by Chiah Wilder
Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t think we’re being paranoid. I do think it’s something. He’s watching you, but I don’t know why. You didn’t recognize the car? Is it a past boyfriend?”
We walked to the parking lot, the salty breeze blowing my hair in my face. “I’ve never seen it before last night. And I haven’t had a boyfriend in quite a while. None of them would stalk me, so I don’t have any idea who it is.”
“No worries. I’ll look into it. If you see the car again, call me.”
“I don’t have your number,” I said as I slipped into his car.
Taking my phone, he punched in his number and handed it back. “Now you do.”
I laughed and fastened the seat belt. “Do you want to go to your place to change?”
Putting on his sunglasses, he glanced at me. “No, I’m good.”
He wore his suit pants and dress shirt, and with his Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, he looked sexy as hell. I was used to men who lived in jeans and T-shirts outside of the workplace, so this was a welcome and enticing change.
When we got on Highway 101 North, he switched on the CD player and Bob Dylan’s voice filled the car. I stared at him.
“You have the same record I do?”
“No, I went out and bought it.”
Butterflies fluttered inside me and I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“What’s that for?” he asked as he looked in his rearview mirror.
“Just because.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we toured vineyards, tasted wine, dined on cheese, pâté, and French bread, and talked and laughed a lot. It was the perfect day, and it felt so comfortable being with him. I couldn’t remember having such a wonderful day until the farmers’ market popped into my head. The two best days I’d had in a very long time both involved Trace.
Take it slow, Cierra. You don’t want to fall in love with him.
And I didn’t, because I knew once he grew tired of us, he’d move on to another woman. Just like he did with Kelsey. By his own admission, he’d told me earlier that day that he’d gone out with her for some fun, and he’d told her it wasn’t permanent. All the magazine articles I’d read about him screamed one thing—confirmed bachelor. Trace Prescott didn’t do relationships. Period. So I couldn’t risk my heart by falling in love with him; if I did, I wouldn’t be able to bear him walking out of my life.
“You’re quiet,” he said as we got in the car for the drive back to San Fran.
“Just enjoying your company. I had a wonderful time. Thank you.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”
I smiled. One thing that could be said about Trace Prescott was that he was the consummate gentleman.
“Let’s put the top down. You’re not one of those women who doesn’t want her hair blowing all around, are you?”
“Just the opposite. I love to feel the wind on my face.” I pulled out a hair tie from my purse and scooped my hair into a messy bun. Pushing my head back against the seat rest, I watched silhouettes of birds against the magenta sky and the last orange rays bathing the vineyards as we weaved along the small roads.
When we arrived in the city, the sun had already set and the city’s lights twinkled as cars raced between red lights. Instead of turning toward Nob Hill, Trace went straight and turned in the direction of Pacific Heights.
“Where’re we going?” I asked, expecting him to drop me off.
“My place. I want to get out of these clothes.”
I didn’t complain; I was dying to see his place ever since he’d told me he had floor-to-ceiling windows and a spectacular view.
He pulled into a driveway and punched in a bunch of numbers into a small black box. The brushed silver doors slid open and we drove into a parking garage. Taking the elevator up to the lobby, which had a marble floor and columns offsetting furniture out of a movie set, we went over to yet another elevator. Trace took out a key and turned it, and the doors opened. Riding it to the top floor, a big metal door greeted us. He unlocked it and it opened into a condo bigger than the house I’d grown up in. Buildings of all sizes stretched before us, and lights shimmered everywhere.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
He switched on the light and clean lines, chrome, and shiny surfaces filled my vision. In that moment, I wondered what he really thought of my eclectic mix of color, fabric, and texture that decorated my home. From where I stood, I could see the kitchen because the whole floor was open concept. The stainless-steel appliances picked up the soft lights from the chrome pendant fixtures.
“You must love to cook. Your kitchen is amazing.” I went over to inspect it more closely.
“Not even good with boiling an egg. The yolk is usually half-cooked. It came with the condo. Make yourself comfortable.” He walked away and disappeared into one of the rooms.
After checking out the kitchen, I went back into the living room, checking out the numerous framed photographs on the wall. I picked out Trace in all of them, and he looked adorable as a child and cute as a teenager. I imagined he broke a few teenage girls’ hearts when he was in high school.
“Checking out the family?” His voice startled me, too focused on the pictures. He handed me a glass of red wine when I turned to face him.
“They’re very nice. I wish I was more organized with my photos. I have a ton of my family, but they’re all in envelopes waiting for the day that I frame some and put the others in photo albums. It’s been one of my must-do projects for years.”
“Don’t be too impressed. My mom gave me most of them, and my grandmother gave me the rest.”
“Is this your mother?” I asked, pointing to an attractive woman with almond-shaped eyes and dark hair.
“Yeah. And that’s my dad next to her.”
“How old were you?”
He laughed. “I’m not sure I want you seeing pictures of me when I was young. It can be good ammunition to use against me at work. You know, embarrass the hell out of the boss?”
“I think I can come up with better ammunition than your childhood pictures. Are you going to tell me how old you were in this one?”
