by Alexa Hart
Carl shakes his head. “I’m just saying if you die doing something stupid, who’s going to hire me to head their security? I have my future to think about.”
“I’m going,” I say.
“I can see that,” Carl replies. “That doesn’t mean you have to go in blind.”
“What do you propose?” I ask.
“I come along. We take the Town Car,” Carl says. “I’ll call in Paul as the driver.”
“I can’t fucking show up in Southie in a Town Car with a chauffeur.”
“Why not? They know your net worth. It’s in all the papers. It’s not like it’s a stretch limo or a fucking Hummer.”
I shake my head.
“Or I could deliver it for you,” Carl says. He picks up the music box. “Nobody in South Boston is trying to murder me. Last I checked, anyway.”
I stand up, buttoning my suit coat and walking around the desk to take the music box from Carl’s hand. “We’ll take the fucking Town Car. What about Lily?”
“I’ve got Justin and Trent picking her up from school and taking her to tutoring and dance, then straight back home. Aster’s going to watch her until Hans takes over at 7.”
“Any luck finding a new nanny yet?” I ask.
“I’m your security chief, not your personal assistant,” Carl says. I frown at him. “But I heard from Aster that she’ll do some interviews tomorrow and give me some names for security checks. She’ll have someone steady again soon.”
“Good,” I frown. My nine-year-old’s last nanny had great credentials, but she couldn’t get Lily to talk past monosyllables. Pretty much nobody these days can get Lily to talk. I’m almost at my wit’s end trying to figure out what will finally bring her out of her shell.
She was so young when her mother died. They didn’t have much time together, but I can’t help but think that Angelina would know exactly what she needs right now, what I haven’t been able to figure out on my own. I feel an inward stab of pain at my responsibility for her silence. She’s never really gotten to have the life she deserves, the love of her mother. And one day, when she’s old enough to understand that Charles Finch was targeting me and Angelina was just collateral damage, she’ll likely not forgive me.
Chapter 8
Hannah
As a favor for Joey, I came in early and worked the afternoon shift at The Spotted Owl. So now, instead of dragging myself home at 2 a.m., I find myself happily off the clock by 5 p.m. Happily may be a bit of an overstatement. Ever since my little fling three days ago, I haven’t been myself. On top of everything else, I missed a dose of my birth control the day after my completely irresponsible, devastatingly delicious hook up. I’ve never been that careless before.
Kiki knows something is up, she can practically smell it on me, but I can’t tell her what happened because then I’ll have to admit that she was right about the men around here. I should have stayed away from him.
As I walk home with Samson trotting behind me securely on a leash (because I will not be letting him lead me to any more handsome men in alleys who turn out to be music box thieves) I feel pretty good about not breaking anything at the bar today. I even got almost every order right, except for the lady who ordered a Screwdriver and I made her a Rusty Nail, but at least they are both drinks with handyman themes, so I’ll consider that a win. That’s what I told Joey anyway when the woman refused to pay.
I’m feeling pretty good all around, as long as I keep my mind from wandering back to the sexy douche bag that shall not be named (mostly because I don’t know his name, but that’s not the point). I just need to refocus on the plan. Earn money, pay off debt, figure out a new dream now that dancing is over, and most importantly, give up men forever.
I’m just coming up to the entrance of my apartment when I notice my door is slightly ajar. The idiot in me actually thinks the door is open because my landlord is finally fixing it. It’s not until I get right to the front door of my apartment and see it is half off its hinges that I know something is very, very wrong.
The first things I see are the glass and ceramic fragments of the music boxes on the ground. All of the music boxes are completely smashed up. My mattress has been sliced open, the kitchen cabinets emptied and every piece of furniture is overturned. The place hasn’t just been ransacked, it’s been decimated. Even Kiki’s paintings. I step through the detritus and hurry over to the ridiculous painting of Samson. Someone’s sliced right through the middle of it.
My mom’s death last year was slow and painful. Cancer stole her from me little by little, bit by bit. I always felt I had to be strong for her, and then strong for me. I didn’t have anyone, no other family, and my asshole father certainly wasn’t in the picture. I had to handle it all on my own. First her illness, then the insane financial burden of trying to get her the best medical treatment available and finally coming to terms with being left completely alone in the world. So I’d never really cried once she was gone. But now, using my hands to try to fit the sliced canvas of this idiotic painting of Samson back together, I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. Whoever did this wasn’t just trying to rob me, they were trying to hurt me. As I sink to the floor in the living room, I am forced to admit that they had succeeded.
Then I hear a familiar, gravelly voice behind me.
“Hannah, Jesus, are you okay?” The unbelievably masculine voice says my name with a tenderness I didn’t know I needed to hear. I didn’t even think he knew my name.
I turn around and there he is. Despite my best efforts over the last few days, I never stopped thinking about him, and my body never stopped yearning for him. I immediately feel compelled to stand up and move toward him. I am too shocked by everything that has happened to fully register that he’s not in jeans and a t-shirt this time, but instead a very expensive looking, well-tailored suit. Another man stands behind him in sunglasses, a black suit, and one of those white squiggly earpieces tucked in his ear.
