7. Emma #2
A muscle shifts beside his mouth. The cut in his lower lip pulls when he presses his lips together.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re holding an ice pack against your ribs and leaning on the doorframe.”
I straighten, which only proves his point when pain pulls through my side.
Alex moves toward me.
Instinct makes me tighten my grip on the doorframe, but he stops before reaching me. His hands remain at his sides.
The restraint unsettles me more than being ordered back into bed would have.
“When you said you could protect me,” I begin, “were you serious?”
His expression changes so slightly that I might have imagined it.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“That isn’t true.”
His eyes narrow.
“You say things to hurt me all the time.”
“Those are usually sincere too.”
I almost laugh. The only thing stopping me is how much it would hurt.
Alex takes another step, slow enough to give me time to retreat.
I stay where I am.
“Why are you asking now?”
“I need to know what you can do.”
“I can do a great deal.”
The answer is pure Alex. Arrogant. Certain. Backed by enough money to make the arrogance reasonable.
“From whom?”
“What?”
“You asked whether I could protect you.” His gaze does not leave mine. “Who are you afraid of?”
“I’m not asking for myself.”
His jaw hardens.
“Of course you aren’t.”
“I need you to protect Liam.”
Alex glances at the hand I have pressed against my ribs, then back at my face.
“What happened to not needing my help?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“It is always about you when someone is using your brother to frighten you.”
My heart misses a beat.
“I didn’t say anyone was using him.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I push away from the doorframe.
“I need Liam to stay in Austin. He has to keep his scholarship. He needs to play baseball, go to class and live his life without knowing there are armed men following him.”
Alex watches me carefully.
“You know someone is following him.”
The words are not a question.
I should deny it.
Instead, fear and exhaustion loosen something I have spent ten years keeping sealed.
“There are people from Mark’s world looking for us.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Alex goes still.
“What people?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was Mark involved in?”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Belle.”
“No.”
The word comes out too quickly.
I step back. Pain catches beneath my ribs, but I barely feel it.
“I have already told you more than I meant to.”
Questions crowd his eyes, each one sharpening as he looks at me. I wait for him to choose the one that will hurt most, every muscle already braced for it.
But he says nothing.
Alex studies my face for another moment, then lets the silence close over the subject.
The mercy is so unexpected I do not know what to do with it.
He turns away and walks toward the kitchen island.
“Suppose I agree.”
I stare at his back. “Suppose?”
“Protection at the level you’re asking for requires men, vehicles, surveillance and access to his schedule.” He rests both hands on the stone, careful of his injured knuckles. “It requires me to involve myself in every part of your brother’s life without his knowledge.”
“You’ve involved yourself in people’s lives for less.”
“That wasn’t an objection.”
“No.”
He turns.
“What are you offering in return?”
This is the new Alex I’ve come to know.
The softness from the alley is gone, locked away behind the face he wears when every conversation has a price.
I should be relieved.
Instead, disappointment presses beneath my breastbone.
“What do you want?”
“I asked what you’re offering.”
“Money?”
His gaze moves over the old shirt I sleep in, the borrowed apartment behind me and the ice pack sweating through my fingers.
“Do you have any?”
Humiliation heats my face.
Alex sees it and immediately looks as though he regrets the question.
The regret vanishes before I can be certain it was there.
“I’ll work,” I say. “More hours. Whatever you need done here.”
“You already work for me.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
He leaves the island and starts toward me.
Not directly.
He moves around me in a slow arc, looking at me as though the answer might be written somewhere on my body.
Every nerve follows him.
I should turn and keep him in sight. Instead, I remain still while he passes behind me.
His cologne reaches me first. Familiar enough to make my throat tighten.
Then his warmth.
He does not touch me. There are inches between his chest and my back, but my skin reacts as though his hands are already there.
“What are you willing to do for him?” he asks.
His voice comes from just behind my shoulder.
“Anything.”
The word leaves too easily.
Alex stops.
My fingers tighten around the ice pack.
Why did I say that?
Because Liam is my brother.
Because I would trade anything for his safety.
That should be the entire answer.
It is not.
Alex comes around to face me.
