His (17 page)

I already have a dress I want to wear to the reception tonight. It’s black and beaded and very elegant. I know Andrew will love it. I’m trying to decide how to tell Dawson I don’t want to go shopping for something new when a sound makes me stop in my tracks on the sidewalk.

It was a cry of pain. I’m not sure how I heard it over the sounds of traffic, but I know it was there. Where did it come from, though?

I step out of the row of pedestrians on the sidewalk to look around. It’s busy and crowded everywhere. I decide I must have imagined the noise when I hear it again.

My head automatically turns toward the narrow alley the sound came from. My feet follow suit, heading into the dark, muddy space. My new shoes are sliding in the gray sludge on the ground. It’s hard to see since two tall buildings block all the light, but I look from side to side as I get deeper into the alley.

And then I see it. Cowering behind a Dumpster is a very sad looking creature. Its hair is matted and filthy. Big, brown eyes look up at me, and I see the question in them:
what are you going to do to me?

I melt. This dog needs a friend so badly. I approach him slowly, my palm up. He shrinks back against the Dumpster.

It’s a wonder he’s alive. He’s skin and bones. As I get closer, he whimpers and I try to soothe him.

“Shh, I won’t hurt you,” I say softly. “You’re okay.”

I’ve almost reached him when I hear the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me.

I freeze for a second, then turn. Three men are standing just a few feet behind me. They all have on ragged coats and worn-out shoes. Their faces are weather-worn, and two of them have scraggly beards. I can see the hunger in their eyes. Whether it’s for food or something else, I’m not sure.

I just know I’m in a bad situation.

“I’ll take that purse,” the tallest one says, eyes narrowed. “Your clothes and shoes, too.”

Quinn

It’s not there. I know my knife is back at the warehouse, tucked into my underwear drawer in my bedroom. But instinct sent my hand to my hip just the same.

“Your fuckin’ purse,” he repeats. “
Now.
”

I stand, mentally kicking myself for leaving the warehouse without my knife. But I’m resourceful. These assholes are
not
getting my letters from Bethy.

“You don’t know who you’re fucking with right now,” I say in a steely tone. “You’re not getting my purse.”

I tighten my hold on the strap over my shoulder and hold the tall man’s gaze. One of the men behind him laughs and takes out a handgun, holding it low and pointing it at me.

“Put it away,” the tall one says without even looking at him. “You ain’t shooting nobody here. Too many people close by.”

He charges toward me then and shoves me against the brick wall by my shoulders. I raise a knee to his stomach, hitting just as my teeth start rattling from the impact of the wall.

After he cringes and huffs out an exhale, the man slaps me across the face so hard it knocks the wind out of me.

“Fucker,” I mutter.

He takes hold of my purse and starts pulling. I secure my arm around it as tight as I can.

“Let go, you rich bitch,” he says. “You got more purses at home.”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “You can’t have it.”

I stomp on one of his feet, putting all my weight into it. He swears at me and rears back, punching me full in the face. I stagger back against the wall, the dark colors of the men’s clothing swirling together.

Spit flies against my cheek as I scramble to keep hold of my purse. Someone is pulling on it.

“No,” I cry. “No. Please. Just let me have the letters.”

“You ain’t gettin’ shit,” a voice says before laughing. The purse is wrestled away from me.

I get up but am immediately shoved back to the ground, where a hard boot to my stomach makes me howl in pain. Whoever is kicking me keeps going, hitting so hard with each blow that my whole body moves.

I think I’m being choked. Someone is pulling off my coat, and I don’t even care. I taste blood. I want to breathe so badly.

Thank God Bethy’s not here. She’s safe.
I picture her on the beach in Mexico, smiling. She’s buying groceries with Maria and learning how to pronounce them in Spanish.

“Is this who we were fucking with?” a voice cackles from over me. “You should’ve just given us the purse, bitch.”

Another kick to my stomach, and I can feel hands on the waistband of my jeans. They won’t just leave me to die, then; they’re going to violate me first. Pigs. Bean would gut these men and feed them their innards if he were here.

There’s a loud bark, followed by another. And another.

“Shut that fuckin’ dog up,” one of the men mutters.

“Let’s get out of here, Tony. We got the purse.”

The dog is still barking, over and over. I hear gravel flying as the men run away. Finally, I suck in a few breaths of air, though it hurts.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the dog. “Thank you.”

He’s still barking. I pull myself into a sitting position just as a man’s voice calls out, “Hey! Is everything okay?”

“No,” I say, my voice coming out a croak. “Help, please.”

A figure comes closer. He’s middle-aged, with a thick waistline and a rumpled suit.

“Oh, Christ,” he says when he sees me. “I’ll call 911.”

“No,” I say frantically. “No, please don’t.”

I want to get up and walk back to the warehouse, but I can’t. It’s about a mile away, and I just can’t do it.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I just . . . I want to go home. It’s not far. About a mile. Can you hail a cab and ask if I can have someone pay for it over the phone?”

“Here,” the man says, leaning down to me. His scuffed black dress shoes are now stuck in an inch of mud. “My name’s Jim. I’m gonna help you up and get you home, okay? I’ve got the cab fare.”

My eyes fill with tears as he reaches for my waist. “No. Please . . . not there. It hurts so bad.”

“What can I do?” he asks.

“Can you give me your arm? If I can pull myself up on it, I think I can get up.”

