“Well, I didn’t do it alone. It was a tough road and I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for this amazing woman beside me.”
Katie looked up at him, a surprised look gracing her beautiful face. But she shouldn’t be. Didn’t she realize what she’d done for him?
“And who exactly is this woman? We’ve all been wondering.”
“Her name is Katrina Miller. She’s been my PT, my cheerleader, my best friend, and I hope, if she’ll have me, my wife.”
The crowd fell silent—pin-drop silent. Katie gasped and took a stunned step back, completely shocked. He was taking a huge risk proposing to her on live TV in front of millions of people. What if she said no? But, no guts no glory, right?
A couple of seconds passed and then, Payton, grinning from ear to ear, said, “Well, what do you say?” and shoved the mic in her face. She looked like a deer in the headlights, and for a moment he wondered if he should have thought this through a little more carefully, but nothing said I love you like laying your heart out there for millions of people to see it get stomped on.
They hadn’t spoken of marriage before, not that he didn’t want to marry her. God knew he wanted to spend every day of his life making this woman happy, but after everything she’d been through, he wasn’t sure if she was ready to take that step yet, or if she ever would be. She’d done a lot of healing in the last year, but it hadn’t been easy, and she still had obstacles to overcome. He had no doubt she’d get there, though. They’d get there together—hopefully—if she’d just say yes.
He was starting to get a little nervous, when a brilliant smile broke across her beautiful face. Keeping her captivating eyes locked on his, she leaned a little closer to the mic and said, “Yes. A thousand times yes, I’ll marry you, Cole.”
The crowd erupted into cheers again, louder than before. Cole hugged her tight and spun her around. Undoubtedly, this was the best night of his life. He’d reached the pinnacle of joy. Nothing could make this moment more perfect—or so he thought—until she whispered in his ear, “I’m pregnant.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank God for blessing me with the opportunity to pursue my passion. Many thanks to my wonderful editor, Hai-Yen Mura, and the amazing staff at Montlake for your dedication and commitment to Cole and Katie’s story. To my agent, Nalini Akolekar, you’ve literally made my dreams come true overnight. I can never thank my fabulous critique group enough for all your hard work. Sally, Mikayla, Linda, John, and Lyanne, you make my stories shine, and I love you dearly! Last but certainly not least, I want to thank my wonderful family for your patience and continual support, for all the times you’ve heard “In a minute” or “Just a second” and patiently waited for me, knowing it was going to be another hour. I love you with all my heart!
In Fall 2015, it’s Aiden’s turn to meet his match . . .
Ms. Andrews?”
“Yes?” Her grip tightened on the receiver at the sound of that all-too-familiar voice, dread taking up residence where her heart used to be, which was now beating wildly in her throat.
“Twenty days, Ms. Andrews.”
“I’m well aware of how much time I have left,” she snapped. “And like I said before, you’ll get your damn money.”
“All seventy-five thousand of it.”
Okay, so that could be a problem. “I, umm . . . might be a little short.”
“How short?”
“Ten thousand.”
He chuckled, that insidious rumble chilling the blood in her veins.
“You’re going to have to suck a lot of cock for ten grand, sweetheart.”
Revulsion sent a surge of bile burning up her throat. God, she hated this man—this faceless stranger who’d played a starring role in her nightmares for the past month. The day after her father died the calls had begun, and not a day had gone by since that she wasn’t reminded that time was running out.
“You’re being unreasonable. This isn’t even my debt.”
“Sins of the father, Ms. Andrews. It’s unfortunate the life insurance policy wasn’t large enough to cover what he owed.”
What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
“We’ve been more than patient with you.”
That was debatable. If by patient he meant hounding her day after day and threatening her bodily harm if she didn’t pay, then yes, he’d been patient. The line went dead and she exhaled a defeated sigh, willing her clamoring heart to calm so she could think. Ten thousand dollars . . . How in God’s name was she going to come up with that kind of cash? It might as well be a million. There was no way she could earn ten grand in two weeks—not even if she did take that prick up on his less than helpful suggestion, which she’d rather die than do.
Between her father’s life insurance, and exhausting her credit with the bank, she was still short. The only thing she had left was her father’s business, Andrews Private Investigation Services, and now even that was slipping through her fingers. The house, the business—all of it, mortgaged to support her father’s secret gambling addiction.
How had things gotten so out of control? She’d known her dad had a penchant for cards, but he’d hidden his vice well—too well. She had no idea he’d squandered it all, or that he owed Vincent Moralli seventy-five thousand dollars. Not until a man approached her at her father’s funeral last month with a pile of debt notes, all bearing her father’s undisputable signature.
She knew the hit-and-run accident that claimed her father’s life was no accident. Moralli’s enforcer all but admitted as much, but proving it was another matter entirely and the police certainly weren’t trying very hard. She’d spent the day at the precinct—again—trying to light a fire under someone’s ass and running into roadblock after roadblock.
After an exhausting eight hours of senseless paperwork and being shuffled from one detective to another, it was obvious that Moralli’s reach extended deep into the pockets of the Manhattan police department. Her suspicions were confirmed when an officer pulled her aside as she was leaving and told her, in no uncertain terms, that unless she wanted to end up like her father, to let it go.
