Staking Her Claim...: Book 1 in the Patricks' Brothers series (12 page)

Liam wouldn’t divulge more details than the one’s he’d been explicitly told he could, and for a week and a half, the Patricks’ brothers and their Mom waited patiently by the phone 24/7 to be told they could fly to Germany to see their beloved sister and daughter. It took plenty of persuading on Alysia’s part to convince her family that they should stay home seeing as she was being transported back to the U.S. later that week, but she managed it with no small amount of opposition.

Brookes told me that seeing her like that, laid up in a hospital bed after receiving painful skin grafts, some of which took and others that didn’t, wasn’t something he wanted to ever relive. Watching his baby sister silently sob through the pain of simple tasks like changing bandages, and applying antibacterial creams to raw skin changed him.

Not only did it give him a new lease on life, realizing that you only have a finite amount of time, but it also made him more protective of her if that’s to be believed. I found it hard to reconcile how a man so hell-bent on making sure no one harmed a hair on his sister’s head before her injury could possibly become my protective, but apparently he did.

Brookes went as far as to have Alysia move in with him for a year following her discharge from the hospital, making sure she had everything she could conceivably need before she could even ask for it. Something Alysia both loathed and loved in equal measure.

After Brookes finishes his story he lets out a weary sigh.

“You can’t even begin to imagine how hard that time was for us, Brother. She was so determined to get back to her everyday life that it almost to us tying her to the bed to keep her down. I don’t know how many times she overdid it and her skin grafts would become irritated, but I’d be willing to bet it was, at least, half a dozen times. I mean, she was back in the gym at my apartment complex within a month of coming home. How fucking ridiculous is that?”

Unable to sit still, I make disbelief known by letting loose an extremely unladylike snort.

“It might be ridiculous, but did it really surprise you, man? This is your sister we’re talking about.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, a sad, tight-lipped smile curving his mouth.

Eager to know more, I ask,

“So, from what I’ve pieced together, she was in the hospital for three weeks. You played nurse maid for over four months. And she ended up living with you for another eight until she moved into the place she’s living in now. Is that right?”

“That’s about the gist of it. Other than twice weekly physiotherapy appointments to make sure she was exercising the muscles underneath the affected skin correctly, she did the majority of her rehab herself,” he mutters, clenching his jaw. “Mostly just applying topical creams, skin conditioners, and massaging the area four times a day, but she wouldn’t let any of us help her regardless of us assuring her we didn’t care how it looked.”

I can’t begin to imagine how she would have felt going from perfect in near on everyone’s eyes to flawed in the less than two minutes the Blackhawk took to crash. Alysia wasn’t vain to begin with, but with scarring like hers, it’d have to have changed her perception of herself. If not physically, but definitely mentally and emotionally.

As those thoughts develop so does my scowl. I can feel the ridges on my forehead deepening and the corners of my lips turn down.

“Did she see anyone after she physically recovered? A professional specializing in PTSD or someone like that, because you’ve gotta believe she’s going to be carrying around some pretty heavy fucking burdens after a disaster like that. Losing her team like that, the flashbacks, nightmares, I can’t imagine she’d make it out of an incident like that emotionally intact.”

“Yeah, that was actually one of the first things she did, find a therapist close to my place.” Crossing his arms, Brookes crack his neck, adding, “She scheduled her appointments straight after her physio sessions. Smart if you ask me. Those were the times she felt most vulnerable, so it served a dual purpose. On one hand, she needed the support after those grueling sessions stretched her body to its limits. But on the flip side, she was always going to be more inclined to open up if she was already physically exhausted. Nearly six and a half years down the track and I still think she sees her therapist at least once a month,” he admits.

Tipping my chin, I smile the first real smile I’ve given since I entered the room an hour earlier.

“Good for her. If only I’d been as responsible and self-aware as her, maybe I’d have pulled my head out of my ass years ago.”

Sadly, I hadn’t though. I’d procrastinated on seeking out a therapist until I was delivered as close to hog-tied as you can get home to, Texas. Albeit I’d only been seeing Dr. Sharp for a little over two months now, I could feel the difference it was making. I didn’t wake up covered in sweat, fists clenched, fighting imaginary demons as often anymore. These days, I could occasionally go as many as three nights in a row without a single nightmare.

