by Pamela Yaye
Images of Dionne clad in a purple mesh top and spandex shorts were engraved in his mind. Four mornings a week, Dionne took a spin class, and watching her at the small downtown studio was the highlight of his day. The master life coach was exactly his type—strong, smart, independent, vivacious—but she was a diva. Someone who yearned for fame and fortune, and he was through hooking up with shallow, materialistic woman obsessed with the high life. And besides, she belongs to another man. My client.
His eyes trailed her every move. Petite, with creamy mocha skin, almond-shaped eyes and righteous curves, it was no surprise that everyone on the sidewalk stopped to stare. Her scarlet lips made her mouth look tempting, inviting, and thoughts of kissing her ruled his mind.
Knock it off, chastised his conscience. Dionne’s married to Jules Fontaine—a man who could ruin you in this town—and if you ever cross the line you’ll regret it.
Immanuel nodded to himself, knew it was true, but continued admiring the Somali-born beauty with the exotic look. Dionne had her briefcase in one hand, her purse in the other and her cell phone pressed to her ear. What else was new? She was addicted to her iPhone and couldn’t go five seconds without checking it.
You’re a fine one to talk, argued his inner voice.
Curious, he cocked an eyebrow. Immanuel wondered who Dionne was talking to. It was someone special. Had to be. Her eyes were bright, and her smile was radiant. Was her lover on the phone? The man her ex was convinced she was having an affair with? Immanuel hadn’t found any evidence of her infidelity and suspected Mr. Fontaine was wrong about his estranged wife being promiscuous. She worked nonstop, even on weekends, and spent her free time at home—alone—not in bars and nightclubs.
Dionne stopped at the rear of her Lexus and popped open the trunk. Immanuel put on his seat belt and turned on the ignition. He didn’t want to lose her in the parking lot, and reminded himself to follow from a distance as she exited the plaza. His cell rang, and he glanced down at the center console. His grandmother’s phone number appeared on the screen. But he didn’t have time to shoot the breeze, so he decided to let the call go to voice mail.
Immanuel looked up just in time to see a short figure clad in dark clothes approach Dionne. He scanned the man’s face. The stranger had a desperate look in his eyes, a wild, crazed expression that was frightening, but Dionne was too busy talking on the phone to notice. He was pale and built like a defensive lineman. Immanuel read him like a book, sized him up in ten seconds flat. The guy was a thug, a no-good punk who’d rather rob than work, the most dangerous type of criminal. Immanuel had to act fast.
Sensing what was about to happen, he threw open his car door and took off running across the parking lot. The cold autumn wind sliced through his black button-down shirt, chilling his body to the bone, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. It was a matter of life and death, and he had to reach Dionne before the bastard attacked her, or worse, tried to kidnap her.
His breathing was heavy, ragged, and his heart was beating out of control. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Immanuel ran faster, harder. Bent on reaching her, he dodged cars and wide-eyed strangers as he raced through the parking lot.
Immanuel heard Dionne scream, watched in horror as the man grabbed her and shook her violently. His stomach fell, plunged to his feet, and anger shot through his veins. What happened next stunned him. Dionne didn’t comply with her assailant’s demands, instead deciding to fight back. Kicked, punched, scratched at the stranger’s eyes and face.
“Stop!” Immanuel shouted. “Get away from her. Let her go!”
The stranger knocked Dionne to the ground, grabbed her purse, and jumped into her car. Seconds later, he started the engine and sped out of the parking lot in her silver Lexus SUV.
Immanuel wanted to chase him down and kick his ass for assaulting a defenseless woman, but he couldn’t leave Dionne alone. He didn’t stop running until he reached her side. She was unconscious, lying motionless on the ground. Her face was swollen, her bottom lip was cut, and her designer clothes were stained with dirt.
Struggling to catch his breath, Immanuel dropped to his knees, gathered Dionne in his arms and searched the parking lot for help.