The thought of giving up, of letting her father’s killer get away, went against every fiber of her being. But after today, it was glaringly evident that no one was going to help her. At this point she saw little alternative than to keep her mouth shut and just pay the debt. Which brought her around full circle to the blatantly obvious problem—she didn’t have enough money. What was she going to do? Desperation clawed up her throat, choking off her air as she fought to stave off the threat of tears pricking her eyes.
“Excuse me.”
She startled at the unexpected voice, letting out a surprised yelp. Her head snapped up to meet the impatient scowl of a woman standing in the doorway of her office. Before she could greet the fifty-something brunette dressed in a calf-length fur coat and black leather boots, the woman snapped, “I’m looking for Private Detective Ryan Andrews. Is he here?”
Her dangling diamond earrings weighed heavily on her lobes, stretching the skin unnaturally taut. A matching necklace, easily worth the remainder of Ryann’s debt, encased the woman’s long, slender neck, drawing her gaze to the fine lines and wrinkles apparently no amount of money could erase.
“I’m Ryann,” she replied, silently cursing her father for giving her a boy’s name. How many times did mistakes like this happen?—every damn day, it seemed. It might have been cute when she was younger, but now that she was an adult it wasn’t funny anymore. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, because the look on this woman’s face right now was pretty freaking hilarious.
“There must be some mistake.”
Disdain oozed from the woman, as potent as her heavy floral perfume.
“I assure you, ma’am, there is no mistake. I am Ryann Andrews—two n’s,” she added with mirroring crispness.
The woman’s disapproving scowl deepened, putting all that Botox to the test.
�
�What can I do for you?” Ryann asked, forcing a smile and sweetening her tone as she grappled for patience. The office had been closed for well over an hour. Since she’d lost the day getting the runaround at the police station, she’d come in after hours to work on a few cases. She must have forgotten to lock the door behind her. Her assistant usually took care of those things, but since Ryann discovered Andrews Private Investigation Services was nearly bankrupt, she’d unfortunately had no choice but to let Joyce go, and she was now running a solo operation here—and apparently not very well.
She held the woman’s bold stare as she waited for the aged diva to state her name and business. Something about her pricked Ryann’s memory, giving her the distinct feeling she should know who this woman was—or at the very least she thought Ryann should. The woman was obviously of importance, if the two Men in Black flanking her was any indication. She stepped into Ryann’s office like she owned the place, which immediately tap-danced on her last nerve, considering how close she was to losing it.
“I was told Ryan Andrews specializes in missing persons cases.”
The woman spoke her name as if she were still unwilling to accept that said “Ryan” had a vagina and was sitting across from her right now.
“Oh, Ryann does,” she replied, referring to herself in the third person. “In fact, Ryann is very good at what she does. What can I do for you, Ms. . . . ?” She waited for the woman to supply her name; in lieu of answering Ryann, she glanced back at her heavy, as if undecided whether or not to proceed. Agent J nodded his approval.
“But she’s a woman,” she hissed under her breath.
“Then perhaps she’ll have better luck than the last man you hired,” Agent J replied, a mumbled response meant only for the woman’s ears. “It’s unlikely he’ll put this one in the hospital.”
And that was definitely not for her ears. Seriously? In the hospital? Oh, hell no!
“Very well.” Exhaling an exasperated sigh, she turned back toward Ryann, opened the snap of her Louis Vuitton clutch purse and pulled out a photo. “I need you to find my son.” She set the photo on Ryann’s desk and with one perfectly manicured nail, slid the picture toward her.
She plucked up the photo and studied the glossy pic. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dressed in a dark blue suit that easily cost two grand, his tawny hair was tamed by product that would ensure every strand remained perfectly in place. His square jaw drew her eyes to the grim set of his mouth that appeared to be the masculine version of the pursed one frowning at her right now.
The man was breath-catchingly gorgeous. Even from the picture, Ryann could see he exuded discipline and rigidity. He appeared tempered and in control—except for the eyes. They didn’t fit, and damn if that wasn’t the most stunning thing about him. Dark amber with flecks of brown and gold, the closest color she could compare it to would be a tigereye stone. How utterly fitting, because the eyes staring back at her held an undercurrent of untamed wildness and caged discontent.
Gauging the man’s size compared to the park bench he stood beside, she’d put him at a few inches over six feet and just shy of two hundred pounds—not exactly the kind of missing-person case she was expecting.
“If you don’t mind me saying”—Ryann handed back the photo—“in my experience, a grown man that looks like this isn’t missing. If you don’t know where he is, it’s because he doesn’t want to be found. There’s a difference.”
“Hardly,” the woman scoffed with enough disdain to officially put her on Ryann’s bitch list.
“How long has he been missing?”
“Officially? Fourteen months. But it’s been going on long before that, disappearing for days, missing important meetings—”
“It sounds like he’s on drugs,” Ryann interjected. There, mystery solved, you can go now.
“It’s not drugs,” the woman snapped.
