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

by Amari, Nina

  "Let me go. I said let m--" she commanded, flapping her limp arm and fisting the other into his back as he swung her like a rag doll down the corridor. He kicked open the double-door entrance, as Danielle repeated, "I said unhand me." By that time, he'd already bounced her onto the pillow-top mattress as her wincing echoed the sprawling master stateroom.

  Rich blues and greens, stunning red satin and vibrant yellow velvets and gold silks painted the cushions and dressing chair. There was a private open-air patio with its own hot tub, and private veranda. It was obviously a loaded ga--zillionaire's floating mansion.

  "Let. Me. Go!" Danielle shrieked so loud that it rattled the chandelier, jingling a chorus of little sparkly crystals. But still, no one answered. And seconds later, a key clicked the lock shortly before a heavy thump spiraled down the corridor in echo. "Hey! I said--" Danielle called, as voices muted and trailed to silence. Suddenly, silence pummeled into a sweeping roar.

  Above deck, wind whipped propellers dove to the rooftop helipad rocketing her head into a dozen more pieces. Her breath came in shallow gasps, along with a creeping awareness of what had happened. She heard the echo of danger all drawn from immediate memory. She hadn't felt panicked like this, ever.

  Danielle sprouted eagle-wide as she glided across the satiny red bed cover. She was moving a bit slower still, as every second boosted her energy and resolve to keep moving. She elbowed off the bed, weaving past the private dressing area as the shades tinted night.

  Trembling from head to toe, she'd managed to form her bearings along the gloss cherry wood as she wrapped her arms around herself and turned to the window. Although there was little to see and even less to hear with the roar of the propellers and the rumble of the nearby vessels, the silence was gone. Except for the occasional low talkers whizzing along the outer decks, and phone conversation.

  Realizing miserably that her theoretical approach to acquiring the evidence she needed was more of an event than she was prepared to handle, she moaned and nearly lost her nerve in a weary attempt to regain composure. And at that very moment, she recalled the two brutes and non-equally third gargantuan, she'd feared were patrolling her whereabouts.

  She needed a discreet way out. Danielle combed through the huge master suite looking for another exit. But all she'd kept thinking about were the mistakes that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

  At that moment, she scolded herself for not having the guts to target the cover-up earlier. Even if she was just a junior ranking associate trying to get a leg up in the world of business.

  Everything seemed legitimate with this guy-- Oliver Trumball. Overtly professional, ruthless when it came to crushing money-grubbing corporate swindlers from profiting off pocketed funds. Despite the difference in ages, they'd made a great team and deepened their working relationship. Though his fowled associations drew attention, his position commanded ranks near the glass ceiling that at the time she was nowhere near.

  By business standards, Oliver Trumball was one of the best, and backed by the top piranhas in industry. He was everything to Finch Young's recent successes. But she should've gone with her gut-- the numbers don't lie.

  Resuming her relentless pacing, she zigzagged past the onslaught of Venetian glass light fixtures and the barrage of polished stainless inlay, darting from the bed-- past the en suite marble bath-- to the dressing cabin.

  Danielle double-backed to the sumptuous soaking tub that could've housed four comfortably. Her eyes lit up, and then slowly she took a deep breath, suckling a steamy caress that brushed over her. The vision of luxurious marble smoothed against her skin and tickly little lavender scented bubbles foaming a sensual prowess, made her zone out for a few moments that felt like a few hours.

  That was until she saw the chocolate fretted towels, champagne and citrus oak winding the lip of the tub. The same glimmer laced her face in virtue. It was like Roman had probed the depths of her subconscious. It was like sweet, passionate love all over again.

  She couldn't allow herself to enfold the pain of its hollow. The hole in her heart she'd believed Roman was meant to fill. But still, she was left with the pain of a heart that would never love hers. Maybe she hadn't quite grown to accept it. Or maybe she had after all.

  The hole in her heart was too big for Roman to fill. But the truth of the matter was, he could never fill the hole inside of her. Danielle had to feel complete in her own mind, body, and soul. She had to feel herself whole.

