I Belong to You (14 page)

His lashes lower and he cuts his gaze away.

I make a sound of disbelief. “My God. She’s dead, and you still can’t say you love her.”

His gaze jerks to mine. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. You loved her. That’s clear for anyone to see. You still do. What do you think is going to happen if you admit it? She’s going to come back from the grave and demand a wedding ring? Maybe you aren’t pretending to be an asshole, after all.” I start to turn and he captures my arm. “Don’t,” I say in warning. “I’m angry for her, and sad for you.”

“You didn’t even know her.”

“And clearly she never really knew you—yet she still dared to give you the biggest gift anyone can give. Herself.”

His jaw clenches and unclenches, and I want him to admit his love for Rebecca. I want him to be the man I believe him to be. Instead, he releases my arm, leaving me frustrated, disappointed, hurt for reasons that I can’t name and make no sense, and my feet can’t take me fast enough to the door.

I exit to the hallway, my mind racing. Somehow, as furious as I am with Mark, I’m still thinking of the black velvet bag and wondering what was inside. This must be what happened to Rebecca. He got under her skin and seduced her just by existing. Before she knew it, she was out of her own mind and in his, just like I am, caught in the web that is Mark Compton.

Entering the lobby, I will myself to focus on the job I have to do. I stop at the receptionist’s desk and wait for Beverly to end a call. “Do I have any messages?” I ask when she’s free.

Her eyes go wide and she nods. “Do you ever.” She sets a stack on the desk in front of me. “Thanks to all the press, there’s an extra-large pile of angry customers for you today.” She holds up a finger. “Oh yes, and this.” She hands me a white envelope with my name typed in the center, the word “Private” on the corner.

My brow furrows. “Any idea who it’s from?”

“A messenger brought it—that’s all I know. Probably a reporter. They’re desperate to get to you.”

I sigh. “They most certainly are. Okay, thanks. Buzz me if you need me.”

“Some of the staff are asking about Mr. Compton.” She lowers her voice. “I think they’re worried about the future of Riptide, and hopeful that his presence means it’s secure.”

“It’s completely secure,” I say. “We’re thriving, despite all this mess going on. Mr. Compton’s not here to save the business, but to make sure that Dana, as stubborn as she is, stays in bed and fully heals before she returns.”

Remembering his softly spoken reply to his mother this morning,
I love you, too,
my anger at him goes down a few notches. I’ve seen him tear up over his mother, and Rebecca. He’s closed off, but he’s not a complete asshole. I refocus on Beverly. “I’ll see if he can send out a company email.”

“I feel awkward bothering him about little issues, when he has so much other stuff going on.”

“If you want to buzz me first, you can.”

Frowning down at the white envelope, I start walking, an odd foreboding in my belly. I suddenly want to tear it open.

Passing several employees with a quick greeting, I enter my office and shut the door. Rushing to my desk, I sit down and grab a letter opener, and my hand shakes as I pull it through the envelope’s seal. Then I pull out a white sheet of paper with two typed lines on it.

You don’t know the real Mark Compton.

Get out before you end up like Rebecca.

A chill races down my spine and I drop the paper, having watched enough episodes of
CSI
to know that fingerprints matter. Could it be from Ava? Or Ricco, who’d sworn to protect Rebecca from Mark, and tried to destroy the gallery as his own form of vengeance? Or a reporter who wants me to talk? Or. Or. Or. There are too many possibilities. And Mark all but admitted to me he’s playing vigilante. If I go to him and he makes assumptions, where will that lead?

I pull out my cell phone and call Kara, who’s still on guard here. “I just received a letter warning me about Mark.” I describe it to her. “I don’t want to hide it from him, but I’m terrified he could go off the deep end. Because you’re right: He’s looking for Ava. I’m worried about him.”

“Believe me, I get it.”

“I think . . . I have to tell him. He won’t trust me if I don’t. I’m also going to tell him that you know about it.”

“Can you wait until Blake gets here? We need to get it fingerprinted.”

“No. He’ll see it as distrust.” I consider a moment. “Send Jacob in to pick it up. Mark seems to trust him the most.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t really have anyone else I can talk to.” My best friend from college moved to Hawaii for a job. My next best friend is dating my ex’s roommate.

“You have me,” she says. “Hang in there.” She ends the call.

I dial Mark’s cell and he picks up. “Crystal,” he says softly, the torment in his voice rippling through the line, and I pray I’m making the right choice.

