Matchless

by Brynley Bush

  “This is my private number. Call me anytime. I mean it. If you need anything, anytime, you call me.”

  “Why?” I ask woodenly. “Because of last night?”

  Drake takes a deliberate step forward and places his forearms against the wall on either side of me, caging me in a typical Griffin move. The only difference is that when Drake does it, my stomach doesn’t drop to my toes.

  “Last night was the fucking hottest thing I have ever experienced and I will never forget it as long as I live, but you are Griffin’s. He asked me to take care of you, and I intend to honor his request. He rarely asks anyone for anything, and I’m certainly not going to fail him when he entrusts the most precious thing in his life to me.”

  With that, he turns on his heel and leaves, and as the door clicks closed, I sink to the floor and finally cry.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up in a darkened house, the phone jangling. The sound is shocking. Since I use my cell phone almost exclusively, I only receive the occasional solicitation call on my land line. I don’t even know why I keep it. Too tired to move, I close my eyes as the answering machine picks up.

  “Dammit, Mila, where are you?” Marcus’ voice fills the room, as big as the man himself. “I get a cursory phone call from Griffin telling me the two of you are taking a short vacation and then you and Griffin effectively disappear off the face of the Earth. I’ve called your cell repeatedly and it goes straight to voice mail. Same with Griffin. The media is going crazy. I’ve got reporters camping out in front of my office wanting a statement. I need to know that the two of you are okay. Call me!”

  I listen to the monotonous hum of the dial tone as I try to process what Marcus just said. Media? Reporters? What the hell is going on?

  Reluctantly, I drag myself to my feet and turn the TV on, flipping through the channels looking for CNN. There it is. I listlessly sink down onto the couch as the news anchor’s concerned face fills the screen, a picture of Camille Penworth superimposed at the bottom.

  “Investigators have no new information on the mysterious disappearance of Houston socialite and cancer advocate Camille Penworth, daughter of the late cancer research doctor Evan Penworth. Penworth disappeared Monday night, and sources are saying that foul play is suspected.”

  Stunned, I turn up the volume.

  “Ms. Penworth’s car was found yesterday morning near Memorial Hospital with a body inside that police believe may be Ms. Penworth’s, although detectives say it’s too badly burned to be identified. A search of Ms. Penworth’s Riverside home indicates that the home had been broken into, and traces of Ms. Penworth’s blood were found. Interestingly, Ms. Penworth has recently been embroiled in a high profile legal battle with Dr. Patrick Black, her father’s former research partner, and his sons, one of whom she has tangled with before both personally and legally. Both parties are seeking the intellectual property rights pertaining to the research of a potential new cancer fighting drug derived from the fruit of a tree found in the Amazon rainforest.

  “Sadly, Ms. Penworth’s statement given immediately after the pretrial conference on Monday was the last time she was seen alive.”

  I watch in horror as they jump to footage of an interview with Camille outside the courthouse.

  “It is my dream to fulfill the work my father started and find a cure for cancer,” she says, smiling disarmingly into the camera. “We have some exciting new information that I’m confident will hold the key to a major medical breakthrough. Unfortunately, the Blacks seem determined to cut me out of the loop despite my father’s involvement from day one.”

  Damn. I should have stayed after the hearing to talk to the press on behalf of the Blacks.

  Camille continues, her ease in front of the camera obvious. “It’s a little frightening, actually,” she says with a convincingly nervous smile. “I’m not sure how far they’ll go to keep the information and research for themselves.”

  The camera pans to the earnest field reporter. “Are you saying you’re afraid that the Blacks might threaten you?” he asks.

  “Oh, they already have,” she says, her lip quivering ever so slightly. “Beckett Black told me before the hearing that he’d rather see me dead than have his father’s research.”

  Oh no!

