Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (8 page)

“Okay,” I nod. “I’ll be there.”

“Lotty.” My name is steady and definite on his lips. Like a call out of heaven from God himself.

Despite my frightful, anxious state, I force myself to meet his gaze.

“You will be okay for two days, right?” His jaw is set tight, and he has that infuriated look he had that night in his penthouse when he discovered Andrew’s fingerprints on my neck. “I have a car waiting for me just outside the park. If you want to come with me now, just say the word.”

I want to. I want to say the word, but I can’t. I can’t leave with him now. That would be too messy. Not to mention Andrew would have a clear description of who to track down to get to me. I’ll only end up dragging this man’s life into chaos and possibly death. He may think he wants to help me now, until he realizes I’m not worth all the trouble and tosses me back to the wolf.

I have to leave without a trace, so it’ll take Andrew some time tracing me. Running with this man right now will be too easy, and easy is never good. Easy is deceiving and deleterious. So, no. As much as I want to, I can’t say the word.

With mock incredulity and a forced laugh, I reply, “Leaving right now would be a bit crazy, don’t you think? Yes, I’m desperate for the job, but I also have a life I need to pack up and a landlord to notify. Two days is less than enough time, but I’ll be there on Tuesday.”

Still unconvinced, he shakes his head at me, his jaw ticking. “What’s your number?”

“Uh, I don’t…I don’t have one.”

A couple of months ago, Andrew smashed my cellphone into a wall because one of his own friends called me, asking if I was near Andrew so he could speak to him
;
the matter was urgent and he wasn’t getting through to Andrew’s phone
.
That’s because his
battery was dead. And my phone ended up suffering for it. Worst part is, I don’t even know how the friend got my number.
Since then, I haven’t been allowed to have one. If I need to call him, I have to use the pay phone a few blocks down from my apartment. And if Graham or Kiera want to get to me, they have to call Andrew’s phone.

Disbelief stretches Sexy Demon’s eyes. “You don’t have a phone number?”

“No,” I snap out. “I can’t afford one, okay? Listen, I have to go now. See you in two days. Hopefully you’ll have a shirt on this time. On second thought…” I rake him over, stealing an eyeful to tie me over, “…not so hopefully. Burn all your shirts. You’re a delectable feast for starved eyes, Abercrombie.”

As I make to move past him, he seizes my upper arm, brings his mouth to my ear, and promises in an ire-striated whisper, “If you don’t show up on Tuesday, I’ll be back, searching for you. And I won’t stop until I find you.”

I swallow.

He releases me with that promise, and I continue walking, fighting the desire to look back. A couple feet off, I break into a jog until I’m face to face with Andrew’s buff, bald-headed friend. With a pug nose and dimpled chin, he’s not exactly a looker, but has a nice height and a strong body.

“You’ve been bad, Lotty,” he drawls in a teasing, yet sinister, voice.

“Dan,” I start to plead, “he’s a distant cousin on my father’s side and I was just so excited to run into him after not seeing him in such a long while. You can’t tell Andrew. He won’t understand. He accused my own
brother
of wanting to sleep with me. You know he’s hotheaded and will never see reason.
Please
.” I’m almost in tears now, needing him to keep his mouth shut.
At least
for the next two days.

Dan tosses me a grim smile, and it lands on me with the weight of ten bricks. “Your brother might not want to bag you, but that
distant cousin
sure as hell does.” His glare is trained over my shoulder, so I figure Sexy Demon is still across the park, watching me. I don’t look, keeping tear-filled eyes on Dan.

“I’m in love with
Andrew
,” I mumble, the words like acid on my tongue, burning, melting every bit of pride and dignity I have left. “I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Dan’s eyes slice back to me, and I’m shocked to find something akin to empathy in them. “Maybe you
should
.”

Maybe I
…“What?”

Sighing, he begins doing arm stretches. “Hey, I don’t plan on saying anything to Andrew. Not all of us agree with the way he treats you. You’re precious and he’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve you. But, out in public like this, you gotta be more careful, baby girl. I might not be the only one who saw you this morning. So if someone else saw you and informs him, and he asks me to confirm it, I won’t lie about what I saw.”

I nod my understanding, making to leave, but he touches my shoulder to stop me, and I resist the urge to cringe.

“Be careful, Lotty,” he advises in a voice that
seems
sincere. “But also be
brave
. Andrew’s just a man.”

With that, he jogs off.

Taken completely aback, I turn with a frown to watch him go, but my eyes instantly collide with Sexy Demon’s. He’s standing in the same spot I left him, arms crossed. Watching me.

Fearless. Stubborn. Determined.

Somehow, I just know he’s not going to leave this park until I do. So I turn, and run.

F
OUR

T
HE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT
hours were nerve-wrecking
.
I barely slept the first night. Kept waiting for Andrew to kick down my door and fist the hell out of me because someone ratted on me.

Fortunately, Andrew has been in an exceptionally positive mood since his proposal. He hasn’t railed or hit on me for stupid stuff, but has been uncharacteristically gentle, sweet, and attentive, reminding me how much he “loves” me every other hour.

Last night, he ordered in a large pizza, half and half, and we stayed in and watched movies. It felt normal and begrudgingly good, the way the relationship used to feel in the beginning. Maybe he’s trying to change. Maybe marriage is sacred to him. Sadly—not so sadly, I won’t be sticking around to find out.

Two pairs of jeans, two short shorts, one workout gear, four lightweight T-shirts, six pairs of underwear, one pajama set, and two brassieres. I pack them all into my ratty, oversized handbag; a safety pin holding one of the flimsy straps together. I have another bag that’s in better condition, but it doesn’t have enough room to fit all of my runaway habiliments without drawing the attention of whoever might be watching.

