8. Rashid
RASHID
"It's nonsense and you know it." Devid practically stomps his foot like a fool as he follows me through the house toward the car.
The driver is already waiting, having pulled around ten minutes ago when I first wanted to leave. Emory's class will be letting out soon and I have to be there when she gets there.
"If it were nonsense, do you think I'd be doing it?
" I'm not roiling with emotion today like I was last week when I intercepted her and saw her with that child, who I now know is most certainly hers.
Whether or not it's mine is still to be determined.
Without DNA we can't prove a thing, but a simple search of public record indicates Emory Rostova gave birth to a baby boy approximately nine months after that night in the club. It's no mystery to me.
"Think about this, Rashid. You’re focused on the wrong thing, pulling our men off of more important?—"
I whip around with a glare so cold it stops him dead in his tracks and square my shoulders.
"Our men?" I ask, lifting my eyebrows. "Or my men?
" Devid is my loyal, very trusted right hand, and the closest thing I have to a brother on this planet.
But if he crosses me one more time, he's going to learn why men don't cross me.
He flounders, taking a step back and dropping his head, though his scowl seems permanently etched into his forehead. I don't care if he thinks this is a waste of time.
The men want me rushing into war, ready to shoot it out with whoever stands in my way.
But I see the bigger picture.
We have to follow Rostov back to his source and stop it there, which we can't do if we go shooting him.
Besides, I have a son now, and that son would be affected by this violence—maybe caught in the crossfire too. I won’t have that.
"Sir, I swear. I just..." Devid hasn't called me sir in years, so hearing it proves he's gotten my point.
"Keep watching the Gusevs movements and reporting back. Let me deal with this. And stay the hell out of my way from now on. I'd hate to lose the only man in this organization I'd trust with my life." I straighten my tie and turn back toward the door, stalking through it into the colder air.
The driver takes me across town to the campus where I slide out, saying, "Follow behind me, but stay out of view." He grunts, and I shut the door, ready to wait for Emory.
Last week when I was here I lost my head. The shock of someone actually having the gall to defy me the way she has felt like the ultimate betrayal. No one crosses me like that—or they lose their ability to ever do it again.
But today, I'm coming to terms with the facts.
Emory has a child, and that child could well be mine.
There's no way to tell unless I obtain his DNA or she confesses it, and while that is very high on my list of priorities, so is finding her father and tracing him back to his source.
Which means knowing everything I can know about her.
My goal today is to follow her, and to plant seeds.
I'm playing a long game in my mind as I slip across the courtyard from the eastern side of campus to wait out of sight.
I have no intention of hiding my presence, but in order to ensure I make contact with her, I must surprise her to start with.
I wait less than ten minutes in the blustery winds as a storm front approaches, hoping the skies don't open up and drench me.
When Emory walks out of the building along the paved path toward the road, I fall into step about ten strides behind her in a group of students chatting about a sculpture assignment.
No one seems to notice I'm there until the students turn off at the bus stop and Emory continues walking.
She's captivating even now, though not wearing the slinky black dress this time.
Her long woolen coat hangs below her waist, masking that addictive figure I know she has, and her hair is tied up under a beanie.
But the way she walks all hunched over and guarded, as if she is fully expecting me to be following her, isn't like the woman I met that night.
That woman was bold and free, ready to take life by the horns. This one seems beaten down by something and afraid—perhaps because I’m back in her life, or something else.
With her father's line of work, I can see how life may have dealt her significant blows and taught her that men like me aren't to be trusted.
Maybe she knew that when she met me at that club, but that night was a way of throwing off the shackles of fear and paranoia.
Maybe she didn't know who I was until she woke up next to me sober.
Traffic is congested. The light at the corner turns red and I stay a few paces back, leaning on the cold metal of a light post as I watch her press the button to cross the street.
She looks up at me and blinks a few times, like it's not registering who I am at first.
But the light flashes, and a voice speaks to pedestrians to continue walking.
The flow of foot traffic continues, pulling her along.
