by Sara Fawkes
“Ah, so just a bit on the side.” The older woman tsked, shaking her head in disbelief. “To think he’d bring you here to the family home. Ms. Delacourt, if you have any sense or class, you’d leave this house immediately. Given the type of girl you are however, I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Enough, mother.”
I was an instant away from throwing the milk jug at the self-righteous woman, and while Jeremiah’s presence didn’t alleviate that desire it did manage to distract Georgia. The older woman’s face reset itself into a pleasant expression when her son walked through the entryway but neither Jeremiah nor myself were fooled. “You said you were leaving,” he said in a cold voice that seemed to wash right over the older woman.
“Oh I am, darling, but I saw your lovely assistant and stopped to chat.”
‘Lovely assistant’ my ass! My hand had all but crushed the plastic handle of the milk container. I wanted to scream my frustration at the odious woman, but all I could do at the moment was stay in place, shaking and trying not to cry in frustration.
“Please leave, mother.” Jeremiah’s tone was firm but tired. “Before I have to bar you from entering permanently.”
She waved him off. “Oh pish tosh, you wouldn’t do that. I raised you in this house, it’s as much mine as yours. And besides, you know I only want what’s best for you because I love you.”
The statement made me snort in disbelief, but a glance at Jeremiah’s weary expression told me this was an old argument. “Do you have any respect at all for your son?” I asked.
Georgia shot me a snide glare. “Stay out of this,” she snapped, “you have no idea...”
I slammed the milk container down on the marble counter, the plastic making a popping noise as it crumpled. “Your son owns this house and allows you to visit at your pleasure, yet you walk all over him as if he’s still a child. I know what good parenting looks like, and you don’t deserve his obvious loyalty.”
Georgia’s face contorted into a snarl. “You little bitch,” she muttered, turning toward me and lifting a hand as if to slap me. Then Jeremiah was there, his hand around his mother’s wrist, holding her steady. I kept my chin high, indignation burning a pit in my belly, meeting the odious woman’s glare.
“I won’t have you insulting my guests in my house,” Jeremiah said, voice low and angry, his words again capturing his mother’s attention. “Andrew,” he called, and a young guard trotted into the room. Only then did Jeremiah release his grip on the woman’s arm. “Please escort my mother to her car and make sure she exits the compound safely. Inform the gate she’s only to be allowed onto the grounds from now on with my approval.”
“Keep your hands off me,” Georgia snapped as the young bodyguard tried to take her arm. “Your approval? Jeremiah, be reasonable, this is silly.” Her son, however, stayed silent as she was escorted, protesting loudly, out of the kitchen. I heard the front door open and close, then silence reigned through the house.
I blew out a breath. “I’m sorry for telling off your mother,” I mumbled, lifting up the milk jug in my hand. The base had a large dent in the plastic but thankfully nothing was broken.
“She can be difficult.”
His reply was simple but held a wealth of meaning. “Still, she’s your mom,” I continued. “Probably wasn’t my place to say anything.”
The awkwardness wasn’t how I’d hoped to spend the morning, but the matriarch’s presence had soured everything. No longer hungry, I put the milk back in the refrigerator then followed Jeremiah out of the kitchen. “Have you learned anything yet?”
“Nothing.”
The reply was curt and, frowning, I dug deeper. “Ethan mentioned you had some other sources, did they have any...”
Jeremiah rounded on me. “What did he tell you?”
I blinked, surprised by his sudden change of mood. “Nothing,” I replied quickly, then frustration welled up. “The exact same nothing as you. I don’t know what’s going on with the investigation except that I almost died and now I’m stuck here.”
Jeremiah’s lips pursed. “We’re dealing with it.”
“Dealing with what? Nobody will talk to me!”
He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “I promise you,” he said in a low voice, “we will find out who tried to poison you. Once the threat is neutralized, you’re free to leave.”
I pointed to the entrance nearby. “You leave through that door every day, but make me stay inside?”
“Dammit Lucy!” For a split second he looked ready to burst, a savagery in his eyes I’d never seen before. The sight shocked me, but as quickly as it happened the emotion disappeared; the gates came down over his features and once again he was the stoic CEO I knew. Thought I knew, I amended, startled by what I’d seen.
“I promised to take care of you.” His low voice was even and calm like normal. “I only ask that you don’t ask any further questions for your own protection. When it’s safe, you can leave.”
Defeat bloomed through me, making me want to rip out chunks of my hair. I watched as Jeremiah turned his back to me and marched outside, closing the front door lightly behind him. Fingers rigid, I ran my hand through my hair, unsettling the clip so that it clattered to the floor, but I couldn’t care less at that moment.
