Alpha: Omega Part 6

After transferring from the limousine to a small twin-engine jet, Harris took a few minutes to go over his flight plans and to make final arrangements for the trip. Within a few short minutes he had us airborne, flying us several hours south to the Caribbean.

Layla spent much of the flight ignoring Roth and me, her earbuds plugged in, music blaring, reading a book on her Kindle. Then, partway through the flight, without explanation, she went forward and knocked on the door to the c.o.c.kpit. Harris let her in, and the door closed, and we didn't see her again until after landing.

As the islands of the Turks and Caicos came into view, I watched with interest as we began our descent. It truly was a special kind of paradise. Under perfect blue skies, Harris made his approach to the Providenciales International Airport and we landed a few minutes later with a perfect no-bounce touchdown.

We taxied to a private hanger where an old-school white Range Rover waited, engine idling. After transferring our baggage to the Rover, Harris drove us away from the airport...in complete silence.

I wasn't sure what was bothering Layla, or whether Harris was p.i.s.sed off, but you could cut the silence with a knife. Harris was hard to read when it came to facial expressions, but that was just his way-he liked being quiet and inscrutable. Layla was easier to read. She was my best friend, and had been for many years. I knew her inside and out, so it didn't take much for me to figure out that she was indeed still stewing. What exactly her problem was, I wasn't sure. It was her own filterless, sa.s.sy mouth that had embarra.s.sed her, not me.

It was a long drive across Grand Turk Island to a marina where a yacht waited for us. During that time she didn't look at me, didn't look at Roth, didn't look at Harris. She just stared in silence out the window.

The silence between Harris and Layla especially was rather icy and p.r.o.nounced, and a little awkward. Maybe I was imagining things...or maybe not. Maybe they'd argued while alone together in the c.o.c.kpit. Or maybe something else had happened.

I watched Layla intently the whole way to the marina. She was leaning against the door, forehead to the gla.s.s, watching the scenery, her lovely half-black/half-Italian features schooled into neutrality. I knew that look. It was the look that said she was battling intense inner turmoil, keeping an emotional tsunami from overtaking her.

Layla was an intense person. Everything she did was done at full speed, no holds-barred, all-in. But, emotionally, she could be closed off. Anything real, anything personal, anything deep, and anything that could leave her vulnerable she avoided or kept behind those walls of hers. Even with me, she was very rarely openly emotional, using her smart mouth and colorful vocabulary to deflect anything that got too personal. And if things got too intense she closed down completely, putting out spikes, and refusing to interact until she had it under control.

I would be willing to bet money that something had happened in that c.o.c.kpit.

Things didn't improve on the boat ride either. Harris piloted the big antique boat out of the marina and away from Grand Turk in silence, black Oakleys s.h.i.+elding his eyes. His only concession to the Caribbean climate was that he chose to wear a white short-sleeve b.u.t.ton-down and khaki trousers, rather than the two-piece suit he usually wore.

The boat was long, low, and open-sided, with a roof to block out the sun. Benches lined the sides, and there was a screened-in sitting room/saloon at the bow, two small cabins belowdecks and the c.o.c.kpit aft. As soon as we were out of the marina, Layla walked along the outer railing and stood as far forward as she could, her thick, curly hair tied back, a cheap pair of knock-off Ray-Bans on her face, looking completely miserable.

I was tempted to go forward with her and try to get her out of her sh.e.l.l, but something told me she wasn't ready.

I left Harris alone, too. He was busy piloting the s.h.i.+p, navigating around the many small islands and reefs. I knew him well enough to know he wouldn't say a word to me about whatever may or may not have happened between him and Layla.

That left Roth and me to lounge on the starboard-side bench, the wind in our hair, warm salt water leaping up in spits and sprays as we rolled over the shallow waves.

"She okay?" Roth asked, nodding at Layla, who was visible standing at the port railing, staring out at the water.

I shrugged. "I'm not sure. I think something is going on with her and Harris."

