Fair Game: A Football Romance (84 page)

I can see her out of the corner of my eye, reaching out to touch me, but she hesitates and returns her hand to her lap.

“I was right, though, huh? You’re family—blood family.”

“Why? Why would he keep this from me so long? They’re both dead. It doesn’t make sense.”

I push my hands through my hair and lace my fingers behind my neck.

“Maybe he was afraid if someone found out you weren’t Arturo’s real son, you would lose the business after he died. Could that be it?” she asks.

Holy shit. That
is
it. She’s right. Partners, colleagues, rivals, enemies, all of them would turn their back on me if they knew I wasn’t the true heir of the Romero fortune. My father’s bloodline ended with him. I’m not responsible for the drug business. I have a way out, a legitimate, honest to God way out.

Pushing all of the emotional elements of the situation aside, I get up and hold out my hand to Candy. She looks up at me with wide eyes, slowly takes my hand, and lets me help her to her feet.

“Let’s go.”

Back in the car, I climb in next to Sebastián and Juliette without a word. I’ll need some time to adjust to this life-altering news, but for now, the most important thing is figuring out how to hide a lot of money before the world learns that King Romero, son of the most powerful drug cartel in the world, is really King Ortega, son of a security guard.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Holland

Two weeks ago, Dax fell off the face of the earth. We were so close to finding King and Juliette, and—poof—he just disappeared into thin air. I’m not stupid. I know King had something to do with it. Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t step in earlier. I’m sure he’s got someone watching my every step, waiting to see if I’ll go back to school, waiting to see if I’ll cave and give up on finding my little girl.

I just hope he didn’t hurt Dax. He was a good friend to me. I know he wanted more, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to remove the barbed wire surrounding my heart. But if I did, it would have been for Dax. He risked everything to help me, including his life. I’ll probably never know if he’s dead. King has professionals for that. When somebody wrongs him, they die, and there’s no trace, no tracks, nothing.

Dax educated me on the life of a kingpin. He taught me things I never wanted to know, things I try to put out of my head every day. King has proven himself to be a monster capable of anything. He’s ruthless and selfish and evil and egotistical. I can’t believe I ever loved him, and one thing’s for sure. I’ll never in a million years forgive him for stealing my baby and leaving me alone and broken. Never.

***

I miss my baby girl.

God, she’s not even a baby anymore. She’s three years old today. I fidget while the musicians around me shuffle their sheet music, preparing for tonight’s performance. Today is supposed to be a joyful day of celebrating with baby dolls and pink balloons, but instead, I’m well on my way to a migraine listening to my colleagues in the orchestra tune their instruments. I usually have butterflies in my belly before a concert, but every year on this particular day, the butterflies turn to cement.

I need to focus . . . these people are looking to me for direction and leadership. I can’t be distracted, not even today. But it’s impossible. The buzzing crowd wins my attention for the third Valentine’s Day performance in a row.

I scan the audience like I do every year on this date, and I pray I’ll see him sitting out there somewhere in the dimly lit auditorium with my little girl in the seat next to him.

It’s a dream I’ve been having every night for three long years. I’m sitting on stage in the Lincoln Center, consumed by the music, focused on leading my string section, when out of the corner of my eye, I see King sitting in the third row with our beautiful raven-haired daughter next to him. The room blurs and my violin slides from my hands, clattering to the floor in slow motion as I stand in shock. The members of the orchestra stop playing in waves, beginning with the musicians closest to me, until only the percussion people are left clanking and rattling awkwardly. The auditorium is silent when I call out her name and bolt backstage, but when I arrive at their row, the seats have been abandoned. I spin around to look up the aisle. No one is there, no one but the hundreds of glaring eyes that are now fixated on me. I glance back at the vacant seats in disbelief, and something glimmers there, catching my eye. If the lights hadn’t been turned up in the house because of my unheard of behavior, I would never have seen it. I push past the patrons decked out in sequins, fur stoles and tuxedos and lurch for the sparkle in the seat. I thread my fingers through the delicate chain and look at the dangling piece of jewelry that brings so many beautiful memories rushing to my mind. It’s a charm bracelet with a tiny diamond covered violin, a bow, and three round charms with the letters K, H and J stamped on them.
My
charm bracelet. King gave it to me right after I had our baby three years ago, before he took her and disappeared.

