Chapter 10
Victor pulled over.
Harlow’s heart was about to explode. She yanked open the back door and stumbled inside, only to crash directly into someone’s arms.
A clean, cool scent wrapped around her, threaded with the cool, stony smell of the old abbey. It scattered the dust clinging to her clothes and the thin metallic trace of blood.
Cillian’s body went stiff.
A second later, he recovered and shoved her away.
“Did I say you could get in?”
Cillian leaned back slightly and looked at her with one brow raised.
The disdain was obvious.
Heat rushed into Harlow’s face. Embarrassment nearly swallowed the relief of surviving. Kian’s driver was getting closer, so she could only brazen it out and ignore Cillian for the moment. She patted the driver’s seat.
“Victor, drive. Hurry!”
Her voice was urgent enough that Victor had no idea what had happened but obeyed on instinct. He stepped on the gas, and the car shot forward like an arrow.
Cillian was thrown slightly by the momentum. He steadied himself against the door and said, displeased, “Victor Lane, whose assistant are you?”
Victor gave a dry little laugh. “Sorry, Mr. Emerson. Ms. Gideon looked like she was in a real hurry. She’s a woman alone out here. If someone dangerous caught up with her, the consequences could be awful. We can’t just stand by, right?”
“Dangerous?” Cillian’s gaze swept over Harlow. Black hiking jacket, black pants, hat, mask, fully covered. “She looks more like the one here to do something dangerous.”
Harlow ignored his sarcasm. Only after turning back and confirming they had shaken off Kian’s driver did she finally let out a breath.
She removed her mask. Her eyes curved with a faint smile, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth.
“Thank you, Mr. Emerson. Thank you, Victor, for giving me a ride.”
It was hard to be rude to someone who was smiling. Whether Cillian wanted her here or not, she was already in the car. What could he do?
“This isn’t a free ride,” Cillian said. “Remember to pay.”
“Of course. Mr. Emerson can name the price.”
“Five hundred.”
“Five hundred? Why don’t you just rob me?” Harlow blurted.
“Robbery carries criminal liability. I don’t knowingly break the law.”
“Overcharging passengers can also get you fined.”
“Miss Gideon, does this look like a taxi to you?”
Harlow choked.
Fair. It was a Rolls-Royce.
“Besides, it’s over a hundred miles back to Crestport from here. Five hundred isn’t expensive.” Cillian opened his payment app and held the phone out to her. “Add me. Send it over.”
“I have Victor’s contact. I can send it to him like last time.”
“My car. Send it to me.”
Cillian’s tone was hard, with the distinct flavor of someone who would toss her out if she refused.
Harlow had no choice but to add him.
When their two profile pictures appeared in the same chat window, she felt a strange, disorienting ache.
When they broke up, they had deleted every way to contact each other. Back then, both of them had been determined never to see or speak to each other again.
Back then, neither of them could have imagined that six years later, they would somehow have each other’s contact information again.
“Transfer the money.”
Cillian’s cold voice snapped her out of it.
Money, money, money.
A man worth God knew how much, and still this petty. Truly inspirational.
Harlow opened the transfer function and sent him the fare.
Cillian heard the notification. When he saw the amount, his brow pulled tight.
“Half fare? Seriously?”
“I’m not going all the way back to Crestport. Drop me halfway. So five hundred divided by two gives you that amount.”
Her miniature camera was still in the mountain woods. She had to go back and find it.
After today’s scare, Kian Lowell would definitely move the woman and child out of Cresswell Abbey. It would be much harder to get video of them together again. She had to recover the camera. The footage was blurry, but it had captured something. It might still matter someday.
Cillian refunded the fare.
Harlow looked at him. “Why aren’t you accepting it, Mr. Emerson? Don’t like being discounted?”
Victor secretly laughed from the driver’s seat.
Cillian’s irritation sharpened. “Is it funny?”
Victor immediately sobered. “Not funny.”
When the Cullinan reached the foot of the mountain, a small storefront with a lit sign for a roadside clinic came into view.
“Victor, can you stop for a second?” Harlow said. “Let me out here.”
The wound on her leg burned. She needed to get it treated.
Victor slowed. “Ms. Gideon, are you sure you want to get out here? It’s still a long way from the city.”
“I’m sure. I still have something to do.”
Seeing how firm she was, Victor said nothing more and pulled over.
“Sorry for the trouble today. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Harlow said farewell, opened the door, and limped toward the small clinic. Every step tugged at the torn skin on her calf, as if the wound were being ripped open again.
Inside the car, Victor watched her slender figure struggle away and hesitated. Then he could not help speaking up.
“Mr. Emerson, Ms. Gideon’s leg seems to be injured.”
Cillian’s eyes stayed on the email open on his phone. He did not even lift his head.
“Mind your business. Drive.”
Victor could only answer and start the engine again.
But after the car had rolled only a few yards, Cillian’s voice came from the back seat.
“Pull over.”
Victor pulled over and looked at him through the rearview mirror.
Cillian loosened his tie, visibly annoyed.
“Can she get a cab here?”
“This is the main road to Cresswell Abbey. There are plenty of taxis, so she should be able to get back without a problem.”
“You get out. Take a cab back.”
Victor went rigid.
So the boss was not worried Ms. Gideon could not get a cab.
He was kicking him out of the car.
The little clinic smelled of disinfectant and medicated ointment.
There were no other patients. An old doctor with silver hair was reading a newspaper. When Harlow came in, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Hello. My leg was scratched by brambles.”
“Come here. Roll up your pant leg.”
Harlow rolled it up and startled herself with how bloody the cut looked.
“Ouch. That’s deeper than a scratch, young lady. We need to clean it properly, or it’ll get inflamed.” The old doctor picked up sterilized tweezers and cleaned the wound with practiced hands.
When the tweezers touched the edge of the cut, Harlow clenched her fist and drew in a soft breath through her teeth.
After cleaning the wound, the old doctor straightened and wrote a prescription with brisk, scratchy strokes. Without looking up, he said, “Have your husband go next door to the pharmacy and get these first. I’ll put medicine on it and bandage you after.”
Husband?