"Should you talk to her?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. Not here, anyway. I think she needs some time to work through whatever is bugging her."

"But you think it's something with Harris?"

"I'm not positive, but that's my hunch. They either had a conversation on the plane ride here, or something happened in the c.o.c.kpit. I don't know. She's not usually like this. Silence from Layla is usually a sign of something being really wrong."

"It's harder to tell with Harris. You'd have to know him really well to even know anything was upsetting him."

"You think something's upsetting him, too?"

"He's always taciturn, and he tends to like his solitude. But he's been especially closed-mouthed recently. It's hard to say. Our friends are both rather difficult to understand, I think."

I laughed, somewhat mirthlessly. "No kidding. I was best friends with Layla for two years before we ever had a serious talk about anything personal. She keeps her s.h.i.+t seriously private."

Roth laughed. "Harris has worked for me for...nearly ten years. I know very, very little about his personal life."

"When we were sailing across the Mediterranean to go get you, we talked a little. He said he came from a totally normal family, joined the Army at eighteen, the Rangers at twenty. Said he joined the Army out of sheer boredom. And...that's about all I learned, actually."

Roth laughed again. "He hasn't told me much more than that. I know his retirement from the Rangers was...hard for him. Came on the heels of a mission gone wrong, I believe. I don't think I really want to know what happened, if I'm being totally honest. If it was something traumatic enough to cause a man like Nicholas Harris to quit a career he loved, it had to have been extremely upsetting. I hired him mere months after he left the Rangers, and I know he availed himself of my company's rather generous medical package so he could hire a therapist."

"Harris went to a therapist?" That was difficult to picture.

Roth nodded. "Every Monday morning for four and half years. The only reason I know is because he requested that time slot off specifically, and getting him to tell me why he needed it was like pulling teeth."

"I still go see Dr. Mancuso on occasion, actually," I heard Harris say from behind us. Silent as a cat, he had appeared out of nowhere.

I wasn't sure what to say. "Harris. We were just-"

"Gossiping about me. I know, my ears were burning." A small smile brightened his features, telling me he wasn't upset. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Any combat veteran will have demons to exorcise," he said, leaning back against the railing. "I'm no exception. My father was a Vietnam veteran, and he refused to talk to anyone about his experiences or the effects they had on him. I saw firsthand how well that works, so after I left the Rangers I knew that if I didn't want to end up like Dad I'd have to see someone. So I did. Purely out of a motivation to be something close to normal, I guess."

Then, changing the subject abruptly, he added, "Even the auto-pilot needs help. I'll see you later." And then he was gone again, just like that, back in the c.o.c.kpit, pulling the throttle back as we approached a low-lying island.

The island loomed large in front of us, water fading in color from jade to turquoise as the water shallowed out nearer the sh.o.r.e. The beach was a thick white line r.i.m.m.i.n.g an explosion of green, with just a hint of gla.s.s reflecting sunlight from between branches. Still about a hundred meters from sh.o.r.e, Harris cut the engines, letting the antique boat coast to a stop, and then he went to the forward starboard side and loosened a crank to let the anchor rattle free. It hit the water with a huge splash. He returned to the aft of the boat, more rattling and fussing with mechanical winches or cranks or something, and then he lowered a wide white s.h.i.+p's boat into the water.

"All right," Harris called. "Down to the skiff. Roth, you first, please."

A rope ladder tossed over the side allowed Roth to descend. I followed him, and then Layla, and then Harris used a thick rope and a tie-off point to lower the luggage, which Roth stowed in the bow of the skiff. Harris came down last, untied the ropes connecting the skiff to the yacht, and used the end of an oar to push away from the s.h.i.+p. Layla and I watched as both Roth and Harris then set the long oars into the locks and began pulling, just Roth at first to bring the skiff about to face sh.o.r.e, and then both of them in unison.

For the first time in the twelve hours since we'd left Manhattan, Layla cracked a smile. "Never thought I'd see the Valentine Roth doing manual labor," she said.

