Chapter 10
Northern California
Alexander’s phone rang at twenty-two hundred on the dot. He was standing in the doorway between the terrace and living room of his rented property, leaning against the jamb, a scotch in hand that he’d been nursing for the better part of an hour as he looked out over Amanda’s property.
Dinner was long over; he’d left Amanda’s before bedtime tonight. She’d asked for some time, and, unable to think of a reason why she shouldn’t have it, he’d pleasantly said his good-nights.
The boys had looked a bit crestfallen—how he felt, but hid—to be knocking out early. They usually liked to help the girls with whatever puzzle they were working on, or if their luck was right, Amanda would break out Yahtzee and things would get competitive.
And those were just the things that happened before the kids’ bedtime, after they would usually retire to the billiard room. He was becoming rather proficient, Stephen too. Amanda just liked to be part of the gang, and Sam, Christ, she was good, albeit a tad bloodthirsty.
So yeah, leaving early was rough. Actually, it sucked. Especially since some of the awkwardness of the past few days had fallen away, as Amanda had seemingly, finally, worked out that he was a good guy and that what they’d once had was real. Just interrupted.
It had taken a week, and another blowup, to get there—Amanda was not one to be satisfied by a single round of questioning—but from where he was standing, even next door, it had been worth it.
They’d been on the terrace one morning after she’d wrapped up her session with Evan—she was still remembering only everyday life since her return to the States; nothing about their time together in Abersoch, not of significance anyhow—and her greeting to him had been blunt.
“How did you get out of prison? And by the way, does that make you a felon?”
“Good morning to you too,” he’d said, giving a look to Evan, but the medical genius had only shrugged.
So, while measuring his thoughts on which way to take this, Alexander had poured himself a mug of coffee, taken a long sip as he stared out at the coastal view, then turned to stand in front of Amanda, finally having landed on an answer he hoped would satisfy her.
“Stephen and Gregor broke me out, Amanda. And am I a felon? Technically, no. Any and all records of my activities are gone or have been destroyed.” Which happened to be the truth.
“What’d you do, super spy, to make them disappear?” Yeah, she was huffy at best.
“You want to know the truth?” he’d asked her as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise, wise guy.” Her foot had started tapping then.
“Your friend Samantha and the other super spy, wise guy”—he’d motioned with his head toward the kitchen—“Finch, made the last of the records disappear.”
“Bull.”
“Bull?” he’d repeated.
“Yeah, Alexander, bull.”
“Let me tell you something about the company you keep, sweetheart.” It’d been time to get something off his chest that had been bothering the hell out of him.
“That dear, dear friend of yours? Samantha Gilchrist, your sweet schoolgirl pal of yore who became a savvy esquire extraordinaire? She gave you the name of one of the most notorious fixers in London.”
“Fixer,” she’d said, scrunching her face, not following. “Who?”
“Stanley Finch.”
Her mouth had fallen open for just a second before her determined expression returned. “Just because someone’s capable of taking care of things doesn’t make them notorious, Alex. Maybe you’re the notorious one.”
Her naiveté was frustrating at best, and he’d let her know it.
“Do you realize, you hired Finch at a time when he’d just infiltrated a black market ring of blokes?
A pack so unsavory, I’m surprised you and Callesandra lived through the night by pure association alone.
Why you wouldn’t just pick up the God damned phone and call Art Fisher or a reputable service to begin with I have no idea. ” He’d yelled the last part.
She’d showed him her displeasure with a look.
“Sorry. You were ridiculously lucky. At his core, Finch happens to be a great guy, and the best at what he does. So, in the end, while Sam may have been correct, it was precarious at best. And it still gives me nightmares to think it could have gone another way.”
“You weren’t there, Alex!” she’d snapped. “At least I had someone to help me.”
It’d cut like a blade, sharper even than Stephen’s dagger. Stan’s voice, of all people, had sounded behind him then.
“He’s right, Amanda. It could have been really bad. Thank God I knew Sam, or she knew me,” Stan had said.
“Really, Stan? Whose side are you on?”
“Listen, I didn’t meet Alex until he purchased JDL.
But in the time that I’ve known him—hell, Amanda, I knew him from you too.
