Mission Dao
A Trust the Code Short
Nightingale scurried to the window, gazing out at the beautiful world that lay just beyond the tips of her wings.
She knew that she could paint a masterpiece from the wonder it held, if only someone would teach her to fly.
Prologue
It's all about drawing lines. People say that you cause the problems because you refuse to work on their terms. Draw a line in the sand and stand your ground. That, they cannot abide. So they blame you for the consequences they choose to inflict. But that’s on them. All you did was hold your ground. Your line versus his line. Yours preserves people, gives them freedom, choices, hope. Theirs serves their own interests and sacrifices others to the god of ego. Your line must stand. And theirs must fall.—Felicity's journal, April 4
We all rewrite the story so we’re the good guy, but now I realize that sometimes there really is a bad guy. Because this is all on you. You had a thousand chances to make the right choice, to take care of the people you claimed to love, and you consistently fell back to your default—self-worship. And where, exactly, did your family fall in all this? It was apparent to me that you didn't love your children; you loved your progeny; you imagined your legacy. And your children were on the way to being sucked into the vortex of your vanity.—Felicity’s letter to Brendon, April 12
March 20
As Felicity grew aware, a frigid pulsing pain clutched her chest, an echo from the moments before she lost consciousness.
Memory shrouded her surroundings in a grey fog. Sound reverberated from a hollow distance, a cacophony echoed through her misery.
Even the sandy pebbles that had pelted her skin—whipped up by the tempest around her—had barely registered their sting. She was numb, and nothing could reach her through the fog of grief.
Not that the fall from the truck bed had injured her.
Not that her body throbbed from the drug that had laced her wine.
Only blackness whispered with a promise of relief.
A week before, Felicity would have judged a person who craved darkness.
Not anymore—a day had changed everything.
Twenty-four hours ago, Felicity had been stupid.
Twenty-four hours ago, Felicity had been naive.
Now, Felicity knew too much.
So much that she didn't want to open her eyes, didn't want to see what lurked in the shadows—what was far darker than she could have imagined. That light was actually just an illusion.
What lurked in the shadows—that was real.
Even squeezing her eyes shut so tightly that the corners ached, Felicity could still sense the pattern of light that seeped through the geometric print of the flimsy hotel curtains.
Her breaths clutched against her chest as she pictured the door—the tentative, feeble, door that claimed to shut out the night The fragile locks on the windows.
Every point of weakness that might fail her when she needed it.
She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. Instead, she studied the door, glared at it. Dared it to falter.
Would she ever walk into a room again, unaware of the exact location of the exits?
Stop it!
She rolled on her back, forced herself to breathe, slow and deep. The ache of exhaustion dragged her down—she shook herself. She couldn’t afford to sleep. But bone-deep weariness gripped her and shoved her under.
Maybe she could nap. Lightly.
Propping her head to keep her eyes in line with the door, Felicity let her lids flutter shut. One moment of blissful rest…
What was that?
The door rattled. It was the second time—not from a passing truck or a stomping hotel guest. Someone had jostled the handle, and she glared against the darkness.
She needed to see what was coming for her.
She pressed her back against the headboard, the covers gripped tightly under her chin.
When the noise ricocheted off the night-distant walls, she groped on the nightstand for something she could use as a weapon.
The lamp was too big.
Her phone was too small.
A pen. A pen could stab.
The gentle clattering shook the doorknob again as someone tried to trick his way through the cheap hotel lock. It was Brendon!
Or someone else. One of his lackeys, sent to remedy a mistake...
She had seen one, one of Brendon's men, and she had Thanks to her late-afternoon encounter yesterday, she could easily visualize the “tan man” — lightly tanned skin, pale brown hair, khaki pants and shirt—every part of him bland and unimpressive.
And everything about him terrifying to Felicity.
Especially the fact that he worked for her husband.
Yesterday, the tan man had followed her through the streets of Quido. Yesterday, he had spoken on his phone about nabbing her from the street.
Maybe on the phone to the husband who should have been there to protect her.
Brendon! her mind sobbed before she could stuff the lament back into the realm of oblivion.
“Absolutely not!” she reprimanded herself aloud before clamping her mouth shut.
Stupid! If someone was looking for her, she had just let them know she was there.
