Chapter 13 Kiss HimPunch Him
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KISS HIM OR PUNCH HIM
Devon
Victor Turner is the owner and CEO of Fusion Logic, a moderate player in the European tech industry.
He’s branched out to parts of Asia, but that’s a new development.
From my last research, he started to dabble in artificial intelligence.
He’s shady as fuck and just smart enough to get away with it.
Before my career ended, my intel supported that in theory alone, but my gut told me something else altogether.
He’s also the slimy motherfucker who fucked up my life and caused my career to deep dive straight to hell.
My intel didn’t support that theory, but my gut is a nagging motherfucker and won’t let it go, even after all these years.
I was investigating Turner when we lost Hugh Bancroft.
Hugh and I went through the academy together, trained together, and cut our teeth in the wild together. I was his best man, an adoptive uncle to his kids, and his partner on more cases than I can count. He was my best mate who was lost way too soon to this world.
And it was my fault.
That’s why my cover was blown and my career ended too soon.
There’s no way there was a leak. I learned from what happened to Bella when she was an agent. I kept my shit tied tight and watched my back, even inside the agency. Nothing can convince me I was burned from within.
The only explanation is that Victor Turner is so good at what he does, he somehow cracked into our systems and learned I was hot on his heels.
Because a motherfucker with government contracts who sells state secrets to terrorist organizations cannot be trusted. Anyone willing to do that has no boundaries. At least my gut told me he was doing just that. I was about to prove it when everything went to hell.
They closed in, and our comms went dead. I was the target. When Hugh figured out what was happening, he left his position to warn me.
We were ambushed. It went from a precisely planned operation to a shitshow.
They took Hugh out instead.
It was the worst day of my life, and that’s saying something because there was that one time I caught a bullet and came damn close to meeting my maker.
But I didn’t.
Hugh did.
The explosion rocked London, even though we were on the outskirts. The internal investigations went on for months. During that time, my name was leaked to the press.
And that was it.
The end.
The whole thing hit me like a sledgehammer. There are nights I still can’t sleep. The details of what happened will haunt me the rest of my life. Hours have turned into weeks and months into years. I’ve come to realize I’ll never rid my soul of those demons.
Turning that part of my brain off is impossible. I’ve tried. I might as well cut my arm off. Hell, that might be easier.
Less painful, that’s for damned sure. Figuratively speaking.
Which is why I can’t stop looking into Victor Turner even though I’m simply the owner of an old estate turned resort in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re sure?” I seethe. “If that fucker is on my property, I’ll burn the place down myself to smoke him out.”
“Take a breath, Dev,” Bella demands as I scroll the security feeds throughout the property. “This is why you have systems in place, even though no one thought this would happen. It’s been too long.”
“I appreciate your belief in me, Bella,” I drawl sarcastically.
“Don’t be an imbecile.” I can almost hear her eyes roll.
“Of course, we believe you. We just didn’t think Turner, or anyone in his organization, would be dense enough to use a line of credit that was associated during that timeframe.
Honestly, I’d rather deal with a smart adversary.
They’re predictable because they’re levelheaded.
But this ... well, this is like tiptoeing through a minefield of nonsense.
You never know when you’ll trip and an IED will blow up in your face—I’m speaking theoretically and literally. ”
“Shit metaphor, Bella.”
“Sorry,” she mutters and clears her throat. “Didn’t mean to hit close to home. Back to the issue at hand. Ozzy is running facial recognition from your security feed. We’ll see what he comes up with, because, despite the credit card that was used this morning, that man is not Victor Turner.”
“No. The day Turner fakes a vacation is the day everyone will be on high alert. The man works nonstop.” I bring up the camera that spans the back gardens, pool, and tennis courts.
“Let me know when Ozzy spins his magic. I’ve got to figure out who the hell Roman Malloy is.
I’ll bet my portfolio that’s not his real name. ”
“Get on that. I’ll call when Ozzy has news. He’ll come up with something—this is no coincidence. Keep your head down.”
“Again, you’re speaking to me like I’ve never done this before.”
