Eyes Wide Open: The Blackstone Affair, Book 3

“I slept for about three days straight once we got back to London. I needed it, and returning to my familiar surroundings did help a great deal,” I told Dr. Roswell. “I’m starting the research project the university approved for me, and have good friends around me helping to plan this wedding.”

“How are the night terrors now that you are off the medication?” she asked.

“It’s inconsistent. I started having them again after I stopped the pills, but now that this stuff—now that my dad has died—they’ve stopped again. Do you think it’s because my mind is now full of something worse to take the place of what I dreamed before?”

Dr. Roswell looked at me carefully and asked, “Is the death of your father worse than what happened to you when you were seventeen?”

Whoa. Heavy question, that. And one I had never pondered before. My first urge was to say that of course, the death of my father was worse, but, if I was honest with myself, I don’t think it was. I was an adult now and could see things with more experience than when I was a teenager, but I had tried to kill myself over the rape video. I had no thoughts even in the same realm as that now. I wanted to live. I needed to live my life with Ethan, and especially to take care of our baby. There were no other options. As I sat there in Dr. Roswell’s office, everything sort of illuminated for me all in an instant. Finally seeing the light helped me realize that I would be okay. I would get through this, and the joy would return for me—in time.

I shook my head and answered my therapist truthfully. “No. It’s not worse.”

She wrote that down with that turquoise fountain pen I thought was so beautiful.

“Thank you for helping me to see everything with clarity for what I think is the first time,” I told her.

“Can you explain what you mean by that, Brynne?”

“I think so.” I took a huge breath and gave it my best shot. “I know my dad loved me and I know he knew how much I loved him back. We had the kind of relationship where we shared our feelings all the time, so there are no regrets there. I’m heartbroken our time was cut short, but there is nothing to be done about that. It’s just life. Look at Ethan, who lost his mother at the age of four. They basically had no time together and he barely remembers her. I got my wonderful loving father for almost twenty-five years.”

Dr. Roswell gave me a beaming smile. “It makes me so happy to hear you talk like this. You’ve cracked the secret code, I’m afraid. Pretty soon I won’t have any excuses to keep sending you a bill for my services.”

“Um . . . no, that won’t be happening, Dr. Roswell. You will be stuck with me for years yet. Just imagine all those mommy guilt trips I’ll be taking soon.”

She laughed in her gentle way. “I look forward to those chats very much.” She closed her notebook and capped her fountain pen. “So tell me about these wedding plans. I want to hear every detail . . .”

♥

Facebook was quite a nice tool for planning a wedding, I had discovered. Elaina had suggested it to me because she was deep into planning her own and knew what she was talking about. I sat down with my Cranberry Zinger tea and logged into my account.

I’d set up a private group for sharing photos and business links that consisted of me and my small army of foot soldiers: Gaby, Ben, Hannah, Elaina, Marie and Victoria, the official wedding planner, who actually made her living at what had to be a very challenging job, in my opinion. Things were coming together amazingly smoothly for what was now an impossible deadline of only five weeks. Considering I was hormonal and pregnant, and coming off a devastating personal loss, I decided I was doing pretty damn well for myself.

Ethan had been so crushed at his job we barely saw each other, and the majority of our conversations were via text message. I know he worried about me and tried to give me as much of his attention as he could, but there just wasn’t any time to spare. I understood the pressure he was under, and I mostly needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened in the last weeks anyway. He came home very late, and pretty much wanted only two things once he got there. To make love, and to have me within reach while he slept. Ethan’s need for physical contact was still as strong as ever. I did not mind a bit. I needed it just as much as he did, I think. We both worried about each other.

I shot off a quick message to Elaina about the pictures of floral arrangements she’d posted and joked that we talked to each other more on Facebook than we did in person. Stupid, really, especially when she lived in the same building as I did. Elaina and Neil were just as totally swamped with their jobs at Blackstone Security International as Ethan was. Nobody had much time to spare.

I left there and checked my main profile to find some new messages had been left for me. There were some donation notifications from the Meritus College Fund in San Francisco that my dad had supported for years. It was a nice charity pledged to assist disadvantaged but motivated kids to get a university education. I knew he would have wanted it, so I had announced that in lieu of flowers, donations could be sent directly to Meritus instead. The fund kindly sent me a notice whenever someone left a gift in my dad’s name. Paul Langley had left a gift, as had the staff at the Rothvale Gallery, and Gaby’s father, Rob Hargreave. Their thoughtfulness touched me deeply, and I told them so in my personal thank-you messages back to them.

