Nightfire (3 page)

The other man was . . . was Harry Bolt. Chloe eyed him hungrily. Much taller than Michael Keillor and almost, but not quite, as broad. Dark blond hair, light brown eyes. Familiar-looking eyes.

Her heart was slamming against her chest so hard she wondered if they could hear it.

Chloe was used to observing and interpreting body language, but there was absolutely nothing to read here. Both men were utterly still, both were utterly expressionless.

She had no way at all to gauge their feelings. No way to figure out how this would end.

Shaking, with a feeling of doom interlaced in her heart with wild hope, Chloe stepped into the room.

S
he’s scared shitless,
Mike thought, glad that he’d horned in on this meeting. This Chloe Mason had specifically asked for Harry Bolt, but once Mike had seen her in the lobby, he knew he had to be here, too.

Because this woman was clearly one of the Lost Ones. A woman in trouble, on the run from some violent asshole. And shit, it made him angry all over again that there were monsters in the world who could beat up on women.

RBK mainly dealt with corporate security. In the lobby waiting for RBK’s very expensive services, there’d been two CEOs and one head of security for a Fortune 500 company. Mike had read their files, knew what their problems were and knew how to solve them.

Those three men alone probably represented about a million dollars in business this year for RBK.

Chloe Mason represented nothing, because RBK policy was not to accept money from women on the run. If anything, RBK often provided the women with a little nest egg to see them through that first difficult year.

On average, after the first year, they were safe.

After last night, Mike really, really wanted to make a woman safe. Wanted to help a woman, particularly a woman like this, soft and gentle and completely undeserving of the sick fuck who’d forced her to come to them.

This morning Sam was staying home with Nicole, who had bad morning sickness, so the corporate honchos would be divided between him and Harry. Stuff he and Harry could do with their eyes closed. All three of them had an instinctive understanding of security risks—their entire childhoods had been security risks—and they had been trained very hard and very expensively by Uncle Sam to learn how to deal with risks. It was a question of knowledge and reason.

But with their Lost Ones, the trembling and broken women who showed up on their doorstep because RBK was their last chance before falling into the abyss—when dealing with them, you used both your head and your heart.

Though the woman in the lobby had asked to see Harry, Mike instinctively knew she was his. He had to be the one to help her.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Astoundingly beautiful.

But because she looked so lost, so alone. She was slightly built, with pale skin and pretty, delicate features. A slightly overlarge mouth, huge light brown, almost golden eyes.

Her clothes were expensive. So were her shoes and purse. Expensive, elegant, discreet. This was a lady of taste and of breeding and she looked rich.

Didn’t matter.

He and his brothers had seen a lot of everything pass through their doors. Women who’d been beaten up by low-life drug-addict husbands and lovers, sure. But also wives of lawyers and doctors and even a senator. The rich weren’t immune to the joys of beating up on women and children. If anything, they were able to hide it better, and for longer.

The police were also more willing to turn a blind eye.

The rich wives who ended up as one of RBK’s Lost Ones sometimes tried going to the police, but their husbands often wielded enormous power and were able to get away with things poorer men went to jail for. The wives of the rich fucks were just as beaten down as their poorer sisters.

This woman, this Chloe Mason, belonged to the rich, there was no mistaking it. And not the new rich, either. She had that understated elegance of someone who didn’t need to make a splash, someone for whom good taste came naturally.

From head to toe she was groomed and lovely. But there was something underneath those pretty, expensive designer duds that was a little less lovely.

She moved slowly, exactly like someone who’d been punched hard, in a place covered by clothes. That was a little trick fuckhead men who liked beating up on women and kids learned. Their rages might be uncontrollable, but boy, they knew enough to reason it out and punch where it wouldn’t show. Last week a banker’s wife had come in without a visible scratch on her. Except, of course, for a ruptured spleen that had required eight hours of surgery six months before. It had followed broken ribs and a punch to the liver so hard the liver had sustained damage.

Shitheads knew what they were doing, all right. Even in a fucking rage they knew enough to cover their tracks.

Someone had done something like that to Chloe Mason, who moved so very carefully, as if she would fall down if she didn’t watch it.

Oh man. Who could do that to someone like her? Who could do it to any woman or child? But especially to Chloe Mason, with her soft skin and gentle features and slender build?

He glanced at Harry, expecting him to say something, then glanced again.

What the fuck?

