In the shower, he faced the opposite wall and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water pelting against his shoulders, back and buttocks. These days it was the only way his body was touched. He kept himself isolated and alone, suffering in silence and only finding the smallest bit of joy in his work.
Not in love.
Not in a family.
Not anymore.
Lance winced as pain radiated across his body, and he tilted his head back to wash away his tears beneath the spray of the water. Three years had not dulled his heartache or lessened his anger and regret. They were his new normal.
He finished his shower and stepped out of the glass enclosure with the steam swirling outward as well, surrounding his frame. He reached for a plush chocolate-colored towel and dried every inch of his body vigorously, giving his face just one hard press with the cloth before dropping it into the chute behind the door where it would land downstairs in a hamper inside the laundry room.
Without looking in the mirror, he brushed his close-cut hair and walked back inside the closet/dressing room area, moving past the shelves and racks of tailored designer clothing he no longer favored. Not for years. Instead, he chose a pair of jeans, a thin long-sleeved T-shirt and lightweight boots and grabbed one of a dozen boonie hats he owned to fold and shove in the rear pocket of his pants once he was dressed.
He paused before turning to eye the clothes that lined the other side of the massive closet. His gut clenched as he allowed himself to stroke the skirt of a sequined crimson dress. Most days he was good at ignoring all the things left behind.
Clearing his throat, he freed the cloth and rushed from the closet, swinging the door with one hard shove to slam it closed.
Wham!
The noise almost surprised him.
His house—his rustic eight-bedroom, nine-bathroom, mansion—was always so quiet.
Lance’s footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors as he left his bedroom and used the metal-framed elevator at the end of the hall to go up one flight. He opened the wrought iron gate to step directly into the oversize attic he long ago had converted into his office. Here the dark wood, vaulted ceilings, large skylights and abundance of shelves stuffed with books gave him the inspiration he needed to create. Here the lights stayed on like it was the hub of the house.
He pulled the cap from his pocket as he moved across the room to his large ebony desk. Tossing the hat on the corner of the desk, he sat in his mahogany leather chair and held the edge to roll forward. With movements that were almost automatic, he turned on the eighty-six-inch television on the wall but placed it on mute, turned on the desk lamp illuminating a perfect circle of light down upon the college-ruled notebook and extra-fine-point pen that sat upon it. Last, he put his phone on Do Not Disturb and synced it to the speaker sitting on the edge of the desk before pulling up Meek Mill’s album Championships.
He glanced at the time. Four a.m.
Right on time. Just like always.
He picked up the pen and tapped it against the edge of the leather blotter of the desk as he reread the last few pages of his crime fiction novel to regain the pace and rhythm of the story before putting pen to paper. For the next two hours, he got lost in the latest crime-solving adventure of his protagonist. The feel of the pen scratching against the pad was addictive, and he allowed himself to get lost in a world of his own creation.
For him, the computer felt like a middleman blocking him from the emotions he poured into his writing. He knew it was a mind thing, but it was his process. His comfort. He had no plans to even try to do it differently.
Thankfully his millions of loyal readers enjoyed his stories as much as he found pleasure in creating them, making him a very wealthy man. A very lonely, isolated, wealthy man.
He paused and flexed his head toward his left shoulder and then the right.
Lance had always had a love for words, starting when he was a child fascinated by reading books and getting lost in stories. With the dissolution of his parents’ marriage in his teens, he turned to writing to create a world where he felt more in control than he did in reality. He began with short stories and novellas that he would only share with close friends but soon developed and completed his first book. He was first published at the age of twenty-one and won major book awards for his debut novel. When his second two-book offer from his publisher was made via his agent, Lance officially became a full-time author, and his career only grew with each new book release.
It had been eleven years and five bestselling books translated into a dozen or more foreign languages.
Coming to the end of the twentieth chapter, Lance dropped his pen atop the notebook and worked the fingers of his left hand to relieve the tightness caused by his extensive handwriting. Eight pages. Just another twenty or so and the first draft of Danger was done.
He frowned deeply as he turned and looked down the length of the attic at the smaller desk with an all-in-one touch-screen computer sitting there. Unused and uncared for. Lance disdained it and normally relied on his personal assistant to convert his handwritten text to type.
Unfortunately, he was in need of a new one. His fifth in the last two years.
He checked the time. Seven a.m.
Right on time.
Lance rose from his chair and moved around the desk to one of the windows in the room. Like every other in the massive house, it was covered by blackout curtains, which he moved aside with his hand just enough to peer out at the sun, now high in the blue skies above the heart-shaped lake that served as the center of the small, affluent town of Passion Grove, New Jersey.
No sign of rain.
“Good,” he muttered, shifting the curtain back before he retraced his steps to the desk to grab his hat and pull it over his head, being sure to lower it over the top portion of his face. He left his phone on the desk and made his way across the attic to the elevator, riding it down to the first floor.
