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Beast of Stratton

By Renee Blare

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CHAPTER ONE
The hot spray of the shower slapped his back like a whip. Miles Stratton leaned his forehead against the cool tile and rolled his shoulders. He blinked to clear water from his eyes, but steam swirled around him. The world spun and his vision blurred. He leapt back in time—into smoke and pain.
The yoke wrenched against his hands while the rotors groaned above his head. Another missile slammed into the chopper and the tail dropped off, spinning it toward the ground. The acrid smell of burning fuel and blood hung in his nose as he fought to keep the bird in the air.
Icy water snapped him into the present, and he slammed his hand into the wall, his roar echoing around the small cubicle of granite and tile. Enough already. Miles closed his eyes and pushed the memories away.
He dipped under the cold spray one last time before shutting off the water. In his room, he dug around in his bag, tossing wrinkled clothes on the bed. Sooner or later, he’d need to unpack. It’d have to be later.
Clad in old jeans and a t-shirt, he pulled the door open and water dropped on his bare toes. He headed back to the bathroom. After another pass through his wet hair and beard with his towel, he tossed it in the hamper. Pulling a dry one off the shelf, he grabbed a comb and a rubber band.
Banging cupboards greeted him when he walked into the next room. An annoying person was in his kitchen. Again. “Hey, knock it off.”
“Where’s your scotch?” His stepbrother peeked around the corner.
Miles settled on the couch with the towel on his chest and started combing the tangles out of his beard. “Long gone.”
“What?” Ray groaned and tossed his ice into the sink with a clank and joined him in the living room. “You didn’t have to drain it all, dude. Maybe you should back off a little.”
Miles grunted. He hadn’t touched a drop since landing stateside. No, scratch that. The night before his last mission in Iraq. The toast of death—his last drink. His beard clear of snarls, Miles started on his mane. A low growl rumbled when the comb caught a ratted mass of curls. He worked it loose and began again, delving into the thick hair.
“You look like crap, man.” The younger man beat on the arm of the leather chair a few feet away, keeping the rhythm to some song only he could hear.
“What can I help you with, Ray?” He picked at another clump.
“Can’t I stop in to say hi?” Ray reached up to loosen his tie, the jacket to his Armani suit discarded at the door. “I missed you. Where’ve you been?”
“Yeah, right.” The comb stuttered to a stop before sliding through his long strands like butter. “I’ve been around.”
“What’re you doing?”
He grinned at the shock in Ray’s voice. “You’d think you’ve never seen someone braid his hair before.”
“Cut the mess, man.”
Miles secured the thick plait with the rubber band before raising an eyebrow at him. “Why are you here? And it’s not because you missed me. I’m not stupid.”
“Never said you were.” Ray propped his foot on his knee. “Did you meet the new hire today?”
The excitement in Ray’s voice didn’t escape Miles. He tossed the comb on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. He tore into the carton of orange juice and tipped it back. The liquid burned at his sore throat but tasted so good. “No.”
He walked to the couch and finished off the liquid in one swallow. Miles set the box on the table.
“She’s a real Barbie doll. I think I’ll ask her out tomorrow night.”
He clenched his hands around his knee. His stepbrother’s attitude grated across his last nerve. “I thought you already had a lady friend.”
Ray folded his tie and shrugged. “I guess she’s found better pastures.”
“Leave the staff alone, Ray. Especially the new people.” Miles scooped the trash off the table after shoving his comb in his back pocket. The man gave him such trouble. Most women at Stratton avoided him with good reason. “Behave yourself for once.”
“Oh, don’t worry. But this one’s a catch.” Ray stood and grabbed his jacket. After pulling the door open, he paused and flashed him a cocky grin. “Who knows what’ll happen?”
The door closed with a soft click, and fury swept through Miles. Such blatant disregard for his orders—again. In a flash, he sent his load crashing into the dark wood. His entire body shook from the force of his anger and he fought to control his breathing.
His mother had married a rich Italian businessman before his deployment to Iraq. Sergio Manotti spent most of his time playing in the stocks and betting on car races. His son flitted from one resort to the other, spending his father’s money. It was a surprise when she’d asked Miles to give Ray a job at Stratton. As CEO, Miles had reluctantly agreed. Why? He didn’t have a clue. But he’d determined a long time ago—Raimondo Manotti was trouble.
“I’m sick of this.” The garbage glared against the tile in the entryway, and misery coursed through him. “God, You deal with him, I can’t anymore.”
He sighed and limped toward the mess. After tossing the trash in the garbage can, Miles soaked up the splatters of orange with paper towels. The penthouse vibrated with silence. He sucked in a breath and stared at the ceiling. Why waste his time? God never answered.
A knock sounded by his ear. With a groan, Miles forced himself to his feet. Great, another visitor. This day kept getting better. He opened the door.
“Mother.” He stepped back to allow the elegant woman into the penthouse.
“Hello, sweetheart. I thought you’d be here.” Ingrid blew a kiss at him. Her eyes skimmed the paper towels and cleanser on the floor. “You’ve had company.”
“You sound surprised?” Miles set the cleaning supplies in the kitchen.
