I’m already pulling my phone out of my purse and hitting speed dial. Three rings, then Bree’s cheery voice asking me to leave a message. I do, then call her right back. That’s one of our strictest rules—always answer calls from me or Damien.
Again, the call goes to voice mail.
“Damien.”
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice tense. “You’re just nervous because of today.”
Possibly true. But the fact that he even said that tells me that he’s nervous, too. “You try. Maybe my calls aren’t ringing through for some reason.”
He presses the button on the steering wheel, says, “Call Bree,” and I listen to the crackle of the ringtone, frowning because the lack of clarity means we’re getting close to the dead zone that covers a two mile stretch of road leading to the house.
Again, we get her message.
“I don’t care if it’s paranoid,” I say. “Call the guardhouse.”
“Already on it,” he says, and does just that. But the call doesn’t ring through. Instead, there’s just dead air.
“Fuck. You call.”
I already have my phone out, shaking my head when I see the No Service message in the upper left corner of the screen. “Damien.” I hear panic in my voice.
“I know,” he says. And he floors it.
11
Damien sails onto our property through the underground garage, the fastest route since it avoids the long driveway that leads to the uppermost section of the property, providing guests with a majestic view of the house, grounds, and ocean beyond. The Ferrari practically flies through the cavernous space, emerging into the light right in front of the house, the tires skidding on the crushed stone drive.
I have the door open before we’re even at a full stop, and I stumble out of the car, then sprint to the front door, punching in the key code faster than I ever have in my life. It’s maybe seven seconds from the time I leave the car to the moment the lock releases, but it feels like eternity.
I throw open the door, burst inside, then stop dead at the sight of a strange man standing on the threshold between the sliding glass panels that mark the far end of the room and the flagstone pool deck that abuts the first level of our home.
A huge bag of Ruffles potato chips is tucked under an arm that’s also curled in front of his body, cradling a shrink-wrapped twelve-pack of apple juice boxes. In his other hand, he holds two plastic bottles of sparkling water.
He’s wearing swim trunks and flip-flops and nothing else, and the sight of him is so contrary to the scenario of murder and mayhem and home invasions that had been racing through my head that I simply stand there staring at him. He stares right back, and I realize in that moment that I probably look like a crazy person—eyes wild, body tense, the terror that had been clinging to me morphing into some sort of confused miasma of emotions.
Damien is right behind me, and as I hear his low exhale of relief, I downshift even more. Whatever is going on, chips and juice don’t add up to murder and mayhem.
Then Lara’s high-pitched shriek cuts through the silence. My blood turns to ice, and Damien springs past me, only to stop cold when Lara scurries into view, racing across the flagstones and then into the house, ending the journey with a loud cry of “Baba!” as she leaps into his arms, her name for Damien that she alternates now with cries of Daddy, too.
“Who the he—who are you?” Damien’s tone is harsh, his words tempered only because of the little girl in his arms. In front of him, the stranger looks terrified, and I don’t blame him.
I may know Damien well enough to understand that his tone and his posture and the fury on his face are all the remnants of fear. I understand that we’re past the moment of crisis, and whoever this guy is, he’s not currently at risk of Damien beating him to a bloody pulp.
This stranger, however, only knows what he sees—and I hurry to Damien’s side and put a calming hand on his arm as I flash a quick smile at Lara, who’s thankfully oblivious to the still-simmering drama.
“Where’s Bree?” I ask the guy.
“Outside with Anne,” he says. “I went for snacks.”
The statement is so ridiculously normal that I almost laugh. Instead I say, “We called. Several times.”
“I—” He shakes his head. “She has her phone. It didn’t ring.” He holds up the hand with the juice boxes. “Swear.”
“Who are you?” Damien demands again.
“Rory,” he says, and I relax more, understanding. “Rory Claymore.”
“Mr. Stark?” Bree hurries across the flagstones, then pauses on the threshold, Anne in her arms. “Nikki?”
She looks between me, Damien, and Rory, her expression at first confused and then slowly shifting to understanding. “We’re having outdoor time,” she says. “Rory called to see if I could go out, and I told him I couldn’t. But I asked if he wanted to come.” She meets my eyes. “You always say that it’s okay if I want to have a friend over every once in a while, and I figured it’s even better having two adults if we’re playing in the pool.”
