Chapter Five
GEMMA
Dallas is the scariest man I've ever met, and I've never felt safer.
After holding me while I cried, he took one look at my ruined dress and told me to pack a bag. Then he took my hand and led me through the darkened house, checking each room before I entered. Charles and Matilda weren't there, and I can only pray they were somewhere else tonight.
He stands by the window in my bedroom, body tense, scanning the street while I throw some clothes and toiletries in a small duffel bag.
The only other item I take is an old wedding photo of my mom and real dad.
It was taken at their reception, and they're both laughing with cake smeared over their faces.
I’ve never seen my mom that happy. She’s a ghost of the woman in this photo and has been since my real dad died. I wonder how she’ll be now that Arthur is dead.
I tuck the photo into my bag and zip it closed. "I'm ready."
Dallas shifts away from the window and takes my duffel. When he holds out his hand, I don't hesitate to take it.
His features soften with the touch, and there's a warmth in the golden hazel of his eyes.
I marvel at the transformation, realizing it's the third time I've seen it. The first when he froze and put distance between us after the kiss. Then again on the street outside, when he shifted from killer to the man that held me as I cried. Now this simple touch.
It's as if he flips some internal switch between emotionless mercenary and the man I met in the ice cream shop. Maybe he has to for the work he does.
It only deepens my curiosity about him.
Dallas drives us across state lines into Mississippi and stops at a little motel off a small highway.
There's only one other car in the parking lot and the lobby is empty except for a bored clerk about my age, wearing a top hat with goggles, an embroidered vest over a silk shirt, and buttoned trousers.
He lights up when we walk through the door. "King! Where ya been, man? It's been months."
"Archie." Dallas lifts his chin in greeting. "Same room."
"Sure, sure." Archie types something into the computer with flourish, then hand Dallas a gold-feathered pen with a logbook to sign.
Dallas takes the pen without a second glance and scrawls a signature that looks like King Lucian.
Archie eyes me. "You never brought a babe before."
A warning growl rumbles out of Dallas's throat. "She's not a babe."
"Looks like a babe to me," Archie mutters taking the logbook. He smiles when he reads the entry. "Lucian. Good one. King never uses the same name twice," he says to me. "He guards his real name like gold. Won't even tell me whether King is his first or last name."
“Maybe he’s a pop star,” I reply. One look at Dallas and no one would ever believe that, but the teasing words slipped out. I like Archie. Anyone who can rock steampunk at a roadside motel in Mississippi and treat Dallas like a long-lost friend is special.
Archie laughs so hard his top hat slips. He catches it, settling it back on his head and says, “Go on, King. Sing us your latest hit.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Dallas grumbles at me. Then, “The room key, Archie."
"Right, right." He grabs a key from the numbered boxes behind him and slides it across the desk.
Dallas reaches for it, but Archie doesn't let go.
"You, uh... didn't happen to bring anything?" His cheeks flare pink. "Sorry. Never mind. Good seeing ya, man."
Dallas eyes him a beat, then reaches into his inside coat pocket and removes an engraved silver pocket watch. He sets it on the counter.
Archie stutters something unintelligible, then, "Thank you. I'll.. I’ll treasure it."
Dallas takes the key. His hand lands on the small of my back and he guides me to the door.
"Was that yours?" I ask once we're outside.
"No. It was meant for him." He leads me to the room right in front of where he parked and unlocks the door. "We're safe here for the night."
He checks the room anyway. Once it's clear, he retrieves my duffel and another black bag, then bolts the door and sets the chain.
The furniture is old and the decor dated, but it smells clean. There's a queen size bed and nightstand, a dresser with an old television, and a small table with only one chair. Beyond is a small bathroom.
"You rest. I'll keep watch," Dallas says, setting our bags down.
"Don't you need sleep?" I sink down onto the bed. It's surprisingly comfortable.
He shakes his head. "If I need to, I'll rest for a few minutes in the chair."
The chair looks too rickety to hold his weight, and the foam padding looks like it gave out in 1982, but I'm too exhausted to argue. It has to be after midnight.
I worked a full shift at Sweet Scoops before getting dressed up for dinner with my father and the fundraising gala…
My chest constricts until it's hard to draw a breath.
The gala. He was so excited about it. Bragging about the celebrities and wealthy business associates who would be there.
I wonder how many of them knew the real Arthur Townsend. The man who was happy and good-natured—as long as he got what he wanted. When he didn’t, he lied, schemed, and manipulated anyone and anything until he did.
Like he manipulated me into signing those papers.
How many of them helped him buy land ahead of infrastructure deals or funnel bribe money and kickbacks?
How many of them knew they were using me to keep their hands clean?
I look down at my hands, seeing his blood even though I wiped most of it off. He’s dead, and they’re still dirty.
A strangled sound rips from my throat.
Dallas kneels in front of me and takes my hands. His thumb strokes over my palm in a soothing circle. "You've been through a lot. I know you're scared. Why don't you go clean up?"
Memories from the gala rush back, closing my throat.
"Come on, honey." He pulls me to my feet and grabs my bag, then guides me into the bathroom. It’s so small there’s barely room for the both of us.
He sets the bag aside and twists the handle to turn the shower on. "I'll be outside if you need help."
"Dallas, wait. My dress. Could you start the zipper?"
He hesitates in the doorway. But as his gaze moves down over my dress, it lingers on my hips and the high slit. “Of course.” His voice is rougher, when he says, “Turn around, Gemma.”
I turn my back and lift the strands of hair that fell from the pins hours ago.
He steps in closer, and the heat of his big body envelops me.
