Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (3 page)

Chapter Four

“Damn it!” Aslyn hissed.

Panic surged up her throat, clawing the tender lining. Black and gold dots swarmed at the edges of her vision as nausea twisted her belly. She willed her hands to lower to the black and white keys. To touch. To play…

But her fingers remained curled, trembling as another wave of queasiness tinged with terror swept through her.

With another low curse, she slammed her hands to her thighs. Hastily, she shoved away from the twelve-foot Steinway concert grand piano that had been her cherished companion for the past seven years. She leapt from the stool, not bothering to slide it under the instrument’s undercarriage. Rage and grief poured through her. But underneath the fury and sorrow lurked something far worse. A void. Emptiness. In the place where music used to simmer and quicken. The place where she could just touch and the notes and melody would reach out, meeting her halfway before spilling out beneath her fingers.

Now, there was…nothing.

Quinton Lakes had broken something inside her. Thanks to him, fear wound through her like an insidious viper, spreading its venom. Since the assault, that poison had contaminated her ability to play, to create. Music, the piano—they’d been her life, her passion since she was nine years old. Now that she no longer had the music, could no longer play the piano, she was lost. Emotionally adrift, unsure of who she was, who she’d become.

On edge, she strode from the living room, away from the specter of the piano and her music career. As she passed the window, she glanced out, catching a glimpse of her neighbor’s yard and empty driveway. Like the clawing grasp of a drowning man, she clutched onto the memory of Chayot, desperate for the distraction. And what a distraction he was. It wasn’t every night she opened the door to find the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Enrique Iglesias on her porch.

An image of his exotic, beautiful features flashed in front of her eyes, and her breathing deepened. A slow coil of heat unfurled low in her belly, its sinuous warmth spreading to her breasts before winding a path lower to the flesh between her thighs. Flesh that hadn’t experienced a man’s touch in so long, dust mites probably swirled and danced down there. But then again, no man had stirred the tugging pull of need Chay had. Not even her ex, Lorenzo, had inspired the desire to strip his clothes off item by item like a sexy birthday present.

She’d lain awake in bed last night, eyes focused on the ceiling, but instead of the off-white textured paint, she pictured Chay’s soulful brown-and-green eyes that seemed to see everything but reveal nothing. The classical, almost aristocratic bone structure—his noble profile wouldn’t have been out of place on an old Roman denarius. The cold aloofness. Yet, the sensual curve of his full mouth and the hardness of his tall, toned frame contradicted the reserve. Someone with lips like his—lips that promised all kinds of carnal acts capable of making a woman lose her shit and her clothes—had to have a deep well of passion brimming underneath all that stone-faced stoicism.

Shaking her head, she snorted. Here she was, mooning over her neighbor like some besotted teenager crushing on the high school quarterback—mooning over a man she didn’t know a damn thing about. Yes, he’d had a hero moment last night, but in his daytime hours, he could be a man whore. Or a flesh peddler. Or a serial killer. One moment he was chasing a pervy peeper away from her window, and in the next, he could be having a
Silence of the Lambs
moment and ordering her to put the lotion in the basket. All right, that might be a little overkill, but in her experience men who looked like hot-monkey-sex-on-a-stick tended to have issues.

Only one way to find out.

As soon as she entered the study, the peal of Yanni’s
End of August
called to her from the desk. She plucked up her cell phone, not bothering to glance at the screen. Why bother? Only one person called her these days. Her choice.

“Hey, Liam,” she greeted, leaning forward to sweep the mouse across the desk and awaken the sleeping monitor. “Hold on a sec.” She settled her hands-free headset over her ear. “Okay, I’m back.” With a few taps to the keyboard, she pulled up the Google search engine and entered a name.

Chayot Grey.

