Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
V ander dropped Haven off at home.
He did a sweep of her apartment, his dark-blue eyes like storm clouds. “After I leave, lock the door and set your alarm.”
Haven nodded.
“Rhys or I will be here in the morning to pick you up.”
She nodded again. “Thanks, Vander. I appreciate all the trouble.”
He got close and used one long finger to tip her chin up. It was the first time he’d touched her. Vander Norcross wasn’t a toucher. He was way too intense and solitary.
“You’re one of ours, Haven. You work for Easton, you’re Gia’s friend, and you’re Rhys’.”
“I am not Rhys’.”
Those dark eyes stared at her until she wanted to squirm.
“We’ll keep you safe. Lock the door, alarm on.”
“Okay.” She closed the door after him, but knew he was still standing there in the hall. His presence practically vibrated through the door.
She flipped the locks and set the alarm. Okay, her life was officially off the rails. She’d been attacked again , and then Rhys Norcross went down on her on her desk and gave her the best damn orgasm of her life.
Haven pressed a hand to her forehead. She needed a glass of wine and a hot shower.
Shower first. Once she was under the hot water, she let it beat down on her head, and she relaxed a little. Until she started thinking of Rhys’ hands and mouth on her.
Dammit . She flicked the water off and got out.
She changed into her pajamas. Who cared that it was only three o’clock in the afternoon? Her short-shorts and tank top were comfy. She tugged on a loose, gray knit cardigan. In her kitchen, she poured herself some wine, then forced down some cheese, crackers, and prosciutto.
Haven flopped onto her couch. She was pretty sure Rhys was not giving up. She’d have to find some strength to fight the pull of him.
Now, she needed to do something to find her lost Monet. Damn, she’d forgotten Harry’s call. She needed to tell Rhys about the rumors of the auction.
Her phone rang. She snatched it up and recognized the number instantly. Her stomach clenched, a sour sensation washing through her.
Leo’s number.
Her phone was brand new, and her new number was for San Francisco. He shouldn’t have it. Unease skittered through her. Leo was not what she needed right now.
Ignoring it, she slid the phone in the pocket of her cardigan. Leo was her past, and she wanted him to stay there. He didn’t exist for her.
She slumped down onto her back. When she closed her eyes, she could feel Rhys’ hands pushing her thighs apart. Felt his mouth on her, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
Groaning, she squeezed her thighs together. She might need to get her vibrator out later.
A smell tickled her nose. Was that gas? Had she left the stove on?
Heaving herself up and off the couch, she headed for the kitchen. She checked everything and ensured all the burners were off.
Spinning, she frowned. The smell wasn’t stronger in the kitchen. She wandered back to the living room and sniffed. Maybe she’d imagined it?
The next second, the world erupted in noise and flames.
Something hit Haven’s head, and with a scream, she dropped to the floor. She rolled under her dining room table.
Everything was shaking. Oh God. Oh God . Fire. She smelled burning, saw flames and smoke. Everything was in shambles around her.
And there was a freaking hole in the floor of her living room.
Panic made her throat tight and her movements jerky. She quickly crawled toward the door.
She had to get out. She had to warn others in her building.
Mrs. Girard . The old lady used a walker and wasn’t very steady on her feet.
With a goal in mind, Haven’s head cleared. She got her front door open and wondered if her alarm was still operational.
She crawled into the hall. There was more smoke, more destruction. She reached Mrs. Girard’s door and banged her fist against it.
“Mrs. Girard!”
“Haven?” The door opened. The woman’s terrified face peered back, her halo of gray hair a mess.
“There’s a fire. We need to get out.”
Rising, Haven slipped her arm around the frail, older woman and helped her maneuver her walker into the hall. They hobbled toward the stairs.
“We can’t use the elevator,” Haven told her.
“You should go,” the old woman said. “You’ll move faster without me.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
The smoke was growing and Haven coughed. Her eyes stung. She nudged open the doors to the stairs.
“Come on, hold on to me and the railing.” They abandoned the woman’s walker at the top of the stairs.
Then they started down.
It was slow going. Mrs. Girard was shaky, and started coughing too.
“One step at a time.” Haven needed to try a distraction. “Maybe we’ll meet some hunky firefighters waiting for us at the bottom?”
That got a rough laugh out of her elderly neighbor.
She heard shouts echo in the stairwell below. Other people evacuating.
They rounded the landing, and smoke poured through a door from a lower floor.
“Keep moving, Mrs. Girard. Think of those firefighters.”
“You need a man, Haven.”
“No one needs a man. I had one. He wasn’t good. I don’t need another one.” Oh boy, at least Mrs. Girard couldn’t tell she was lying.
