Saved By The Enemy (Hacienda Heights Book 3)

by Emma Roberts

  “I’ve been trying to convince Dad to bring her back home for years, at least let her back into the family. He didn’t budge until he heard she’d gone missing. He was on the verge of asking her back last Christmas, but then he found out about the Hustlers.” Keenan smiled, and for once the expression was free of the worry that had been weighing on both of us since she’d been taken. “You know, I’m astonished that she managed to pull that off. Not only pull it off, but become one of the most in-demand women in LA.”

  “She’s amazing,” I agreed. “But reckless and willfully blind at times. Infuriating and beautiful and—”

  “Perfect for you,” Keenan said with another grin. “Because she won’t bend over and take your bullshit.”

  I sighed. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  We were silent for another few minutes as I drove past a public beach.

  “It isn’t your fault you know,” Keenan said. “Isadora would have found a way to hurt her, regardless.”

  “It is my fault. If I’d been there, I could have protected her. I swore I would. And now she’s gotten hurt twice. I’m never letting her out of my sight once we’ve found her again.”

  We rounded a corner, and perched on top of a hill was the Belle Epoque-style villa, built with tan stone and arched breezeways featured on the porch that ran the length of the house. A distance up the driveway, there was a gate protected by a guard booth.

  I pulled to a stop on the side of the road and idled, trying to figure out just how we’d manage to get in. If we showed up babbling about kidnap and sex trafficking, we were only going to ensure a stay in the nearest lockup. But we couldn’t remain on the side of the road either. The guard manning the booth was already leaning out of it, trying to get a better look at us.

  “Let me handle this,” Keenan said, undoing his seatbelt.

  Before I could snap at him to stay the fuck in the car, he’d already opened his door and stepped out. He sauntered up the drive with the lazy confidence he was famous for and a killer smile on display. I ground my teeth, unbuckled my own seatbelt and stepped out after him.

  “Bonjour, mon ami,” he called amiably to the man in the booth.

  The man’s eyes grew wide and an almost starstruck expression entered them. Behind him in the booth, a movie played out on a low-def screen. I recognized one of Keenan’s first movies, The King of Nowhere, playing on the TV.

  “You are Keenan Blakely!” he exclaimed, waving his hands. “What are you doing here? I heard you were shooting in Canada.”

  “Promotional contest,” Keenan said easily. “It turns out Miss Beaulieu is our winner. She’s got an all-expense-paid dinner with me and has won the merchandise for the upcoming sequel to King of Nowhere.”

  The man rifled through a pile of papers in front of him and frowned. “I do not see any calls from your studio. Mrs. Beaulieu told me not to admit anyone today, unless her husband returns home.”

  Keenan threw an elbow painfully into my ribs. “Must have been his fault. This is my agent, Logan. I thought I told you to call ahead.”

  “I instructed my secretary to this morning. I’m sure she called.” I rubbed my ribs. My ribs were still a little tender from the beating I’d taken at Miss Ginger’s club the night Mina and I had thought we had our problems wrapped up in a neat little box. “There must have been some sort of miscommunication between Miss Beaulieu and our office.”

  The man smiled politely at us and held up a finger, indicating we wait. “I will call up and see how Mrs. Beaulieu wants to proceed.”

  While he dialed, I studied the controls inside the booth. I was familiar with the layout and almost certain the red button opened the gate. I could hit it and be to the house in moments. The man wasn’t even armed. It was a serious oversight, and something I’d point out to Beaulieu if I ever got the chance to speak to him. I forced my twitching fingers to stay still at my sides. I’d give diplomacy a chance first. I couldn’t un-punch a guard.

  The man remained on the phone for a few minutes before turning to face us with an apologetic smile. “I am sorry, Mrs. Beaulieu is occupied. Her daughter just returned home, and she seems to be in ill health. Could you return at another time, s’il te plait?”

