Chapter Seventeen

Kyle

It’s eight-thirty, half an hour before we need to be at her office, when Myla steps into the doorway of the bedroom looking sexy as hell in some sort of peachy looking dress she’s cinched with a belt at her waist, her long, dark brown hair silk around her shoulders. “You ready?” she asks. 

 “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, shutting my computer, and picking it up to take with me, before standing and closing the small space between us.

“Thank you,” she says, sliding her hand over the light blue tie I’ve paired with my navy suit. “I like this. And since they say the man makes the suit, you absolutely do.”

“A compliment from a future famous designer,” I say, taking her briefcase from her, her shiny lipstick a perfect match for her dress, and the only thing keeping me from kissing her. “I’m honored.”

“I don’t want to be famous,” she says. “I just want…” Shadows settle in her pretty green eyes. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“You want to design your clothes, your way,” I say. “And you will, on your own label.”

“He owns some of my favorite designs now.”

“He’s not going to own anything when this is over. Now.” I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Let’s go get another day of playing this ridiculous game over with, and then we’ll come back here, take a run, get naked, and then watch Dexter while we eat pizza. Then we’ll do it all again.”

She gives me a tiny smile. “Dexter again?” 

 “He’ll feed your fantasies about killing Alvarez, I promise.” I shift to preparation for the day. “Do you have your gun?”

“Yes.”

And back to her and us. “Let me see,” I say softly. 

“You want to see?”

“Yes. I want to see.”

 “All right,” she says, giving me a shy, sexy smile as she reaches for her zipper, “My design, by the way,” as she pulls it down. “I should market it as easy access to your handgun.” 

“Or to other things,” I murmur, as she reveals her ample cleavage, a black lacy bra, and the gun, all of which has my cock thickening and my gaze lifting to hers. “I’m not sure what I’m going to think about the most today. This moment or the one where you were naked and holding a semi-automatic rifle in your hands.”

She zips herself back up. “I can’t believe I was holding that gun while I was naked.”

“Just know I’ll be a happy man every time I think about it today,” I tease, tilting my head toward the hallway, amazed at the flush of her cheeks that I catch before she turns and heads to the door. Somehow, some way, Alvarez took her body, but she’s managed to deny him her soul.

 “Let’s assume there’s a camera to go with the recording device Les installed last night,” I say, joining her at the door, and flipping the lock. “I want you to drop your purse to force us to linger at the door. That will make our conversation we want them to hear seem natural.”

“And what is that conversation supposed to be?”

“Be snappy with me,” I say. “Act irritated that I’m around.”

She shakes her head. “No. That’s doesn’t fit me. I never do that, even with Juan.”

“All right then. We’ll stick with me being cold and you being uncomfortable. Just follow my lead and let’s ride the elevator down that has cameras and continue the same tone.” 

“Got it,” she confirms, and I open the door. 

Myla immediately exits the room, dropping her purse, which manages to open and spill the contents to the floor. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, squatting down to start collecting her items. Instead of helping her, I shut the door, and step closer to her, towering over her, and watching her efforts. 

“These kinds of delays and mistakes, are dangerous,” I say. “It allows someone time to grab you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she says, sounding flustered, and glancing up at me. “Do you have to hover?” 

“It’s my job to hover,” I reply dryly. 

“It’s making me nervous,” she says, popping to her feet and shoving her purse to her shoulder. “What is it exactly that you’re protecting me from?”

“As I keep telling you. Everything and everyone that isn’t me.” 

“Can I have my briefcase? I want to look at my sketches.”

“And I want your hands free in case you need to use them to protect yourself.”

“My hands? I can put the briefcase on my shoulder.”

“Not and hold the sketchpad. We need to move along.”

She glowers at me and turns on her heel, beginning the walk to the elevator, smartly holding her character, her steps a bit too fast, her body language stiff and uncomfortable. “Behind me,” I instruct, when we step into the elevator. “Always behind me. I’m in front to take any fire that comes before you would.”

“What fire?” she asks, as the doors close. “Who wants to shoot me?”

