by Ava Claire
Tears stabbed my eyes and I revolted against my internal call to suck it up. To hold them tight and force them away. I let them fall. I let them drown my words in my angst. Paint it bright and powerful enough that he could see my side. “I said ‘Wait’ because I am tired of pushing everything to the back burner and doing what we do best.”
I rushed my fingers through my bangs, holding them back as I looked at my reflection in the glass. The wild hair that I used to lament but was now my signature. Me. The tear-filled brown eyes that I used to turn to stone so everyone knew I was a force to be reckoned with. The swollen curve of my belly that reminded me that it wasn’t just about me, or Jacob. My actions, his actions, our choices truly mattered now.
I must have been so engrossed in my thoughts and worries that I didn’t realize he’d split the distance between us. He wasn’t behind me. Jacob stood tall beside me, staring out at the cityscape. Gazing into himself.
He didn’t say a word, but I felt him reaching out to me. It pulled me in, glowing in the dark. Lighting up the room, lighting up my heart, like the twinkling stars and neon signs in the city. Without declarations and platitudes, without uttering a sound, he stepped up to the plate. He showed me, just by putting down his metaphorical arms and approaching the danger zone, that he was here.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Fresh tears sprinted to my eyes because it dashed through the quiet, unspoken fear that he’d always keep me at a measured distance. Not because he didn’t trust me; because he was worried that I couldn’t handle it. That I didn’t need to handle it. Because of the baby.
Because of the kidnapping.
I didn’t swallow my tears, bite my tongue, or do the Leila version of the Whitmore Stony Silence™. I gave him my heart, bloody and pulsing, right there on my sleeve. “Baby, I know you love me.” I stroked my belly. “I know you love us. And...I know you’re terrified.”
I let that word, that truth sink in for a moment. The word was like blood red paint had been scrawled on the window in front of us. Impossible to wash away, or run from.
I swallowed my pride, my silly worry that I was somehow pushing him even further away when I knew he was just trying to protect me. But that was just the thing—secrets and half truths didn’t protect me, or him. It divided us, forcing me to pretend that I was okay with the scraps of information he was giving me. It ensured that he had to carry the weight of protecting our family on his shoulders, all alone.
“All that you’ve done for me, for our family...I don’t even know how to begin to describe just how much you mean to me. I am so grateful for you, Jacob.” I spun to him, finding his hand in the dark. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to my touch and when he interlaced his fingers with mine, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. I had thoroughly pointed out his sins and missteps and I had to own up to mine too. “I’m not okay. I’m worried about everything. From Eichmann to whether the cab driver will get me and our baby from Point A to Point B safely.” I pulled my hand from his, gripping my tummy as a fresh stream of tears streaked down my cheeks.
“Come sit down.”
It wasn’t an order from a Dom to his sub, but a man to his woman. Gentle, yet firm. Tender, yet undebatable as he guided me back to the bed.
Once I was snuggled on the edge, he joined me, his strong and sure hand drifting to my knee. “Tell me what you need, Lay.” He stroked my knee with his thumb, a smile fluttering over his lips. “I know you well enough to know this last bit isn’t necessary, but just in case: don’t go easy on me.”
I stuck out my tongue defiantly, warmth seizing my cheeks. “Very funny.” I followed it up with some tenderness of my own, tracing his knuckles. My fingers lingered on his wedding band. “I’m crazy about you. Absolutely crazy.”
“Right back at ya,” he said softly, leaning in close and pressing his lips against my cheek. He breathed me in and the blush only deepened. It was a primal inhale, filled with longing. It was like Eau de Leila was his favorite scent, even at 3AM, drenched in sweat, puffy eyes, lopsided bun and all.
It would have been easy to leave it all where it was at. Fall back into the covers and pretend like a tiny spat just required a mini pep talk, a kiss, and a joke...and now we could move forward.
That would be too easy. Unfair to all the work we’d accomplished.
All I needed was my man beside me, ready to support me however I needed.
Invested.
