by Zaires, Anna
It’s six minutes to eight, and the ballroom is already full to bursting, with cameras and news crews everywhere. All around me are bespoke suits and five-figure bags, men and women who control more wealth than kings of old. Under different circumstances, I’d feel intimidated, out of place in my casual jeans and sneakers, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
Marcus is by the podium on the stage, getting his mic attached, and my heart climbs into my throat at the familiar sight of his strong features, at the way his thick, dark eyebrows angle together as he talks to the technician in a low voice. I recall that deep, soft voice murmuring endearments to me last night, remember how warm and tender his lips felt as they kissed mine this morning, and the pain that arrows through me is so crippling that for a second, I can’t find the strength to move.
As if sensing my presence, Marcus turns and looks straight at me, his cool blue gaze locking in on me with preternatural precision. With a curt word to the technician, he unclips the mic and heads toward me, descending from the stage with long, determined strides.
The chill inside me intensifies until I’m shivering, the tremors running over my skin as I stand there, waiting for him to reach me. Even now, his presence is magnetic, his effect on me as potent as it’s ever been.
Marcus Carelli.
My boyfriend.
My lover.
My stalker.
Everything about him is achingly familiar, from the proud tilt of his dark head to the powerful breadth of his shoulders in that perfectly tailored suit. But do I really know him? Who is the man I’ve fallen in love with?
Has anything about us been real?
“Emma.” He’s now just a few feet away, and I see the lines of strain etched into his face, the guilt and worry in those intense blue eyes. He must’ve realized what I’ve uncovered, remembered what else is on the drive. Sure enough, as soon as he stops next to me, he says in a low voice, “Emma, kitten, listen to me. I can explain.”
“Here.” I shove the flash drive into his hand. “Good luck with the presentation and goodbye.”
And before I can either explode or shatter into pieces, I turn on my heel and run.
45
Marcus
Fuck. The flash drive burns a hole in my palm as I watch Emma flee, her bright hair like a ray of sunlight in a room filled with people dressed mostly in gray and black. To my right, a business acquaintance starts speaking to me; to my left, two reporters vie for my attention. But the words coming out of their mouths are white noise, as is the din of the audience waiting for my presentation.
I’ve never seen Emma so pale, so fucking wounded. It’s as if the life drained out of her, all her warmth and fire gone.
The moment I realized what happened, I wanted to hit rewind and forget all about asking Emma to bring the flash drive. I could’ve made do with the older version of my presentation; so what if a few slides wouldn’t have been as detailed as I liked? But all I could do was wait for her to arrive, and carry on with the preparations for my speech—as if I still gave a damn about the biotech stock or my reputation… as if my world wasn’t about to fall apart.
Yet as much as I dreaded this confrontation, the reality of it turned out to be infinitely worse, the pain in Emma’s eyes more devastating than any verbal lashing. I was prepared for her anger, but not that lifeless “good luck” and “goodbye.”
Her bright head disappears through the ballroom doors, and it’s like the sun just set, stealing all the warmth from the room. And I know that if she walks out of my life, this cold will grow and engulf me, coating me in a layer of ice that no amount of joy or happiness will ever penetrate.
I don’t consciously make the choice to begin walking; my feet move forward of their own accord. All around me are confused looks and murmurs, my name being called out on all sides. The conference organizer jogs up to me, hissing, “It’s almost eight. We need you up there now, Carelli,” but I step around him, picking up my pace.
The crowd is thickening with last-minute arrivals, and I push my way through them, muttering “excuse me” left and right. As soon as I’m out in the hallway, I break into a run.
Emma is already crossing the street when I rush out of the hotel, with the conference organizer on my heels.
“Emma, wait!” I call out, but she doesn’t hear me, her small figure weaving in and out of traffic, oblivious to the slow-moving cars. She’s so upset she doesn’t realize the light has just turned red, I comprehend with a surge of dread, and ignoring the organizer’s attempt to grab my sleeve, I leap into the intersection after her.
It’s rush hour, with the usual insanity on Fifth Avenue—which means any lengthening in the usual two-foot distance between cars is greeted by drivers madly surging forward, desperate to cut in front of others. And I see such a lengthening happening in front of Emma as a white van accelerates much slower than the nimble sports car it’s following.