“I’m not in the position to tell anyone they should find someone to confide in before they’re ready, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t do it anyway. You’re a better man than me, Brother, because you’re ditching some of your baggage. I’ve still got plenty, and then some in reserve when it comes to unresolved issues.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all in the timing, man. I wasn’t ready until I made it back to where it all began, so I suppose that’s just another thing I’ve got your sister to thank for, isn’t it?” I state ruefully.

“I wouldn’t go doing that anytime soon. She’s got a big enough ego as it is, wouldn’t want to feed it anymore because that shit will just grow out of control,” Brookes mutters.

Rubbing the nape of my neck, I incline my head and nod.

“You’re probably right, but I need to talk to her and, at least, thank her if nothing else. I’ve carried this shit around like a monkey on my back far too long and it’s high time I started making amends for how I’ve treated people in my past, you know? Starting with your sister.”

“I admire you for that, Rob, but I don’t think it’s gonna be easy nailing her down for you to make that happen.”

“I get that, I really do, but I’m not giving up until she backs down and talks to me. I need this, and she does too even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Nodding he replies,

“Then all that’s left to say is good luck, you’re gonna need it. But just know that it doesn’t make a difference to me how you two leave things, you’ll always be my brother and I’ll have your back no matter what.” On that note, Brookes makes his way back to his office I can only assume, leaving me sitting there wondering what the best way to get Alysia to hear me out is.

Like I said earlier, I won’t give up until she gives in, but I don’t believe for a second she’ll surrender to my demands without putting up a hell of a fight. Let the games begin.

The man who opened the door to Maxwell Clarks penthouse is not who I’d expected to come face-to-face with. Or, not on this side of hell anyway. Staring at my ex-boyfriend, Peter Mitchells is nothing if not spectacularly annoying, casting an even bigger shadow over an already crap-tastic start to my day.

Hearing first thing in the morning that I’ve been volunteered to play pretend love interest, and current girlfriend to a man I’m sure is more crazy paranoid than charmingly eccentric is not my idea of a good time. Add to that a man too sexy for my poor libido who I can’t get out of my thoughts, waking or sleeping, and an ex who is hanging around like a bad smell, and I’m not a happy camper.

“Do not,” I exclaim, pointing at him, “tell me that you’re the bodyguard this guy was stupid enough to hire. Please, for the love of baby Jesus and all things holy tell me I’m wrong.”

Glaring at me, fury masking his clean-cut, laid-back good looks I’d once fallen for, Peter doesn’t speak, rather he gestures me inside with the flick of one manicured hand. I should have known that a guy who spends more time on his nails than I do was bad news but didn’t I listen to my gut instinct telling me to get the hell out our first date and run for the hills? No, no I fucking didn’t.

Taking a cursory look at my surroundings, I can see at least two areas that will need an upgrade in security and I haven’t even made it out of the open plan living, dining room yet. This is why I hate penthouse apartments. Everyone thinks they’re safe as houses when they live on the top floor, but nothing could be further from the truth.

In any house, apartment, or condo there are always multiple points of entry, which mean some consequently pose greater risks to basic security than others. But high on the list of security nightmares are places which have more windows than rooms, or attached garages with interconnecting internal doors. Obviously, this penthouse doesn’t have the latter, but it certainly has the former with floor to ceiling windows taking up two and three-quarters of the four structural walls.

Furthermore, the roof space of the building has been designed so as not to impair the direct sunlight the penthouse gets throughout the day. Meaning, the roof would make an excellent auxiliary vantage point for intruders.

“Christ on a crooked crutch, Peter. Have you taken the time to rig window sensors on the stress points of those, and pressure sensors on the balcony yet,” I ask, knowing he hasn’t done anything of the sort.

“I wasn’t hired as a fucking security consultant, Alysia. I was hired as a bodyguard and driver,” Peter replies snottily.

Of course, he was. Peter could find his way out of a paper bag if he was given directions and led out, he’s that incompetent. I wonder how, Mr. Maxwell Clark would feel if he knew the man tasked with protecting him bodily was as inept as a half dead, three-toed sloth. I’m pretty confident he would be happy that’s for sure.

