Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
The rattle of a key in the lock jolts me awake, and I leap off the couch, slamming my shin against the coffee table in the process. My heart pounds as my gaze darts around the dim room. For one insane second, I’m certain that Jack Forrester is here, and it’s not Glenn Close he’s come to kill, but me.
Then I realize that I’m not lost inside Jagged Edge. It’s Bree.
“Are you insane?” I howl, clutching my leg as pain radiates through my entire body. My voice is sharp with irritation and laced with lingering fear. “You scared me to death.”
“Sorry! I’m sorry! But you freaked me out, too. You called. You hung up. What was I supposed to do?”
“Assume I hit the wrong speed dial?” I press my fingers to my temples, then stumble toward the kitchen, desperate for some Ibuprofen.
“I know—I just …”
“What?” I sag with relief when I find three pills still in the bottle. I swallow them dry, then wash them down with a gulp of wine as Bree gives me the stink-eye.
“You’re a mess, my friend.”
“And that,” I say, “is why I hung up. You don’t need to be dealing with my mess right now. You’re leaving the country in just a few hours. That gives you a complete and total pass on all my drama.”
“I can sleep on the plane.” She flops onto the sofa, then leans forward, her hands on her knees as she looks at me hard. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say, the words coming as automatically as please or thank you.
“The hell you are. Jenny is dead. And maybe it was suicide, and that’s a tragedy. But maybe she didn’t kill herself. And you’re in the thick of it, my friend. If there was foul play—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Dammit, Ari. I can’t lose you. Not ever.”
I bite my lower lip as tears prick my eyes. “I love you, too. You know that right?”
“Well, duh.”
We both laugh, and I plop my ass onto the sofa next to her, then scrub my hands over my face. “Ash is going to kill me.”
She waves a hand in dismissal. “He respects the Girl Code. Besides, he’s pulling an all-nighter to prep for a call at six in the freaking morning. Then we head out. We’ll both sleep on the plane.”
“What time do you have to be at the airport?”
She shrugs. “It’s flexible. We’re taking one of Damien’s jets. Grayson’s piloting.”
“Poor little rich bitch,” I say, fighting a smile.
She laughs. “I know, right? My in-laws rock. I mean, I love Ash, but skipping the TSA line? That’s a reason to get married right there.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say, and we share a grin that lasts a good twenty seconds before hers fades.
“I can stay if you need me. Truly.”
“The hell you can. Besides, I’m fine.”
From the way her eyes narrow, I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t matter, because no way am I holding my BFF back from the Grand Prix. “I’ve got this,” I say. “Big girl. All grown up.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder.”
I cock my head, then flip her the bird.
“Really? That’s your best comeback?”
“What can I say? It’s late. And I’ve had a hell of a long day.” I drop back onto the couch beside her, then hook an arm around her shoulder.
“I wish I could help more,” she says.
I shrug. “It would be weird if both of us applied to work at Hardline. And the man’s producing your movie. Not to be crass, but you don’t want to piss him off before it hits theaters. Me?” I shrug. “I’m nothing to him.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “The man bought you lingerie. He flirted at Masque. And I saw the way he looked at you that time by Damien’s pool.”
“No way,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as pleased as I am to hear that little tidbit of info.
“Way,” she says. “Definitely way.” She shifts on the sofa to look at me more directly. “And I saw the way you looked at him, too.”
The words hang there, waiting for me to deny them. But I can’t. They’re true. And if I try to lie … well, this is Bree. Lying isn’t an option.
“He can’t be involved,” I whisper. “Someone in Hardline, maybe, but not Holt himself.”
I see her shift, ready to argue, but all she does is nod, then squeeze my hand. “No,” she says, “he can’t.”
I draw a breath, telling myself I’m confident in his innocence. Because how the hell could I so desperately want the kind of man who could kill a sweetheart like Jenny?
A shiver runs up my spine.
Bree’s brow furrows. “You okay?”
“What? Yes. Of course. I’m just sitting here stewing in jealousy,” I add, in a not-too-subtle attempt to change the subject. “You’re going to Monte Carlo with the man you love. You’re living the dream, my friend.”
“I guess I am.” She squeezes my hand. “I want that for you, too.”
“Someday.” I say the word casually, as if it’s no big deal. But the truth is that there’s an image in my mind. A man standing with his hand extended, waiting for me to start a life with him. Matthew Holt.
No.
Matthew isn’t the kind of guy who’ll settle down. He owns a sex club. He’s married to his business.
He’s ruthless.
And he’s the kind of man who would kill to protect whatever or whoever he loves.
The thought comes unbidden and I shiver, because as much as Matthew might push all my good buttons, I know it’s true.
A wave of cold horror crashes over me as I realize what that means. If he has it in him to kill, then as much as the idea disgusts and terrifies me, maybe he did kill Jenny. And if so, who or what was he trying to protect?
Minutes later, the thought still lingers as I stand on the porch, leaning against one of the posts as I wave Bree off and tell myself that I’m not jealous. Not jealous at all.
And I’m not. I’m beyond happy for her. No one deserves romance and bliss more than that girl, who’s been through so damn much, and is still standing. I don’t begrudge her a single moment of happiness. Truly.
And yet …
I sigh, hating my own thoughts. Hating this envy that runs through my core. It’s buried deep enough that I can hide it, but it’s part of me, and though I try to deny it, the truth is that I want what she has—love and laughter and a life with a man who adores her.
I tell myself it’s just a matter of time. That one day, Prince Charming will ride in and rescue me. But there are only so many princes in the world and fairy tales are fiction.
My best friend may have won the lottery—but that just means the odds really aren’t in my favor.
“Fuck it, ” I whisper as I turn to head back into the house and, finally, get some sleep. As I do, the headlights from a passing car illuminate the porch. That’s when I see it. A small purple bag tucked in behind a large pot that—maybe someday—will actually have a plant inside it. The purple blends with the shadows cast by the dim porch light, and I suppose that’s why neither Bree nor I noticed it earlier.
Matthew Holt .
I scoop up the bag, certain it’s from him, then hurry inside. I hesitate only a moment before I dump out the contents—then feel a distinctive tug between my legs and a tightening in my breasts as I look down at the small, tissue-wrapped bundle. There’s no card, just a handwritten note taped to the package— for tomorrow .
I should be annoyed, but I’m not. On the contrary, every one of my cells is firing. And the Siren’s call of my bed? Yeah, I’m not sleepy at all anymore.
I tell myself I should be angry. He’s playing games with me, and damned inappropriate ones.
Plus, it’s not like he’s Prince Charming. No matter how much I might be attracted to him, I know I should back away. He’s controlling. Manipulative. Quite possibly dangerous.
So what if he makes my heart race or inspires a variety of bedtime fantasies? So what if the thing I want more than anything is to know for certain that he isn’t tied in with Jenny’s death?
I close my eyes and fist my hands. So what if he makes me a horny, needy mess?
I take a breath and square my shoulders, soldiering myself for action. I’ll call him up. Tell him he’s an idiot if he thinks I’m going to just put this on and head to work in the morning, because?—
I stop, my body having gone stiff from the force of the plan that now dominates my thoughts. I’m not wearing these tomorrow.
Hell, no.
I’m wearing them tonight.
He wants to play games? Fine. I’m taking the game to him.