“I don’t want to marry because I tick all of the right boxes.”
“Isn’t that the criteria for all marriage? You marry someone precisely because they tick all of your boxes.”
“I’m in a relationship with someone else,” I said.
He pushed his plate away and leaned forward. “I said I didn’t want to criticize Rogan, but I may have to go back on my word. I really want this, Nevada. This is my opportunity of a lifetime.”
Wow. So slick.
“Rogan is larger than life. High impact. Dangerous, and that danger can carry a certain allure. But he’s also unpredictable and ruthless. He measures everyone by his own standards. He’ll put you in danger assuming you can handle it, and he’ll fail to notice the moment you can’t. I would do everything in my power to keep you from being put into a dangerous situation in the first place, because that’s what a husband is supposed to do. Ask yourself, would he be a good husband? A good father? Would he be able to control his temper? We both come from large families. You know how crazy your younger siblings can make you. Think of him in the role of a caregiver. Think of all that stress. Would you feel safe leaving the children with him? Would you feel safer leaving them with me?”
He was really good at this. Much better than I expected.
“I offer security, stability, and comfort. He offers excitement, danger, and risk. I offer marriage, a formal agreement which gives you rights and protections. He hasn’t even considered it.”
Garen leaned forward and touched my hand with his elegant fingers. The personal connection.
“Nevada, the bottom line is that Rogan and I want two different women. I want the smart, confident, cautious woman who built her own business, who understands loyalty and integrity. He wants a warrior, someone who can go toe-to-toe with him into whatever latest high-risk venture he wants to plunge into. He wants someone people will be afraid of. To put it crudely, he gets off on it. If you accept me, you’ll become the head of a Fortune 500 corporation with me, with all of the influence and security that position brings. If you stay with him, you will become your grandmother. You have to decide who you want to be. In the end, it’s all about family.”
Chapter 11
Garen offered dessert, but I declined. He didn’t insist. He did walk me out to the parking lot and watched over me while I got into my car. He missed the three people who conveniently exited Molly’s Pub at about the same time and got into a silver Range Rover. I pulled into traffic. “Call Bern.”
The car dialed the number.
“Here,” my cousin said.
“I survived. Where is Cornelius?”
“He just left the restaurant.”
“Did Rogan make it back?”
“Yes.” There was a hint of amusement in my cousin’s voice. “We’re all in the back, in the motor pool.”
“I’ll be there shortly. I need to make a brief detour.” Something Garen said ate at me. It was all about family. If I had a secret, a terrible secret that I didn’t want anyone to know, I would trust my family. Olivia Charles was a Prime. She would trust her family. The ransom had to be somewhere in Rynda’s house.
Traffic was surprisingly light. My escort stayed about a car length behind me the whole way until I pulled in front of Rynda’s house. I stepped out. The doors of the SUV behind me opened and three people jumped out: an Asian man in his early twenties with a faded scar on his left cheek; a dark-haired, serious-looking man in his thirties; and Melosa, Rogan’s personal aegis.
“Why aren’t you in Austin with him?” I asked her.
“Because he considers your safety a higher priority,” she said. “Why are we here?”
“I need to search Rynda’s house.”
“It’s already been searched,” the dark-haired man said.
“I know.” I headed for the door.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Melosa ran in front of me and blocked my way. “Delun?”
“On it.” The Asian man moved toward the door and punched in the code. The door swung open under the pressure of his fingertips. He moved inside, stepping lightly, and paused.
A long moment passed.
“Clear,” he said. “It’s empty.”
He turned and flipped the lights on. I walked into the house. Someone had cleaned the mess. The bloodstains were gone from the tiles and the overturned Christmas tree had disappeared.
I stopped in the living room. Bits and pieces of past conversations floated up onto the surface of my memory.
. . . She was a wonderful grandmother to my children. She loved them so much . . .
. . . It’s not in the computer. It’s somewhere in the house . . .
. . . but Olivia saw it. She adored him. She framed every painting he made . . .
. . . in the end, it’s all about family . . .
I stepped over to the nearest painting on the wall. Two trees, standing close to each other, their trunks almost touching. The lines of the painting were obviously drawn by a child, slightly shaky and basic, but the colors, the vibrant greens and rich browns, drew the eye. The sunlit crowns of the trees almost glowed. It made me want to go outside to breathe in the air and run my hand across the bark. I would hang it in my office and smile every time I looked at it.
I took it off the wall. A plain black frame, rectangular, wooden, the kind you could get in any craft or art supply store. Gently I pried it open and pulled the frame apart. No secret code, no writing on the mat, no piece of translucent rice paper hidden between the mat and the painting itself. I plucked the heavy piece of watercolor paper out and held the painting up so the light shone through it.
Paint and paper fibers. Even if I reached into left field for some improbable spy solution to this mystery, an invisible ink still left traces. A pen would’ve left scratches on the smooth dense paper. A brush would’ve left patterns as it soaked into the texture. Watercolor paint came in varying pH and posed a significant risk to reacting with the ink, not to mention that watercolor painting required a lot of water. Soaking the paper with the hidden message on it was risky. No, the painting was exactly what it pretended to be.
I knocked on the frame, looking for hollow spots. Only solid wood answered.
