Chapter 12
I Don’t Know Why
Gemma
THE ROAD AHEAD seems to be tilting, or maybe it’s just my mind.
As I try to pull my thoughts together, I can see him watching me, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I know he’s wondering where we’ve met, and I hold my breath hoping he doesn’t remember. That the lighter hair will be enough to camouflage who I am.
My gaze drops and I’m staring at his hands, the way they’re clenched around the steering wheel, the bruises on his knuckles, the roughness of his skin.
A flush washes through my body and it feels an awful lot like desire. I can’t want him.
I just can’t.
Wishing I could erase him from my life, I close my eyes once again and slide further down in the seat. Maybe it will make me disappear, make him disappear, but I know it won’t. Nothing will.
Images of him from that night appear unwanted. The dark knight with a dark mission who never resurfaced. I always wondered who he was and what he was doing there.
Still, I didn’t expect for him to be standing in my living room.
Hell, I never expected to see him again.
I try to mentally slow down my racing pulse when I force myself to try to forget the man from a night so very long ago it seems more than a lifetime has passed.
What he looked like then.
What he looks like now.
The same, yet different. Tall, angular, lean muscled, extremely sexy.
It takes me a few minutes to put the two of them together. His height is the same—a couple inches over six feet. Yet, this man is lean, leaner than before. So much so I can see the veins and tendons that run under his skin. Still, that could be a result of weight loss and brawn.
In addition, his hair has grown in and it’s perfectly disheveled in a way that says he just doesn’t give a fuck.
In his V-neck black tee, black jeans, and high-tops, he looks like a completely different man from that night, and the very same, too.
All of a sudden, I can feel the blood rush to my head, and I have to allow myself to breathe.
Taking slow breaths, in and out, images of the past collide with the present and I know I’m in trouble. Big trouble. That I’m not wrong about who he is. The man sitting in the front seat of my SUV is the same man who scaled the cliff at Enrique’s almost four years ago in order to escape. Escape from what I still don’t know.
But he knows. And he knows I didn’t alert Enrique’s team as to where he was, as well. If that information is shared, it will most definitely put an end to my plan and possibly even to me.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to remember me. I can tell he has a hint of recollection though, and I hope that if I’m a big enough bitch, he won’t have time to put the pieces together.
What is he doing here?
What’s his game?
And how did he get on Enrique’s security team?
Should it concern me that someone who once fled from Enrique has worked his way up the ranks and now has the job of looking out for me?
Yes, it should.
Enrique’s security is topnotch, so he would have had to pass the multiple background checks.
Was he there that night as a diversion? A reason to cancel the event, perhaps? A hoax?
If so, does Enrique knows I saw him and didn’t tell him? I shake the thought off. There’s no way because if he did, I wouldn’t have ever been allowed to be a part of his life, regardless of how small a part it is.
Whirlwinds of questions pass through my mind.
Why have I never forgotten this man when it’s obvious he never thought twice about me? He knew how to find me, after all. I knew nothing about him. Because of this, I should have banished him from my thoughts long ago. However, since I never did, now I must.
Most certainly those emerald green eyes will haunt me forever. However, if I just don’t look at him, I can pretend he’s like everyone else who surrounds me—a nameless face and a faceless name.
Opening my eyes, I avoid his fierce gaze and glance out the window. I’ll pretend I don’t recognize him—that I don’t know the hired help.
How hard can it be? It’s true.
Chewing my lip, I watch the swells of the rolling blue waves in the Pacific as I try to figure out what to do if he does remember. What to say? How to handle it? Where to run?
Time seems to be passing so slowly with no answers. I’m surprised when I look up and see a sign that reads “Santa Monica Pier.”
Those words are a trigger and the memories of a better time come in a tumble.
They are too dear to push away and I allow myself to get lost in them. Lost in a time when I had my family. In a time when life was normal. When I was normal. In a time when my parents would take my brother and I to the pier to play the carnival games, ride the carousel, the Ferris wheel, and of course, the roller coaster.
Almost immediately, I blink them away—the memories of how my life used to be are too painful.
Before I’ve had a chance to figure out what to do about Caleb Holt, or even to refocus on him, the car comes to a stop.
I look out the window.
We’re on a small side street that is only a hop and a skip from the beautifully hand-painted horses just outside the pier entrance.
I’m slightly confused.