“Hi, love,” Liam said. Anyone overhearing his endearment might scream sexual harassment, but the two of them had been together too long for her to give that any thought. Liam wasn’t just her manager, but her friend. He’d been in her life since she was fifteen. When her parents had died in a car accident on a rainy road the year she turned eighteen, leaving her alone in this world, he’d become her surrogate family. And after she’d contracted a post-op infection after the surgery that saved her life after the attack, he’d stuck by her side, never leaving or abandoning her during the torturous two-month recovery. He’d changed the dressing on her wound, for God’s sake. The niceties and formality didn’t exist between them. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine.” She supplied her staple response, this time more absently than usual as a column of hits including
Chay Grey
populated the computer screen. Her eyes widened, then narrowed.
You’re shittin’ me
, she breathed. She clicked on the first result. An article dated October of last year.
20-Year-Old Missing Person Case Solved with Murder Confession From Randolph Man
. Chayot Grey, co-owner of Boston-based Liberty Security Services, confessed to the murder of local businessman Richard Pierce two decades ago. Chay killed his mother’s boyfriend when he’d tried to assault him. His three friends, Gabriel Devlin, Malachim Jerrod, and Raphael Marcel, had also admitted to their part in helping bury the body and conceal the crime. She skimmed through and several words jumped out at her. A minor. Self-defense. Accidental. Alleged pedophile.
Good God
.

She envisioned the tall, strong, reserved, and faintly intimidating man from the previous evening. It was difficult picturing him as a young, vulnerable boy. Until you looked in his eyes. Those light, shuttered eyes.

“Aslyn?” Liam’s sharp tone snagged her attention from the news story. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she assured him. “I’m sorry, I was a little distracted. What did you say?”

He sighed. “All that buildup wasted since you weren’t even listening. I said I’ve scheduled a concert in Puerto Rico for October. Two nights. El Morro, Aslyn. The contract arrived today.”

El Morro
. Excitement fluttered in her chest. Yanni had played at the historic old fortress in Old San Juan. She would perform where the man she’d idolized as long as she could remember once had. What a gift! She’d only been to Puerto Rico a couple of times, but she’d fallen in love with the commonwealth. The mesmerizing mixture of history and the progressive present. The beauty of its city and people. The colorful culture. God, she couldn’t wait to go back…

Slowly, the pleasure ebbed, lost its warm glow as if a wick had been turned down. Six months ago, she would’ve been overjoyed. But now, sitting in a rental home in a Boston suburb, dread coiled around her heart and lungs, squeezing.

“I-I—,” she swallowed, closed her eyes. “That’s wonderful. Amazing. But we don’t have any new material. I haven’t been with everyone in months. We need to rehearse…” Her voice faltered as her excuses rebounded against her skull and shame crept in. Hedging. She was hedging. Goddamn. Rock climbing, scuba diving, biking, bungee jumping—she used to do it all. Totally fearless. But now she lived the life of a hermit crab, this house like a shell over her softer, emotional skin.

Liam didn’t know about her inability to play or compose. Shame at her weakness had sealed her lips shut. As not only her manager but her friend, Liam should’ve been the first person she confided in about the full extent of the trauma. He believed she just needed space and quiet to heal—which was true. But part of the healing she hoped and prayed for was the ability to touch the piano keys again.

“It’s the perfect venue for your comeback, Aslyn.”

“Comeback? I haven’t performed in six months, not six years.”

“Love,” Liam said softly. She could picture him twisting the antique familial ring he never removed from his finger—his tell when agitated or nervous. “You know how fickle this business is. Yes, people are sympathetic and concerned about your, your—” he fumbled. Cleared his throat. “Your ordeal. The letters, emails, and social media messages support that. But you can’t disappear too long. It’s cold, but you’re only as good as your last CD, and you haven’t been in the studio in a while. We need you back. Your fans need to see you’re okay. And everyone loves a triumph story. We can have that in Puerto Rico.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. The denial hovered on the tip of her tongue. As did the truth. But she swallowed them back.
I can do this. I can, damn it
. Maybe a deadline would push her to overcome her fears, fight harder to recapture the strong, indomitable woman she used to be before…well, before. Besides, she owed it to Liam, her orchestra, and her crew who depended on her. She’d left them hanging for six months. One way or another, she had to find a way to man up.

“Okay,” she murmured.

“Great,” Liam crowed, his excitement echoing through the line. “When are you coming back to L.A.?”

