Love Me Later

by Libby Rice

  He couldn’t stop. “Think about our vacation. The sex. I know you at least love that about me. Hang on so you can torture me with it.”

  He looked up at the frozen faces of her colleagues. None seemed phased by his lapse into TMI. They, like him, hovered in fear. One by one, they grudgingly shifted aside to allow access for the EMTs and the stretcher.

  He tore himself away to let the medics see to her, but before he did, he felt it.

  A squeeze. Light, like her pulse, but alive and aware.

  She’d heard.

  Chapter 30

  Scarlet awoke to beeping machines and a sense of peace only prescription-level narcotics could provide. She thought on her surroundings and immediately landed on the answer. Hospital.

  Hopefully two times would be a charm.

  She’d been poked full of holes, so all the tubes and needles she detected weren’t a surprise. She faced another mystery, something that caught her off guard. An object sat cradled in her hand, not the I.V. that protruded from a vein below her knuckles, but an item that weighed heavy against her palm.

  Fisting it, she detected patterned metal with rounded edges, slightly bigger than a golf ball.

  She jolted, would have sat straight up if a strong hand hadn’t stopped her climb, gently pushing her back toward the sheets. “Shh, none of that. Nice and easy.”

  Ethan.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “How?”

  He smiled. “You’re going to be okay. Your liver didn’t make it out scot-free this time, so you’ll be here until the infection risk passes.”

  How tired he looked. Hollows sank beneath his lower lids, and while a notably large torso loomed over the bed, he appeared thinner, haggard, which couldn’t be possible. At most, she figured she’d been out a day.

  She looked to one side, then the other in a slow headshake. She hadn’t wondered about her health, though now she worried about his. “Not that.”

  “Ah,” he said, extracting the box from her clutching fingers, “I bought them at auction the day after I saw they were missing. Lissa was happy to share all the details about your jewels, but only between threats to relieve me of mine. With a dull knife. She tells me your collection has impressed many a Christie’s customer over the years.” He parted the antique silver along its center seam to reveal her mother’s earrings on bed of black velvet. “But not anymore, and not these. Never these.”

  He extracted a diamond and brought it to her ear with a languid stroke of stone against skin. “You once told me these had been your mother’s favorites. That she’d loved you, and you her. It’s fitting for me to return them to you because I love you just as much.”

  Her body shook all over. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t stiffen or pull away. But when he spoke, she knew she’d heed his demands.

  “Don’t you ever, ever thank me for another thing. My carelessness almost took your life. I should never have left your side, not for a second.” He slipped the second stud through her other earlobe. “You sold these earrings because I thwarted your career. I got them back because I love you. Never thank me for that.”

  She nodded, eyes stinging. “Fine. I’ll just love you back.”

  Epilogue

  November—New York City

  “We’re busting this popsicle stand.” Ethan made the pronouncement three seconds after the doctor pronounced Scarlet fit to leave.

  “Hallelujah,” she chirped, slipping carefully from the bed after seemingly endless weeks of confinement.

  He held out the weather-inappropriate sundress he’d swiped from her closet. He also offered—of course—a barely-there satin thong and a strapless bra that would work under the dress. “How’d I do?”

  “Perfect.”

  She disappeared into the sterile bathroom he couldn’t wait to leave behind. When she came out, showered and dressed, he pressed the edge of a binder between her fingers.

  A frown crinkled between her brows. “This is one of Susan’s rule-the-world folders.” She looked hesitant to touch the damn thing.

  “Yes.”

  Without opening it, she sank into a chair beneath the window and looked up at him. “You weren’t here when I woke up. You went.”

  Guilty as charged. “I knew you’d want to know.”

  When she didn’t speak, he elaborated. “To most, New York lost a visionary in your father, so the memorial was a grand affair by any standard. The world doesn’t know what we do, Scarlet. Yet we talked to the police, so I wouldn’t be surprised to see inklings of a scandal eke out eventually, but with both Gerard and your father gone, it’ll only be conjecture.”

  She bowed her head toward her lap. “I prefer it this way. Despite everything, I didn’t want to see him maligned.”

  “No explanation necessary.” Now she could heal in peace. “But man, are people keen to hear from you. I hate to give him any credit, but Brian did a decent job with your statement at the press conference. He directed all questions to him via the firm. Guess what that means?”

  She met his gaze with a catlike smile. “We win?”

  “You’re free. Of this hospital, of all the questions, of your career woes. Don’t worry. JTS awaits your return on baited breath. Which brings me to the binder.” He tapped the edge until Scarlet gave in and split it open.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “You begin to see.”

  The pages were stocked with brochures for hotels, cars, restaurants, wine tours, beaches, shopping, theater, spa treatments, galleries, museums, and on and on. If the south of France had it, Susan had carefully filed the information away in this detailed master plan.

  Pulling several typed, laminated sheets from the front pocket, Ethan asked, “Should I explain like she did to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “She said, ‘You’ll arrive in Biarritz at one p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Look for a person with a sign that says Mr. and Mrs. Blake’—she’s never been particularly subtle—‘You’ll be ushered to the Hotel Du Palais. You’ll have time for a quick nap or a glass of champagne before dinner. Reservations are at eight sharp, so don’t be late.’”

