Embrace Me Forever (Hartley Brothers #3)

9. Georgia-May

9

GEORGIA-MAY

The shower gradually scours away the remnants of tonight’s horrors. Steam swirls around me, forming a cocoon. But it’s knowing Blake is nearby that finally allows me to unwind.

As the water cascades down, I can’t help but notice the bruises on my legs and arms, remnants of the men’s attempts to break me. The option to give them the password crossed my mind, but I know Bertram wouldn’t simply release me after gaining access to that sensitive folder.

I tilt my head back and let the water pummel my face, the force of it washing away the lingering fear. The only thing that can distract me from my ordeal is what Blake has done. When he stripped me of my clothes in that motel room, I briefly dreaded that he, too, was on the verge of assaulting me. But that fear dissipated instantly. Naked and vulnerable, my trust in him grew exponentially, and I have never looked back since.

After finishing the shower, I notice a thick robe draped on the bed. Blake must’ve put it there. Its plush material looks inviting, so I wrap myself in it over the pajamas.

I stride toward the stairs, pausing for a moment to peer into what must be Blake’s room, the door left tantalizingly ajar. The glimpse of his neatly made bed sparks a wild and daring thought—perhaps I could curl up there tonight. My body cries out from exhaustion and fear, the temptation to sleep beside the man who’s become my protector in the moonlit hours amplifies. But then it crushes me because I know it can never happen.

Downstairs, Blake is fussing in the kitchen. At his side, Poppy, the robot dog, keeps a dutiful watch, her metallic frame contrasting sharply with the warm kitchen hues. I look around, observing the absence of any houseplants. So he meant it when he said he’s not exactly a nurturer of the living, but he sure knows how to sustain a spark in me.

Resolved to join him, I head down. He’s shed the formality of earlier, now clad in a T-shirt and cargo pants that mold to his frame, revealing the relaxed yet unmistakably dashing contours of his physique. The fabric of his shirt stretches taut across his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, hinting at the strength beneath. It’s a view that fortifies his allure, rendering him utterly irresistible.

“Tea?” he offers.

“Yes, please.”

He hands me a steaming cup of green tea, and we settle into the living room, the crackling of a fire burning adding to the ambiance. Poppy follows him around until he commands, “Poppy, bed!” Like before, the metal dog obediently heads to her spot and lies down.

Blake takes the single armchair, leaving me the entire three-seater sofa. Blake’s posture is relaxed yet attentive, his gray eyes, touched by the flickering light from the flames, never straying far from mine.

I take a sip, the subtle, grassy flavor of the tea soothing my throat.

“Ms. Williams,” Blake begins, his tone so serious that I set my cup down, bracing myself for the inevitable interrogation.

“Didn’t I ask you to call me Georgia-May?”

He dips his head as if pondering whether he’d agreed. “You did. Well, Georgia-May, let me explain. I’m not a chauffeur. I’m the man Rob and Clayton turn to when—what can I say—things are uncertain.”

“What do you want to know about me, Mr. Blake?”

His gaze sharpens. “I’ve been in this business for more than half your life; I recognize every trick in the book. It’s in your best interest to be forthright with me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Let’s start with your real name.”

My host’s stern tone snuffs out the ember of affection I felt for him. I long to return to the arms of the caring Simon Blake, comforted in his embrace, instead of sitting before this investigator. But he deserves the truth.

“I was born Mary O’Connor,” I respond. “But I despise that name because it’s my mother’s name, and she wasn’t a nice person. When I had the chance to change it, I did. Even though it’s not my original name, Georgia-May Williams is who I really am.”

“When did you change it?”

I pause, not willing to reveal everything just yet.

But he presses, “Tell me everything so I can help you.”

“Why do you want to help? Clearly, you’re suspicious of me.”

“I saved you, didn’t I?” he counters.

“You did.” I falter, unsure where to restart my confession.

He sighs. “I’ve learned to distinguish the good apples from the bad. I’m going to stick my neck out here. You’re not a bad person, Georgia-May.”

Warmth spreads through me when he calls me fondly by my chosen name. It’s as if he’s acknowledging my true self, and the show of his trust finally breaks down some of my defenses. His belief in me, despite everything, is more than I expected and exactly what I needed.

“Here’s the truth,” he adds. “I’m here to protect my bosses—and you . So, who were those men? What were they after?”

“I used to work for an insurance company in London. They’re a major player in the industry, Bertram Insurance. They have a massive client base and wield a lot of influence.”

“Hm. I’ve heard of them.”

“I was only there for six months, but they saw enormous value in the actuarial algorithms I created. Unfortunately, they exploited them to rip people off. That’s the reason I had to leave. But they weren’t ready to let me go.”

“Clearly.”

“I was starting on a new project before I left,” I explain. “It involved a complex array of predictions that could revolutionize the insurance industry. Given the precision of my models and their alignment with real-world outcomes, Bertram was convinced I could foresee the future, even though I don’t believe that myself. I’m a scientist, but I know not everything in the universe is governed by numbers.”

