“I do,” she replied, her smile growing.
“You can start immediately or if that won’t work, we’ll look at a calendar.”
“No, if you want me, I’ll start today.”
“Then, here we go. Here in the office, I’m Kennedy Hawkins.”
Jana nodded.
“With Mr. Sparrow, I’m Araneae McCrie.”
“I heard that name on the flight. I was a little confused but didn’t ask.” She shrugged. “I still am confused, but at least now I know both names are you.”
“Don’t worry. I’m confused too. There’s no one other than Mr. Sparrow or Patrick or Reid Murray,” I added, “who should call for me as McCrie. If anyone else does, please inform them that there’s no one here by that name.”
“Ms. Toney?”
I shook my head. “No, to Louisa and Winnie Douglas, I’m Kennedy Hawkins.”
Jana nodded as if it were common practice that the woman who was flown on Sterling Sparrow’s plane would have two completely different names.
“We have scheduled shipments of silk coming in today. They don’t go to our warehouse here. They’re shipped directly from the port to Boulder. Call Winnie at the Boulder office and get the manifests. Next contact the port. I want the order confirmed upon its arrival and the shipment confirmed that’s headed to Boulder.”
Her eyes widened. “I’ll call her.”
“She’ll help you. She’s going to be here next week. I would like her to know you’re willing to jump in and be a part of our team.”
Jana’s smile widened. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”
“Patrick, let’s make our unexpected visit.”
He looked to Jana. “If we’re not back by lunch, there are sandwich shops and cafes on the first floor. Remember to lock the office if you step out.”
She was almost giddy with enthusiasm. “I won’t let you down.”
“Ms. Hawkins.” He gestured toward the door.
On our way to the warehouse, I recalled the first time I saw Sterling. “Why was he at my warehouse the first time you brought me here?” I asked.
“He?”
“Don’t do that. The omnipotent he.”
Patrick’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “All of the Sinful Threads properties in the greater Chicago area, your warehouse and your distribution center, are leased through Sparrow Enterprises.”
My gut twisted. “No. I would have known that, recognized the name.”
“Ma’am, Ms. Toney made the deals.”
“Why? Does she know...” I didn’t even know for sure what to ask if she knew.
“No one knows.”
“Then why? It doesn’t make sense.”
“She never met with Sparrow,” Patrick said. “He has contractors and agents. Dealing directly with small customers is not where his time is best utilized. Sparrow Enterprises made Ms. Toney the best deal.”
Small customers.
To Sterling, Sinful Threads was small.
Why did that hurt?
My scrabbled mind did math. “That was years ago, over four years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh my God. How far back did this all go?
“Not only in Chicago,” Patrick said, as he continued steering the car toward the warehouse district. “I’m telling you this so you won’t freak out when you start digging, which I’m sure you will.”
Too late.
“What do you mean?”
“Most of your properties were bought or contracted through Sparrow Enterprises. It’s based in Chicago but deals with real estate worldwide.”
“I negotiated many of those deals myself. I don’t recall the name Sparrow.”
“The deals you negotiated were with subsidiaries of Sparrow. He wasn’t ready to take a chance on your making connections.”
“How the hell would I?” My tone revealed that exasperation was getting the better of me. “And why did he do that?”
“Sinful Threads is important to you.”
I shook the ominous feeling away before my mind could explode with the revelations. Sterling had been watching me for years. In a way, he’d told me that. It just seemed more real hearing it from Patrick.
Like before, the wheels bounced as Patrick entered the parking lot of Sinful Threads warehouse. This time, there was no SUV with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, incredibly handsome, and very annoying man. The thought made me smile in a way it shouldn’t.
After stopping the car, Patrick opened my door.
“Since you had my phone, I’m going to assume you know about the blip on the security footage.”
Patrick nodded. “Reid’s been working on things. Your man Jason is too. I don’t think he realizes that he’s being led by Reid.”
“Why can’t we just tell him?”
“Because Sparrow—”
I lifted my hand. “My company.”
“Reid is Sparrow’s. How will you explain it?”
My head shook. I couldn’t even explain it to myself. “Never mind. Let’s see what we find in here.”
Patrick followed me as he had the first time I was here.
Twenty-five minutes later we were on our way out. Even though it was painfully clear to me that Patrick knew everything that was happening with Sinful Threads, I appreciated that while I was in the warehouse and talking to employees, he took a step back and simply watched. This was my show.
Now that we were out, I was curious about his observation.
Once we were both in the car, I asked, “What’s your gut telling you?”
“First, Francesca better learn to keep his observations of your appearance to himself or Sparrow may...”
“May what?” I asked, wanting the end of his sentence.
“The man’s a pig.”
I scoffed. “Well, that goes without saying. Louisa hired him. She’s always liked him. I think he was one of her first big hires for someone outside of Boulder. Maybe that’s the problem. She likes him, and when you like someone, you don’t notice their faults. I’d only met him a few times in Boulder and was never impressed. Now he gives me the creeps. He was the one to bring up the discrepancy to Louisa, but with me he acts like it’s nothing—a technical malfunction.”
