Drake Page 2

  "Sit up."

  "OW—I don't know if I can."

  "Stop being so melodramatic," he scolded helping her off his lap. "If I had my way I'd spank you every day for a week."

  "Why?"

  "Because you need it," he said putting his arm around her. "Tell me, Candy besides your hot bottom, how are you feeling?"

  "Weird. This has to be a crazy dream. I'm sitting in the back seat of my car with a guy who just rescued me from some horrible mugger then just spanked me with something really hard, and now he's holding me like he cares. How do you think I'm feeling?"

  "I do care. If I didn't care do you think I'd be doing this? And you should be feeling grateful."

  "I am, and I suddenly feel like I want to cry."

  "Go ahead."

  "Sorry," she sniffled. "I don't know why I'm so emotional."

  "Hey, you've been through an ordeal, it's only natural."

  "Did the others cry?"

  "Some."

  "I really hope you don't get caught," she said wiping her wet face. "I won't tell the police anything about you."

  "There's nothing to tell."

  "Why do I like you so much? Do you have a girlfriend?"

  "I think it's time you went on your way," he said, giving her a last squeeze before moving his arm from around her shoulders. "Go home and get a good night's sleep. You'll wake up in the morning with a tender seat, but hopefully a bit wiser."

  "I wish I could meet a guy like you."

  "I doubt that will happen in a bar, and it certainly won't happen in the middle of the night in an empty parking lot."

  "Um…it just did."

  "Funny. Go on, get in the front seat, but the normal way. Step out of the car."

  Climbing out himself, he stood back as she walked around and slipped in behind the wheel, but as he watched her drive away he thought about what she'd said.

  "You're famous. Everyone loves you."

  His notoriety was growing. The victims sang his praises. The press covered him with front page headlines, and he was often the top story on the local television news. Crimes against women had dropped significantly, and though the police continued to send out the same messages, He's not Superman. No-one can take the law into their own hands. When we catch him we will prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law, Drake knew better. He had friends on the force, and while their public persona held the blue line, behind the scenes the rank and file were delighted.

  Jogging down the stairwell he walked several blocks to his car, a silver Lexus sedan, and headed to his house. He still owned the white Land Rover, but he didn't use it for his nights out. It was too conspicuous. He lived in a country-like suburb where the houses were set on an acre or more, people had livestock and some grew their own vegetables. It also backed up to Fairfield Park where he still jogged late at night.

  Drake didn't need to be a bodyguard, he did it because he enjoyed the work. He'd had aspirations of joining the FBI but realized early on he wouldn't be able to handle the politics. He was heavily involved in martial arts, and when a celebrity at his Aikido group asked if he'd be interested in being a bodyguard for his wife, Drake had experienced an epiphany. With his inherent desire to watch out for people, especially women, it was the perfect job. His life had taken another turn when an uncle died leaving him a substantial inheritance. After much thought he'd decided to invest in The Lounge. Bars made a hefty profit, and though he wasn't much of a drinker, he enjoyed the social aspect of a high-end cocktail lounge.

  Now his life had taken another direction, but this time it was one that could see him lose everything. If the police ever did catch up with him, in spite of the public viewing him as a hero, the courts wouldn't see it that way, and Candy's words continued to haunt him.

  As he drove through his gates and into his garage he had a sudden and alarming thought. It was entirely possible, probable even, that the police might try to set him up. All it would take was a woman screaming for help and he'd come running. It was a big city, but if each police captain in each precinct ran a phony scene a couple of nights a week they might get lucky.

