Hard Impact: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Novel

by Grey, Helen

  “Yes,” I said, exuding every bit of confidence I could muster. “Is Eileen here today?”

  “Yes, she is,” the cashier smiled. “She’s in the greenhouse. You can get there from here,” she said pointing. “Just go to the end of the aisle, hang a right, and it’ll take you into the outdoor area. Go through the little gate to the greenhouse.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then moved away from the cashier before she could ask any questions.

  Nerves twanged through my system as I walked through the nursery, idly eyeing gardening rakes, hose nozzles, pots, fertilizer, and all the indoor plants spread on tables to the left of the aisle as I located and headed for the door to the outside part of the nursery. From the doorway I saw the greenhouse a short distance away through an open gate. As I walked, I felt the butterflies erupt in my stomach. I really had no idea what to expect.

  Was Eileen in there alone? I hoped so, because I clearly didn’t want to broach any questions around anyone else. Maybe I could just introduce myself, ask for an appointment to see her at a more convenient time. The problem with that was I didn’t know how long I would be in Jackson Hole. If I was going to do this, I had to do it within the next few hours.

  Would she be standoffish, or would she surprise me like her son? I entered the greenhouse, immediately sensing the difference in ambient temperature. It was very warm and humid inside, and heady with the scent of a myriad of greenhouse flowers. I didn’t see anyone right away but heard some noise at the far side of the greenhouse, toward the back.

  I walked slowly down the aisle between the tables laden with hibiscus shoots in a variety of apricot, red, orange, pink, and yellow blossoms. I saw a few different types of African violets with tiny purple, lavender, and bi-colored blossoms. I had to pause and admire a plant I didn’t recognize — about two feet tall with blackish green leaves and white lily blossoms on a tall flower stalk. I looked at the tab stuck inside the pot. Amazon Lily. It smelled absolutely wonderful. I realized I was stalling.

  I heard the noise again from the back of the greenhouse. It sounded like a hand trowel tapping against the side of a clay pot. I took a deep breath and decided I’d better announce myself. “Hello?”

  “Back here, honey,” a voice replied.

  Well, whoever had answered sounded friendly enough. I stepped past the last table and found myself in front of a workstation of sorts, assailed with the aroma of potting soil, flowers, and fertilizer. A woman was hunched down behind the counter. As I approached, I introduced myself.

  “My name is Misty Rankin,” I said. “I’m looking for Eileen Masters.”

  The woman straightened. I stared, startled, but then managed a weak smile even while my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.

  “You found her,” the middle-aged woman replied, smiling, one hand holding onto a trowel, the other bearing a small clay pot filled to the brim with potting soil. “What can I do you for?”

  Oh God. I was momentarily rendered speechless. The woman standing behind the worktable resembled a walking skeleton. Her facial features were thin and drawn, despite the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. Her eyebrows were just about gone, and from what I could tell, she was also bald. She wore a brightly patterned red and yellow scarf over her head. I instantly recognized the signs of cancer.

  I swallowed my dismay and tried to sound normal as I spoke. “I’m so sorry to intrude, it looks like you’re busy.”

  The woman offered a laugh. “I’m certainly trying to stay that way, on my good days anyway.” She placed the pot and the trowel down on the table and wiped her hands on the dark green bib she wore, then rounded the table and extended her hand toward me.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said, taking the woman’s hand gently in mine. I was afraid to squeeze too hard, she seemed so dainty and frail.

  “Oh, don’t worry, you’re not going to break me,” she laughed. “I haven’t seen you around these parts before. You new in town?”

  “Actually, I arrived in town this morning. With your son, Blake.” The woman’s expression transformed into one of pure joy. It touched my heart.

  “Blake’s here?” Eileen exclaimed. “He called last night, said he would be arriving in the next day or two.” She eyed me for several seconds, her gaze contemplating, then gestured toward the doorway behind the workbench. “Come on, let’s sit down. I’m a little winded.”

