Frayed: Trent & Daniella (Savage Trust Book 3) Page 4

  Given the look on her face when she had marched stiffly away from the kitchen island, she would probably insist on leaving behind anything she hadn’t purchased with her own money.

  Sighing, he opened up the folder on Frank and Emily Marquardt, Daniella’s adoptive parents. The birth certificate was not a forgery, but a fraud by any definition. With the birth listed as a home delivery, the Marquardts must have gotten some local doctor to agree that it was in Daniella’s best interest not to know who her birth mother was or that she had been adopted.

  Thinking back on what Daniella had said in the kitchen, Trent felt his balls draw tight.

  …a house where I wasn’t wanted. I know the signs…

  She was reading him wrong, but he couldn’t tell her that. He wanted her safe and would continue to personally oversee all operations to ensure her protection and that of the baby. He just didn’t want to be in the same building with her, not when he couldn’t figure out why being around her threw his brain and body into such a turmoil he had to shut down.

  Hell, she wasn’t his type, not really. He paid for slimmer women. Bendy women he could mold into whatever position he wanted. If his response to Daniella was purely physical, he could put in a special request, get an agent to line up a curvier female. He could lock the office door and open up any number of websites that would show him pictures of women shaped like her, their pussies splayed open, fucking themselves or letting someone else fuck them. He could watch two Daniella-clones teasing one another, their plus-size bodies scissoring and sliding, skin shiny with sweat as they moaned their way toward climax.

  But none of that was going to get the real Daniella out of his head, especially if she was still in his home.

  Looking at the time on his laptop, he cursed softly. It was a little past two and Daniella hadn’t come out of the guest room since their failed breakfast together. She had formula in her bag for the baby and clean tap water from the bathroom, but she had to be ravenous.

  Closing the folder on the Marquardts, he left the office and headed for the kitchen, where he made another attempt at feeding Daniella, stacking two tall sandwiches and cutting up some fresh fruit. Giving her no option of retreating, he loaded everything onto a rolling cart and knocked on the door of the guest room.

  “Lunch,” he announced when she cracked the door open an inch.

  She frowned at him, the expression tickling the back of his skull. He knew what he’d do to a sex partner who looked at him like that. The lesson would slowly unfold. After the first hour of hovering on the precipice of a climax, Daniella would finally realize she was being disciplined.

  The partner would realize, he mentally corrected. Not Daniella. He only worked with professionals and never the same one twice. He wasn’t going anywhere near the juncture of Daniella’s soft, plump thighs, not even if she wanted him to.

  And she clearly didn’t want him to. The attraction was one way.

  “Open the door,” he said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. Why was she even hesitating? It was just a damn sandwich and some fruit, not a snake or a dead rat.

  She stepped back, drawing the door open. Trent rolled the cart over to the bed and sat down. There was space for her to sit on the bed a few feet away from him on the other end of the cart or she could use the office chair, directly opposite him with the cart between them. She chose the chair, her selection and its implicit rejection of him causing a new level of tightness in Trent’s chest.

  Reminding himself he didn’t want Daniella sitting any closer, he moved a plate and one of the fruit cups toward her, refraining from touching his own food as he waited for her to take a bite. She did, her movements wooden, her gaze darting between the cart and the sleeping Christine, never at him.

  He looked at the crib and realized he hadn’t seen the baby since the ambulance crew took her away. She had been squalling, covered in blood and some kind of placental or amniotic goo, and wrapped in his thousand dollar silk jacket.

  Ignoring his sandwich, he walked over to the crib. Pushing away the sensation of Daniella’s gaze boring into him, he bent over the sleeping baby. Lynn and Daniella shared the same hair coloring, only the half-sister had bleached her long strands to a gaudy platinum. He brushed a thumb softly against the baby’s cheek, not wanting to wake her but hoping, at the same time, to see the color of her eyes. They had been that odd dark blue some infants are born with that darkens to brown over time. Not always, but for some babies.

