We talk about where I am in my cycle and when the unprotected sexual activity occurred. She takes my temperature and blood pressure and hands me a packet with two small pills. “Take these twelve hours apart within 120 hours of unprotected sex, preferably with food. Some women experience nausea if taken on an empty stomach. I have a pamphlet here with some more information.”
“I really appreciate this.” I look down at the pamphlet. At least one of my problems will be solved, temporarily.
“Has he ever hit you?” The doctor asks quietly.
I whip my head up. “No! It’s nothing like that. Connor would never hurt me.” Even as the words come out, I think about his fear of becoming physically violent, or raping me. Why is he so concerned about that?
Pushing my doubt aside, I say, “It’s complicated. Him and me. But there’s no violence, and I can leave whenever I want. This isn’t an abusive situation. He’s just panicked I might get pregnant.”
The doctor nods, though I can’t tell if it’s with acceptance. “Here’s my card. Call me if you need help. With anything.” She leaves the definition nebulous.
I follow her back down the hall to the front door, where Connor paces restlessly. His head whips up and his gaze focuses on my face.
I smile at the doctor and we shake hands. “Thank you, Doctor Trammel.”
Connor hands her a check, then blinks when she rounds on him. “Is everything all right?”
“She’s a sweet girl, Mr. Edge. Be good to her.” Her tone is abrupt.
“I’m trying my best.” He sounds slightly defensive, but mostly stunned.
“Try harder.” She nods once more to me and then strides out the door.
“I think you have an advocate.” Connor’s tone is full of awe. “I can’t remember the last time someone was so unimpressed with me. Especially after I paid them.”
“Money isn’t everything,” I tell him.
He puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I’m not sure how to answer that one. “I need something to eat so I can take this.” I hold the pill up.”
His eyes light up and he grins at me. “I’ll cook for you. What do you feel like?”
“Something light. Pasta maybe.”
“Come keep me company.” He strides off toward the kitchen as though with renewed purpose. His mood swings are giving me whiplash. Maybe he’s the one who needs his hormones regulated.
Connor’s kitchen is a work of art. A soapstone countertop spans three sides, with a built-in breakfast bar acting as the fourth. I sit on a barstool and take it all in. I’m no chef, but I can see every gadget and appliance is top of the line. “You really like to cook?”
He nods, chopping fresh herbs while waiting for the water to boil. “It helps me relax. Cooking is like business. Once you understand the basics and gather quality ingredients, it’s all about intuition and bold improvisation.”
Within minutes he sets a huge bowl of rotini in a white wine sauce in front of me, then turns and reaches into one of the glass front cabinets for a goblet. “Wine?”
I shake my head as I pick up my fork. “Water, please.”
He nods and retrieves a bottle or Perrier from a pantry bigger than my bedroom. “You don’t drink much, do you?”
The food is delicious, but my stomach keeps cramping up, so I push my plate aside. “No.”
“Will you tell me about it?” He takes a seat on the barstool next to me.
“It’s not exactly dinner conversation.” No way am I spilling my guts first. He’s promised me an explanation, and I’m holding out for one.
“Another time then.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Soon,” he murmurs, pushing food around his plate. I haven’t seen him eat a bite yet.
The silence between us is unbearable. I take the first pill and glance at the clock, noting the time. “Where’s my bag? I need to set the alarm on my phone so I take the next one in twelve hours.”
Connor gets up and walks down the hallway. He comes back, wheeling a red suitcase and holding my bag from the beach, as well as box.
“What’s all this?” My brow furrows as he sets the box down in front of me.
“I got you a smartphone. Your phone is archaic.” He actually looks pleased with himself. Smug bastard.
My jaw clenches tight. “And the suitcase?”
“I had someone pack some of your clothes and bring them here for you.”
I stare at the suitcase and shake my head. “Who did it?”
“I’m sorry?”
I almost scoff at that, because I know he isn’t. “Who packed my fucking suitcase? Who was in my house, pawing through my personal items without my permission?” God help him if it was his snooty assistant.
“I gave them permission,” he states, as though that will make everything better.
I want to throw something at his head. “And who gave you permission? Huh, Connor? Who gave you the right to dictate my life?”
“I just wanted—”
But I bowl right over him. I’m on my feet now, fists clenched, nails digging into the flesh of my palms. “Why should I care, when what I want clearly doesn’t matter to you?”
He scowls at me. “That isn’t so.”
I’m building up to my full head of steam. “Oh, I’m sorry, my opinion matters only when I agree to do and say and wear what you want. But the second I make a choice that you don’t like, you bully and browbeat and emotionally manipulate me right back into line. You never intended to bring me home, did you? What was your plan, to move me into that blank slate apartment and keep me here for your convenience? Safely on birth control and ready to bend over the nearest piece of furniture on your whim? I have a life, damn you! It might not seem like much to you, but it’s mine. I have a grandfather who needs me, and I never signed up to be some rich man’s sex doll!”
I can see the fury building in him, hot enough to match my own. “Is that really what you think is going on here? Do you really think so little of me? I told you, you are different for me. I want to protect you, provide for your needs. Why is that so wrong?”
