Chapter 13
Richard
He made it as far as the curb of the emergency room exit when he realized he didn’t have his car. Glancing around the darkened parking lot, he swore and started for the street. He’d find a taxi.
“Mr. Prentiss?” Peterson’s voice cut through the darkness. “If you’ll give us one minute, we’ll have a car here for you.”
Richard stopped. He was covered in blood. If he made it to the curb, he’d probably end up with a police ride home. “Fine.”
The men who’d followed him out fanned around him in a semi-circle.
Peterson came to stand next to him on the curb.
“The man who fired the weapon was named Leonard Braun. His father invested heavily in your father’s confidence scheme and the family lost everything.
They never recovered. Leonard, however, had other issues including a diagnosed clinical depression.
He went off his meds over a year ago—right around the time the story broke about the Princess Alyxandretta. ”
He tried not to listen, but the man kept right on speaking.
“The police have begun a thorough search of his apartment—a source informed me he had several news clippings regarding you, specifically in your capacity as attorney for the family, as well as other notable cases. They also found surveillance footage and a damaged vehicle in his garage. We’re assuming paint on it will match the color of your car.
” Peterson paused when an SUV paralleled the curb right in front of him.
Jerking the handle, Richard slid in, but Peterson blocked him from closing the door.
“You are angry and feeling manipulated by the situation. That is your right.” The man’s tone might have been neutral, but his hard assessing gaze was not. “However, while Braun seems to have been working alone, there are two simple facts you need to be made aware of.”
The man apparently would not let him go until he’d said his piece. Richard stared at him and waited, because he sure as hell wasn’t explaining himself to another of the prince’s employees. “And they are?”
“Your life was under threat, and it is not unlikely that you won’t face similar threats in the future with your increased profile.
” Peterson tapped the car door. “Ms Braddock quit more than a month ago. She called me and explained that her level of personal involved compromised her ability to protect you. She resigned as your personal protection and requested permission to tell you the truth.”
“Is that it?” A month ago. The weekend after she’d been shot the first time. She’d been so opposed to personal involvement and then—
And then she’d come downstairs and he’d seen the choice shining in her eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Prentiss.” Cool disapproval hummed in the words. “Unless you want to know a status on Ms Braddock?”
He intended to say no, but instead said, “Is she going to be all right?”
“The first bullet punctured her lung. They had to reinflate it. The second nicked her bowel wall, but they assure me it is repairable. The surgery is complicated and could be a few hours. If at any time you want a prognosis, ask one of my men. They’ll call me.” Peterson backed up a step.
“Take care of her.” The adrenaline and anger had fled. He was exhausted. Closing the door at the man’s nod, he leaned back in the seat.
“Your house, Mr. Prentiss?” The driver asked in a tone as carefully neutral as the security chief’s.
His house. The bed he shared with Kate. The life he’d begun to construct around her with every intention of keeping her in it.
“No. The Beverly Wilshire. See if someone at the house can pack up some clothes for me and send them over. They should probably pack Kate’s things as well.”
“We’ll take care of it, sir. Do you want Ms Braddock’s things delivered to the hotel?”
“No. Peterson will know what to do with them.” Richard closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until he was at the hotel. One of the men offered to book the room for him and another offered him a clean shirt. He stripped out of the bloodied clothes and passed them over.
Once in his room, he didn’t sleep. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He replayed every conversation, every act, and every single moment he’d shared with her.
She resigned as your personal protection. Her level of personal involvement compromised her ability to protect you.
His mind wouldn’t shut up. Showering, he washed until the last of her blood was off him and, when sleep remained elusive, he cracked open the wet bar.
THREE DAYS LATER…
“Wake up.” Water splashed his face. The cold burned away the fog of sleep, but did nothing for the brutal hangover savaging his skull.
“Get out, Armand.” Richard buried his face in the pillow. His mouth tasted like ass and his head didn’t feel much better.
“You know, Richard, you’ve been a lot of things over the years, but you’ve never been a coward. Now get your stinking ass out of the bed and go take a shower. I’ll order up some breakfast.” Armand sounded disgusted. “And a maid.”