  I exchanged a glance with Keenan. Julienne Beaulieu had returned home? That meant there was every chance Mina was here as well. I edged closer to the booth, casually reaching a hand the window, as if I were merely leaning on the window frame. Stealth was unnecessary though, as Keenan captivated most of the guard’s attention. The controls were all labeled in French, which I couldn’t read for shit, but I was almost certain I could tell what most of them were used for.

  “That’s a pity.” Keenan flashed the guard a tragic expression. Christ, but the man should not have been able to pout like that. “I was looking forward to seeing her. I always enjoy meeting fans.”

  “I am a huge fan,” the man babbled at once.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Would you like an autograph?”

  He looked like he might faint at the very idea. Nodding, he snatched a piece of paper from the console near my hand.

  I froze, my hand hovering near the button.

  Keenan gave me an apologetic glance before turning on the charm once more.

  I hit the button and sent up a prayer as the guard didn’t even register that the gate was opening. Instead, all his attention was on Keenan signing the paper, making it out to Paul Le Bihan.

  Before I could retract my hand, a scream split the early morning air, slicing through me like a knife. The gate was slowly creaking open, but I ran at it full tilt, not caring when I bashed my shoulder against the wrought iron. I knew that scream.

  Mina was here.

  Mina was in trouble.

  And whoever was terrorizing her was going to pay.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mina

  Amelie Beaulieu carried herself like she was being forced upright by a pole. Her back was ramrod stiff as she stepped into the room, her face scrunched with dislike as she stepped into the formal living room. To be entirely fair, a grimy American holding a puke bucket and your unexpected stepdaughter waiting on the couch couldn’t have been the most pleasant surprise in the world.

  Amelie was pretty, in a classical sort of way, possessing a tragic beauty that most women in Renaissance paintings seemed to. Her hair was loose and fell around her shoulders in perfect blonde ringlets. Julienne actually favored her a bit now that she had bleached her hair. Amelie had an impressive bustline, shapely legs, and a sense of fashion that was to be expected in an upper-class French woman.

  But all observations of Amelie became secondary the moment I saw that in her right hand she was holding a Smith & Wesson Model 351C. I cursed Logan for my better than average knowledge of firearms. If he hadn’t taken me to a gun range so often during the hunt for our blackmailers, I wouldn’t have firsthand knowledge on exactly how deadly this situation was. I was sure I’d still be scared shitless, but somehow the knowing made it even worse.

  “You little toad,” Amelie hissed in French at Julienne with undisguised disgust. “How the hell did you make it back here? You were supposed to be with Ancel by now, or dead. I don’t really care which.”

  Julienne couldn’t have looked more shocked if I’d puked all over her shoes. She stared at Amelie, and tears gathered in her eyes. “You? It was you? I thought...”

  “Ancel approached me with the idea at a party,” Amelie said, a nasty grin stretching across her face. “Said I could make sure that I was the sole inheritor when your crusty father finally dies.”

  The tears spilled down Julienne’s cheeks as they turned a scalding shade of red. “Y-you sold me? Wait…Ancel?”

  “I did try to do it the easy way, you know.” Amelie tilted her hip outward, tapping the side of her head like she was smart. “That automobile accident you were in was supposed to be the end. Quick, probably painless, and oh-so-common in LA is it not?”

  “Accident? I wasn’t in any accident!” Jul
ienne said.

  Accident. With everything that had happened with Luciana, she’d never stopped to consider that the person who had run her off the road wasn’t involved with her. “I was in an accident,” she murmured.

  “What?” Julienne’s eyes grew large then narrowed. “What type of car do you drive?”

  “When I was run off the road, I drove a white Lexus.”

  Julienne’s upper lip curled as she turned to her stepmother. “You evil bitch! You caused a wreck and couldn’t even hit the correct car?” Her gaze flew to me. “I too drive a white Lexus.” She spun back to Amelie. “You sold me to sex traffickers. You know what they were planning on doing to me?!”

  “No more than you deserve, you brat,” Amelie shot back. “You were always such a little twat, you know. Spoiled, silly, and always getting in the way. I thought you’d never move out.”