  The anchor continues his report. “Police are talking to Dr. Patrick Black and Dr. Beckett Black, both of whom live in Houston where Ms. Penworth’s body was found. Investigators have been unable to locate Griffin Black, a Navy SEAL whom officials confirm has been on a leave of absence and who has spearheaded the legal proceedings with Ms. Penworth. The youngest brother, known to his fans as country superstar Drake Maddox, is currently on tour and seems to be uninvolved in the dramatic legal battle. The Blacks’ attorney, Mila Kingston, has been unavailable for comment.”

  With a sinking heart, I click off the TV.

  It’s impossible. Inconceivable. Surely this is just a horrible coincidence.

  There are rarely coincidences. Griffin’s voice the morning we had breakfast at Beckett’s house echoes in my mind, along with the image of his hard face in Marcus’ office, the cold steeliness in his voice when he talked about protecting his family from Camille.

  I’m not worried about protecting my family from Camille. I can handle that.

  Camille has tried to hurt Beckett twice now. I won’t let it happen again.

  I take care of what’s mine.

  She’ll rot in hell before I let her hurt you.

  The phrases swirl around in my mind, coupled with the numerous times he told me he would be leaving the country for personal reasons that he couldn’t discuss. Had he been planning this all along? Griffin had disappeared for several hours Monday night, the night that Camille had been murdered. Had he gone to her house? Had he killed her?

  In some ways, it’s the perfect solution. With Camille dead, the Black’s research would finally be safe and they would be free to test and bring the natural drug to the public. It’s also the perfectly executed crime—one with no concrete evidence. With Griffin’s training, it would have been child’s play for him to kill Camille and leave no trace. But if that’s the case, why did he run away?

  I know what I have to do. I have to read Griffin’s note. And then I have to call Marcus.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Although I’ve spent all day waiting for the moment I can read Griffin’s note, now I don’t want to open it. If I don’t read what’s inside, I can pretend that he may be coming back. I no longer want to know why he disappeared. I just want to rewind the clock to twenty-four hours ago when Camille was alive and Griffin was mine. I seriously think about destroying the letter and with it any knowledge of Griffin’s role in Camille’s death. With a flick of a match, it could be done. But ultimately, I can’t do it. It’s my last link to Griffin.

  Miserable, I wander into my bedroom and climb into bed, curling into a tight ball under the covers with the sealed envelope on the night table next to me, mocking me. I have no one to blame for my heartache but myself. Griffin told me all along that he wasn’t the guy to fall for. He tried to warn me, but I got sucked in by his smile, by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at me and the way his touch ignited my skin. I know without a doubt that I will never meet anyone like him again.

  Somehow there are still tears left in me and they well up again from a seemingly endless reservoir inside my shattered soul. Marcus, the letter, the news—it can all wait. I don’t care. I just want to be alone with my memories of Griffin and the perfect love that I found and then lost. Tomorrow I will face reality. But tonight I will let myself remember the way he touched me, the way his eyes would darken when I met his strength with my vulnerability, the way his raspy voice had the power to demand everything from me, including my heart.

  I smile, thinking about the intoxicating contradiction of his teasing eyes and commanding presence, the way his easygoing and laidback manner belied an iron core of strength and power, his fierce loyalty and inco
mparable integrity. I drift in and out of sleep aching for his arms around me.

  I bolt awake while it’s still dark outside, the memories of Griffin that have haunted my restless dreams coalescing into one narrow point of light that points at the center of the man I fell in love with. In one clarifying moment, I know with a bone deep certainty that Griffin didn’t kill Camille. Not that he doesn’t have it in him to kill someone like her with cold and calculated precision; I know without a doubt that he does. But while he has the training of a cold-hearted killer, he has the heart of a lion. He is not a man who would kill someone and then run like a coward.

  And despite his hatred for Camille, I don’t think he would have killed her. His finely honed sense of honor wouldn’t have allowed it. As clever as he is strong, he would have found another way to protect his family. I realize with dawning comprehension that that’s exactly what he did. He hired me. I am the other way that he was counting on to protect his family.

