Chapter 20 Hell At My Doorstep
CHAPTER TWENTY
HELL AT MY DOORSTEP
Harlow
Despite the fact I slept through the night, I woke up a mess and had horrible breath from not brushing my teeth. But I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept that long. Even longer than the night before.
And it was because I slept cocooned in the arms of Devon Donnelly.
We might have been practically naked for the experience, but that was all it was.
Devon comforting me.
Me taking everything from him like a parched woman stranded in the desert.
I’m used to waking up alone, but the feeling of loss is new. I didn’t even feel that after I found out Albert was plotting to kill me.
I also realize my head isn’t pounding. Maybe the day will take a turn for the better.
The floor is littered with our clothes from last night, but the last thing I want to put on is my tennis outfit, and all my other things are in my bedroom. I reach for Devon’s dress shirt and set out on a search for the man who is becoming a habit I have no desire to break.
With only two buttons clasped at my breasts, I open the bedroom door to find the owner of the shirt I’m wearing reclined on the sofa tapping away on a laptop. His eyes jump to me in an instant. His gaze drags from my messy hair to my bare feet.
His expression warms. “I was getting worried. You slept a long time. I kept checking on you. You were still breathing, so I left you alone.”
I lean on the door jamb and cross my arms. “And they say romance is dead. Who knew all it would take was a man who wants to keep me alive instead of kill me.”
His lips tip up in one corner. “I never claimed to be romantic but look at me now.”
“You did claim to be an asshole yesterday.”
“An arsehole yesterday, romantic today. I’m a new man today, baby. I’m about to order you all the leftovers from the kitchen to prove it. Come here.”
I shake my head. “You’re showered and fresh. I feel like a scum bucket.”
“You’re hardly a scum bucket. I know because we offer a fishing excursion. The scum bucket doesn’t stand a chance next to you.” He closes his laptop and tosses it to the sofa next to him. His demand is more insistent when he extends a hand. “Come here, baby.”
Despite the way I feel and look, the need to be close to him is too strong.
I push off the door jamb and make my way across the living room.
He never takes his eyes off me. When I take his hand, he gives me a yank, pulls me onto his lap, and doesn’t hesitate taking full advantage of my state of undress.
His hand dips below the shirt I’m wearing, and his other palms the side of my ass to pull me tight to his body.
My fingertips dance on the buttons of his crisp, clean dress shirt. “You’re going to be wrinkled.”
He gives my ass a squeeze and runs his other hand up the outside of my bare leg. “If it means you’re right here, I’ll gladly look like a rumpled mess.”
“You’re always so put together and polished. I’d hate to think about what your staff will think when they see you walking around looking like a shriveled-up raisin.”
His blue eyes narrow. “Why does that sound like a jab about my age?”
I shake my head and run my fingers along his strong jawline. “I’d never, even though I have no clue what that number is because you haven’t told me.”
“You haven’t asked.”
I bite my lip and mull that over. I’m doing all kinds of things that are out of the norm for me. Not only have I slept with a man I just met, but I did it after I swore off men for life. Not knowing his age is icing on my abnormal cake.
Instead of asking, I offer more information about myself. “I’m thirty.”
“Bullshit,” he boomerangs. “I told you I know everything about you, and that includes how old you are. You’re twenty-nine. Don’t try to age yourself to make me feel better about this.”
He ends that sentence with a firmer grope than I’ve gotten since he pulled me onto his lap.
“I’m not lying on the behalf of your ego. I’m using simple math and rounding up. I may be twenty-nine, but I’ll be thirty next month. Now I have to ask—how old are you?”
He leans in to press his lips to mine. “We have an entire decade between us. Forty—barely, but there you go.”
“They call forty the new thirty, so we’re practically the same age.”
He shakes his head. “Not me. I feel like I’ve lived more decades than anyone should. Not that I give a fuck about my age. It’s a number. But this is not what I want to talk about.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.” I lean back and focus on what I really want to know. “Let’s talk about what happened yesterday. Please tell me the Sheriff has news about the shooting.”
His expression tightens, and for a moment I think he’s keeping something from me again.
I’d argue, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“No, and I’m angry. I talked to Dean first thing this morning, and he’s got nothing.
