If You Need Me: The Ashford Legacy, Book 1 (4 page)

Kenton glanced at his watch. “All the same, I’d like for you to drop her name off with Georges on the way out today. We’ll need a thorough investigation and a signed nondisclosure agreement if you plan to continue talking to her. Honestly, Kyle, you’re twenty-nine years old now. You know better.”

Kyle chose to say nothing because he’d just discovered that he was incredibly defensive and insanely protective when it came to Rayna. He’d have to wait to have this discussion until he could put on his game face. “I need to get going.”

Kenton paused, the wheels turning in his head. “Very well. Also, the meeting you called today—my assistant told me about it. Why are you concerning yourself with the smaller acquisitions? We have a team for that.”

“Some companies popped up on my radar that I think may still be profitable. I want to make sure we do our due diligence.”

“Any in particular?”

Kyle crossed his arms over his chest. “Orien Publishing.”

Kenton actually laughed, which was so rare it was a shame Kyle didn’t get it on tape. “Is this about that trashy drivel you read? Are you on a crusade to save the smut, son?”

His father couldn’t get over the fact that he’d caught Kyle reading erotic romance. He’d razzed him about how real men watched their porn onscreen—even though Kyle knew his father preferred to pay for the live show.

Kyle had been too ashamed to defend himself with the truth
—
that he craved the emotional connection, along with the physical one, that those novels provided. Growing up with his father, he’d seen enough shallow pairings to last a lifetime, and he’d determined it was a lonely, miserable way to live.

Kyle squared his shoulders. “Orien Publishing is releasing bestselling novels every month. Regardless of the genre, why would we shut that down?”

“I’m beginning to wonder what they taught you at Harvard. If the profits are on a steady decline, it’s not something we want to add to our portfolio. Book sales are down, Kyle. Read the
Wall Street Journal
.”

“With a better business model, I could turn Orien around. And anyhow, it may not have been as unprofitable as it seems. We’re looking into allegations that—”

His father cut him off. “I’m sorry. I need to go. This conversation has been…well, son, I’d like to say
enlightening
. But lately you leave me scratching my head.”

And with that, the elder Ashford turned on his heel, leaving Kyle wishing he had boarded the chopper just a few minutes sooner.

Rayna looked over her shoulder, but no one followed. At least no one she could see. It was hard not to break into a jog as she exited the steps onto her floor. In her tightly closed fist, the dirty penny cut into her palm. She unlocked the door to her apartment and burst through, locking it behind her and dashing to the bathroom.

She fell to her knees over the porcelain toilet bowl and dry heaved, her trembling hands gripping the rim to steady herself. If she’d eaten breakfast before her mission, it would have been swirling down the drain about now. Two and a half blocks. It had been too much. Kyle had been pushing, but now she knew her limits. It was too freaking much.

She rinsed her mouth and went to drink a glass of water in the kitchen. She had a deadline looming and her publisher was pinning their hopes on this next novel doing wonders for Rayna’s career. She wasn’t a
New York Times
bestselling author yet, but she was so close her books often nipped at the heels of those lists. With the right publicity and a few good reviews, her next release might just shoot her up the charts. Her literary plans for the future—total world domination. But first—breakfast.

“Braaatty! Come on, baby! I got treats. I really do this time.” Once again, the hen didn’t come tearing around the corner like she usually did. “What in the heck is wrong with you?” Rayna grumbled, going in search of the bird.

A black shape filled the nesting box. It was Bratty, still sleeping. Except her feathers were fluffed out more than usual and her breathing was shallow. Her beak pointed down, toward the wood shavings, as though she couldn’t hold her head up any longer.

“Oh my God.”

Rayna reached down to pick her up, but the bird’s body was tense—almost
stiff
. Her legs were locked under her, and when Rayna put her hands on Bratty’s wings, the hen’s face plunged into the shavings and she let out a terrible sound Rayna had never heard before. Sure, Bratty had been known to growl in a sweet, rumbly way, but this was fierce and low—the sound of an animal in pain. An animal…
dying
.

