Pure Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  Pure Abandon Copyright © 2015 by Jeannine Colette

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Interior Design by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  www.JeannineColette.com

  For Nicole

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Because You're Dying to Know...

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I’m standing on a corner in the rain. How did I get here? How did I come to this point in the road?

  The corner is wet, my clothes are soaked, but I can’t move. I’m here to see him.

  Him.

  There he is. Walking out the front door of the hotel. Right where he’s supposed to be.

  Through the parting umbrellas, I can see his face. Those golden eyes and chiseled chin striking alongside his broad shoulders and strong thighs.

  He’s carrying an umbrella, shielding him from the rain.

  So in control. So dry.

  He’s wearing grey. That’s the color. The color that defines my life.

  Nothing is black and white.

  Just grey.

  I want to run, dash across the street and grab him. Hold him in my arms, feel his tongue in my mouth.

  I want to caress him, feel his hand under my skirt.

  But my legs are lead. I can’t move.

  He’s waiting for me. This is my moment.

  But do I turn to him or run away?

  Far away.

  “It’s your turn.”

  It’s three a.m. and the baby is crying… again. Jackson came into our lives a year ago and has been the joy of my life. I love his little smiles, but not at three a.m. His teeth are coming in and it’s as painful to me as it is for him. I haven’t slept in weeks.

  Hell, I haven’t slept in a year.

  Crawling out of bed, I throw on my robe and head down the hall to the nursery.

  “What’s the matter, sweet boy?”

  Jackson’s sobs stream down his face. My poor, sweet angel always looks so sad in the middle of the night. I scoop him up, and head toward the glider.

  “There, there. It’s okay.”

  And that’s all he needs.

  He slumps in my arms as peaceful as ever. A little piece of heaven in my hands. But while he sleeps, I lie awake. Once I’m up, I’m up.

  There are a few things in life I know to be certain. The best coffee beans are grown in Guatemala, Humphrey Bogart was the greatest actor of all time, the Mets are the most underrated team in baseball and I am unequivocally, madly in-love with my husband and son.

  Though, sometimes, I question the husband part when I hear the words, “It’s your turn.”

  With Jackson asleep, I head back to the bedroom. It’s 3:45 a.m.

  “Is he in bed?” Gabriel asks, sounding like he’s been up for the last hour. Wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, his lean six-foot-two frame takes up most of the bed, leaving me a tiny space in the corner.

  “He is. If you were up, you could have gotten him.”

  “It was your turn.” His voice becomes slightly muffled as he rolls over and hugs his pillow.

  If someone had told me that drunken night at McCloon’s this was the life we would lead, I wouldn’t have believed them.

  But here we are… taking turns.

  I take a deep breath before sliding back into the bed. Today is a big day for me. After walking away from a career I loved and worked so hard for, I’m finally going back.

  Two years ago, I gave it up. I’d just found out I was pregnant, and due to a complicated pregnancy, the doctor ordered me on bed rest. I had been working eighty-hour weeks, scouting locations all over the country and field producing for a production company. Once the doctor said I had to stop for the sake of my baby, I didn’t think twice.

  One day, with my feet propped up on the arm of the sofa, lying on my back, Gabriel sat down beside me and we had a major discussion. We decided if my job was too high stress to grow a baby, then it certainly wasn’t the type to raise a baby with. I lay in bed for seven months and spent the last thirteen at home with my son.

  And while I’ve enjoyed my time with Jackson, I always knew I was going back.

  Working is in my blood. My father was the most disciplined person I knew. I like to think I got my work ethic from him. My mother is another story. Her job was to look pretty and spend money. I never wanted to be like her.

  It was difficult to find a new job in my field that met Gabriel’s demands—no travel, easy commute, time with the family—so once Malory called to tell me there was an opening at Asher-Marks Communications, I jumped on board. For one, it’s an incredible job that’s close to home and offers little travel. More than that, I get to work with Malory again.

  Malory and I met at a small production company six years ago. I was fresh out of college and ready to take on the world. Five years my senior, Malory was my mentor. My very cool mentor with whom I gossiped over pink margaritas at Rosa Mexicana. But while my life went the marriage and baby route, her career blossomed, taking her to senior producer of Asher-Marks Communications, producing concerts, award shows, and even the Super Bowl halftime show. I was so consumed with my at-home life that I chose nights at home with Gabriel over soirees at Cipriani. My Facebook page has honeymoon photos and baby pictures. Hers has pictures of cocktail parties and Twitter posts from celebrities. A lot can happen in two years.

  I’ve barely closed my eyes before the alarm goes off at six a.m. Pushing the comforter from my body, I roll my legs off the bed and pull out into a long stretch. I’m not used to getting up for work anymore.