“I have a situation.”

His voice firms, turns businesslike. “What situation?”

“First, I’m okay. But I got spooked and I called security. Jacob’s coming to my office, and I really . . . I need you here, too.”

“I’m on my way.”

I set my phone on the desk, staring down at the note again.
You don’t know the real Mark Compton. Get out before you end up like Rebecca.
Whoever wrote it is at least partially right. I’m not going to end up dead, I hope, but falling in love with a man who may not be capable of loving me back.

I almost laugh at myself. Who am I fooling? I’m already in love with him.

Fourteen

Mark . . .

I stuff the pictures of Ava and Luis Jimenez inside my desk drawer and head to the door. What has shaken Crystal enough to have her request assistance from security? My mind conjures up the many possibilities Jimenez could create, and fear quickens my pace down the hallway.

At the receptionist’s desk, an unwelcome and familiar visitor argues with Beverly. Upon my approach, Robert Murphy, a distinguished-looking fifty-five-year-old man who’s both a customer and the CEO of a national television network, turns to greet me.

“Finally,” he says.

“Finally?” I arch a brow.

“Are you pretending you don’t know I’ve left three messages for you?” he asks sharply.

“Ms. Smith has taken all of his calls and messages,” Beverly informs Murphy quickly.

“I have a hundred thousand dollars in auction items on the line here next weekend. I deserve to hear from you personally, Mr. Compton.”

“As a member of the media, you’re doubtless aware that I’ve only just arrived in town. And while I’ll be taking meetings, they’re by appointment only, beginning next week.” I pause for effect. “And for auction house business only.”

“Of course it’s about Riptide business.” But he looks away, a sure sign he’s lying.

“Then certainly, if there is something Ms. Smith has failed to address prior, I’m available to help. But right now, I have an emergency to attend to.” I glance at Beverly. “Put Mr. Murphy on my schedule for any afternoon next week that he pleases.”

“Mr. Compton—” he begins.

But I’ve already dismissed him, my long strides leading me toward Crystal’s office. At her closed door, I don’t bother to knock. I open it to find Crystal and Kara behind her desk, eyes locked on something in front of them. They both look up and my gaze collides with Crystal’s, the impact like a hard punch in the chest.

She feels it, too. I see it in the way her eyes widen, the way her chest lifts with a breath beneath her red dress. She crosses her arms defensively in front of her, the distance between us suddenly miles, not feet, and too damn far to please me.

My gaze flicks to Kara, who holds up her hands. “I know I’m not your favorite person today, and I was going to send Jacob, but I’m ex-FBI and he’s ex-military. My expertise is what’s needed right now.” She motions to the desk. “We have something we need you to see before I package it up.”

Tension rockets through me at the certainty that whatever I’m about to discover could be related to Jimenez. I round the desk to stand next to Crystal and see a white piece of paper with two typed sentences in the center. My fingers curl by my sides as I read:
Get out before you end up like Rebecca.

My reaction is instant, my emotions a tornado of dangerous debris I’ve long suppressed. Anger, fear, and guilt grind through me like glass.

I reach for Crystal, pulling her to face me. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Her fingers curl into the sleeves of my jacket. “I’m okay. I’m not scared. I think someone just wants to scare me into quitting.”

“Which is exactly what you’re going to do,” I say firmly. “You’ve worked with Sara some. She’s doing private hire work in Paris, finding art for customers and making the purchase for them. I’ll send you to work with her.”

“What? No. Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere. Dana needs me, and so do you, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“I happily admit it. I need you, Crystal, and I need you alive. You’re going to Paris.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You’re not working here.”

“I’m not quitting, and I’m not letting you fire me. Whoever sent this threat must know I’m close to you and your family. So if they mean to hurt me, who says I’m not a target if I quit? Or even if I leave? Who’s going to protect me in Paris?”

“I’ll hire security.”

“I’m not going. You can’t make me go.”

Grinding my teeth, I round the desk, trying to walk off the emotions I’m not accustomed to feeling, let alone containing.

“We’ll protect her,” Kara promises.

I stop walking and turn to face her. “That’s what you said about finding Ava. Where
is
she?”

“I know this is frustrating.”

“Spare me the automated replies. We both know that no matter how you try to protect her, you can’t guarantee her safety.”

“I know we’ll do a better job than anyone else would. It’s personal, and in the right way. For you, it’s personal in the wrong way. Give us all the information you have, and let us make it count. We have to work together.”