“Because you’re doing it against my will, without listening to what I tell you. I don’t want you to make those decisions for me. Rosasharn.”
He blinks. “What?”
“It’s my safe-word. I’m putting an end to this now.”
Without looking at him, I pick up the bag in one hand and wheel the suitcase with the other, back to the taupe apartment. He follows me, but I shut the door in his face. Heaving the suitcase onto the bed, I flip it open and study the contents. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a tank top, I take off the dress, sandals and bathing suit, and add them to the bag with the party clothes. Putting my own clothes back on is such a relief. I start feeling like myself for the first time all day. I fish the quarter million dollar check out of my clutch and rezip the suitcase before heading back out to face him.
“Here. This is all yours. Sorry it isn’t laundered, but I’ve been busy.” I drop the shopping bag next to him and hold out the check.
“What are you doing? That stuff is yours. I don’t want it.”
“Neither do I.”
“Baily, don’t do this.” His face loses all color. There’s no anger written on those handsome features now, just blind panic. “Don’t leave me.”
My heart twists at his words, as though someone has reached inside my chest and is trying to ring every last drop of blood from my heart. “I can’t stay, Connor. It’s either you or me. And I may want you, but I need me.”
He turns away, those big shoulders rounded in, as though warding off a blow. I wait for him to say something else, but he remains silent.
I’m almost to the door when he mutters, “I’ll have Justin drive you home.”
“I’ll take Metro North.”
He inhales a huge breath, as though struggling with something. “How will you get home from the Poughkeepsie train station?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The Rosemont is a solid forty-five minute drive from the station. “I’ll call a friend.”
“Please. Let Justin take you, so I know you get home safely.”
Exhaustion pulls on me as I think about lugging this suitcase into a cab, onto the train, and explaining to any of my acquaintances why it’s even necessary. “Okay.”
“I’ll call him.” Connor walks away and I open the door.
Justin enters a few minutes later and takes my suitcase. “Car’s ready whenever you are.”
“Ms. Sinclair, a moment?”
I close my eyes and murmur to Justin, “I’ll meet you down there.”
Steeling my resolve, I turn to face Connor. He’s holding the new smartphone out to me.
“The other one is deactivated, so you need to take this one, at least until you can switch it back.”
Wordlessly, I accept the small device. I refuse to thank him for it.
Fingertips run across my cheekbone in a tender caress. “Baily.”
With a shaking hand, I pull his fingers from my cheek and hold them to my lips for a moment. One last taste. “Goodbye, Connor.”
Turning away is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And one of the most necessary. I fear I’m leaving my heart behind, but know there’s no going back for it. No matter how much I might want to.
I just don’t trust myself that much.
It’s full dark out by the time Justin pulls the SUV into the flow of traffic. I’m belted in and fighting tears that I know will win the war once my head is buried in my pillow at home. There are so many things to think about. What am I going to do? The thought of staying on at the Rosemont makes me ill. What will happen when I see Connor there? What if I see him with another woman? Just the thought makes bile rise in my throat.
Justin glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“Go for it.”
His hand reaches for the dial a second before an explosion rocks the front end and the vehicle goes up in flames.
“Shit!” Justin yells. “Baily, get out!”
Panicked, I fumble the seatbelt and fling the door open into oncoming traffic. A horn blares out angrily, but I barely hear it, so focused on getting out.
The seatbelt gives way and I lunge out of the car, onto the hood of a taxi, a moment before the SUV fireballs.
12
It’s moments like these that define a person. Or so I tell myself when I hear Connor Edge’s no-nonsense bass coming from the hallway outside my curtained-off section of the E.R. The scrapes and bruises I’ve received from a car bombing suddenly cease aching, and my heart beats as if I’m running a 10K. Every little thing about the billionaire playboy attracts women like ants to a picnic. It took every ounce of willpower for me to leave him once, and call me weak willed, but I can’t go through it again.
“Baily Sinclair, where is she?” Connor demands. Only someone who has spent time studying his every move, focusing on the subtle changes in his tone and inflection, would be able to pick up on the layer of rage he’s barely containing.
You know what you’re in for if he finds you, my inner critic—whom I’ve dubbed Snarkarella—cautions. He’ll call all the shots, from the color of your underwear to the number of calories you consume. Doesn’t matter how tight his butt is, he’s unbalanced!
She’s right. Connor is the epitome of a control freak. We had a big blow-up over his insistence that I go on birth control and I’d left when he’d had one of his legions of minions enter my home without my permission. Being involved with a man who disregards my wishes and bullies me until he gets his way holds no appeal to me.
“Where is she?” he repeats louder. Ice coats every word, but I hear panic as well. He’s worried about me, nearly frantic with it. It’s cruel to sit here silently and not reassure him. And I could use a little reassurance myself after almost dying.
I shiver as that reality sets in. I almost died. Suddenly, his domineering nature doesn’t seem as reprehensible as it did a few hours ago. I want to see him, to feel his arms around me and hear him say everything is going to be all right.
“Connor,” I call out.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Snarkarella hisses.