It was like Harry was frozen. He simply stood there, staring at her. Not in a sexual way. Like Sam, Harry loved his wife fiercely and absolutely. He had zero interest in other women since his marriage. But something about this woman riveted his attention. And blocked his tongue, because he wasn’t saying anything.

Harry knew as well as Mike that these women needed reassurance. They did not need a male staring at them. Particularly a tall, strong male. That kind of staring came off as aggression and women like Chloe Mason had had a bellyful of that.

Mike elbowed Harry in the ribs, to no effect. Okay, so Harry was out for the count. It was up to him.

“Welcome, Ms. Mason,” he said gently to the frightened woman slowly crossing Harry’s office. Since Harry wasn’t moving, Mike walked around the desk and approached her slowly. No sudden moves, just nice and easy.

She stared up at him and he had to jerk his gaze away because he was staring, too, just like his idiot brother Harry.

Damn, she was . . . she was lovely. The old-fashioned word was exactly right. Nowadays beautiful was the technical term used for a woman who worked on herself, got herself some surgical enhancement, who stood out because of the way she was dressed and was made-up.

Chloe Mason had a different kind of beauty, made up of perfect skin, delicate features, soft blond hair, huge golden eyes, none of that, as far as he could see, enhanced.

So that’s what she’d look like in the morning. After sex.

Mike squelched that thought immediately, ashamed of himself. The last thing this woman needed was a man she looked to for help coming on to her.

She was looking up at him anxiously, then back at Harry, clutching a purse and a big manila envelope, visibly worried because his fuckhead brother had his head up his ass.

Since she looked like she was about to fall down, Mike chanced it and placed a hand under her elbow, as gentlemanlike as possible, though he wouldn’t object to carrying her to the client chair.

No
. Not going there, he told himself sternly.

Women who’d been beaten up had antennae that quivered when men were around and in their space, because men in their space was a situation that often ended badly. He didn’t want Chloe Mason to have even a moment’s anxiety because of him.

So he did the opposite of what he’d done walking, then running, through a bad part of town last night, trolling for trouble. Last night, his entire body had been one hand curled up in the universal
come and get it
sign, two bad-ass drugs in his system—alcohol and testosterone. A potent mix that got lots of men into trouble, true. But Mike had been trained by the best to meet trouble head-on when it came his way. He’d bristled with aggression last night. Aggression was his friend, always had been, had saved his life countless times.

Aggression and sex were his constant companions.

But not now.

Now he needed to dial it all down, reassure this beautiful woman, not frighten her.

“Ms. Mason,” he said, nodding his head at the two client chairs in front of Harry’s desk, “please take a seat.”

He had a naturally deep voice, slightly rough due to the drinking last night. She stood looking at him, swaying slightly, and for a second he wondered how badly she might be injured. Man, if someone had injured her so badly she could hardly stand, he was going to find out who and quietly, privately, beat the shit out of him.

“Ms. Mason?” he repeated, keeping his voice gentle.

She ducked her head. “Yes, of course. I do apologize. I’ve—been under some stress lately.”

It was the first time he heard her voice. It was as soft as the rest of her, with a musical quality. And a faint British accent.

She was English? Mike dropped his hand when she sat down, then rounded Harry’s huge desk again.

She sat perched on the edge of the client chair, one of the most comfortable chairs in the world. By definition, RBK clients were in trouble, and the company wanted them to be comfortable while they talked it out. Chloe Mason didn’t look comfortable in that chair, she looked tense as hell.

Silence. Harry was still . . . frozen. Goddammit. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Mike waited a beat, two. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Ms. Mason. Welcome to RBK Security. My name is Mike Keillor and this is my partner, Harry Bolt.” He shot a glance at the silent statue that was his partner and refrained from rolling his eyes. Had Harry gone back to his pattern of sleeplessness with his little daughter? Was he in a waking coma, or what? “I know you asked for an appointment with Mr. Bolt, but we often work on . . . cases together. Before we begin, can we offer you something, a cup of coffee? Or tea?” Thinking of that accent.

“Yes, thank you so much.” Her words came out in the rush of loosened tension. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

Right call.

Mike waited a second for Harry to move, to wake up, to fucking get with the program. Finally, he pushed the button to Marisa, their receptionist. “Marisa, do you think we could get a cup of tea in here?”

