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Harvard’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he visualized the damage one good right hook would do to the man. “Just going from this conversation, I’d say people are already laughing at you.”
Charles’ face turned a strange shade of purple. “I don’t understand what Rachel could possibly see in you. You’re obviously only out to get your hands on her money, and I intend to make her aware of that at the very first opportunity.”
“You do that.” Harvard pushed the button for the elevator. “But you might want to invest in a bulletproof vest first; she carries a gun in her purse, and she’s quite the shot. She’ll shoot your balls off at twenty paces. She’s that good. Even a target that small won’t faze her.”
“Well, I never,” Charles blustered.
The elevator doors opened, and Harvard stepped inside. He turned to face good old Uncle Charles. “And another thing. While I was in the CIA, I learned a thing or two about torture and body disposal. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you spew racist shit in my direction.”
The doors closed before Charles had a chance to reply.
Chapter Six
The first thought Rachel had when she opened her desk drawer and saw the photo sitting in it was that she should have waited at her apartment for Harvard. Not because she needed a man to protect her, but because she would have been too busy dealing with him to get her office ready. But no, she’d just had to mess with him and come in early. Which meant boredom had led her to organizing. And organizing had led her to open the drawer.
She should have come to work with Harvard.
But then, who knew how long that photo would have sat there, waiting for anyone to find it…
Rachel was aware her thoughts were muddled and somewhat inane, but that couldn’t be helped. Her inner voice rambled as her mind struggled to comprehend what she was looking at. Which was stupid in itself, because she’d been expecting this.
As soon as she’d known she was returning to TayFor, she’d been waiting for something to happen. She just hadn’t been as prepared for it as she’d thought she was. But then, how did you prepare for suddenly coming across the photographic evidence of an attack you only remembered in fragments of broken dreams? Was that even possible?
And now that she thought about it, was she supposed to feel shame when she saw the image? Was she supposed to run and hide? It had been ten years since it was taken. She wasn’t the same person anymore. She’d learned a lot since then. Grown up. Become stronger. Now she knew the photo didn’t show her shame. It showed the indignity of her attackers.
The victims didn’t own the shame.
It wasn’t theirs to carry.
Ever.
“Victim,” she whispered, trying the word. Trying to imagine it as describing her. It tasted alien on her tongue.
Stretching a surprisingly steady hand toward the Polaroid, she hesitated to touch it. As though, somehow, confirming that the photo was real would make what happened more concrete too. But then, when the memory of your assault was a blank, a photo of it was the only reality left.
As Rachel’s fingertips touched the edge of the Polaroid, her office suddenly disappeared. She no longer stood beside her ugly desk. Instead, she was back there. On the floor of that hotel room. Naked. Alone. Hurting. And desperately wishing…
A flash of memory slammed into her, ripping her open.
Hands around her throat. A body heavy on top of her. Moving inside of her. The thick, sickening scent of incense. And laughter. So. Much. Laughter.
None of it hers.
As past and present merged, the walls pressed in on her. Was she in her office? Was she back at the hotel? The floor beneath her feet wobbled and roiled until she felt dizzy. The air became thick with the cloying fragrance of incense, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the pressure on her chest that cut her oxygen. The weight crushing her as the body moved over her…
“No,” she moaned.
She had to get out of there, had to escape. But even without the hands holding her down, her legs were too weak to carry her. She needed a plan. She needed to think. But the world wouldn’t stop spinning long enough to allow her to have one single coherent thought. Just one. All she needed was one.
“Rachel?” a voice snapped. “Rachel? You with me?”
She blinked rapidly, the hotel room beginning to fade. Dragging air into her lungs, she forced herself to stay still. Very still. Until she knew she was safe. The light became brighter, and the floor stopped moving beneath her feet. Slowly, her office came back into focus, and the thick, pungent aroma filling her senses dispersed from the air. But her heart felt like it was trying to break out through her rib cage, and her legs were weak.
“Rachel, you okay?” As a deep voice rumbled, she tore her gaze from the photo to focus on the person talking to her.
Harvard. It was Harvard.
His massive frame filled the doorway, dressed from top to toe in black and looking every inch the deadly assassin he’d trained to be. She reached for her water bottle and took a sip, her heart still hammering inside her, making her feel nauseous. But she kept her gaze on the man watching her so intently.
