Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Sophie Davis

  Copyright © 2015 by Sophie Davis Books

  Smashwords Editions

  For the Nice Lady for being so darn nice. For Charlie, may your adventures above—because all dogs really do go to heaven—be just as great as your adventures down here. For Aiden and Carson, thank you for being such excellent little waiters and delivering all of our food to the office so that we could finish this book; even if you guys always forget the napkins.

  Talented (Talented Saga #1)

  Caged (Talented Saga #2)

  Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

  Captivated (Talented Saga #3.5)

  Created (Talented Saga #4)

  Exiled: Kenly’s Story, A Talented Saga Novel (Kenly Chronicles #1)

  Inescapable (Talented Saga #5)

  Pawn

  Sacrifice

  Checkmate

  Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Sophie

  Lark-Journal Entry One

  I-Lark

  II-Raven

  III-Lark

  IV-Raven

  V-Lark

  VI-Raven

  VII-Lark

  VIII-Raven

  IX-Lark

  Lark-Journal Entry Two

  X-Lark

  XI-Raven

  XII-Lark

  XIII-Raven

  XIV-Lark

  XV-Raven

  XVI-Lark

  XVII-Raven

  Lark

  XVIII-Raven

  Lark-Journal Entry Three

  XIX-Raven

  Lark-Journal Entry Four

  XX-Raven

  XXI-Lark

  XXII-Raven

  XXIII-Lark

  XXIV-Raven

  Lark-Journal Entry Five

  Epilogue

  Social Media Links

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  SOMETIMES WHEN THE morning dawns, I wake a moment before reality hits me and revel in the peacefulness. Living in the now is impossible. It’s a faux life, a cheap knockoff of my prior existence. I can imagine the men on Canal Street hocking it right along with the fake Chanel bags—authentic charmed life, see the perfect detailing? Only 100 bucks! Their small details aren’t enough for me to accept this as real.

  My past isn’t something I want to dwell on either. The stares, the glares, the frightened looks. My parents and their not-so-hushed arguments behind closed doors. Always about me. The pressure would have been more than enough to break me, if I’d ever had the luxury of buckling. But I understood what was expected of me way before I knew not to call the nanny “Mommy”.

  I knew to mind my manners. To not wrinkle my frilly dresses or scuff my shiny shoes. I knew not to run. Or chase. Or revel. I knew to neither speak nor fidget when other adults were in the room, to stay completely silent and completely still. Making a game of it with my invisible friend, we’d take turns seeing who could remain motionless and quiet the longest. I always won. She was much better at being a child. I was much better at being a miniature adult.

  That was, in fact, the goal of every parent who sent their child to my prestigious pre-school. The admission process began when I was three. My earliest memory is of my nanny at the time getting me dressed for my interview. It wasn’t the soft crimson velvet of my dress that stood out in my mind, or the slick satin of the bow tied at my waist. It wasn’t the shiny Mary Jane shoes that were brand new and too rigid, cutting in to my small feet, nor the itchy wool tights, though I remembered all of those things.

  No, it was my nanny crouched in front of me and holding both of my hands tightly in hers as she furtively whispered instructions to me. Fiona, that was her name, told me not to fidget, and to answer only with big girl words. She reminded me of my manner terms—Please, Thank You, Ma’am, Sir—and told me to use them as much as possible. We went over key phrases like ‘Pleased to Meet You’ and ‘Thank You for Having Me.’ Fiona told me to be my most polite self, and to sit tall and speak clearly.

  But all of that would’ve been shuffled to the back of my mind along with other subconscious memories of my childhood if it weren’t for her most demanding request. Nanny Fiona implored me to tell Abigail that she could not come with me that day. My invisible friend was to stay behind, and not follow me. Should she ignore Nanny Fiona and tag along anyway, I was to firmly ignore her, pushing her to the background. I remember beginning to cry, my heart aching at the thought of being mean to Abigail, telling her she couldn’t come out to play today.

  Abigail went everywhere that I did. Even when she wasn’t supposed to. Most of the time she stayed quiet, simply offering me the comfort of having another child around, someone who understood me as none of the grownups did. She rarely spoke up or insisted I acknowledge her presence when grownups were around, and so I never tattled on her.

  But Abigail had already caused my parents embarrassment several times. And even my four-year-old self understood the importance of that day.

  My parents visited me most evenings, and that was my favorite time of day. When I was ready for bed, my parents were relaxed (now I understood the value of a glass of good scotch, though I used to simply think they were their most fun selves because that’s who they became as the evening cocktail hour wound to a close), and I was able to be a child for several minutes with them.

  Except, for weeks now, our bedtime visits had been about the school and how important it was to be a good little girl when I went to meet the admissions board. Sometimes my parents would take me over to the small sitting area in my bedroom, and quiz me endlessly from a stack of cards. When I asked one night where the question cards came from, they told me they came from the preschool entrance specialists. As though that meant anything to me at the time.

