“Um, sir,” Coachman’s assistant popped her head into the studio, looking somewhere between apologetic and worried. “The FBI is here to take Ms. Howe in for questioning.”
Chapter Twenty-one
THORPE stared out the window overlooking Dominion’s dungeon at the Friday night crowd diving into their play with gusto. With a critical eye, he surveyed the stations, the dungeon monitors making the rounds, the mood on the floor.
Satisfied everything was well under control, he locked up his observation room and headed downstairs into the secure area of the building. With a silent sigh, he returned to his apartment in the back and flipped on the TV, grabbing a fresh bottle of water. He should probably remove his suit, take a shower, and try to get some sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Callie’s face, her sparkling eyes, her lush mouth. Her “I love yous” echoed in his head.
Exhaustion weighed on him. He’d tried to resume a normal life since returning to Dominion. But the lump in his throat when he thought of her never quite went away. His eyes constantly stung. For the last three weeks, he’d been wracked with a vague but constant pain that debilitated his whole body.
Not surprising when he felt as if half of himself was missing.
Thorpe took a sip of water and tried to force the liquid down to drown the ache. That didn’t work. That persistent tightness in his chest constricted even more. Why the fuck couldn’t he take a deep breath?
Easing down into an overstuffed chair, he cued up his DVR. A mountain of news programs took up all the space on the device. He chose the most recent show, one he’d taped yesterday. The one that torqued his pain the most. Thorpe had never considered himself a masochist, but apparently he’d been wrong. He’d already watched this show half a dozen times.
The host introduced himself and vomited at the mouth about a bunch of political shit Thorpe couldn’t care less about. He had several windbag guests he called pundits, each less significant than the last. They shouted at one another, full of self-importance. Thorpe stifled his impatience as he fast-forwarded past it all and finally arrived at the segment he sought.
“My next guest is all over the news. Her story of survival and vindication is the talk of the networks, water coolers, and Twitterverse. She’s gracing the cover of next week’s People with her incredible tale. And I’m sure that’s just the beginning for the beautiful Callindra Howe. Welcome.”
The camera panned over to her. Thorpe hadn’t thought it possible, but she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. Her eyes were magnetically blue. Her hair hung in touchable, inky waves. Her red lips curled up in a gracious smile. She almost looked happy. Someone who didn’t know her would believe that she was. But Thorpe understood her too well not to see the sadness that haunted her eyes.
Fuck, his chest tightened again. He drank more water, but the feeling just wouldn’t go away.
“Thank you for having me on the show.” Callie’s smile widened as she poised herself for the first question.
“The last few weeks have been insane for you.”
“That’s an understatement.” She laughed softly. “It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m satisfied now that most of the saga is finally over.”
“Indeed.” The geezer, who was a reputed letch, patted her hand, and Thorpe wanted to reach through the TV and rip his nuts off. “Let’s take a look.”
Footage rolled, showing a montage of the events—the murders, her years on the run. Next, the voiceover mentioned her time at Dominion. This was exactly why every time Thorpe left the building, he had to wade through a small sea of reporters. He’d called the police more than once to get them off his property because they were blocking members from entering the club’s door. Idiots.
Then the clip went on to discuss him and Sean, crediting them with saving her from “dangerous mercenaries” the FBI was still trying to identify. Finally, they played a snippet of her first interview in Las Vegas. Callie looked tired and pale, but somehow glorious. No, complete. She didn’t look like that now.
That had to be an illusion. Or wishful thinking on his part. She still wore Sean’s collar because she loved him. The fed would always give her everything she needed and more.
In time, Thorpe knew he’d be an afterthought. If he wasn’t already.
“Wow, that’s an amazing decade,” the host said. “You’ve survived a great deal. The FBI is still seeking the people who wanted you dead. Any update?”
“No, but I’m sure they’re hard at work.”
“What’s it like to have so many people believe for years that you killed your family?”
Callie seemed to collect her words. “Crushing. I loved my family. I was prepared to leave them at sixteen, but I never anticipated not seeing them again. To have them gone so suddenly and violently, then hear that the police—along with public opinion—considered me a suspect was devastating. I had a lot of years when it felt like me against the world, but I’m happy that chapter of my life is over.”
“And now you’ve been completely exonerated?”
“Thankfully, yes.”
“I heard there’s a book deal in the works. And a TV movie. What can you tell us?”
“Nothing is final yet. We’ll see if it works out. In the meantime, I’ve been busy cleaning out my childhood home, deciding if I want to sell it. I’m also getting my affairs in order and moving on with my life.”
“It’s rumored you’re giving several million dollars of the fortune you’ve inherited to charity,” the host said.
“I am. I’ve actually started the Cecilia Howe Foundation for Cancer Research. All tests and experiments will be conducted according to the highest standards. No genetic trials will ever be performed. The foundation will be dedicated to curing cancer that affects women, especially ovarian cancer.”
“Which your mother died of?”
“Yes.”
“You’re also continuing your father’s scholarship and changing its name to the Daniel A. Howe Fund?”
She smiled. “The brightest young minds in American business should have the means to attend college. It’s something my father was passionate about. I will always mourn his loss, and that of my sister, but I feel this is a good way to honor him and continue his legacy.”
“You’ve also donated your mother’s Imperial Fabergé egg to the Smithsonian.”
“It’s fitting. She loved to look at it. I know she’d be proud to have it seen by millions of enthralled people every year.”
“Rumor has you romantically linked with Agent Mackenzie. Any comment?”
She blushed, unconsciously fingering the pretty bit of bling around her neck. “He’s a wonderful man, and I’m very lucky.”
“He’ll be joining us shortly, and we’ll get his side of the story. But Mitchell Thorpe is an enigma. He’s declined all interviews and seemingly isn’t interested in the spotlight.”
The fondness shining in her eyes was apparent. That all-over mystery pain punched him again. “He’s a very private man with a very big heart.”
Thorpe’s pectorals felt so damn taut. His heart stuttered. He struggled to breathe . . . but he feared how much it would hurt if he did.
“Have you spoken to him since you left Las Vegas?” the host asked.
Her smile faltered. “No, but he knows how grateful I am to him for all the years of protection and care he gave me. I love him and I always will.”
He gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles turned white. His chest seized up, constricting again. Thorpe wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Motherfucking son of a bitch.
He stopped playing the show, shut off the TV, and tossed the remote onto the nearby table. He glanced longingly at a bottle of scotch in the corner, then looked away. He’d gotten completely shitfaced his first night back at Dominion. Everything he’d been avoiding before the first sip was still there the following morning, along with a devil of a hangover.