Chapter 4
Maya
The masked man stills, cradling the painting to his body. He makes no move to release it to me, and I want nothing more than to snatch it out of his grubby hands. How is this the second robbery I’ve been a part of in one day? The thieves in this city are out of control.
I raise the knife in front of my face, either to warn him off or hide behind the tiny blade. I’m not sure which.
I tried to call the cops, but there was no signal, which is weird, because it’s New York and there’s always a signal.
And the security system that usually runs like Fort Knox was blinking red.
That’s when the fool that I am thought, I’m brave, I can scare off a little intruder.
But anyone breaking into a skyscraper like this isn’t little, and they aren’t stupid. I alone hold that title.
My phone sits like a useless deadweight in my pocket. When they find my body tomorrow, they’ll wonder why I didn’t try harder to use it. Why I tried to take things into my own hands.
Currently, I’m wondering the same.
I’m no vigilante.
I’m a nanny. I’m not even a good one.
It’s not like I could stab someone, but this guy doesn’t need to know that. I only need him to believe it long enough to leave, without the painting worth more than two million dollars. The Hartwells will kill me if it disappears on my watch.
“Put it back. Now.” My voice falters on the last word.
“Why don’t you put the knife down before you hurt yourself?” It’s dark in here, and the man is wearing a mask, so I can’t see his expression, but he sounds very judgy.
I scoff, but my hand trembles. I’m facing off against an actual criminal—one who could hide my body where it would never be found. I’m so screwed.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching every scary movie in the world with Arabella, it’s to never show fear. Don’t back down.
And never end up in this kind of situation in the first place.
“Not going to happen.” I force the words out but my voice sounds funny, like it’s not my own. “Put the painting on the ground and step away.”
He sighs, the sound deep and annoyed, as if this kind of thing happens far too often. “Are we really going to do this?”
I gulp. Do what?
He slowly lowers the painting, propping it against the wall behind him. He’s got a slim backpack that locks in front of his chest, and he adjusts it as he stands to his full height and shakes out his hands before fisting them in front of him.
Oh. Oh! He wants to fight?
I clearly didn’t think this through. I can’t emphasize enough how much I don’t want to do this. I can’t fight; I can’t even kill a spider without cringing. I can’t hit a man. Oh gosh, what if he hits me?
I’ve never been hit on purpose. It’s going to hurt, isn’t it? What if I cry?
I’m not cut out for this.
I’m about to yell those words out loud when a thought strikes me—I don’t have to do this. This isn’t worth it. He can have the painting. I’ll get fired. I’ll truly have nothing, but at least I’ll have my life. Being brave is overrated.
I lower the knife, but the thief takes it as an invitation instead of a sign of surrender.
He rushes me, and my stupid body doesn’t move.
I stop breathing. A scream lodges in my throat, unable to escape.
I want to fight back, duck, do something, but I stand there like a statue as the man disappears, only to reappear behind me, one arm around my neck, the other hand slipping the knife from my fingers.
“Don’t hurt me…” I wheeze through my constricting airway. His grip isn’t tight enough to strangle me, but my body can’t tell the difference between the real and perceived threat and is shutting down on its own. Is this one of those situations where I can tap out? I’d really like to tap out.
“What the…?” His words falter as he clicks the knife in his hand.
The jig is up.
“Is this a prop knife?” he asks, his tone rather critical for a man breaking the law and holding a hostage. “You brought a fake knife to a fight?”
“Well, I wasn’t about to bring a real one!”
“Amateur.” The word drips with derision. As if I've offended him.
“Next time I'll bring my machete.” My limbs come loose at the same time my tongue does, and I shove at his arm.
He lets me go, and I sprint to the wall and grab the painting, if for no other reason than to use it as a shield.
If I save this painting for the Hartwells, they will be impressed; I may even get a raise.
My victory is short-lived as I’m yanked backward into a very hard chest. It’s broad and strong and… not what I should be focusing on right now.
“I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Too bad I know you’re lying.” His voice is deep and throaty, stirring something in my stomach I haven’t felt in a long time. “No one is coming.”
He turned off the security system.
I shove back, stomping on his foot.
In heels, it might have been enough to make him release me. In my pink fuzzy socks, it only sends a sharp pain through my heel. Stupid comfortable footwear. I kick at him again, but he forces me around, holding me at arm’s length.
It doesn’t stop my attack. I’ve taken self-defense, and all men have the same weakness. I nail it.
He cries in pain, staggering back, all but dropping to the floor in the fetal position.
I don’t know what to do next, but I watched Scooby-Doo with my brothers enough while growing up. I flip on the light and rip off the culprit’s mask with an “aha!” He would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for this meddlin–
His dark eyes find mine, and now I feel like I got a kick to the crotch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shakes his head and pulls himself up with great effort. “Perfect Perry?”
The blood drains from my face, pooling in my stomach. There, in all its bad-boy glory, is the smirk that nearly broke my heart eight years ago.
“Soren Satan?” I screech. No one used to call him that, but I’m going to have to start.
His eyes travel over my face as if he’s seeing a ghost. Funny, I could have sworn he was the ghost. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m not laughing.” I am on the verge of hyperventilating, though. How is he here? And why, after all these years, does he look so dang good? The injustice makes my head swim.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, angling his body in front of the doorway to prevent my escape. There is nothing I want to do more right now than run. Far, far away. And never look back. Kind of like he did.
“Me? What are you doing here?”
He motions to the painting still in my hands. “I believe that was obvious.”
Okay, it was.
“You’re a… a criminal?” I shout. I always knew it was possible this is what he’d amount to, but there was a point in time I hoped for more.
He frowns. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“No!” My voice is little more than a squeak. “You’re here to steal something. Therefore, criminal! How did you get in?”
He purses his lips, his eyes briefly darting from mine. “If I tell you that, it will sound criminal.”
My breathing speeds up, and I pace two feet to the right, then the left.
I need to call the cops.
And then I need to call the EMTs, because something is wrong with my heart. It keeps beating fast, then slow, then not at all. As if this man hasn’t tried to break me once before.
“I can’t believe you.” I want to chuck something at him.
Out of revenge? Most definitely. I never got to take out my anger on him back then; it’s overdue.
“It’s been eight years. Eight!” I grab something off the desk.
I’m not sure what I throw at him until he catches the small golden globe with one hand inches from his face.
“I was doing fine, by the way, and now you’re here to screw up my life once again. ”
“Do you really think I came all this way to mess with you?” He tosses the globe back and forth in his hands as if he’s enjoying my struggle. It only makes me angrier.
“Which begs the question, why are you here?” he asks.
“I’m the nanny!” I yell before I can stop myself. I belong here. He does not.
“No, you aren’t.”
I clench the painting tighter. “I think I know my job title.”
“Really? Because last I checked, the nanny was Penny Miller. That’s not you.”
I grimace, but before I can answer, a more pressing thought seems to afflict him.
“Wait, if you’re here, that means the kid is…”
I swallow and nod.
He curses.