“Not yet,” she said, ready for the argument. While she loved the city she’d grown up in—and planned on returning to—she wasn’t ready…nowhere near ready to go back now. She couldn’t play the piano. Couldn’t even touch the damn keys. Hiding her paralysis from Liam’s watchful eye would’ve been impossible if she’d stayed in L.A.

Initially, Liam hadn’t been too keen on her leaving Los Angeles in the first place. But once he realized she’d been adamant about it, he’d offered her use of his rental property. He hadn’t been happy, but he was her friend and wanted
her
happy. Still, after three months, he was anxious for her to come home so they could resume working on her new album.

“Fine, Aslyn,” he said, resigned. “But we should begin rehearsals as early as August. This is awesome.” She nodded, even though he couldn’t see the gesture. His reassurance did nothing to pierce the tight, hard kernel of panic in her chest, though. “Also, you should know Jeremy Sutter called yesterday. Considering everything that’s happened” —
everything
being the stabbing, the long, silent months of recovery, the hermit routine, the creative paralysis—“do you want me to tell him we’re no longer interested? I don’t think it’s fair to keep him hanging on at this point.”

“No.” She sighed, leaning her head back on her shoulders. “If we’re going to accept the contract for the El Morro concert, then we still need him. Hell,” she barked a tired laugh, “maybe as my agent he can convince people I’m not as washed up as they think.”

“Love, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, I know.” God, she was being such a moody bitch. “Don’t mind me, Liam. Apparently I’ve had too much coffee and not enough sleep.”

A beat of silence echoed over the line. She could practically hear the questions in the quiet.
Why aren’t you sleeping? Are you having nightmares? Are you having panic attacks?
To avoid the imminent inquisition, she asked, “So, how’s everyone there? They miss me?”

He scoffed. “Of course they do. What about you? Anything new going on I should know about? You still liking the house?”

Oh damn
. She winced as the events of the previous night rose up to taunt her like a red flag. “Well, there is one thing…” Back to the hedging.

“What?” His voice sharpened, as if alerted by the reluctance in her tone. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t want you to panic.” Because she was having a hard enough time trying not to do the same. In a no-nonsense manner, she relayed what happened with Chayot—no, Chay—unexpectedly showing up at her door, the peeper, and the police. By the time she finished, silence boomed in her ear. “Liam…”

“Again, Aslyn?” he rasped. “Why didn’t you call me last night? I would’ve come out there immediately. Jesus,” he barked. “You need to move. Leave. We can find another place—”

“No,” she objected. “No,” she repeated, more gently. Suddenly weary. “Liam, I’m tired of running scared, of hiding. I left Los Angeles. I don’t want to move to another house, even if it is just temporary.”

“Aslyn—”

“Quinton Lakes is dead,” she said bluntly, effectively cutting off his protest. He’d been killed in jail—shanked by his cellmate—before he’d even made it to trial, saving the state money and her the pain of facing him again. Cold, true, but she couldn’t be anything but to the man who’d killed Jenna, her sweet assistant. “He’s dead, Liam. He can’t hurt me anymore. This was probably just a neighborhood kid or your garden-variety peeper. No stalker. Not another Lakes.” God, please let that be true.

After a long, quiet moment, Liam grunted. “I still don’t like it. You should’ve called me as soon as the police left and clued me in on what was going on.” She murmured an agreement, and her friend sighed. She could visualize him scrubbing a hand over his short dark hair. “Fine. But let me hire some security for you. Discreet,” he hurried to add. “They will stay in the background and not interfere with your routine, but please, love. Set my mind at ease and let me get someone to watch out for you.”

Security. Like a bodyguard or protection detail.
Okay
. Relief stutter-stepped through her veins. Okay, that sounded reasonable. She shifted her attention to the computer screen where the article about Chay remained. An idea bloomed in her head.

“I can agree with that, Liam,” she said. “And I know just the firm to hire.”

Chapter Five

“Thanks, Sara.”

Chay clicked off the phone’s speaker, but the firm’s secretary’s announcement continued to reverberate in his skull.

“Aslyn Jericho is here to see you.”