Besides, letting her mind go back to that pit of torture would completely incapacitate her at the worst possible time.
She had wished to die several times over the past day, but she didn't particularly want to be stabbed or shot
...or to be kidnapped—again.
When the sliver of dawn broke around the edges of the door, she froze, all thought gone.
She clutched the pen more tightly.
As the gap grew larger, broad shoulders slid into view, cast in blackness by the light behind it.
Brendon. He was there. Inside her room. He had found her.
The door clicked shut, closing her inside with...with…
Was she about to pass out?
You’re holding your breath.
Just a quick inhale. Silent. She could do it.
And then it hit her.
The scent.
Not her husband.
Not terror.
The images of that night flashed rapid-fire through her mind.
A late-night party.
A hanging mist, thick with scents of booze and cologne.
Some exotic spice from the lavish dinner.
Her mind swimming. Drugged. Afraid.
A blue, backless dress, exposed, with a slit that ran to her inner thigh.
A drink-sodden moment when Brendon abandoned her.
When Brendon left her alone with the scent that hovered over her in the dim, dingy hotel room.
The unforgiving strength of the arms that lowered her, powerless, onto the plush velour of the car’s back seat.
Velvet fingertips brushing down the sensitive skin of her cheek.
It was wrong—but somehow soothing.
A series of strange and confusing words.
“Don't panic. You'll be okay. I'll come and find you. I won't let them hurt you.”
The stranger who stirred her fear.
And her hope.
Jase had come.
Chapter 1
“I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.” – Oscar Wilde
March 10
A yawn opened the back of Felicity Miller’s throat, and she quickly raised her hand to cover it. Hopefully, none of the crew scattered around her living room had heard the little gasp of inhalation that accompanied her boredom. Of course, she was fully fascinated by her husband’s PR.
“When they arrived at the village of El Calvario, Dr. Miller was greeted by a slew of smiling faces.” The journalist’s voice rang with warm admiration from the large-screen TV mounted above the oversized fireplace in the Miller’s living room. “Dr. Miller's campaign to bring internet to the struggling village, long subject to the stagnation brought on by the manacles of the heroin trade, gained him international recognition.”
Only the C-level group had attended the get-together, no doubt at the command of their president and CEO, Bill Henry—not that Bill himself would not deign to attend. Two women, six men, five significant others. No children, of course, though the fête occurred in a home with three children. They had been carted off to the grandparents.
“Dr. Miller believes that, as people gain access to more information and to healthier cultures from around the globe, they will rise up and refuse the sickness involved in so much of the culture fed by drug trafficking – and all the evils that accompany it, such as weapons, human, and sex trafficking. As vice president and CEO of ProtoComm, the world's second largest communications company, Dr. Miller is in a unique position to offer the infrastructure necessary to set up communications in such a remote location. And as one of the foremost experts on management and negotiation, Dr. Miller had no problem utilizing the necessary techniques to prevent interference by the local drug lords. As he has proven time and again, Dr. Miller can work magic where few others can.”
Felicity waited until the report ended and the conversation picked up before she clicked off the television, internally rolling her eyes at the usual fawning over her husband.
Such benevolence, such brilliance, such success!
She stood, politely declining the offers to help with cleanup – Brendon would be horrified if his coworkers thought he considered such menial tasks as cleaning.
“No, Janice. It’s fine,” Brendon assured the new Mrs. Brabham. “The help will take care of that.”
Felicity snickered to herself. “The help” was herself and Briel, neither of whom was paid for cleaning. Gotta maintain the proper image, Felicity sighed. So, she would do it and not complain. She had gotten over that in the first couple of years of marriage when she realized that complaining just brought rage.
As Brendon saw the little crowd to the door, Felicity finished her farewells and turned back to apologize to Briel—if not with words, at least with a sympathetic glance. Before she could connect with the petite blonde, though, a presence eased into the space behind her, the scent of wealth—an executive’s cologne—preceding the touch on her arm.
She restrained the shiver that sent her skin crawling as it always did when Brendon’s immediate boss approached her.
“You look lovely as always, Felicity,” Jack Buckley oozed—his customary signoff with Felicity. It played as a compliment—more an observation to an end.