“It’s not my job to name names,” I say. “It’s just my job to ensure no one hurts you.” 

She says nothing else, remaining where she stands, her acting skills a testament to how she’s survived. The game is as second nature to her as it is for me to step forward first when the elevator doors open to the garage, and immediately know something isn’t right. An instant later, my gaze lands hard on Juan, looking shorter than usual, because he’s leaning on my fucking Mustang, just asking to get hurt. I reach for Myla, my hand closing around her arm, as I pull her to my side. “Why is he here?” she murmurs, as we start forward.

“Trying to get his balls ripped out,” I say, not releasing her until we’re at the car, and I’m standing a foot in front of Juan. “Get in the car, Myla,” I instruct, clicking the locks open.

“That won’t be necessary,” Juan counters. “She and I need to talk. I’ll drive her to work.”

She stops walking. I keep my eyes on him, and repeat, “Get in the car, Myla,” and this time, she does exactly what I say, moving to the passenger door. 

“She’s going with me,” Juan says. “You work for me. Myla! Come back.”

“I work for Alvarez,” I say, as the car door slams with Myla inside the Mustang. “You’re just the messenger, and you should know: my car is my baby. Lean on it again, and I’ll have to defend its honor.” 

“You’re very protective of her,” he says. “Maybe too much so.”

“I paid a hundred thousand dollars for that car. You’re damn straight I’m protective of her.”

“I mean Myla and you know it.”

“I was hired to protect her or die. I’m not getting my balls cut off over you, but right now you should know I’m thinking about where to hang yours.” I walk to the driver’s side of the car.

“I’m not done talking,” he says. 

I get in the car, lock the doors and hold up a finger to warn Myla the car might be bugged. She inhales and nods, facing forward. Juan remains on the back of my car, apparently thinking he’s going to stop my departure. I rev the engine and still he stands there. I shift to reverse and roll just enough to knock the shit out of him, which earns me loud cursing and his butt getting the hell out of the way. I back us up and get us the fuck out of the garage, handing Myla the scanner from my pocket. She eagerly accepts it, turns it on and sweeps the car, during which time my mind is conjuring all kinds of reasons to turn around and run Juan over. 

 “Why would he want to see you alone?” I ask, the minute we’re clear. “Is that a regular thing? Does he-” 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “And no. That was one time, but he likes to play with my head. He taunts me. He was not pleased when Michael decided to bring in a bodyguard.”

“Interesting,” I say, glancing over at her, and hating the way she’s hugging herself again. “Are we sure Juan isn’t making a move against Alvarez?”

“They’re family,” she says. “I can’t imagine that to be the case, but it’s Juan, so maybe.”

“You will not go with him anywhere. In case I haven’t made myself clear. That means, you shoot him if you have to. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

But what I don’t understand are Juan’s actions and motives, which brings me back to him telling me Kara’s FBI, not ex-FBI, when Alvarez is obviously concerned about her contacting Myla. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue. Maybe he’s just an asshole who’s a fool. But assuming so could make me the fool and get us killed.

***

Myla

 

The minute Kyle and I walk into the lobby, our timid little blonde receptionist takes one look at Kyle’s hard-set expression, and jumps to her feet. “Can I get either of you some coffee? Or some…something?” 

“I’ll make some in my office, Heather,” I say, “but thank you, and don’t worry.” I indicate Kyle. “He’s my personal stalker, I mean bodyguard. He won’t stay up here and stare at you.” It’s weak humor, but the best I have in the “feel good/comfort” category after the Juan incident that seems to have left Kyle worried, rather than just agitated. Maybe that’s because he’s just not used to Juan’s behavior, but he’s honed years of instincts I’ve only been using for a year. Maybe there is something about Juan I’ve been missing that he’s picked up on.

Whatever the case, the two of us make a beeline for my office, where Kyle unlocks the door, flips on the light and does a quick scan before he allows me to enter. The instant I’m inside, I cross to my desk, feeling a punch in my chest at the sight of my mother’s photos. I settle my purse in my desk, unsurprised when Kyle shuts the door, sets his MacBook on the conference table, and removes his scanner from his jacket. Also unsurprising, by the time I’ve pulled my sketchpad out, flipped through my presentation for today, and looked back up, that he’s already found a recorder by the Keurig and destroyed it.