What was she doing here…in his office? Unbidden, an image of his sexy neighbor flashed through his head. Her, standing in the doorway of her home. Her, curled up on the porch swing. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Shit, he’d have to be a eunuch not to be attracted to a beautiful woman.

Again, her outburst about him echoed in his head. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He would be a liar if he claimed he hadn’t been a tiny bit flattered. But more than flattered, he’d been…charmed. Her honesty had been refreshing and so damn cute.

But there’d been nothing cute about the heat he’d spied in her gaze. Maybe she hadn’t even been aware of the desire darkening her eyes from silver to a stormy gray. She didn’t strike him as the coy, flirtatious type—she was entirely too straightforward for those games. The need he’d spotted had been real and unaffected. And it made him hard and scared shitless at the same time.

Lust was one thing. Need was another.

Lust could be satisfied with one or two nights of sweaty, hot, no-holds-barred sex. But need… Need led to emotional ties. Need led to wanting her outside the bedroom as well as in. Need led to the longing for something more, for something deeper than the superficial words of
I trust you
—something he didn’t have inside him to offer her. Something Richard had broken beyond repair twenty years ago.

He could easily need Aslyn Jericho. That’s why he had to stay away. Keeping his distance from the tempting musician was his best option. So why had she come to him today? Had something else happened? Worry totally disproportionate to the safety of a neighbor he’d met once, for God’s sake, washed through him. He surged to his feet and rounded the desk, his strides eating up the distance between his desk and the door.

Greer Addison’s—Marcel, Greer Marcel now—excited voice reached him as he opened his office door. “Oh my God. Aslyn Jericho. I can’t believe this! I’m such a huge fan.”

Rafe’s wife stood next to Aslyn, a grin lighting up her lovely face. Even seven months pregnant, the brunette ex-socialite was a beauty, but Chay’s attention honed in on Aslyn and remained there.

The form-fitting camouflage T-shirt, wide-legged linen pair of pants, and flip-flops might have appeared sloppy on another woman. But on Aslyn’s tall, curvy body, they looked chic—cool. Sexy because she could pull it off. Sexy because Aslyn was Aslyn.

While she smiled at Greer and accepted her handshake, he seized the moment to savor the fire-and-gold hair that was braided into a side ponytail. The long, bound strands fell over her shoulder and brushed the high thrust of her firm, full breasts. Gold skin peeked at him from between the hem of her shirt and the low-riding band of her pants. If he pressed his lips to that sliver of skin, would he taste honey and sun? If he traveled lower between the slim columns of her thighs, would the sweet taste be more concentrated, heavier…wetter? His cock throbbed behind the zipper of his slacks, casting its vote in favor of “hell yes.”

“Hi, Chay.”

He dragged his obsessed gaze up from her waist to meet hers. He tried to bank the hot images burning in his head, but when her eyes widened a fraction, he guessed he hadn’t been entirely successful.

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” she continued.

Deliberately, he drew back within himself, throwing up a familiar shield that suddenly seemed more necessary in this woman’s presence. Necessary and desperate.

“Not a problem, Aslyn,” he said.

“Chay, you didn’t mention knowing Aslyn Jericho,” Greer scolded with a mock frown.

“Oh yes,” Aslyn drawled, a mischievous gleam in her gray eyes. “Actually, we’re neighbors. He’s been to my house and everything.” She grinned.

“Really?” Greer murmured, a sly smile curving her lips.

Chay barely managed not to cringe.

Gabe, Rafe, Mal—each of them had found love, peace, and sanctuary in the past months. Gabe and Mal were engaged to the loves of their lives. Rafe had married his a couple of weeks earlier. Finally, his friends were happy, and Chay was delighted. After all they’d suffered because of him—covering up a murder, keeping a two-decade long secret, losing loved ones, facing prosecution, and bearing a criminal record—they deserved happiness. Chay didn’t begrudge them at all. Still…their happily ever afters didn’t mean one was hanging out there for him on the Fairy Tale Tree waiting to be picked. Love, intimacy, relationships—those weren’t meant for him.

