Beating Ruby (17 page)

Alex’s hands cupped my cheeks with a tenderness that was almost at odds with the animalistic exchange of saliva we had been engaged in mere seconds prior. I could feel my face scrunching already; I bit on my lower lip hard, willing my emotions back under control.

“Baby, I know this is my fault,” he cooed, his breath fanning over my lips. “I hate feeling you drift away like that.”

God, not the mind reading. Not now, not when my brain was yelling at me to take a step back and
fricking think
. “Alex—”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

This was too much for me to handle. I inched back. “Alex, I think we both need—”

“I love you.”

To take a break.

We needed to take a break. And he had just fired the L-bomb into my unsuspecting face. On my cheeks, his touch now felt white-hot, and to tell it all, I was way out of my depth.

Maybe the mind reading was a good thing after all; his eyes studied me with a knowing glint, and he pulled back, leaving me room to breathe, to think. His lips curved into a hopeful smile. A goddamn puppy smile. “It’s okay. I can be patient.”

Now, there was a lot packed in those words that I didn’t yet feel ready to deal with. I nodded weakly, and he reached for his shirt on a nearby chair, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Alex didn’t reply; he pulled out his smartphone again, and his fingers danced on the screen. I saw black-and-white shapes moving on the tilted glass surface. Could he check the hospital’s security cameras with that thing?

His index finger tapped once in the middle of the screen; I spun on my heel at the sound of the door unlocking. Hold on. Had we—had
I
—been locked in there with him?

“Come in, Mr. November,” he said in his best good-cop voice.

I couldn’t really place why, but seeing March’s tall figure in the doorframe brought me a sense of relief. Even if the slanting of his eyes as he took in Alex’s state of undress announced some imminent retribution.

“You might want to finish dressing, Mr. Morgan. A cold can happen so quickly . . .”

Ouch.
I had heard him address guys he had been about to kill with a warmer voice.

Alex welcomed the unspoken threat with a good-natured smile. “I’m touched by your concern.”

March’s brow lowered for a second, but he managed to rein in the volcanic temper I knew to be sleeping under the surface of his usually cool exterior. Meanwhile Alex finished buttoning his shirt and shrugged his jacket on.

“Island,” March began, sending a wary look in Alex’s direction. “Before we leave for Zürich, there are things I would like . . . things
I know
you
would like to discuss.”

“Can you elaborate?” Alex asked, replacing his Glock in the waistband holder at his back.

No, he couldn’t. March’s dark blue gaze met mine, a silent understanding passing between us. “Maybe we could go to your office with Alex? That way he can wait for me while we talk.” My eyes darted to Alex. “Agent Murrell said I’m still sort of under surveillance.”

Blue eyes darkened at this. “If that’s what you’re worried about, I’m certain we can put an end to this ridiculous—”

“Mr. November, if you could get rid of me, I’d have gotten a call already.” Alex had shelved the good-cop act for a moment, and there was a determination in his own gaze that made me wonder just how deep his motivations went in this mess.

In any case, he was right. March produced the precious tube of mints from his crumpled jacket’s inner pocket, gobbled two, and adjusted his black leather gloves. “It will be my pleasure to welcome you to our office, Mr. Morgan.”

SEVENTEEN

The Skittles

“Green like his eyes, red like the fire of his passion, orange like his tan: on his silky lips, Candice was tasting the rainbow.”

—Carrie Aznable,
White House, Dark Needs

Stiles was kind enough to give us a lift to Struthio in a black CIA minivan—I’m not entirely sure he had a say in the matter, though—and thus, I spent the fifteen-minute ride sandwiched between a brooding March and a smug Alex in one of the backseats. I mostly ignored them: I was too busy texting Joy and coming up with a bunch of lies about some unexpected work meeting. She texted back that I was a liar, that my pants were on fire, and asked if I was in Alex’s bed. I sighed.

Around eleven thirty, the black minivan slowed down in front of an elegant brick building facing the park, the kind of place that makes you fear you’ll get booted by security as soon as you walk in. March stepped out of the car first, holding the door for me; Alex followed. Both men seemed to be taken aback when Stiles waved good-bye at me with an earnest grin. I bit back a laugh; nothing worse for control freaks than not knowing everything that goes on behind their backs.

Once we had passed the revolving doors, I could tell Alex and I were being watched closely as March led us through the silent marble lobby. I looked up to examine the chandelier hanging fifteen feet or so above our heads, and I think it gave the old concierge sitting behind a wooden desk the wrong idea. His eyes narrowed, appraising me as if I was there to steal the lightbulbs. Behind him, a service door opened. A young black guy in his late teens and sporting a short Mohawk hopped into view and walked toward us. I immediately felt at ease around him, because much like me, he looked like he had ended up here based on some kind of misunderstanding. His gray uniform was a little too big for him, and those were sneakers on his feet. Pink and yellow sneakers.