There’s a knock on the door, and he immediately returns the scanner to his jacket pocket and walks to the door, opening it, his big body blocking me from seeing my visitor. “The bodyguard is back,” a female voice I recognize as Barbara’s says. “And he even answers doors.”

“But I don’t make coffee for anyone but myself,” he says, stepping back to allow her to enter. “Don’t ask.” He delivers this with such a dry, flat tone that I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious. 

And from the look on Barbara’s face when she enters the room, and her awkward reply of “I…of course not,” I am pretty sure she isn’t either, especially when Kyle actually walks to the Keurig and inserts a pod, proving he knows how to take his comment, and his cold, hard-to-read bodyguard routine to perfect extremes. 

“Good morning,” I greet her, pulling her attention back to me, and noting how lovely she looks in a baby blue sheath, with her sleek gray hair piled on top of her head. 

She seems to shake herself into action, walking to my desk. “What is his deal?” she whispers, as if he can’t hear her. 

 “Robot,” I say, as she perches on the edge of one of my visitor’s chairs. “It’s the only explanation I have for that man.” 

She laughs good-naturedly. “I do believe you’re right. He’s a robot. That explains so much.”

“He,” Kyle says, “is still in the room, and not going anywhere.” He sits down at the conference table and opens his MacBook. “And I’m not programmed to refrain from commenting should this conversation continue.”

We both laugh, and then Barbara looks at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes warm with fondness that has me deciding she’s quite taken by Kyle, which can only work in our favor. I hope. “I’m not staying anyway,” Barbara replies, focusing on me. “I just wanted to give you a heads up that I’m going to have the model agencies send you spec sheets this morning and I’m hopeful you pick some models you want to see this afternoon.”

“Actually,” I say, deciding not to ask but rather tell her what’s going to happen. “I don’t want models. We don’t need them and they’re expensive and high maintenance anyway.” 

She looks dumbfounded. “But the campaigns.”

“I have a solution I am quite pleased with,” I reply, showing her my sketches, to which she gives a critical inspection before her expression lights up. 

“I’m blown away,” she says. “I love the concept of “We design. You make the style.” Everyone is going to love it. I’ll get with the art departments at the magazines right now, and find out what we need to do.” 

“I still have a few ideas I want to elaborate on,” I say. “I need to finish these sketches.”

“I’ll have the appropriate people work through it with you,” she says, standing, “and really, this is a load off. We can focus on other things now. I’ll be in touch in a few.” She turns to leave, but Kyle stops her progress. 

“Before you leave,” he says, drawing her attention and mine, since I have no idea what he’s about to say. “There’s going to be a security team coming in late this evening to install a new system and cameras,” he continues, clearly intent on giving his team full access to the building and being prepared for whatever comes our way. “I’m asking them to complete the task after hours as to not disrupt your work, but if you could make sure all appropriate people know as to not be concerned.”

“Of course,” Barbara says, her tone saying that her mind is clearly elsewhere at this point. “We appreciate the extra protection.” She’s gone by the time she’s spoken the words, leaving Kyle and I alone.

I grin and pick up my sketches, pointing to them, and feeling quite proud of myself for my morning success. No models. No more victims. Kyle winks, his eyes alight with understanding and support, and as I walk to the Keurig, I have this sense in that moment of really not being alone anymore. Unbidden though, when I reach for one of the chocolate coffee pods Michael had arranged for me, I hear his voice. Does it please you? The photo shoot comes to my mind, and I toss the pod in the trash, walk back to my desk, and reach for my sketchpad, pretending to work to hide my reaction from Kyle, who I can’t tell about this. He won’t want me to do it. I know he won’t, but if I refuse, there will be consequences none of us want to pay. 

