The CEO's Redemption Read online

Well, the tide is turning and I’m going to be sitting at the head of the table. I didn’t cheat my way through Harvard for nothing. I’ve always had to sweat while you had everything handed to you on a platter but all that is changing. I’ll clean up my reputation while ruining yours. By God, I’ll take everything, especially that sweet piece of ass.

  That reminds me, I need to check my computer.

  Opening my laptop, I snicker. Isabella Harte has no idea that I injected her with a miniature GPS tracker. With that and the necklace, I can follow her, see what she sees, and hear what is said. Blood rushes to my cock and I grab it, picturing her sexy curves. I will fuck that bitch and ride her until she screams for mercy.

  Chapter 5

  Grayson.

  When my phone pings, I glance down at the incoming text.

  Slate: I lost her.

  Because of a jackhammer in the background, I can’t hear a damn thing when I call him back. “What?”

  The noise lowers after thirty painful seconds and Slate explains, “I pulled up in front of your building, circled the block, but she’d already split. Someone must’ve picked her up.”

  Jealousy flares. Is it the same asshole that hurt her?

  “I got a really bad feeling.” Slate’s got the instincts of an ex-marine and I trust him.

  Dammit he’s right.

  Goose bumps run down my spine as I recall Izzy acting all kinds of strange this morning. Something is up. I should’ve questioned her before jumping into the sack. In my defense, I thought we’d have time after.

  I find a clean white shirt in my walk-in closet along with newly dry-cleaned slacks. Then, with my phone on speaker, I set them on the messy covers where me and Izzy just made love.

  “Where are you?” Quickly, I step into my pants and grab my shirt.

  Slate’s tone, like always, is emotionless. “Waiting outside.”

  “Give me five.”

  Before I met Isabella, my world was black and white. Now it’s Techni-color and I’m not giving that up, not without a fight.

  The way she made love? That wasn’t a woman ready to break up. So, what’s going on? And who the fuck hurt her?

  In the limo, I greet the grim-faced Slate, then call my personal assistant, Cherry.

  She sounds half asleep when she answers. “Hey, Grayson… What’s up?”

  For her, it’s only five AM. “Sorry to wake you but I need you to cancel my flight. I’ll take my meetings today, virtually. Set that up for me, will you?”

  “Sure. No problem. Is everything okay?”

  “I hope so. Talk later.”

  Isabella is not slipping away from me. Whatever is going on, she damn well is going to confess the moment I find her.

  Slate opens the limo door in front of my Canal Street office and I catch his concerned gaze. “Ping me the moment she gets here.”

  No doubt he feels responsible for losing her. “Sure, Gray. You got this.”

  He slaps me on the back and gets back in the vehicle.

  I hate what happened this morning and again wonder if our sex was too rough. I never got around to asking about her childhood abuse. I figured it was none of my business and she’d tell me when she was good and ready.

  Shit. What if her past came back to haunt her? I have no idea what goes on inside her head. The only guy I know who might be able to help is the husband of her best friend, Melanie.

  I pick up the phone and call Cherry again. “Hey. Can you see if you can get CJ Quinn on the phone?”

  “The famous quarterback?”

  “Yes. His wife has a rehab center in Manhattan. You can start by looking there.” I hang up and by the time she calls me back, I’m sitting in my office in front of three monitors displaying about twenty spreadsheets.

  “Hey boss. I got Chance on the line. Do me a favor. Find out if he has a brother.”

  “Thank you, Cherry. You can hang up now.” I laugh off her request and wait for the click that tells me she’s gone.

  I must’ve interrupted something important because Quinn is out of breath and his tone is irritated. “Patten? What’s up.”

  “Listen, I know we didn’t hit it off but I need your help. It’s Isabella.”

  “Fuck. Is she okay?” Weights clang as if dropped onto a gym floor, and a man grunts in the background.