One second passes.
Two.
The air changes, growing thick with awareness. I can feel how close he is. Smell the crisp, warm scent of him. It goes to my head, making me feel needy. My nipples harden, brushing against the satin gown.
The thick pads of his fingers skim the base of my neck and trail between my shoulder blades. "You're beautiful in this dress, Gemma," he murmurs. "When the stage lights shone on you, I couldn't look away. The way you moved. The tantalizing sight of your legs."
His fingers skim the outside of my thigh where it’s bared by the side slit.
“How you smiled for everyone.” Dallas’s lips skim the shell of my ear and he whispers, “I wanted your smile all to myself. How could I hurt someone knowing you would never smile for me again?”
He hesitated. Because of me.
I swallow hard.
He slowly lowers the zipper.
I tilt my head back to look over my shoulder.
Our gazes meet, and the warm golden green of his eyes says he's remembering our kiss.
Dallas traces my jaw and his thumb grazes my lower lip.
Then he steps out of the tiny bathroom and closes the door, taking the heat with him.
He’s dangerous. I know that.
But no matter how many times I whisper it in my head, I still feel safe with him.
He came for me even though he also has a price on his head.
The nasally voice of the man from the alley fills my head.
She’s prettier than her dossier photo. Might take a little bonus from her before I collect.
That man looked like he would enjoy hurting me.
What if Dallas hadn’t been at the gala at all? Would I have even made it out of the building? Would I be dead beside my father?
A chill sinks into my bones until I start to shiver. I quickly undress and step beneath the hot spray, but it doesn't penetrate the cold. It doesn’t drown out the sight of my adoptive father falling into my arms fills my head or the screams of frightened gala guests.
It doesn’t penetrate the confusion, anger, and terror from the men outside my house. Emotions swell and crash over me like a wave, stealing my breath until I can't breathe. I sink to the tile as tears spill down my face, getting lost in the water. Because on top of it all is relief.
That I'm alive and Arthur is dead.
He can't hurt me or my mother anymore.
Whatever he did with those papers will go to the grave with him. I think. God, I hope the investigation doesn't bring those to light.
He held them over me for years, promising I'd go to jail if they were discovered. Even though I was young when I signed them, I’m an adult now. He promised I’d be tried as an accessory to the crimes. It kept me in line.
Now I have to wonder how much of it was true. Can he still ruin my life even though he's dead?
As the tears stream down my face, I worry that he could. I don't know anything about the shell company, but as Arthur reminded me all the time, it's in my name. If investigators start digging, they won’t see a fifteen-year-old who signed what her dad told her to.
They’ll see Arthur Townsend's daughter.
I had such grand dreams of being an elementary teacher. Of helping shape young minds and give them a better life. But I haven't even been able to finish my degree. He hindered me at every turn.
Yet I still loved him. He was part of my life for almost eighteen years. He kissed my skinned knees, proudly took me to a daddy-daughter dance at school, and watched terrible romcoms with me when I got older.
He was like two different men when it came to fatherhood versus business. After he became a congressman, they started to combine into one man. One neither my mom nor I recognized.
Tonight, they both died.
I don't know how long I sit there, mourning him and my life. Guilt and relief twist together in my stomach until I'm doubled over.
At some point the bathroom door cracks. I feel the change in the air.
Dallas doesn't say anything, just checks on me, then quietly closes the door.
When the tears no longer fall, I wash the rest of the blood from my hair and skin and feel somewhat better.
Dallas is pacing the room when I open the bathroom door.
He's removed his jacket and shoes, and when he turns, his tie is gone and the top buttons of his shirt are open, revealing a hint of muscled chest. The sleeves are rolled over his corded forearms, where I spot the edges of ink.
Even when he should look relaxed, he radiates controlled strength.
He halts when he sees me, scanning me from head to toe, taking in my wet hair and bare legs. I'm wearing the first thing I put my hands on in my rush to pack - a silky chemise and short set in light pink.
He swallows then drags his gaze away. "I made a couple calls. Your mother is okay. The police are with her. Derek from Citadel Securities is sending one of his specialists to guard her."
I sink onto the bed, flooded with relief. "Thank you."
"The contract is still out on you," he says.
"What about yours?"
He gives a clipped nod. "There's only one way to stop this."
"How?" How do you stop a contract killing? I haven't seen enough action movies to even make a guess.
"You burn it down," he replies in a deadly voice.
A shiver runs down my spine.
"Try to sleep, honey. No one will get to you."
Every inch of my body feeling wrung out but I’m not sure I can sleep knowing I’m still a target. I climb beneath the covers anyway and try to get comfortable.
Dallas switches off the light.
Minutes pass.
Sleep doesn’t come. I’m too aware of the panther prowling around the small motel room. Dallas is as unsettled as I am, and it's keeping us both on edge.
"Dallas," I whisper into the darkness.
"Yes?"
"Why are you helping me?"
I see him turn toward me in the dim light coming through the curtains from the parking lot beyond.
"Because you smiled."
There's so much loneliness in his voice. Does anyone really know Dallas King? Even Archie didn't know his real name.
The name he gave to me.
"Will you sit with me? Please? I don't want to be alone."
He hesitates. "You sure?"
That I want him close? After everything? “Yes.”
He crosses the space and slowly lies down beside me, fully clothed. Careful. Controlled. Like he’s afraid even breathing wrong might break something fragile between us.
He doesn’t touch me.
But the heat of him seeps through the thin cotton of the sheets.
It’s enough.
My body unwinds a little. My breathing slows. And he slowly relaxes.
Sleep claims me before I can thank him.