  Stay calm and focus, she told herself.

  She took another quick deep breath, and then another.

  And then all of a sudden, her past had once again begun to sneak up on her. A vision burst to memory of something Jack had told her once. She'd almost completely wiped it from her mind.

  You don't have time for anything but work. Work is your fiancé. Work is your love, not me. Danielle, I just can't do it anymore. I can't marry a woman obsessed with her job ... A woman who'd rather spend her late nights with her calculator rather than her man.

  Maybe I seem a little selfish, but I get it. We both have stressful jobs. But one thing I do know is that I want a woman that will make me her priority-- a woman that will love me and be waiting when I get home.

  Danielle knew at the time, she just wasn't that woman. But she'd only known love the way she wanted it. When she was ready to give and receive it.

  The only tape she'd played was Jack walking out the door without reason. All she'd recalled was, "I don't love you." Despite Jack's faults, Danielle just realized the part she'd played in it all.

  At the time, she hadn't accepted that Jack just wasn't--The One--for her.

  Danielle turned her focus back to her pursuit. Barely a moment after she'd resumed her path, she'd suddenly glanced over her shoulder. Hidden near the far end of the suite was a quaint private office niche tucked around a corner. An oversized painting that was completely camouflaged from the rest of the room flanked the area.

  There's gotta be another way out over here. Speculation raced through her head, as her heels paced the floor towards the office, she'd been moving steadily. But then suddenly, she realized everything was different except for the extravagant luxury.

  Oh. My. God. The other yacht... But how did I--

  In all the chaos, Danielle didn't know Barton and his crew had already transitioned to the nearby yacht.

  Pressing her ear up against the office door, she listened for any noise. Her own swallowing was the only sound she'd heard aside from her breathing beginning to stir a little louder. She'd tugged at the handle, realizing it was locked, not by surprise. But, mostly she was relieved when she'd heard silence, and the fact the fiends obviously had other things to be concerned about.

  "What's with all the locked doors?" Danielle murmured, as she clutched the sheathing of her asymmetrical zipper. She gripped the zipper’s skeletal head and wedged the prickly-edge in the keyhole of the private office door. "Come on..." she coached herself jangling its daggered tip in the lock.

  Click. Lock picking was another skill she'd picked up-- well, somewhere in her youth.

  After she'd jimmied the lock, she pushed open the office door, fumbling for a light. A patch of moonlight lit the desk nearly enough that she found a desk lamp and flipped it on. The same fine wood polish swept across the entire room, along with the pungent aroma of oil-rubbed leather and a scholarly blend of books scattered across spacious floor-to-ceiling bookcases opposite tall windows that flanked the veranda doorway.

  The entire room showcased a wall of french doors pouring midnight from the terrace outside. Clearly, this was a space for a man with culture and refined taste-- the fine art and wine connoisseur displaying his most prized possessions. Only the modern-day technology hugging the walls in acoustics would have distinguished the space from anything but an era beyond Impressionism.

  The antique desk was similarly ornate, century year old wood very much like the desk in Roman's apartment, except this version garnished a teak-mahogany blend that w
as formally masculine. Danielle paused alongside of the quaint desk, as she swept her fingers across its smooth surface.

  But then suddenly, it wasn't just the desk that seemed awfully familiar. There it was staring her straight in the face, a folder emblazoned, "Confidential" --the same markedly red stamping, folder style and insignia crested on the front. Explicitly the same likeness as addressed to her that she'd read during her late night at her former office.

  She'd flipped it open, and she was stunned by what she saw. Words couldn't begin to describe the alarming facts that supported her theories in question.

  Danielle jumped on her footing when she'd heard a slight thump all of a sudden. The folder poured onto the already jumbled collage of papers highlighting a barrage of secrets only an expert forensic accountant could make any sense of.

