Platinum Prey

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Second Edition Copyright © 2018 by Sophie Davis Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Learn more: www.sophiedavisbooks.com

  For the Nice Lady for being so darn nice.

  For Charlie, may your adventures above—

  because all dogs really do go to heaven—

  be just as great as your adventures down here.

  For Aiden and Carson, thank you for being such excellent little waiters and delivering all of our food to the office so that we could finish this book; even if you guys always forget the napkins.

  ALSO BY SOPHIE DAVIS

  BLIND BARRIERS SERIES

  Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)

  THE TALENTED SAGA

  Talented (Talented Saga #1)

  Caged (Talented Saga #2)

  Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

  Captivated (A Talented Novella) (Talented Saga #3.5)

  Created (Talented Saga #4)

  Exiled: Kenly’s Story (Talented Saga #5)

  Marked (Talented Saga #6)

  Privileged (Talented Saga #7)

  Fated (Talented Saga #8)

  TIMEWAVES SERIES

  The Syndicate (Timewaves Series #1)

  Atlic (Timewaves Series #2)

  Legends Untold (Timewaves Series #3)

  PROLOGUE

  LARK

  Sometimes when the morning dawns, I wake and revel in the peacefulness a moment before reality hits me. It’s a faux life, a cheap knockoff of my prior existence. I can imagine the men on Canal Street hocking it right along with the fake Chanel bags—authentic charmed life, see the perfect detailing? Only 100 bucks!

  Their small details aren’t enough for me to accept this as real.

  My past isn’t something I want to dwell on; the stares, glares, and frightened looks, my parents and their not-so-hushed arguments behind closed doors, always about me. The pressure would have been more than enough to break me, if I’d ever had the luxury of buckling. But I understood what was expected of me way before I knew not to call the nanny “Mommy”.

  I knew to mind my manners; to not wrinkle my frilly dresses or scuff my shiny shoes. I knew not to run. Or chase. Or play. I knew to neither speak, nor fidget, when other adults were in the room. I knew to stay completely silent and completely still. Making a game of it with my invisible friend, Abigail, we’d take turns seeing who could remain motionless and quiet the longest. I always won. She was much better at being a child. I was much better at being a miniature adult.

  That was, in fact, the goal of every parent who sent their child to my prestigious preschool. The admission process began when I was three. My earliest memory is of Nanny Fiona getting me dressed for my interview, but it wasn’t the soft, crimson velvet of my dress that stood out in my mind, or the satin of the bow tied at my waist, or even my new, shiny Mary Jane’s, though I remembered all of those things. No, it was Nanny Fiona crouched in front of me, holding both of my hands tightly, as she furtively whispered instructions to me: don’t fidget, answer only with big-girl words, use manner terms—Please, Thank You, Ma’am, Sir—and sit tall and speak clearly.

  But all of that would’ve been shuffled to the back of my mind if it weren’t for her most demanding request: Nanny Fiona implored me to tell Abigail that she could not come with me that day. Should she ignore Nanny Fiona and tag along anyway, I was to firmly ignore her. I remember beginning to cry, my heart aching at the thought of being mean to Abigail, telling her she couldn’t come out to play today. Abigail went everywhere that I did, even when she wasn’t supposed to; most of the time she stayed quiet, simply offering me the comfort of someone who understood me as no grown-up could.

  My parents visited me before my bedtime most evenings, and that was my favorite time of day. My parents were relaxed (now I understood the value of a glass of good scotch), and I was able to be a child with them. Except, for weeks now, our bedtime visits had been about school and how important it was to be a good little girl when I went to meet the admissions board. Sometimes my parents would take me over to the small sitting area in my bedroom and quiz me endlessly from a stack of cards. When I asked one night where the question cards came from, they told me they came from the preschool entrance specialists—as though that meant anything to me at the time.

  Other times, we would sit and have weighty talks about how important this time was for me, how I must apply myself to Nanny Fiona’s lessons, and how I must show the nice people at the interview how smart and well-behaved I was. The importance of the interview had been drilled into me for what felt like forever; didn’t I want to be somebody one day?

  I did indeed want to please my parents, so I pleaded with Abigail to stay behind the day of the interview. I left Abigail quietly crying in the dark as I took Fiona’s hand and walked carefully out of my bedroom and down the steps. While my mother fidgeted with the bow in my hair, I’d tried with all my might to block out the sounds of Abigail’s sadness as I left to be the little adult I was expected to be.

  That day was a turning point in my friendship with Abigail; the beginning of the end.

  As the years progressed, my socially imperative playdates began to replace my time spent with Abigail. Sometimes, I could still hear her soft sobs in the back of my head, but all I wanted in life was to please my parents. One day when I was eight, I insisted that Abigail leave me, to run away and never come home. That was the day I ceased being a child and the day I discovered that my parents were fallible—that I just might need to stray from their carefully laid out course and find my own way. That was the day that thoughts began to appear of their own volition, whispering that my charmed life was not all it was cracked up to be….