His strides were long and his steps echoed through the dimly lit, empty house. There was no staff. He preferred the solace even if he knew the majority of the house was sorely ignored and in need of organizing and dusting. Most of his time on the lakeside estate was spent fishing or holed up in his office writing.
He entered the large chef’s kitchen, pausing just long enough to grab a bottle of water from the Viking fridge and a container of spicy sesame stick, mini pretzel and almond mix. He left the kitchen and entered the mudroom, tugging on his beloved safari-style jacket before grabbing his fishing rods, bait and tackle box. After opening the door and pausing in the portal to take a deep breath of fresh and crisp fall air, he continued down the paved walk leading across the yard to the pier, where his all-black twenty-five-foot bass boat was docked on the water.
Lance swapped his fishing equipment for the bright neon life vest, pulling it on before untying the vessel and using his foot to launch the boat and then apply the throttle. For safety, especially boating alone, he connected himself to the kill switch via an extendable cord to disable the motor in case he fell off the boat. He accelerated forward until he reached the center of the lake and dropped the anchor. As he baited the hook with an earthworm and cast his line, he spotted two figures jogging around the lake. As they did every morning.
It was the attorney and her billionaire husband. The tech guy. She used to run alone every morning, and then one day he joined her and it had been the two of them ever since. He’d read in the local newspaper, the Passion Grove Press, about their marriage and well wishes for a happily-ever-after.
Lance grunted in derision. Good luck with that.
They both waved as they jogged. He grimaced as he jerked his hand up in the air in return.
Ignoring them, he gently wiggled his rod to move the bait and attract one of the perch or striped bass swimming below. At the tug of the line, he leaned back, tightened his grip on the rod and gave it a jerk up
ward to lodge the hook in the fish’s mouth. With ease, he reeled in his catch and freed it from the hook before dropping it into the boat’s live well. That was the only one he would keep, clean and then give away or freeze. He switched to a barbless hook in preparation of properly releasing the rest of the fish he would catch back into the water with minimal damage.
A fisherman who didn’t eat fish. That irony was Emerson Lance Millner.
He was the only regular fisher in the town. Most residents enjoyed the lake for swimming in the summer or skating upon in the winter months soon to come. He looked around at the serene surroundings after he baited and tossed his line again. He was glad the early-morning hour kept the residents away. Later in the day, after school was done, teenagers would fill the lakeside benches, picnic areas and pergolas while enjoying the music that would blare from the surround-sound system.
He would be long gone and back inside his home, leaving them to it.
Not that he didn’t love the small town of Passion Grove. The residents knew him well and gave him the space he craved. The fishing gave him solace. He found all the streets being named after flowers nonsensical, but the beauty of the town was undeniable, with its large estates set back from the pristine streets, wrought iron lampposts and oversize flower pots on each corner. The convenience of upscale living devoid of the fast pace of larger cities was ideal with a population under two thousand and fewer than three hundred homes, each on an average of five or more acres.
Passion Grove was his home and had been for the last five years, and there was no changing that any time soon, even though he owned land and properties elsewhere.
He fished for the next few hours before steering his boat back to his dock. He wanted to continue, but his desire to write was stronger...and his hunger even stronger than that. In the mudroom, as he washed his hands, he quickly pondered walking to the town’s main street area for a pastry and strong cup of coffee from the bakery, La Boulangerie, but instead, he made his way to the kitchen to clean the fish in the copper apron farmhouse sink before vacuum sealing it. With his hat still on his head, Lance opened the fridge and found it lacking.
He wasn’t much of a cook and usually ate precooked meals sold at the Gourmet Way, the specialty grocery store in town. His stomach growled as he reached for a bowl of egg salad, opening it and holding it to his nose to sniff out its freshness. With a shrug of one shoulder, he set it on the slate countertop and reached for a bag of nutty whole wheat bread. He checked that as well, found no mold and made himself two heaping sandwiches, cutting each in half.
Turning with saucer in hand, Lance paused at a clear and vivid memory of better days. Smiling faces. Soft touches. Loving hugs. Laughter. Family.
He closed his eyes and tightly gripped the saucer. The silence mocked him, pushing him to a dark place he fought hard to escape on a daily basis.
Needing an escape, he rushed across his spacious home and onto the elevator, feeling relieved once he was inside his office. He cleared his throat as he took his seat and bit off a big hunk of his sandwich. And then another and another and another, chewing and swallowing without tasting and savoring.
Just going through the motions. A lot of his life felt that way since...
Brnnnnnnnnng...
Lance looked over at the cordless landline phone on the edge of his desk but didn’t bother to answer it. He only used the number for business. He glanced at the time on his phone. It was near 10:00 a.m. Like clockwork, he started his second wave of writing at the same time every day, and anyone who knew him well knew that.
Brnnnnnnnnng...
He grunted and took another bite of his sandwich before swiveling in his chair and opening the small fridge behind him to remove a bottle of fruit punch.
“Leave a message.” His recorded voice echoed into the air. Gruff and rough.
Beeeeeep.
“Lance, pick up. I know you’re in that office listening to me. It’s rude and you know it.”