“Sure.” He holds out his arm and I clutch it, forcing myself not to cry out from the pain all over as I get into a hunched over standing position.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing a mud-splattered white camisole, which I had on under the sweater that came off with my coat. My jeans are pulled halfway down my thighs. I have no shoes. Bastards took my coat, shoes, and cashmere sweater.

Cringing, I pull up my jeans and button them.

“I think we should call the police,” Jim says. “Were you . . . assaulted?”

“I just want to go home.” I look over at the dog, back in his spot next to the Dumpster. “Can you pick him up and carry him for me?”

“You want to take that thing home? Is it yours?”

“He is now.”

Jim shrugs and picks up the dog, who is visibly shaking.

“I’ll repay you for this,” I promise Jim on the slow walk out of the alley. “For your suit and the cab fare and everything.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I got a wife and two sisters. I hope somebody would stop to help them if they needed it. I’m just sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

Jim wouldn’t have been much help against the three thugs, but I smile with gratitude anyway. We draw a few stares as he hails a cab. I’ve got blood and mud all over me, and he’s holding a dog that looks like it belongs in an ASPCA ad.

“I’ll give you some extra for the mess,” Jim promises the cabbie who pulls up and gives us a skeptical look.

“Meatpacking District,” I say, grimacing from the pain of getting into the car. “I don’t know the address, but I can get you there.”

The cabbie just shakes his head and drives. I direct him, feeling a wave of relief as the warehouse comes into view. The cab pulls up out front, and Jim gets out, still holding the shaking dog. I slide out after him.

“Can you carry the dog to the front door for me?” I ask.

“Sure thing.” Jim gestures to the cabbie to wait, and he follows me. I don’t even make it to the front steps that lead to the door before two men in dark suits walk over briskly to stop me.

“Miss Jones,” one of them says, “what happened?”

I furrow my brow and stay silent.

“We’re part of Mr. Wentworth’s security team,” he says. “Who is this man?”

They look at Jim.

“I was attacked,” I explain. “He helped me. Got me the cab to get home.”

“Let’s get you inside,” the man in the suit with short dark hair says.

The other one is thanking Jim and taking the dog, which makes me smile. He looks unfazed by the mud-covered beast ruining his nice suit.

“Jim, thank you,” I say, turning. “Thank you so much.”

He nods, smiles, and walks back to the cab. The other security guard follows us up the steps, where he keys in a code to open the front door.

“Turner!” the dark-haired guard calls as we walk into the open living room.

“Hmm?” Andrew’s housekeeper and cook sticks her head around a corner and sees us. “Oh, sweet Jesus! What happened?”

She runs toward me.

“I’ll phone Mr. Wentworth,” one of the guards says.

“Let’s run a full property sweep,” the other one says. “Just to be safe.”

Turner leads me into Andrew’s bathroom, where she looks me over from head to toe.

“Girl, what happened?” she asks, her big, dark eyes swimming with concern.

“I was mugged,” I say miserably. “Three guys took my purse and my sweater and shoes.”

She shakes her head with disgust. “Thug bastards. You’re a mess, girl. I think we need to get you to a hospital.”

“No. I think it looks worse than it is. Can you just help me clean up?”

“’Course I can.”

I remember the picture of Bethy that was in my purse, and my eyes flood with tears. I want to hold them back, but I can’t. Her precious letters are gone. I bury my face in my hands and cry angry tears.

“I’m gonna make you some of that chai tea you like,” Turner says softly. “You just sit here.”

She leaves and I try to get ahold of myself, but I just can’t. It’s all hitting me at once: the beating, the fear, the near-sexual assault, the dog, my letters . . .

I cry until I have snot running down my face, and when I hear someone walk through the bathroom door, it’s not Turner, but Andrew. He’s breathing hard, and his forehead is soaked with sweat.

“Quinn!” He drops to his knees in front of me. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“I was . . . mugged,” I say, trying to sniff away more snot.

Andrew takes out a cloth handkerchief and gives it to me. I wipe my nose, cringing when I see the bloodstained handkerchief.

“You can dock my pay for that,” I say, trying to laugh. But I can’t.

“Stop it. Are you okay?”

I nod. “I think so. I was walking home, and I heard a crying sound. There was a dog in an alley, and I was trying to approach him when three dickless thugs jumped me from behind.”

“Three men?”

“They wanted my purse, but I wouldn’t give it to them.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Quinn . . . it’s replaceable. You are not.”

The tears are welling in my eyes again. “But Bethy’s letters . . . and her picture, they aren’t replaceable. They’re gone. I don’t have her address and she wanted me to write her back, but I can’t now.”

I’m crying again. Andrew sighs softly.

“Your sister.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“I’m so sorry.” He closes his eyes for a second. “What did they do to you?”

I shrug. “Just your typical mugging. Punched, kicked, pushed . . . and I think choked.”

Andrew’s jaw tightens. “Fucking cowards. What about your clothes? Did they . . . ?”

“No. Almost.” I laugh through my tears. “Guess who saved me?”

His brow furrows with confusion. “The guy who brought you home?”

“The dog. He barked and barked until the guys got scared of being caught and ran. And then he barked until help came.”

“Smart dog.”

“I’m keeping him,” I say. “And if you don’t want him here . . . I understand, but I won’t be able to stay, either.”

“Relax, Quinn. The dog can stay, okay?” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt.”

“You got here really fast.”