  I don’t know what he wants me to do, but I am determined to not let him down. I have to see this through the same as he would. The thought of that makes me stronger, and I resolutely pick up the envelope and carefully open it. Pulling out the cream colored paper scrawled with Griffin’s handwriting, I begin to read.

  Mila,

  I have always lived my life with few regrets, but I have several when it comes to you. I regret not telling you that I loved you sooner. My heart recognized you the moment you walked into that bar and our eyes met. I wasn’t lying when I told you that night that my fantasy was spending one perfect night with you, making love to you and watching you come over and over again, and then falling asleep under the stars with you in my arms. You granted me that twice. Few men are so lucky to love and be loved as I have loved and been loved by you.

  I pause to wipe away my tears as I realize our relationship began and ended with that one simple fantasy of his. Bookends of one perfect, finite love.

  I also regret like hell leaving you. Believe me when I say I would be with you right now if there was any possible way. The fact that we both knew it would end doesn’t make it any easier. I feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest and the only thing that makes that bearable is the knowledge that I have left it with you for safekeeping.

  As I’m sure you know by now, Camille is dead. I didn’t kill her, but I’m happy to take the blame. Beckett gave me my life; it’s the least I can do to repay him. Hopefully my disappearance will divert the scrutiny from Beckett. I doubt there is enough evidence to convict him, but I’ve enclosed a photo as an insurance policy just in case. Please don’t use it unless it is absolutely necessary. I feel I owe Dominic that much for giving me one of the best nights of my life. I only wish I could have claimed my prize.

  Dominic? What does he have to do with this?

  Words can never adequately thank you for everything you have done for my family. I know that I leave them, and the research my father has worked his entire life for, in the best of hands.

  One day, when you’re old and gray with a bunch of grandchildren running around your feet, I hope I will be the story of your great love.

  You will be, always and forever, mine.

  Griffin

  I am openly sobbing by the time I put the letter down. It’s just like Griffin to give up his life for the sake of his brother. Damn him!

  I sit there for several long minutes absorbing what I’ve read. Griffin didn’t kill Camille. But Beckett did, and Griffin’s going to take the rap for it. What a beautiful, courageous, selfless, stupid-ass gesture!

  I reach into the envelope and pull out Griffin’s insurance policy. Stunned, I stare at a photograph of Dominic and Gavin. With their arms wrapped around each other and their eyes sparkling with happiness, there’s no mistaking that they are two people very much in love. I should know, I think with a strangled sob.

  I take a deep breath. Alright, Mila. Time to get your shit together. I have no idea what this picture has to do with Beckett killing Camille, but I have to figure it out. If I can clear Beckett, then maybe Griffin will come back.

  I pick up the phone and call Emma, Beckett, and Dr. Black. Not surprisingly, I don’t get any of them, but I leave messages on all three of their voicemails. Then I call Marcus. He answers on the first ring.

  “Mila! Thank God. Where the hell have you been?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say, “but I’m home now. I need your help.”

  “I’m on my way,” he says brusquely, leaving me staring at the disconnected screen.

  He must drive like a bat out of hell because he’s at my door in ten minutes. As he steps inside, his warm cognac eyes take in my puffy, blood-shot ones.

  “You look like shit,” he says gruffly.

  I smile wanly. “Gee, thanks.”

  He gently traces the dark circles under my eye with his knuckle. His tender concern is my undoing, and I can feel my chin tremble slightly before I’m enveloped in his strong comforting arms. I feel just like I did when I was eight and broke my ankle playing soccer and my dad had run onto the field and swooped me up in his arms, carrying me to safety.

  “Shhhh,” he says, his cheek brushing against my hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

  He pats my back comfortingly until my racking sobs subside. I take a hiccupping breath and pull back, rubbing my eyes. He pulls a tissue from his pocket. “Blow,” he says firmly.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking the tissue. “You’d think I’d have run out of tears by now, but apparently not.”