“About five.”
“You were cute, but I can see the early signs of a smirk. And I bet you were bratty too.”
“You’ll have to ask my mom about that.” He laughed and stood behind me, pointing to another picture. “There are my grandparents. You already know my grandpa, but my grandma is feisty as hell.”
I laughed and my eyes fell on a picture of his mother, Trace, and another boy, the same one in the picture of Trace at five years old with his mother and father. “Who’s he?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me.
I repeated my question. Still no answer.
I looked over my shoulder at him to find his eyes shimmering as he stared at the photo, a faraway look filling them. Wrong question. Good going. For several minutes we stood in silence, me cringing inside for being so nosey and him staring at the picture.
After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. “He’s… I mean he was my brother.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong in you asking. Really.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said softly, pressing back into him.
“Yeah. Ryan was my half-brother. My dad had been married and divorced before he met my mom. His ex, Sandy, ended up in a mental hospital. She had a psychotic break and tried to kill him and Ryan.”
“That’s awful. Your brother looks older than you.”
“By five years, but I looked up to him. He was pretty decent to me considering I could be a real brat.” He playfully punched my arm.
“You must miss him.”
He nodded. “I do.” Grasping my hand, he walked us over to one of the couches and we sat down. The couch faced the windows, showcasing a sweeping view of the city and the water. “I’ve never told anyone abou
t Ryan. The family doesn’t talk about him anymore, but I still think about him. I’m haunted by him and what happened.”
I took a gulp of wine.
“I want to tell you about him, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
I clutched his hand and squeezed it. “I’d never tell anyone. You can trust me, but you don’t have to tell me unless you really want to.”
“I do.” He took a deep breath and stood up, then went over to a large mirrored hutch and opened the bottom drawer. When he came back, he had several pieces of paper in his hands. He gave them to me and sat back down. I glanced at them, the handwriting hard to read. I looked up at him and searched his face.
He leaned back and began to tell me his story.
Chapter Nineteen
Trace
I watched Cierra as she looked through the notes, wondering if I was making a mistake by taking her into my confidence. I had never spoken about Ryan to anyone, and over the years, my grandparents and mom stopped talking about him. Soon it was like he never existed, but it was important to keep him in my memory. I’d already forgotten so much about my dad, and I was afraid to do the same with Ryan. A lot of the details about him had become fuzzy over the years, but I still remembered how he’d read me bedtime stories, or humor me and build Legos with me.
She glanced up from the notes, her gaze searching my face. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then dug into my mind and pulled out the details from that terrible time in my life. I drained the wine glass, kicked off my shoes, and put my feet on the coffee table.
“After my dad died in a boating accident, my mom fell apart. She couldn’t function with running the household, raising me and my brother, and dealing with the day-to-day aspects of life. My dad ran the show and took care of everything, and my mom served on charity committees, went to luncheons, and checked in with our nanny as to how we were doing. It was real tough on her when he died, and what made it worse was it was so sudden. I remember watching my mom come apart at the seams, and for a time, I hated my dad for leaving all of us.”
“That’s part of the grieving process. Losing a loved one is hard, but I can’t imagine what it would be like losing a father at a young age,” Cierra said as she brought the wine glass to her lips.
“It was tough on all of us. My grandparents told us to come stay with them. They had a huge house with a ton of bedrooms and baths, so we wouldn’t be climbing over each other. I was happy because I always loved my grandparents and going over to their house for long weekends. My mom was relieved, but Ryan didn’t want to go. He seemed so lost, and looking back now, I think it was because he felt like he wasn’t part of the family anymore. My grandparents were my mom’s parents, and the only one he was related to was me.”
“Did your mom and grandparents treat him differently from you?”
I shook my head. “No way. They accepted him as a grandson from the day my mom married my dad. And my mom loved him like he was her son, but Ryan didn’t see it. For the most part, we all got along and life continued on. Ryan got into a lot of trouble at boarding school and was finally expelled. He then went to Washington High and kind of fell in with a bad crowd. It was hard on my grandparents, and my mom sort of let them take over the discipline like she had with my dad.”
Cierra reached over and placed her hand on my thigh. I took another deep breath. “One afternoon, Ryan didn’t come home at the usual time. I’d just turned ten and he was fifteen. Anyway, by the time it was dark, my mom and grandma started to worry. When my grandfather came home from a late-night board meeting, they told him what was going on. By then, my mom had called every one of his friends that she knew, and they all said they hadn’t seen him since school got out.”
I paused as the memories of that night flooded my mind: Mom crying uncontrollably, Grandma clutching the curtains as she looked out, Grandpa reserved and in control, and me scared and confused with my stomach in knots.
“This must be very hard for you,” she said softly.
I nodded. “My grandfather was ready to call the police when the kidnapper called us. I can still remember his raspy, deep voice as he told us that Ryan would be killed unless my mom gave him three million dollars. She begged to speak with Ryan but he said he’d call back. He also said if the police were involved, he’d send Ryan’s head to her. My mother was hysterical and my grandmother wanted to call the police, but my mom was so freaked out that my grandparents didn’t do it.”