I considered canceling tonight. I’ve never cancelled. Being the concertmaster for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra makes me second in command of the entire orchestra, and I don’t take that responsibility lightly. I’ve worked myself to death night and day for three years. I barely graduated from Juilliard because of my grueling travel schedule. I doubled my classes and finished my bachelors in music in just two years. After that, I auditioned for concertmaster at the unheard of age of twenty-three, and after two weeks of auditions, I won the spot. No one was more surprised than me, and no one was more proud than my mama.

I’m a loner outside the orchestra. The people I work with are as close as anyone will ever get to me. I’m damaged beyond repair as far as relationships go, and I have become a music machine. I live it, I breathe it, but I no longer love it. I do it because there is nothing else—no boyfriend, no family beyond my parents, who have found new husbands and wives to spend their lives with, no close friends, no interests beyond music. Nothing.

I wonder if he knows what he’s done to my life. Did he ever realize that I needed more than music to make me happy? Did he ever know I would have walked through fire to spend my life loving them? The answer can only be no, because he never came back. He never even sent me a picture of Juliette. It was like he wanted to erase them from my memory—out of sight, out of mind.

It didn’t work, not at all. Out of sight only meant that they became burrowed deeper into my heart, woven into my soul where they will forever reside, reminding me of the incredible love I lost.

When King vanished and Dax went missing, I had two options: give up, or give King what he wanted and pray he would come back when he saw I was keeping my end of the deal. I knew if there was so much as a glimmer of hope of me seeing my child again, I had to try, so I went to Juilliard in the fall like King wanted me to. I was swept up in the whirlwind of school, travel, and performing so much that I never had a chance to quit when they didn’t return.

Now I’m living the life I always dreamed of. I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted, and I’m known all over the world as one of the youngest, most talented violinists of all time. I should be happy. I would have been happy if I had never fallen in love with King Tomas Romero.

I stand and face the musicians to lead them in an organized tuning. This requires me to turn my back on the audience, and I hate not being able to see them. If there ever were a day he would bring her back to me, it would be on her birthday. I don’t know why I believe this, but I do. Maybe it’s the dream, maybe it’s a vibe from the universe, or maybe it’s just me using her birthday as an excuse to get my hopes up year after year.

When the conductor enters and the applause dies down, I continue to torture myself, scanning the faces of every person in the crowd. He could look different now. He may be in a disguise. Sometimes there will be a man who resembles King in the crowd, and I’ll blur my eyes and imagine it’s really him, but like the cold, hard reality of life, the man will come back into focus and I’m still alone.

The lights turn up. It’s intermission, and everyone is buzzing around, taking a quick break when Rob, one of the production managers, touches my shoulder from behind.

“Oh.” I shout and jump a foot off my chair.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Ms. Bennett. There is a phone call for you. He’s been holding for fifteen minutes. I told him I could take a message, but he insisted on waiting.”

“Who is it?” I ask, sucking in a breath to hold until he answers.

“He won’t say, but he told me to tell you three years is long enough?” Rob looks confused. Did I hear him right?

“What?”

“Three years is long enough. He said you would know what that means.”

Oh God, I’m going to be sick—no, I’m going to pass out. Shit I may be sick
and
pass out. It has to be King. I jump up and thrust my violin and bow into Rob’s chest, grab the long, full skirt of my dress into both hands, and hike it up so I can run. I weave in and out of the chairs, hop over a few obstacles, and snatch the phone lying on the counter in the lounge.

“Hello,” I say, panting into the phone and bowing my head to hide my face with my free hand. The voice on the other end of the line is calm and familiar.

“Holland?” My eyes fly open, and I stand up straight.

“Sebastián?”

“Yes, dear, I’m sorry if I led you to believe it would be King, but I needed to be sure you would come to the phone.”

I lower my head and shake it back and forth, squeezing my eyes shut tight. Why is Sebastián calling me?

“What . . . what do you want, Sebastián?”