“If you approve, Reid could do some more digging.”
“You’re asking me?”
Patrick’s sunglass-covered eyes moved upward. His grin reflected in the rearview mirror. “It’s your company, Ms. Hawkins.”
My cheeks rose. “You could teach your boss a thing or two about diplomacy.”
Patrick didn’t respond.
Picking up lunch, we made our way back to the office. Jana was busy looking between two screens when we entered.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m good. Winnie said she’ll transfer calls to me tomorrow. Today she wanted me to concentrate on some of the things she sent.”
I nodded, setting the bag of food on her desk. “We didn’t know for sure what you ate. We have salads, soup, and wraps.”
“I eat anything,” Jana said with a grin. “I was too nervous to eat this morning. Thank you for the food. I’m now famished.”
“I’ll take it to the conference room,” Patrick volunteered.
As we sat, I looked around the conference table. The artwork on the wall was standard office fare. The room didn’t have a window, but as we ate and chatted about the things Winnie sent, I realized that this entire situation may work. Maybe I was ready to branch out with Sinful Threads.
By dividing and conquering we would grow.
Our Sinful Threads dresses were already a hit. The production team in Boulder was looking to hire a second shift to keep up with orders. Louisa and I discussed if it were better to keep production limited. The more merchandise available, the less demand. If we restricted the number of each style we could raise the price and keep the merchandise in demand.
I hadn’t yet mentioned my idea of Sinful Threads bedding to Louisa, but it was on my list to d
iscuss. Perhaps instead of increasing production on one item, we should continue to increase the number of items.
By five-thirty in the evening I was joyfully exhausted. “Jana, it’s time to call it a day.”
With her continual smile she nodded, turning off her computer.
“How did you like it?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you how much it means to me to stay in Chicago and be able to go home to my family every night.”
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Sparrow your misgivings?”
Her head shook back and forth. “I couldn’t. He’s done so much for me.”
“What did he do?”
As if cued by a stagehand, Patrick entered the office. He’d spent a good part of his day in the conference room with his laptop. He may be babysitting me, but I was certain he wasn’t missing a beat when it came to Sparrow’s business.
“More than I could ever say,” Jana answered as she reached for her purse.
In the car on the way home—it was odd to think of Sterling’s apartment that way, but I did—I asked Patrick about Jana’s answer to my question. “I’m sure you heard our conversation. What did Sterling do for Jana?”
“No more than he’s done for others.”
“She made it sound like it was more.”
Patrick shrugged. “More to one person is nothing to another. Quantity is subjective.”
“No, quantity is measured in numbers. Numbers aren’t subjective.”
“Ma’am, I agree to disagree.”
“Then explain,” I said.
“If you were walking on the sidewalk and you saw a twenty-dollar bill, would you bend down and pick it up?”
I thought about it. “Yes.”
“What if it were in a sewer drain?”
I didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Why?”
“Twenty dollars isn’t enough for me to reach into a sewer drain. I’m not sure about Chicago, but in New York, I’d probably find a rat.”
“When I was a kid, I would have climbed down in that drain for one dollar. The numbers twenty and one aren’t subjective. What’s subjective is what those numbers represent to each person. A dollar would have meant a bag of chips and maybe a coke. I would have had dinner.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Patrick said. “A twenty could have fed me for days. It may not seem like much to one person, but to another it could be life changing.”
I leaned my head against the seat and watched the buildings pass by as Patrick navigated the traffic. “You’re right.”
Patrick didn’t answer, but in my mind, I heard Sterling’s voice telling me that he usually was.
Before too long, we turned into the parking tunnel, disappearing behind a metal door. When Patrick finally parked, I again took in all of the cars, wondering if Sterling was home. I didn’t know who had been with him today or where he’d gone.
“Is Sterling home?” I asked as Patrick opened my door.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Araneae,” I corrected. We were done for the day at Sinful Threads.
“He is,” Patrick said as he placed his palm on the sensor near the elevator.
It seemed like going up to the 96th floor would take longer, but it didn’t. As the elevator came to a stop on what the control panel said was P, Patrick held the doors open.
“Good night, Araneae. I’ll be in the kitchen in the morning.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“No, I believe Sparrow is waiting for you.”
That news shouldn’t make me smile or my stomach do flip-flops as I stepped out of the elevator, but it did. “Good night, Patrick.”
Upon the marble floor was a trail of red rose petals.
Who knew Sterling Sparrow could be romantic?
Step by step, I followed. They didn’t lead me upstairs; instead they took me past the stairway into the kitchen. Still carrying my satchel and purse, I stopped at the entrance. The room before me was colored in a golden glow, illuminated by the evening sun. A wonderful aroma filled the space, yet food was out of sight.
Leaning against the breakfast bar with his arms crossed over his broad chest was the man who stole my breath and made my heart beat faster. As if choreographed by a photographer, the evening sun added to his wickedly handsome features. Sterling Sparrow could be a model in a magazine.
