by Ivy Layne
I got close enough to see a flash of dark jeans. A black hoodie, a face white as a ghost. A mask. I was closing in, hand outstretched, thinking almost, almost when I was jerked off my feet, the rasp of rough fiber against my throat.
Experience and training served me well. I had my hand beneath the rope just before it drew tight, my feet leaving the ground as I was hauled up, too busy trying not to suffocate to track my assailants.
I managed to get my weapon back in its holster and my other hand beneath the rope, stretching the noose until I could breathe. Amazing what a little oxygen can do for your outlook on life. Sucking in deep breaths, I pulled at the noose, shoulders straining, body swinging wildly. I tried to ignore the bite of the noose into the back of my neck, wincing as the rough fibers dragged at my skin, scraping my chin, my nose, until my head popped free, and I was dangling six feet above the ground.
Compared to almost dying by hanging, the drop wasn't a big deal. I'd lost my earpiece. A quick look told me that I was out of range of the cameras and my target was gone. I was alone, the woods around me silent but for the chirp of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves on the night breeze. Reaching up, I rubbed the raw skin on my neck where the noose had pulled tight. My fingers came away sticky with blood.
I stood there for a second, getting my bearings, making absolutely sure I was alone. There'd been two of them. One smart enough to stay off-camera. They must have planned to use the rope to go over the wall if they couldn't get through the door. When that plan hadn't worked, they'd been prepared to kill me.
I moved back in range of the cameras, giving a wave to let Griffen know I was all right. My trip back to the house was slower than my departure. I covered the distance in silence, using the shadows of the trees to hide, searching for any sign of the intruders. Nothing.
At the door to the garage, I called Griffen. "Lost my earpiece. Meet me in the kitchen."
"What happened?" Griffen asked, tension pulling the words tight.
"There were two of them. I was almost on the one at the gate when the second one got me. Tried to string me up. By the time I got free they were gone."
All Griffen said was, "Fuck."
My thoughts exactly. Summer was in the kitchen, exactly as I'd left her except for the steaming mugs of tea on the counter. When she spotted the smear of red on my fingers she sucked in a breath.
"What happened? You're hurt! Who the hell was out there?" Her voice rose in panic. The last thing I needed was for Cynthia to find out we'd had an intruder. I wanted to keep the client calm, not scare the hell out of her.
In a low voice, I said, "I'm fine. Don't wake Cynthia. She sees this, she'll panic."
"Did Clint hit you?"
Griffen pushed open the swinging door, took one look at me and said to Summer, "Would you get a wet towel?" To me, he said, "The back of your neck is a mess. Lean over so I can take a look."
I did, bracing my elbows on the kitchen island, dropping my head so Griffen could assess the damage. His fingers probing the raw, torn skin weren't gentle. I swore under my breath.
"It's a nasty scrape. Bloody, but you'll survive." I started to stand, and he said, "Stay there. I'll be right back with the first-aid kit."
"I don't need first aid," I grumbled.
I'd dump my head under some water to clean up the mess and I'd be fine. Summer wet a handful of paper towels in the sink and approached.
"Shut up and lean your head down so I can see."
I didn't know if I should be happy or terrified. Summer was going to put her hands on me. That put a checkmark in the happy column. On the other hand, I was bleeding, and she probably wanted revenge. I'd take whatever she dished out.
"Lean down more," she ordered, "you're too tall."
I did, and she dabbed at the raw skin on the back of my neck, cleaning away the sticky blood that had already started drying in my hair. Griffen came back and rummaged through the first-aid kit.
He handed a bottle to Summer. "Here, pour some of this on it."
Summer uncapped the brown plastic bottle and poured what I soon learned was peroxide over the back of my neck. Leaning over, her full breasts pressing against my arm, she blew gently on the torn skin. I'd get strung up on a tree limb any day for this kind of treatment.
"I don't understand why Clint would hit Evers," she said. "He hasn't been himself lately, but he's never hurt anyone. I know he plays a tough guy in the movies, but before he started drinking so much, he was a really sweet guy."