Ordinarily, Mike wouldn’t ask Marisa to do refreshment detail, but she was the mother hen of their Lost Ones. Marisa’d been a Lost One herself, and had the scars to prove it. She was a fabulous employee, hardworking and loyal. But for the battered women who made their way to the offices of RBK, Marisa went all out. She pampered them and mothered them and protected them fiercely.

“Yes, sir, right away.”

The little interlude relaxed Chloe Mason.

Telling their story was a real ordeal for some women. They were all somehow ashamed, though how they could possibly be ashamed of ending up as someone’s punching bag was beyond Mike. This moment out of time was a respite for Chloe. Her breathing pattern evened out. A little color came back to her pretty face.

The door to Harry’s office slid open and Marisa walked in with a tray. She’d done them proud. A big teapot, three cups, milk and home-baked cookies brought in by Sam’s wife, Nicole, baked by their housekeeper.

“Harry.” Mike looked at his brother, barely refraining from poking him in the side with his elbow again. “You want to pour?”

Harry started slightly, as if he’d actually been asleep and had suddenly woken up. “Sure, ah. Sure.” His gaze locked onto the woman’s face. “How do you take your tea, Ms. Mason?”

She smiled gently. “Dash of milk, one teaspoon of sugar, thank you.”

It was the first time Mike had seen her smile. She was clearly under enormous stress, probably terrified, and yet the smile was genuine, blinding. And transformed her face from quietly lovely to otherworldly beauty. A real looker. She didn’t catch your attention the first time or maybe not even the second time, but when she did catch your attention—watch out.

Mike felt a tug somewhere in his chest he didn’t ever remember feeling, like someone was pulling at a hook.

They were going to take care of this lovely woman. Keep her safe, take her away from danger.

And then, well—forget about beating the guy up. Mike was going to find the fuckhead who’d hurt her and kill him.

Chapter 3

C
hloe drank her tea, the cup making a light tinkling sound as she put it back on its saucer. Her hands were trembling slightly. Did the two men notice? Probably. Both of them were watching her very carefully.

Odd. In her experience, men didn’t have great powers of observation. Most men were so wrapped up in themselves they barely noticed the outside world unless it impacted them in some way.

These two men seemed observant, however. Which is what she wanted, of course. She wanted to be listened to, to be
heard.
By Harry Bolt, though, not Michael Keillor.

The only thing was that, right now, Michael Keillor seemed to be the most responsive. Harry Bolt just stared at her.

Both men were completely opaque to her, which was unusual. She could usually get a pretty good handle on people within the first few minutes. There were so many tells—body language, their eyes, the way they were dressed, their tone of voice, the language they used. Even the way they breathed. At times, she thought she could read people’s auras, though she didn’t have any training in that. Just a lifetime of observation, on the outside looking in.

It was impossible to read these two. Their clothes were nondescript. Good quality, comfortable, not particularly fashionable. Expensive work clothes for busy men who dealt with the world and didn’t sit behind desks.

They were giving her a lot of space and time. She was using way too much of it.

Her hands fell to her lap, started worrying the edges of the big manila envelope that held her past. And perhaps her future.

“Mr. Bolt,” she began.

“Harry.” His voice was very deep, almost as deep as his partner’s. “Please call me Harry. And this is Mike.” He nodded to the powerfully built man next to him.

Something deep inside her quivered at the sound of Harry’s voice.

“Mr.—um. Harry. I lied. I lied to your receptionist. I told her I only needed a few minutes of your time. But I’m afraid it will take longer than that. I’m really sorry I didn’t make an appointment.” Her hands clutched the edges of the envelope as she made an offer she hoped he’d refuse. “I can make an appointment now and come back later, if this inconveniences you.”

“No problem.” He sat back in his big office chair, eyes never leaving hers. He reached out and pressed a button. “Yeah, Marisa. Cancel my appointments for the next . . . hour?”

His partner, Mike, leaned forward, too. “Marisa, cancel my appointments, too.”

“An hour for Mr. Keillor as well,” Harry said decisively, and lifted his finger from the button. “So, Ms. Mason, we’re both free and you can take as much time as you want.”

Okay. Okay. Chloe stopped herself from rocking back and forth in anxiety. Where to begin?

At the beginning, of course.

“I had an accident,” she began slowly. “A very bad one, when I was small. I don’t remember anything about it. But as a consequence, most of my childhood and my early teens was spent in and out of hospitals. By the time I was fifteen, I’d had fourteen surgeries.”

