The Nightingale Trilogy: An Alpha Billionaire Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Dane

  Changed for the better? God, she hoped so.

  “Okay, what the hell does offsides mean?” She asked him this three times, but over the rabble of the other people around them, Vincent never heard her. When she tugged on his sweatshirt sleeve, he brought her into a hug, as if that’s what she wanted. Eventually, Nala remembered that she could look things up on her phone. She quickly became one of those terrible people who spent more time staring at her phone than staring at the game. Then again, in her defense, she was researching soccer stuff!

  I only know “we’re” winning because the score is in our favor. She knew that scoring goals got points. The other nuances of the game, however, were completely lost on her. It took her about an hour, but she finally realized that understanding the game didn’t matter. It was more about spending time with Vincent, the man she was slowly starting to consider her boyfriend. Not a fake boyfriend, either. A real boyfriend.

  She gazed at his profile as he cheered for his team. There was so much renewed energy in him that Nala was a little scared. Was this what he was like before Desirée’s death? Was this the Vincent that woman knew? Nala had never met him before. When she curled her hand over his knee and he barely noticed, that somehow made her happy.

  Nala looked around the audience, seeing the usual suspects. Groups of buddies going all out with their cheering. School kids making the most out of their youth. Older people, younger people. Men and women. Men and women together. Oh, hell, women and women, men and men. This is a huge date spot. Obviously, Vincent enjoyed the game for what it was – he also came here often, it seemed. But did he often bring dates here? Or was Nala that special?

  He said he hadn’t really been with a woman since Desirée. Sex, yes. Anything beyond that? Not likely.

  Nala remained seated for the whole game, which let out while the sun was still out and people were going about their days. Even after the game ended, she stayed curled next to Vincent, wrapping her hand in his and watching the world go by. People on either side of them left. The field cleared. The sun came out again, illuminating this enclosed world in endless light. Nala let her hair loose across her shoulders, and Vincent raised his hood enough to cover the back of his neck from the blaring sunlight. Someone burns easily. Was he sure he was Californian?

  “What do you want to do now?” Vincent asked, once it was clear enough for them to make their escape. “Bookstore?”

  “Sure.”

  Still holding hands, they walked out of the stadium, heading toward their parking space and silently praying that nobody had broken into Vincent’s car. Thankfully, it remained untouched, and most of the cars around it had left. That didn’t mean traffic was any better, however. They sat for a while, watching cars and trucks go by, departing from the game and going elsewhere. People who lived in the area could walk. Others who lived by the Streetcar or on the MAX or other nearby lines could take those and avoid too much congestion.

  The sad thing was the bookstore wasn’t even that far away. The sadder thing was that trying to find parking in the area was like looking for a tie on Vincent’s person. While Vincent muttered under his breath, swinging laps around the same blocks over and over, Nala rolled down her window and soaked in the warm sunshine, watching people wander around enjoying their days.

  There was something blessedly normal about this day. She hadn’t felt this kind of reassurance since before Tasha’s death. Back when she was in a relationship with her ex. Back when she could feel relatively safe stepping out of her house and then coming back home later. Such days seemed so far away now.

  No. They’re right here. Danger lurked everywhere now. Nala knew that the world wasn’t as good as it used to be. People died. Others were born, but the odds of her getting to know them well enough for it to matter were slim, especially at this point in her life.

  The only reason she felt this way was because of Vincent, who finally found a parking space near the park and signaled for Nala to get out. They walked side by side toward the bookstore, the man checking for his wallet and Nala following suit. I wish every day could feel like today. Perhaps when it became sunny in the summer again, however many months away that was. For now, Nala was content to be secure in her jeans and sweatshirt, walking twice as fast as Vincent to keep up with his strides and hardly breaking a sweat.

