The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(108)

I turn the corner and run past a row of restaurants and get to a park, and I see a person up ahead in the darkness.

Their stance seems familiar, and I squint my eyes to try and see.

As I run, a cold sense of realization hits me as to who it is. Gabriel Ferrara. He’s on the phone and smoking a cigar as he leans on his black Ferrari. He hasn’t seen me.

I stop running and pant as I approach him. Fucking dog.

I’m furious that he put that photo of Emily on the front page of his paper. It was a direct attack on me . . . and it hit the target.

Turning, he sees me, and his face falls. “I’ve got to go.” He hangs up his call.

“Look what crawled out of the gutter,” I pant.

He smirks as he inhales on his cigar. “Miles.”





I glare at him.


“How’s that girl of yours?” he asks with a wink. “You should put her on a leash.”





I glare at him.


He flicks his cigar at me; my fury begins to bubble.





I step forward.


“You know she made a move on me. Seems like you’ve lost your edge with everything: the company, the bank accounts. Sex. How does it feel to have your woman search for someone who can satisfy her needs?”

All I can see is red . . . blinding anger.

I lose control and punch him hard in the face, and then I hit him again and again in quick succession.

He falls to the ground beside his car, and I hear someone yell, “Call the police!”

“Fuck . . .” I look down to his slumped body and the blood pouring from his nose.

What have I done?

I turn and sprint as hard as I can into the darkness. I run down a block and cut through a park as I hear a police siren in the distance.





Fuck.


I run across the street, and a car comes out of nowhere.

Bright lights, car horn, blurred vision.

It hits me, and I go flying into the air.





Darkness . . . nothing.





Chapter 22

Emily

On my laptop, I scroll through the information that I’ve collected today. I have nothing to go on other than Hayden. He’s the only the person who has a shady past and the only person I can think of who would double-cross Miles Media.

But selling shitty stories is a far cry from stealing millions of dollars from a global company. I don’t think he’s capable of something like this.

So why is my gut telling me that he is somehow involved?

I check my phone . . . no messages.

Please call me.

I get a vision of my Jameson all alone in his big apartment, and my heart aches. I’ve decided that I’m going over there tomorrow night and knocking the door down.

I can’t give him the space that he needs . . . I need him.

The door buzzes, and I jump up, excited. Jameson. I run to the telecom to see two police officers on the screen. I push the button. “Hello?”

“Is that Emily Foster?”

“Yes.”

“Can we come up, please?”

“What’s wrong?” I whisper. Oh my God, what’s happened?

“We need to talk to you.”

“Has something happened?” I stammer.

“Let us in, please.”

“Okay.” I push the button with my heart pumping hard.

Moments later they knock on the door, and I open it in a rush. “Hello.”

Two solemn-looking police officers force a smile. “Are you Emily Foster?”

“Yes.” My heart begins to race.

“Can we talk to you for a moment, please?”

I stand back. “Yes, please come in.”

“We would like to talk to Jameson Miles, please.” They look around my apartment and then turn their attention back to me. “Is he here?”

“No, he isn’t.” I feel my heart begin to pump harder in my chest. “What’s this about?”

“He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault earlier this evening.”

“What?” I frown.

“Gabriel Ferrara was attacked tonight outside a restaurant by Mr. Miles. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.”

“Is he all right?”

“Mr. Ferrara has significant facial injuries and has been taken to the hospital.”

I put my hand over my mouth in horror.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Mr. Ferrara was getting into a car when Mr. Miles approached him in the dark. A fight broke out, and Mr. Miles assaulted him.”

“Where was this?”

“Out the front of Bryant Park, opposite Lucina’s.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is Jameson all right?”

“Witnesses say he ran off through the park.”

I close my eyes in relief . . . thank God.

“You have the wrong person,” I stammer. “Jameson would never attack someone. He’s the CEO of a company, not a pub brawler.” That’s a complete lie; I know Jameson would love to beat Ferrara to a pulp . . . “I don’t know where he is,” I assert with renewed determination.

“Can we search your apartment?” the policeman asks.