“Right, so you were waiting for someone else to come in and do your job for you the, were you? Not that I’m surprised,” I muse. “That was always your MO, wasn’t it? Let everyone else do the hard work and you swoop in and claim the credit at the end.”

“Fuck you, Aly. Just because I traded up and got myself a younger model doesn’t mean you have to be bitter about it. Let’s face it,” he says with a lecherous grin, “You weren’t suited for a long-term relationship. People who are as damaged as you are, inside and out, are more suit for fast, fun fucking. You’re not marriage material, Sweetheart.”

Fucking douchebag. Peter is well aware of my deep-rooted anxiety surrounding my scars. While he didn’t make a big deal about them when we were together, and they definitely didn’t hinder his sex drive based on his insatiable appetite in the bedroom, he has however taken every opportunity to bring to my attention that I’m far from perfect. Not that I believed I was, perfect that is, but it’s never nice for your flaws to be pointed out so callously either.

“It’s amazing to me that you think that, because contrary to what you believe I’ve never heard anything of the sort before.” Tapping my chin with my forefinger, I add, “Have you considered it might not be me that’s unfit for lasting commitment, but you, Peter?”

Before he can answer me, a man enters the living space with all the self-assured grace of a dying starfish. I can only assume this is the one and only, Maxwell Clark.

Eyeing myself and Peter wearily, he asks,

“Are you, Brookes’ sister, Alysia by any chance?” I’ll give him this, he’s quick off the mark that’s for sure. If you didn’t pick up on it, that was said with a liberal application of sarcasm.

Extending my hand for him to shake, I nod my head in the affirmative.

“That would be me, and I presume you’re the man I’m soon to be dating; publically, and exclusively.”

His excited nodding reminds me of one of those bobble head dolls that sit on the dashboard of a car, but all that aside, I can’t help but find him slightly endearing. All six-foot-two inches of lean, handsome man that he is.

Did I mention he’s freaking hot and built like an MMA cage fighter to boot? If I didn’t, I should have, because this guy is so delicious that I’d almost overlook any fault for a night in his bed. I can absolutely see why, Little Miss I-don’t-tell-my-best-friend-shit, Harper, saved a horse and rode this cowboy.

“I can’t thank you and your brother enough for doing this for me. And trust me when I say; I know I must sound like a self-important pain in the ass since I haven’t been able to give you any solid leads to follow up. But I promise you, this isn’t a figment of my imagination, someone actually is stalking me. I couldn’t live with myself if Harper got hurt because some sicko became fixated on me and I did nothing to put a stop to it.”

The poor guy looks so serious, I decide to do my bit for humanity and put him out of his misery.

“Maxwell,” I say quietly but firmly.

“Please call me, Max. If we’re going to be fake dating, I think it’s better we be familiar with each other from the outset, don’t you?”

Giving him my best reassuring smile, I try again.

“Max it is then. Look, you’ve found yourself in a situation that’s not of your making and there’s little you can personally do about it. You did the right thing. Calling in reinforcements when you’re out of your depth is what intelligent people do, so don’t for a moment believe I think you’re anything but. However, there are a few things I’ll need from you before we can sit down and discuss strategy if you can find the time to humor me,” I prompt, smile firmly in place.

“Anything you need, it’s yours. Brookes assured me you’re an expert on this kind of thing, and I trust that you’ll only ask for what you need and of course that what’s said in this apartment remains confidential at all times,” he remarks.

Hmm, maybe I judged him too harshly to begin with. It seems that Mr. Meek and Mild can be potent with his use of the English language when he needs to be.

“Of course, EyeSee prides itself on client confidentiality. You should have received a packet containing my signed copy of our non-disclosure agreement already this morning, and also a list of the resources I’ll have at my disposal should the need arise to utilize them.”

Quirking at, Peter, Max asks,

“Did a courier drop anything off while I was on that conference call that you forgot to pass on to me?”

Based on the obvious distaste in his tone, Max is already nearing the end of his rope with, Peter. But I’m not surprised. He has that effect on people.

