Fate Book (16 page)

“Maybe.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He sighed. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but that’s all you’re getting. My job is to keep you alive. Not to make you feel better or answer your questions. If that were the case, I’d never get a day off.”

What a jerk!

“For the record,” I said. “You don’t need to try.”

“Try what?”

“Being an azzzhole,” I said, mocking his accent. “It comes naturally.”

He grumbled something in Italian under his breath and focused on the road. I suddenly wished I’d taken a foreign language—specifically, Italian. Because whatever he’d said, it sounded mean.

I sank into my seat and looked out the window to my right, trying to process the drastic turn my life had just taken. Sadly, so many things began to make sense, while others made less and less. My father’s constant distance from me and my mother, for example. Had it been to keep us safe from whatever crap he was mixed up in? Now that I thought about it, he did act pretty shady. Sometimes he’d fly in unexpectedly in the middle of the night, always bringing some stranger with him who he’d introduce as a “business associate.”

“Oh my God!” I snapped my fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen you before! You were his driver.” A few years ago, my father had come for a quick one-day visit on my birthday. As a gift, he took me shopping. I remembered how odd it seemed that his chauffeur followed us around in the mall. Santiago—Paolo—
was
some sort of bodyguard. My only question: Did he protect me from criminals or work for one? Or both? Anything seemed possible at this point.

“You remember me?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Why are you so shocked?”

“You didn’t look at me that day. Not once. You were too busy glaring at your father.”

I remembered now. It was right after I’d spotted my dad in San Francisco with that other woman. But, of course, Paolo knew all about that. Didn’t he?

“Yeah. It was a pretty shitty day,” I said under my breath.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Apparently not that sorry because you used that little tidbit of info to blackmail me into following along with your sick little game.”

“Like I said,” he replied briskly, “I’m sorry. But your father wasn’t actually doing what you think.”

“You expect me to believe that?” I asked. “Because I know what I saw.”

He didn’t respond.

“Let me guess. I should ask my father?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So is my mother in on this?” Although I found it hard to believe she would subject me to all this—it didn’t fit her overprotective, for-the-good-of-humanity personality—I had to ask. Also, when Santiago first appeared in my life, she’d acted like she’d just met him. Frankly, my mother was a horrible liar, so I knew she wasn’t faking.

“Yes, she knows,” he replied.

“
What?
” It was official. The entire world had betrayed me. But why? “You’re trying to tell me that my mother knew who you were the moment you showed up?” I asked.

“No. But…it’s complicated. You need to ask—”

“My father.” I felt my face turn a frustrated shade of red.

“Dakota, I can’t give you any information. It would be different if you weren’t my boss’s daughter, but you are. He’s given me strict instructions not to tell you anything that isn’t directly related to saving your life. Satisfying your curiosity doesn’t qualify.”

“What a jerk,” I fumed.

He ignored me and continued watching the road like a well-trained robot.

We continued up Highway 15 for about thirty minutes and then exited and jumped on a back road. We continued north, driving in a charged, uncomfortable silence. I looked at his phone sitting on the console, wondering when my father might call or if “Santiago” would let me contact my mother. Not that my parents ever bothered calling me back.

“Can you at least tell me if my mother’s safe?”

“I don’t know. My job is you. Not her.”

Job. There was that word again. My life was a mess, but he referred to it in the same impersonal way a janitor might talk about cleaning floors. At the end of the day, he could go home, pop open a cold one, and watch the game.

“Nice bedside manner there,
Paolo.
When can I call her?”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t ever call her?”

“Not until the situation is…resolved.”

“But, of course, you have no clue when that will be.”

“No,” he replied.

“Well, it’s still a free country, and I’m an adult.” I reached for the phone, but he pushed my hand away. He quickly popped the battery and chucked the device out the window.

What the hell?
“Such impressive eco-friendly manners there, bub, but you and my father can’t keep me prisoner,” I snapped.