Chapter 3
Pain racked Dionne’s body, stabbed every inch of her five-foot-two frame, making it impossible to move. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Her limbs were cold, shivering uncontrollably, and her forearms ached. Where am I?
Sniffing the air, she detected the faint scent of flowers, and a delicious, masculine cologne that evoked thoughts of French kisses, red wine and dirty dancing. Cologne?
Panic soaked her skin. Her head felt groggy, as if she’d had one too many cocktails last night during happy hour. Did I have a one-night stand? Did I follow some guy home from the bar? Am I lying in bed with him right now? Dionne deleted the thought, refused to believe it, not even for a second. She’d never hook up with a random stranger, and besides, she’d worked at the office late last night, not gone for drinks at her favorite martini bar with her sisters.
Listening intently, Dionne soaked in the world around her. She heard the buzz and whirl of monitors and machines, a TV blaring, felt a coarse material rubbing against her skin. An intercom came on, and realization dawned. I’m in the hospital. Why? What happened? Was I in a car accident? Did I crash my Lexus— Before Dionne could finish the thought, memories flooded her mind. Leaving her office...someone sneaking up behind her...fighting him off...the crippling blow to the head.
Dionne struggled to get air into her lungs. It felt as though a bowling ball were sitting on her chest. Taking a deep breath, she broke free of the violent images holding her hostage. She wouldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t allow her attacker to victimize her in the privacy of her thoughts. Holding herself tight, she told herself she’d survived, that everything was okay. She was alive, safe, and he couldn’t hurt her anymore.
With great difficulty, Dionne forced her eyes open. The room was bright, the air still and quiet. She lifted her blanket and gasped when she saw the cuts and bruises all over her body. The wristband on her left arm listed her name and health care number. More questions remained. Dionne continued to take in her surroundings. A wooden chair sat at the foot of the bed, a crystal vase overflowing with roses was displayed on the side table, and a tall, slim man in a black power suit stood in front of the window.
Dionne narrowed her gaze, sized him up. She needed to know who the stranger was and why he was in her hospital room. Was he a cop? Giving herself permission to stare, she admired his profile. The man was a force. A six-foot-six Adonis with olive skin, a full head of jet-black hair and a lean physique. He had specks of salt in his goatee and an imposing presence. He was a man of influence, someone who made things happen, who wasn’t afraid of taking swift and decisive action. Dionne guessed he was in his thirties, but wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was older. Is he a doctor? she wondered, noting his designer threads.
The stranger must have sensed her watching him, because he turned toward the bed and met her gaze. The faint scar along his left cheek only enhanced his rugged, masculine look, and his piercing blue eyes were lethal weapons.
A slow, easy smile crept across his lips.
Dionne’s heart skipped a beat, drummed in her ears. She instantly recognized him, knew exactly who the drop-dead sexy stranger was. He wasn’t a doctor. He was a Morretti. Had to be. No doubt about it. He had a straight nose and a strong jawline, and looked like an older version of Emilio.
Months earlier, before things went south with her employee Brad McClendon, Dionne had researched Mastermind Operations online. She’d planned to hire Immanuel Morretti’s security company to help Brad find his estranged wife and sons. But since Brad had quit and taken his celebrity clients with him, she’d changed her mind about helping him reconnect with his family.
Dionne thought hard. She never forgot a
name or a face and recalled everything she’d read about the Italian businessman on his agency’s website. He’d spent five years in the Italian military in the special forces division, and had worked for a decade as a personal bodyguard before opening his security business in Venice. On the website, she’d seen pictures of Immanuel with dignitaries, celebrities and high-ranking government officials, and according to the Italian newspaper La Repubblica, his agency was second to none.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fontaine.”
He spoke with a thick Italian accent, one she was sure drove women wild, but his expression was one of concern. Questions stirred her curiosity, made her wonder why Emilio’s brother was in her hospital room. Did Sharleen send Immanuel over to check on her after hearing about her attack? Is that why he was there?
