Caught Up In You: Edgeplay: The complete serial

by McCormick, Jenna

  Snarkarella rises to the rescue. Leave before you beg him to do it again.

  Though my muscles are weak, I somehow push myself up from the undignified position, walk slowly, so I won’t trip, toward the chaise where my things sit. Not bothering to dry off, I pull my robe over my shoulders and pick up my towel, phone and keys.

  Taking one step toward the door, I pause. Somehow seeing his face, knowing his name, will only shame me more, but skulking into the night like a bad dog who’s been swatted for nosing through the trash isn’t an option either. “My name is Baily Sinclair, and Thomas Sinclair is my grandfather. Please tell Mr. Edge I’m sorry for overstepping my bounds. It won’t happen again.”

  He doesn’t answer, though I hear water sloshing as he exits the pool. Whatever his intentions are, I’m not prepared to stick around and find out.

  With my head held high, I leave the pool area, unwilling to look back.

  2

  I rise with the sun, as usual, but feel worse than before I went to bed. Memories from the night before kept me thrashing until dawn. Would my mystery security man tell Mr. Edge who I was and what I’d been doing? Would he convey my remorse for crossing the line?

  My hair still smells of chlorine so I take a hot shower, wincing at the stinging along the abraded parts of my body. My knees and shins are raw from where I’d pressed them into the concrete, and the palms of my hands and the left side of my face haven’t fared much better.

  Though the weatherman predicts it’ll be in the upper nineties, I pull on jeans and leave my hair down, hiding the marks from last night’s shenanigans as best I can. I rarely wear makeup. Working outside, I’d sweat it off before noon. After toasting a bagel and brewing a pot of coffee, I slather my fair face with sunscreen and pull a Yankees ball cap on, then set off to meet the landscaping crew at the front gate.

  A black convertible sits in the circular drive, along with an extended edition black SUV. My stomach cramps and I regret eating the bagel when a man wearing a tight black T-shirt and black slacks emerges from the passenger’s side of the SUV. Could this be the person who caught me?

  “Ms. Sinclair?” The voice is smoother, lacking the rough edges of my assailant. The fact that he turns my name into a question clinches it.

  “That’s me.” I smile and try not to look nervous. Or guilty.

  “Mr. Edge would like to see you in his office this afternoon.”

  Crap. I started to sweat. “Okay, what time?”

  “Three o’clock, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll be there. Now, I’ve got to go let the landscapers in.”

  He steps back and I pick up the pace, my brain scrambling for purchase. Edge is going to fire me, maybe even have me escorted from the property. Pops is my only family. I have nowhere else to go.

  Serves you right. Snarkarella pipes up. You played fast and loose with his security man and the bastard told him everything.

  Shoving her bile aside, I move to the gate and try to not let my anxiety get the best of me. As Pops use to say, there’s no time to fret, there’s work to be done.

  A new copse of flowering shrubbery has been ordered for the estate gardens and grabbing a shovel, I literally dig right in, working up a decent sweat. Rosasharn is an easy shrub to maintain if put in properly, and it flowers in several different colors. I’ve acquired several hundred saplings from a nearby nursery as part of the landscaping budget and plan to plant two rows of them leading up to and around the dolphin fountain in the back yard.

  By midday, sweat runs down my back and my jeans are filthy. I pause to take a hit from my water bottle. On the east lawn of the estate, mowers run in a telling drone, making that neat chessboard pattern on the expansive front lawn.

  I will miss this place, not just because it’s the only home I’ve ever known, but also because I’ve put so much of myself into it. Even before Pops started deteriorating so quickly, he lost interest in planning the grounds, but he’d already passed the love down to me. I’m the one who arranged for the installation of the stone wall separating the east and south lawns. I winterized the gardens on the south lot and made the call to take down the tree with the fungal infection that caused it to lose its leaves last fall. I know every type of plant growing on these twelve acres.

