Uncensored Passion (Men of Passion)

by Bobbi Cole Meyer

  As she left to get his drink, Trey returned his stare out the window, forestalling any talk from the elderly woman seated beside him who had tried before to start a dialogue. He didn’t want to talk. And even more than he didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to think, but he couldn’t stop that from happening.

  He closed his eyes again and in the lidded darkness saw Kayla above him, doing all those things to him she knew so well, turning him on in tortuous ways, branding him with her sensual fires.

  God, I’ll miss her.

  He felt like he was irrevocably immersed in some old black-and-white Humphrey Bogart movie, where he was destined to wander aimlessly alone, watching his one love fade into the distance, unable to stop the roll of credits magnifying the stark reality that it was over for good.

  Only I’m the one fading into the distance.

  The flight attendant jerked him out of his morose reverie when she returned with his drink. He gave her his credit card, telling her to bring him another, fully intending to try and numb his mind in the hour and a half it took to get to San Antonio. He added, “Make it a double.”

  He had decided he wouldn’t go to the office. He’d go to his apartment and get his thoughts together. Maybe try to get some sleep and give his mind a rest before tackling Gavin Johnson and Dr. Romero.

  Or hell, maybe I’ll wait a couple of days, not let them know I’m back, just let them stew.

  He vacillated between times and dates and speeches he intended to deliver to both of those obnoxious two. His stomach roiled in protest of not having eaten anything as he finished off his second drink. He opened the bag of peanuts and tossed down a few, not really tasting them.

  The woman next to him was talking again, doing her best to engage him in conversation. He heard only snatches of what she was saying, something about beautiful weather for flying and was he going to San Antonio for a visit or going home.

  Trey said he was going home and then he turned his undivided attention to the window again, hoping she got the clue that he didn’t want to talk.

  He wondered what Kayla was doing at that moment.

  No doubt at her desk in her fancy office, being efficient and charming and beautiful. And sexy.

  Damn, shut up, brain!

  * * *

  For the first time since starting her practice, Kayla called her secretary to cancel her appointments for the next day. Her excuse was that she wasn’t feeling well.

  She tried to pass off her lassitude to the men—who were all concerned and stated they intended to stay at home and take care of her when she said she was probably just coming down with a cold. She knew they didn’t buy it, especially Harm, but none challenged her.

  Luke finally agreed to go in to the bookstore. J.J. dressed to go into work, after Kayla assured him she was okay. Harm and Lee refused to leave, however, both being attentive and concerned, bringing her juice and aspirin and offering massages. All of which she refused, stating she just needed to sleep off her nagging headache. But it wasn’t a headache she was hoping to subdue. It was a heartache.

  And as Kayla lay in the curtained, darkened room, she now understood for the first time that phrase some of her patients often used, that they were heartbroken. When she thought of never seeing Trey again, her stomach twisted in knots, and she felt as if someone had taken a hammer and chisel to her heart.

  It was midday when Harm came into the bedroom and sat next to her. He reached out to smooth back her hair.

  “You love him, don’t you? You know, it might help if you talked about it, hon. There was more going on than just an article, wasn’t there? What did he say, Kayla, before he left?”

  She rose up and laid her head against Harm’s shoulder, letting the tears flow, suddenly too weak to resist his offered comfort.

  “Tell me, baby. Tell me all of it.”

  “Oh, Harm, I was such a fool. I believed him, and he lied to me.”

  “About what?”

  “He isn’t who I thought he was. He isn’t a reporter, Harm. His name isn’t even Devon Walker. It’s Trey Cameron, and he’s a private investigator with a firm out of San Antonio, hired by J.J.’s father to find out why J.J. refuses to go home, to find out what kind of hold I have on him.”

  Harm stiffened. “I’ll break his damned neck!”

  “No, Harm, you don’t understand. Trey came here to tell me that he was going to report back to J.J.’s father that J.J. was nothing but a pool boy and needed time to decide what to do. He isn’t going to tell him the truth about us.”

  “And you believe him about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems to me he was pretty good at lying, so why would you believe him now?”

  “He—he wouldn’t deliberately hurt me, Harm.”

  “But he has. For the first time since I’ve known you, Kayla, you’re in bed all day. You’ve cancelled your Monday appointments and you’re crying your eyes out, miserable. That son-of-a-bitch has hurt you and he’ll pay! We’ll find him and make him pay.”

  “No, Harm. I don’t want you to do that. Please. The main thing is that J.J. doesn’t find out, because I don’t know how he’d handle knowing his father sent an investigator to destroy my reputation and make him go home.”

  Standing just outside the door Harm hadn’t quite closed, J.J., who had opted at the last minute to stay home, as well, listened. With his fists clenched, his eyes narrowed, he made up his mind as to what he had to do.

  Harm held Kayla while she cried, undecided about the next step that had to be taken, not knowing how to stop her pain. He wanted to kill Trey Cameron. And he wanted to pound J.J.’s father. But all he could do was hold Kayla while she cried.

  * * *

  J.J. packed hurriedly, throwing necessities into a bag after he’d phoned the airlines and gotten his ticket reserved on the next flight out to San Antonio.

