Chapter 2
W hen I awoke the next morning, Sinclair was gone, working out upstairs.
So I went to my room and showered before heading to the kitchen to meet him for breakfast.
As I walked down the stairs toward the main hallway, I smiled—because yesterday morning, I’d been miserable, trying to find a way to sever my feelings from this man.
Now I knew that was impossible, even though I had no idea how I would reconcile my previous life with my present.
And that didn’t even account for the fact that I had no idea how Sinclair felt.
I knew he was sexually attracted to me—but was that it?
When I entered the kitchen, Sinclair was at the stove.
“Just in the nick of time. I’m making omelets again. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks. I think I saw some grapefruit in the fridge yesterday. I haven’t had one in ages.”
“That’s not much.”
“I can make some toast if I’m still hungry after.” As I poured a cup of coffee, I glanced over at him.
He was folding one half of the egg mixture over the other half, hiding the chopped veggies, ham, and cheese inside.
Soon, we were seated at the big table in our usual spots.
As Sinclair tackled his omelet, I slid a spoon in between two wedges of grapefruit in a sliced half.
Juice sprayed as I scooped out the first bite.
My mind continued turning over everything he’d told me the night before and I could almost feel my heart constricting in my chest on his behalf.
I decided to ask a question that could potentially reveal how he felt about me—because if he were gentler, kinder, I would know his heart had truly softened.
After I swallowed the piece of grapefruit, I asked, “Was Augie’s room the blue one? One closest to the end of the hallway?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Sinclair looked up from his plate—but I couldn’t read his face.
Had I made a misstep?
He already knew I’d been in the second floor east wing hallway—and he’d caught me with keys.
Had it been a mistake to remind him?
But he said, “Yes.” Then, as he picked up his coffee, he asked, “Did you look through all the rooms?”
Wait—he didn’t know?
“Almost. Do the cameras not go all the way down the hallway?” Those stupid cameras I’d been too foolish to anticipate.
Ever since getting caught the second time, I’d simply assumed they were everywhere but in my bedroom.
“ Cameras? ”
“Don’t you have cameras? Isn’t that how you caught me?”
Unexpectedly, he burst out laughing.
“I suppose I could have—but no. The only cameras inside focus on entryways, and there are two inside the gallery. There are also cameras around the property, and the security company has given me access to view them online, but there aren’t any capturing the second floor of the east wing.”
“Then—”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to install others at various spots inside, but—”
“How did you know I’d been up there looking around?”
Sinclair laughed again, crinkling his eyes in the sweetest of ways.
“You just got caught.” Smiling, I shook my head—so simple.
Until he continued speaking.
“I know you, Lise…and I can feel you moving about this mansion. I know where you go and what you do. You can’t hide from me.”
When my laughter faded, I hoped he couldn’t see the fear in my eyes.
That didn’t feel like love.
It felt like obsession—and that was not what I wanted from Sinclair Whittier.
That night, I told Sinclair I wasn’t feeling well and I wouldn’t be joining him in his bedroom.
Then I called my father, because he had a way of helping me feel grounded.
But as much as I was hiding from him, I felt like he was hiding something from me.
To keep the conversation away from me, I asked, “Are you looking forward to your appointment next week?”
“Not particularly. You know doctors haven’t been much help with this.”
“Dad, we’ve talked about this. You know this treatment has the best chance of helping you.”
And he was silent.
So I pressed.
“Si—Mr. Whittier said he was going to arrange to have someone drive you.” What he’d said to me was that he was considering letting me personally take him—but, as yet, I hadn’t heard his final verdict, so I needed to ask.
“Has anyone contacted you?”
“Yes, and I told him I didn’t want his help. I don’t need to go.”
We went back and forth a bit and I finally let it go, not wanting to upset my father any further—but I was afraid he wouldn’t take advantage of what could be a life-saving treatment.
So when I logged into the University of Denver portal later that evening—not having looked at it for several days—what should have been thrilling news didn’t quite have that effect.
I’d been accepted.
But my education was the least of my worries right now.
And, rather than sleep, I figured out exactly what I would say to Sinclair over breakfast.
My tactics, however, rarely went according to plan…
Before heading downstairs on Monday morning, I searched for the clinic phone number and called them.
Finally, the receptionist had me talk to someone else.