Roth had unb.u.t.toned the top three b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt revealing a V of tanned skin at his chest. The muscles on his strong forearms flexed as he set a rowing rhythm. His blond hair was windswept, and he had an easy grin on his gorgeous face. G.o.d, so f.u.c.king hot. I don't think I'll ever get used to how insanely s.e.xy my Valentine is, just how perfect he is.

His s.h.i.+rt strained across his chest as he pulled the oar in perfect synch with Harris. "Get a good look," he said to Layla, "this doesn't happen often."

And thus ended the brief exchange. The rest of the ride to the island occurred in silence.

When the hull sc.r.a.ped on the sand, Harris pulled in his oar, removed his socks and shoes, and rolled his pants legs up to his knees. Roth did the same, and they both leapt out of the boat, one on either side, setting it to rocking gently, and then each of them grabbed the bow with both hands and hauled the skiff further onto the sand, until the water was lapping at the aft end.

And then something bizarre happened.

Harris moved to the end of the boat where Layla was preparing to step out of the skiff. He reached for her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her easily, and set her down on the damp sand.

And she let him.

She even reached for him, balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders. As her toes. .h.i.t the sand, Layla sank slowly down, her eyes locked on Harris, her hands trailing from his shoulders to biceps to forearms.

And then, abruptly, she turned away, tossed her hair, and stalked away, almost angrily, through the surf.

I'm unable to emphasize how utterly alien that behavior is for Layla.

She's the epitome of the independent woman-and not in the angry-feminist sort of way. She won't b.i.t.c.h out a guy for opening a door for her, and if he offers to pay for a date, she might let him if she likes him. But she's fiercely independent. She never asks for help. She's not the sort to hold a guy's arm or be handed down from a truck, not the type to engage in any kind of public touching. Around me, at home, when we shared an apartment, she might let me see her kiss her current boyfriend, but that was it. She's not a hugger, not a cuddler, and certainly not a trail-her-hands-down-his-arms girl. And certainly not a gaze-with-rife-and-conflicted-emotion-into-his-eyes girl.

But yet that just happened.

With Harris.

With Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, Mr. Strong and Silent, Mr. Cool as a Cuc.u.mber in Any Situation, Mr. I Can Kill a Man Without Flinching.

I exchanged a glance with Roth as he lifted me out of the skiff.

"What the h.e.l.l did I just see?" he whispered.

I could only shake my head. "f.u.c.k if I know, babe."

The house was incredible. Roth had arranged it, so of course it was. But...incredible barely describes it. It was only one floor, but it sprawled out to cover over fifteen thousand square feet, carefully crafted to make the most of the views, perched on a slight rise that looked out over the Caribbean, each room facing the water on one side and the forest on the other. The kitchen was the centerpiece, taking up the entire width of the building, connected in an open floor plan to a sitting room and a dining room. All four exterior walls of the building were folding gla.s.s doors that could be pushed open from corner to corner, making it totally open to the salt-scented breeze and the soothing sound of the surf in the distance. To the left and the right, walkways made of what looked to be reclaimed driftwood meandered away, leading to freestanding bedrooms each with an en suite bathroom-which included cleverly hidden outdoor showers. There were six bedrooms in total, three to the left of the kitchen and three to the right, arranged in a semi-circle around the main structure and connected by the same driftwood path to the kitchen, to each other, and to another large structure opposite the kitchen.

The secondary building held a movie theater, a gym, a wine cellar, and a small library. Each room occupied an outer quadrant, with another sitting room at the center. Every exterior wall of the entire home could be slid open from corner to corner, even the movie theater, which used gla.s.s that could be electronically tinted to block out the light so one could watch a movie during the day.

In the center of the property was a swimming pool lined on one side by a tiki-hut bar and lounge chairs on the other. The courtyard also held a fire pit surrounded by semi-circular couches, and an outdoor kitchen-a grill, a pizza oven, an induction range top, and a built-in under-the-counter refrigerator.