“Emma!” I shout at the top of my lungs, but with the noise of traffic, she can’t hear me. Her head is down as she steps in front of the van, her hands clutching the lapels of her ancient coat to protect her neck against the freezing wind. She doesn’t see the danger, doesn’t notice the yellow cab revving up its engine next to the van—and with the van blocking the cab driver’s view, I doubt he sees her.
My heart rate skyrocketing, I launch into a sprint, ignoring the panicked honking all around me. My lungs pump like I’m in the last stretches of a marathon, my vision narrowing until all I see is that small, red-haired figure and the cab about to swerve into her.
“Emma!”
I’m now close enough for my frantic bellow to reach her, and she turns, only to freeze in place, her eyes widening as she sees me—and the cab barreling at her. In a flash, I take in the driver’s terror-stricken face as he registers her presence, hear the squealing of the brakes, and I know he won’t stop in time.
It’s physically impossible.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, each millisecond startlingly vivid as the deafening roar of my pulse separates into distinct heartbeats.
Thump-thump. I put on a burst of speed.
Thump-thump. I launch myself into the air, my arms outstretched.
Thump-thump. Emma’s face, ghost white, her lips forming my name as my hands collide with her chest, the impact throwing her back five feet—and out of harm’s way.
Thump. A massive force slams into my side, and darkness engulfs me.
46
Emma
My back hits the asphalt so hard that for a few long seconds, I can’t breathe, my vision going in and out. Then, with a wheeze, my lungs drag in air, and I bounce up to my feet, driven by a terror so hideous I’m oblivious to any and all pain.
“Marcus!” Ignoring the dizziness trying to fell me, I rush toward the prone figure in a business suit sprawled on the asphalt a few feet away.
All the cars are now at full stop, the drivers jumping out and yelling. The yellow cab driver starts shouting curses at me, but I pay him zero attention. All my focus is on the man lying on his back in front of the cab, his face partially turned away and his arm at an odd angle.
Dropping to my knees in front of Marcus, I frantically search for the pulse in his neck, and a sob of relief bursts from my throat as I feel it, strong and steady. But then I notice blood pooling around his head, and the hideous fear returns with a vengeance.
“He needs an ambulance!” I look around, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. I can’t find it, and my panic spikes. “Someone call 911!”
“They’re already on their way,” a man in a gray suit says, sounding out of breath as he kneels next to me. “I can’t believe Carelli jumped in front of that—holy shit, you’re about to pass out.”
I don’t realize he’s talking about me until someone grabs my arms and makes me lie down next to Marcus, saying something about shock and possible injuries. In the distance, sirens wail, and my dizziness intensifies, bringing with it a surge of nausea.
Rolling onto
my side, I retch, and by the time my stomach is empty, we’re surrounded by a swarm of paramedics.
47
Emma
“Emma? Kitten?”
The raspy sound of Marcus’s voice jolts me awake, and I jump to my feet, nearly knocking over the chair I’d fallen asleep in.
“You’re awake! Thank God, finally.” I seize his right hand in both of mine, so overcome with relief I barely register the pain in my back. “How are you feeling?”
He blinks up at me slowly, and I know that he’s still connecting the dots, wondering why my eyes are wet yet I’m smiling. But that confusion is normal, expected. The important thing is that after eighteen hours of not regaining consciousness, Marcus is awake and knows who I am.
“What…” He dampens his dry lips as I perch on the edge of his bed. “What happened?” His gaze sharpens. “Wait. The cab. Are you—”
“I’m fine. Here, drink this.” Releasing his hand, I hold a cup of water with a straw to his mouth and watch him take a big sip, the muscles in his powerful throat working as he swallows. My chest squeezes at the sight, my joy so intense it verges on agony. With a heavy stubble covering his lean cheeks, the right side of his jaw swollen, and a huge white bandage wrapped around his head, he looks as terrible as a man that magnetic can look, but he’s awake and functioning.
He’s going to be all right.
