I Belong to You (4 page)

Pushing to my feet, I walk to the bathroom. I need to look myself in the mirror, to face my sins and my emotions, to rebuild my armor and the Master I’ve lost. Maybe that happened at hello, too, and I just didn’t realize it.

By 8:45, I’m dressed in a custom-made black suit with a red tie, chosen because it’s my mother’s lucky color. While I haven’t believed in luck in a very long time, she does, and that’s what matters.

Going to the desk I used to plot Ryan’s demise, I seal the documents back into the envelope, then walk to the closet and squat down in front of the hotel safe. After placing them inside, I lock it securely. Returning to the desk, I dial from the untraceable cell phone, frustrated when I get the beep of voice mail. Leaving a message that could bite me in the ass later isn’t an option, so I end the call.

At nine o’clock, Jacob is at my door in a black suit and a trench coat. He announces, “It’s snowing like a forest fire outside.”

I arch a brow at the contradictory statement that somehow makes sense. Taking my Crombie from the entryway closet, I step into the hallway, letting the door slam shut as I start walking. Ready to get to the hospital and see my parents. Even more ready to take action than I was last night. I’m done with sitting back, waiting, wanting, burning to death from my own lack of control.

The elevator opens and Jacob and I step inside. “Anything I need to know about this morning, Bossman?” he asks, using the nickname the Allure staff back in San Francisco often call me.

“I want one of your men shadowing Crystal around the clock.”

“Suspicion or protection?”

“Protection. She’s too close to my family and business to assume she won’t become a target.”

“Starting when?”

“Today. And it’s not enough for you to just be on alert for Ava. Find her and whoever’s helping her, before she finds us.”

His jaw is set hard. “We’re working on it.”

My eyebrow goes up. “No denial that she’s working with someone? I thought you were programmed to repeat that police rubbish?”

“More like, told not to encourage you to rip anyone’s throat out in the name of vengeance.”

“But you’re telling me that you think there’s more to Ava’s disappearance? Despite that order from your boss?”

“Yes, I do. And they do.”

“About damn time you grew some balls.”

“I assure you, Mr. Compton, I have balls the size of Texas when I need them. I can also promise you that, despite downplaying it to you, Walker Security is working every angle that could represent danger to you or your family, or even your reputation. They aren’t ignoring any possibility where Ava is concerned, or taking anything for granted where safety is concerned. They’re damned good—which is why I joined them.”

The elevator doors ding open and we step out, then head toward the lobby doors. “Do you have any new information you should share?”

“Nothing on Ava, Ryan, or Ricco that helps us at all.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Not if I could rip their throats out for you and call it justice, to spare you the aftermath.”

“I’m not sure what to make of that answer.”

His stoic expression doesn’t change. “I do that to people.” He continues: “I don’t like the setup here. There’s only one door in and out of the hotel. If the press gets too heavy, it’ll be a trap. We need to move.”

Just then the hotel manager spots us from the bellman’s desk and rapidly moves in our direction.

“That’s Ralph Reed,” I explain of the forty-something dark-haired man in a brown suit approaching. “The hotel manager. He’s been around for years, and the hard set of his jaw and his brisk stride means there’s a problem.”

“Whatever it is, it just happened—because I met with him about my security concerns earlier this morning.”

Fighting the urge to curse at what’s certain to be a delay, I glance at my watch. “We have less than an hour to get to the hospital.”

“We’ll get there,” Jacob assures me.

“Spoken like a tourist,” I reply. “You don’t know the city at this time of the day and in bad weather.”

“Mr. Compton and Mr. Parker,” Mr. Reed says as we meet mid-lobby. “Excuse me for getting right to the point, but we have a . . . situation.”

Jacob motions to a corner. “Let’s step to the side, where we aren’t as exposed.”

“Of course,” the manager agrees.

I hold up a staying hand. “I have to get to the hospital. What’s the situation?”

“Someone claiming to be with the press was asking for you this morning. I’ve questioned my staff about the leak, but no one is claiming responsibility.”

“Did you get the name of this person, or their press credentials?” Jacob immediately asks.

Mr. Reed’s lips press together. “Unfortunately, no. The doorman did try, as did the bellman’s desk.”

“Did they confirm that Mr. Compton’s staying here?” Jacob asks.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Reed assures us. “We took great precautions to keep Mr. Compton’s stay as invisible as possible. However, he is quite well known among the staff.”

“Is there security footage of this visitor?” Jacob asks, pounding away at the issue, which is commendable, but the seconds are also pounding away at my watch.

“We have cameras everywhere,” Mr. Reed replies. “I can arrange the footage.”

