Home to You

by Robyn Carr

  He blew out a sigh. “It’s been a whole seventy-two hours.” He could’ve given her the minutes, too. He was pretty sure she understood that.

  “So...now you’re looking for other distractions.”

  “Except there’s nothing on the list of approved activities.”

  She adjusted the bedding. “Is that why you didn’t watch the porn flick you showed me?”

  “Part of the reason.”

  “I suppose you could start gambling, if you must have a bad habit.”

  “I’m willing to consider anything.”

  “I believe it.” When she laughed, he realized she was more attractive than he’d ever given her credit for. She wasn’t a beauty in the classic sense, but...there was something about her.

  “You’re a lot prettier when you laugh,” he said.

  She didn’t respond, just stared at him with those serious gray eyes, and he could tell she’d discounted his words as soon as he’d uttered them.

  “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “You don’t have to pay me compliments.” Her shrug suggested she didn’t believe him, anyway. “I don’t expect you to pretend to see something that’s not there.”

  The silence stretched with only the swoop of the ceiling fan to interrupt it. “Is that why you won’t let me touch you?” he asked at length. “You think, for me, it’s all about the perfect body?”

  She seemed to consider her answer carefully. “No, I don’t think you care what I look like or that you’d even notice. For you, sex is like alcohol. You’re just trying to deaden the pain.”

  She was right. Since the breakdown of his marriage he’d gone from one woman to the next. Some of them he’d never seen before or after, never even learned their names.

  “You’re going to be hard person to live with, Ms. DeMarco,” he said.

  Her lips curved into a wry smile. “Why’s that? Because you can’t bullshit me?”

  “Because you see enough truth to think you know it all.”

  “I haven’t been wrong yet.”

  “Yes, you have. I do think you’re pretty,” he said, and got up.

  She leaned on her elbows. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a project I’m working on.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I need something to do,” he said, and pulled on his jeans.

  * * *

  Gail woke up alone in Simon’s bed. After dressing in last night’s clothes, she wandered out of the room and down to the kitchen, where his chef, a stout man who reminded her of Emil Villa, insisted on making her an omelet for breakfast. Once she was finished eating, Simon’s driver, a handsome younger man of maybe twenty-five, came in through the French doors and announced that he’d be happy to take her home whenever she wanted to leave.

  “Where’s Simon?” She gazed out a wall of glass toward the pool—the direction from which the driver had come.

  He set about gathering his keys. “I’m sure he’s on the property. All the cars are here. But, honestly, I can’t say where. He texted me earlier and asked me to drive you home whenever you’re ready. That’s all I know.”

  Arching a disbelieving eyebrow, she waited for him to look up. When he did, he acted a little embarrassed, as if he understood that she knew he was covering for his boss. From the driver’s perspective, Simon had had his fun with her; now his job was to drop her off, like he’d probably done with so many women before her.

  But why would Simon treat her the same as all the others when they needed to convince everyone he felt more for her?

  “Or... I could text him and tell him you want to see him—if you like,” the young man added reluctantly.

  Mere platitudes. He didn’t expect her to take him up on that offer. He was obviously skeptical it would do any good, even if she did.

  Gail didn’t dare risk having Simon brush her off in front of his staff. Not saying goodbye was bad enough. “No, that’s fine,” she said, but to compensate she fondled the ruby pendant at her throat. “I’m ready whenever you are. I just wanted to thank him for the necklace.”

  On learning that Simon had given her such an expensive gift, the cook and the driver exchanged a meaningful glance, but they said nothing more. The chauffeur, dressed in a polo shirt and chinos, grabbed a pair of sunglasses off the counter and led her through the house to a tunnel that ran to the garage—a garage that appeared to be detached when viewed from ground level.

  “This reminds me of the Bat Cave,” she said.

  He opened the back door of the limousine. “Comes in handy.”

  “I bet.” Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she settled against the leather upholstery. She had none of her toiletries, hadn’t even been able to brush her teeth. Maybe Simon had done her a favor by letting her duck out with no farewell.

  I do think you’re pretty....

  She’d mulled over those words long after he’d left last night. They rose in her mind now, but she quickly shoved them away. She could never compete with the kind of women he usually enjoyed. There was no reason to get excited about a “you’re not so bad.” What he’d said didn’t matter, anyway. This was a job.

  The driver began to back out, but she stopped him. “Wait! Do we have to take this car?” It attracted so much attention.

  Eyes hidden by his silvery lenses, he looked in the rearview mirror. “It has tinted windows. Simon said to get you home without letting anyone bother you.”

  So he’d done something to convince his staff that he might care about her well-being. She supposed she should be grateful for that small courtesy, but she was still a little put out that he hadn’t bothered to see her. Had he ever come to bed?

  She couldn’t remember. Once she’d fallen asleep, she hadn’t stirred until morning. “This is fine.”

