by Jane Henry
“Let me handle this, Mr. Morrow.” One of my security men’s pulling me back to the table with Katie. “Please. Your reputation, sir.”
“How do you feel about her using you, Mr. Morrow? As the premise of her book?”
What are they on about? My body goes rigid. I turn to Katie, who stares at me with such wide eyes. The guilt written across her features hit me in that nagging place in my gut that’s been bothering me all night. Something is off with her book and I need to know more.
I wave the waitstaff back. This isn’t the time for a proposal.
“Let’s go,” I gesture for Katie and snap my fingers. “Now.”
She rises to her feet, and her eyes flash at me. “I’m not a trained dog, Darius.”
Reporters flash more pictures, but my security detail’s pushing them away.
I grab her by the elbow, but she yanks it away and stomps toward the exit. Anger rises in me and I so want to drag her across my thighs and spank her in front of all these flashing cameras until she’ll listen to reason, but I know this isn’t the time. I know this, she just frustrates the living hell out of me sometimes with her maddening habit of running away.
We walk in stony silence toward the privacy elevator and ride it to my penthouse without speaking. It isn’t until we get to the top floor, she finally turns to me.
“It isn’t true,” she says. “But part of it is.”
“We’ll talk when we’re in the apartment.”
She opens her mouth again to speak, but my patience has waned. I hold up my hand to her. “Not now.”
She clamps her lips shut, fuming, but obeys.
We get inside, and I can’t help myself. I push her against the door and wrap my fingers around the back of her neck, caging her in, forcing her to look at me, to listen.
“This is part of my life,” I say to her. “Media. News. Following me. No privacy. That won’t ever change.”
She blinks, then nods, and her eyes grow a little softer.
“You will always come to me and talk. You won’t run or hide or jump to conclusions. Do you understand me, little girl?”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course.” Her voice catches a little.
I kiss her, and she comes up on her toes, wrapping her arms around my neck while I hold her. In the background my phone and hers buzz, over and over again, until I pull away from the kiss in anger.
“Just answer it,” she says with a sigh. “Let’s deal with this so we can move on.”
She’s right. I release her, but take her hand, and we walk toward my desk where the two phones lay.
I pick up mine and she picks up hers.
We both still.
I have fifteen calls and texts from my publicist.
She used you. Don’t let her ruin you.
What?
Katie covers her mouth with her hand and sinks to her knees on the floor, overcome with whatever she’s seeing on her end of the phone. She murmurs something to herself about a Sarah and the words, bestseller on our hands.
I click a link my publicist sent me.
Vegas, Baby, by bestselling romance author Katie Davis, is set to hit shelves late this spring, but insiders say it’s more than a romance novel but an exposé, a romp into the personal life and times of none other than billionaire Darius Morrow of Morrow Enterprises, and owner of the Vegas, Baby resort.
What? There’s no way anyone knew about this book yet. She just sent it in tonight. How could they already have details like this?
I look at Katie in consternation. Her mouth’s open in shock as she scrolls through what’s in front of her. I drag my eyes reluctantly back to the screen.
Our inside sources say Ms. Davis not only agreed to be a paid escort for the reclusive billionaire but sidled her way into his personal life. She reveals all in her novel—the tragic loss of his family, how he was raised by his grandmother, his devastating injury that prevented him from pursuing his dream in professional football.
I read on, but it feels as if I’m out of my body, like I’m not here. She wouldn’t do this. Someone manipulated this. Katie wouldn’t use me.
She wouldn’t.
Would she?
She’s smiling, she’s actually smiling at whatever she’s reading. How could she put my life on display like this, then celebrate her victory right before me? I thought I fueled her muse or something, served as her inspiration for... love. Sure, I was fine with her writing about our sexcapades.
But my parents’ death?
I silence my phone and toss it onto my desk. I cross my arms on my chest, not because I’m angry but somehow, as if to protect myself.
“Did you?” My voice is low and dangerous, laced with anger and accusation.
“What?”
“Write about me.” I can’t bring myself to say more.
She swallows hard. “I’ll go home,” she whispers. “I… I can’t tell a lie. Of course I wrote about you. You were the basis of the story.”
Of course she did? What the hell is she talking about? I blink at her. I can’t believe just moments ago I was prepared to propose to the woman. And now… she’s admitted to using me? Of betraying my confidence, making money from my tragedy? How could she?
My voice is cold and hard, masking the pain that stabs me. “I’ll pay what I owe you and get you a ride.”
Chapter 17
Katie
The fury in his eyes makes me cringe, physically curl in on myself, and I briefly second guess my decision to flee. “But wait—can’t we talk about this? I told you, you were my inspiration, our love broke my writer’s block—”
His hand shoots up, an open palm cutting off my words. “I don’t want to hear one. More. Word.” Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he goes to take out cash. “I’ll give you what I have, and Miranda will wire you the rest. I just want you out of here. Now.” He tosses the bills down before me.
As I watch them flutter to the ground, my breath leaves my body. I can’t breathe, I have that terrible feeling you get when the wind’s been knocked from your chest. Staring at the bills on the carpet, I blink back hot tears of devastation.
