Life Shocks Romances Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Jade Kerrion

Too late. I’ve already said things I regret. Maggie scowled. She had already put her foot into a tense and crumbling situation. She might as well go all the way. “Do you want me or not?”

  He hesitated long enough for her to wonder what his answer might have been if he had answered impulsively. Moments passed in silence until he turned his back on her. “Goodbye, Maggie.”

  “That wasn’t an answer, damn it.” Or was it? “I’m going out with Tyler again,” she shouted at Drew’s back. “I’m falling in love with him, and if he asks me to marry him, I’ll start planning a wedding.”

  Drew did not turn around. He did not even stop. He did, however, fling out two words in parting. “Budget it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Budget it?

  Maggie sulked over Drew’s dismissive attitude all week. Her mood had not substantially improved by the time the weekend rolled around, so she called Tyler and left a message, cancelling their date that evening.

  It left her the rest of the evening to wallow in a justified sulk. The nerve of Drew. How dare he tell her to “budget it?” How dare he treat her like an irresponsible credit card wielding teenager? Just because she didn’t take an active interest in her investments didn’t mean she didn’t understand the fundamentals of financial management. She even knew the password for her checking account.

  Maggie’s brow furrowed with a frown. Maybe.

  Actually, she didn’t. It had been months, perhaps even years, since she had last accessed her accounts.

  She could ask Drew, of course, since he had access to all her accounts, managed all her money, and paid all her bills, but it would be too much like admitting that he was right. If she triggered a lost password reset, Drew would most certainly know that she had forgotten. She wasn’t going to give him that victory.

  The password was an acronym for a phrase; she knew that much. Chewing on her lower lip, Maggie tested a few variations before stumbling on the right one. IlDmta1.

  I love Drew more than anyone.

  Not anymore, the stupid jerk. It was a good thing she hadn’t actually told him what those letters stood for.

  Maggie clicked on the consolidated view of her accounts. Her jaw dropped. Where had all that money come from?

  Her account had been pitifully empty five years earlier when she arrived in New York City to attend Parsons. Her father, however, had paid for college and given her a generous allowance. She had also taken on part-time modeling jobs. After she graduated from college, she signed on with Armani. Modeling provided her with a solid six-figure salary, but her expenses were also astronomical, including a three-bedroom condo on the Upper East Side and sexy new dresses each time she met with Drew. Shoes too. And the occasional necklace. And the—

  How her excessive spending translated into a net worth in excess of a million dollars, she didn’t know. She hadn’t bothered to track her money; Drew had taken care of everything. Frowning, Maggie dug into her most recent bank statement, noting her incoming salary and the generous outgoing payments to American Express, Visa, and MasterCard. Twenty percent also came off the top; Maggie tracked that amount to her investment portfolio.

  That pattern repeated itself as Maggie scanned through older bank statements. From the moment Drew had taken over the management of her financial accounts five years earlier, he had yanked twenty percent of her allowances, salaries, and—her eyes widened—a hundred percent of her bonuses out into her investment accounts. There, carefully managed and fueled, in part, by a bull market, the modest sums had burgeoned into over a million dollars.

  It was not enough to retire, but within a few years, if she kept earning and if Drew kept investing, it would be.

  Drew’s voice replayed in her mind.I’m managing your money, growing your wealth, planning your retirement, so you don’t have to marry for money, so you don’t have to depend on anyone but yourself, ever.

  Right, Maggie scowled. I don’t have to depend on anyone ever, except Drew.

  Somehow, the realization did not make her as sulky as she thought she ought to have been feeling.

  Her doorbell buzzed. Maggie went to the door and looked out through the peephole. She stifled a sigh as she swung open the door. “Tyler, what are you doing here?”

  He spread his arms and managed an exaggerated expression of broken-hearted sorrow. “You bailed on me.”

  “I’m bailing on polite society tonight.”

