Alpha (14 page)

“You are going to take his breath away, Kyrie.” Eliza held my shoulders, and I felt oddly close and connected to this woman I barely knew.
 

“Thank you.”
 

She nodded with a small smile, and then bustled deeper into the closet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a slim black clutch. Valentino. “You’ll need this.”
 

There were drawers full of purses? How had I not discovered this? I needed to explore this closet more; it was a woman’s fantasy, in both design and contents. My mind spun.
 

I found my old purse in the armoire, retrieved my I.D., some cash, and my debit card. I doubted I’d need any of that, but it didn’t seem right to go out without it. I unplugged my cell phone, and realized in that moment that I’d never called Layla. She’d be pissed. And jealous. And worried. Shit. I’d have to call her from the car.

I closed the clutch and nodded to Eliza. “I’m ready.”

“I’ll bring you to the roof, then.”

“The roof?”

Eliza nodded, leading me from my suite of rooms at a quick pace. “Yes. Harris will be flying you directly to dinner. Mr. Roth will meet you at dinner, and you will go together from there to the Met.”

“Fly?”

“Yes. In a helicopter.”

“A helicopter. I’m being
flown
in a helicopter to dinner.” I felt dizzy. “While wearing an outfit that costs more than several houses.”

“Welcome to Mr. Roth’s world, Miss Kyrie. He does nothing in half-measure.”

“No shit.”

Eliza frowned at me as she gestured me through a door that led to a small elevator. “You know, Mr. Roth disapproves of cursing under most circumstances. Not from any moral or religious standpoint, but because he considers it…unnecessary, and inelegant. So, a piece of friendly advice…consider attempting to curse less frequently.”

Upward we went, exiting after a short ride onto a wide blacktop helipad where Harris was waiting, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He stood in front of a sleek black helicopter, large enough to carry at least four people, possibly more.
 

“I will try. Thanks for telling me, Eliza.” I turned and hugged her again. She was stiff through it, as if unused to being hugged. “For everything.”

“My pleasure, Miss Kyrie. Now go. Have a fun evening.”

I waved at her, and then crossed the helipad toward Harris. “Hello again, Harris.”

He inclined his head to me. “Miss St. Claire.” He extended his hand toward the helicopter. “If you’re ready?”

I nodded and he opened the door, holding out his hand to help me in. I eyed the step up into the craft, and then realized that I could not make it. “Yeah, not gonna be able to get up there in this dress,” I said.

Harris didn’t say anything, merely placed his hands on my waist and lifted me in. He did so easily, as if I weighed nothing. His touch was businesslike, platonic, not lingering. As soon as I was in and settled, he closed the door, and I fished my phone from my purse. I had one phone number in the “favorites” screen of my iPhone: Layla. She was, actually, one of maybe a dozen phone numbers I had, period. I dialed her, and held the phone to my ear as Harris slid into the pilot’s seat and began warming up the engine, flipping switches and consulting a clipboard and doing all sorts of things in preparation for takeoff.

“KYRIE!” Layla’s voice was a piercing shriek, so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Harris turned in the seat and gave me an amused glance. “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, HOOKER?”
 

I put the phone back to my ear and sighed into the speaker. “Layla, calm the hell down. You’re making my ears bleed.”

“You said you’d call me again, Key. It’s been, like, two days. I was about to call the cops.”

“Don’t do that, Layla. Please. For real. Don’t. I’m fine, totally fine.”

“You haven’t been, like, dismembered or tortured yet, have you?”
 

“Since I’m calling you, I’m gonna go with probably not.” I heard the whine of the engine getting louder. “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time, so I just wanted to call and say I’m okay.”
 

“What’s that noise?”

“That’s the engine of the helicopter.”

“Helicopter?”

I laughed at the concerned yet incredulous tone of her voice. “Yes, helicopter. I’m in a private helicopter, about to be flown to have dinner with…my benefactor.” For some reason, I didn’t think I should tell Layla his name, even though she was the only person in the whole world that I trusted completely. “And then we’re going to the opera.”

“The opera? Private helicopter? What the fuck is going on, Key?”

I sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.” The engine was roaring now, making conversation difficult. “Are you sitting down?”

“Why?”

“Because you should be. I’m wearing a Christian Dior gown, Layla. Matching shoes. Emerald necklace and earrings that could pay for a fucking mansion. A Valentino clutch.”

“Holy fucking Jesus toast, Kyrie.”

“Jesus toast?”

She growled. “Don’t make fun of my inventive swearing, damn your eyes. A custom Dior gown? Do you have any idea how much—”

“Layla, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Harris glanced at me over his shoulder and circled his index finger, meaning he was about to engage the rotors. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. But…I’m okay. This is…I’m gonna go with this, Layla. It could be…good. Really good. He’s interesting.”

“What’s he look like? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know what he looks like yet. And I probably shouldn’t tell you much more. He’s…very private.”

“But you’ve met him?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you don’t know what he looks like?”

I sighed. “Layla, it’s…complicated. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. For now, just…don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

“Okay, babes. Just be careful. Rich guys are weird.” She made a kissing sound. “Go, then. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your fancy helicopter ride to your fancy dinner and fancy opera, Miss Fancy.”

“Shut up, Layla. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Can’t help it, I learned from you.”
 

“Sure you did,” I laughed. “’Bye.”

“’Bye.”

I ended the call, put my phone on vibrate, and tucked it back into my clutch. “Sorry, Harris. I’m ready now.”

“It’s all right, Miss St. Claire. You were very circumspect with your friend. That’s good. He’ll appreciate that.” He flipped a switch, and the rotors overhead began whirring. He gestured at a pair of headphones with a microphone boom hanging nearby. “Put those on.” I carefully slid the headset on, mindful of my hair, and the noise of the engines and rotors faded. I could hear Harris clearly as he said, “Buckle up as well, please.”

I buckled up, and then had to grip the armrest as the helicopter lifted off the ground, making my stomach fall away. Up, up, and up, and then we banked, tilting to the left, giving me an incredible bird’s-eye view of Manhattan through the window beside me. “Holy shit. The city looks so different from this perspective.”

“Indeed it does,” Harris responded, his voice clear through the headset.
 

“I didn’t know you were a pilot as well, Harris.”

He let out a single chuckle. “There are many, many things you don’t know about me, Miss St. Claire.”

“Such as?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead touching a button and rattling off some kind of official flight-plan information on a different radio channel. When he was finished he returned to my channel and spoke. “Such as…I’m licensed to fly helicopters as well as airplanes, everything from single-engine prop planes to military heavy lifters like C-130s. I’ve flown tens of thousands of hours as both a civilian and in the military.”

“I thought you seemed like you’d been in the military,” I remarked.

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. U.S. Army Rangers, retired.”

“And how long have you worked for Mr. Roth?”

He turned to glance at me. “He gave you his name?” He sounded surprised.

“Just that much.”

“That’s impressive. I’ve worked for Mr. Roth directly for five years, and for his company for eight. Meaning, I’ve worked for him for a total of eight years, five of which I’ve spent as his driver and pilot.”

“And bodyguard, and private investigator.”

“Yes, and those things.” He banked again, and then resumed speaking. “I worked directly for Mr. Roth for almost a year before he even gave me that much of his name. And here you spend less than forty-eight hours with him, and you’ve gotten his name from him. Pretty impressive.”

“All I did was ask,” I said.

Harris laughed. “I asked, too. A month and a half in. Know what he said? He said, ‘Ask me any more personal questions, Harris, and you’ll end up shoveling elephant dung for the circus.’”

“He actually used the word ‘dung’?”

Harris nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He doesn’t like swearing under most circumstances. If he does, you know he’s serious as a goddamn heart attack.” He gave me another glance, this one inquisitive, curious. “When I showed him what I’d found out about your…
boyfriend
…Steven…he was more upset than I’ve ever seen him, before or since. He said, and I quote, ‘Make sure that vile piece of shit doesn’t lay a finger on her, Harris. Make sure he knows who she belongs to. If he resists…fucking
bury
him.’”

I shivered. “Obviously Steven listened,” I said.

