It’s better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a lamb.
—John Gotti
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY
Now with the excuse of being Shane’s captive, I turn toward the minibar, fully intending to enjoy the wine and the man, when Shane’s phone starts ringing from the living room again, reminding me about my phone. I take a step toward my purse, and think better. If I didn’t get the call I’m expecting I’ll be upset. If I did, I’ll be freaked out that I missed it, and it’s not like I can have yet another heated phone debate in front of Shane. I turn back to the minibar, but Shane’s phone has not only stopped ringing, it’s started again. Concerned about the late hour and a possible emergency, I walk to the living room and grab it, but I’m not sure what to do from here. Should I call out to him? Should I hunt him down?
Sighing, I just take it with me in hunt of the wine, setting it next to the cognac. It starts ringing again and my gaze catches on the name “Seth” by accident. Regretting ever going after his phone, I quickly squat and open the cabinet, counting the rings until they go silent. Then and only then do I stare at a dozen bottles of wine, shifting one here and there to stare at labels, concerned I’ll pick the most expensive bottle on the shelf. I have a fleeting memory of how romantic I’d thought my parents trying a new bottle of wine every Friday night, had been. She never had a glass again after he died.
“Having trouble?”
I jump at the sound of Shane’s voice to look up and find him towering over me. “You surprised me,” I say, popping to my feet to discover he’s changed into a snug white T-shirt and a pair of navy sweats and still manages to look GQ.
“You must have been really concentrating on the wine.”
“I was thinking of—” His phone begins to ring where it sits on top of the minibar, and his brows furrow in confusion.
“I grabbed it for you,” I explain quickly. “It keeps ringing and I was going to bring it to you but I felt weird about it. Then I felt weird about calling out to you or ever touching your phone.” It stops ringing again. “Then I felt even weirder when I saw the caller ID like I was snooping. I should have just left it where it was. I’m sorry.”
He studies me, his expression unreadable, several beats passing in which I wonder what he’s thinking, before he says, “You’re fine. Did you pick a bottle?”
“I don’t know much about wine and I was worried I’d pick an outrageously expensive bottle.” I go back to what seems important. “Shouldn’t you deal with those phone calls? It’s late. What if something’s wrong?”
“For the first time in a year, I’m not taking calls.”
“Don’t you want to know who it is?”
“I know who it is. You want a sweet wine, I assume?”
“I want a cheap wine.”
“I don’t have any cheap wine.”
“Then I don’t want any.”
He squats down, grabs a bottle, and stands again. “This one it is.” His phone starts to ring and he ignores it, motioning toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit at the bar,” he says, already moving that direction.
“I don’t drink much,” I call after him, his shoulders especially impressive under the stretch of the cotton tee, a hint of the dreaded tattoo peeking from one shoulder. “I’ll waste the bottle.”
He rounds the bar and appears on the other side in the kitchen, reaching above him to a cabinet. I grab his phone, and join him, claiming a high-backed leather barstool at the same moment he sets two crystal glasses on the counter. I, in turn, set his phone in between them.
He ignores it and fills both glasses. “Try it and make sure you like it.”
I fight the urge to push him to take the call. He knows who it is. He knows it’s not an emergency. Unless he doesn’t. “It’s Seth,” I say.
He picks up the phone and hits the button on the side that I can only assume is the volume, then rests his hands on the other side of the bar. “Try the wine, sweetheart.”
“I was just worried—”
“I know.”
Okay. He knows who it is so all is well, only his energy says differently but I don’t get the chance to press him. The doorbell rings. “That will be the food,” he says. “And once again, I’ll be right back.” He disappears on the other side of the bar and I stare at the phone. Oh God. Is Seth his father? Some people call their parents by their names. It’s odd, but so is his father having sex in the kitchen with his friend’s mother.
Almost too quickly it seems Shane reappears but this time on my side of the bar. “Your phone’s ringing,” he says, surprising me by offering me my purse and setting the bag of food on his stool.
My gut knots and I accept it, forcing myself not to react. “Well since no one offering me a job would be calling now,” I say, hanging it on the back of my stool, “I’m not taking calls either.” I inhale the rich scent of spices. “And I swear that ravioli smells better this time than last.”