“Call me when it’s ready,” Jacob instructs. “You have my card. And if it can be emailed, please do so.”

I insert, “Right now, I need to be somewhere.”

“Of course,” Mr. Reed says, sounding apologetic. “I’ll be in contact in the next hour.”

I’m already stepping around him and heading toward the door by the time he’s finished the sentence. Jacob again falls into step with me and I say, “Clearly, you aren’t convinced it’s a member of the press asking around about me.”

“My motto is proof before acceptance.”

I don’t ask where that comes from. I’ve looked in the man’s eyes. I’ve seen the hardness that only going to hell and pulling yourself back gives a person, and I approve. People who’ve been through a bloodbath and survived are the strongest, and I expect nothing less than Hercules by my side when it comes to protecting my family and employees.

We step outside to find the Escalade has been pulled around and is waiting for us, the storm gusting wickedly. I wave away the back door a doorman opens for me, choosing the front instead.

Jacob joins me and glances at me, his face expressionless as he starts the engine.

“You aren’t my driver,” I tell him, answering the question he hasn’t asked. “And I prefer being behind the wheel, especially in the city.” I eye my watch. “Step on it.”

We pull away from the curb to blizzard-like conditions, the traffic as heavy as the snow on the bumpers. I’m not going to make my mother’s treatment by car. When finally we begin to move, I direct Jacob to a subway stop and tell him, “Meet me at the hospital. Tell them your name and I’ll have them bring you to me.” I open my door.

“Wait. Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m taking the subway.”

“That’s risky with someone looking for you,” he points out. “Let me park—”

The light turns and I get out, slamming the door shut as horns start blowing.

Four

Mark . . .

I hold on to a pole in the crowded subway car. I’ve had to take three trains to reach the hospital, all done in only fifteen minutes. It would have taken an hour on the city streets.

The train halts and as the crowd moves toward the doors, a flash goes off too close to me for comfort. I look for a camera or cell phone being directed my way but find nothing. Giving up, I exit and head for the stairs to the street, bothered by the flash that my gut tells me was directed at me.

I reach the hospital five minutes later and quickly arrange entry for Jacob through the secure entrance reserved for visitors of high-profile patients. It’s now just ten minutes until my mother’s treatment time. Rushing out of the elevator on her floor, I head toward the private room we’ve arranged for her to use before her treatments. Headed toward me, rolling an empty wheelchair, is my mother’s radiology nurse. Just seeing that chair, and thinking about seeing my mother in it again, rips a piece of my heart out, but Reba is still a sight for sore eyes. She’s close to my mother’s age and has a knack for challenging every stubborn word my mother speaks—of which there are many—while still making my mother love her.

“I’m so glad—” she begins as we meet outside the cracked door of my mother’s room.

I hold up a finger, stepping to her side. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

She smiles warmly and pulls the door shut. “She’s going to be elated. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to see her, but we have a tight schedule, so make it quick. Your timing is perfect. Apparently she tried to refuse to come this morning.”

“Refused? That’s new. She’s been all about getting this behind her and getting back to work.”

“Even the strong feel weak at times, and believe me, cancer is the beast that can make that a truth. The blast of chemo your mother was given just before the mastectomy was a lot for most to handle, but yet she weathered both procedures well. But we just couldn’t give her as much time after that blood infection to get stronger as we would have liked to ensure she didn’t go backwards now. Considering everything, I’d say she has a right to feel beat up.”

I nod. “Hopefully I can help her get past this.”

“From what I understand, you were her rock during the blood infection. Having you here will be good for her. But be warned; she’s lost more weight since you left.”

“How much?” I ask, concerned. “She was too thin two weeks ago.”

“About five more pounds, but it looks like ten on her already frail frame.”

“Is that from the radiation?”

“Mostly the aftermath of the blood infection, but she says she’s too tired to eat. I think it’s depression. We can talk more while she’s in treatment, but I want to get a counselor to talk to her. We need to convince her it’s a good idea.”

“I’ll convince her,” I say forcefully, not about to let my mother stop fighting. She’s always been my unbreakable rock. I’ll be hers now. “Whatever she needs, we’ll make happen.”

“I know you will. I’ll be back in five minutes.” She motions to the wheelchair. “Maybe you can coax her into this?”

“Consider it done.” My fingers curl around the chair’s handles. She opens the door a crack again, then walks away. Steeling myself for what might wait for me inside, I nudge the door open a bit more and pause.

“If I skip this week then I’ll be stronger next week,” I hear my mother say, and even her voice is frail.

“Dana,” my father starts, his voice a reprimand usually reserved for the game of baseball.

