Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Six months later
KINCAID
The house in the outer suburbs of Sydney is a modest affair. A two-bedroom bungalow set back from the street, with a subdivided property tucked in behind.
I step back from the door after knocking, waiting for the occupant to answer, hoping Tyson’s information is as good as ever.
“Hello?”
The woman is aged in her late thirties, chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail that makes her look even younger. I’m shocked into silence for a few seconds, reading all the similarities to Francesca in her face.
“Ms Qualley?”
Expectation turns to alarm, and she tries to slam the door but I’m quicker, shoving my arm and leg into the gap. “Don’t be frightened. I have a proposition for you.”
Words I thought would be calming, but they act as a further trigger. By the time I push into the hallway, locking and bolting the front door behind me, she’s fled into the kitchen.
A second later, she reappears in the hallway holding a knife.
Like mother, like daughter.
I hold up my hands, trying to find the right balance to my smile. “Please drop the weapon. My name’s Kincaid, and I’m friends with your daughter, Francesca.”
Her mouth sags, the blade dipping until it points to the ground rather than my chest. “You know Chess?”
I shrug. “We’re dating.” I nod to the knife. “Do you mind?”
She grips the handle more firmly. “What d’you want?”
No queries about what her only child has been up to. No expression of concern. I should have expected it, given the circumstances she left her daughter to solve alone, but I’m caught off guard enough to duck my head, battling my fury into submission before I look her full in the face again.
“As I said, I’ve got a proposition.” I watch her through narrowed eyes. “If you’re worried about the problem left back at your last house, rest assured, that’s all been taken care of.”
Her chin juts into the air, so reminiscent of Francesca it’s like a punch in the chest. She frowns, then raises her voice louder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I spread my arms as wide as they can go. “Don’t worry. I’m not wearing a wire.”
“Well, good.” The knife drops to her side, though she still keeps a firm grip. “What’s this offer, then?”
“The same gift my uncle provided me when my mother’s neglect put me in danger. Your absence. Stay the fuck out of your daughter’s life, and I’ll pay you a million dollars.”
Shock freezes her expression, then her face creases into laughter. “Yeah, right. Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me, Ms Qual—”
“That’s not my name.”
I shrug, leaving a long enough pause for her to provide an alternative, but she doesn’t. I step forward and she retreats an equal distance along the hallway, nearly at the lounge. One more and I’m level with the kitchen.
“Can I get myself a glass of water?”
By the time she says no, I’m already in the room, taking a bill from under a fridge magnet. “Lisa Crowley. That you?”
Her face has already told me before she thinks to deny it.
“Nobody sent me, Lisa. I’m just here out of an abundance of caution. My intention is to love your daughter, forever if she’ll let me, and I don’t want the spectre of your reappearance hanging over our heads.”
“Look, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I think I’m a very well-connected man from a very dangerous family, who’s presenting you with a onetime-only offer.”
“And what happens if I turn it down?” She barks out a laugh. “Are you going to ban me from my daughter?”
“No, I’ll kill you.” Along with the bills, the fridge has a few pictures held by magnets. I pick up the one closest to eye level. A woman with curly brown hair and a button nose, holding the hand of a small boy, aged maybe three or four. “Is this your partner?”
“She’s no one,” Lisa says quickly, growing more alarmed. “I’m just renting this place.”
“Sure.” I replace it on the fridge. “I was just going to say, I’d kill you along with everyone you ever cared about.” I cock my head at the sound of an approaching motor, but the vehicle continues along the street. “And wouldn’t it be an awful thing to die knowing once you’re gone, I’ll hurt this woman and her lovely little boy?”
“And how do I know you won’t do that, anyway?”
“Because if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. I’m only making this offer as a courtesy to your daughter, who still retains some affection for you, beyond all reason.”
Her chin resumes its stubborn pose. “I don’t have a daughter.”
My teeth grind together, then I force a smile. “See now? That’s the spirit. Wasn’t hard at all, was it?”
She looks less sure of herself for a moment, then opens her mouth.
I touch her lips with my finger. “Hold that thought, would you? I just need to fetch something from the car.”
I go straight for the boot, withdrawing a prepacked duffel bag full of cash. The hardest part of this was buying enough Australian currency without raising alarm bells.
When I reach the front door again, it’s locked. I knock and step to the side window, cupping my hand to reduce glare as I peer through the net curtains. “Please let me in, Lisa. I don’t plan to hurt you, but if you upset me, that’s an entirely different story.”
