Chapter 3 #2
The Navigators—or “Navs” as the team had termed the vehicles—were in place when they landed; two at the airport and two already stationed at the base of her property. Stan took a breath. This was it. Jenny was back in his life whether he liked it or not.
Ten clicks from the airport, and they were traveling down a long, paver-edged driveway that led to a stunning beachfront estate.
His breath caught when he saw Jenny peering out the window next to the front doors.
Then she started backing up, baby in her arms, just as he’d been told there would be.
Was it hers? he wondered. Her sister’s? Mr. D’Angelo hadn’t said.
“Did anyone tell her we were coming?” Stan asked. He didn’t want to scare her but feared it was too late.
“No. Mr. D’Angelo said she hasn’t answered any of his calls.”
Stan shook his head, got out of the Nav, and scanned the front perimeter as Trevor worked his magic on the security system. Moments later, the surveillance lights blinked clear, and seconds after that, Michael was at the keypad, lifting the bolt that released the front door.
Stan, still not allowing himself to dwell, went into autopilot mode, following protocol without thought.
When he stepped inside, he saw Jenny standing a little more than ten feet away, baby held tightly against her chest with one hand, Glock—pointed right at his chest—in the other.
Stan smiled approvingly. Smart for a beginner, he thought, though she’d always been a good student.
Aiming for the chest allowed more room for error—if she missed her target she’d still have a good chance of hitting something vital.
Not in his case, he hoped, merely in general.
“Ma’am, they’re thirty seconds out,” a voice said through the sound system.
Ah, Stan thought. She’d called 911. On cue, sirens sounded in the background. No matter. His guys would show their credentials and they’d be left to continue.
“Jenny,” Stan said, keeping his voice as strong and professional as possible.
“If you come one step closer, I’ll shoot.”
She doesn’t know it’s me. Her hand was shaking, and Stan didn’t think she was focusing on his face. Or, for that matter, on anything but her fear.
“Jenny,” he said, letting his voice soften. “It’s me…Stan.”
She wavered as her eyes darted up, her breath catching audibly as she stumbled for a moment before righting herself. His heart clenched as he reached out, as if he could steady her from the distance.
“Ma’am. Do you know the intruder? Ma’am?”
That damn emergency operator.
“My name is Stanley Finch.” Stan spoke loudly and clearly enough that the operator could hear him. “I work for Calder Defense. I’ve been sent to secure Ms. D’Angelo’s safe passage back to Long Island at her father’s request.”
“Ma’am?”
Jenny’s face was equal parts shock and horror as Stan heard Michael’s voice through his earpiece: the police officers had arrived.
“Why are you here?” Jenny asked, her voice deeply layered with dismay.
“Your father sent me.”
“I heard that. Why you?”
He felt her pain and shook his head. “I don’t know, Jenny,” he said, wishing he had something better for her.
“Just because your girlfriend moved on, doesn’t—”
“What?” A gut reaction, Stan cut her off, then righted himself—back to protocol. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” Not that that was protocol, but the thought of Jenny even thinking he was with someone else was disturbing. Obviously, time had done nothing to diminish his feelings.
Her eyes narrowed and seeing that kind of mistrust aimed at him from Jenny was like an arrow to his chest. “You did,” she said, sounding accusatory. “I saw the pictures. I know about you and Amanda Marceau. You were with her after…after last spring.”
Ohhh, I see. Stan relaxed slightly, then returned her narrowed-eye stare. “Yes. I’ve spent a lot of time with Amanda over the past year. As her detail.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head fiercely. “John showed me photos. You were holding her. In the Hamptons.”
What the…? Stan hadn’t known he could feel even more hatred for John, but there it was. “Jenny.” Of all the things to dicker about—at gunpoint, no less. “I took a position weeks after we… You—”
“Go away.” She began to back farther away from him.
“Sir.” He was flanked by officers as her soft-spoken words tore at his heart. Deep wounds flayed open. Thanks, Boss.
“ID, inside, left pocket,” he told them, well used to police procedure. “Shoulder and ankle.” Always let them know where the holsters are.
He turned back to Jenny, snapping defensively, “You went back to him.” Even in this tense, not-so-private moment, he couldn’t let it go.
It was suddenly as fresh as it had been fifteen months ago.
Where was Rules Stan when he needed him?
For the first time in his life, Stan hated his job.
Buddy, you are so out of your depth here.
“Go away, Stan,” she repeated.
“I wish I could, Jenny.”
“Ma’am,” one of the officers interjected. “Could you lower your weapon?”
Thankfully, she did as she was asked.
After the officers spoke with her and then him, they left with a nod, handing him her firearm.
Jenny eyed him warily from where she sat on her stairwell, peering up when he stood before her.
She looked ridiculously gorgeous for one a.m., and for someone who’d been roused from their bed unexpectedly, expecting to defend herself and her child. She’d done good.
“Let’s get you packed.”
Her expression said it all— Not with you.
What a change from the last time he’d helped her pack, back at the— No.
Don’t go there. Ignoring how deeply her slight cut, and the physical effect of standing so close to her, Stan gestured up we go with a sweep of his hand.
Perhaps realizing the futility of fighting him, Jenny fell in line like a good little soldier, and he followed her upstairs.
“Where do you keep this?” he asked, holding up the gun when they reached her room—a beautiful sanctuary replete with soft colors; posh, oversized furniture; and sheer drapery. A crib and changing table sat off to one side.