“You mentioned it was an important call so I didn’t want to interrupt you. What you’re after in on the breakfast bar, on the corner,” Peter comments offhandedly, pointing at a stack of unopened mail littering the counter.

“Sorry about that,” Max apologizes unnecessarily. “I’ll open it and take a look after you’ve told me what you need to find the asshole responsible for making my life miserable.”

“I’ll need you to make a list of who has keys to your apartment, car, office, and any other properties you own. It wouldn’t hurt to write down a list of people that could possibly benefit from seeing you suffer either. Business competitors who would ultimately stand to make a profit from your withdrawal from society, family members holding grudges, previous relationships that ended on less than amicable terms, anyone that fits into one of those categories or any number of similar ones would be a great start,” I explain calmly.

This is a lot for anyone to take in, but in Max’s case, it’s far more complicated.

See, men like, Maxwell Clark have multitudes of people who are chomping at the bit to see him fail. Young, male, billionaires are easily in the highest risk category for predators seeking to make a quick dollar.

Over the years working at EyeSee, I’ve seen blackmail attempts, kidnapping for ransom, cyber terrorism in the form of; bank account ciphering, internet fraud, and identity theft. But more commonly, we see men like, Max, targeted by women who are happy to sell an exclusive exposé to the highest bidding gossip rag. You’d be surprised how many unscrupulous women are out there who prey on wealthy businessmen to make a quick buck, moving onto their next target as soon as the money dries up, I know I was.

After putting the finishing touches on the lists I’d asked for, Max and I sat down and went over the changes I recommended he make, include the updates he’d need to make to bring his already outdated security system current.

While his building is new, or newish, unlike a lot of the buildings in the Victory Park district of, Dallas. It would be obvious to any amateur criminal that Max’s building super hadn’t approached the owner of the building to update anything since it was opened to tenants, two and a half years ago. It’s not uncommon, it’s just lax management if you ask me.

More often than not, mid-height, owner occupied, upper-class buildings such as this were ripe for the picking. Seeing as most people with the funds to live in a place like this wouldn’t dream of leasing or sub-letting to someone off Craigslist, that meant the majority of apartments would be filled with high-end electronics, gadgets, and jewelry befitting their owners; a fencer’s wet dream.

Not surprisingly, Max agreed to the changes I proposed, calling Brookes immediately to arrange someone to do the installation. The guy might be a touch paranoid, but, in this case, it was definitely working in my favor.

The only thing we had left to iron out was our arrangement surrounding our soon to be relationship. Taking into account, Max and I travel in very different circles, I’m convinced it won’t be too much of a stretch to introduce me as a friend of an elusive international business associate. I even offered, Max the opportunity to pick the country I’d hail from seeing as I was fluent in seven foreign languages, but he declined, deferring to me to make the final decision.

Wanting little to no room for error, I scratched that idea and went back to the drawing board. Remembering my time spent translating for the Army, I could recall more than a few times I reverted to English by accident, so I chose to stick with what I know best. I would from now until the end of this case be posing as an American woman, born to a wealthy Texas oil baron, widowed well before his time. I’m just lucky I have one such person who owes me a huge favor up my sleeve, aren’t I.

Jack Dennison, came from a long line of old money Texans who broke ground, striking it rich before large companies could come along and buy up what was left of the untouched countryside. Jack’s great, great, great-grandfather, Buford, purchased two hundred oil-rich acres of land outside of, Abilene.

Now, two hundred acres might not sound like much in this day and age, especially when every rancher worth his salt has a spread that size, but Buford was a smart man who knew where to buy and when. He bought during a lull in the market, and his patience and cunning was rewarded, yielding him five prosperous oil suppositories on the one piece of property. These days, Jack leaves the mining to a site foreman, and I regularly tease him about sitting on his big piles of money, eating Bon-Bon’s, and laying about all day.

Background aside, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m owed a favor from a man like Jack.

A year ago, Jack contacted EyeSee when his only daughter, thirty-year-old, Madeline disappeared without a trace. Jack was adamant throughout or questioning that foul play was involved and begged me to launch a full-scale investigation into her disappearance. I relentlessly attempted to get him to see reason, convinced, Madeline would come home when she maxed out her credit card, but he wouldn’t listen.