Both men winced. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Mason,” Harry Bolt said.

“Chloe, please.” She tried on a smile but could tell by the feel of her facial muscles that it was weak. “I, um, I didn’t tell you this to gain your sympathy.” She didn’t like talking about it at all, and never told anyone except medical personnel. It had been bad enough living through it. People she met could wonder why sometimes she moved stiffly, but she didn’t feel obliged to tell anyone anything. “The reason I told you is that my—my health problems ate up my childhood and teen years. My injuries were so severe that several times the doctors gave up on me. Apparently, I am alive by a miracle. The side effect is that whole chunks of me—of my history—are gone. I can remember very little, in fact, other than long stays in the hospital and rehabilitation in a succession of clinics. I didn’t even attend school until I was fifteen. There would have been too many interruptions. My, um, my parents arranged for private tutors to come to me in the hospital. I was fifteen by the time I could stand and walk and even think of leading a normal life.”

She studied Harry Bolt’s eyes, then switched her gaze to Mike Keillor. It was a toss-up as to who was paying her more attention. She’d rarely been on the receiving end of such intense male scrutiny. It seemed to her that they were listening carefully to her every word and, perhaps, even to the words she wasn’t saying.

She took a deep breath because the minefield began now.

“I never thought to ask my parents what happened. My parents were very . . . distant. That’s the only word that really works.” Until the man she knew as her father got all-too-close. “My, um, my father inherited a great deal of money and then he and my mother founded a highly successful real estate business. My mother used to come to visit me a couple of times a month in the hospital, but later she got caught up in the company and didn’t have much time. In the end, she came about once a month to visit. I needed such intense rehabilitation between surgeries, they found it easier to leave me in long-stay hospitals, instead of ferrying me back and forth. They could afford it.”

And just like that she was pinged back to long, pain-wracked years in luxury clinics, completely alone. The nurses her only human contacts as they rotated in and out of ICU.

She’d longed desperately for the love of her parents and it was never there. It was just this black hole into which she uselessly poured her love until she learned to stop it.

She’d waited eagerly for her mother’s visits, every time, all through childhood. Never learning. The visits always followed the same script. Her mother would arrive with an expensive present or two, sit on the edge of the visitor’s chair with her coat on, ask how Chloe was feeling, not listen to the answer, visibly quivering to get away, bolting after a quarter of an hour. Often leaving Chloe in tears until she simply gave up on making her mother care for her, because it just wasn’t going to happen.

“My parents were these—these distant people who showed up now and again. My mother more than my father. I saw him just a couple of times a year while I was in the clinics. And then finally, when I was fifteen, there were no more surgeries scheduled. The doctors said I was as well as I was ever going to be. I was released, free to go home. My parents had moved houses several times. When I got out of the hospital, I was taken to a home I’d never seen before, in a part of town I didn’t in any way know. A bedroom had been set up for me by an interior decorator. That first week was incredibly strange, as I was in a brand-new setting with parents I barely knew.”

“Where was this?” Michael Keillor asked quietly.

“Boston.”

“And yet you speak with a slight English accent.”

So far, Harry Bolt hadn’t spoken much. There was no doubt he was listening, though. Chloe had the feeling he was listening intently with every sense he had, not just hearing. And yet, though she had Harry Bolt’s full attention, it was Michael Keillor who was asking her questions.

The reason she spoke with a faint English accent, which she’d picked up subconsciously, was hard to explain, in every way there was.

She sat there, trying to put the words together. This was so
hard.
It was a moment of her life she’d tried to understand, tried to forget, tried to forgive. Nothing worked.

Chloe took in a deep breath, watching the two men. She was taking up their time but there were absolutely no impatience vibes coming from them. She was familiar with people’s exasperation with her when she needed time to think about what she was saying. One of her many, many failings.

Only she didn’t feel it was a failing here. Both men were watching her, listening carefully to her, allowing her to talk at her own pace. She was all too familiar with people’s body language when she had to think over what she was saying. The impatient huffs of breath, leg-jiggling or foot-tapping. Looking up at the ceiling, looking down at the watch, doodling. She’d seen it all.

She wasn’t seeing it here. She was seeing two men hearing her out with no signs of anything but interest.

And since they were, she didn’t stammer. It came out as smoothly as if she were discussing the plot of a movie she’d once seen.

