Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3)

by Natalie E. Wrye

  His laugh rumbles low as he strolls over to me, leaving what’s left of his shirt half-opened.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” he murmurs playfully. “Nothing here you haven’t seen before…”

  Innocent enough on the surface, the suggestive subtext of what Lukas is saying is strong… and clear. His green eyes flash seductively at me, and suddenly I have to look away.

  Because if I don’t, I’m not quite sure what will happen next.

  I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice with Lukas, and I’m just trying not to jump.

  “I’m going to head to the kitchen to heat up that IHOP, if it’s still there,” I tell him, avoiding his eye.

  “Good,” Lukas declares, finishing off his buttons. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, but I’ll be down soon.”

  I nod, slinking my way out of his room.

  When I reach the kitchen, I start to breathe easier.

  There’s something about Lukas that sucks the air out of the room, making it hard to inhale, hard to concentrate.

  I can barely be around him anymore.

  But not for the same reasons that I had before.

  The man I met over the phone was irresponsible, wild—a total player—but upon closer inspection, there’s a latent seriousness to him, a sadness that even Lukas’s sexy smile can’t hide.

  I never wanted to meet the man behind the smile before, but Saturday night gave me a glimpse—a peek at something more.

  Something tangible. Something real.

  And now I’m afraid that he’ll never let me get that close to him again.

  But at least in here, maybe I have a chance…

  I start to drift away from the kitchen, heading towards the den.

  I pick up a piece of mail on a shelf and suddenly I am perusing, digging my fingers through drawers, sliding my fingers across countertops.

  What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

  I’m lurking—no, better yet: sneaking around—in Lukas’s house… wearing Lukas’s clothes… with Lukas right upstairs.

  And I’m doing it all without shame.

  Just a peek, I tell myself.

  Just one little glimpse, and then I’ll stop.

  I’ll head back into the kitchen where I intended to go—heat up some IHOP leftovers—pretend that I don’t give a shit.

  Pretending I don’t is easier than knowing that I do.

  I move to the next bookcase.

  Let’s see… What do we have here?

  CDs.

  A shit-ton of CDs.

  I’ve already gone through these before.

  Prince. David Bowie. Bruce Springsteen.

  I snatch a CD.

  Hm. Justin Timberlake.

  My, my, my… I should take this one for later.

  My hands continue to roam around the room.

  I open up cabinets, a hutch—peruse through countless bookshelves, and what do I find?

  Not much of anything.

  Business books. Computer programming files.

  Wow. An award?

  I linger on that one.

  It’s glass-encased, practically hiding on a mid-level shelf. The paper award reads “Young Entrepreneur of the Year,” and I smile.

  Lukas Griffin is a self-made man… and I should have known not to expect anything less.

  But still, something’s strange, something’s… off.

  He has all the accouterments of a normal twenty-eight year old man.

  The sports paraphernalia, the men’s magazines, and—oh—even the exotic porn.

  But it’s somehow incomplete.

  It’s not what’s there that’s the problem… but what isn’t.

  No photo albums. No pictures.

  Not a birthday card in sight. Zilch.

  No poorly drawn but sentimental pictures stating “Thanks, Uncle Lukas.” No postcards or cheesy Christmas cards that say “I’m thinking of you.”

  Nothing.

  Not one personal touch.

  Not one sense of family… or girlfriends… or friendship… or love.

  That’s it.

  Where’s the love in this house? The passion that Lukas expresses in everything he does?

  At the keyboard. Behind a desk. In the bedroom…

  He’s full of fervor, almost obsessive dedication… in every way but this.

  Here’s a man who’s fiercely loyal to his friends, dedicated to his success and yet this is the second time that I’ve looked at his house and sneered.

  It’s so damn cold, so frigid.

  Nana Natalya always said you have to know where you came from to understand where you’re going, and I believed her.

  I touch another “young business owner” book, fingering the pages.

  So, just where did you come from, Lukas Griffin?

  The sound of a soft footstep from behind me answers my question.

  I turn.

  It’s him—Lukas—standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes intense, his stare smoldering.

  He just caught me rifling through his personal belongings.

  And it couldn’t be worse than if I had “Oh, shit. Busted” written on my forehead.

  He shifts on his feet in the partial-blinded sunlight of the window-covered den, the pewter gray cast of his suit adding to the storminess of his expression.

  He looks serious, but unsurprised. He raises an eyebrow as if this is just what he expected.

  “Looking for something?” he asks.

  Lukas’s voice is rich—completely unruffled. His quiet calm sends my nerves thrumming underneath my skin.

  I clutch the cd in my hand, feeling inspired by its presence.

  “Yeah,” I say, recovering from shock. “Music. I always listen to music when I cook.”

  His eyebrows shoot even higher.

  “When you’re heating up leftover IHOP?”

  “Of course. Heating up leftover IHOP is as close to cooking as I basically get.”

  “Well, then,” Lukas comments softly, motioning towards the kitchen.

