by Kym Roberts
Skiing. Hell, he hadn’t gone skiing in ten years. So yeah, if Ty donned two long, thin planks of fiberglass and headed for an off-piste run at Castle Alainn, he probably would break a rib or two. Or eight. Even his little brother didn’t know a bullet tore his insides to smithereens. That was one tidbit he’d sworn Rosie to keep quiet and she’d reluctantly agreed.
The biggest shock, however, had been realizing how run-down Rosie’s house had become. The family matriarch had done a very good job of hiding the whistling windows, creaking floorboards and leaking roof during the holiday get-togethers, with decorations that were over the top and so much family noise pouring out of every seam, no one noticed a thing. But once all those ornate decorations were tucked away in storage, Ty saw the real condition staring him in the face. Rosie’s house wasn’t just outdated; it was in complete disrepair.
That tore at his gut more than Ty cared to admit. It seemed every single member of the family had neglected the matriarch. Ty hadn’t been at Rosie’s house a single day before her neighbor, Mya Castillo, came over to give him a piece of her very frank and opinionated mind. Mya was none too happy about family reunions that wore his grandmother to her freaking bones. She also had quite a bit to say about Ty and the rest of his cousins, specifically Jackson, not doing their part to take care of Rosie.
Of course, all of that was done while Rosie was in the kitchen, and Ty found the hushed tone of Mya’s anger kinda sexy—if he could get past the seventh, eighth or even the ninth time she complained about Jack being a no-good bleepity bleep, bleep in Spanish. Yeah, the woman had it bad.
Been there, done that, babe.
Ty had listened and took the message to heart. He needed a break from everything back East, and focusing on Rosie sounded like a good thing—once he could lift his arms.
The cab drew up to a gate that looked like if belonged in the middle of Florence, Italy, if Florence was back dropped by the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. The entranced was columned, each pillar showcasing a relief of a Greek warrior, showcasing a strong, fit body standing guard at each side. Ty’s chest tightened. Achilles HeAl was not for victims of violence. The rehab facility was drenched in dollar signs—from the long driveway, to the elaborate architecture, to the sheer size of the mansion
His driver released a low whistle.
“You can say that again. Are you sure this is Achilles HeAl?” Ty asked, his voice sounding like a forced whisper.
“Dude, I heard about this place, but I had no idea this existed.”
This was a sunken driveway lined with an eight-foot wall on each side. The iron gates opened, and the cabby headed down the long drive. Cone-capped square columns every eight feet accentuated the wall along with snow-covered shrubbery at the base. The passage opened to a circular courtyard made into an intricately designed drop-off zone.
The two-story mansion, made of cut stone, sported four chimneys on its tile roof and a three-arch covered porticos leading to the front door. The elaborate entry also served as balcony for the second level. At each end of the house—and yes, house was a relative term—there was a glass-enclosed colonnade. The walkways extended away from the house then turned at a ninety-degree angle toward the front of the estate where they each ended at a doorway to another building. On his left was a two story parking garage. On his right, an indoor Olympic-sized pool. So in effect, the house was actually a U-shaped compound protecting the driveway from blowing snow on three sides.
Smart design.
Ty paid the cab driver and slowly scooted, pushed and pulled his way out of the vehicle. The cabby was gone before he made it to the front door. Leaning his forehead against the rich mahogany wood, he took several deep—but not too deep—breaths, before he pushed the button on the intercom system.
“Can I help you?”
“T—Brad Williams. I have an appointment with Rafe?” Ty half-hoped he had the wrong address. He could go back to Rosie’s and do his own damned exercise routine. A place like this wasn’t for a disgraced Secret Service agent, even if he was working as Chief Investigator for a prosecutor’s office.
“If you could pull your head off the door, I’ll buzz you in, Mr. Williams.” Her voiced danced with amusement.
“Oh, sure.” Ty looked up and located the camera to his left on the ceiling of the covered porch and realized he must look like an inexperienced wuss.
He should have known, a place like this needed security.
