“I won’t.”
“Try not to stress too much, baby. David’s good at his job. He’s arrogant, loud, and obnoxious, but it works for him, and he’s working for us.”
“I know.”
“Keep knowing, and I’ll see you soon.” He lowers his voice. “I know a certain window that has your name on it.” He hangs up and I let the phone slide away, a smile touching my lips, but it’s a sad smile. I love that man. I want to marry him. I just don’t want to do it in the middle of this nightmare and I have to do anything I can to make it end. We know the ending isn’t going to be a happy one, but at least it will be an end.
Pushing to my feet, I head out into the hallway and decide to start my search in the supply room, where I look for file boxes or security records, but find nothing. I search Mark’s barren office for the security feed and find nothing. Maybe it streams directly to his computer? I suddenly realize then that the feed will show me sitting in his office and searching around the gallery, but I shrug. The worst he can do is fire me.
An hour into my exploration, I call Jacob and check in. Afterward I search the four offices used for interns, then the cabinets in the break room. Next up is Amanda’s desk, then I spend a long time scavenging Ralph’s files.
Finally, I end up back in my office. I’ve already searched the files and desk, and my gaze now lands on the bookshelf. I settle myself onto the floor and turn on the radio on my cell phone, the music making the emptiness more bearable.
I start flipping through books, looking for notes or any other clue that might tell me something of importance. A name. A number. Anything. I don’t know. As I search I pile up the books, making sure nothing’s underneath them on the shelves. Just as I’ve restored order to the mess, the door to the outer office buzzes and I freeze.
Holding my breath, I wait for who will appear, and a crackle of familiar energy stirs in the air a moment before Mark fills the doorway. I’ve barely had a moment to blink from the impact of his power and devastating good looks before his steps swallow the space between us.
He towers above me, pinning me with an unreadable steely gray stare. “I wasn’t aware that breaking and entering was one of your skills, Ms. McMillan. What are you doing?”
Either he didn’t meet with Chris, or he’s just trying to put me on the spot. “Your staff was freaking out over a reporter who’d parked himself outside for two hours, and Amanda almost quit. I rushed over, but Ryan beat me here. He did his Magic Mike routine on her and she stayed.”
“Magic Mike?”
“It’s from a movie that has a lot of naked men and dancing, so it’s probably not your thing.”
He holds out his hand. “Get off the floor, Ms. McMillan.”
He pulls me to my feet and I’m suddenly toe-to-toe with him.
“Thank you,” I pretty much croak out, and the slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he notices. It’s power to him to affect me, another game—and I’m very tired of games.
I tug my hand away and step backward. “Did you meet with Chris?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I’ll let him tell you.”
I sigh. “Of course. Why would you tell me, since you’re standing right here? But okay.”
He looks amused, I think.
“In case he forgot to mention it,” I say, “you’ve rehired me. Well, technically Crystal did, and before you get upset with her, she did it because she cares about you.”
“I’m not even going to ask how you presume to know what Ms. Smith feels, since you barely know her.”
“She told me.”
He just stares at me. “Is that how you know Chris cares about you, Ms. McMillan? He tells you?”
I’m not sure what he’s implying, but I’m pretty sure it’s a slap to Chris, and I don’t like it. “Show and tell, Mark. It’s a good combination.”
Something dark flickers in his eyes, gone in a blink, but his probing questions are not. “How exactly does he show you?”
My lips purse. “In my book, privacy is like a great pair of high heels. To be cherished.”
“Good answer, Ms. McMillan. I’m sure Chris would approve. It means he can trust you, and trust is not an easy thing to give or receive.”
Is his remark about Rebecca? Or Ava? Maybe Ryan? Or perhaps it’s deeper. Perhaps it’s about what made him who he is today, the way Amber is a part of what made Chris who he is today.
“Mark—”
But his eyes shut, and he inhales deeply, emotions he rarely allows anyone to see rippling over his face. He abruptly turns and exits the office, leaving me staring after him. Then the song playing on my phone insinuates itself into my ears. Say something, I’m giving up on you. Say something, I’m giving up on you. I’ll be the one if you want me to . . .