“You can take the call, Emily. It’s really okay.”
“I don’t want to take the call.” And I don’t want to invite questions. I scoot off my seat. “I’ll get silverware if you tell me where it is.” I dart around him before he can stop me.
“By the refrigerator,” he calls out. “And we don’t need plates.”
I pull open the drawer, and stare at the expensive silverware, glad for the short retreat that’s giving me time to shove aside the worry threatening to take control of me. It can’t have control. I can’t survive that way. I grab two forks and shut the drawer again, turning to face Shane. “Do you want water?”
“I’ll take a bottle.”
Turning to the fridge, I open it and note he has hardly any food. Okay no food. Just protein shakes and water. “Do you eat at home ever?” I call out, grabbing him a bottle, and heading back around the bar to find our take-out containers still sealed, and in front of our places, the bag set aside.
“I work a lot and order room service.”
I claim my seat and set the water next to him. “I guess that explains why you chose to live in a hotel.”
“This place is my father’s,” he says. “We have a family business I chose not to join, but they needed my legal expertise short term so it was convenient.”
“And now they convinced you to stay long term.”
“I convinced myself to stay, and I told a Realtor to find me a place today.”
“Wait,” I say, forcing myself to bite back my questions that will lead to his questions. “Please tell me this isn’t where he brought his woman.”
He freezes. “Holy fuck, that’s not what I want in my head when sleeping in my bed, but thank you for that motivation to get the hell out of this place.” He reaches for my wine glass. “And a good reason to drink. Try it. If you don’t like it I’ll grab another bottle before we start eating.”
I accept the glass and our hands collide, my eyes lifting to his, the connection I feel stunning me with its force. “Don’t pretend to like it if you don’t,” he warns.
“I wouldn’t do that, but we aren’t opening another bottle no matter what.” I tilt the glass up and sip, a really yummy sweet explosion of flavors finding my tongue. “It’s quite possibly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had and please tell me it doesn’t cost as much as your suit.”
“You know how much my suit costs, but not the wine.”
It’s an observation meant to invite information, which I don’t give. “You learn wine by being around someone who actually knows wine. Or taking a personal interest beyond an occasional drink.”
“And you know how much a custom suit costs by being around money.”
“Or arrogant attorneys that wouldn’t dare shop on the bargain racks.”
My quick rebuttal earns me the tiniest hint of a curve to his lips. “I think you just called me arrogant.”
“Of course you’re arrogant, Shane.” I pick up the glass. “But you manage it with a fair amount of grace.”
Now he laughs, disbelief lacing the deep, sexy sound. “Arrogance can be handled with grace. I had no idea.”
I take a sip. “I didn’t think so until I met you. But maybe you’re on your best behavior.”
His lips tighten, his mood darkening. “Yes. Well. Therein lies the problem.”
He’s not talking about me, and he doesn’t offer more detail, instead reaching over and removing the lid from my - container, like he needs to take care of me, and it’s kind of an amazing feeling. Knowing I said the wrong thing isn’t.
He shifts to his container and lifts the lid. “Let’s see how you like it.”
We both pick up our forks and somehow we look at each other at the same moment. “I’m good at hitting the wrong nerves, aren’t I?”
“I could say the same to you.”
He noticed but that doesn’t surprise me. “Then why are we sitting here together?”
“Because we want to be.”
Because we want to be. It’s such a simple answer when nothing else in my life, and I suspect his life, is simple. “And we’re hungry,” he adds, using his fork to indicate my plate. “Try it.”
I turn my attention to my plate and take a bite, and I can’t help it. I moan. “Holy wow. This is my new addiction. It’s way too close to my apartment for my waistline. I’ll be running double in the morning.”
“You run?” he asks.
“I do. It’s kind of my sanity. But I guess in the winter here I’ll have to try a gym.”
“I’m a runner too and I can attest to that fact. In the winter, you’ll want a gym. There’s a great one attached to the Ritz a few blocks away.”
“I’ll check it out.” We both take a few bites, the short silences actually remarkably comfortable, though I can almost feel him thinking. And I’m thinking about what he’d said about being on his best behavior as he opens his water, slugs a drink, and offers it to me.
