by Dani Collins
“No.” He slammed his door and jerked his head at his driver to pull into traffic, wanting away from here. As far and fast as possible. “Do you have gambling debts? What?”
“Oh, I backed the wrong horse. That’s for sure.” She rolled her head on the back of her seat to quirk her mouth in an approximation of a smile. “What’s that old song about not being able to buy love? Turns out it’s true.”
“Which means?”
She only sighed and closed her eyes, almost as if she was trying to press back tears. “Doesn’t matter,” she murmured.
“Explain this to me. You had a lover who stole all your money? Tell me, how does that feel?” He ignored the gas-lit inferno that burst into life inside him as he thought of her with other men, feigning great interest in her reply instead.
Her brow pleated and she turned her nose to the front, eyes staying closed. Her lashes might have been damp.
“You seem obsessed with my many lovers. Accuse me of anything, Travis, but not promiscuity. You, of all people, know I don’t give it up easily.”
That took him aback a little. He didn’t understand why. They were divorced. It shouldn’t matter to him how many lovers she’d had, so why was he needling her about it? He presumed she’d taken some. With her libido?
Sexual memory seared through his blood, lifting the hairs on his body and sending a spike of desire into his loins.
He ignored how thinking of other men enjoying her passionate response put a sick knot in his gut. He had long ago decided he was remembering it wrong, anyway. He’d been high on personal achievements when they’d met, which had lent optimism and ecstasy to their physical encounters. Whatever had been roused in him hadn’t been real or wholly connected to her. It certainly hadn’t been worth all she’d cost him.
As for what she’d felt?
“Right,” he recalled scathingly. “You want a ring and a generous prenup before you sleep with a man. You haven’t found another taker for that? Of course, you only have one virginity to barter, and sex without that sweetener?” He hitched a shoulder, dismissing what had felt at the time like an ever-increasing climb of pleasure as she grew more confident with him between the sheets.
His ego needed her to believe his interest had already been waning, though. He still felt embarrassed for going blind with impulsive urgency in the first place, unable to let her get away. He had married her in a rush, on the sly, because he’d known deep down that they wouldn’t last. A fire that burned that high, that fast, guttered just as quickly, which was exactly what had happened. A blur of obsessive sex had quickly dissolved into her walking away with her prenuptial settlement and a demand for a divorce.
“Wow,” she said, voice husky. “That’s hitting below the belt, isn’t it? You’re welcome, then, for releasing you to enjoy much better sex than I was able to provide.”
He wasn’t sure how her remark caused his own to bounce back and sting him so deeply. Maybe it was the fact that, try as he might to claim disinterest, he’d never found another woman who’d inspired such a breadth of sexual hunger in him.
That was a good thing, he regularly told himself. Maybe he hadn’t erased her from his memory, but he didn’t want or need the sort of insanity she had provoked, either.
No, he had spent the last years very comfortably dating women who didn’t inspire much feeling at all, only returning to the land of turmoil when his PA had interrupted his meeting yesterday morning.
Had it only been thirty-six hours? Such was Imogen. She was a hydrogen bomb that cratered a life in seconds, completely reshaping everything around her without a moment’s regard.
He remembered her prescription and drew the paper from her purse, handing it to his driver, instructing him to drop them in the front of his building before filling it.
When they arrived at his Chelsea building, however, the doorman was busy corralling paparazzi away from the entrance. It was a common sight when one of his celebrity neighbors had just arrived home. The sidewalks were teeming with Christmas shoppers, too. Even some carolers dressed in olden days’ garb.
“Take us to the underground,” Travis instructed, beginning to feel weary himself. He had only been home for a few hours of sleep last night, arriving late and leaving early, wanting to get back to the hospital. The urgency to do so had been...disturbing. Now he was compelled to get Imogen into his apartment so he could finally relax, which was an equally unsettling impulse.