How could he treat me like this?
My words come out, a choked sob. “What are you doing? How could you…” My words trail off as the pain consumes me.
He’s thrown money at me. Kicked me out of his place. He’s not the man I thought he was.
Rising from the floor, I slide my phone in my pocket. Leaving the money where it lies, I grab my purse and my backpack with the laptop. I don’t want anything, not one thing that he’s bought for me. He can keep it for his next escort.
As I’m reaching for the door, he gives a growl. “I’ll call for my car.”
I can’t even look at him. “Don’t. I don’t want anything else from you. Ever.”
Somehow, I manage to walk out that door and get into the elevator before I let the dam burst. Tears flow down my cheeks like a river. Huge sobs rack my body, shaking my shoulders. It’s an act of God that no one gets on that elevator with me and for the next fifty-five floors. I get to have a private ride of pain and sorrow and hurt.
I’ll never, ever forget the way he looked at me when he threw that money down.
And I’ll never forgive him.
When I reach the lobby, I’m sure my face is red, stained with tears. My eyes puffy. My breath is coming in short, little choking bursts.
The doors open, and I remember—the paparazzi is out there. Just waiting to see little tear-stained Katie being kicked out of the penthouse by Daddy Darius.
I’m so drained from sadness, I’ve no idea what to do. I step out of the elevator, dazed, unsure of where to go. I feel a gentle hand on my arm.
“Katie?”
It’s Miranda. Today her platinum hair hangs down in waves, her red dress replaced with skinny jeans and a loose tank top. She looks ten years younger than she did at the Sugar Daddies event—late twenties at most. Her serious expression is missing, the lines of her fac
e are soft, empathetic. She pulls me down the hall, into an office, closing the door behind her.
“Miranda… I… I…” and I burst into another round of sobs.
She takes me in her arms, much more tender than I’d envisioned her being. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head.
“There, there, sweet girl. I’m sure we can fix this somehow. A billionaire man like Mr. Morrow should understand that sometimes we women have to play an extra card from our hand to make it in this world.”
How does she know this quickly? What has the media said? What is she talking about?
“He knew… he knew I was writing the book.”
Patting my back, she shushes me. “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s just get you home safe, without all these journalists attacking you on your way out. You can sort the rest out with Mr. Morrow when the story cools down.”
After the way he looked at me, threw money at me… I’m never speaking to him again. But no need to tell Miranda that. I just need to get home. I throw her a grateful look. “Thank you.”
A few phone calls later, I’m sitting in the back of a food delivery truck, bumping along the road on top of a crate of oranges, headed to my apartment complex. There are journalists all over the street. My grumpy landlord, Mr. Taylor is out by the fence, waving a broom around, trying to keep them off his property.
“Oh, God, I can’t go in.”
The driver looks sympathetic, nods, and comes back a moment later with a huge blue apron, a baseball cap and a big pair of sunglasses. He ties the apron while I hide my hair under the hat. I don the glasses, throw my backpack on my back, my purse over my shoulder and take the crate of oranges he hands me.
I’m just a delivery girl.
For once, I’m grateful for my landlord’s irritable temperament. I slip by, unnoticed, and quickly make it to the door of my apartment. Once I’m inside, after setting my stuff down, I lock the doorknob, flip the deadbolt, then slide the chain in the latch. Still wearing the apron, hat, and glasses, I dash through my apartment, closing the blinds and pulling the curtains shut.
Removing the hat, the glasses, and the apron, I grab an orange and sink down onto my couch. I’m relieved to be in my apartment, alone, at least for a moment. I peel back the thick skin of the fruit, inhaling the citrusy scent. I need to eat something.
Taking a deep breath, I turn on the television, seeing the news stories for the first time since the leak.
It’s terrible, what they’re saying about me. I’m the escort who never really loved Darius but was just after him for his money. Another newscaster claims I targeted him specifically for my book, knowing that with his fame, I’d sell twice as many copies. The accusations go on and on.
I can’t quite understand all this, though. I just sent my novel in. How do they know about this so quickly? I sense foul play, but I can’t figure out how or why.
I sit on my couch, tears in my eyes, my orange forgotten, and my mouth hanging in disbelief. Switching the station to the celebrity gossip channel, I brace myself for more lies. The words, Mr. Morrow, Escort, and used, are constantly repeated.
My tablet sits on my lap, my finger swiping through page after page of articles.
My phone sits beside me, making a bing-bong noise with every text it receives.
I ignore them. I know it’s Sarah, begging me to call her back.
She’ll say she wasn’t the leak, promising me that there isn’t a single person on her staff that she doesn’t trust. But that’s just not possible. The story leaked only twenty-four hours after I hit send. It went to no one else except my publisher.
How could it be Sarah? She’s the only one I really know at the publishing company. We talk on the phone at least once a week, way more when I’ve got a story in the works. She would never do this to me.
But they must have a dirty doer in their ranks—one who would trade a salacious story in exchange for cold, hard cash. Sell my book to the gossip rags, claiming I used Darius only for the story, and pocket a handsome reward.