She makes me wait so long, I’ve put down the bag again, taking out my lockpicking set before it opens. I replace the kit in my inside pocket and raise the bag, unzipping it just enough to show the contents. “Your payment.”
The door cautiously swings open, and I don’t bother entering, just tossing the bag into the hallway.
“Now I’ve confirmed you’re the right person; men will be assigned to keep tabs on you.” Her eyes widen and I hold up my hand. “They won’t act without my say-so, but wherever you go, I’ll have eyes. A year or maybe a decade from now, you might miss your daughter. You might run out of cash and think I’m an easy target. Be assured, if you ever try to contact us, in any way, you and everyone you love will be killed, and nobody will wait to see what it is you wanted. Understand?”
She glances at the cash, licking her lips, the knife still held tight in her hand. Then she nods and I don’t wait for anything further. The front door slams again when I’m halfway back to the car.
I need to return to my hotel and wash away the entire visit, then get on a plane home to my love.
* * *
FRANCESCA
The clip of my high heels echoes across the concrete expanse of the warehouse, the sound ricocheting off the large pallets stacked floor to ceiling. I glance at my phone, frowning when I see there are no bars for reception. Even when I hold it above my head, twirling in a slow circle, it doesn’t connect, and I tuck it back into my pocket.
“Kincaid?”
I hear his footsteps coming from the opposite side, and walk along the rows, peeking through the gaps to try to catch sight of him.
When I find the right corridor between pallets, it’s not Kincaid walking towards me.
It’s Lance.
“You look concerned, my dear.”
No kidding. “Where’s Kincaid?” I waggle my useless phone. “He sent me a message.”
“Ah.” Lance places his palm flat on his chest. “Full disclosure, that was me. Tyson is very good at cloning devices, although he suggested you already knew that.”
My polite smile falters. Even after Kincaid’s repeated reassurances his uncle won’t hurt me, I still find Lance Tana terrifying.
Kincaid is fully aware of the fact, sometimes jokingly using it to get his way. Our ideas of what constitutes a joke are wildly different.
“I have someone out the back I thought you might like to meet.”
He turns, walking a few metres before he glances back, frowning. “Are you not going to follow me?”
“Could you tell me the surprise, here?”
“Not without spoiling it altogether. Come on.” He nods at my heels. “Take those off if your feet are hurting. The sweepers have removed anything sharp from the floors.”
I do remove my heels, not because of my aching feet, but because they have three inches of stabbing ability, and that’s better than my bare hands any day.
As I pad along behind him, I try to remind myself of every conversation where Kincaid—and even Ezra, Onyx, and Tyson on occasion—have reassured me Lance is a gentle giant. Unfortunately, their stories all have the same qualification… until he’s not.
I try to turn my fear into a joke. “Is this like the ending to Goodfellas , where Lorraine Bracco doesn’t go down the long alleyway to her almost certain death?”
“Well, no. Obviously not.” He grins over his shoulder, then walks backwards for a few steps. “Because you are following me, aren’t you?”
I stop in place. “That wasn’t quite the response I’d hoped.”
He laughs, and the sound does more to ease my worries than anything else. Especially when his menacing expression relaxes into a lazy smile. He reaches for my hand, tugging me forward until I match his pace.
“Hey. Some of us are a few feet shorter than others,” I protest when his long stride requires me to break into a jog.
“Sorry.” His face softens even further with a private smile. “Bella reminds me of that all the time, too.”
Bella is the jewellery salesgirl from the harbour cruise. Despite what I overheard, he doesn’t appear to be growing bored with her. If he still deals in six-month contracts, they’re onto their second or third.
“Ta-da,” he calls, opening a door at the back of the warehouse and throwing it wide. “I was hoping this could be an engagement present, but Kincaid has ignored all of my hints, so it’s just a run-of-the-mill, everyday present.”
My heart crowds into my throat as I peer around the corner, taking a few seconds to decipher what I’m seeing.
A man is tied into a chair, his face colourful with bruises, his lips and eyes grotesquely swollen.
“Say hello, Roderick.”
When he opens his mouth, I flinch from the jagged stumps that were his teeth. “Francesca. Please help me.”
Blood turns to ice in my veins as I recognise his voice. It’s been the better half of a year, but I still remember. He’s the contact turned blackmailer. The one Richard warned me was a bad man.