Present.
Looking into his eyes, seeing the fear flash in them and not being snuffed out as usual, I wondered if I really wanted to know it all. If helping carry that stress and burden would truly make me feel any safer or united. Maybe it was just me grasping for some semblance of control.
Now’s not the time to chicken out. You know what you need.
I lifted my chin and looked him dead on. “I need you to tell me what’s going on with Eichmann. All of it. No secrets, no watered down truths, no highlight reel after the fact.” I felt my chin tremble and I let it flutter, focusing on the fact that this was my moment. Our moment. A chance to build a united front. There was strength in numbers, right? “I don’t just want to be in the loop. Left at home to worry and let you carry all this alone. I want to have your back. I want you to let me have your back.”
If this was a movie, my declaration would have been accompanied by the orchestra’s hum swelling dramatically, leading to my husband laying out a plan of attack that would stir us both to action...then spill into something erotic and delicious happening between the tangled sheets.
There was only the return of the dread. It suffocated the silence.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and his gaze darkened to match the midnight sky. It was an unsettling reminder to be careful what I wished for.
“Eichmann ins’t just in the States, Leila. He’s in the city. The son of a bitch is staying on the same block as Whitmore and Creighton.”
Chapter Fourteen
"If you think I'm going to let you feel me up, you are in for a rude awakening."
I moved at lightning speed across my office, or as close as I could manage, all things considered.
The last time Angelique had popped over to my office unannounced, I'd been ready to call security. Now that Jacob had hired a bodyguard to trail me whenever I left the house, only allowing a small number of people access (and requiring everyone to be checked for weapons before they could even breathe the same air as me), I knew it was up to me to intervene if I didn't want my client zip tied and carried out over his burly shoulder.
I paused just outside the doorway, surprising myself when I felt the sides of my mouth tug upward. It had been forty-eight hours since Jacob granted my wish, telling me everything he knew about Eichmann. I knew that he'd rented the entire top floor of one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in town, that just so happened to be a leisurely stroll away from Whitmore and Creighton. Jacob had him under 24 hour surveillance. The snapshots he shared were of the man doing things that were so touristy, so mundane that it was even more terrifying than if he’d been secreting people away to God knows where.
I hadn't smiled since Jacob introduced me to my new shadow, Pascal Kemler. He’d been hired after I insisted that I had no intention of hiding in my own home, or being attached to Jacob at the waist. At 6'4 and two hundred and fifty pounds of bulging muscles, he wasn't much of a smiler either.
And Angelique wasn't even batting an eye.
She didn't shrink away like Natasha had, like everyone at Whitmore and Creighton had when I entered a room with Pascal smoldering behind me. Angelique’s onyx top knot was as fierce as her charcoal eyeliner and the crimson scowl on her face.
She and Pascal looked like quite the pair. They were both covered in black; Pascal in a black t-shirt and matching slacks that broadcasted every bone crushing muscle, Angelique in a sleek, midnight colored blazer. From her gravity defying cleavage, there was nothing beneath the blazer. Her tuxedo pants were capped off by stiletto heels that matched he
r lips.
They sized each other up silently and it was clear they were agreed on one thing: they could take the other out, no problem.
I erased my smile when Angelique let out a flurry of angry French, poking his chest with her finger. "Ang, he's just doing his job."
She tore her eyes from their intense glaring contest and zeroed in on me. Her blue eyes were tinged with annoyance. "And what job is that? Taking up space? Molestation?"
"Protecting me."
My gut twisted at my revelation. No one else had asked that question, because everyone knew he was a bodyguard. We worked in the celebrity business, where men and women like Pascal were the norm. Physical barriers against any pranksters, paparazzi or other unwanted attention.
After updating me on the Eichmann threat, Jacob gave me three options, to work from home until Lars left the city, under his watchful eye, to not leave Jacob's side when I left home, or to hire a bodyguard. I chose the latter. Jacob's watchful eye would just drive us both crazy, and I'd rather his attention be focused on Eichmann, not on tracking my every movement. We both had busy schedules, so not leaving his side was impractical. The bodyguard made the most sense, because it meant I could live my life as close to normal as possible, minus the domineering man that followed me at a respectable distance, ready to take anyone out...Angelique included.
