Page 19

Nineteen

Dash

Almost since the beginning, I’ve known what was eventually going to happen. That at some point I was going to have to confront Dylan. But I’ve been biding my time.

Technically, I’ve had no choice but to wait.

Partly because Willow needed to be ready, but also because I needed to be physically capable of handling things.

Handling him. Yes, my team—they’re top-notch—is capable of taking care of just about anything without input from me.

But this is personal. This is about my woman, not some faceless client.

I’m doing well. I’m young, strong, and otherwise healthy, so the hip is healing in record time.

Despite that, it’s not a hundred percent yet.

There’s nothing that will get me there other than time, and it’s only been six weeks.

I can drive, work out—make love to my girl in the shower, on the bed, and against the wall—and do almost everything else.

But get into an unplanned physical altercation outside of the gym?

The doctor strongly recommended that I don’t do anything like that for at least three months. Six if I want to be safe and really give the hip time to heal. He understands what I do for a living, but I have to acknowledge my limitations. Something I’ve never had to do before.

And it pisses me off.

Especially now.

Willow wants and needs certain things from the house. They’re hers, and even if everything Dylan is saying about her was true, she still has the right to personal mementos and underwear.

So we’re going to get them.

I know it’s dangerous, and it pisses me off more than I’d like to admit, but this is our only alternative since her dad’s things mean so much to her. Besides, I know if Colt was here he’d kick my ass for even hesitating.

Some days, I miss him more than others.

Today, I long for his counsel. His warped sense of humor. And the deep, dark code of honor he lived by. There was no one more determined to right a wrong, protect the innocent, and take care of those in need.

But he’s gone, and I have to keep going.

Willow needs me so there’s no time to reminisce with the ghost of Colt Blackwood.

I reach out to the two guys on my team I trust the most, Chuck Banner and Tyrone Clayton, to accompany us. Tyrone was in the military with Colt and me, and Chuck is my second in command at the company. He took over when I was hurt and handled things until I was back on my feet.

It’s imperative to not only bring back-up in case things go sideways, but also that they be trustworthy because Willow is nervous. Since she can’t be sure what Dylan’s schedule is, we’re winging it.

She believes late morning is the safest time to go to the house because historically he’s most likely not there. He gets up, works out, and then meets up with friends or clients until sometime in the afternoon.

We can’t know for sure that’s what he’s doing today, but there’s no time like the present.

There are codes to get in the front gate and the doors of the house, and Willow feels confident they haven’t been changed.

We pull up to the sprawling Beverly Hills estate and I punch in the code she gave me, since I’m driving. Willow’s in the back seat with Ty, and Chuck is next to me.

“He usually leaves his Porsche in the circular driveway,” Willow says, her voice tight as the gate swings open.

I glance in the rearview mirror. “Relax, babe. Everything is going to be fine.”

I pull to a stop near the front door and turn off the engine, grateful there’s no Porsche in sight.

“Remember—stay with me. Just lead the way to get your things. Ty and Chuck will handle anything that comes up.”

She swallows, her face pale, but she nods.

She has a death grip on my hand when I help her out of the car. I note that her hand shakes a little as she punches in another code but visibly relaxes when the lock disengages.

Dylan will probably get some sort of alert that someone is at the house and see Willow, so it goes without saying that we have to hurry.

“Ms. Willow?” A stern-looking older woman comes around the corner, a duster in her hand, and frowns.

“Mrs. Wilkes.” Willow nods at her. “I’m here to get some of my things. Excuse us.” She steps around her and almost runs up one side of the divided stairway.

The house, with the ten seconds I have to study it, is beautiful if not somewhat sterile. Everything is expensive but bland—like someone with more money than taste decorated it.

“This is… the master bedroom.” She throws open a set of double doors and heads for a row of bookshelves lining one wall. She touches a hidden button and a panel swings open—into the biggest closet I’ve ever seen. And I have a lot of rich clients.

But this is something else.

Floor-to-ceiling rows of shoes and purses, a line of suits that goes farther than the eye can see, and hangers of shirts and dresses in every color of the rainbow.

Yet Willow doesn’t seem to notice. She immediately goes to the far corner and moves a row of luggage around, looking for a specific piece. She lays the largest bag down, opens it, and makes a soft noise of distress.

“What’s wrong?”

“He moved it. The bastard moved it!” She hurriedly begins opening all the luggage. Some have smaller pieces of luggage inside them, and she opens those too.

“Damn him!” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t panic,” I say in a firm voice. “Think. Where else could it be?”