The door clicked and Ty pushed the cold, heavy door while gritting his teeth. If he’d used his head, it would have hurt less.
He walked in and tried to control his breathing as he looked down and wiped his tennis shoes on the thick wool rug.
Get it together, dumb fuck.
“Sorry, I would have opened the door for you, but I’m afraid I would have left you in the cold quite a bit longer. I sprained my ankle and I’ve been trying to ditch my crutches, but I think I pushed it a little too soon. What a pair we make, huh? I’d hate to see us try to mop the floor.”
The woman behind the desk was either tall, or standing on a platform. Her Persian brown hair held streaks of cinnamon and caramel that matched her eyes. Her black nylon hoodie hugged her slim body and was unzipped just enough to show off the top of a red sports bra. Ty immediately wanted to see more, but returned his gaze to her face and watched her happy smile lose the light, the laughter, and every ounce of life from those girl-next-door features. The process occurred in slow motion, as if he’d paused the television and then started it again at one quarter the speed. Her color ashened. Her eyes faded and her calm business-like demeanor turned into a scared half to death stare.
It was a stare he’d seen several times in his lifetime. The first time had been in the military at twenty-two, right before he’d killed his first enemy combatant at close range. After that first one, he’d stopped counting. Wouldn’t let the numbers, the faces, the bodies, penetrate into his mind or his heart. He shut the door, before their fear, their last look at life, tore him apart. But hers…penetrated.
He could feel the blood draining her extremities, the cold shiver creeping up her neck at a snail’s pace. Her breathing become labored, and Ty knew her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, she thought it would stop.
That’s the effect he had on her. But what she didn’t see as she stumbled backward and grabbed the counter behind her, was his reaction to her.
Fuck me…
A German shepherd came around the desk, its tan and black haunches low, ears pricked high, a low growl in its throat. It was obviously ready for action, ready to leap into battle at any moment. Clearly all the woman had to do was give the command. Ty had seen K-9s at work, and this one seemed hell-bent on trouble. The dog glanced back at her, and the turned to snarl at Ty. He was feeding off her fear.
How could she possibly think Ty would hurt her? What kind of animal did she expect? He unzipped his coat. Slowly. Held his palms up, just below shoulder height, clearly showing her he was unarmed. Absolutely no threat. No threat.
She looked at her dog. “Kas, blieb.” And then addressed Ty. “What do you want?” She forced through closed lungs.
“Whoa. Hey, I’m just here for therapy. With Rafe?” He tried to reassure her. Kept his distance. It didn’t seem to work. “Brad Williams?” He said, hoping to hell the fake name brought her out of the fear-induced trance she was under. He continued, “I have a five o’clock appointment? Look, my referral papers are in my pocket, but I don’t want to scare you by reaching for them.”
“Wh…what?” she stuttered.
He repeated himself slowly. Letting every word sink in. “My name is Brad Williams, and I have a five o’clock appointment with Rafe. I had a hunting accident that did a number on my ribs.” He made a pathetic attempt to laugh, then grabbed his ribs to show just how vulnerable he was. “At least that’s what I told the hospital. In reality, my brother wanted to see me dead.” His laughter was fake, self-deprecating. Part of the role of a grown-ass man embarrassed to
be a victim. A role Ty desperately wanted her to believe.
Otherwise, there was no chance in hell he’d get to see that scrap of red lace again. Touch it. Run his tongue against the edge that hugged her firm breasts. Suck her nipple through the material until she begged him for more.
Yeah, there was a reason he was at her door, and there was no fucking chance in hell he was going to miss that opportunity again.
Chapter Seven
She was going to kill Adam Holder, slowly and painfully. She just had to figure out exactly how one learned that particular skill, and then she was going to track down Adam and complete the task. Because Adam, who was supposed to be a friend, wasn’t answering her calls. Or returning her text messages.
Right before she killed Adam, she was going to asked why he would send one of his clients to her spa knowing he was undoubtedly a violent felon—who lied through his teeth.
