Qadir woke with a start when his hand touched the cool fabric of his bed linens. He sat up and looked around, searching for Aimee in the dim interior of his bedroom. Throwing the covers back, he rolled out of bed. His long strides took him into the bathroom. It was empty.
“Aimee!” he called.
Silence greeted him. His gaze moved back to the bed. He had been holding her pillow. Retracing his steps, he picked up the pillow and buried his face in it, desperately needing to know that last night had not been a dream. The faint fragrance of her shampoo still clung to the pillow.
A stain on the otherwise pristine sheets caught his attention. He lowered the pillow and pulled back the covers. The evidence of Aimee’s innocence and their night together hit him like a fist in the gut.
He had not been dreaming. His passionate wildcat had been a virgin. He felt something raw and primitive surge through him. He knew it was ridiculous in this day and age to feel such a powerful—and some would argue inappropriate—sense of possessiveness, but he didn’t care.
Aimee was his in every way. The powerful, instant attraction to her had shaken him, as did his recognition of her as his Chosen—the one meant to complete him—but all his inner turmoil and resistance to the idea had been a mere footnote as she led him on a merry chase, and he simply could not stop himself from going after her. He needed her. It was crazy.
There were those, even among his people, who would argue that what he was feeling was nothing more than lust. He was expected to marry a woman of royal blood, not a street-smart American who didn’t officially exist even in her own country.
He returned the covers to their place over the fitted sheet and dropped the pillow onto the bed. Turning, he searched his apartment. He already knew that it was empty. The silence was almost suffocating.
His clothes, once scattered on the foyer floor, were now stacked on the table. Her clothing was gone. A folded piece of white paper lay on top of his clothes. He picked it up, scanned the contents, and felt rage, not at her, but at his failure to keep her wrapped firmly in his arms. He slowly exhaled a breath and shook his head in wary amusement as he read it again.
Hugs. Didn’t want to wake you after a fabulous night. Had to go to work. Call when I can—don’t own a phone.
A.
A messy heart had been drawn before her initial. Closing his eyes, he resisted the urge to crush the note in his hand. His lovers never left him. It had always been the other way around. Everything about Aimee left him feeling off-kilter. He opened his eyes and pursed his lips into a determined line. It was time to change that.
He had kissed every single one of her battle scars last night. If he were a religious man, he would have thanked whatever god there was above for watching over her until he found her. She should have been dead a dozen times if half the tales she shared were true—and he believed they were from the evidence marring her beautiful skin.
“No longer, Aimee. You will be pampered and protected,” he vowed, gathering his clothes and turning on his heel.
“You want to do what?!” Tarek exclaimed in disbelief.
“I want to take Aimee back to Jawahir.”
Tarek raised his eyebrows. “You never take your mistresses home. I’m assuming from the photo on the front page of every major newspaper in the world today that this ‘Aimee’ is your mistress now,” he said, tossing a half dozen newspapers on the coffee table.
On the front page of each was a photo of him bending Aimee back for a passionate kiss at the gala. He scowled as he thumbed through each edition and saw the headline from Jawahir’s major news organization: Has the Heir of Jawahir finally found his Chosen? While he didn’t care that his picture was on the front page, he wasn’t sure how Aimee would feel.
“Father woke me this morning and wanted to know if you had lost your mind,” Tarek dryly inquired.
“I have,” Qadir absently replied.
Tarek’s chuckle made him ruefully shrug. “I have to find her, Tarek. I have to get her to Jawahir before something happens to her.”
Tarek frowned. “Is she in danger?”
Qadir threw his hands up in the air and walked over to the bank of windows that overlooked Central Park. He should have taken her to his manor house just outside of the city. She wouldn’t have been able to escape him nearly as easily there.
Who am I kidding? She probably would have waltzed out the front gate and my guards would have been oblivious! he silently groused.
“She is a danger to herself. She has been shot, stabbed, fallen from buildings, hit by cars… the list goes on,” he growled in frustration.
Tarek grimaced. “Are you sure she is the one you want, Qadir? What about Lydia St. Michaels? Surely you could find someone to entertain you that doesn’t have a death wish.”