I glance at the bottle, and then at the water on his bottom lip, deciding that if I had more courage, I’d kiss it away. But I don’t, and my gaze inches upward to his, the air seems to charge around us, and I forget to breathe. Oh yes. There is something far more intimate about us, and this moment in time, than sex, and I can’t seem to convince myself that it’s bad. I reach for the bottle, tilting it to take a deep swallow, before offering it back to him. He leans my way, his thumb stroking away the remnants of water from my lip, his head lowering for a kiss that doesn’t come.
His phone vibrates and he freezes, his lashes lowering, tension in his mouth inching toward mine. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “I should have turned it off.” He glances down at the phone. “Now my mother’s calling me.”
“Do you think she found out about the woman?”
“I hope like hell not.” He grimaces at the caller ID. “And now Seth is calling again.”
“Take the call, Shane. Get it off your mind because I know it is.”
He gives me an agreeable nod, and punches the answer button. “Is this about my father or the security feed?”
I’m appalled to realize I can hear Seth reply. “I’m on my way home to go through the security footage.”
“So this call is about my father,” Shane assumes.
“He took the woman to the Four Seasons.”
My jaw drops at this outrageous act by his father while Shane laughs without humor. “Of course he did. Who’s the woman?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Then why call me repeatedly rather than leave me a message?”
“I was about to come over there before your mother does.”
“What?” Shane asks.
“She called me when she couldn’t reach you, insisting that it’s imperative she talk to you and indicated she might go to your apartment.”
Shane runs a hand over his face. “Why?”
Why is right? Why am I listening? I try to get up. Shane catches my arm, and gives me a look along with a shake of his head, while Seth answers. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
I mouth, “I can hear everything.”
Shane nods his understanding but seems to dismiss any concern, turning his attention back to his call. “Of course my mother wouldn’t tell you what she wants,” he concludes to Seth. “That would be too simple. I’ll deal with her.”
“I’ll have a report on the security feed by morning.”
“And the woman,” Shane amends. “We’re paying enough people to get me an answer by morning.”
Woman? Does he mean the one he saw his father with tonight? Surely not.
“Until she goes home,” Seth replies, “I have no way of tracing her.”
Damn. That sure sounds like he’s talking about the woman his father is with and it’s a slippery slope he’s headed down.
“Try,” Shane orders, ending the call to look at me. “I need to deal with my mother. It’ll be fast.”
“I could hear every word of both sides of your conversation,” I quickly say, “not just your part. I should go to the balcony.”
“I want you right here.”
“No you don’t, because I’ll tell you that you shouldn’t be looking into that woman, Shane. And yet I know it’s none of my business.”
“What it is, is more complicated than a simple affair.”
“Like I said, I should I should go to the balcony.”
“Stay,” he says, and while he says it like one of his commands, which I’ve come to realize are simply second nature to him, I sense an undertone of a plea I don’t believe he’d ever issue.
I give a choppy nod and resettle on the barstool. He wastes no time punching a button on his phone and almost instantly says, “What’s going on, Mother?”
“I heard you saw your father tonight,” I hear her reply.
“I see him daily,” he says, obviously treading cautiously.
“At the restaurant, Shane. Susie said you obviously were not pleased.”
He’s silent several beats, as if weighing his reply. “Did she tell you why?”
“I know your father’s having an affair. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“You know he’s having an affair?”
He sounds incredulous. Been there, done that, and I never came to terms with why my mother accepted my stepfather’s affairs.
“Of course I know,” his mother confirms. “It’s fine.”
Shane looks at the ceiling, seeming to rein in whatever emotion she’s stirred, before saying, “We’ll talk tomorrow.” His tone short and absolute.
“Son,” she begins. “Your father—”
“I have company, Mother.”
“Oh. Well. Good. You need to fuck some of your frustrations out. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Okay. Talk about embarrassing, and from his mother of all people.
“Tomorrow,” he bites out, ending the call and for a moment he just sits there, his spine stiff, his gaze fixed forward. I wait, giving him space and time.
He scrubs his jaw, no doubt trying to shake off a mire of emotions I know pretty well, but I doubt he hopes to share with me, or anyone. “I’m sorry you heard that,” he says, shoving his phone in his pocket, and standing to press his hands on the back of his stool.