Not that his aversion seemed to matter a damn to his friends’ women. Leah, Danielle, and Greer had made it their lives’ mission to have him hitched, too. Lately, he’d been avoiding dinners and get-togethers, knowing there would be at least one unattached woman there. No one could ever accuse those women of subtlety.

“Really, what?” Rafe strode into the lobby and wrapped his arms around his wife from behind. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then narrowed his eyes at Aslyn. To her credit, she didn’t flinch from his best friend’s tattooed and pierced appearance. As a matter-of-fact, she seemed to study his
Poison
T-shirt with more than a bit of covetousness. “Aslyn Jericho?”

Surprised, Greer tilted her head back. “Are you a fan, too?”

Rafe snorted. “Hell no. But when Chay drives, he forces me to listen to the highbrow stuff.” He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “No offense.”

She grinned. “None taken. Neither me or my highbrow are offended.”

“Aslyn, I’d like you to meet the co-owner of Liberty Security Services, Raphael Marcel. You’ve already met his wife, Greer.” He waved a hand toward his friend. “And now you possess firsthand knowledge of why I try and keep him chained to his desk and computers instead of meeting with clients,” Chay said, his voice so dry it could start a forest fire.

Aslyn laughed. “I, for one, appreciate his honesty. Especially since my bullshit meter tapped out about, oh,” she scrunched up her face in an adorable moue, “ten years ago.”

“Oh, I like her.” Rafe snickered. “Are you here for a consultation?”

“Yes,” Chay said, stepping forward. “With me. We can speak in my office, Aslyn.”

“Nice to meet you, Raphael and Greer.” She waved and headed in the direction of his open office door. Chay followed, but as he closed the door, he caught a glimpse of Rafe resting his hands over Greer’s prominent belly. A knot tightened in his chest, momentarily stealing his breath and filling him with shame. Shame because the knot had its root in envy—envy for the love so evident in the tender touch to his woman and the softness in her smile. Envy for the wonder and joy of the child they were bringing into this world. Envy—and a stab of sorrow—because while he was beyond thrilled for Rafe, Chay would never have what his friend did. That intimacy, that level of trust and acceptance weren’t meant to be his. Relationships were hard enough without one of the persons coming in with heavy and damaged baggage.

But in this moment, especially when he closed the door and turned to face the woman standing in his office, he couldn’t remember longing for it more.

Schooling his features to reveal none of the thoughts circling his brain, he gestured toward the two armchairs in front of his desk.

“Please, have a seat,” he offered, reclaiming his seat. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” She lowered to a chair. “No sign of peepers or trespassers.”

Relief eased through him. “That’s good news. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to hire you. Or rather your firm.”

“For security?”

“Yes.”

She paused, and a slideshow of fear, pain, anger, and sorrow rushed over her face. He curled his fingers into his thighs, fighting the urge to reach out and pull her onto his lap where he could enfold her in his arms. Keep her safe from whatever haunted her. But comforting Aslyn wasn’t his place. And touching her was not only inappropriate but would be one of the most dumbass mistakes he made.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of…of what happened to me some months ago?” Again that succession of emotion twisted her expression. “I was assaulted by an obsessed fan after a concert.”

Of course he knew the story. But he remained silent and allowed her to relay how a sick man had stabbed her in her dressing room after killing her assistant. Her distress and hurt seeped through her words, even though she tried to recount the attack in a dispassionate manner. Fury at Quinton Lakes kindled inside him. At the terror and pain he’d caused. The loss he’d left in his wake. He would never come after her again, but if anyone understood death sometimes wasn’t the end of things, but the beginning, Chay did.

Noting the slight tremor in her voice, the agitated twisting of her slim artist fingers, the subtle paling of her skin, he fought down the need to touch her, to soothe her, which rose again like a freaking phoenix. Six months later, and the trauma of almost being killed hadn’t disappeared for her. He hated to break it to her, but it probably never would. Lessen maybe, but never vanish. He was a living, breathing testimony to that fact.