It was Annalise Ray. His longtime literary agent, who knew his writing habits inside and out.
“Leave a message,” he repeated, setting the bottle down on the desk and reclaiming his pen.
“Okay, fine, Lance,” she said, her soft tone amused. “Let me know when you want to advertise for a new assistant and I will handle that for you.”
He reached to press the button to answer the call on speakerphone. “I’m ready,” he said.
Annalise chuckled. “So I was right,” she said, sounding victorious. “Hello there, Mr. Millner.”
Lance clenched his jaw. He had no time for pleasantries. “Let’s find one that lasts longer than a few months,” he said.
“One what?” she asked.
He drew his fingers into a fist. He could clearly envision the petite woman sitting behind her large desk, legs crossed, with a smile on her face as if she had all the time in the world to chat with him. Annalise was a big talker. Lance was not.
“Assistant, Annalise,” he said, wishing he’d never picked up the call.
“Yes. Right. Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “This time I’ll line up qualified applicants for you to meet with, and then you choose for yourself.”
His brows deepened as he thought of having to speak to a ton of strangers, but they furrowed even more at the idea of having to continuously select a new assistant when one either quit or was fired. With a breath, he said, “You’re right. Thanks.”
“No problem, Em,” she said, using her nickname for him.
The line went quiet.
He tensed. The pattern was familiar.
“Listen, Em,” Annalise began.
Just like always.
Lance was well aware that she wanted nothing more than to elevate their relationship from business to pleasure. Her hints and gentle nudging over the years had become hard to ignore.
“Maybe this weekend I can drive down to the estate, cook you a Southern meal like my grandma taught me and we can review the résumés together,” she suggested, her soft voice hopeful.
“No, Annalise...but thank you,” Lance added, not meaning for his rebuke to be too harsh.
More silence.
“They would want you to be happy, Em, not just surviving or getting by, but truly living.”
Lance closed his eyes tightly and released a little breath. So clearly, he envisioned them both smiling at him. One with the love of a woman for her man and the other the adoration of a daughter for her father.
His heart literally ached as a pain radiated across his chest, and his grief nearly swallowed him. It felt just as deep and unwavering as it did three years ago when he lost his wife and his six-year-old daughter. His family. The loves of his life.
In his midtwenties, he’d married his childhood love, Belle, and settled into a happy life as a writer and husband. The birth of his daughter, Emma Belle, was the highlight of his life. Fatherhood had been key for him. He was very hands-on and loved her dearly.
“Em? You still there?” Annalise asked.
He didn’t answer her. His thoughts were locked on the loss of his family.
In the time since they’d left him behind, Lance had withdrawn from the world, barely leaving his estate and clinging to the anger he felt at their deaths. He tried his best to rebuild his life but found it hard to not be consumed by grief that made him sullen and disgruntled. He knew he was considered a recluse, and he welcomed the clear field everyone gave him when he did venture off his estate.
Writing and fishing were his sanctuaries.
“Em?”
He cleared his throat and picked up his pen to tap against the edge of his notebook at a rapid pace. “Annalise, I really need to get back to work,” he said, using his free hand to shift the hat he still wore low over his face. “Just line up a list of appointments in two weeks, here at the estate, and I’ll select a new assistant.”
>
“Okay, but, Em—”
“Annalise, please,” he stressed. “Let me be, damn it.” His shoulders slumped with regret, “Annalise—”
The sound of the dial tone echoed into the air.
He reached and hit the button to end the call on his end before dropping his pen and sitting back in his reclining chair as he wiped his hand over his mouth.
Lance felt remorse for his harshness, but he also felt Annalise was wrong to press him to move out of his grief on her terms. He knew she wanted more from him than he was willing to give to anyone. Love and a new relationship were not a part of his plan.
Memories of his time with his Belle and Emma were more than enough.
Chapter 2
Samira was a woman on a mission.
She climbed from behind the wheel of her custom rose-gold metallic Mercedes Benz GT and pulled her fluffy silver fox jacket closer around the black turtleneck and leather jeans she wore with thigh-high boots. She left the car parked on the paved brick street and walked around the vehicle to stand on the sidewalk as she eyed the expanse of land before her. All twenty acres were beautifully manicured and gloriously empty.
Just prime for the picking.
“It’s perfect,” Samira whispered into the late-fall winds before turning to eye the length of Baby’s Breath Lane in Passion Grove.
Large gardens with faded remnants of spring and summer blooms stretched to the left and right with not an estate in sight for blocks. The cleared land served as the dead end to the street. Not much traffic. No residents to be disturbed.
“Perfect,” she repeated.
Just as she had since she first spotted the property two weeks ago, she could visualize a luxury boutique hotel built on the land. One of more than twenty she had mapped out as a part of her initial rollout plan for the hotels/resorts division of ADG. It was just the type of expansion idea to fast-track her from a midlevel position to upper management.
Christmas with the Billionaire ; A Tiara for Christmas Page 2