“You are my blue crayon,
the one I never have enough of,
the one I use to color my sky.”
—A.R. Asher
“Yeah, get me whatever we have on Francesca Highland.”
“Right away, Master.”
Ending the call with Aubrey, I open the door to my office and step aside for Emmy. It isn’t until she’s walking past the threshold, her shoulder brushing my chest, that I realize what the fuck I’m doing—holding a door open for a woman for the first time in my life—and I snap the hell out of it.
She lingers in front of my desk, running a hand over one of the two leather seats. Making my way to the opposite side, I watch her as I loosen my cufflinks and roll up my sleeves.
So this is the real reason she’s here. Or was. I glance at her black scarf, and satisfaction rolls through me. Not her only reason now.
My eyes narrow on her as I think it over. “We didn’t reach out to you.”
She shakes her head even though it wasn’t a question.
“How’d you get our number to begin with? It’s not something we hand out freely.” I lower myself into my chair, leaning back and stretching my legs out.
She chews on her cheek as she sits across from me. “My sister.”
“Not so loyal, is she?”
“No. It wasn’t like that.” She sighs and glances away just as the desk phone rings.
I hit the speaker button. “Go ahead.”
“Master, we don’t have any record of a Francesca Highland.”
I rub the bottom of my chin, flick my gaze to Emmy. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. You’re welcome to check for yourself, but . . .” her words peter out, and my jaw ticks.
The records are kept in the front house. I would have to walk across a wide, sunlit lawn to get there, which isn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list.
“Thank you, Aubrey.” Hanging up, I lean back against the seat and tilt my chin. Emmy’s forehead is creased in confusion, her head shaking. Aubrey is efficient. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t rely on her. “Well, mouse. It seems you’ve made a life-altering mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake.” Her voice is assertive, but her eyes flicker with doubt. “I saw her name on a log in the spa.”
I rest my hands on the armrests and wait for her to explain.
“Well, not exactly. It was just a first name, and I guess it’s a pretty common one. But still, it can’t be a mistake. I heard her. My sister was on the phone with Stella the day she left.”
“What exactly do you think you heard?”
She lets out a sigh and sinks deeper into the chair. “I was just getting back from, um . . . visiting a neighbor”—she darts her eyes away, and my hand clenches into a fist as a certain photograph of a guy with tattoos appears in my mind—“when I saw Frankie through the trailer’s window. She was transferring a number from her palm to the bottom of her dresser. I walked around to the back and started to come inside, but then I overheard her through the cracked door. It was weird. She was hushed and secretive—nothing like usual.”
When Emmy pauses to run her tongue along her lower lip, I grit my teeth. This conversation would be far less distracting if she would just keep still.
“She said she’d be ready to start right away, that she was honored to have received an invitation. She mentioned a contract, too, and something about confidentiality. Then she took off that same night. I waited to hear from her, and when a few months passed without a word, I called the number under her dresser. Stella answered.” She shrugs. “You know the rest.”
Tipping my seat back, I mull her words over. “So that’s why you were crying in your photo.”
“Oh. No.” She picks at her fingernails, something I’ve never seen her do till now. “You saw that? I, um . . . my mama and I aren’t exactly close. I’d been trying to talk to her about finding Frankie, making sure she’s okay. It didn’t go so well, that’s all.”
Her mother. I trace Emmy’s movements, the way she rubs her neck, then tugs the bottom of her dress and swallows. I want to know why the woman makes her so uncomfortable. I want to know what Emmy’s mother did to make her react this way at the smallest mention of her.
My collar tightens around my neck, itchy as fuck, as I realize I want to know everything. Who she was before she came to me. Who she wants to be now.
I won’t push it. When she gives me those parts of herself, it will be on her own. Eventually, she’ll tell me.
Eventually, she’ll give me everything.
Reaching up, I loosen the top few buttons of my shirt, but that doesn’t provide the relief I need. I’m hot everywhere, and why the fuck is my desk so wide? She’s like a full room away from me. Biting back a growl, I let my gaze drift to the curves of her body. The parts of her I can see, touch. The only parts that should occupy my mind.
Her smooth skin begs to be touched, making my fingers curl around the chair’s armrest. The angles of her face are round, soft, and I’m disappointed that her spattering of freckles is barely noticeable from here. When I find her eyes again, they’re shiny. I squint, something uncomfortable burning hotter in my chest with each moment I watch her. I don’t know when the hell my focus shifted back to her face, but fuck if it hurts to look away.
Irritation grips my veins. Murphy is going to be here in less than twenty-four hours, and more than likely not alone. I don’t have time for this shit. And since Emmy fucking ruptured my ability to function solo, neither does she.
Tearing my gaze from her, I scrub my palm down my jaw and watch my cock-blocking desk instead. “Why are you crying?”
She shifts in her seat. “I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are . . . doing that glassy thing.” Fuck, that was smooth.
She huffs out a snort and rubs her stomach, where her bandages are. “It’s called being upset. I’m worried.” When she sniffs, I slowly bring my eyes back to hers. “I just don’t get it. I was so sure she was here. I mean, she had to have been. Right?”
I twist my lips, needing the fire in her eyes to come back so my chest can feel normal again.
Goddammit.
Hitting speaker, I dial Aubrey’s extension.
“Yes, Master?”
“You still in the front house?”
“Yup.”
“Try searching for a Frankie instead.”
There’s a pause, then, “No Frankie either. But . . . wait, I remember Frankie.” Emmy sits up straight. “She was here this year, wasn’t she? Came in with her personal belongings even though we told her not to?”
I shrug, even though she can’t see it. Why the hell people expect me to know this shit is beyond me.
“Yes,” Emmy pipes up, her head bobbing up and down. “That’s her.”
I narrow my gaze at the phone. “Why didn’t she finish her contract?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Stella handled Frankie’s departure on her own. I do know she was scouted while modeling in New York, and I believe that had something to do with her leaving so suddenly. Some agency had reached out to her with another opportunity.”
I cock an eyebrow at Emmy, and her shoulders slump forward. “A modeling opportunity?” she whispers, like she’s talking to herself.
“Thank you, Aubrey.”
“Of course, Master.”
The line goes dead, and I watch Emmy’s brows furrow. “Well?” I mutter. “Sound like something your sister would have done?”
“I—yes. I guess it does, but . . .” She shakes her head, folds her arms over her stomach. “I just thought . . . I thought she would have written to me. But maybe it really is that simple. I mean, why wouldn’t she take an opportunity like that? And who knows?” She pulls her lip between her teeth and glances at her feet. “Maybe not writing for a little while was what she needed. A break from m—from everything. I wouldn’t blame her.”
I tilt my head, thinking the situation over. Truthfully, it fucking stinks. And it has Raife’s scent all over it.
We might be fucked up, but our Matthews House business is legit as far as legalities go. We worked with the best lawyers to ensure it was, back when we first started this shit with the secretaries. That was six years ago—after my last sexual incident, among some other shady encounters my brothers were involved in. Griff being accused of rape, twice, almost burned our plans to ash before we even started.
Ground rules are simple, really: blondes only—to keep shit like this from happening—only women who get off on what we have to offer, they come to us, and a standard year-long contract is the sweet spot. That’s typically as long as they can take before they want out, and it keeps them from expecting any further commitments from us. As far as contracts go, nothing explicit is stated aside from their secretarial duties, but our hires know what they’re getting into from the start. If the contract didn’t make it clear, the Dark Room certainly does. They sign up willingly and with all the right secretarial paperwork. They’re compensated beyond fairly and can leave at any time. We don’t hide or wipe out employee records.
Unless there’s a reason to.