A Commitment to Love, Book 3 (46 page)

I knew Dad stirred in his chair without seeing him in front of me.

Every now and then, my father talked about his friends in high places. He called them gods and monsters. Told me that they weren’t one or the other, they represented both—something holy and all-powerful as well as vile and inhumane. I guessed that they dealt with terrorism or maybe even controlled drug cartels, although I never had their identities. Dad wanted to be the only contact for our family. He didn’t relish in the idea of people like this having any of the Stones on speed-dial. For that I was grateful. I believed terrorist and the cartel served as the scum of the Earth.

And here I stood, asking scum for a favor. Please, kill Benny.

What would we they ask from me in the future? Would it be worth it? Could I just figure out a way to avoid whatever favor they’d needed in the future?

“If you have me call these people, there will be no bowing out of it or changing your mind,” Dad warned.

“I don’t plan to back out of this. We both know that our special friend should have been put to sleep a long time ago.”

“I’ll give you that,” Dad said with disgust. “I shouldn’t have passed the devil to you, but in some ways I trusted him.”

“He’s gone too far.”

My father remained quiet for several seconds. This was his typical behavior. If he had to think things through, he simply expected you to sit on the phone and wait until he’d come up with a solution.

And then finally he said, “I have a group that can take care of him.”

“Good. I have a way to trap him in a location.”

“How?”

“I’m holding an engagement party.”

“With who?”

“You mean who will be hosting it?”

“No, son. Who are you getting engaged to?”

“Jasmine.” I sighed again. “You know who. Don’t be disrespectful.”

“Calm down. I just don’t think you’re serious. That girl is not someone you marry. She’s just for—”

“I don’t think you want to say anything disrespectful right now. I’ve seen enough death in these past months. This week has been the roughest. I have no patience with you right now, old man.”

“Old man?”

“It’s been a long week.”

“I just think it’s a bad idea to—”

I interrupted him before he could say anything else. “Call who you have to call so we can finish this.”

“I’ll make the call. Don’t you worry about that. However, is this engagement party just a trap or are you actually thinking seriously of marrying that girl?”

“Her name is Jasmine.”

“And you want her to be your wife?”

“Yes. Without a question.”

His laughter traveled over the phone line. “You’re going to make a big fool out of yourself this time.”

“Just contact your group and have them phone me, please.”

“You can’t possibly be serious about marrying her or—”

I hung up, satisfied that he would do what I asked, but aggravated with his judgement of Jasmine. If things had been easier for all of us, I would’ve had the time to introduce her to him, take her up to New York for a week, give him days to be around her, and slowly fall in love like I did.

He probably would still not like Jasmine after a week. All he cares about is body and pedigree. His only thoughts about my future wife has been, how will it help my dick or our company be happy. He never concerned himself with my heart.

C
HAPTER
28

Jasmine

W
e
had two hours before sunset. The press conference would begin in a few minutes, and I was scared shitless. Chase and I had arrived at the Sherlock Holmes museum. Right at 221B Baker Street in central London.

Chase wore his signature look—a designer black suit that formed around his chiseled frame with a white button-up shirt opened at the top. His hair lay back in chestnut waves. My hair was pinned into an updo. A team had done my makeup and outfitted me in a simple black and white dress with red pumps.

Still, my heart boomed fear.

“Why this place?” I’d asked to keep the scattered thoughts out of my head.

A chilly breeze blew past us. Camera crews parked their vans on the small street as more press gathered several feet in front of us.

“Do you remember the Ripper tour?” Chase asked.

“How could I ever forget it?”

“True.” He captured my hand. “At the beginning, the guide discussed video games that featured Holmes against Ripper.”

“You were around to hear what the guide said?” I asked.

“Yes. I was parked in a car across the street, forcing myself to stay inside and not rush out of the vehicle to grab you.”

Although freaking out about talking to the press and being on camera, I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad you stayed focused on your plan.”

“Me too.” He touched my hand. “You’re shaking. Stop that.”

“I’ll try.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t see why we have to get on TV.”

“This is my life, Jasmine. Ever since Lucy’s body at the ball, the world has been asking questions.”

“And today you’re going to answer them?” I asked.

“No, today I’m going to dance around the news team and keep everyone busy, while placing the cheese out for Benny.”

I bit my lip. “This is dangerous. Maybe we should try something else.”

“As long as he’s alive, every place and event will be unsafe. It’s time to deal with him head-on. What happened this week won’t happen again.”

I blew out a long breath. “Okay, Sherlock.”

“It’s Mr. Holmes to you. In fact, very soon I want you to moan that to me while I take you from behind and call you Mrs. Hudson.”

“Absolutely not.” I turned around and gazed at the building behind us. It represented more of an old famous person’s dwelling than a grand information center. The curator had taken over an old boarding house, delved into the mind of the genius sleuth created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and decorated the whole place in the fictional character’s delights.