“Now usually I wouldn’t allow this, but seeing as it’s a present, if you prefer to rescue this man who so casually tried to exploit your vulnerability, that’s up to you.”
Lance reaches inside his leather jacket and produces a flick-knife that he passes to me.
“It’s the button on the side,” he instructs, and I push it, jumping when the long blade shoots out.
“If you want him to go free, cut his bonds, and I won’t stop him escaping. Likewise, if you’d prefer not to kill him yourself, give me the word and I’ll take over.” Lance locks eyes with me, his right eyebrow arching slightly. His irises are just a shade darker than Kincaid’s. “But I thought you deserved the chance to end him yourself since you’re the one he caused so much bother.”
“I didn’t cause anything!” The man cries, chest hitching while blood trickles down his disfigured face like gory tears. “Please. I only ever tried to help you.”
Lance holds up a finger, then finds a discarded wad of cloth on the oil and grime-stained floor, shoving it into the man’s mouth, muffling his screams. “That’s better. You need silence to think.”
But I don’t.
Perhaps if he’d gone through with the job, I wouldn’t hold such a grudge, but the way he took my hard-earned money, then threatened to use my desperate words against me, hardens my heart. The wound of being separated from Kincaid is still fresh.
I switch the knife from hand to hand, staring at the sharp blade. “Is there another way?” I ask and the restrained man’s eyes light with hope.
“Besides setting him free?”
“No. Besides the knife.” I give a rueful smile as Roderick screams into his gag. “The last time I tried to stab someone, it didn’t go very well.”
Lance presses his lips together, looking faintly amused. “I have some plastic bags.”
“Yes. That sounds perfect.”
It also means I don’t have to stare into the man’s eyes. Even with his head wildly whipping from side to side, I manage to pull the two plastic bags into place, grabbing the leftover plastic at the back of his neck, then twisting it to form a seal.
His body bucks wildly but the restraints are good and tight. My hands are never in danger of being knocked free.
I count to sixty after the worst of his struggling has stopped, but Lance raises his forefinger. “Give it just a few minutes more. It’s better to be certain.”
And I’m happy to defer to his experience. When I next release my grip, I press my fingers to his throat, searching for his carotid artery, and unable to find a pulse.
“Don’t bother yourself,” Lance advises when I start to remove the bags. “I have a cleanup crew who’re more than happy to take over from here.”
I’m not sure what to say. Nothing I think of matches to the complicated emotions that result from his unusual present. I settle for, “Thank you.”
“It’s my absolute pleasure.”
I shift my weight, staring at the floor before I meet his eyes again, giving a small shrug. “And you know that Kincaid hasn’t been ignoring any hints. He’s just working to my timeline instead of yours.”
He gives a deep chuckle. “Well, I suppose you’ve got to get your shots in where you can. I’m aware our family takes persuasion to a whole new level.”
His dry delivery makes me burst into laughter, and when he tucks me under his arm for the walk back through the warehouse, I don’t object in the slightest.
At the doorway, he steadies me while I put my heels back on, then he plucks a few loose hairs away from my shoulders, as fastidious as his nephew. “And you should know, I don’t mind if you’re planning to formalise things now, next decade, or never.”
He cups my neck, pulling me into a hongi, then presses a gentle kiss on each cheek.
“Welcome to the family, my dear. We’re all so pleased to have you.”
* * *
Two years later
FRANCESCA
The university grounds are crawling with spectators for the semi-final match and the enthusiasm of the crowd is contagious. Sitting pride of place in the stands, I get into the spirit, bouncing to my feet to cheer when a try is pressed to the ground, or a conversion sails between the posts.
Then I join in the exaggerated groans, complaining the ref needs glasses when the calls don’t go our way.
Occasionally, I’ll bump into sideways glances at my dress, the fabric rearranged with the judicious application of teeth and brute force, but I’ve grown a skin thick enough to ignore them. Kincaid is never happy with any dress I chose to wear to his matches. They always end up ruined.
I end up ruined, too, the slipperiness of his release pooling between my legs.
But none of that distracts my attention when the game is in play.
All I have eyes for is the men working their hardest on the pitch below me.
One player more than others.