  Either way, he doubted they’d be gray. According to driving records, Lynn and Ronelle had hazel eyes. Daniella must have taken after her father in that respect, whoever the man was.

  Turning back to the cart, Trent froze as a knock landed at the door. Christine woke. Daniella dropped her sandwich onto the plate and moved toward the crib, her gaze startled.

  “I thought no one could reach this floor?”

  “Reed has the code,” he explained. Overcoming the urge to reach out and give her arm a reassuring squeeze, he shoved his hands in his pocket. “And the people you’re worried about aren’t in the habit of knocking.”

  Fishing his phone from his pocket, he turned the display on, navigated to the camera feed for the front door then showed her Reed mugging it up. She smiled and released an amused chuckle before bending down to lull the baby back to sleep.

  “Be right back,” he assured her, wincing at the eager tone he could hear in his voice.

  Not eager—necessary, he scolded as he headed down the hall. Lindsey hadn’t secured a safe house and Reed was here to break the news. In the meantime, if Trent didn’t want Daniella heading out on her own, he needed to make nice, try to socialize with her a little bit so she didn’t feel like she was imposing.

  Opening the door, Trent felt his plans crash to the floor as he saw Reed holding a vase full of flowers.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, wearing a broad grin as he swept inside the penthouse. “Where’s Dani?”

  “Where you left her,” Trent answered, his lips almost sealed from the tight clamp of his jaws.

  What the hell was Reed doing calling her “Dani”? Had she told him to?

  She had to have. Reed didn’t get chummy with females. Half the staff thought he had a boyfriend hidden away somewhere, while the rest thought he was some kind of warrior monk on loan from the Vatican.

  Only those who knew about his ex-wife and Baghdad understood the distance he seemed to keep from women—and children.

  Hands bunching into fists, Trent shoved them in his pockets and followed his subordinate and friend of more than a decade down the hall to where Daniella waited with a genuine smile on her face. Seeing the flowers, her expression brightened a little more.

  “Hey, Dani girl,” Reed greeted her with no small amount of affection. “These are for you.”

  Trent felt his hands ball into tight fists at his sides, and his irritation grow into something much more feral. So it’s Dani girl now? And he’s getting her flowers?

  “Hate to tell you this,” continued Reed, “But I’ve got some bad news.”

  Her smile faltered.

  Whether Reed was flirting with her or just trying to put her at ease, Trent didn’t care. Nothing was going to make this red haze leave his vision. Nothing short of dragging Reed away from touching distance of her.

  Oblivious to Trent’s seething jealousy, Reed jerked his head in Trent’s direction and informed Daniella in mock-grave tone, “Looks like you’re going to have to put up with this bozo here until Monday morning. But if you can survive that long, I’ll have a sweet little bungalow lined up for you.”

  He handed her the flowers with a flourish. “I figured these might soften the blow and offset how damn dry and rarefied everything is in the penthouse.” Lobbing another veiled barb in Trent’s direction, Reed stage-whispered in her ear, “You’d think Hades himself lived here.”

  Trent’s spine immediately jerked stiff at the use of his operations name. What the hell? Reed knew better than to use it around others—too
insult him about his home, no less.

  Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t just fire the needling asshole.

  “Since you’re here,” Trent growled and gestured at his untouched sandwich, “you can keep Daniella company while she has lunch. I’ve got more work to do on Wagner’s file. The sooner this is sorted out, the sooner things can get back to normal around here.”

  Wincing at his words and the effect he suspected they would have on Daniella, he turned so she wouldn’t be able to see his face—and so he couldn’t see hers.

  Unfazed by his boss being a coldhearted bastard as usual, Reed just laughed. “Sure thing. Sharing a meal with a beautiful woman beats my original lunch plans for today.”

  Ignoring that parting dig, Trent made his exit without another word.

  And nearly punched the wall in the hallway when he heard the pair exchanging laughs not long after his departure.

  Sitting at his desk with the lights out, Trent heard Reed re-set the alarm as he left ninety minutes later.