“What are you looking for?” Melosa asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
“Isn’t that the criteria for all marriage? You marry someone precisely because they tick all of your boxes.”
“I’m in a relationship with someone else,” I said.
He pushed his plate away and leaned forward. “I said I didn’t want to criticize Rogan, but I may have to go back on my word. I really want this, Nevada. This is my opportunity of a lifetime.”
Wow. So slick.
“Rogan is larger than life. High impact. Dangerous, and that danger can carry a certain allure. But he’s also unpredictable and ruthless. He measures everyone by his own standards. He’ll put you in danger assuming you can handle it, and he’ll fail to notice the moment you can’t. I would do everything in my power to keep you from being put into a dangerous situation in the first place, because that’s what a husband is supposed to do. Ask yourself, would he be a good husband? A good father? Would he be able to control his temper? We both come from large families. You know how crazy your younger siblings can make you. Think of him in the role of a caregiver. Think of all that stress. Would you feel safe leaving the children with him? Would you feel safer leaving them with me?”
He was really good at this. Much better than I expected.
“I offer security, stability, and comfort. He offers excitement, danger, and risk. I offer marriage, a formal agreement which gives you rights and protections. He hasn’t even considered it.”
Garen leaned forward and touched my hand with his elegant fingers. The personal connection.
“Nevada, the bottom line is that Rogan and I want two different women. I want the smart, confident, cautious woman who built her own business, who understands loyalty and integrity. He wants a warrior, someone who can go toe-to-toe with him into whatever latest high-risk venture he wants to plunge into. He wants someone people will be afraid of. To put it crudely, he gets off on it. If you accept me, you’ll become the head of a Fortune 500 corporation with me, with all of the influence and security that position brings. If you stay with him, you will become your grandmother. You have to decide who you want to be. In the end, it’s all about family.”
Chapter 11
Garen offered dessert, but I declined. He didn’t insist. He did walk me out to the parking lot and watched over me while I got into my car. He missed the three people who conveniently exited Molly’s Pub at about the same time and got into a silver Range Rover. I pulled into traffic. “Call Bern.”
The car dialed the number.
“Here,” my cousin said.
“I survived. Where is Cornelius?”
“He just left the restaurant.”
“Did Rogan make it back?”
“Yes.” There was a hint of amusement in my cousin’s voice. “We’re all in the back, in the motor pool.”
“I’ll be there shortly. I need to make a brief detour.” Something Garen said ate at me. It was all about family. If I had a secret, a terrible secret that I didn’t want anyone to know, I would trust my family. Olivia Charles was a Prime. She would trust her family. The ransom had to be somewhere in Rynda’s house.
Traffic was surprisingly light. My escort stayed about a car length behind me the whole way until I pulled in front of Rynda’s house. I stepped out. The doors of the SUV behind me opened and three people jumped out: an Asian man in his early twenties with a faded scar on his left cheek; a dark-haired, serious-looking man in his thirties; and Melosa, Rogan’s personal aegis.
“Why aren’t you in Austin with him?” I asked her.
“Because he considers your safety a higher priority,” she said. “Why are we here?”
“I need to search Rynda’s house.”
“It’s already been searched,” the dark-haired man said.
“I know.” I headed for the door.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Melosa ran in front of me and blocked my way. “Delun?”
“On it.” The Asian man moved toward the door and punched in the code. The door swung open under the pressure of his fingertips. He moved inside, stepping lightly, and paused.
A long moment passed.
“Clear,” he said. “It’s empty.”
He turned and flipped the lights on. I walked into the house. Someone had cleaned the mess. The bloodstains were gone from the tiles and the overturned Christmas tree had disappeared.
I stopped in the living room. Bits and pieces of past conversations floated up onto the surface of my memory.
. . . She was a wonderful grandmother to my children. She loved them so much . . .
. . . It’s not in the computer. It’s somewhere in the house . . .
. . . but Olivia saw it. She adored him. She framed every painting he made . . .
. . . in the end, it’s all about family . . .
I stepped over to the nearest painting on the wall. Two trees, standing close to each other, their trunks almost touching. The lines of the painting were obviously drawn by a child, slightly shaky and basic, but the colors, the vibrant greens and rich browns, drew the eye. The sunlit crowns of the trees almost glowed. It made me want to go outside to breathe in the air and run my hand across the bark. I would hang it in my office and smile every time I looked at it.
I took it off the wall. A plain black frame, rectangular, wooden, the kind you could get in any craft or art supply store. Gently I pried it open and pulled the frame apart. No secret code, no writing on the mat, no piece of translucent rice paper hidden between the mat and the painting itself. I plucked the heavy piece of watercolor paper out and held the painting up so the light shone through it.
Paint and paper fibers. Even if I reached into left field for some improbable spy solution to this mystery, an invisible ink still left traces. A pen would’ve left scratches on the smooth dense paper. A brush would’ve left patterns as it soaked into the texture. Watercolor paint came in varying pH and posed a significant risk to reacting with the ink, not to mention that watercolor painting required a lot of water. Soaking the paper with the hidden message on it was risky. No, the painting was exactly what it pretended to be.
I knocked on the frame, looking for hollow spots. Only solid wood answered.
“What are you looking for?” Melosa asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