He watched as she wordlessly waved her hand in front of a piece of art and the frame lifted. Nice. He secured her Glock in the foam insert inside the wall, then mimicked the hand gesture, watching it close as Trevor walked in.
“Ms. D’Angelo, may I retrieve your bags?” Trevor asked.
“There’s a linen closet in the hallway with pre-packed bags. Standard, carry-on, and weekender ready to go. Take all of them, please,” she told him without looking up, scooping a blanket and plush toy from the crib.
“Can I get you anything for the baby?” Stan asked, feeling surprised at her preparedness and useless just standing there. He hated feeling useless.
Jenny shook her head, pointedly not looking at him. “I just have to get us changed.”
“Need help?”
She shook her head again and met his eyes for a fleeting moment before glancing away. “Thanks, I’ve perfected single parenthood,” she said, a strange edge to her voice, then grabbed a diaper and retreated to her bathroom.
Stan waited by the stairs, trying to shake the way he felt about her delivery of that last remark. The way she’d held his gaze for that brief second. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but it had come off as a jab. Something personal. Toward him.
Jenny was ready a few minutes later. Trevor had already transferred her bags into the truck and secured the baby seat Jenny had stored in the closet next to her “go” pile.
Michael was clearing the perimeter, not that it was necessary, seeing as they were the intruders that night, but Stan appreciated his thoroughness. Protocol and all.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” Stan asked in the foyer, once the other unpleasantries were out of the way.
She clutched her son—it was a boy; he’d asked—tighter. “I tried to call you,” she said instead of answering his question.
Inside, Stan crumbled a little. Yeah, he’d blocked her number. At the time, he’d thought he was doing it for both of their sakes.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” he repeated, not acknowledging her confession.
She shrugged. She looked tired. Beautiful but tired.
“Jenny?”
She flinched. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. Gianni was right; the aftereffects of living with a world-class prick. After Stan became privy to a few more details about her life with John, he couldn’t believe she’d gone back to him. Let alone had a child with him.
She’d never let on to any of it when they’d been together, had kept it all to herself.
Like a frog in water, who adjusted to a rise in temperature until it was too late, Jenny’s defenses had been expertly torn down.
As smart as she was, the art of manipulation would have been above her. She would have never seen it coming.
He could see how it had happened. He only wished it hadn’t.
Once the house had been given the all-clear, Trevor opened the door and Stan laid a hand on Jenny’s back to guide her out. She was shaking. At the truck, she turned, wide-eyed, when she realized he was the one reaching out for her baby.
“I assure you,” he said, “I know how to hold a child.”
She gave him the oddest look then, as she handed him the baby, like that moment would have earth-shattering consequences.
Then, she reached for the pull, stepped onto the running board, and damn if she didn’t slip and fall backward.
His free arm snaked out, pulling her against his chest, and God help him, she felt good there.
He reflexively held her tighter. Heart racing, Jenny in one arm, baby in the other, he couldn’t believe the fricking irony.
Why—why—did he have to be holding her again?
Punishment for their sins, he supposed.
He deserved it, and she’d obviously paid dearly too.
“Okay?” he asked softly in her ear.
She gave a tight nod, and this time, when she stepped back onto the running board, Trevor pulled her up from inside the truck.
She reached for her baby as soon as she sat down, and Stan gently handed the little boy over.
This simple action—so small, and yet so intimate—brought Stan back to an image he’d worked hard to forget: Jenny cooing over a baby on the boardwalk one morning during their whirlwind weeks in Palm Beach; how it had struck him then just how much he’d have liked to start a family with her.
It had been a near fatal blow when he’d had to put such fantasies to the wayside.
For the rest of the drive, Jenny stared out the window, pointedly not looking at him.
He knew this because he had difficulty turning away from her.
In fact, he’d watched until she’d fallen asleep.
Sleeping, she looked almost calm, a welcome reprieve from the lingering contempt he’d seen in her eyes while she was awake.
When they arrived at the private airport a short time later, however, Jenny startled awake with a gasp, eyes darting around the insides of the vehicle as she took in her current surroundings before calming.
Stan stared, gobsmacked at how quickly and fully she recovered from her panicked awakening, almost like it was practiced.
It made him wonder if this kind of wake-up was a normal occurrence for her.
Suddenly, having her at the compound seemed like a good idea after all.
Their pilot was waiting at the ready so it wasn’t long before they were cleared for takeoff.
Stan sat facing Jenny and the interior of the cabin, doing his best not to stare, though it was a subpar attempt.
He was a literal wreck inside. He could still smell her hair, the scent of her shampoo and conditioner lingering from when he’d had her pulled up tightly against him.
“I don’t want to go to my father’s,” she said abruptly, as they taxied the runway.
“You’re in luck,” Stan said, hiding a smile. At least he could deliver one piece of good news. “I’ve been instructed to bring you to the Montgomery compound.”
At this, she said nothing.
Once the pilot announced that they’d reached cruising altitude, Jenny took the baby from his car seat and went about feeding and changing him on the sofa situated by the galley.
Stan stood as she returned to her seat, holding out his hands to take the boy while she got comfortable.
This time, her hesitation was less pronounced, though duly noted.
When she was settled, he tilted her seat back to an almost full recline, nestled the baby in next to her, and covered them both with a blanket.
Then, he watched her sleep.
He tried not to, but damn if he couldn’t help it.
Glutton.