The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel

by Natalie Wrye

  The Bet

  Natalie Wrye

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  Copyright © 2018 by Natalie Wrye

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About

  It was supposed to be an innocent wager, a harmless game.

  It turned out to be so much more.

  Maybe that's because everything involving Violet Keats was so much more.

  More frustrating.

  More pain-in-the-ass.

  More sexy than anything I'd ever seen.

  You know what they say: All's fair in love and the law.

  And what happens to Manhattan's toughest lawyer when she ends up on the wrong side of my bitter family feud should be no different...

  Until one night changes everything.

  I knew what taking this dangerous bet would do to her. What I never bet on is what taking this gamble would do to me...

  Prologue

  VIOLET

  TWO YEARS AGO

  We had done it; every bone in my body was telling me so.

  The cushion underneath the backs of my knees is cold, and in a hospital gown the color of an early morning sky, I can’t stop moving. Can’t stop fidgeting in the itchy blue uniform.

  I swear the goddamned clock on the wall is taunting me, and as I stare at its slow-moving hands, panic starts to set in, making my fingers and toes tingle in the frigid white room.

  I can’t breathe my heart is beating so hard, until at last that cold blue door opens with the doctor. The “Sorry” written in her small smile is enough, and she walks closer, closing the door behind her, I let go of a long breath, my fingers flying to my brow as I wipe away a line of sweat.

  My hand shakes as I lower it, my lips spreading into what I fear is a watery smile. I glance up at her.

  “So?” I prod. “Bad news?”

  She nods, her browns eyes dimming. “I’m sorry, Violet… I’m afraid so.”

  I laugh, feeling no humor in the sound. “Guess I’m not getting the Christmas present I’d hoped for.”

  My doctor smiles, the sad expression still reassuring on her pretty face. “Consider this, Violet. You still haven’t given up yet. And you shouldn’t.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine. “If it isn’t this Christmas, it’ll be the one other after that. Or the one after that. Sometimes the gift we want right now isn’t the gift we need.” She nods slowly. “Give it time. It will happen, Mrs. Hudson.”

  The sound of my marital name on her lips is enough to dissolve me into sobs, and within minutes, I am in Dr. Wannamaker’s arms, wrapped in the warmest hug the physician can offer.

  I dress quicker than a runway model, my feet practically skating as I exit the icy offices. Climbing behind the black leather wheel of my white Jag, tears—hot and steady—form at the corners of my eyes, falling everywhere, and as I take a turn out of the parking lot, heading home, my mind is still stuck on all the holiday gifts I haven’t picked up, the loads of errands still left to do before Christmas Day weighing down on my mind like a load that won’t let up.

  I drop by the nearest gift-wrapping place I can find, fitting a couple of my early presents in.

  The doctor’s news bubbling up inside of me, I can’t resist the urge to drop by my house for a drink. I practically crawl into my front door less than fifty minutes later, my arms aching as I set a baseball team’s worth of bags onto my cherry hardwood floor, my tear-filled eyes too blurry to notice the unexpected company in my condo.

  Until I hear the footsteps.

  The soft sound of shoe-falls makes me stop inside my own threshold, and instinctively, I reach towards my stomach, holding one hand over my belly button as a flutter finds its way there and stays.

  I call out, my voice cracking on a croak. “Hello?” I say towards the kitchen, fear planting my feet to the floor. “Is anyone there?”

  Warm brown eyes appear at the corner, looking straight at me. I exhale loudly, my body sagging as I reach for my best friend Jasmine, who steps forward, a magnificent magenta dress fitting over her perfect frame.

  She holds me briefly, letting go quickly, her small smile shaky as she stares. She takes a step back.

  “You’re home early,” she states, her mocha irises roaming from my figure to the floor. She clasps her hands.

  “I know,” I reply, sighing. “I took an early lunch.” I point towards the bags. “Christmas shopping.” I plaster a smile that’s sure to break. “See for yourself.”

  Kneeling next to the gigantic bags, Jazz peeks inside, her eyes going wide as she ruffles through its overly cute contents. She pulls the pacifier out first, waving it in the air, and I watch her swallow slowly, her gaze clouding, her silky voice trembling as she stands. She wrings her small delicate hands.

  “You’re pregnant.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. I answer with a shake of my head, my neck threatening to break.

  I exhale loudly, the breath blowing hard out of my cheeks. I can barely say the words. “No… I’m not, Jazz. Just wishful thinking. Guess Santa missed my house this year again, huh?”

  My throat squeezes and I reach for her again, needing a body to cushion the blow, needing my closest friend’s comfort to push the very real nightmare away.

  I feel her stiffen.

  My best friend’s body turns to cement, and with a hug much colder than my own doctor’s, I pull out of her hold, my head tilting as I examine her expressionless face.

  The shout flying from further inside the condo air cuts off my next words.

  “Jazz!” I hear from beyond the kitchen. “Get your sexy ass back in here! Daddy’s got something big and hard for you.”

