Still Not Yours: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 3

  I grew up that way. Clawing tooth and nail for everything. Eating fried bologna sandwiches for lunch and dinner.

  I won’t have that life for Em.

  Em will have everything she needs, from love to a safe and secure home.

  No matter what I have to do to give it to her.

  With money like that, I could pay off the chemo bills and round off Em’s college fund. Not that I think she’ll need it when she’ll have schools lining up to offer scholarships, but I’ve got to think ahead and plan for every contingency. She's too bright. Too good. Too likely to make this world a better place.

  She only has me to rely on, so I can’t have even one slip, one moment of carelessness. Not one failure as her father.

  Which means I can’t fail if I take this job on.

  Christ, I can’t believe I’m considering this. Closing my eyes, I massage my temples, trying to pull myself out of that cold, angry, unfeeling place. “You’re sure it has to be me?”

  “I'm too obvious, after what happened with Joannie,” Sky says. “And I can’t really pass her off as my kid sister.”

  “And since me an’ Sky come as a unit...” Gabe adds, slipping his big arm around her shoulder.

  James thins his lips, side-eyeing me. “Do I look like the sort to rush into a headlong whirlwind engagement with a woman I have just met?”

  “So I do?” I snap back.

  Landon shakes his head. “You’re the best choice, Riker. Plain and simple. My place is too high-profile. It’s you, or nothing at all.”

  Nothing at all, I want to say, but I’m backed into a corner, and I know it.

  I have to do this, to secure my daughter’s future and give her the life she deserves.

  But I have no idea how I’m going to explain it to her.

  Or how either of us will deal with having a woman in the house for the first time since her ma passed away.

  3

  Little Bit of That (Olivia)

  My head is still reeling by the time I step out of the plane and through the gate at San Francisco International Airport.

  My father hovers so close at my back he’s practically smothering me. I hadn’t expected him to show up to chaperone me from Seattle to San Fran, but he’s been this mute, glowering presence in a fine Italian wool suit the entire time, ignoring me for his laptop and tersely muttered calls.

  The phone calls give me tiny heart palpitations even though I know that thing about cell phones messing with the flight controls isn’t true anymore...mostly.

  I should feel safer with Daddy around, but mostly I feel like I’ve been tossed through a whirlwind.

  Just three hours ago, I was still in my Seattle hotel, while Milah made a dozen phone calls and furiously helped me throw my things into my luggage. She wouldn’t even let me go home for my own stuff.

  It should probably disturb me that my sister knows this much about running from the mob, but honestly, it’s a comfort that someone knows what to do.

  At least she remembered to grab my notebook.

  Milah’s a lot of things, not all of them great, but she remembers the little things. She knows what's important to me. And it's those small, subtle details that remind me my sister is still there behind her struggle with addiction.

  Right now, though, I’ve got to think about my own struggles – and this man I’m supposed to be meeting from the security agency, Riker Woods.

  I’d tried to write on the flight, but I was too keyed-up remembering yesterday. The sound of gunshots, the way blood smells both hot and crisp. Struggling with the horrid feeling of being completely alone with my father right there, yet so far out of reach.

  I should probably remember the details of the attack for my book, but right now it feels so raw and real that I can’t really think about writing it down.

  And I can’t think about what I’m walking into when Milah’s set me up to stay with someone from Landon Strauss’ security agency.

  Yes, the Landon Strauss – husband of the Kenna Burke-now-Strauss, my writing idol. She's an international bestselling romance author.

  I doubt I’ll get to meet her, of course.

  But that doesn't shake how I've been fascinated with her since the documentary on what happened to my sister, and I’ve read all her novels. I think, before I watched a man get shot at my feet, I was firmly in my “I want to be Kenna when I grow up” phase.

  Who knows, maybe writing novels could give me an independent life of my own. Something I earned for myself instead of –

  “Miss Holly?” A rough voice cuts in.

