by Sylvia Day
I padded out in search of my heels and once I had them on, I felt better prepared to deal with Parker...despite wishing my hair was tied back.
While I waited for Jax and his father to make an appearance, I wandered around the living room, examining it closely for signs of the lover I thought I knew. What I found were only a handful of framed photos, most of them vintage snapshots of a striking blonde whom I assumed was Jackson’s mother.
The photos ranged from fresh-faced black-and-whites to more recent ones in color, and the transformation the pictures documented was startling. Youthful softness had hardened over time, had been polished into a glittering facade, then faded. The upturn of pretty lips gradually migrated downward. One candid shot caught her unawares and staring out a window. The look on her beautiful face conveyed a sense of loneliness.
I picked it up, looking at it more closely, and noted another framed picture lying facedown behind it. I slid it forward, then lifted it, stilling when I discovered a photo of Jax and me.
It was a shot Vincent had captured with his cell phone and forwarded to me. He’d taken it during that first and last family dinner with Jax at Rossi’s. Jax sat behind me, supporting me as I leaned back against him. We were laughing, his arms around my waist, my arms draped over his. I’d sent the photo to Jax and made it the wallpaper on my phone until it became too painful to look at.
I propped the photo back up and returned the picture of his mother to the shelf, my heart racing along with my thoughts.
Where the hell was Jax?
The apartment was eerily quiet. I went in search of him, my gaze sliding absently past the front door, then stopping on the small security video monitor mounted in the wall beside it. Jax and his dad stood in the foyer, Jax with his arms crossed over his chest and his father with hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. As alike as they were in physical appearance, they couldn’t have been dressed more differently, and yet Jax was clearly holding his own.
I studied the distance between them, the way they stood apart and eyed each other warily. Their family dynamic was alien to me, so far removed from the Rossi warmth that nurtured me.
The Rutledges were demanding. I didn’t know all the details of Jax’s upbringing but it was clear he’d grown up in a high-pressure environment. He’d made it obvious he didn’t hold a high opinion of Rutledges, including himself, but he had chosen his family over me—he’d made sure Ian was able to sabotage the Mondego deal—after saying I was the one person he gave a shit about.
Some long-overdue research was in order.
I took off back down the hall, shameless in my search for answers. I figured he owed me something and I’d snoop for it if I had to.
Turning into his home office, I paused on the threshold, seeing a room more in keeping with what I’d expected of him. Although the overall look was modern and masculine, the space was warmed by neutral walls and honeyed woods, with accents of red and gold. Bookcases hugged the walls, filled with a colorful array of hardcover literary volumes and dog-eared popular fiction paperbacks. There was another picture of me on the shelf, this one upright. I was solo. No Jax.
The photo was recent. No more than six months old.
From across the room, I stared at it, feeling my palms go damp.
He’d been keeping tabs on me.
The questions kept piling up, but one very important answer was made glaringly clear by the existence of that picture. I couldn’t decide if I felt joy or pain about it. Maybe it was a mixture of both.
Jax’s desk was covered in scattered pages and open folders, but I turned my back on them. I’d seen enough.
I headed back out to the living room where I grabbed my purse and set off toward the door. The men outside seemed surprised when I pulled it open. They stopped talking, and I gave a brisk nod to both of them before striding to the elevator with my head held high.
“Gia.” Jax took a step toward me. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll ride down with you, Miss Rossi,” Parker offered, coming up to me with a smile that was far too friendly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Mr. Rutledge,” I replied.
“Call me Parker, please.”
“Dad,” Jax growled, coming closer. “You and I aren’t done talking.”
Parker patted him on the shoulder. “We can pick up where we left off later, son.”
Jax looked at me. “We’re supposed to be having dinner.”
“I’ll need to take a rain check.”
“Don’t do this, Gia.”
I smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
The elevator car arrived, and Parker gestured me in before him.
Jax caught me by the elbow. “Give me five minutes.”
“How about I call you later?” I said, realizing I wasn’t even tempted to stay. I was too raw, too confused. I needed some breathing room.
His jaw tightened.
“It’s all right, Jackson,” Parker said quietly. “I’ll show her out.”
Jax turned his head slowly toward his father, his features set like stone. “I meant what I said.”
“You always do.” Parker grinned.
I stepped into the elevator just as the doors started to close again. Parker joined me, but my attention was on Jax, our gazes locked together. His hands were fisted at his sides, his jaw tense and determined. But his eyes...those deep, dark eyes...they made the same promises they always had. I believed them now. I had the proof.
Parker faced me as the car began its descent, smiling. “How are you, Gianna?”
“I’ve been better. How about you?”
“You make it awkward to say it’s been a good day so far.”
My mouth curved. “And a good day for your friend Ian, too.”
“Ah.” His eyes brightened with amusement. “Please don’t hold that against Jackson.”
I shrugged. “It’s just business, right?”
“You’re a very practical woman. Certainly one of the many reasons why he’s so taken with you. Speaking of which...” He rocked back on his heels. “I’d like to get to know you better, Gianna. Would you and Jax come to dinner with my wife and me? Something quiet at our house in the Hamptons, maybe?”
“I’d like that.” I’d like anything that would let me get a better handle on Jax.
“Good. I’ll let Regina know.” His smile faded a little. “Don’t let Jackson talk you out of it. He wants to keep you all to himself.”
“Does he?”
Parker sobered further. “He’s very protective.”
“Is he? What would he have to protect me from?”
“We’re men, Gianna,” he drawled. “We’re not always rational when it comes to women.”