“I need to be stronger this week, Steven,” she argues. “Mark just learned about Rebecca. He’s going to need the support you’ll have to give him. You can’t do that if I’m this weak.”

“Eat and you’ll be stronger,” he says.

My mother is actually worrying about me when she’s fighting for her life, and it triggers two words in my mind: “Control” and “Master.” That’s what my family needs me to be now. I have to be their pillar.

I find the mental armor I’ve put on at will for ten years now and roll the chair forward, calling, “I hear you need a driver.” And as I take in the sight before me, I’ve never been as thankful for that armor as I am now.

In this mode I’m able to slow down my mind, processing what I see in a controlled fashion despite only seconds passing. My father hovers beside my mother’s greenish blue hospital chair, his gaze fixed on her, his normally muscular body looking gaunt, the streaks of gray in his light brown hair more predominant than just two weeks before.

My mother in the chair, her blond hair now thin and cut to her chin, her face gaunt, her body no more than a hundred pounds under her hospital robe. A wave of pure fear overcomes me and says the control I’d shackled is faltering, as it has often these past two weeks. I’m going to lose her, too. I’m going to lose my mother as I did Rebecca, and I swear I feel the darkness of hell begin to swallow me right there in that room.

I tear my gaze from my mother to give myself a moment to breathe, and my gaze lands on Ms. Smith, kneeling on the floor beside my mother, her hand covering my mother’s thinner one.

Her long blond hair is a striking contrast to her red silk blouse, which I know she wore for the same “good luck” reason I wore my tie. Our eyes collide and our combative conversation from last night fades away. Effortlessly, she is in every crack I haven’t sealed in the armor, her strength supporting mine.

“Mark!” my mother exclaims. Her expression is pure happiness; the light in her eyes washes away the darkness of hell. She tries to stand, and my father grabs her arm at the same time that Ms. Smith grabs her knees, holding her in place.

“Dana, no,” Ms. Smith warns at the same time my father says, “Wait.” He gives me a look, appealing for help, the steel once in his gray eyes terrifyingly absent. The man I’ve known as a quiet strength is nowhere to be found. He’s terrified.

And I get it.

“Stay put, Mother,” I order, abandoning the wheelchair to squat down beside her. My knee touches Ms. Smith’s, and the tension that rockets through my body is as unwelcome as the way she sees too much. I take my mother’s hand and tease, “Still trying to run races, I see.”

She doesn’t laugh. She presses her free hand to my cheek and studies me. “I haven’t seen that look in your eyes in over a decade. You were closer to her than I realized.” Her lips tighten, the way they do when she’s fighting an emotional response to something. “I never wanted to see it again.”

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I am amazed that she still sees me this clearly. I draw her hand into my lap. “I’m one hundred times better being here, I promise you,” I say, not offering a denial she rightfully wouldn’t believe. “But I won’t be if you’re
not
here. I need you here. I need you well, and skipping treatments won’t do that.”

“I need a break. And—”

“The façade of feeling better is dangerous,” I warn, firming my voice. “Take the hits and be done with it.”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” my father inserts.

She glowers over her shoulder at him. “I was worried about both of you,” she tells him, then turns to me again. “How long will you be here? What’s happening with the police?”

“I’ll be here indefinitely—so we have plenty of time to catch up.”

Surprise registers on her face. “Indefinitely? But what about Allure?”

“I’m not worried about Allure. I made arrangements to be away as long as needed.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”

“Positive enough to have a realtor finding me an apartment.”

“You can stay with us,” she says. “Our place is huge. We won’t even know you’re there.”

“I might just buy a place here,” I tell her, instead of admitting that I’m a magnet for trouble. “No matter what, I’ll be close.” I lean back on my haunches. “Reba will be here to pick you up any second. Let’s get you in the chair.”

Ms. Smith takes that as her cue to stand, but loses her balance. Instinctively, I reach out and catch her arm before she ends up sprawled on the floor. She grabs my arm in return, and what I feel between us is too present and powerful to dismiss. I have failed to end what I started.

Crystal . . .

As I stare into Mark’s eyes, I try to remember the anger I’d felt last night—and this morning. He’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and right now he’s the man I’d been falling for, the man who cares for his family with such deep love that he tore down the walls I’d erected early in life.

He stands and pulls me up with him before his hands, those big, wonderful hands, slip away, leaving me aching for their return. Fifteen minutes ago, I would have sworn that I never wanted him to touch me again.

“Thank you,” I say, and while he only nods, there’s appreciation in his eyes for my being here for him and his family.

We break eye contact to find his parents staring at us. If Mark notices, he doesn’t act like it, merely reaching for his mother’s arm. “Let’s get you up before Reba has my hide for delaying her schedule.”