  All of Amelie’s attention was focused on Julienne. I crouched over my bucket, pretending to puke once again. She spared me one contemptuous glance before pointing the gun at Julienne. As Amelie leaned over her stepdaughter, really letting her know how much she was disliked, I used the distraction to scan the room for anything I could use as a weapon. I had to get that gun away from Amelie before she shot one or both of us.

  There were no handy lamps lying about. All the light in the room came from strip lighting in the ceiling. The chairs were too large.

  I found my answer in the heavy drapes. Fashioned from thick material and covered in abstract designs, the drapes were held back not with metal as I’d feared, but with actual curtain tie-backs.

  Reaching over, keeping my eyes on Amelie’s back, as quickly as I could, I undid one of the ties, letting the drape fall over the window.

  When I stood, I wobbled slightly, but was grateful when my steps didn’t make noise on the carpeted floor. I had all the strength of a wet kitten, and the nausea was threatening to choke me for just being upright.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled in every reserve of strength I had, and stepped up behind Amelie before she could notice the change in lighting. She turned a fraction, but too late. I threw my arms around her neck, bringing the curtain back against her throat. It was probably the world’s softest garrote, and I could already tell it wouldn’t hold her for long.

  Amelie tried to aim the gun at me but I reared back and headbutted her in the temple. She shrieked, her arm flailing. The weapon fired, the crack of sound deafening. The shot went wild, plaster from the ceiling raining down on our heads.

  Julienne let out a hair-raising scream, as did Amelie as she dropped the gun.

  Amelie struggled against my grip. There was no way I’d be able to hold her for much longer. My arms felt like cooked pasta and my legs weren’t faring much better.

  “Julienne, help me!”

  Julienne staggered to her feet and crossed over to us, kicking the gun into a corner.

  Amelie jabbed me with an elbow, and the effort was enough to throw me off-balance. I fell to the floor, taking her down with me and rolling so I was half on top of the struggling woman. Fists battered my ribs as each of her blows caused a stab of pain that barely make it through the haze I’d been living in for days.

  A shout drew my attention to the foyer as the front door burst open. I blinked a few times, sure that I’d slid into unconsciousness. There was no way that Logan Farraday was standing in the doorway of Julienne’s villa, backlit like some sort of avenging angel. There was no way he could be real. I must have been dreaming. Or dead. I supposed it was possible that Amelie’s shot had actually killed me.

  Julienne lunged at her stepmother, her fist clocking Amelie right in the kisser. The evil woman let out an ear-splitting cry, and that’s when it hit. It was real. All of this was real.

  Julienne’s second blow knocked her stepmother out cold. My friend gave a half-cry of triumph and rose to her feet to face the two men now in the doorway. Her eyes lit up like a kid’s at Disneyland. “Keenan Blakely?”

  I craned my neck to see past Logan. I’d be damned if Keenan hadn’t wedged himself through the doorway right alongside Logan. The scene seemed too bizarre to be logical. But when Logan crossed the room, his arms were solid and warm around me. I pushed my face into his jacket and breathed in the rich scent of him, tears dampening my eyes when I realized it really was happening. He really was here. Logan had come to save me. Logan and my brother. A little late. But better late than never.

  “Logan,” I croaked. “Are you really here?”

  Rough, calloused fingers stroked my cheek, wiping away my tears. His voice came out so strained that I could have sworn he was crying too. “I’m here baby. I’m here. And I’m never going to let you go again.”

  That sounded like heaven to me.

  Logan lifted me gently up from the floor. My head flopped like a ragdoll’s, and I was too tired to shift into a better position to help him. The dead weight didn’t seem to bother him. He arranged me in a bridal carry and held me close to his chest as he made his way toward the door. Keenan was waiting for him, cell phone in hand, one arm around Julienne.

  I couldn’t understand why he was here. The last time we met, he behaved in a menacing manner. When had the wizard dropped by to give my brother a heart? The concern on his face was touching, though, and in my muddled state, it brought more tears to my eyes. I’d missed him.

