Then, Friday afternoon, an orderly had found him on the concrete path outside the building. He had leaped from the roof. He was killed instantly, his brains smashed from his head by the impact.
A numb Ori let Maceo make all the arrangements for her, and they flew to California to claim his body and arrange the funeral.
But Tyson Janek had gotten there first, and now, with the tragic suicide of his son, he was a media darling again, all past mistakes forgiven. Ori sat through a media circus of a funeral, arranged by Tyson. It had been the exact opposite of what AJ would have wanted. Maceo kissed her gently. “Are you sure you’ll be okay if I go out? I won’t be long.”
Ori nodded. They were in a hotel in San Francisco. Ori had not wanted to go back to Italy yet, wanting to be near AJ’s grave a little while longer. Maceo had other plans. He was going to see Tyson Janek—not that he told Ori that. Tyson Janek was going to pay for what happened to AJ, and for what he’d done to Ori.
He walked into the restaurant where Tyson Janek was eating breakfast with a weasely-looking lackey. Maceo strode up to the table and glared at the aide. “Fuck off. Now.”
The aide paled but looked at Tyson, who nodded. Maceo took the seat the aide vacated and stared at Janek.
Tyson sipped his coffee slowly, seemingly unfazed in the face of Maceo’s overwhelming anger. “What do you want, Bartoli?”
Maceo gave him a chilly smile. “Only to tell you that once Ori is ready, we will be going to the authorities about the sustained and continued abuse she suffered at your hands.”
Tyson shrugged. “And who is going to believe her? Where’s the proof?”
Maceo’s smile dropped, and his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “I suppose you think the press, now that you’re playing the grieving father card, will slam her for taking advantage at this time? They’ll paint her a gold-digger? I think not. I have a feeling the press will soon be against you, Janek, and the scandal you’ve just weathered will seem like a walk in the park.”
Tyson laughed loudly. “Really? And where are you getting this fairytale from?”
Maceo sat back, studying him carefully. “Because this world is fucked up, and because it blames the victim rather than the perpetrator, especially if the victim is female, you probably think, hey, who’s going to believe her?”
Tyson inclined his head, and Maceo leaned forward. “Then how do you think the press will respond to a father raping his own son, Janek? You piece of utter shit. AJ told me everything.”
To Maceo’s satisfaction, Janek paled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know damn well. You raped AJ, just like you did Ori. You’re a monster and, believe me, I’m going to make sure the world knows it.”
Maceo got up and stalked out of the restaurant. Tyson stared after him, then plucked his cell phone out of his pocket. “It’s me. He’s just left. Do it now.” Ori had just gotten dressed when Maceo called her. “I’m on my way back now, bella. I’ll see you soon.”
Ori smiled. “Good. I missed you.” She scooped her long dark hair into a messy ponytail and grabbed her book from the nightstand, intending to read until Maceo got back.
As she walked back into the main suite, a movement caught her eye. She turned, and he was on her. A masked figure, twice her size, threw her to the ground. Ori, her mind panicked and confused, had no time to fight back as the attacker brandished a knife.
Oh god. No, please …
Ori had no time to scream …
Eventide Part 2
Paris …
Benoit Vaux’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re getting married?”
Marcella, his good friend and companion, laughed, throwing her dark hair back. “Mon chère, there are other reasons for me to give up the escort life, not just for another man. No, Benoit, I’m not getting married. But I am leaving the country. You know I’ve always wanted to travel, and now is the right time.” She touched his cheek. “My sweet boy, there are a million women ready to take my place in your bed. Or maybe it’s time you concentrated on finding her.”
“Her?”
“I think the young people call it ‘the one’.” Marcella smiled and swung her long legs over the side of the bed.
Benoit reached for her before she could move away. “Marcella … have you ever thought that you might just be the only one for me?”