“Say Something” by A Great Big World is always haunting, but gut-wrenchingly so tied to the months of silence from Rebecca. I can only imagine how much Mark must crave the sound of her voice, how much hope he must hang on to the possibility she might still return. How much he must wish he could tell her what he never dared—that he loved her.
Shutting off the radio, I go down the hall toward Mark’s office. His hands are against the wall, his head tilted forward, tension tightening his body. This isn’t the controlled man I know. This is the man I saw falling apart that night under the tree, after Ava confessed to murdering Rebecca.
I want to go to him, but my gut says he doesn’t want me to see him like this. I’m backing away when he says, “Is there something you need, Ms. McMillan?”
“Just . . . goodnight.”
I don’t move. I need to say or do something to help him.
“Go home, Ms. McMillan,” he snaps.
Sighing in defeat, I turn and leave him alone, but it’s not easy. Not when I know how badly being alone hurts.
• • •
As I wait for Jacob to arrive to escort me out, Chris calls and asks me to meet him and David at the pizza joint next to our apartment building. I arrive home fifteen minutes later and hand the 911 off to the attendant. I wave at Jacob, who’d followed me over here, and head toward the restaurant. I know it has great takeout, but I’ve never been inside.
Turns out it’s far more Italian eatery than pizzeria, with dim lighting, soft music, and cozy booths beyond the hostess stand. A tall, husky man with brown hair streaked with gray greets me with an extended hand. “You must be Sara.”
I tentatively shake hands. “Yes, I’m Sara. And you’re . . . psychic?”
He chuckles low and deep. “Wouldn’t that come in handy? But no. Chris described you with artistic detail, and you’re as beautiful as he said. I’m Marco, the owner here.”
I blush. “Thank you. I remember Chris talking about you. Don’t you own a chopper shop, too?”
“Custom choppers, motorcycle repair, you name it. Chris and I tinker on his Harleys occasionally.” He winks. “Nice to see he’s no longer a lone rider.” I smile, warmed as always by the way Chris is genuinely liked by so many.
Marco motions to my coat. “Let me take that for you.” I shrug out of my trench coat and hand it over, then with a grand gesture he waves us forward. “Come, I’ll show you to your table.”
I follow him around a corner where there’s a row of six booths several steps above the floor, all draped with curtains for privacy. “I love this setup,” I murmur. He smiles his pleasure at the compliment, and then pulls one of the curtains back to reveal Chris and David, each with a beer in hand. Chris’s eyes light on me, and the heat and tenderness in his gaze makes the craziness of the day fade away for a moment.
Setting his beer down, Chris draws my hand into his. The heat of his stare and the sizzle of his touch send a wave of warmth up my arm and over my chest, and the tension in my spine finally relaxes.
As I slide in next to Chris, he lifts his chin at Marco. “I see you met Sara.”
Marco winks at me and then answers Chris in what I think is Italian. I re
ally can’t be certain of much when Chris’s fingers are lazily caressing my thigh, sending darts of electricity straight to my sex.
Chris smiles, answering Marco in English. “You’re right, Marco.” His hand discreetly slides under the tablecloth, beneath my skirt, his warm fingers flexing against my bare thigh. “Sara is beautiful and save your Italian Don Juan routine for someone else. She’s mine.”
I blush and not from the compliment or his words, but from the way Chris’s hand is climbing higher and higher until his fingers sweep my panties. “She blushes,” Marco observes, kissing his fingers, as if it’s the conversation creating my reaction. “Bella.” His tongue rolls with an Italian accent, and unbidden, I am reminded of the Spanish version of the endearment for beautiful Ricco Alvarez often uses. Marco points at Chris. “Watch it. I like a challenge.” He leaves Chris no time for rebuttal, disappearing as he tugs the curtain shut and then surprises me as he peeks back inside and adds, “Your pizza should be up any minute,” and winks at me.
