Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAPHNE
Tristan’s impersonation of a chainsaw is spot on. His snores echo up the stairs and under the crack in my door. Hawkeye trails behind me as I tiptoe downstairs, careful not to wake the Mack truck parked on my couch, buzz-sawing his way through sleep.
Retrieving my Glock, I stash it in an antique buffet cabinet drawer.
I’ll return it to the gun safe later. I pad into the kitchen and let Hawkeye outside to do his business for a minute before he happily trots back inside and hurries toward his empty food bowl.
I give Hawkeye a scoop of food before setting up my French press.
Hawkeye dives into his food while I wait for the jug to boil.
Did Tristan find anything last night?
Peeking into the living room, his laptop screen’s gone black on the coffee table.
I’m tempted to look. But he might hack my hand off with a machete if I touch his stuff.
He’s unhinged. A killer. A psycho. The man drinks Pepsi and assassinates senators with peanut oil.
There’s no knowing where his limits are—if he even has any.
His mask is askew, pushed up to reveal his neck gaiter with a skull-mouth design. On anyone else, it would be an intimidating combination, but on a sleeping Tristan, he looks like he’s passed out at a Halloween frat party.
The kettle clicks, letting me know the water’s finished boiling. I pour water over pre-ground coffee beans until the scent of coffee blooms around me.
“Shit!” Tristan’s voice shouts from the couch, the chainsaw noise stopping instantly before Hawkeye bounds over towards me, the elastic of Tristan’s mask clutched between his teeth as the metal clangs beside him.
Hurrying behind my legs, Hawkeye’s tail wags in excitement, like it’s a game.
Tristan darts into the kitchen, halting abruptly when his eyes land on me.
His eyes.
Two colors—one blue, one brown. They’re beautiful as they hold my gaze, twinkling in the morning light like precious stones.
His skull neck gaiter covers up to the top of his nose, hiding his lower face from view. His dark brown hair pokes at odd angles in a messy case of bedhead that’s kind of cute.
“Morning.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I ask, “Want some coffee?”
“Yes, please.” The fabric over his mouth moves as he speaks.
My fingers itch to yank that material down and reveal his face—one clear image of the man behind the masks, the disguises, the secrets. Technically, I’ve seen his whole face now, but I can’t put the two pieces together to give me a full picture.
And I want a full image of Tristan—the real Tristan. Not American Guy Fawkes. Not someone lurking in disguises I can’t recognize.
Hawkeye drops the mask with a clang behind me before running to the back door with a whine.
“Come on, you little fluff butt. Before you make a mess again.” Tristan’s groggy voice grumbles as he strides over and unlocks the back door, letting Hawkeye onto the patio. Hawkeye runs in a black and white blur before stopping on the grass to do his business.
When I lift the mask off the floor, it’s surprisingly light, like my fingers could dent it if I squeeze too hard. It’s still warm from his body heat.
Tristan steps toward me, his hand outstretched.
But my fingers tighten, not ready to give it back. “Your eyes.” I’m spellbound by them, so much so that I can’t even think of words to describe them. “They’re beautiful.”
And those eyes drop to the mask in my hands as he patiently waits for the return of his possession.
I don’t oblige.
“Why don’t you show me your face?”
“No.”
“But I want to see—”
“No, Daphne.”
“Don’t you trust me?” I hold out his mask, hoping he’ll reject it. Hoping he’ll sigh, and give in, and show me his face, and kiss me again like a character in one of my books.
He snatches his mask from my hand and quickly dons it.
It crushes me. I don’t know why, but his hiding from me after everything he’s put me through hits like a kick in the stomach. Like I’m not worthy of seeing the real him. Like I’m still not good enough.
Once his mask is in place, he faces me, his back straighter now that his defenses are up. “It’s not about trusting you, Daphne. It’s about protecting you.”
“That’s bullshit.” I grab two coffee mugs from my cabinet and lower the plunger on the French Press.
“Is it?” His voice rumbles with a challenge that stirs my lower belly. The way his voice resonates manages to kickstart my libido. Not right now, damnit. I’m mad at him. Now’s not the time to get turned on.
“Daph, if I get caught, you’ll have plausible deniability. You can confidently say that you’ve never seen me before.”
“That’s semantics.” I pour coffee, then open my refrigerator. “How do you take it?”
He sucks in a harsh breath. “The better question is, how do you take it?” The innuendo vibrates in the air between us, and my core heats.
No. Down, libido. Down. Bad girl.
“Better than you can even imagine.” I snap back as I grab a carton of half-and-half from the fridge. “But the only men who get to find out are the ones who show their face.”