  I’d been busy scanning the crowd without really seeing anyone. Now I'm standing at the gate with my suitcase propped on its wheels and dangling from one hand, my father next to me with his hand on my arm, like I’m going to run away if he lets me off my leash.

  His grip is a little too tight, hurting me just a bit, but I don’t have it in me to say anything right now.

  I’m lost in my thoughts, detached, because there’s a scream building up inside me and I can’t let it out in the middle of a public airport terminal. But it almost bursts from my lips as a deep, gravelly voice to my side speaks my name, calling me Miss Holly as if he’s addressing royalty he isn’t quite sure he particularly likes or not.

  I turn slowly.

  I'm expecting to see some big, bald guy in aviator glasses and a tank top, tattoos and muscles everywhere. Probably a huge belt buckle. Or maybe some kid my age, clean shaven, first job fresh out of college, bouncing around like a puppy and eager to please.

  Instead, I find this man's quiet, searing green gaze looking into me.

  It's as clear as sea glass and just as intensely translucent, set against a dark tan of weathered skin creased into lines around deep-set, thoughtful eyes. He’s tall, so tall it almost hurts my neck to look up at him, but he has a certain grace in the way he carries himself, with his button-down shirt sleeves cuffed to his elbows and casually tucked into neatly pressed slacks that frame long legs and strong hips.

  The arcs of dark hair along his brawny, hard-set arms are the same chocolate brown as the neatly combed sweep of his hair and beard, touched with silver at the temples and the chin.

  God, he’s handsome.

  The kind of whoa, mama handsome that makes you stop and look again because it seems too effortless to be real.

  The kind that makes me think of a stern teacher whose dark, smoldering looks promise there’s a dirty secret under his uptight demeanor.

  The perfect kind of screw the world edge in his stance that tells me Riker Woods is about to make my world even more complicated than I ever dreamed.

  Not what I was expecting.

  Not at all.

  Though there’s nothing consciously smoldering about the way he looks at me right now. He studies me like I’m a particularly puzzling package he doesn’t quite know how to open, before he repeats, “Miss Holly? You are Olivia Holly, yeah?”

  “Um, yeah.” I’m at a loss for what to do in this situation, and my lips try to tie themselves around each other. My cheeks burn, and I offer a hand. “Liv. You can call me Liv.”

  He looks down at my hand. His own are both tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his hips cocked with a sort of devil-may-care assurance.

  He doesn’t shake my hand, doesn’t even take his hands out of his pockets.

  I let my hand drop.

  O-kay then.

  What the hell did Milah get me into?

  “Mr. Woods, I presume?” My father breaks the icy silence first.

  His voice is cold in a way I’ve never heard before, and when I glance back at him, he’s watching Riker with his blue eyes narrowed, like Riker just spit on his priceless antiques or six-figure platinum watch.

  Riker says nothing, looking past me to my father. I can almost see the calculation in his eyes, the way he takes Daddy’s measure in a silence that feels electrically charged.

  I get the feeling that Riker isn’t a man to be spoken to like a lackey, or comma
nded in any way, even if he's technically on my father's payroll.

  And honestly, after a lifetime of seeing people too afraid to stand up to my father...

  He’s fascinating.

  Riker takes his sweet time before he finally answers. “I am.”

  Two simple words.

  My father sniffs. He’s got his Fortune 500 Corporate Mogul face on right now, looking down his nose like he’s royalty assessing a peasant. “I trust I don’t need to remind you how much I’m paying for you to look after my daughter,” he says, and I cringe, hunching into myself.

  What’s my price tag, then?

  How much did it take for Daddy to pass me off to another man like nothing?

  “I trust,” Riker responds coolly, “that you don’t need to tell me how to do my job. That's Landon's gig.” His gaze then returns to me, skewering. “Car’s this way, Miss Holly,” he murmurs, and turns on his heel, his powerful stride carrying him across the terminal floor like he owns the freaking airport.

  Holy hell.

