by Zara Cox
Clearly, I hadn’t accounted for the swiftness with which we’d go from banging each other’s brains out to me huddled under the covers, eating my sobs. I’d erroneously believed that the electrifying connection between us was purely sexual in nature. Now I know it’s our shared pain that keeps us riveted to each other.
That hellish self-loathing and murderous rage I sensed in him is the yin to the yang of the twisting, helpless blackness that bloats my soul and slams on my self-destructive button whenever I lower my guard.
We may not know the minutiae of our dark and monstrous pasts, but it knows us. And as surely as I know how to bullshit my way into a first class seat on any airplane, I know that talking myself into prolonging any further contact with Mason will end me.
As it is, the decision is taken out of my hands. The moment I flip over to rise I see the note propped up on the bedside table. It’s folded in half and a tall black box tied with cream silk ribbon sits beneath it.
I perch on the edge of the bed and open the thick, fancy paper.
A taxi will arrive half an hour after you wake.
Your clothes are washed and pressed and on the dresser.
Help yourself to breakfast. The contents of the black box is my par gift to you.
I would be honored if you would accept it.
Mason.
The crossed out word absorbs my attention. More than knowing he’s left me alone in his beautiful mausoleum of a house—why the fuck else would he leave me a note?— and more than the fact that he’s left me a gift with this fucked and dumped note, it’s those three letters that I can’t look away from.
Par.
Two things strike me as I stare hard at the word.
Firstly, he could’ve scrubbed the whole note and written a new one. It was the polite thing to do. But he’d deliberately left it there so I’d see it. And what? Wonder what he’d really meant? Play pathetic word games with myself and read things into the word that I shouldn’t?
And secondly, he’s gone out of his way to be hurtful.
Because I’m damn sure the word he’d been aiming for was parting. He’d returned to the room and left me a parting gift without bothering to wake me and have a simple conversation.
I toss the note when I realize I’m falling for his mind-fuckery. I should know better. Sure, he was a grand master at it, I’d give him props for that. But I’m intelligent enough to know the game he’s playing with me. And yet, I can’t dismiss my hurt feelings as I use the bathroom, put on my clothes and head downstairs.
“Good morning, Miss Benson—”
“Fuck!” I jump and almost miss the last step. My hand flies to the bannister to steady myself, and I cling there for a moment, trying to stop myself from expiring from shock. My gaze darts around even though I know there isn’t a corporeal being attached to the voice. “Umm...can you hear me?”
“Of course. Coffee is ready in the kitchen, and the car service will be here in twenty minutes.”
I curb the urge to flip a bird at the reminder that I’m to exist stage left without delay. At least Mason hasn’t left me to find my own way back to the hotel. “Thank you, Seven.”
I head for the kitchen to retrieve my purse and phone and grind to a halt when I’m confronted by the banquet laid out on the breakfast counter.
Next to each plate stands a tiny flag announcing its content. Pastries and condiments, a tiny domed plate that reveals piping hot Moroccan baked eggs, a stack of caramel pancakes. Red velvet stuffed crepes, coffee and assorted juices complete the feast.
As a fuck-off breakfast it excels enough to make my gastric regions tingle with pleasure, and had I been in the mood, I would’ve scoffed to my heart’s content. But the events of the early hours are still too raw and lie too heavy on my heart and mind to contemplate food.
I turn away from the spread and pick up my phone. I have fifteen minutes until the car arrives, and I want to call Bethany badly. But Mason’s robot is listening, and the conversation I want to have isn’t one I want Mason Sinclair hearing anytime soon. Or ever.
So I make my way back to the living room, perch on an Eames armchair and avoid looking at the wide sofa where Mason had fucked me to paradise and back last night.
As the minutes tick by, it occurs to me that although I’ve assumed he isn’t in the house, he could be in another wing. And even though his note had been succinct, I find myself asking, “Seven?”
“Yes, Miss Benson?”
