The Bridgewater Case Page 16

  Without another thought, I grab my purse and bolt out of my car, running as fast as I possibly can toward the elevators. I press the call button frantically, looking over my shoulder every other second until one of the doors finally opens. I race inside and press the button for the forty-ninth floor, but nothing happens.

  “Dammit,” I whimper, a sob erupting from my throat as I dig through my purse for my key card. It takes me a second to find it, my hands still shaking so much they feel almost useless. When I finally manage to get it out, I hold it in front of the monitor and then press the button again. I cry, feeling slightly relieved—but only slightly—when the elevator starts to ascend.

  It seems like it takes forever to reach our level, even though I’m not stopped once along the way. As soon as the doors open, I hurry to the firm’s front entrance, swiping my card before running toward Dane’s office. Another sob spills from my mouth when I see he’s left his door propped open for me. I’ve never been upstairs to his flat before, but I’ll be damned if I wait for him alone in his office.

  Even though I’m sure no one is following me, I still press the call button for his private elevator anxiously, peeking around the corner to make sure no one is there. When I step into the lift car, I think maybe I’ll start to calm down, but then I close my eyes. It’s as if I can actually feel that man at my back, holding me captive and threatening me, and I’m scared all over again.

  “Dane! Dane, whe—where are you?!” I call out as I step into his flat.

  I take two steps into what might be the living area, and I see him walk out of a room at the far end of the hallway directly in front of me. Just the sight of him releases a flood of relief. I feel it wash over me from head to toe, and I break down right there. Dropping my purse, I bury my face in my hands, and I cry.

  THE SECOND I hear her voice, I know something is wrong. I’ve never heard her sound like that before. When I step out of the bedroom, my t-shirt tucked in, but my pants and my belt still left open and undone, it startles me to see her as she bursts into tears. I’m quick to close the distance between us. The instant I wrap my arms around her, she buries her face in my neck and clings to me.

  “Babe—what’s going on? Talk to me?”

  Her fists gripped around the back of my shirt, she moves to look up at me as she stutters, “The night of our first date, there was a note—there was a note left on the windshield of my car. It was—it was stupid. It said—it said that I need to tell you to drop the case.”

  “The case?” I ask, shaking my head, confused as to why she’s talking about something that happened weeks ago.

  “The Bridgewater case. I thought—god, I thought it was Chandler. I heard him talking, so I thought—it doesn’t matter what I thought. It wasn’t him. Dane, it wasn’t him!”

  “Breathe, Sigourney,” I mutter, cupping my hands around her face. I stare into her frightened green eyes, wiping her tears away with my thumbs as I gently insist, “What happened tonight? Why are you shaking?”

  “I was leaving my apartment—oh, my god, they know where I live. How do they know where I live?”

  “Who? Who are you talking about? Sigourney—what happened?”

  “I was leaving—” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together as she shakes her head. My hands fall away from her face with the act, and she touches her forehead to the center of my chest. “Hold me. Please hold me,” she whimpers.

  Burying one of my hands in her hair, I wrap my fingers around the nape of her neck, pulling her against me closer with my other arm. I want nothing more than to demand she tell me what the fuck is going on, but she’s obviously shaken, and I need her to feel safe. Holding on to what little patience I manage to muster, I press my lips in her hair as I mumble, “When you’re ready—I’m listening when you’re ready.”

  It takes her a minute to catch her breath, but even as she begins to speak, she doesn’t pull away from me. Talking at my chest, she explains, “I was leaving to come meet you. There was a man—he grabbed me from behind. I couldn’t get away from him. He was too strong. He told me—he told me I needed to tell you to drop the case. He said the next time he warned me, he wouldn’t be so gentle.”

  “Shit,” I grumble, squeezing the nape of her neck. “We need to go to the cops.”

  She shakes her head, finally pulling away from me enough to look into my eyes. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know who he was—I don’t know what kind of car he was in. I don’t know anything.”