Qadir glared at his brother over his shoulder. “No.”
Tarek sighed. “Now that I have a first name… it will help in finding her. You didn’t perchance get her address, phone number, or Social Security number?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No address, she doesn’t have a phone, and no,” he admitted.
“She doesn’t have a cell phone? In this day and age, what type of person doesn’t have a cell phone?”
Qadir chuckled. “An intriguing woman named Aimee Wheels,” he murmured.
Bert Crank and Anderson Coldhouse watched Becker’s Courier Service from an unmarked car. In the driver’s seat, Bert leaned forward and lit a cigarette. Anderson pulled it out of his partner’s mouth, lowered the window, and tossed it out.
“Do you fucking want them to see us?” Anderson growled.
“What’s got you so worked up? Who the hell cares if anyone sees us?” Bert snapped. “I haven’t had a fucking cigarette in hours. My wife has been bitching about how they are going to kill me, and she thinks I’ve quit. I’ve been having to sneak them.”
Anderson ignored his partner’s aggrieved look.
“She’s right. Those things’ll kill you.”
“What are we doing here? You wanting to add Becker to the list?” Bert looked doubtfully at the flow of couriers entering and exiting the building.
“Maybe.”
“What are we going to get? Their tips? The place is buzzing. There’s too much going on,” Bert observed.
“I’m not after that.” Anderson brooded, his eyes fixed on the front door.
“What are you after then?” Bert asked with cranky exasperation.
Anderson shook his head. “It’s need-to-know. Let’s go.”
Bert grunted in response, and shifted the car into gear. He was about to pull away from the curb when a figure on a skateboard crossed in front of them. She turned her head toward them as she passed, and her vivid, violet eyes bored into Anderson’s.
He lifted his hand, curled his fingers to mimic a gun, and depressed his thumb with a cruel smile.
The woman returned his smile with one of her own. She lifted her gloved hand and raised her middle finger.
“Who’s that?” Bert asked in a wary voice, watching the woman as she rode down the sidewalk away from Becker’s.
“Trouble.”
Bert looked in his side mirror. “Want my help?”
“No. No, I’ll take care of this one myself. I might need you later, that’s all.”
Bert shrugged. “Alright then. This has been fun,” he muttered.
Anderson didn’t respond. There was too much riding on his next move. He wouldn’t allow anyone, especially some street rat, to stop him.
Aimee leaned her shoulder against a rough brick wall and watched the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria pull away from the curb, perform an illegal U-turn, and accelerate in the opposite direction. She grimaced when an oncoming car screeched to a stop and the driver laid on the horn. The sound ricocheted off the surrounding buildings.
Frowning, she considered the possibility that Coldhouse had been here for her, but she figured she didn’t rate high enough in his estimation to be on his radar. Tucking her skateboard under her arm, she slowly walked back toward Stanley’s place, contemplating what their surveillance could have been about.
She stopped at the corner and studied the building. It made little sense for Coldhouse to try to shake down Stanley. Ninety percent of Stanley’s income came from contracts or credit cards, not cash. There were also too many employees. Coldhouse preyed on the small mom-and-pop places—specifically immigrant owners in poor neighborhoods.
A well-established upper middle-class white dude in a good business district was definitely off-limits.
“So, what’s he up to?” she wondered out loud.
There was nothing else to do, she decided. She would ask Stanley. If she didn’t like the answers she got from him, she would ask her feelers on the streets, the ones who had eyes and ears in the NYPD.
She cut around to the side entrance and entered the building. Peter was picking up his next batch of deliveries. The workroom was empty. All the others were still out.
“Wheels, get your ass in here,” Stanley yelled.
Peter gave her a sympathetic smile as he pushed his bike past her. “He’s been like a bear with a sore tooth all morning.”
“Got it.”
“Get your ass out of here, Peter, or you’ll be on-call this weekend,” Stanley growled.
“I’m going, old man. Keep your tighty-whities from bunching up,” Peter retorted.
“I don’t wear old man underwear!”
