Her fear morphed into white-hot anger. Her whole life, she’d been powerless—when her dad walked out on her, when her mom remarried and started a new family, effectively forgetting about the daughter she already had. And now, Cole Doberinsky was threatening to ruin her. She thought about the nine-millimeter handgun, thought about pointing it at him, thought about pulling the trigger. Could she do it? Could she finally stop being the victim?
There was a soft rap at the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Shit. She had to pull herself together. Her role in this arrangement was to be charming, sexy, sweet; not shaking with rage, dread, and fear.
“I’ll be right out.” But her voice trembled, belying her angst.
When she emerged, Gabe’s face was full of concern. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “It’s nothing we need to worry about right now.”
“You’re clearly upset.” Taking her by the hand, Gabe led her to the sofa. When they were seated side by side, he said, firmly, “Talk to me.”
Instead, she passed him her phone. “It’s Cole,” she said as Gabe read the texts. “It has to be.”
His handsome face darkened as his eyes drifted over the venomous words. “Shit.”
Nat could have told him then about the gun Oleg had given her. But she wasn’t sure her powerful partner would appreciate his employee’s intrusion. Besides, the gun was little more than a prop, if she wasn’t willing to use it. And Gabe’s obvious concern for her well-being warmed her, made her feel special, even loved.
“If he knows about us . . .” She trailed off.
Gabe got up and went to a side table to retrieve a notepad and pen. Returning to the sofa, he asked, “What’s this kid’s name?”
“Cole Doberinsky.”
He asked her to spell it as he wrote it down. “Middle name?”
“Jonathan.”
“His parents’ address?”
She provided the street address and the zip code (there were only two in the town). Gabe recorded it all. Then he tore off the piece of paper, folded it, and slid it into his pants pocket.
“I’m going to take care of Cole Doberinsky,” he said calmly. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“What are you going to do?”
He took her hands in his. “Do you trust me?”
She looked into his blue eyes, so confident, so commanding. She did trust him. Gabe Turnmill was more composed, more capable than anyone she’d ever met. And he cared for her. She knew it. This wasn’t just a financial arrangement. It may have started that way, but there was more between them now.
“I trust you,” she said softly.
“I’ll keep you safe, Natalie. I won’t let that kid hurt you. I promise.”
She nodded, too overcome with gratitude to speak. She kissed him then and felt something swell inside of her. It was intense, powerful, a feeling she’d never experienced before. Standing, she took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom.
24
* * *
Ohio
Everything was different now that Nat could admit what she felt for Gabe. She was in love with him. His limited availability, the money he gave her, the age difference between them . . . all of that was irrelevant. What mattered was her heart, and it had never felt so safe, so cherished, so protected. And it wasn’t the only organ affected: her mind craved his stimulating conversations; her body pined for his touch. Even now, thinking about him as she worked on a painting in the studio, pinkened her cheeks and made her pulse race.
When they’d made love in Vermont, he had been tender and attentive. Unlike her previous partners who’d seemed to consider sex an athletic endeavor, Gabe treated it like an art form. Nat’s body was his instrument and he’d played her like a master. With Gabe, she had felt things she never had before. Were older men better in bed due to their experience? Or because they weren’t raised on internet porn? Nat didn’t know, didn’t care. She just wanted more.
Thoughts of her boyfriend (such a juvenile term but she would not call him her sponsor, her blesser, or her sugar daddy, not anymore) had replaced her fears about Cole. It had been a week since she’d received his menacing texts, and he had not made an appearance at her school or her Brooklyn home. No one in her orbit had confronted her about her sugar arrangement, meaning Cole had not outed her. Gabe had promised to protect her, to keep her safe, and he had.
Her boyfriend was a powerful man, a brilliant legal mind. He would have contacted Cole’s parents, threatened some sort of legal action if Cole didn’t cease and desist his harassment. Cole’s dad must have flown to New York, found his son, and dragged him back home. The Doberinskys would have taken Cole’s credit cards, his ID, ensured he could not return to New York. If Cole told anyone about Nat’s sugar baby status, it would be dismissed as the angry ramblings of an ex-boyfriend. Now, she could relax.