  Daddy’s brow clouds over, lightning gathering in his eyes, and oh God he’s about to lose his temper and have a do you know who I am? moment.

  I’ve got to head it off. Quickly, I rest my hand on his arm, stretch up on my toes, and kiss his cheek. “Love you, Daddy,” I say. “Let it go. I’ll be okay. Thank you for doing this for me.”

  Under my touch, the tension in his arm relaxes some, though not by much.

  But he tears his gaze from Riker’s retreating back and looks down at me. Looks through me, preoccupied and not really seeing me, the ghost I’ve always been extra transparent today.

  At last, he dredges up a distracted smile, and leans down to kiss the top of my head.

  “Of course, dearest,” he says. “Money's no object when it comes to you.”

  I don’t know how to tell him that money is never what I wanted from him.

  So I don’t say anything.

  Just squeeze his arm, force a brave smile, and murmur, “I’ll see you soon when it's all over. You be safe too, okay?”

  He doesn’t even answer me, other than an absent nod and patting my hand.

  He’s already on his phone, frowning to himself while he flicks through emails. It’s not hard to tell.

  He’s just waiting for me to leave. Buzz off, so he can get back to his business and his oh-so-important obligations.

  If I had the time and energy to spare, I'd be angry.

  After being tied to him by apron strings or tie clips or whatever for my entire life, having him suddenly so indifferent...

  It’s like the whole world pulled out from under me, and I’m in free fall.

  I'm still feeling like a chastised child as I bow my head and trudge after Riker, dragging my suitcase behind me – only to yelp as he’s suddenly there, standing in front of me, blocking my path.

  Jesus. Do I need another set of eyes to keep tabs on this guy?

  I’m not very good with jump-scares. I can’t even watch PG-13 horror movies on a good day, and him materializing so close in front of me that I can smell the deep, smoky scent of his cologne is enough to get me stumbling back with that stifled scream I’d been bottling up squeaking out.

  My heel turns the wrong way.

  I start to tumble, windmill, fall.

  Then that brawny arm is around my waist. I land there with an oomph.

  It's like being captured by a steel cable surging with heat. He jerks me upright like I weigh less than a flower petal, handling me easily, pulling me against a feeling of strength and safety and power that bristles through his neat, straight-laced clothing.

  I'm not sure what lights my cheeks on fire more: almost impacting the floor flat on my face or being in this man's arms.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. Or rather, I try. I can't peel my eyes off him.

  It’s like someone dressed a feral panther as a man and told it to act civilized. And maybe something primitive in me reacts to that hidden animal and all his strength when he’s holding me like prey, looking down like he doesn’t know if he wants to protect or devour me whole.

  One word comes to my what-the-hell-is-happening mind.

  Forbidding. That’s a good word for Riker Woods.

  Everything he is, from the stiff set of his shoulders to the hawk-eyed way he looks at me, says stay away.

  But here I am, clutching at his arms to keep myself standing, my entire body arched closer than close while I try to process what just happened.

  “You're okay then?” he echoes again. “Tell me you haven't gone deaf.”

  “Right. I'm fine. Think my shoe just caught in all the excitement. Um, sorry.” It's hard to form words.

  He says nothing. He doesn’t seem to like to talk much.

  He just leans down – bringing him close enough that his stubble grazes along my cheek, rasping and rough – and sets me carefully on my feet. He holds me just a second longer to help find my balance before he pulls away.

  Then his face tightens, and those eyes are like daggers.

  “Don't apologize. Let's go be fine somewhere that isn't this terminal. We're late.”

  For the briefest moment, his hand rests on the small of my back, thick fingers long enough that the heel of his palm touches one hip and his fingertips touch the other, making my stomach flip over wildly.

  Then he pulls away, dips to catch the handle of my suitcase, and turns to drag it behind him, and I realize that’s what he wanted all along.

  The suitcase. Duh.

  Not me.

  I’d ask myself why that stings, but I already know.