“You shouldn’t need my information to do your job.” And I have to decide if that means I trust them, or take matters into my own hands more than I already have. “What are you doing about this, right here and right now?”

Kara removes a pair of rubber gloves from her pocket and works one of them over her hand. “I’m overnighting the note and the envelope to the FBI lab for results.”

“There won’t be any prints,” I say.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Crystal says.

“I know whoever dropped that kid off in Long Island without being seen wasn’t an amateur. Professionals don’t leave prints.”

“We have to try,” Kara interjects. “Humans make mistakes, and any chance of finding out who we’re dealing with has to be explored.”

“Even if you learn who did this, you have to actually find them. And considering that Ava’s still on the run, my confidence that that will happen isn’t high.” My eyes shift to Crystal. “I
won’t
let you end up like Rebecca.”

“Then keep her close to you and us,” Kara says. “Let us protect her.”

The intercom buzzes and Crystal reaches for the button. “Leave it,” I order.

“I’m not letting whoever this is stop me from doing my job,” she says, glaring at me as she punches the button. “Yes, Beverly?”

“Is Mr. Compton there with you?” Beverly asks.

“I’m here,” I say tightly.

“Mr. Murphy hasn’t left. He says he won’t until he sees you.”

“I’ll be right out,” I say.

Crystal lets go of the button. “He’s a problem looking for a headline.”

“Exactly my take,” I say.

“What are you going to do? He has a hundred thousand dollars on the auction table next Saturday.”

“Ninety percent of our problems come from ten percent of our business. We’re getting rid of the problems.” I ask Kara, “Any more word from Luke?”

“Not yet, and I think it’s a bluff by the police. I don’t see how this kid can explain how he disappeared at the same time Ava did, if he truly intends to blame you.”

“My attorney was already in the air on his way here when I heard they’d called me a ‘person of interest.’ I intend to have him take care of this when he lands. I’m done being the focal point for lazy law enforcement who should be looking for the real problem, not a fall guy.”

“We all agree,” Kara says.

“And since I understand Blake is traveling with Detective Grant, make sure he knows two things in light of these new developments. You work for the police—which means you not only won’t receive any notes I have on the investigation, but you also won’t work for me. And I won’t be indulging Detective Grant’s desire to catch up on old times. He can talk to my attorney.”

“Blake stayed on with the district attorney in San Francisco because he wanted to help justice be served for Rebecca,” Kara says. “He had no idea a finger would be pointed at you again.”

“I wasn’t asking for an explanation I’ve already heard. Those are simply my requirements to go forward with Walker Security.”

Kara’s expression tightens. “Understood on all points. We’ll meet those requirements.”

“I’ll need confirmation when he arrives.”

“You’ll get it.”

“I’ll be waiting.” I don’t look at Crystal again. I can’t. Not when there’s something dark and turbulent brewing beneath my surface. I turn and walk toward the door.

“Mark, wait,” she calls, and the instant my hand touches the knob, hers is on my arm, the impact shaking me to the core. “We need to talk,” she says.

“Right now, the only thing I want to do is throw you over my shoulder, carry you to a car, and take you to the airport, where I’ll put you on a private plane out of the country. So unless you want me to do what my gut is telling me to do, let me go clear my head.”

“I . . . oh . . . but—”

“I’m serious, Crystal. Let me go, before I do something you won’t forgive me for.”

She hesitates, but her hand falls away and I exit the office. Quickly traveling the hallway, I enter the lobby to find Mr. Murphy talking to one of our salespeople, a redhead fresh out of school who looks like she wants to crawl under Beverly’s desk.

I stalk forward in time to hear him say, “And what do you think about the counterfeit works? Have they all been located?”

“Mr. Murphy,” I say sharply. He jerks around in surprise. “Obviously you’ve used your status as a customer to gain access to my staff for media purposes. I’ll have Ms. Smith release you from your auction agreement; therefore you no longer have any need for concern.”

His ruddy complexion turns white. “No. No, that’s not what I want.”

“You stated to me that you were concerned about your auction items selling poorly next weekend,” I said, knowing we garner a 20 percent higher price than any other auction house. “That was your excuse for being here. I’m removing it as a reason for your return.”

“It’s natural to be concerned, with all of this scandal attached to Riptide. My job doesn’t erase my rights as a customer.”

“For the record,” Crystal says, stepping to my side, “our attendance for next Saturday is up fifteen percent. The scandal seems to be good for business.”

