Wrong Number, Right Guy Read online

  There’s nothing left to strive for.

  I made the mistake of mentioning that to my mother a few months back, and she wasted no time pointing out that now is the perfect time to become less obsessed with making another million dollars that I don’t actually have any need for.

  After all, there’s a limit to how much money I can spend, especially when–she says–I should be directing my focus on finding a good woman and starting a family.

  I’ve tried. I’ve gone on dates with beautiful women, desirable women, dated women capable of fulfilling my every fantasy, but each time I’m left feeling… nothing.

  There was just one woman I wanted and she left, disappearing from my life without a single good-bye – and failing to leave behind a single trace of anything I could use to find her.

  And I tried to find her. God knows I tried. I’ve never worked harder at anything my entire life. And it was all for naught.

  The room directly beneath me holds an elaborate home gym that’s full of all sorts of toys, each one designed to help me burn through my surplus energy, but I don’t feel like going down there. Not right now.

  Lifting weights is the way that I normally deal with this type of excess energy. The effort and strength required not only forces me to focus, but also keeps me from reverting to the days when I looked like a ninety-pound stick figure. And while the idea of going downstairs and deadlifting a few hundred pounds holds a great deal of appeal, I spent a few hours working out and lifting with a buddy of mine this morning.

  I love lifting too much to want to overdo it and potentially injure myself, forcing me to take several weeks off.

  Running is another sound option. If it was just an hour earlier, that’s what I’d do, but I absolutely hate running on my treadmill; it makes me feel claustrophobic.

  I prefer to feel the outdoor air on my face and listen to the thud of my shoes on the pavement, but the sun will set in a few minutes and running after dark, even in this part of Chicago, is asking for trouble. A lesson I learned the hard way a few years ago–when a pimple-faced punk with a semi-automatic mugged me.

  Too bad my sparring partner is out of town. Throwing a few punches at a warm body is exactly the kind of thing I need right now.

  Since none of my workout options feel viable, I pour myself a shot of whiskey and pace the length of the living room. I pause in front of my bookshelf to grab the Millard Fillmore biography and carry it to the couch with me.

  Twenty minutes later, the whiskey has warmed my blood and taken enough of the edge off that I’m able to engross myself in future president Fillmore’s battle of wits with anti-Masonic supporter Thurlow Weed.

  My smart phone jerks to life, shimmying and shaking across the coffee table next to me while the instrumental version of Hamilton’s Ten Dual Commandments blares through the tiny speaker.

  Without tearing my eyes away from the printed text, I grab it and hit the answer button. “Yeah?”

  “Hello, this is Unity Supplemental Health Insurance. I’d like to speak to you about how prepared you are for a medical emergency.”

  I sit bolt upright. The Fillmore biography falls out of my hands, landing on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

  I don’t hear the speaker’s words. I don’t have to. The only thing that matters is that voice. I’d know it anywhere. It’s the same one that’s haunted my dreams for the past seven years.

  It takes a moment to find my voice, to form a single word. To say the name of the person I’d begun to suspect I’d never hear from again.

  “Ella?”

  3

  Ella

  I rip the headset off and scramble to disconnect the call. Sweat slicks my palms and my heart thunders against my ribs. I roll my chair back until there’s enough room to brace my forearms on my thighs and drop my head down below my knees.

  Just breathe, I tell myself as panic claws at the inside of my chest. Just one breath after another. Slowly. In and out. Focus on that; don’t think about the call.

  Despite my best efforts, I can’t prevent my mind from taking a turn to the past.

  That voice. I’d know it anywhere.

  A little more than seven years ago, I’d first heard it waiting for a drink in a small beachside bar. Then, it had sent shivers racing up and down my spine–and weakened my knees.

  I lift my head and look at my computer monitor. The number I dialed shows in bold text and it’s paired with the name Duncan Kilpatrick. But Duncan Kilpatrick wasn’t the person who answered. That voice had belonged to Jason Monroe. It had changed the trajectory of my life forever.

  I never thought I’d hear it again. Haven’t wanted to hear it again.

  Either Jason and Duncan are friends and Jason answered Duncan’s phone, or the computer system screwed up and matched the wrong name to the wrong number. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Probably not the last.

  Of course, the other times I’ve experienced that particular computer glitch, the episodes had been mildly amusing. And since I was the one Jerry turned to to correct the problem, since I worked faster and did a better job than the IT department, they’d been lucrative. As lucrative as anything gets in my life, anyway.

  Not this time.

  “Are you all right, dearie?” The sound of Flo Atkins’ voice makes me jump. I’d forgotten she was here, quietly cleaning up while I worked my way through the list.

  I nod and offer her a weak smile. “Yeah.”

  Flo’s watery blue eyes narrow and her forehead crinkles. “Are you sure? You’re awfully pale. And I saw how you reacted when you made that call. If I didn’t know better, it was like someone getting the worst news of her life.”

  “Just tired, I guess.” Feeling slightly steadier, I reach out and shut down the computer. “Luckily I’m done now. Time to go home and get some sleep.”