Even if she had not suspected Jack of questionable activities, she would have read his words and the body language as suspect. Still, as he leaned to place a kiss on her cheek, she revealed nothing, though she held her breath to avoid the scent.
Jack was not above-board, though Felicity wouldn’t conjecture exactly what he was guilty of. Brendon always dismissed her suspicions of Jack, and the VP was to be shown “the respect his office deserved.”
I’d rather show the respect the man himself deserves, Felicity reasoned, plastering on her fakest smile until the last of the guests had made their exits.
Not until they’re gone.. The internal reminder came in handy as Brendon’s voice made its way to her ear. He would have excoriated her if she had said anything.
“I don't understand why they say things like that,” he was insisting as he accompanied several of the ladies, associates or their wives, out the door. “I just do what makes sense.”
Deep voices rumbled a reply, titters of laughter punctuated the night sky as Felicity leaned against the doorframe to watch, waving politely at anyone who happened to glance her way.
“The kids are asleep, Felicity,” came the voice of Briel Cortes, the young au pair Brendon had hired a couple of weeks before.
“You found my parents’ place okay?”
“Easily. And Nicholas was asleep before I left their street.”
Seriously, Briel was a miracle worker. At first Felicity had balked at yet another extravagance, but she had grown attached very quickly. An extra set of hands, someone to talk to, another mind to bounce things off of. Briel had kind of revolutionized Felicity’s world.
Lost in thought, Felicity looked up at the sound of the clattering of dishes. Briel moved so fast! Most of the dishes had been moved off the coffee table and to the sink in the amount of time it had taken Jack to walk to his car.
“You don’t have to clean, Briel.”
“No, but I like to be helpful.”
Felicity smiled gratefully, but then her eyes were pulled back to the rumble of conversation where Brendon stood by Jack's late-model Rolls. That man was unbelievable.
“Are you okay?” came Briel’s voice as the young woman joined Felicity in staring at the two men.
What had she done to betray her disgust? She grabbed the saucer out of Briel’s hand as a distraction. “I’m fine,” she insisted. Moving back into the room, she snagged some stray silverware from a sidetable before she realized that Briel had moved with her but was staring out the door.
“That man looks…interesting.” Briel nodded at Jack and Brendon standing in conference outside.
“Ha. Yes, that is one word,” Felicity nodded, pursing her lips. “I don't trust him."
That caught Briel's attention. "Is he a bad man?"
Felicity shrugged. "There have been things Brendon said over the years. A little accountant went missing a couple of years back; Brendon had told me a few days before that Jack had blown up in a meeting over accusations made by the man – John Mitchell. It drew negative attention to Jack—a couple of politicians showed up to investigate the company. You’re going to tell me that’s a coincidence? This was back when Brendon was still excited by those types of things, and he thought he would impress me by throwing around names. Instead, he just made me question the character of his coworkers.”
The nanny’s whole body went tense, her eyes riveted on Jack—like...a predator.
Briel shook herself, and it was gone. “I am sorry. In my country, the politicians and corporations are less clandestine about their corruption, but in some ways that makes it better. You go into situations with your eyes open. In more civilized countries – Western Europe, United States – there is a pretense of civility, and most of us live by it. But to reach levels of importance, from police chief to President, people have to accept the hierarchy. The extremely wealthy are beholden to no one, except those who hold their secrets.”
That had been a lot of rage over a man Briel didn't know. Glancing back at Jack, though, Felicity shivered. It was true. The man just exuded menace. “And Brendon has stepped into this hierarchy.”
“Brendon is not like that,” Briel reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her arm.
“Of course not.” Felicity hoped Briel was right.
The conversation ended abruptly when the door shut, and Brendon turned to them with a smile. “Quite the adoring public,” he grinned, shouting over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom. “That will last until they see what a mess our lives are, right, Fel?”
King of the humble brag.
Besides, he wasn’t really worried—the insult had been aimed at Felicity. Brendon knew very well that the execs at ProtoComm worshipped him – he was a master. Perhaps it was less intentional than that, though. More unthinking than scheming, more pheromonal than Machiavellian.
He knew what offered the right “optics,” as he liked to say.
Like the new house: intended to impress. When Felicity had seen the specs of the home – the layout, the lot size, the area of town, the quality of the build – she had balked at the potential expense.