Brad Williams, if that was his real name, wasn’t a victim of domestic violence. The man had been shot. Yes. But that was the only truth in his story. Brad had nearly died. In her arms. And she’d shoved, literally shoved, her favorite shirt into the hole in his stomach—with hands shaking, heart stopping, and her mind cussing the pure stupidity of not walking in the other direction. She’d been in the mother of all snowstorms, and God knows no one would have blamed her for not seeing him.
Instead she’d saved him. Retied his bloody scarf around sculpted abs that belonged on a museum sculpture, and driven him through a blinding blizzard to the hospital. Where she’d dropped him off, assured staff she’d wait for security, and then hit the road. Fast. Didn’t pause to get her own ankle treated when she heard the nurses speculating his injuries were probably related to the murder at Castle Alainn. A murder that involved a mob hit.
Their conversation confirmed all of her fears. She shouldn’t have saved him. He was the worst of the worst, just like the man who’d killed her mother and father. And when his name and face didn’t appear on the news, or in the paper over the past week, Faith knew her decision to run had been smart.
Because he’d either confessed, negotiated for a better deal, escaped, or died.
But from the looks of the man doing breathing exercises in the other room, he wasn’t dead. And she was fairly certain if he was working with the feds, he wouldn’t be in her spa blowing a little ball up into a tube and then slowly releasing his breath as he watched it descend.
Which meant he’d escaped. Eluded capture or killed to get away.
Yet she’d watched the news every morning and every night. If there was a dangerous hitman on the loose, wouldn’t they alert the public? Have one of those door-to-door manhunts? Call in the State Police, National Guard, the freaking Navy Seals? Granted the military didn’t do law enforcement ops, especially on U.S. soil, but didn’t this warrant some type of special attention? And how would Adam—
Faith’s phone rang and she nearly bit her lip clean off before she snatched the receiver. “Achilles HeAl, Faith speaking.”
“What’s wrong?”
Faith breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of her brother’s no-nonsense voice. “Khaos, thank God. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Adam, but he’s not returning my calls.”
“Adam? Why are you trying to contact him and how is that an emergency?” Her older brother was using his exasperated-by-my-little-sister’s-drama tone he always adopted when he felt his time was better spent saving the free world from disaster.
“Because Adam recommended one of his clients to me, and well, I think he may be involved with the mob.”
“The mob?” Faith could almost feel the eye-roll in his voice. “Faith, Adam doesn’t represent the mob. I may not agree with his choice of clients, but Adam’s legit. The guy’s probably some rich playboy who needs to lay low for a while and let the media die down. I’ll call you la—”
“He’s been shot.”
“Shot.”
“Yes, you know with a gun.”
“I know what shot means. What’s his name?”
She could hear his fingers clicking on his keyboard and knew her brother didn’t like this situation any more than she did. The past had taught them both to be cautious. To trust no one, especially guys like the man on the other side of the glass, who wore I’ve-been-through-hell-and-back sexy very well. Not that Khaos would think Brad Williams was attractive, but Faith couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward this man whose eyes gave away nothing. The scar running through his eyebrow made him all the more bad-boy mysterious.
She did know one thing about her new client, though. He had a weakness for a man named Sammie. It was the one word he’d said over and over while fading in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital. The name had passed over his lips with the emotion of a lover—proving that the look he’d given her tonight, the one that told Faith he knew the size bra she wore, had to have been an act.
And that’s what scared her even more. He was a very good actor.
“Brad Williams. I don’t know if that’s short for Bradley—
“Son-of-a—”
“Do you know him? Should I run for the safe room?” Yes, she did have a safe room. A windowless ten by twelve-foot room with a bathroom, refrigerator, microwave and a generator, protected by seven feet of concrete all the way around. For the rest of her life, she would always have a safe room, maybe not that one, but one that was built with similar, if not better amenities. She wasn’t a survivalist, or a gun-toting anti-government extremist. Faith and Khaos knew what it was like to have a family business targeted by the wrong people. They also knew to take threats to their safety seriously—because their parents hadn’t. And they’d been killed because of it.