  Her cell phone buzzed as they made a three-point turn and started down the drive. She’d gotten a text. From Callie. How’d it go with your father?

  Not good, she responded.

  I’m sorry. But...you might want to listen to him.

  Gail didn’t text back. She’d crossed her father and was ignoring her friend’s advice because she’d already committed herself to this course of action. But...what made her think her plan would work? Simon had just sloughed her off on his hired help like he did all the women he didn’t care about, even though he understood the need to treat her as if she was special. What was going through his mind?

  She had no idea, but part of her feared he might be drinking. And if he was drinking she needed to know about it. She had so much riding on this campaign. There was more at risk than her business; she had her relationship with her father to consider, too. She wouldn’t let Simon prove Martin right. Simon could change, pull himself together and stop his downward spiral. And she was going to do everything in her power to see that he did.

  “Take me back,” she said.

  The driver slowed in surprise. They’d just passed through the gate. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I want to go back to the house right now.”

  Twelve

  Security didn’t want to let her on the premises. But Gail wasn’t taking no for an answer. She called Ian, told him the deal was off unless she could get onto the estate immediately, and somehow he arranged it. After fifteen minutes of haggling between him and a gigantic muscle-bound man named Lance, during which she was pretty sure Ian told Lance she was to be accommodated no matter what she wanted, the limousine rolled through the gate, down the long winding drive and into the garage.

  By the time Gail got out, she’d called Simon’s cell phone twice. She’d texted him, too. There’d been no response. Was he passed out somewhere? Dabbling with a maid? Or did he have enough of his wits about him to know he’d better hide?

 
Damn him. She’d gone out on a limb for him. If he was drinking...

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” The driver hurried after her. He didn’t like letting her have free run of the place any more than Lance, the security guard, did. But she didn’t care. Avoiding the tunnel, she headed to the house by circling around to the front entrance.

  The driver stuck with her, a few feet behind. “How can I help you?” he called again.

  “You can find Simon,” she called back, “because I’m not leaving until I talk to him.” No way would she sit passively by and let her former client—her “fiancé”—ruin everything. They were all in this together now.

  “Simon? Where are you?” she shouted as she entered the house. Sweeping staircases, to the right and left, a marble floor with nothing but a grand piano and a high ceiling made for perfect acoustics.

  Simon didn’t answer.

  A maid came to the top of the stairs. Obviously surprised by the interruption, and the angry edge to Gail’s voice, she stood at the railing and gaped down at her.

  “Where is he?” Gail demanded when their eyes met.

  The maid shook her head. “I don’t know. I swear.”

  “Somebody here does.” She marched into the living room where she’d met with Simon yesterday. Empty. She found a study, a library, a movie theater, a game room...too many rooms to count. But they were all perfectly clean and perfectly empty. When she finally reached the kitchen, she’d decided he was drinking for sure. She was going to bust him, then cut ties completely, no matter what happened afterward.

  At the sound of her heels clacking on the tile floor, Simon’s chef twisted around to look over his shoulder.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked.

  Unlike the maid, he’d been expecting her. He was sitting on a bar stool, having a cup of coffee with the driver, who’d given up following her once she started through the house. The stubborn tilt to the chef’s round head indicated he wouldn’t tell her anything and his words confirmed it. “No. But I rarely see him in the mornings.”

  “Because he’s usually hungover,” she muttered, afraid no one had seen him this morning for that same reason. “You’re not doing him any favors, you know. I’m trying to help him.”

  “Looks like it,” the chef said.

  Suddenly she remembered the project Simon had mentioned in the middle of the night. “Where does he go when he’s here but not in the house?”

  They knew, of course, but were too loyal to tell her. The driver blinked at her. “I have no idea, Ms. DeMarco.”

  The chef spread his hands. “He could be anywhere.”

  She hadn’t introduced herself. Either Simon had given them her name or they’d seen the pictures of her and Simon kissing and read about her online. But if that was the case, they didn’t seem to be putting much store in the tales that were circulating. The press called her Simon’s latest “love interest.” They probably thought she was just another conquest, that she’d already passed out of favor or Simon wouldn’t have foisted her on them.

  “I’m talking about when he works on his project,” she prompted. “Where does he go then?”

  They glanced at each other but remained mute.

  “Fine, I’ll just have to keep looking,” she said, and stalked out the French doors.

  Before she could cross the patio, however, the driver came to the door and called after her. “Ms. DeMarco?”

  She turned to see that he was frowning. Speaking up went against his training. But he had obviously gauged her determination and decided it was better to get what was coming over with than have her searching the property for hours, haranguing everyone she saw. “I’ve texted him several times, but he’s not answering. At this point, I don’t know what to do, so... I guess he can tell you himself if he wants you to leave. I’ll take you to his woodshop.”

  Woodshop? Simon didn’t seem like the carpenter type, but maybe the project he’d mentioned involved wood.

  “Thank you.”