Aimee laughed, and Peter, deciding not to test Stanley further, disappeared. Aimee walked over and rested her arms on the counter.
“So, what kind of underwear do you wear? Or do you not wear any at all?” she teased with one of her best grins.
Stanley flushed and shook his head. “You’ve been around the others too long,” he complained.
Aimee laughed and pulled her scanner out. “I need to charge this,” she said.
Stanley took her scanner and plugged it in. She waited for him to give her another one and raised an eyebrow when he didn’t. He flushed a little redder, and placed a copy of the New York Centennial on the counter along with more than a dozen post-it notes—all with the same number written on them with the words ‘call me’ in big, fat letters.
She picked up the newspaper, opened it, and grinned. “Cinderella could have learned a thing or two from me,” she commented, admiring the photo. “Damn, he’s a great kisser,” she said with a dreamy sigh.
Stanley cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, tell Cinderella to get her own damn answering service! I’m trying to run a business here, not answer calls from Prince Charming,” he complained without heat. In fact, his expression was a little concerned.
Aimee fingered the post-it notes, then covered Stanley’s hand with hers.
“What’s bothering you, Stanley?”
“I worry about you, Wheels. You have too big a heart, and I’m afraid it’s going to get shattered into a million pieces.”
The sincerity in his voice brought tears to Aimee’s eyes. She squeezed his hand in comfort.
“I’m a lot tougher than you realize, Stanley.”
He shook his head. “You’ve never been in love, little girl. This guy—” Stanley tapped the photo. “This guy isn’t like Carl or Peter or any of the other guys you’ve met. This one takes innocent little girls and crushes their dreams for fun. You’re like a wild bird, Wheels. Men like him cage them to show them off, then replace them when they get tired of them or when…” he trailed into a whisper, “when they die.”
It was at that moment that Aimee realized Stanley was speaking from experience. She studied the photo of herself and Qadir locked in a passionate kiss, and she tried to see it through Stanley’s eyes. She saw the power that Qadir emitted—the danger and the strength. But, she also noted the way he held her protectively in his arms.
She remembered the relief and pleasure in his eyes when he noticed her arrival and the way he had looked at her with so much desire when she took off her cloak. The best part was the shudder that ran through his body when they kissed as if he had been a man on the verge of death who had been given life-saving water.
“Who was she?” Aimee asked, not looking up at Stanley.
“My youngest daughter. She was only eighteen when she met Douglas at a party. He was the son of a wealthy son-of-a-bitch. He was arrogant, spoiled, and impulsive. He promised Chrissy the moon, took everything she offered, and left her crushed when he grew tired of her,” he said in a rough voice.
Aimee looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes. Her heart broke for this proud man who had opened his heart and his business to a bunch of misfits and cared about each one of them as if they were his own kids.
“What happened to her?” she asked, afraid that she already knew what kind of ending this story had.
Stanley wiped his eyes. “She died from complications during the birth of our grandson. He lived two hours before he passed as well,” he said, taking a loud, shaky breath.
“And Douglas?”
Stanley shook his head. “He had a sudden desire to go abroad. His father offered a nice little sympathy package if we kept our mouths shut about the whole sordid affair.”
Aimee squeezed his hand. “What’d you tell him to do with that?”
Stanley snorted. “I told him to shove his money up his arrogant ass. The kid was busted in some foreign country for doing drugs and partying with the wrong woman. He spent five years rotting in a prison his daddy couldn’t bribe him out of. Last I heard, he’s been in and out of rehab.”
“Qadir isn’t like that, Stanley—and I’m not Chrissy. I know what the rules are. I don’t have dreams of someone like Qadir—well, I do, but they are realistic. We’re from two different worlds. He lives in penthouses and palaces. I live—well, let’s just say my home is a touch more modest, but that doesn’t mean I can’t create memories,” she gently told him.
“You just be careful, girl. I’m not the only one who will kick his royal ass if he hurts you,” Stanley affectionately warned.
Aimee laughed, leaned over the counter, and kissed Stanley’s weathered cheek. “I’ll help hold him down if he does,” she promised. “Now, I need to ask you something important, and I need you to be honest with me.”