I posted a nice photo on my Facebook profile of my dad holding me when I was a baby. I had been busy scanning pictures from the photo albums I’d taken from his house and brought home with me. In this particular one, we were both dressed in what looked like pajamas, so it was probably a morning shot. Daddy had me sitting in front of him on his desk, facing the camera, big grins on both our faces. I wondered who had taken it. My mom? Daddy was so young in the photo . . . and looked really happy. At least I had precious memories like these to hold close to my heart.

I got sad when I realized there would be no grandpa pictures of him and my baby. Not now . . . The familiar pang hit me in the chest and I had to close my eyes for a moment and just breathe.

The pain you get when you have to remind your brain that you will never see them, hug them, laugh with them, or talk to them again . . .

Sucks.

Jonathan will have grandpa pictures, though. Yes, he would. I knew that Ethan’s dad would be a hands-on grandparent. It made me glad just thinking about Jonathan and Marie babysitting for us. I had my aunt to be “grandma” to my baby even if my own mother showed no interest. Ugh. Change of topic please.

A new message popped up with the little blip sound and a message box.

Karl Westman: Hi there. I just logged in and saw your green dot. I’ve made it to London for the Games and hope we can reconnect while I’m in town. Just got in yesterday morning, actually. Still recovering from jet lag. :/ How are you?

Karl . . . He’d found me on Facebook shortly after the funeral and we’d chatted a tiny bit since then. I remembered he said his company was sending him for the Games, and Jess had reminded me too. She was disappointed, really, that she wasn’t able to come with him, as she was a huge sports fan. The Olympics were her thing far more than they were mine. Still, having the Games of the XXX Olympiad in your home city is exciting stuff, no matter how you look at it.

Brynne Bennett: Things are better . . . thanks. Where are you staying in London?

Karl Westman: In Chelsea, of course! I’m not going to miss getting in my history of Jimi while I’m here.

Brynne Bennett: Ha! I remember. It’s funny because Ethan’s dad is taking me to lunch later today. He used to drive a London cab and knows all the sites and history of places like that. You could meet us if you want and get in a quick history lesson??

Karl Westman: Would love that. Thx! Text me the restaurant when you get there and I’ll find you guys.

I logged out of Facebook and headed for the shower. I had a lunch date with my father-in-law-to-be, and then a photo session after. No time for the sin of sloth today.

♥

“So Ethan put you on guard duty today, didn’t he?” I asked Jonathan between bites of some really good chicken salad. I’d have to remember the dried cherries and the dill the next time I made it. My appetite was improving slightly, but I didn’t know if it was because of my pregnancy or that I was coming to terms with my father’s death. Either way, I could now look at food without the urge to turn my head away so I wouldn’t puke.

“I know nothing about that, my dear. I wanted to take my soon-to-be-daughter to lunch is all,” he said with a shrug, brown eyes gleaming, “and Ethan told me that Len would be away today.”

“Ha! Thought so,” I laughed. “I know his tactics by now, Jonathan. Ethan doesn’t let his guard down easily, or without very good reasons.” I sipped my juice. “I know he’s very protective and he does it because he loves me.”

“You understand him so well. In fact, I’d say that you have transformed my son into a person I had hoped he might become someday, but feared I would never know.” Jonathan smiled at me with a great deal of kindness and absolutely no judgment.

“The war?” I asked. “I know something very bad happened to him in the army, but I don’t know what. He can’t share with me . . . yet.”

Jonathan patted my hand gently. “Well, that makes two of us then. I don’t know what they did to my son either. I just know he came home with a haunted look in his eye and a very hard edge to him that wasn’t present before. But I do know that he is more like the Ethan I knew when he was younger now that he’s found you. You’ve brought it out in him, Brynne. I can see how he looks at you and how you comfort each other.” He took a drink of his beer. “In short, you’ve made an old man very happy and greatly relieved.”

“I feel the same way about him in a lot of ways. Ethan really saved me from myself.”