His men questioned hikers in the area when it happened, but no one saw anything. They heard the shots, but that was it.”
I slump in his arms. “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, isn’t it?”
“I thought I ran through all the worst-case scenarios when I bought this place, but a fucking sharpshooter in the woods did not make the list in this sleepy little town. I’ve got cameras all over this place, but there’s no way for me to monitor the forest. Dean is still waiting on forensics on the bullet.
It doesn’t matter how I spin it, it doesn’t make sense.
Malloy is connected to Turner who knew I was investigating him, but I wasn’t the one shot at.
Your ex wanted you dead, but there’s no motivation to carry it out if you’re not married, yet you were the one targeted.
” His hand frames the side of my face, and his eyes look nothing short of tortured.
“I’d do anything if I could’ve traded places with you. ”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. And I thought I felt that way yesterday when you were in the crosshairs, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel after digging further into your cocksucker ex while you were sleeping.”
“You found something on Albert?”
He doesn’t have a chance to answer, because his cell vibrates on the coffee table. He holds me tight as he reaches for it. “Hold on to that thought, baby. This is the front desk.” He answers the call and puts it on speaker. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Donnelly, we have a situation.” It’s Felicity, and her tone is anxious. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her anything other than anxious. “I tried to deal with it on my own, but I need your help on this one.”
My wide eyes dart to Devon’s.
His eyes fall shut as he exhales an exhausted breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised. What can I help you with?”
Felicity’s tone lowers even further into a manic whispered hiss. “She’s back. I don’t know what to do!”
Devon’s fingers press into the skin at my hip. “Who’s back?”
That’s when it happens, and it’s not a whisper or a hiss. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Even from the background it’s loud and angry. “I demand to see my daughter!”
“No,” I say as I move off Devon’s lap to stand. “What is she doing here?”
“She’s making quite the scene, Mr. Donnelly. She’s demanding to see Ms. Madison, and she wants it to happen now. I offered her the conference room, but she refuses.”
Janie continues to yell in the background. “You can’t keep me from Harlow! I know she’s here, dammit!”
Devon stands and moves for the door. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”
“No.” I grab his arm to stop him. “She’ll continue to make a scene until she gets what she wants. It’s how she manages any situation. Let her come up. I can handle her.”
Devon narrows his eyes. “You want her to come here?”
“I don’t want her anywhere on the west coast, let alone here, but I can handle Janie.”
Devon lifts his chin and sighs. “All right, Harlow agreed to see her. Send her up.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll do so right away.”
Poor Felicity. Is there a bouquet of flowers large enough that says I’m sorry for being a pain in the ass?
I don’t know what Devon sees in me. All I do is cause him one mess after another. I won’t blame him if he has a change of heart and kicks me out.
Devon
If the banging from the hall is any indication of the drama about to ensue, I may be forced to call Moretti just for fun.
If this isn’t disturbing the peace on my property, I don’t know what is.
I wonder how Janie Madison would deal with spending a few hours in the Winslet slammer.
It’s old school with the antique keys and black ink for finger printing.
I take my time sauntering to the door. Harlow raced to the guest room to get dressed since all her things are still there.
The banging stops before I have the chance to open the door. Janie is standing at the suite across the hall, the same one Harlow used for her bridal suite.
“Who the hell are you, and where is my daughter?” she demands.
The only reason I know the man standing in the doorway in nothing but sweatpants, is because he’s a friend of Bella’s. I made sure they were booked in the suite for their honeymoon. And now I realize this is the couple we passed getting off the elevator yesterday.
Rocco Monroe crosses his arms over his bare chest and frowns down at the woman who isn’t only a pain in Harlow’s ass, but mine, and apparently, his. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but the only woman in my suite is my bride. How did you get up here? I thought this was a secure floor.”
It’s time for me to butt into this conversation and get Janie the hell away from my guests. “It is secure. She’s banging on the wrong door.”
Janie spins on her low heel, and her eyes widen when she sees me.
She’s taupe from head to toe with the exception of the navy cardigan draped over her shoulders.
If she’s been traveling all day, she sure doesn’t look like it.
Her bleach blonde hair is perfectly styled into her signature helmet ‘do.
If a hurricane blew her over, not one hair would move.