  Other times we would sit and have grave talks about how important this time was for me, and how I must apply myself to Nanny Fiona’s lessons, and show the nice people at the interview how smart and well-behaved I was. The importance of the interview had been drilled into me for what felt like forever. How it would shape the person I would become, according to my mother. And didn’t I want to be the best person I could be? And how it would determine my future and ability to be successful, according to my father. And didn’t I want to be somebody one day? Someone smart and successful just like him?

  Since I did indeed want to be like my father, and to please my mother, I pleaded with Abigail to stay behind that day. Nanny Fiona had told me that it wasn’t enough for her to ask Abigail to stay behind—I had to force her to stay, to tell her I didn’t want her to come. And so I left Abigail quietly crying in the dark as I took Fiona’s hand and walked carefully down the steps that day. While my mother fidgeted with the bow in my hair, I’d tried with all of my might to block out the sounds of her sadness as I left to be the little adult I was expected to be.

  That day was a turning point in my friendship with Abigail, the beginning of the end.

  As the years progressed, my socially imperative play dates began to replace my time spent with Abigail. Sometimes I could still hear her soft sobs in the back of my head, but all I wanted in life was to please my parents. One day when I was eight, I insisted that Abigail leave me, to run away and never come home. That was the day I ceased being a child playing at adult, and genuinely became my own miniature person. The day I discovered that my parents were fallible, and that I just might need to stray from their carefully laid out course and find my own way. The day that thoughts began to appea
r of their own volition, whispering that my charmed life was not all it was cracked up to be.

  “HEY, DADDY!”

  Crossing from the door to his office, over to the desk where he was sitting, I stooped to kiss my father on the cheek. He curled one arm around my waist and pulled me in for a hug.

  “Hi, sweetheart, how was your day?”

  “Eh, nothing exciting,” I replied truthfully. “Monsieur DuBois was out today and the sub played some ridiculous short films her friend made. They were terrible, someone needs to tell that guy to get a clue.”

  As I’d hoped, my silly prattling was rewarded with a tired chuckle from my father.

  “Oh the drama,” he said with a wink, an affectionate smile on his face as he gave me another squeeze.

  When he let go, I planted another kiss on top of his head and went over to the nearby treadmill.

  Summer in Manhattan was stifling, the air barely breathable, which made running outside unbearable. Normally I spent June through August in the Hamptons with the rest of the Eight. This year, however, I’d elected to stay in the city and attend summer classes at Columbia. The decision had been met with avid approval from my father, and angry grumblings from my mother. She argued that my absence from the social scene was going to stunt my societal growth. But with daddy on my side, we’d won the fight easily. Of course, my motivations were not purely educational—Blake was also in the city, taking classes at NYU.

  The exercise machine was in my father’s office so he could work out in between meetings and conference calls, but I don’t think he even knew how to turn it on. The fixture remained in place only because I used it frequently, often spending the time walking instead of running so I could chat with my father while he worked.

  “And how was your day, Papa?” I asked once the appropriate settings had been entered and the conveyor belt beneath my feet was moving.

  With a critical eye, I noted my father’s appearance. The jacket of his handmade Italian suit, normally pristinely pressed by our launderer, was rumpled and slung over the back of his desk chair. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and the striped Ferragamo tie at his neck loosened, my father looked as if he was winding down from a particularly tedious day.

  “Oh, you know, nothing exciting,” he said, smiling as he repeated my words back to me. “Had a meeting with that fellow over at Harry Winston to discuss renewing the contracts with an exclusivity clause. I don’t know why they persist with some of their demands.”

  “You look tired,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t take it the way that my mother would—as the greatest betrayal ever spoken. “You’re working too hard.”

  “Yeah, what’s new?” he answered. “There’s always so much to be done.”

  “When are you going to bring in those new VP’s?” I asked, referring to two newly created positions that would take a lot of tasks and minutia off of my father’s plate.

  “We’re in the last round of interviews, but to be honest, none of the candidates are great,” my father replied, walking over to the hutch that held crystal decanters of scotch, whiskey and bourbon. Several ice cubes from the silver ice bucket clinked inside the crystal tumbler, followed by a healthy pour of the scotch.

  “What about using a headhunter?” I suggested.

  “You’re learning so much,” he replied, beaming at me. “I think that’s exactly what we’ll end up doing, though it’ll be a fight with McAvoy. He’s worried about the fallout from poaching employees, but it’s just something that we all understand and appreciate. It’s part of capitalism, after all—he who presents the best offer should win.”

  With that pronouncement, my father raised his glass in a toast to the American way. I giggled at his sardonic statement. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was becoming jaded.

  “Here, here!” I called with a laugh.

  A knock on the open door to the office drew both of our attention.

  “Am I interrupting something?” the tall, thin man asked, a dubious look on his face.

  “Speak of the devil!” my father called mockingly, raising his glass again, this time to William McAvoy himself.

  “Here, here!” I replied again, playing along with my father’s silliness.