David’s phone rings and he answers the call, giving me the chance to grab Chris’s hand and softly hiss a warning. “Behave.”
He laughs, his eyes warm with wicked promise that softens into tenderness, and his hand, thankfully, flattens on top of my thigh. “I missed you.”
I soften at the sweet, unexpected confession, officially melting inside and out. “I missed you, too.” My lips curve and I dare to taunt the proverbial tiger. “And you’ve certainly made me wish we were home.”
“Soon, baby,” he promises. “Soon.”
“Assholes,” David complains, drawing our attention back to him. He sets his phone on the table and looks at me. “And so we meet again, Sara McMillan.”
I smile, amused by his odd way of speaking. “Yes indeed,” I say. “We meet again.”
Chris hands me his beer. “Here. He makes more sense when you’re drinking.”
I laugh, and despite not being a beer kind of girl, I take a swig, then hand the bottle back to Chris. “I needed that. You scared the crap out of me with the police today, David.”
He snorts and tips up his beer. “You can’t let the badge go to their heads. That’s dangerous for them and us.”
“You sang a Christmas song,” I remind him. “I’m still in disbelief.”
He wiggles his brows. “Creative shift of energy. It pulled the attention from Chris.”
Chris chuckles. “I think you finally convinced them you’re crazy. And speaking of crazy. I think Detectives Grant and Miller both need to be reminded of the meaning of their badges.”
David loosens his tie. “The nature of law enforcement is ‘us, them, and everyone else.’ You never know what they are really doing or thinking. The objective of the interview is to get you to say something you don’t want to say.” He rests an elbow on the table. “I’m of the opinion that the journals, and anyone mentioned in the passages, have become their primary focus.”
“That would be Mark, Ryan, and Ava,” I supply, “but Rebecca never gave names.”
“Mark did say that Grant was all over him,” Chris says. “He’s even pulled away from the club to try to protect the membership.”
“You’d think that would mean Mark and Ryan would be communicating,” I observe, “but Ryan stopped by the gallery this afternoon and said Mark won’t return his calls.”
“Ryan had better not hold his breath for a returned call,” Chris suggests. “Mark’s attorney seems to be of the opinion that Ryan is going to do whatever is necessary to make sure he’s in the clear, including throwing Mark under the bus.”
“I met Tiger at the police station today,” I remind them. “So forgive me if I don’t put a lot of merit in his opinions. He acted like Mark needed a bodyguard to protect him from me.”
“Tiger didn’t get his name for nothing,” David assures us. “He’ll rip your throat out to keep his client on top, but in this case he was probably worried you’d make it look like Mark was asking you to prep him for his interview.” He takes a swig of his beer. “And that wouldn’t be good. Which brings me to your working at the gallery. I don’t recommend it, and I seriously doubt Mark’s attorney will, either.”
“I have to help out,” I insist, straightening. “It’s falling apart. The staff is scared. And I saw Mark tonight and he said nothing about it being a problem.” I turn to Chris. “He stopped into the gallery right before I left, and he wasn’t doing well.”
“I already had this argument with Chris,” David interjects before Chris can answer. “Mark isn’t my concern. You two are. He needs to hire someone else.”
I turn to Chris to state my case, but he says, “Relax, baby. I already told David we’re helping Mark out until his mother stabilizes. No one deserves to fear for a parent’s life while fighting for their own.”
“How is she?”
“She’s barely started her battle to beat cancer. The blood infection she got after surgery almost killed her.”
“When I talked to Crystal she said she was improving, so I assume that means stable?”
“From what I gathered.”
“My position on Mark is this,” David says, sounding like he’s starting a lecture that’s going to grate on every nerve I own.
“Save it,” Chris tells him. “Move on to another subject. Didn’t you want to talk about the bail hearing?”
The curtains are opened just then, and a waiter appears with a piping hot pizza and my diet soda. When we’re alone again, I ask, “What about the bail hearing?”
David picks up a slice of pizza. “Before I answer, just know this. I don’t approve of either of you spending time with Mark, let alone at the gallery.” He sets his pizza on his plate.