The frustration was overwhelming. I tried taking deep breaths but nothing helped the sudden swell of anger at the situation; this house was my prison, and Jeremiah had become my warden. The opaque window glass might as well have been bars; the technology trapped me inside as surely as any iron or other metal shield. I hadn’t seen the outside since arriving except through that tiny bathroom window, and the absurd thought that I may be stuck like this forever propelled me across the living room to the back wall of windows and the door leading outside.
The handle to the door leading onto the patio was cool in my grip. Before I could talk myself out of my actions, I turned the knob and opened the door, peeking out over the landscape and ocean less than a hundred yards from the back of the building...
Only to shut it immediately, overwhelmed by fear of who may be lying in wait for me.
A sob wracked my body, and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle more from coming. Stop being such a ninny, I admonished myself. Jeremiah does it every day, so can you. The stress of my situation had finally caught up with me however and it took several deep, shuddering breaths before I could get a grip on myself again. I need to get out of here or I’ll go crazy, that’s all there is to it.
I’d been so sure that alarms would sound when I opened the door, but nobody rushed in to check on me nor did any klaxons go off. So much for security. Somewhat reassured, I cracked the door again and peeked outside. No bodyguards were visible and the doorway was a direct route down to the water and boathouse I’d seen every day through the small upstairs window. The property was lined with tall trees, obscuring the neighbors view of the compound. The midday winter chill clung to the air, and there were no boats visible in the ocean before me. My death grip on the door knob wasn’t getting me anywhere however. Now or never.
Steeling myself, I strode out the door and made my way down the back patio steps toward the boathouse, gait jerky and nervous. I looked back and saw I’d forgotten to close the living room door but knew if I turned around I wouldn’t find the courage to leave again. It felt incredible to be outside again and, at that moment, I didn’t care if any guards saw me.
The boathouse was even more interesting up close. What I’d thought was only a shack was really a two-story building, following the contour of the shoreline with the lower floor exiting out onto a pier that stretched out over the water. The upper floor was at ground level; stairs took you down to where the boats would be kept beneath what looked like a small living quarters. The boathouse’s construction was different than the house, much older and worn down, the timeworn quality giving it a rugged feel the elegant mansion lacked.
I’d barely gotten to the building when a bell r
ang out from somewhere within the compound. My heart skipped a beat and I ran the last few steps to the boathouse before me, looking for an entrance. Glancing back, I saw three guards running toward the mansion I’d just left, splitting up and disappearing around the corners.
Were they looking for me, or an intruder? The idea the killer could be on the grounds paralyzed my mind, and I mentally kicked myself for my reckless rebellion. Stupid, stupid! What on earth were you thinking?
A quick scan of the boathouse revealed a nearby entrance and I hurried toward it, seeking somewhere safe to hide. The door was unlocked and I pushed inside, closing it swiftly after me. I laid my head on the wood, watching through the window as more guards appeared around the open door I’d just vacated in the mansion. I’m going to be in so much trouble, I thought, suddenly guilty.
From the corner of my eye I saw something move, and before I could react a hand clapped over my mouth. I screamed, or tried to anyway, as I was dragged back from the window by strong arms. I kicked over a wicker chair and a lamp in my struggles, but my assailant didn’t release me. I kicked backwards but my feeble attack was deftly avoided. Oh God, I thought miserably, despair washing over me, I’m about to die, aren’t I?
Jeremiah, I’m sorry...
“Fancy meeting you in a place like this,” said a jovial voice behind me. “I really was hoping the next time we saw one another would be under better circumstances.”
My struggles ceased as I recognized the voice. “You really need to learn a few new defensive maneuvers,” my assailant continued, “you’re easy to predict after a while. Now please don’t scream my dear, I’d rather the wrong folks not discern our location.”
The hand around my mouth lifted and I stayed silent, unsure what to think. His grip on my arms, pushed high up my back, didn’t stray an inch. “Am I about to die?” I whispered, heart in my throat.
“That all depends on how quickly my little brother arrives.” A smooth hand crept up my torso to encircle my neck, pinning me back against his body. “Care to make any wagers?”
***
Stories by Sara Fawkes
Back In The Groove
Anything He Wants
Anything He Wants 2: All’s Fair
Anything He Wants 3: Love and War
Anything He Wants 4: Collateral Damage
About The Author
Sara Fawkes has always loved spinning tales. One who’s been writing since she was a little girl (and has the home made books from preschool to prove it), she loves creating stories and characters and interesting messes for them to get into. And for the handsome guy to always get the girl in the end. An avid traveler and adventure motorcyclist, her dream job includes selling everything off and leaving civilization to see the world on two wheels, writing in cafes in each country she visits, and living off her writing. In the meantime however, she lives in California with her menagerie of pets and, when not writing, loves to rebuild old motorcycles/cars and practice her fiddle. You can find her online at http://sarawriteserotica.wordpress.com or Twitter @sarafawkes talking about whatever strikes her fancy.
Anything He Wants 4: Collateral Damage. Copyright © 2012 by Sara Fawkes. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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