“I got a promotion, Felicity. You know that. Which means parties that impress—something Bill worked into the compensation package.”
As usual, she deferred to Brendon on the money issues. Why not? She didn’t care about prestige or material impressions. He did. So, he could buy what he wanted.
He wasn't greedy, exactly. Maybe ambitious. When they were young, that ambition had turned toward Felicity, and it was powerful. That sheer determination. That focus. The way he read people and adapted in real time.
Most of the time, he was charming. In fact, he resorted to a sort of grooming, molding people’s opinions to his whim. It didn’t really work on Felicity anymore, though; dodging his attempts to manipulate her had become second nature. It wasn’t healthy—still, she had made herself stick with him for enough years to have three children and a vested interest in finding the best qualities about him.
After all, she knew how to distract him when he lost his temper. Turn the anger on her and away from the kids. It was one of her more impressive skills…
The rest of the world saw what Brendon Miller wanted them to see, and they bought it because he bought it. First rule of Brendon Miller: "be believable by believing your own sales pitch."
Which was why Noah’s accident had hit him so hard. Ruined his perfect image.
A beautiful head of curly blonde hair, atop the most cherubic face imaginable.
Attached to a tiny, weak body strapped into a wheelchair.
Even worse, his oldest daughter had done it—condemned that angelic little boy to a life of disability. From a moment of childish frustration, Alex Miller had caused an irreversible injury to her little brother, Noah. And now every time someone asked what had put Noah in a wheelchair, it reminded Brendon that his family was broken.
Alex, of course, carried the guilt of her actions, the insecurity. She had become a much more somber and self-aware child as a result. Not that her father could see it. All he could see was the damaged little boy, and the closest thing Brendon ever felt to compassion: anger at his son's injury and hatred for the one who had caused it—and the one who had let her.
In a way, he had been fragile like that since she had known him. She could hardly expect him to grow suddenly mature in the face of a grave tragedy.
That didn't mean Felicity would let him unleash his injury however he wanted. He could have his grief. He could have his fury. At Felicity and God and anyone else he could blame.
But not at his child – not at Alex.
There were a hundred other people they could have blamed before they laid the guilt at the feet of Alex—still just a child. Perhaps old enough to know better, but still with childish impulses and sensitivities.
With Briel finishing something up in the kids' room and Brendon still in the back doing whatever he did to recover after a party, Felicity let herself sink onto the sofa. Every time she thought of the accident, it sapped a little of her strength.
She could still see the ripple of water on the surface when she spun to the unexpected splash. It had only taken a few seconds. Everything around her had come to a halt. She couldn’t make herself move. How could she not make herself move? Only when she had felt the sudden gust of wind.
Brendon rushing past her, his yell, his accusations...somehow then Felicity could move.
Make it to the water, managing, like a magnet, to find the blond curls where they waved softly with the motion of the water.
When she had broken the surface of the lake, her son in her arms, Noah had lain unmoving.
Despite her terror, the instinct to save her son brought buried memories to mind, memories of high school lifeguard classes: rolling Noah on his side for a moment to empty his mouth of water, placing her mouth over his mouth and nose, the gentle puffs of breath she forced into his lungs, the rapid pulse of pressure against his tiny sternum—finally, the coughs and the rush of water out of the tiny mouth.
Then, Felicity finding her own breath for the first time in what seemed an eternity. Short-lived relief.
From thirty feet away, Felicity could hear Brendon’s screaming at Alex. Even without turning around, she knew exactly what was happening, and even as the paramedics dragged tiny Noah’s exhausted body from her arms, Felicity felt torn between which of her children she should save.
Alex, Felicity decided, would have to be the big sister, would have to deal with her father. Once Felicity knew that Noah would be alright, she would wrap Alex up in her arms and tell her she was okay. That it was Felicity’s fault. That Noah would be alright. That they would all be alright.
Only, looking at Noah where he lay in the ambulance, Felicity knew it wasn’t true.
Noah was not alright. He seemed off, somehow, and when she saw the doctor’s face an hour later, her fears were confirmed.
“He may walk again,” the doctor insisted. “With a lot of physical therapy and some emerging new treatments, we have seen more progress than has been possible in past years. Merge that with the fact that Noah is so young, and young bodies are so much more efficient at healing themselves, even nerve damage.”
