“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
The man gives my neck a concerned look. “Really you should—”
Beck appears and squats beside us. “He’s fine man. Move on.” The EMT gives him a scowl but obeys, standing up and leaving. Beck eyes me. “Did I mention I was on my way here?” He looks at Faith. “I’m Beck. Glad you lived. Sorry your house didn’t.” He looks at me again. “Kasey, Bill, and Jess are in custody. Kasey and Bill are singing like birds. Jess is not. But the bottom line here per Kasey is that Bill threatened Kasey’s sister or so he says. He agreed to set this fire and take a payout a little too quickly for me to buy into that.”
“Kasey set the fire?” Faith gasps.
“You didn’t know?” I ask.
“He said he had a surprise for me and ran downstairs. He told me to wait in the art studio.” The next thing I knew, the place was on fire. I don’t know how it didn’t get to me sooner. The stairs were on fire from the beginning.” She covers her face. “I can’t believe this.” She drops her hands. “Did he kill my mother?”
“Bill says Nick’s father was controlling your mother. He wanted the winery, too, and I assume he knew about the mercury. Per Bill, they both became a problem. Like you did, Faith. And that’s all for now. I need to go hand off Jess to those who shall not be named.” In typical Beck form, he just stands and leaves, without another word.
I turn to Faith. “Your house—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I cup her face. “I can’t lose you.”
Her lips curve. “Then you won’t.”
I reach in my pocket and retrieve the ring. “Marry me. Be my wife.”
She breathes a heavy breath. “Your hair and skin are scorched and you’re proposing?”
“I’d propose if my entire body was scorched. Marry me. The ring is—”
“Gorgeous. Stunning. Huge. I’ll need a bodyguard.”
“Does that mean you’ll marry me?”
“Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”
I pull her lips to mine and kiss her, like I might never kiss her again. And I plan to kiss her that way every day for the rest of her life.
EPILOGUE
Faith
Three months later…
It’s our first morning at our new apartment, Nick and I sit down at a table on the patio with plates of pancakes in front of us, made of course from a mix, because that’s my specialty. I’m still in his t-shirt I slept in last night, while he’s in his pajama bottoms and another t-shirt that fits nice and snug across his chest. That snug fit is exactly why I haven’t stolen that particular shirt just yet. His hair is loose, longer now again, though he tested out the shorter style for all of about a month. Nick just doesn’t do conventional.
He fills our glasses with fresh Mimosas. “How does the new place feel?” he asks.
“Exciting,” I say. “I’m dying for the studio to be done next week. I have orders and shows, and painting to do.”
His phone buzzes with a text and he glances down at it. “Rita made it down to the winery to help Carrie this morning. Rita says that she is impressed. And we both know that Rita is not easy to impress.”
Carrie being Kasey’s long time second-in-charge who is now running the winery. “I like Carrie, too,” I say. “I always liked her but she was just overshadowed by Kasey. And now that the government came in and claimed the mercury we don’t have to fear another problem. I can’t believe Bill and Kasey went to jail and so quickly.”
“A plea deal works that way but he’s still going to be inside a long time while Kasey will be out in a year.”
“I still can’t believe he was involved. And Jess Wild. We’ll never know what happened to him, right?”
“The CIA deal with their own.” He changes the subject. “Back to the winery. No regrets over keeping it?”
“No regrets at all. You know how the fire affected me. I gave myself the freedom to live and to let it go.”
“But you didn’t let it go.
“No. We’ve made it possible to maintain my father’s legacy, while I’m creating my own, at least I hope that I am.”
He holds up the card from my father. “Then you’re ready for this.”
I swallow hard. “Oh.”
“No?”
“Yes.” I firm my voice. “Yes I am.” I stand up and take it from him, walking to a small sofa seat a few feet away. Nick joins me and I slowly peel open the seal and remove the handwritten note. Just seeing my father’s script steals my breath. I start reading out loud:
Faith:
If you aren’t painting right now, it never really mattered to you. It wasn’t your passion. Because when something is your passion, you can’t let it go. You can’t walk away. The winery was that for me and so was your mother. Both had flaws but it’s the imperfection in things that are often perfection. I always assumed that one day I’d tell you how proud I am of you for fighting for what matters to you, for embracing your passion. I just needed it to be the right time. If you’re reading this, I never got the chance to pick that time and the moral of the story, is that life is short. It could end tomorrow. All or nothing, Faith.
I love you forever,
Dad
Tears are streaming down my cheeks and Nick is on his knee beside me. I lean forward and press my hand to his cheek. “All or nothing.”
He kisses my hand and says, “Let’s set the wedding date. We were waiting until things calmed down. That’s now.”
“Let’s elope. Now. Right away. All or nothing.”
Nick smiles. “All or nothing. Name the place.