“Is Mason still here...in the house?”
“No, Miss Benson.”
A tiny fountain of relief jets through me. I clear my throat. “Can you tell me where he is?”
“His coordinates show he’s on the Quai Rainier III.”
He left me to return to the boat. “Thank you, Seven.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Benson. The car is pulling up into the driveway now. Have a good day, Miss Benson.”
I stand on rubbery legs and smooth a hand over my head. As I turn toward the door, I spot something I hadn’t seen in the dark and seductive lighting last night. A picture on the massive mantle framing the stone fireplace that’s tucked behind two giant iron and wood sculptures.
Everything inside me screams at me to ignore it, but my feet propel me to the opposite side of the room. I take the picture down and stare at it.
Mason has his arm around a brunette with a pixie cut hairstyle and delicate, almost doll-like features. She’s holding on to his hand and staring up at him with a naked adoration that’s almost embarrassing to witness. She’s the type of woman who would look like a debutante at fifty. The kind who would most likely have men falling at her feet well into her dotage.
But it’s the look on Mason’s face that holds my attention.
He’s staring straight into the camera with the piercing look that I’m used to. His eyes gleam with amusement, but his mouth is curved in an almost cruel line that sends shivers down my spine. The looks that your soul is mine and I intend to fuck it from here to eternity.
I slowly replace the picture and my heart pounds as I head for the door.
It opens before I touch it and sure enough, a sleek Mercedes sedan is pulling up to the front door. The driver exits and hurries to open the door for me and I slide into the back seat. I don’t look at the house as we circle the driveway and head for the gates.
Instead, I find Bethany’s number and hit dial. She answers on the second ring.
“Are you alone?”
“No, but I can be,” she answers immediately. “Give me a sec.”
I hear talking in the background and grit my teeth and wait for her to extricate herself from her insanely possessive fiancé.
“Okay, I’m alone now. What’s up?” she asks as we drive through the gates.
The stunningly picturesque view of Monaco and the Cote d’Azur is spread beneath me, but I can barely look at it, never mind appreciate its beauty. Instead, I twirl my hair around my finger and try to find the right words.
“Uh oh, should I be worried?” Bethany says.
“What?” I say vaguely.
“You’re not speaking. And you’re never lost for words,” Bethany replies.
“I...” I stop, think about my next words and throw caution to the wind. “I fucked Mason last night. I woke up this morning and he was gone.”
Bethany gasps. “Whoa, really? He doesn’t seem like a—”
“Hit it and quit it kinda guy? I didn’t think so either,” I lie, because when it comes down to it, I have very little idea what kind of guy Mason is.
“Did something happen? I mean something besides awesome sex, because I know you’re ace in that department so it can’t possibly be the reason he left.”
I allow myself a small smile. “Aunt Keely loves you hard for that endorsement.”
A few seconds tick by. “So...?” Beth probes.
I worry my lip and wonder if I’m letting myself in for a heart-to-heart I may not like. “Maybe.”
“Shit, Keel, you’re
freaking me out. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Worry squeaks her voice.
I think of the note with the word crossed out. “Nothing Aunt Keely can’t handle. But—”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Beth screeches.
“It means I called because I wanted to find out if there’s anything I needed to know about Mason, you know, in case my pussy ditches every last ounce of self-respect and jumps all over his cock when it comes within fucking distance,” I joke, even though I get the feeling that’s exactly what Little Keely would do given half a chance.
“Anything like what?”
“Dammit, Bethany, do I need to spell it out? I am in danger here?”
“Danger!” Her voice hits a new decibel, and I’m not surprised when she swears. “Why the fuck would you be in danger. What the hell happened, Keel? Shit, Zach just walked in. I’m sorry, but I have to tell him—”
“No, you fucking don’t! I swear to God...” But I already hear a muted, heated exchange.
“Sorry, I’m calling you back on FaceTime, babe.” Her voice fades for a bit. “Zach, she wants to know whether she’s in danger with Mason. I sure as hell want to know, too.” She rings off, still muttering.