  “You’ve been threatened, twice. I’m taking you down to the station right now. I’m not risking your safety for another second. Why didn’t you tell me about the note?”

  She lowers her head, robbing me of her eyes as she confesses, “I didn’t think it was important. I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she whimpers.

  “Sigourney, look at me.”

  She does as I ask, and the vulnerable look on her face is my undoing. Now that her panic has worn off, all I see is her fear and uncertainty. My Sigourney is a strong, independent, ambitious woman—and therein lies the crux of the matter.

  She’s mine.

  Whoever did this to her, whoever struck fear in her, they will answer to me—one way or another. That said, right now, Sigourney—her safety and her peace of mind—that’s my priority. I want to wipe away the fear I see in her gaze and calm her nerves. I want her to know that I’ve got her. I’m right here.

  She’s mine, and I’ve got her.

  I lean down and touch my lips to hers softly, lingering only for a moment. When I pull away, I touch my forehead to hers and insist, “We’re going to the police station. It’ll take them too long to get here, and I want this dealt with straightaway.” She nods but doesn’t speak, and I kiss her again before I ask, “You going to be okay?”

  Closing her eyes, her voice trembling with emotion, she whispers, “They know where I live.”

  “I don’t want you to worry about that. We’ll figure this out, you hear me?”

  “How?” she pleads, more tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Look at me, babe.” When her eyes open, I bend my knees, lowering myself until we’re at eye level with each other. “I’ve got you, all right? I’ll take care of it.”

  Offering me a small nod, she murmurs, “Okay.”

  “I just need to finish getting dressed and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Can I use your bathroom before we leave?”

  “Yeah. It’s the first door on the right.”

  I let her go, watching as she closes herself into the small room, my mind already trying to come up with a plan. As I head to the master bedroom, I strip off my t-shirt and throw it on the bed before reaching for the white button-up I discarded only a few minutes ago. I shrug it on, fastening the buttons quickly before tucking the tails and closing my pants. I hear the bathroom door open just as I’m reaching for my navy trench coat. I don’t bother putting it on before I grab my wallet and my keys, not wanting her to be alone for longer than she chooses to be.

  Emerging from the bedroom, I see her waiting at the end of the hallway. When she looks at me, I notice she’s freshened up a little, her face rid of any trace of her tears. She appears to be a little bit more like my Sigourney, and my chest tightens at the thought.

  “Ready?”

  Returning to the spot where she dropped her purse, she picks it up and faces me once more, offering me a small nod. I close the distance between us and take one of her hands in mine. As I lace our fingers together, I kiss her hard. It isn’t my intention to linger long, but when I feel her tongue tasting my lips, I don’t hesitate to open up for her. Taking a step closer to me, she reaches up and grabs hold of the lapel of my jacket, and I twist her arm behind her back, keeping our hands locked together as I hold her against me.

  She tangles her tongue with mine, and I get the impression that, for whatever reason, she needs this. I sure as hell won’t deny her, but instead kiss her until she’s good and ready. It takes her a couple of minutes befo
re she’s satisfied, and my cock is half hard when she slowly pulls away, but I’m not complaining.

  “I’m ready,” she tells me as she takes a step back. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  WE’RE AT THE police station for over an hour. While we wait, I send Hale a text, telling him an emergency came up and I’ll explain later, but we won’t be attending the party. Sigourney is quiet while we sit in the lobby, her head resting on my shoulder and both of her arms wrapped around one of mine. Surprisingly—or perhaps maybe not, given the events of this evening—I don’t mind her clinging. In fact, I prefer it. I want her to feel safe. I want her to know that I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.

  When we’re finally taken back to a small room to report Sigourney’s incident to an Officer Meacham Cowell, I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled with what he offers in return. Even after we inform him about the Bridgewater case and the companies being sued; even after we give him a list of every person involved in the case who has been to the office and seen Sigourney’s face; even after he’s been made aware that this isn’t her first threat, he tells us there’s not much he can do. While the logical part of me understands where he’s coming from, given that Sigourney is certain whoever put his hands on her tonight didn’t fit the description of anyone she’s met, I still want him to do more. I want answers. I want justice. I want that fucker to suffer the consequences of his actions.