After two years, Noah had made little progress and Alex rarely spoke, almost never smiled.
Brendon had retreated further from Felicity, seemingly more convinced that she was a sore on his otherwise perfect image. Felicity had never planned to choose her kids over her husband, but he had chosen himself over any of them, and Felicity had to save the only people she could.
When she came back to herself, Briel was back in the kitchen and Brendon was walking toward the nanny. Always ready to perform. "I don't know what I would have done without you," he was tossing out to the nanny.
Felicity lost some of her usual composure. “I don’t think anyone at the company cares about the mess in our house. They only care about the mess at the company, and as long as you keep that contained, they’ll love you.”
“Easy for you to say,” Brendon countered. “I’ve worked on this party for days, and then you didn’t even have the house ready when I got home? I’m sorry for leaving this to you, Briel, but I worked so hard on the party that if I don’t get sleep tonight, I won’t make it to work in the morning.”
“It’s fine,” Briel shrugged, throwing Felicity a glance. At least Briel seemed to realize she wasn’t crazy. The nanny seemed as spooked by Brendon as Felicity had been the past few days.
The extremely wealthy are beholden to no one, except those who hold their secrets.
Had Brendon reached the level where he was manipulating his bosses’ secrets? Had he reached the level where someone else was manipulating his own?
Felicity didn’t know.
Brendon had never felt the need to restrain himself unless it was necessary to impress the people who promised a reward.
Why did she think he would restrain himself now that he was the one to impress?
Chapter 2
“When there are kindnesses, if I can call them that, they are much more like boxes he is checking off so he can prove how kind he is. No spontaneous expression of affection, just another tool in his arsenal of self-stroking. - Felicity’s Journal, March 3
I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that I am fine. A conflict has come up on my schedule, and I’m not really sure when I will be able to make it back. Tell everyone hello for me, and if you email me the name of the new book, I will read it in hopes that my schedule will change. - Felicity’s email to the Paradise Valley Women’s Book Club, March 7
March 11
He had his game face on, prepped with smiles and charm and glib answers. It was one of the most fragile times to deal with Brendon Miller.
The problem was, when he had already slipped into his perfect persona, he had little patience for uncertainty. No room for disruption.
“We have to be there in 30 minutes, and it’s halfway across town,” he hinted as he strode into the bedroom. Smile taut, eyes sharp, motions exact.
Felicity forced her shoulders to relax, not willing to be afraid of him.
His hair stood slicked and parted to almost plastic proportions. No one would complain—no one would dare, and he managed to make the look work anyway. His navy suit with subtle pinstripes tailored to perfection, the Venetian loafers, the spiced sylvan scent of his cologne, the infallible smile.
Even Felicity – even with all of his judgments and criticisms against her – still found him charming.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Brendon wrapped his arm around her waist, trailing his lips down the back of her neck. She blew out a slow breath.
“We’re not going to get there tonight if you keep that up,” she squirmed, turning around to face him.
He lowered his lips to hers, vising the back of her head so that she couldn’t pull away.
“Hmmm…” she complained weakly, and she felt his posture stiffen. A moment later, the cool air where he had stood left her with a chill.
“Well, I’m not going to let you blame me for that,” he leveled.
“I wouldn’t – “
“I only had thirty minutes to get ready after work, and I managed it.”
Felicity restrained her glare. “That’s because you weren’t managing three children, dinner, and a babysitter.”
“No, just a multinational corporation. I know. Your life is so hard.”
“That’s not what I said, Brendon. I’m sorry.”
“Because you sit around here all day on that stupid laptop. While I’m off killing myself at work.”
“Maybe you could take off a few hours earlier. No one else stays at the office as late as you.”
“As if I’m up there smoking cigars with all my buddies. What do you think I do all day—you want to look through my text messages? Besides, you were gone for at least two hours today. What were you even doing?”
She blinked, forcing herself to breathe rather than answer back. “Grocery shopping, and getting shoes for tonight.” She had gotten away with casual clothes at the informal gathering the night before, but tonight was formal. He would have eviscerated her if she had gone in her black ballet slippers.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t…
“I’m sitting up at the office, working my ass off, and I’m watching your location on the phone and getting more frustrated because I know about the party.”