He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You mean you’re not going to argue the point?”

“What’s to argue?” he said briskly. “You can leave anytime you like. If you’re willing to accept the consequences.”

The car made a sharp turn left and then right as we wound our way up the mountain road. Funny, the day looked so clear and bright, the sky a pristine blue. The weather inside the vehicle, however, felt closer to a thunderstorm.

The eye of the rabbit hole…

“Such as?” I asked.

“Your death. Possibly mine if I don’t keep you safe.”

What?
“You’re not insinuating my father would kill you. That’s absurd.”

“Is it now?” he replied.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t. I had no clue what sort of man my father was. Come to think of it, hadn’t he met my mother because he’d been shot? Lord, he was probably some sort of gangster.

“Your father actually
would
kill me,” he added, “but only for one thing: touching you. However, what I meant was that if you run and these assholes really know who you are, they will track you down within a few days. I’d have to come rescue you, which would be pointless because you’d be dead already—your head shipped off to your father—but I’d come looking for you anyway. My head would follow.”

His
head, too? He couldn’t be serious. “Silver linings...aren’t they just magical?”

“Crack all the jokes you want, but I guarantee the only thing that has kept you alive all these years is that those people don’t know you exist. If that veil of protection is gone, then welcome to your new fucking life.” He pointed to himself.

No. No way
.

“You can’t really expect me to believe all this crap?” Not that Santi—
shit
—Paolo had actually told me anything other than I was in danger and my father wasn’t who I thought.

“Believe anything you like. Just don’t get in the way of my job,” he said without emotion.

Crap.
So this is what it all came down to? I would get no answers, but I’d get to choose either doing everything he told me, leaving my life behind, and going into hiding; or refusing to listen to him and taking the risk that he was full of shit about me being dead in a few days. Those were my choices? Really? Really?

“Pull over,” I demanded.

“What?”

“I said pull over! I’m going to be sick.”

He pulled into a narrow turnout, and I exited the vehicle, bolting for a stand of tall pines. I leaned into one, attempting to eject the burning knots, but there was nothing to throw up since I hadn’t eaten. My last meal had been before the party the previous evening. That didn’t stop my stomach, however, from trying to relinquish the pit of despair inside.

“You okay?” Paolo appeared from behind, gripping my shoulders.

I turned and looked up at him. His thick layer of black stubble made his lips stand out as if being presented on a silver platter. And the whites of his dark eyes, though slightly red, likely from a lack of sleep, still captivated me. Something fierce lurked inside his gaze, a sort of dissonance and anger—stubbornness that spoke volumes about who he really was.

He stared down at me and brushed a few strands of hair from my face, but then quickly dropped his hand. “You look hungry.”

I nodded dumbly.

“Maybe getting a little food in you will settle your stomach.”

He walked back toward the road, and I followed, carefully stepping over fallen branches until I reached the SUV.

Once inside, I noticed that Paolo’s eyes were locked on the empty road ahead. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He snapped out of it. “Nothing. Was just thinking.”

“About?” I asked.

He blew out a breath. “I’m sure we won’t hear from your father for a few days, maybe a week.”

“A week?” I asked, my tone mildly panicked.

“Afraid of being alone with me for that long?” His eyes dropped to my chest but promptly returned to my face.

I felt the tremor return to my stomach, but it wasn’t fear. “Maybe.”

“Good answer.”

Why had he said that? Did he want me to be afraid of him?

“Okaaay,” I sighed. “Any thoughts on how my dad is going to contact us if we don’t have phones?”

“Don’t worry,” he grumbled. “We have our ways.”

I wasn’t sure what their “ways” were, but I had no choice now but to hope this would be over quickly.

An hour later, Paolo stopped at a small mom-and-pop convenience store to pick up supplies—food, toothbrushes, soap, etc. At the checkout, he pulled a huge wad of cash from his jeans, and, naturally, I stared. I’d never seen so much money. And while my eyes were down there, and my mind was a complete mess, they stopped to stare at his other wad.