The building is old and run-down. It’s definitely not the gallery I thought I’d be arriving at. I clear my throat. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
Caleb picks up a piece of paper and compares the address to that in front of us. “This is the location Mr. Cruz gave me, unless he jotted it down wrong.”
His eyes seem to be assessing everything about the seedy surroundings.
I grab my purse and then open the car door. “No, Enrique would never make a mistake like that.”
“Close the door,” Caleb orders.
And I do, with myself on the other side of it. Before my feet even take one full step on the pavement, Caleb is standing in front of me with a very disgruntled look on his face. Regardless of his current mood, his close proximity causes my stomach to flutter in a way I don’t want to think about. “What is your problem?” I ask, my voice way too hoarse for the question and his body way too close for an answer.
He dips his chin down. “I told you to close the door.”
“And I did.” A thousand baby butterflies are fluttering in my chest.
He narrows his stare. “You know very well that’s not what I meant. Where do you think you’re going, anyway?”
Gulping, I avert my gaze and point to the partially lit sign across the street that reads, “Art Capital,” and tell him, “Inside to take care of my business.”
He’s shaking his head. “No way are you going in there. It’s a pawnshop.”
“You’re very observant, Mr. Holt. Now, please, move out of my way.”
Like a boulder, he doesn’t move. “What business could you possibly have in there?”
“I don’t see how that is any concern of yours.” This time, I bulldoze my way past him, knowing I don’t have to answer to him.
Once again, he takes ahold of my arm. His grasp isn’t by any means rough. However, it is stern enough to keep me from moving forward. Getting tired of this game, I try to jerk away but he still doesn’t let go. I lift my gaze, disdain clear in my stare and he meets it head on. His return glare carries an aura of danger that makes me shiver.
What he doesn’t know is that my body isn’t reacting out of fear. That my heart is pounding wildly from his proximity. And what he definitely doesn’t know is that for the first time in so long, I feel a tingling sensation below my waist. “Let go of me,” I seethe. “Your job title does not include manhandling me. In fact, I’m quite sure Mr. Cruz would not look very kindly on it if I were to tell him.”
With an irritated exhalation of breath, his clutch loosens but not completely. His hand slides to the small of my back and he urges me toward the door. “Fine. Miss Hart. You can go in, but I’m going in with you.” His tone is stern, not one to be argued with.
Even though I have a feeling what I’m about to walk into isn’t exactly on the up and up, I need to do this alone in case one of these men is someone I’ve come into contact with before. I reach inside my purse and remove my phone. “How about we see what Mr. Cruz has to say about that?”
His eyes turn into two green slits of icicles and they grow colder with each passing second. And in what appears to be a standoff, he finally steps back and leans against the car, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” he mutters.
Feeling a bit nervous about this, I stride to the door in my high heels and pull it open. Standing in the small vestibule, I press the red button. I’ve heard about these places. Art owners, and even artists themselves in need of equity, borrow against their own pieces, using them as collateral for cash.
In fact, just a few months ago, it was rumored that the famous Ruben paintings had mysteriously disappeared. These works of art had once belonged to Veronica Hearst, widow of the uber-wealthy Randolph Hearst. Too bad for her, he didn’t leave her much.
Protesting the will to get what she thought was rightfully hers, she was only barely holding on to her fifty-two-room mansion. In order to support the lifestyle she had become accustomed to living, she used the paintings as collateral for a loan by consigning them in a place like this.
Then, sadly, a month ago, after the court ruled against her, she reported the paintings as stolen, when in actuality they were sold in the underground market to an undisclosed buyer. Me. Enrique wanted them. I got them first. I’ll sell them to him as Cleo soon, for ten times what I paid.
Funny though, I must be losing my edge because I didn’t realize Andrés Baisden’s collection had somehow found its way to a place like this.
I’d heard he’d had a falling out with the Mexican government, and his works were outlawed from the museum, but why sell them?
Was he forced?
Were they stolen?
I might never know the answer.
Frustrated that I’d let myself get so caught up in my new life that art is taking a back seat, I vow to regain my perspective as soon as this is over—as soon as my plan comes to fruition.
The sound of the access buzzer is loud and I practically jump out of my Gucci heels. As I enter the small space, I can’t believe Enrique sent me here, and dressed in designer clothes from head-to-toe, besides.
Again, I know he must be slipping. He’d never allow me to visit such a place had he known its condition. Covered in dirt and filth, the counters show no signs of ever being cleared off. It’s like an episode of Hoarder’s Anonymous. I’d almost think I was in the wrong place, but I know this is the right place because wealth surrounds me.