Ava had not been to class since school resumed. It was not unusual for a student to tack a few extra days onto spring break, especially when they were traveling out of state. But with each day that passed, Ava was falling further behind. Nat had texted her several times, inquiring about her return, but she’d received no response. Until Wednesday afternoon.
Can you come over?
Nat could. She just had to clean her brushes after her painting class, and then she was done for the day. Grabbing her coat (a new camel trench, courtesy of Gabe), she hurried to Ava’s building. She was eager to see her friend, sincerely hoped the girl had recovered from the traumatic encounter with the violent bastard who had hurt her. Nat wanted the best for Ava. And selfishly, she wanted her friend and confidante back. Ava was the only person who would understand her relationship. And without Ava, Nat would not be with Gabe, would not be so ridiculously happy.
The doorman, Pete, called upstairs, announcing her by name. She had been there often enough that he remembered her, and she him. Nat hurried to the elevator and rode to the penthouse. Maybe she should have brought welcome-home flowers. Or chocolates. At least she was armed with notes from the classes Ava had missed. In the hallway, she practically skipped in anticipation of seeing her friend. But when Nat knocked on the door, it was opened by a heavyset woman with a warm face and softly curled blond hair.
“Umm . . . hi,” Nat said. “Is Ava home?”
Her friend materialized behind the older women, illuminating their resemblance. “Mom, can you go get us some coffees?”
Without a word, Ava’s mother grabbed her coat and purse and left, giving Nat a sidelong glance.
“Come in,” Ava said, ushering Nat inside. The blond girl wore baggy sweatpants and a slouchy cardigan. Her skin was free of makeup, but Nat could see no traces of the damage that creep had done to her face. Ava looked fresh, pretty, natural—but this was not the confident, savvy girl Nat knew. There was something vulnerable, defeated in Ava’s eyes and in her posture. And then she noticed the packing boxes.
“I’m going home for a while,” Ava explained, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You’re dropping out of school?”
“I’m deferring,” Ava corrected her. “I’m going to move in with my parents, get a job, and save some money. Hopefully, I can come back in the fall.”
Nat perched on the arm of the slate sofa. “Is this because of what that asshole did to you?”
“Partly.”
“You can’t let him ruin your life, Ava. You can’t give him that kind of power.”
“It’s not just that.” Ava moved to the leather wing-back and sat. “I did a lot of thinking while I was home. I . . . can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
But Ava didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Nat already knew. They sat in silence for a moment, letting the words settle. Finally, Ava spoke.
“I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened to me.” Her voice was soft, her eyes cast down. “There I was, physically and emotionally battered, and I had to make up a story about a random m
ugging.” She looked up then, her eyes shiny with tears. “I was too ashamed of what I’d done—of who I was—to tell them the truth. I can’t live like that anymore.”
“Okay,” Nat said gently, “I understand.”
“I feel awful that I got you into this, Nat.” The tears spilled over then. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t,” Nat quickly assured her. “I’ve met someone amazing. We’ve been together for a while now. He’s kind and generous and I’m attracted to him. And he really cares about me.”
“He doesn’t, though,” Ava said, fat tears rolling dramatically down her cheeks. “It’s not real.”
Nat was instantly defensive. Ava didn’t even know Gabe, didn’t know anything about what they shared. But she couldn’t snap at her friend. The girl was damaged and broken, blaming herself for the violence she’d endured.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Nat said, only the slightest edge to her voice. “I’m safe and I’m happy.”
“When he’s tired of you, he’ll throw you away like a piece of garbage. That’s how it works. That’s what he’s paying for.”
Nat’s temper flared. “Every relationship is different,” she retorted. “You told me one of your daddies wanted to marry you.”