  Hurrying to keep up, she followed as he crossed the grass and went behind the tennis courts, past the pool house, the guesthouse, a second barbecue area, this one with a koi pond, and what looked like an outdoor dancing pavilion.

  At last they came upon a giant cabinlike structure at the far corner of the property. “This is it?” she asked.

  He waved her ahead of him. “This is it.”

  Heart pounding for fear of what she’d find, and the disappointment that might go with it, she knocked on the door.

  There was no response but she could hear a saw going inside. She tried the handle.

  It wasn’t locked. She poked her head in. “Simon?”

  At first she thought the shop was empty. She spotted the saw, but there was no one near it. The motor grated as the blade whirled freely. “I don’t think he’s here, either—” she started to say, but then she saw the blood. “Oh, my God!”

  Simon’s driver stood behind her. He noticed the drops the same second she did, but he found his employer faster. Pushing past her, he dashed across the concrete floor to where Simon sat, slumped against the wall, blood covering his hands and phone and staining his clothes.

  She hurried over and crouched on the other side. “Simon? What happened?”

  “I don’t think he can hear you,” the driver said, and he was right. Simon’s eyes were glassy, his skin cold and clammy.

  Standing, Gail pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly dial, but she hit 9-1-1.

  * * *

  “How long do you think he was bleeding?” Gail stood in a corner of the hospital waiting room, conversing quietly with Simon’s doctor.

  “Considering the size of the cut?” the doctor replied. “At least an hour.”

  She attempted to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. “So...was it a suicide attempt?”

  A tall, spare man with gray hair, the doctor pursed his lips. “I don’t believe he was trying to kill himself, no.”

  “Then why didn’t he seek help?”

  “Who can say? Maybe he thought he could get the bleeding under control, that he only needed to sit down and put some pressure on it. But it was much worse than he realized and he eventually went into shock. To be honest, thanks to significant sleep deprivation and the lifestyle he’s been leading, I’m not sure he was in a clear frame of mind to begin with.”

  She could certainly confirm that. “What about alcohol? Was he drunk when this happened?”

  “No. There was no alcohol in his system at all.”

  For some reason this helped her relax and made her tear up at the same time. It meant he was trying. “He told me it’s been three days since he’s had a drink.”

  “How much was he drinking before?”

  “A lot.”

  “Maybe he’s going through withdrawal and that figures into this somehow. It can cause depression, anxiety, myriad other things. I’m guessing this accident is a culmination of a number of factors. Including exhaustion.”

  “But not suicide.” For some reason, she needed to hear him say that again.

  “I doubt it. A saw would be an emotionally daunting way to take your own life. Besides, only one of his hands is cut and not near the wrist. This was an accident, but...the fact that he didn’t immediately call for help might say something about his state of mind. Then again, it might not. It could’ve happened like I said.”

  “Gail? What’s going on?”

  Ian had arrived; he was hurrying toward her. Thanking the doctor for taking the time to speak with her, she turned and greeted Simon’s manager. “He’s going to be okay.”

  His eyes darted between her and the departing doctor. “What the hell happened?”

  She blew out a long breath. “I’m not sure. The
doctor thinks it was an accident.”

  “You don’t?”

  The image of Simon sitting on the floor of his woodshop, cradling his hand and staring off into space as if he’d just as soon slip away came to mind. Why didn’t he call someone? He had all kinds of domestic help on the property. The doctor didn’t feel it was an active attempt to take his own life, but he’d intimated that it could have been a passive one, which still gave them plenty to worry about. “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “Except... Simon needs a break, Ian.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he needs a break, a real break. Some time to take care of himself, to get back on his feet emotionally and physically, to rest from all the demands on him.”

  “But he’s under contract for promotion! I already told you that. And he’s supposed to start another movie in two weeks.”

  She was so upset it didn’t take much to set her off. “You said you could clear his schedule in early November for our wedding.”

  “I was talking about a weekend or maybe even a week. But he’s slammed with work before and after.”

  “I don’t care! Get him out of whatever obligations he’s got. He shouldn’t be working in this condition.”

  “I can’t just—”

  “Yes, you can.” She grabbed his arm to make her point. “It’s only money.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s not your money that’ll be lost, not your career that will suffer. This film he has coming up—it’s supposed to be the kind that makes or breaks a career. The producers are pressuring me to make sure he’ll be at the studio and in good shape.”

  A couple on the couch glanced up, so she pulled Ian farther into the corner and lowered her voice. “He nearly cut off his hand. Whether that was an accident or not, he didn’t seek help. He sat on the floor as if he didn’t care whether he lived or died and nearly bled to death. If that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is. Now get on the phone and call whoever you have to, but tell everyone that Simon will be unavailable for the next three months.”

  Agitated, Ian began to pace. “They’ll think he’s cracking up, that he’s finally lost it. I’ve spent so much time trying to make them believe he’ll be fine, snap back, get into it again.”