  Ethan looked at his watch, mimicking Susan’s moves. “She took a breather here to explain that though she’s planned activities to fill our days—I stipulated we’ll handle the nights—we can make changes by providing her with twenty-four-hour’s notice. She’ll handle the details.”

  He refocused on the itinerary, then deflated. “I don’t think you want me to repeat everything she said. It took a full hour.”

  ******

  Happy tears blurred Scarlet’s vision, and she merely nodded, struck dumb by the thoughtfulness. Guess she couldn’t call the woman The Minion anymore.

  Ethan filled the silence. “Susan’s still pissed at me for siccing Billboard on her in Copenhagen, though I don’t know why because I’m pretty sure I caught them making out in my private lobby when I stopped by to pick this up.” He took a huge breath. “But I digress. As I said, she’s pissed, so her services come with an extra stipulation.”

  He dropped to a knee.

  Nearly blinded, Scarlet chortled, “Ethan, if you dare to propose because your secretary told you to, I’ll throw all your clothes in the ocean when we get there.”

  “I didn’t pack any, for either of us. Figured my personal shopaholic could handle that on site.”

  He held out a ring, just the ring, no box or other fancy accoutrements. After all the joking, his mouth drew into a flat line, his gaze tentative but pleading. “I bought this in Copenhagen, before all hell broke loose. I knew then.” Looking at the ceiling, Ethan sank his teeth into his lower lip in a way that looked painful. “Susan tells me if this isn’t on your finger by nine a.m. the day after tomorrow, then we aren’t a couple and she’s cancelling our couple’s massage.”

  He took her trembling hand. “So, yes, I plan to do what she says. Because we can’t let that happen.”

  Cry
ing in earnest now, Scarlet whispered, “No, no we can’t.”

  The stunning solitaire slid into place, a perfect fit. Catching an edge, the sunlight fractured around the room in a breathtaking display.

  “You’ll have me?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  A shudder rattled across his shoulders, and his eyes slid closed. Bending his head, he kissed her ring finger. “Better late than never.”

  Thank you!

  Thanks for reading Love Me Later. I hope you enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed the write!

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  You’ve just read the first book in the Second Chances series. Art-Crossed Love, Lissa and Cole’s story, will be available in early 2015. If you would like to read an excerpt, please turn the page.

  Art-Crossed Love: Excerpt

  Available January 2015

  Lissa Blanc is a painter on a mission. She filters the world through a lens of color, line, and form and hides her past failures behind a delicate smirk that lets her critics think life comes easy. Behind the glitz of a prodigious upbringing, she’s driven to emerge from the shadow of painful memories that insist she’ll never be a renowned talent in her own right. When a gorgeous photographer suggests a partnership that will prove her worth but test every last one of her artistic ideals, Lissa longs to refuse his demands.

  Refusal comes hard when she can’t resist the man asking…

  February—Boulder, Colorado

  Cole set the prostitute’s money on the nightstand, wondering if his wife’s angel was laughing as hard as the living woman would have. Low light from an overhanging lamp highlighted Ben Franklin’s sagging jowls, and Cole flicked his gaze toward the cash. “We agreed on four hundred?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thanks.” Her voice held the cultured tones of the upper class. This wasn’t your average streetwalking hustler, but an expensive call girl living the good life. Boulder, Cole was learning, didn’t offer much variety in the way of hired sex. For cheap love, a guy drove to Denver.

  Ms. Jewel, or at least the woman who called herself that, reached across a foot of empty space separating their respective queen beds. The hotel might be respectable, but he hadn’t splashed out for a suite. Most of her customers didn’t, she’d told him, and he wanted the pictures to be representative of a normal gig.

  Long, tapered nails scratched lightly over his thigh in a less-than-subtle suggestion. In her mid-thirties, Ms. Jewel looked to be a willing—more like eager—twenty-five, but her caress didn’t stir anything but mild curiosity. No surprise there.

  Cole hadn’t come to fuck.

  He halted her progress with a gentle hold on her slim wrist. “Beautiful, definitely, but you know why we’re here.”

  “Close-ups and conversation,” she acknowledged with a sly smile. “But a girl can hope.” Drawing back with a languorous pull, Ms. Jewel stretched along the edge of the bed before propping her head up with one hand. With the other, she stroked along the curvaceous silhouette her pose presented to great advantage.

  Facing off against a preening whore who looked ready to pounce only added weight to the digital camera in Cole’s lap. God, the fall from regular contributions at Time to freelancing for Boulder’s local daily had been far. In slow increments, he raised his bulky equipment and snapped a candid shot of this evening’s companion, from the neck down, as agreed.

  The woman’s presence in his frame proved that pimping wasn’t nearly as rare in Mayberry-esqe Boulder as one might think. Five minutes on Craigslist could get a man—or a woman, for that matter—a wealth of by-the-hour entertainment. Yet paid or not, the camera couldn’t help but love Ms. Jewel’s creamy cleavage and healthy, smooth skin. While hookers might abound in this hotbed of high-tech employment, they were the consensual kind, not drug-addicted runaways or kidnap victims without other options. No, Boulder hookers drove fast cars and lived in sleek apartments, pandering to white, well-salaried, workaholic techies who paid the bill before the sex, cringed at physical force, and felt a desperate need for affection.