“Did you? Did you do this?” I stutter.
“What?” For a moment his cool façade cracks and he looks hurt at the accusation. But as quickly as it came down, I see the aloof wall go back up.
“No. I came back to….” he holds out the music box. “I came back to return it.”
I stare at the repaired music box. “I don’t understand. I thought you stole it,” I say.
“No. I didn’t steal it,” he says. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“Okay,” I nod. “You really fixed it for me?”
“You’re shaking,” he says, noticing my trembling hands.
“Yeah, no shit. Somebody went full destruction mode on my place. Who does that? I mean, I know the painting of Samson is silly, but it wasn’t doing any harm. And they smashed up all the other music boxes. Why?”
He takes the music box from my hands and sets it down. Then to my surprise, he draws me into his arms and holds me tight. I melt, swear to God, right into his body as if I was born to fit inside his arms. It feels so good to be held by such strength and warmth. I want to pull away, but I can’t.
I mumble into his chest, “I’m only letting you be nice to me because I’m really upset right now. You are still a jerk who left without saying goodbye.”
“Duly noted,” he nods and gently peels me from his chest leading me to the same kitchen chair where we only recently had sex. I blush as I sit down and the smirk on his face says that he knows exactly where my mind has gone. Apparently, even in crisis-mode, my body still stays laser-focused on his.
“How about a drink?” He asks, opening a cupboard. “Carl will take a look around.”
“Who is Carl?” I ask.
“He’s a member of my team,” the man says. He nods at Carl and Carl begins to move around the apartment, investigating and looking at the damage.
“I...um….tossed the rest of the bourbon,” I say. He raises an eyebrow. “And I didn’t take you as a team player,” I say. “More of a lone wolf. You seem to like to come and go a
s you please.”
The man sits down next to me and focuses his gaze directly at me. His eyes, often hard and cold, always look at me with warmth.
“I’m the boss of the team. So, we’re both right I guess,” he says.
“So you’re like a wolf boss?” I ask. “Since I don’t know your name, is that what I should call you? Wolf Boss,” I smile at my lame joke. Then something dawns on me. “Wait. You knew my name?”
“I did.”
I look at him in expectation but he neither explains nor offers his own name in response. “So you aren’t going to tell me yours? Are you...” I glance at his hand but don’t see a wedding ring. Men are clever though. “Are you married? Please tell me you didn’t turn me into an adulterer. That is so not my scene.”
He frowns. “Not married. Anymore,” he shrugs. “Widowed.”
“Oh,” I say. I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I’m really sorry.”
He extracts his hand from mine, but not before Carl sees us. Carl gives him a nod and the two of them step outside the apartment and talk in low whispers. When they come back in, they seem much more focused.
“You’re going to need to come with us, Hannah,” the man says. “Neither of us think you’re safe here.”
“Um, while I agree with your general assessment of non-safeness, I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ll call my friend Kiki. And the police, obviously.”
“No police,” the man says.
“What is with you and authority figures?” I growl. “I got robbed. I’m calling the police.”
“This wasn’t a robbery,” the man says. “They left jewelry and cash. No. This was a message.”
For a moment I consider my father. We haven’t spoken since my mother’s death, but it’s not like we had a great relationship before that. He is easily the biggest scumbag I know, but I don’t think he would stoop this low just because I refuse to speak to him.
“That doesn’t make sense. If they were sending a message, then what, pray tell, were they trying to tell me?” I ask, hands on my hips. “What, just that they are mean idiots who don’t like art?!”
“The message wasn’t for you,” he frowns. He glances back at the man in the sunglasses. “We think the message was intended for me. I’m afraid someone might think you are valuable to me.”
“Ha,” I laugh angrily. I’ve forgotten all the warmth of a moment before because this man is infuriating. What kind of ego must he have to jump to that conclusion? “You should have told them how you snuck out of here while I was asleep and before I even knew your name, which I still don’t because you are either super dense or just a world-class asshole. Maybe both. That’s not exactly the way one usually treats a coveted treasure.”
“I left that way because I didn’t want you to be in danger,” he growls back at me.
“So it was for my benefit?” I laugh and step closer, glaring up at him. “How chivalrous.”
Carl clears his throat and we both snap out of it, realizing how dangerously close we are to each other. I know my anger at him is just masking the fear I feel about the break-in and the fear I feel about him. A need I’m not quite ready to admit I have. I’m as scared to leave with him as I am for him to disappear again, whenever he decides to. I take a step back.
“Who the hell are you to make people want to threaten you like this anyway?” I ask. “And I’ve known some important people so I’m not a total idiot when it comes to power games.”
Carl nods at the man again and points to his watch. “We should hurry, sir.”
“Right.” He turns back to me, ignoring my earlier protests. “Pack up a bag and let’s go,” he says in a cool, professional tone that tells me he is used to getting what he wants. “I’ve got someone I need to meet and she hates when I’m late.”
Unbelievable! I swallow down my anger. “While I don’t want to cramp your healthy dating life, I’m not so good at taking orders,” I say. I sit down on a kitchen chair, cross my arms, and refuse to move. I know I’m acting like a child, but I honestly have no idea what to do. Samson just whimpers.