“Ms. Miller,” the woman said, “although you’re listed as your father’s emergency contact, I can’t tell you much due to HIPAA rules.”
“I understand that,” I said, but I didn’t really.
What was the point of having an emergency contact if they couldn’t be contacted?
“But this is an emergency. I’ve been away from home on business,” not exactly a lie, “and he’s been quite cagey about this upcoming appointment. I’m trying to get him to accept transportation from someone, but—”
“This is all I will say to you: your father did try to cancel his appointment last week, and we asked him to give it a week to think about it. We could easily fill that slot, but your father’s been on the list for a long time—”
“ Don’t cancel that appointment. I’ll make sure he’s there.”
“Your father is the patient, Ms. Miller—and I don’t see that you have Medical Power of Attorney…so if he calls to cancel, we’ll respect his wishes. And we can’t notify you if he does.”
Damn it.
Why, of all times, was my father being so stubborn?
After thanking her, I hung up…
and readjusted what I planned to say to Sinclair.
If nothing else, this would be how I’d find out if he really cared about me.
Try as I might, I couldn’t hide the dark circles under my eyes or bring color to my cheeks, and makeup only made my lack of sleep more obvious.
But I went downstairs with a mission, disregarding my tired appearance.
Edna, sweet as always, was chopping vegetables at the counter, no doubt preparing for the evening meal.
“Good morning, dear. Did you enjoy the ballet?”
“I did,” I said, distracted, thinking that the ballet felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
Sinclair hadn’t arrived yet, so I decided to pour a cup of coffee while I waited.
Edna said, “You’ll have to tell me all about it over lunch.”
“I hung the dress in my closet. Is there somewhere else I should put it?”
“That’s as good a place as any. Marco will send someone by sometime this week to pick it up. Did you like wearing it?”
Friday night, the dress had been the least of my worries.
With the jewelry and the shoes, the most comfortable dress shoes I’d ever worn, not to mention the makeup and hair, I could have said I’d honestly felt like a million bucks.
But letting my mind drift back reminded me exactly how I felt and I was able to answer her question earnestly.
“I loved it. I’d thought at first that I’d feel uncomfortable, but it fit well. It was nice.”
“I wish I could have seen you all made up.”
I could have told her I’d taken a picture, but I didn’t.
I needed to stay focused.
Taking a sip of the coffee, I asked, “How was your weekend, Edna?”
“Shopping on Saturday. Yesterday was an afternoon of nothing but football. My husband is a big football fan, so he starts with the Broncos and then finds other games to fill out the day after that. It’s his only vice, really—and I have him all to myself March through July, so I can’t complain.”
Had I not been so distraught, I might have laughed.
Still, Edna was comforting even when she wasn’t making an effort to be.
“What do you do while he’s watching?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve found myself getting interested in the game, so much so that I could tell you the difference between an interception and a fumble. I couldn’t care less about the other teams, but I’ve found myself rooting for Denver. It’s hard not to around Sam.”
Sinclair’s entrance was hard to miss, even with my back to the doorway.
Although his shoes weren’t noisy, it was as if his presence moved about the air in the room.
Edna, however, spotted him and her eyes shifted to focus across the room.
“Good morning, Mr. Whittier. How was the ballet?”
“You know how much I love Swan Lake .”
“Indeed I do. Did this performance live up to your expectations?”
“It did.” Setting his planner and phone on the table, he made his way over to where we stood.
“But it was a first for Lise, and I think she thoroughly enjoyed herself.”
Swallowing the knot stuck in my throat, I forced myself to talk.
“Can I speak with you in private?”
As his brow furrowed, a shadow crossed over his eyes—an expression I hadn’t seen on his face in a while.
But it didn’t matter.
I had things I needed to say—and I didn’t want to say them in front of Edna.
When he spoke, however, his voice was calm and controlled.
“Can it wait until after breakfast?”
Of course, it could have—but I wanted to get it over with.
My stomach was in knots.
“No.”
“Very well. Let’s go to my office.”
As I set down my coffee cup, I tried to force a smile at Edna—but I probably looked to her like a crazy woman.
For her part, she gave me a look filled with empathy…
and probably more than a touch of curiosity.