Before the press came, a Victorian-era costumed museum assistant gave us a private tour. The ground floor served as a shop, selling an array of goods from deerstalker hats to novelty teapots, magnifying glasses to several Sherlock Holmes books.

Hand-in-hand, we strolled through the ancient home.

The study overlooked Baker Street and maintained the same décor any room of that sort would in Victorian times. Every space was dressed as if the characters still lived there. I sat in Holmes’s armchair by the fireplace and Chase snapped pictures like a giddy tourist. We entered his bedroom adjoining the study where all of Holmes’s possessions lay out—Persian slippers near the bed, a disguise or two on the shelf, his pipe resting in front of his chemistry equipment, and a violin across from a calabash pipe.

Even the landlady Mrs. Hudson had an area with a beautiful fireplace

And the tour continued as we delighted in the peculiar objects of the mystery genius’s laboratory. Once the assistant left us alone for a few minutes, we lingered for far too long in Dr. Watson’s room where I checked out the character’s books and Chase copped a few quick feels of my behind.

When Chase’s legal team and publicist showed up, they briefed us on the best methods for answering the press and then guided us back to the front to meet the crowd.

And it was a big group. A sea of cameras and news reporters from all of the UK’s major television networks surrounded us. International journalists were sprinkled throughout the space. Chatter filled the air. Flashing came next. Several men and women moved in with their cameras.

Chase’s publicist signaled for us to begin.

Let’s see if I cannot embarrass myself on national television.

As I stepped up to the podium in front of the museum’s entrance, my stomach rumbled in fear. Eight microphones stuck out of the platform like little severed heads. In fact, with the horror of these past months it might have been better if those mics were actually tiny cut-off heads.

This may be my future. News teams and press conferences. Can I do this?

“Are you nervous?” Chase whispered to me.

I leaned his way and forced a smile. “Hell yes. There’s about thirty people in front of us holding microphones.”

“Fifty actually.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I usually count them all to calm myself down.”

Shock hit my voice. “You’re nervous, too?”

“I hate cameras.”

“It never looks like it.”

“That’s because I’m an amazing man.”

“Clearly,” I mumbled.

“My best advice to you is to remember who you are. They are standing in front to hear
your voice
. That’s powerful. You’re somebody in this moment, and there’s not much you can do to upset them, besides not talking at all, and even then you standing up here silent with your mouth open is still good TV for the evening.”

“The chances of me freaking out are high,” I admitted.

“I’m here. Don’t worry about anything.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you, Chase.”

“You can never do that. And if you do something foolish, I’ll buy up all of the major news channels and forbid them to show the clip.”

“I think that’s a bit much. Don’t you?”

“Nothing is too much.” He leaned my way and brushed his lip against my ear. “I’ve already proved I would kill for you. I can’t think of anything that I wouldn’t do for you.”

My eyes widened. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” I smirked.

“Doesn’t matter. The sentence started off with madness. I don’t have to what? Love you? Protect you? Keep you out of harm’s way, no matter if it’s your family or the world? No. I do. It’s going to be my job. I might as well start now.”

My words left me.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I gathered my strength. If he could profess to ruin the world for me, I could freaking keep it together for a ten minute press conference. “Yes, I’m ready.”

He kissed me on my cheek. “This goes down in a few seconds.”

I frowned. “I thought we had five to ten more minutes.”

“More like five to ten seconds.”

Bile rose in my throat. “Great.”

A few uneasy chuckles fled him. “It will be fine.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then we’ll destroy the problem around us.”

“Alrighty.”

“I’ll start.” He inhaled, exhaled, squeezed my hand, and guided me closer to the podium. The publicist and legal team stood on our right.

The crowd came alive around us.

Chase tilted toward the biggest microphone. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m thankful that we were able to hold a quick press conference on such little time. Who wants to go first?”

A ballsy female journalist with long, black hair began, “Mr. Stone, do you have any information on the dead woman’s body that was discovered at your ball just a couple of days ago?”

“Thank you for getting this out of the way early.” He nodded at her. “I will not be answering any questions dealing with the masquerade ball and the horrible events that took place there.”

“Then why hold a conference?” she asked.

“We have other news to share—”

She interrupted him. “More important information than the facts and details of a young woman’s death at your masquerade ball?”

“Don’t waste my time and everyone else’s by asking things that I won’t answer.” Chase centered his attention to the reporters on her left. “And from now on, please raise your hand so I can make sure everyone has a chance to ask something.”

The same journalist raised her hand.

“No.” Chase shook his head. “Someone new and less annoying.”

She huffed, “I just have one more question. There are girls dying here in London. In fact, it seems that dead women have been following you around—”

“What is your name?”

“Felicia Waterson.”