  There was a trail of reports scattered across the desk as if someone's sneaky idling had been hastily interrupted. She could only assume by the lower desk drawers flung open and the chair sloppily poised backward facing at the desk, that the perpetrator could be back any minute.

  Danielle folded a couple papers that told her all she needed to know. A ripple of concern crossed her face all of a sudden. Realizing she had no purse, she'd nearly gotten hysterical, but she knew that was minor compared to her life hanging on by a thread out in the middle of god knows where.

  Barely a second later, she'd stuffed the folded papers neatly into the back pockets of her jeans, and fixed the desk papers back as if untouched.

  Her eyes widened on the wall of french doors flanking the veranda doorway. Thank god... finally another way out. Tiptoeing across the office, Danielle stood in the patch of moonlight as she'd turned the handle to a french door.

  And there she was, straddling the doorstep with one heel pressed onto the deck floor of an open-air patio, when she'd suddenly paused-- her eyes narrowed, zeroing in on her surroundings. She heard precious little other than the waves that slapped buoys and pilings under the pier, rowing vessels rocked at their moorings, and pounded boulders lining the shore. But then she was startled by something else-- Something seemingly recognizable.

  Danielle barely held back a sigh of agony, as she leaned against the french door, peeping her head gently around its framing. Her eyes suddenly widened like saucers when she heard what appeared to be a familiar voice.

  There she stood under a panoramic sunroof that transformed the entire side of the upper deck into a cozy indoor-outdoor living space. As she stood in awe of the huge space with the night breeze caressing her skin, she turned and looked up through the gaping opening with her eyes wide and mouth open, and what appeared to be surreptitiously suspicious behavior happening right in front of her.

  What she saw or thought she saw could only be the beginning of more pain her heart wasn't ready for and couldn't bear any more suffering.

  Looking up through its massive opening, she caught a straight shot of the rooftop helipad. The awe in her expression instantly swept her face, as she'd stopped cold in her tracks.

  Unfortunately, the edge of the sunroof sliced her view of three men fusing the black sky overhead. The line of a broad shouldered torso and ripped jeans was all she could see with patchy streams of light feeding the deck. Alongside two other men standing roughly shoulder-to-shoulder dressed in head-to-toe black.

  But then, she heard the laugh that would have the look on her face turning crimson. From where she stood, the ominous lure of suspicion shed light on the truth.

  Maybe it was the moonlight in her eyes. Her eyes were glassy, and getting a bit tearier by the second. His voice strewn a tantalizing masculinity, when suddenly, a bout of curiosity crept into her voice.

  One word poured from her mouth at almost a wail the moment she'd said, "Roman?"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Her eyes were suddenly calculating. I couldn't have heard right.

  It couldn't be Roman. Could it?

  Taking a deep breath, she started toward him-- styling a pose in his ripped jeans. He was angling his torso against a deck railing with his shoelaces cocked against his ankle as if he was waiting for something or someone. She had barely neared the staircase for the helipad, when she'd shied back all of a sudden. The muted illume of the inner deck threatened to expose her presence.

  She made a move towards a generous seating area that flanked the deck a few yards away from the french doors. At this point, she could barely stop herself from thinking Roman had been involved, but she knew she had to get a closer look before drawing any uncertain conclusions. As she treaded softly, she was careful of every step, meandering the obstacle course laden in cozy patio furniture.

  Staying out of sight as much as she could, she tiptoed around cushy sofas pillowed in geometric accents and plush ottomans seated next to pricey elliptical-style cocktail tables.

  Hugging a chaise lounge, she ducked beneath its arched arm when she'd thought she heard the sound of pattering footsteps. A slight mist had begun to tingle her nose against the faintly moist cushion. A moment later, she resumed her pace once the coast was clear. She could have moved a few feet toward the innermost part of the deck for a better view, but she'd risk being noticed under the sunroof.

  The panoramic sunroof was huge. From her vantage point, the glass roof was fully opened, showcasing a night of star-filled opulence and sea breeze wafting through the open-air space. Tonight, the darkness masked illume from the deck lighting rocking against the yacht every other second, as she straddled the deck perimeter below them like a shadow in the night.