  The air goes still immediately after. Several seconds pass before reality registers, and I drop the pink clutch in my hand, my feet hurtling towards the back bedroom before my brain can catch up.

  Jazz grabs for me, missing me as I sprint without a second thought farther into the confines of my over-priced condo. I halt when I find my bedroom door open. I crack it farther, my eyes landing on the broad body standing against the farthest wall.

  In nothing but boxer briefs.

  The world goes eerily quiet as my nerves hum. I stare at the handsome man, my gaze grazing his pale skin from head to toe, and my pulse leaps into my throat, thrumming hard, my fingers sweating as the truth takes hold and nearly chokes me. My heart stops.

  He turns to face me, a smile printed on his full lips. The grin slides from his mouth as his stare at last meets mine, and I watch as recognition hits him like a pile of bricks, shock sucking the life out of his bright blue irises. He opens his mouth to talk.

  But I don’t hear a damn thing. Couldn’t if I tried.

  There’s a roar rumbling in my ears. An actual thunder. Every word, every noise, every other sound is blocked, barred and closed off—overshadowed by the sound of my own breaking fucking heart.

  Chapter 1

  Violet

  TWO YEARS LATER

  I have never been more fucked in my life.

  A thousand footsteps beat a rhythm across my skin, the faint smell of window cleaner and coffee shifting for position under my nose. The tile beneath my shoes is slippery, and I stumble—in heels, no less—from the confines of a single-file line, the chrome metal detector overh
ead letting me through without as much as a whine.

  My heart is humming. My fingers are tightened into a fist around the handle of my overstuffed bag.

  The watch on my left wrist reads 7:01. The time on my ticket reads 7:10. And with a tug to my bloated luggage and briefcase, I barrel past the bright blue shirts of airplane security, the edges of my red-bottoms clicking furiously across the floor.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. There has to be a faster way to my gate.

  But the signs along the ceiling all read “No.”

  I can’t believe this…

  I’ve never missed a flight before. And somehow in the most important twenty-four hours of my life, everything seemed to go wrong. Traffic was thicker than oatmeal. My second carry-on broke, forcing me to shove everything into the first. And the security line…

  It’s like they put every rambunctious toddler in front of me on purpose, just to see how much pressure I could handle. I wanted to cry, rage and scream like I’d seen the two-year old in baggage check do.

  But I was a twenty-eight year old woman. In the span of half a mile of white tile and busy travelers, I’d aged eighty more years, and each additional footstep towards my gate is another hurdle that my already tired body can’t handle.

  I’m no longer walking at this point; I’m practically running.

  The wheels on my luggage squeak, barely able to keep up. I’ve clutched my purse so tightly to my side that it’s left an imprint.

  Gates flash overhead in a rush of letters and numbers.

  D27…26…25.

  D06 seems so far away, and as my hand starts to hurt from the exertion, my legs and lungs burning from the run, I rush up to the gate. Just as it begins to close.

  I know I look as horrible as I feel.

  The airport attendant shoots me a look of shock, and with little fanfare, lets me through to the bridge of the plane. With as much dignity as I can muster, I throw my head back, pulling my shoulders straight.

  I slip quietly into my first class seat, surprised to find the one beside it empty. Raking shaky fingers through my mussed red hair, I try desperately to fix the mess that is me. I’m still smoothing my hair back into a barrette when I feel a light caress along the line of my navy trench coat-covered shoulder.

  I jump as a low voice rumbles overhead.

  “Ma’am…” The flight attendant gazes down at me, her blonde brow furrowed. “Is everything alright?”

  I don’t know how to answer that question. So, I don’t.

  The plane takes off without affording us a minute to breathe, and I exhale as soon as we’re in the air. Takeoff is smooth, our ascent effortless. So unlike my never-calming nerves which jump even now, even as we fly thirty thousand feet towards the city I love and hate most.

  A city that’s become so much a part of me. A city I haven’t seen in two entire weeks.

  I glance at my watch again, willing time to slow down. I left whatever calm I had left back on that Chicagoan tarmac. I know it. Barely out of a Midwestern winter storm, my day turns as gray as my early morning, each passing mile adding a sheet of shadow to the blue slate that was the sky.

  There’s no turning back now, no way to stop the two-hour flight. I try desperately to settle into my first class seat but the message in my coat is burning a hole in my pocket. Sneaking my cell phone from the heavy wool, I read the first few emails, none as daunting as the first two that pop up on the screen.

  I open the first:

  Violet,

  Thank you for keeping me abreast of your schedule. We are so happy to bring you onto your new role at King & Sparrow. As you know, we have a lot of work ahead of us, and I am confident you will fit neatly into your new role as Junior Partner.

  With sincerest regards,

  Anna Paleto

  I read the last line of her short message:

  Human Resources Business Support.

  But opening the second e-mail gives me more heart palpitations than the first, and I swipe across the screen with my thumb’s sweaty pad, reading as my fingers traces the words, disbelieving every one. My heart skips a beat and threatens to stop.