“I’m thick-skinned,” I say, rotating to face him, finding his stare fixed on me, his expression unreadable, but that is expected from a man who makes a living hiding his reactions to things.
There are a million things that come to my mind that I could say—like how people have coping mechanisms—but he’d said this was more than a simple affair and anything I say could negate me respecting the implications of that claim. And I don’t have time to weigh the smartness of that decision as he steps to me, his hands coming down on the back of my chair, his arms caging me. “This thing between us is not about two kids, PTA meetings, and four dogs in our future.”
“Four dogs. That’s a lot. I do want a dog though.”
“Emily.”
“I don’t need PTA meetings. This thing, as you call it, is a one-night stand, Shane.”
“That’s not happening.”
“What’s not happening?”
“This is not a one-night stand. Neither of us will be done with each other that fast, and we both know it.”
“You can’t decide what we are on your own.”
“You’re running, but not from me.”
“Let me up.” I shove on his unmoving arm to try to break free. “Damn it, Shane.”
“Do you want this to be a one-night stand?”
“I’m not capable of more right now.”
“We’re keeping it simple. We’re going upstairs to my bedroom to fuck.”
“And tomorrow?”
“We’ll fuck some more.”
It’s just sex and he’s upset right now. Come tomorrow morning, he’ll be over this. “Fine,” I say. “Then why are we talking?”
His eyes glint and the next thing I know, he’s lifted me off the stool, scooped me up and is crossing the living room to carry me up a long set of wooden steps. Heading, I assume, to his bedroom, a man on a mission, to fuck everything out of his system, and no matter what he just said, I’m pretty sure that includes me. There’s no reason to worry he’ll see too much, or want too much. He is just reacting to his family drama, and no one understands that more than me.
At the top of the stairs, we enter a room shrouded in shadows and he doesn’t turn on the lights. He sits me on a bed, and then he’s gone, leaving me to eye the one thing I can make out clearly in the room. A giant wall of more windows, the sky now black, as if clouds have wiped out all light. The way Shane and I both want to wipe away the darkness. You’re running, he’d said, and it hadn’t been an accusation, but rather a statement of fact.
The sound of a condom package tearing has me twisting around to find him standing at the edge of the nightstand, naked—like the way he makes me feel inside. He comes back to me then, joining me on the bed, and my shirt, his shirt, is gone in a flash, his hands replacing it. His tongue and mouth are everywhere. And when he finally turns my back to his front, and he is inside me again, his body wrapped around mine, our pleasure colliding, our bodies collapsing in release, he holds on to me and he doesn’t let go. And he doesn’t hurry away, nor do I try to move. We just lay there, in the darkness, together, and therefore we are not alone.
I blink awake in the midst of a now familiar nightmare, jerking to a sitting position, my hand at my throat in the midst of panic and terror. Forcing air into my lungs, I become aware that I am in a bedroom and in bed alone, but it’s not mine. It’s Shane’s bed, and the autumn scent of him is everywhere around me, even on my hair and skin. A chill runs down my spine, reminding me that my nightmare is a product of the reality I’m forced to hide from, when I just want to face it and make it go away. That, and I’m naked. I grab the blanket, tugging it to my chin, the sound of rain splattering on glass calling my attention to a wide expanse of windows hugged by curtains to my left. The room is cozy, my memories are not.
“Stupid nightmare,” I murmur, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, noting the time as six thirty, which must mean Shane is already up and getting ready for work. Shaken by the idea that I hadn’t noticed he’d left the bed when I can’t afford to be that oblivious to my surroundings, but then last night comes back to me, and good lord, I’d fallen asleep with him still inside me. And now I’m here and he’s not and it’s the awkward morning after. Unless … he’s not even here. That would certainly wipe out the awkward part and I both hate and love that idea. Whatever the case, Shane isn’t here, and that means I need out of this bed and into my clothes.
