“Easton? Are you serious?” I peer up at her, my forehead creased with suspicion.
Caroline nods emphatically, her mouth curving into an eager grin. “Yes, and he’s already hired a replacement for Emerson. A woman I recommended to him from my Bunco group.”
The mention of Emerson’s name nullifies any positivity from the conversation, but it reminds me of my priorities this morning. “Very well. I’ll speak with him later. I’m only here to grab a couple of files off the server to review this weekend. I don’t plan on staying long.” Glancing down at my desk, the memory of the evening Blake surprised me by bringing dinner flashes in my mind. The way my sweet girl looked spread out naked atop the wooden surface makes my dick twitch. Fucking hell. Not now.
“Have you heard anything about where Ms. Martin is? Who might have her?” Caroline asks, her hushed tone snapping me from my daydream.
“No.” I shake my head. “I ruled out a place she’s not, but no new leads.”
When I called to let her know I wouldn’t be at work this week, I confided in my longtime assistant about what had happened, trusting her not to tell anyone. She doesn’t know details about Blake’s past, but is aware of the situation and more than willing to help me in any way possible.
Her smile fades and she looks down at the notepad in her hands, like she’s not sure what to say. I mean, honestly, there’s nothing that can be said to make the situation any better, unless it’s the location of my girlfriend.
Saving her from any lingering awkwardness, I change the subject and keep talking. “I’m meeting my parents for lunch, since I missed Sunday brunch last weekend with everything going on. I told my mom I was out of town on business, but I failed to mention that my face looks like it’s been through a meat grinder, so I need to stop and pick her up some flowers beforehand to soften the blow. Would you mind calling that florist I like to use on Justine Street and have them put together something she’d like?”
“No problem. Budget?” She jots down a note to herself.
I shrug as I power on my desktop computer. “Whatever. Will two hundred get me something nice?”
“Definitely. Anything else you need from me?”
To ensure Lance—or anyone who may have bugged my office—can’t hear me, I motion for her to approach my desk. On a piece of paper, I write out instructions for her to go at lunch and buy me a phone with a prepaid plan then to personally deliver it to Easton and tell him to bring it to my house tonight. After she reads it, she nods to let me know she’s finished and understands, and then I feed the paper through the shredder I keep under my desk.
“I think that should take care of everything, Caroline. Thank you again for everything.
Once she’s gone, I slide open the desk drawer to grab a flash drive to save my files on, when the picture of Blake as a teenager pushed all the way to the back catches my eye. Unable to resist the temptation, I take it out and stare at it for a good five minutes. My throat thickens as tears prick the backs of my eyes, the thoughts of what she endured at such a young age rocking me to the core.
It all makes better sense now. My initial draw to her, the irresistible desire to take care of her, to absorb her darkness as my own. That’s who I am as a lover. A guardian. A protector. I find my ultimate pleasure when she willingly gives me control of her body, mind, and soul, and allows me to free her from the demons that haunt her. Knowing she trusts me with all of her is the highest of highs.
And knowing I failed to keep her safe is the lowest of lows.
Pissed off, I slam the drawer closed and stand abruptly. Fuck the files. Who am I kidding? It’s not like I’m really going to work on any of this shit this weekend anyway. I’ve already got a full agenda.
My first stop when I leave the office is to swing by Franci’s Flower Shop and pick up the arrangement Caroline ordered for me. From there, I drive the long route to my parent’s Malibu home, mentally preparing myself for the endless questions my mom is going to throw at me about my injuries, the bodyguard, and, of course, about why I fired Emerson. By the time I pull up into the driveway, I’ve decided lying is the best game plan. About all of it.
Two and a half hours later, I’ve successfully managed to convince my parents that a four-wheeling accident is the reason for my battered face and wrapped ribcage, that Lance is a friend from college who’s staying with me for the weekend, and that I let Emerson go, because I caught her embezzling money to support her cocaine addiction, but I promised not to tell her parents or the authorities if she returned the money and entered a rehab program. I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but fuck her. I’ve got a feeling that what she’s actually done is way worse than the story I made up, and if it turns out I’m right, I’ll tell my parents the truth about everything.
By the time I get home, my head is pounding and my torso feels as if someone’s hitting it over and over again with a baseball bat. I need a pain pill, a shower, and a nap. But first, I have a text to send.
Me: Hey, Emerson. Are you free tomorrow night? I’d like to apologize to you in person. Dinner at my place, 7:00?
The response is almost immediate.
Emerson: Absolutely. I’ll see you then. XXX
THE HOUR BEFORE EMERSON IS to arrive, I check, double-check, and even triple-check that everything is exactly where it needs to be. I’ve only got one shot in pulling this off. After tonight, I should know exactly who has my sweet girl. Then, all I’ll need to do is figure out how to get her back.
Opening the front door, I stride across the front lawn to where Lance patrols my house from his black, late-model Tahoe. I thought he would’ve been briefed on other people close to me or those associated with the case, but after he nearly attacked my brother last night when he stopped by, and Sarah again this morning when she showed up for work, I assume I need to give him a heads up about visitors.
“Hey,” I force a polite smile as he rolls down the window, “I just wanted to let you know my friend Emerson is coming over for dinner tonight. I’m not sure what the protocol is, if you have to check her ID or whatever, but I’d be happy if you could stay as far out of sight as possible. Nothing says romantic dinner like knowing you have a babysitter watching from outside.”
His face remains impassive as he glances down at some papers in the passenger seat. “I need a physical description, as well as the color, make, and model of her car.”
“Tall . . . thin . . . long, curly red hair. She drives a new, silver C-class Mercedes,” I spout off the top of my head.
Nodding once, he jots down something on the paper. “Got it. I won’t approach her.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I reply, tapping my fist on the hood of his car before disappearing back into my house. God, I want this all to be over. I just want my Blake back.
At five minutes until seven, Emerson’s car pulls into my driveway, and for once, I’m thankful for the fact she thinks she’s important enough to pull up to the garage and come in through the backdoor like she fucking lives here. All I care about is that she didn’t notice Lance’s presence.
The second she steps through the backdoor—without knocking, naturally—and sees my face, she drops her purse and rushes over to where I’m waiting for her on a barstool, sipping a glass of wine.
“Oh, my God, Madden! What happened to you?” she screeches, the concern in her voice sincere. “Who did this? I’ll kill whoever it is!”
Sliding off the stool, I stand to greet her with a fake grin plastered on my face. My stomach turns with disgust at the sight of her, and I have to keep reminding myself of the end game to this night.