“Did the guy call back?”
“Yeah, a few times, and he let Ryan talk to my mom briefly. My family had the phone calls on the speakers, and I can still hear Ryan’s scared, thin voice as he told my mom he was okay but real scared. My mom gathered the money together with help from my grandfather and delivered it at the place and time the kidnapper had set up. The fucker never let my brother go. A week after she dropped off the money, a box arrived. It had two fingers in it. I can still hear my mother’s wails when she opened it.”
“So he killed your brother? How terrible!”
“That’s what we all thought. I’d wanted my grandfather to call the police at that point and preserve the evidence, but he never called. I don’t think they wanted all the publicity that would follow. My mother wasn’t strong enough to deal with it, so they wanted to forget it happened. I didn’t agree with them, but I was only a kid. What say did I have?”
“Do you think Ryan is dead?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, the stuff we got indicates that, but maybe the guy sold him. But we’ve never heard from him. I’d loved to do a DNA test on the fingers and see if they really were Ryan’s.”
“What a sad, awful thing for your family to go through. For you to have to live with.” Cierra put her wine glass down and tucked her feet under her.
“Not knowing is the worst part, and not having the bastard who did this punished is a close contender. I hired a few PIs over the years, but they never came up with anything.”
She picked up the notes and glanced over them again. “Are these from the kidnapper?”
“And Ryan. The bastard let him write a couple of notes to my mom and me. They were all postmarked in San Francisco.”
“Do you think your family regrets not having called the police at the beginning?”
“Yeah, but they really thought Ryan would be returned safely. If they ever doubted that, the police would’ve been called in from the onset.”
I watched as the enormity of the situation sank in for Cierra. She didn’t say anything more, but she scooted closer to me, pressed my head against her chest, and ran her fingers through my hair. We sat like that until the shadows of the past receded to the dark corners of my mind.
“Thank you.” Her voice was almost inaudible, and I pushed against her and sat up straight.
“For what?”
“Sharing. Trusting me with your story.”
We leaned toward each other, our lips pressing together for a gentle, caring kiss. A growl made her hands fly to her stomach, her cheeks reddening. “Sorry.” She smiled.
Glancing at my watch, I chuckled. “I didn’t mean to starve you. It’s been hours since we ate. Do you want to go out?”
“I’d rather order a pizza. If you have some food in that expensive fridge, I can throw something together. I love to cook, and I’d kill to have your kitchen.”
“I’ll remember that and stock it up the next time you come over. But as it stands now, there’s not much in there but booze, green olives, pepperoni, celery, and some stuff that I’m sure needs chucking. But I have a ton of takeout menus.”
She laughed. “I’m good in the kitchen, but I can’t perform miracles. Takeout sounds great.”
We settled on Indian food and were soon eating lamb vindaloo, rice, and steamy naan. We talked about literature, movies, social issues, and our lives growing up the way we did—me wealthy, her middle-class. I’d never talked with chicks about any of that, and it felt refreshing and a bit scary. Cierra was pushing me out
of my comfort zone, and I wasn’t sure how I liked that. I wasn’t into the relationship thing, and I usually grew tired of a woman after a couple of months. The longest I’d ever gone out with a woman was four months, and that was because she lived in another city and we didn’t get together that often.
After dinner I put on a screwy comedy, and we both laughed at the same places, which surprised me. A lot of the chicks I hung with didn’t have a great sense of humor, but Cierra did, and she could be funny. She was just plain different from any of the women I’d been with.
The citrusy scent of her hair and the musky vanilla perfume she wore were playing havoc with my cock. I tried to be good during the movie, but before the credits came up, I had her fused to me, kissing up a storm and playing with her incredible tits. I usually liked big tits, but hers fit nicely in my hands and were just right. And the sounds she made when I flicked my tongue or fingertip over her pink nipples—fuck.
After we shed each other’s clothes, I scooped her up in my arms. She yelped and pounded lightly on my back as I went into the bedroom and put her on the king-sized mattress. Then I spent the next few hours giving her pleasure over and over. She finally conked out, her head on my chest and her beautiful hair covering me like a blanket. As I listened to her sleep, I still couldn’t believe I had a woman spending the night in my bed. And the night before, I’d spent the night in hers. That shit didn’t happen with me.
Cierra was making me bend all my rules, and I wasn’t sure I liked that.
Chapter Twenty
Trace
Three days later
I looked over and picked up my buzzing phone from the bedside table. As soon as I saw who it was, I dumped it straight back down again. Nope, I didn’t want a damn thing to do with Kelsey. Not a chance. And why the fuck is she calling me? Maybe Cierra had put her up to it to find out why I hadn’t called her.
Me being an asshole had never been up for debate. I wasn’t proud of some of the things I’d done with the women I’d hooked up with over the years, but I’d always made it clear that I was in it for the fun. But I hadn’t told Cierra that, and after she’d left my place three days before, I fucking freaked out. She was doing all sorts of things to my head, and I didn’t need any of that in my life at that moment.