  McAvoy remained in the doorway, glancing back and forth between the two of us—me walking at a brisk pace on the treadmill, my father looking rumpled and tired with his glass of scotch, and both of us laughing at what was evidently an inside joke.

  “Well then, it’s nice to see you both, too.”

  “Get over here and loosen up a bit,” my father said, setting his own glass down and filling another with ice. “What’ll it be?”

  “Actually, Phillip, I need to speak with you,” McAvoy replied, glancing pointedly in my direction.

  “And I imagine I’d find that conversation more entertaining if you had a drink,” my father said, adding a splash of bourbon to the glass.

  William McAvoy was Kingsley Diamond’s Chief Operating Officer. He’d held the position since before I was born. Always wearing black suits and ties that looked like they belonged in an eighties movie, his attire perfectly reflected his personality: somber, boring, and practical.

  Though his personality wasn’t exactly winning, with his salt-and-pepper hair, pale blue eyes and tall build, he wasn’t unattractive for an old guy. Considering that fact, plus the loads of money he made as COO, it was surprising to me that he’d never married. Whatever the reason, he’d been a confirmed bachelor for his entire life, and definitely not in the fun sense. For as long as I could remember, William—he’d admonished me when I was little for calling him Will, insisting that wasn’t his name and he wouldn’t answer to it—had attended holidays in my home, always bringing me an extravagant but puzzling gift. What eight-year-old needed, or even wanted, a diamond broach? That was William though—he didn’t quite ‘get’ people.

  “It’s important, Phil,” McAvoy was insisting. “We need to talk. Alone.”

  Again, he glanced in my direction, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Unsure of whether that look was for my benefit or my father’s, I decided to bow out gracefully.

  “I can go, Daddy,” I said, punching the buttons on the treadmill to slow my pace.

  “Nonsense, dear,” my father said, waving it off. “William, I’ve told you before, you can talk shop in front of Lark. She’ll be taking the reins one day; I want her to learn about every facet of the company. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say to her as well.”

  Heat crept into my cheeks, the telltale sign I was blushing. The pride in my father’s voice was unmistakable, and it made me feel like I was ten feet tall. My entire life he’d taken time from his tremendously busy schedule to explain things to me, never losing patience when my curious mind asked a million questions. It was no wonder I loved my father so much—he was the only parent who acted as if my thoughts and opinion mattered, not just my appearance.

  “Seriously, Phillip, this isn’t the time for one of your little lessons,” McAvoy snapped, sounding uncharacteristically short-tempered. One of the reasons my father had held on to McAvoy for all of these years; not only was he loyal to a fault, he never lost his cool.

  “Excuse me?” My father’s voice had lost every trace of amusement, his features hardening into an expression usually reserved for the toughest of negotiations.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…sorry, okay?” McAvoy paused for a moment to let his words sink in, staring my father squarely in the eye, before turning to me. “I apologize, Lark. I’m just having a rough day, and didn’t mean to take it out on you guys.”

  “It’s okay,” I replied uncertainly. “It happens, not a big deal.”

  This time, when my father extended the scotch glass in his direction, McAvoy accepted the offering with a gracious nod. The tension in the room dissipated as quickly as it had come, all of us once again friends. With the menacing look gone, my father was once more the approachable CEO that all of his employees adored.

  M
cAvoy swirled the contents of his glass uneasily, an internal war waging behind his cool gaze. Whatever he wanted to discuss with my father was clearly a touchy subject.

  “Phil, while I understand that she is going to be head of this company one day, I’m not sure if this is something Lark needs to hear just yet, okay?”

  My father raised an eyebrow but remained silent, waiting for the COO to explain further.

  “It’s about…Jyranji,” McAvoy said, dropping his voice so the last word was barely audible from where I stood across the room.

  By this point I’d already stopped moving and was standing on the still belt of the machine, waiting for my father to give me some indication of what to do next.

  Though I could only see my father in profile, the effect McAvoy’s words had on him was unmistakable. His posture straightened and he set his drink down on the hutch, then grabbed a bottle of water from the glass-doored refrigerator. Running his fingers through his slate-colored hair, my father returned to the chair behind his desk.

  “Lark, dear, do you mind excusing us?” Daddy asked distractedly, not looking at me when he spoke.

  “No, no, of course not,” I replied hurriedly, grabbing the towel and water bottle I’d brought with me.

  The obvious change in my father’s attitude worried me. Being head of a major company was stressful, but this was more than run of the mill stress. He seemed truly bothered.

  Pausing once I reached the doorframe, a quick internal debate swiftly decided, I asked, “Is everything okay, Daddy?” My concern for him overwhelming my sense of decorum. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, of course not,” my father answered, plastering one of the fake smiles our whole family knew so well on his face.

  It didn’t take a genius to know that something was up and my father was placating me. “Everything’s good, just normal, everyday stuff to tend to, way too boring to bother you with, honey.”