“Hannah, enough. I don’t have time for games. You aren’t safe here,” he says. “That should be obvious.”
“What’s obvious is that I am not safe with you!” I growl back. “And you won’t even tell me your name. You are the one playing games.” I turn to Carl. “Carl, let me ask you, as a security professional, how wise would it be for me to just pack a bag and take off with you two without even knowing this man’s name? Without even knowing if either of you can be trusted? That feels as obviously foolish as staying in this apartment after finding it ransacked. In your professional opinion, is that what you think I should do, Carl?”
Carl glances at the man. I continue, “Don’t worry about your boss. This is purely hypothetical. I’m asking for a friend who recently made the bad decision to rescue an injured man from near death in a dark alley.”
Carl clears his throat and turns to the man, who is looking downright pissed. I have a small glint of satisfaction at getting under his skin as much as he gets under mine.
“Okay,” the man says through gritted teeth. “If I tell you who I am, will you come with me so we can keep you safe?”
“Depends on who you are,” I say. “We still haven’t ruled out the possibility that you’re a serial killer.”
Carl chuckles. “She really doesn’t know?”
“Know what?” I ask.
The man pulls out a phone and types something in before handing it to me. “I’d show you my driver’s license, but whoever attacked me that night also stole my wallet,” he says. “Probably the same dirtbag who tossed your apartment.”
I scroll through the phone. He’s pulled up a search for Dax Hardin. “So what?” I say. “You work for Dax Hardin? Guess what, technically so do I! So does half of Boston!”
“Hit the image button,” he growls.
I do. As the grid of images pops up on the screen, every one of them of the same handsome man who also happens to be glaring down at me, I nearly drop the phone. As I scroll through the pictures, I begin to make the connections. He showed up once looking like a local and showed up this time with a security detail and an expensive suit. A bad boy who made good.
He takes the phone from my hand and looks me in the eyes. They are piercing and honest and strangely vulnerable like he is worried about what I’ll think of him now. I understand. If I told him that I’m Charles Finch’s daughter, especially now that I know he’s Dax Hardin, I’d be giving him the same look.
I don’t want this man to hate me. I’ve heard what he does to his enemies.
He clears his throat. “You get it now? I don’t work for Dax Hardin. I am Dax Hardin. Now you know why you’re in trouble. And why I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”
Chapter 9
Hannah
As we pile into the car, my mind keeps turning the same thought over and over... he’s Dax Hardin. On one hand, knowing his true identity alone answers so many of the burning questions I’ve had over the past few days, but on the other hand, knowing who he is just leaves me with a million more questions. Questions he doesn’t seem interested in answering.
He makes me sit in the front of the Town Car with the driver, some big bulky guy named Paul, and he and Carl get in the back where they basically ignore me and talk in low whispers. I guess, somehow his attack and the utter trashing of my apartment are related, and although I have no idea what’s going on I do know that if the rumors about Dax Hardin are true, he’s not going to let this go. Whoever did this is either really stupid or really, really stupid.
I try to ask a few questions about where we are going, but I don’t get more than a cold nod. I clutch the one unbroken music box in my hand and feel a small amount of comfort, but not much. Dax gave me a little time to pack a bag before we left, but I wasn’t able to gather much since my apartment had basically been turned into a warzone. He promised to send a man back to see what else could be salvaged. My c
lothes don’t really matter to me though, they are all remnants of a life I gave up, and frankly, most of what I own doesn’t really suit South Boston. The music box is enough.
From my quiet spot in the front seat I text Kiki a little white lie about having a plumbing issue at the apartment and tell her that I’m staying with an old friend while it gets sorted out. Dax said he would take care of Joey and make sure I’d still have a job when all of this is over, but I have a feeling Joey won’t be too disappointed to not have to deal with me for a while.
As we drive, I scratch Samson under his chin. He’s as grumpy as I am because although he’s sitting on my lap in the front seat of a moving car, Carl and Dax refuse to let me roll down the window so he can stick his head out. As Dax said, what’s the use of bulletproof glass if you roll the thing down? While he has a point, that reasoning doesn’t stop Samson from pouting, and maybe out of sympathy, or a little anxiety, I give Samson some extra ear scratches as we drive, to make up for it.
We leave South Boston behind and before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of a tall, stunning skyscraper, the Century Tower. I have to crane my neck just to see the entire expanse of metal and glass. There aren’t many of these luxury skyscrapers in Boston, and this one is at least 60 floors tall. I still remember when it was built. My father had been furious. He’d lost out on the contract to some startup and I remember reading about the bad blood between him and the new company. And then something occurs to me.
“Is this your building?” I ask as I climb out of the car and follow Dax and Carl into the lobby. A concierge nods at both men as they cross the marble floor and head toward the sleek elevator. “I mean, did you build this?”
Dax nods. “This is one of my early projects,” he says. “I live here too.” He glances at me and frowns. I have a feeling he expected more of a reaction but wealth has never meant more than power games to me. At least I’m finally starting to understand why he and my father hate each other.