Glancing blearily around the room, Richard shrugged. “I didn’t let them in.”
“Clearly.”
“I don’t want you here.” He didn’t want to be awake. It had taken a hell of a lot of alcohol to send him into oblivion. Why the hell couldn’t Armand leave him there?
“That much is obvious and I gave you three days. Now get up and get in the shower.”
“Or what?” Richard rolled over to glare at him. “You’ll bring in a bodyguard to strong arm me in there?”
“No, I’ll bloody well do it myself. Stop being an idiot.” Armand picked up an empty bottle off the nightstand. “You drank an entire bottle of cabernet without a glass?”
“I ran out of whiskey.” And the wine made him think of Kate and then he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Stumbling out of the bed, he kicked another bottle away from him. “When I get out of the shower, I want you to be gone.”
“Well, I hope you’re prepared for disappointment.” Of course, Armand would do whatever the hell he wanted.
Ignoring him, Richard went into the bathroom.
He turned on the shower and managed to make it to the toilet before throwing up most of the liquor cabinet.
Thirty minutes under the pounding pulse of the water and a cursory brushing of his teeth helped, but the hangover was preferable to the other ache—the uglier one inside—so he held on to it.
His room had been freshened—the debris cleared away and a table with food set up in the center. Armand stood at the windows, gazing at the city below. “There’s coffee on the table and I kept the food order bland in case you needed to vomit again.”
The coffee was an attractive enough offer, so he poured himself a cup. His prescription medicine sat in the center of the table and he stared at it. He hadn’t asked for it from the house and the suits and clothes they’d sent over had only the most basic of toiletries.
“She asked me to make sure you had it, since you have a habit of forgetting them.” Armand took the carafe and poured himself a cup. “Sit down.”
“No.” Richard shook his head. “You don’t walk into my room and just start ordering me around—”
“Enough,” Armand snapped. “Sit down before you fall down. I am not here as a prince, but as your friend. I let you pour yourself into a bottle for three days. You’ve never been your father, Richard, and this is a terrible time to start emulating him.”
Shock turned him rigid and he sank down in the chair.
“Yes.” His oldest friend nodded. “I know all about your father. I’ve always known. I know he is currently suffering from liver failure and has been trying to make amends for the first time in his sorry existence.”
“You never said anything.” Richard stared down at the cup of coffee, shame and embarrassment playing cold accompaniment in his soul.
“I assumed if you wanted to talk about him, you’d bring it up.
You didn’t, I left it alone. You built your own life.
” Armand leaned forward and clasped his hands together, and their gazes locked.
“You carry an enormous burden of guilt for being happy after what your father did. You work twice as hard as any man should need to or have to. But the one thing about you I have never doubted was your honor. I thought—for a while—that you needed wealth to prove your success where your father failed. But it was never about the money. You and your pro bono cases, and your causes, and your charities. You’re always trying to make up for what he did. ”
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Of course Armand knew. In hindsight, Richard had allowed himself to be blinded to the reality of being a prince’s friend. “They did a background check when we became roommates.”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve known since we met.”
“Yes.”
“But you told me who you were.” The weird, twisted sense of honor and brotherhood between them had been borne during that confidence sharing. A friendship that had sustained them both through some very dark times in Armand’s life and in Richard’s effort to build his own.
A single nod. “I hoped you would one day have enough trust to tell me, but when you didn’t, I respected your need for privacy.”
“Easy enough to do when you already had the answers.” He drained the coffee and poured himself another. The dull throb in his head couldn’t keep the memories away now. “How is she?”
“Recovering,” Armand answered immediately. “Her mother is here and her brother is flying in from Germany. She’ll be in the hospital for some time, and she’ll need several months to heal, but she’ll be fine.”
Relief made him weak and he bowed his head.
He’d half-expected to hear she’d died—he’d run as hard from that idea as he had her lie.
He wanted to know more—craved it—but he didn’t dare ask.
They needed a clean break. “You’re compensating her for lost time, right?
I mean she kind of lost two jobs in the same day. ”
“She will be taken care of Richard. When have I ever not taken care of those people who are important to me?”