The Princess

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  He shoots a picture of it. “I’m texting this to Royce, from our team, who is ex-FBI and well-connected there. I’ll have answers for you in about ten minutes.” He types a message and sends the photo and then hands me the card.

  Eric grabs it and studies it a minute. “What do you want to do right now?” Savage asks. “Stay or go?”

  Eric shoves the card into his pocket and turns to me again, his hands on my shoulders. “We go. We’ll have Walker deal with the police and our reasons for leaving.”

  “If they come to the apartment doesn’t that bring attention to you by way of bad press that bleeds over to Grayson?”

  His lips thin. “We aren’t staying. We need to regroup.” He eyes Savage and the other man nods and makes a call before he says, “I have men waiting to escort us out when you’re ready to leave.”

  “What about Davis, Mia, and Grayson?” I ask.

  “We have a man with them now,” Savage assures us. “We’ll escort them out of here and stay with them at their homes.”

  Smith appears right then, and in a few seconds, he’s taken up a position behind us while Savage leads the way. Eric keeps me close the entire walk to the elevator, and even inside the elevator car, he uses his big body as a shield. He’s afraid of an attack. This man is willing to take a bullet for me. That understanding for me is as good as another proclamation of love, because, yes, he’s an ex-SEAL. Yes, he’s lived to protect the innocent, but it’s more with us. There’s a history, a family he hates, and yet, he’s always been right here with me, even back on that first night. He warned me away from them. He kissed me and that memory reminded me every day after that there was more out there.

  We arrive at the rear door of the hospital and Savage clears the way before we exit. I climb into the backseat of the SUV with Eric by my side. No one is in the driver’s seat yet. We’re alone and once Eric seals us inside, his fingers tangle into my hair. “You were right earlier. We need to be alone. We need to breathe and we need to do it together.” His mouth closes down on mine, his kiss wicked and hungry, an edge to him that I understand. Not once, but twice now, he’s come to my rescue. Not once, but twice now, I could have died. I don’t know why this hasn’t affected me yet. I don’t know why it hasn’t shaken me to the core, but it has him. I feel that in the way his hand presses between my shoulder blades, molding me close. I feel it in the desperate edge to his kiss.

  He’s touching me and I’m touching him and it’s as if this vehicle doesn’t exist. I need him. God, how I need him and my hands slide under his shirt, over warm taut skin, when there’s a rap on the window. Eric curses and drags his mouth from mine, his fingers wiping away the dampness there. “Give me just a minute.”

  “Hurry,” I whisper, and somehow my hand is in his pocket closing around that business card I’d given him.

  He kisses me again and exits the SUV, shutting the door. I stare down at the card and scoot to a spot where the hospital lights beam down on the writing there. I run my hand over the name and I think again, yes, I was freaked out by that man, especially when he grabbed me but I wasn’t afraid in the way I was back in the warehouse. Maybe it was because people were around me and us. Maybe I felt safer; I felt that I had help nearby.

  The man’s words come back to me: Everything is not what it seems and if you don’t open your eyes, and see with them, your stepfather won’t be the only one in the hospital.

  Open my eyes and see with them. As if there’s something staring me in the face that I’m ignoring. I flip the card over and my eyes go wide. There’s another code on the back, another message. He obviously meant for me to have it, but why not just tell me what it means? Why not just tell me what I need to open my eyes and see?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Harper

  I don’t move. I sit there in the SUV, the heater cranked, the soft leather hugging my body, all signaling warmth and comfort, but the card in my hands sends a chill down my spin. No matter what the message on the back of the card means, it spells danger. I stare down at it and read the numbers and letter sequence, trying to find an answer there. The first clue was given to Eric at my house. Now this one was given directly to me. Even I, who am not a savant, can see myself as the common denominator. And that man, the FBI consultant, or whoever he was, told me to open my eyes, as if the answer to some big question is right in front of me. As if I should understand the message. Frustrated, I’m impatient for Eric to return to the vehicle.

  I open the door to my right and shove the card into my jacket pocket, aware that we are likely being watched and I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve already discovered the message on the card. The minute I step outside, I find Eric standing a few feet away, not with Savage as I expect, but with Blake, who I didn’t even know was here, but the two of them together are exactly the pair I need right now.

  Blake to hack the code with a computer.

  Eric to hack the code with his mind.

  The instant I step onto the curb, the attention of both men shifts to me, their attention sharp, disapproving. They want to shove me back in the SUV. Eric even sways my direction, but I hold up a hand and start walking toward them.

  “The card the man gave me,” I say without preamble as I join them. “I grabbed it from your pocket and I was looking at it.” I shift my gaze between both men. “It had another message on the back. The same kind of message we received back in Denver. Just numbers and letters. I don’t want to show you here and risk someone knowing that we’ve seen the message. It seems like it buys us time to figure it out before they expect some sort of action.”

  They, I think.

  Who are they?

  We need to find out.

  “Good decision,” Blake approves, “because while we have to assume the man who gave you that card was an enemy, with this new development, is there a chance that he’s actually an informant or friend?”

  “The man grabbed her and threatened her,” Eric snaps, and apparently just the idea requires that his hand slide around my waist as he pulls me to him. “He’s an enemy. The end.”