  Looking around, it hits me like a ten ton anvil from above. This might be it, my last day, my last project here. Needing to sit down, I move toward the bench by the fountain and stare at the dolphin spouting water from his blowhole.

  At first I think panic is making a buzzing sound, but soon realize the noise is coming from the cell phone stuffed deep in my pocket. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Sinclair? This is Rebecca Green from Golden Oaks.”

  “Is my grandfather all right?” Rising to my feet, I move away from the chatter of the lawn crew.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but he fell this morning. He’s been transferred to Vassar Hospital.”

  The world spins around me and I can’t think over the roaring of my blood. “Has his doctor been called? Do we know how bad it is?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

  I disconnect the call without saying goodbye and sprint for the cottage and Pops’s rusted-out pickup that looks like hell but runs like a dream. Ten minutes later I’m on the road, heading down route 44 into Poughkeepsie. Using my handsfree device, I call the doctor who’s been treating Pops and discover he’s already been notified. His office assistant tells me he’ll meet me at the hospital.

  Since I’ve lived in this area all my life, I know Vassar Hospital well. A few of my friends from the nursing program at Dutchess Community College work here now, just as I would if I hadn’t taken over for Pops at the Rosemont Estate two years ago.

  The nurse at reception directs me to a waiting room on the radiology level. Too agitated to sit, I pace back and forth while I wait, figuring, better to move my body than get lost in my own head. It’s too easy to imagine a worst-case scenario. Doctor Fletcher arrives a few minutes later. “He’s all right, Baily. It’s not a break, just some bruising.”

  I let out a relieved breath and sink into a nearby chair. “Do we know how it happened?”

  Doctor Fletcher looks perturbed. “Someone left the door to the parking area open when they were unloading a supply truck, and he wandered out and fell down the incline leading to the main road.”

  Closing my eyes, I drop my head into my hands. “He could have been hit by a car.”

  “The staff has already been chastised and the orderly who propped the door open reprimanded.” The doctor places his hand on my shoulder. “Have you thought about upgrading him to a better facility? I could recommend some excellent ones that deal exclusively with Alzheimer’s patients. They’re better prepared to cater to Thomas’s particular needs.”

  Of course I’ve thought about it. Problem is, I can’t afford it. “I wish I could.”

  The doctor escorts me to the room where Pops is resting. His heart monitor beeps a steady reassuring rhythm. Sitting in the chair beside the bed, I take his hand. Paper thin eyelids lift. His gaze is foggy under the heavy medication. “Hiya, Pops.”

  He smiles and closes his eyes again. “Tired.”

  “It’s the meds,” Doctor Fletcher tells him. “Does anything hurt?”

  “At my age, everything hurts,” Pops says wryly, a ghost of his old self. “Beats the alternative though.”

  “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation.”

  Doctor Fletcher pulls me aside.

  “Thank you for getting here so quickly.” I smile up at him, my constant advocate. Doctor Fletcher has been with me throughout the downward spiral of Pops’s health and I appreciate everything he’s done.

  His gaze fixes on my face. “Is everything all right with you, Baily? You sleeping okay?”

  I think about my moonlight swims, about being pleasured the night before by a total stranger and how it was such a relief from the nonstop heartache and worry of my daily life. Except that by letting it
happen, I inadvertently made things worse.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, I gasp at the time. “Shoot, I was supposed to be at a meeting forty five minutes ago! I’ll be back later.”

  “Drive safe,” Doctor Fletcher calls out as I hurry toward the nearest bank of elevators.

  Snarkarella is in fine form the entire thirty-seven minute drive back to the estate, mentally flagellating me for standing up my boss. Soon to be ex-boss.

  “It was a family emergency,” I reason aloud as I turn up the drive. It’s ten to five. I’m almost two hours late for my meeting with Mr. Edge. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  Actually, I’m sure of nothing. I’m unable to decide if I ought to duck into the cottage and change out of my grubby clothes, or if that will only compound the problem.