  Wanting to absorb this moment, I fought hard against the blackness eating at the edges of my vision. I didn’t want to pass out. I wanted to curl into Logan’s arms and make a home there. Maybe strike up a conversation with the brother I hadn’t talked to in years except to argue. But nausea rose to greet me once more. My head swam and my vision dimmed.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I moaned.

  “She’s been sick off and on for days,” Julienne informed Logan as Keenan spoke into his phone, requesting the police and an ambulance.

  I was too tired to tell him why that was such a bad idea. If the traffickers were watching the hospital, they’d have to get through Logan this time. Something told me that they’d have an easier time storming a fortress than taking us from Logan.

  My gaze landed on Keenan again and I frowned. “I can’t understand why he’s here.”

  “Mina.” Keenan stepped closer. “I couldn’t stay away. I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass. Dad and your mom are worried sick. I just…I have no excuse. I just hope you can forgive me.”

  “You came to save me,” I marveled drunkenly, reaching a hand out to touch my brother’s face. It was an enormous effort just to raise my hand. My eyes slid closed without my permission.

  “You saved yourself,” Logan said, shaking with laughter. “God, Mina. You’re one hell of a woman. And I’m going to marry you.”

  “M’kay,” I agreed easily.

  Then, I slid into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Logan

  Mina still hadn’t emerged from surgery.

  After two hours of Keenan and I being questioned by police, she was still in the operating room.

  According the EMTs, she’d been shot in the leg. That was worrying enough without the high-grade fever she’d been running. At the hospital, they’d lowered her core temperature. The bullet hadn’t been a through and through, but it had managed to tear some of the muscle tissue and become infected.

  She’d been exceptionally lucky to only have been injured. Any deeper and the bullet could have nicked an artery, killing her in under five minutes. I shook my head, shying away from that thought on instinct. She was alive. She’d stay that way for a long time, if I had anything to say about it.

  Keenan sat across from me, adopting a position similar to mine. Shoulders hunched, legs apart with elbows resting lightly on his knees. He gripped his cell tightly and spoke in low, terse murmurs, filling Annette and Walter, Mina’s mother and stepfather, in on what was happening with Mina.

  “I’ll call when I know more,” he said and then hung up the phone. He heaved a sigh and slumped farther down in h
is chair. “Annette is panicked.”

  “With good reason,” I muttered. “She shouldn’t have been in this long.”

  Would she lose the leg? Surely not, over something as simple as a graze. But I also knew that infection was no joke. Mina had let the cut fester for a long time without bothering to do much in the way of first aid. If the flesh had necrotized or become septic, there was always a risk.

  I wouldn’t love her any different. I knew too many men who’d lost limbs in Iraq, and knew it would be a difficult transition. One I could wholeheartedly make. But the question was, could Mina?

  I scanned the doorway hopefully, wishing a doctor would walk in to tell us what was going on.

  Julienne huffed out a breath as she stared at the vacant doorway. Julienne had been released from the ER after her minor cuts and bruises had been assessed by a doctor. Her face was pale and drawn, as if this whole ordeal was sucking the life right out of her. The stress didn’t impact her beauty much, though. She was slight, with the delicate features and body of a supermodel. But despite her apparent exhaustion, she’d flatly refused to accompany her father home when he’d arrived at the hospital.

  “You should go home,” I said to Julienne, glancing at her father, who was slumped over in the corner. He’d bunkered down after Julienne refused to leave, seemingly happy to contemplate in silence once he’d found out what his wife had done. Amelie had been cuffed and taken to jail, and the police had also interrogated Sebastian briefly, with a promise of more questioning later.

  Julienne raised her chin high. “I will tell you what I told my father. I am not leaving Mina. She is my friend and she saved my life. I will not leave her side,” she snapped.

  I decided right then that I liked her.

  Our eyes met and we exchanged a brief moment of camaraderie before Julienne tore her gaze away, returning to her silent vigil by the door.