  Vi,

  I tried to call you. But I think you’re on DND.

  It’s Marilyn.

  There’s been an accident.

  Come when you can.

  She needs us.

  Love you,

  Elsie

  I close my inbox, tapping the button to turn the screen on my phone black, my heart sinking as I re-read the words for the seventeenth time. My nerves are more than shot; they’ve been garroted, hanged and left out to die.

  But as soon as my fingers touch the glass, the phone goes flying, a sudden bout of plane turbulence making the whole cabin drop at a moment’s notice, my insides sinking with it as my nails clutch into the seat. I gasp.

  “Whoa there,” the man an aisle away from me hisses from his seat, seemingly as startled as I am. “I thought we left the storm back in Chicago,” he whispers over the hand-rest.

  I thought we did, too. But the sky doesn’t seem to think so.

  In fact, I think the storm may just be starting.

  The “Fasten Your Seatbelts” sign blinks ominously, and as my fingers fumble to tighten my safety belt, the plane lurches again, this time dipping faster than the last, the ice cubes of a nearby flier’s finished drink bouncing over the edge of the glass and into my lap.

  I brush them quickly away, as the cold starts to seep into the fabric over my thighs. The cold is like a lightning bolt, awakening my senses, but then the plane tumbles a few feet, rotating with a sudden twist. The captain comes over the loud speakers as the excited passengers fill the quiet aisles with their sounds of shock, and with a reassuring, calm voice, he makes an effort to quell the rising calamity, his soothing voice doing little to appease my frayed senses.

  Senses that were singed the moment I received Elsie’s message. My nerves are quickly seeping through an emotional shredder.

  The plane dances for several more minutes, high winds pushing it to and fro. The yelps from the nearby customers finally settle into relieved sighs by the time we hit smooth air, and less than an hour and a half later, we land—at last—on La Guardia’s relatively peaceful runway, each of us worse for wear, a flurry of the winter season’s first snowfall there to greet us as we exit.

  I breathe in the New York air the second I step foot on the bridge leading us to our exit gate.

  The weather report warning of snow above our heads on the screens is a sign of things to come. I walk through the gate’s dark double doors, praying I don’t receive another message from Elsie—this one more ominous than the last.

  I grab my rental car, speeding away from the airport, hoping I make it in time. My heart beats hard the entire way.

  Chapter 2

  HEATH

  My heart beats hard the entire time.

  Imitating a jackhammer without end, it nearly beats out of my fucking chest, sending my pulse swirling out of control. I can hear the blood in my ears—an interminable rush.

  My bowtie flaps in the wind as I run over the banal white tile of the bland-looking halls, the flaps of my loafers adding to the beat of my strumming body.

  I stop before the receptionist with barely a breath left. I look at her through a sheet of building sweat.

  “Marilyn Daniels.” I shake my head, clearing it. “I’m sorry… Marilyn Sparrow’s room, please.”

  She nods, clicking her pen over a brown clipboard. She checks the sheet with her eyes.

  “Room 321.”

  “Thank you,” I scarcely wave as I start sprinting.

  Room 321 looms on the other end of the hall like a rainbow I’ll never reach. My throat threatens to close as I cut a path through the white-washed corridors, a film of perspiration dripping against my crisp collar. I turn the corner, storming through the open door.

  My chest seizes as I almost collide with a pair of strong shoulders. My best friend turns, barely avoiding me as I barrel in
side the hospital room.

  His hand flies to my shoulder, squeezing, as I wheeze.

  “Where—?” I huff, my lungs aching, mouth drier than ever. “Where is she, Brett?”

  He moves his tattooed arms, motioning towards the bed, and there, I find Marilyn’s pale form, her figure half-hidden beneath a set of snowy white sheets with more color than her bruised face.

  Swirls of purple and red decorate her delicate temples, and I walk towards her slowly, my eyes roaming over her motionless body—still disbelieving.

  That’s not my sister. That can’t be my fucking sister.

  But it is.

  All five-foot-five inches of spunk. Spread out on a stale hospital bed.

  Unmoving. Board-like.

  Red scratches adorn her tiny hands, and I reach for one, afraid as fuck to hold it. I touch her slightly cold skin, my fingers wrapping around hers when someone clears his throat behind me.

  I turn.

  “Mr. Sparrow?” A man in a white coat leans forward, his dark brow pinched together. “May I have a word with you?”

  Brett glances my way, and I nod stolidly, watching his back as he heads out, a blank stare reflecting in his blue-green eyes. He disappears, leaving me and the nervous doctor alone, the air thicker than the snow starting to build outside.

  I exhale, closing my eyes. I open them before speaking.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as it looks.” His quiet voice inspires no confidence. “She’s been through the worst of it, her body at last receiving some rest.” He sighs. “Her brain has swelling, her skull bruised. We managed to get to her in time to prevent a significant blood loss. Her leg is broken,” he continues. “Crushed by the dashboard which collapsed against her in the crash.”