She chews her lower lip.

Then her eyes widen.

She walks over to what looks like Dylan’s side of the closet, pushing aside a portion of the suits. There’s a shelf behind it, along with office style boxes, and she starts opening them.

At the very back, she pulls the cover off one last box, and inside is a smaller, nondescript box and she clutches it to her chest.

“Is that it?” I ask.

She nods, visibly relieved.

“Do you want to get anything else? We’re here… so, if you have underwear or jeans or anything else that might make you more comfortable, this is your chance.”

She looks conflicted but nods. “I could use a few things.”

Mrs. Wilkes walks in, arms folded. “Mr. Durand has very specific orders about you not taking anything out of this house. I’ve alerted security.”

“These are my father’s things,” Willow says. “And if you think?—”

“Babe.” I touch her arm. “Don’t waste time. Get what you need so we can go.”

She grabs half a dozen neatly folded pairs of jeans, along with some shirts, under things, and a couple pairs of shoes.

“Boss.” Ty nudges me. “He’s here.”

“Out of time, babe,” I murmur to Willow.

She zips the suitcase closed and stands up.

“I got it,” Chuck says, grabbing the handle.

Mrs. Wilkes has been watching us like a hawk, and Willow is carefully holding her dad’s box as we walk to the stairs.

“Willow? Willow!” Dylan’s voice is loud, and definitely not friendly.

“She has nothing to say to you,” I reply, walking down the stairs in front of her.

“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my house?” Dylan is standing at the foot of the stairs, hands on his hips.

“I’m getting my things from…our house.” Willow’s voice is clear and calm, even though I can tell she’s terrified.

“You know it’s too soon for you to check yourself out of rehab, sweetheart.”

Obviously, he’s sticking to his story for the sake of the staff, a handful of whom have gathered in various areas of the house, watching us.

“I was never in rehab, and you know it,” she snaps.

“You can’t just take things out of my house.”

“ Our house,” she hisses, her step faltering.

I take her hand, draw her beside me then put a reassuring hand at her back.

“Keep walking,” I encourage quietly.

“Tell me your name,” Dylan turns his attention to me. “Because I’m going to have you brought up on kidnapping charges.”

I chuckle. “Good luck with that. The name is Hudson Dash—do you need me to spell it for you?”

Chuck pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to Dylan.

“You can reach our office at any of those numbers. If you like, I can connect you with our attorney. Ms. St. Claire is a client so no laws are being broken here. Your housekeeper saw that Ms. St. Claire took only a handful of clothes and her father’s keepsake box. Nothing of yours was taken.”

Dylan turns back to me, narrowing his eyes. “Wait a minute—Hudson Dash. You operate Gamebreaker Security. Your services aren’t cheap…you know she can’t pay you, right?” The smirk on his face makes me want to knock him into the middle of next week.

That would be illegal, though.

And we have to do everything by the book if we’re going to fight the conservatorship.

“Our compensation agreement is none of your business,” I reply, gently pushing Willow behind me as we get to the bottom of the stairs.

“Her pussy isn’t that magical,” Dylan says dryly. “Frankly, it’s about the most frigid cunt I’ve ever had the displeasure of fucking.”

Fury boils inside me, but I cannot, under any circumstances, pummel him into the nearest wall. Or grind my fist into his stupid face. Or let Chuck and Ty give him the beatdown he deserves. No, we have to fight him in court. Which is going to be a lot more difficult.

“Let’s go,” I say to Willow, nodding at Ty, who moves toward the front door.

“My security guards can detain you.” Dylan looks directly at Willow.

“And in an hour you’ll be back at the facility where you belong.

Hiring a bodyguard isn’t going to fix your issues—you know you need help, Willow.

Resisting only means it’s going to take longer to get you back to where you were before—where you belong. Where I can take care of you.”

Willow shivers slightly, averting her gaze.

Dammit .

This is how he wears her down psychologically. Another few minutes and he’ll potentially undo everything I’ve spent the last six weeks building up with her, and I’m not going to allow it.

“We’re leaving,” I say, nudging her forward.

Ty opens the front door, and as promised, there are three men standing by my black SUV.

Actually, it’s kind of amusing because I can spot amateurs a mile away, and these guys are basically rent-a-cops. Ty could take out all three of them with one arm tied behind his back. Hell, so can I, even with the bum hip.

“Get in the back, babe.” I speak softly, but I don’t care who hears me.

Dylan Durand has no idea who he’s messing with.