Jonathan listened carefully and pointed at my belly. “You’ll find that you never stop worrying about your children no matter how old they get.”

“I’ve heard that said a lot.” I sighed heavily. “I worry now . . . about him or her.” I touched my stomach. “If something happens to me . . . well, then—I can already sort of see how it works.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, my dear. Ethan won’t allow it and neither will I. The next few weeks will find you extremely busy and your schedule filled with plans and events, but soon things will settle and the two of you will be figuring out married life and I’ll be awaiting the arrival of my fourth grandchild.”

He smiled at me and I wholeheartedly returned it with one of my own. I was really beginning to care about Ethan’s dad. He would be a loving grandpa for our baby and it made me feel good inside knowing he was rooting for our little family. It was a small thing to some, but for me, it was huge. Jonathan was giving to me something my own mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t give—the simple blessing for the success and happiness of starting our family.

We were heading out of the restaurant when I spotted Karl rushing in, looking somewhat harried for the easygoing guy I remembered from high school.

“Brynne! God, I’m so sorry I’m late. I got your text, and then it was one delay after another.” He held up his hands. “I got held up with work business.” Stepping closer to embrace me, he kissed me on the cheek affectionately.

“Karl, this is my . . . father-in-law, Jonathan Blackstone. Jonathan, Karl Westman, an old friend from my hometown. We used to compete in track and field together back in the day.”

They shook hands and we all three chatted for a moment. Karl seemed frustrated he’d missed our lunch and “reconnect,” as he’d put it. I wasn’t so sure Ethan could handle a connection of any sort between Karl and me. Honestly, I could do without it too. I had nothing against an old friendship, but in this case there was a great deal of added emotions and that made it more than slightly uncomfortable for me.

“Jess will slay me for coming all the way to London and then not making the time to catch up with you even a little,” he said to me before turning to Jonathan, “and I regret I missed the opportunity to get valuable in-the-know tourist tips from you, Mr. Blackstone.”

“If you’re interested in Hendrix history and locales, I can share what I know. I drove hundreds of tourists around for more than twenty-five years in this city. I think I’ve seen them all.” Jonathan gave Karl his card. “Email me and I’ll send you what I have. You’ll want the Samarkand at number twenty-two Lansdowne Crescent, in Chelsea, I imagine.”

“Absolutely right.” Karl took Jonathan’s card and put it in his pocket. “Thank you for any suggestions you can give me. I don’t have a great deal of time and I want to make the most of it.” He turned to me again. “So . . . any chance we can arrange something else? I imagine you have somewhere to be right now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I have a photo shoot in a little over an hour and I need time to prepare.” I thought for a moment. “Well, you’ll be attending the Games, right? Ethan will have tickets for just about any event you could possibly want. Why don’t we plan to meet up for one of the athletics events like hurdles or the hundred meters? I’m actually starting to get excited to see some competitions now.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We’ll be in touch, then.”

Karl hugged me again and we parted ways.

Jonathan was quiet in the car while driving me to my studio shoot. He seemed to be thinking and I wondered . . . How did he feel about the nude modeling? What had Ethan told him about it? Had he ever seen any of my pictures? I guess I wouldn’t know if I didn’t ask him, and that was something I didn’t get into with people. My modeling was personal and not open to negotiation.

In no time, it seemed, Jonathan pulled up to the address in Notting Hill and waited for me to enter the elegant white house that was hosting my photo shoot today. I waved to him as I went in, and then I was off to work, my focus shifting smoothly to what I’d been hired to do.

♠

The inane questions people ask during conversations are so ridiculous at times I wonder how I manage not to leap on the table and shout, “How can you be so fucking stupid and manage to still be breathing?!” Alas . . . I’ve learned to keep my flap shut even when it has pained me greatly to do so.

I was just about to sneak in a much-needed nicotine fix after that waste of a conference call when Elaina rang through to my office. She didn’t do it very often, and my curiosity was triggered immediately.

“Ethan, I think you might want to come up to reception.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?”

“It’s Muriel . . . from the newsstand. She’s up here to deliver a package to you personally, and she won’t leave it with anyone but—”

I was out of my office and running to the front before Elaina could even finish her sentence.

My heart started to thump and the insta-worry flooded my system. I slid to a halt as I busted through the doors into reception. There was Muriel in all her horse-toothed, mustached glory waiting for me. She held a packet in her ink-stained hands, and leveled a green-flecked gaze over me as I rushed up to her.