He frowns, digesting what I’m saying. “That story sounds bizarre, but there’s no reason not to believe you, Georgia-May.”

“Insurance is a cruel industry, Mr. Blake.”

“Please, call me Blake.”

“Or, Simon?”

“No. Just Blake,” he emphasizes, raising his brows. “For someone who loathes her birth name, I’m sure you understand that sometimes what your parents gave you may not be something you’re proud of.”

“Do you have a middle name?”

He smirks sideways, lips sealed.

I toss him an acknowledging smile, saying, “I take it you’re not fond of that one either.”

He shakes his head and continues. “So, what those men were after has nothing to do with Hartley Marine? With the quiepa, quipa, whatever you’re proposing to Rob and Clayton?”

“QEOPA? No, not in the slightest,” I assure him firmly. “The team from Bertram was dogged in their attempts to either bring me back or make me divulge the extent of my work. So, I vanished. Changed my name, and lived off the grid. Well, until now.”

I pause, gathering my composure as I sidestep the memories of the event that killed Sebastian. The pain is still too fresh, too sharp, and I’m not ready to unearth those secrets just yet.

Blake clears his throat. “I have to hand it to you. I couldn’t find you in Denver.”

I tilt my head. “You were in Denver?”

“What do you think?” he replies nonchalantly.

Perhaps he couldn’t find me because he never thought I’d be hiding out in a children’s hospital. Even Magnum P.I. would’ve struggled with that one.

“What else do you want to know, Blake?” I struggle to find what I should say next. I’m methodical when it comes to crunching numbers, but structuring a confession is clearly not my forte.

“You lied about your contract with Obsidian Moon Interactive,” he asserts with unsettling clarity.

A shiver courses through me, but I quickly quell the rising panic. If I told him about Cristo, I might as well tell him about Sebastian—but I’m not there yet. “A friend intervened on my behalf,” I reply.

“And his name?” Blake’s gaze remains unyielding, searching for truth in the shadows of my reluctance.

“Christian Cartwright.” The name comes naturally. One I remember from a piece of snail mail from Cristo confirming my fabricated career as a software engineer in the gaming and simulation industry.

Blake gives me an approving gesture as if my answer passes muster. He then continues his questioning. “In that motel room just now, what was the password they sought?”

“The key to a folder containing a backup of my work on the project. They’ve labeled it Project Mock—Mary O’Connor-Knight.”

“Was that your full name?” Blake asks. “It must’ve been significant that Bertram titled the project after it.”

“My mother combined her surname with my father’s when they married, but after he passed away, she dropped it faster than a bad habit and acted like a single woman on the prowl. I lost count of the men who came and went, and I’m a mathematician!”

Blake gives me a look, not hiding his surprise at my rising tone. “You really hate that name, huh? Where’s your mother now?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Somehow, it feels good that someone besides Anne knows about my mother. She was never faithful, often reducing Dad to tears. He put up with her because of us, his daughters.

Blake adds, “You mentioned a backup folder. What happened to the original?”

“I can only guess why they needed access to it. Perhaps they thought I had hidden additional information in that backup, or the existing data didn’t add up for them.”

“And you’d endure torture rather than surrender?”

“As long as I’m valuable to them, they’ll keep me alive. And I need to stay alive right now.”

“They’ve gone to great lengths to track you down. And it seems, if I may say, your bosses were perhaps obsessed about your work.”

Obsessed is the right word. “One individual in particular—the head of the company, Abner Bertram—had the most interest. He’s ruthless, greedy, and unstable. I made the mistake of beginning the model on a small scale, using his profile. My intention was for the model to fail, to demonstrate that predictions are just that. Predictions. But it backfired.”

“So you were creating an algorithm that could predict his life?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “And it turned out to be pretty accurate. Unexpected details surfaced in the results. Illnesses, accidents, financial fluctuations. Facts about him I hadn’t known.”

He scoffs, a hand on his forehead as he leans back. “I’m not sure if this truth is scarier than my initial assumptions about you. But here’s my truth. I thought one of Hartley Marine’s rivals had paid you to deliver those presentations, then infiltrate our system.”

I raise my gaze for a second, startled by his conjecture. “Oh no, I would never do that. My work is legit. I worked my butt off developing QEOPA, and it’s secure. No one else knows about it.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

I continue explaining. “Believe me, those men had no interest in what I offered to Hartley Marine. QEOPA pales in comparison to Project Mock. Bertram tasked me with devising a new series of algorithms, leveraging global insurance data dating back to the 1980s. While some records were clear, others were encrypted. They needed me to decipher everything and update the models using AI advancements, aiming to forecast the insurance sector’s trajectory for the next century.”

“You know Georgia-May, I’m glad I’m not a mathematician,” Blake says. “It’s staggering how much you know.”

“At Bertram, too much knowledge can be lethal. That’s the crux of my dilemma.”