  Powell’s World of Books boasted to be the largest indie bookstore in the world. Nala didn’t know how true that was, as she had barely been to any indie bookstores in her life, let alone around the world, but the building took up its own city block and had multiple stories. The one time Nala had been in here before, she remembered rooms of various colors and carrying all sorts of fiction and nonfiction goodies. Right after a ball game – and on a sunny day no less – the place was packed with families, couples, and singles scoping out the wares as if they would never have the chance to again. For some of the tourists, that was probably true.

  “Where the hell do we even begin?” Nala asked, standing in the opening foyer with her eyes scanning maps on the wall. Not maps of Portland. Maps of the store! “Do you know what you want to look for.”

  “Sure. Why don’t we reconvene in an hour?”

  “What?”

  “It’s awfully crowded to look together, and I’m sure you want to look at different things from me. So let’s split up for now and meet up again later and compare notes. Or books, in this case.” He smiled at her. “Pick up whatever you want. It’s my treat.”

  Vincent went on ahead, going a hard right while Nala was left to be pushed by more people coming into the store behind her. Where do I start? As a woman who didn’t read as much as she should, and didn’t have anything in particular she wanted to find, all she could think to do was start from the beginning and make her way through.

  She started in the cookbooks. Cookbooks from all around the world, from Japanese to Thai, from Brazilian to Latvian. Nala fingered the worn out spine of an old Russian cookbook. Eventually she pulled it out and flipped through, wondering if she could find some of the dishes her mother used to make. Sure enough, after wracking her brain to remember what her favorites were called in the mother tongue, she found some easy enough recipes she could possibly try. I wonder if Vincent would like any of these. He would probably find the dishes Yulia made too bland for his Californian tastes. Luckily for him, Russian food boasted a lot of spices and dishes too sour to handle as well.

  I don’t cook much, but… The man had cooked for her. Maybe Nala should give it a try too. What am I doing? Thinking I’m Suzy Homemaker for that guy… Would he appreciate a home cooked meal? The guy probably hadn’t had one since he last visited his mother.

  Nala continued to stare at a page in the cookbook, but she wasn’t reading it. Instead, she realized that she knew nothing about Vincent’s personal life. Nothing about his family, other than he had a mother. She never heard him mention a father. Did he have siblings? Nala couldn’t remember if he said anything about that or not. Surely he had cousins. Old friends from school? New friends in Portland? He didn’t live a completely solitary life, did he?

  Nala held the book to her chest and went down the next aisle, eventually looping into the next room that was apparently a children’s and YA section. Nala scanned the pretty book covers before braving a horde of kids as she veered into the literature section.

  I haven’t read anything substantial in so long. Once again, she didn’t know where to begin. Aisles opened up before her. Letters passed by, signaling where one author ended and another began. She had her pick. Western literature. Translated literature. Books by men long dead and books by women having their voices heard for the first time. Books by white people talking about Asian life. Books by black people discussing daily life in 1400s Italy. Books by East Asians and South Asians about everything under the sun. There were authors Nala heard of a million times over but never read. Then there were authors she never heard of but was sure were great.

  She didn’t like to do it, but Nala went the “judge a book
by its cover” route. She picked ones with bright colors and read their blurbs. Most she put back again. Every once in a while, however, she found one that piqued her interest and made her carry them around like precious possessions. Eventually a volunteer offered her a basket to carry everything in.

  The hour wore on with Nala meandering upstairs and discovering books about philosophy, religion, travel, music, and anything she could ever dream of. She knew nothing about these subjects. All she did know was that her knowledge seriously lacked in so many areas. Is this because I didn’t go to college? She knew she was still young, but it seemed like there were so many things to learn out there. Suddenly, Nala imagined herself making a career out of being a student. Traveling the world. Learning how to write code like Vincent. Learning to play an instrument. I wanna learn how to play guitar! She picked up a book showing beginners how to mind their frets and strums. I wanna go to China someday! She picked up a book about Shanghai and the fun things to do there. Ooh, what’s flower arranging? This place was dangerous.

