I turn back to finish cleaning the cooler so I can put it away, and not a second later a loud crash sounds in the living room.
“Mom?” Dropping everything, I hurry out, my heart in my throat.
And for good reason.
She’s lying on the floor where she fell, her book and glasses scattered beside her next to the end table she knocked over when she collapsed.
“Mom!”
I fly to her side. Above me upstairs, I hear Katie’s footsteps pounding for the steps. She comes halfway down and sees the situation. Her frightened shriek sounds like the one I feel building in the center of my chest.
“Grandma!” she cries.
I have my ear down on my mother’s breast, trying desperately to hear if her heart is still beating, if she’s still breathing. I drag my head away only long enough to meet my niece’s terrified stare.
“Katie, my phone is in my purse in the kitchen. Get it and call 9-1-1 for me right away, okay?”
She nods, snapping into action with a calm that’s remarkable for her age. As she nears the spot where I’m stuffing a sofa pillow under my mother’s head and reaching for more to place under her legs to elevate them, Katie pauses.
Her voice is as stark as her face. “Is Grandma going to—”
I don’t let her finish the thought, mostly because I can’t bear to consider it.
“Grandma needs a doctor right away, sweetie. Go make the call. We have to hurry.”
19
JARED
She ghosted me.
I can’t say I’m surprised. I can’t even say I blame her. If she didn’t think I was a first-rate jackass before, I’m sure she must now. However, none of that does a thing to improve my dark mood over Melanie’s absence for our Monday morning appointment to return to my studio.
“Shall I cancel the flight charter for today, sir?”
Gibson’s polite inquiry interrupts the track I’m wearing into the rug in my study with my aggravated pacing. I grumble something unintelligible even to my own ears and give him a curt, affirmative wave. He nods politely, then closes me inside my cage to brood some more.
Because of her anxiety in the helicopter, I had arranged for a small private jet to fly us to Sagaponack today instead. Call it an olive branch, if not an overdue apology. It seemed the least I could do to make Melanie feel more comfortable with me, less afraid.
Not acting like a raving madman and a volatile, drunken prick might have gone a long way toward that effort, too.
Today I had intended to try on both counts.
As obvious as it is that she’s not going to give me that chance, some pathetic part of me wants her to know I’m not a complete asshole. Why it feels important to me, I have no damn idea.
But that’s not entirely true.
It’s important because in the few times we’ve been together, I’ve glimpsed a goodness in her, something that shines past the pained shadows in her luminous gray-blue eyes. Her goodness shines through in spite of that pain she works so hard to hide.
The same goodness I set out to corrupt from the instant I first saw her.
If not for the clumsiness of my failing hands, that corruption would have started right there on the kitchen floor of my beach house. I groan at the memory, and at the fresh jolt of lust it chases through me.
A better man might regret the kiss I forced on her, along with everything else. I don’t. I can’t. Not when her mouth felt so perfect against mine, her body pliant and willing. She burned so hot when I took her in my arms, I can still feel the singe of her warmth everywhere we touched.
Jesus Christ. The MacCallan must have really soaked my brain, because even now, three days later, I still have myself nearly convinced she had wanted me every bit as much as I still want her.
My cock would like nothing better than to believe that, too. Just the thought of kissing Melanie stirs a swift erection and sends fire licking through my veins.
Fuck.
On second thought, it’s a damn good thing she didn’t show up this morning. Not only for her, but for me.
I’ve never been this hungry for a woman before, this consumed with need. I don’t like the feeling one fucking bit.
I’ve made it a point to always remain in control of every situation. It’s how I’ve survived.
Detached. Opportunistic.
Numbed to everything but my own needs and pleasures.
Staying in control was the only way to navigate the brutal early days after I first arrived in New York. It’s also how I’ve swum the equally shark-infested waters of the city I’ve since made my own through my art and the wealth it’s earned me.
But all those years of hard lessons and discipline might as well have been built on sand because now, after one taste of Melanie Laurent’s lips, all I’ve thought about since is how I can have another, deeper taste of her.
I have her phone number, though I’ve resisted calling it. I have her address, too, thanks to the hundred-dollar tip I gave the Hamptons Uber driver who took her home for me.
I could have Nate call and remind her that she’s legally obligated to fulfill her contract with me. Or I could get in my car and drive out to her little house in Queens to tell her myself. That ought to solidify her contempt for me.
I’ve given her no reason not to despise me already, so what difference would it make?
I pace another hard track in the rug, trying to talk myself out of caving to any of my worst urges where she’s concerned. Instead, I decide to make the most of my day’s suddenly cleared schedule and take care of a few business matters that require my attention.
First on the list is a face-to-face with my old friend, Dominic Baine.
Forgoing my driver, I head down
