known over the years. He actually found it quite
pleasurable to have company at the dinner table.
Chapter 4
NIGHT WAS FALLING. Roark stood on the balcony, as he
did every evening. His body ached but he still had the strength of
three male humans. His mind was lucid, yet time was ticking. He
didn’t like feeling out of control. If only he could tell Bronte
everything he knew, but she’d never believe him. In fact, she’d
want to flee even quicker. It was imperative that he not rush
things.
He went back into his bedroom and reached for the
old, worn journal from his nightstand. The book had become his
place of solitude—a refuge from a world that didn’t understand his
way. He picked up the pen and began writing his thoughts when the
doorbell rang. He dropped the book into his drawer, locked it into
safekeeping and placed the key into the crystal glass. He headed
downstairs and opened the front door. Shelby stood on the doorstep,
wearing all black and a cunning grin. “Opening your own door these
days, Roark? Did you finally give that old Jasper retirement?”
“Fuck off. You know I couldn’t have Jasper here with
Bronte. He’d have made a mess of things.” Shelby passed him and
Roark closed the door. “Up for a drink?”
“Maybe two or three,” Shelby answered.
Roark led the way into the den. He went to the
whiskey bar, poured two large glasses full of scotch. He handed one
off to Shelby. “Have a seat my friend and tell me what has your
hair standing on end,” Roark said.
Shelby took a seat on one of the leather chairs and
stretched his long legs. He sipped from the glass, seeming to
gather his senses before he spoke. “It appears we have a
problem.”
Roark didn’t let Shelby’s words frazzle him as he
drank, enjoying the burn of the expensive liquor. He didn’t indulge
often. “Tell me the details.”
Shelby nodded, running his hand through his locks, a
sure sign he was concerned. “A woman by the name of Fallon Montreal
has been burning up Bronte’s phone.”
“And what exactly is the problem? Bronte is on
vacation. People aren’t supposed to answer their calls while
relaxing in paradise.”
“Apparently this woman,” he tilted his head, “is
different than most people.”
“How so?” Roark asked.
“She’s Bronte’s assistant,” Shelby answered.
“Where’s the phone?”
Shelby reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out
the slender, white cell and tossed it to Roark. “Send the
bothersome woman a message, pretending your Bronte, assuring her
things are okay,” Shelby said.
Roark pushed buttons on the phone and meddled
through a few of the messages. “That won’t work. This woman,
Fallon, she’s worried. She’s a smart woman and looking out for
Bronte. Apparently, something was forgotten when you took Bronte
from her office. What would that be?” He looked across the short
distance to Shelby who had sweat beading his brow.
“We didn’t see the briefcase Bronte had left outside
of her office. I told Crenshaw to clean up but he didn’t do his
best,” Shelby said.
“Bronte would never forget her case. That would
definitely alarm someone who knew her well.” Roark set the phone
down. “But mistakes happen. We’ll just have to figure out a
solution.” Shelby didn’t show any unrest, but Roark sensed his
unease.
“You’re taking it pretty easy, buddy. Crenshaw
almost pissed himself when I confronted him. He thought you’d have
his heart on a silver platter.”
“I have more important things on my mind,” Roark
emptied his glass and went to pour another. He brought the decanter
and filled Shelby’s glass too. He set the crystal down and chose a
seat on the leather couch. “Why are you still uncomfortable,
Shelby?”
The older man slid forward in the chair, resting his
elbows on knees and clasped his hands together. “The Bitches
fiancé, Gage Dell, has also been calling. He doesn’t like that
she’s not returning his calls.”
Roark
pleasurable to have company at the dinner table.
Chapter 4
NIGHT WAS FALLING. Roark stood on the balcony, as he
did every evening. His body ached but he still had the strength of
three male humans. His mind was lucid, yet time was ticking. He
didn’t like feeling out of control. If only he could tell Bronte
everything he knew, but she’d never believe him. In fact, she’d
want to flee even quicker. It was imperative that he not rush
things.
He went back into his bedroom and reached for the
old, worn journal from his nightstand. The book had become his
place of solitude—a refuge from a world that didn’t understand his
way. He picked up the pen and began writing his thoughts when the
doorbell rang. He dropped the book into his drawer, locked it into
safekeeping and placed the key into the crystal glass. He headed
downstairs and opened the front door. Shelby stood on the doorstep,
wearing all black and a cunning grin. “Opening your own door these
days, Roark? Did you finally give that old Jasper retirement?”
“Fuck off. You know I couldn’t have Jasper here with
Bronte. He’d have made a mess of things.” Shelby passed him and
Roark closed the door. “Up for a drink?”
“Maybe two or three,” Shelby answered.
Roark led the way into the den. He went to the
whiskey bar, poured two large glasses full of scotch. He handed one
off to Shelby. “Have a seat my friend and tell me what has your
hair standing on end,” Roark said.
Shelby took a seat on one of the leather chairs and
stretched his long legs. He sipped from the glass, seeming to
gather his senses before he spoke. “It appears we have a
problem.”
Roark didn’t let Shelby’s words frazzle him as he
drank, enjoying the burn of the expensive liquor. He didn’t indulge
often. “Tell me the details.”
Shelby nodded, running his hand through his locks, a
sure sign he was concerned. “A woman by the name of Fallon Montreal
has been burning up Bronte’s phone.”
“And what exactly is the problem? Bronte is on
vacation. People aren’t supposed to answer their calls while
relaxing in paradise.”
“Apparently this woman,” he tilted his head, “is
different than most people.”
“How so?” Roark asked.
“She’s Bronte’s assistant,” Shelby answered.
“Where’s the phone?”
Shelby reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out
the slender, white cell and tossed it to Roark. “Send the
bothersome woman a message, pretending your Bronte, assuring her
things are okay,” Shelby said.
Roark pushed buttons on the phone and meddled
through a few of the messages. “That won’t work. This woman,
Fallon, she’s worried. She’s a smart woman and looking out for
Bronte. Apparently, something was forgotten when you took Bronte
from her office. What would that be?” He looked across the short
distance to Shelby who had sweat beading his brow.
“We didn’t see the briefcase Bronte had left outside
of her office. I told Crenshaw to clean up but he didn’t do his
best,” Shelby said.
“Bronte would never forget her case. That would
definitely alarm someone who knew her well.” Roark set the phone
down. “But mistakes happen. We’ll just have to figure out a
solution.” Shelby didn’t show any unrest, but Roark sensed his
unease.
“You’re taking it pretty easy, buddy. Crenshaw
almost pissed himself when I confronted him. He thought you’d have
his heart on a silver platter.”
“I have more important things on my mind,” Roark
emptied his glass and went to pour another. He brought the decanter
and filled Shelby’s glass too. He set the crystal down and chose a
seat on the leather couch. “Why are you still uncomfortable,
Shelby?”
The older man slid forward in the chair, resting his
elbows on knees and clasped his hands together. “The Bitches
fiancé, Gage Dell, has also been calling. He doesn’t like that
she’s not returning his calls.”
Roark
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