Tristan crosses his arms, his mask tilting, and I can picture those mismatched eyes assessing me. “That’s tempting.”
I fake gasp as I open my carton and pour until my coffee turns a muted beige. “What happened to protecting me?”
“Do you see me bending you over, Daph? Trust me, I am protecting you.”
I rest my hip on the counter and take my mug. He can come and get it if he wants it. His coffee, I mean. “If you’re protecting me, then how did some psycho manage to leave me a package yesterday?”
“I don’t know.” His honesty chills the air.
I thought he’d be able to find out who did this. Flip through the dark web like a phone book and find whoever left me the package. Maybe even tell me that he’d hunt them down and make them pay. He gives off touch-her-and-die vibes. Guess I’m not worthy of those either.
“You should contact the Secret Service,” he says. “They should put you on twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Then how will you break into my house?” It’s half a joke and half a serious question. If Dad actually caved and gave me more security—real security—would I ever see Tristan again? No way could he sneak past the Secret Service.
His neck gaiter stretches over his mouth, like he’s grinning. “I have my ways. I’ll always find a way to you, Daphne.”
Find me? A shiver ripples under my skin. “I’ll call them after you leave.” I reach for my coffee again, the warm mug almost too hot against my chilled skin. “You know, this is the first time I’ve had a legitimate death threat since I was seventeen. It’s been seven years. Not a bad streak of luck.”
Tristan shakes his head at me. “Daphne Fox, whether you want to own up to it or not, your entire life has been a streak of luck. Trust me, it hasn’t run out because someone threatened you.”
It’s too early for this. His words don’t penetrate. They skirt over the edges of my under-caffeinated brain. There might have been an insult there. Or maybe some words of wisdom. Either way, I need my coffee, and I need Secret Service detail. Today.
But for how long? I hate having a security detail with me when I travel.
How much worse would it be with them in my damn house?
God, why can’t I live a normal, hidden life?
I didn’t get a say in my parents’ careers.
I didn’t ask to be thrust into the spotlight so young.
I didn’t ask for the attention or the stalking or to be set up like a target for Dad’s re-election.
“What if they don’t find who did this?”
“I promise, Daphne. I will find out.”
And I’ll make them pay. His unspoken words hover in the air, and maybe I’m imagining them. Wishful thinking. A man who doesn’t half-ass a plan but follows through. Goes above and beyond.
Yeah, right. Like those men even exist.
A jiggle of the front door’s knob has me frozen to the floor in panic.
“Daphne?” Mom’s voice pierces through the air like a foghorn. “Can you open the door, please?”
My doorbell chimes three times in a row.
“Well, if I wasn’t already awake,” I murmur. “You need to hide.”
“Where?”
“The basement.” Mom might find an excuse to go upstairs and snoop, but she’d never dirty her Jimmy Choos to explore my basement.
Grabbing Tristan’s arm, I drag him over toward the basement door and shove him inside.
“Stay quiet.”
He nods, and I shut the door, leaving him alone in the dark.
The doorbell rings again.
“I’m coming!” Rushing over to the front door, I open it, trying to block my mom from entering, but the second I lean against the doorway, she barges right past me, her shoulder banging into mine. The bitch would have been one hell of a linebacker.
“Took you long enough.”
“Nice to see you too, Mother.”
Hawkeye whines. I’m half expecting my puppy to cower in a corner to escape Cruella de Vil, but instead, Hawkeye is scratching at the basement door.
“Hawkeye, stop.”
But I haven’t taught him that command yet. He can sit and sometimes stay, but that’s the extent of our training.
Mom shakes her head in disapproval as I scoop Hawkeye up from the floor and hold him, like he’s a fuzzy shield to protect me from my mother.
“You got a dog?” Her voice drips in disapproval, dampening my already sour mood thanks to her unannounced visit.
“Yes, this is Hawkeye. Your fur grandchild.”
Mom scowls as I walk Hawkeye over to the back door and open it, depositing him onto the patio and quickly shutting it before he can launch back inside.
“I’d prefer a human grandchild.”
Well, we can’t always get what we want, Mother.
“I’m only twenty-four. Plenty of time on my biological clock.”
Mom rolls her eyes as she clutches her Chanel tighter. “I stopped by on my way to the salon.”
“Right. Heaven forbid you have grey hairs in your fifties.”
Mom’s face pinches with disapproval. “Just you wait, young lady. Old age comes for us all.”
“Is that why you’re here? To remind me I’m getting older, and my biological clock is ticking?”