Diamonds and pearls lay haphazardly in glass cases. Old-fashion pistols are stored in cases behind the wall. Pieces of modern art are hung on the wall in various spots around the room. An early 20th-century bronze sculpture stands erect next to the cash register. A 19th-century Persian carpet is half rolled up, half laid out to walk over. And a beautiful Swiss music box sits on top of a shelf near a box filled with various pocketknives.
All of these are precious objects are displayed in a way that demonstrates no respect for their age or beauty.
It’s a shame.
Catcalls from a younger, broad-shouldered man wearing a green army jacket in the back of the store draw my attention. I attempt to ignore his vulgarity and approach the counter. The older gray-haired man behind it looks me over from head to toe and then sneers at me. “What brings you to a place like this?”
I smooth the crease of my Prada skirt. “I’m here to inquire about purchasing the remaining pieces of Andrés Baisden’s collection.”
His eyebrows bunch together. “The what?”
I repeat myself.
“What makes you think I know anything about them?”
The tick of his jaw makes it more than obvious he knows something. I lean over the counter. “I was given this location and told you’d put me in touch with a broker who does know something.”
A sinister expression crosses his face as he rubs his chin. “Were you now?”
“Come with me, mamma. This way,” the younger guy standing in the back of the store says, pointing to a partially open door that looks like a storage closet.
Apprehension flows through my veins. “I don’t need to see them. I just want to find out if they are available.”
The older man behind the counter leers a smile at me and laughs, and then his eyes shift from me to the other man and back. “They wouldn’t be in here even if they were for sale, and if you were on the up and up, you would know that.”
I avoid his beady gaze. “I would, would I? And why is that?”
He shrugs. “Should be common knowledge.”
“To you, maybe. Look, I’m not here to play games,” I huff, “If you can’t put me in touch with the person who can help me purchase the paintings, then my business here is done.”
The man from the back pushes from the wall and starts walking toward me, like he’s stalking me. “We don’t take kindly to strangers nosing around.”
The buzzing of the door draws my attention. “I’m not nosing around. I’m here on business that you clearly can’t help me with, so I’ll just let you attend to your other clients,” I say and hastily make for the exit, not feeling at all comfortable with the situation I’m in.
The man behind the counter beats me to the door. “Not so fast, mamma. We have some questions for you.”
The other guy continues to walk toward me, slowly, licking his lips. “And we’d like some answers.”
I look up at the seedy man blocking the door. “Look,” I scowl, “Clearly you can’t or you aren’t willing to help me, so get out of my way and let me leave.”
He doesn’t move.
There’s something extremely primitive about the look in his eyes that tells me to step a little lighter.
My eyes catch sight of the green jacket getting even closer, about to sandwich me in, and fear rivets my body. I’ve trained in self-defense and have significantly increased my abilities over the past year, but I’m not sure about taking on both of these men at once, especially when there are weapons on the premises.
On alert, I try to look out the window for Caleb but the amount of clutter everywhere hinders my visibility.
The younger guy is right behind me and he reaches out to touch my hair. “Now tell us, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing nosing around for pieces like that in a place like this, anyway?”
Before I can try to talk these men down, the back door unlatches and with a creak, it swings open. I twist around at the noise and see Caleb’s big frame standing in the opening, filling it.
All three of us are stunned.
Knowing this isn’t going to end well, I act quickly and move to the left to brace myself against the wall.
“What the fuck, man, I told you to keep that door locked,” the older man says to the younger one.
“It was,” he answers, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
The beady-eyed guy looks to Caleb. “That’s not an entrance. You’re trespassing. Now get out before I call the cops.”
The corners of Caleb’s lips lift in the semblance of a grin. “Yeah, that’s a really good idea.”
The old man pulls out his phone. “I’m not fucking around.”
Like a predator, Caleb stalks in our direction. “Neither am I.”
I can’t help but watch the way Caleb’s body moves—his muscles flexing hard with each slow menacing step he takes toward us. Dressed in black from head to toe and exuding the perfect don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, he’s very intimidating.
“He asked you to leave,” the younger guy with the green jacket hisses, stepping in front of Caleb in a hopeless attempt to block his progression toward me.
Caleb’s eyes glare at the man, and I can see his fists clenching and unclenching. “I’m with her. I tried to buzz in but you were obviously too absorbed in business.” And then without another word, he punches the man in front of him so hard the man stumbles backward and lands on the ground bellowing about his nose as blood gushes everywhere.