Marcella smiled down at him. “Oh, you perfect man, I’m sorry to tell you this. There isn’t any chance I might be your ‘one’. Go and seek her. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Benoit was still thinking about what she said the next day as he sat through the first meeting of the week. His Chief Exec, Delaine, always wanted these godawful meetings. Team building, he called it. Benoit barely listened to what was being discussed. How had his life come to this? Stuck in meetings, barely ever getting to do the things he loved—designing, building, creating. No, at this point it was all deals and accounts and bullshit.
He edged his chair around to gaze out of the window while one of his accountants droned on. Outside his window, his city, his home, Paris, sprawled across his view. He had been to many places and many countries, but no city made his pulse race more than his birthplace. Being able to build here and giving people homes to build their families in—it had been his dream.
He gradually tuned back into the conversation. Always about the bottom line, he thought now, listening to Delaine remonstrate with the money men. Benoit cleared his throat. It made him smile how that always made everyone in the room shut the hell up and pay attention. He leaned forward.
“Gentlemen, I want to move forward with the development on Le Boulevard Coutances. It’s prime greenbelt land, and I’m not going to let it sit there any longer. We fought to acquire it and, God knows, the 13th Arrondissement is in need of it. So, please, no more talk of budgets or waiting until we have the full budget. Let’s begin.”
After the meeting, he headed gratefully back to his office where his P.A., Genevieve, a striking woman in her late fifties, handed him a shot of thick, dark coffee, and his mail. “A woman from L'Institut des Préoccupations Environnementales has called six times this morning. She wants to set up a meeting.”
“Which woman?”
“Shiloh Hunt.” Genevieve followed him into his office, her notepad in hand. “She seems quite intent on speaking to you.”
Benoit sighed. The French environmental lobby had become powerful over the last few years and L'Institut des Préoccupations Environnementales had influence with the government’s housing department. Major influence, he thought now.
“Fine. Find fifteen minutes.”
Genevieve hid a smile. “How about right now?”
Benoit, looking at her over his spectacles, looked confused. “Huh?”
“She’s right outside. You walked right past her.”
Benoit got up and returned to the outer office. A young, willowy blonde looked up at him from behind huge black-framed glasses.
“Ms. Holt?”
She stood, and Benoit was surprised to see she was almost as tall as his six feet—maybe five-ten, even in flat pumps. Her long, ash blonde hair hung below her shoulders in soft waves, and her bright blue eyes regarded him without even a hint of friendliness. Benoit smiled, knowing he was about to get into a fight.
“Ms. Holt, please come in.” He shot a look at Genevieve as Shiloh Holt stalked past him; Genevieve hid a smile.
Shiloh Holt didn’t wait to be asked to sit. As Benoit walked to his desk, he heard her draw in a deep breath. “Mr. Vaux, I am here on behalf of L'Institut des Préoccupations Environnementales.”
“I know, Ms. Holt. Please have a seat.”
Shiloh blinked and looked down at the chair in front of her as if it hadn’t occurred to her to sit. She pulled it out and sat, rather impatiently. “Mr. Vaux….”
“It’s Benoit, and I know where you’re from, Ms. Holt. I assume this has to do with the new development on Le Boulevard Coutances?”
She in
clined her head, slightly mollified. “It does. Mr. Vaux, as I’m sure you know, we are campaigning to stop any further development on this piece of greenbelt land. We feel strongly that we must protect the rapidly diminishing green spaces in our city.
Benoit smiled. “Our city? Ms. Holt, if I’m not mistaken, that’s an American accent. And it’s Benoit, not Mr. Vaux.”
“Mr. Vaux,” Shiloh said, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance. “I was born here in Paris. I hold dual nationality. My parents are French.”
“Where did you go to get that accent?”
Shiloh looked frustrated. “This is not what I came here to talk about.”
“Where?”
She sighed. “Brown. Then Harvard Law.”
