by Ivy Layne
I should have tacked on an apology. Anything to let her know I was sorry for the way I'd behaved, but I couldn't get the words out, even in text form. I was still trying to figure out how to make it up to her when I let myself in the penthouse just after midnight.
As the Sinclairs had promised, there'd been a guard outside my door—one who'd forced me to show ID and clear my palm print before he let me in. I'd laughed about it with him, hiding my relief at one more layer of armed protection between Abigail and the rest of the world.
I didn't know what was going on with the picture, with Big John, or with Abigail. It meant more than it should have to know she was safe. She was asleep, the lights out in the penthouse except for the foyer and the kitchen, which she left on but lowered, leaving me a dim trail to the note on the island.
Jacob,
Dinner in the refrigerator if you're hungry. Put it in the microwave for three minutes, 50% power.
A
A weight in my chest lifted, just a little. She might be pissed at me. She should be pissed at me, I'd been an asshole. But she couldn't be that mad if she'd left me dinner and a note.
I found her asleep in her bed, face down, one knee hitched up, the covers pushed down to her feet, leaving her body exposed. She was alluring like that, revealed in sleep as she never was when she was awake. A part of Abigail was always on her guard. I didn't mind. I respected that she was smart enough to try to protect herself. Tonight, I wanted her like this. Defenseless.
Stripping off my clothes, I climbed into bed beside her, sliding my hands beneath the silky nightgown, stroking the curve of her hip and the soft skin of her belly and cupping the weight of her breast. She let out a moan and shifted against me, arching her back to press her breast into my hand. She whispered, "Jacob," and I was lost.
I needed this. I needed Abigail like this, soft and willing. Half-asleep, she let me open her to my touch, her warm brown eyes cracking a slit as I hooked her leg over mine and grazed her pussy with my fingertips. My lips fell on her neck, tasting, closing my teeth on the tendons in a grip of possession. I couldn't stop myself. This body was mine. Abigail was mine.
She was wet after only a few strokes of my fingers. I could have fucked her like that, wrapping her in my arms and sliding into her from behind, but that wasn't what I wanted. Not this time. I needed to see her face. I had to look into her eyes, languid and sleepy, as she came on my cock. I wanted her to know who was fucking her.
Untangling our limbs, I rolled her to her back, covering her with my body as I pushed my cock into her tight, sweet pussy. Her arms came around me, fingers digging into my shoulders as I started to fuck her, slowly at first, then with rising urgency. Being inside her was too good to hold back.
"Jacob," she breathed in my ear. That was it. No begging, no words but my name. Jacob. She knew who was fucking her. She knew who owned her body. That should have been enough for me. If I doubted that her desire for me was an act, her sleepy welcome assured me. Abigail wanted me. Why couldn't that be enough?
It wasn't. I had her body. I shouldn't need more. But as I felt her come, her slick, perfect pussy clamping down on my cock so hard she tore my orgasm from my control, I knew her body would never be enough. I wanted all of Abigail. She'd given me her body, but I wanted her soul.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ABIGAIL
* * *
Jacob was gone in the morning. I slept late and woke to find myself carefully tucked in, the covers nestled around my body, though I remembered shoving the duvet to my feet sometime after I'd fallen into a restless sleep. Jacob hadn't bothered to come home for dinner, so the extra care I'd taken with the chicken pot pie had been a waste, though he'd sent a text to let me know instead of leaving me waiting.
I remembered him slipping into bed beside me in the middle of the night, his hands on my body, rolling me over and making love to me. For the first time, it had felt like making love, not just fucking.
I wondered if that part had been a dream. Not Jacob waking me to have sex. I could believe that. It was what came after. I could swear I drifted awake at some point before dawn to find him still in my bed, asleep on his back, my head using his chest as a pillow, his arm wrapped securely around my shoulders. Jacob never stayed in my bed. We'd never slept together. I might have thought the memory was wishful thinking if not for the dent in the pillow beside mine.