  “I guess that means he wasn’t FBI?” I ask.

  “You guessed right,” Blake confirms. “No one at the FBI knows him.”

  “And on that note,” Eric says. “I’m taking her back to the vehicle. I don’t want her out in the open until we figure out what the hell is going on.”

  He doesn’t wait for Blake’s approval. He starts to turn. “I need a copy of the message,” Blake calls out. Eric doesn’t stop moving. He simply lifts an agreeable hand and leads me back to the vehicle, his actions protective, possessive. He places me between him and the SUV and then opens the door, his body once again sheltering mine, but I fear for him, not me. That’s just it. I’m not scared and maybe that’s some mental coping mechanism, a way to block out my warehouse attack. Mia wasn’t wrong. Eventually, I’m certain I’ll have to face that trauma, but that time isn’t now.

  I settle into the soft leather of the backseat again and this time when Eric enters, we aren’t left alone. Savage joins us almost immediately. “Home?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Eric replies. “The sooner the better.”

  Savage places us in motion. “Where’s the card?” Eric asks, but before I can respond his cellphone buzzes with a text.

  He snakes it from his pocket, eyes the screen as another message pings, and then glances at me. “Adam had to get a doctor in to calm your mother down. She’s worried about my father. They gave her Xanax and she’s sleeping.”

  It’s then that I step back and realize the hell my mother must be going through. “She lost my father,” I say, my hand settling on my knotted belly, “and I’ve forgotten that to her, this is her worst nightmare. She’s preparing to lose the man who became her second partner in life. I’ve forgotten how much your father means to her.” I look at Eric. “She needs me and I’ve let the poison of this family allow me to forget that.”

  E
ric squeezes my knee. “You’re protecting her. We’re protecting her. Every time you get the chance, you remind me how important protecting her is to you.”

  “But I wasn’t there for her today. I didn’t—”

  “You were attacked and almost killed. That was less than twenty-four hours ago and even then, you were worried about her. You have not thought of yourself at all. She’s safe. The medication will help her cope and as a bonus, the sedation keeps her there with Adam.”

  “Adam’s a badass,” Savage chimes in. “This isn’t a bad thing. It’s good. He’ll keep her safe and cozy. They’re going to be so safe and cozy they’ll have cookies and cocoa when she wakes up. You can bet on it.”

  I know he’s trying to make me laugh. I do and I appreciate it, but it’s not going to work. Not when the magnitude of being hunted and forced into hiding has set in. Eric squeezes my knee again and when I don’t look at him, he leans into me, his cheek pressing to my cheek, his lips at my ear. “We’re going to get through this. We’re going to protect your mother.”

  “But not, I fear, without her suffering,” I whisper.

  He pulls back to look at me. “Then we’ll help her recover.” It’s not a sugarcoated reply. It doesn’t promise me everything is going to be peachy for my mother. She’s in love with his father, after all. No one knows more than Eric how much pain his father can cause. No one knows more than Eric that I can’t save her from some parts of this.

  He strokes a strand of my hair behind my ear, repeating his promise. “We’ll help her and we’ll do it together. You have my word.” His phone buzzes with another text message that he quickly attends to while I savor that word “together” and the raspy, affected tone he’d spoken it in, for just a few seconds longer.

  Seconds that end as Eric announces, “Isaac wants to talk.” He sticks his phone back in his pocket. “I’m going to let him squirm.”

  “What if squirming makes him do something stupid?”

  Savage chimes in on that one. “Adam will be there to kick his ass and stick a clown hat on him.”

  I blink. “A clown hat?”

  “Yeah,” Savage says pulling us to a halt in front of Eric’s building. “Issac would look really adorable in a clown hat.” He thankfully sets the bad joke aside to add, “Blake said he’s waiting on a text from you two.”

  Eric motions to my pocket. “The card. We need to shoot him a photo of the message on the back.”

  I hand it to him. He turns it over and when he would shoot a photo, he goes still, suddenly more stone than man. He’s just staring at that combination of numbers and letters, and while he’s not moving or reacting, I have a sense that it’s familiar to him and not in a good way. “What is it?” I ask, grabbing his arm. “What does that mean to you?”

  He doesn’t look at me. He shoots a photo and sends it to Blake, then sticks his phone and that card inside his pocket. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says, reaching for the door, and opening it. He actually gets out of the SUV and he’s yet to look at me. I’m right. He knows what that message means and it’s a problem for him. It’s a problem for us. A big enough one that he doesn’t want to tell me. Maybe he doesn’t plan to tell me at all, but that’s not going to fly. He’s going to tell me. He’s going to tell me the minute we’re alone, no matter what kind of new war him and I have to wage.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Harper

  Eric and I step into the elevator and Savage actually tries to follow us inside, but I’m not having it. I rotate on him and point. “No. I need to talk to Eric alone. Go take care of the truck or something.”

  “One of my men—”

  “You aren’t getting on this elevator, Savage,” I say.

  He holds up his hands and backs away. The doors shut and Eric keys in the security code to his floor. I rotate to face him. He stares down at me, his eyes hooded, shielding him from my probing stare, and I don’t believe this is an accident.

