Page 32 of Frost and Venom

“There are just so many things going on at once that it’s a little overwhelming. Losing Helen after losing Lawyer is a terrible blow.” She swept both hands through her hair in agitation, knowing she was giving far too much of her mental state away but not caring. These were her friends, and her life was a mess. Worse, she was worried for them.

“It’s very possible the senator and my mother will show up in person and cause drama like you’ve never seen. A huge fight is brewing.” She shrugged. “It’s been ongoing, but so far only my mother has been involved. Once the senator decides to step in, he won’t ask for what he wants, he’s going to make demands. He has always expected to be obeyed, and when I refuse his request, he won’t take it well.”

Stella had nightmares about serial killers. Shabina had them about her kidnapping. Harlow had no idea what the other women had to endure at night because each had their own demons. The senator was Harlow’s personal nightmare. She feared his retaliation when she refused to do as he wished. He was a very vindictive man who hid that side of himself from the public with his natural, easy charm.

“What would he do to you?” Vienna voiced out loud. “What could he do? You’re a grown-up. You don’t depend on him for money. What does he think he can do to you that would force you to comply with his demands?”

“If we were alone, he would think nothing of hitting me. But that would be immediate retaliation, not his long-term plan. He would try to ruin my name at the galleries displaying my work. He would also start a smear campaign on social media. It isn’t that difficult to hire people to feed negative articles onto the web about someone. You see it all the time. One person is portrayed as a saint; another is portrayed as a villain. That’s very common practice in the world of politics and celebrity. The smear campaign often works, persuading the public against individuals.”

“Raine showed me how it worked one time,” Stella said. “She pointed out all the articles against a woman, making her into the villain in a high-profile divorce, and all the sympathetic articles showing the poor male. For every good one of him, there was a bad one written up about her. Then she uncovered the actual facts proving all the terrible things he’d done to her and his children. That went by the wayside. The public forgot all of that and began to make false accusations against her along with the news articles.”

“It isn’t that difficult anymore to manipulate social media,” Harlow said. “And my father is very, very good at it.”

“He hasn’t been able to get out from under the charges made against him,” Zahra pointed out.

“They aren’t official,” Harlow said. “He’s under investigation as their number one suspect, but he hasn’t been charged formally.”

“If they never charge him?” Shabina questioned.

“He’ll go right back to building his image and carrying on with his dirty deeds because he got away with it,” Harlow declared. “And then he’ll make a run for the White House and probably win.”

Chapter Eight

Harlow sat in her swing chair, rocking back and forth and looking up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. Peaceful. Deceiving. To get any semblance of serenity, she would have to block her mother from calling her. It wasn’t an easy decision. It was important to know what her father was planning. But her mother had called ten times in a row. She didn’t leave messages, she just rang and rang and rang until Harlow wanted to scream.

The more often her mother called, the more the tension in her grew. Her stomach churned and her temples throbbed. She needed a clear head so she could think, so no wine or alcohol, even though she would have liked to dull her senses a bit. It was just that her mother wouldn’t be calling the way she was if her father hadn’t commanded it. That meant the senator was planning something that involved her.

She’d known her father would eventually make his move. It had only been a matter of time. She wasn’t ignorant; she’d kept abreast of the situation, reading everything written on the disappearance of the young girl last seen in the senator’s company. The girl had made complaints against him despite the threats of being deported. Her father, Alan Dunstin, was American; her mother, Este, Mexican. Her mother worked for the Fryes as a housekeeper. Her sixteen-year-old daughter, Oliva, would come with her to work during the summers, weekends and holidays. If Harlow’s parents were entertaining, she helped.

There was an outcry of protest from many of the senator’s constituents, most saying he had watched the missing girl grow up and would have been her protector, just as he had been Harlow’s protector. Many were angry with Harlow for not coming forward to defend her father. She’d received many reprimanding or threatening letters from his loyal voters. Many of the women throughout the state had formed groups to support him. They held their protests and prayer circles in front of cameras, scolding Harlow, looking straight into the lens to inform the world she was a disloyal and terrible daughter. Her name was dragged through the mud.

The phone continued the incessant ringing and she tipped her head back to stare at the glittery midnight sky. The stars were terribly blurry. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. Not just crying. Sobbing. Ugly crying. She didn’t try to stop. Her chest was so tight she felt actual pain in her heart. Her eyes and throat burned, felt raw. She could barely catch her breath; her lungs felt raw and starved for air.

There was no one around, and she gave herself permission to have a breakdown. She cried for Giselle Gentry, for Lawyer, for Helen. She cried for the girl who had disappeared and was most likely dead. She cried for Raine and Wilder. And she cried for herself.

She was a control freak, and she knew it. She kept her world very small and orderly and didn’t let many in because…well…just for this reason. Her life outside Knightly was total chaos.

“Mon rêve?”

The voice, softer than velvet, was so low she heard it as a whisper over her skin instead of a sound in her ears. He walked so quietly he seemed to be more jungle cat than human. Or maybe she was just crying too loud to hear anything.

Harlow covered her face with both hands. She wasn’t a pretty crier. She really wasn’t. She knew her eyes were red and swollen and her face blotchy. She was a redhead and had the very fair skin of a redhead. Crying put large splotches of color amid the white. Every freckle stood out in that horrible strawberry gold. She had far more freckles than most people thought, because usually they were faint. Not when she cried.

“Harlow, talk to me.”

She couldn’t. She shook her head and waved him back toward the open door. In fact, she pointed imperiously. She might have gotten away with it, but just then, she hiccupped, and another gut-wrenching sob was torn out of her.

Wilder loomed over her, lifted her right out of her swing chair, sank into it and cradled her on his lap. One hand went to the back of her head to press her face against his chest. He rocked the chair gently, holding her safe in his arms, his chin on top of her head.

“I’ve got you, Harlow.” He whispered the promise against her temple, lips moving against her skin. “You’re safe here. You aren’t alone.”

The phone continued to ring and ring. Hang up. Ring again. Harlow squeezed her eyes closed as tight as she could, wishing the screaming in her head would drown out the sound. Instead, she snuggled closer to Wilder, allowing the heat of him to seep into her body. His strength surrounded her like a fortress, and his energy, peaceful and serene, calmed her.

How often had he quietly stood with her? Reassured her? He was always the calm in the center of her chaotic world. She had known him only two years, but he’d been consistently in her corner. There had never been a single time that he hadn’t stood for her.

Harlow rubbed her face against his shirt, over his heart. That steady rhythm was like him. Reliable. Comforting. She ran her palms up his chest and circled his neck with her arms. He hadn’t once told her to calm down, that she was acting like a hysterical, dramatic female. He hadn’t acted impatient with her. He was gentle and comforting, nothing like her father. She concentrated on shutting down the waterworks, and while she did, she thought of the times she’d been annoyed with Wilder. He had no problem with getting his way when he thought he was right. And he did so physically. When he believed she was in danger, he gave an order once, and if she didn’t comply, he simply picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and proceeded to take her out of the situation, ignoring her protests.

She had resented him for those few times he bossed her around. She’d told herself he was overbearing and far too dominant for her. She couldn’t live with someone like Rainier, and Wilder’s personality was very close to Rainier’s. But Wilder and Rainier were nothing like her father. Nothing. She thought of all the times Wilder had stepped in front of her to protect her. He’d shielded her, and she didn’t doubt that he always would.