by RC Boldt
Whether it’s subconscious or not, he’s still trying to position himself, to tip his head, so the left side is away from me. The only time he doesn’t is when he’s distracted, which means I’ll have to work on sidetracking him more. Maybe then he’ll finally figure out I don’t care about his scars. That he’s the most incredible man I’ve ever met. That I’m falling deeper in love with him.
Shifting to roll a condom down his length, I slide down over him, taking him deep inside my body. I try to silently communicate all that, so maybe he’ll realize—he’ll understand—how I feel.
Maybe then he’ll realize—regardless of the scars upon his flesh—that he’s so much more.
Maybe then, he’ll realize he’s worth loving.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Presley
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about this woman just…doesn’t fit.
“So, you’re new to the area, Ms. Mathison?” I inquire as I prepare to adjust her spine for the first time. She’s lying face down on the table, her dark hair confined to a long ponytail.
She brought in her X-rays from her former physician, saying she’d recently relocated here from Tampa, and Clara had confirmed Sheri Mathison had been under the care of a chiropractor there.
It still doesn’t assuage that prickly feeling that something isn’t adding up.
Once I finish with her adjustment, I smile and help her up to a sitting position.
“Thanks, Presley.” Her smile is friendly enough, but her eyes throw me off. They seem like they’re analyzing everything about me in the most unnerving way.
“No problem.” I open the door of the room, gesturing for her to step out first, and we make our way down the hall to the receptionist desk. “I always call and check on my new patients after their initial adjustment, so if you see an unfamiliar number calling you, it’s me.”
“I look forward to it, Presley.” She reaches out, shaking my hand, and it has to be the firmest handshake I’ve ever been on the receiving end of—from a female.
Saying goodbye with a smile, I turn and head back down the hall to see the next patient awaiting me.
And for the remainder of the day, I find myself reflecting on my encounter with Sheri Mathison.
* * *
My cell phone vibrates on my desk just as I sit down, planning to go over some notes on a new referral patient over my lunch break, and I can’t help but smile at the name on the caller ID.
“Hey there.”
“Can you help me? I’m looking for the hottest doctor on the island.” His deep, husky voice is laced with humor.
“Hmm…” I pretend to think it over. “I believe she’s at the office over on Citrona Avenue.”
Laughter greets me, and the fact that I made Hendy laugh makes my day that much better, wiping away the odd feeling lingering from my earlier patient.
“Well, she’s got this pair of gray pants on that drive me insane because they make her ass look so—”
“Ah-ah! Language, señor.” I hear Lucia’s voice in the background.
Wait a minute. Lucia’s voice should not be in the background.
Noting the commotion coming from the hallway, I see a tall, familiar man step into the doorway of my office, and as he lowers his cell phone from his ear, he grins at me. The sight of the bag in his hands sends my empty stomach into a growling fit.
Raising his eyebrows, he says, “Whoa. Someone’s starving.”
Blowing out a long breath, I push my chair back from my desk and move over to the table where Hendy sets the bag of takeout, placing his keys and cell phone off to the side. “It’s been a really strange day.”
As we sit and he pulls the food, bottles of water, napkins, and plastic ware from the bag, he asks, “How so?”
“Well, I had a new patient who was—”
We’re interrupted by the sound of his cell phone vibrating with an incoming call. I take notice of the name flashing on the caller ID before he silences it, ignoring the call.
Heath.
I nod toward his phone. “You can take that if you need to. I don’t mind.” Hendy’s been ignoring this guy’s calls, and I can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t want to talk to him.
Avoiding my eyes, he concentrates on opening the lid of the container holding his own salad with added blackened salmon atop it. “Nope. It’s nothing important.” His response is curt.
My lips part then close then part. And snap shut. I want to ask, but I’m not sure if I should. It’s not like we ever stated anything as to our…whatever we have. I don’t know if I even have the right to ask.
“Go ahead and say it.” He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine. And damn it, he’s again purposely angling his face, so I see the right side. Maybe it’s subconscious, but it still unnerves me. And honestly, it hurts my feelings that he continues to do this with me.
Raising my eyebrows, I ask, “Say what?”
Cocking his head to the side, he gives me a look. “Say what you wanted to say a minute ago. When you opened and shut your mouth repeatedly.”
“Repeatedly? No. Once, maybe.”
“Twice.”
“Fine. Twice,” I say with narrowed eyes. “I was just wondering who this Heath guy is.” Gesturing with my fork before I stab a large helping of my own salad, I add, “Maybe he’s trying to sell you a timeshare in some random country no one’s ever heard of.”
His lips tilt up slightly. “He’s a former SEAL. Wants me to get on board with his foundation.”
I wait for him to expand, but there’s nothing but silence. “Aaaaaand?”
“And I’m not in the position to do that.”
“So you never plan on working ever again? At what? Age forty?” I’m picking at him, no doubt about it.
He gives me a sharp look at my sarcastic mention of his age. Or of the incorrect age. “Try early thirties.”