  “I know you know what it means.” It’s all I say, all I can say about the message on the back of the business card when I’m certain that we’re being recorded.

  His hands come down on my arms and he pulls me to him. “Not here. Not now.” His voice is low, rough, an edge to him now that is one-part power, one-part anger, and I’m not sure why.

  I rest my palm on the hard wall of his chest, and his heart thunders under my touch. He might seem cool and calm on the outside, but he’s not. “You know what it means,” I whisper. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. He knows. I know he knows.

  “I know a lot of things,” he says. “None of which we’re discussing in this elevator.”

  My eyes narrow on him, on the hard lines of his face, the sharpness to his features I’ve never noticed until this moment. His defined cheekbones. His square jaw. His steely eyes. “Why are you angry?”

  “I have a lot of reasons to be angry, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, you have reasons, but this, this that you feel right now, is different.” The elevator halts and dings, announcing our arrival at our destination, while frustratingly cutting me off before I can press him for more, but it’s also the promise of privacy.

  The doors open and he takes my hand and starts walking with me, leading me down the hallway toward his apartment. We don’t speak, but I can almost feel Eric shutting himself off, caging himself in a place where I don’t exist. I’m right. He not only knows what that message means, he doesn’t want to tell me. We reach the door and I can’t get inside the privacy of his apartment soon enough. What does he know? Why is he this on edge?

  He unlocks the door and I quickly walk inside, rotating to face him. “Tell me that message isn’t about my mother.”

  “It’s not.” He shuts the door, locking it, and then shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coatrack a few feet away, and I get the impression that it’s all show. He’s avoiding me. He’s occupying space that he doesn’t want filled with something else.

  “That’s it?” I press. “You aren’t going to say anything else?”

  He faces me, his legs spread wide in this alpha, controlling stance, hands settling on his lean hips. “It’s not about your mother,” he repeats.

  He’s going to make me ask the question. He’s going to make me push. “Then what—”

  “It’s about me.” His statement is hard and flat, and it sits between us like a concrete block.

  “You?”

  He cuts his gaze, looks skyward, and then to my surprise, he walks away, heading toward the kitchen that connects to the living room.

  I shrug out of my jacket and hurry after him tossing it on the couch as I pass it by, and continue my pursuit. Eric rounds the island and opens the fridge. I’m standing with my hand on the island counter, facing him when he shuts the door and removes the cap off a beer. He offers it to me. “It’s a good time for a drink.”

  I don’t want the damn beer but I take it. He opens the fridge again and grabs another bottle, twisting off the top, as he had for me. Only this time, when the top is gone, he tips back the beer and downs half of it. I set mine down untouched. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

  He fixes me in a hooded stare, his handsome face all hard lines and shadows, as he orders softly, “Drink the beer, Harper.” He downs another swallow of his own.

  “I don’t want the beer.”

  He sets his bottle down with a solid thud, then closes the space between us, a predatory intensity about him, as he drags me to him. “Then what do you want?”

  “Answers. I want you to talk to me. I want you to—” He tangles rough fingers into my hair and drags my mouth to his.

  “No talking,” he commands. “Not now. Understand?”

  “No,” I whisper, his breath warm on my cheek, his body hard against mine. His cock thick against my belly. My sex clenches and my nipples ache. I want him, but this is a distraction. This is him avoiding conversation.

  “Eric, please—”

>   “I like that word,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing me, and the first taste of him is passion, the next demand, possession, and yes, anger. He’s angry. He’s outright pissed for the first time since the hotel room in New York City when he came to me and wanted to drive me away. Only I don’t think he ever wanted to drive me away. He wanted to drive away the hell of his past. He wanted to drive away the family he would deny if they’d just go away. He’s in that place again. He needs to drive them away, and as much as I want to know what’s triggered him, there’s a shudder that slides through his body, and I understand what it means. He’s on the edge of that cliff the savant in him can drive him to, the numbers in his head beating at his mind and his emotions. Whatever that message I was given says it’s personal to him, really damn personal.

  My gorgeous, talented, gifted man needs me right now. He needs this escape and I will not deny him. He turns me and presses me against the refrigerator, my back to the steel surface, his hands sliding over my breasts, cupping them, even as his tongue licks into my mouth. I reach for his shirt, but he’s already caught the hem of mine and it’s over my head in about two seconds. He tosses it and his eyes meet mine, dark shadows in their depths that do nothing to hide the war that rages inside this man.

  I want to ask about the message again, I want to ask what it says, what it means, but that is not what he needs right now. That is not what comes next and we both know it. “I know what’s happening right now. I know what you’re battling. I want to be here for you. What do you need right now?”

  “More than I deserve from you.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means I should walk away, but no matter how many times I think that or say that, I won’t. I know I won’t do it.” His body quakes, almost as if he’s experiencing an internal tremor that I can physically see.

  I press my hand to his chest. “What do you need right now? Right this minute. Say it. Tell me. Take it. Do it.”

  His hands grip my wrists, and he pulls me close. “You don’t want to know what I need right now. You don’t want to see me like I am right now. I don’t want you to see me like I am right now.”