She seemed awfully sure of that, giving Ryann the distinct impression there was a hell of a lot more to this story than Ms. Stick-Up-Her-Ass was telling her. Considering what she’d overheard, Ryann wasn’t the first person this fierce threesome standing in front of her had hired to track that guy down, and by the sound of it, he didn’t want to be found.
“Listen, Ms.—” Again Ryann waited for the woman to supply her name.
“Madeline Kruze,” she said with all the haughtiness of a woman dressed to the nines with two body guards trailing behind her.
Shit. Now the face connected with the name. This woman was Senator Kruze’s wife. And she was every bit the hell on wheels in person she appeared to be on camera. So the senator’s son was missing, huh? Interesting . . . And she wanted to hire Ryann to find him. Well, this day just kept getting better and better.
“So do you want the case or not?”
No. She most certainly did not. But before Ryann could tell her as much, the woman continued. “Finding him won’t be the problem. Now getting him home will be quite another story.”
“Wait, so let me get this straight. You actually know where he is?”
“Marginally. I’ll pay double your fee, plus a five-thousand-dollar bonus if you can find him and deliver him to me within two weeks.”
Wait. What? “Deliver” him? She wasn’t the freaking UPS. Her job was locating missing persons, not returning them home like little lost pets, which was the distinct impression Ryann got that this woman expected. There were missing children, runaways, desperate parents that needed her help. This was definitely not one of those cases, and it would no doubt turn out to be a big waste of time.
But the woman was offering Ryann a lot on money to find her son—enough money to pay off the remainder of her father’s debt and get her out from under the Morallis’ strong arm. Coming to grips with the fact that she was going to have to take this case, Ryann exhaled a sigh and leaned back in her chair. She pulled her cheaters off and dropped them on the desk. Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingers back into her throbbing temples.
After a moment, she lifted her head and met the woman’s determined stare. “Two weeks, you said?” That was a short amount of time to track down someone who obviously didn’t want to be found and bring him home—short of kidnapping, that is. And this guy didn’t exactly look like the abductable type. “Why the hurry? He’s been gone for over fourteen months. What’s happening in two weeks?”
“His wedding.”
“Get up!”
The rasp of curtains ripping open sent a blast of bright Nevada sun beaming onto Aiden’s face. He squinted against the unwelcomed light and lifted his arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding assault.
“What the fuck, Coach?”
“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, boy. Easton’s at the gym waiting for you and he’s pissed as hell.”
“Aww shit . . .” he muttered under his breath and lifted his head, squinting to see the alarm clock on the nightstand—5:50. Trapped beneath a tangle of arms and legs, Aiden tried to wrest himself free without waking the women on either side of him.
Marcus, his surly coach, wasn’t so considerate. “Come on, ladies,” he announced, kicking the foot of Aiden’s bed. “Up and at ’em.” As he made his way across the bedroom, Marcus swiped up the litter of clothing off the floor and tossed it at the women. When it began raining bras, panties, shirts, and miniskirts, they stirred. Stretching lazily beside Aiden, their bare breasts rubbed against his ribs, their long legs dragging over his as they reluctantly untangled amid moans of protest.
They didn’t seem to care they were no longer alone. Modesty was a foreign concept to these women. Aiden, on the other hand, would have preferred not having a cranky Marcus glowering at him while the woman on his right crawled between his legs to suck his—
“Uh-uh,” Marcus barked, kicking the foot of his bed again when the blonde tried to slip beneath the covers. “This disco-stick is done dancing, sweetheart. Get dressed and get out—now.”
Damn . . . Coach must really be pissed. It wasn’t like
him to be so rude. The man had the patience of Job, which was something Aiden always admired about the guy—so opposite his own father. The girls booed and whined about getting tossed, but they were smart enough not to push the old guy, who looked like he was about to lose his shit. They began exchanging bras and sorting out whose clothing belonged to whom as they dressed, making no attempt to cover their nakedness from Marcus’s scowling view.
“It’s not even six a.m. yet,” Aiden complained, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake up.
“Cole’s been at the gym since five.”
“He still bitchy?”
“As ever. He’s the jackass and you’re the jack-off. I swear between the two of you, you’re gonna force me into early retirement.”
Once dressed, the blonde on his right turned and kissed his cheek. “See you later, Disco.”
“Call me,” the brunette added, planting a lip-lock on his mouth before crawling off the bed. They took another moment to search the floor for their shoes. The girls held on to each other for balance as they slipped into their stilettos and wobbled precariously toward the door. Marcus stood by the entrance, ushering them out. Whether their instability was from sleep deprivation or intoxication, Aiden wasn’t sure. He tipped his head, his gaze following the girls as they walked out, appreciating the way the black miniskirt hugged the blonde’s barely-covered ass.
Once out of view, he glanced at Marcus, who was glaring at him, arms crossed over his burly chest, shaking his head in disgust.
“What?” Aiden grouched. “Don’t judge me.” He threw back the covers, oblivious to his own nakedness. “You’re not my father.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and then promptly grabbed hold of the nightstand to steady himself against the spins. Fuck, he was still drunk.
“Son of a bitch . . .” Marcus muttered under his breath, dragging his hand over his hairless head.
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