  He eyed her faded denim jeans and shapeless gray sweater. “So I see.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t come to check on me. Did you really think I would cancel on you to go out with someone else?”

  “Rumor has it you’ve been a little short-tempered all week.”

  “Really?” That’s because my financial advisor is treating me like a thirteen-year-old who can’t even spell B-U-D-G-E-T.

  “I know just the thing to get you over your funk.”

  You know how to get Drew out of my system? Good luck. He’s been in there for ten years. He can’t even get himself out, not even when he’s acting like a jerk. That time, Maggie did not bother to stifle her sigh. “I’m not really in the mood to get mobbed, Tyler.”

  “Hey, I get that you don’t want to see and be seen, so why don’t you come over to my place? It’s on the other side of the park, just a ten-minute walk. I’ve got a great wine chilling, artisan cheese, and crackers. Chocolate too.”

  Maggie peeked at him through her long eyelashes. “Chocolate? Dark?”

  “Milk. But if you come with me, I’ll pick up some dark chocolate on the way back to my place.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not really good company right now.”

  “All the more reason to cop a change of scene. Come on, Marguerite.”

  She stared at his handsome face. Why did Tyler have to be the wonderful, agreeable man in her life? Would it really kill Drew to be as warm and engaging? Maggie smiled. “Sure. Why not?” She grabbed a baseball cap, slid her feet into sneakers, and followed Tyler back to his place.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were ensconced on his couch with two glasses of white wine, a box of dark chocolates, and a platter of cheese and crackers.

  “So, do you want to watch a movie?” Tyler asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Music?” Tyler pressed on a remote control and a melancholic jazz tune filled the room.

  Maggie’s response was a non-committal huff.

  Tyler slid an arm across the back of her shoulders. “What’s got my lovely in a knot?”

  Maggie pulled back to stare at him. “First, I’m not ‘your lovely.’ Second, I’m not in a knot.”

  “Oh?” Tyler smiled. “So you won’t mind if I kiss you, will you?”

  A kiss? Maggie flicked aside the image of Drew’s unsmiling face. Drew had no right to her mental and emotional real estate if he did not intend to claim physical real estate too. The vision of Drew refused to stay away though. His dark eyes focused on her; his silence condemned her.

  Oh, go to hell, she snapped at Drew, and when Tyler’s lips hovered over hers, she welcomed his kiss with her eyes closed. Physically, Tyler was enough like Drew—both six feet two, both leanly muscular with a triathlete’s build—that she could lose herself in the interplay between fantasy and reality.

  He leaned against her, his weight pushing her down into the cushions. His hands caressed the length of her body, his touch firm, yet gentle. She arched her back and raised her arms when he tugged her sweater up and over her head. The soft cotton brushed against her skin. Moments later, his warm hands traveled along the same path to cup her bare breasts.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered.

  His voice jarred her momentarily, but the soft jazz in the background washed over it and dragged her back into her dreamlike state. She did not resist when he unzipped her jeans and eased it down her legs. Her silk panties followed, and when he pushed at her feet, she willingly spread her long legs for him.

  His weight shifted, and his warm brea
th fanned the liquid heat between her legs. Her fingernails dug into the cushions as his wicked, clever tongue probed and teased. She arched, pushing against his mouth, demanding more. The intensity layered, each surge of tingling pleasure pushing her closer to release.

  Her orgasm, when it came, trembled through her body. She clutched his head, her fingers wrapped in his hair as she breathed his name like a prayer. Delightful little aftershocks shivered through her, slowly easing her down from her sexual high. She remained blissfully relaxed until Tyler’s voice asked, “Who’s Drew?”

  Damn it. She scooted back on the couch and reached for her discarded clothes. Turning her back on Tyler, she dressed as quickly as she could with trembling fingers.

  “Who’s Drew?” Tyler asked again, his voice cool.

  “No one important.”

  “Obviously important enough for you to call out his name when I gave you an orgasm.” Anger ran like an undercurrent through his voice. “Is he someone famous?”