“You don’t want to be photographed with an escapee from the psych ward? Weird,” she murmured. “You realize I don’t just look like a homeless person? I am one. My landlord will have my stuff on the stoop and my room let to someone else by now. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Still have some spit and vinegar, though.”
“Literally, all I have left. Why did you bring me here? Because I’m quite sure you’re not inviting me to live with you and I’m quite sure I won’t take you up on it if you do.”
He didn’t know what he was doing, but he hadn’t been able to leave her in that roach-infested garbage pail of a building. He imagined she would only discharge herself if he took her back to the hospital. Bringing her to his penthouse was his only choice.
“You’re going to have that nap you’re so determined to take. I’ll use the silence to figure out what to do with you when you wake up.”
* * *
Imogen wanted to sneer at him, but it took everything in her to open her door when the car stopped and it wasn’t even her own steam that did it. The driver got out and opened it for her. He helped her out and Travis came around to slide his arm across her back, helping her into the elevator where he used his fingerprint to override a security panel and take them to the top floor.
He kept his arm around her and she couldn’t help but lean into him. It felt really, really nice. For a split second, she experienced a spark of hope. Maybe he didn’t hate her. Maybe this was a chance to make amends. She couldn’t change the past, but the future was a blank whiteboard.
Then she caught sight of their reflection and her glimmer of optimism died. At one time, she had almost been his equal, when her family had had money and she had been a product—not a shining example, but at least a product—of an upper-crust upbringing.
Since then, however, he had skyrocketed from wealthy architect who dabbled in real estate to international corporate mogul, taking on prestigious projects around the globe. An honest-to-God tycoon who lived in the city’s best building on its top floor. He was way out of reach for the black-sheep daughter of a paper publisher and far, far beyond taking up with a match girl—which she could aspire to be as soon as she stole some matches.
She had thought dying in the street was rock bottom. Then Travis seeing how broke she was and the way she had been living had felt like rock bottom. But this was rock bottom. Riding an elevator up to what might have been her life if she’d played her cards differently, while she faced how completely and irrevocably she had fallen down in his estimation, was beyond demoralizing. It was shattering.
Until this moment, her life had been a mess, but her heart had held some resilience. She had possessed some spirit. Some hope that one day she would be able to face him and make amends. That belief had got her out of bed and off to her many awful, minimum-wage jobs. But that was gone now.
The doors of the elevator opened to a foyer of marble and mahogany. Floating stairs rose on the right with a bench tucked beneath. A side table stood on the other side. An impressionist painting the size of Central Park hung above it.
From inside the lounge, out of sight but not out of earshot, Imogen heard an excited voice cry, “Papa!”
As tiny footsteps hurried toward them, Imogen began to disintegrate, each particle of her breaking away and sizzling agonizingly into utter despair.
She was such a fool. This was rock bottom.
* * *
Travis bit
back a curse as Imogen pulled away from him, swinging a look on him so betrayed and shattered, it cut like a scalpel directly into his heart.
He had to look away to his niece, Antonietta, as she appeared from the lounge. She came up short at the sight of them, recovered in the next second and continued her pell-mell run at him, arms up and wearing a wide smile.
“Zio!”
He picked up the three-year-old sprite.
She threw her arms around his neck and made a production of kissing his cheek with a loud, “Mmmwah!”
Gwyn, his stepsister, appeared with a sleeping Enrico drooped on her shoulder. She faltered as she took in that Travis had a woman with him, one who didn’t exactly look like his usual type. She wasn’t the judgmental sort, though. She quickly recovered with a welcoming smile. “Hi.”
“I completely forgot what day it was,” Travis told her.
“No problem. I’m Gwyn.” She came forward with her free hand extended.
Imogen’s gaze sharpened with recognition, but if she said one wrong word to Gwyn...
“You’re Travis’s sister.” Imogen unfolded one arm to shake hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Imogen.”