The suit he wore to Michigan Avenue was gone, replaced by the low-riding jeans and the gray t-shirt I preferred. Scanning down his long legs, I saw his feet were bare, reminding me of last night, yet as I scanned upward, his dark hair was dry and wavy. As our eyes met, his grin did things to me I couldn’t describe.
“Good evening, sunshine.”
The deep tenor added to the twisting of my insides.
“Good evening,” I replied warily as my lip momentarily went beneath my upper teeth. “What’s this about?”
He stepped forward, his large hands coming to my waist as he pulled me closer. “This is what it’s like to have someone to come home to.”
My cheeks rose.
“This,” he went on, “is the beginning of my attempt to rectify what didn’t happen last night.”
“What you didn’t allow to happen,” I corrected.
“Will you give me another chance?”
My smile bloomed wider as I lowered the satchel and my purse to the floor. “You’re getting better with the requests.”
He shrugged. “I’m trying.”
He could be trying, but I definitely favored this kind of trying.
Sterling’s finger traced from my ear down my neck as I leaned my head, granting him access. Slowly, his touch moved lower, teasing the edge of my scooped neckline. Each inch burnt a trail, setting my skin ablaze and hardening my nipples.
“Second chance or dinner?” he asked. “Lorna left us something in the oven that smells delicious.”
I lifted my arms up and around Sterling’s neck. “Dinner can wait.”
Sterling
As I awakened Sunday morning in a cold sweat, I was hit with the realization that today was the one-week anniversary of the incident in the club. Staring up at the ceiling, the memory burned within me, bubbling like a poisonous concoction in my gut.
I rarely knew fear. That night I did—an overwhelming fright of losing the woman who was now asleep beside me. That dread festered and then combined with a savage need for retaliation. Together they became a dangerous combination.
Lying next to Araneae, I had no regret for feeding the retaliatory hunger. I’d do it again.
The newscasters on the local news programs called the double homicide gang-related, another tragic statistic hidden in the shadows. The easy excuse helped fuel the perception of safety. Stay in the right places, avoid the wrong ones—the illusion was enhanced.
Bad things happened, just not in my world. It was the lie that kept Chicago alive.
No one wanted to believe that a man wearing designer suits and thousand-dollar shoes, one who walked in and out of downtown offices, employed thousands of people, and made billions of dollars could murder in cold blood. It was easier to blame it on nameless people lurking in the dark.
A man who walked in the light of day surely couldn’t take the life of two twenty-something-year-olds with his bare hands after orchestrating horrifying torture—no that was unspeakable.
In reality, I could consider myself a savior. By the time McBride and his slut of a girlfriend breathed their last, they were begging for the agony to end. I did them a favor by granting them their final wish.
Blaming crime on those who hadn’t committed it wasn’t new.
Just as I’d told Araneae, the average citizen believed the fairy tale that Chicago was safe. People in high-rise buildings fortifying the economy weren’t killers because that everyday person placed those people—people like me—on pedestals. The stories of organized crime were lore and folk tales of the past. This was a new day.
That had all passed away with Al Capone.
They didn’t want to know the truth, that it was alive and well and included politicians and tycoons as well as all the men getting their hands dirty on the dark web, on the street, in the gambling establishments, brothels, private clubs, and on the stock exchange.
Chicago police, politicians, and the news media helped perpetuate the illusion. It was for the greater good. The evidence of evil could be staring people in the face, yet they couldn’t comprehend what they refused to recognize. They saw what they wanted to see. Rose-colored glasses were distributed at birth, and only a few of us chose not to wear them.
By the time the lifeless, bloody bodies of McBride and his girlfriend were left on display, my statements had been made—loud and clear. All of the underworld got my message: Araneae McCrie was off-limits. No one touched her but me.
The more time I spent with her, the clearer it has become that for once in his life, my father had been right. She belonged to me.
As Araneae slept beside me, I fought the urge to touch her. Reaching out, I gently ran her blonde hair through my fingers, careful not to wake her.
In the dimness of the bedroom, I stared at my own hand. For the first time, the reality became alarmingly clear. Araneae brought out something in me that I’d never nurtured, never cared to cultivate. Tenderness and caring didn’t work in my world, now her world too.
The same hand that could caress and hold her also killed.
The darker side of me was what I never wanted her to know. I didn’t want her to understand the depths I would go to or what I was capable of doing. I wanted her to see the man she’d been with last night, the man who watched her smile. I wanted her to see a man who was devoted to her and her safety, a man who planned on keeping her and never letting her go.
I wanted her to wear the rose-colored glasses.
Twisting and untwisting the strand of her silky hair, I let it slip through my fingers. The long tresses were now sprawled over her pillow. Last night, that same soft mane had created a tunnel from her to me, blocking out the rest of the world as her fingers gripped my shoulders and she rode my cock.
While I was content to take her any way or anyplace, she shared that never before me had she been on top. Such a simple statement that filled me with pride.
Lies: Web of Sin book #2 Page 14