Page 62 of A Touch of Dark
“Of course… See you then.”
The looming prospect of media attention makes for the perfect foil to Damien’s visit last night. I’m haunted by both as I strip my dress and shower, scrubbing vigorously to erase every trace of the blind psychopath. When I return to my room to tidy it, I groan and wring my hands in exasperation. Someone already has—attempted to, anyway. They straightened my sheets. Removed the soiled clothing from my floor and placed it in the hamper near my closet. They also presumably tripped over the heels I left scattered near the door.
I don’t clean for him. Neither is he the reason why I strip my sheets and replace them with fresh ones. So maybe I rustle the sheets loudly enough for a speaker to pick up from some hidden location. According to his smug insinuation, he won’t be listening. So he certainly won’t hear the reluctant sigh that tears from my chest.
“Dinner,” I blurt, hating how my voice echoes in the silence. “We do this onmyterms. Nowhere public, but somewhere with plenty of exits in sight. If I feel cornered, I’m leaving. If I feel threatened, I’m leaving. I decide what we eat, and most importantly—I ask the first questions.” I pause, belatedly realizing that he won’t answer back. Feeling my cheeks flame, I soldier on. “Have a car waiting for me at seven. A minute later and I’m not going. Though I suppose I might as well not bother at all. You’re far too busy to be listening.”
There. Empowered, I shrug nonchalantly as if performing for a camera—though, who knows, maybe I am. Good. I hope the bastard has someone there to give him a very vivid description of my ass as I stoop for a pair of heels, grab my coat, and promptly escape my apartment.
I enter a hall and jump at the sight of a large man leaning against the wall at the other end. Only his vaguely familiar features keep my heart from pounding its way from my chest. He nods to me slowly in greeting. When I head to the elevator, he doesn’t follow. Yet I can’t shake this lingering suspicion that I’m never alone. Someone is watching me—and not quite as predatorily as Simon.
Speaking of which…
My old friend hasn’t asserted his existence yet. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. Just tense. It’s not a matter of if he’ll resurface.
It’s when.
Seven rolls around and I’m still in my apartment, blissfully unhurried. After all, there’s no point in waiting for a ride that will never show—or so I tell myself.
Following that logic, there was no reason to get dressed, either. No reason to wash and blow out my hair or paint my lips in the one shade I have other than red: a slightly lighter pink. There’s certainly no reason to glare at my reflection and wrestle with the idea of changing for the umpteenth time.
In the end, I’m still scowling when I finally leave the bathroom and don my coat. I’ll head down out of pure curiosity. Being stood up—in theory—will just give me more ammunition to use against Damien. At least I’ll prove he was lying about the bugs.
Just for fun, I pause near the foyer and tilt my head toward the ceiling, scanning for little black devices. “I want pizza,” I say. “The extra-cheese special from Georgianos. They know me there, and I’m the only one in the world who orders that special, so there will be a record of your address that my father can trace if I go missing.”
It’s a bald-faced lie. I haven’t ordered from Georgianos in months—though he doesn’t know that. Then again, the bastard did bug both my home and my office for an undetermined amount of time. In any case, I can take comfort in the fact Mr. Damien Villa has already expressed boredom from spying on me.
Though I still find one of his men in the hallway when I step out of my suite. Dressed in black, he greets me with a nod. Downstairs, I spot two similarly dressed men lurking amongst the crowd. They don’t acknowledge me directly, but I sense them watching as I head for the main doors. Outside, a sleek vehicle is waiting for me. The driver stands beside the passenger’s door and opens it as if on cue.
“Good evening, Ms. Thorne.”
Damn Damien. So the bastard called my bluff after all. In the process, he gave himself away; he’s been listening to my boring life in real time.
Gritting my teeth, I enter the car and try to ignore the alarm bells going off in my mind. This could be a trick. A rather elaborate one, admittedly. Any time during the day, Julio could have barged into my apartment and done whatever he wanted.
Perhaps Mr. Villa preferred to do the deed himself? Luckily for him, I’m being hand-delivered.
He isn’t far. My destination turns out to be only blocks from my building, in the same upscale part of town: an even taller skyscraper formed of black glass and gold accents. It’s a breathtaking bastion of wealth, but there’s no clear indicator as to its purpose. Evil lair? Reclusive penthouse dwelling?
Inside, a plain lobby with granite floors and dark walls funnels any visitor to a gilded elevator.
“Take it to the roof,” the driver instructs, having come inside with me.
He leaves, and I ride the elevator up alone, desperate to quell my staggered heartbeat. When the elevator doors finally part, I’m forced to acknowledge my first concession of the night: Damien followed my instructions perfectly.
The private roof, several stories above most surrounding buildings, certainly isn’t within obvious public view. Score one. The low barrier keeping an occupant from plunging to their death could technically be viewed as an abundance of “exits.” But only a sadist would interpret “I don’t want to feel cornered” as a license to host their morbid soiree inside of a structure composed almost entirely of glass.
It dominates the center of the rooftop, illuminated with golden light. I blink several times before I dare put a name to it: a greenhouse.
A real one.
I can smell the flowers from here. Sweet. Fresh. An amalgam of color bolsters the different scents: spicy, delicate, aromatic. Too many to name. I’d stake my life on the assumption that roses are among them.
When I don’t spot Damien lurking within the shadows, I warily approach the pair of glass doors serving as the greenhouse’s entrance. They open easily, and I smother a sigh as a comfortable warmth replaces the frigid night air. My eyes blink to adjust, and for good reason.
It’s like I left winter and entered spring—if mother nature happened to be a passive-aggressive perfectionist.
Countless plants are arranged neatly in black planters, spread out at meticulous intervals. There isn’t so much as a wayward petal on the stone flooring, and I could walk the orderly paths…well, blindfolded. A vital feature, I’m willing to admit, given the limitations of the man sensing my approach from beside a selection of his signature flowers.