Although he took a three-month sabbatical from his senior year, Kincaid’s grades were high enough for him to sign up to a few university courses. At his current pace, it’ll take him approximately a decade to cobble together a degree and graduate, but he doesn’t care. He only bothers with the classes that help him understand the inner workings of his uncle’s business—earmarked to become his—and also qualify him for the university rugby team.
He no longer has ambitions to turn professional but enjoys the game as much as I enjoy watching him. After his short absence, Kincaid returned as much of a fan favourite as ever judging by the noise from the stands.
I can hear their unwavering support in the ecstatic cheers that erupt each time he does a great pass, the stamping feet turning into a drumbeat of appreciation when he savagely tackles another player to the ground.
It’s especially weird for an away game.
As the ref blows the final whistle, our side are four points ahead, taking the victory. I jump up and down in my seat, waving to the players as they walk off the field, then Kincaid angles towards the stands, beckoning me with his finger.
In front of a crowd of a thousand strangers, he bends my head down to receive his kiss, taking his time, not caring about his teammates or coach or the rampant applause.
As he pulls away, his gaze focuses solely on me. A reminder that I’m the most important person in his world.
“Come down,” he says, jerking his head at the stairs. But they’re already packed with exiting spectators and instead of waiting, he lifts me over the barrier, swinging me into his arms for the walk along the tunnel to the locker room.
“I hope you don’t mind one more,” he calls to his coach, not paying enough attention to tell if he objects or not.
His large hand envelopes mine, clutching it too tightly for me to escape.
Not that I’m trying.
“Shouldn’t I wait outside?” I ask, scared to look away from him for a second in case I see another player in a state of undress.
Even if he’s the one who dragged me into the changing rooms, I doubt Kincaid will factor that in if he sees me ogling a half-naked teammate.
“Absolutely not. Once they’re done, I’m dragging you into the shower and making sure you’re clean from head to toe.”
A promise that makes my stomach flutter.
“Hey, Kincaid. You coming to the afterparty?” Jared calls.
Hailey stands just behind him, their relationship in its on-again phase, and her presence makes me more comfortable. We share a smile, then Jared lifts her into the air, bouncing her up and down like a trophy.
And Kincaid turns to me. “What do you think?” I nod, laughing as his face brightens. “Oh, I’m gonna corrupt you so badly. You haven’t seen a party till you’ve seen a post-semi-final-away-game-party.”
I’m still laughing at the label when he kisses me, hand cupping my head to hold me steady. Which is lucky, because my knees buckle under his devouring lips, fists bunching in his sweaty shirt.
“Save it for the room, guys,” his coach calls out, sounding nervous.
He’s probably seen his fair share of post-match celebrations, and I don’t want to add to his trauma. “How about you take a shower, and I head back to the room to change?”
“No need. I have another outfit for you in my locker.” His lips find my ear, buzzing against it as he whispers, “Call me a boy scout because I am always prepared.”
With that, he tosses me over his shoulder, carting me into the showers and chasing out the few remaining players.
“And what’s stopping them coming back through the door?” I ask, squirming away from his clasping hands.
“Common decency.”
I burst into laughter, and he takes the opportunity to drag me under the showerhead, soaking me to the skin.
“There’s also a wedge under the door. Better hope it didn’t stick too fast or we’re never getting out.”
His hands wander over my body while he’s talking, and I tease, “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
The replying deep chuckle sounds ominous until I lay my head against his chest, the vibrations filling me with hunger for his touch.
“This dress is soaked through,” he says, sounding shocked. “You should get out of it immediately.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to protest before he peels away the wet fabric, kissing each inch of skin he reveals.
“Such a dirty, dirty girl,” he whispers, the insults turning me as wet and hot as the shower. “It’ll take me forever to get you clean.”
And as I drag his mouth down to mine, all I can think is that forever sounds like the perfect amount of time.
* * *
The hotel room is dark when I stir, curled inside Kincaid’s protective embrace. For a moment, I don’t know what woke me, then the sound echoes through the room.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
A noise like dry bones scraping across concrete.
“Fran- ces -ca.” The scratching grows louder, a worthless man’s last desperate fight to get free. It doesn’t care that this is a hotel room far from where he died. The singsong voice whispers from the walls, “Oh, Fran- CES -ca.”
Instead of reacting, I snuggle further into the warmth of Kincaid’s arms, my nose pressing against his strong chest. Knowing I won’t come to any harm while he holds me, both in his arms and in his heart.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Stupid mice.
Within a few seconds, I’m already halfway back to sleep.