He looked the three of us up and down before greeting March with a wide grin and a strong Caribbean accent. “Hey, rough night, Mr. November?”

March dusted his jacket as the guy followed us to the elevator. “Yes, Delroy, you could say that.”

“Got chased by the ladies?”

“Not exactly.”

That earned him a wink from Delroy, who drew his thumb and forefinger across his lips in a zipping gesture.

March acquiesced, while above the brass doors the antique floor indicator’s arrow bounced to a stop, signaling that the car had reached the lobby. “By the way, did you take care of—”

“I parked it just the way you like, really parallel to the paint lines.” Delroy mimicked two straight lines with his hands, before searching his pocket for a key that he dropped in March’s palm with a contented sigh. I checked the logo—Mercedes.

“You need anything else? Sushi?
Crosswords
?
” That last word was whispered in a way that suggested the boy regarded March’s taste for crosswords as some kind of filthy sexual fetish.

Said fetishist pulled out a few bills from his wallet and gave them to Delroy. “No, no sushi, thank you. Perhaps some chicken and salads?” He turned to Alex and me and tilted his head, waiting for us to confirm the order.

I gave Delroy a sheepish smile. “That would be wonderful. And maybe a blueberry muffin if they have any?”

The boy took the bills with a firm nod. “Chicken and salads for four. Blueberry muffin for the miss, you got it!”

“And get something for yourself as well,” March said as we stepped into the elevator and watched Delroy race out of the building.

March punched a seven-digit code on a small screen near the elevator buttons, and the doors closed. I studied him while the car took us to the fourteenth and penultimate floor. “He seems to really like you.”

“I suppose so. He needed a little help with finding a job for his probation. I pushed his résumé here.”

I arched an eyebrow.
“Probation?”

“Well, Delroy used to sell . . . medical marijuana in Central Park.” March cleared his throat. “There might’ve also been a few misunderstandings involving cars and personal items.”

I blinked. Alex’s lips pressed together in a visible effort not to laugh.

“He’s a good kid,” March added, as if in afterthought, when the elevator doors opened.

A sad tenderness warmed my chest upon hearing this. Back in Tokyo, Dries had told me a little about March’s past. His mother had died when he was still young, and he had been “raised” by his father, a small-time British drug dealer operating his business in Cape Town’s slums. Growing up neglected and left to cope alone with his anxiety issues and obsessive-compulsive disorder, March had soon dropped out of school and resorted to the same survival tactics Delroy had, turning into a violent thug breaking into villas for cash and jewelry. By the time he was seventeen, he had earned himself an eight-month ticket to one of South Africa’s worst juvenile prisons. He had met Dries after that, who had given him his “chance”—a mold to be shaped into, a way out of this hopeless life, a fraternity to welcome him, where he’d finally become someone. But at the price of his very soul.

I gathered March saw himself in Delroy and wanted to help him find his way out of the street, hopefully with a regular job rather than by becoming a hit man. Those were the thoughts I entertained when the elevator doors parted, revealing a long hallway whose cream walls were covered halfway up with wooden panels. My eyes darted left and right; there were two double doors on the opposite wall, both closed. A hint of oil soap lingered in the air; the whole place was perfectly clean and silent.

“Does anyone else work here?” I asked, as March led us down the hallway.

“No. I purchased the top two floors, and for now it’s only Phyllis and me.”

I gawked. “That’s a lot of space for two.”

March shrugged. “Phyllis believed I was saving too much and needed to diversify my assets. New York real estate seemed like a stable investment, and the previous owner was in a hurry to sell. I think we made a satisfying deal.”

I looked around. “So you’re planning on renting part of it?”

His lips twisted sideways. “Hmm, I’m not certain. This is admittedly too much space, but I don’t like the idea of sharing my premises with strangers.”

“Then let’s rent to people we already know instead.”

My gaze shifted from March’s peaceful smile to the door that had just opened in front of us. Leaning against its wooden frame was a woman in her early forties. A pink silk blouse and black cigarette pants clung to her lean, athletic figure. Long red curls fell over her shoulders, which she pushed back as she showed us into a large office with a breathtaking view of Central Park. Once I stood next to her, I realized that her stilettos made her almost as tall as March. And by the way, I was grinning so madly she probably thought I was going to propose.

“You’re Phyllis!” I squeaked, overexcited to meet March’s top-notch assistant at long last. There was a face to go with that sultry voice now!

She wiggled her hips and struck a little pose. “The one and only.”

Alex, who had been silently scanning the nearly empty office until now, stepped forward and extended his hand to her. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Agent—”

“Alexander Morgan,” she finished for him, plum lips curving in a mysterious smile.

“You can call me Alex.”

“Sounds good,” she said, walking around a smoked glass desk and over to a long gray sideboard. There, next to a minimalist paper lamp, sat a midnight-blue lacquered box. She opened it. “So, Island, Alex, Skittles? We also have coffee and tea, if you’d like.”