  Her imagination had to be running away with her all over again.

  When suddenly, she'd heard his laugh for a second time, prompting her to look up. She lifted an eyebrow high when her gaze locked this time on a full and high heavy frame that looked very much like Roman's. His tall, lanky profile fused a hazy silhouette against sifting clouds. She shook her head, and then dropped her gaze to the deck floor, trying not to face the facts that instinct forewarned.

  But then, her gaze lifted to face the reality playing out right in front of her. If it was Roman, she could no longer deny what he had evaded telling her. She would have to discover the truth on her own.

  Her senses raced into high gear as her eyes widened open in shock the moment she saw his towering physique met two men in long overcoats flapping against the misty breeze. These men weren't dressed in head-to-toe black, but rather distinguished looking, as they dwarfed alongside his monumental stature in what appeared to be casual conversation.

  Danielle stared into the panoramic sunroof, her hands on her hips, swallowing nervously from the familiarity of Roman's charisma. Folding his arms, tucking his hands in and out of his pockets, Danielle could tell he'd seemed rather comfortable and familiar no matter how many times she'd caught him running his hands through his hair almost instinctively.

  As his towering torso shifted and turned around, beaded glimpses of light had her warily peeking through to his eyes. His strong arms and dominant power-- the way he moved lit a sparkle in her eye that was intent on fuming about the mess she'd gotten all mixed up in with him.

  And then there it was. She would've noticed Roman's swagger anywhere-- the stride no other man could emulate. And his warm voice-- The same warmth that had her body heating up by the second.

  Danielle gave a blank stare straight at him, as her hand clutched a cushy chair arm. Her eyes could've burned into his from the distance. The longer she'd faced him, the deeper her nails dug into the arm pillow. Even still, she closed her eyes for a moment, in disbelief of what she'd just seen-- the man she'd trusted with her life was ally to the enemy side.

  Danielle just couldn't believe it. Or maybe she did or didn't want to face the fact that she knew exactly from that instant-- it could not have been anyone but Roman Jules--on a yacht in the middle of nowhere--all the way on another continent--near London.

  As Roman's masculinity trailed down to where she stood-- just everything about him was starting to thread all through her at once
. But of course, she was more than a little in denial about it. She didn't even want to consider the fact that the sexy, husky sound of his voice was at the point of smoldering a new level of intense within her.

  She couldn't let it skew her focus-- especially now that she'd seen for herself he was not the man she'd thought he was.

  She could only presume a blend of venal, scoundrel, and whatever else would cause a man to betray her for a price and a pawn in his game.

  But, from where she stood, she still couldn't see the men Roman was talking to. She didn't have to. She could tell the evil commandeering cadence in his voice-- that it was Barton's. And the other of a professionally amicable tone had to be Trumball.

  Clutching a pillow to her arm, she'd closed her eyes again as Barton's gravelly voice was starting to rattle her insides. Piercing her nails into the cushion, she'd instantly snapped her eyes back open and looked down at the trail of little dimples she'd left behind on the geometric.

  Suddenly, the pillow poured out of her arm, when she almost fell back on the chair watching Roman chatting it up in a familiar carousing with Barton, Trumball, and god knows whom else in a late-night banter.

  Danielle stared into the sunroof again-- she thought that maybe she was hallucinating. That it was all just a nightmare, and all she had to do was wake up.

  But, that wasn't the case.

  Looking up at the shadowy images, there was something off-kilter about the rendezvous. Although it was difficult to tell with the black sky as backdrop, exactly what their meeting was about. Perhaps it was a trap. Or maybe she'd been the victim of an all out battle between ruthless crooks.

  But, despite it all, there was something about Roman's open stance silhouetting a wad of rolled bills he'd suddenly jammed out of his pocket. The last she'd seen of him, his trousers hadn't sprung anything but excuses.

  Danielle was still selectively suspicious. She had to be.