  I nodded and followed. The older woman walked slowly and carefully, and I wondered if she was in the middle of chemo or radiation treatments. My heart pounded. I knew what I was supposed to do, but knew in my heart I couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart to cause this woman any stress. She was sick. She had enough problems without me coming along and dredging up an unpleasant past. It was obvious that she loved her son deeply and probably wouldn’t appreciate any nosy questions asked by a stranger about him.

  Eileen gestured to two plastic patio chairs pushed into a corner of what obviously served as a storeroom. The air was heavy with the scent of fertilizer, soil amendment, and underneath it all, a vague, chemical smell.

  “Take a load off, young lady,” she said. “And tell me how you know my son.”

  Eileen sat down in one of the chairs and I followed suit. I decided I might as well just get it over with. I didn’t want to waste the woman’s time or give her any stress. If she didn’t want to answer any questions, I wasn’t going to push.

  “Actually, I just met him a few days ago. You see, I work for a magazine in San Francisco…” I paused, waiting for some kind of reaction from Eileen. She didn’t give any. I continued. “I’m supposed to be doing an exposé on your son.” I grinned and shrugged. “I don’t think I have to tell you that he’s an extremely private man, do I?”

  Eileen smiled, tilted her head back, and laughed, a dainty sound. “Oh, heavens no, Misty,” she said. “He’s always been a man who keeps his innermost thoughts and emotions to himself. What are you writing about?”

  “His properties,” I replied honestly. “I’ve been to the Rocking J in southern Oregon, and we just arrived here in Jackson Hole so that he can check up on some things at the Camp Robber.”

  “I see,” Eileen said.

  I felt her direct gaze. I didn’t have to ask. “I’ll be honest, Mrs. Masters—”

  “Eileen,” she interrupted.

  “Eileen.” I smiled. “To be honest, I’m supposed to… well, I’m supposed to be… I’m sure you’re more than aware of the troubles your son has had lately with the rumors being spread by his ex-wife.” Eileen said nothing, but offered a short nod. “I’m also supposed to…”

  “Talk about his father’s death,” Eileen finished.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said softly, feeling definitely uncomfortable. “But I want you to know that I — I feel hesitant to even broach the topic with him. It’s such a private matter.”

  Eileen stared at me a moment and then offered me another smile. “You’re not like the other reporters.”

  “You’ve met some?”

  “Oh heavens yes,” she said. “Some of them can be quite bothersome. And rude.”

  I moved to stand. “I’m so sorry I bothered you, Mrs…. Eileen. I should let you get back to your work.”

  Eileen reached out a hand and placed it on my arm. “Sit.”

  I did, gazing at the older woman with curiosity. She didn’t look much like Blake, or Blake didn’t look much like her, but then again she was sick. I had no doubt that Blake was as protective of his mother as he was of his past. Once again, I felt the weight of guilt pressing down on my shoulders for sneaking around behind his back and arranging this meeting with his mother without his knowledge.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  The question came out of left field and I experienced the shock of surprise. Was it that obvious? What could I say? The pulse in my neck picked up speed, and I felt the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks, giving the woman her answer. Well, I had been honest so far; I might as well just blurt it out. “Y
es, Eileen, I do. Very much. He’s not at all what I expected.”

  At that moment, I realized that I more than just liked Blake. But how could my feelings for someone I barely knew develop so quickly? Not only that, but how did Blake feel about me? Did it mean anything? At the same time, I also came to another realization. I looked at Blake’s mother and smiled. I had made my decision.

  “You’re a lucky woman, Eileen, to have a son like Blake. In spite of his penchant for silence, I think I’ve learned more about him in the last couple of days than I think any exposé could’ve revealed. He surprises me.”

  I slowly rose. When Eileen moved to stand, I gestured for her to remain seated. I turned to leave the storeroom, then paused by the doorjamb. “I’m glad I had the opportunity to meet you,” I said, meaning it. These few minutes with Blake’s mother had brought everything — well, a lot of things — into greater clarity. “I’ll be going now so that you can get back to your beautiful flowers. I just want you to know… I have no intention of digging into your son’s past, or yours. It’s none of my business, and frankly, as far as I’m concerned, it’s nobody else’s business either.”