I wait until the line beeps and I activate the app. They’re standing in the kitchen, with Zach’s arms around his fiancé. “Hey, Zach,” I greet half-heartedly.
He nods in return. “You okay?”
“Oh sure, you ask me that now after you sicced your friend on me?” I snap.
“He’s the best in the business for what I needed done. But that wasn’t why you called, of course.”
“No, it wasn’t. So is there something I should know?” I press.
Silence greets my question. Zach clears his throat and Bethany’s head snaps up to glare at him.
“Zach? Why aren’t you saying something?” she shrieks.
“Peaches, calm down.”
“No, I won’t. If there’s something Keely needs to know, tell her now.”
Zach sighs and my heart drops like a fucking stone. “Shit, there is something, isn’t there?
“Yes, but you can’t hear it from me.”
I shut my eyes against the bright sunshine as the car winds its way down into Monte Carlo.
“Why the f—?” I stop and clear my throat. “Why the hell not?” I amend.
Bethany’s eyes widen. “Did you just stop yourself from swearing? Are you sure you’re okay, Keel?” she asks, her eyes full of questions.
“Stop asking me that,” I snap, absolutely sure now that this call has been a mistake.
Zach’s expression turns speculative. “Why does it matter? Do I get the impression that this is going to continue when the trip is done?”
“How about you answer the question or be guaranteed the impression of my foot up your ass the next time I see you?” I hate that I’m dying to know whether a man who’s fucked me and dumped me is worth pursuing and I don’t stop my anger at myself from bleeding all over my friends.
Zach does that infuriating half-quirk thing with his eyebrow that sets my teeth on edge.
I inhale and exhale to calm myself down. “Zach, please,” I beg.
Now they’re both wearing the same ridiculous stunned looks. Zach recovers first and pats his concerned fiancé when she leans closer to the screen. “Sorry, Keely. It has to come from him. But my suggestion would be to leave it alone.”
“Like you wanted me to leave you alone with your baggage last year?” Bethany glares at him over her shoulder. “What the hell is it with you men and your shoulder-it-alone bullshit?”
“Peaches, are you ever going to let me forget that?” He leans over her and slides his finger into her hair. I catch the slightly glazed look in her eyes even as she responds.
“Hell no—”
“Gee, I hate to come between your vomit-worthy prelude-to-sex tiff, but can we focus on me for a tiny second, please?” I snap again.
Bethany immediately looks contrite and Zach stares into the screen at me. “You know he’s been away for a while?”
“Yes, somewhere in the jungle. I also know he was married and now divorced, that he owned the yacht before you bought it, that he’s a genius inventor and has a brilliant, if sometimes cruel mind.” I stop for a second, then plough ahead with the suspicion that’s looming at the back of my mind. “I also know that he has—or had—a son?”
Zach stills and his nostrils flare before he hides his surprise. But I’ve seen enough to cause my heart to shred with dread.
“He told you all this?” Zach asks.
“Some of it. The other details I found out on my own. So am I safe? Please tell me straight. The mind games I think I can deal with, but I need...other reassurances.”
I shake my head at Bethany when her face creases in concern, but my eyes return to Zach.
“He’s complicated. And I’m saying that to be fucking cryptic or mysterious. You’re not safe if you decide to pursue a relationship with him. But you’re strong. If you choose to take him on, I get the feeling you’ll handle yourself more than adequately. Worse case scenario, he fucks with you beyond your comfort zone, I fuck with him. Good enough?”
Despite my like/hate relationship with Zachary Savage, I feel a warm glow. I glance at Bethany, and she’s wearing that sickening love glaze again as she gazes up at him.
I roll my eyes. “Good enough.”