Saying he was there to protect me was admitting that there was something I needed protection from. It breathed life into the fear that I was grappling with.
Angelique's eyes rounded. "Protection?" She stepped to the right, and Pascal followed suit. She sighed and dodged to the left, and he was on her trail, not budging.
"Move out of my way, monstre, or I'll fling you out of my way by your blond ponytail."
My smile was back, and this time, it wasn't an uneasy one. The blond man-bun at the back of Pascal's head had made me chuckle a bit, especially when Jacob had joked under his breath that all the crew cut bodyguards were taken.
Pascal was not amused. "No one is allowed within five feet of Mrs. Whitmore without being frisked for weapons," he boomed. "No frisk, no access."
From the look in Angelique's eye, I had a feeling she wished she had a weapon. And if she did, she wouldn't be using it on me.
"Pascal, she's okay," I assured him. "Let her pass."
He craned his neck in my direction, his strong brow furrowing in confusion. "Mr. Whitmore said...Hey!”
Angelique used the moment of distraction to dart around the man, tossing a sly grin his way before she hustled past me into my office because Pascal looked ready to explode.
"Mrs. Whitmore," he huffed, furious about the breach, "I do not advise that you make a habit of not following protocol. How can I ensure your safety-"
"She's just a client," I interrupted gently with a shrug. "The only weapon she has is her biting wit. And maybe those heels."
Pascal snapped his mouth shut, his lips slicing into a line of clear disapproval. "Yes ma'am." He said no more, pivoting back to the front. Feet shoulder width apart, shoulders flexing as he reclaimed his post.
I had a feeling Jacob would be hearing about this incident and I would get a terse reminder that Pascal was there to protect me and that if I defied him, he couldn't do his job.
I directed an apology at the tense lines of Pascal's shoulders and stepped back into my office, pulling the door nearly closed. Angelique had made herself at home on the couch, peering at a picture of me and Jacob on the coffee table. The serene, 'awww' filled look on her face told me that I'd made the right choice in letting her pass. I had questions, things I needed answers for that centered around the last time we were together at the boutique, but when I plopped onto the couch beside her, I felt safer than I had all day. Like I could kickback and put everything else on the back burner for a little while.
Angelique perched the frame back on the table. "You two make such a lovely couple." When she leaned back, her sharp features were narrowed with concern. "Is it some psycho fan? Back when Train first hit the theaters, I almost considered moving because I started getting red roses, with no card. Every day, for weeks, at 10am."
My hand shot to my mouth, my eyes rounding in horror. It was clear the culprit had seen the movie and took their fandom into the realm of obsession. In the film, every day, at 10am, Angelique's character took the train into the city, headed to her dream job, that had become somewhat of a prison that she was dying to escape. "What did you do?"
"I stopped accepting the deliveries," she answered solemnly, picking at invisible lint on her pants. "I installed some surveillance cameras and drove myself crazier than any whacko could have. There is nothing more terrifying than looking into the shadows, expecting someone to jump out at you, and that moment never coming. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is torture."
I pulled my eyes from her, dropping my gaze to my hands. The tremble was barely detectable by the naked eye, but I felt it rocketing through me. She was right—the not knowing, waiting for the inevitable shitstorm, was far worse.
Except, in your case, this isn't just a rabid fan that's taken a disturbing interest and will likely find something new to fixate on. Eichmann's eye is zeroed in on The Whitmore's, and he won't be sending roses.
I dusted my hands on the front of my skirt, pretending I didn't feel Angelique's inquisitive gaze. I didn't want to talk about Eichmann, or Pascal, or danger. It was hard to believe that I'd been dreading the conversation about the boutique and fishing out her motives. Now, I was down to talk about just anything except the mammoth in the room.
