Vengeful Love (31 page)

“Hi.”

My tongue unwittingly strokes my lips where I’d like to feel his.

“Gregory, we were just saying how we always invite you to Friday drinks and you
never
come,” Emily teases.

“Are you sure I’ve never been? Not once?”

“You know you’ve never been,” Emily scolds.

“Alright then, maybe I haven’t.” Gregory smiles.

After the stress of the week, his good-humoured mood seems both misplaced and incredibly charming.

“I always try to force him, Emily,” Williams says, striding into the group.

Amanda watches him as he chats merrily with Harry. I raise a brow when I catch her eye. She rolls her eyes in response but continues to listen intently to Williams’ stories and bumps her shoulder into his when he teases her.

Gregory stays by my side through another two glasses of champagne and maybe thirty, forty or more introductions. I lost count some time ago. Even when I step inside to say hello to Sandy, who’s making demands of the agency wait staff, he’s with me. Everywhere I go, scowls follow me. Little do those women know that I’m terrified my bubble could burst at any time. Lara makes a speech around eleven o’ clock, dragging an uncomfortable-looking Lawrence to the front of the big swing band’s stage to say a few words.

Gregory wraps an arm around my waist as we listen to his mother’s speech and I imagine I’m the envy of every female at the party.

At the end of her speech, she announces the final set from the band. “Before the fireworks take place at midnight and the party continues,” she says, receiving a chorus of cheers.

The swing band strikes up with Michael Buble’s “Everything.”

“I love this song.”

“Would you like to dance?” Gregory asks holding out a hand expectantly.

I let him lead me to the dance floor. Holding up my right hand, he pulls my waist tightly into him, his pelvis resting against my stomach. He winks and the weight falls out of my legs. My breathing speeds in anticipation as I will him to kiss me. Instead, as the chorus kicks in, he turns us around the dance floor, increasing speed until I thrust my head back with laughter.

When the verse returns he twirls me under his arm then spins me into his body, my back against his chest. He wraps his arms around me and holds us still, his warm breath at my lobe making the hairs rise on the back of my neck, each of my sensitive spots whirring to action. Then he spins me away from him and back, readying us to turn our way through the second chorus.

The band picks up pace at the key change and Gregory spins me away and back to him again but this time he puts his hands beneath my arms and lifts me straight above him, turning me in time to the beat as I gaze into his alluring brown gems. The music slows and he lowers me down to him. Returning my feet to the floor, he takes my cheek in his hand and rests his brow on mine.

“Kiss me, Gregory Ryans.”

Our mouths meet, slowly, purposefully, full of everything I feel and hope he feels. He swallows my moan as my body molds to his. My breasts rub against his pecs, my thighs lock onto his, my hips subtly grind his crotch. We’re the only two people in our dark, twisted but perfect world.

“Don’t do that to me.” His words are heavy and said through gritted teeth.

I open my eyes and look directly into his, starving, craving satisfaction from the only man who can sate my hunger.

“How much do you want to see the fireworks?” he asks.

“Not at all.”

He half smiles, his irises darken and his pupils dilate. Despite all these people, I could make love to him right here and now.

“I’ll get Jackson.”

I nod and he leaves to find Jackson whilst I locate Amanda, who’s still quaffing free champagne with Williams, Emily and Harry. By the time Gregory leads me out front to the Bentley, the first firework goes off. I start as it squeals and explodes in a thunderous roar.

* * *

Gregory sits into the back of the car with me but the partition remains down. Our moods have changed—his no doubt following his conversation with Jackson and the team, mine inexplicably. The black leather of the seat is cold and chills my skin through my coat, making me shiver. Tension creeps into my neck and limbs.

Gregory places an arm around my waist but for a change, it doesn’t remove the uneasiness building inside me.

“You okay?”

“Mmm, sure,” I lie.

The back roads that Jackson takes through the city are pitch black and sinister. We wait on the declining ramp as the basement door rolls open under the Shard. Florescent lights illuminate the garage and at first, everything seems normal. Jackson starts to reverse the Bentley into a space next to the Mercedes.

The engine’s hum falls silent.

Gregory moves to get out of the car.

“Wait!” Jackson snaps, already halfway out of his door.

“Stay inside,” Gregory says to me.

