Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Those grey, depthless eyes relentlessly try to drag you deep into his dark abyss. Until he paralyzes your mind, until he leaves you defenseless in his mercies, then he's satisfied. He is a perfect replica of his bloodthirsty father, Mark Grant. Why don't I end all of this right now? Kill two snakes with one stone.

Taking down both Grants at once would be better than I have ever dreamed. There are three guards in the room still standing over Jonathan Crocker. If I can pull my pistol fast enough, Barth and Jasper should be dead before the men can shoot me down. And my first bullet would go right between Ice Grant's grey worthless eyes. 

"Oh, come on. Don't be shy, I don't bite. Tell me your name," Barth says, beginning a coaxing smile but Jasper Grant snatches my hand and pulls me away from him.

"Michelle answers ONLY to me. You've crossed enough lines, Barth. Bully, you got your hands on this piece of garbage first, but you have no other business here. Take your men out of my company premises." 

Barth Grant raises a brow incredulously at Jasper Grant as his hand is left suspended in the air.

"Oh," Barth says, his smile grows even brighter as he looks between me and his brother. His grey eyes, now lucent, train on me.

"So Michelle, it is then. Maybe it is a confounded fancy of mine, that we've met before. But I'm very positive that I will meet you again. Hopefully, little Jap won't be there to interrupt us and maybe then, you will be ready to talk, Michelle." 

Barth Grant's hand is still outstretched and I meet his eyes plainly, knowing that he is searching for the slightest hint. I also look forward to meeting him, and the only words I would like to give him are a few bullets to the heart. 

Barth Grant turns without another word and picking the glass of drink from Jonathan Crocker's desk, leaves the Repairs and Maintenance premises with his men.

As we leave too, it is a greatly relieved lot that we leave behind. Some fairly falling over to open doors or step out of the way for Jasper Grant.

Jasper Grant's Red Cadillac rumbles smoothly on the road as we retrace our steps back to Monerco, or at least I hope, considering how peculiar the man is. Jasper Grant drives quietly, apparently occupied and dissatisfied with the fiasco in Malniken County. But I get the feeling that he has something to say.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye, ever so slightly and thereafter avoids my general direction. 

"At least, Jonathan Crocker's in good hands. He'll serve to teach the others." 

I just nod and add, "Great sir." That is, of course, his shrewd idea of a reconciliatory conversation-starter. After pulling me out of my house in the unholy hours of the morning, to face gunmen and his devilish brother, all he had to tell me is "yeah, we got him good." 

His brows knit more tightly and he looks ahead sourly for most of the journey. I wonder what other hair-curling drama awaits at the office? How many more, in this damned world of the Grants? None too many. After waiting for painfully slow years, a month in this wild, delirious world, is nothing. 

In a month, Jasper Grant will be as old as my father was fifteen years ago—thirty exactly. And he is as strong, if not stronger than my father was. But that is for me to relish; I have lived and worked all my life for him to see all his strength and muscles fail him. 

Barth Grant won't have that honour, he doesn't deserve to fight for his life. Besides, he is too cunning to fight for his life. His arrogance and belief in his invincibility are notches below Jasper Grant's.

Driving fixedly, Jasper Grant negotiates a turn instead of continuing straight ahead. And it becomes clear that we aren't going to the headquarters. 

"Sir, we aren't going to the office today?" 

He continues to glare at the road, sufficiently irritated for me to understand that he won't entertain my question.

We reach Baldornets Valley in quite swift time and it's just a little past noon. 

The Cadillac stops in the park just like it did this morning. 

"Take the rest of the day off. I'll be coming to pick you up by seven tonight. So be sure you're ready by then. And wear something nice," he says carelessly. 

And knowing that there's no point in questioning it, I just answer "yes, sir" and come down from the car. I wait in the park to see him drive away. He appears to have no intention of leaving at first, but noticing that I don't intend to go, he backs his car backs away and disappears. 