Your own words, actions even. You poured a scotch every night, placed it on the piano, and played for that God damned glass.
Consider yourself lucky you can’t remember it, ’cause Sam was right, it was heartbreaking to watch.
So as far as coming to his defense, yeah, I am. He’s one of the good guys.”
“He’s got blood on his hands,” she’d said, her voice exasperated, confused.
Stan had shaken his head. “Don’t we all.”
Alexander had watched Amanda digest what Stan was telling her, nodding as she’d accepted the story yet again.
He knew she trusted Stan completely. Memory or not, it would be a lie to say it didn’t bother him that there had been a time when she had trusted him completely, and that he wasn’t there anymore.
That it was his fault for not telling her they were married to begin with.
“Why did it take you so long to find us?” she’d finally asked.
“By the time I was able to start searching for you and Callie, Stan had you buried deep,” he’d said. “After finding the surgeon who repaired your hand, and then your home in New York, your trail went cold. Ice cold.”
Stan had interjected then. “Before we left Great Britain, I made a call to Art Fisher. He hired me on the spot, and you became an official client. We purchased passports and had Callie’s adoption papers and accompanying files forged in case we were stopped by the authorities.”
“Wait.” She’d put her hand up. “I just…ugh.” Her frustration had seemed to get the better of her. “Wait. That seedy back alley storefront outside of London.” She’d looked right at him then. “You were there searching for me, weren’t you? And Callie.”
“Bloody hell, Amanda. I did nothing but search for you and Callie.” He remembered when they’d shaken down the document forger in that alley, how close he thought he’d been to finding the key to tracking down his wife and daughter—and how devastatingly disappointing it had been to find he could only share their names—nothing that Alexander hadn’t already known.
“So we had already left?”
“A week after your surgery, you realized you were pregnant, and we left for the States,” Stan had told her.
“New York?” she’d asked, and Stan had nodded in response. “Why didn’t you come then, Alex?” she’d asked him—as if it were that easy.
“By the time we found the surgeon and document lab, you were gone from New York, Amanda. Not just Great Britain.”
“But I thought you were a spy,” she’d accused, seeming genuinely confused. “Why couldn’t you just, I don’t know, find me?”
“From the moment you and Callie were on your own, each purchase you made was either in cash or under an assumed name. Including the admission forms for Callesandra’s private school. Callie’s medical records. And yours. No back doors, Amanda. Encrypted. Sealed. Impossible to penetrate.”
“Impossible?” she’d challenged. “Yet here you are.”
“Because I bought JDL, Amanda. Even then, that was only after acquiring a slew of more security and surveillance companies that you happened to not be a client of.”
“I’m the reason you went into the security business?” she’d asked as if the enormity had just dawned on her.
“Yes, Amanda. I needed to be on the inside. Not that all clients require the services that you did for a time. But what use would those services be if another good sleuth could happen upon you? So, with Chris’s help, we…” He’d trailed off. That part she didn’t have to know.
“‘So with Chris’s help’ you what?” she’d pressed. And Alexander had sighed. Never satisfied until she had the whole story, that one.
“With Chris’s help, we purchased JDL Security, all its subsidiaries, and with the other business we had already acquired, formed a corporate conglomerate.”
“That had to cost an incredible sum of money.”
“It did.”
“How much?”
“It’s not important, Amanda.”
“How much, Montgomery?”
“Six hundred and fifty million dollars,” he’d said, suppressing a smile when Amanda whacked his chest with a “Shut the front door.” Then she’d leaned in closer and whispered, “You paid that much money to find me?”
“I would give all of my worldly possessions for you, Amanda, and then some.” Callie had come outside then, ending their conversation.
She’d ruminated on this new information for the better part of two days, then called a truce.
That she’d only snapped at him again that one time was really remarkable considering the pressure she was under.
Not that he was pressuring her—at least not anymore.
He’d gotten the message loud and clear after he’d gone all alpha and taken them from Chicago.
At times he actually longed for their old life, nothing like eighteenth-century estate life to know where his wife and children would be at any given time. That, however, had come with its own uncertainties. War, disease, travel that had kept them apart for long periods of time.