  Flo props her broom against the side of a desk and walks up to me, her thick-soled orthopedic shoes squeaking with each step. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Look at how your hands are shaking. Have you been tested for diabetes? Is it possible your blood sugar is low?”

  It takes everything I’ve got to hold onto my patience and not snap at Flo. As a retired nurse who uses the cleaning job to supplement her pension, she’s always looking after everyone’s health.

  And with me, she’s even worse. That’s what I get for forming a personal relationship with her. There’ve been times when Flo has kept me sane, but tonight –right now–coddling and sweetness is the last thing I need.

  Standing, I remove my coat from the back of the chair and shrug into it. “I am a little hungry, but I’m not diabetic or anything like that, so there’s no danger of my passing out before I get home and make a sandwich. You don’t need to worry on that front.”

  Flo isn’t convinced. “I don’t know. Things can change fast, and I’d feel just terrible if something happened to you before you get home… At least promise me you’ll call a cab, that you’re not going to walk like you usually do.”

  I angle my body so Flo can’t see my right hand and cross my fingers. “I promise.”

  Like I can afford the three-mile cab fare from here to my little apartment... At the rate things are going, I’ll be older than Flo before I get to do anything as luxurious as indulging in a cab, and that’s only if I’m very lucky.

  Outside, the rain is sputtering down in one of those sullen drizzles that makes the city feel dark and dank and the furthest place from home. I lift my face, letting the icy cold drops wash the fatigue from my eyes and try to process what just happened.

  Jason Monroe!

  Until a little over a year ago, I hadn’t even known his last name. That night we’d never gotten to the point of exchanging last names. On the rare occasions when people asked about him, I’d simply said he was a nice guy, we’d enjoyed one night together and resumed our lives while ignoring the judgmental stares I’d received in response.

  Technically, each time I told the story, it was the truth, but it di
dn’t come close to what happened. Even now, more than seven years later, the memory of what we’d done, how I’d felt, makes me blush. Saying he rocked my world is a gross understatement. It had been the kind of magical experience one assumes only happens in romance novels and movies, not real life.

  And I walked away.

  About a year ago, I was flipping through a magazine in the check-out line at the discount grocery store and pretty much got the shock of my life when a photo of his beautiful face popped out at me.

  It was the last thing I’d expected to see. I’d been so stunned and eager for some news about him, I purchased the magazine, even though I could ill afford it and hurried home to read the accompanying article.

  Apparently, in the years since our night of passion, he’s become some sort of computer genius. Not only has he started up his very own software firm, he’s created and held patents on about seven or eight of the hottest software programs on the market. Just before the magazine hit the presses, his personal net worth had passed the billion-dollar mile marker.

  I splash through little puddles, soaking both my shoes and the hem of my jeans and consider how I’m not coming even close to making ends meet while he’s been steadily amassing a fortune. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry about the situation.

  I wonder if he ever thinks about me?

  It’d only be fair if he did. There hasn’t been a single day since we parted that his memory hasn’t drifted across my mind, and I haven’t wondered if I did the right thing when I walked away.

  I make the turn onto my street and study the huge apartment building that houses my corner of the world. Normally I don’t give the faded bricks, battered fire escape, or complete lack of landscaping a second thought, but tonight, with the sound of Jason speaking my name echoing in my ears, I can’t help but notice how shabby the place is.

  Particularly in comparison to the type of place he must surely have.

  I’m so consumed by my thoughts, I almost reach my apartment door before I see and recognize the figure slumped against the paper-thin wall.

  Oh shit!

  Like tonight hasn’t already been long and hard enough, now–on top of everything else–I have to deal with Abe Bianchi, favored son of Chicago’s leading mafia boss and the biggest pain in my ass.

  4

  Ella

  “Ella, Ella, Ella.” Abe pushes away from the wall as his eyes slide slowly over me, lingering on the curve of my breasts beneath my damp coat before sliding lower to visually measure my hips. The tip of his tongue slips out to moisten perpetually cracked lips. “You took your sweet time getting home tonight. I was startin’ to think you weren’t comin’ at all.”

  “What are you doing here?” Fury that he’s here at my apartment straightens my spine. But fear of what he can do keeps my tone respectful. Two huge guys with no necks and stony expressions linger about halfway down the hallway. His bodyguards. A single word from Abe and they’d either kill me or beat me half to death.

  A small, reptilian smile stretches across Abe’s wide, homely face, exposing his badly chipped and yellowed front teeth while his gray eyes sparkle between fat rolls. He ambles toward me. I force myself to hold my ground, despite my overwhelming need to bolt past him and lock myself into my apartment.

  Doing so won’t do me any good. The two men with no necks and bored expressions standing about halfway down the hallway are more than capable of breaking down the door should Abe order them to, and no one in this building would even consider calling the cops, much less doing anything to help me.

  This is a turn-a-blind-eye kind of apartment building, especially when it comes to local crime lords like Abe Paoletti.