  “Lead the way.”

  I take a deep breath, anxious to wipe the “busted” sign off my forehead. I do what Lukas asks me to.

  I walk past him slowly, unable to take a breath until I’m clear of his body.

  I reach for the refrigerator door, deflecting.

  “So, when are we going to make a move on Sears?” I ask absently.

  “We?”

  A cabinet shuts from behind me.

  “We aren’t going to make a move on Sears. You are going to stay as far away from him as possible, and Henry and I are going to make a move on Sears.”

  I shut the door, forgetting about the deflection act.

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay here… and help us do our research into Greg’s assets.”

  “His assets?”

  “Yeah,” Lukas says, stepping closer. “We need to cut that son-of-a-bitch off at the knees, find out where his money is—hack his computer, if necessary.”

  The notion is too wild to even address, too preposterous for even a rebuttal. Lukas wants me to do what?

  “And with what computer hacking army?” I ask.

  But he doesn’t respond.

  Lukas…” I start again.

  “Man, that IHOP sounds good right now.”

  “Lukas…”

  “I was really looking forward to it…”

  “Ok, Lukas...”

  “If only someone was heating it up like they’d said they would…”

  “LUKAS,” I groan louder, nearly smacking him. “God, if only I could hang up in your face right now…. it’s so much harder to hang up in your face when we’re talking in person.”

  He smiles broadly.

  “If I were a lesser man, I’d mention a few other things of mine that you could hang on…”

  I have to laugh.

  “Such language,” I chastise. “And from the ‘Young Entrepreneur of the Year’?” />
  But the giggle never makes it out.

  I’ve just told on myself, just admitted that I was snooping, and Lukas catches it.

  Because the moment it comes out of my mouth, his eyes narrow at me… and, like a gift from the heavens, the doorbell rings.

  I jump, and Lukas straightens up.

  He turns on his polished heels and soon he’s heading towards the door with me practically nipping at his ankles.

  He takes a glance out of the door and then opens it.

  “So, Elle… Say hello to your ‘computer-hacking army’ of one.”

  A familiar and welcomed smile and voice greets me on the front step.

  “Hey, Elle… Surprised?”

  Call a Spade a Spade

  But when you're playing poker, you don't know the answer to that until after the cards are laid down, and then it's too late.

  –Fred Thompson

  DAY 3—8:03AM

  Casa de Griffin

  LUKAS

  Nobody is happier to see Ana’s face and hear her voice than Elena.

  But I have to admit that, considering the circumstances, I run a very close second.

  A call from Tampa General nearly shocked me out of bed this morning.

  Ana, released from the hospital with a broken arm and bruises, called me first thing in the morning from the hospital.

  Wanting to surprise her sisters, she hadn’t told them of her discharge.

  Turns out the surprise was on her when I’d told her that Elena was staying at my place.

  Being Ana—naturally—she had wanted to see for herself.

  So, I let her, sending a car to pick her up from the hospital—cast and all.

  Luckily, she didn’t need to be checked out in the care of anyone, and when given the option to choose where she’d go first, she picked here, wanting to talk to Elena about what had exactly driven Elena to my house—of all places.

  And that wasn’t the only reason…

  The Ana that called this morning was simmering with rage.

  Indignation.

  Wrath.

  This morning’s Ana was one I’d never seen before—a determined Ana—hell-bent on getting retribution.

  Not just for herself but for her sister—who was the real target of the attack.

  It was just what I needed: Ana’s attitude getting perfectly aligned with mine.

  I’d long been past the point of wanting retribution.

  Revenge was the only goddamned thing on my mind.

  And with Ana’s return, I’d found the perfect opportunity to exact it… and keep her and Elena out of harm’s way while doing so.

  Ten minutes into Ana’s appearance at my front door and I am already antsy, anxious to get out of the house and back to work so I can look into those damned hacked files.

  They’re the only connection we have left to this fucking psycho… and I’m the only one who’s capable of linking all of his underhanded acts together.

  I grab for my keys on the counter, and Elena notices.

  She separates herself from Ana’s embrace, walking over to stand beside me at the kitchen counter.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Work,” I answer curtly. “Stay here with Ana.”

  She glances quickly over her shoulder.

  “I can’t. Ana’s taking off to go to Kat’s at noon.”

  “Go with her.”

  “I can’t, Lukas. You know I can’t.”

  Elena’s voice is no louder than a sigh; regret fills her pretty face.

  I place my hand on her chin, stroking the skin underneath it, unable to turn away from her—unable to stop myself from enjoying the touch.

  I reach for my key ring.

  “Here,” I say, extending the other hand towards her. “Take the key to the house. Use it if you have to leave, but only if you have to. Don’t let anyone in besides each other—and I mean, no one.”

  I turn from both Ana and Elena, grabbing for my black briefcase.

  “We’ve got a bead on Sears. Henry and I are going to look into a few things. Meanwhile, Ana…”

  The younger Lexington girl looks up at me.