The older, beady-eyed guy slides his phone back into his pocket and lifts his hands surrender-style. “Look man, we don’t want any trouble. Just collect what’s yours,” he glances toward me, “and leave quickly and I won’t call the cops.”
“Is your business complete?” Caleb asks me.
I shake my head no and square my shoulders. “They refused to give me the name of the person I came to inquire about.”
Caleb grins and takes another step closer. The muscles in his shoulders ripple as he grabs ahold of the man’s collar. “The lady is looking for information I can only assume by your actions you have and don’t feel like sharing because playing games is so much more fun. Am I right?”
The man shakes his head but then nods.
“I’ll take that as a yes and a no. Honestly, I give zero fucks as to the reason because either you cooperate or I have a few of my own games I wouldn’t mind playing.”
The man’s eyes go wide.
Caleb lets him go. “I’ll give you five seconds to locate a piece of paper in this shithole and write down the information she is looking for before I kick off my own special brand of fun.”
The older man scurries toward the counter, practically shaking as he runs.
“Five, four, three . . .” Caleb growls.
After finding a piece of paper and a pen as if his life depends on the mess that surrounds him, he says, “Hey, I don’t want any trouble. The broker is in Mexico and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him I’m the one who gave you his name.”
Caleb snatches the piece of paper. I’m still glued to the wall when he breezes past me. Once he reaches the door, he turns to glare at me. It’s the very first time since he’s entered the grungy space that he’s looked me straight in the eyes.
With no other choice, I give him a nod. My heart clamors around in my chest as if it just wants out because it doesn’t want to deal with this life I’ve created for myself.
Dipping his chin toward the car as he yanks the door open, he beckons me out with an icy glare. Trying not to tremble as I walk, I practically sprint in his direction. When I reach the safety and security of the fresh air, I allow my shoulders to drop, allow the tension to leave my body, allow myself to breathe.
Even outside and no longer in danger, of getting hurt anyway, I still walk fast, needing to put some space between Caleb and I to collect myself.
“Hey, the car is right here,” he calls, his voice more like a hiss.
Whirling around, I find him leaning against the Rover with his arms crossed and his I-told-you-not-to-go-in-there attitude is blinking like a neon sign in the run-down neighborhood.
Slowly, I walk, taking my time, letting him know I’m the one in charge. The question is, am I?
Cocking his head, he narrows his glare even further, enough to furrow his brows. Even though I can visibly see his anger, I still feel like he’s really trying to read my mind, not convey a message. For a brief, everlasting moment, I panic and think he can see into my soul, to the darkness that owns it like spilled ink.
Standing to his full height, he opens the door. “Come on, you need to get out of here, you’re shaking.”
Shaking?
I glance down at my arms covered by the fine silk and see I’m holding myself, and yes, I’m trembling. I need to hide my emotions better. Cover them. Sugarcoat them if I have to. Do anything to keep my reactions a secret. I can’t let him see me falter. He can’t think I’m weak. I don’t know his game and he certainly can’t know mine.
“I need some air. Just give me a minute, will you?”
The look in his eye shifts to what I want to say is unease, maybe even concern. “No. Now, get in the fucking car. I’ll take you somewhere else and we can talk about what just happened.”
At that moment, our eyes lock and something inside me shifts in the most uncomfortable way. It’s almost like a layer of ice around my heart is being quick-thawed and it’s very unsettling.
Then again, it’s been so long since anyone cared about me, really cared about me, that this total stranger’s concern has me feeling uneasy. Questioning what I’m doing with my life. And reminding me that I’m a living, breathing thing with a heart and a soul.
That I’m alive.
That I’m a person and not a possession.
That my life matters because Enrique sending me here clearly tells me it doesn’t matter to him.
For the briefest of moments, I even consider ending this charade. Having Caleb drop me at a bus station and disappearing right now. Getting out from under Enrique’s hold before it’s too late. Before he kills me. Before I ruin his life, and mine.
Is the win really worth the game?
I swallow hard, confused about what to do. I don’t move. I can’t. My world seems to be tilting on its axis, and I’m unable to get my bearings.
Everywhere I look, I see my mother.
My father.
My brother.
The necklace.
I blink once and remember—they are all gone. That my life as it once was is gone along with them, and no matter what I do, what lengths I take to make it right—it never will be right.
Nothing can make it right.
Nothing.
Still, I vow to keep trying.
I have to.
It’s all I have.