  With a last smile, I turned and walked quickly out of the greenhouse, my heart thumping with uncertainty. Well, that was that. I knew what else I needed to do. I would go back to the cabin, make a couple of phone calls, and make arrangements to get back to San Francisco. This had gone far enough and I was done. I realized as soon as I saw Blake’s cancer-stricken mother that I didn’t have the heart to dig into the woman’s past. I wasn’t the bulldog journalist, the type to get the story no matter what. I didn’t have the come-hell-or-high-water attitude that many of my fellow journalists possessed.

  Disappointed in myself yet relieved at the same time, I walked quickly through the nursery and out to the front, pulling my cell phone from my pocket, prepared to dial the taxi service again. But first, I had one call to make.

  My heart thumped. With every second, I grew angrier. I dialed, my mouth dry, my stomach tied up in knots regarding my sudden decision. But I knew, deep down, that it was the right one.

  “Sweet Success,” the receptionist answered.

  “Heidi, this is Misty Rankin. Is Angela in?”

  “Yes, let me connect you.”

  I knew I was doing the right thing, and although I had no idea what I would do next, when or where I would find another job, I needed to get this over with. I heard the connection going through. Seconds later, Angela’s sharp voice. “Misty, how’s the interview going?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that I would be leaving town with Mr. Masters?” I asked. I didn’t wait for her to answer. “I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

  “What did you say?” Angela asked, her voice harsh and surprised.

  “You heard me,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, I quit.”

  I disconnected the call. Well, that was that. My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding, but I knew I’d done the right thing. I would find another job, I knew that. Even if I had to go back home to Texas. Sweet Success wasn’t the only magazine out there. And I could certainly do better, couldn’t I?

  I could, dammit! Head down, I began to dial for the taxi service. I wasn’t watching where I was going and barreled into someone. I lifted my head, mouth open, blurting an apology.

  “I’m so sorry—” My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. Oh, Lord. “Blake! What are you doing here?”

  He stared down at me in equal surprise. Then a dark scowl formed. “I might ask the same of you.” His tone was short, clipped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I couldn’t lie about it. “I-I found out that your mother owned this place—”

  “You’ve bothered my mother?”

  His voice was low, deep, and dark with anger. He grasped my upper arm and none too gently walked me over to his truck. “Get in.”

  “Blake, I—”

  “Get in!”

  He didn’t shout. On the contrary, his voice was low. Eerily calm. Nevertheless, I sensed he was furious. I almost refused, but decided not to cause a scene in front of his mother’s nursery. I didn’t think for a minute that Blake would put a hand on me. At best, he would drive me to the airport and put me on a plane back to San Francisco.

  But first I needed to explain. “Blake, I—”

  “Not yet,” he snapped. He started the engine and pulled the truck out of the driveway, careful not to kick up dirt from the tires onto customers. Halfway down the dirt road from the nursery to the asphalt highway, however, he picked up speed.

  I glanced at his profile, harsh in the sunlight. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white, his back ramrod straight.

  “Blake, listen to me—”

  He didn’t look at me as he harshly interrupted. “This interview is between you and me! I told you I would answer some of your questions. Not all of them, but some of them. How dare you go behind my back and sneak around to talk to my mother!”

  “I’m sorry, Blake, but you should know—”

  “She’s recovering from surgery! She’s going through chemo treatments!” His voice cracked with emotion. “What were you thinking?”

  Tears flooded my eyes and I swallowed. “Blake, I’m sorry,” I cried. I meant it. “I didn’t know… the moment I saw your mother, I knew I couldn’t—”

  He pulled off onto the side of the road. A cloud of dust enveloped the truck as he slammed it into park, turned off the engine, and turned toward me.

