The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (30 page)

And now here I was, frantic I should have heeded a dead woman’s drug-induced encouragements sooner, worried sick I was nothing more than an empty shell tossed around in a feces-encrusted truck in the dusty outback, no better than her . . . not knowing what I needed or how to get it. I wondered if I had not been hiding all this time, just like she had, from the truth, sneaking around life’s turns and corners, never embracing anything, never standing up and claiming what matters. Here! This is mine! Stick a flag in it.

Staring up at the outback’s starry sky, jostled about, a headache budding, I knew then that I needed to take ownership of my life. I needed to make it matter. I needed to make it count. And, just like some spiritual deity had been eavesdropping and approved of my thoughts, my heart swelled up, and I felt confident, richer from this notion. Perhaps I would prevail yet.

The ominous giant who picked us up was a nobody: a man for hire. He took us to a ranch and left us in a barn, despite my pleading. A doctor showed up shortly thereafter, with two medical staff, and worked on Jimmy.

Jace had a concussion, though he was lucid by the time they patched up Jimmy temporarily. Even with bruised ribs and a bunch of non-life-threatening contusions, Jace managed to arrange a ride and a flight in his private charter still parked at the Uluru airport, a rash of new security to escort us, and from what I could ascertain, some kind of clean-up crew to head to the site of the shooting.

I did not say a word; and he did not say anything to me. I waited near him, sitting on the edge of a crate. I longed for a shower and a robe, and, noticing an abandoned saddle blanket in the corner, wrapped it around my body.

I felt Jace’s eyes on me, but every time I glanced at him, he glanced away. When he’d emerged from his concussion earlier, and saw me hovering above him, he murmured, “I’m so sorry, Charlie.” I did not respond, and ever since, I suspected he was experiencing many negative emotions. The way he held his head and neck, the moods flickering in his eyes, the grim slant of his mouth, the clenching and unclenching of his swollen, bloodied knuckles . . . but none of them he wanted to share. Otherwise he would have done so.

He had killed people, most likely.

Probably.

I could not make that truth connect with what I knew of him.

Instead, like a repentant addict, I wanted him to comfort me at the same time as I fought the impetus to go get “a hit.”

We flew home with haste. The priority was getting treatment for Jimmy. I piped up finally and asked Jace where he would take him, pondering the impossibility of concealing this from the authorities. Jace said he had a discrete medical crew on payroll from his old days. I did not ask what had happened to any of the other six men Jace had hired, or the hotel staff.

I did not ask a single question after that.

The more time crept on, the more I yearned to get away. That is what I wanted. So I could regain perspective.

Jace dug out a wrinkled dress shirt and pair of pants from one of the overhead bins on his plane before we took off, and I put those on silently, rolling up the cuffs. I did go to the small washroom on his plane, and washed off the remains of the Uluru red clay from my face.

It was a deranged spirit, out of place and time, that I saw reflected back at me.

The rest of the trip I stared out the window, hugging my knees, in one of the plane’s solo seats. Jace spent a good portion of the flight sending emails on a phone that seemed to appear out of nowhere. To whom? I didn’t care.

After we landed early Sunday, I flew down the portable stairs full of apprehension. Jace was waiting at the bottom. He grabbed my arm, before I could speed past him, and told me there was a car waiting to take me home, that he had to go with Jimmy and sort out a few things. I stood at the bottom of the flight of stairs, in his hold, staring at his mouth.

“Charlie,” he finally said, after a few minutes of silence.

He was waiting for me to look him in the eye.

I could not give him what he wanted, which is why I had ignored his apology.

It was all his fault.

Everything he had done had led to that attack on him. He was reaping the fruit of the seeds he had sown. Dmitry had his reasons for wanting Jace dead.

Jace let me go.

It was not until I was alone, in the car, near Jenny’s place, horrified that I smelled of sweat and manure (the driver had opened all four of his windows), that I made the earth-shattering connection.

Sullivan had tried to warn me that I would be caught up in danger. He knew. He knew someone would do this. And that could only mean one thing: I covered my mouth, needing to evacuate the contents of my stomach. The truth was too horrifying. It ricocheted in my mind, and yet I knew I would have to find a way to tell Jace. Mr. Bennett had done this. It had to have been Mr. Bennett. Jace’s “brother” had tried to have him killed.

