“Yes.”
“That was fast.” The smart girl had always impressed him, but even more so tonight. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve got some information for you. It’s only preliminary, but . . . I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
Thorpe’s gut tightened. He’d wanted to be wrong. Son of a bitch. “I didn’t expect to. Tell me.”
“Sean Kirkpatrick’s story survives a cursory glance, like you said. But once I started digging, it seems that he doesn’t appear anywhere, at least under that name, until eight months ago. I also can’t find a record of anyone with that name and face becoming a U.S. citizen in the last decade. The first appearance of him I have is the supposed creation of an LLC in the state of Florida earlier this year.”
“He told Callie that he lives there now. He claims to belong to a club outside of Miami. His references checked out, but . . .”
“It’s possible he paid someone for that.”
“Exactly,” Thorpe agreed.
“Almost immediately after he started the company, a major Fortune 100 corporation supposedly hired his services. Do you know how tough a gig that is to get?”
“Exceedingly. You usually have to know someone.”
“Or be sucking their di— um, be intimate with them.”
Thorpe managed a smile at her slipup, despite the grim situation.
Tara smoothed over the moment by continuing on. “He rented a corporate apartment in Dallas under the name of his LLC back in April.” She rattled off the address, and he jotted it down. A newer part of town with lots of corporate presence and no nightlife. “He signed a six-month lease. When October rolled around, he started extending it month by month. Other than that, Sean Kirkpatrick has one relatively new credit card, no bank account, no immigration visa, no mortgage, no car loan, no record of marriages or divorces, no court dates, no arrest record, no school records . . . nothing. He’s a ghost.”
Sitting back in his chair, Thorpe sucked in a breath. “The way he set up his identity, do you think he’s a con artist?”
“What does Callie have that he’d want to steal?”
“Absolutely nothing.” On the surface. But over the last decade, the bounty on Callie’s head had grown to two million dollars. What if Sean Kirkpatrick had somehow pieced together her identity and managed to trail her here?
Thorpe’s blood ran cold. He swore that he’d take care of Kirkpatrick once and for all.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Tara sighed. “Seven months seems awfully patient for a stalker, but at this point, I’m not sure if I’d rule that out. I honestly don’t know what else to think.”
“I’ve got some ideas. If you come across anything else, let me know, would you?”
“Of course. Something is definitely off with this man.”
As Thorpe had suspected for some time. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“My pleasure. You know Callie isn’t ever going to be my best friend . . . but I’m worried for her.”
He gripped the phone tightly. “Me, too.”
They rang off, and Thorpe didn’t waste a minute. He left his office and crept down the hall to Callie’s room, letting himself in with the key. He spied her sleeping in the moonlight, all curled up in a sea of downy quilts and soft pillows. One naked leg peeked out, from her supple hip to her little pink toes. No way he could forget having his face between her sleek thighs, but somehow he had to.
Thorpe turned and found a partially eaten pizza sitting in a box on her dresser. When the hell had she ordered that? No idea, but nothing else looked out of place. Her phone sat charging on the nightstand, and he swiped it, then dashed back into his office.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that her password was his birthday. And didn’t that just add a kicker of guilt to this torment cocktail? He browsed her recent calls and found one she’d missed from Sean earlier tonight. Gotcha!
He touched the screen, and the image changed to Sean’s annoying mug as the call connected.
“Callie?” the man didn’t sound groggy or disoriented in the least.
“Not quite. Guess again.”
“What the fuck do you want, Thorpe? I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with your antics. You can’t separate me from Callie. You’ve no right, and you know it.”
Oh, he had every right, and he intended to exercise each of them to the fullest extent. He might not be her father, her husband, or her Dom, but he was her protector. And probably the only person in her life she could trust without question.
But Sean’s grating lecture gave him an idea. “I’ve been doing some thinking. I know that I’ve overstepped my bounds as the owner of the club. So I’m going to allow you to see her tomorrow. Here at Dominion. Nine p.m. You’re not going to get another offer. I suggest you take it.”
“I’ll be there. And don’t you be trying any trickery. You won’t like what happens.”
“Is that a threat?” Thorpe all but licked his lips, hoping the Scot would give him something he could sink his teeth into.
“No. But if you’re less than straight and narrow, I don’t think Callie will be too happy with you. And you can’t stand the thought that she might not look to you for all her needs, can you?”
Thorpe squeezed the phone tightly. Fucker. “Be here at nine.”
Without allowing Sean to respond, he ended the call. That Scot got under his skin, and he had to resist the urge to throw Callie’s phone across the room. Instead, he forced out a deep breath, then stood, walking with deliberate steps back to her room and put the phone where he’d found it.
He shouldn’t look at the girl, but she’d rolled over in her sleep and now lay on her back, her ridiculously long lashes caressing her cheeks, her head angled slightly to expose the graceful line of her throat. Pale shoulders moved softly with each breath. The quilt barely covered her breasts, and the hint of cleavage was enough to make him sweat.
Damn it, he had to get out of here. He had to stop obsessing. Keep her safe. Give her a place to live her life in peace. That was the most he could ever offer her.
The moment he closed her door behind him again and locked it once more, he charged down the hall to see if Axel had left yet. A quick turn of the knob to the security room, and Thorpe slid inside. Axel wore a baseball cap. The man was a large, blunt instrument of violence when he chose. Currently, his eyes were glued to a security feed. His fists were clenched.