  "No, the odds are slim to none," he muttered as he walked into his kitchen, but as he took a quick shower and crawled into bed the worrying thought stayed with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Waking late the following morning, Drake rolled over and picked up his phone from the nightstand. He had sixteen messages. Sixteen too many as far as he was concerned. Since becoming the Victim's Vigilante, a label given to him by the city's leading newspaper, The Gazette, Drake had turned down most of the bodyguard gigs he'd been offered. He was his own boss and had built a stellar reputation enabling him to cherrypick his assignments, but even before the life-changing event several months before, he'd been growing tired of his demanding clientele, especially the entitled attitude of the spoiled daughters that came from the city's wealthy families. Most of them deserved a trip over his knee, and on more than one occasion he'd been hard-pressed not to deliver. He was also weary from his late night vigilante sojourns, and being a bodyguard to the rich meant staying on his toes.

  "I don't even want to listen to these," he muttered as he scanned his missed calls, but then he saw a message from his best friend, Doctor Paul Smiley. He was the man to whom Drake had delivered the woman who had been so brutally tormented by the two monsters in the park. Touching his screen he listened to the voicemail; it was short and to the point.

  Call me. It's important.

  Following that fateful night, Paul had insisted if Drake ever found himself with another victim in need of medical attention, he was to bring the woman to him. The conversation led the two friends down the illegal but noble path. There was only one rule; Drake had never asked about the identities of those he took to Paul's door, and Paul never volunteered any information. The only exception had been the first victim. Courtney Hall. Propping himself up and leaning against the headboard he returned Paul's call. It was almost eleven o'clock and Drake assumed he would be seeing patients, but his partner-in-crime answered almost immediately.

  "Drake, thanks for getting back to me so promptly."

  "Hi, what's up?"

  "Courtney wants to see you."

  Drake's heart skipped a beat.

  "Drake, are you there?"

  "Yeah. Why didn't she call me herself?"

  "I don't know, but she said it was important."

  A heavy frown crossed Drake's face. He had sat at Courtney's bedside for several days following the attack. She'd been sedated, and he'd stay in the mornings after Paul left for his office, and was relieved by a nurse at noon. When Paul decided she could come out of the long sleep, Drake had kept his distance.

  But he and Courtney had spoken on the phone many times.

  He didn't have her phone number, and he'd never asked for it, but she had his. She usually called late at night when she was unable to sleep. Sometimes he was jogging and he'd slow to a walk to speak with her. Other times she'd wake him, but he didn't mind. Not one bit. He found her bright, sensitive, with a warm heart, and as the weeks had gone by her sense of humor had surfaced. Why had she called Paul to arrange the meeting?

  "Drake, I do have a concern," Paul continued, "and you're not going to like what I'm about to say. I don't like what I'm about to say."

  "Go ahead."

  "You know the police are tearing their hair out trying to find the vigilante."

  "Of course."

  "Courtney didn't step forward as the victim of the attack in Fairfield Park."

  "Right. Where are you going with this?"

  "The vigilante started his work, for lack of a better word, directly after that event. Courtney took a leave of absence immediately following it. It's not a stretch to think a sharp detective might conclude there's a link."

  "Okay. I'm with you."

  "You know Courtney's a criminologist and she started back to work a couple of months ago. What if that sharp detective confronted her? What if that sharp detectiv
e convinced her to tell him who rescued her, and then convinced her to find out if that same man, namely you, is in fact, the vigilante? What if she wants to meet up with you to get you talking?"

  "You're right, I don't like that one bit, and she wouldn't do that," Drake protested. "I'm sure she wouldn't."

  "Hey, I adore her. I've seen her through this whole ordeal, but I also have to think defensively. We both have too much to lose. As much as I hate to say it, what I'm suggesting is a possibility."

  "A slim one. Very slim. I think she's asked you to approach me because she's nervous about it, or she wants to give me an out. If I say no it would be embarrassing, or she may feel if she asks me directly I'll feel obligated to accept even if I don't want to."

  "Possibly," Paul said thoughtfully. "In spite of my concern, which I still have by the way, when I spoke with her I got the distinct impression that she needs you, but again, she might have been feigning that ."

  "Sorry, I don't believe she means either of us any harm, not for a moment."

  "You're probably right, but will you do me a favor?"

  "If I can."

  "Will you take precautions?"