  All in all, Boulder made hooking look pretty good.

  Cole stood and began a series of photographs in rapid succession, almost like he was shooting the cover of Vogue, only he wouldn’t Photoshop or airbrush or taint the photos in any way. What he saw, readers would get. “Tell me how you started.”

  He didn’t have to ask the question. Cole was just the photographer. A journalist would write the words, while Cole would provide the pictures. But a talking subject relaxed, and a relaxed subject made for better shots.

  So talk he would.

  His model didn’t hesitate. “I enjoy sex.” There was that smile again. This time she rolled onto her back and cupped her breasts. They were covered—he’d managed to axe every one of her efforts to strip—but barely. A skimpy sundress skimmed the top of her areolas, and without a bra, her nipples might as well have been giving a dance recital on her chest.

  “I suppose that’s a good trait in your profession.” Probably too glib, but she didn’t notice.

  “Yes. I’m also attractive.” And humble. “School was never my thing, and after the fifth offer, I finally took the money and rode, so to speak.”

  Damn if she didn’t get a smile out of him with that one. “And?”

  Ms. Jewel didn’t spread her legs. She also didn’t clamp them together. The thin material of her dress made her lack of undergarments all the more obvious when she went limp and relaxed against the bed. “Since I liked the… physical aspects of the work, I let them make me rich. Lines of good-looking nerds at the door have secured my future.” Her teasing look said, want to be next?

  Cole took a picture of her long fingers. They thrummed her hardened nipples with no sign of fatigue. He really ought to put a stop to her little show, which hadn’t been on the agenda, but he couldn’t quell the curiosity she’d sparked with that touch to his thigh. How far would this sexpot have to go to turn him on? If she slid that hand down into her heat, would he finally get hard? If she moaned? What if she lifted the dress to her waist and went ahead with the spread she’d been threatening?

  “Enough,” he clipped. “Gorgeous as you are, this isn’t Playboy, and I’m not interested.” Because every last one of his wonderings had the same answer: nothing would turn him on. She could play and pant, even moan and masturbate for his eyes only, and he wouldn’t respond. Pleasure had died along with Kate. In its place, he felt nothing good, only a burning desire to be close to the woman he’d loved, only a visceral need to visit her grave, only an unswerving willingness to sacrifice a rising career to accomplish those goals.

  No matter how succulent the woman, a whore in a hotel room could never thaw the ice. Cole stuffed his camera and a few scribbled notes in his duffle. The evening couldn’t be called photojournalism at its finest, but he had several decent pictures and enough information to cobble together semi-informative captions. Ms. Jewel had her cash. The local paper would buy this shit and assemble a story that wouldn’t surprise anyone. Yes, the world’s oldest profession made its home on street corners and casinos and the Mustang Ranch. But prostitution had also infiltrated lily-white bastions of education and accumulated wealth, granola moms with thousand-dollar strollers be damned.

  When he touched the door handle, tasting escape, she posed a question with the barest hint of contempt in her voice. “And you, Mr. Rathlen
? What are you doing here? You were one of Boulder’s best-loved sons, traveling the world, having your photos featured in all sorts of fancy publications. I swear I saw your Tsunami shots in National Geographic.”

  “I was,” he admitted. “You did.” But they both knew what she meant. Now you’re photographing a hometown hooker for the local daily.

  No longer. Thirteen months and seventeen days had passed without a care for the fact that Kate wouldn’t have chosen mediocre. Ms. Jewel, who sold her body for money, at least had the decency to excel at it. Perhaps she hadn’t been forced into this line of work, but few made her kind of choices without glimpses of pain.

  The woman mocking him from the bed hadn’t jumpstarted his cock, but she’d done a number on his head. Cole would be making some calls come morning.

  ******

  June—New York City

  “You don’t look like your headshots.”

  Cole paused his perusal of a painting that monopolized an entire wall of one of the Meatpacking District’s chicest galleries. Though the disembodied voice came from behind him, he knew the smooth tones interrupting his study belonged to Lissa Blanc. He drew out his response, glancing between the canvas and the nearby placard that described it. “And this painting doesn’t look like a park.”

  “Your pictures make you look friendlier. Smaller. Happier.”

  She didn’t wait for his rebuttal before circling around to tap the crimson drywall next to her work with a matching fingertip. “What do you feel when you look at it? Not like you’re in a park, but maybe you think of being young and carefree?” Her lips curled into a parody of a smile, like she was being forced into used-car sales at gunpoint. “Maybe you see something you want to purchase.”

  “You’re kidding.” Morning Park was more interesting for what it lacked. Chunks of the car-sized canvas had been left bare. Where she’d seen fit to add paint, serrated jags of black and green crawled out from the edges toward a thin seam of yellow that unevenly bisected the disarray. The mess had all the qualities—if you could call them that—of the prints his wife had framed.