“Billions in insurance dollars on the line, and a man too self-absorbed to see past his nose, convinced you hold the key to his own existence and his empire. You’ve chosen one hell of an adversary,” Blake remarks.

“I came to that realization far too late. When I resigned, they tried to lure me back with an eight-figure salary for the life of the project. Along with other perks.”

He whistles. “It crossed my mind that your asking price to the Hartleys was a bit modest,” he says with a hint of amusement.

“Greed isn’t part of my makeup, Blake.”

He appraises me, “So, you really are a good apple,” then unleashes a smile—that smoldering, hell-help-me grin. If circumstances were different, I’d devour those lips in a heartbeat.

“You could say that.”

He offers a playful salute. “You’re a whiz with numbers, but let’s just say acting isn’t one of your talents.”

I laugh. For a man of his caliber, I bet he would’ve pierced through any facade I presented in a split second.

“So, why Hartley Marine?” he probes.

This time, I hold his gaze before answering, seeking meaning in it all. Why did I choose Hartley Marine? They were the biggest, the wealthiest in the industry. But was it a sixth sense triggered by desperation? I doubt any algorithm could decode the sequence of events that led me here.

Then, I slowly respond. “I needed the money. There are plenty of rich people in this country, but the Hartley brothers seem reasonable. I read about their private charity work even though they never boast about it. I needed the money for?—”

Mentioning Coco feels risky. But with Bertram hot on my heels, I have no protection. Except from the man who’s been my shield tonight.

“For what, Georgia-May?”

I look into his eyes. “My daughter. She had a brain tumor.”

Blake’s brows knit together, pain darkening his eyes. He leans back, raking his hand through his hair in frustration. “My God…” He bows his head. “You have no idea how much I hate myself right now.”

Oh, that woeful gaze…

I give him a shake of my head, letting him know I don’t blame him.

“That’s probably why you couldn’t find me in Denver,” I resume, hoping to reassure him that it wasn’t due to any lack of skill or effort on his part. “I spent the last few weeks in a hospital as my daughter underwent her second surgery.”

He puts his face in his hands, shaking his head harder as if he doesn’t deserve even a sliver of mercy. “I’ve known all along that you have a daughter, but I never thought—” He sighs, clearly mad at himself. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he looks up at me. “Where’s your daughter now? Those attackers might’ve seen your driver’s license and gotten your address.”

“She’s with my sister. They live at a different address than what’s on my driver’s license. Well, I live with them. My Denver address is just a facade. Do you think they’re in danger too?”

He gets up and begins pacing in front of the fireplace, his figure towering with seriousness. “Give me their details. I’ll send someone to watch over them. I don’t think they’re in immediate danger, but we can’t be too careful. Let me make the call.”

I stand up, looking around for a pen and paper.

“Just tell me,” he instructs.

I tell him my real address, and he quickly makes the call while I stand by, wringing my hands.

After the call ends, he says, “Don’t worry, my guy will keep his distance and won’t alarm anyone. They won’t even notice.”

“Thank you,” I reply, unable to resist embracing him. The security I’ve been searching for all night is as tangible as his nearness, and I wish for it to last forever. One can only dream.

I loosen my hold, and he immediately lets go. I then ask, “Now, may I call my sister?”

“Of course,” he replies, striding over to a desk. He opens a drawer and pauses, considering his options. Jesus! How many phones does he have in there? After a moment, he selects one and hands it to me. “It’s been a long night. Feel free to call your sister from your room.”

I debate with myself whether to tell Anne the truth or not. It’s comforting to know someone is watching over them as Blake watches over me here. I decide I’ll simply tell her the dinner went well. It’s late, and I don’t want to keep her up or worry her unnecessarily. Anne isn’t just dramatic about romance. She can also go into overdrive about my safety, especially when I’m not with her.

Noticing my brain ticking, he says, “If you’re wondering, my super-spy skills are on pause. Your privacy is guaranteed.” The crinkles at the corners of his eyes reassure me that not everything is lost tonight.

“Okay then. But I can’t miss my flight tomorrow. It’s the first flight to Denver in the morning. I need to be back before my daughter wakes up.”

“I’ll make sure you get on that plane,” he promises.

I glance around, wishing the moment would stretch. “So, you live alone? I won’t be disturbing anyone else, will I?”

“It’s just me and Poppy,” he replies with ease, starting to pivot before turning back to me. “Oh, one more thing—the outside alarms are on. So, please, no opening windows or doors, okay? It’ll wake Poppy up, too. She’s connected to the system. She won’t be a nice doggy when that happens.”

I stifle a giggle, imagining the dog transforming into a shooting tank or something. I doubt that’ll be the case, but I do feel even more secure. Then, standing on my toes, I give him a light peck on the cheek. “Good night, Blake.”

His wiry beard tickles my lips, and his arms rest loosely on my hips. I feel his mouth brush behind my ear, but then he lets go. I swear, if I could, I’d ask to share his bed tonight. The thought of being alone feels unbearable.