  CHAPTER ONE

  LARK

  “Hey, dad!”

  Crossing from the office door to his desk, I stooped to kiss my father on the cheek. He curled one arm around my waist and pulled me in for a hug.

  “Hi, sweetheart, how was your day?”

  “Eh, nothing exciting,” I replied truthfully. “Monsieur DuBois was out today and the substitute teacher played some ridiculous short films that her friend made. They were terrible; someone needs to tell that guy to get a clue.”

  My father chuckled, sounding tired. “Oh, the drama,” he said with a wink, an affectionate smile on his face as he gave me another squeeze. “Evening run?” he guessed, noting my workout attire.

  “If you don’t mind?” I asked.

  “Of course not, sweetheart,” he replied and gestured to the treadmill in the corner of his study.

  “How was your day?” I asked as I stepped onto the motionless belt and began programming the settings.

  My father’s smile was tired and the lines around his eyes more defined than usual. I studied him closely as the treadmill started moving. The jacket of his handmade Italian suit, normally pristinely pressed by our launderer, was rumpled and slung over the back of his desk chair. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and the striped Ferragamo tie at his neck loosened, my father looked as if he was winding down from a particularly long day.

  “Oh, you know, nothing exciting,” he replied, repeating my words back to me. “Had a meeting with that fellow over at Harry Winston to discuss renewing the contracts with an exclusivity clause.” He shook his head and sighed in frustration.

  “It went that well?”
I teased lightly.

  He laughed. “Their counteroffer had some ridiculous demands, all of which we have discussed before, and all of which we both know are not going to make it into the final contract.”

  The treadmill pace increased to a brisk walk. “And we both know,” I gestured between my father and myself, “that it would be no fun for you if they just rolled over.”

  My father chuckled. “You are right about that, Lark. Glad to see you have been paying attention.”

  “I have,” I agreed, beaming with pride even though his comment wasn’t quite a compliment. “How are the interviews going? Found any promising VP candidates yet?”

  “Honestly?” He cocked an eyebrow as he stood and started for the hutch with his collection of fine liquors. “We have interviewed fifteen highly recommended individuals, but not one is really qualified.”

  Several ice cubes from the silver ice bucket clinked inside the tumbler, followed by a healthy pour of scotch.

  “What about using a headhunter?” I suggested as the treadmill gained momentum and I began to jog.

  “That’s my vote,” he replied, and then took a long drink from his glass. “McAvoy is worried about the fallout from poaching employees, but that is how capitalism works, after all—he who presents the best offer should win.”

  With that pronouncement, my father raised his glass in a toast to the American way. I raised my water bottle in answer, and called, “Here, here!”

  A knock on the open door interrupted the rare, light-hearted moment.

  “Sorry for disturbing you guys, Eleanor did not tell me Lark was with you,” the tall, thin man said, not sounding apologetic in the least.

  “Speak of the devil!” my father called mockingly, raising his glass again, this time to William McAvoy himself.

  “Here, here!” I replied again, turning my water bottle toward Kingsley Diamonds Chief Operating Officer.

  McAvoy remained in the doorway, glancing back and forth between the two of us and not looking amused in the least by our banter.

  “Come in, have a drink.” My father beckoned his colleague and friend inside the study. He set down his own drink and filled a second glass with ice for McAvoy. “What’ll it be, William?”

  “Actually, Phillip, I need to speak with you,” McAvoy replied, glancing pointedly in my direction.

  “And I imagine I would find that conversation more entertaining if you had a drink,” my father said, adding a splash of bourbon to the glass.

  “Alone, Phillip. We need to speak alone.” McAvoy’s pale blue gaze landed on me once again, as though maybe my father hadn’t gotten the hint the first time.

  McAvoy didn’t exactly have a winning personality, but he wasn’t usually rude to any member of the family. My father was his best friend and boss, and the other man did spend most holidays in our home. My mother liked to play matchmaker and invite the latest divorcee in her circle of friends in the hopes William—he’d admonished me for calling him Will when I was little—would find a nice woman and settle down. But McAvoy didn’t quite “get” people, and all the setup attempts failed epically.

  “We’ve been over this, Lark is the heir apparent to the kingdom,” my father replied, holding out the glass of bourbon to McAvoy.

  “Yes, I understand that.” McAvoy pursed his lips. “I just don’t think she needs to be privy to how the sausage is made quite yet, Phillip.”

  The two men locked gazes, both determined to win the battle of wills.

  “I can go,” I offered, not wanting to be the cause of a fight between my father and his oldest friend.

  “Nonsense, darling.” My father’s voice had lost all pretense of politeness. He wasn’t accustomed to being defied, particularly not in his own study and in front of his own daughter. Had another of his employees acted as McAvoy did then, he would have already been cleaning out his desk.