His eyes have darkened.
“Anything is a reckless word, Belle.”
“I mean it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He takes the ice pack from my hand before it slips. His fingers do not touch mine, but they come close enough for my pulse to jump.
He sets the pack on the console beside us and returns his attention to me.
Without it held against my ribs, I feel exposed.
“What if I ask for something you don’t want to give?”
“I’ll give it.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Heat gathers low in my stomach.
I hate myself for it.
Yesterday should have taught my body that his touch means danger. He followed me without permission, dragged a man off me and came home with blood drying across his mouth.
Then he held me.
Baby, look at me.
I can still hear the fear in his voice. I can still feel his palm cradling the back of my head and his arms tightening when I clung to him.
There has been no one since Alex.
It has been ten years since anyone touched me. Since hands moved over my skin, a mouth found mine, or a warm body lay beside me in the dark.
For ten years, I haven’t let anyone touch me.
Now he stands close enough that I can see the small cut on his lower lip, and every starved part of me remembers being twenty and ravenous for him.
Alex takes another step.
I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him.
He does not touch me. He only watches, and somehow that is worse. If he put his hands on me, I could blame him for the way my body reacts.
But he does nothing.
The heat spreading through me is mine.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, to the pulse jumping in my throat.
My nipples tighten beneath my shirt.
I fold my arms, then wince when the movement pulls at my shoulder.
Alex’s hand rises.
For one breath, I think he is going to touch my face.
His fingers stop beside my cheek.
He lowers them again.
The restraint sends another pulse of heat through me.
What is wrong with me?
I came out here to save Liam, not to stand in front of Alex imagining his hand closing around the back of my neck.
Not to wonder whether he would kiss me gently because I am hurt.
Not to remember what his voice sounded like when he called me baby and wish he would say it again with his mouth against my skin.
“You should reconsider,” he says.
I force myself to swallow. “Why?”
“Because once you give me that word, I decide what it means.”
The warning should be enough to make me step back. It frightens me, but fear is not the only thing curling low in my stomach.
“Then decide.”
Something shifts in his expression. Hunger comes first, sharp and unmistakable, followed by anger and something that looks too much like pain. Before I can make sense of any of it, his face closes again.
Then Alex steps away, and the loss of his heat leaves me suddenly, painfully cold.
“You’ll come to New York with me next week.”
It takes a second for the words to make sense.
“What?”
“Danny is hosting a charity gala.”
“Danny?”
“He funds arts programs for hospitals and rehabilitation centers.” Alex’s voice remains flat, but his eyes stay on me. “The gala supports the next round of grants.”
My chest tightens.
Danny supports art charities.
I let that sink in, and something warm opens inside me. After everything he survived, he still chose to put something good back into the world. He helps artists. Gives them the chance to create when they might not have had one otherwise.
I do not know why that affects me so much, but it does.
It feels like proof that the Danny I knew is still in there.
A gala with Alex. In New York.
“Will there be photographers?”
Alex studies me. “Probably.”
The room seems to narrow around me. Cameras at the entrance. Photographers calling our names. My face online before the night is over.
Mel had been clear. As long as I stayed invisible, she could protect me. She could keep moving Liam and me if she had to. But she could not make a photograph disappear once it was everywhere.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, but Alex keeps watching me. He notices too much when he wants to.
“I can’t have my picture taken.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I remember the photographs of him over the years, each one discovered during some weak moment when I searched his name even though I knew better. Alex leaving restaurants with beautiful women. Alex at galas with a blonde curled around his arm.
Vanessa Shaw, the heiress every article seemed convinced he would marry. The memory sends a sharp ache across my face before I can hide it.
Something tightens in his expression.
“No one will photograph you,” he says.
I look at him. “You just said there would be photographers.”
“I said they would be there. I didn’t say they would be allowed to take your picture.”
“How can you promise that?”
“Because I’ll make sure they don’t.”
He says it with such certainty that part of me wants to believe him. Alex has always spoken as though the world will rearrange itself if he demands it firmly enough. The difference is that now it usually does.
“You give me your word?”
His eyes hold mine. “You have it.”
I draw in a slow breath.