I can’t hide my smile. “Love how you’re nonspecific about your age. Totally like a woman.” Snickering, I add, “Next thing, you’ll be celebrating your ‘second twenty-first birthday.’” Raising a hand, I spread my fingers and wiggle them, making my voice high-pitched. “Woohoo!”
“Wow,” he remarks drily. “Someone needs to crown the queen of sarcasm here today.”
Recognizing I’m not getting anywhere with this line of conversation, I shift gears. “Did you know that some historians believe the legend of Minos suggests condom use in ancient societies dating back to 150 AD?”
“Well, hello subtle subject change.” His eyes dance with amusement, and I note his expression isn’t closed off like it had been mere minutes earlier. He takes a large bite of his salad.
“Or”—I lean in to lower my voice conspiratorially—“that the practice of gynecology dates all the way back to the 1800s?”
His chewing slows, giving me a look to which I offer a mischievous smile. “Ooh! I know! I can tell you all about how my gynecologist has these pictures of half-naked, muscular men tacked to the ceiling above the exam table, so patients have something to look at—”
“Do you like those pictures?”
My mouth snaps shut in surprise at his question and at the sharpness in his tone. Like he’s…jealous of pictures?
Huh.
Studying him carefully, I answer slowly. “Well, they’re not really my thing. My thing would be more like…” I trail off, and I can see I’ve hooked him.
“More like…?” he prods. Oh, yeah. He’s hooked.
Letting out a whimsical sigh, I stare down at my salad. “More like a guy who’s maybe six-foot-four and has crazy awesome muscles and skin the color of hot cocoa. But mostly,” I glance around the room before leaning in close to whisper, “a guy who has a really huge—”
“Pres.” No doubt about it. The corners of his lips are twitching in his attempt to restrain a smile.
“Brain.” I finish with a roll of my eyes. “Geez. Get your mind out of the gutter.” I take a bite of my salad and chew, my face a complete mask of in
nocence.
He shakes his head at me, continuing to eat his lunch. We sit in comfortable silence before I finally hear him mutter under his breath. Something that sounds an awful lot like, “Brain’s not all I have that’s huge.”
Chapter Forty
Hendy
After Presley and I had finished up lunch, I went back to work at TriShield Protection, whose office is located only a few streets over from her office. I’d been going over some last-minute things with Foster to prepare for his absence while he and Noelle are on their honeymoon.
Presley has some speaking engagement at a community college down in Jacksonville after work. She’ll be addressing questions from students and won’t be getting home until late tonight. Funny how in the short amount of time we’ve been spending together, I’ve found myself looking forward to seeing her after work and having more time with her on the weekends.
Not only that but Kane’s due to get home later than normal, too, since he had to take care of an issue down at a site just south of Orange Park. Knowing how awful traffic is around that area, it isn’t likely that I’ll see him for a while.
Heading up the steps of the house, I unlock the door, and as soon as my right foot steps over the threshold, I sense someone’s presence in the house.
My entire body is tense, rippling with the awareness. Quietly closing the door, I casually set my keys on the entryway table beside the door, reaching beneath it to where we always keep a small handgun attached to the bottom underside.
But I don’t make it that far.
“It’s not there.” The female voice, coming from down the hallway, draws my reach to a halt. “I’ve already secured all weapons.”
Turning my head, I eye the large artificial floral arrangement sitting on a decorative built-in shelf a few feet away from where I stand. I have a small Beretta subcompact stashed there.
“I’ve secured all weapons, Mr. Hendrixson,” she repeats.
Who the fuck am I dealing with?
Stepping forward, I approach the living room from the hallway, following the trail of her voice. My left hand moves to my side, fingers ready to reach for the large knife I have strapped to my right calf muscle beneath my khaki pants.
“Don’t do it. I’m just here to talk.”
Is she a fucking mind reader, too?
Approaching, stance ready and alert, I come upon a slender, dark-haired woman sitting at one of my dining room chairs. She’s placed it against the wall to ensure herself an unencumbered view of all entrances and exits.
“Are you alone?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Alarm rolls through me at the person who failed to greet me. “What’d you do to Izzy?”
“Relax, Mr. Hendrixson.” Her lips offer the faintest of smiles. “She’s on the deck, enjoying the large treat I brought her.” Leveling me with a look, she adds, “She sensed I’m not here to cause harm.”
That much remains to be seen.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“So talk.” I eye her sharply, ensuring my peripheral vision tracks the remainder of the room from my position and the hallway at my back.
“You should sit for our talk.”
My lips curve into a humorless smirk. “Maybe I’d rather stand.”
Her eyes never leave mine. “I assure you that you’ll want to sit for what I have to tell you.” Her gaze flits briefly to the one armchair placed against the wall which would allow me a full view from the opposite side of the room. “That chair would ensure your full visibility.”
Cautiously, I keep my eyes on her as I lower myself on the chair, noticing the woman has a binder lying on the table beside her.
Her eyes drift over me from head to toe and then back up, appraising me. But it isn’t in typical fashion. No, this appraisal is one hundred percent clinical.
“You’re looking much better, moving around more naturally, fluidly.”