Jackson crouches beside the Mercedes and runs a finger along the long, jagged rubber edges of what once was the rear tyre. Anxiety murmurs in my chest.

Gregory looks at the far side of the Mercedes. “They’re all done.”

My heart begins to pound, my jaw tightens, my lungs forget how to breathe.

“The door,” Gregory says, looking at the entrance to the lift vestibule, forced and damaged, ajar.

“Romeo One, come in,” Jackson says into his radio. “Romeo One, come in.”

There is a cackle on the line then, “Romeo, this is Romeo One.”

“Send a car. Now!”

Gregory opens the rear passenger door to the Bentley.

“Scarlett, I want you to take the car and leave.”

Panic and epinephrine take over my body. “What? I...no. I’m staying with you.”

“Scarlett, do as I say.”

“But where would I go? I’m not leaving you.”

“Scarlett—”

“She’s right,” Jackson says, sliding into the driver seat and opening the glove box. “He could be anywhere. We don’t know that he’s here. She’s safer with us.”

That should probably make me feel better. It doesn’t. All I can think is that he’s out there. Pearson ruined Gregory’s life. He murdered my father. Now he’s coming for us.

Gregory grabs my hand pulls me forcibly from the Bentley. “Stay by my side. Don’t leave my side. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” I croak through my dry throat.

Jackson sits into the front driver seat and leans into the glove compartment. He removes a black leather box and takes what I recognise from movies to be a Glock.

This can’t be real.

Jackson leads, holding the gun by his side. Gregory pulls me with them by my hand, his determination the only thing making my weightless legs move. I follow, turning my head left, right, as far back as it will go. At the vestibule door we line up, our backs against the garage wall. Jackson clicks the safety off the Glock as he slowly moves toward the busted door.

I swallow vomit that rises to my mouth.

He kicks the door open then jumps through, turning left and right, poised to fire. He gestures for Gregory and I to step into the vestibule then radios Romeo One for a time check.

“Ten minutes.”

Then there’s a heavy, wet breath on the line. It doesn’t speak but its presence is real. Something tells me it’s Pearson. If he’s jacked into the channel now he could’ve been following our moves all night.

He’s here.

Instinctively, I grip Gregory’s hand.

“Keep breathing, Scarlett,” he says as calmly as the situation will allow.

I nod but I’m beginning to feel lightheaded, slipping in and out of reality.

Jackson punches the button for the lift and holds the gun in front of him with two hands, ready for whatever waits behind the metal doors. He ushers us into the lift and takes one more look around the vestibule.

We’re silent as we rise to the sixty-fourth floor, the only noise coming from the whir and crank of the suspension cables. The sound of my own breath resonates in my ears. I hold a hand against my chest to keep it from exploding.

The lift pings and I think I could cry. I close my eyes as the doors begin to crawl open. Jackson leaps out and jumps left to face the double apartment doors.

“Wait here,” Gregory says.

“No, I’m coming,” I say.

He doesn’t argue but he doesn’t hold my hand either. His fists are clenched, his torso rigid. The apartment doors are ajar and the floor sensor lighting is dimly glowing blue. He’s in there.

Jackson motions for us to stand behind the left door. He moves to the right and raises his gun with two hands. I jump and maybe scream when he kicks open the door.

In a split second, there’s a muffled shot, a yell and Jackson’s body thuds to the ground.

“He’s in! He’s in!” Jackson shouts.

Gregory leaps toward Jackson. There’s a pool of blood already forming beneath his leg. Gregory pushes both hands against his thigh.

“Leave it! Get him!” Jackson yells through gritted teeth.

Gregory glances at me, then at Jackson. I want to tell him not to go but the words don’t leave my mouth. There’s a loud bang then the sound of breaking glass from one of the doors off the lounge—the bathroom. Gregory runs toward the sound.

Without thinking, trembling and frantic, I pull my arms from my coat and bend down to tuck it under Jackson’s bleeding leg. Using the sleeves, I tie a tourniquet. Jackson winces but doesn’t tell me to stop. Another bang sends my body jolting. I shift my head to look toward the bathroom. The sound of thrashing; more glass shatters. The sound of struggle continues.

