Love Found Me (A City Love Novel, Book 1)

by Amari, Nina

  The sun boasted a coral reef sky, as the winds started to howl a fierce cry. Roman was startled for a second time when he'd thought he saw Danielle. But, it was just a fashionably chic woman in love, walking arm-in-arm with a young man.

  Roman's eyes scanned the thousand acre park encircling the gardens, just like he had done hours before. He never left. Ever since their parting, he couldn't see his way back on course again. All that kept threading his mind were her silken hands in his, their juicy kiss, and the simple little way she'd managed to flutter her dreamy lashes, dropping his gut to its knees every time.

  Tasting her pink peony kiss was the delicious highlight that had him quivering with every sultry image that leapt to his mind. Roman's romantic musings were starting to ruffle his nerves. He drew a long breath, as he slowly pushed a hand though his dark locks, reminding himself that he wasn't the man he had pretended to be for so long.

  The cobblestone trail winded its way along the pond, sweeping gently rolling emerald lawns against groves of century year old oaks and silvery spruce evergreens. Neither friend nor foe could argue the beauty of an English garden. It was absolutely tranquil and gorgeous.

  And now there he was, wearing his black angora sweater, donning leather and stylishly frayed jeans, his chestnut hair windblown, his eyes filled with tears. Roman leaned backward, still poised on the same deck chair, as he rolled his neck and shoulders, relaxing his stiff collarbone until relief shattered his bones.

  Closing his eyes, his hands started trembling as he forced himself to unclench his muscles. He’d already been tense for so long. Ever since she’d left, Danielle was all that swirled his mind and emotions. At that very moment, his eyes rolled open as Danielle's silhouette laced a fluffy contour in the silver lining thickness of the clouds.

  In his gut, he knew that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. He knew she wanted the kind of love that wouldn't turn its back on her or the tough times--a man that could live up to the word, Trust--always. The same sentiment he'd hoped she'd placed in him, rather than suspicion.

  Realizing a mirage of thoughts running rampant, he closed his eyes again and took in a few deep breaths to realize, what was his mind thinking and his heart feeling. What was his heart trying to tell him? His thoughts had enfolded him all across the garden. He couldn't escape them. No sooner than he could escape himself.

  He couldn't stop shivering as orange, pink and blue sky quickly mingled cobalt. Wrapping his hands around his torso, he could have forced a smile. But, knowing she was out there somewhere in a foreign land alone drove him frantic.

  As he'd observed the panorama, Roman kept an eye on the mesmerizing figment of illusion in the sky. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't realize the whispering of the hour.

  Luckily his expensive handcrafted watch could find the time anywhere in the world. Because in that brief moment, he realized it was well past five o'clock this side of the continent. He bolted to his feet and ran his hands through his hair, not before rubbing his neck to release the day's tension.

  "What have I done? What kind of man am I?" he murmured with a long sigh, as he stomped the edge of the beaten path. The trail spiraled at least a few miles long, and the immense acreage climbed a jigsaw. He knew it would be like finding a needle in a haystack, and thus-- a miracle.

  Roman paused for a moment, and stretched his arms from the core as he watched the sun crest over the tops of massive oaks, sifting an auburn glow between their spiny branches. He could see several ribbons of ripples bubbling across the pond. As he focused closer, the glittery veil appeared to lace Danielle's mirrored reflection to his eyes.

  He shied away with an ache in his heart. At that instant, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and huddled inside his leather jacket. His eyes still full of tears. This was the only place he could breathe and collect himself.

  At that moment, he thought about how she'd made him feel, and his denial of wanting anything and everything but steady commitment. And then instantly, he knew what he had done. He knew why he'd shunned commitment and feared breaking any woman's heart. He swallowed, and then he felt his muscles suddenly stiffen again. Maybe it was his overactive imagination... Or maybe not?

  The sun radiated a faint metallic in his peripheral vision, as he looked over his shoulder and saw a small piece of shiny metal blaring back at him. Conveniently, it was hidden behind a columnar shrub in the grass at the edge of the trail.

