I don’t know his background, but I know that Ryan is actively recruiting him for Stark Security, even though Baxter says he’s content on the corporate security side. But he must be good because my husband is not one to extend an offer for Stark Security to slouches.
That means Baxter’s had training, but whether it was private or military, I don’t know. What I am certain of is that he has skills, and I’m grateful that he’s part of the team.
“Well?” I say, prompting Baxter. “How do you know my attacker was a man?”
“We know the approximate time of the attack based on Ryan’s movements and what Dr. Fields told us about the metabolism of the drug. So it was relatively simple to review the hotel’s security footage. And the best part is that we got a face. He looked straight at one of the hidden cameras.”
I look between the two men. “But that’s incredible. I mean, wouldn’t someone coming to do something like that to me assume we’d check the security cameras? You’d think he’d keep his head down, right?”
“He did,” Baxter says. “Hat on in the elevator, head down. We never saw his face. From the time he went through the lobby until he got close to your door. But that’s when he looked up—just once—and one of the hall cameras got a sweet shot.”
“Do you know who he is?” I ask.
Ryan looks to Baxter, who shakes his head. “Not yet. But I sent the image to the SSA,” he adds, referring to the Stark Security Agency.
He passes me his phone. The guy’s standing far enough away that he’s not too distorted from the fisheye lens, but I don’t recognize him. It’s a black and white photo, but his hair is light enough that I assume it’s blond. He has thick eyebrows and a round face with a pointed chin. He’s not particularly attractive, but neither is he unattractive. Basically, he’s the kind of guy you’d never notice. I certainly never have and say as much.
“Denny’s running it through facial recognition,” Baxter tells me, referring to one of Stark Security’s agents in LA. “Hopefully, she’ll get a hit soon.”
“Hopefully,” I repeat, then lean in as Ryan puts his arm around me. “What do we do until then?” I frown, remembering. “Didn’t you set a meeting with Felicia? Or Gabby? Or—well, do you think she’ll keep it?”
“I thought she might. If only to make her seem less complicit in drugging you. But she’s not here yet.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods. “I’ve got hotel security keeping an eye open. No sign of her yet.”
“Oh. I guess that makes her look more guilty, huh?”
He doesn’t answer, and I sigh. His silence is answer enough.
“So how do you find her now?”
“Without a contact number, all we can do is wait.”
“I have a bit of additional news,” Baxter says as I sigh with frustration. “I tracked down the probate attorney and the executor of Randall’s will. Name’s Marjorie Smythe.”
“That was fast.”
“Haven’t heard back, but I asked her to call me as soon as she could. Told her it was urgent.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say, then jump when the chime of the suite’s doorbell fills the room.
Ryan stands, then hurries toward the door.
I run into the bedroom to change into jeans and a T-shirt and am only half-dressed when I hear the door slam. I jump a mile, then yank on my T-shirt without a bra and race back into the main room as a woman screams. Or, rather, she starts to scream. It’s cut off at the same time as I hear a body slam against a wall.
I reach the front hall at the same time as Baxter. Bax continues, but I freeze at the sight in front of me—Ryan pressed against Gabby—Felicia?— his arm hard over her neck, his face contorted into fury.
“This is the end, Felicia,” he demands, his voice hard. “It’s time for you to tell us what the fuck is going on.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Goddammit,” Hunter growls, his huge hand cupping Gabby’s throat as he presses her against the now-closed door, as one of the hotel’s security guards stands at attention a few feet away.
I make a yelping noise, and Baxter—who’s beside me—takes a step forward. But Hunter shifts his gaze from the woman long enough to shoot us both a quelling look. I freeze, and Baxter, who’s no slouch, stops moving, too. We both know that right now, my husband is as dangerous as he’s ever been.
Slowly, he turns to the guard. “You found her where?”
“In the lobby, sir.”
He shifts back to face Gabby, his expression as hard as steel. “You think you can threaten me? Attack my wife?” Hunter continues, his voice so low and dangerous that goose bumps pop on my skin. “Do you truly believe that you can pull that kind of bullshit and there won’t be any consequences? It may have been more than a decade, Felicia, but I would have thought your memory was better. I would have thought you’d know exactly what I’ll do to protect what’s mine.”
His grip isn’t tight enough to prevent her from swallowing, and I watch as her throat moves and tears flood her eyes.
“Ryan,” Baxter says softly. “Let her talk.”
Ryan glances sideways at Baxter, his face still lined with fury. Then he shifts his gaze, and his eyes soften as he meets mine. A moment passes, and he turns back to Gabby. “You want to talk? Fine. But I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about how you need my help. Fuck that. We’re done. I want answers and I want them now, or I swear to God I’ll break your fucking neck.”
I believe him. Hunter’s not the kind of man who would hurt a woman, but this is different. This time, I’m the one he’s protecting, and I know damn well that he’ll do whatever is necessary to keep me safe. That she’s a woman—maybe even my friend—isn’t even an issue. More than that, if he truly believes that the only way to ensure I’m safe is to kill her, he’ll do that, too, without even hesitating.
Right now, though, I fear he might hurt her out of pure fury, because I can see his temper rising as she stays silent. The realization both scares and humbles me. As a rule, Hunter’s one of the most in-control men I’ve ever known. But he’s on a precipice, about to spin out of control, and I know that it’s mostly about me.
“Hunter,” I whisper. “She can’t answer.”
It takes a moment, but my words penetrate, and he loosens the pressure on her neck. “Talk,” he says.
Her shoulders relax slightly as she draws in a breath, then nods.
“Why the fuck are you here, Felicia?”
She licks her lips. “We were going to meet in the bar.” She looks toward me, her expression terrified. “All I did was come to meet you at the bar. We were supposed to talk.”
“About what exactly? How you hired someone to drug my wife?”
She shakes her head, looking a lot like a terrified rabbit.
“It’s okay, Gabby,” I say gently. “Whatever it is just say it.”
She flashes a tiny smile my way, her eyes full of gratitude. “That’s exactly it,” she says. “I am Gabriella Anderson. Not Felicia. I swear on my father’s memory—both my fathers—that I’m not Felicia Cartwright.”