“No. He won’t hurt you. But that doesn’t mean he’s a good guy, either.”
“What do you mean, he’s not a good guy? Is he into drugs, illegal guns, what are you not telling me?”
“Nothing like that. He’s just…he’s no good. I can’t talk about it over the phone, but he won’t hurt you. You’ll be safe until I get there in thirty minutes.” Faith heard her brother close his laptop.
“He’ll be gone in thirty minutes,” she said.
Khaos cussed under his breath. “When’s his next appointment?”
“Tomorrow at five.”
“Then I’ll be there at five. But in the meantime, don’t fall for his sweet talk. He has a reputation—”
Faith thought of the name that had slipped off Brad’s lips, “Sammie,” as she cradled him in her arms a week ago, afraid he would die, not sure she wanted him to live. The man had danger written in every line on his face and he scared her. Yet despite everything, Faith found herself extremely attracted to Brad Williams. And extremely disappointed that his interest was just an act. “He’s not interested in me.” She told her brother.
Khaos made a sound deep in his throat, coughing, choking, clearing whatever blocked his ability to talk before warning Faith that she’d read Brad Williams all wrong.
“Just don’t let him ask you out. Finish his session, escort him to the door and lock it up…without letting him make any moves.”
“Good God, I’m not Phillipe. Even if the man was interested, I would never get involved with a client.”
“Hah! I really hate those famous last words. Just remember, no matter what Brad Williams says, a relationship with him won’t end happily-ever-after.”
Chapter Eight
She was calling for backup. He’d been sitting in this fucking fish bowl blowing a stupid ball up a tube…waiting. Waiting for her to realize he was no threat.
Geeezus.
Had he ever sat with his back to a window this long in his life?
More importantly, who was she calling? A co-worker. A girlfriend—that might be interesting, but Ty knew a threesome wasn’t her style and he hated to admit it, but he’d be damn disappointed if she asked another woman to join them. A woman like Faith needed his undivided attention.
A boyfriend. No, she’d be using her cell
, not the phone at the front desk— that was close to the door, so she could run. Except her run would be more of a hobble. Worse yet, any attempt he made to catch her would be even more pathetic.
But as he blew the fucking ball for the tenth time, he listened to her clip, clunk across the tile favoring her right foot, pacing in frustration. He would have loved to turn around and watch her catch her bottom lip between her teeth. Instead he focused on every nuance of sound occurring behind his back. The deep breaths. The silence. Even one gulp she tried to cover by clearing her throat. She’d nearly slammed that phone down eight times, catching herself as the phone connected and kept the noise from vibrating through the unit, counter, and desk. All before she finally began a whispered conversation with someone on the phone.
Ty briefly thought about her dialing 9-1-1, but dismissed it immediately. The police would have answered her call on the first try. No, she was calling Agent Artino to find out just exactly what kind of guy he’d sent her way. And like all government agencies, she hadn’t been able to get in contact with the agent. It was after five o’clock and if she didn’t have his direct number, she’d reach someone vetting his calls. Who undoubtedly gave her the runaround.
The ball warbled through the tube as he blew it to the top one more time. Ty stared at the picture of the Roman Coliseum on the wall in front of him. From the white marbled floor to the white arched alcoves of cabinets with countertops, to the sea blue triple cushion massage table, Ty could be in a spa on the Italian peninsula. At the moment, he certainly felt like a fucking sacrificial lamb waiting to be slaughtered on a stage for spectators to applaud.
She’d escorted him across the two-story lobby with a fresco ceiling he swore he’d seen in Florence, while Andrea Bocelli’s voice softly echoed around the columns, with the acoustics of a great concert hall. The lobby was wrapped with a palatial staircase to the second floor, and Ty found it difficult to mask his awe of the architectural masterpiece in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado. He’d grown up here, he’d seen the dilapidated estate that should have been bulldozed a quarter century ago. But he never recognized the potential. Until now.