – off God knows where, doing God knows what. I don’t know who this mafia money guy is, but the whole thing sounds dangerous to me. Harlan Wolfe is putting his life, his business – and most importantly, his family – on the line.
My heart flutters, skipping a beat. I don’t know what I would do if Harlan gets hurt while carrying out some misbegotten plan to do … what, exactly?
Protect my honor?
“But you pushed him into it, Skye,” I groan into the enormous empty apartment, grinding my teeth. “It’s your fault if –”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t bring myself to say the words, even in the security of my own head. It feels like tempting fate.
I can’t stop pacing. A surge of nervous energy is flowing through me, adrenaline making my heart beat faster, in no recognizable pattern.
I need to do something. I need to fix this mess of a situation. I need to help Harlan.
But what can I do? Harlan’s gorgeous penthouse apartment might as well be my prison. It’s on the thirtieth floor of some old, converted 19th-century clock tower. There’s no way out other than the way I came in – not unless I want to jump.
A weak, anxious smile teases my lips. I wouldn’t put it past Harlan to have a couple of parachutes packed away in here.
Just in case…
But I can call Harlan. I can tell him that this doesn’t matter to me. I’m a big girl. I can survive having my photos – even those photos – dumped onto the Internet.
Hell, apparently, now I’m worth just shy of three hundred million dollars! If the worst happens, I can buy myself a tower like this and simply lock myself away until all this blows over!
That’s it. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m not letting any harm come to Harlan, I can’t bear it on my conscience. My eyes spring open, and I stride purposefully into the apartment, searching for any form of technology.
I come across Harlan’s study – a magnificent, stone-walled room – one door down. I dart towards the glass desk that sits on the far end of the room, looking out the window onto New York’s jaggedly beautiful skyline.
Thankfully, Harlan has a landline on his desk. Maybe a secure phone, I don’t know. I don’t care. I snatch at it, gratefully.
“Crap,” I groan, bashing the handset against my forehead. “What the hell is his number?”
I’m from the generation that practically grew up with a smart phone in their hands. Okay, not quite – I still remember dial-up Internet and the tune a modem would play. But only just. One thing’s for sure – I sure as heck don’t know how I’m going to get in touch with Harlan.
I sit down at his desk, momentarily beaten. It’s neatly organized, and almost entirely bare – exactly what I’d expect from a former Navy SEAL and a man who plans his life as meticulously as Harlan Wolfe. He hasn’t left a single clue on how to get in touch with him.
I’m stuck.
A vein throbs at my temple, probably spurred on by my dangerously elevated blood pressure. I massage it away, thinking back to how all this started. The events that started this night – the auction, the things that Harlan did to me in that bedroom, the knee-trembling orgasm he coaxed out of me – they all seem so distant now.
I hear a tinkling sound in the background. I don’t recognize what it is at first – it barely breaks through my consciousness. I’m too bound up in worry.
But it returns, stronger this time – a double ring. I look up, and see that the screen of the computer on Harlan’s desk is lighting up. Someone’s calling – it has to be Harlan!
I snatch at the mouse, knocking it on its side in my haste to reestablish contact with the man I’m quickly coming to realize I can’t live without. Maybe it’s love, though it seems too soon, too early.
My eyes are half-blurred with the beginnings of frustrated tears, so I barely see the words written on the screen as I click the green button to accept the video call. An image immediately flashes up on screen.
But it’s not the image I expect.
“Dad?” The little girl says. She’s actually looking away from the camera when her picture flashes up on screen. It actually looks like she’s in a tent, lit by flashlight. “Are you there?”
Oh my God.
My stomach does a backflip. I need to think fast. I quickly wipe the tears out of my eyes with the back of my hand, and run my fingers through my wild hair, doing my best to tame the red mane sprawling over my shoulders.
I must look crazy, but there’s nothing I can do to solve that problem right now.
“Um,” I murmur, racking my brain on how to respond. “You must be Poppy…”
Poppy is looking at the camera. Her forehead wrinkles. “You’re not dad,” she says.
I shake my head. This is so not how I wanted to meet Harlan’s daughter. In fact, I can’t think of a single worst possible way to be introduced to her.
But it is what it is.
I’m going to have to deal with it.
“No,” I say softly, voice catching. “I’m not.”
“Wait, did I–” Poppy taps something on her screen. “Did I call the right number?”
She leans forward, peering into the camera and, I realize, at the picture on her screen. I see the gears turning over in her mind. “You’re in my dad’s office. Where is he, and, who are you?”
Both of those are very good questions. And they’re questions I have no idea how to answer.
“Yeah,” I mutter, chewing my lip. “I’m in your dad’s office. He’s… out.”
What do I do now? Lie?
In the event, the decision is taken out of my hands. Poppy gasps, and shifts her phone. The camera pans jerkily across her face. I realize she’s made herself a tent out of her bed sheets, perhaps in an attempt to hide what she’s up to.
