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I rest my crossed arms against the base of his car window. “Think about your own son before you even think of taking mine. Do you hear me?”
He keeps silent.
“You know what I’m capable of.” I show him the stitches on my palm. “Just think about it.”
“Give Don what he wants, and no one will get hurt,” he mutters.
I step backward, not taking my eyes off him until he drives away.
* * *
After ferryingme on his Porsche to the Hartley Marine headquarters, Clayton takes me on a scenic chopper ride over New Port.
The time stretches, but it hasn’t helped me. There are two scenarios: I deliver for Don, or I don’t. Whether I betray Clayton and hope the one percent chance of Don keeping his words will come true, or I face the possibility of losing Raffi.
I wish I didn’t have to decide which scenario to test.
“You okay?” he asks, reaching for my thigh through my dress slit.
“Yeah.” I look out the window. “The beach looks so beautiful from up here.”
“Why am I sensing that you’re not impressed?”
I turn to him with a neutral smile—or some kind of smile that doesn’t constitute lying. It’s not that I’m not impressed. I haven’t paid attention to anything he was saying.
I don’t know how long or far we’re meant to fly, but Clayton makes a turn.
“Geez, your headquarters is huge,” I comment as we descend into the complex. Only from the air can you actually appreciate the scale of the glass domes, which Clayton explained earlier, house their showroom, factory, and various offices. Extending to the marina and eventually the Pacific Ocean, it’s as if Hartley Marine is inside a world of its own.
“We’ve got to have space to house some of our yachts. I mean, the ones that we can keep indoors. The big ones are out on the wharf. It actually looks even better inside,” Clayton explains as we conclude our flight.
He takes my hand to help me disembark.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks again, probably sensing that I’m avoiding his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Come on, let’s meet this prince then.”
“He’s not here yet, but all right, let’s go inside.”
Clayton entwines his arm over mine as we saunter along the tarmac. He reaches for his swipe card.
I’ve seen it many times, yet today it feels like my life is in it—implanted somewhere in the chip hidden behind the casing.
“You have to swipe in anywhere?” I ask casually.
“Pretty much. It’s one of the most secure buildings in the country. My dear.” He opens the door for me, letting me stride slightly in front of him. “Why does this dress remind me of Kenya?”
“Wasn’t I wearing a yellow dress?”
He casts me a look as if telling me it’s not what he meant. “What if I ‘accidentally’ snapped this?” His finger fiddles with the strap.
“Do it at your own peril,” I murmur, masking the fright paralyzing me. How many more times will he need that card before I can snatch it and hand it to whoever Don instructs me to?
Clayton exhales hard as he inserts his hand from the side of my dress, obviously taking my quip as an invitation. My bare nipple stiffens under his palm. Feeling it and getting no protest from me, he massages my breast in a circular motion, not caring if he stretches or even tears the fabric covering it.
Pressing his lips against my lobe, he whispers, “You know, the prince is newly divorced. Please don’t break his heart.”
My hand reaches out to his belt, and the clip of his access card is on my fingertips. If there is a heart I’m going to break today, it’ll be Clayton’s.