“Are you here to assess my health?” I cock an eyebrow sarcastically, but she doesn’t answer my question.
“Tell me about your time in captivity, Mr. Hendrixson.”
“It’s Hendy.” My tone is steely and hard, one which would make most people piss themselves—had made some people do so in the past—but it doesn’t faze her one bit. “And I’m sure you can read all about it in the files you guys have on me.”
She reeks of Uncle Sam. Of a spook. Some government shit.
Her lips curve slightly. “Ah, but I want to hear your personal story. What those reports might not have included.”
“My guys and I were ambushed, got shot at, parts of us blown off, and then I was captured and tortured. Then healed. Tortured and healed.” I hold her eyes, my gaze hard, cold. “Rinse and repeat,” I grit out.
“That sounds pretty cut and dry.”
“What do you want me to say? That it was a fucking dream vacation?” I make a derisive sound. “Do you think I don’t wonder why the hell—”
“You were the only one to survive. Why they kept you alive,” she finishes for me, and I notice the lack of inflection in her voice. She’s not asking questions.
She’s stating facts.
I lean back, fixing her with a hard stare. “It still doesn’t make sense. Why me? Why take me? And why did they do everything the way they did?” I shake my head. “It’s not their style.” My lips press thin. “Because we all know they’re known to mutilate the dead and torture those found alive. Before beheading them.”
She remains quiet, regarding me carefully.
Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on my knees. “They’d carve and whip me only to finally send someone in to apply some medicinal salve and wait until a layer of skin had grown over the top of my wounds. Then it would start all over again.”
“And then you were rescued and the entire village was destroyed to nothing but rubble,” she finishes succinctly.
Steepling her fingers, she regards me. “Why do you think they demanded such a high ransom for you? Eight hundred million dollars is the most they ever demanded for a hostage.” With a brief pause, she adds, “Not only that but why did they go to the trouble to spoof a call to Foster Kavanaugh, pretending to be the lawyer handling your will?”
I shrug. “Maybe they hit rock bottom with their funds. Who the hell knows?” Another shrug. “As for them contacting Fos, I have no fucking clue.”
“What about the questions they asked you?”
My gaze narrows, wondering why she’s changing gears and where she’s going with this. “What do you mean?”
“They asked you for specific information, right?”
I don’t immediately answer. “They asked me to tell them where the files were.” My jaw clenches, recalling their shitty interpreter. Recalling the questions I’d been hammered with. The questions I hadn’t told anyone because they hadn’t made any sense.
The questions about my father.
She leans forward on her elbows. “They wanted information about your father.”
My lips part to answer her before snapping shut. Because she hadn’t asked a question. Instead, she’d phrased it as a statement.
As fact.
“My father died before I was born. My parents divorced while my mother was pregnant with me.”
“Is that what you were told?”
What. The. Fuck.
My jaw clenches and unclenches in frustration. “Can you stop pussyfooting around and get to the point?”
“Your father worked for the government, and he had been undercover finding intel on some high-value targets associated with al-Qaeda.” She pauses as if to wait for that to sink in. “Your mother changed her name and listed that on your birth certificate to ensure you would be a Hendrixson.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your father was Latin American and had the dark hair and skin tone. He could easily pass for a Middle Easterner once he grew out his hair and dark beard. He was a shoo-in for that kind of work.
&
nbsp; “Your mother gave him an ultimatum when she discovered she was pregnant with you. He chose his work—reluctantly so. But he loved you. Watched you grow up.”
My heart is racing, my mind stuttering in shock. “What do you mean he watched me grow up?”
Rising slowly, she walks over to the windows overlooking the deck and distant view of the Atlantic Ocean. “As an operative, I understand, in ways most others can’t fathom, what you went through in captivity. I think you deserve to know about your father. My loyalty to Paulo Cordeño is what brought me here.”
She pauses and visibly swallows as if wrestling with emotion. “Your father initiated the plans which set your rescue mission into motion. He died shortly thereafter.”
Time stills, my breath catching in my throat. Because that would mean my father had been alive all this time.
And for years—years—I’d been led to believe he was dead.
I scrub my hands over my face, breathing out, “Fuck.”
“Your father’s last name was Cordeño. Your full birth name was Cristiano James Cordeño. Not Hendrixson. Your mother chose the last name of her maternal great-great-aunt who never married or had children. She was an only child and the last in the line of Hendrixsons. She knew the change wouldn’t be obvious and wouldn’t leave a clear trail.”
My head snaps up, and I stare. “She knew all along he wasn’t dead?” But I already know the answer before she turns to face me.
Her expression turns slightly sympathetic. “She was trying to protect you.”
Shell-shocked, I’m trying to wrap my mind around this when a thought hits me, and I turn a sharp look on her. “My mother.”
Her lips purse. “Mr. Hendrixson, her death—”
“Hendy,” I correct her.
“Hendy,” she says, “her death was legitimate.”
That much is a relief.
“I was one of the individuals who worked alongside your father on his final mission.”
“And by final, you mean…”
“He died trying to carry out that mission.” She turns back, facing the window. “We were double-crossed, and he paid the ultimate price.”