THE END
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THE WINDOW SCENE FROM IF I WERE YOU
The elevator is right off of the fancy lobby and past a security booth. Chris punches the button and the doors open immediately. I follow him inside, and watch as he keys in a code. The doors shut and he pulls me hard against him.
My hands settle on his hard chest, inside the line of his jacket, and warmth spreads through me. “What just happened?” His hand brands my hip.
My breasts are heavy, my nipples aching. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“Yes. You do. Second thoughts, Sara?”
I scold myself for being so transparent. “Do you want me to have second thoughts?”
“No. What I want is to take you to my apartment and make you come and then do it all over again.”
Oh…yes please. “Okay,” I whisper, “but I think you should feed me first.”
His lips curve into a smile, his eyes dancing with gold specks of pure fire. “Then you can feed me.”
The bell dings and the doors begin to open. Chris wastes no time pulling me to the edge of the elevator, and I watch in surprise as a gorgeous living room appears before me, rather than a hallway. Chris has a private elevator and I am entering his private world, a world very unlike my own.
Chris releases my hand, our eyes lock, and I read the silent message in his. Enter by choice, without pressure. On some level I sense that once I enter his apartment, the decision to do so is going to change me. He is going to change me in some profound way I cannot begin to comprehend fully. I think he might know this and I wonder why he would be so certain, what is etched with such clarity to him beneath the surface.
He has misplaced doubts of me in this moment, as he’d doubted me at the gallery. I can see it in his eyes, sense it in the air. I refuse to allow his lack of confidence in me, or anyone else’s for that matter, to dictate what I can or cannot do ever ag
ain. I’ve been there and I ended up on the sharp edge of a cliff, about to crash and burn. I’d recovered, and I am beginning to see that locking myself in a shell of an existence isn’t healing. It’s hiding. Regardless of what happens at the gallery, I’m done hiding.
My chin lifts and I cut my gaze from Chris’s and exit the elevator.
My heels touch the pale, perfection of glossy hardwood floors and I stop and stare at the breathtaking sight before me. Beyond the expensive leather furniture adorning a sunken living room with a massive fireplace in the left corner is a spectacular sight. There is a ceiling to floor window, a live pictorial of our city, spanning the entire length of the room.
Spellbound, I walk forward, enchanted by the twinkling night lights and the haze surrounding the distant Golden Gate Bridge. I barely remember going down the few steps to the living area, or what the furniture I pass looks like. I drop my purse on the coffee table and stop at the window, resting my hands on the cool surface.
We are above the city, untouchable, in a palace in the sky. How amazing it must be to live here, and wake up to this view every day. Lights twinkling, almost as if they are talking to each other, laughing at me as they creep open a door to the hollow place inside me I’ve rejected only moments before in the elevator.
I swallow hard as the song ‘Broken’ from the band Lifehouse fills the room because Chris doesn’t know how personal it is to me. I’m falling apart. I’m falling to pieces, barely hanging on.
This song, this place with the words, and I am raw and exposed, as if cut and bleeding. Who was I kidding with the refusal to hide anymore? This is why I’ve hidden. The past begins to pulse to life within me and I am seconds from remembering why I feel this way. I refuse to process the lyrics and shove them aside. I don’t want to remember. I can’t go there. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to seal those old wounds, desperate to feel anything but their presence.
Suddenly, Chris is behind me, caressing my jacket from my shoulders. His touch is a welcome sensation and when his arm slides around me, his body framing mine from behind, I am desperate to feel anything but what this song, no doubt aided by the wine, stirs inside me.
I lean into him and hard muscle absorbs me. There is a strength to Chris, a silent confidence I envy, and it calls to the woman in me.
His fingers, those talented, famous fingers, brush my hair away from my nape and his lips press to the delicate area beneath, creating goosebumps on my skin. And still, I barely block out the words to the song, and their meaning to me.
As if he senses my need for more—more something, anything, just more - he turns me around to face him and his fingers tangle almost roughly into my hair. The tight pull is sweet, dragging me from other feelings, giving me a new focus.
“I am not the guy you take home to mom and dad, Sara.” His mouth is next to mine, his clean male scent all around me. “You need to know that right now. You need to know that won’t change.”
But the song does change and this time to another track on what must be a Lifehouse CD. ‘Nerve damage’ begins to play. I see through your clothes, your nerve damage shows. Trying not to feel…anything that’s real.
I laugh bitterly at the words and Chris pulls back to study me. And I am not blind to what I see in the depths of his green eyes, what I’ve missed until now, but sensed. He is as damaged as I am. We have too many of the wrong things in common to be more than sex, and the realization is freedom to me.