  “Really, Phillip? This is serious. It is not time for one of your teaching lessons,” McAvoy snapped. He must have realized he’d gone too far, because his next words were directed to me. “I’m sorry, Lark. That was out of line. It’s not that I don’t think you’re ready—”

  “It’s fine.” I forced a smile and hit the stop button on the treadmill. The belt slowed as I reached for my water bottle and towel.

  This time, when my father extended the bourbon glass in his direction, McAvoy accepted the offering with a gracious nod. The tension in the room dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. McAvoy swirled the contents of his glass uneasily, an internal war waging behind his cool gaze. But whatever he wanted to discuss must have been extremely serious, because he risked inciting my father’s wrath once again with his next statement. Though he did try a different tactic.

  “Lark will be head of this company one day, she has plenty of time to worry about the inner workings and all the stress that entails.”

  “Really, I have homework to do anyway,” I interjected, but my father ignored me.

  He remained silent and raised a questioning eyebrow, waiting for the COO to explain further.

  McAvoy swirled his drink, the clink of ice cubes against glass the only sound in the study. He seemed to contemplate his response carefully as he stared at the amber liquid. “Lincoln Baxter just phoned. It appears as though there is a security issue at one of our Canadian mines, and he would like to discuss how to handle it.”

  The treadmill belt was still, and I stood there awkwardly, waiting for my father to give me some indication of what to do next.

  Though I could only see my father in profile, the effect McAvoy’s words had on him was unmistakable. His posture straightened, and he set his drink on the hutch and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Running his fingers through his hair, my father returned to the chair behind his desk. When he met my eyes, his expression was blank, his tone deceptively light as he said, “Mine security, an unfortunate facet of the diamond business that I greatly dislike dealing with. So I will spare you as long as possible. Lark, dear, do you mind excusing us?”

  In my periphery, I caught McAvoy’s relieved exhale, and I couldn’t help feeling a little relieved myself. The air in the study was thick with testosterone, and I wanted no part of it.

  “No, no, of course not.” I smiled at my father and McAvoy, but only the COO smiled back.

  The obvious shift in my father’s attitude was troublesome. Just a moment ago, he’d been so adamant I stay—why did the mention of a Canadian mine—or was it the name Lincoln Baxter?—make him change his mind?

  In the doorway, I paused and turned back to my father. “Is everything okay, Daddy?” I asked.

  An emotion I’d never seen on my father crossed his face: Fear, I realized. My father was afraid. But in the next instant, the same fake smile our whole family wore well curved his mouth upward. “No, Lark, of course not.” Then, as though realizing the lie was obvious, he added, “Well, not anything that can’t be fixed. When you’re in this chair, you’ll see there are a lot of fires to put out on a daily basis.”

  “Right, well, see you later. William, good see you,” I replied.

  “You, too, Lark,” McAvoy said.

  Both men watched me leave, and I eased the door closed behind me but made sure the latch didn’t catch.

  “What did Baxter say?” my father’s question drifted through the tiny crack.

  McAvoy sighed heavily. “They’ve had a runner, Phillip.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Less than twelve hours. Four teams have already been deployed,” McAvoy replied.

  “Good. Keep me apprised.”

  “Phillip, how do you want to handle this?”

  There was a long pause. I huddled next to the door, hanging on my father and McAvoy’s every cryptic word.

  “You mean, do I want him brought back to Kingstown?” my father asked finally.

  McAvoy must have given a nonverbal response, or spoken too quietly for me to hear, because my father said, “I suppose we must.”

  “Ki
ngstown only works because of the system we have in place, Phillip. After all, Jonas did serve as a cautionary tale for nearly—what, a decade now? Maybe we can get by for another ten years without further incident.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  RAVEN

  “Do you think maybe you should slow down?” Asher suggested, as I threw back a shot of Grey Goose.

  It was my third shot in ten minutes.

  The liquid burned going down. I loathed the unpleasantness—it served as a searing reminder that this was no dream. This, whatever this was, was really happening. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and reached for the bottle again. Asher was faster. He whisked the vodka away, holding it just beyond my reach.

  I glowered, eyes focused on the liquor bottle.

  “Raven. Look at me,” Asher demanded, his voice taking on the tone of a big brother speaking patiently to his childish little sister.

  It irked me.

  My hands were numb, and I rubbed them against the fabric of my shorts to warm them. When I looked up, it appeared as if two Asher’s were sitting next to me on the couch in Lark’s living room. I narrowed my gaze, focusing intently until four concerned brown eyes melded into two.

  “Getting drunk won’t change anything,” Asher said, placing the liquor bottle on the floor by his feet.

  “No? Then why’d you get the vodka?” I slurred.

  Ignoring him, I picked up the mug I’d been using as a shot glass. It appeared to be empty, but I held it to my lips anyway, allowing several remaining drops of liquor to dribble into my mouth.

  “I thought you wanted to help her,” Asher said quietly. “That,” he gestured to the glass in my hand, “is not helping.”

  With a shrug, I slumped back against the soft cushions. The glass tumbled from my numb fingers and landed with a dull thud on the carpet.