  “He’s nobody important.”

  “Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Maggie turned to face Tyler. “We’ve been out on two dates. It doesn’t give you a claim on me any more than it gives me a claim on you.”

  “Claim? This isn’t a claim. It’s courtesy.” His cold voice contrasted with the fury in his eyes. He followed her to the door. “I want to know who he is.”

  “Why? So you can ask all your followers to flood his social media accounts with hate mail? I don’t think so. This isn’t about him.”

  “You’re protecting him?” Tyler shook his head. “I’m getting the impression this isn’t about me. It’s about you and him. I’m just the idiot who got in the way.”

  “There is no me and him.” Maggie stepped into her sneakers and walked out of his apartment. “Goodbye, Tyler.”

  His stare burned into her back until the elevator doors closed behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears welled up in her throat. Tyler was right. He was an innocent victim in the tangled mess she had created out of her imaginary relationship with Drew. The fault, she knew, was entirely her own. Drew had promised her nothing, but she had wanted more than she could have.

  All she wanted was Drew. How could it possibly be too much to ask for?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Drew awoke to the familiar and annoyed buzz of his smartphone. He groaned as he rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. The Google search on Marguerite Ferrara had been silent for a few days, although it was too much to hope that Maggie could stay out of the spotlight indefinitely. Why she chose to land up in the news on Saturday and trigger the Google search on the one day when he could actually sleep in was his lousy luck mocking him.

  He ignored the phone in favor of a shower and did not check the device until he was seated at the dining table with a bowl of cereal and his coffee. He took his first sip as he unlocked the smartphone screen and followed the link to a YouTube video—

  The coffee scalded his throat, but he scarcely noticed.

  Maggie, unashamedly naked, sprawled on a couch with her legs spread. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks flushed as she writhed beneath Tyler’s mouth and hands.

  God, no… The punch of shock was so real that it doubled Drew over. The rush of pain that followed was worse than the accident that shattered his knee.

  Unable to tear his gaze away, he watched the video play to its conclusion. Maggie climaxed, her back arching. Her lips moved, her words inaudible. Ecstasy infused her expression.

  Drew hurled his phone across the room. It smashed against the wall and tumbled to the carpet in pieces. A tangle of incoherent curses caught in his throat. One forced its way out. Fucking hell! He shoved to his feet. His knee protested; a cramp clenched his thigh, but he strode out of the apartment.

  His first instinct was to head to Maggie’s condominium, to do what, though, he didn’t know. Scold her? Yell at her? It was her life, and Tyler was certainly not the first man she had slept with that month, and—

  It’s not my damned business.

  If he repeated it enough, he might actually come to believe it.

  Drew walked the streets of New York until his injured leg trembled with fatigue. By then, hours had passed. The initial surge of anger over Maggie’s video faded, although the hurt remained, as did the unjustified sense of betrayal.

  It’s not my damned business.

  His shoulders equally tense from the emotional stress of the video as the physical strain of an extended walk on his bum knee, Drew went into an AT&T store to purchase a replacement smartphone. After the smiling salesperson transferred Drew’s account and number to the new device, the phone buzzed. Drew glanced at the screen. His lips tugged into an ironic smile. Google search was on a roll.

  The links led to altered videos, where Tyler’s face had been replaced with another man’s or Maggie’s breasts substituted with the oversized mammaries of a porn star. The videos were laughable. The comments were not.

  The kindest comments called her a “slut” and “whore.” The words of anonymous people on the internet spewed hate; the women worse than the men. Drew sucked in a shuddering breath and did what he should have done months…years…earlier. He deleted the Google search on Marguerite Ferrara.

  He could not go home. He would drive himself crazy staring at the walls, thinking of Maggie. Instead, he found a café and dosed himself with several cups of black coffee as the sun traced a path across New York City. His thoughts churned but always came down to one inescapable fact. It’s not my damned business.