“Eh-hem,” he said.

My head snapped up.
Oh my God
. I looked away and followed him to the car, embarrassed as hell that I’d been caught ogling his crotch.

“Where are we going?” I wanted to push my thoughts to a less uncomfortable place.

“There’s a cabin just up the road. There are no phones or Internet, so there’s no risk of you contacting someone you shouldn’t in a moment of weakness.”

He knew me too well.

~ ~ ~

Not long after the pit stop, we turned down a narrow dirt road that was lined with tall pine trees and led us to a rickety gate with a padlock. It looked like the scene of a horror movie waiting to happen. Once deeper inside the property, however, the quaint two-story cabin came into view. It was dark brown with a pitched roof and a large porch.

“Are we safe here?” I asked, thinking not only about the humans, but the animals, too.

“Nothing to be afraid of, except not listening to me.” He smiled warmly, as if to comfort me. I guessed that we were now in familiar territory, since Paolo felt more at ease. It instantly showed because “Robot Paolo” had retreated.

The interior of the cabin, though kind of dark from the wood-paneled walls and plank wood floors, was cozy with a rustic charm—large, overstuffed plaid couch, wood burning stove, neatly folded quilts, and antique ski gear on the walls. The living room had a small dining table off in the corner, and a large open doorway separated it from the small kitchen area.

Paolo unloaded the grocery bags into the cupboards and fridge while I stood in the living room, checking out his collection of books on the mantel. Homer’s
Odyssey
, Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises
...

Pride and Prejudice
?

“Whose place is this?” I asked.

“Mine. I come here when I need to decompress.”

A man who decompresses with Austen
and
Hemingway?
I wasn’t certain how to reconcile that thought, so I didn’t try.

“So you live in California then?” I asked, also thinking how odd that would be. Of all the photos of all the men in the world I could’ve picked, I chose a guy who worked for my dad and lived in my state.

“I spend most of my time in California, when I’m not working,” he replied.

Must be fate.

Idiot.

“So
they
won’t
find us here?” I asked. Whoever “they” were.

He glanced at me through the large doorway, with an irritated twitch in his eyes.

“Sorry.” I held up my palms. “Didn’t mean to doubt you, mighty one.”

I went to explore a bit but there wasn’t much to see. There was a loft-style bedroom upstairs. Downstairs had a bath, another small bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room.

“I didn’t take you as a cabin man, Paolo,” I called out, coming down the stairs.

“I am a man of many mysteries.” He came out of the kitchen with a hand towel over his shoulder. “Such as, I love to cook.”

“Italian food?” I asked.

“How did you guess?” He went back to his cooking, and I watched him from the doorway.

“I have my
ways
,” I responded jokingly.

He laughed and uncorked a bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass.

“What other mysteries can you share?” I asked.

He gave it a moment of thought. “I grew up in a very small town in Italy. Moved to the States for college.”

“What did you study?” I asked.

“International Relations.”

“So how did you meet my dad?”

“Mr. Dane recruited me. But it wasn’t for my IR knowledge; it was for my political connections—my family is fairly…well known. It didn’t hurt that I have a passion for technology and am an expert marksman.”

“Military training?” I asked.

“My grandfather was big on hunting. He took me to shoot game every summer.”

I cringed. That did not sound appealing, but I wasn’t about to complain about the being handy with a gun thing.

“Of course,” he added, “I’ve had much more training now.”

He dumped a bag of dry pasta into a pot of boiling water, and I watched his back as he stirred. The way his insanely broad shoulders moved and stretched under his T-shirt and the way his back tapered down into a tight waist caught my eye. I couldn’t help but admire his perfect male form.

“Are you staring at my ass again?” he asked.

Oh God. How embarrassing.

I cleared my throat. “How did you know?”

“I can see your reflection in my glass right there.” He nodded toward his wine on the counter.

“Ah. Well…”