  “I’m so angry with you right now. And disappointed. I can’t believe you—”

  “I quit, Blake!” I interrupted, my voice cracking with stress. All my pent-up emotion rushed to the surface. A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and I angrily swiped at it. “I called the magazine. I quit! Do you hear me?” My voice rose shrilly as Blake stared at me, obviously surprised by my outburst. “I didn’t ask your mother any questions, Blake! I didn’t invade her privacy. I didn’t invade yours!”

  More tears threatened to spill and I passed a hand over my eyes, clutched my forehead for several brief seconds before looking back at him. “I can’t… this is not who I am. Your mother… she’s a sweetheart, Blake. I knew the minute I saw her that I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t do it to you. I—”

  “You quit?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm. “What do you mean, you quit? You can’t quit.”

  “Well, I did!” I exclaimed. “I just called Angela and told her I quit! Do you think I wanted to open your wounds? To talk about a horrible tragedy in your past? That’s not what I wanted to do when I got a job at that magazine!” The words gushed from my mouth in a torrent. “I thought I wanted to be a journalist, Blake, but if this is what it entails, I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

  He said nothing for several moments. One hand on the steering wheel, the other draped along the back of the seats, he stared at me.

  “My father wasn’t murdered,” he said quietly.

  The change of subject startled me. I gulped in a breath, my chest hitching with a stifled sob as I stared at him. “What?” I asked, confused.

  He sighed. “My father wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide.”

  I was rendered speechless and dumbfounded. I couldn’t have been more shocked. “I don’t understand…”

  He stared out the windshield for a moment, and then looked at me. He studied my features, then reached out with one hand to gently wipe a tear from my cheek. He spoke, his voice so calm after his anger seconds earlier.

  “I got home from school one day. My mom was gone, I can’t remember where she was, some kind of lunch reception or something.”

  “Blake, you don’t have to tell—”

  “It was a Wednesday. My dad usually worked in his home office on Wednesdays, so I went to his office and knocked on the door to let him know I was home. He didn’t answer. When I walked in, I saw him—”

  “Blake,” I said. I leaned toward him, placing my hand over the ha
nd that still tightly gripped the steering wheel. “Please, you don’t have to—”

  He looked at me and continued. “He was lying on the floor, his head surrounded by a pool of blood. A gun was in his hand.” He dipped his head and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, but I took the gun from his hand, shoved it in my pants. I didn’t want my mom to see that, to know… that he had… Jeremy Masters, committing suicide? Impossible.”

  My heart pounded dully in my chest. I could see the pain written all over Blake’s features. The memories he was reliving. “Oh my God…”

  “Anyway, being a stupid teenager, I tried to make it look like it was a home invasion or a robbery. Then I ran outside to the copse of trees behind the house and buried his gun.” He shrugged, closed his eyes as the memories flooded back. “I went back to the house, called nine-one-one. By the time my mom came home, the yard was swarming with cops.”

  “Blake, why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

  He shrugged. “I was a kid. I didn’t want my mom to know that my dad killed himself. Didn’t want her to see him like that… the mess on the floor…” He turned to me. “I didn’t want anyone in town to know. I didn’t think it was anyone’s business, and I didn’t want my mom to know that her husband, her partner, her best friend, had killed himself… abandoned her, abandoned me, leaving us to pick up the pieces.”

  “But how—”

  “Forensics are wonderful things, aren’t they?” he asked with a wry smile. “It didn’t take long for the cops to find out that my dad had been killed with a close contact gunshot wound. An autopsy. Powder burns, I guess. And then the search dogs found the gun. With my fingerprints all over it.”

  “Oh my God,” I repeated. I scooted closer to Blake on the bench seat of the truck. Wrapped my arms around him. He didn’t resist. “Didn’t you tell them what happened?”

  “Eventually,” he said. “They interrogated me for something like ten hours, I can’t remember. It’s all such a blur. Nevertheless, the paper reported what they wanted. They knew I was at the police station, and that I was there for hours. They put two and two together. But they came up with the wrong conclusion. By the time I was released, the rumors had already spread like wildfire. Nothing could stop it. Since I was a juvenile, my statement involving the case was sealed.”