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I slammed the trunk closed, looking around manically, trying to see who else was in the parking lot. It was possible the asshole who did this was still around to ravish in my misery.
A car honked in the distance of the parking lot. Heart pounding, I swiveled my head in its direction. A beat-up 1996 red Camaro rolled past, the windows down, the driver’s arm propped out. I recognized the woman in the passenger seat immediately—it was the distressed girl I helped thirty minutes ago at the cashier. She stared at her lap, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.
But the man in the driver’s seat was the one who took my breath away …
Frank.
As in the man I’d fired months ago.
The bitter, violent, sexual harassing asshole I came to blows with.
A piece of the puzzle clicked together.
Frank.
He was the son of a gun who went after me.
He also had a pregnant girlfriend I didn’t know about when I fired him.
It went without saying that when I caught him with his hand between the burlesque dancer’s legs, the first thing that popped into my head wasn’t, I bet this guy is a great family man who is on the cusp of becoming a father.
Now? Now he was broke and in big trouble.
But so was I.
Because he wanted me dead.
Frank shot me a sneer, flipping me the bird as he sped out of the parking lot.
I thought about chasing him, but I didn’t want to put myself or his girlfriend in danger. I was going to deal with this, though. Now that I knew who he was.
I pried my phone out of my bag and called Devon. My hands felt cold and shaky, and it took me several attempts to find his name in my contacts.
It was the first time I’d called him for something that wasn’t our scheduled weekly meeting. A breach of contract, if you would.
It was also the first time I called him voluntarily since I found out he was bumping uglies with Tiffany. And yes, italics were necessary.
He answered on the first ring.
“Is the baby okay?”
I gulped air, my oxygen supply dwindling as the implication of what I’d just discovered slammed into me. Shit, shit, shit. Frank had been the one to send me a string of clues and threats, and this one was the latest. Did I even know where he lived? No, I didn’t. After I sent him the last check, it was returned to Madame Mayhem. He must’ve moved after I sent the reporters to hound him.
“The baby’s fine.” I think.
“What’s going on?” Devon sounded sincerely alarmed.
“I … someone slashed my tires. I need a ride.”
And a drink.
And a shoulder to cry on.
A graceful, elegant, infuriatingly gorgeous almost-prince to make it all better.
Not necessarily in that order.
“Why would anyone do that?” he demanded.
I wasn’t telling him what was going on with me. Screw that. He would lock me in a tower and never let me see the light of day.
“I don’t know, punks?”
“Where are you?”
“buybuy Baby.”
“The place is known for high crime activity around it,” he drawled impatiently, yet again exceling at making me feel like a kid. “Send me the address. I’m on my way.”
“Uh, hmm …” I was showing off my magnificent eloquence.
“What?” he asked, sensing there was more.
I looked around me again. No one promised me Frank wasn’t going to return after dropping his girlfriend off to put a bullet in my head.
“Can we … uh, talk on the phone until you get here?”
“Sweven,” he sighed, his icy demeanor melting a little, “of course.”
I was so happy to hear my nickname, I could cry.
He stayed on the phone with me. Asking me about my purchases (he wasn’t impressed with the mop bodysuit) and what burlesque show was featured in Madame Mayhem these days (Suicide Girls Blackheart), trying to get my mind off what’d happened to me.
To Devon’s credit, he dropped everything and showed up fifteen minutes later, double-parking his Bentley and slamming it shut as he pounced on me.
“Are you all right?” He scooped me into his arms and buried my head in his shoulder, engulfing me in a bone-crushing hug. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I immediately began bawling into his Tom Ford suit, smearing my foundation and colorful eyeshadow onto it. I hadn’t cried in so long. This was unlike me.
Devon massaged my neck in circles, dropping feathery kisses on the crown of my head.
“Why would anyone do something like this, Belle?”
“I … I … I don’t know,” I hiccupped.
But I did know.
Even worse, I wasn’t going to call the police on Frank. Even if he was responsible for the letter and for the man who stalked me all those months ago, which I had evidence was the case. The two other men looked different, and neither of them appeared to be connected to Frank.