  Roman squinted as he leaned in closer and ladled a thin round object in his palm. He examined it closer and noticed, "Oh, God... her mirror." Danielle's overpriced version of a compact mirror, with her initials, "D.P." finely cursived atop the beveled surface.

  Suddenly, he'd remembered her luggage and bolted back to where they'd sat earlier. She'd left in such a hurry that didn't surprise him, although the fact that she hadn't come back for her valise-- worried him. His gaze came closer to the same ornate scrolling, "D.P." slicking the alligator texture.

  Roman knew they both hadn't stopped at the hotel. He'd recalled when Danielle insisted that they hang out in the lovely weather for a while, although he had insisted they get going. But maybe she's-- Before he had finished the thought, he'd remembered her flinging the hotel key to him in her all out rage. There were too many possibilities to consider, but one thing was for certain...

  Instinct told him something wasn't right. He didn't have to find her compact or alligator valise to figure that out. Only would she ever want to see his face again after the way they'd parted? But would she have the hope to forgive him?

  He drew a small breath, reminding himself that she was safe. That she'd probably been sightseeing and zoned out just as he'd been for hours. Although he'd frantically called her phone that kept going to voice mail, he didn't know if she just didn't want to talk and was screening his calls. But, for one thing-- he wasn't about to give up.

  Roman groped his notched collar to his neck, and curved his shoulders as he made another quick call. The moon had begun to shadow the sun, as worry and panic targeted his nerves with a vengeance. And a woman alone at this time of night in a foreign land didn't make matters any better.

  But only one thing he was certain about-- was that Danielle could more than take care of herself.

  Roman sprinted back toward the edge of the path, jostling the valises over his rippled biceps. As he weighted down the path and reached the edge of the cobblestone trail, his eyes widened and his mouth opened.

  The valises rolled off his shoulders when he noticed a glint of rose behind a row of the darkest evergreen hedges. It popped at him under the streetlamp, as he pricked his arm on the bushes. "Oh, my god," he rubbed his temples, "What's her purse doing here?"

  His gut clenched when he knew her brushed suede would've never left her side. An expensive hobo bag just lying around, electrified the frightening terror that nearly pummeled his nerves to a breaking point.

  And now there she was, nearly hanging on for her life along the mast, her hands clutching the massive optic white aluminum like a paper doll dangling off a flagpole. Her heels were steady on the narrowed platform beneath her-- just enough for her slender body to take a spectator's position, as she stood zoning in on the scheme in operation.

  Barton was still at the helipad as she'd struggled to watch from her towering perch. The wind was starting to pick up speed, as she propped herself against the icy metal. She'd felt every chill, slapping through the frayed rips in her jeans whipping across her legs, thighs and the curves of her butt cheeks.

  Although, Barton and his crew were marked in scandal up to their eyeballs, she'd hit the jackpot if she could recover cash as evidence to link to her research, which she was certain Barton had in that metal attaché case that shellacked his side at all times. She'd already had the guts of a paper trail indicting them. But, Danielle knew these guys were no fools in finagling their way out of corruption.

  Skirting from the fiends scathing clutches earlier had apparently wired her
slender frame into a pliant surge of tenacity. That, coupled with defiance and guts to go plunging into the target with a solo defense, pummeled any thought of vulnerability.

  "Oh no," she muttered, as the seven-foot-man pointed toward his own giant feet and mouthed a signal to Barton's pale expression. Barton nodded and stepped away from the helipad. Danielle could only assume they'd already noticed she was gone or either they'd been ready to board the other yacht.

  Still, she had no idea how the helipad rendezvous played into the scheme.

  Barton had apparently signaled a check of Danielle's whereabouts, contacting the beastly brute that had evidently returned to his post outside the cabin door beyond her notice. When suddenly, he'd raised out from the lower decks daggering his meaty finger below deck, just before he'd said, "Gone." The one word roared so loud in her ear, that she'd spun on the mast, nearly losing her grip.

  Barton daggered his eyes, "What?" His frown mounted the scowling that echoed the boundaries of the yacht.

  As the brute stomped closer to the stern, he confirmed in his gravelly voice, "The lady's gone."