“I thought you hated that I never left the house? Now you’re monitoring my location?” She had meant the concession for convenience. Now he was monitoring her in the middle of the day for no reason? He would explode if she had even asked where he had been in a day, let alone if she had called him out for it.
“Don’t pretend that this is a normal day,” he countered. “You knew about the party. You should have done your shopping before today. Then I come home and have to wait on you to primp when you could have started half an hour earlier?” he accused. “It doesn’t make sense. Maybe I should be monitoring your location more closely. Maybe I’m not getting the whole story here.”
Flustered, Felicity fumbled for a response.
“We don’t have time for this right now,” he groused before she could think of something. “Come on.”
As usual, he had left her utterly perplexed, dancing from seduction to accusation to action with a relational parkour she could never hope to keep up with. She knew he was a hypocrite at best: he took his bosses and coworkers out for drinks, played politics, met with other corporate executives. In fact, he usually stayed gone for more than twelve hours every day, sometimes as many as eighteen, and she knew better than to ask him about it. For him to notice she was gone for two hours in the middle of the day for a perfectly justifiable reason? Whatever else she knew, she knew he was being unfair. He probably knew it, too—he just didn’t care.
She pulled herself back to the moment, realizing that he had grabbed his jacket. “Pickup truck or sports car?” she wondered, reaching for the keys.
“Neither,” he barked. “Just come on.”
Slipping on her right heel, she grabbed her handbag and followed him into the living room. The look he shot her tightened her chest.
“Briel?” he shouted, and Felicity flinched. A second later, the diminutive nanny stuck her head around the corner from the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“I need you to do some work for me tomorrow instead of taking care of the kids. Just some errand runs for home office supplies and such.”
“Okay.” Briel glanced at Felicity with a hint of compassion.
“I don’t want you to put miles on your car, so you’ll take the crossover.”
Felicity’s car? “But what will I drive?”
“You never leave the house—it will be fine.”
Dropping her eyes, Felicity restrained the urge to glance at the nanny. She couldn’t help feeling like this was some kind of punishment for “being gone” earlier in the day, like if she insisted on leaving, he would take away her ability to go. “That’s fine. I’ll just take the pickup if I absolutely have to go anywhere.”
“Travis is borrowing it for some construction he’s doing on his house. But I’m sure you’ll be fine. Anything you need can be delivered.”
She swallowed the hollowness that erupted in her chest. “We’ll be back around one,” she promised.
“Bueno!” the nanny responded in her native Spanish.
Despite her embarrassment, the tension eased from Felicity's shoulders as she walked out into the freedom of the night air. Brendon might be a selfish bastard most of the time, but he believed in spending his money on fancy things. Fortunately for Felicity, this fancy thing came in the form of a nanny, at least for the past few weeks.
Relieved that she could leave the house with her kids cared for, Felicity broke into a smile as she lowered herself into the waiting limo. For the first time in a while, her heart lifted—at least until Brendon brought her crashing back to earth.
“I would think you would be better prepared for these things after all these years,” he complained, drumming his fingers on his knee.
And I would think you would know how much I hate these parties. She said nothing, though—the night was already going to be bad enough. Resting her chin on her hand, she stared out at the sunset.
She closed her eyes for just an instant, pulling in a breath.
That’s when the drumming fingers slipped onto her thigh.
Instantly, she was tense, biting her lip, unsure whether to acknowledge him or ignore him.
When his hand inched under the hem of her skirt, she decided she had to risk it.
“I know you ride in a limo several times a month, and the details fade together, but I can’t block out the fact that there is a man sitting a few feet in front of us who can see everything we do back here.”
Brendon chuckled, keeping his hand where it was just skimming the inside of her thigh. Instead of stopping, he lowered his lips to her neck. “He is well paid to notice nothing and forget everything.”
Her skin broke out in goosebumps, and it had nothing to do with his touch.
“I can’t, Brendon,” she insisted, gripping his hand and sliding it off her lap as she leaned away. “Not when we’re going to a party. You know how these things stress me out.”
“God, Felicity. Don’t be a child. This party is for my job, and that job pays for your nanny and your car and your clothes. You might learn a little gratitude.”
