chapter TWELVE
The sun is in the beginning stages of setting when I walk up the steps toward the hotel. I asked Asher to leave me at the marina. If he walked me up, I feared we’d never make it inside.
Asher didn’t take well to being told what to do, but I promised I’d leave word with the front desk when I arrived and he could check in with them.
I have a bizarre feeling he’s following me anyway to make sure I get back to the room safely, but I keep going forward, making sure I stand my ground. He can’t be near me or else I’ll jump him again and today is too special a day. I need to be with my sister.
When I make it into the room, Leah is on the bed, looking sick but much better than she was hours ago.
“How are you feeling?” I ask with concern, even though I want to scream with excitement from the amazing afternoon I had.
Her face is forlorn. If she weren’t so sick I’d think she was upset. “Why is your hair wet?”
My hand tangles a lock of hair. It’s still damp from the shower I took with Asher. Shower sex is definitely better with him than it was with Parker. Hell, everything is better with him than it was with Parker.
“You slept with him,” she says with minimal excitement. The Leah I know would be on me right now desperate for every dirty detail. But this version of her is more subdued.
I fight back a blush. “We showered because we went swimming in the ocean.”
Her eyes widen. “You said we. You showered with him? You, like, got crazy nasty dirty with him?”
“Stop it.” I wave her off. “We . . . he . . . you see . . .” Oh what the hell. “I just had the most amazing, mind-blowing sex of my life. It was wicked, and sinful and soulful and powerful, and I think I’m in love with him.”
Holy shit. What is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with me?
It sounds bat-shit crazy to me, and I’m the one thinking it.
No, I’m the one knowing it.
Leah’s mouth is puckered, her eyes narrow. “Asher?”
I nod my head in affirmation.
Leah’s next words come out methodical. “Did Asher happen to tell you his whole name?”
“Asher Gutierrez. Why?”
She looks back at me, frozen in a trance. I take a step forward and put my hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
She places a hand over her mouth and nods before darting off the bed for the bathroom. I chase after her, grabbing her hair, and she hurls into the toilet. Poor Leah. I was spending the day in the arms of a gorgeous man, and she was puking her guts up.
I rub her back until she has her stomach under control and guide her to the sink so she can brush her teeth. When she is steady on her feet, she walks back to the bed, me in tow, and climbs in, curling her knees into her chest.
Walking over to the bed, I take a seat next to her. “Can I get you anything? I feel terrible you’ve been sick all day. Do you want to see a doctor?”
Leah’s crystal blue eyes look up at me, rimmed with worry. She shakes her head, “No, I’m fine. I haven’t gotten sick in a few hours.” She notions toward the bathroom, “That wasn’t from being sick. I threw up from nerves.”
My body is on alert. Confusion etches my brain. What in the world would make her so upset she’d get sick over it? “What are you talking about?”
“I’m so worried about you. I don’t know if this will set you back. You’ve made so much progress. And yesterday, you were so happy,” she says, her eyes looking everywhere but at me.
“What happened, Leah?” She’s scaring me.
She rolls her head and then lifts a magazine from the ground. It’s an American magazine, one I easily recognize, as well as the face on the cover.
“This came under the door this morning.” She holds the magazine out two feet in front of her as if it is going to catch on fire. “I didn’t pay any mind to it at first but when I finally got a good look, I called Adam.”
I take the magazine and look down at the golden eyes gracing the pages.
“Why is Asher—”
Leah takes the iPad that was sitting on top of the bed and places it on her lap.
“Adam was mad. I told you. He couldn’t believe we went on that yacht. So he did some investigating.” Leah punches her code in her iPad. “Devon doesn’t own the yacht, Emma. He doesn’t even come up on a Google search.”
I cross my arms in front of me and balk at her. “So what?”
Leah inhales deep. “The boat belongs to Alexander Asher.”
My face scrunches up in annoyance. “Who’s Alexander Asher?”
Oh, wait.
Asher.
Asher?
Leah turns the iPad to face me. On the screen is a picture of Asher, my Asher, dressed in a gorgeous suit.
His hair is styled perfectly, slicked back but a little spiky at the top.
On each side of him is a gorgeous woman, both of whom I recognize from a certain lingerie catalogue.
On the top of the screen the headline reads, “Billionaire Playboy At It Again.”
I drop the magazine on the ground, grab the iPad and skim the article.
Leah leans over and places a hand on my arm.
“He’s a womanizer, Ems. There’s article after article of this guy and every woman under the sun.
He’s known for being an elusive cad and leaving women wanting more.
I wanted you to have an international fling, but I know this means more for you.
I’m so sorry I steered you in the wrong direction.
I never would have pushed you toward someone like him. ”
My head darts up at that comment. Not someone like him? Like who? Like Asher? There has to be an explanation. “I don’t understand. Are you telling me Asher’s been playing me?”
“I don’t know what I’m telling you. All I know is that he has been manipulating you the entire time.
Pretending he’s someone else. Why would he lie about being rich, Emma?
According to Adam, he was lying to get in your pants and when it’s over you wouldn’t know how to find him because you never knew who he really was.
I want you to have fun—but not with someone like this.
Not with someone who is going to make a fool of you.
You’ve been through too much. I screwed up. I’m so sorry.”
I drop the iPad on the bed and shrug my arm away from her.
Here I am again. Poor Emma. Damaged and broken, needing to be looked after. Because apparently, I can’t even have a proper one-night stand without it being a major catastrophe.
A one-night stand? A one-day stand? Whatever.
I rise to my feet and pace about the room. Asher isn’t Asher. Well, he’s Asher but that’s his last name. Why would he lie to me? Why would he let me believe the boat was his and that he worked for Devon?