“You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Who?” I exclaim. “What do you know? Did your dad–”
Poppy shrugs. She’s clearly proud. “Puh-lease! I’m not an idiot. I’m ten – well, almost, anyway. I knew my dad was seeing someone. It’s you, isn’t it!”
I freeze. I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to this question. I feel paralyzed. What would Harlan want me to say?
Suddenly the fears I had before – about Harlan’s life, and his safety – they seem to fade away into nothingness. Because what could be more important than potentially ruining his relationship with his own daughter?
My heart rate speeds up. Blood pounds in my ears. I feel like if I put one foot out of place, Harlan will never forgive me.
“That’s,” I finally say, wringing my hands underneath the desk – where Poppy can’t see – “Something you need to ask your dad. It’s not my place to say.”
Poppy waves her hand airily, knocking the flashlight lighting her tiny pillow forward. She reaches for it and rights it.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep this between us,” she winks.
God, Poppy has so much of her father in her, it’s hard to believe. I feel like this little ten-year-old – nine-year-old – is running rings around me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
My cheeks are burning. What the heck am I supposed to say to that?
“Promise?” I mutter.
“I told you,” Poppy grins madly. “You don’t need to worry – this is between us. I won’t tell if you don’t. Deal?”
“Why do you sound so grown-up?” I groan. “I’m almost three times your age, and half the time I’m just groping around for the way forward …”
Poppy shrugs. She looks at me with concern, and that almost hurts more than anything. Now I’ve got a nine-year-old feeling sorry for me!
&n
bsp; “I guess I had to,” she says solemnly. “After mom died, and everything…”
“I’ve been there, kid,” I whisper. “Deal?”
Poppy nods vigorously. “I can’t wait to meet you!” she says. “It’s a deal. Anyway, I better go before one of the teachers catches me. We’re not supposed to use our phones after bedtime. Have fun with my dad!”
Poppy’s goodbye hits me like a haymaker to the gut. The screen goes black, and I choke with worry. I don’t know how I would survive if something happened to her father … and I was the cause of yet more sorrow in this beautiful young girl’s life.
Because Harlan’s right – his kid is something special. I never thought he was lying to me, just that he was like any parent … overcome with love for his daughter. But in Poppy’s case, the praise, if anything, undersells her true brilliance.
And it reinforces my need to get in contact with Harlan – to tell him that I don’t care – that he doesn’t need to risk himself.
And you can.
The second the idea strikes me, I hit my forehead and groan. How could I have been so stupid? There’s one sure way to get in touch with Harlan, and he’s standing right outside the front door –
– where I left him.
I stand up so fast Harlan’s office chair falls over behind me. I don’t stop to pick it up, don’t even look back. I sprint for the front door and throw it open, with only one goal on my mind.
219
Harlan
Garibaldi’s eyes spring open. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to punch the man directly in his square, pig-ugly Italian face. Not that I’ve got a problem with Italians, just this one. He deserves it.
“Who –” He squeals – pig-like – I cut him off, squeezing my fingers around his throat until he chokes. He’s wearing a necklace, a gold chain, and its links bite into my skin.
His fat body struggles underneath the bed sheets. Little arms spring up, smothered by his duvet, and attempt to fight me. I hold him off easily. I’ve fought men in cave tunnels in Afghanistan, in the deserts of Syria, Yemen and Iraq. This fat little banker doesn’t scare me.
“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I spit each word out.
I make no attempt to hide my complete and utter disgust at this odious little man. “Surprised to see me?”
Garibaldi continues to struggle against my grip. I smash the barrel of my pistol into his temple – not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough to make his eyes water, to get it through his head exactly who is in charge here.
Hint – it’s not fucking you.
“Do you plan to settle down?” I say in a low, murderous rumble, “or do I have to do that all over again? Because trust me, piggy, I will.”
Like a trapped deer in the woods, Garibaldi freezes. I’ve got half a mind to just put a bullet through his head right here, right now.
He deserves it. Skye is the only woman I’ve loved since Ashley, the only woman I’ve even thought about. The fact that he made her afraid, even for a second, is almost enough temptation for me to put him in an early grave.
Only one thing stops me – Skye. She’s at once the reason I’m here, and the only thing standing between me becoming a murderer.
“Who are you?” Garibaldi whimpers beneath me. Hot spittle flies out of his mouth as he struggles – choking because of my fingers digging into his windpipe – to talk. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” I say, leaning down so that my face is only a couple of inches from his. “Remember me, little piggy?”
Garibaldi’s eyes spring open wide as the recognition hits him with the force of a transit bus. The “oh shit” moment is palpable. It’s enough to make my lips curl back in an evil smile that makes my enemy quail.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, are you going to give me what I came for, or am I going to have to start cutting bits off of you?”
The truth is I would never torture anyone. I’m not evil, and it doesn’t work. But Garibaldi doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just an insane billionaire who’s broken into his house in the middle of the night, fueled solely by a desire to do him harm.