“Miss. We’re here,” grumbled the driver, no doubt happy to get rid of me, as I would have been if I were him. I slammed the door behind me and ran into Jenny’s building, up the stairs, and knocked loudly on her door, heaving for air, not having a key, desperate.

She opened the door in her pajamas, skeptical as to what kind of madman might be pounding her door down at such an hour, and upon seeing me, in my ridiculous state, her eyes went wide. “Crikey!”

I barreled around her straight to Miss Moneypenny, who was walking toward me from the hall. I snatched her up and stuffed my face deep into her soft orange fur. Her purring picked up and she placed a paw on my face, reminding me she did not like being picked up in that fashion. I let her go after a moment, feeling restored, minimally.

“Charlie! Bloody hell! What happened?” Jenny asked again. And she did not let up. I shrugged her hand off my shoulder. Shaking my head, glancing briefly at her, I headed straight for the bathroom, not even closing the door behind me, just the shower curtain, after I stripped and stepped in naked. Jenny was awfully quiet as I got in, and took off into the living room.

I spent twenty-five minutes under the hot water, scrubbing out the clay from my hair, which required three rounds of shampoo, and even then I could not get it out from under my fingernails (and later found yet more caked in my ear crevices).

When I got out, wrapped in a towel, Jenny was waiting again in the hall dressed in jeans and a shirt.

Her face was not concerned anymore—it was stern. That gave me pause. She did not say a word, just followed me into my room.

I was breathless with exhaustion.

Relief at the return to normalcy was just beginning to sink in.

I dressed in pajamas, not caring that she was watching.

“Jenny,” I finally said. “I cannot talk until I get some sleep.” I glanced at her, and proceeded to make a liar of myself. “I am breaking up with Mr. Knight. And quitting my job. Don’t worry!” I reassured her as her face went from stern to negative. She even shook her head at me.

“I will cover my share of the rent for another month. However, I plan to return to America and live with B,
any moment now
.” I harbored deep hope Sullivan would still provide me with a plane ticket, even though the danger he was worried I would be in had come and gone.

If he did not, I would purchase a ticket with what little money I had saved and B’s assistance. I would finally ask her for money.

“I think . . . yes, I think I might apply for a student loan and go back to school after all,” I said. “I should like to be a mathematician or perhaps specialize in symbol logic.”

I realized I had been speaking more to myself than to Jenny, as her response interrupted my train of thought.

“I know what happened, Charlie. And you’re not going anywhere.”

I glanced at her—my brow furrowing.

What peculiar body language. Her legs were spread apart and her shoulders were pushed forward. Her thin eyebrows were raised, and her amber eyes, full of a certain kind of . . . grit, perhaps, yes, that was it, that I had never seen before. I eyed Miss Moneypenny, who was sitting across the room beside her water dish, which appeared to have been knocked over.

Why, Jenny must not have noticed.

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to disregard her oversight. It is difficult to question the quality of a charitable service, even if it left my cat dehydrated.

“Uluru. The hit attempt. Fourteen dead.”

I stared at her, not quite certain I was following. Was . . . was she talking about what just happened? But how could that be?

“But . . .?” I was breathless, unable to tear my eyes away from hers. All-knowing, feeling as though I was standing on a raft, on a lake, unsteady.

Fourteen?!

“I’m not just some travel relocation staffer, obviously,” she exclaimed, stretching her arms out and dropping them.

Blood left my face and I stepped back, reaching for the office chair.

I shook my head. No. Surely not.

“ASIS?” I mouthed, as my vocal chords were not operating.

She shook her head, crossing her arms. “Interpol.” She let that sink in, nodding her head. “Money laundering division. Embedded in Knight Enterprises nine months ago. Come up dry so far. But you’ve helped accelerate me, Charlie, so I guess I can thank you for that.”

Air came out of my mouth, as though she had punched me. And she had, figuratively speaking.

“I thought . . . I thought we were friends.” I was not checking for confirmation that this was not true. I was expressing my disapproval. I thought of how she waited for me inside the Pyrmont condo, anxious to meet Mr. Knight’s new assistant. Like Sullivan Blaise had been. How she had befriended me. All her meticulous questioning about the dilemmas I had encountered with Jace, and who everyone was, and what they meant to him . . . all her sympathy. False sympathy.