“How are you feeling?”
Dionne cleared her throat and found her voice. “I’m sore, and more than a little confused,” she admitted sheepishly.
“My apologies. Let me introduce myself. I’m—”
“Immanuel Morretti,” she provided, pulling herself up to a sitting position.
Surprise showed on his face, coloring his eyes. Immanuel looked rich, like the kind of man who dined nightly on wine and caviar. He carried himself in a dignified way. Thanks to her master’s degree in psychology, Dionne was skilled at reading people, and instinctively felt the security specialist was someone she could trust. “You’re Emilio’s brother and the CEO of Mastermind Operations.”
“You’re a World Series racing fan?” he questioned, fine lines wrinkling his forehead. “I never would have guessed it.”
“Emilio’s engaged to Sharleen Nichols, the VP of my life coaching center. I’ve gotten to know him over the last few months. He’s a great guy, and he treats Sharleen like gold.”
Dionne watched his face darken, saw his jaw clench tight, and wondered what was wrong. Are the brothers still estranged? Is that why Immanuel looks pissed? Because I complimented his brother?
“Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink, perhaps?”
“No thanks. I’m fine,” she replied, shaking her head. “Where am I?”
“At the Atlanta Medical Center. You were robbed outside of your office last night.”
Her eyes grew moist, and her lips trembled, but she willed herself to keep it together. “I remember,” she said quietly. “But why am I here? I’m fine.”
“You were unconscious when I arrived on scene.”
“You were there? You saw what happened?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fontaine, I did.” Immanuel glanced away and slid his hands into the front pocket of his pants. “I was shopping at Peachtree Plaza when I heard a commotion and ran over.”
“You scared off the assailant... You—you saved my life.”
“No, I didn’t. You did.” His gaze was filled with awe, and it seeped into his tone. “To be honest, I came to rescue your attacker. You gave him one hell of a beating, and I was scared if I didn’t intervene you’d kill him.”
Dionne beamed, feeling a glimmer of pride at his words. “Serves him right for attacking me. He’s lucky I forgot my pepper spray at home, or I would have emptied the entire bottle on him.”
Like his voice, his laugh was pleasing to her ears and brought a smile to her lips.
“You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Fontaine. A woman of incredible strength and heart, and you should be very proud of yourself. Few people would have been able to fight the way you did, and I’m blown away by your courage.”
Moved by his words, she soaked up his praise. “Please, call me Dionne.”
“Only if you call me Immanuel. All my friends do.”
Her thoughts returned to last night, and dread flooded her body. Dionne was curious about what had transpired after Immanuel arrived on scene, and was hoping he could fill in the blanks for her. “What happened after I blacked out? Did the mugger steal my purse?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, and your Lexus as well.”
“Oh, no. My whole world was inside my purse. My wallet, my address book, my iPad.” A chilling thought entered her mind. “The mugger knows where I live. What if he’s at my house right now? Lying in wait?”
Immanuel strode over to the bed and took her hand in his. He was a calm and comforting presence. Having him nearby made Dionne feel supported and less afraid. She didn’t know if it was because he looked like Emilio—a man she thought was considerate, compassionate and kind—or his warm disposition. But she liked his touch and drew strength from him. “I don’t have a security system at my new place. I’ve been meaning to install one, but I’ve been so busy with work I haven’t had the time.”
“I know it’s upsetting, but try not to worry. The police are investigating...”
What good will that do if the mugger attacks me in my sleep?
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of calling one of my technicians to change the locks at your house and office,” he explained. “And if you’d like, he can also install voice-activated alarm systems at both locations.”
“How do you know where I live?”
“I’m a security specialist. That’s my job.”
Dionne felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Thank you, Mr. Morretti. I appreciate it. At least I know the crook isn’t in my house, robbing me blind.” She was glad Immanuel was there. “Have the cops identified my attacker? Do they know who he is? Have they found my car?”