Scanning the room, I take in the details I couldn’t see last night: an oversized dresser made of heavy gray wood sits directly in front of me with a flat-screen TV above it. A door I think leads to a closet is to my right. And to my left are the giant window and a chair where I am relieved to find my clothes. Of course, there appears to be nothing in view to cover myself so I’m going to have to run across the room naked, most likely at the exact moment Shane walks into the room. And the longer I sit here, the more that becomes a possibility.
Decision made, I throw the blanket aside, climb out of bed, and dash for the chair. I snatch my skirt, quickly stepping into it, tugging the zipper as I step into my high heels. Frustratingly, my bra is missing and then I give my blouse a woeful inspection that tells me I’ll be walking home with my breasts hanging out if I don’t steal one of Shane’s shirts. The one laying on the chair will work just fine, and I snatch it up to realize it’s my size, and reads FOUR SEASONS. Shane obviously hit the gift shop for me, proving he might be giving me a silent good-bye, but he did so with some gentlemanly class. And really, I’m glad to avoid the face-to-face meeting that would only make me wish for what I can’t have.
I tear off the tag and pull it over my head, more than ready to grab my purse, check the two phones I carry inside it for calls, and head home. One step toward the door, though, and I stop myself. There is no way around it. I have to pee so badly it is a physical ache. I rotate and head for a door I think is the bathroom. I pass through the doorway, I flip on the light, and shut the door. I take a step and once again, stop, my lips parting in stunned appreciation for the gorgeous, all-white bathroom, with an oversized oval tub framed by another giant window as the centerpiece.
Memories of a time when I lived like this stir in my mind, followed by a whirlwind of emotions I don’t have time to endure in Shane’s bathroom. Shoving them away, I hurry forward to do what I came in here to do. Once I’m done, I stop at the mirror and good lord, my hair is so puffed up it looks like squirrels played in it when I was sleeping. I hunt for a brush and find it in a drawer next to a razor, and waste no time taming the wild affair on my head. That’s when I notice the new, unopened toothbrush sitting beside a tube of toothpaste. Shane left this for me and since I stupidly fell asleep, I have no gauge on what this means. Probably it’s like the shirt—he’s being a gentleman. And he’ll probably have a car waiting for me, which I’m not going to take because that means the driver will have my address.
Whatever the case, I brush my teeth, toss the brush in the trash, and then face the door. Now, I’ll leave. He’s not here, so why am I nervous? I’m just going to grab my purse and head out the door. I reach for the knob. What if he is here? He’s not. He’s not here. I open the door and yelp as I find Shane standing in front me, already dressed to kill in a black suit, royal-blue tie, and starched white shirt.
“You’re really good at scaring me,” I accuse, balling my fist at my racing heart, elated that he’s still here when I should be welcoming a quick departure.
“Not my intent. I was going to knock and make sure you found the T-shirt.” His gaze lowers and lifts. And I see you did.” He drags me to him and gives me a fast, quick, but oh-so-drugging kiss, the taste of man and rich, strong coffee, exploding in my senses. “Minty fresh,” he says softly. “Looks like you found the toothbrush too. Unless you used my toothbrush.”
“No,” I say appalled. “I’d never do that. Has someone actually done that?”
“They never get the chance since I don’t invite women to my apartment.”
“What?” I ask, stunned yet again by this man, and by the fact that my hand has found its way to his chest, right where I want it.
“I never invite women to my apartment and damn sure don’t curse the phone call that got me out of bed with them.”
My heart is thundering, but so is his under my palm, and that crazy, addictive energy that charged the air around us last night is back. “What are we doing, Shane?”
“Figuring it out as we go.”
“I’m not … I can’t…”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“No. No, we can’t. We said—”
“No PTA,” he supplies. “Just a lot of fucking and whatever else we decide to let happen.”
“Shane—”
The doorbell rings. “And that will be the coffee I ordered. I was afraid mine would put hair on your chest and I like you how you are.” He kisses me fast and hard. “Meet me downstairs.” And just like that, he’s leaving and I’m staring after him, once again with my fingers on my mouth where his lips just were. I can’t do this. Can I? Maybe just another night or two won’t hurt. I can do that. I want to do it. I am doing it.