  He just wants me to move my feet.

  My emotions are all over the place. I'm already way too curious about him, and acting totally foolish.

  This is real life. I'm not some insta-love little girl from Kenna Strauss' romance books.

  I'm not anything to Riker Woods, and he damn sure isn't anything to me except more trouble.

  It's got to be this state of mind.

  I’m scared out of my wits after what happened last night, and I’ve never been without someone to shelter and protect me. I’ve always had someone to stroke my hair and say It’ll be all right over even the smallest situation, and this most definitely isn’t a small situation.

  I need someone right now. I'm desperately craving some kind of human warmth, someone strong who cares that I’m frightened and would offer even a single kind word to help ease the fear.

  Instead, I have a sister who can't be there for me. Not this time. Not now, between her own demons and the necessary distance.

  Instead, I have a father who brushed me off like I was nothing and handed me over to a man who looks at me like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. As if I’ve somehow ruined his life, or at least like I'm one more burden.

  As if he’s angry with me, and I don’t even know why.

  * * *

  The silence in the car is almost more than I can handle.

  Riker drives one of those big, rugged, modernized Jeep Wranglers, the kind of vehicle that can survive a hurricane or go skimming across the sand on a fun beach weekend. I don’t want to admit it, but the car makes me feel safer.

  It's not like the Lincolns, Escalades, and Teslas I've spent half my life in. It’s solid, sturdy, an enclosed space with blackout windows that mean no one can see me. And I’m riding alone with the one person I can trust who won't hurt me, if only because he’s getting paid for it.

  We’ve been weaving through highway traffic for a while. I’m leaning my head against the sun-warmed window and looking outside when he speaks, breaking a silence ruled by the Wrangler’s rumble and the snarl of other cars around us.

  “One golden rule,” he says. He has a sort of clipped way of speaking, like every word has to be excavated out of the gravel bed in his throat and pried free. “And only one. No matter how crazy things get, follow my lead.”

  I lift my head, turning to look at him. He’s all eyes on the road and graven
stone, that flinty green stare impossible to read.

  I frown. “That’s it? Don’t question, just follow? Sorry, but I guess I expected –”

  “Asking questions when people are throwing bullets is how you get shot. One rule, Miss Holly. If you can’t follow it, this won’t work.”

  There it is. Pointed and sharp.

  “Fine,” I mumble, slumping down in the passenger seat. If only because I, you know, don’t actually want to get shot.

  But I’m being petulant. I know it.

  I should just swallow my pride and listen. He has to know better...right?

  I can’t help my second-guessing. My entire life, I’ve been following everyone’s lead.

  Of course, I want to test the boundaries the one moment when following the lead of the man safeguarding my life makes every bit of sense.

  Call it the legacy of a lifetime in Milah’s shadow. Even now, I don’t even have my own problems.

  I have Milah’s issues, and I’m being pushed around at her whim, doing this to make Daddy feel better that I’m somewhere safe. Away from what he, on the drive to the airport in Seattle, ominously called “cleanup.”

  That isn't the fault of the beast-man in the driver's seat.

  So I try a different tactic – offering a faint smile. It can’t hurt to be friendly.

  “Aye-aye, captain. One rule. Got it. If all goes well, I shouldn’t be your problem for long. Just have to convince my sister it’s safe for us both to testify to the FBI. She’s afraid they’ll drag her in by association.”

  “And in the meantime, the longer you wait, the farther we get from any hope of catching the people who did this,” Riker says grimly. “The Feds are your best shot. Local police may have handled the scene, but they can’t be trusted. Not with hardcore hit men.”

  I bite my lip. Hit men. Like I need the reminder.

  “I...I know that. And believe me, I want to testify ASAP. I’m supposed to, as soon as I’m ready, I just...” I shake my head. “I know Milah’s worrying about nothing. That it doesn’t work this way. She's scared for her career and her past catching up to her. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to hurt her.”