  Grabbing the bag, he phoned for a taxi and made his way quietly downstairs without alerting the others. He knew they would try and stop him, but he was determined to do this, to settle things with his father the only way he would accept and understand.

  He waited outside for the taxi, gritting his teeth in suppressed rage, hating himself for having brought this down on Kayla, the woman he loved and would always love, no matter what happened.

  Just as the taxi rolled to a stop, the front door opened and Lee started toward him.

  “J.J., where’re you going?” Lee asked as J.J. climbed into the taxi.

  “Tell Kayla I love her, and I always will.”

  “J.J., don’t go,” Lee implored.

  “I’ve got to. Thanks for making me feel so at home.”

  He slammed the door and the taxi pulled away.

  Lee went back inside and burst into Kayla’s bedroom where he found her crying in Harm’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” Harm asked.

  “J.J. is gone.”

  “Gone? Where?” Harm asked.

  “He took a bag and left in a taxi. I think he’s probably going home. I don’t know why he would do that. And he seemed to be saying a permanent goodbye. He said to tell you that he loved you, Kayla, and always would. Wonder what happened? What would cause him to leave like that?”

  “Dear lord, I think maybe he overheard Harm and me talking. Do you think so, Harm?”

  “Sounds like it.” Harm’s lean face darkened.

  “What were you two talking about?”

  It was Harm who explained it all, and when he had finished speaking, Lee was ready to take the next flight out to San Antonio, find Trey, and tear his head off.

  “Trey isn’t a bad person, guys,” Kayla defended him. “He was just doing what he was hired to do, but he assured me he was going to report that J.J. was nothing more than my pool boy. And he came here to warn me that Dr. Romero probably wouldn’t let it go at that, that he’d probably send someone else. I don’t know what J.J. is going to tell his father, so I don’t know what the fallout is going to be. I’m sorry that my error in ju
dgment might wind up causing embarrassment for any of you,” Kayla said with a suppressed sob.

  They both hugged and kissed her, reassuring her that she wasn’t to blame for the way Trey had deceived and used her.

  “We’ll all weather this storm together, hon,” Harm said.

  “Maybe we should go and face down that son-of-a-bitchin’ father of J.J.’s and Trey Cameron, too,” Lee gritted.

  “No. That would only add fuel to the fire. We can only hope that somehow J.J. will calm his father down and get him off Kayla’s case,” Harm said, in his pragmatic way. “Let’s wait and see how it plays out.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Retribution—San Antonio

  Trey dropped his carry-on, tossed his laptop to the couch, and left the larger piece of luggage in the middle of the floor of his small living room.

  He just stood looking around, comparing his sparse, bare-bones, one-bedroom apartment to Kayla’s spacious and opulent home. His feeling of inadequacy deepened.

  Not only was he by himself not enough for her physically, but there was no way he could ever give her the kind of lifestyle she was used to. There was no getting around that truth, and it hit him even harder—they were not just worlds apart, they weren’t even in the same solar system.

  He went to the kitchen and poured himself a generous shot of scotch, then wandered back into the living room to plop down on the couch, ignoring the ringing of his cell phone for the tenth time. He felt it was probably Sarah calling to let him know that Johnson was demanding another update on his progress.

  Sighing, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and checked the number. It was indeed the office, just as he’d suspected. He bit out an expletive, deciding to send in his report when he felt more up to dealing with the fallout.

  He wondered if they somehow knew he was back in town. But how could they?

  He was too tired to even think anymore. He downed his drink, put the glass in the sink, and went into his bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he fell across the bed, hoping for the release of sleep, hoping that when he did wake up, he would be able to think more clearly. He needed his wits about him before he approached Johnson.

  * * *

  J.J. stood outside his father’s house, staring at it, hating it, hating himself for his sudden faltering courage. And that was how he saw it—his father’s house—never his home.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door with the key he still had attached to his key ring and stepped inside.

  The designer-decorated interior slammed into his consciousness—the cool, orderly detachment a reminder of how disconnected they all were as a family. Everything was meticulously placed to achieve the desired showplace effect in this picture-perfect house that had never really been a home. It held no genuine warmth.

  It doesn’t even look lived in, J.J. thought as he stood looking around. He stared at the few silver-framed photos on the baby grand piano, knowing they had been placed there strategically, just for show, in case some of the Romeros’ fancy society friends came to one of their fancy parties. Evidence that indeed there were three people living there. The famous noted doctor and surgeon who played at being a father, the dutiful socialite who played at being mother, and the disobedient, wayward son.

  J.J. was suddenly struck to his core with the stark truth: that there simply was no loving tie that bound them together here in this sterile atmosphere, certainly not the way he had felt bound with Kayla in true love, and with the guys who had taken him into the heart of their lives.

  He felt isolated, alone, and naked at that moment, lost in the solitude and deception of his parents’ opulent showplace.

  He knew his father was probably at the hospital and his mother was no doubt at some social function, which was the way she spent most of her days, always trying to impress her husband’s friends or acquaintances. And that would be what they were—acquaintances—because J.J. knew Carlos Romero actually had no real friends.