He lied.
Didn’t he?
I backtrack to every conversation trying to remember if he actually lied or if I just believed Devon owned the boat and Asher worked for him. No, he told me he was Devon’s bodyguard, right?
Think, Emma, think.
His parents were poor and then they died. He went to live with his grandfather who doesn’t let him wear flip-flops. He didn’t own a dog because he was too poor growing up, too rich as an adult. How can I be such an idiot?
He plays the cello and the piano. The music room is his. That’s why he was never worried about Devon.
I’m not an idiot, I’m a moron.
My hands fall over my head at the thought of him playing me like that. Did he want me to believe he was the lowly boathand?
I bet his parents aren’t even dead. He was never poor growing up. He’s a rich asshole who made up a depressing story about his broken life so I’d fall like a ton of bricks. And I did.
I fell.
And I felt.
This time it’s my turn to be sick.
I run into the bathroom and throw up. I opened up to him. Told him my secrets, my fears. For months I’ve been too numb to talk about anything. Not Parker, not the accident, not my hand, and certainly not Luke. In three days I talked about all of it.
Did I open up to my very expensive psychiatrist? NO.
Did I open up to my caring family who have done nothing but dote on me while I was sick in the head? NO.
Did I open up to a psychopath con artist who creates false lives to lure women into his web of lies?
Hurl.
“Don’t do this. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” Leah’s hand is on my back. “I shouldn’t have said anything. We’re leaving here soon. It won’t make a difference who your Italian hookup was. Emma, please, don’t make yourself sick over this.”
Her voice is a plea. A sad one. One I’ve heard before.
I lift my head and wipe my mouth, taking the same routine Leah did before. After my teeth are brushed I walk over to the bed and cross my legs. The iPad is still on the bed, but I push it to the side, thankful the screen is black.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be this girl. The girl who makes everyone worry. I’m not her anymore. I can go fast now. I can say Luke’s name. And I can feel the music again.
The night Parker dumped me, Luke said something I’ll never forget. “Never let a man believe he broke you, because a diamond can not be destroyed.” I agreed with him. It’s probably why I was able to get over Parker so easily. It is also why I’ll be able to forget Asher.
Leah is sitting next to me, waiting for me to say something, make a move. Today is Luke’s birthday. We planned on celebrating it together and that is exactly what we’ll do. I’ll worry about this Alexander Asher nonsense tomorrow. Today is about me and Leah.
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I toss and turn all night.
Leah and I went out to dinner but took it easy on the alcohol.
Her stomach was still too sensitive and my heart was too fragile.
We didn’t talk about Asher. Instead we spoke about Luke.
Leah was so happy to be able to mention him around me and tell stories without my falling apart.
Hearing her talk about him reminded me how close the two of them were too.
I was a fool to think his death only affected me.
When we get back to the room, she collapses on the bed, exhausted from a day of being sick. My mind is revving a million thoughts a second. I can’t sleep, and I don’t even try. Instead, I turn on the iPad and google Alexander Asher.
Just as she said, there he is. Looking gorgeous.
But instead of the guy I’ve grown to know, on the screen is a man of intimidating power.
Every article is of businesses he’s developed, bought, or flipped.
He went to Columbia University, confirmation he’s as brilliant as I knew he was.
He owns three restaurants, a tech start-up, a media house . . .
And that doesn’t count the business he inherited when his grandfather passed away. That’s at least one portion of the story he is telling the truth about. His grandfather was Edward Asher, a Scottish billionaire and real estate developer who was a big deal in New York City.
I try looking up Asher’s parents, but nothing comes up. There are a few mentions of his mother. She was a very talented young woman, performing at Julliard and winning awards for her piano playing. But after the age of twenty, she vanishes. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.
One article mentions Asher’s career highlights and a charitable concert event he was funding.
Of the four pages long article, it merely mentions his family, stating his mother died in a car accident and his grandfather took him in.
The article makes his grandfather seem like a really good guy. Not the monster Asher alluded to.
I look over to the ground beneath the bed and see the magazine sitting on the floor.
New York Magazine. On the cover is Alexander Asher standing on top of a tall building in Manhattan above the city he controls.
The headline reads: Asher. The new face of an empire.
I don’t even have the heart to open it up.
Something doesn’t feel right. Why would he lie to me? He is guarded and complex. He wanted to know if he could trust me. I thought I gave him every reason to believe I was trustworthy. I thought I had his trust.
I guess I didn’t have enough of it to have him tell me the truth.
I pop up from my spot of the sofa and walk to the window. The sun is coming up. My body is too antsy to sit back and wait for word from him. I need to see him now. If this is all a misunderstanding, then I need to hear it from him. And if he is a player, then I need him to tell me to my face.
Opening the sliding glass door, I peer out into the marina. Even if I have to hire a boat to take me to him, I will. Walking back to the room, I go into Leah’s suitcase and take out the binoculars. Walking them back outside, I raise them to my eyes and look for his boat.
It’s not there.
It has to be.
I follow the water to the furthest point west, looking for the massive yacht. I don’t see it there nor do I see it anywhere to the east.
My heart drops to my stomach.
He left?
Clad in only pajamas bottoms and a tank top, I sprint across the grass and through the lobby of the building. When I reach the street, I take the stone steps, three, four at a time, nearly breaking an ankle flying down the narrow walkway.
When I reach the bottom, I jog the street, barefoot, until I’m at the marina. The binoculars find their way to may face again as I look out for his boat.
It’s still not there.
He left?
He left?
He left.
He’s gone.
Alexander Asher, international playboy, used me, abused me, and deserted me.
I am such a fool.