Before I could think better of it I said, "It wasn't Clint Perry."
Summer pulled back. At the loss of her heat, I almost let out a moan.
"I don't understand. If it wasn't Clint, then who was it?"
Griffen cleared his throat. Summer didn't take long to catch on. "You think this is about my dad. Or your dad."
"It's one explanation," I said, starting to stand.
She shot out a hand and pushed me back down. "Let me put some antibiotic on that."
If Summer was going to touch me again, I wouldn't argue. I stayed where I was as she smoothed antibiotic goop across the back of my neck with gentle fingers.
"It's not bleeding anymore." She unwrapped an oversize bandage from the first aid kit and pressed it over the worst of the scrape, asking, almost idly, "What did this?"
"Rope," I answered shortly.
Her hands fell away. "Rope? What do you mean? How could a rope have done this?"
"It was a noose," I clarified. I didn't want to tell her, didn't want to see horror spread across her face. "I'm fine."
"But you—" Her eyes fixed on my neck, her face pale. "They could have—"
"I'm fine," I said again. I wanted to wrap her in my arms, to show her how fine I was. Not the time. I settled for taking her hand and giving it a strong squeeze. "It takes a lot more than two guys and a rope to take me out."
"Not if they get lucky," she muttered darkly.
"They didn't."
Summer's eyes, heavy with concern, studied my face before she looked to Griffen then back at me. "You really think this has something to do with whatever our fathers are involved in, don't you?"
"We're still untangling the mess," I said. "We don't have the full picture yet, but what we do know…" I shook my head, thinking of the swamp of shit we'd uncovered. "We don't know who they were working with yet. I'm not sure I'm ready to find out."
Summer let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion.
"My dad, he's just not that kind of guy, you know? He's unreliable and lazy. I can't see him being competent enough to get involved with anyone who's actually dangerous."
"I know," I said. "I know that's what you think. But the people we think our parents are? That's an illusion. It's what they want to show us. What we want to see. Sometimes there's a lot more beneath the surface. And sometimes it's all bad."
Chapter Eleven
Summer
It may sound weird, but my office is one of my favorite things about Rycroft Castle. Weird because in all of the over the top glamour of Rycroft, my office was fairly spartan.
Tucked behind the kitchen and laundry room, it was barely bigger than one of the generous walk-in closets upstairs, but it was bright, cheerful, and all mine.
I suppose it had been designed as the housekeeper's office. Much like the rest of Rycroft, the owner had spared no expense outfitting it. White beadboard stretched floor-to-ceiling framing a built-in desk, bookshelves, and drawers. An enormous bulletin board, also painted white, covered most of the wall behind the desk.
At the far end was a narrow window that looked out into the gardens behind Rycroft Castle. I'd only been at Rycroft a few days, but already the office felt like home. Probably because I'd spent hours there the night before writing up invitation after invitation. I can't describe my sense of relief at seeing the courier depart with his box of crisp white envelopes to deliver. One great big item checked off my to-do list.
I'd spent an hour with May going over the menu
for the party. It wasn’t hard to transform the sit-down dinner May had originally planned into a light buffet and heavy appetizers. The waiters hired to handle the wedding were more than happy to take over our job as was the equipment rental company.
I scanned my list, ticking off items, deciding what I would deal with later and came to a halt at one I'd been avoiding.
—Call Mom
I love my mom. She's amazing. Fantastic. When I grow up, I want to be just like her. Minus the protests and arrest record. I'm not chaining myself to any redwoods.
She's strong. Self-assured. As far as I can see, the only mistake she ever made was sticking with my dad as long as she did, but no one's perfect. Normally, I'd love to grab the phone and spend a half an hour catching up.
The problem is, Paisley Winters knows me inside and out. She can read me like a book, one she'd written herself. It was eerie.
I'd long ago given up trying to pull anything over on her. On top of that, I’m a terrible liar. Not that I had anything to lie about, exactly. This job had me turned upside down and inside out.