  To have friends, you have to know how to be one, and father doesn’t possess that ability.

  As he drank in the stark stillness, J.J. was thankful for this quiet reprieve. It gave him the time he needed to prepare himself to face the only thing left to do, the only choice that had been left him.

  But can I do it?

  His hand was shaking so badly he had trouble disarming the alarm system. Then he went into the den and searched through his father’s desk, retrieving what he needed, his mind racing backward, reliving all the things that had brought him to this moment in time. He felt as though he was standing in the middle of a vacuum, the only sound being his own labored breathing.

  Going slowly upstairs, he entered his own room, the room he had known all his life. Yet everything seemed foreign to him. His bed. His desk. His many school trophies on the shelves. All things he knew, but which now didn’t seem familiar and certainly didn’t seem important. He felt completely disassociated. It was like he was intruding in the room of a stranger.

  The only thing J.J. was certain of at that moment was that he no longer belonged here and never would again.

  And if I don’t belong here or with Kayla and the guys, where do I belong?

  The answer came to him, in silent absolute clarity.

  Nowhere. I belong nowhere. I don’t even belong on this earth!

  If only he could make his parents understand that he needed to be his own man—find his own path.

  But there’s no way I will ever be able to get through to them. And I can’t let them ruin Kayla! She doesn’t deserve that. But how can I stop them? Maybe if I make them concentrate solely on me, that will do it.

  J.J. sat down on his bed, dropped his head into his cupped hands, and cried.

  Why can’t they let me live my life the way I want to? I’d rather be dead than to have to live the way they want me to.

  He didn’t hear the downstairs door opening, didn’t know his mother was home until she came into his room and gasped at seeing him.

  “J.J.? When did you get home?”

  He lifted stricken eyes to hers, seeing her through a mental fog that shrouded his reasoning. He felt torn apart inside as he struggled to comprehend it all.

  “What is it?” Rosanna asked, seeing how upset he was, realizing that he didn’t seem to even recognize her. And then she saw the gun in his hand and gasped, “Dios! What are you doing with that, J.J.?”

  She walked toward him and he lifted the gun and put it to his temple. Rosanna, with an agility she didn’t know she possessed, leaped at him, snatching his hand down and away, twisting at the same time to wring the gun out of his hand.

  As J.J. released his hold on the weapon, he plunged into the void of futility, slumping over on his bed sobbing, lost in his misery.

  Crying and shaking uncontrollably, Rosanna sat down beside him on the bed, pulled him up, and hugged him.

  “Oh, J.J., my beautiful boy, your father just wants what is best for you, as do I. We never meant to make you feel as though you don’t wish to live!”

  J.J. was unresponsive. He didn’t speak and for a minute she just held him, rocking back and forth. When she put him back a little way and looked at him, Rosanna saw the vacant look in his eyes.

  “J.J., can you hear me? J.J., speak to me!”

  When there was still no response from him, Rosanna carefully positioned him on the bed and stood up. Taking the gun with her, she left him curled into a fetal ball and ran downstairs to phone her husband.

  When Carlos answered the call, he could barely understand what Rosanna was saying because she was crying so hard. All he heard was J.J. was home and that he had almost committed suicide, that he should come home immediately because she was afraid J.J. had lost all touch with reality, that he was unresponsive.

  * * *

  J.J. felt completely disconnected, as though his mind was drifting through space, somewhere just out of reach. But yet he felt a strange inner calm that he had never felt before. He wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there,
but he wanted to stay in that protected cocoon of nothingness.

  He heard someone calling his name, but it was like a wavering echo in his head and he couldn’t make himself answer. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he recalled being escorted from his father’s house and into an ambulance. He vaguely recalled arriving at the hospital and different men asking him questions. But not answering—not acknowledging anything seemed the safest thing to do, and he preferred the quiet in his mind.

  He was tired. He just wanted to sleep and continue to drift in that blessed fog of nothingness. So he slept.

  * * *

  Carlos pulled his Mercedes into the driveway of the St. Thomas Rehabilitation Facility where J.J. had been committed. He parked in the visitors’ parking area and walked slowly toward the entrance, dreading another confrontation with the son who had withdrawn not only from society, but from life itself. His disappointment lay like a weight in his chest as he pushed through the double doors.

  For a moment, he wondered if it might have been better for all concerned if Rosanna had not stopped J.J. from pulling that trigger. Because the empty-eyed man he was about to visit was not the vibrant son he had raised, the one who carried all his hopes on his shoulders.

  As he made his way to the visitors’ waiting area, Carlos was wondering, how could a son of mine, blood of my blood, be such a weak-minded pussy?

  He shook his head, recalling what the psychiatrist who had initially evaluated and admitted J.J. had said, that J.J. seemed to be choosing to remain mentally distant, that he was comfortable in that safe and quiet world, void of responsibility or accountability.

  Dios! Why is God punishing me? Why must I be saddled with such a weak son? He has brought nothing but dishonor to the Romero name! How can I hold my head up before my colleagues, when they know my son is in the equivalent of a mental institution?