Ava snorted, swiped at her nose. “He was old and lonely, and he knew I’d never say yes. It was just a game to him. It’s all just a game. You have to understand that.”
Nat stood. “I’m sorry things turned ugly for you, Ava, but that doesn’t mean that’s going to happen to me.”
“Okay,” Ava acquiesced, hearing the anger in Nat’s voice. “Maybe it will be different for you. Maybe you won’t end up hating yourself.”
There was a key in the lock then. Conversation ceased as Ava’s mom entered with two deli cups of coffee. The woman’s expression made it clear that the tension in the room was palpable.
“Good luck in Ohio,” Nat muttered. She hurried out of the penthouse.
25
* * *
The Face-off
As Nat took the subway back to Brooklyn, her irritation toward Ava continued to simmer. She understood that her friend had been hurt and humiliated. She got that Ava’s words were meant to protect Nat from a similar fate. But Gabe Turnmill was not some coke-snorting misogynist who had lured Nat to a hotel room to degrade her. He was a hardworking, single dad who wanted companionship. Even love. Her heart knew this. It was her head and her gut that needed to shut up.
Nat was not Gabe’s disposable toy, not a trinket to be tossed aside when he grew tired of her. The way he looked at her and made love to her; the way he listened to her and promised to protect her. If Ava was right, if this was just a game to him, why would he bother? No. Gabe had to feel like Nat did. She was young, but she wasn’t gullible, she wasn’t a fool. She had enough life experience to know that her relationship was real, and she resented Ava for planting the seed of doubt.
She decided to text Gabe. He communicated with her frequently.
Can’t stop thinking about you.
Can’t wait to see you.
Can’t wait to touch you.
She always responded promptly, but she never initiated contact. He was a high-powered attorney with meetings and clients and cases. But if she reached out, he would make time for her. Because she was important to him. That night when they’d solidified their arrangement, he’d told her that his daughter and his work came first and second. Nat respected that. But she had to be a close third, didn’t she? A simple text would confirm it.
Walking down Wyckoff Avenue past hip galleries and happening bars, she pulled out her phone. Her hands felt weak, almost trembling. This was a test, she realized, of the validity of her relationship. If what they had was real, Nat could text Gabe without seeming needy and insecure. And he would answer. She stopped walking and typed.
I miss you.
Her heart hammered in her chest, as if she were about to press the big red nuclear button, not just send. But she did it. She launched the missile.
Gabe was going to respond, but she wouldn’t stand on the street waiting for those three little dots that indicated he was typing. Stuffing the phone into her pocket, she hustled toward home. As she walked, she played a game with herself. If she didn’t look at her phone until she was ensconced in her bedroom, his message would be there. Looking now would jinx it.
Letting herself into the apartment, she listened for the presence of her roommates. She was feeling fragile, upset by her meeting with Ava. She didn’t need an encounter with Mara or Toni right now. Things were civil but tense these days. The girls still disliked her, but she’d given them no cause for a confrontation. Nat heard a shuffling noise from the back of the apartment—Mara’s room. The angular redhead would be in there studying or tidying or plotting creative ways to evict Natalie now that her rent and bills were paid in a timely manner. As quietly as possible, Nat slipped into her room.
She removed her phone from her coat pocket, her brain already making excuses for Gabe. He could be in an important meeting. He might be with his daughter. At the gym. Or dead in an alley after a mugging gone wrong. With a deep breath, she looked at her screen.
No messages.
Her heart sank. It was entirely possible that Gabe would still respond to her, or that he really was in a meeting/with his daughter/at the gym/dead. But she had needed to hear from him now. If they really had a connection, wouldn’t he somehow know that? Wouldn’t the universe offer her the sign that she needed to take away all this doubt?
There was a knock at the front door. Normally, Nat would have left it for Mara to answer. This was her place after all, and the roommates were more likely to have visitors than was Nat. But something—a desire for distraction, perhaps?—sent her to the front of the apartment to answer the heavy, almost pounding knock.