Being in the same house as Evers was wearing on my nerves, even if the house was the size of a castle. My mom would hear it in my voice. I didn't want to talk about Evers. There wasn't anything to say. We had a thing that wasn't a thing, and I'd ended it. Simple. Almost nothing.
That nothing was a raw wound. Every time I saw him it opened a little more. I tried not to think of the night before. His hands working the stiffness from my fingers. His lips on mine.
I've missed you so much
He was playing me again. Why?
I couldn't think about it. Evers was one more problem than I had time for.
I stared at my phone. Mom always said do the hardest job first. Then it's over with, and everything else is downhill. It was good advice. Advice I tried to follow, usually. With a sigh, I unlocked the screen and hit her contact in my speed dial.
"Baby, I was wondering when you were going to call. How's the new job? How's Cynthia? I can't believe you're staying in a castle. You have to send me pictures," my mom said in a rush of enthusiastic affection.
Just the sound of her voice soothed. She was a fountain of energy, always excited, always full throttle. An endless source of love. My heart squeezed. For just a second, I wished desperately that she were here.
Taking a breath, I tried to force my mind into a happy place, to block out all my uncertainty, all my nerves, so she wouldn't hear them in my voice.
"Mom, you know I can't send you pictures. But Cynthia is great, and Rycroft is unbelievable. You should see the downstairs. It's an actual Roman spa, all white stone with a big blue pool and a mural of the night sky on the ceiling. It's crazy. There are five kitchens."
"Five kitchens? What does anyone need with five kitchens? Who wants to cook that much?"
"Mom, if you live in a castle I'm pretty sure you don't do your own cooking."
"Good point," she said with a giggle. "But it's good?"
"Other than Cynthia deciding at the last minute to throw a party for seventy-five next week, everything's great," I lied.
My mom let out a gasp. She knew just enough about my job to understand the insanity of a last-minute party for seventy-five.
"You're kidding. Is she nuts? What are you going to do? I don't suppose Cynthia Stevens wants a backyard barbecue."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. The thought of Cynthia at a barbecue just didn't gel. "No, no. She invited the most upper of the upper crust of Atlanta. I don't think they do barbecues. I got lucky, and a wedding canceled for the day after Cynthia's party, so I was able to scoop up the caterer and some of the vendors. Stayed up half the night addressing invitations, but the worst of it’s over now."
"Is that why you sound so tired?" she asked, shrewdly.
"Probably," I said, hoping she would buy that explanation.
"How's your dad?"
"Dad?" My parents had divorced amicably, my father too relaxed—meaning perpetually stoned—to get too excited about anything. My mother wasn't angry with him, just fed up. They'd been friendly in the years since the split, but I couldn't remember the last time my mom had asked after him.
"When I talked to him he said he was headed to see you."
A chill crept over my skin. I hadn't seen my father in months. "When was that, Mom?"
"Oh, I'm not sure. A month ago? Maybe a little more? He called to—" she cut off, but she didn't have to. I knew what she was going to say. I had to give my mom credit. She had plenty to complain about with my dad, but she always tried to show me his best side.
"He called to borrow money," I finished for her.
"No, that was the weird part. He didn't ask for money, just wanted to know how I was doing, how you were doing, and said he was going to head your way and spend some time with you. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure he'd follow through, and I didn't want to get your hopes up."
"I haven't seen him, Mom. We talked a few weeks ago, but he didn't say anything about coming to see me."
"Well, you know your father," my mom sighed. A familiar sound when she was discussing her ex-husband. "That's partly why I didn't tell you. It seemed a little unlikely he was headed your way, considering he was all the way up in Maine."
"Maine? What was Dad doing in Maine?"
"I don't know, he didn't tell me. I wouldn't have known he was there, but I recognized the area code when he called. Bobbi Jenkins, you know my friend in the Audubon Society? She lives in Bangor. Same area code, so I saw the 207 on the call and thought it was her."
"Well, he's probably off on some adventure somewhere. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually," I said.
