30. Henry
thirty
“No rest for the wicked,” I say.
Franki, wearing glasses and the same pink tank top she slept in last night, sits in the armchair catty-corner from me with a blanket covering her lap. Setting her cup of tea on the table beside her, she lifts her head from the book she’s reading. “You’re the wicked one. I’m the nice person who knows how to relax.”
She nods at the kitchen table, where she’s left the small handgun I gave her. “I’ve already run your safety and self-defense drills this morning.”
She doesn’t like to wear it all the time, and I don’t press the point. Something like that has to be her own decision, not something I coerce her into. Spencer doesn’t like to carry either. I wasn’t given a choice as a child. I’ll never take away her right to decide how she wants to handle this.
I recline against the sofa back and adjust the laptop on my knees. “Are you calling off work today? Because you’re on shaky ground there. Sick days? Yes. Personal days? You have to work for a month first. Take it up with your HR department,” I say blandly.
She snaps her paperback closed and leans toward me with a glint of humor in her eyes. “I’m certain that being kidnapped and/or abducted to a remote cabin qualifies me for an excused absence.”
“Ah. Well. I see your point. Then, I suppose you’re not interested in seeing the files that came through this morning from France regarding—”
I make space for her as she abandons her book and lurches across the arm of the couch, tapping at the file on my laptop screen to pull it up.
“Ms. Lennox,” I murmur, “I commend your enthusiasm, but some comportment is in order. I am your employer.”
“Sir, you do know you’re not my actual boss, and you’re the one with your hand on my butt?”
“Hmm. So I am.” I give her a squeeze, and she fights a smile.
“There. Perfect. I’ll get my laptop and complete the translation this morning,” she says.
Most of the translations I request from her involve her speaking into an audio file and speech-to-text. It limits her need to type due to her joint pain. As I can multitask when I access those files later, it’s also useful for me. I’m not ashamed to admit the sound of her voice is an added benefit.
“Monsieur Mercier must like you. He’s three days early with these files,” I say.
She shakes her head. “First, never say ‘Mon-sewer’ or ‘Mercy-er’ again. I’m begging you.”
I pronounce it incorrectly on purpose because her reaction every time I mangle French is funny. Sue me.
“Second, none of these people even know me. I’m the translator for what you say. They’re responding to you, not me.” She shuffles back onto her chair, then rises and walks across the room to open her laptop at the kitchen table.
“And the part where you throw in all the nice words I didn’t say?” I safely eject a thumb drive after I’ve saved the files for her and walk across the room to hand it to her.
She settles into the kitchen chair and inserts the USB drive into her own computer. “Making sure you don’t blunder into accidentally giving offense by not understanding their culture is part of my job description.”
“May we never forget the American Theme Park in France Debacle of our forefathers,” I intone.
She hums in agreement and slides her phone and handgun behind the laptop so she doesn’t have to see either one while she’s working.
I’ve utilized a number of different translators over the years for many different languages, and she’s the best I’ve ever had. When we’re meeting with business associates, her persona is impeccable. She’s competent, professional, friendly, and respectful without being a pushover. She speaks both French and German like a native, has briefly lived in both of those countries, and she’s had years of an exemplary education that included study on etiquette and social expectations, as well as the academic studies she was passionate about.
When we’re behind closed doors, it’s her very lack of standing on ceremony that makes her easy to work with. She doesn’t waste my time hedging around me while she tries to guide me out of making a blunder. She looks me in the eyes and says, “We’re not saying that unless you want to tick them off.”
When an alert vibrates on my phone, I rap my knuckles on the table. “I forgot to mention we’ll be having visitors in approximately two minutes.”
She scrambles to stand and close her laptop. “What? Who?”
“It’s the asset Dante has been guarding. He’ll be staying with us.”
Her eyes go wide. “Here? This is a one-bedroom cabin. Where is he sleeping?”
My gaze trails over her upper body. Oh, hell no.
Removing my button-down, I mutter, “As long as he stays out of our bed, I don’t care where he sleeps.”
Her brows lift. “You’re way too nonchalant about this. You don’t care that some guy will be walking through our bedroom to get to the bathroom? That’s not weird to you?”
“You look cold, love.” I draw her arms through the sleeves of my shirt and close the buttons all the way up to her chin.
Franki’s lips twitch. “I would have run into the bedroom and put on a bra before they got here.”
“I like you in my shirt. It provides a piquant hint of debauchery.” I wink, and her smile breaks through.
Now shirtless, I walk to the front door and open it a crack, peering outside just as a black SUV pulls up in front of the cabin. When the engine shuts off, Dante and Spencer close the doors on their vehicle, and Dante physically assists our reluctant asset from the backseat.
