The cool Manhattan wind whipped Darla's hair across her face as she stood on the sidewalk. The streetlights cast long, harsh shadows on the pavement.
Darla gently pulled her hand out of Anson's grip. She took a step back, putting a polite distance between them.
She unclasped her silver clutch and pulled out the rest of the cash she had on her. It was about three hundred dollars.
She held the money out to him. "Thank you. For everything. Your acting was incredible, and... thank you for stopping Rudy."
Anson looked down at the crumpled bills in her hand. He stayed quiet for two agonizing seconds before he reached out and took the money.
"I'm sorry it's not much," Darla said, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill. "When I get my next paycheck, I can send you the rest of what I owe you."
A low, rich chuckle vibrated in Anson's chest. "This covers my rate."
Darla smiled faintly. He was broke, but he had pride. She liked that about him.
"What's your full name?" Darla asked. "If any of my friends ever need security, I'll recommend you."
Anson reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a matte black card and handed it to her.
Darla took it. The card was heavy, expensive cardstock. There was no company logo. No address. Just a single word stamped in silver foil: ANSON. Beneath it was a phone number.
"No last name?" Darla asked, her brow furrowing.
"I take private contracts," Anson lied smoothly, his face a mask of calm. "I keep a low profile."
Darla nodded, slipping the heavy card into her clutch. It made sense. A guy with his skills probably worked off the books.
A yellow cab pulled up to the curb. Darla opened the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat.
Anson stood on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. His dark eyes locked onto hers through the open window.
"Get home safe," he murmured.
Darla nodded and rolled up the window. The cab merged into the busy traffic. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion pull her under.
Anson watched the taillights of the cab until they disappeared around the corner.
The moment she was out of sight, the mild, accommodating expression vanished from his face. His jaw clenched. His eyes turned back to black ice.
He turned and walked down a narrow, unlit alleyway beside the hotel, putting several dark, quiet blocks between himself and the venue before stopping on a deserted corner. A custom, pitch-black Maybach glided silently out of the shadows and stopped right in front of him.
Isaac Kerr, his executive assistant, jumped out of the driver's seat and pulled open the rear door.
Anson slid into the luxurious leather interior. He tossed the crumpled hundreds onto the polished walnut bar without a second glance.
Isaac looked at the cash through the rearview mirror. He swallowed hard. "Boss... did you really let her pay you? Eight hundred dollars?"
Anson reached up and yanked his tie loose. He shot Isaac a glare so lethal it made the assistant shrink in his seat.
Isaac quickly cleared his throat and handed a thick manila folder over the center console. "The background check on the Hammond and Mosley families, sir."
Anson opened the folder. His eyes scanned the pages, stopping on the police report regarding Darla's adoptive father, David Hammond.
"Put a team on the Mosleys," Anson ordered, his voice cold and sharp. "If they get within ten feet of Darla, break their legs."
Isaac's eyes widened. Anson Prince, the ruthless CEO of MUA Group, never got personally involved with anyone.
Anson looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Darla's small hand in his.
"Drive," Anson commanded.
The Maybach accelerated smoothly, heading toward the most expensive penthouse overlooking Central Park.