  “I need you and Elena together by evening.” I point at her cast. “We’re working at half-capacity here, so Elena will be your fingers. You be her eyes and ears. I need you both at a keyboard when I get off from work. We’re coming at Sears from all sides, so be prepared.”

  I head towards the front door, lugging my belongings with me.

  “Prepared for what?” Elena calls at my heels.

  I stop.

  “For tonight, Elle.

  “We’re confronting that sonuvabitch tonight.”

  ***

  The drive to work is smoother than usual.

  And so is the walk when I get inside.

  I stroll into my job with a steadfast purpose… and to an increasingly routine, welcoming committee of none.

  Usually the last person to arrive at Tripping Out!, I am now the only one, and the few secretaries that are here can’t even account for my missing co-partners.

  I wave “Good morning” to the employees, pay a visit to a few of the writers.

  I stop by the IT offices, and by the time I hit my own, I am utterly exhausted, craving caffeine and maybe even something a little sweeter…

  Fucking dreams.

  I sit at my desk, feeling anxious—worried that after last night’s naughty fantasy, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of my newly-arrived “houseguest.”

  I could barely manage it this morning… and that was right in front of Ana.

  To recapture my sanity and keep my brain off Elena and back on work, I draft an e-mail from my laptop to Chris, CC’ing Foxx on the message before I hit send.

  From: lukasgriffin@trippingout.com

  To: chrisjohnson@trippingout.com

  CC: brendonfoxx@trippingout.com

  Subject: All hands on deck

  Did some digging last night on the Voyager case and came up empty.

  In case, you haven’t heard—Elena was stalked last night. Probably by the same bastard that cut her brakes.

  Police are on it.

  My PI’s on it.

  I’m on it.

  And anybody that’d like to join, feel free to raise your hand. I’m open to all options and opinions.

  UPDATES:

  Working on recovering Voyager files with IT.

  Our June wedding spread is ready to go to print.

  New website’s looking better than ever.

  P.S.

  It’d be a little easier to see a show of hands if they were actually here.

  I don’t really have to point out how awfully quiet it is in the office…

  Several minutes pass before any response. Chris replies first.

  From:chrisjohnson@trippingout.com

  To: lukasgriffin@trippingout.com

  CC: brendonfoxx@trippingout.com

  Subject: Re: All hands on deck

  Sorry about the missing hands. My own are tied.

  Still discussing details with Voyager about the July spread—details regarding the files that weren’t hacked.

  Wow, I can’t believe Elena got stalked. Just what the hell is going on?

  Call me if you need me. I’ll free up one of those hands whenever I can.

  P.S.

  Sabrina asked about you, Griff. Just think about it.

  That’s it?

  That’s all I get?

  The normal Chris I know would be grilling me about every single fucking detail.

  This Chris is full of excuses, lacking in suggestions that aren’t X-rated.

  He’s frivolous. He’s late. He’s full of single-minded purpose, and he’s become increasingly selfish.

  God, he’s me.

  Usually unconcerned about our financials, I checked the numbers today in Chris’s stead.

  I lean back in my chair—thinking.

  The Christopher Johnson I knew isn’t the one that’s currently in
my inbox.

  As the weather has changed, so has his attitude, and the passing spring has ushered in a new edition of Christopher Johnson—a different version.

  One that I’d thought I’d love to see, but find myself questioning.

  Hm.

  My influence must be stronger than I think… because Chris has changed his walk, his talk—even his clothes.

  Tom Ford has become a new staple in his closet, and he’s sporting the swagger of a changed man.

  I hate to say it… but I miss the old Chris.

  My hands are still frozen over the keys when an e-mail notification pings from my computer.

  Another e-mail… this time from my private investigator.

  From:

  henry.classer@classerinvestigations.com

  To:

  lukasgriffin@trippingout.com

  Subject: We GOT HIM

  We found the bastard.

  He’s been keeping a low profile—jumping between here and Tennessee, as you know, but he couldn’t hide for long.

  He’s not in an apartment.

  He’s in a hotel.

  The Hilton at Clearwater Beach.

  I’ve been trying to reach your cell but that whole “No cell phones policy” at your job is a pain in the ass. Your office phone’s screwed up, and I can’t even get a…

  .

  .

  .

  SHIT!

  I am out of my seat before I can finish Henry’s message. I slam my laptop closed, stuffing it carelessly into my briefcase.

  “Sarah!”

  I call out of my office for the nearest secretary.

  “I can’t get calls to my goddamned office phone?”

  I check the dial tone on the receiver.

  Nothing.

  Sarah appears at the door within seconds.

  “Are you serious? No way,” she groans in her thick Boston accent.

  Her flushed face is as red as her hair, and I’m not sure if she’s blushing because I’m pissed or if she’s blushing because… well, it’s me, and she’s had a not-so-secret crush on me for months.

  This is one of the times I hope it’s not the latter.

  Sarah starts to panic.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, slightly fussing. “I’ll get Jade on it right away.”