***

 The day ends without a photographer or any contact to explain why, but that is not unlike Michael when he travels. His unpredictability is part of what makes him elusive to his enemies and the authorities. Kyle and Blake are determined to change that, though, planning a virtual hack party tonight, delayed by the need to keep my routine looking “normal” if anything about this life could be called such a thing. The instant we arrive in our room, Kyle and I change into workout clothes and head to the gym, even bypassing a scan of the room. 

It’s on the treadmill, with Kyle by my side, that the photo session starts bothering me again and I’m not sure why. These are the kinds of control games Michael plays with me to prove he owns me. About ten minutes in, I decide I’m worried because I know this is going to upset Kyle, despite the fact that there is nothing dangerous about pictures. I can’t even call them demoralizing, considering the things Michael’s made me do or done to me. Twenty minutes into the run, I don’t think that’s what’s bothering me at all, but I don’t know what is. Thirty minutes in, I still can’t figure out what the heck is grinding at my nerve endings. 

At the forty-minute mark, I have an epiphany that hits me like a heart attack and I punch the stop button on my machine, grab my towel, and force myself not to visibly show how freaked out I am right now. Kyle does the same and glances at me. “Are we done?”

“Yes. And I just remembered something I need to tell you back at the suite.”

“How important is this something?”

“I think you’d rate it as a “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” moment.” 

“Okay then,” he says, wiping the back of his neck. “We’ll talk in the room where I can react accordingly.”

And we stick to that decision, enduring the ride upstairs and the walk down the hall to the room, in silence. Once we’re in our private space, Kyle flips the locks, points to the bedroom, and follows me inside. “Tell me,” he says, the instant he joins me. 

“Don’t we need to…?” I motion to the room for a scan.

“We cancelled housekeeping and set up an alarm on the door today to let our team know when someone enters,” he says. “We’re clear. Tell me.”

 “Michael-”

“Alvarez,” he bites out. “Call the fuckhead Alvarez.”

“Alvarez,” I say, thinking Kyle really isn’t going to be reasonable about those photos. “He told me that if he couldn’t come to me this weekend, he’d have me go to him.”

“And you said?”

“That I really didn’t want to leave before the store opening and I really wanted him to come see my work.”

“And?”

“He said he’d try but then he wanted to have photos taken of me today, but the photographer he was arranging didn’t show up.”

“What photos?”

“The photos aren’t important,” I say, going back to my point. “What’s important is that the photographer didn’t show up. Maybe he didn’t set it up because he’s coming here after all. And if he comes here now, there’s no way the FBI is ready. Royce was just calling them today.”

“He did call them and they’re actively involved,” he says. “We’ll be ready for him.”

“He could show up tonight for all we know.”

“Everyone is on standby for that possibility and if he’s flying in here tonight, Blake and I will find him.” He sits down at the desk and keys his computer to life. 

 “I want to help, then,” I say, joining him. “Tell me what to do.”

 “Order us some food,” he says. “I’m starving.”

“That’s not helping.”

“I’m pretty fucking starving, sweetheart,”

“Okay, aside from the food. What can I do?” 

“Start making a list of every detail you can remember from this past year. Any name, place, person, or company Alvarez ever associated with. Even favorite foods and restaurants are noteworthy. These things help more than you know.” 

I key the other computer to life and pull up a Word document. He turns my chair around and faces me, his hands on the arms of my seat. “Food first, sweetheart.”

“I just want to do something to make a difference.”

“You have and we are. We’re going to be ready. I promise.”

“What if he insists I go to him this weekend?”

“Then we get those women out and we get out.” 

“If we don’t get him, he’ll come after me and Kara, which means everyone in our circle, your circle, Kyle.”

 “Not if he thinks you’re dead.”

“Yes well, about that plan,” I say, logic hitting me where hope had blinded me before. “Why do we believe he’ll think me dead any more than you did? If he wants me to go to him this weekend, I have to go.” 

“You’re not going,” he says, his tone absolute. “We’ll find him.” He cups my face and kisses me. “I’ve got you now, sweetheart. You aren’t getting away.” 