"I'm sorry again for dashing out of the boutique on Saturday." I cringed on the inside, realizing I'd essentially cycled us back around to Eichmann. "I was actually planning on reaching out to you today to ask you some questions and hear your thoughts about some things."
She crossed her legs and tilted her head slightly. "Some questions? What about?"
I arched an eyebrow, but quickly caught myself. She had to know what I was talking about. The boutique...why did she show up when she did? Why did she seem to giddily argue and provoke Megan?
Had she always been so squirrelly, so evasive, and I just didn't notice because I was too busy fangirling?
I rose to my feet, realizing that I needed to make some distinctions really clear before we moved forward. We weren't two girlfriends gossiping about the men we loved and the things that drove us crazy. As moving as her story about her fan encounter was, reaching me on a level that I couldn't share with her without blurring some important lines and possibly putting her in danger, I needed to put some physical and professional distance between us. She had this habit of just popping up, guiding the parameters of this relationship. I needed to make it clear that I was her publicist, and she was my client. Period.
I strode to my desk and eased into the chair, swiveling to my computer. I pulled up Angelique's file. "I wanted to touch base and get some more information on Saturday." I poised my fingers on the keyboard and shot my eyes to her. She was picking her nails nonchalantly. "Could you tell me what brought you to the boutique?"
Her dark brows practically kissed her devil's peak. "...shopping?"
I clenched my teeth and withdrew my hands from the keyboard. "Don't be obtuse, Angelique. I can't help you if you aren't honest with me. There's a reason you picked that boutique, at that time-"
"Are you suggesting that I was stalking you?"
That question should have been accompanied by a hefty dose of incredulity. Maybe even some indignation. I found neither. She was staring at me with genuine confusion. Like I'd just told her that 1+1=stalker.
I was put on the defensive, my cheeks reddening as I sputtered, "N-no, I just-" I flexed my toes in my flats and pressed my palms against the desk, steadying myself. "I'm just trying to get a sense of the day. As I'm sure you've seen, there's been some coverage of your run-in with my friend-"
"You mean, your friend’s run in with me?" Angelique was no longer confused. From the pink hue that was brightening her pale c
heeks, painting her neck, she was cruising towards ‘pissed off’. "I know you're under a lot of stress, but I'm not sure what I've done to warrant this attack."
"Whoa, attack?" I shook my head, struggling to right the ship before we crashed into something lethal. "I am not attacking you, Angelique. I’m merely asking you what happened on Saturday."
She didn't seem to buy it, her lips pursed defiantly. "Perhaps I made a mistake by coming here-"
"No, I'm glad that you came in-"
"I don't mean today," she spat vehemently. "I mean coming here at all. Asking you to represent me. Clearly, you have a lot on your plate. The stress is causing you to see danger and intrigue and drama where none exist."
"Ang-"
"I have nothing to hide, Mrs. Whitmore." She switched the tables, any good will, any progress that we'd been working towards, erased in two words. I was no longer Leila. I was ‘Mrs. Whitmore’. And I was pretty sure I was fired.
In case there was any doubt that she was ending this meeting, a meeting she'd essentially called to order by inviting herself to my office, she snatched up her clutch and marched to the door.
She paused, casting disdain over her shoulder. "I'll have my people call you if your services are required going forward."
She left without all the fanfare she'd brought with her, clicking my door shut behind her.
My cheeks were hot, my hackles raised, and it hit me that she had answered my questions, if indirectly.
Angelique was hiding something.
~
“If you were looking for tall, blond, and ferocious, I could have lent you Cade.” Megan peered over her XXL sunnies at Pascal, who stood out like a sore thumb.
His massive frame was stuffed into a cafe chair, hunched over the table sitting a hop, skip, and a jump away from us. We weren’t in some carnival-themed coffeeshop, filled with miniature sized furnishings, but he kind of looked like he was waiting for his daughter to pop up with cookies, stuffed animals, and pretend saucers for her VIP tea party.