Opening the door a crack revealed a man’s face: battered, bruised, disfigured. Ava’s pretty visage had been damaged by violence, but this was on a whole other level. Both eyes were swollen shut, but one was open just enough to reveal a bloodred eyeball. The nose was flattened, the lips swollen and scabbed. Purple and yellow bruising colored the man’s skin. His arm was in a cast to the elbow, a beige fabric sling holding it stationary across his chest. He wore a ball cap, a pair of jeans, and running shoes. It was the legs, the athletic, slightly bowlegged stance, that sparked recognition.
Cole Doberinsky.
She was about to slam the door, to turn and run for the gun in her dresser, until Cole spoke.
“I wanted you to see what you did,” he said, his voice muffled through his damaged mouth.
Nat opened the door wider. “What I did?”
“Your guy found me and beat the shit out of me. He told me to get out of New York. He told me to go home and keep my fucking mouth shut. He said if I ever spoke your name again, he’d kill me.”
Oh god. . . .
“I just wanted to talk to you, Nat.” Cole’s voice shook with emotion. “I just wanted to understand why you threw away everything we had. And now I know.” A tear leaked from his closed eye. Nat wasn’t sure if he was crying or if it was a result of the damage. “You’re a cruel, heartless bitch,” he spat. “You’re superficial and materialistic and ruthless.”
“Cole, I didn’t—”
But he cut her off.
“You’ll get what you deserve,” he growled, and she wasn’t sure if he was talking about retribution or karmic payback.
“What’s going on here?” Mara had materialized behind Nat, her pallor almost ghostly from the sight of the mangled face right at their front door.
“Ask her,” Cole said, indicating Nat with his chin. “Ask her what kind of person she is. Ask her what she’s capable of.” He turned then and hurried down the stairs. He was terrified; she could see it in his gait, in the way he glanced around himself, as he hustled down the street.
“Who the hell was that?” Mara snapped, closing the door and turning all the locks.
&n
bsp; “I have no idea,” Nat lied.
“Should I call the police?”
“He’s gone now,” Nat said, walking back toward her room. “There’s no point.”
Closing the bedroom door behind her, she sat on the edge of her bed. She felt hot, flushed, jittery. It was the violence that disturbed her, the horrific extent of Cole’s injuries. But she was experiencing something else, too. Relief. Cole was terrified, traumatized. He would leave her alone now. Her mind, body, and reputation were safe.
Gabe had done it. Not personally, but he had hired someone to find Cole, to beat him bloody, to make sure he didn’t hurt her. She’d had an inkling before, but now she knew for sure: Gabe Turnmill was dangerous. Nat should have been fearful, appalled at his propensity toward bloodshed, and she was. But she was also flattered. The fact that Gabe was willing to go to such lengths to protect her made her feel special. And this display of his power made her feel something else.
It was wrong, she knew that, but it turned her on.
26
* * *
Park Avenue
Nat woke up alone in Gabe’s bed. It took a moment to orient herself to her luxe, masculine surroundings. Then she remembered the night before. Cole on her front steps, swollen and battered. And afraid. She had sent Gabe a text after the encounter with her former abuser.
Thank you.
I’m safe now.
She had known enough not to mention Cole’s name, not to implicate Gabe in any way. Her hero had responded twenty minutes later, suggesting a late dinner. Nat had replied:
Or I could just come to your place? Show my gratitude?
Those three shivering dots had prefaced his response.
Sounds good.
And it had been good. More than good, it had been great. They’d made love with unprecedented intensity. Nat had been fervent with gratitude, ardent with affection, ravenous with desire. “I love you,” she’d whispered, the words bubbling out of her in a torrent of ecstasy. She had been shocked by her own utterance, embarrassed, mortified. Panic tensed her body as she prayed that her words had been inaudible, indistinguishable from a moan or a sigh. And then, Gabe had responded. His voice was muffled by her hair, her neck, but still, she heard him.
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