  In the end, I decide that my extreme tardiness is more offensive than my bedraggled physical state. As head groundskeeper, Mr. Edge must be aware that I work for a living. Doubtful a clean pair of jeans or even a dress would change the outcome of today’s meeting.

  I take the stone steps two at a time and enter the cool foyer. Marble tiles and a vaulted ceiling give the entrance to the house that grandiose feel. An antique mahogany table and a gilded mirror sit to the right of the double doors. A curving staircase straight out of Gone with the Wind leads to the second story, eye level with the crystal chandelier. Pausing by the mirror, I do my best to scrape my out-of-control hair away from my face. Humidity wreaks havoc with the natural curls, giving me that wild Man of Borneo effect.

  Snarkarella snorts in derision.

  Just as I recognize that I might have to search the entire house for Mr. Edge, the click of heels comes from the back hallway.

  “May I help you?” A beautiful brunette raises one sculpted eyebrow in my direction. She’s wearing a gray checked sheath dress, with a wide cherry red belt. Her waist is about the size of one of my thighs. Red four inch heels and a red beret perched jauntily on her head match the belt. Her accent is distinctly French, and her tone implies she believes me to be beyond help.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Edge.” I offer a pleasant smile which she does not return.

  “And you are…?”

  “Head groundskeeper.”

  Lined brown eyes grow bigger until they almost pop from her head. “You’re Thomas Sinclair?”

  “Baily Sinclair. His granddaughter.” That is all this snooty pill will get from me. Edge sure has plenty of guard dogs, the Rottweiler from last night and now a perfectly coiffed French Poodle. Who is this guy?

  “Wait here.” She pivots on her heel and sashays to the back of the house. I deliberately refuse to look in the mirror again, not wanting to acknowledge the world of difference between myself and the poodle. At least I’m not a condescending troll in disguise.

  “Ms. Sinclair, I presume.”

  My heart stutters in my chest at his voice. The man from last night. Slowly, I drag my attention up his body, which is just as broad and solid as I imagined it to be, until I reach his face.

  One I recognize from supermarket tabloids. How many times have I stood staring at that same face, believing he couldn’t be half as handsome in person as the magazine portrayed? I was wrong—he’s even better in the flesh, more compelling, those blue eyes piercing, the aquiline nose and perfectly set cheekbones a work of art. His smoothly shaven chin is at odds with the stubble scrape I experienced against my skin last night. And his mouth….

  My brain shorts out as I look at his mouth, remembering all the things he did to me last night.

  Holly hell, I’m working for Connor Edge, the billionaire playboy!

  Enjoy it while it lasts, Snarkarella pipes up.

  3

  I’m not sure which fact is keeping me frozen. Maybe that the elusive Mr. Edge is a well-known celebrity? Or more likely, that he’s the same man who bent me over the edge of the pool and pleasured me until I came all over his face last night. Thinking about the specifics of that makes my sex squeeze with longing.

  “Excuse us, Ms. Dupree. This won’t take long.”

  The waif smirks at me knowingly and saunters off. Gripping my elbow, Connor Edge steers me into the nearby parlor and closes the door behind us. Releasing me, he gestures toward an antique beverage service cart. “Care for a drink?”

  Despite being named after an Irish whiskey and cream based liqueur, I’m not much of a drinker, but decide I’ll make an exception under the circumstances. “Whatever you’re having.”

  He pours a few fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a snifter and hands it to me. His movements are steady, unhurried, his mood impossible to read. Will he apologize for last night, or get right on with the canning?

  I take a whiff of the alcohol, wondering is it’s a sip or slug drink.

  “Cognac,” he murmurs, startling me. I didn’t realize he was watching me. “I usually reserve it for after dinner, but I’m not eating until much later.”

  “Thank you.” I shift in my seat and bring the glass to my lips. The small sip has a sweet flavor, but burns as it slides down my throat. Okay, I can now scratch sipping brandy off my bucket list.

  He sits down in a leather wingback chair directly across from me. It’s hard not to feel grubby in comparison to his perfectly pressed slacks. I take another fortifying sip and wait for the inevitable.

