“I’ll tell you in your tower,” Sasha teases, and I turn away, a smile on my lips. There is something about these two together that works, but I have a feeling that’s also the problem. There is a lot of something between them, but both of them have plenty of reasons to fear trust and love.
I make my way to the front of the store, pausing before I round the counter, and I eye Gallo’s puddle of water that I should clean up but decide to ignore. Puddles of water are fine. Puddles of blood are not. Entering the office, I reach for my stack of papers, noting that they are face up now, not face down. Either Matteo or Sasha looked through my papers. Maybe Sasha just wanted to recap and see if she could think of anything more. Or maybe she added images from near the club. Or Matteo might have been curious. Thinking back to the meeting, he was pretty excited about the five-million-dollar payday, maybe more so than the others. My brow furrows. Why am I even spending time on this?
I snatch up the papers and leave the office, ready to go to my private space with Kayden. Even more eager for him to return.
Once I’m alone and inside the foyer of our tower, I grab my purse from the coat rack where I’d hung it earlier, settling the strap on my shoulder. I fully intend to head up the stairs, but my gaze catches on the office
that is now officially where Kayden proposed to me. Drawn in that direction, I cross the foyer and enter the room, where my gaze lands on the couch, random memories from earlier today assailing me. Namely, the spanking that wasn’t a beating or really even a spanking. It was this sexy, erotic, consuming rush. Intimate and right in ways that I don’t think it could be with anyone but Kayden. And I swear I can almost feel him next to me again. And damn it, I can almost feel the way I hurt him, too. I inhale the scent of him lingering in the air, and promise myself I’m going to make up for that every day for the rest of our lives.
My attention moves to the desk, with the roll of tape still sitting on it, and I cross to pick it up, more memories flitting through my mind.
“What are you doing?” I’d demanded, when he’d started tearing the tape.
“Proving a point,” he’d said.
And boy, had he.
I trust him completely. Considering how badly I handled this afternoon, I need to tell him this again. Actually, I need to tell him so many things. And I’d love one of them to be the location of the necklace, so we can start putting all of this mess behind us. Motivated by that idea, I open the top desk drawer and scavenge for the supplies I need to create a memory wall. I leave with scissors, thumbtacks, and my trusty roll of tape. Once I’m upstairs, I stand at the edge of the stairs and wait for some sense of unease, but I don’t find it. I head down the hallway and reach our door, and stop dead in my tracks with a realization. Where’s that creepy “I’m being watched” feeling I’ve come to know as normal? I turn and face the hallway, waiting for it to wash over me, but it doesn’t. Have I finally killed the paranoia by talking about it to everyone? And my imaginary ghost with it?
Not sure what to make of this new development, I enter the bedroom and flip on the light as well as the fireplace. The bed is now made, which of course is Marabella’s doing. She is always on top of everything. Shutting the door, I toss my things on top of the blanket and cross to the security booth, where I check the entire tower just to be sure I’m alone, and then do a scan of the store and random other locations. Once I feel good about there being no safety concerns, I return to the bedroom and stare down at my supplies. I play with the idea of setting up a wall of memories in my dance studio, where memories of my past, and my mother, already live, but I really want it to be here in this room for some reason. I could use the security room, but it’s so small. So . . . where?
An idea hits me and I snatch my journal from the nightstand, scoop up my supplies, and head into the bathroom, making a beeline for the closet. Once I’m in there, I set everything on the bench in the center and then glance around the room, finding a section of Kayden’s clothes with a little extra space. With my wardrobe small at this point, I quickly move my things to his section, pausing momentarily to savor the sight of our things hanging together. I’ve never shared a life with anyone. Of this I am certain. I want to share this life with Kayden. That was never in question, but now it is for him. And no wonder, really. Everything in his life is danger, questions, problems. Closing the door to my questions, remembering everything, is something that isn’t just for me. It’s for him.
Turning to face the area where my clothes no longer hang, I note the concrete wall and decide tape is a good idea. I go to work and start creating a map. The hotel. A restaurant I remember passing. Various places that strike the familiar, if not true, memories. But I have no immediate flashbacks, and a good hour later, when everything is where I want it, even the recreation of the alleyway still provokes nothing more than feelings and random glimpses of non-useful images in my mind. I sit down and set my phone next to me, picking up my journal and a pen, thinking I might jot down thoughts. Instead, I stare at the place where one of the pages was torn, willing myself to remember tearing it out, but I just can’t.
Grabbing my phone again, and thankful that at some point Kayden keyed in a list of important contacts that includes Matteo, Marabella, Nathan, and Adriel for me, I pull up Matteo’s number but hesitate. He’s just so darn sensitive about any suggestion anyone could get past his safeguards. I start to dial Adriel when I spot and laugh at the name “Sasha the Great” that she must have inserted herself sometime tonight. But I hesitate again. Something tells me she and Adriel are a little busy right now.
Matteo it is, I decide, but I bypass the call and settle on the less offensive text message question: Any word on the security concerns I had?
He replies almost instantly: Aside from a ghost or two I can’t get rid of, you’re safe.
I blink and laugh at his joke. Ghosts? Well, I have always thought the castle was haunted. I set my phone down and pick it back up, fighting an urge to type: Are you 100% sure? But that would really agitate him and he’s good at what he does. I know this.
I set the phone down firmly. There isn’t a security problem, anyway. There’s a me problem, and a little thing called blackouts. Why is my mind still protecting me, after that flashback in the club and then today? Just give me back everything and let me get it over with!
I study the wall before me, the images in full color and with street views, and I decide to start with the hotel in Paris. And just like that I’m in the hotel room, and things come to me as memories, not a flashback. This makes me smile. I see the room. The bed. The chair. The fight with David and the moment after he leaves the room, when I yank off the necklace in anger.
“Ah, damn it,” I murmur as it falls to the floor. ”Sometimes I get way too into character.”
I blink. “Way too into character? What does that mean?”
It has to mean I’m CIA, but I still find no memory that solidifies that for me. My hand flattens on the hotel photo. I remember leaving, with a hat and glasses on, then discreetly searching for an address that has nothing to do with David. I inhale and let it out. I used David, who was good-looking and full of himself and clearly using me as well, to get to Paris so that the CIA wouldn’t suspect I was following a lead about my father’s death.
“I’m remembering,” I whisper. Hoping this means I can remember what I did with the necklace, I move on to the image of the chocolate shop. I see myself go inside. I feel like that moment is important. I need to go to the security room and get online.
I turn around and Kayden steps into the doorway, his entrance having evaded my knowledge for the consumption of my memories. He pauses there, his holster gone, dark stubble on his square jaw that tells of the incredibly long day we’ve had. His hair is mussed up, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, which would imply he was fretting. A hint of being out of control that he never allows himself.
“Hi,” I say. “I made a memory wall and—”
I never finish the sentence. In a blink he’s in front of me, his hands on my waist, walking me against that wall of locations that may or may not have played a role in bringing us here to this moment in time.
“I ordered the murder of five people in that meeting today, Ella.”
“I know. I was there.”
“The assassination.”
“Why are you telling me this?”