  "Sure, of course. I will meet her, but let me think about how to do that. I'll get back to you in a bit."

  The call ended, and dropping his phone on the bed, Drake ran his fingers through his hair and let out a heavy breath.

  Courtney Hall. She wanted to see him. Why now? Why after all this time?

  He felt a deep connection to her. He often wondered if it was due to the dire circumstances in which he'd found her, and the way she had curled into him like a trusting child as he'd carried her through those dark, ominous woods. Their relationship, if it could be called that, had developed from the many hours they'd spent on the phone, but she had never once asked to see him.

  There was also the nagging question that had never been answered.

  How had she ended up in the dark woods with the two vicious men?

  She had never told him.

  He'd thought after the shock had worn off she'd report everything to the police, but she didn't, and when he'd learned she was a criminologist he'd been even more surprised she'd not worked with her colleagues to help put her evil assailants behind bars for a very long time. Weeks of public appeals for the victim to come forward had appeared on television and in the newspaper, but she had remained silent.

  Why had she chosen to remain anonymous?

  The monsters themselves were another huge question mark that continued to burn through his brain. They were both upstanding citizens. One was a high-profile litigator, the other worked in a senior position at a bank. Neither had received so much as a parking ticket. What had possessed them to take a beautiful woman and torture her? Was she their first journey into the world of demonic darkness, or had they done the despicable deed before?

  Climbing off the bed he padded into his shower. He wanted and needed to see her, but as much as he hated to admit it Paul had a point. How could he do it safely?

  Turning on the steam, he sat on the bench, closed his eyes, and thought back to a moment that still haunted him. She had softly sobbed as he'd driven her to Paul's, and when he'd laid her on the bed and was about to step away so Paul could examine her, she'd reached out and grabbed his hand.

  "What you did…I have no words."

  Her quaking voice, and the look in her red-rimmed dark green eyes, was one he'd never forget.

  Standing up to turn off the steam and start the shower, Drake wondered if that had been the moment their souls had touched and his connection to her had been born. As the cool water poured over him he felt guilty for doubting her, but The Victim's Vigilante had become famous, a force to be reckoned with, and the police were desperate. He had to be extremely careful.

  The main reason he'd never been identified was because of his disguise. The Americans, a television show to which he was addicted, had inspired him to create a character. He'd purchased a blonde scraggy wig, bushy eyebrows, brown contact lenses, a beard and a mustache. He'd also added a slight paunch, not just for his appearance, but because it would absorb any blows to his gut, and with guns being a real threat he also wore a Kevlar vest. Both gave the impression he was a beefy guy. He had been spotted a couple of times, and when he'd seen the police artist's sketch in the newspaper and on television he'd been impressed. Though the image looked nothing like him, it did closely resemble his alter ego.

  Stepping from the shower and toweling off he donned his bathrobe, made his way to the kitchen and started the coffee brewing, then turned on the television. He was in time to catch the midday news, and as he made himself a bowl of cereal he heard the anchor talking about another attempted assault that had been thwarted by The Victim's Vigilante. Turning up the volume he discovered he'd been caught on surveillance cameras in the bank's parking lot. The longish blonde hair, beard and mustache were clearly evident, and he looked like a brawny man about ten years older than he was.

  Then it hit him.

  Would Courtney even remember what he looked like? It had been dark, even in the guest room the light had been dim, and she had been completely traumatized. As the question lingered in his head an idea began to form, and by the time he'd finished his cereal he knew exactly how and where to meet her. There was still an element of risk, but he was confident it was slim, and reaching for the phone he called Paul.

  "You've figured it out?" Paul asked the moment he accepted the call.

  "Yes, ask her to meet me at The Lounge at seven-o'clock tonight. Tell her there will be a table reserved in her name, and don't tell her how to recognize me, even if she asks. Just say I'll come to her."

  "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing, both meeting her and being careful about it."

  "I still think you're wrong in your assessment, but you are right that I have to play it safe."