“I spoke with my manager, Liam, this morning. Of course Quinton’s dead, so we know last night can’t be connected to him in any way, but…after a year of my being stalked, Liam doesn’t want to take chances. In the beginning we didn’t take Quinton’s actions seriously, and before we knew it, the situation had become terrible. And terrifying. So I understand why Liam’s urging me to hire protection. He’s being cautious. So,” she spread her elegant hands wide, “that’s why I’m here this afternoon.”

Since Chay hadn’t mentioned his profession last night, he assumed she must have conducted an online search of his name. His heart knocked against his ribcage at the thought of what results must’ve populated the screen. Dread soured his stomach as he narrowed his eyes and searched her face for any hint of judgment. But her expression revealed nothing, and the vise tightening his chest slowly loosened by increments. Of course, the articles that had probably populated her search wouldn’t have reported the entire story. He’d confessed to Richard’s death, admitted he’d killed him in self-defense. But the entire story? That he’d never even spoken about with his friends. Although, he believed Gabe, Mal, and Rafe suspected the ugly truth.

Still, reason argued, she was here seeking his help, wasn’t she? He and Rafe had encountered this phenomenon directly after the story broke about Richard’s death. Instead of the murder harming their business as it had Malachim’s law practice, their security firm had experienced an upswing. As if potential clients believed if one partner committed murder and the other helped cover it up, then they were willing to get the job done by any means necessary.

“I can understand why you would desire taking safety measures. But you are aware this could’ve been an isolated incident? Not harmless, but not warranting a security detail, either?” He had to throw the option out to her. On one hand, the Peeping Tom could’ve been anyone who decided to venture into the neighborhood’s new sexy redhead’s yard and risk sneaking a peek. On the other, he didn’t dare assume. She was a public figure, and last time he checked, there wasn’t a quota on the number of crazies a person could attract.

“I’ve thought of that possibility, yes. But my manager is half Irish, half Prophet of Doom,” she said dryly. “To keep him in L.A. and not camping out on my doorstep, I agreed. Besides…I don’t object to the added protection.”

Translation: She would feel safer knowing someone was watching over her.

“Understood.” He turned toward his computer and pulled up the firm’s contract. He quickly entered her name and address before grabbing a legal pad to jot down notes. “What exactly are you looking for? What do you need from us? And for how long will you require our services?”

“I’ll probably need you until the end of the summer,” she said. “I don’t want anything intrusive like a bodyguard in my house.” She shook her head. “I don’t think the situation calls for that. But maybe someone to guard the house outside? To keep an eye out for anymore unwanted guests?”

Chay nodded, scrawled a couple of names that automatically came to mind for the assignment. “How about cameras? Do you oppose having several security cameras installed around the property? Not inside but out.”

“No, not at all.” She leaned forward, and the T-shirt tightened across the rise of her breasts, drawing his attention.
Damn
. He jerked his scrutiny back to the pad and off her body. Her sinfully sweet body.
Fuck me
. “Only thing is the house belongs to my manager, Liam Ahearn. He’s letting me stay there. So you would need his permission.”

“Okay. Can I have his number?” She rattled it off. “Good. I’ll pass this along to Rafe so he can get in touch with your manager and explain all he’d like to do.”

“You mean you
do
let Dave Navarro talk to clients?” She grinned, and he had to glance away from the pure, infectious expression as quickly as he’d avoided staring at her breasts. Both sucked him in.

“We occasionally allow him out of his office when it’s a necessary evil. Especially since he is the techie half of this firm.” He snorted. “Dave Navarro. I’ll have to remember that one.”

Rotating in his chair, he faced the computer again and entered the info they’d discussed on the contract. As he typed, she rose from the chair and wandered around the office. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed her pause in front of his bookcase. Technical texts as well as personal favorites filled the shelves, including all of Gabe’s bestselling legal thrillers. She picked up a framed picture of Gabe, Rafe, Mal, and him taken about eight years ago when he and Rafe had first opened Liberty Security Services. After studying the photo for several moments, she set it down and picked up the one next to it.

A phantom fist closed around his throat, choking off his air. His fingers stalled over the keyboard. He clenched his fingers before deliberately relaxing them and resumed completing the contract.