  “I know you’re busy but I was wondering… Ah, I don’t even know how to ask. She goes to that self-help group your wife started, right?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “I ah… Isabella came to my house this morning all banged up and insisted we make love. Then, out of the blue she called off our engagement. I thought maybe you could help me out. I’m way out of my league.”

  “Wow. Oh, shit.” He pauses for almost a minute while fitness machines grind in the background.

  “I’m no expert. Most of what I learned, I got out of books. There’s some pretty good stuff online but who knows. Abuse is weird, man. The trauma comes and goes and you never know what might trigger PTSD. My suggestion? Tell her you love her, no matter what. Why don’t you stop by my gym and we’ll talk more.”

  My throat gets tight. “Thanks, I owe you.”

  “No problem. I can ask Mel to give her a call, okay? But keep this between us. I don’t want them thinking I’m taking sides.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Moments later, Slate pings me that Isabella is on her way up and it’s as if a huge boulder is lifted off my shoulders. However, I’m a complete chicken and close my office door. I don’t want her to know my whole world crumbled the moment she said goodbye.

  She goes to her cube and thankfully, board meetings keep my mind occupied until about two when I figure enough time has passed to check up on her. I walk down the hall made up of gray fabric cubes. I would’ve happily given her an office and a promotion but she won’t hear of it.

  Despite all the morning’s drama, I can’t help but smile as I approach. She’s biting the top of a pen, typing away, and checking monitors as she works. She’s the best God-damned software architect in the company, she’s beautiful, and she’s mine.

  Yawning, she slurps on an extra-large iced caramel latte. If she keeps that up, there’s no way she’ll sleep tonight and I wish I could scold her. Actually, I’m dying to say anything at all. Mostly, I want her to admit that breaking up was a huge mistake but remember what I learned today online.

  Don’t push. Give her some space.

  Her big blue eyes lock onto mine, then oddly, dart around the room as if trying to tell me something. “You need to go. Let me work.”

  Her voice is too curt and that strange, shifty look confuses me. Something is very, very off. Even though I have no idea what she really wants, I give her a quick nod and go. I’m pretty sure she’s asking for my help and it gets me thinking.

  I wonder if it has to do with Bear Mountain. Four weeks ago, I almost lost her to hypothermia in the woods. She was chased there by some thugs and although never proven, we always assumed they were hired by Xavier Cross.

  Oh fuck!

  What the hell is wrong with me? I should’ve thought of this sooner. When all that shit went down, I had Slate install cameras outside her apartment. We need to check.

  Me: I think X may be back. Need Izzy’s videos.

  Slate: On it.

  I’d call the FBI, the CIA, and the State Police but need some kind of proof. I also need to know how to deal with her weird mood so I shut off my computer and text Slate to pick me up.

  When he stops outside an old warehouse in Queens, I ask, “Wait for me, okay?”

  Nodding slowly, his bodyguard eyes dart, taking in the surroundings before opening the back door.

  Then, I step over to the building, push the doorbell, and an automated female voice responds. “Hello, Mr. Patten. Please push on the door and go down the stairs to your right.”

  I do as she says and find Chance Quinn bench pressing what must be two hundred pounds. He places the barbells in the holder, climbs out f
rom under, and stands to shake hands.

  Looking over my corporate attire, he shakes his head and points to a blue door. “Get changed and we’ll talk.”

  I nod, amazed at the dozens of machines, and return moments later in sweats. He finishes some crunches on a matt, grabs a towel, and heads toward one of two treadmills.

  “So, how can I help?” CJ walks quickly, sneakers pounding on the belt.

  I join him on the right and start up my machine. “Isabella came to me all bruised this morning and when I pushed for details, she said she fell out of bed. It looked more like someone punched her.”

  “Shit. Has anything like this ever happened before?” He presses the up arrow on the dashboard and starts to jog.

  I do the same, near my max, and talk between deep breaths. “No. This is a first.”

  “Huh.”

  We run for a while before I ask what’s been on my mind for some time, having to shout over the noise of the two treadmills. “How did your wife find Izzy, anyhow?”