“It’s fine,” I say, moving to her side, and taking Anne, who squeals, “Momma!” and wraps her arms and legs around me like a little monkey. I dance kisses over her cheek, then close my eyes as the last bit of terror drains from me, only now realizing how far I’d let my imagination run.
“We called,” Damien says, his voice razor sharp. “Of course, you can have a friend over, but that doesn’t excuse you not answering the phone.”
She swallows, her face pale. “I didn’t hear the house phone. And my cell didn’t ring. Not once. I’ll show you.” She races outside before either Damien or I have a chance to speak.
“It really didn’t,” Rory says. “It was sitting on that little table by the pool the whole time. One of us would have heard it.”
Damien’s head is cocked slightly, his eyes narrowed like he’s studying the guy. I take the opportunity to do the same, since my first impression was skewed by fear. Rory’s tall and lanky, with rich brown hair that looks stylishly messy, a few locks falling onto his forehead and brushing his wire-framed glasses. He has an attractive, intelligent face, with round features, giving him a somewhat soft appearance that’s counterbalanced by the intensity of his dark, deep-set eyes.
“We’ve met,” Damien says, and Rory takes a step toward him, as if leading into an answer, but his words are cut off by Bree’s return, her phone clutched tight in her hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s dead. It was on the charger all day until we came outside, so I have no idea why. It’s just dead.” She thrusts it into my hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I glance at the phone, and she’s right. It’s completely non-responsive. I look up and catch her mortified expression, and the last sliver of icy fear shatters. “It’s okay. I’m just glad everyone’s safe.”
I glance at Damien while I’m talking, and though he’s still holding Lara tight, his eyes are on Rory. His words come back to me. We’ve met.
“Rory was one of the Stark Education Foundation recipients,” Bree says proudly. “I just found out today.”
Rory ducks his head modestly. His shoulders rise and fall in a self-deprecating shrug as he meets Damien’s eyes. “I was one of the early ones. I met you in the interview, and then my picture was in the newsletter. The SEF counselors helped me find scholarships and work-study, and they closed the gap with a grant. Couldn’t have done it without you, man. So thanks.”
“No thanks necessary,” Damien says. “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to work.” He extends his hand, and Rory takes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Sorry about the dramatic circumstances. It’s been a
hell of a day.”
“That reporter?” Bree asks me.
“And more,” I say, then wave off her follow-up question. “Later. No point bringing a downer to the pool party.”
Since the girls are already dressed for swimming—and equally excited by the promise of potato chips—they head back out with Bree and Rory while Damien and I go change. The revised plan is to spend an hour at the house, then walk down to the bungalow, leaving Rory and Bree to their evening. A plan that lights up Bree’s face when I outline it for her.
Forty-five minutes later, she and I are stretched out on lounge chairs, drying in the sun, while Damien and Rory entertain our two little bundles of energy in the pool.
“I’m so sorry,” Bree says for the fortieth or fiftieth time since I gave her the full rundown of my day. “To not be able to get in touch with me after all that drama. Honestly, I’m so sorry.”
“No more apologies. It’s all fine. Really.” I sit up, turning slightly so that I can see her. “How come you didn’t tell me that Rory was a grant recipient?”
“I didn’t have a clue until today. He called to ask if I wanted to go out tomorrow night, and I told him I wasn’t sure if I could because I was going to a Stark Foundation brunch, and I didn’t know how long it would go or if you’d need me to work afterwards. And then he asked me why I was going, and I realized I hadn’t ever told him who I work for.”
She reaches for the sunscreen and squirts a liberal amount into her palms. “I never do,” she adds, as she starts to rub the lotion on her legs. “I mean, once I know someone, sure. But not at first. I told you that when I interviewed.”
“You did, and I’m glad to hear you’ve been diligent about that. It was one of the things that impressed me from the beginning.”
“I appreciate you letting me have friends over to the house. It’s hard since I live on the property. Juggling my life and my work, you know?”
“I do,” I say. And I mean it. Even so, I’m glad she doesn’t take advantage. And I’m also glad that Rory is a Stark grant recipient. At the very least that means the Foundation checked him out. I know that Bree trusts him, obviously, but I also know they haven’t been dating long. And at the end of the day, I care about my kids’ safety a hell of a lot more than Bree’s social life.