As if I spend money on clothes, or anything else for myself, Felicity complained internally. Not that she denied herself from any great sense of martyrdom, but she genuinely was a simple woman who liked simple things – she didn’t need to buy fancy toys. No, she just resented the implication by Brendon that she indulged herself at his expense. Then again, Brendon tended to use whatever half-truth he could utilize to accomplish his purpose, and in this case, he wanted to make sure Felicity behaved at his oh-so-important party. Message received.
Before he could delve too deeply into her faults and shortcomings, the car slowed into a long, curved driveway, and Brendon sat up straighter, a part in his routine of what Felicity called “getting his game face on.”
She hadn't meant to reject him—the reward was never worth the cost. He just seemed to have no sense of propriety in general and of what made her feel uncomfortable, specifically. If he had known anything about her – had cared anything about her – he would have known she couldn’t play around with an audience.
As if in response to her thoughts, Brendon pulled her out of the car and into a very public kiss, lighted by the ambient glow cast by the high-rise and its nightlights. The limo pulled away leaving Felicity exposed, his arms her only support. Of course, he knew she would do the only thing she could – cling to him.
His image was established, his dominance on display.
Felicity grasped for his hand and let him drag her through the massive front doors, past muted gold and grey, into a crowded elevator. Felicity peered from behind Brendon’s back, suppressing her disgust as he oozed charm and worked the crowd.
A few minutes later, the mirrored doors slid open to sparse opulence. Black and white and tan robed the space, the women’s dresses the only splashes of color atop the industrial cement floor. The beat pulsed in her legs even before the music hit her, and she drew in a fortifying breath as she pressed directly into the posh apartment. Brendon abandoned her immediately.
Felicity glanced around at the myriad faces, recognizing only a few: David Farnham, VP from New York; Carol Minder, VP from Minneapolis; Amy Mercier, Brendon’s assistant; Dan Dominic, CFO. Felicity couldn’t suppress a sigh—not one friendly face. Then one particularly unfriendly: Jenna Whitfield, operations manager for Brendon’s company.
The weather and fashion are safe, she prepped herself. Politics, religion, and kids are off limits.
When Brendon had skirted the large refreshment tables, he led her toward a nearby doorway where several tables hosted card games. Delighted. Felicity breathed a sigh of relief. A distraction that would keep her from too much small talk.
“Felicity,” the gravel voice scratched across the air like nails on a chalkboard, and Brendon immediately abandoned her.
Closing her eyes, she breathed before turning toward the owner of the voice.
Why, God? Still, she plastered on her best smile, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. “Jenna, how are you?”
“Fabulous, of course. And it’s so lucky you passed by. The ladies and I were just discussing you.”
“Me? That sounds ominous.”
“Oh, not at all. It’s just that none of us has really lived a life…like yours.”
Respectable? “I’m not sure what that means…”
“You know, just…staying home. What a luxury!”
Felicity paused, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“What I mean is,” Jenna continued, “doing nothing but playing with children? Kids are charming and all, but don’t you get bored? I’m sure Brendon would if he ever left the office.”
She gives Brendon a run for his money.
One of Jenna's companions, a svelte redhead, giggled, and Felicity narrowed her eyes at the woman who whispered something in Jenna’s ear. Felicity thought it sounded like, “Why would he leave the office?” and Jenna’s sneer sent a pulse of nausea through Felicity.
“I…” Felicity tried. “…there are other rewards to motherhood.”
Jenna exchanged a look with the redhead.
“…and Brendon wishes he could work less—he loves family life.”
Smirks all around…of course Felicity knew the lie, but apparently, so did they.
“But the servility,” Jenna continued.
Another pang.
“…the unsanitary duties.”
Another.
“It’s degrading.”
That was enough. “I would imagine there are all kinds of degradation. Some of them probably happen in a suit coat.”
A deep voice behind her rumbled a laugh far too close to her ear.
The heat of a body. Maybe pressed against her by the crowd, but...turned toward her. Behind her...
Should she look? If Felicity had doubted her impression, Jenna’s face would have convinced her.
Lips pursed. Brow raised. Peering...seductively?...over Felicity's shoulder. Oh, Lord.