  “Craig’s list.” He chuckles.

  “Damn. Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Yeah. I had my man Jack investigate every one. They’re all legit. All abused. Some rape, some less. One woman is almost eighty and another not even twenty.”

  Not to be outdone, even though I know he’s a professional athlete, I push my limit and up my pace until my thighs burn. “How many?” I huff. “In total?”

  “She’s got about ten but she’s starting up another group in Manhattan.” CJ raises a brow as he glances down at my speed.

  “Not bad. But you can get a workout anywhere. Spit it out.”

  My ego takes a deep dive, having to ask such basic questions but obviously he’s got this relationship-thing down. “How do I get Isabella to talk to me?”

  Frowning, his eyes narrow. “And how long you been sleeping together?”

  “A month, give or take a couple days.”

  “Okay, I thought it was longer than that.” He slows his pace to a walk, I do the same, and the machine noise lowers.

  “First off, man. Don’t skirt around the issue. Call it what it is. Sexual abuse, rape, whatever. Don’t pretty it up. Pisses them off.”

  I nod. “Check.”

  “Hell, I don’t know, read up on the subject. How it fucks with their head, makes ‘em feel bad about their bodies, makes ‘em feel guilty. There’s some easy phrases to help. Her favorite line of mine is I’ll kill him for you, if you want.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “I must’ve threatened to kill her fucked-up father about a million times.”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry, man.”

  “Don’t say it to me, say it to Isabella.”

  “I don’t think she wants me to know.”

  His palms shoot together in namaste and he bows. “Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn. They want the subject to be less taboo. Mel thinks the reason that sexual abuse is so widespread is that no one talks about it, which means the fucking predators get away with it.”

  I can see why it’s taboo. This whole conversation is making me damned uncomfortable. I don’t want to think of a young Isabella being touched by some deranged asshole. When I picture that, I want to shoot someone between the eyes and generally, I consider myself a non-violent man.

  “It’s hard, right?” Quinn’s back to running full out while I walk, figuring I already measured up pretty well. After all, the guy’s an NFL quarterback.

  I jump down, grab a bottle of water, and return. “So, I should just ask her about what happened?”

  Quinn isn’t even breathing hard. “Yeah. When she looks sad and far away, ask her if she wants to talk. When she trusts you, you’ll get more. Make sure you believe everything she says, no matter how far out it sounds. Memories are weird and sometimes can get mixed up. Help her sort it all out.”

  “How long before she gets better?”

  CJ jumps off the moving rubber and onto the metal edge. He reaches over the rail and jabs a finger into my chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Haven’t you been listening? This is who she is. You take her broken or go back to LA. She doesn’t need you.”

  I back away, pissed off. Then, I bench press, occasionally glaring his way. Quinn’s got me pegged all wrong.

  After we hit the showers, he turns to me as we get dressed. “Isabella’s like family. She doesn’t need any more shit.”

  I get in his face, having had just about enough. “Listen, I’ve been asking her to marry me but she keeps saying it’s too soon.”

  “She’s a smart girl.”

  “She’s a genius and I fucking love her.”

  He smirks and just like that we’re good. “So, what’re you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just need to get to know her better.”

  “Good answer.” CJ must have a publicity shoot because he looks as corporate as me in his Italian suit.

  I follow him out of the warehouse to where our limos are waiting and I wave to his driver, Jack. After, I nod to Slate, jump in the car and sit, determined to make things right with Izzy.

  Before he starts driving, he swivels in the front seat, face grim. “I did as you asked and checked the surveillance cameras on her apartment. Everything stopped working, late last night.”

  Chapter 6

  Isabella

  The work day seems to drag on forever and every time my phone rings, I jump a mile.

  “H-Hello?” I look down at caller id and let go my breath when I see it’s just Melanie calling.

  “Izzy? Are you okay? You sound terrible.”