***

Kyle and Blake don’t find Alvarez, any more than the FBI does. For three mornings in a row, I wake up in Kyle’s arms with the knowledge that every effort we’ve made the day before to find him and be ready for what he does next, has failed. In fact, Michael is not only missing, but completely silent, zero communication with me at all. The possibilities are night and day: He’s either in hiding, something he does when he’s under an imminent threat, or planning to surprise me by showing up here this weekend. 

With this in mind, come Friday morning, we are all up at the crack of dawn, preparing for what could be the day Michael shows up to see me, or sends someone to take me to him. I retreat to my bedroom to shower, and Kyle lets me, mostly I think because he’s talking back and forth with Royce and struggling to get in the shower. Alone for the first time in days, I remind myself that this is all bigger than me. I am not what’s important. Michael Alvarez is dangerous and even if we save those girls he’s kidnapped, there will be others if he escapes. The idea that I can stop him is a powerful drug, one I’ve lived on for a long time, and it fuels me now.

I dress with a potential confrontation in mind, choosing a black, fitted dress, the last one I have with me that reflects my obsession with front-zippered bodices. And while it allows for easy access to a weapon, I hesitate before I attach the gun to my bra, nervous about Michael finding out I’m wearing it. If he does, and I can’t shoot him and still protect those women, it could be me who dies.

Not allowing myself to think of such things, I flat-iron my hair to a sleek brown shine, and take extra care with my make-up to hide how sleep deprived I am, choosing a shiny red lipstick to draw attention from my tired eyes. Finally, I make coffee and head to Kyle’s room, finding him at the bathroom sink, having just put a light blue and black striped tie through the collar of his starched white shirt. 

“Coffee,” I say, walking to him and handing him his cup. 

“Thank you,” he says, accepting it from me, his blond hair laying in long, sexy layers, his green eyes giving me a keen inspection. “How are you?” he asks, sipping from his cup, and sighing. “Damn, I needed that.”

“I thought you might,” I say. “You haven’t slept at all. How are you?”

He sets the cup on the counter and pulls me in front of him. “I’m fine. And you just avoided telling me how you are.”

 “No. I didn’t. I’m just…here. That’s how I am when I’m preparing for him. Just here. I want to get this day over with.” 

“I understand,” he says, and he does mean it, but he doesn’t understand. No one can understand what Michael Alvarez does to me, except me. And I don’t want them to ever have to understand. “Tonight, we might not even be here anymore. You might be-”

“Don’t, please,” I say, flattening my hand on his chest. “I can’t think like that. I have to accept being here, to keep being here, you know that.”

He gives me a grim, reluctant nod. “I do,” he agrees. “Give me five minutes and we’ll leave.”

“Okay,” I say, and when he kisses my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin, I feel his dread merge with mine. 

I slip away from him, entering the bedroom, and sitting down at the computer, and my heart squeezes with the message that appears in the live chatroom. It’s from my sister: How is Myla? It reads next to her name. I don’t even hesitate to answer. I type: Nervous but good.

Kara: Define good.

Again, I don’t even think. I just type something our mother used to say: Splendid, darling.

Kara: Myla?

I type: Yes. My chest tightens and I add: I love you. I miss you but if I talk to you-

Kara: I know. Stay focused. Stay strong. I want to pull you out of there, but I know I can’t and it’s killing me. But I am so very proud of you for what you’ve made possible. You’ve already saved lives. I love you.

I swipe at the dampness on my cheeks and stand up, only to find Kyle standing right behind me. “You saw?”

“I saw,” he confirms. 

“It just felt like time.”

“Then it was time,” he says, but I see in his eyes what I already know. I just told him I couldn’t connect with the possibility of an outside world, but I just did just that. And I know why I did it. I was afraid that when this day was over, I wouldn’t be able to tell Kara I love her. 

Kyle pulls me to him, and says exactly what he did three nights ago. “I told you. I found you. I’m not letting you go.” I believe him, but what I don’t say to him is that if it means protecting him and Kara, as well as all of those innocent women – if it means destroying Michael Alvarez so he can’t hurt anyone else – I might have to let him go.