Chapter 18

Samson

The morning broke outside the bedroom window and yellow light scattered across Blair’s side of the bed. Empty again. The woman disappeared at will. I lay on my side, one arm tucked behind my head and inhaled the smell of her on the pillows.

Her light fragrance gave my morning boner more motivation. I growled under my breath. Pity, she’d avoided another morning fun time. I’d have made her scream my name this time, let her mother know what was going on in here and give her another dollop of well-earned jealousy.

But, ah, she was gone.

“Where this time?” I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, then caught sight of the sheet of paper on the bedside table.

Neat handwriting tracked across the lines on the page.

Gone out for last-minute Christmas shopping. Back later. B.

No hearts or kisses in sight, shit. Well, that left me with some free time to check on my investments, my businesses, and to work out whatever the fuck this swirly feeling in my gut meant.

“Food poisoning?” I asked the ceiling, then laughed at my own joke. I already knew what it was but admitting it, on the other hand – yeah, that wasn’t on the cards.

I slipped out of bed and marched to the bathroom, wrestled with my boner and relieved myself, washed my hands, came back inside and rifled through the bag I’d packed for clothes that wouldn’t have me freeze half to death.

Sure, Regina’s mansion had internal heating but it wasn’t enough to take out the natural chill in the air.

I slipped on a fresh pair of jeans, boots, a long-sleeved shirt and a V-neck sweater. Comfy as fuck. First objective completed. Now, to check on the businesses.

My cell phone was on the dressing table where I’d left it, and I had about twenty missed calls, most of them from Geoff at the club. I’d left him in charge. My heart didn’t exactly tha-thump in anticipation of what he had to say.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care about my clubs but that boredom had already taken seat. When I got bored, I expanded. I tried something new.

Blair is new. Was she? It had already been a few days and I’d tasted her, explored her, claimed her virginity as my own, and still, I wasn’t bored. Usually, one night was enough for me.

I pocketed my cell phone and strode out of the guestroom, shutting the door behind me.

Chatter rolled out of the kitchen archway downstairs – likely Chef and her helpers whipping up whatever breakfast Regina had declared for this morning. The mother was nowhere in sight, thank god.

I’d screamed at her last night, and I wouldn’t apologize for it. In fact, the thought of what she’d done to Blair had my blood boiling all over again.

I worked my shoulders back and forth, opened up my chest and breathed low. “Fuggit,” I said and strode down the hall to the window next to the staircase at its end. Snow lay over the cars and the roofs of houses, blanketed the grass, and clung to branches of trees.

I couldn’t go for a walk out there, could I? Nah. Inside would suffice. Hopefully, mommy dearest didn’t pop out of the woodwork like the fucking Cuckoo bird she was.

A door cracked open behind me, and I took to the stairs. It wasn’t running so much as avoiding the inevitable conflict that’d come from seeing her this morning. Without Blair by my side, I’d let loose again.

I took the stairs two at a time and hit the third-floor landing. The phone in my pocket buzzed but I ignored it.

The air up here was fresh still, and the light flavor of pancakes drifted up from the ground floor. My stomach growled, and I pressed my fist to it, pressing on down the corridor instead.

I strolled past closed doors, tried one of the knobs and it opened inward on an ill-used second living room. An old television had been abandoned in the corner. I shrugged and continued.

Something here drew me on, an invisible presence pushing a palm to the back of my neck. I swiveled my head left and right, seeking. I opened one door, the next.

“This is dumb,” I grunted to myself. What the fuck was I looking for? A good place to sit and make a couple calls. For Blair. But Blair had gone out, and I wouldn’t find her in one of these empty rooms, each opulently decorated. Bedrooms, bathrooms, play rooms.

I reached the door at the end of the hall and opened it.

My face stared back at me.

I blinked. It wasn’t a mirror. It was me, stroked out in paint across a canvas.

“Blair,” I said and entered the room, leaving the door open behind me. She’d painted me. She’d captured my eyes, my haircut and beard. It was magnificent – clearly unfinished – but fucking amazing anyway.

Now, this is goddamn talent.

I walked to the window, its shutters open, and peered out at the white world down below. A woman tracked down the sidewalk, crunching through the snow and leaving small prints behind her.

I shook my head and turned my back on the view.