But now every few steps she glances back at me.
Her eyes are narrowed in fright, forehead creased deeply, and I make no effort to hide my presence.
I want her to see me, and I want her to know I’m watching, but right now my goal isn't to make her afraid.
My men want the drugs back.
They want to go after Gusev and Rostov and make them pay.
But to do this the right way we have to play smarter. Most of them think the girl is a distraction, but I know better.
Yes, she came into my purview suddenly, and right at the moment I most needed to focus. But it's untapped potential.
Emory turns the corner around a brick building where I can't see her, and my gut tells me she'll run.
I glance over my shoulder at my driver, now a few blocks back but keeping pace with me and annoying other drivers, and decide I have to pick up the pace if I'm going to stay with her.
My feet move faster as I rush past a few other men out walking, smoking cigars, and as soon as I round the corner I almost slam into her.
She stands waiting, leaning against the brick facade with her arms crossed over her chest and an angry expression. "What are you doing?" she snips. "I told you, you're too old for me and I can't do this."
Ignoring her, I reach into the inner pocket of my coat and pull out the small velvet box containing the gift I purchased to grab her attention.
I flip it open, letting the streetlight catch the diamonds and the deep emerald pendant nestled in the center, and her eyes go wide with shock.
It's brilliant watching her be so taken by surprise.
“For you,” I say, holding it out between us. “I saw it and thought of your eyes—green fiery specks in them. I had to get it for you.”
She stares at the necklace, lips parted. Confusion flashes across her face first, then more shock.
Maybe she's impressed, even if she tries to hide it behind that angry scowl.
Her gloved fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to touch it but knows better.
“I can’t accept that,” she says quickly, taking half a step away and sliding down the brick wall. “Are you insane? I told you—you’re too old for me. I can’t do this, Rashid. Please."
I don’t pull the box back. I keep it extended, hoping she'll take the bait.
Then I paint the most pleading expression I can muster onto my face and hope she buys it. “Emory, please listen to me. I've been searching for you for three years. I fell for you the second I saw you in that club. You can't tell me you don’t feel the spark between us."
Her cheeks flush, but she shakes her head and a few strands of hair slip free from under her hat. “You don’t even know me. It was one night. One stupid, drunk night. I don't have time for this."
“For what?” I cut in, stepping closer so the wind doesn’t snatch my words away.
I expect her to step away again, but she stays put.
"Emory, please don’t turn me down. I know you think we don't know each other, but I know so much about you.
You share my love of art. You value your family and loyalty.
And you long for an adventure, just like me. "
She looks away. “I have a life. Classes. Responsibilities. I don’t need some… some rich older guy buying me jewelry and following me around town. It’s creepy, okay? Just leave me alone.”
So I'm getting nowhere, or at least she wants me to think I'm getting nowhere.
"I didn't realize you thought I was creepy.
" I pull the box back and hold it closer to my body, but I don’t close it.
After we connected... well..." My God, it's taking everything in me not to just grab her and motion for my driver.
But then I never get to the child, which is what I want.
And inevitably her father. "I thought you'd think it was romantic. "
Her eyes dart back to the necklace despite herself. I can see the battle in her expression—part of her wants to snatch it and run, another part is terrified of me, and rightly so. If my reputation has preceded me, I'm fighting myself here. Why the hell do I have to be so good at what I do?
“I can’t,” she repeats, but her voice cracks.
“I have… family stuff. My dad—he wouldn’t approve.
I’m not looking for anything serious. That night was a mistake.
A fun mistake, but still a mistake.” She rubs the back of her neck and her head dips, but her eyes stay on the jewelry, as if she knows what a piece this expensive could mean for her family.
I lean in a fraction more, close enough to smell the faint vanilla on her coat. “Your father doesn’t have to know yet. This can be ours. We can take it slow, no pressure. Let me take you to dinner or something. I want to show you who I really am."
She crosses her arms tighter, but her gaze keeps flicking to the pendant. “You’re impossible. I said no. Multiple times now. I have to get home. There’s… someone waiting for me.”