I took a shower and got dressed in a pretty lemon yellow sundress suited more for summer than spring, but I wasn't going outside, so what did it matter? I tried to ignore my troublesome restlessness. With the delivery of the mysterious photograph the day before and the additional guard outside the door, I knew it was more important than ever that I stay inside where I was safe. I could put up with it until we got this whole mess straightened out. Big John was dangerous, but he didn't have a long memory. Something else would come up, and he'd forget about me.
The picture was another story. Yesterday, in the shock of the intruder on Jacob's floor and then his angry reaction, I hadn't figured it out. Sleep had a way of untangling the most complex of knots, and I'd remembered, while I was rinsing shampoo from my hair, where I'd seen those faces before. I'd been so young when they died, but I should've realized the second I saw the photographs.
Poor Jacob. He was an adult. He'd lived a lifetime since he lost his aunt and uncle, but it didn't excuse someone throwing it in his face. And for what purpose? The sheer malice of it made me shiver.
I left my bedroom to find the kitchen pristine except for a note on the counter and a dirty plate in the sink.
Abigail,
I'm sorry I missed dinner. I love chicken pot pie. It made for a good breakfast. I'll be home early.
Jacob
Still not a love note, but somehow closer. It was an apology, though he wasn't apologizing for the fight, just for missing dinner. Jacob was not accustomed to explaining himself. If I wanted him to say he was sorry for raising his voice or for the things he'd said, I expected I would have a long wait. This short note would have to be good enough. Oddly, it was.
Looking at the precise scrawl of his handwriting, his words were a caress. I love chicken pot pie. I shook my head at myself. I was pathetic, imagining a connection that wasn't there. He'd thanked me for making dinner, that was all. I needed to be happy with what I had and stop looking for more. Jacob was temporary. He wasn't interested in anything real. Not with me. Not with anyone. Someday, this thing between us would end, and I would be free to live my own life. To have a relationship, if that's what I wanted. It just wouldn't be with Jacob.
It's the circumstances, I told myself. He saved you, and you're feeling a little too grateful, that's all. These aren't real feelings. It's Stockholm Syndrome or Florence Nightingale Syndrome or one of those syndromes. You're just grateful. You are not falling for him.
For the rest of the day, I pretended I believed that. I was a sophisticated woman. I could handle an emotionally detached sexual relationship. Of course I could. The day unrolled, just as every day had since I'd come to live with Jacob. I slept late, did some yoga, read a book, and gave myself a mani-pedi in the same sunny yellow as my dress. I tried to pretend I wasn't getting bored with being stuck inside, and eventually, I wandered to the kitchen to start dinner.
We had plenty of chicken pot pie left over, but I decided to save that for lunches, possibly another of Jacob's breakfasts, and make something new. I was slicing chicken breasts into thin strips for a sesame stir fry when the unfamiliar jangle of the house phone startled me into dropping the knife.
I'd forgotten there was a house phone. Jacob rarely used it, preferring his mobile. I'd never touched it, since I wasn't supposed to make phone calls at all, and I had my own mobile if there was an emergency. It seemed no one else used the house phone either, because in the two weeks I've been living in the penthouse, I'd never heard it ring.
It trilled again, the discordant sound making me uneasy. I was used to the electronic tones of a mobile phone. This phone was
old-school, and the ringer sounded indignant, hoarse and off key as if it were rusty from lack of use.
Unsettled, I walked to the sink and began to wash my hands, wincing at the sting of the water on my skin. Blood dripped from my finger to stain the porcelain sink. I must have cut myself when I'd dropped the knife.
Wrapping a dish towel around my bleeding finger, I turned off the water, my ears strained for the sound of the next ring. It never came. Instead, I heard a click from the direction of Jacob's office and the sound of his voice inviting the caller to leave a message. I hadn't even known he had an answering machine. I didn't know anyone still had answering machines.