  Oh, God. Danielle heard the roar of a militia force pummeling the makassar wood. The sound of hurried footsteps spiraled louder and then echoed wistful calm beneath her moments after-- as if the quickly approaching steps had suddenly vanished.

  For a moment, she suffered the intense feeling that maybe she'd gotten in over her head. Roman had cautioned her to let the experts handle it. But when did she ever listen-- instead of gambling with reason. She was crazy not to get involved, or was she?

  But she was involved.

  The whole mess infused her life in vapid stormy clouds. A storm she'd yet to come to terms with. This insidious invasion of her life jeopardized every mistake she'd made in defiance of her instinct.

  Later, she would recall that feeling.

  The wind was ruffling her jacket with fierceness, drawing her hair like silken ribbons to the sky. She could hardly breathe through its suction tunnel, drawing her towards its breath like a magnet, when suddenly she'd gasped in a burst of air that suddenly smacked her from behind.

  "Ow! S---!" she said, as her eyes snapped shut the moment she reeled backward. She'd felt like a pound of bricks had just hit her while the frigid aluminum was starting to take its toll on her nerve already battling the in and out squalls.

  She'd nearly caught her breath when another quick blast of wind had her fumbling for footing again. Danielle skated across the slick platform in an awkward crisscross motion, when she'd quickly grabbed hold of a metal pole attached to the mast.

  Amazingly she'd held her grip that long, as the cognac still buzzed her veins swimming in reposed intoxication. There was little to see, as the sky was merely an illusion in her eyes from this climax, a blank sea of cobalt rather than star-filled opulence.

  Danielle had no idea where Barton or his brutes were. Obviously, her concern was dangling a few inches from her-- The metal rod in her hand that was severing from its hinges. And then suddenly, her grip loosened, as the rod did little to break her fall.

  As she boosted herself up from her elbows, she'd been careful not to catch her heel in the cord lighting that flanked the yacht in a dangling parade of lights. But then out of nowhere, she'd heard the sound of loud footsteps re-ignite. The quickening rhythm paced and spiraled nearer by the second.

  Danielle knew one of the fiends was just yards away. They'd probably scoured the yacht. It had been a few minutes now. And this was one of the few places they'd never figure she'd have the nerve or guts to be.

  She twitched the corner of her lip at the thought. Could she wait it out much longer?

  "Whoa," Danielle said, blowing out a long breath. She'd closed her eyes, as her body spun against the mast like a paper doll, shellacking her glitter knit like wet spandex to her skin. Her pulse quickened while her heart began to run rampant. Maybe the cognac was taking its toll, she'd thought, as the exhaustion in her voice still fought the wind's dominance, grappling every ounce of strength within her.

  Suddenly, another blast slapped her straight in the face. And then she was moving slower, her legs parted slightly. The pulse at the hollow of her neck throttled frantically as she bowed and spun around, grazing the aluminum. Danielle reeled back blinking, and then her eyes snapped shut with a vengeance-- as her breath suddenly compressed in her chest. Tears sprung to her eyes as she hit the deck floor, with a shaky uncertainty that she'd split her head in two.

  She'd wiped her eyes, not a moment too soon. Before she even realized what had happened, she'd snapped a section of cord lighting just after her head smacked the ship's mast with full force. There was nothing to catch her fall as she careened on sturdy steel that felt like a sheet of concrete to her bones.

  And then the next second...

  She was out cold.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Danielle woke up with a start, eagle-spread on the geometric marquee flanking the center hall of a double en suite cabin. Her eyes wide, and face flushed. Her body still wasn't certain which continent it was on.

  With the bump on her head seesawing her alertness, Danielle felt like she'd knocked back a bottle rather than a couple of sips. She saw stars. But beyond the stars, the cognac hadn't dulled her senses. She'd felt weird about it all. But that strange feeling was about to seem even stranger.

  Watching the clandestine activity from earlier had evidently done quite a number on her. That, coupled with fervent exhaustion and the timing factor, she forged a path of defiance against the odds. Time was running out, and she still hadn't a clue where or what Barton and his crew were in a ravaging hurry to smuggle onboard the other yacht.