  He was Maggie’s financial advisor, and the sooner he focused his attention strictly and entirely on her finances, the better off he would be. He was thirty. He had reached the end of his runway on wanting a woman he could not have. If he lingered any longer in his unwarranted misery, he’d move from stupid to pathetic. He couldn’t abide pathetic, especially not in himself.

  He couldn’t risk depression again.

  Drew added a Reuben sandwich order to his coffee refills. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to take a few bites before shoving the sandwich aside. He glanced down the street at the setting sun and shook his head; he had spent an entire day doing nothing.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the 914 area code. Westchester? He accepted the call. “Drew Jackson.”

  “Mr. Jackson,” a woman spoke. Her voice possessed a sheen of polish he associated with top-notch executive assistants, but there was an underlying layer of panic no amount of polish could conceal. “I’m Liane Haas, Mr. Dylan Smith’s assistant.”

  Maggie’s father? “What I can do for you, Ms. Haas?”

  “I’m trying to reach Maggie Ferrara, but she’s not answering her phone—”

  No wonder.

  “—and I don’t know how else to reach her. Mr. Smith pointed to your name, and I wonder, can you help? Please, I’m at my wit’s end. I have to get in touch with her.”

  “I can try to call her, but if Maggie’s not going to take her father’s call, I doubt she’ll take mine.”

  “Please try. Anything you can do to help; I don’t know how much longer he has.”

  A chill shuddered through Drew’s chest. “What are you saying?”

  ~*~

  “Maggie!” Drew’s muffled voice shouted through the door.

  Maggie raised her head from her tear-sodden pillow. Where had he been when she had needed him? She had called. He hadn’t answered his phone. She had braved the paparazzi and scurried to his apartment, seeking refuge. He hadn’t answered the door.

  In the end, she had crept home, inexplicably hurting more from his implicit rejection than from the horrid video on the internet.

  “Maggie. Open the door.”

  “Go away,” she croaked, though she doubted he could hear her. Her head hurt. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t move—

  “Open the door, or I’ll call 911 and have them break it down.”

  Maggie dragged hers
elf from the bed and walked barefoot across the marble tiles. She made sure the chain lock was in place before she opened the door a crack. She tried to work up as much arrogance as she could manage. “What do you want?”

  “Let me in.”

  In lieu of honest courage, she tried snark. “When did you change your mind about associating with me?”

  “What?”

  He sounded genuinely confused. Nice try. She snorted. “You didn’t take my call this morning, and you didn’t let me in.”

  “You came to my place?” He looked surprised. “I couldn’t take any calls. My phone broke, and I didn’t get it replaced until hours later. I wasn’t home either. Why aren’t you picking up the phone? People are trying to get in touch with you.”

  “I turned off my phone. It’s all reporters anyway. Anyway, thanks for checking in. As you can see, I’m fine.” She started to push the door close.

  He placed his hand in the gap. “Let me in, Maggie. Please, now.”

  He wouldn’t be so easily put off. She should have known better. Someone who hated roast pork buns and yet brought them to their every meeting just for her would not be deterred by a closed door. Her voice quavered. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. Let me in, please.”

  “After I told you Tyler meant nothing to me—”

  “Open the door, Maggie.”

  Drew rarely used that tone, the one that told her he wasn’t taking any more crap from her. When he did, her compliance was almost instinctive. She eased his fingers out, closed the door, and unlatched the security chain. She opened the door again and found herself instantly wrapped in his arms.

  The warmth and safety of his embrace melted the icy barriers holding back her tears. They poured out of her, soaking his shirt, as she shuddered and sobbed against his chest. He said nothing, but nothing was needed then, except his presence. He was here with her, holding her through her worst moments as she had always known he would.

  Drew rubbed her back as her sobs stilled, but did not pull away until she initiated the movement. He looked down at her, his dark eyes shadowed. “I need you to come with me. We’re going up to Westchester tonight.”