His mother patted the couch beside her when he walked into the living room. “Come here, honey. I need to speak with you.”
Her firm expression belied her gentle tone. His gut clenched, and his palms began to sweat. Great, one of her dreaded ‘talks.’ Miles sat down.
She smiled. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” He rubbed his knee. When a soft sigh reached his ears, he squinted at her. “What?”
A tentative hand brushed his fingers before clasping the other lightly in her lap. “I can tell you’re moving better.”
“As good as always.”
“And the nightmares?”
Miles reared off the couch and stalked into the kitchen. Leaning against the breakfast bar, he eyed her from under the cabinets. “What do you want, Mother?”
She pursed her lips. After a moment of silence, Ingrid relaxed into the cushions. “We’ve hired a new secretary.”
He took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. “An often enough occurrence. But you usually don’t deliver their names to me in person.”
“I know, dear, but I thought you may be acquainted with this particular lady. Well, heard of her.” She rose from the couch and slid a stool out. Perching on the edge of the seat, Ingrid schooled her features into impassivity.
Miles moved around the bar and sat next to his mother. “Is this about Ray?”
The quick shake of her head sent her diamond earrings dancing. “Oh no, that boy is a pain in my backside. This little lady? Well, she’s yours, dear.”
Confusion swept through him. “Mine?”
“I can tell by your expression, you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.” Ingrid patted his cheek.
“Don’t.” Miles jerked his head.
The second the word ground from his throat, his mother’s face lost all color. Closing his eyes, Miles rubbed his forehead.
“I’m sorry.” Her blunt whisper barely reached his ears.
The sound of water dripping down the drain accompanied his steps into the living room, but he didn’t utter a word. She followed him without a sound and settled on the cushions in one corner of the couch.
“From wherever that awful war has captured my son, I want him back.” Tears glistened in her aqua blue eyes.
He propped against the armrest and stretched out his leg, fingering his mane. After a brief silence, he cleared his throat. “Tell me about this new hire.”
She brushed at her face. Her shoulders back, determination squared her jaw. She reminded him of a bulldog. He wondered—who was the bone?
“Do you remember the architect you promoted before you left?” She tapped on her chin. “Oh, I can’t remember his name.”
His throat constricted. “Stephen?”
She snapped her fingers. “Yes, Stephen Hart.”
Miles flinched at the sound. Pain shot through his temples, and his skull pulsed. “What about him?”
Her eyes widened at his bark. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m trying to place the man.”
“Total nerd. Think of Ryan, except taller. Awesome architect, though.” Miles leaned forward, his beard touching his knees and repeated, “What about him, Mother?”
“After you left, we had issues with some of our competitors. Ray tried to handle it but…” She lifted her hands and dropped them in defeat. “He isn’t you, Miles.”
“What does this have to do with Stephen?”
She stood and took a few steps. “Oh, I thought you knew. He and several others left. Lockhurst stole them right from under our noses.”
“Stephen Hart?” His voice rose in disbelief. He shook his head to clear it. He remembered his last night before leaving for Iraq. He’d wandered into Stephen’s lab, like the many nights before, and talked to him for hours. At dawn, the man had driven him to the airport.
“But I haven’t told you the worst part yet.” His mother’s voice dropped. “The Ansari designs are gone, including the drafts. The only person with access is…was Hart.”
Stephen wouldn’t, no—couldn’t betray him. The architect may be a little strange and even antisocial at times, but he’d never… “And this pertains to your new hire how?”
She patted her coiffed hair and took a deep breath. “His daughter called me last week and asked if we had her father’s contact information.”
Miles ran a hand down his beard. He lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. “I’ve never met his daughter. Although he’s shown me a few pictures. I wouldn’t call that a surprise considering the circumstances, Mother.”
She shot a dark look his way. “Don’t blame me for your security, Miles. Anyway, I told her I hadn’t been in contact with him, but that wasn’t good enough for her. She begged me to let her come on board. She’s quite the talker. Before I knew it, I’d agreed.”
“Are you sure it was her? What was her name?”
His mother’s shoulders drooped slightly. She shook her head.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
She smoothed her slacks and took several steps toward the front door, but stopped. Her gaze rested on his worn pants, and her brows crinkled. “Oh, honey, I think I’d better go. This was a bad idea.”
His hand landed above her head, blocking her exit. “Tell me.”
She pulled on the knob until he stepped away. “Aimee Pryce. She started today in the pool. I should’ve talked to you. I’m sorry, son.”
The door closed quietly behind her and Miles leaned against the wood. Interesting. Amber Marie Hart, a.k.a. Aimee Pryce had joined his secretarial pool. Pryce? Where’d she come up with that one?
He strode to his sofa and withdrew a small worn picture from the end table drawer. A young blonde waded in the surf, the sun flashing off her bright hair and the blue water. Her smile was as bright as the morning light over her shoulder. Miles groaned.
Stephen’s daughter, commercial architect and protégée—a secretary? Now that was as likely as him shaving his beard. Or his best friend turning traitor.

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