Chapter Four

A team of Ashford’s best and brightest stared back at Kyle. They weren’t getting it, and irritation was starting to get the better of him.

“I’ve run the numbers,” Kyle said, allowing his authority to color his voice. “I believe Orien Publishing is a good risk.”

“Kyle, be reasonable. When the embezzlement scandal hits and the media gets wind that Orien is going bankrupt, it’s the perfect time to shut it down. No harm, no foul. I mean, no one expects us to bail out a company whose earnings have been in the toilet.” Harold paused for a well-timed snicker. “We’re not the federal government.”

Harold was an old-timer who had worked directly for Kyle’s father before being transferred to the Mergers and Acquisitions Department. It was hard for some of the staff who had known Kyle in his teen years to take him seriously now. But, ultimately, this was Kyle’s division and his decision.

“Thank you, Harold. Let’s let the authorities take care of the embezzlement allegations. My concern is with the overall health of Orien, and I believe we can overcome their mismanagement with the strategies I’ve mapped out. If the new business model tanks, I’ll take the fall—but that’s not going to happen. There’s big potential for growth here, and the profits will be worth the risk.”

When a vibration went through his chest, Kyle was confused for a second, but then he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his phone. In meeting mode, it was programmed not to ring except for authorized numbers. Only five people were on that list, and three of them were blood related.

He glanced at the screen.
Ray
flashed across the display, accompanied by a small picture he’d downloaded last month from one of her zanier texts. She’d braided a crown of manuscript pages, all marked in red ink, and had stuck it on her head, dubbing herself the queen of dangling modifiers. He hadn’t known what that was, but he’d told her it sounded sexy and he’d dangle her modifier anytime.

And now his queen of dangling modifiers was calling during his workday. She
never
did that. It was their unspoken rule…mostly, he figured, because she needed the mental space to write. Seeing her name now, fear tightened his chest.

He put up a hand to halt the conversations at the table. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” He was halfway to the door when his finger swiped
Answer
. “Yes?” he breathed, not wanting to say her name until he was in the privacy of his office.

“Hi,” she said quietly, tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she should’ve called. Oh fuck. She was crying. Ray never cried.

“What’s happening?” Was it the challenge? Had he screwed everything up by pressuring her into something she wasn’t ready for?

He jogged back to his office and went to shut the door, shaking his head when his personal assistant appeared, looking like she was ready to don protective gear and help put out the fire.
Sara…no,
he mouthed and slipped into his expansive office alone.

He knew he’d pay for that later. Sara was like family, and she’d wear holes in the carpet outside his office if he kept her in the dark. He couldn’t deal with her hovering, though, not when Rayna needed his full attention. “Ray?”

“It’s Bratty.” He caught the little sob in her throat, like she was trying to talk normally but it wasn’t working.

His pulse raced. “What’s wrong with Bratty?” Had she finally suffocated the little hen in that heavy trench coat of hers? Hell, she’d never recover.

“God, I’m sorry for calling you at work…”

“Ray.”
This was his don’t-fuck-with-me voice. He didn’t use it often. “Tell me what’s wrong with Bratty.”

She sucked in a shaky breath before she spoke. “I don’t know. She’s lethargic. She won’t eat. She goes stiff and growls when I try to pick her up.” This time the sob was clear. “What have I done, Kyle? She’s skin and bones. The mash isn’t keeping her weight up. Oh my God. I think I starved my baby.”

Kyle drew a deep breath in through his nose. This was a problem. But Bratty was alive, and he was an expert at solving problems. “Just keep her warm, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay. I need to hang up and make some calls. Stay by the phone, okay? Help is on the way.”