When Mom and I ran out of savings, we traded all our expensive designer handbags, shoes, and jewelry that we’d managed to get away with for survival cash. While I do still have a fair amount of decent clothing, I can only pack the practical stuff if I want to run without suspicion.

From the dresser, I pick up an old, framed photo of Mom and Dad on the beach during a Caribbean vacation, and tuck it in the side of my bag. Mom’s. She’d slept with it under her pillow every night. It’s all I have left now to remember them.

Taking a step back, I examine the bag for a bulky appearance. It indeed appears slightly bulky, so I zip it closed and then sit on it, bouncing a few times to press it as flat as possible. At the sound of a muffled crack, I wince, remembering the framed picture. Oh well, it needed a new frame anyway.

The cracked bedside clock reads 5:59 PM. I have to get out of here if I want to make it to Wells Height on time.

Picking up the bag, I sling it over my arm and flee the apartment, managing to hail a cab five minutes later. Taking the subway is too risky when trying to run, and it won’t get me there on time.

I instruct the driver to take me to Andrew’s condo first. This might seem like another dumb idea, but I don’t want to give Andrew another reason, other than being obsessed with me, to hunt me down.

Inside my denim jacket pocket, burning a hole through the over-washed material, is the little black box with his uber-expensive engagement ring. Yes, yes, I
did
contemplate selling the ring and running off to Brazil instead of hiding out just half-an-hour away. But knowing he sold a car in order to purchase the ring? Even if he decides I’m not worth chasing down once he finds out I’m gone, if I take the ring, he might chase me for it. Or at least what it costs. Thus, still
chasing me down
. 

In order to lower the chances of him coming after me, the most sagacious thing to do is leave the ring behind.

At peak hour, aka money hour for cab drivers, chances of Andrew being home are nil. So stopping at his condo first to leave the ring is a risk, but not a risky risk.

“Be back in a minute,” I tell the driver once we’re outside Andrew’s condo.

Sprinting up the stairs, I let myself in with the key he cut for me months ago, a key I almost never use. Moving across the open-floor-plan as quickly as I can, I set the box down on his coffee table and am halfway back out the house when a voice stops me.

“Who the hell are you?”

I freeze.

Female. The voice is female.

On a deep inhale, I send a quick, silent invocation up to God.
Please don’t let Andrew be here
.

On a slow turn, I come face to face with a skinny, platinum blonde wearing one of Andrew’s jerseys. She’s taller than I am, sneering down at me with malevolence, her arms crossed.

Throwing her a wide, amicable smile, I ask, “Is Drew here?” Only Andrew’s family, the handful I’ve met, calls him Drew. And as far as she is concerned, that’s what I intend on being right now. Family.

“No,” she clips. “But I have him on speed dial, and I’m calling him right now to let him know some stalker bitch just broke into his apartment.” She flounces over to the side table and grabs the cordless. “If I were you, I’d run as fast as I can.
Andrew
is a mad man. He’s very protective of me, and if he finds out I’m endang—”

“I’m his
familia
, silly!” I burst through a fake laugh. “You weren’t supposed to find out like this. It was supposed to be a surprise, but…oh well…” With an apologetic shrug, I jerk my chin to the ring box on the coffee table.

Blondie’s skeptical gaze swings to the table. She blinks. And then her chin hits her chest. “No. Way.”

“Way.” With feigned ebullience, I clap my hands a few times before clasping and tucking them under my chin, giving her excited bright eyes. “I just came here to drop it off. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. I wanted to surprise him because he’s been blowing me off all week…Ah, now it all makes sense!
This
is what he’s hiding! He loves me. Ohmigawd he
loves
me!”

Oh dear
. “Listen,” I break through her rambling, “don’t let on that you know anything, okay? Yes, part of his plan was to let you think he’s not into you anymore, makes the surprise more intense. Trust me, he has a special night planned for you, so just don’t say anything. Put the ring in his sock-drawer so he won’t know you saw it, and I’ll just tell him I left it there. But
don’t say anything
.”

Blondie is squealing before I even finish my lie. Jumping up and down and repeating “ohmigawd” over and over.

“I’ve got to get back to work so…” I’m out of there at bullet-speed, collapsing in the back of the cab, heart galloping in my chest.
Close call
.

Andrew’s irredeemable. How can he ask me to marry him but still be screwing around on me? How can he ask me to move in with him when his sidepieces can just show up at his apartment whenever they want?

Andrew was my first foray into exclusive relationships, and it has turned out to be the absolute
worst
experience of my life.

If I survive escaping Andrew, I don’t think I can ever trust another man with any part of me. Ever again. If this is what love is, then I want no part of it.

I want
me
back. The fearless, reckless, wild, and flirtatious me.

That Lotty might be muted and suffocating, but she’s still alive. And I fully intend on reviving her.

Traffic at peak hours is less traffic and more standstill. At 6:55 PM, I’m ten minutes away from Wells Height Complex, in an unmoving line of traffic. This is where cell phones are practical, to send a quick “
I’m running late
” update. Then again, I don’t even have the man’s phone number.

It’s on that line of thought that realize I’ve had two long, intrusive chats with this man, been inside his penthouse, had his fingertips on my skin, his hands on my waist, his sweat on my cleavage, his breath on my ear, and yet I have no idea what his
name
is.

In my head, I’ve referred to him as Sexy Demon, and aloud I’ve addressed him as Abercrombie. But I’d never thought, even though he pressed me for mine, to ask his name.

I’ve made live-in arrangements with a
complete
stranger. What if this turns out to be one of those frying pan into the fire cases? Well, aren’t I the biggest idiot on the planet?