“This is very important, Holland. I need you to pay close attention, all right?”

My head hurts. I’m dizzy, and if he doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to vomit.

“Sebastián, I don’t feel well.”

“It’s okay, just listen and everything will be fine. There is a stool behind you. Sit down.”

He can see me. I remove my hand from my eyes to look around instinctively, but the lights are blinding and they intensify my headache. I close them and feel around behind me for the stool and pull it close so I can sit.

“Good girl.”

“Where’s Juliette? You have to tell me where he’s taken her, Sebastián, please. I need her, I’m dying without her—”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. He’s there, Holland, he’s in the theatre watching you play. He’s always there when you play. He’s been following you all over the world, secretly watching as many performances as he could attend. He has this warped, sick idea that you’re better off without him, and that he and Juliette would only distract you from your career.”

“No. No, Sebastián, that’s not true.” I slap the palm of my hand so hard on the marble counter that it stings.

“I know, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m going to give you the name of his hotel and the room number. He has Juliette with him, but you have to finish the show without letting on that you know anything so you can catch them. If he senses a problem or anything out of the ordinary, he will disappear again.”

“Okay, what hotel?”

“Can you go back out there and finish without him suspecting?”

“Yes, yes, I can do anything if it means I get Juliette back. Just tell me the name of the hotel.”

“He’s staying at The Ritz, room 211 . . .” I hang up the phone and call my driver and instruct him to be ready to leave the instant the show is over. When I hang up with him, I dial information and ask for the Ritz and they connect me to the front desk.

“Hello, I have a friend staying in the hotel tonight and I wanted to be sure I had the correct room number. Can you help me?” I ask.

A pleasant woman on the other end asks me for the guest’s name, and when I tell her it’s King Romero, she can’t find it.

“It’s room 211—are you sure?”

“Yes, Miss. There is no King Romero registered in that room or any other room here tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Can you tell me who’s staying in room 211?”

“No, ma’am. I’m so sorry, but we aren’t allowed to give out that information.”

“That’s okay, thank you anyway. Oh, and please don’t mention that anyone asked for King Romero. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am, and thank you for calling the Ritz.”

The line is disconnected, and I cross my fingers and toes that I haven’t just blown my chance to see my baby.

The lights flash, indicating the intermission is almost over. When I return, I stand off stage with the conductor and wait to be introduced. I skipped my introduction earlier due to my headache, but I want the rest of the performance to seem as normal as possible so King isn’t spooked.

Oh my God, I could be seeing my little girl tonight. This doesn’t seem real. Juliette doesn’t seem real. I have no idea what she looks like. I have nothing but a few weeks of memories to go on and a string of pictures taken on my phone that I had printed and put into an album when I thought it was all I’d ever have of her.

I’ve never wanted a performance to be over more. I’m nervous, scared, thrilled, and torn between crying and shouting at the top of my lungs. It takes every ounce of my self-control to smile and play my solos; the long pieces of music that I usually love drag on forever until the last encore, when the audience is finally filing out of the theatre. I move around the stage, hugging and congratulating my colleagues on a job well done, and wish them all a Happy Valentine’s Day before heading to my office. When I open the door and turn on the light, I yelp when I see Sebastián sitting at my desk.

“Damn it, Sebastián, you scared the shit out of me,” I say, clutching my chest.

“I’m so sorry, Holland. You hung up, and I had to make sure you were going to the hotel.” He’s standing right in front of me now, with his hands on my shoulders.

“Are you kidding? Seriously, you think that after three years I would pass up an opportunity to get my daughter back?”

“Then why are you in your office and not in a cab on your way to the Ritz?”

“I always lock my violin in my office after a performance. You said to make it look normal so I don’t scare him off. God, Sebastián, he ruined my life by leaving me. I wouldn’t just . . . just . . .” The dam breaks, and I slump against Sebastián and sob.

“I know, shush, it’s going to be okay now.” His arms circle my shoulders, and he pats my back.

“I have to go, I have a car waiting,” I say, pulling away sniffling. He hands me a handkerchief. I didn’t know men still did things like that. It’s sweet. I blow and hold it up, scrunching my face.

“Am I supposed to give this back?”