  His thumb stroked the edge of his phone in the same pattern it had been repeating for the last half hour. For all the men he would name as friends, Trent realized, there wasn’t a one he could call. He absolutely couldn’t talk to Reed about anything to do with love. Even after so many years, the topic was a raw spot for the man. Besides, Reed was taking too much damn pleasure over Trent’s current state of confusion.

  Their boss and mutual friend, Collin Stark, didn't entertain the softer emotions. Nazarov, the big Russian bear, was a hopeless romantic.

  When it came to romance or whatever the hell he was feeling, Trent realized he was utterly alone. Alone and in the dark.

  Down the hall, Christine started to cry. Daniella soothed her with a song as she had the night before, the baby instantly silent at her aunt’s sweet, haunting voice.

  Ghosts against the winter sky,

  The years, like clouds, roll on by,

  I can’t see you…

  7

  Daniella

  Indecision over whether to strike out on her own with Christine proved the perfect prescription for a long night of insomnia. While her mind tossed and turned, Daniella held her body immobile, the crisp linen sheets too easily transforming her tumultuous thoughts into actual sounds that might wake the baby.

  Eventually, she succumbed to fatigue, only to be woken less than an hour later by Christine ready for a bottle. After making a quick diaper change and giving the baby a pacifier, Daniella tried to quietly zombie walk down the hall, sleep tugging at every step.

  Opening the microwave door, she used its light to try to find the mute button. She’d gone the rest of the day without seeing Trent and didn’t want to risk another encounter by waking him.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked softly, standing beneath the arch that separated the kitchen from the main corridor.

  Daniella jerked upright, her cheek narrowly missing the metal prong on the microwave door.

  That was twice he’d almost made her jump straight out of her skin! She was certain the first time had been on purpose. The man moved like a damn cat.

  “The mute button,” she answered, giving up the search now that she knew he was awake.

  She placed a cup of water inside the microwave and set the cook time for one minute. Pressing the start button, she turned to Trent. He sat on one of the island stools and she offered a flat, half smile that she had to force to her lips.

  He didn’t respond. With almost no light in the room beyond what illuminated the interior of the microwave, she couldn’t read his expression at all.

  An electronic beep signaled the cook time had finished. Daniella poured the water into the bottle, gave it a vigorous shaking then tested the temperature before returning the cup to the strainer.

  Trent still hadn’t said anything beyond his initial question.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked, something about his shadowy face making her reluctant to leave.

  He didn’t answer. His body remained so stiff and motionless, she thought he might have fallen asleep. Anyone else, she would say that was impossible, but the man’s spine was as rigidly straight as a four-by-four every time she saw him. Maybe it stayed like that when he slept.

  “I need to give Christine the bottle,” she added after it became clear he wasn’t going to answer her.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to say anything turned into a challenge. Like maybe she was missing the right combination of words to unlock his tongue. So, instead of leaving, she made another attempt.

  “The pacifier only works so long before her stomach figures out it’s being fooled.”

  He lifted one finger, a sort of bored permission for her to leave. Her cheeks turned hot in an instant. She left the room as quickly as she could, her gait no longer reminiscent of the walking dead but someone urgent to leave an area before she broke down emotionally.

  Reaching the guest room, she retrieved Christine. A measure of calm settled over Daniella. Cradling the baby, she sat in the office chair, knees bouncing as she lightly rocked. The bedside lamp was set on low and she stared at her niece’s face.

  Beautiful chubby cheeks, greedy lips, delicate brows matched by gossamer eyelashes. The confused tears that had threatened at Trent’s odd silence were replaced with a salty stream of joy.

  This was her baby. Not her daughter, but her baby nonetheless. She would raise her with love. Anyone who couldn’t love Christine would not be a part of Daniella’s life. If she had to leave the country to keep Merl or his buddies from getting their hands on the baby, she would.

  “How does Costa Rica sound?” she whispered as Christine’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the bottle. “Mrs. Henderson retired there with her husband. She supplements her pension with online work. There’s a rainforest and beaches and a beautiful bird with a tail longer than the rest of its body.”