I wasn't going to tell my mom what Evers claimed was going on with my dad. For one, I wasn't sure I believed him. Not that I thought Evers was lying, exactly. It just seemed so unlikely.
He didn't know my dad. I did. Smokey had barely stirred himself enough to come to my college graduation. The thought of him being neck deep in some complex criminal enterprise? No. No way. I didn't want to worry my mom, but I did want her to be careful. At least until we knew what was going on.
"Mom, if you hear from him, if he shows up, would you let me know? I need to talk to him about something. It's no big deal, but he's not answering his phone so—"
"Of course, sweetheart. I doubt he'll call. I don't hear from him that often. But if he gets in touch, I'll tell him you're looking for him."
"No. No, don't tell him I'm looking for him. He'll think I'm going to lecture or something. See if you can find out where he is and what he's up to, then let me know."
"Gotcha," Mom said. I knew I could trust her to do exactly as I asked. Mom was dependable. Always. I kept her on the phone a few more minutes, soaking in the sound of her voice.
When she was done telling me about her latest trip somewhere out west to protest something to do with national monuments, I realized how long we'd been on the phone.
A wave of homesickness swamped me as I ended the call. I wanted my mom. I wanted her chewy quinoa cookies that tasted like dirt and her patchouli incense. Funny the things you miss after you leave home.
All the stuff that drove me nuts when I was a teenager took on a nostalgic cast. I would have eaten a plate of those cookies just to spend the day with my mom. Maybe, when this job was over, I could carve out a week and go visit her.
Pushing my seat back, I prepared to hunt down Evers and pass on the info that Smokey had been in Maine about a month ago. I'd been avoiding him all day. I should at least have asked him how he was.
I couldn't forget the jolt of fear when I'd seen the blood on his fingers and realized he was hurt. The twist in my stomach at the bruises on his neck, the skin torn from the noose. Someone had tried to kill him. If they'd been lucky, they might have succeeded.
Maybe I should have let him explain yesterday in the wine room. Maybe I shouldn't have cut him off and walked away. But why? What would be the point? Every time I thought of the night I'd thrown him
out, anger filled my heart, bitter and hot.
The anger was a smokescreen, and I knew it.
He'd lied. That wasn't okay. But he'd never made me any promises. He never said I was his girlfriend. Never said he cared about me. Never said that what we had was more than convenient, casual sex.
I was the one who read more into it. I was the one who made it complicated. As much as I wanted to blame Evers for my heartbreak, I was responsible.
I was angry at him, but more than that, I was furious with myself. I knew he was out of my league the first time he called me Winters with that irresistibly sexy smirk.
A man like Evers would never fall for a girl like me. He was wealthy. Gorgeous. He'd grown up in high society and had a job like an action hero. I'm a normal suburban girl who's just pretty enough, just smart enough, to get by. I like my job and I make good money, but when you get down to it, I'm a glorified assistant.
Not a good match for James Bond. I knew the clock was ticking the whole time we were together. Eventually, he'd get bored and wander away. Finding out that he stuck around to keep an eye on me for his friends was too humiliating to bear.
He'd been a jerk, and I'd wanted more than I could have. Simple as that. I needed to get over it.
I finally tracked him down by the pool. If we were over, if he didn't matter, then why did the sight of Cynthia in his arms make me want to vomit?
They didn't hear me when I came in. One of the doors was already open, and whatever they were talking about, they were engrossed in each other. Cynthia must have been swimming because her tanned skin gleamed, rivulets of water still streaming down her legs, in between her breasts, across her flat stomach.
I knew how hard she worked for that body and didn't want to do any of it myself, but I couldn't help my envy. Cynthia was older than me, even a few years older than Evers, but it didn't show. Every inch of her was sleek and toned except for the full breasts straining the minuscule fabric of her white bikini.
Only a woman with a spectacular body could pull off a bathing suit like that. Cynthia didn't just pull it off. Through the envy in my heart, I had to admit she looked spectacular. Her platinum hair was piled on top of her head to keep it out of the water, and her makeup was perfect.