  Her hands and feet were still, her head hugging a satin pillow. "W... Where am I?" she stammered, as moonlight sprouted in the stained-glass dome overhead.

  Smoothing her palms against the marquee floor, she propped herself up off the veined marble. Her bones were still pulsing from the stiffened granite, as the glittering string of lights shellacking the harbor appeared hazy and distant.

  Danielle tugged at her bustier, expecting to find delicate lace and spaghetti straps, as she careened toward a wooden cornice. She drew a long breath with half-lidded eyes, as the chill still rode the flesh of her torn denim.

  But that night, she tried to picture the men she'd seen when she boarded the yacht, but the image was still vague and motionless. After lying unconscious from her earlier ordeal on the upper deck, she hadn't been able to keep worry from turning her inside out. She had been unaware and tense after another heart-wrenching breakup, and the nightmare looming on this side of the Atlantic.

  The instant she'd opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. The noise. The noise was wrong. There was dead silence. In her entire adult life, Danielle never slept without the spirited rhapsody of a concerto, and the room was too quiet to hear a pen drop.

  The noise was wrong; the ambience was wrong, and that voice...

  Danielle rolled over and felt her whole body quiver when she saw who was arched over her. Oliver. Oliver Trumball, with new creases at the corners of his gray-blue eyes, looking at her with his familiar slanting grin. She cradled her head on the neck roll pillow barely managing to bite back a scream.

  As Trumball leaned closer, and Danielle could see his face more clearly, she was stunned to see her former boss all the way across the Atlantic-- on a yacht-- holding her captive. Her eyes blinked shut as she slouched against the coppiced bearing in an unfocused gaze.

  "So, we meet again. Only this time under unfortunate circumstances," he grimaced. The backlighting glinted off the silver threads in his hair, and his hands were ice on her exposed shoulder.

  She forced herself to look him straight in the eyes as she said, "Tolliver? Ah... Owwww," but then her stare shifted to half-closed eyes.

  "Who's Tolliver?" Trumball replied.

  Her heart began to beat hard and fast again as she slowly opened her eyes, still disoriented enough that she didn't recognize a former Fi
nch Young executive.

  He was looking at her strangely again. "Oliver. Remember? It's Oliver," he repeated. "What's wrong with her, she was always so astute-- one of my star pupils... one of my best employees. Too bad we have to--"

  "Tolliver?" she said just before she hunched and rolled over a satin pillow.

  "She's delusional." Barton's words were curt when his eyes darted to Trumball's as he shook her shoulder, "Prentiss! Prentiss! Get up. I said get--"

  Even the slightest movement jarred her head like it had been split in two. "Owwww..." her words fell away as she slid limply to the marble. She tried to sit up again, but her muscles were still too rubbery.

  Danielle's eyes were blinking shut as Barton swung his polished wingtip aimed for her behind. His daggered toe had just about grazed her leather when suddenly it froze in midair the instant Trumball grabbed his arm and bolstered, "Hold it."

  "What?" Barton hedged, as he looked down at his clamped arm, "Don't touch me Trumball," he shrugged, his voice commandeering.

  Trumball's hand slid from Barton's shoulder the next moment. He was startled to see Barton's piranha expression turn from pale into a fiery red in a manner of seconds. Barton's temper wasn't hard to arouse, as he raised his hand at Danielle in a spirited defiance of Trumball.

  Just as Barton swung aim straight for her, he halted all of a sudden at the razor-sharp cadence, "I told you to hold it," Trumball demanded. "We can see about her later. We've got to finish--" Trumball slapped his back for him to follow. Barton's eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw at Trumball's command.

  "Move her to the master," Tolliver ordered the two fiends anchoring the double en suite.

  Sounding instantly renewed, when she felt a thick meaty muscle tighten a clamp around her forearm, Danielle flinched, "Unhand me," as he heaved her up off the marble. The beastly brute drew his position again, as he acrobated her over his right shoulder.

  She'd had her feel of meaty, stinky, sweaty, smelly armpits. Only this time the stench of his meaty arm clamped right to her nose. The smell sucked straight through her bones, releasing a truckload of freshly cut onions as they elevated toward the upper deck.