  The bottle empty, Christine didn’t answer. Teasing near the baby’s mouth with her fingertip, Daniella eased the rubber nipple away, brought the baby up to her shoulder and gently rubbed at Christine’s back until a soft burp sounded.

  She returned the baby to the crib then looked at the bottle. The guest room had its own bathroom. She could use its sink to rinse the bottle out. Returning to the kitchen despite the thirty minute lapse in time risked running into Trent again.

  That was kind of ridiculous, wasn’t it? It’s not like he would be there waiting for her. Why? So he could stare silently at her?

  Looking down at Christine, Daniella laughed at herself.

  “Only room for one baby in that crib. Guess that means I’ve got to pull on my big girl panties,” she whispered then headed for the kitchen.

  Leaving the soft light of the bedroom, the hall and kitchen were dark, just the faint glow from the small power lights on some of the appliances. Beyond the hum of those appliances, the room was quiet as a tomb.

  She turned on the overhead light for the larger sink and ran some warm water to rinse out the bottle.

  In small stages, she realized she wasn’t alone in the room. He didn’t make a sound, not even his breathing, but she knew Trent was still in the kitchen, sitting on the same stool where she had left him. Cutting off the water, she placed the bottle in the strainer and slowly turned to face him.

  “I apologize,” she started, throat constricting around the words. He made her feel so strange, like she had both every right and no right at all to be mad at him.

  “It was rude what I said this morning,” she continued. “But it was how I felt—how I still feel. I’m going to find a place for tomorrow—I mean today, I guess. Then, if it’s okay with you, Christine and I will move into the bungalow on Monday as planned.”

  He shot her plan down with one of those dismissive lifts of his finger.

  “If my presence is making you uncomfortable, I’ll go to a hotel.”

  His unexpected response drew her closer to the island, the light above the sink illuminating his features. She had
encountered plenty of males in real life that she would call “good looking,” but she had never met one who looked like he belonged in a magazine ad, a Hollywood movie set or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

  Trent possessed that kind of breathtaking appearance with his jet black hair just long enough to grab hold of, the heavy, almost ominous brow, and the angular jaw line veiled by its immaculately trimmed beard. His head was perfectly proportioned to his muscular body. He had a strong nose, strong cheekbones—strong everything.

  Realizing how long she had been staring at him, she shook her head. “I’m not chasing you out of your home, Mr. Kane.”

  “It’s Trent,” he corrected, his voice low and deep, the words unnaturally elongated from how he regularly talked. “And this isn’t my home. It’s where I keep my things.”

  The weary response saddened Daniella. The man could live in practically any home he wanted to with all the resources at his disposal, but the place he had chosen was just a shell for his possessions.

  Chewing at her lip, she remembered something Reed had said earlier—a sort of joke he had made.

  “You didn’t like it when Mr. Henley said it was like Hades lived here.”

  There was a slight lift of his shoulders. She would have called it a shrug but she wasn’t sure if Trent was capable of making the gesture. He seemed so erect and blunt.

  “It’s my operations name, which I’ll have to change now.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she whisper-promised.

  This time, when the shoulders lifted a micrometer, there was no doubt in Daniella’s mind that the man had shrugged. Noting that his expressions and gestures were quite subtle sometimes, she wondered which were the real responses and which were fake. That first day in his office, he had thrown up his hands, broadly swept them along his desk. Tonight, he was giving her the faintest of finger and shoulder lifts. At breakfast, he had been a stone wall once he pushed a plate in her direction.

  Swallowing down the question, she moved closer to Trent. When he had entered the kitchen while she prepared Christine’s bottle, she hadn’t noted how he was dressed, only that he was covered from ankle to collarbone. Now she could see he had on black pajama pants and a matching top that he hadn’t buttoned, the sliver of exposed flesh an olive-gold. She might have guessed that he had traces of First Nation blood in his veins, but his operations name made her think of a Mediterranean background.