Page 18 of Crimson Fury

Scarlett

Cold air bites my cheeks as I wait outside the run-down motel.

The weight of my duffel bag cuts into my shoulder, and my pulse races like a hummingbird’s wings. This is it, the answer to my prayers. I hope.

I cast furtive glances at passing cars, searching for the car that’s supposed to pick me up. My heart skips a beat each time a vehicle approaches, only to resume its frantic pace when they pass by.

And then, there it is.

A sleek black SUV finally rolls to a stop beside me. The tinted window lowers, revealing the face of an aloof driver. Rugged features are topped by short-cropped brown hair. He’s broad and tough-looking, but I guess I can’t hold that against him.

Three thousand dollars…a week!

He nods politely. “Miss Jones?”

“Scarlett,” I correct him automatically, keeping my voice low and steady. “You’re here for me, right?”

“Of course,” he responds, his face expressionless. He climbs out, opens the door and I slide into the back seat. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The silence inside the car is oppressive. The driver doesn’t ask any questions or offer any information, simply staring straight ahead as we leave the city behind. I watch the scenery change from gritty urban landscape to lush countryside, trying to shove down the uneasy feeling in my gut.

“Where are we going?” I ask, unable to take the quiet any longer.

“Mr. Ulianov’s estate,” the driver replies without revealing any useful detail about where that might be.

“Mr. Ulianov?” I ask.

“Anton Ulianov, yes,” he responds. “We’ll be there shortly.”

“Right.” Ulianov. So that’s the name. Foreign. Maybe some overseas bigwig seeking the American dream. I bite back a wry grin, my fingers tangled together in my lap. For a moment, I let myself imagine what might await me at the estate. A fresh start, a place to hide from the past that claws at my heels. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.

The driver remains silent, and I wish he’d say something. Anything. The tension in the car is palpable, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Almost there,” the driver announces, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. I nod, trying to steady my breathing.

As we pull through a pair of towering wooden gates manned by a team of grim-faced security guards, anticipation and dread wrestle inside of me.

What if this only brings more danger into my life?

What if Cartwright found out where I’m hiding and I just caught the bait?

I brush the thoughts aside and force myself to focus on the present; I’ve been totally off the grid – without a word of contact from me, even Carl and the others have no idea where I am. It would be a tall order for Cartwright’s men to have tracked me down.

The car turns onto a long driveway, and the estate comes into view. I suck in a breath at the sprawling two-story homestead that looms before us.

It’s beautiful.

The stone of the walls seem to have been sourced from the surrounding mountains, so the building blends in perfectly with the natural scenery of rolling hills and towering peaks. Ivy winds its way up the walls and around dozens of windows that gleam in the sunlight. A picturesque garden spans out in front, with vibrant multicolored flowerbeds, tall trees, and fragrant, manicured shrubs. There’s a copse of trees that brackets one side of the gardens, providing a natural screen from the road we came in on – which feels like a thousand miles away now.

The place is freaking huge!

I press a button on the door panel to open the window and get a better view, trying not to let my mouth hang open. I’m met by a breath of freshly-cut grass and blooming flowers. We drive into a central courtyard around a shimmering pond that’s as big as a freaking lake, then pull up beneath a high-pitched portico that’s vast enough for us to drive through. Everything is lit by gleaming gold lights that warm the stone of the building and glitter off the windows.

Holy shit!

There’s definitely a crap-ton of cash here.

It’s a far cry from the squalor I’ve been living in these past weeks.

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