Roth took us all on a tour, pointing out all the various features. Even Layla seemed excited by the place. We ended the tour in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of white wine. "All the bedrooms are equal, in terms of size and amenities," Roth said. "So it doesn't matter which one you pick."

"When you said you had a place in Turks and Caicos, I wasn't expecting this," I said. "Why haven't we come here before?"

Roth lifted one shoulder. "It's brand new; I had it custom built. This is the first time I've been here myself."

I tilted my head. "But you said-"

"I did have a place in the islands, but I sold that several months ago," he explained.

"Why?"

He glanced at Layla, and then Harris. "Would you excuse us?"

Harris put a hand-just three fingertips of his right hand-to Layla's lower back, and subtly but effectively guided her out of the room.

When we were alone, Roth returned his attention to me and sighed. "Lots of reasons. First and most importantly, I was on record as the owner. I bought it during a time when I hadn't heard from Vitaly in many, many years. I'd hoped he'd forgotten about me. I a.s.sumed he had, I guess, so I figured it was safe to own property in my own name. I sold it, knowing I'd never want to go there again, because he could easily find us there. When I built this place, I purchased the land and hired the contractors through a series of false corporations, which I dissolved after the construction was complete. It's inaccessible except by water, and it's owned by a company that can't be traced back to me."

There was something he wasn't saying. "Roth." My tone of voice was all I needed.

"My previous property in these islands was a getaway. It wasn't a home, but more of a private resort, I guess you could say. When I needed time away from the chaos of Manhattan, I would retreat there."

I read between the lines. "But you weren't alone, is that what you are saying?"

He nodded. "Precisely. Not alone."

I swirled wine around the bowl of my goblet. "Explain."

"Why?" he demanded. "Surely you understand without needing a detailed explanation."

"You know every last detail of my life, every guy I dated or slept with, absolutely everything. I, on the other hand, know little or nothing about your past, romantically speaking."

He nodded, letting out a sigh of acquiescence. "True enough, I suppose. This requires more wine, however." He reached under the island in the middle of the kitchen where there was a wine refrigerator, and withdrew another bottle of chilled white wine, opened it, and refilled both of our gla.s.ses. "The first thing you need to know is that I don't have a romantic past. The only woman I would claim any sort of romantic attachment to would be Gina, and you know about her."

"But there were other women?"

He shrugged. "Of course. Many. But none of them held any real meaning." He glanced at me. "Do you remember our first conversation about the difference between s.e.x, making love, and f.u.c.king?"

I nodded. "I remember the conversation, yes." I thought back. "You said something about how all of your previous s.e.xual partners were-how did you put it?-carefully chosen for their willingness and discretion? There was something about a contract, too, I believe."

He nodded, taking a long pull on his wine. "Correct. I didn't have girlfriends, or f.u.c.k buddies, or anything like that. I would choose a woman, bring her to my office, explain the contract to her, have her sign an NDA regardless, and then if she was agreeable to the arrangement, she would sign the contract."

"I have so many questions, babe," I said. "Like, how did you find them? How did you choose them? And what was the contract?"

Roth hesitated. Or, rather, took a long moment to consider his response. "They were not prost.i.tutes or escorts, which I know is what you're thinking. They were mostly employees of the corporation, or one of the subsidiaries. Never anyone that worked in the tower itself, never anyone who might accidentally come in contact with me on a day-to-day basis. I perused the employee dossier registry, if you want total honesty. They were chosen primarily for their looks. Every employee of VRI Incorporated, as part of the hiring process, was required to take a basic psychological profile test, males and females, no exceptions. I had an a.s.sistant who would comb through the list of single female employees and create a file of potential candidates, which I would look through and choose a girl based on a criteria of looks and psychological willingness to partic.i.p.ate in the arrangement I had in mind. Not every female employed by VRI fit that bill."

I frowned. "Jesus, Roth. That's...very...I don't even know. Logical. Mechanical."