The two of us stared down at the box’s contents. Someone—couldn’t imagine who—had sorted the candy by color, in perfectly straight lines. Also, that someone apparently only ate the strawberry one. I picked a grape Skittle carefully, feeling March’s anxious stare digging holes in my back. Alex seemed to hesitate and, after two seconds or so during which his hand hovered over the candy, chose a lemon one. Now, I’m sure it was an accident when his fingers trembled. He didn’t mean to mess up the lemon and green apple lines.

March was at our side in an instant, slamming the box shut with a sharp intake of air. “Delroy is going to bring us dinner; that’s enough Skittles for you two.”

I winced. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s all right; I’ll reorganize them later.” He shot Alex a withering glare. “You’re not responsible.”

The culprit rolled his eyes at March’s antics, and I couldn’t restrain a chuckle. Then the laugh died in my throat, because on the desk I saw something. Phyllis, Alex, and March seem to notice the shift in my expression, the three of them sobering as I approached the sleek surface hesitantly.

The coupons were stacked next to a pile of various documents all labeled with colored Post-its depending on their category. Orange was apparently for bills, turquoise for tax-deductible receipts, and so forth. I took the incomplete coupon book and examined the pink logo featuring a little maid silhouette.

It was stupid, in a way. I mean, I had suspected he was behind it, and I had been through so much already—the car chase, the shootings, the explosions, the baby octopus. And then there had been those few minutes with Alex. “Not on the same page” didn’t even begin to describe our current situation. So you’d think I could hold my ground in the face of a free cleaning hours program. But that’s what did it for me. After this exhausting day, seeing the coupons, feeling them in my hand, crumpling them with a trembling fist . . . It was a tangible reminder of just how close and yet so far March had been for all those months—a ghost hovering above me, tinkering with my life, when I missed him so much I sometimes couldn’t sleep. And he was still here, standing a few feet away from me. Frustratingly out of reach.

I knew his attitude owed a lot to Alex’s presence, but it was only part of the issue. No, the root of the problem was March’s—or was it Hedwardh’s?—need for
control
. Control of the Skittles, of my apartment, of my feelings . . . of his. Control of fricking
everything
and
everyone
, at any cost.

I massaged the dull ache I could feel rising in my temples. “March, can we go somewhere to talk?”

From the corner of my eye I saw Phyllis cringe.

“Yes, let’s go into my office,” he said, gesturing to a closed door behind Phyllis’s desk. His eyes slanted in Alex’s direction. “Alone.”

Alex sustained March’s glare with one of his own. “She doesn’t leave my sight.”

My last nerve snapped at this unbidden display of male territoriality. I straightened my shoulders and attempted to outglare them both, like I had once seen March’s flamboyant ex do. “I’m not a package!
You
”—I pointed a finger at Alex—“will let me
fucking breathe
for once! If I want to talk to March, I
will!
And you”—I turned to face March—“need to stop playing with me! I. Am. Not. A. Fucking.
Sim
!
”

“I know that. I know it all too well!”

Shivers cascaded down my spine at the barely repressed fury in his voice. Hot, cold, like thousands of needles in my shoulders, then my neck, my head.

“I-I—” As I tried to form a coherent sentence through all that confusion and anger, the buzzing in my temples turned into a pounding that seemed to resonate inside my skull in painful waves. I buried my face in my hands; I could no longer stand the blinding white of the room’s lighting, and around me the walls were spinning. I remember the way my knees shook, while a little voice in my head noted that it was a miracle my brain had waited so long to take revenge for all the stress it had been subjected to over the past twenty-four hours.

I didn’t fall. I saw Alex lunge forward to catch me, but March was quicker, and in a split second I was nestled in his arms, my fingers gripping his jacket. And my eyeballs hurt so much I wanted to scream. A big thank-you to Dries’s goon—not only had that asswipe killed my mother, but the resulting car accident had left me with “minor cerebrovascular sequels,” as in a two-week coma and occasional but debilitating migraines for the rest of my life.

I vaguely heard March say something to Alex and Phyllis before my feet left the ground. I know he carried me up a flight of stairs, but I had resorted to covering my throbbing forehead with my forearm, so the whole trip felt like riding on a boat swaying in the dark.

There were more stairs, and I was laid on a bed on a darkened mezzanine, registered the weight of a comforter covering me. On the pillow lingered a fragrance I knew: a combination of laundry, some kind of lemony soap, and the indefinable musk of another human being. March’s scent.

He left for a while and came back with some kind of meds. Halfway passed out in the haze of my pain, buried under the covers, I registered his fingers threading in my hair as he held a glass of water to my lips. I swallowed the caplet and sipped the cool liquid with difficulty, a trickle running down my chin—which he wiped diligently.

My eyes had already closed when I felt him readjust the comforter. A long sigh breezed against my cheek, followed by a soft contact. March had pressed a kiss to my temple.