“They’re not all bad. My Mr. Girard was a good one. Even on the days that he drove me crazy. Once I had to hit him with my frypan.”
“You miss him,” Haven said quietly.
“Every day, my dear. But the pain is worth every minute we got to spend together.” Mrs. Girard broke into a coughing fit.
They negotiated more stairs, and the old woman leaned heavily on Haven. She had to focus on keeping them both upright. Her eyes were stinging, tears streaming down her face.
Please Lord, not much farther . Haven’s head was starting to feel woozy.
“There is a guy,” she found herself saying.
“Ah- huh .” Mrs. Girard coughed some more.
“He’s way too good looking. Every time I see him, my body goes haywire. I’ve been trying to avoid him.”
“Just like when I first saw Mr. Girard. That tingle. The knowing.”
“Oh, no. I’m steering clear of Rhys. I’m not the only woman who likes the look of him.”
Mrs. Girard clutched Haven’s arm. “I know you’re afraid, but Haven, to live, to love, you have to take some risks.”
The old lady stumbled, and Haven lunged and caught her. The dizziness was getting really bad. She needed to get them out. Her lungs were burning.
The smoke was getting thicker, and they managed to get down two more stairs. Then she saw movement.
Two firefighters in bulky suits, helmets, and masks appeared.
Thank you, Jesus . The men helped them out of the building. Outside, a crowd had gathered around the fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances.
One firefighter took a coughing Mrs. Girard toward one of the ambulances.
“Your head’s bleeding,” the other firefighter said to Haven.
“It is?” She swiped at her temple and saw red on her fingers. “I’m fine.”
“Get the paramedics to check you over.”
Her head was still foggy and she couldn’t think straight. She realized her legs were bare, and her feet were bare. She tugged her cardigan around her.
It was chaos. There were so many people. The firefighter started to turn away.
“Hey, what happened?” she asked.
“Looks like an explosion.”
Explosion? A chill went down her spine, and she tugged the cardigan tighter around her body.
Then she scanned the crowd and froze.
There were two men in suits, looking at the building, then the crowd. They gave off the same vibe as the man in the museum.
Oh, God . Had they done this?
That couldn’t be right. She was overreacting. Then she watched the men split up. One touched a woman’s shoulder, looked at her face, then turned away. The other one approached another woman.
Haven’s stomach turned to stone. The women they were talking to were about the same age as Haven, both of them with brown hair.
Quickly, Haven spun away, walking into the crowd.
She had no idea where she was going. Her head throbbed and she couldn’t think clearly.
All she knew was that she had to get away.
* * *
Rhys paced the Norcross office. Vander was questioning the scumbag from the museum down in one of the holding rooms.
Vander refused to let Rhys in on the interrogation because Rhys wanted to rip the guy’s head off.
The asshole had held a gun to Haven’s fucking head. He’d hit her. Rhys pressed his hands to his hips and dragged in a breath. She was home, she was all right.
He needed to step up this investigation. He had to find the damn painting and get Haven safe.
He heard footsteps and turned. Vander stalked up the stairs.
“What did you get?” Rhys demanded.
“The crew works for the Zakharov family.”
Sounded Russian. “Mafia?”
Vander nodded. “Sergei Zakharov is the head of the family. They’re out of Miami.”
Rhys stilled. “What?”
“Yeah, we need to see if this links back to Haven’s ex. Maybe she’s in contact with him and—”
“She’s not. He cheated on her, hit her. Fuck.”
“For now, we—” Vander’s cell pealed. He yanked it out. “Norcross.” Vander stiffened. “What? Fuck .” He gripped the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay.”
His brother’s gaze shifted to Rhys. Vander looked cautious.
A chill hit Rhys and spread. “Tell me?”
Vander’s face twisted.
“Vander,” Rhys prompted.
“There was an explosion,” Vander said slowly.
Rhys’ mind went blank. “Say again?”
“An explosion. At Haven’s apartment building. There’s no news on Haven.”
No. No! Rhys spun and ran for the stairs.
“Rhys, wait!”
He took the stairs two at a time. At this time of the day, traffic to her place in Pacific Heights would suck, as everyone was headed home from work.
Once he hit the garage level, he bypassed the SUVs and went for his bike.
He climbed on, yanked his helmet on, and gunned the engine. Then he flew out of the Norcross warehouse.
An explosion. Be okay, Haven. Be okay.
He’d only gone a block when Vander’s BMW motorcycle roared up beside him. His brother’s black visor looked his way, and he lifted his chin.
The two of them sped off down the road.
It wasn’t long before he saw the smoke, and his gut turned into a tight ball.