I let out a huge breath. It’s done, he’s coming for me.
“Sir, you can’t go back there!” A woman’s panicked voice and then the curtain is drawn aside. Those neon blue eyes devour me where I am huddled on the hospital bed. He assesses me quickly, then moves to my side, lifts a hand to the side of my face but drops it before he makes contact. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head and then turn to the nurse who had tried to stop him. “It’s all right, he’s with me.”
The woman is in her late sixties with steel gray hair and even she doesn’t seem immune to the magic of Connor Edge. I see her lips part and her gaze glaze over when she looks at his perfect face. Connor could have easily been a Hollywood heartthrob, but he’d devoted himself to business instead of acting and turned his grandfather’s eighty million dollar inheritance into some serious money.
“Leave us,” Connor orders. I see her jump and shoot him a squinty-eyed glare. I want to tell him to apologize; the woman is just doing her job after all. But the tightness of his jaw clues me in to the fact he’s barely hanging on by a thread.
The curtain scrapes as she pulls it back into place, giving us nothing more than the illusion of privacy. Cries and shouts and the general bustle from the ER still surround us, but with him so near, so focused on me, all the background hubbub fades away.
His eyebrows draw together and he looks as though he’s in pain. “I never should have let you go.”
“You had no way of knowing what would happen.” Yes, it was his car, driven by one of his security professionals, but Connor has a bad habit of taking responsibility for everything. “Is Justin all right?” I inquire about the driver.
“He’s in ICU with second degree burns.” Connor runs a hand through his hair and I’m surprised to see it shaking. “I thought that you’d—”
I reach out one hand toward him, craving skin to skin contact. He looks from my proffered limb to my face and I feel a moment’s panic at his hesitation. Maybe I’m just another obligation to him now. Perhaps he doesn’t want to hold me since I left him.
Then I’m in his arms and his lips are on mine, his hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones. He’s so careful with me, as though I’m delicate, not the plus-sized sturdy Irish stock that I actually am. The gentle pressure of his mouth on mine is hungry and welcoming and I lose myself in his addictive heat. The temptation of Connor Edge is too much for me in this moment.
He pulls back slowly, resting his forehead on mine. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m not really sure. One second we were just driving. Justin asked if I minded if he turned on the radio and I said no.”
“Did he turn on the radio?”
What did it matter? “I’m not sure. I saw him reach for it, and then there were flames and he yelled at me to get out. We were in the far right lane, so I dove out into traffic, right over the hood of a taxi. If we hadn’t been at a light…” Emotion causes my throat to close up.
Connor pulls me into his chest, rubbing my back in a soothing caress while I listen to the steady lub-dubbing of his heart. “I just wanted to go home,” I whisper miserably.
“I know, sweetheart. I promise, as soon as they let you go, I’ll take you home myself.”
Relief and apprehension war inside me. I want to stay close to Connor because he makes me feel safe, but the longer I’m with him, the more difficult it is to let go. I haven’t changed my mind about that. Is it selfish to cling to him this way, knowing I’m only going to leave him in a few hours?
Connor pulls back. “I need to make a few calls but I have a security team in the ER. Will you be all right until I get back?
“Yeah. The doctor should be in soon.” Is it strange that he’s brought
his security people to the hospital?
“I’ll make sure that he is.” Placing one last kiss on my forehead, Connor leaves me alone.
I’m right, he’s not gone for five minutes before the ER doctor strides in and studies my chart. He’s young, probably a resident, from the looks of his pasty pallor. He asks some questions, examines the various bumps and bruises, then uses a flashlight to dilate my pupils. “Did you hit your head?” His fingers explore my scalp in that curt, clinically detached way and I wince when he connects with a lump I didn’t even realize was there.
“I guess so.”
“Did you lose consciousness at the scene?”
“I’m not sure. I might have. It’s all a big blur.” Crap, I know where he’s going with this. “You think I have a concussion?”
He looks mildly surprised. “That’s right. Have you had one before?”
“I was studying to be a nurse until my circumstances changed.”
He nods. “Well then, you know the drill. Have someone wake you every few hours, take acetaminophen for any pain, and call your doctor or come to the hospital right away if you experience any dizziness, blurred vision or nausea. Otherwise, take it easy for a few days and you’ll be fine.”
“Shouldn’t you do some tests, make sure your prognosis is accurate?” This from Connor, who’s lurking in the doorway. I didn’t have a clue how long he’d been standing there.
The doctor frowns at him. “I don’t believe that’s necessary. She’s alert, able to answer questions clearly, pupils dilating normally. Sometimes mild concussions don’t show on a head CT.”
Connor moves in closer, until he’s looming over the doctor. “I want to speak to the hospital administrator.”
“Connor,” I hiss, mortified that he’d challenge the doctor’s diagnosis. “It’s not necessary.”
I am, of course, ignored, as he’s too busy staring the medical professional down.
“Fine. I’ll order the head CT.” He leaves, pulling the curtain once more.
“I’m leaving.” The hospital already has my information, they’ll bill me.
Caught Up In You: Edgeplay: The complete serial Page 10