I curve my fingers on the light stubble of his jaw, the rasp on my skin welcome, and I have no idea why I admit what I have never said out loud. “My mother is dead and I hate my father so don’t worry. You’re safe from family day and so am I. All I want is here and now, this piece of time. And please save the pillow talk for someone who wants it. Contrary to what you seem to think, I’m no delicate rose.”
A stunned look flashes on his face an instant before I press my lips to his. The answering moan I am rewarded with is white-hot fire in my blood that he answers with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no other man ever has, but then, Chris is like no other man I’ve ever known.
His tongue plays wickedly with mine, and I meet him stroke for stroke, arching into him, telling him I am here and present, and I’m going nowhere. In reply to my silent declaration, his hand cups my ass and he pulls me solidly against his erection. Arching into him, I welcome the intimate connection, burn for the moment he will be inside me. My hand presses between us and I stroke the hard line of his shaft.
Chris tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against the window, and I know I’ve threatened his control. Me. Little school teacher Sara McMillan. Our eyes lock, hot flames dancing between us and some unidentifiable challenge.
Some part of me realizes the window behind me is glass, and all things glass can break. He knows this too, it’s in the dark glint of his eyes, and he wants me to worry about it. He’s pushing me, testing me, trying to get me to break. Because I slid beneath his composure? Because he really believes I am out of my league? And maybe I am, but not tonight. Tonight, as the song has said, I am broken and for the first time perhaps ever, I am not denying the truth of all of my cracks. I am living them.
I lift my chin and let him see my answering rebellion. His fingers curl at the top of my silk blouse and in a sharp pull, material rips and the buttons all the way down pop and clamor in all directions. I gasp, in unfamiliar territory, and burning alive with the ache I have for this man.
He turns me to the window, and my hands flatten on the glass. Wasting no time, Chris unhooks my bra, and it and my blouse, are off my shoulders in moments. He is behind me again, his thick erection fitted snugly to my backside.
“Hands over your head,” he orders, pressing my palms to the glass above me, his body shadowing mine. “Stay like that.”
My pulse jumps wildly and adrenaline surges. I’ve been ordered around during sex, but in a clinical, bend over and give me what I want kind of way I tried to convince myself was hot. It wasn’t. I hated every second, every instance, and I’d endured it. This is different though, erotic in a way I’ve never experienced, enticingly full of promise. My body is sensitized, pulsing with arousal. I am hot where Chris is touching me and cold where he isn’t.
When he seems satisfied I’ll comply with his orders, Chris slowly caresses a path down my arms, and then up and down my sides, brushing the curves of my breasts. He’s in no hurry, but I am. I am literally quivering by the time his hands cover my breasts, welcoming the way he squeezes them roughly, before tugging on my nipples. I gasp with the pinching sensation he repeats over and over, creating waves of pleasure verging on pain, and the music is fading away, and so is the past. There is pleasure in pain. The words come back to me, and this time they resonate.
His hands are suddenly gone, and I pant in desperation, trying to pull them back.
Chris captures my hands and forces them back to the glass above me, his breath warm by my ear, his hard body framing mine. “Move them again and I’ll stop what I’m doing, no matter how good it might feel.”
I quiver inside at the erotic command, surprised again by how enticed I am by this game we are playing. “Just remember,” I warn, still panting, still burning for his touch. “Payback is Hell.”
His teeth scrape my shoulder. “Looking forward to it, baby,” he rasped. “More than you can possibly know.”
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2017, and book four, END GAME, is out on January 2, 2018.
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There’s no such thing as good money or bad money. There’s just money.
—Lucky Luciano
CHAPTER ONE
SHANE
I park the silver Bentley convertible, which my father gifted me last year for saving his ass, into my reserved spot in the garage of the downtown Denver high-rise building owned by our family conglomerate, Brandon Enterprises. It’s a car he and I both know was far more about his attempt to drag me to the dark side, and aligning me with his way of doing business, than the thank-you for keeping his ass out of jail. I’d have refused the damn thing if my mother hadn’t begged me to take it, insisting I’d bruise him when he’s already fragile and cancer-ridden. Like my father ever fucking bruises and he damn sure isn’t fragile. And if he knew I’d coddled him, he’d most likely spit in my face, and tell me I’m a disappointment.
Killing the engine, I exit the vehicle and stare at my older brother’s white 911 Porsche, also a gift from my father, ironically and most likely for getting us into the very mess I’d returned to Denver to clean up. Jaw clenched, I shove my keys into the pocket of the gray two-thousand-dollar suit I’d bought back in New York, a reward to myself for winning a high-profile case for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. I wore it today to remind myself that I’m a few well-played cards from conquering the challenge I took when I returned home: Becoming the head of the family empire when my father retires and replacing all the dirty money running through six of the seven asset companies with good, clean, cash. Namely, the revenue produced by Brandon Pharmaceuticals, or BP, the newest asset I’d forced into acquisition only three months ago.
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