23. Alex
ALEX
My heart is in my mouth. And it isn’t until I have to get out of the car that I realize I’ve plastered myself to Eric.
Hastily, I peel myself off his comforting body, allowing Max to take my hand.
“Let’s all get on the elevator together,” he’s saying. “I don’t want to fuck around with security badges at this hour.”
“Okay,” I say, voice shaky. We’re moving through the garage, and my senses are reeling.
I’m vaguely aware that the collection of vehicles around me is extraordinary.
In addition to a few ordinary cars and SUVs, there’s a Maserati, a Con Ed repair van, a Jeep Wrangler, a jacked-up minivan, and an armored car.
There’s even a small yellow school bus. I can’t imagine what that’s for.
On shaky knees, I allow myself to be shuttled into a modern brass elevator. A wide, steadying hand lands on my lower back, and I lean back into Eric’s protective embrace without even thinking.
Max presses his hand against a sensor, and the elevator glides smoothly upward for a while.
When the doors slide open, I don’t see offices, though.
Instead there’s a beautiful loft apartment with brick walls and tall windows, the lower portions of which are hidden by velvet curtains in the color of smoke.
City lights filter in through their arched tops, illuminating a suite of funky furniture and thick rugs covering the wood floors.
I’ve heard my bodyguards gossiping about Max’s private lair before, but I wasn’t sure it was real. “He could survive the zombie apocalypse up there,” they whisper. “It’s a fucking bunker. Even the windows are bomb proof.”
I hope some part of that is true, because I am freaked out right now.
“Sit down,” Eric says, gently steering me toward the sofa.
“That’s it.” I’m eased onto a deep, velvet sofa with a high, curving back.
The style is a cross between Sumptuous Men’s Club and Alice in Wonderland.
Eric props my feet onto a leather foot stool and covers me with a thick throw of ivory-colored wool.
But then Eric walks away from me, and I’m not okay.
I force myself to breathe deeply. It’s possible that I’ve been holding my breath since Broadway and Seventy-ninth streets.
I glance around the room and notice how solid this place really is.
The beams crossing the distant ceiling must be a foot thick.
I’m at the top of one of the most fortified buildings in Manhattan, I remind myself. I’m fine. Although the hockey game feels like it happened a month ago.
I close my eyes and try to relax.
The sofa depresses under someone’s weight a few minutes later. “I made this for you,” Eric says. “But you don’t need to drink it.”
I open my eyes. “What is it?”
“Apple cinnamon herbal tea.”
The spicy scent reaches me, and it’s almost as comforting as this sofa.
“Thank you,” I say, sitting up a little straighter.
He passes the mug into my hands, which already feel steadier.
“Thank you,” I say again, pulling myself together.
I take a tiny sip, because the tea is too hot to drink yet.
But the heat is bracing and just what I need.
Max prowls around his space, turning on some music.
Ella Fitzgerald’s crooning starts up from speakers hidden somewhere nearby.
He pours a bit of whiskey from a crystal decanter into two glasses.
He crosses the room and hands one to Eric, who is seated beside me. “Just a nip. The night isn’t over yet.”
“Whatever you say.” He takes the glass and inhales deeply. “How many decades old is this one?” He sips carefully.
“Four,” Max says, settling into a leather chair. “Life is short, so I only drink the good shit.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.”
There’s a low chime from the direction of the elevator. Max sets down his drink on a dark wood table and crosses to a small control panel. He glances at the screen, then places his palm onto it before walking back to his seat again.
A moment later the doors slide open. Scout strides out in leather pants and a form-fitting sweater. She marches over to where Max sits and slaps a piece of paper down onto the table beside him. “Here’s his license plate number.”
“Nice work, as always.” Max lifts his chin and takes her in, a smile playing at his lips. “Feel free to reward yourself with a nip of this Glen Keith. Not too much, though. You’ll be driving again tonight.”
She doesn’t cross to the decanter like I expect her to, though. Instead, she takes Max’s glass right out of his hand and gives it a sniff.
“Hey, I’m drinking that.”
Scout takes a sip, as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Nice.” She hands it back to him, and then disappears toward the sleek kitchen in the corner.
I wouldn’t actually be able to tell that it’s a kitchen except for the tea kettle sitting on one of the sleek surfaces.
And because when Scout tugs on a panel, it opens to reveal a refrigerator.
She pulls out a bottle of Mexican soda and opens it with a tool that’s hanging off the set of keys on her belt.