Holding the dishtowel around my finger, I dried the back of my other hand on its length and walked toward the sound of Jacob's voice as if drawn by the shadow of his presence in the forbidden room. I'd seen his office. I'd never been inside. Usually, he left the door shut, making it easy to ignore. This afternoon, it was wide open. I had no difficulty hearing the content of the message as the caller spoke into the machine. Her words froze me in place.
"I'm calling for Jacob Winters. This is Nurse Hanford from Shaded Glenn. This message is in reference to Anne Louise Wainright. I'm afraid she's taken a bad turn and someone will have to come to the facility. Please let me know as soon as possible what arrangements you plan to make."
I didn't think. I snatched up the phone and croaked, "Hello, yes?"
"Who is this?" The woman's voice demanded. In the second it took for her to respond, I realized what I'd done. Maybe it was the thread of greedy excitement in her polite question. I'd made a mistake. I'd answered the phone, idiot that I was, at the first hint that something was wrong with my mother.
In my defense, I'd been growing increasingly bothered by our separation. I knew she was all right, and she was lucid so rarely, it was likely she didn't even miss me. That didn't make it easier. My mind raced, trying to think of a way to repair my error.
"This is Rachel Porter, Jacob Winters's assistant," I said, forcing my voice into a tone of genteel authority as close to Rachel's own as I could manage. "Why haven't you called his office line? You're lucky I was here to answer. Now, I need more detail on the situation."
There was a heavy pause. "I don't have a Rachel Porter listed on the account." She was suspicious. Part of me desperately wanted to drop the pretense and beg for information about my mother. Ruthlessly, I shoved that impulse aside. If something were truly wrong, Jacob would take care of it. The woman on the other end of the phone was probably not a nurse, and there was probably nothing wrong with my mom.
"I should be listed as an alternate point of contact. And you're wasting my time. If you're unable to disclose the details of the circumstances to me, then call Mr. Winters on his mobile line and tell him so that we can deal with it." I was shooting for efficient indifference, but I'm not sure I pulled it off. There was another heavy pause.
"Mrs. Wainright's situation is dire," the possibly fake nurse said. "I would feel most comfortable if I could speak with her daughter, Abigail. She hasn't been to see her mother in a few weeks, and if she wants to see Mrs. Wainright before . . . I need to let her know it's time."
Despair stole my breath. I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for her to leave me. I knew it wouldn't be that much longer. The disease had progressed too quickly, and on top of that, she had a weak heart. It was only a matter of time before she slipped away.
The child in me, the little girl still reeling at her father's death, refused to accept more loss. And the idea that this might be it, that my warm, gracious, full of love mother was close to dying, was too much. The voice echoing in my ear startled me into the present moment.
"Excuse me. Do you know where Abigail is?"
"I do not," I lied, clearing my throat. "I'll speak to Mr. Winters about this, and someone will be in. In the future, please restrict your calls to his office line. You're fortunate I happened to be here to answer this number."
I hung up the phone. Knowing Jacob wouldn't like me in his office, I left the room as I pulled my rarely used phone out of my pocket. Jacob was going to be angry, and he'd be right. I shouldn't have answered the phone. I was no good at subterfuge.
Telling the caller I was Rachel was the best I'd been able to come up with, and I don't think she bought it. At least I hadn't been stupid enough to admit I was Abigail Jordan. I hated the way that name sounded. As soon as I was clear of Big John, I was changing my name back to Wainright. I couldn't erase the last four years of my life, but I didn't have to carry them into the future.
I hit the button to dial Jacob and waited, my emotions careening from worry to fear and back again. Jacob would be right to be mad, and I wasn't sure I could handle it if he was pissed off at me. As upset as I was about my mom, another furious lecture might roll right off me or crack me into pieces. I didn't want to find out, but I didn't have a choice.
"Abigail, are you all right?" he asked as soon as he answered.
"I am," I said cautiously, "but I think I did something really stupid."
"Are you safe?"