  Marcus stands there patiently waiting for me to pull myself together, and I recognize his quiet patience as yet another trait he shares with Griffin.

  “Camille is dead. Did you see her interview after the pretrial conference?”

  He nods silently, waiting for me to continue.

  “Tuesday morning Griffin and I flew to a remote island that his family owns in the Caribbean near Belize. When I woke up yesterday morning, he was gone. He had called his younger brother Drake to come and make sure I made it back here safely and he had arranged for a pilot to fly us back. Obviously, he had planned to leave. He left a note for me. It said he…” My voice wavers, and it takes me several attempts to suck in enough air to continue. “Beckett killed Camille, and Griffin has disappeared so it will look like he killed her. He’s not coming back.”

  “Like hell!” Marcus roars, and the tiny spark of hope deep inside me flares into a brilliant flame. Marcus will help me find Griffin. “When exactly did he leave?”

  “I don’t know. We were um…together until about two or three in the morning, and Drake said that he was gone by five.”

  Although Marcus flashes me a knowing smile, he doesn’t say anything.

  “So how do we find him?” I ask.

  “If a Navy SEAL doesn't want to be found, I guarantee you that he won't be. But I'm not going to sit back and let a man like Griffin sacrifice his life and freedom for something he didn't do. Maybe if we can prove his innocence, he’ll come back on his own.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “But Griffin will never forgive either of us if we sell out Beckett to clear his name. Somehow we have to find a way to prove that both Griffin and Beckett are innocent.”

  “What if Beckett isn't innocent?” Marcus asks gravely.

  I think of the lives Beckett will save if he and his father are allowed to freely test the guanabana seeds and bring a drug to market that can cure cancer that anyone can afford instead of a medicine whose cost is inflated by a greedy pharmaceutical company. If I've learned anything from my research on tissue rights, it’s that in the eyes of the law, the good of the whole outweighs the rights of the individual. Ethical? Who can say? But I can live with it, especially if it means getting Griffin back.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say resolutely. “Griffin trusted me to take care of his family. I'm not going to let him down.”

  Marcus nods. “Alright. Have you talked to Beckett?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

/>   “Well, when you do, tell him to get the best criminal attorney he can afford. Then pack your bags again, sweetheart. We're going to Houston. He’s not going to do this alone.”

  Three days later I'm back at Dr. Black’s French-style mansion, this time with Marcus by my side. Tomorrow we'll meet with Beckett's criminal attorney to make a plan and issue a statement. Tonight, it's just me, Marcus, Beckett, Emmaline, and Dr. Black in the comfortable sprawling living area that looks out onto the beautifully landscaped back lawn.

  “So you're sure you aren't a suspect?” I confirm with the elderly doctor. When I'd finally talked to Emma she’d told me he wasn't under investigation, but I need to hear it for myself.

  “I’m sure,” he says heavily, and I can see that the last few days have taken their toll on him. He looks ten years older, his shoulders stooped. “Based upon the forensic evidence, they believe that Camille was killed between eight and ten the evening after our court appearance. As you know, I was enjoying dinner with you and Agnes at that time.”

  I nod. Neither of us mention that Griffin had been conspicuously absent that evening, although I have already sent a request for the records showing who had signed in and out at the small airport where Griffin’s plane was the night before we left. Hopefully, Griffin’s signature will be there, proving that he couldn’t have killed Camille. Of course, unless we can clear Beckett at the same time, it won’t matter.

  I turn to Beckett. His eyes bore into me and I realize how hard this is going to be. My eyes dart to Emma. She gives me an encouraging smile. I decide to address the elephant in the room head on.

  “First of all, since both Marcus and I are your attorneys, even though it’s on the civil side of the case, anything that is said here tonight is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

  They all nod, looking at me expectantly. I take a deep breath. “I know you killed Camille,” I begin, looking at Beckett.