She is riveting, honestly. She reminds me of a black cat—quick and graceful and wholly at ease in her body. If I ever felt like that, I can’t even remember it now.
Whale mode is my new normal.
Max taps his watch and speaks to someone. “Trace this Jersey license plate: 2 Alpha Lima Quebec 3.”
Ella Fitzgerald sings on as Scout joins us in the main seating area, taking the leather chair beside Max’s, tossing her short legs over the arm of it and swigging her soda.
“Okay, debrief,” Max says. “Where did the motorcycle find you?”
I explain Duff’s Brooklyn sighting, and the subsequent events. “The kid can drive.”
“His dad is a NASCAR champion. And he has the best eyesight of anyone on my team. I talked him out of becoming a Navy SEAL.” Max sips his whiskey. “So what do we know?”
“Motorcycle man has a trimmed black beard and a small stature,” Scout says. “He wasn’t Jared Tatum.”
“I could have told you that,” I hear myself offer. “I never heard him mention a motorcycle. Golf is more his speed.”
“He’s at home watching golf right now, as a matter of fact,” Max says. “It’s the first thing I checked.”
“But wouldn’t Tatum hire someone to intimidate Alex?” Eric asks. “Cowards outsource.”
“Maybe,” Max says, and his tone makes me think he isn’t a believer. “It’s not as easy to pull off as the movies would have you think, though. You can’t go to and order up a guy in creepy black motorcycle goggles. And it’s only been ten hours since Alex’s lawyers dropped their bombshell on him.”
“Maybe he has a crazy little brother, too,” Eric says.
Max shakes his head. “Only child. Besides, I’ve been monitoring his phone. The first person he called after the lawyers left was his mom.”
“Oh,” I say quietly. He called his mom for advice. “That’s not what a deranged man does.”
“Not generally, no,” Max says quietly.
We all sit with that idea for a second. And then I ask the obvious question. “If Jared Tatum isn’t trying to scare me, then who is?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” Max says. “What if this has more to do with your factory fire than with your baby?”
“But…” A factory burns down in China. What does that have to do with me? “I still don’t follow the logic. Intimidation would be a ridiculous idea. I’m never doing business with anyone who tries to frighten me.”
Max drains his scotch. “It doesn’t all add up yet. But I’m going to figure it out.”
I hope he does.
“So what’s the plan for getting Alex home?” Scout asks. “It’s already midnight.”
“She’ll have two guards tonight, not just one,” Max says. “I’ve already woken Pieter to send him home with Alex and Duff.”
“I’ll go,” Eric says beside me. And I throw him a quick, grateful glance. I don’t know why I associate Eric with safety. But I just do.
“No,” Max says. “I got other plans for you. We’re going to pull a classic maneuver.
You’re driving Alex’s BMW out of the garage.
But Alex won’t be in it. I’ll put Scout on your tail, so it looks like the same caravan the biker followed earlier.
Then I’ll depart in a third car and then Duff, then Pieter and Alex in a fourth car. Nobody takes a direct route.”
Max really is a smart man. “So, if that motorcyclist is still out there, he won’t know who to follow.”
“Right,” Max agrees, tucking his hands behind his head. “It’s a classic for a reason. We’ll leave in fifteen?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” Max gets up and makes a call, peeking out of the heavy curtains as he talks.
“How’s that appetite of yours?” Eric asks. “Want a snack before we leave?”
“No thank you.” Now that my hands have stopped shaking, I could totally use a snack, but I’ve had enough of being the helpless pregnant lady tonight. Except for one thing. “If you could point me toward the bathroom, though?”
“Sure.” He stands up and takes my hand. When we walk around behind the sofa, I see a doorway I’d missed. It’s a hallway, and the first door opens into a powder room. “You okay?” he asks me before I can slip inside.
“Yes. Really,” I promise. I give him a smile just to make the point.
The smile I get back makes me all squishy inside.
It isn’t until after I close the door on Max’s beautiful bathroom—with glass subway tiles and bamboo towels—that I remember what happened right before our car chase unfolded.
Eric was just about to kiss me. And I was just about to let him.
And now I’m really enraged at whichever psycho stopped that from happening. Kissing Eric would have been a bad idea. But I would have enjoyed the heck out of it.
I’m feeling calm again by the time Max assembles us on the garage level again. He hands my car key to Eric. “Good thing the surgery was on your left knee,” he says.
“Good thing,” Eric grunts.
“You want a vest? The car is armored, though.”
He shakes his head. “If our stalker tonight had wanted to fire some shots, he would have already done so.”