Although I wouldn’t have cared if Edna heard what I was going to request of Sinclair, I knew my relationship with our shared employer might come to light, and I thought it best to leave her out of it.
When we got to his office, he closed the door.
“Have a seat.”
“This won’t take long,” I said, refusing to take a chair.
“Do you need another day off? You look like you’re still not feeling well.”
“I’m fine.” Rather than sitting, Sinclair stood beside me, arching an eyebrow as if it would will me to speak—and it did.
“I want to talk to you about my father. I need to take him to his clinic appointment this week.”
“I hadn’t decided if I was going to let you go. I told you I’d send someone to pick your father up and take him. In fact, I can have someone answer to his beck and call if that’s what you’d like.”
“That’s not the problem.” I didn’t quite know the problem, actually, but I had a great imagination and had thought about it all night.
“My dad’s been ill for quite some time—and he has good days and bad days. And he doesn’t know what to expect from the clinic. He’s afraid to go by himself.”
“If I send a driver—”
“That driver doesn’t know him. That would still be like going by himself.” I could see the conflict stirring in Sinclair’s eyes…
and I was convinced he was going to give in to my demands—so I kept going.
“There’s no such thing as an emotional support driver. I am his emotional support. I’m his rock just like he was mine when I was a little girl. If I’m there, he’ll go, even if it’s just for me. Any driver you send will not have that effect on him. It’s not the same.”
“I understand that. But it’s not that simple.” It was clear that he wasn’t listening—and, when I realized that, I was gripped in panic.
I could not lose my father.
It was bad enough that I hadn’t seen him in months.
Sinclair, oblivious to my turmoil, said, “You and I have an agreement—”
“ NO! ”
I couldn’t listen to his refusal anymore.
This had been the confirmation I’d needed: he didn’t love me.
I was nothing more than a possession to him.
So many emotions tore through me and I had to get away from him.
In just the space of a few seconds, this man had broken my heart in two ways.
He didn’t love me and he stubbornly wanted to keep me from my father.
Turning, I threw open the door and started running—from the east rear hall through the main hallway before I all but flew up the stairs to my bedroom.
I was such a mix of emotions, unable to process thought as panic, fury, and heartache filled my veins.
By the time Sinclair walked through the open doorway to my bedroom, I already had one of my small suitcases on the bed, a drawer open as I flung what few things I had here into it.
His voice broke through.
“Lise, you’re being unreasonable.”
“No, you are.” As if by a sign from the heavens, the contract I’d signed with him my first week here was the only thing left in the top drawer.
And I’d be damned if I was going to take that horrible thing with me.
I picked it up and turned to face him, ripping it in half and then continuing to shred it until pieces fell on the bed and the floor.
“And I’m done here. You can sue me. I don’t care—but I can’t be away from my father any longer. And, so help me God, if you force me to stay here, I’ll call the police and tell them you’re holding me hostage.”
I hadn’t known those words were going to come out of my mouth until they had—and it was too late to take them back.
I couldn’t miss the pain that clouded his eyes…
making me realize that he did care, even if it was in a way I couldn’t quite measure or feel.
But it didn’t matter.
I had to get the hell out of here.
As I continued to throw things in my other suitcase, I even placed Constance Whittier’s final journal into one before throwing in clothes from the closet.
I didn’t even bother to fold them.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“No,” I spat.
“ You are.” Spying the necklace I’d worn here sitting on a spot on the dresser, I remembered my pearl earrings were in the nightstand, so I placed them both in a little pouch in one of the suitcases, intentionally leaving the diamond earrings.
I would take nothing from Sinclair, save his mother’s final journal that he’d already told me he didn’t want.
He’d tossed her aside just like he was me, and somehow I felt like I was rescuing her from a loveless home.
I now understood how she’d felt.
After I snapped the suitcases shut, I grabbed my purse out of the closet, leaving everything else behind.
Whatever else was there I could replace, but I had to get out.
It was strange how such a ridiculously large building could feel stifling.
I decided I would hitchhike to get home.
Surely some nice person or people would take pity on me and help.
With a suitcase in each arm, I approached Sinclair—but he wasn’t about to move, so I walked around him and out the door.
I’d half expected him to stop me but he didn’t—and as I walked down the west wing stairs for what I believed was the last time, the first tears began to drop onto my cheeks.