I nodded, gathering that Parker was as much of an enigma as his son. It seemed Rutledges were just naturally inclined to be hard to read and cryptic.
The elevator doors opened into the lobby and we stepped out into a meticulously restored pre-war space that exuded luxury and privilege.
“I have a car waiting,” he said. “Can I give you a ride?”
“Thank you but no.” I didn’t even want to contemplate the look on Parker’s face if he saw where I lived. Compared to the marble-lined lobby of Jax’s building, complete with concierge and doorman, my place would look...not so hot. I wasn’t embarrassed by the loft or my family, but I thought it might be wise to not trigger suspicions of gold digging until the Rutledges got to know me better.
“All right, then, if you’re sure.” Parker hesitated, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I didn’t, he said, “I’ll let Jax know the day and time for dinner. I’m looking forward to it, Gianna.”
I thought of the man upstairs, high in his tower, a stranger in so many ways and yet one who knew me inside and out. “I
am, too.”
* * *
I HEARD MUSIC blaring in the loft before the freight elevator clanked to a stop on our floor. As I got closer, I recognized the vintage Guns N’ Roses riff. “Welcome to the Jungle.” Considering my evening with the Rutledges, I found it fitting.
Sliding the door open, I was hit with the full force of Vincent’s rocking sound system and the sight of him doing pull-up crunches via a metal pole he’d mounted between two supporting pillars. He was drenched with sweat and gritting his teeth, the slabs of muscle on his stomach tightening as he brought his knees up to his chest. He wore his hair shorter than my other brothers, nearly a crew cut, and it suited his classically Italian features.
I’d read books that compared the hero to a face on a Roman coin, but I guarantee none of them had anything on Vincent. Shirtless, shoeless and wearing only running shorts, he was the stuff other women’s dreams were made of. Unlike Nico, Vincent was a serial boyfriend. He had no problem committing, but he never stayed off the market for longer than several months at a time.
“Hey!” he protested, when I turned the volume down.
“You still talk to Deanna?” I asked, referring to the reporter he used to date.
“Yeah.” He dropped to the hardwood floor and snatched up the towel waiting there alongside a bottle of water. “Why?”
I set my purse down on the bench by the door and kicked off my shoes. “I need someone to catch me up on the Rutledges.”
Vincent scrubbed at his hair, scowling. “The guy’s a douche. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I sprawled across the couch and stared up at the exposed pipes and beamed ceiling. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t be redeemed.”
“Forget the rehab. Find a guy who’s smart enough to know what he has from the get-go.”
I glanced at him, watching his throat work as he chugged the entire bottle of water. “You telling me you never screwed up with a girl and wanted a second chance?”
“Doesn’t count. You’re a Rossi. There’s no excuse for him screwing up besides being stupid,” he said.
“Will you ask her?”
“Fine.” He headed toward the kitchen, adding, “Only because I hope she digs up something that convinces you he’s bad news.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t think you’re getting the favor for a simple thanks.” He tossed his towel over his shoulder and washed his hands. The kitchen was the most finished part of the apartment, with brand-new stainless-steel appliances, chef’s cooktop, double wall ovens and a massive workstation island with sink. “I’ve got a basket of laundry that needs washing.”
I sat up. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Better hurry.” He grinned. “I’m out of Rossi’s T-shirts and my shift starts in two hours.”
* * *
I’D JUST CLOSED the louvered doors that concealed the washer and dryer when I heard my smartphone ringing. I ran to my bedroom to grab it, but missed the call. Didn’t matter, though, because it immediately started ringing again.
It was Jax.
Taking a deep breath, I touched Answer on the screen and said, “Hey.”
“You were supposed to call,” he accused.
“So were you,” I retorted. “Took you two years to get around to it.”
“Jesus.” He exhaled harshly. “Why did you leave?”
“It was time. Your dad invited us to dinner.”
“We’re not going.”
I shrugged. “I’ll go without you.”
“The hell you will! Damn it, Gia. You’re swimming with sharks and acting like you’re on vacation.”
“I’m definitely seeing things I’ve never seen before. Like those pictures you’ve got framed in your pad. How long have you been following me? Creepy, by the way.”
He cursed. “You’re fucking a Rutledge. Surveillance and invasion of privacy come with the territory.”
“I wasn’t fucking you at the time that picture in your office was taken.”
“You were in my office? What the hell, Gia?”
My mouth curved grimly at his inadvertent admission that there were more photos I hadn’t found. “I’m going to be in every aspect of your life—get used to it.”
Jax was silent for a long minute, then quietly asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m processing the fact that you’re in love with me, Jax.” I heard his breath catch and felt a surge of pleasured triumph. “Still, you bailed on me. And now you’re sabotaging my work and your own chances with me.”
“Gia—”
“I’m on to you, Jackson Rutledge.” My voice was low and hard, unwavering. “I’m going to figure you out.”
“I’m an open book,” he retorted.
“You’re a head trip.” I ignored the waiting suitcase on my bed and sat at my desk instead. I woke my computer with a shake of the mouse. “And your mystery-man days are numbered.”
I hung up, shut off the ringer and started my research.
* * * * *
Sexy, contemporary romance stories for today's fun, fearless women.
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Sylvia Day is the #1 Sunday Times and #1 international bestselling author of more than a dozen award-winning novels sold in forty countries. A reader favorite across several genres, there are millions of copies of her books in print worldwide. She has been nominated for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Author and her work has been honored as Amazon’s Best of the Year in Romance. She has won the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award and been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award twice. Visit the author at sylviaday.com, facebook.com/authorsylviaday, and twitter.com/sylday.
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AFTERBURN
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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