  If I could just rest my eyes for two more minutes…

  “Oh no, you don’t!” I say to myself and shake off the need to go back to sleep.

  Rolling my neck from side to side, I notice Gabriel is already in the shower.

  Knowing I’d have trouble getting up in the morning, I was smart enough to shower before bed last night. I was too excited to go to sleep, so I had to do something with my time. Of course, as so
on as I dozed off, Jackson woke me up, and now, with only two hours of sleep, I have to make myself look like a sophisticated businesswoman.

  I walk into our small walk-in closet and pull out an outfit I specifically picked for today: an Albert Nipon ivory crepe pantsuit with a V-neck jacket adorned with a gold zipper in the front and an ivory belt. Since Memorial Day weekend just passed a few weeks ago, I can now safely wear white without committing a fashion faux pas. The suit is sophisticated and stylish yet casual enough to wear to work. This I bought with Malory in mind. Everyone knows women dress to impress other women.

  I head into the bathroom in an attempt to, as my mother would say, “put my face on.” Opening the makeup bag, I unload my arsenal. If I learned one thing living with my mother, it was a girl needs her war paint before she goes into everyday combat. Due to last night’s lack of sleep, I have dark circles under my eyes. I slather on concealer, add a pinch of bronzer for color and line my eyes with a soft black before adding some mascara.

  After having changed in our room, Gabriel walks into the bathroom. “You look nice.” He sounds slightly surprised.

  I look back at my reflection. It is a vast improvement from the yoga pants, tank tops, and messy bun I’ve been sporting.

  Gabriel, as always, looks handsome in his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and sapphire tie. It’s the one I bought him last year, along with new dress socks. A practical gift. I remember when I once bought him a bong and a thong.

  “What do you want to do for dinner?” Gabriel asks, combing his hair while leaning over the double vanity.

  I love his hair. It’s dark and wavy, a beautiful contrast to his blue eyes.

  “I was thinking we could order in. I want to make sure I spend time with Jackson tonight.”

  Today will be Jackson’s first day home without me. I know they say women can’t have it all—a career and a family—but I certainly am going to try. And if I have to forgo a home-cooked meal every once in a while to spend extra time with my son, that’s what I’m going to do.

  Gabriel wipes the pads of his fingertips across his forehead; his disapproving eyes meeting mine through the mirror. “I let the nanny in while you were sleeping.”

  I hold up my hand, pointing a finger in the air in warning. “Don’t.”

  His mouth pulls in as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “How can you possibly expect me to be comfortable having a stranger home with Jack all day?” He looks back at me for a reaction. “It doesn’t even make sense financially. Between the cost of the nanny and the price for commuting, it’s just not worth it.” Gabriel has been against me returning to work. He loves me at home with the baby. I understand his concern, but I can’t take him pressing the issue again.

  Running the brush through my hair, I let the soft brown curls fall down my back. I stare back at tired green eyes. This will have to do.

  Turning my back to the mirror, I lean against the vanity and face Gabriel. “We still have your college loans to pay off. And some day we’ll have Jackson’s college loans to pay off. I can’t stay home forever.”

  Gabriel puts his hands on his hips and lets out a hard breath. “I know. I know,” he says as if he’s trying to convince himself.

  The last six weeks have been a continuous back-and-forth between us on the issue. Doors were slammed and the couch was slept on—not by me. It would have ended sooner, but Gabriel was called away on business half the time. He might be a successful attorney but this is one jury he was unable to sway. I’ve made too many consolations in this marriage. I am ready to take back my life.

  We made amends and he promised he wouldn’t give me a hard time about it.

  Gabriel places his arms around my waist and pulls me into him. “I just always pictured you home, taking care of Jack. And maybe having another…” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  I step back and put my hand up in a stop motion. “Hold on there, cowboy. First, one baby at a time. And second, Carmen is an amazing nanny. She came highly recommended and her credentials are impeccable.”

  “She better be. She’s costing an arm and a leg.” He frowns, and I know he doesn’t get it.

  I’m just glad he’s going along with it.

  Stepping back into him, I put my hand on his face and lower his chin so our eyes are level. My voice is soft yet steady. “She will be. I promise. And besides, you hate your job. Maybe someday I’ll be able to support you and you can be the one to stay home.”

  Gabriel lets out a soft sigh of defeat, but I can sense the wheels turning in his head. “How about we make a deal?” His navy eyes light up.

  I eye him quizzically but let him continue.

  “One year from today, we reopen the discussion. If our family is suffering or if this career is going nowhere, you come back home.” He holds up his pinky finger in front of his face, looking for me to seal the promise. “Deal?”