As if she were waiting to be announced, Reba enters the room with an “Are we ready?”

“We are,” Mark assures her as Dana settles into the chair. “Right, Mother?”

“No,” his mother retorts. “But I’ll go.”

It hurts my heart to hear this vibrant, powerful woman sound like a punished child.

“Grumble, grumble,” Reba teases. “Boy, am I ready for you to order me around again so I can tell you I’m not your employee.” She gestures toward me. “That’s what she said this past weekend, too.”

I smile. “Only I
am
her employee, so I do have to take orders.”

“Actually,” Mark amends too softly, “you’re mine now.”

My gaze jerks to his intense gray one, and heat flushes my skin at the possessiveness there. Unbidden, the memory of him saying “I’ll own you” is in my mind. My chin lifts rebelliously, delivering the message “No
one
owns me, and that will never change, most especially not for you.”

His father moves between us, giving me a blessed chance to breathe. “I’ll push my wife,” he tells Reba. “We’ll talk baseball on the way to the treatment room, and she’ll tell me everything I’m doing wrong with the team.”

“It’s the pitching,” Dana immediately says, catching on to the bone he’s thrown her. “You have no one with the level head that Mark had on the mound.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steven replies, pushing her toward the door. “So you’ve told me for ten years—and I might remind you that I’ve won four championships?”

No one with the level head that Mark had on the mound.
I stare at the doorway as they disappear into the hallway, remembering a similar comment on another occasion. It’s hard to imagine Mark playing a game of any sort, though competitive and focused fits him to a T.

“What are you doing here?” Mark snaps, shocking me back into the moment and the sudden realization that we’re very much alone.

The tormented look in his eyes is gone; the steely gray from the night before is back. I’m baffled, unsure what is real and what’s a façade. But I’ve dealt with powerful, controlling men all my life, and I know when they’re fishing for a certain reaction, whatever it might be—and he’s not going to get it.

Clamping down on the hurt and simmering anger, I reply, “I stopped by McDonald’s to bring McMuffins for the nurses. While I was here, I figured I’d stop in and say hi.”

“No one likes a smartass, Ms. Smith.”

“Better a smartass than an asshole—Mr. Compton. I’ve been here before all of her treatments.”

“You should have called me. I need to know the business is in order while I’m here by her side. Who’s running Riptide now?”

My simmering anger begins to burn in my belly. “You barely returned my calls for months on end, when I was often desperate for guidance—and
now
you’re questioning how things are being run? For your information, Mr. Compton, I taught myself, and taught myself well. When I come here to support Dana and Steven, I arrive at Riptide at six in the morning to ensure the day is organized and nothing slips through the cracks.” I draw a hard-earned breath. “If this is about my refusal to sign—”

“It’s not.” His words are more of a reprimand than a reply. “However, a contract would have established boundaries we now need to otherwise address, for a productive working relationship.”

It’s all I can do not to recoil as if slapped. The reaction is too intense; a flash of a long-lost memory I don’t want to remember. Somehow he’s hit an emotional spot I never want touched. Ever.

“Boundaries?” I ask, my voice radiating emotion despite myself. “How’s this for boundaries? Your father called me this morning because he hadn’t heard from you, and your mother was refusing treatment. I went to their apartment, and we double-teamed her to get her here.”

I shake my head. “You truly excel at being an asshole, Mark Compton. But you’re the asshole your mother needs. You give her strength. You make her fight. And if that means you have to revel in your assholeness, so be it. I’ll tolerate you for her sake.”

He arches a brow. “You’ll tolerate me?”

“That’s right.” I feel steadier now, already recovering from my flash down memory lane. “Though I’ll need a big pink bottle of Pepto in my desk drawer, and some wine by my bedside.” I snatch up my purse, tote bag, and coat from a chair on my way to the door. “She’ll be out in half an hour. I’m going to work.”

I head down the hall to the private elevators the staff has us use to avoid the press. After slipping on my coat and replacing my heels with snow boots from my oversized tote bag, I punch the call button for the car. He’s such a complete jerk—the kind only a foolish woman would pine for. Maybe I have more of my biological mother in me than I thought.

The doors open and to my unwelcome surprise, Jacob is standing before me, looking all G.I. Joe with his buzz cut and hard-set jaw. Edginess radiates off him, the way I’m certain that anger must be bristling off of me.

“Crystal,” he says, punching the button to hold the door as I enter. “Is Mr. Compton here?”

My brows dip. “Aren’t you his bodyguard?”

“Exactly.” His jaw clenches as he seems to clamp down on something he’s about to say. “Is he here?”