“Good timing. I’ve just made coffee,” Gwyn said toward Travis. “Let me put Enrico down. I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Imogen’s brain was reengaging from its tailspin, where she had briefly been convinced Travis was married with children. She occasionally stalked him online, as one did with an ex. He dated a lot but hadn’t seemed serious about anyone, so, for a moment, she had been struck nearly dead with shock. By a loss so acute, she hadn’t been able to withstand it.
Shut up, misguided girlish fantasies.
She and Travis were so over.
As for his sister, when Gwyn had had a spot of trouble a few years ago with an international bank scandal and a global leak of nude photos, Imogen had followed it for different reasons than the rest of the world’s lurid curiosity. While she and Travis had been married, he hadn’t even mentioned he had a stepsister. It had been a shock to see his name associated with the headlines not long after their split. Imogen had combed every story she could find then, trying to figure out why he’d been so secretive about his family.
At the same time, she had drawn a line in the sand for herself. She hadn’t told her father that she had an in with that particular story. She and Travis had been firmly on the outs by then, her father’s business failing miserably, but she refused to exploit him. Between her divorce settlement and her mother’s trust fund, Imogen had been sure they were only a few short months from having her father’s company back on its feet.
The core of her reluctance to use Travis, however, had stemmed from the deep agony of rejection Travis’s letting her go had rent through her. She hadn’t even told her father she’d been married, fearful of his reaction.
He would have approved of Travis, of course, but there was no way she’d wanted Travis to meet her father. Then, when her marriage fell apart...well, who needed that sort of scathing disappointment added to her pain? Her father’s derision would have expanded exponentially under the news she had failed to hold on to him. It was bad enough she had deluded herself into believing Travis had had real feelings for her.
The entire thing became so humiliating she had preferred to be as secretive about their marriage as Travis had been.
He led the way into the lounge. It was tastefully decorated for the season with festive garlands around the windows, fairy lights winking in the potted shrubs from the terrace and a tree that looked and smelled real. The presents beneath were professionally wrapped but with cartoonish paper that would appeal to children.
“Mama said I have to ask you if those are for me,” the little girl said, one arm still firmly around Travis’s neck as she fixed her gaze on the gifts.
“And Enrico, yes.”
“Can I open them? Per favore, Zio?” she asked very sweetly.
“Not yet.”
She gave a little pout of disappointment.
Italian? Imogen sank down on the sofa so she wouldn’t fall down.
“You never mentioned your sister,” she commented. All he’d told her was that he was close with his father, who lived in Charleston, and didn’t see much of his mother, but she also lived in that city.
“Gwyn’s mother married my father while I was at university, but passed away soon after. Gwyn and I didn’t grow up together.”
They seemed close now, if he was giving the woman access to his apartment when he wasn’t even here. He’d been cautious about letting his wife into his personal space, constantly picking up behind her and uptight that the few things she’d brought with her hadn’t fit with his existing decor. At the time, she had put it down to the shift from bachelorhood to living with someone, but she knew now it had been more than a territorial thing. He hadn’t wanted her there at all. It still made her throat raw to think of it.
“This is Antonietta.” He was still holding her. “We call her Toni.”
The little girl cupped her hand near his ear and whispered something.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Toni Baloney.”
Toni giggled and hunched her shoulders up to her ears. “What’s your name?”
“Imogen. My sister used to call me Imogen the Imagination Magician.”
Toni widened her eyes in excited wonder. “I love that name.”
He didn’t just have family, but a fun and loving one. Huh. Why would he have felt a need to hide that from her?
“Come eat your apples and cheese, topolina,” Gwyn said as she returned, waving Toni toward the snack at the elegant glass-topped pedestal dining table.
Travis set the girl on her feet and she skipped across to climb up and kneel on a velvet-upholstered chair.
Imogen hadn’t been allowed at the grown-up table until she was twelve.