  Abe doesn’t stop until he’s so close his beer-stained breath moves my hair. Abe isn’t the kind of guy who cares whether he’s invading someone’s personal space. I don’t know if it’s because he lacks the necessary social graces or because he wants to intimidate. I suspect it’s a bit of both.

  I curl my hands into fists to hide their trembling.

  “So, Ella,” he says, “what’ve you been doin’ all this time?”

  I bite my lip, hiding my fear. “Working…”

  Abe barks with laughter. The sound reminds me of a documentary I watched on sea lions. “Workin? Ella, you work too hard. I keep tellin’ you if you’d be just a little nicer to me, things would get easier for you. When are you gonna understand that?”

  I try sliding past him, but he blocks my move.

  His short fingers wrap around my upper arm, biting into the muscle and holding me in place. It takes all of my sense of self-preservation to fight the instinct to plant my knee into his groin. His bodyguards would be on me like white on rice before Abe hit the ground, and even my overactive imagination refuses to consider what will happen to me then.

  Abe sidles closer, pressing his body against mine. His arousal presses against my thigh.

  Bile rises in my throat.

  “I’d be so good for you,” he says in what – I assume – he thinks is a sexy murmur. “When you gonna understand that?”

  The thing is, he might be. Based on what I’ve been told, when Abe takes a woman under his wing, he treats her like a princess. It’s all spontaneous dinners in Paris, skiing in the Alps, and wearing shiny diamonds. And it would wipe my debt. All it would cost me is my self-respect.

  But then what?

  I’ve heard rumors about the women who have submitted to his wishes and warmed Abe’s bed. He has the attention span of a squirrel. If they can’t hold his attention, and from I’ve been told, none do, he doesn’t just discard them. He makes them pay for the time they shared with him, like he’s some sort of god who did them a favor by paying attention to them—and those are the lucky ones.

  If his father becomes involved and decides they’ve slighted his son… I refuse to let my mind go down that particular path.

  “The next payment isn’t due until next Friday, and I’ll have it.”

  Abe pulls back slightly, giving me some much-needed breathing room. His thick brows draw together.

  “Will you?” He sounds disappointed, not a good sign. Abe has a strange code of honor. As long as I make my payments on time, he won’t force me to do anything I’m not comfortable with, but if I miss one, even if I’m just a day or two late, he’ll see that the bill gets paid, one way or another.

  The look currently in his eyes makes me think he’d rather take option B than the money, and that Option B…

  My knees shake. It’s been years since I’ve missed a payment, since they’ve demanded I put my special skill set to use. I don’t want to break my streak now.

  “Yeah. I will.”

  Abe’s grip on my arm tightens and I can all but see the wheels slowly turning in his head as he considers his options. For a second, I’m afraid that he’ll deviate from his normal pattern, that this time, he’ll press his advantage, forcing me to make a decision I’ve managed to avoid so far. For so long.

  “Do you know there’s another way?”

  I don’t respond. I just hold his stare and pray my terror doesn’t show in my eyes.

  “My dad and I’ve been talkin’ things over, how you’d be an asset to our organization and all.”

  This is new. Usually, Abe just wants to get me into his bed, to be his plaything for a few weeks before something better comes along. Not that he ever adds that last bit in.

  “If you agreed, if you pledged your loyalty to us, we’d wipe your debt from the books. Hell, we’d pay you.”

  I know I shouldn’t ask. That I shouldn’t do anything Abe will see as even the slightest bit of encouragement, but I can’t stop myself. I’ve worked so hard at dead-end jobs, given up so much in order to just keep up with the interest on what I owe. The thought of the debt disappearing entirely is too tempting a carrot to simply ignore.

  “What would I have to do? Let you act as my pimp for the rest of my life?”

  Once again, Abe shows off his chipped teeth in an animalist
ic grin. “Ella, baby, if you’re going to sleep with anybody, it’ll be me.”

  My stomach bucks.

  “But no. You know you have…other talents we’d like to utilize.”

  A prickle of fear runs down my spine. Just one time, I’ve been forced to pay with something other than money and swore I’d never do that again. I still have nightmares and break out in a cold sweat when I remember what I did, of what the possible consequences could have been. What they still are if anyone finds out about my actions.

  That was one of the reasons I work so hard to stay on top of the payments, even as the interest rate steadily kills me.

  “No thank you,” I tell him, my voice firm. “I’d rather pay you and maintain my independence.”

  “Fine. Just thought you’d like to know there’s another option, should you wish to take it.” Abe releases me and steps back. “I’ll be here Friday to collect, one way or another. But remember, my offer still stands…”

  I watch him walk away, his bodyguards following a few steps behind him. I don’t start breathing again until the stairwell door slams closed behind him.

  5

  Ella

  “Is he gone?” Adele Beyers, the woman who served as my foster mother for three years during my high school years and who is now my roommate and dearest friend, doesn’t look up from her jumbo book of crossword puzzles.

  “Abe? Yeah, he took off.” Too bad I can’t say the same for the creepy feeling he left behind. My entire body feels like it’s covered in Eau de Abe. I want to step into the shower and use steel wool to remove the entire upper layer of my skin. “How long was he outside?”