I speak over my shoulder to Franki. “Fair warning. Apparently, he’s in a mood today. He doesn’t appreciate being managed. Brace yourself.”
She nudges in to try to peer around me, but I stay where I am.
Dante huffs under his breath as he’s forced to physically carry the asset when he balks at the base of the stairs. “Dude. It does not have to be this difficult.”
When the asset hits the porch and his footfalls become a familiar pitter-patter-pitter across the wood, Franki shouts, “Oliver!”
With a grin, I move out of his way as he barrels toward the sound of her voice. “Surprise.”
She crouches and holds him as he wiggles and licks her and dances in her arms.
“Ah. True love,” I say.
Dante smiles. “He missed you, Franki.”
“Thank you for bringing him. Thank you.” Franki rises and puts her arms around Dante, wrapping him in a bear hug.
My left eye twitches as he pats her back. Bringing the dog here was my idea. Where’s my hug?
When I give Dante the sign for “I’m watching you,” he eases away from her with a wary glance my way.
Spencer evaluates my shirtless state with the air of a racehorse at the starting gate. He’s responsible for wardrobe management when I’m in New York or traveling for business, and he treats my closet like a dog resource guarding a toy.
“Spencer!” Franki hugs him too. “Thank you for bringing Oliver.”
Spencer’s round cheeks nearly match his hair in color by the time she’s done squeezing him. When she steps back, he straightens his bow tie and speaks stiffly. “I’m merely doing my job, Ms. Lennox. Henry asked me to bring him.”
Apparently uncomfortable with Franki’s show of gratitude, Spencer turns to face me and eagerly indicates the bedroom door. “Allow me to find you something appropriate to wear.”
“Love, will it bother you if Spencer goes in our bedroom closet to find me a shirt?”
Spencer’s eyes widen as it becomes clear he hadn’t considered that he was asking to enter my future wife’s private space. His lips flatten, and he pivots toward Franki to await her response.
Franki nods. “That’s fine, but could you stay out of my dresser?”
After years of her mother overstepping, I know how she values her privacy.
He gives Franki a shallow bow, which equates to little more than a dip of his head. “Certainly, Miss Lennox.”
Spencer retreats behind the closed bedroom door, where he will, no doubt reorganize the entire closet after neatly pressing a shirt that only Franki and Oliver will see me wear after he’s gone.
Dante clears his throat, eyes Franki and Oliver, then gives a jerk of his chin toward the front door.
“If whatever you’re trying to tell me has anything to do with Franki, then speak,” I say.
Addressing both of us, Dante says, “Jonny Lennox came to your penthouse and demanded to speak to with his daughter. He was denied access. I was returning from taking Oliver for a walk at the time, and when Mr. Lennox saw him in the lobby of the building, he insisted he was taking the dog home with him.”
Franki lifts Oliver into her arms and clutches him to her. “He did what?”
Dante runs a hand through his dark hair. “First, he claimed that if you weren’t home, you would want him to keep Oliver for you while you were away. When the guard on duty refused to confirm or deny that you weren’t staying at the penthouse, he moved on to claiming that Oliver was his property because he bought him.”
Crimson color floods up her neck into her face, and her eyes narrow in fury as she holds Oliver protectively to her chest. “He’s a liar. I found Oliver at a shelter, and Henry got him for me.”
“It wouldn’t matter where he came from. He’s your dog.” I attempt to soothe her.
Dante nods. “Henry is right. None of us would let him near Oliver. Jonny made threats of legal action, and when that got him nowhere, he attempted, badly, to break into the property. He had an armed escort back to his car.”
Where his driver, then, no doubt, took him to a hospital to have his broken bones set.
Franki is one of the most even-tempered people I’ve ever known. She rarely gets angry, and when she does, she doesn’t lose her temper or hold onto grudges. Franki gives people the benefit of the doubt, even when she shouldn’t. But no one comes after her dog.
She sets Oliver on the floor. “I could kill him.”
“Relatable,” I say dryly.
She whirls on me. “Are you making a joke out of this?” she asks incredulously.
Oliver, picking up on her mood, growls a warning.
Shit. “No. I was trying, clearly ineffectually, to help you calm down.”
Face red with rage, she balls her hands into fists. “I am calm. I’m always calm. I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.” She starts out in a normal, if angry, tone and volume, but each successive word gets louder until she ends on a scream of rage.
I raise my hands in surrender. “Okay, fair enough, sunshine-y girl. Do you want to take a walk or—”
“You’re not going to interfere this time. I’m not asking for your help.” She lunges for her phone.