Her lie is so thin and fragile I could poke a hole right through it and destroy her composure in a split second, but I don’t call her on it.
Instead I tilt the box so the diamonds flash at her again.
“Okay then, take the necklace, Emory. Wear it or sell it and keep the money. If you still want me gone, I’ll walk away.
I just honestly thought we had connected.
It's not often a woman as intelligent as you is also so beautiful and captivating, and you stole my heart.
I just..." This is painful, watching her breathe faster and wrestle with herself.
She’s impressed—I can see it in the way her pupils widen despite the fear pinching her brows.
The necklace is working exactly as I hoped.
Expensive things have a way of softening hard lines, even on women who think they’re above it.
And I admire how she can be gently nudged to see things my way.
I actually do find myself entranced.
It's all an act, but I really did linger on her for months. I really did look her up and want more from her.
But who knows if that would've succeeded or if she'd simply be another dating casualty.
“I can’t wear that,” she mutters. “People would ask questions. My professors, my… friends. It’s too much. How old are you, anyway? Forty?”
“I'm actually forty-three,” I answer smoothly.
“But age is just a number when the connection is real.
" I step forward, reaching for her cheek.
I brush it softly with the outside of my knuckles.
My hands are cold, but her cheeks are colder.
"Please, let me show you why I've taken all this time to look for you and find you without giving up.
She pushes off the wall, trying to sidestep me. “No. Absolutely not. I'm too busy."
But I turn, following her movement, and walk backward with her as she moves toward the corner where the car is parked waiting. “Then let me understand. Let me in, Emory. I’ve waited three years. I can wait a little longer if it means doing this right.”
“You’re lying,” she snaps, but there’s less heat in it now. “No one searches for three years over a one-night stand. You want something. Everyone wants something.”
“I want you," I spit, now letting some of my frustration out. It's not easy being rejected repeatedly by someone who previously devoured you. “That’s all."
She stops trying to edge past me.
For a long second she just stares at the necklace, teeth worrying her lower lip.
I can practically hear the excuses stacking up in her head, each one weaker than the last.
“My schedule's insane,” she tries. “Classes until late, study groups?—”
“I’ll work around it.”
“I don’t even like fancy jewelry?—”
“You’re staring at this one like it’s the only star in the sky.”
She huffs a frustrated breath. “God, you’re relentless. This is why I left that morning. I knew you’d be trouble.”
I chuckle. “I'm trouble worth finding again.” I lift the box higher. “Take it. Please. Let me see it on you, even for a minute.”
“It’s beautiful,” she admits, “but I still can’t?—”
The sky cracks open before she finishes.
Cold, bitter January rain trickles down, soaking through my hair in seconds.
Wind whips it sideways, stinging our faces like needles. Emory gasps, yanking her hood up too late.
Water streams off of her hat and down her cheeks.
I snap the box shut and slide it back into my pocket, then grab her elbow gently but firmly. “My car is right around the corner. Come on.”
She tries to pull away. “No—I can walk. It’s not far?—”
“It’s pouring.” I steer her toward the street where the black SUV idles, wipers slashing back and forth as the rain picks up. “I’m not letting you catch pneumonia just to prove a point. Get in the car, Emory.”
“I said no!” She digs her heels in, rain plastering strands of hair to her forehead.
But I lean close, my tone cutting through the downpour. “You can fight me the whole way if you want, but you’re getting in that car. I’m not watching the woman I’ve spent three years chasing get drenched and sick on my account.”
The driver has already stepped out with an umbrella, holding it over us as best he can.
Water sheets off the black fabric as Emory’s teeth start chattering.
She glances at the SUV, then back at me, eyes wide with a mix of fury and reluctant defeat.
“Fine,” she mutters finally, the word almost lost in a gust of wind. “But only to the corner near where I’m going. Nowhere else.”
I guide her forward, shielding her with my body as we move toward the car. The rain bites harder now, soaking my coat, but I don’t care.
I'm one step closer to the child and getting everything I need.