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I growl low in my throat and decide to go home. Before I do something stupid.
* * *
Walking through my door,I drop my keys in the glass bowl I’d inherited when my mother died, letting the clink tell my brain that we can settle down some. We’re home. I head straight for my office, powering up my Mac. It greets me with that solitary, one note Apple tune. After grabbing a beer and a hot pocket, I plop down in front of it.
Through a day of research, I found C is most likely Conner Whitfield. Best friends and C.O.O. of Stanner Enterprises, where I followed Carina to yesterday. She’d left with a massive, spellbinding smile on her face, so I assume she now is editing for them in some fashion.
The slightest amount of research had told me Conner and Emery of Stanner Enterprises were a lot more to her than a job. They went to her high school in Rochester, only a couple hours down I-5 south of here. Rochester High School was a smaller school compared to most in the country, the town only having around three-thousand residents in total back then. Inwardly, I wonder if those two lust after my Carina as I do.
Of course, they do. Look at her. I run my finger over the small square photograph of her in the newspaper.
“Local Rochester Grad to Work in Major Publishing House.” The title gives the impression the town was proud, that she was happy. The photo they’d chosen, however, shows another narrative entirely. Her eyes, even in black and white, express years of unhappiness, and a tale of woe of epic proportions.
“What happened to you, little one?” I murmur as I stare at the screen until my eyes burn, begging me to blink to clear them.
Sitting back, I continue to click through town newspaper articles via the library server. So much information is available to all via the slightest touch of a button these days. It thrills men like me.
Computers have always been my thing. It’s the reason people come to me for many jobs. I find it surprising that Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Stanner haven’t ever reached out for my services. Especially in the field they’re in with the money they have. Being a fixer means I usually deal with their type.
Looking at the smugness on Emery’s face—even in high school photos—pegs him as my kind of clientele on sight. The type to fuck up and have to bury the secrets via Father’s money. If I dig deep enough, I know I’ll find all his hidden skeletons. And that’s what I intend to do. Anyone who gets close to her is someone that gets close to me.
And getting close to me is dangerous.
CHAPTERFIVE
Emery
Ihave no business being on this floor. I need nothing from here. My office isn’t on this floor, nor do I need to meet with anyone here. But here I am, wandering through the corridors, looking forher.
It’s been a week since she started. I’ve heard ravings from many people. One being Suzanne. But I haven’t seen her. She was missing from a meeting this morning, and that had led me here. At the very least, I could ask her where she’d been. She’s haunted my thoughts and dreams.
I spend my time trying to recall her from school, trying to conjure any memory of her. Even if it’s bumping into her at the lockers, or her walking by the sidelines of the football field.
Why would she be near the football field?
I sigh, looking in the last room as I resign myself to the fact that I need to get back to my office. I have a meeting in thirty minutes.
“Mr. Stanner?” a small voice asks, and I whip to attention, my eyes falling on the empty desk in the office I’m peering into. I turn, finding the elusive Ms. Eder standing behind me, holding an armload of blank copy paper.
I rush to take it from her, but she pulls back, moving around me and into her office. She drops the paper on the desk and a loud thud reverberates through the room as she sighs.
One hand slinks up her hip and perches on the delicate curve. She’s in a thin, flowy, blue dress that stops at her knees and black flats.
It would be so easy to slide that fabric up and…
I snap back to attention, meeting her eyes as her brows rise on her forehead.
“Did you need something, Mr. Stanner?” she asks.
“I was —” I start, voice raspy. I clear my throat and try again. “I was coming to see why you weren’t in this morning’s meeting,” I finally get out, feeling like an absolute asshat. It seems to be the norm when I’m around her.
Confusion and panic seem to war behind her eyes for which is the correct feeling as she thinks of what to say. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be there. Suzanne said that as the editor, I wasn’t needed.”
Fuck Suzanne.
I keep that tidbit to myself as I look her up and down, praying she doesn’t look down toward my tightening slacks. I rock on my heels. “Well, she’s probably right. I wanted to make sure you were settling in okay.”
She rounds in front of the desk, leaning up against it with her supple backside, crossing her arms in front of her. The action makes her look powerful, commanding. Her breasts push up in such a way that I swallow hard against their siren call, fighting the urge to go to them.