  I’m marginally satisfied when he tells Sigourney that even though she wasn’t able to offer a great amount of detail regarding her assailant, she was right to report the incident. He gives us each his card with strict instructions to contact him immediately should anything even remotely suspicious happen again. It’s not much—it’s not enough—but we’ll take it. In the mean time, I intend to set up precautions of my own to ensure her continued safety.

  We’re more than halfway to her apartment when she finally realizes where I’m going. Shifting in her seat, I sense her unease as she turns to address me. That—that right there is why we’re getting this shit handled tonight.

  “Dane? Where are we going?”

  “You’re an intelligent woman. You know where we’re going,” I reply gently.

  “But why? You’re not going to leave me there, are you?”

  I snap my gaze away from the road for a second, unable to control the scowl that tugs at my brow as I protest, “Fuck no.”

  She visibly relaxes before she murmurs, “I don’t want to be there right now. Can’t we just go someplace else? Can’t I just stay with you tonight?”

  I don’t answer her as I pull into the parking lot of her apartment complex. I hate it that some asshole has made her feel this way about her home. Nobody should be afraid to go home—nobody. Especially not a woman. It pisses me off.

  After parking in an empty stall in front of her building, I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to look at her. When I offer her my hand, she slips her palm against mine, the expression on her face filled with both uncertainty and unease. I give her fingers a squeeze before I finally offer up an explanation.

  “We can’t drop this lawsuit. If we thought we were onto something before, this proves that whatever it is they’re trying to hide, it has them scared and stupid.”

  “I know. I don’t want you to drop it—I don’t.”

  “Good. I’m glad we agree.” I squeeze her fingers again and then continue. “Even so, we’re still in the middle of our discovery period. We’re building a strong case, but at this point, who knows how many extensions our opponent will request. We don’t have a court date yet. It could be months before this thing finally goes to trial.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “I’m not going to sit back and wait for something else to happen. I’m not going to do nothing and leave you hanging as bait. We’re going to go inside, you’re going to pack up whatever you need, and you’re moving into the penthouse flat. You’ll be safe there. No one can even access my office without my key after hours—we’ll get another one made for you. In the mean time, you don’t have to worry about it. I’ll be around. The only hands that are allowed to touch you are mine. I swear to god, I won’t let another man put his hands on you again.”

  “Okay,” she breathes, leaning over the center consol. She kisses me and then mumbles against my mouth, “Can we go inside now? I’m ready. I want to get this over with. I don’t want to be here.”

  “Yeah, babe. Sit tight. I’ll come get you.”

  I step down out of the driver’s seat and then hurry my way around the front of the Benz, opening Sigourney’s door for her. She takes my offered hand, and we don’t waste any time getting inside and up the stairs to her unit. She assures me that she won’t be long, and I offer her a nod before she heads to her room to start packing.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m loading two suitcases into the trunk of the SUV. I close the hatch and then make my way to the passenger side, opening her door again, only asking for her keys this time. She looks at me in bewilderment but hands them over anyway. I lock her inside of my vehicle and then jog up to her unit for her pillow ottoman thing and a blanket she’s got thrown over the back of her couch. While I know it won’t make the flat feel like home, maybe it’ll help.

  We’re finally all loaded up, and I’m getting ready to back out when I feel her hand slide around my thigh. I look over at her to find her smiling at me. From the dim light pouring in from a nearby street lamp, I can see there are tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t look sad or frightened—she looks relieved and maybe even happy.

  “Thank you.” She coughs out a breathy laugh, shaking her head at me before she goes on to say, “Those words don’t quite express what I’m feeling but, for now, so long as we’re sitting in your car, it’s the best I can offer. So—thank you. This means so much to me.”