  The farther back she went, the more adult certain things became. Nothing was held back behind glass – unless it was that old or valuable – so when Nala came face to face with “BDSM lifestyle” books, she nearly dropped her small basket and begged for a Dom’s mercy.

  They write books about this stuff? Apparently it was more mainstream than she ever thought. Nala looked to her left, then her right, making sure no stupid stranger judged her while she plucked two random books off the shelf and shoved them at the bottom of her basket. As if he were a mind reader, Vincent chose that moment to text her.

  “I’m in the café. Come join me when you’re done.”

  Nala tried to lift her basket and found it a good fifteen pounds. Guess I’m done. Now, where was the café? She wished she had grabbed one of those maps when she had the chance.

  When she did find the café, she was greeted with the smell of coffee, tea, and so many sweets she could barely stand it. The place was also packed. Tables nestled between shelves of comic books and romance novels – because those were totally the same thing. Hm. Maybe to me they are. Nala looked around the room, assuming that Vincent would be easy to find. Except a tall guy in jeans and a sweatshirt blended in like smoke on a cloudy day. She couldn’t throw a book from her basket and not give a guy like that a concussion.

  Naturally, she did find him before the sun could go too far down to see in the spacious room. Vincent sat with his back to her, along the window, a stack of books in front of him as he flipped through one book with his right hand and fiddled with his phone with the left.

  Nala almost ran up to him, but there was something… tugging at her. As if she were at the end of a string, and someone was at the other end yanking for dear life. Except she didn’t move anywhere. She was trapped where she stood, left gawking at this gorgeous man who was at a soccer game one minute and now flipping through books the next. The same man who had seen her cry. The same man who had shown her a chasm of stars.

  She put her basket down before resting a tender hand on his shoulder. Vincent glanced at her, smiled, and went back to his book. Strange formulas and what looked like programming code flashed before Nala’s eyes. Of course he was.

  “Anything good?” she asked, pulling out the chair next to him. “I’m dying to know what a guy like you looks at.”

  He backed away from his book and let her take a better gander. “You know Java?”

  “Coffee?”

  “Not quite.”

  Nala pretended to be fascinated by the lines of code demonstrated in the book. “You should teach me some of this. We’ve got some good scientists in my family. You never know. I might be one too, and I never realized my potential due to shoddy teachers and little drive.”

  “It’s not that complicated. Of course, I can say that because I understand it. To someone who doesn’t think like this, it’s an encrypted language.” Vincent barely had those words out of his mouth before he started snorting. Those snorts shortly turned into laughter. “Encrypted language… I crack myself up.”

  I don’t get it. Nala figured she didn’t have to. “Whatever. Look at this bible I got.”

  Vincent looked at her as if she were being literal. Not quite. She plopped down the cookbook and pointed to a picture of soup on the cover. “My mom used to make me that when I was sick. You’d hate it. Really bland.”

  “Are you going to cook for me?”

  “Cook for you? You’ll be lucky if you get the leftovers I make for myself.”

  “I made you bacon and eggs…”

  Nala nudged his shoulder with her own. “What else did you get?” She squinted at the spines in front of them. More coding books. A biography about some tech giant. He’s probably met him. Another book about Apple and Steve Jobs. Probably met him too. The only thing in that stack not tech related was a John Steinbeck novel. That seemed… hilariously ironic, given Vincent’s status in life.

  He caught her looking at it. “It’s good to be reminded of what people went through and what they still go through today.”

  “So I see.”

  “What did you get besides a book of food you’re going to make me?” Vincent started to dig through Nala’s basket. “Traveling, are we? Say the word and I’ll take you to Beijing. I have…”

  “Connections there, I’m sure.”

  “Why, of course. I’m glad you’re realizing what goes on around here.”