Charging forward before I change my mind, I exit the room, and hurry down what in the light of day is truly a stunning bamboo staircase attached to the wall. At the bottom level, Shane is nowhere to be found. I hurry to the bar to grab my purse and check my phone. The minute I reach the bar, I find him on the opposite side. “White mocha,” he says, setting a Starbucks-style cup in front of me. “That’s what they recommended downstairs.”
I reach for the cup. “Thank you.” This man is too charming for my own good. “It’s my favorite.” I take a sip. “And it’s excellent.”
His eyes light up. “Then I owe Tai an extra tip.”
Really too charming. “He didn’t mention a bra randomly falling on someone’s head did he?”
He laughs. “No. He didn’t, but that would be good for a laugh.”
“That would be humiliating.”
“They’d never know it was yours.” He lifts a bag. “Bagels. They make them here.”
“Don’t you have to be at work?”
“Eventually.”
One of my phones rings and I bend down to grab my purse and somehow—it’s unzipped and I end up pouring the contents everywhere. I squat and scramble to pick everything up, reaching for one phone, and then the other, but it’s too late. Shane is on a knee in front of me, and he’s got the second. He glances at it and at the one in my hand. “Two phones.”
Unease ripples through me. “I bought a new one when I lost mine.”
I can see his mind working, perhaps remembering me telling the guard the phone I’d lost was new. “Two new phones,” he says, confirming that’s exactly what he was thinking. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me help you.”
A ball of emotions tightens in my chest. “We’re sex, Shane. This isn’t your problem any more than I should have commented about you looking into your father’s date last night.” I shove the phone, as well as my compact back in my purse, holding out my hand. “Can I have that please?”
He stands with my phone and I follow him to my feet, slipping my purse over my head and across my body. We stare at each other, and those gray eyes study me, intensely gorgeous. I hate that I met him now, this way. “Shane—”
He steps to me, taking my hand and pressing the phone into it, holding on to it and me. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Yet. But I plan to change that.”
“I don’t want you to change that.”
“Yes. You do.”
He’s wrong. Because I like him. Really like him and he’d most likely hate me if he knew the secret I’m hiding. “You don’t understand—”
“Make me understand.”
“It’s complicated. We both agreed we aren’t doing complicated.”
“I’m good at complicated, sweetheart. Try me.”
If only it were that simple. My phone starts to ring in our hands. “It could be about a job,” I say, grasping at a chance to breathe and think.
“Of course. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
Talk? I can’t talk to him about anything remotely close to the truth. He releases my hands and his own phone starts ringing. I glance at mine to discover a local number and quickly answer only to miss the call that had to be about a job. I wait for the message to beep when I hear Shane say, “You got to be fucking kidding me. There’s a big tip for you keeping him in the lobby. I’ll be right there.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone. “Stay here. My father is trying to pay us a visit.”
“Oh my God. Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s my father.” His hands come down on my arms. “I’m sorry about this. Let me get rid of him before we leave.”
“I’ll be here waiting,” I say, wanting it to be the truth, but knowing it can’t be.
He steps around me and the voice mail on my phone beeps. I stare at it, waiting for the sound of the door shutting. The minute it does, I punch the button and listen to the call, letting out a sigh of relief. At least one of my problems is solved. I squeeze my eyes shut, rejecting the idea that Shane is officially another problem, but I can’t. I open my eyes again. I know his father showing up downstairs is my escape. I know I have to leave before he gets back, but I don’t want to be gone. I dig the second phone out of my purse, and punch in the only number I ever call on this phone.
SHANE
Watching the elevator floors tick by, I am certain of two things. I’m not letting Emily get away and I’m done playing my father’s games. The doors open, and I step into the hotel lobby to find my father leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his black pinstriped suit, his red power tie in place and his white shirt starched, which can mean only one thing. He has a room in this hotel that he maintains, including a change of clothes. And damn it, I am as pissed at him as I am at that piece of shitty news, among other things, I still notice how thin he is, probably one eighty when he’d been two hundred pounds when I’d arrived last year.
I stop in front of him and he smells like perfume. . “Good morning, son,” he says, not the least bit irritated that I wouldn’t allow him upstairs to an apartment he owns. But then, why would he? He dictated my presence.
“Your message is loud and clear, Father.”
“Do tell, son,” he says, a slight rasp to his voice I’ve never noticed before now. “What exactly is my message?”