“Good.” Benoit leaned forward, his manner switching from amused to businesslike. “Ms. Holt, as you are probably aware, my company vets every piece of land we intend to acquire. One of the main tenets of our ethos is that we exhaust every possible reason not to purchase the land, be it financial, social, or environmental. The land on Le Boulevard Coutances was deemed non-vital. It also has great links into the center of the city and a thriving community being built up around it.”
Shiloh was listening to him carefully. “Mr. Vaux, Paris has less than ten percent of green space in a city whose population grows larger every second. That community of which you speak needs parks and recreational places too. Your boutique apartments or hotels will not benefit that community; they will be priced out of the market, making it more difficult for the people who were born there to stay there.”
“That’s true of any developed land,” Benoit said calmly. “If we considered that as a factor every time we purchased land, nothing would ever get built. We cannot take responsibility for people’s lack of finances, or their situations. This is a business, not a charity.” While he was talking, Benoit was studying the fine planes of her delicate face and the slender frame of her body. Despite her height, he still felt as if she would crumble in his arms if he touched her; she had a kind of fragility that he was drawn to.
Shiloh was staring at him, her expression disgusted. “Which is my entire problem with men like you, Mr. Vaux. You are soulless. You exist in this other worldly plane, one where your wealth and your looks open every door. Have you ever struggled to feed yourself, Mr. Vaux?”
Benoit sighed. The anger in her made her face flush scarlet and it was very distracting. “I think we have wandered from the point.”
Shiloh sucked in a deep breath. “Mr. Vaux, I’m asking you to reconsider….”
“No. I’m sorry, Ms. Holt, but this meeting is over. We have done our due diligence. The development goes ahead.”
Shiloh looked askance. “You won’t even consider my proposal?”
Benoit sat back in his chair. “Ms. Holt, so far, you haven’t made any proposal. You have ranted at me and called me soulless. Now, I have work to do. Genevieve will see you out.”
Shiloh gaped at him in silence for a beat then stood and stalked out. He appreciatively watched the way she moved. A beautiful woman, he thought, but a major pain in my ass. Shame.
He called Genevieve back in and got on with his work. Only later when he was alone did he let his mind wander back to Shiloh Holt’s blue eyes, the flush of pink in her cheeks, and the rosebud mouth. He wondered if he would see her again.
“Penny for them.”
Benoit looked up to see his old friend Alex standing in the doorway. Benoit’s face cracked into a wide smile.
“Mon frère! How wonderful to see you; I had no idea you were coming to Paris.”
“Had to get away from the crap going down at home,” Alex shrugged, his eyes sad. Benoit stood and hugged him.
“Let’s go grab a drink, and you can catch me up.”
Ori started to come around just as she heard Maceo calling her name. She opened her eyes and his beautiful face, frantic with fear, filled her vision.
“Ori! Are you okay? Dio mio … mio amata.”
She felt herself being scooped into his arms and carried to the bed. She heard him yelling instructions to someone to call for medical help. Her entire body ached and she remembered being forced to the ground, a man, his knife … had she been stabbed? Everything seemed so jumbled that she couldn’t figure out her own body. The only thing she knew for sure was who was behind the attack.
Tyson.
God, he’d sent someone to kill her, hadn’t he? He was making his final moves; now that AJ had died, she was the only threat left to him.
Flashes of the attack were coming back to her as she tried to focus on Maceo’s face. He was talking to her, his arms cradling her. Finally, her head started to clear.
“Maceo?”
“What happened, baby?”
“There was someone here. He grabbed me. He had a knife.”
She heard Maceo’s sharp intake of breath and felt his hands running over her body, trying to find any wounds. “You have some cuts and scratches, baby, but I don’t think you’ve been stabbed. Your head is bleeding.”
“I must have fallen when he grabbed me. I hit my head.” She tried to sit up, but Maceo locked his arms around her.
“Take it easy, bella. We’re going to get you checked out.”
Ori sighed, but relaxed back into his arms, gazing up at his face. His green eyes were full of concern and shock. “I’m okay, I think, Maceo. I just don’t know why I’m still alive.”