“I’m well aware of your investigative prowess. I remember a time when you made me think you were the target. Despite our history of butting heads, I do love you, big brother, and I’d like you to keep your head square on your shoulders where it belongs. So, do me a favor and keep it down.”
“You and Mum will do me in. Call me when you learn something.”
“Indeed, I will. Chat soon.”
I ring off without saying goodbye because my attention is focused on more important things.
Specifically the man who checked himself into my resort under the name Roman Malloy.
I watch him on the main feed as he saunters onto the back patio next to the pool overlooking Lake Winslet.
He settles himself at a table under an umbrella and opens his laptop.
He’s connected to Turner. That’s enough to push me over the edge any day of the year, but at the moment, the need to bust through the glass walls of the greenhouse to get to him is taking over my fucking brain like a fast-spreading virus.
I zoom in on Malloy. He’s dressed like he’s a spectator at the fucking British Open Polo Championship. But instead of observing a horse race, he’s taking in the heiress to billions—my new roommate.
He slides on a pair of shades, but not before I can tell what he’s really focused on, and it’s not his damn laptop or the cell he pretends to scroll.
It’s Harlow Madison, who’s lounging not far from him next to the pool with a book.
She’s wearing a hat so big and round, it even shades her tits from the sun, which is a good choice since there’s hardly anything else covering them.
Her bikini is so small, I can barely make out the pattern, and I didn’t skimp when it came to security.
My cameras are top notch.
Though, I didn’t know I’d need them for this reason. I’d never stalk a guest.
That’s fucking creepy but look at me now.
The Madison-Humphries wedding did a number on me, because I’m doing all kinds of shit I don’t recognize.
I might not know who Roman Malloy is, but I do know one thing—I do not like the way he’s leering at Harlow or that he’s in the general vicinity of her.
I don’t want him breathing her air.
I’m going to damn well do something about it.
When I pulled Harlow’s shiny new convertible up to valet, I made an excuse that I had pressing business I needed to address, and that I’d catch up with her later.
Apparently, I’ve been too much for her, since her only comment was she needed alone time and a day to decompress.
I know she meant time away from me, even though she was polite enough to present that between the lines.
Her time alone just ended.
I grab my keys, cell, and shades and plan on doing the exact opposite of what Bella told me to do.
To hell with keeping my head down. That’s not an option. The last thing I’m going to do is hide from this fuckwad.
Not when his sights are set on Harlow.
Harlow
“Harlow Madison, is that you?”
I close my book and peek out from under my hat.
Aside from packing, unpacking, Devon Donnelly finding out about my dad, and learning that my favorite place on earth that I plan to make my home is falling apart and ridden with crime scene tape, the day is pretty much perfect.
The sun warms my skin as the lapping water from the shore below lulls me into a tranquil moment as I lounge at the pool.
I picked this spot because it was quiet.
The shore by the lake is buzzing with activity and has been since we got back from the biggest breakfast I’ve ever had.
Even with my obsession with waste, I had less of an issue than normal leaving the food on the table today.
I was too overwhelmed to keep up with my own fixations.
I hate that the media has pegged me with the ridiculous label of American Princess.
It started after my mother died. A tabloid got a picture of me as a teen ushered by security.
No matter how much I fought, cried, and complained that a private detail would cramp my style, Janie insisted.
And when Janie sets her mind to something, she gets in my father’s ear, and it happens.
I lost that battle and have never been able to shake the nickname.
It caught on like wildfire. My skin crawls every time I read it.
I’m used to being recognized from time to time, but that’s what I loved about living in New York City. It’s fast paced and high energy with plenty of celebrities who really are celebrities, unlike me. If someone does recognize me, they don’t care or have the time to point it out.
But I have been approached by enough people to know the difference between an acquaintance and a stranger.
I pull off my shades and have to squint to see the man at a table not too far from me. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
His teeth are as bright as the sun, but his smile is as fake as Janie’s ladies’ night at the country club. “Malloy. Roman Malloy. We met at a philanthropy event a while back. I think it might’ve been two years ago. Time flies.”
I try to place his face and name but fail. Since giving money away is my job, I attend so many fundraisers a year, I lose track. “It does. What event was it?”