“You’ll do what the hell you want and approval is the last thing you give a damn about.”
“Is this where you threaten to go back to New York again?” he asks, not denying or confirming my statement.
I give him an assessing stare. “I backed you in a corner over Derek and the pharmaceutical branch and you didn’t like it.”
He pushes off the wall and stands toe-to-toe with me. “That was a gift and consider it the last one you’ll get. Control your brother or go back to New York because somebody has to run this company when I’m gone.” He starts to turn and stops. “You’re wearing your weak spot like a badge of honor.”
He starts walking and I follow his progress, watching as he rounds the corner and for a moment after he disappears, I stare after him, a tight ball forming in my chest that I try to reject, but it just keeps getting bigger. I turn and jab the elevator button, the doors opening instantly. Stepping into the empty car, I hit the code to return to my floor, and I’m quickly sealed inside, that ball now a hot spot expanding in my chest. Son of a bitch. That wasn’t my father playing one of his head games. It was him, in his demented way, telling me the cancer is getting worse. Bringing that woman here was about pissing me off to avoid any pity I might throw his way.
Facing the wall, I press my fist against the wood, hanging my head, damn glad I have a few minutes alone to grapple with the razor blade of emotions cutting through me. I hate him and I love him. How is that even possible? The hate is justified, guilt-free in the past, but death, fucking cancer, changes everything. I dig through my mind for a source of my love for him and I can’t even find a memory to cling to. And yet, I’m still in knots, still wearing guilt over my hate like a weighted glove.
The elevator dings and I shove off the wall, stepping out into the hallway, a mix of emotions driving my long strides. Anger. More guilt. More fucking anger. I’m at my door and I barely remember the walk. The very idea of the woman inside, her smell, her taste, and the way she feels in my arms, calms a bit of the beast that is my emotions raging inside me. I enter my apartment—no, my father’s apartment, a matter I need to remedy now, not later—finding Emily absent from the bar where I expect her to be waiting. Her coffee is there though, and I reach for it, finding it untouched.
Scanning the kitchen and lower level, there is no sign of her presence. A bad feeling rolls through me and I glance toward the balcony, the rain splattering the window ruling out the idea she might be there. Listening, I look to the steps, but there is silence encasing me, and I know she is gone. And I know I’m going after her. I head for the door, exiting into the hallway, and I don’t stop until I’m at the elevator, inside the car, and punching the button for the lobby level. Perfectly still, I stand there, staring ahead, shoving that beast born of my emotions into a mental box to be analyzed at a more appropriate time. Right now, I have one agenda. Emily, who beyond reason, is important to me. Maybe it’s the timing of meeting her. Maybe it’s the hope and optimism in her eyes and her words that defies whatever she thinks has beaten her but I know has not. Whatever it is she does to me, I need it, which means I need her.
The elevator dings again, and I step to the doors, exiting the car the instant they part, and striding toward the front of the hotel.
“Good morning, Mr. Brandon,” someone murmurs.
I lift a hand, my gaze scanning for Emily, my approach to the front of the building never slowing. Finally, I reach the double glass doors, and they part, and I exit to find Tai just outside to my right, rain pounding the awning above us, splattering the ground beyond.
“Did you see Emily leave?” I ask him.
He looks baffled. “No sir. Should I have?”
“Did anyone else?” I ask, ignoring his question.
“I’m certain she didn’t come through the front of the building. Considering the weather, she’d have needed a car and I would have handled that for her.”
“If she didn’t come through here, where would she be?”
“This is the only exit other than the garage. She must still be in the building.”
The garage. Fuck me. “If she shows up, stall her and call me.”
“Of course,” he says, but I’m already giving him my back and entering the hotel again, my legs quickly eating up the space between me and my intended goal. I reach the elevators and opt for the stairs, heading down a level to the only floor allowing access to the street. Entering the garage, I scan and find no signs of Emily, and considering she’ll be walking in the rain, I head for my car, fully intending to search for her. Clicking the locks, I’m about to open the door, when I spy a note on the front window. I grab it and find the delicate scribble of a woman’s hand.
I’m too complicated. I can’t do that to you. I’m sorry.