She saw him wince. “Don’t say that.”
“It was Tyson. I know it. Or one of his men. I just don’t know why he didn’t kill me.”
Maceo frowned. “It wasn’t Tyson himself, Ori. I know that for sure.”
“How?”
“Because I was just with him.”
Ori did sit up now, her head pounding. “You were with Tyson?” There was no reproach in her voice; she trusted Maceo enough now that he would have only met with Tyson to benefit her. Maceo nodded.
“To warn him to stay away from you. I think he got the message.”
“He must have had us followed and called someone to attack me while you were out of the way. Except….” She trailed off, deep in thought. Absentmindedly, she pressed the heel of her hand to her head, wincing when her skin touched the open wound there. Maceo was watching her.
“Except what, mio caro?”
Ori nodded her head. “If it had been Tyson, I would be dead. He’s sent enough warnings; he would have taken the chance to end it, even if it meant not killing me with his own hands. That’s his ultimate goal, I know it.”
Maceo moaned. “Please stop talking like that.”
Ori tried to smile, taking his hand. “It’s been my reality for over a decade, Maceo. Why do you think I’ve kept moving? If I stand still, he’s got me, and I’ll be dead.”
Maceo swore in Italian and got up, just as someone knocked at the door. The paramedics examined Ori. “I think it’s just a bad concussion but we should still take you in for tests.”
Maceo shut down Ori’s protests and rode with her in the ambulance. Once at the hospital, he arranged a private room for her and settled her in. Ori, despite her hatred of hospitals, felt some of the stress of the day falling away and, when the doctor had seen her and prescribed some strong painkillers, she felt herself drifting to sleep, Maceo holding her hand, ready to spend the night in the chair next to her bed.
The nightmare hit her with full force. She was back in their hotel room, curled up on the bed asleep when he entered the room. Weirdly, she knew he was male even though he was entirely clad in black from head to toe. He forced her onto her back and, in the dream, she complied, watching him dispassionately as he pushed her T-shirt up and raised the lethal-looking blade in the air. It was only when he pulled off his mask that she began to scream.
Maceo.
No, no … please, not you, not you, my love …
Maceo drove the knife into her over and over as she screamed out her love for him, and she felt every inch of the cold, hard steel as it sliced into her
tender flesh. She was begging him to stop but he didn’t listen, her blood soaking them both. As she died, she felt his lips against hers and heard him whisper to her, calling her by an unfamiliar name.
Viola …
For a few minutes when she woke, Ori did not open her eyes. The nightmare had been so vivid and so visceral that she did not want to see the man next to her, Maceo, and associate him with the monster who had slaughtered her in her dream. God. She felt nauseous, tormented. She struggled with her senses, then opened her eyes. Maceo, his head on the bed, his chair pulled up close, looked 20 years younger when he slept, the furrows and lines of his face smoothed out. His fingers were interwoven with hers, and his dark lashes rested on his olive skin. A small scar at the corner of his right eye curved around like a half moon and Ori reached out to stroke it, her body relaxing.
God, how I love you, she thought and as he stirred, opened his eyes and gazed at her, she smiled at him. “Good morning, handsome.”
Maceo blinked a couple of times, still looking like a young kid, then sat up, rubbing his head to try and wake up. He pressed his lips against hers.
“How do you feel?”
Ori nodded. “Okay, actually. I had some weird dreams, but I feel good.”
Maceo sighed. “Thank God.” He moved next to her so he could take her in his arms. Ori snuggled into the warmth of his broad chest.
“Can we get out of here soon? I want to go home.”
His lips were against her temple. “If the doctor says you’re good. We can change hotels; I’ll make the arrangements.”
“No, I mean, home.” She looked up and smiled at his surprised expression, “Home home. Venice. I don’t want to be in the same country as Tyson Janek.”
Maceo grinned. “You don’t need to persuade me, bella.”
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