"As far as I know," I said. "I'm in the penthouse. No one's here, or trying to get in, but someone called on the house line, and I answered. I'm sorry. I didn't think—"
"Tell me what happened," he demanded. I did, falling silent at the end of my explanation, terrified he was about to tell me he'd gotten a similar call there, that something really was badly wrong with my mother. I wasn't ready. Not yet. Not when I hadn't seen her in weeks. I couldn't let her go. Not in the middle of this mess.
"Take a deep breath, sweetheart," Jacob said, his voice gentle and calm. He didn't sound angry. Speaking slowly, he went on, "I haven't gotten a call here, and I never gave Shaded Glenn the house line, so I doubt that was really a nurse. I've got a guy with Sinclair, Griffen Sawyer, who’s been visiting your mom every few days. He was there yesterday, and she was fine. I'll send him back right now. He'll put eyes on her and call me the second he knows she's fine."
"So she's probably okay," I said, relief and embarrassment warring inside me, "but I did something really stupid. Again."
"Everything is going to be okay, Abigail," Jacob said, speaking slowly, still with that gentle tone, as if he was worried I wasn’t registering what he said. "If there was anything wrong with your mother, they would have called my mobile first. Those are their instructions. They would not have called the house. And you shouldn't have answered the phone, but it's not the end of the world. That was quick thinking, telling them you were Rachel. I'm sure they weren't expecting that. Still, don't answer that line again. No one uses it. I'm surprised the machine still works. Anyone important calls my mobile or the office. Big John was on a fishing expedition."
Miserably, I said, "He was fishing, and he caught something."
"Sweetheart, let it go. There's nothing you can do about it now. At least you didn't go rushing down there, which is probably what they were going for. At worst, you potentially confirmed that you might be with me. Big John could have figured that out if he got anyone at Shaded Glenn to talk about the change in contact information. We were considering prodding Big John a little to flush him out in the open. We'll see how this works out before we decide it was a mistake. I'll be home early. Don't worry."
Before I could respond, he hung up. I hadn't expected him to be so nice about it. I'd expected him to yell at me again for being stupid. He should have yelled at me. I was yelling at myself. Why had I answered that phone?
Stupid question. I lost all reason when it came to my mom. My lack of judgment over her well-being was why I was in this disaster in the first place. If I didn't learn, I was only going to make things worse. Except, in this case, being smart meant trusting someone else, trusting Jacob, to take care of my mother. I wasn't sure I could do that. I didn't have a choice.
All I had now was time. Time to wait for Jacob's guy to check on my mom and for Jacob to call me back. I slipped my phone back in my pocket and got a Band-Aid from the first aid kit in the pantry
. The cut on my finger wasn't bad. I washed my hands again and put on a little antiseptic and the Band-Aid before I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner.
When in doubt, cook something. Lately, it seemed to be my motto. I could either fuck Jacob or feed him. I should have found those options offensive. Demeaning. I didn't. If I could peel away the drama, get rid of Big John and restore my mother to health, I'd be content to be exactly where I was. Belonging to Jacob.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ABIGAIL
* * *
It was another two hours before I heard anything from Jacob. Dinner was prepped and stored neatly in plastic covered bowls in the refrigerator, waiting for me to start cooking. I tried everything to distract myself—reading, online shopping, and researching potential schools to finally finish my degree, but I couldn't focus on anything, my mind glancing off every occupation and ricocheting back to worry over my mother.
I'd ended up in the home gym, trying to run off my nerves on the treadmill, something I almost never did. I hated the treadmill, which is why it worked so well to slow down the merry-go-round of fearful thoughts in my brain. When I was occupied with hating the burn in my legs and the sweat trickling down my spine, I couldn't worry as much about my mother.
No news is good news. If anything were wrong, Jacob would have called right away.
Telling myself that didn't help.
Eventually, my thighs turned to jelly, and I left the gym to take a quick shower. I was dressed again and pulling a comb through my wet hair when I heard the click of the lock on the front door. The comb fell from my hand, and I raced to meet Jacob.