  I check down the aisle of cubes where my office mates are all busy, most wearing headphones. However, it’s not them I need to worry about, it’s Xavier and his damn necklace.

  I swivel in my chair while rubbing my eyes. “I’m just tired. You know how it is. A bit of stress but it’s all good.”

  Electronic clicking in the background makes my heartrate quicken. Xavier’s tapped my phone. I’m sure of it. “Shit, hun. I can’t talk right now. I got a ton of work.”

  “Ah… Okay. Call me. Anytime. Are you coming to group tonight?”

  I shudder, thinking of sharing with Xavier listening in. “Can’t. Pulling an all-nighter. I promise, though, I’ll be there next week.”

  “Okay. Talk soon.”

  “Uh huh. Bye.” The necklace around my neck tightens, feeling more like a noose. I let it fall into my shirt, log onto a spare laptop, and create a new email account.

  After that, I write to my mom. I don’t even know how to word it without sounding crazy, paranoid, or both.

  Hi Mom,

  Keep a close eye on Stacey and the kids. X is back. No police.

  Izzy

  Then, I think better and delete it. Maybe my computer is secure but what about Mom’s?

  God damn it all. This sucks!

  As if I was speaking aloud, my screen pops up with an email from an unknown sender. “Good choice, Isabella.”

  I study my cube walls and higher. Finally, I spot a small metal device lodged into a tile in the drop ceiling.

  Standing on my desk, I dig it out with the tip of a pen, and stomp on it.

  Fuck you, Xavier.

  Enough is enough. I’ll get a high-tech wand and destroy every one of Xavier’s listening devices. My computer pings with another email from him but I don’t bother to open it.

  Chin lowered, I say into my necklace, “I get it, Cross. You’re watching.”

  I really do have important work to do so I open up my code. At first, I’m worried that Xavier might understand what I’m doing but all the better. Those government boys in Houston are real serious about security and I’m logged into their computers. He wouldn’t do anything.

  Suddenly, I have a great idea. With just a few modifications, I can code my way out of this jam. It’s so perfect, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.

  I work for hours and when I stand and stretch, I can’t believe it’s al
ready morning. I open a drawer, pull out a plastic bag with clean clothes, and head to the company gym where there’s a shower.

  Later, all I need to do is record some blank footage of my apartment. I can make Xavier think I’m sound asleep, then I’ll tell the police everything.

  Take that, you bastard.

  Chapter 7

  Grayson.

  Sitting at this bar isn’t the best idea but the alcohol dulls the pain and gives me some time to reflect. Is my reluctance to talk, really why Isabella won’t marry me? I texted her earlier and thought we were getting back together because she agreed to meet me here.

  Obviously, that was a lie, too.

  After a few beers and a pity party, I get up to hit the head but this tattoo-covered asshole gets in my face and points at my glass. “Hey, you drank my beer.”

  The drunk’s not worth my time so I motion over the bartender. “Can you get my friend another and throw it on my tab?”

  “You think that’s all it takes?” The Neanderthal steps in closer, the ring on his brow dancing as he scowls.

  I’d say he weighs in at about two hundred and forty, mostly muscle, and none of that gray-matter. Nonetheless, I could probably take him down with one swift fist to the side of his head.

  As carefully as possible, I maneuver around him. “Listen, I gotta take a piss so if you don’t mind–”

  I can’t believe that he takes a swing and his fist makes contact with my jaw.

  Years of self-defense kick into auto-pilot and I block the next punch that would’ve broken bones. When he comes at me again, I duck. One kick to the groin and I’ll have him crying like a baby but I wait because a man wielding a tire iron is heading straight for us, darting between tables.

  That’s when the skinny bartender notices the commotion and jumps over the barrier with a baseball bat. The tattooed man pushes him so hard that a table breaks as he goes down. Suddenly, the assault gets serious. Tat-man grabs a beer bottle, cracks it open, and comes at me with the broken edge.

  A couple of girls start screaming and their boyfriends pull them away.