Tough luck. That wasn’t happening.
Addison heaved a breath of frustration and settled his gaze on Nathan’s. Nathan Tyler sat behind his big desk, looking exactly like a character from a pirate movie—again, this was according to Addison himself. He loved throwing phrases like that around. Nathan was weary of his attention to this detail.
Addison didn’t get it. This was who Nathan was. Addison would be better served if he would simply get used to it. Nathan wasn’t changing. He wore his shoulder-length dark hair gathered at the back of his neck. His unyielding jaw (as Addison would put it) was shadowed by a day’s beard growth. Nathan dressed as he always did: well-worn jeans and white button-down shirt. All he needed was the eye patch and he would look exactly like a ruthless pirate—again, according to Addison. Every bit as crafty, as well, some would say. And that was exactly the way he liked it. This persona kept the world at bay…which was the point.
“Think, man,” Addison railed. “Those dark, almost forbidding good looks could prove an immense marketing tool. Women love that stuff. A big, strong warrior to keep them safe. Hell, some guys like it, too. We should capitalize on those assets. You’re the top security software creator on the planet. Everybody wants you. That you look as enigmatic as the concept of what you do only makes you more marketable.”
Nathan didn’t allow so much as a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He sat there, surrounded by his books. This was what he did when he wasn’t flanked by a dozen computer monitors: research. All sorts—people, places, things, activities—and all a waste of time, in his agent’s opinion.
Addison shook his head at his client’s continued silence. “You’re not listening to me.” He rested his hands at the waist of his designer trousers. “It’s almost freaky, Nathan. You don’t have the first hobby other than these damned books and not a single friend, discounting the few employees allowed access to this—” he gestured magnanimously “—fortress. You need to get out. Take advantage of all your wealth affords you.”
Nathan almost laughed at that. If Addison only knew. He had a hobby, all right. One that kept him very busy but that was his secret.
“You can’t hide from the limelight forever,” his agent went on. “The name Nathan Tyler is synonymous with impenetrability. Nothing gets past your systems. Your company just bagged a multimillion-dollar government contract. They’re going to want to see your face, man.”
“No.”
Addison threw his hands up. “That’s perfect. One word. A single gruff syllable.” He pointed an accusing finger at Nathan. “I know you can command a better conversation than this. You don’t do all your talking with computer keys.”
“The answer is still no,” Nathan reiterated, using multiple words and syllables in an effort to convince the man. Or not.
Addison let his chin drop to his chest and swore softly. “Nathan…” He leveled his gaze on his client’s once more. “You have a lame-duck CEO running your company. You have me seeing after your best interests in the media. You have a butler, for Pete’s sake, who does your shopping. Give me a break here. The whole world wants to know the answer to one question—who is Nathan Tyler?”
“Go away, Addison. I won’t change my mind.”
If Addison were an easily intimidated man, Nathan would have had him running for his life with just that laser-beam stare. Addison had told Nathan many times that his icy blue eyes could cut through steel. But Addison was in PR. Sticking his head into the lion’s mouth was a survival skill. He wouldn’t be where he was today if he let the occasional lead-filled gaze or overbearing tone get the better of him. He was determined.
“One of these days, Nathan,” he said, his tone somber now, “someone is going to out you. Why let the enemy choose the time and place when you can take control and do that yourself? Right now.”
“Is that a threat, Addison?”
Nathan knew from the widening of his longtime friend’s eyes that fear had just trickled down his spine like a bead of sweat. That might just be a first. Maybe the boisterous PR agent could be intimidated. Nathan used that lethal air he’d been accused of having the same way he used his appearance—as a means of keeping the select few around him at arm’s length. Made them all wonder if he was friend or foe. Made them afraid to turn their backs—all except Addison, of course. Nathan usually had to settle for exasperating him.
Some sacrifices were necessary for keeping secrets…for survival.
“No. No,” Addison hastened to explain. “You misunderstand my meaning. I’m only saying that nothing stays secret forever. Why not give ourselves the advantage?”
“This conversation is over.”
Addison stood. He knew when he’d gone as far as he could. “All right. I’ll be in touch with you next week to review those press releases.”
Nathan saw no reason to respond to that comment. Idle chatter was not his style.
Addison picked up his briefcase. “Very well. Good evening.”
Addison saw himself out of the seventeenth-century mansion. Dead bolts slid into place behind him. Nathan had designed his own home-security system. Addison insisted that Nathan could make himself a new fortune if he decided to venture into that arena. But Nathan Tyler wasn’t interested. He had all he needed right here in Annapolis’s historic riverfront district. The harbor view was incredible. Despite being nearly four hundred years old, the house was wired with cutting-edge technology and furnished comfortably.
To Addison and the outside world, Nathan appeared to have it all. The only thing missing was the desire to appreciate those assets fully. Addison insisted that Nathan was wasting away behind these ancient walls. Then, each time he dared make such a comment, evidently fearful that he had crossed some unseen line, he would suggest that perhaps he did not understand the creative mind that was both a frightening and fascinating thing.
As long as this relationship continued to make a rich man out of Addison, what the hell was he complaining about?
Nathan picked up the remote on his desk and unmuted the fifteen-inch plasma sitting on the corner of his desk. As usual, the local news channel had overreported what he’d done.
The child was the important element in this story.
Why didn’t they focus on the child? On stopping the predators? Outrage whipped through him, setting his teeth on edge.
They would never learn.
It was when they weren’t looking, weren’t paying attention, that these travesties occurred.
What would it take to wake them up?
He was only one man.
He couldn’t save them all.
He closed his eyes and fought back the images. The horrors that still haunted him even after so many years.
No matter how many children he rescued, he couldn’t make the images go away.
The one he hadn’t saved tortured him the most. Lived inside him, a constant agonizing reminder.
He’d failed.
Even once was too often.
No drug, nothing, would relieve the pain. And he knew. He’d tried them all. He stared at the glass of bourbon waiting patiently on his desk. It didn’t actually relieve the pain, but it made him indifferent to its continued existence for a time. Oh, yes, he’d sampled every imaginable distraction. Nothing had ever given him real peace. Not even for a fleeting instant. Still, he emptied the glass, promptly refilled it, then repeated the process.
That was his cross to bear, as they say. He would just have