“I’ll come to that. When I was finally released, because there wasn’t anything else medicine could do for me, it was summer and there was no school. I was actually ahead two grades because about the only thing I could do in the hospitals and clinics was study. I found it . . . hard, being home. My father acted very strange around me and my mother—my mother acted strange when he acted strange. They were both very strange, though I didn’t have much to compare them with.

“I couldn’t figure anything out. We had these strained conversations about nothing at all. They never asked me any questions, I never asked any of them. They were both gone a lot because of business. It was a little like being back in the hospital, only I was dressed and could go out if I wanted. Then one day, my father came home early.” Chloe closed her eyes. She’d had endless therapy but the memory could still jolt her out of her serenity. In an instant, she was right back there, living it, not remembering it.

A sunny day in Boston, hot and humid. She’d found a whole wardrobe of pretty summer dresses in her room, an unusual gesture of kindness from her mother. She’d spent so long in the hospital gowns and track suits; the pretty clothes delighted her.

Being outdoors was still a novelty for her, a treat. The feel of the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair a shocking delight, even on a humid Boston summer day. She’d had on a sundress with spaghetti straps and no bra because really, why wear a bra when your breasts were like two small teacups? The house had a garden, one she delighted in exploring. A Mexican came twice a week to do the heavy lifting in the garden. Mr. Martinez. Diego. Old and kindly, willing to explain to her what he was doing. Telling her the names of the flowers in both English and Spanish. She spent hours in the sunshine with him without ever thinking that maybe she was interrupting his work.

Coming in from the garden that day with a fistful of asters, flushed from the sun, she came across her father staring at her intently.

He walked right up to her, looming over her. He’d been a big man, very tall, and he used his size and height to intimidate everyone around him. Certainly her mother was often intimidated, as were the cook and the maid and the few dinner guests they sometimes had. He intimidated her all the time, which she dealt with by rarely being in the same room with him.

Without really realizing what she was doing, something she recognized only in hindsight and after painful therapy, she had avoided him as much as she could. Walking out of a room the moment he entered, keeping furniture between them, stepping back when he approached her.

Her skin crawled if he got too close to her. Once, as she brushed by him, the hairs on her forearm rose.

That day, there was no walking away from him. He cornered her, big hands against her shoulders, pressing her against a red damask-covered wall.

God, she remembered the instant panic, full-blown, almost outsized for that specific moment, as if this were a situation she’d already faced. Chloe had even sometimes wondered if she was in some way psychic because her nightmares were and always had been of being with her back to a wall and having a huge man attack her.

She’d had every variation of that nightmare, over and over again. And that afternoon, it became reality.

“Did he?” Mike Keillor’s very deep voice was low, harsh. The skin was tight over his cheekbones. He’d said something and she’d only caught the tail end of it.

Chloe blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve heard a version of this story a lot of times.” He glanced at his partner without moving his head. “Did your father rape you?”

Chloe bowed her head. It was that obvious? She looked like a woman who’d been raped by her father? Oh God. She’d worked so very hard not to seem like a victim and yet here was this man, who had only just set eyes on her for the very first time, and he’d pegged her completely.

“No,” she whispered, looking at her knees. “Though he tried.”
Backbone, Chloe
. The voice of Sister Mary Michael sounded in her head, calm and strong.

Calm. Strength.

She lifted her head. “I fought back. Which was dumb, because he was a really big man. I should have run. But I didn’t.” She remembered every second of it, vividly. Rage had come ravening up, from some completely unsuspected place inside her, black, blinding rage, an emotion she’d never felt before, certainly not like that. It had been as overwhelming as his blow. “It was ridiculous. My, um, my father was six-two, almost three hundred pounds. He backhanded me. To shut me up, I guess, because I was screaming while I was trying to hit him, hurt him.”

She’d known in an instant what was going on. Though she hadn’t had sex, had never kissed a boy, had never even touched a boy, she’d read enough, and anyway, instinctively, she knew. Knew that his red face, flaring nostrils and wild animal scent meant trouble. It had come from some place deep inside of her. Through her reading, she even knew what the tent in front of his linen trousers meant. An erection.

She’d gone into overdrive, kicking and screaming, grabbing a brass candlestick and bashing him in the face with it. His look of astonishment would have been comical if she hadn’t been so desperate. Weak, sick Chloe, fighting back. She’d shocked even herself.