  Hoping to finally have a chance to lighten the mood, I smirk at her and ask, “And if we weren’t sitting in my car?”

  Giggling, she replies, “Take me to your place, and maybe you’ll find out.”

  I back out of the parking space without further delay.

  Fuck, her giggle has never sounded so sweet—and so goddamn sexy.

  WHEN WE GET back to the office, Dane insists that I not carry anything. I argue that I’m perfectly capable of helping, but he only presses a quick, hard kiss against my lips and tells me no—his tone one that doesn’t leave much room for argument. In any case, it works out, as it leaves me with free hands to swipe his key card at every entrance that requires it. Upon finally reaching the penthouse, he takes me down the hallway to his bedroom, setting my suitcases next to the closet. He then tells me to make myself at home while he returns to the garage to gather the rest of my things.

  I smile as I watch him go, remembering the way my stomach fluttered when I saw him come out of my building with my knit pouf ottoman and my matching throw blanket. There’s something to be said about a man who appreciates the finer details, and the fact that he was even thinking of such a thing at a time like this makes me feel cared for.

  After he’s been gone for a moment, I shift my attention toward my suitcases. Now would probably be a good time to hang all of the work clothes I shoved into my bags as fast as I could. I didn’t want to be at my apartment. The entire time we were there, I was afraid someone might be watching us; or that someone would notice Dane was with me and then come and threaten him, too. Now that I’m here, I’ve got so many emotions tangled up in each other, I can hardly decipher them. However, there is one that stands boldly among the rest.

  I’m grateful.

  I’m grateful I had someone to run to.

  I’m grateful for the arms he wrapped me in.

  I’m grateful for his insistence that we involve the police.

  And most of all, I’m grateful that he all but demanded I stay here for a while.

  I swear to god, I won’t let another man put his hands on you again.

  There’s a lot of things I admire and appreciate about Dane. He’s
driven, he’s ambitious, he’s strong, and relentless. In the time that I’ve known him, I’ve seen the manifestation of his determination and his stubborn will put to good use. Except, seeing him direct his passion and his dominance toward making sure I’m safe? It makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. Besides my dad, I’ve not ever had a man who I could truly rely on to protect me—but Dane does.

  Dane is.

  With the reality that I’ll be here for a while starting to sink in, I decide that unpacking tonight is not on my to-do list. It’s getting late, and after everything I’ve been through tonight, I’m feeling both wired and exhausted. Instead of unpacking, I take a moment to look around the room.

  From where I stand, a couple of steps beyond the threshold, I see another doorway into his walk-in closet to my right. It’s slid part way open, but I can’t really see inside. On the same wall, there’s a walkway into what appears to be a door-less bathroom—the tile flooring that starts at the perimeter serving as my clue. Not having the energy or the need to explore that either, I let my eyes continue their wandering journey around his personal space.

  Right in front of me, much like in our office, is a wall made entirely of windows. I can see the city lights even from where I’m standing. I’m sure watching the sunrise or the sunset from his bed—which is pushed up against the wall to my left—must be amazing. There are charcoal gray drapes that appear to be attached to some sort of electronic apparatus, which I’m sure closes them when he presses a button, but I don’t see why anyone would want to do such a thing.

  In the corner, on the far left side of the room, he’s got a huge, square, dark teal armchair that could easily fit two people. There are navy throw pillows tossed against the back, and a matching blanket draped over one of the arms. Behind it, there’s a floor lamp with a round, black lamp shade, the shape and color matching that of his small side table. Then, taking up most of his wall space adjacent to his chair, there’s a large, black dresser of sorts. I can’t imagine what he keeps in it. There are more than twenty drawers, and it looks to be as tall as me; but in the bottom, left-hand corner, instead of drawers, there are slats for his vinyl records. Thinking about his record player downstairs, I realize I’ve only ever heard him play his music once.