Then the gun that shot Jackson slides into the lounge on the power of a kick. Gregory and Pearson burst through another door into the gym, tussling, gasping, brutally fighting for their own lives.

“Scarlett, look at me,” Jackson says.

I look at him and try to breathe. My heart is thudding against the bones of my chest.

“I need you to take my gun, Scarlett. Take the gun.”

I move down the two steps onto the floor of the lounge, as if it’s not really Scarlett Heath in my skin, adrenalin coursing through my veins, and retrieve Jackson’s gun.

“Look at me. The safety is off. The safety is off and it’s ready to fire. Use two hands, Scarlett, and only fire if you need to. Only fire if you have a clear shot.”

Bile rises in my throat and my eyes burn. “I can’t.”

There’s another crash. Gregory and Pearson burst from the gym into the lounge. There’s a thick chain around Gregory’s neck and Pearson grips each end tightly from behind, strangling him. Gregory thrusts his elbow back three times into Pearson’s ribs. Pearson falls but doesn’t let go of the chain.

It’s happening so fast.
I need to help him
.

Gregory falls back on top of Pearson and with that leverage, his father pulls tighter. Gregory yanks at the chain, his nails breaking his flesh, and tries to use his legs to bounce out of his father’s grip but he’s stuck. His face is red. Each sinew and muscle in his neck and face is strained.

“He’s killing him!” Jackson shouts.

Gregory flips them both so he’s facedown with his father on his back. He jabs an elbow into his father’s throat, sending him crashing back.

There’s blood on the floor and I can’t tell who has the wound; they’re both smeared with crimson. Gregory pounces, trapping Pearson’s arms beneath the weight of his legs. Then he grabs him by the neck and digs his thumbs into his trachea. Pearson kicks but Gregory’ strikes his face with a punishing fist.

My eyes are wide, shocked and panicked, as I watch Gregory strangle his father with bare hands.

Pearson struggles, his legs kicking and squirming on the ground. His body jerks. Once. Twice.

Then he’s still.

Gregory slumps back against the wall, one leg straight the other bent. He unbuttons his shirt whilst he catches his breath.

All I can do is watch him, unable to move.

He looks at me, then Jackson, and crawls toward us.

“Can you stand, Jackson?”

“Yes. Help me.”

I’m looking beyond Gregory and Jackson to the evil bastard on the ground.

Pearson’s leg flinches. I slowly walk toward him and raise the Glock in front of my eye line with two hands. My body moves on autopilot.

My arm shakes under the weight of the gun and what I know I’m going to do.

Suddenly, Pearson throws his hand sideways, picks up his own gun and points it at Gregory.

I have no time to think.

I pull the trigger.

The bang brings with it an image of the boy from my dreams, holding my father’s hand. They’re happy, playing in the rocks by the sea, but the attacker is there too. Then my father’s alone, dead in a hospital bed.

I open my eyes to see blood pooling around the devil’s head and splattered on the white walls.

This is it.

This is what it looks like.

Revenge.

A father for a father. A father for the life of a son. A father for the man I love.

I drop the Glock to the floor and fall to my knees, turning my hands in front of my face as though they’re someone else’s. Then I stare at the dead body, now floating on a red river, a neat hole through one side of his head.

“I killed him,” I say, barely audibly.

I watch the pool of blood continue to expand.

Gregory is on his feet. I’m vaguely aware of two men leading Jackson toward us. Their voices warped and indecipherable.

The sweetest smell of flowers, fully bloomed lilies, fills my nose. I look around me but can’t locate a vase. A distorted face moves close to me, so close it terrifies me. And it’s staring right into my eyes. I flop my head to one side to see if I can work out whose face is in front of me but I can’t and it’s bright, so bright, a mix a bright colours. Those colours are moving, spinning. The movement and the sickly sweet smell of lilies forces me to retch and retch again, a heave so hard it tears my insides. Vomit and bile project from my mouth.

I’m cold. My body begins to tremor then shake hysterically. Suddenly I’m moving through the air, weightless.

The distorted voices become sharper until I can make out some words. The room stops turning and colours separate into distinct lines. I’m on a sofa. Something warm, a hand perhaps, strokes my hair. There’s a face in front of me. A man. Slowly, the blurred face comes into focus. I recognise it.