“Mister, I got summat for ye.” She waved the envelope. “Ye said, anyone an anythin’.”

“I did. Did someone leave that at your newsstand just now?” I pointed to what she held.

She nodded and flicked her eyes around the room, taking in the décor and probably calculating her fee. “Yeah, near an hour ago now. I could’na leave t’ stand. ’Tis written out ‘Blackstone’ an I know ye said number forty-four.”

I tried not to be shocked that she could read and nodded back, the adrenaline starting to race around inside me. What was it this time? More death threats for Ivan? “You have an excellent memory, Muriel. Thank you for leaving your stall to come all the way up here to deliver it in person.” I reached into my pocket to retrieve my wallet. “I appreciate your dedication.”

I handed her a twenty and we switched. She gave a short nod and turned to leave. I tore open the red string, releasing the flap on the envelope—acutely aware it was identical to the one I’d received on the day of the Mallerton Gala—the same envelope that contained the photos of Ivan plus a cryptic message that read “Never attempt to murder a man who is committing suicide” or some incoherent bullshit I didn’t have time for right now. Still, I couldn’t take the chance on my cousin’s life. He would be front and center at the Games in another week, announcing all the archery events, deep inside the media circus, being interviewed, in the public view all over. If someone was targeting him, I needed to have precautions in place.

I stuck my hand inside and pulled out photos, again, just like the last time—glossy black-and-white, eight-by-tens. I felt terrible fear slice into me. These were not pictures of my cousin at all. They were photos of Brynne . . .

Fuck no! No. NO!

The pictures were a sequence of photos shot on the street—Brynne and me on the day we went to our first appointment with Dr. Burnsley, and then afterward when we ate lunch outside before we stopped into Fountaine’s Aquarium. Us hugging on the sidewalk after we came out of the doctor’s offices. Me touching her belly and kissing her. Us eating our sandwiches and talking about our run-in on Christmas Eve in the snow. There was even a photo of Brynne taking a picture of me with her mobile and laughing because it had been right after I came out of the shop with the shit-smelling baby. I would have noticed someone snapping photos, though. I would have seen them. How did I miss it? How in the fuck did I miss this?!

I’d been distracted. Distraction is enemy number one in the security business and I had failed miserably. I had been distracted by the doctor’s visit and then by the insanity of the aquarium shop—too unfocused on where we were and who was around us to even notice someone trailing us!

I groaned and flipped through them again. I couldn’t find any message or ambiguous note on the back of any of the photos. I looked up and realized Muriel had left.

I barked at Elaina, “Get Brynne on the line and tell her to hold for me! I need to speak with her now!” Then I ran for the lifts.

“Muriel, wait!” I chased her down in the lobby as she was exiting the building. I’m sure others must have thought I was insane for all the spectacle I was giving them, but it didn’t matter. They could think whatever they liked.

“Yeah, mister?”

“Who? Did you see who left the envelope?”

She flicked her eyes up and they flared a little. This was it—the moment of truth where she either helped me because she was a good person or she took advantage of me because she wasn’t.

“I did as he walked away. I seen the back of him.”

“What do you remember about him? Build, hair color, anything to give me at all? It’s so very important,” I begged. “My—girl—my wife’s pictures were in that packet. Her life could be in danger.” I lowered my voice. “Please, Muriel? Any small thing you may remember could help.”

She pondered it for a moment, her eyes moving infinitesimally. “He were talkin’ on a mobile an I only seen ’is back walkin’ off. ’Is hair were brown an he were not as tall as ye.”

Brown hair and shorter than me. Not much help in a place with millions of the same right now. I needed to get back upstairs and make sure Elaina had found Brynne. “Thanks again,” I said halfheartedly and turned to go.

“There were summat I did notice, though,” Muriel called out to me, “ ‘is voice . . . he weren’t native. He were a Yank.”

The stalker is an American. It has to be coming from Oakley’s people . . . or maybe Fielding isn’t dead after all. Maybe he’s here in London. Oh no! Please no!

My blood ran cold at what Muriel had told me, all the possibilities and scenarios spinning in my head in a terrifying entangled rush.

And then my legs started moving.