“The bail hearing, David,” Chris urges.
“Right,” he says. “The bail hearing. There will be no witness testimony, so you can both rest easy there.”
I blink in confusion. “I didn’t know it was even an option.”
“Bail adjustment hearings allow limited testimony in the interest of public safety,” David explains. “But the DA doesn’t seem to want to complicate the situation, which I think is smart. He has four witnesses including you, Sara, who say the defendant tried to kill you. We don’t need the defense to start character assassinations now. They’ll get to that later.”
Chris fills my plate, but food is the last thing on my mind right now. “What character assassinations?”
David swipes a napkin over his mouth. “Your honesty and character will be tested. It’s expected, but I think it’s going to get nasty in this case. I have an insider at the DA’s office who tells me the defense threatened the DA.”
Chris abandons a bite of pizza halfway to his mouth. “Threatened?”
David nods and swallows nearly half a slice in one bite. “Apparently the defense said in a not-so-subtle way that the press would”—he makes quotations marks with his fingers—“‘accidentally’ get a story about a seedy sex club, murder, and some kind of other bullshit mayhem. My insider’s choice of words, not mine.”
I’m reeling at the prospect that Ava could be set free. “You think they’re so worried about the press that they’d let her walk?”
David shoves aside his pizza, which tells me we’re now in serious territory. “Easing up on Ava at the hearing won’t stop her defense from going public after the bond is in place. That’s what I came here to talk about tonight. Even if they don’t like it, the DA is prepared for Friday to become a press frenzy. My guess is Ava’s folks will throw every name and diversion into the hat they can find.”
“Meaning me and you, baby,” Chris adds. “And being at the gallery is only going to put us more in the spotlight.” He turns to me, and there’s no missing the grim set to his jaw. “We’re witnesses against Ava, and because we aren’t involved in the four-way that group had going on, we’re the most credible. They could very well attack us. You have to be ready for this to be all about headlines. The club. BDSM. Me. You.”
“Right,” David c
oncurs. “And while I can protect you from everything in the court system, I can’t protect you from the press unless they slander you.”
My heart lurches. Suddenly the scandal seems like a much bigger worry than it did moments before. “What about Chris and his charity work? This could ruin him.”
“Baby, I’m fine. I can handle my charity.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” I argue. “Lance Armstrong created Livestrong and they had to break free of him to survive.” I turn to David. “Can we threaten them with slander charges now?”
David grimaces. “That’s not an option.”
“Why? They could ruin Chris, and—”
“Sara, sugar,” he interrupts, his tone as condescending as it gets. “The detectives were wrong. You’re the one who needs to lay off the caffeine. Let me do my job.”
My jaw drops. Did he really just call me “sugar,” and tell me to let him do his job? I’m officially at my threshold for arrogant assholes today. Then his phone rings again, and he answers it without so much as a raised finger.
“Sara,” Chris says, squeezing my leg to get my attention.
I tear my gaze from David and look at Chris. “His job should include protecting your reputation and your career.”
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me right after he called me sugar,” I snap. “I’m going to the bathroom to deep breathe.”
His grip tightens on my leg. “He’s just high-strung.”
“If you try to keep me here, be warned that I have a very vivid fantasy in my head right now, which involves me dumping a pitcher of beer over David’s head.”
He grins and lets go of my leg.
“I thought you’d agree.” I head toward the restroom sign, go down a narrow hallway, and lock myself in the small room, where I lean on the sink. David’s dismissing the real danger the press could do to Chris. We can’t wait until it’s already happened to come up with a plan.
I’ve barely had time to think when a knock sounds on the door. “Sara.”
I unlatch the door and Chris enters, locking the door behind him. Certain he’s here to sing David’s merits, I say, “He’s an asshole, Chris. The press cyclone is going to hit, and we have to be ready. We have to get you cleared, and you have to go to Paris and do your charity event, away from all of this. Distance yourself from this nightmare. You have to.”