Kind of like me getting paid for sex? Sinking into my couch I suddenly feel dirty, shameful, and no better than the nasty snitch who’s done this to me.
Sighing, I try to convince myself to flip off the television. To turn off my tablet. To stop watching, stop reading this junk, but I can’t. Seeing your life crumble before your eyes on screen is like an addiction—you can’t tear yourself away.
A new headline, one I haven’t yet seen flashes on the television screen. In bold red font, the words say; Tragedy Strikes a Third Time for Darius Morrow.
A knot forms in my stomach. Grabbing the remote, I turn up the sound.
The news anchor stares steadily into the camera lens, her face lined with disapproval. “A small-town hero from Georgia not only lost his parents, but his football career as well. And now, tragedy has struck for a third time in the form of a curvy blonde escort. Katie Davis, writing under the pen name of Scarlet Rose, has turned her latest romance novel into a tell-all delving into the personal life of Mr. Morrow.”
Wait. What?
Hearing my real name linked with my pen name to the whole world, I cringe, my stomach twisting in knots. I think I might be sick, but I can’t move from this couch. I have to hear the rest of the story. The reporter drones on. “Katie reveals all in her novel—the tragic loss of his family, how he was raised by his grandmother, his devastating injury that prevented him from pursuing his dream in professional football. Forcing him into a deep depression that made him leave his hometown in search of a new life under the shiny lights of Vegas.”
A white-hot heat rushes over my face, every muscle in my body tensing.
I didn’t write that.
I would never, ever tell his personal tragedy to the world.
I rarely curse, but I find myself thinking, what the actual fuck is going on here?
The reporter finishes her story with a cheesy one liner. “Looks like what happens in Vegas, doesn’t stay in Vegas after all.”
Disgusted, I grab for the remote, turning off the television with shaky fingers. The blue glow of the screen fades, leaving me alone in the dark. I go to turn on the lamp beside me, but I’m shaking so badly I almost knock it to the floor.
This is what he thinks I did. My throat clogs with tears. I can’t believe someone did this. He thinks I’ve betrayed him.
When I’ve finally got the light on, I grab my cell. There’s a string of texts as well as a long line of angry red missed calls. Ignoring them all, I pull up Sarah’s number and dial.
Her voice sounds shaky. “Oh my God, Katie. Thanks for calling me back. Are you okay?”
“I'm hanging in there. But what’s this about a chapter in my book about Darius’s personal tragedy?” My voice shakes. I want answers.
She waits a beat to answer. “Um… what do you mean?”
“That’s definitely not in there. Some reporter must have made it up to make the story more grabby. Is there any way your company could contact the press? I mean this has to be illegal, making up shit that I didn’t put in there—”
“Katie.” Sarah says my name in a tone I’ve never heard her use, one that sends a chill down my spine. “That was all in the book. His parents’ death, the car crash, the injury. Every last bit of it. I swear, you had me crying and staying up all night to read it when you sent it over. That poor man, how he survived—”
That strange white heat spreads across my skin, perspiration forming at my hairline. “But I didn’t put that in there. He told me those stories in confidence, and I would never, ever use his, or anyone else’s sorrow, except maybe my own, for my personal and financial gain.” What the hell? Who did this?
“Katie, I’m sorry but—"
“It must have been someone at the publishing house. Is there anyone there who would do something like this? Dig up a story and sneak it into my manuscript, then leak it to the press?” Jumping up from the couch, I begin to pace.
“Uh—uh. No. They wouldn
’t do that.”
Throwing a hand up in the air I shout into the phone. “But you and your team are literally the only people who have had access to this book besides me!”
Frustration laces her tone. “Listen, Katie—the leak wasn’t here. We’re such a small team, and I know each and every woman personally. This company was founded on women lifting one another up, not women cutting one another down and no one here would do such a despicable thing like this.”
She keeps talking, but her words fade to the background. One thing she’s said remains in the forefront of my hazy mind.
Women cutting one another down…
I think back to that morning I was so hurriedly packing at Gran’s. How I had a nagging feeling I’d left my computer on the nightstand from the evening before. That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away, so I made Darius pull over the car to be sure we had my computer with us. But it wasn’t in the part of my bag I normally keep it in.
Because… I wasn’t the one who put it in there.
Someone did have access to my computer. Someone who despises me, who wants to tear me down.
Someone with a personality as fake as her boobs.
We’d had our fight at the party. She’d stormed off with Rawley. I think back to the direction she left in… I’m sure she was headed to the house. She could have easily had a thumb drive on her, lifting my story from my computer.
And I’m the idiot that never password protected my computer.
When I first set the computer up, I decided that it was a lot more likely I would forever lock myself out of my own computer than anything like this would ever happen.
And yet… it has.
“Sarah. I think I know who it was. I think I know who did this.”
“Who? Tell me now because so help me she’s about to have her head shaved by yours truly.”
Imagining Tiffany sans her long perfect locks, I almost giggle. Then, the sinking feeling returns to the pit of my stomach, thinking of the anger and sorrow in Darius’s face when the story broke.