  Ending the call, Drake walked to the bay window that overlooked his large backyard and broke into a smile. He couldn't wait to see her.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Courtney was a history buff, and her home reflected her fascination of days gone by. In addition to owning antique furniture, she had display cases that showed off a variety of collectibles, some of which she'd found in thrift stores and had bought for pennies. While she enjoyed learning about the past in general, it was the history of crime she found the most riveting. It was her consuming interest in famous unsolved cases like Jack the Ripper and Lizzy Borden that had inspired her career in criminology. It had never occurred to her that she would one day find herself the victim of a violent and horrific attack.

  Sitting in her English country garden in a comfortable 1890s rattan chair, drinking her tea in a Wedgwood cup and saucer, she took comfort in the ritual, but her hand held a slight tremble. Courtney had received a deeply disturbing telephone call the day before, and after a restless night she'd woken up with an epiphany sweeping through her. She knew what she had to do. It was extreme, but absolutely necessary, and she'd need help from the man to whom she owed her life, Drake Steele. She firmly believed he was The Victim's Vigilante. Though the dim memory of his appearance didn't match the sketch that had been plastered all over the news, it didn't shake her belief for a second.

  She'd always known she'd see him again and feel his arms around her, his life-saving arms, the arms that still brought her solace when she was feeling particularly uneasy. All she had to do was close her eyes and there he was, making her feel safe and protected. Her cellphone chimed interrupting her reverie, and glancing at the screen she saw it was Dr. Paul. That's what she called him. He'd wanted her to call him just, Paul, but she preferred calling him Doctor, so they'd compromised with Dr. Paul.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, Courtney. Drake is very happy to see you. Do you know a place called The Lounge on 75th Street? It's not far from you."

  "Yes, I know it."

  "Can you be there at seven-o'clock this evening?"

  "No problem."

/>   "There'll be a table reserved in your name. Wait there. He'll join you."

  "Thank you, Dr Paul."

  "My pleasure."

  "I wonder how Drake will feel about the news?" she murmured as she ended the call. "My guess is he'll frown, then think about it for a while, then make a profound remark, but I can't even begin to guess what he'll have to say when I ask the favor."

  Courtney felt a sudden wave of heat through her body, and she realized she couldn't wait to see him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bar was in a lull. The after-work crowd had left and the post-dinner customers had yet to arrive. Drake started his shift at five o'clock, and the two hours he'd been waiting for Courtney had felt like twenty. It was a few minutes before seven when he spied an attractive woman being led through the lounge to the corner booth he'd reserved for Courtney Hall, but his view was impaired by other patrons. He was forced to look away to place several drinks on a tray, but when he glanced back up his line of sight was uninterrupted. There she was, slipping off her coat and sitting down. His heart skipped. She wasn't just attractive, she was beautiful.

  "Joe," he said stepping to his fellow bartender, "I'm going to take my break, but I might be longer than the usual fifteen minutes."

  "Take your time. I can handle this bunch, no problem."

  "Thanks, I'll be in the downstairs tasting room if you need me."

  "Gotcha. Have fun."

  Drake gave him a grateful smile, and moving from behind the bar he began to amble across to the booth. Courtney's eyes were glued to the front door, and when he stopped at her table still wearing his bartender's apron she barely noticed him.

  "Excuse me," he said softly. "Miss Hall?"

  Her eyes instantly darted up, squinting as she stared at him. The corner booth was dimly lit and he knew she'd have trouble discerning his features.

  "Uh, yes," she said nervously. "I'm Courtney Hall."

  "Would you come with me please?"

  He stepped back and turned his head. If it was a set up and someone was watching, they would have no idea he was The Victim's Vigilante. Using his peripheral vision he watched her reach for her coat, but he waited until she was completely out of the booth before he began walking towards a door marked private. Pushing it open he ushered her into a short hallway, then unlocking the first door he had to reach past her to switch on the light.