I settle into my decent apartment and it's just as I left it, hurrying out to park in the dark hours of the morning. Fixing up a meal, I crunch on the apples that should have been part of my breakfast. My newsletters and mails don't have anything of note. A proper nap is the next great wisdom that occurs to me. If I know anything about little Jap CEO, tonight's going to be a long one.

***

Wear something nice? The nerve. But he intently stares at my frame, especially any bare skin, when he's sure I'm looking away. He seems to be particularly fond of the neck and thighs, when the softer and fuller swells of my body are locked away. The silky cream dress clinging to my figure, well cut to accent my neckline, shoulders, and left thigh, will take his breath away. But he'd rather choke on a frog than admit it. 

It's only 6:48, but a Mercedes is approaching the park. The driver, a slender man, alights.

"Mr Grant is waiting for you ma'am." 

He holds the car door open for me, and indeed, there is the man. Hair trim and rolled back, in casual but smart T-shirt and pants. Without the imposing suits, he exudes an athletic, graceful air, more like a football or rugby player than the Vicious CEO he is. 

"You made good time," he says, nodding in a surprisingly uncontemptuous fashion. And he makes an unhasty gaze at my frame, stopping shortly at the bare collar bone.

"A whole day off work, doing nothing valuable, must have helped mighty." His attention is now on a screen behind the driver's seat.

Just great. It was absolutely raging delusion to expect, courteous or at least decent behaviour from the man. Glad things switched right back to normal. Jasper Grant doesn't hand out well meaning statements like sweets. He bares his fangs at you every now and then, and regrets that he isn't an actual panther. 

The Mercedes breezes along, with the new driver. And we arrive at a restaurant, illuminated as if to give the illusion of walking from night into daylight. Everywhere, everything, wants to announce itself, its luxury and extravagance, to you. Tablecloths are intricate works of art. Even the waiters in prim tuxedos have a self-important manner. 

We are ushered ceremoniously and Jasper Grant leads the way to a secluded table, out of sight. A man is already seated. A spectacled man, with a strong nose and a wonderful mustache, already chatting energetically with a waiter. The waiter just nods and reverently absorbs what the man says. 

The man jumps on seeing us, and embraces Jasper Grant. He stands almost as tall as Jasper but notably slenderer. He opens his mouth, holds his chest and inhales dramatically as he stares at me.

"Forgive me, my Lady, I'm just swept away by your beauty." He takes my hand and puts it to his lips. I blush obligingly. 

"Jasper, won't you introduce us?" 

The man removes my chair gingerly.

"Thank you," I say in a girly pitch, giving him a charming smile. And Jasper sits beside me impatiently, positioning himself between the man and me. 

"Michelle, this is Jules Gerald. White wolf of the mount. Jules, this is Michelle Cruz." 

"Please call me, Jules. Jasper can be unsophisticated sometimes but we must overlook him," Jules says, looking with unabashed curiosity at me. 

"How the hell did you arrive before me? Some curse must be working on me. Jules? Before me?" Jasper Grant says incredulously almost bordering on hurt.

Jules laughs, with the same gusto that he seems to attack everything.

"Even though you are, Jasper Grant, you couldn't possibly be at my house before me. I bought the place last month. I just had the fancy to own a restaurant, to see the great culinary arts first-hand, to run it. I'm doing a few things with the place. What do you think of the tables? Fabulous, aren't they? You know with your hopeless lack of taste, I can see why you're plaguing me. You seriously need someone like me over there, at Grant Motors. You're just like my boy, Theodore," Jules answers Jasper Grant, but all the while, his eyes are on me, scrutinizing. 

"Eh—Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I can't seem to help myself. But you look strikingly similar to a great northern legend. A woman, a vigilante, and to many, she was known as a hero, that delivered justice and exacted vengeance. She was called—" 

"Arturia," Jasper Grant cuts in, looking me dead in the eye.