He just nodded. "Well, yes. Of course. That's the idea, after all. It wasn't about a connection, or about romance, or seduction, even. It was about meeting a physical need. So, I would have the individual brought to my office, and I would lay the proposal out for her, which was very simple, actually."

This system just seemed so...odd. So calculated, so cold, so utterly logical. Choosing a s.e.xual partner isn't a logical thing, it's a chemical thing. Attraction, l.u.s.t, need, desire. Not psychologically profiling someone to filter out the attachment-p.r.o.ne. Not sorting through a roster of potential candidates and choosing the most suitable among them. Was I disgusted? Sad that he was so closed off, that this system of his was all he was capable of? Glad that he kept himself so aloof, because it meant I got to have you for myself?

A little of all of the above, I think.

I was quiet for a long moment, trying to sort through my feelings. "I don't know what to think, Valentine," I said, eventually.

"It was a long time ago. When I decided I had to have you, I stopped all that. When I brought you to my home, I hadn't touched anyone else in...months. Nearly a year. And you were the one and only woman to ever enter my home."

"So you just...used them for s.e.x, and that was it."

"They used me just the same," he pointed out, a note of frustration in his voice. "That was part of the psychological profile. I chose women whom I thought would have a more...pragmatic approach to s.e.x. Never anyone emotionally vulnerable or given to attachment. Casual, consensual s.e.x was the purpose of the entire agreement, and that was made clear from the very beginning. So I feel they used me just as much as I did them. We used each other, by contractual agreement. They each had the ability to say no, to back out. One girl got cold feet once we were there. I never even touched her, never removed a single article of clothing, but the moment she saw the bed, she asked if it was too late to say no. I put her on a plane within the hour and sent her home."

"It just...I don't like it."

"Why?"

I shrugged miserably. "You're mine."

"I am now, yes."

"I don't like the thought of you just...casually f.u.c.king other women. You didn't just have a f.u.c.kpad and a little black book, Roth, you had a G.o.dd.a.m.n system. An entire roster of f.u.c.kable employees, and a f.u.c.k-resort you took them to.." I stepped back, walking over to the covered deck circling the building. "G.o.d. I'm...I don't know. I wish I hadn't asked."

He moved to stand behind me. "Kyrie, love. I will never lie to you. That's why I told you. That was the truth. That was my life. Am I proud of it, now? No. It was all I was capable of, then. After Gina, I just...shut down. I wanted nothing to do with an emotional connection. I thought I loved her, but she turned on me. Controlled me, used me, tried to have me killed. Tried to own me. I wanted, after I'd gotten away from her and her father and that whole lifestyle-I wanted something I could control. Something easy, no strings attached, simple."

"I get that," I said. "And I don't...I guess I don't hold it against you. Like, I'm not mad. I just...I don't know. I knew going in that you'd had other s.e.xual partners. But the reality of it, hearing your whole system..." I shrugged again. "I'm just jealous, I guess."

"They weren't partners, Kyrie. It was just s.e.x. Nothing else-maybe that only makes it worse, I don't know. It doesn't lessen your right to jealousy, though. Or mine." He turned me around, and his eyes were intense, but warm, the eyes of my Valentine once more. "You think I'm not jealous of your exes? I hate all of them for getting you before I did. I hate the thought of anyone else putting their hands on you. It makes me sick to my stomach just to think about it."

I sighed and pressed my forehead to his chest. "There weren't that many of them, though."

"So? Is that supposed to make it better, somehow? You're mine. All mine. Whether it was one man or a hundred, I hate the idea of anyone ever having any part of you." He touched my chin and lifted my face. "But at the same time, I know that each of our respective experiences led us together. Your past makes you who you are, just as mine makes me who I am. And...it's hard to put this into words." He paused to think, and then continued. "In a way, I'm glad we didn't meet each other as virgins. I want all of you, forever. But...that you had experience before you met me...it meant you knew what you wanted, what you liked, it meant you knew what to do with me. And my past meant I could make you mine, it meant I knew exactly what to do with you, how to make you scream, how to make you need me."