“No, not yet, but they assured me they’re working hard on the case.”
“Where’s my cell phone? I need to call my family or they’ll be worried sick.”
Immanuel released her hand and stroked the length of his jaw. “I’m not sure if detectives recovered it at the scene, but you can ask them when they come to take your statement—”
The door swung open, and a slender fiftysomething nurse burst into the room. Her shoes squeaked as she approached the bed, and her frizzy white hair flapped around her face. “Good day, Mrs. Fontaine. How are you feeling this glorious afternoon?”
“Afternoon?” Dionne repeated, confused by her words. “What time is it?”
Immanuel checked his Rolex watch. “It’s twelve fifteen.”
“I’ve been sleeping for more than fourteen hours?” she asked, unable to believe it.
“You experienced a traumatic event last night and suffered a mild concussion,” the nurse explained. “You need your rest, and for the next few days you’ll have to take it easy.”
Dionne didn’t need rest; she needed a stiff drink, something with a shot of Patrón in it. But she knew her serious, no-nonsense nurse would never honor her request. “I’m thirsty,” she said, touching her throat. “May I please get a cup of green tea?”
“Of course. Just let me check your vitals first. I wanted to do it earlier, at the start of my shift, but you were sleeping soundly and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You need your privacy,” Immanuel said. “I’ll wait outside.”
No. Dionne opened her mouth to ask him to stay, but he was gone in the blink of an eye.
* * *
“Why did you fight back?” Detective Sluggs asked with a bewildered expression on his fat, fleshy face. “You could have been kidnapped, or worse, killed.”
“No, he could have been killed, because I wasn’t going down without a fight.”
The emergency room doctor, a twentysomething brunette with Prada eyeglasses, scrunched up her nose. “I see cases like this every day, and it always amazes me that people are willing to risk their lives over something as trivial as a car.”
“It’s not about the car,” Dionne shot back, annoyed that they were giving her a hard time about the choices she’d made last night. “I work hard for the things I have, and no one has the right to take them from me. That’s why I fought back.”
&n
bsp; The doctor and the detective had entered her room ten minutes earlier, just as she was finishing lunch. But five minutes into the interview Dionne had already decided she didn’t like either one of them, especially Detective Sluggs. He was curt and condescending, and his head was so shiny it looked as though it had been polished with Pledge. Dionne couldn’t wait for him to leave. She’d had a busy morning and needed to rest. With the help of her nurse, she’d called the credit card companies, requested her accounts be canceled, then called her parents. She didn’t tell them about the attack or that she was at the hospital, and had to cut the conversation short when her mom told her to make amends with Jules before their November court date.
“Fighting back only makes things worse,” Detective Sluggs said. “You should have given the mugger your purse, handed over your car keys, and gotten the hell out of the way.”
Dionne hit the veteran detective with a cold, dark stare. Why does Detective Sluggs have to be such a jerk? Why can’t he be sympathetic and understanding like Immanuel? Taking a deep breath, she asked the question burning the tip of her tongue. “Is that the kind of advice you give your wife?”
“I’m not married.”
Why am I not surprised? Of course you’re single. You’re a chauvinist pig, just like my ex.
“If you had cooperated with the perp, you wouldn’t have been hurt,” he continued, his tone thick with condemnation. “Next time you’re tempted to do something heroic, don’t, because it could cost you your life. A lot of these criminals are addicts, and the last thing you want to do is antagonize someone high on crack or crystal meth.”
“Detective Sluggs is right,” the doctor agreed, fervently nodding her head. “It’s better to lose your car than to be beaten in the streets.”
Dionne hung her head, stared down at her hands. Were they right? Had she acted reckless last night? Tears rolled down her cheeks, splashed onto her cheap blue hospital gown. But when Dionne heard Immanuel’s voice in her head, she slapped them away.