“Or the equivalent to rubbernecking.” Then he seems to realize what he’s said, holding up his hands. “Not that I’m unwilling to take the risk. I simply want reassurances.”

“Your reassurance is Ms. Smith filling out your release paperwork, and returning your items to you in the same condition in which we received them.” I glance at Crystal. “Please ensure that happens before Mr. Murphy leaves, so that a return visit won’t be necessary.”

“Of course.”

About to head to my office, I realize he’s going to create a story out of this visit, no matter what I say or do—and it won’t be the one I want told. “One more thing, Mr. Murphy,” I say, aware that numerous staff members are within hearing range. “You came here for a story.”

“No, that wasn’t—”

“You came for a story,” I state firmly. “Don’t make this worse by lying. I’m going to give you your story. A woman I cared very much for is dead.” I draw in a breath and look at Crystal, a deep ache forming in my gut as I amend my words. “A woman I loved was murdered. Her name was Rebecca Mason, and she worked for me at my gallery Allure in San Francisco. The woman who killed Rebecca escaped and is on the run, but not before she leaked lies to the press about me to try to clear her name. On top of that, my mother is battling cancer. And during all of this we have to battle people like you, who see us as nothing but headlines and top Google positions. Still, we’ve managed to maintain an exceptional business at exemplary standards, thanks to an incredibly dedicated staff.”

“What about the counterfeit art?” he demands. “That’s not exemplary. Ricco Alvarez says you framed him.”

“His lies to try to clear his own name are inconsequential and irrelevant. The facts will speak for themselves in court. Ricco Alvarez was obsessed with Rebecca to the point of being a near stalker. He tried to ruin me and my family because he wanted her and couldn’t have her.”

“At the expense of his career and his wealth? I find that hard to believe.”

“And you find me creating that scandal, and risking my family business, more believable? You’ve known my family for at least five years. You can’t believe that. But report what you want. Just know this: If you, or anyone else, slanders my family or Riptide in any way, I will sue for far more than the story was worth.”

I turn to leave, and Mr. Murphy calls, “Wait.”

I don’t turn.

“You’re right. I’ve known Dana for years. I’ll let you review the segment before I run it.”

I don’t turn or thank him. We both know he didn’t suddenly grow honor, and we both know I wasn’t bluffing about a lawsuit. I’ve won this round with the press. It’s a small victory in a war with too many defeats—and that has to change.

Feeling that dark, dangerous edge come over me again, I swiftly return to my office and shut the door. Adrenaline rushes through me, and my head is spinning—and it’s not just about having told the world what I never told Rebecca. It’s about the past, the present. About everything.

I squat down, elbows on my knees, and I’m sweating, the memories pounding at my brain, loss and pain eating away at me. Who was I kidding, all those years I claimed I was in control of everything around me? I was never in control. The past was always with me. It’s what has driven everything. It’s why I made the decisions I did with Rebecca.

Images flash in my mind and I lower my throbbing head to my hands. The hellish past comes at me like a hard-swung baseball bat that makes me groan with the impact.

*  *  *

“Stop, Tabitha,” I order, as she rushes ahead of me in the deserted parking lot of the remote NYU campus property, my voice carrying a little too loudly in the silent, windless night. “It’s too dark for you to run ahead of me.”

But she doesn’t listen, disappearing inside the open gates of the baseball practice field—but then, what else is new? She’s like my mother, hardheaded and impossible. I trot down the pavement to catch up to her, rounding the corner of the concrete sidewalk that runs in front of the bleachers. She’s walking backward, her long blond hair glistening silver in the moonlight, her soft feminine laugh a sexy tease despite my irritation.

“I’m right here, Marky baby,” she taunts, holding out her arms, the shadows licking at the deep cleavage of her pink T-shirt that I plan to have off of her in about sixty seconds. “Come get me.” She darts to the left and disappears into the darkness of the bleachers, as fearless as she is frustrating.

I growl low in my throat and decide that sneaking out here for an adventurous fuck was a bad idea. We should have thrown her damn roommate out of her dorm room for an hour. I decide to sneak up on her, heading toward the end of the bleachers to cut around the back, when a sound stops me in my tracks. A scrape of a shoe? Then . . . a male voice? I scan the playing field, but it’s too dark to see anything, and an eerie sensation crawls over my skin. Jogging forward, I disappear between the bleachers to find Tabitha—and stop dead in my tracks.