  “Ms. Sinclair, I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  My gaze flies to his. That’s it? Not a word about last night? “I’m sorry, I had a family emergency.”

  The way his blue black hair falls across his forehead, those piercing eyes and the snifter of cognac, his shoes that probably cost more than my truck, all scream Masterpiece Theatre. The Andersons have money, anyone would have to in order to own Rosemont, but their fortune is nothing compared to Connor Edge’s.

  “Does this emergency have anything to do with why Thomas Sinclair is nowhere to be found?” His voice is smoother than it was last night, more refined and lacking the distilled sexual heat that burned me to a crisp. Today he’s all business.

  “Yes,” I say.

  His blue eyes narrow. “Are you playing some sort of game, Ms. Sinclair?”

  How can he ask me that after what he did the night before, turning me on to prove a point? “No, Sir.”

  A small smile toys with the corners of his lips, but disappears so quickly I think it must be my imagination. “Then tell me why you are here, doing his job for him?”

  In all the photographs I’ve seen, I never imagined Connor Edge to be so…intense. Part of me wants to tell him everything. Another part wants to lash out over his tactics. Why did he refer to himself in the third person, instead of simply telling me who he is? “With all due respect, it’s a private matter. I’ve been doing this job for the past two years for peanuts, and I do it better than anyone else in three counties. Now, I apologize for the pool incident—”

  “Pool incident?” Dark slashing eyebrows draw down.

  Enough is enough already. If he isn’t going to cut to the chase, then I sure as hell will. “Yes, you and me in the pool last night, like an erotic game of clue. Ring any bells?”

  He goes very still. “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before a few moments ago.”

  My mouth falls open. “You seriously don’t remember?” Was that even possible?

  Slowly he shakes his head. “I arrived shortly after midnight and went to bed.”

  “No,” I state carefully, wary of contradicting him. “You came down to the pool and caught me swimming. Naked.” Snarkarella gives me a mental forehead slap for tagging on that last part.

  Setting aside his drink, Conner stands and moves toward the window. “You are sure it was me?”

  I didn’t see his face, but the strong build and the rough voice, along with the air of command, were spot-on. “Unless there’s someone else around here who sounds exactly like you.”

  “Sounds?” One eyebrow goes up. I’d never thought of a man’s eyebrows being
sexy before, but the jet hair along Connor Edge’s brow ridge has me rethinking my stance.

  “It was dark, and you kind of snuck up on me. Grabbed me from behind.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” I ask.

  “What happened next? I must have said something, since you recognize my voice.”

  This has to be the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had. “You asked who I was, didn’t believe me when I told you. You accused me of trying to seduce Mr. Edge.”

  He turns to face me at that. “Is that exactly how I phrased it? Referring to myself in the third person?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  My teeth sink into my lower lip as I relive the ecstasy of his rough pleasuring. “You, uh, did some stuff. To me.”

  Way to be articulate, Snarkarella hisses.

  Edge is also unimpressed, considering the blank look he shoots at me. “Define, ‘stuff’.’”

  “Sexual stuff.” My face grows hot. Would he just fire me already and get it over with?

  Turning back to face the window, he asks, “Did I hurt you? Do anything against your will?” Though the questions are fired off in a nonchalant way, his hands ball into fists at his sides.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  His relief is palpable. His posture relaxes, shoulders sagging a bit as though a heavy burden has been lifted. Good lord, does he actually think he goes around raping women and forgetting about it?

  “So it was consensual.”

  Oh, now he’s just rubbing it in. “Yes.”

  He nods as if it’s perfectly acceptable to fuck with his groundskeeper. Or more aptly, the groundskeeper’s granddaughter. “Tell me about it.”

  I’ve had enough. “No.”

  Both eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “No?”

  Placing my empty snifter on the end table, I rise to my feet. “Look, you can fire me if you want, but no way will I sit here and let you embarrass me first. Now, I’ve had a lousy day, and I want to go home and take a hot shower and veg out. So am I fired?”