Harris’s voice was cold and terrifying. “I didn’t leave him much choice.”

“I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”
 

“No. Probably not.”
 

Silence extended between us. I tried not to think about Steven, or what I’d seen in that file. I wanted to enjoy tonight, this experience. I focused on the view outside my window, Manhattan beneath me, bathed in the golden light of early evening. Harris banked the helicopter a third time, and then I felt us going lower, watched as we approached a high-rise with a helipad on the roof. Soon the building was out my view, and we descended straight down. A gentle bump, and we landed safely.
 

“Wait a moment for the rotors to stop,” Harris said. “Don’t want the wash to mess up your hair.” He flipped a switch, and the engine’s roar turned to a receding whine, the rotors slowing to a stop.
 

He stepped out and opened my door, placed his hands on my waist, and lifted me down. He gestured at the nearest door. “This way, please.”
 

I followed him through the doorway, which led us into a small foyer area and a single elevator. He pushed the call button and stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back, a distinctly military at-ease posture that seemed second nature. The elevator doors opened, and he gestured for me to go first. Then he stepped on and pushed a button for a few floors down. My heart was starting to beat a little harder, knowing I was about to meet Roth once more. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped off into a small, dark room. It was lit by dim red lights hidden behind thick stands of bamboo planted directly into the floor on either side of the room.
 

Opposite the elevator was a set of double doors, black lacquer, thick and heavy-looking, banded with hammered black iron, the handles wrist-thick rings.
 

Harris moved to stand beside me, and glanced at the doors and then at me. He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a long strip of green fabric, the same shade and material as my dress. “Ready?”

I inhaled, held my breath a moment, and then let it out. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

Harris tied the blindfold around my head, and then placed his hand on my shoulder. I heard a ring squeak on the door as he lifted one of them. I felt his balance shift, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on my shoulder as he pulled open the obviously heavy door. I smelled food, Asian, possibly. Rice, searing meat, vegetables. I heard flames leaping, low voices. Harris guided me through the door.

“I’ll see you later, Miss St. Claire,” he said.

“Wait…you’re leaving me here? I don’t know where I’m going, I’m blindfolded, remember?” I felt panicky, fearful. Harris was now familiar to me. I didn’t want to be left alone in another strange place. I wasn’t in Roth’s house anymore, or in a vehicle. I was in a restaurant. Were there people watching me, staring at me, wondering who this weird blindfolded lady was? I was embarrassed, hating the blindfold, hating the vulnerability, hating that people I didn’t know could see me when I couldn’t see them.
 

I felt a hesitant, cool touch on my shoulder, heard a soft male voice with a faint Asian accent. “Miss St. Claire. Please, my name is Kim. I will bring you to Mr. Roth. He has given instruction.”

“You’re all right, Miss St. Claire,” Harris said. “Have a good night.” I heard the heavy doors closing.

“This way, please.” I felt Kim’s hand take mine, placing my fingers on his arm. “Follow, please.”

I moved with careful, precise steps, and my host seemed to understand the limitation of my dress, as he moved slowly enough that I didn’t feel rushed or off-balance. I heard the voices again, but they were all off to my right, and they all seemed to be speaking the same language. Chinese, maybe? I wasn’t sure, having very little familiarity with Asian languages.

“Are there any other people here, Kim?” I asked.

“No, no,” came the response. “Only Mr. Roth, me, you, the chefs.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
 

“Yes, yes.” Kim stopped, and I heard a door, the slight squeak of oiled hinges, and a latch opening. “This way, please.”

Another few dozen steps, and then another pause, another door opening.
 

“Miss St. Claire, sir,” Kim said, a hand on my elbow urging me forward.

I heard a chair sliding, and then Roth’s hands were on my arms, my wrists, taking my hands in his. “Kyrie. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Where are we?”

He led me four steps, pulled out a chair, guided me into it, and then resumed his own seat. “This is Longjing. It’s a Chinese restaurant I own.” His strong fingers tangled with mine. “You look…simply ravishing, Kyrie. I knew that dress would suit you when I had it made for you, but I had no clue how positively breathtaking you would look wearing it.”