The next seconds happen in a blur. Dante pushes himself between us as he reaches for his sidearm. Before his hand makes full contact with his gun, I yank him away and shove his arm behind his back, spinning in a violent arc to slam him face-first into the kitchen wall.
Behind me, Franki shushes Oliver as he growls and snaps in our direction.
I tighten my grip on Dante, pushing his arm further up his back until I know exactly the level of burn he feels and lean nearer to the man I consider as close as a brother. “If you ever pull a weapon on her for any reason, know that I will kill you without hesitation or regret.”
Dante grunts but doesn’t struggle. “She was going for a gun, you lunatic.”
“Franki’s safety is your priority. If she wants a gun, you give her a fucking gun.”
Dante tries to turn his head in Franki’s direction.
I don’t budge an inch. “Am. I. Clear?”
Dante swallows hard. “Affirmative.”
When I release him, he steps away, scraping a hand over his head.
Spencer stands in the bedroom doorway with a hand pressed to his mouth.
Franki watches Dante warily, then scowls at me. “I was reaching for my phone, not my gun, and you know it.”
Dante clears his throat. “I apologize, Franki.”
She nods stiffly.
The tension in this cabin is in the stratosphere. Soothing tempers has never been in my wheelhouse. But distraction? That, I can do. I lean toward her and murmur, “It turned you on a little when I did the whole give her a fucking gun thing, though, didn’t it?”
Her eyes narrow, and she huffs. “No.”
Almost there.I lift an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because you look hot and bothered. I didn’t realize you’d be into the dominatrix thing. Naughty minx.”
She channels a little bit of me when she lets her eyelids drop to half-mast and gives me a flat look that says, “I know what you’re doing” as plainly as if she’d spoken the words out loud.
“Would it be possible for the two of you to table this conversation until Dante and I leave? I’m endeavoring not to hear something that is clearly none of my business, because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, I do not want to know,” Spencer says.
“Speak for yourself. I want to hear about the weird-ass kinky games they play. It’s the quiet ones you’d never expect it from. Know what I mean?” Dante says.
“You’re very disrespectful employees,” I say, keeping my tone mild.
Franki has never seen me engage in real violence before today, despite the fact that she knows I do. The shoot-out in the car was different. Less personal.
Dante is trying to come across as less intimidating after his show of aggression, and I’m giving her the opportunity to see that I don’t respond with violence out of a loss of temper or something as simple as being challenged or disrespected.
Maybe she already knows that, but I can’t stand the wariness lurking behind her eyes.
Never mind that I was furious that he would go for his sidearm near her.
The fact is, if Dante believed she was an imminent danger to me, he would have fired on her without hesitation. He’d have taken her out and asked questions of the corpse, and though I’d explained that she was the one whose safety was our primary concern, he hadn’t understood. She’s more important than I am. She’s more important than anything or anyone else. She’s our priority.
Now, he knows.
I heave a sigh, wrap my arm around her waist, and lean in confidingly. “It’s impossible to find good help these days.”
Some of the tension in her muscles relaxes, and she blows out a slow breath.
Spencer hands me a shirt. I shrug into it and jerk my head toward the front door. “You two get some air.”
When Spencer and Dante have gone outside, Franki carries Oliver to the sofa and sits, looking lost. “Why would he try to take my dog? He doesn’t even like him.”
Crouching in front of her, I rub her back and give Oliver a scratch behind his silky ear. “His brand is floundering. He now needs a large investment of capital to bail him out, and he’s getting desperate. His last conversation with you didn’t go as planned. So, he attempted damage control with his social media posts.”
“He tried to control you through me,” she says.
“He failed. This morning, my PR team issued a statement indicating the two new companies that I’m ‘excited’ to be working with. Your father’s name was conspicuously absent. At the same time, several of his investors withdrew their financial support, and others demanded payment for outstanding debts. I’d say he’s panicking. His goal was to speak to you. Taking Oliver would have been a crime of opportunity. He could use him as leverage.”
“Did you do that? Wreck his businesses?”
“Ahh . . . yes. And no. He was already in financial trouble. He made some very poor decisions. I did, shall we say, bring the situation to a head sooner, rather than later.”
“Good.” Her fury is banked, not fully abated.
She leans back and looks at the ceiling, then sits up and squares her shoulders. “Will you pass me my phone, please?”
I don’t want to do it. I want to protect her from him, but if she needs this, I won’t rob her of her power. I’ll keep my hands to myself if I have to sit on them. I cross to the kitchen table and return with her work phone in my hand. “Do you want me to stay here, or do you want privacy?”
“Stay here. Please. But don’t say a word.”
“You do like to test me.” I pass her the phone.