  Nala rolled her eyes. She smacked his hand away before he could dig too far into her basket. I’ve got naughty stuff in there, Mr. Lane. “Go back to your funny formula books and make me enough money so I can buy these ingredients. Did you know there’s a recipe in here that calls for seventy eggs?”

  “Holy chickens. Think of the cholesterol.”

  “I dare not.”

  Vincent pulled out his wallet and slipped her a ten. “Get yourself something from the counter and get me another one of these.” He shook his empty coffee cup. “Would you, please?”

  Nala made a grand show of getting up and taking his money. She folded up the precious Hamilton and stuffed it in her sweatshirt pocket, smacking her lips before pushing through the throng of people huddling around tables and dithering about what to order from the café menu.

  Today isn’t so bad. Nala was almost able to forget what lurked behind the shadows when she wasn’t careful. It was nice to be among normal people for once. To be on a date with her… boyfriend.

  Her heart warmed at the thought. She pulled out Vincent’s money and smiled at how easily it slipped through her fingers before being caught again. That looks good. There was a blueberry scone in the case that had their names on it. When she reached the register, Nala ordered herself a latte, Vincent a coffee, and got the scone for the both of them.

  While she waited for her order to be thrown together, she perused the nearby romance and erotica section, wondering if any of the women in those stories had lives as fantastic as hers. If I’m doing better than a romance heroine, then the world has some explaining to do. Then again… she snatched a BDSM romance off the shelf and barely had time to glance it over before they called her order up front.

  “What’s that you have there?” Vincent asked when she returned.

  “Blueberry scone. I figured the marionberry one was too much for you Californians.”

  “Ha ha, I mean the other thing.” Vincent took his coffee and gingerly placed it next to his book. “I didn’t know you read romance.”

  “Neither did I. I’m discovering all sorts of things about myself today.” Nala briefly showed him the salacious cover before taking it back into her possession. “You wouldn’t understand this though. The hero of this book is probably a lot nicer than you.”

  “Nicer? Nala, you ever read one of these books before? The heroes are anything but nice. They’re usually pretty rough with their heroines.”

  “Ooh. Rough. Don’t you know that I like it rough?”

  A hint of darkness crossed Vincent’s face.
“I have found that out a time or two.”

  Nala tried to keep smiling through this strange look of his, but eventually found herself shaking in her hoodie. Okay, so that’s how it is right now… Vincent the Dom was alive and well in there. Nala put her romance book in the basket and pretended to be more fascinated with her latte and scone. The scone she kept trying to feed the man who owned Nightingale.

  Wait, if Nightingale is his girlfriend, then who am I? She really needed to stop asking herself these things.

  The hour they spent sitting together in front of that bright window, perusing their books and deciding which ones to keep and which ones to put back, was almost too simple in its comforting beauty. Nala only got up once to use the bathroom, a good two stories above her head and too busy to be done with quickly.

  When she returned, sauntering into the café as if she owned the place, she found Vincent anything but alone.

  Chapter 12

  Oh, hell no.

  In Nala’s seat, which was still clearly marked with her basket of books and half-consumed latte, was a sweet looking brunette tossing her bob about as she batted her eyelashes at Vincent. The man in question leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach as he took in the woman’s words with a shit-eating grin. This piece of…

  It was obvious that this strange woman was attempting to flirt with Vincent. Why? He was a good looking guy, but there were a lot of good looking guys in that room. Was he the only one who reeked of money? Nala couldn’t tell that. She didn’t know what money smelled like, outside of Vincent’s expensive cologne. The only thing she knew was that her Vincent currently had some bobble-headed hussy flirting with him.

  She knew it was flirting. That much she was sure of. The woman’s fake smile basically screamed for Vincent to fuck her. The way she kept extending her hand to touch the top of his would’ve been hilarious if Nala weren’t somehow involved. This was a mating ritual she often made fun of when witnessing it out in the wild. Except now she was the doe being tossed out of the back of the hunter’s truck in favor of a bigger one. OH HELL NO.