Rayna wiped a tear away and glanced again at her phone. Fifty-seven minutes had passed since she’d called Kyle. She’d tracked down the only avian vet in Santa Barbara County, but the office was closed—at ten a.m. on a Thursday morning! Now she was going to have to take a cab to some random dog-and-cat urgent care. Kyle had called her three times, checking on her, reassuring her, and now her phone screen lit again.

“Ray?” he said when she answered.

“Yes?”

“Help is arriving now. They’re pulling up to the curb as we speak. When you hear a knock on the door, it’s okay to open it. All right?”

“Help? Yeah, okay. All right.” Her chest felt like an elephant was using it for a footrest.

“Can you video me in, please?” he asked.

She blinked and tears filled her eyes once again. Who was this man, and why was he so good to her? Didn’t he know she might have killed the only living being on this planet that she was responsible for besides herself? “Thank you,” she said quietly.

She faced the computer cam toward Bratty’s pen and hit
Call
. A few seconds later, there was Kyle. He was wearing a fancy suit, sitting behind a big desk in an office located somewhere in New York, looking like the strongest, most solid thing on God’s green earth. Oh shit, she’d really called him at work for a sick bird, hadn’t she?

“Hey there, sweetheart.” His voice was low. Somber. “How are you holding up?”

Rayna just shook her head. “I don’t—” She couldn’t finish.

But then she didn’t need to because the front door shook with the force of a pounding fist. “Miss Sommers? It’s Dr. Wheaten.”

Dr. Wheaten? That was the name of the avian vet whose office was closed for the day. “Coming!” Rayna called and ran to the door.

She flung the door open, and a woman in a white lab coat with a parrot logo on the pocket sailed in. Behind her came two vet techs, one carrying a black satchel and the other carrying what looked like IV fluids and assorted apparatuses in a clear tub.

The vet thrust her hand out. “Hello, I’m Dr. Wheaten.”

“Rayna Sommers,” she replied, giving the hand a good shake.

And from behind Rayna, the speakers sounded. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Wheaten. I’m Kyle…Ford. My office called you, and I’d like to sit in if you don’t mind.”

The vet’s eyes went wide. She glanced at the computer screen, looking stunned. “Yes, of course. Thank you. I mean…it’s an honor to meet you, Mr.
Ford
.”

Rayna might have been jealous of all the stammering and what it must mean if she didn’t have other things on her mind. So Kyle was hot. There was a bird dying here, people!

“She’s over here,” Rayna said, walking the vet to the pen in the corner of the living room and lifting the hatch on the nesting box. “You see. She won’t get up. She just lies there. She’s not eating.”

The vet reached in, then paused. “May I?”

Rayna nodded. “Please.”

“Can you tell me her history?” Dr. Wheaten picked up the bird and started to feel around. Bratty fluffed up and tucked her head, so growly and pissed that Rayna wondered if she might bite.

The vet glanced at her closest vet tech. “Take notes.”

Rayna rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. “Bratty is nine months. I got her when she was just a day old. A friend gave her to me as a gift, along with a second chick—Bratty’s sister, Sweetie. My cat, Chuck, ate Sweetie. It was one of the worst days of my life. He’s living at my parents’ ranch in Texas now.”

“You never told me that,” Kyle said in the background.

“Yeah…” Rayna’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t gotten around to telling him that part yet. She didn’t know what was worse—that she’d allowed the baby bird to get devoured or that she’d shipped her cat to an old ranch house in the middle of nowhere that required Rayna’s monthly support to keep the property irrigated and the cattle hydrated. “The cat’s happier now. He gets to hunt in the barn, and my parents get free rodent control. Apparently Chuck is a good mouser.”

She realized the vet was staring at her, waiting for her to get to the more relevant part of Bratty’s history. “So anyway. About Bratty. Nine months old. Started laying two months ago. As you can see, she’s a Silkie. I didn’t realize she was developing a crossbeak until she was about two weeks old.”

Bratty’s bottom beak went straight out, but her top beak curved around it to the side, making one of the bird’s eyes stretch wider than the other—like the feathered version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.