“The doorman let us up because you left notice that we would arrive today.” Gwyn came over with coffee, cream and sugar, then seated herself where she could watch Toni. “I thought that meant you remembered we were coming. I was going to text, but I got busy with the kids. If we’re imposing, I’ll ask Vito to move us to a hotel.”
“It’s one night. I forgot, that’s all.” Travis seemed to blame Imogen for his absentmindedness with the cool glance he flicked her way as he sat.
Imogen lifted her brows, wondering how he was going to explain her presence now that his worlds had collided.
He didn’t bother, only sat back with his black coffee. “Vito had meetings?”
After a beat of surprise, Gwyn nodded. She smiled at Imogen. “We just got in from Italy. My husband often has business in New York, so we make a stop here, adjust to the jet lag, let the kids leave fingerprints all over Zio’s furniture, then head to Charleston.”
“To see Travis’s father?”
“Henry, yes. And the bank has offices there. Vito checks in and works on and off while we visit Nonno. For the last few years, Henry has been coming to us for the holidays, but this year is his seventieth birthday. It’s right before Christmas and he’s having a party, so we came to him.”
“Sounds fun.” Imogen deliberately offered nothing about herself.
“It should be.”
Silence reigned as they all blew across coffee that was too hot to drink.
The corners of Gwyn’s mouth wore the tiniest curl. She was clearly dying to pry, but was far too polite to ask. Or knew Travis would talk when he was ready and not before. Imogen had come up against that perversely closed-off side of him herself. In fact, the things Gwyn had just told her were probably the most she’d ever learned about his personal life.
“Toni, do you see an elephant in this room?” Imogen turned her head to ask.
Gwyn snorted and almost spilled her coffee.
Toni sat up on her knees and swung her
head this way and that. “No.”
“Mmm... My mistake. I thought there was one.”
Travis sent her a warning look.
“We’ve taken up both guest rooms, but the kids can come into our room if need be,” Gwyn said mildly.
“Is there an aquarium?” Imogen asked Toni. “Because I feel like someone is fishing.”
Gwyn had to scratch her nose to hide the laugh she suppressed.
Toni cocked her head, sensing opportunity. “We can pretend to fish in the pool.”
“It’s too cold, topolina,” Gwyn said. “When Papa gets back and Enrico is awake, we could maybe go to the indoor one downstairs. You and I are going to have a little sleep first, though. Soon as you finish your snack.”
“And Imogen?”
Imogen plucked at the pajamas she was wearing, certain that was what had prompted Toni’s question. “I’m going to nap, too, but by myself.”
Travis looked at Gwyn. “Would you have something that Imogen could wear when she wakes?”
“Of course. I’ll find something right now.”
* * *
Gwyn took Toni upstairs and Travis finished his coffee, watching Imogen while wishing for something stronger in his cup. He knew he should check his phone. He’d been ignoring it since walking out of that meeting yesterday. Finding Gwyn here reminded him he had a life beyond Imogen. A trip to Charleston in a few days for his father’s birthday and the family Christmas celebrations.
He couldn’t think of anything, however, except the woman who had had a way of consuming his thoughts from the moment he’d met her. She had walked into his brand-new offices here in New York four years ago, as he’d been expanding beyond Charleston, starting some of his most prestigious architectural projects to date.
She’d introduced herself as a writer for one of the cornerstone publications in New York and proceeded to interview him. Her auburn hair had rippled in satin waves as she’d canted her head at him, listening in a way that had made him feel ten feet tall.
“Let’s talk more over dinner,” he had suggested after an hour of growing ever more fascinated by her engaging curiosity and earnest little frowns. Her legs were lithe stems beneath a black miniskirt, propping up a notebook where her handwriting looped in big swirls and t’s that she crossed with a sweep of her slender wrist. Her breasts had looked to be the exact fit for his palms. Everything about her had looked like a perfect fit. She had been, not that he had had confirmation that first night. Dinner had turned into an invitation back to his old apartment, which was when she had confessed to being a virgin.