Well, he’s almost right. I’m here for two reasons. To get the photos back, and scare this little prick shitless.
I release my grip on the pig’s throat. He sucks air in greedily. His chest pants and strains underneath me as his lungs cry out for more oxygen. When I’m sure he’s had enough – enough not to pass out, anyway – I squeeze his throat once again.
“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to give me what I came for, and maybe I won’t kill you. How’s that for a deal?”
If I already had a reputation as a hard dealmaker before tonight, this was going to be the icing on the fucking cake.
“Why are you here?” Garibaldi pants, straining to speak, “I haven’t seen you in –”
“Wrong answer, piggy,” I grunt. I lift my leg onto the man’s mattress and press my knee against his chest.
“Aw, shit,” I grin, looking down at a filthy footprint. “Where are my manners? I’m getting your sheets all dirty.”
I hold the smile and stare into the piggy’s eyes. I put all my weight through my knee, compressing his lungs, forcing the breath out of them.
“See,” I spit venomously as his body spasms beneath me, desperate for oxygen, “that is what happens when you lie to me. Now, shall we try that again?”
I’m glad Skye cannot see me right now. I’m giving in to the very darkest parts of myself – a side I thought I’d left behind long, long ago in the deserts of the Middle East. Apparently, when the people I love are threatened, I can still summon up the darkness.
I don’t like it, but it’s real.
Maybe that’s what Skye can work on next …
“You know why I’m here,” I state, relaxing my grip and releasing my weight. Garibaldi’s chest inflates once more.
This time, he nods, never breaking eye contact.
“And you’re going to answer my questions,” I say. Again, it’s a statement, not an inquiry.
He nods again.
“Where are the photos?” I ask.
The man’s eyes gleam with a malevolent dishonesty. I can see his mind turning, trying to figure out how to turn this situation to his advantage. “I don’t know what you’re–”
I groan, and my head falls forward onto my chest. I can’t believe this guy. Not only did he take me, of all the Joe Schmuck’s in New York, to be an easy mark, but now he’s trying to play me like a fool – again.
“Seriously, dude,” I growl. “I’m tired. I’ve been up all night screwing the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and you’re costing me my beauty sleep. Are you seriously going to fucking lie to me while I’ve got a gun pressed right up against your temple?”
Garibaldi flinches at the word gun. He struggles fruitlessly against my grip, before giving up, as if exhausted.
I’m not surprised. I wonder when the last time he exercised was. By the looks of him, it wasn’t recent.
“I’m going to make this very, very difficult for you,” I say, grinding my teeth together even as I speak, “unless you start telling the truth, and fast. Capisci?”
Garibaldi nods, and the gleam seems to die in his eyes. I still don’t trust him, but I think he knows I’m being serious now.
“You took the photos. Yes or no?”
“No,” he chokes.
My blood boils and thunders in my ears like the rushing of the sea. But I stifle the anger. I let it feed me, not overcome me.
“But you ordered them taken,” I say.
He nods as I put pressure on his Adam’s apple. “Yes, yes!” He squeals.
“How did you know I would be there?” I ask, spitting out the question that’s been bugging me ever since I found the camera.
“From your… phone,” Garibaldi chokes out, still panting for breath, “Your office phone.”
“You bugged it?” I howl, knuckles goin
g white with rage. The thought that this piece of human filth has been listening in on my conversations sickens me.
“Man on the inside,” he pants, “at the phone company, owed me a favor.”
“So you planned to blackmail me, is that right?”
Garibaldi – the lying fuck – shakes his head. “No, no. I just wanted a meeting. That’s all. I would’ve given–”
I kneel again on his chest.
“Don’t you fucking lie there,” I spit, hopping mad, “and spin me falsehoods. You think I’m going to believe that?”
This time, the man stays silent. It’s a smart move. I don’t think there’s a word that could come out of his mouth that wouldn’t feed my anger right now.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” I say. “Tell me if it rings a bell. I think you wanted back in to Wolfe Capital. Your wife finally figured out that you’re a piece of shit, left you, and took your cash as well. So you decided to come after me, decided that instead of working for money like everybody else, you’d just threaten me instead – and threaten the woman I fucking love.”
Garibaldi freezes beneath me as he realizes the seriousness of the minefield he’s walked into. I have no doubt that in his twisted, screwed up, criminal mind, he thought he was just playing hardball.
Thought he’d swagger into my boardroom with leverage in his back pocket and force me to cut him in on the action.
He probably thought that Skye was just some whore, thought that I – of all people – would pay a woman for sex.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Because he didn’t just screw me, he screwed the woman I love.
So now it’s personal.
“Did you?” I hiss.
“Did I what?”
“Know what she meant to me? Means to me. Did you think you could use my love for her like a cheap bargaining ploy?”
Garibaldi’s already small, snakelike black eyes disappear even further into his head with fear. It’s a strange trick. It makes my stomach turn. He looks barely human.