  I wrap my finger around his and kiss our two fingers that are intertwined with each other.

  “Deal.” I promise. “As long as you promise me one thing.”

  Gabriel raises his eyebrow.

  I widen my eyes so he knows I mean business. “No more talk. We can’t keep having the same discussion. No more arguing. You are giving me one year. Deal?”

  Gabriel kisses our pinkies and releases our hands. “Good. Because in a year, I’ll be partner and you won’t have a need to work,” he says confidently.

  I cringe at the idea.

  “Chinese food for dinner?” I ask, heading out of the bathroom and through our bedroom.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice.” He’s fastening his watch as he follows me down the hallway.

  We make our way downstairs to the kitchen, where Carmen is feeding Jackson.

  “Don’t forget you have to pick up milk on your way home.” I grab my purse from the counter.

  “Okay. Good luck. Have fun. I love you,” Gabriel says, picking up his suitcase from the floor by the front door..

  “You too.” I give him a swift kiss and then turn on my heel and face Jackson sitting in his highchair with a face full of oatmeal.

  “And you too.” I give my little man a big kiss and head out the door with a stomach full of nerves.

  Asher-Marks Communications is located in the Asher Building, a tall, glass skyscraper in midtown Manhattan. The two-story lobby of the building is intimidating with glass panel windows. Steel bars run across the vast space. Black granite lines the elevator banks and the walls behind the security desk.

  “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes plays in my head. It’s my inner fight song, the one I play during a good workout and I sing to myself when I need a boost. The beat pounds in my head as I move forward.

  The name ASHER is emblazoned on top of an omega symbol on the far wall above the security desk. Omega is the emblem of greatness. It’s ironic that a place with an insignia meaning the end is the place I’m hoping to find a new beginning.

  The Asher name is well known in the city. Not as recognized as, say, Trump or Lauren. There is no reality show or clothing line. No high-profile divorces or runs for public office. Edward Asher is a renowned developer and financier. Over the past fifty years, he’s become one of the most powerful people in New York City. He is a prominent real estate investor and is a major stockholder in various companies, many of which have been relocated to this building. His name can be seen in hospital wings, college buildings, and minor league stadiums, all for donating insane amounts of money. Asher-Marks Communications is one of the Asher businesses, but I doubt I’ll ever see him step foot in the office.

  “Kathryn Grayson for Malory Dean.”

  The security for the building is tight, with a guard posted at every entrance and two more behind the desk. Not to mention one at the elevator bank, checking IDs and visitor’s passes.

  I hand over my ID. The guard behind the desk eyes me, probably making sure I’m not a terrorist, before taking my picture with a small camera stationed on the counter.

  “Twen
ty-fourth floor. Take the elevator on the far left.” The guard gives a direct stare.

  I grab the obnoxious red visitor pass and make my way to the elevator bank. Once inside, I try to tame the butterflies dancing in my belly.

  Breathe, Kat, just breathe.

  As the elevator doors open, I’m greeted by an impressive reception made of glass and mahogany. A striking young woman with bright-red hair is busily shuffling through papers behind her desk. Her brown eyes light up when she sees me exiting the elevator. She is thin and smartly dressed, wearing a plaid jumper and Doc Martins, a typical ensemble for a fresh-out-of-college Murray Hill post grad. Her long locks are tied in a braid down her back. The contrast against her ivory skin reminds me of a Venetian courtesan in a Titian painting.

  “Ms. Grayson,” she says, extending her thin arm out in greeting, “I’m Trish.” She has a beautiful smile and a playful bounce in her step. “Ms. Dean will be right with you. Oh, and you can ditch the visitor’s pass. I’ll get you a permanent ID.”

  Peeling the red sticker off my jacket, I take a seat on one of the metal and leather chairs and wait. There’s a large plasma screen overlooking the seating area, playing a reel of Asher-Marks Communications promotional footage. Clips of the Academy Awards and the winter Olympics, followed by a charity concert at the Met, play in succession. All produced by this company. A chill runs down my spine. I can’t wait to start working here. I have to remember to send Malory a gift for getting me this job.

  “Kat!” Malory walks toward me with open arms.

  Just seeing her reminds me why I love working with her. I envy her. She is polished, professional, and she doesn’t give a shit what anyone has to say. With her cocky attitude and no-holds-barred business personality, Malory is the kind of woman men want to emulate.

  She has on a black leopard pencil skirt and a blood-red satin top unfastened one button too many. No one except Malory with her jet-black hair and piercing black eyes can pull off this outfit and make it look professional. She looks phenomenal. I can’t help but feel self-conscious of my post-baby body. I would kill to have my breasts stand up straight again.