The laugh was from a man. A man who had apparently made himself part of Felicity's space as thoroughly as he was part of the conversation.
When a warm hand slipped to the small of Felicity's back, Jenna’s cold sneer froze into a gelid smile.
What if she told Brendon?
Then the deep voice leaned even closer, his breath brushing past Felicity's ear. “Elle voulait dire, ” it murmured, “Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné.”
Felicity just held in a laugh. Oh, he was good!
Especially because apparently, Jenna didn't speak French. “I’m sorry?” she snapped.
The redhead leaned in with a murmur. “Better alone than in bad company.”
Wait, that was...Brendon’s assistant. Damn! Whether Jenna did or not, this woman was going to report everything back to Brendon.
“Well…” Jenna's cool condescension was back. "Not everyone can handle the corporate world. But there are plenty of jobs for regular people besides staying home. I mean, motherhood can be so…oppressive. I’ve never met a woman who stayed home with her children who didn’t lack some—I don’t know, sophistication.”
The woman just wouldn’t stop.
“You mean being a bitch?”
The laugh Felicity had suppressed before burst out of her mouth. This guy was clever. And apparently not a fan of Jenna either. The way Jenna stared at his hand on Felicity’s back though—it was Felicity who was going to suffer for whatever he was doing.
“I’m sure that’s not what she meant,” she corrected reflexively, slipping to the side to escape the hand. “It takes different skills at an office than—”
Just then, Felicity made it to the spot where she could address the speaker directly, and what she saw stole her breath.
This man—this defender—was…beautiful.
Thick black hair framed his olive-toned face. An escaped wave brushed over his forehead. Chiseled jaw. Warm smile. Deep cocoa eyes that sparked as they met her blues.
He definitely knew he was the best looking man in the room. So, why was he focusing all his attention on a woman in her thirties with an obvious diamond on her finger?
Jenna apparently wondered the same thing. She seemed to buzz, not just with irritation that she wasn't getting the attention, but specifically that it was aimed at Felicity.
Felicity didn't disagree. Jenna was a much more obvious object for his attention.
Yet...
Abruptly, Jenna slinked toward Felicity. Or...past Felicity. She slid her arm into the arm of the “rescuer,” crowding Felicity out.
Thank God.
“Jase Hamilton,” Jenna purred.
Jase?
Instead of allowing the tête-à-tête with Jenna, the man stepped forward so that he included Felicity in the triangle. His free hand perched possessively on her arm, and he leaned toward her again. She stared up into near-black eyes.
This was wrong.
“Don't worry about Jenna,” he murmured. “She isn’t offended. C’est impossible.”
For a moment, Jenna’s grin resembled a shark, but the seasoned politician reined in her irritation in an instant. “Of course, I’m offended,” Jenna corrected, not sounding remotely sincere.
“The word you’re looking for is offensive,” Jase countered, sliding back toward Felicity until he could slide his arm around her waist. His hand came to rest on her hip, and though her instinct would have pushed him away, she was pinned between the arm and a small nearby group in their own conversation.
This...Jase... was like some kind of odd, forbidden refuge in the middle of the party's tempest.
Where was Brendon? Abruptly, her head jerked up.
There. She blew out the breath she had been holding.
Brendon stood at the center of a group of C-level executives, too enthralled with his own brilliance to worry about Felicity.
Still, she was not going to give anyone anything to report. She squeezed herself into the only open space she could find—away from the man's touch. “Mr. Hamilton—” she started.
“Jase,” he insisted, but she didn’t adjust.
“Jenna doesn’t offend me. We go way back. My husband—Brendon Miller? You may have heard of him.” That should put the man in his place. “He and Jenna work out of the same office. I just think she may have asked the wrong person for an opinion.” She addressed Jenna again. “I mean, her words don’t really apply to me—I love my life. I hope you all will excuse me.” She coughed gently. “I need a drink of water.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Jase began, but Felicity cut him off.
“No need. Thanks.” With a nodded farewell, she squeezed between two very tall gentlemen who stood with their backs to one another in separate conversations—no one was going to follow her.
Once she broke into the space around the refreshment table, she slowed her pace and breathed deeply. She needed to find Brendon before Jase Hamilton sought her out again.
Before you stand there and let him hold you like a lover again…