This was her space. Or it had been, apparently. Paintings hung on the walls, one above a single bed, with a cartoon egg bedspread. So many gorgeous visions – proper landscapes and pictures of people. One of a woman laughing as she did washing in a metal pail, water splashing from the rim.

I stepped carefully away from the easel that held my image and toward the desk. I opened one of the drawers and lifted a leather book from it, placing it flat. I rifled through the pages, flicked past drawn charcoal images – more people.

One of Regina, regal in a nightgown and smoking from a thin cigarette holder. Another of Chef, her hat perched askew on her unruly red curls. Then one of a man, buff and wearing a sweater – he had no face. The drawing was complete but she hadn’t drawn in any features.

Her father.

This was Blair. This was who she was. She captured things and portrayed them. She’d immortalized me, caught a glimpse of who I was inside in paint.

I swallowed.

Fuck. I’d swam in deep, and I was caught in a fucking riptide. Would it pull me under or could I ride it back to shore? Did I want to rest my feet on sand again? Really? I’ll drown in her and love every second of it.

I pressed two fingers to the signature at the bottom of the page.

Blair Scott. With the ‘S’ curling to dominate the page. That signature would have to change along with her last name.

“That’s crazy,” I said but I didn’t shut the book, just left my fingers there as if I could suck Blair’s soul out through the page.

The faceless man.

I lifted my gaze to the picture of me, so defined and clear, then flicked it back to the emptiness of her father.

“Christ.” I ruffled my hair. “Christ all-fucking mighty in a bucket of clams.”

Footsteps creaked on the boards down the hall, and I shut Blair’s drawing book, slipped it back into the drawer, then high-tailed it out of her secret spot and shut the door behind me, heart racing.

I’d never scared easily but this space felt sacred, and I didn’t want her to catch me invading it.

Regina halted midway down the corridor, and her mouth dropped, then snapped upward.

“Morning,” I said, stiffly, and gripped the knob. It rattled against my palm. I’d crush it if I wasn’t careful.

“Mr. Barnes,” she replied and nodded. For once, she wasn’t outfitted in silks and furs, just a plain pair of skinny jeans and a cream cardigan, pearls at her neck. “I owe you an apology.” It came out rigid. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you last night. I was emotional.”

“Ditto,” I said. Closest she’d get to an actual ‘sorry’ from me. I’d behaved like a shithead but it’d been warranted. The reaction fit the fucking crime, right?

“I – well, I haven’t seen my daughter this morning. Is she, perhaps, in that bedroom?” Regina pressed her palms together, then wrung her hands. The image of the woman washing her laundry in the pail flashed back to me.

“No,” I said. “She’s gone out shopping.”

“Oh.” Regina nodded. “I see. That’s – all right, then. Chef is making pancakes, if you’d like some. Cinnamon or strawberries. There’s syrup and honey, too. Chocolate syrup?”

I didn’t reply.

“Right, well, if you’re hungry, feel free to help yourself. And we’ll be having a roast for dinner, since it’s Christmas Eve. Do you eat lamb?”

I nodded.

Regina sniffed, then turned and made for the stairs. She paused at the top of them and looked back. “I really am sorry, you know,” she said, as if I’d told her otherwise. “I know you don’t think much of me but you don’t understand what life has been like for me.”

I didn’t much care what life had been like for her.

Regina faltered, snapped her mouth shut, then clopped down the stairs and out of sight.

I brought my cellphone out of my pocket and checked the time – past nine, no wonder my stomach had poked a hunger reminder at me. I unlocked the screen and frowned at the stock image for background.

What would I replace it with? One of Blair’s paintings?

I scrolled through my contacts, a long-ass list, mulling my decision over. Was it the right thing to do? How would she take it? If this exposed me to her, the truth about who I was, I stood the chance to lose her.

But Blair, money and all, had never been treated with the respect and admiration she deserved. She wanted to start a new life, and to do that she’d need true liberation and real tools at her disposal.

I nodded to myself, then hit dial, pressing the phone to my ear. It rang twice before he answered.

“Yeah, hi. I need your help with something,” I said. “Let’s call it a rush order. Money is not a problem, understand? Good.” A pause and I checked the top of the stairs. “I need it here by tomorrow morning. Yeah. You can? Good. Make it happen.”

I hung up. The decision had been made. The gears set in motion. Whatever happened now was up to fate. No, it was up to Blair.