Chapter 19
Keely
Six Years Ago
I dress nice in my short black leather skirt and a sexy fuchsia halter top. Ashley has grudgingly lent me her knee-high heeled boots in exchange for doing her laundry for a week. Since I tend to do it most days or risk brain damage from the skanky smells from her gym bag, it’s no biggie. I would’ve gone for plain black platform heels, but Ashley assured me guys go wild for leather boots, especially stilettos. And since she seems to have a hot guy on the go every other night of the week, I’ve decided to trust her on this crucial point.
Leo’s town car arrives at eight sharp.
I try to act cool and not giggle when the chauffeur doffs his cap and calls me ma’am. A few students drifting out of the frat house across the street whistle when I expose a little thigh sliding into the back of the car. Although I blush, I’m more than a little pleased by the confidence-boost I get from their male appreciation. I settle into the back of the car and, as we exit the campus, check out my subtle make-up in the window reflection.
We head south on Westwood Plaza, then hang a right on Wiltshire. I’m dying to ask where exactly the party is, but it feels as if it’s something I would know, and I don’t want to appear unsophisticated. I open my small clutch and check that the seventy-five dollars I tucked in there earlier—because my mom has ingrained in me never to leave home without a means to get back—is still there, along with my phone, a packet of gum and a tube of lipstick.
I’d debated whether to bring my driver’s license, but I’d decided against doing so. Since this is a private event, and I have a photo of my license on my phone that I can always access if I need to show my ID, I’m cool with not stuffing too many items into my tiny fuchsia purse.
We hit traffic, and I start twirling my hair as anxiety churns through me. I catch myself and try to play a couple of games of Space Invaders to distract myself instead. After I fail the same level fives times in a row, I put my phone away. I’m too nervous to concentrate anyway. I look out the window and see that we’re climbing into the Hollywood Hills. The houses are getting bigger and farther apart. Below me, L.A. is a blanket of fuzzy twinkles.
I face forward and catch the driver staring at me with a touch of jaded curiosity that immediately gets my back up. Shit, should I have asked his name? Or made conversation? I hope he doesn’t mistake me for another self-absorbed rich brat. I attempt a hey-I’m-one-of-you smile, but his gaze shifts and refocuses on the road.
I’m wondering what to say to him when we swing off the road and stop in front of a pair of towering black gates. He keys in a c
ode and eases the car onto a white gravel road. Sleek sports cars and limos litter the tree-lined driveway, but there’s no one outside, which makes me wonder if and how late I am for the party. And also whether I need to text Leo to let him know I’m here.
I toss the idea out. It doesn’t seem like a cool thing to do, and I don’t want to come off as Needy Nerd.
When the driver stops under a super-wide portico and comes round to open my door, I attempt another smile. His face remains impassive.
“You’ll need this.” He hands me a flat black box, then doffs his cap again. “Enjoy your evening, ma’am.”
He disappears round the side of the house, and I’m left alone on the doorstep. I open the box and stare at the computer-chipped wristband, a tiny earpiece and a mask arranged on a bed of velvet.
Right, Keels, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.
I feel a little sick with nerves as I slide the wristband on and insert the earpiece. The mask is a little on the large side, but I look on the bright side—better a bigger fit than for it to be too small.
When I’m done, I look for a doorbell, but there isn’t one in sight. There’s no visible handle, so chew on my lip for a minute, then knock.
Five minutes later, I’m still standing on the doorstep. I check my phone on the off chance that Leo has realized I’m not by his side yet. There are no messages. I’m about to hit my home button when a Porsche roars up the driveway and skids to a halt, barely missing a column under the portico.
I pretend I’m checking my phone as a guy and girl about my age, approach the door. They’re wearing masks and earpieces too. The guy looks me over and smirks, before holding his wristband to a black box at the top right hand corner of the door.
The box clicks and the door opens. He ushers his girlfriend in and eyes me over his shoulder.
“You coming?” he asks me.
“I...yeah, sure.”
I start to walk in, but he plants himself in front of me. “Did you forget? You need to code in.” He points to the black box.