I
had
betrayed Jace after all.

“Yeah, well, I guess you’ll make smarter choices next time.” She delivered this, not rudely, but rather as advice, and I fought the urge to physically assault her.

I spun around, grabbed my bag, still full of my old clothes, and picked it up.

“You’re not going anywhere, Charlie. We’re going to have a chat.”

“Fuck you.” (I had never used those two words together before and I rather liked their . . . quintessential disregard.)

“You’ll reconsider when you learn about the troubles your mate Beatrice Moody is in.”

I halted, halfway down the hall.

I was blinded, momentarily . . . with rage. I turned around slowly.

“Are you threatening my family?” Now I understand the desire to inflict hurt. It is . . . organic. A grace. A perfect, true grace. I knew exactly how Jace must have felt, when he strapped on those guns and headed out into the darkness without a heart.

“Nope. But you can help her, Charlie, by helping us.”

I heard a knock at the door, and time slowed right down. I watched Jenny walk past me, slack-jawed, checking before opening it up. Three men came in, their eyes landing on me straight away. Two older gentlemen wearing suits, and another man in jeans and a T-shirt with a blazer. Jenny introduced them, but to be perfectly honest, almost none of it registered. I was so . . . emotional. I did notice that the two in suits had much more impressive identification than Sullivan Blaise—real shiny shields. They also had German accents, or perhaps one was French . . . or Swiss? They tried to get me to sit on the living room sofa, but I stood, stunned, willing them silently to resolve the terrible angst surging through me.

“What’s wrong with B? What do you mean help her?” I asked for the third time.

They glanced at Jenny, who had poured me a glass of wine. I did not take it.

“Your friend Beatrice Moody is in with a very dangerous lot for over ninety thousand dollars,” said one of the men in suits.

“Seems she has a nasty gambling habit,” added Jenny. I recalled, distinctly, the moment I had explained to Jenny that B had student loan debt.

My head jerked forward. “No. You are mistaken.” I reminded her, “She has student loan debt.” B complained about her debts so often, on several occasions, I had asked her if she had defaulted on payments. Why else would she be so concerned? She reassured me no, just that it was the length of time it would take her to pay them back that upset her.

One of the men in suits opened up a laptop. After he had finished doing whatever was necessary, he passed it across the table. I reached for it reluctantly. Their eyes were full of intent yet distant. Fortresses.

I swallowed. It took me a moment to ascertain what I was looking at. I sat down.

Text exchanges, from B’s phone.

Demands to pay.

Her, negotiating for time.

Threats.

I gasped.

Nasty threats.

I placed the computer on the coffee table and ran to the washroom.

I heaved up a bunch of fluids. No food. I had no food in me.

I did not feel the physical sickness as much as the emotional sickness.

Jenny passed me a washcloth. I took it. She stood in the tiny doorway.

“It’ll be apples, Charlie. We’ll even get you back to America, ay. All you have to do is keep doing what you’re doing. Go back to Jace tonight. Stay by his side. And then when the time comes, we’ll guide you through it. I promise. When it’s done, you can leave him, and continue with the rest of your life, being proud you’ve done the world a massive civic duty. And we’ll clear your mate’s debts for her.”

I stared down at my hands.

I felt . . . the singe of the mark, tasted the smoke of the burned flesh, the tattoo on my soul.

Shame.

B had not told me the truth; not because she wanted to protect me but because she believed I could not help her.

But I could. I had a way.

“Asking Mr. Knight to pay your friend’s debts is ill-advised,” said a deep male voice. One of the Germans. I wondered momentarily if he had read my mind.

“You must understand. Beatrice Moody has fallen behind on payments for so long now, and borrowed from so many different sources, I’m afraid several organizations may intend to make an example of her.” I gasped, examining his blank face. Was he exaggerating? Those texts suggested he was not. “If you help us, we will pay all her debts, and clear up the trouble with all of the parties involved. She is already into debt in the state she recently moved to, as well, so she will have to move states again, we think, to be safe.”
Good Lord, B
! “Also, we will make sure your friend gets the help she needs so she does not find herself in the same situation again. Your choice.”