“What happened?” he repeats when he’s had his fill of water. His voice sounds like his throat has been rubbed with sandpaper, but his blue eyes are clear and sharp as he takes in the cast on his left arm and all the IVs and monitors hooked up to him.
I set the cup of water down on the bedside table. “Tell me how you feel first.”
“Like my skull’s been sawed open and filled with broken glass.” He touches the bandage on his head with his uninjured hand, wincing when his fingers brush over his swollen jaw. “Also like I’ve been hit by a car. Is that what happened?”
“Yes.” I take a breath to steady myself. “You pushed me out of the way of that cab and took the full impact yourself. In the process, you broke your arm and split your head open on the pavement. You’re also bruised and scraped all over. The doctors said…” My voice is beginning to shake, my throat closing up, so I drag in another breath. “They said it was a miracle there were no internal injuries or other broken bones, and that they didn’t think you sustained any brain damage, though after the first few hours, they started getting concerned that you weren’t waking up.” I squeeze my eyes shut to contain the tears, but it’s a futile effort. They leak out from under my closed eyelids, and when I open my eyes, I find Marcus gazing at me tenderly.
“What about you, kitten?” Pushing a button to raise the bed to a half-sitting position, he lays a gentle hand on my knee. “Were you hurt? I pushed you pretty hard.”
A half-sob, half-laugh bubbles up my throat. “Yeah, you basically tackled me football-style. Did you play that in college or something?”
“No, just in high school. Freshman year. Afterward, I switched to lacrosse and soccer. I figured all that head-bumping couldn’t be too good for the brain, and I needed every neuron for the future I had planned.” He grins; then worry returns to his eyes. “So were you hurt?”
I shake my head, a watery smile touching my lips. “No, not really. I hit the ground pretty hard, but my back is only a little sprained and bruised. The shock was the worst of it; they kept feeding me sugary liquids in the ambulance so I wouldn’t pass out or throw up again.” My smile fades, and I swallow as my throat swells up again. “They said you might’ve saved my life. With how fast that cab was going and the angle he was coming at me from—” My voice cracks. “And you could’ve also been killed, or gotten severely injured. If you’d hit your head any harder or fallen a different way…” A shudder ripples down my spine. “Never do this to me again, you hear me?” I grip his hand, the remembered fear chilling my insides. “Promise me, Marcus. Promise you’ll never do something this crazy again.”
His jaw flexes. “I can’t. When I saw that car coming at you and realized it wouldn’t be able to stop…” He squeezes his eyes shut, his fingers tightening on mine as he relives what must be a horrible memory. And I know exactly how he feels. I will never get the image of him lying unconscious and bleeding out of my mind, never forget how I felt in those terrifying moments before I felt his pulse and knew he was alive. If I’d lost him, if he’d been killed because of me… God, I can’t even imagine that agony; the mere thought of it is so painful it’s like having my soul ripped apart.
“Marcus…” I wait for him to open his eyes, then ask in a strained voice, “Why didn’t you give your presentation? The man who came running after you said you just left, walked out of there with no explanation to anyone.”
His gaze darkens. “Why do you think? Kitten, about that PI report…” He pulls his hand away and presses the button to sit more upright. “I didn’t do it out of evil intent, I swear.”
I take a breath and slowly let it out. “Why did you do it then?” I’ve been so worried about him I’ve scarcely given those files any thought, but now that I know he’s going to be all right, the pain of betrayal is returning, though it’s nowhere near as sharp as before.
Having faced the specter of losing him—really losing him—I know that no matter what he tells me, I’m not going to walk away.
“Why?” Marcus repossesses my hand, his fingers curling tightly around mine. “Because I wanted you, Emma. Because when you sent me away after that broken-door evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard I tried. I worked, I ate, I slept, I exercised, I went out with friends and business colleagues, but all of that was done on autopilot, because the entire time, all I could think about was you. When you texted me, sent me that ‘Hey,’ it was like my world flipped from shades of gray to HD color. But then you said you didn’t mean to text me, implied you were seeing someone else, and I…” His jaw clenches. “Well, I went kind of batshit.”
“Like you did with Ian?” I ask wryly, and he nods, though there’s no trace of answering amusement on his face.
“Like that,” he says grimly. “Only worse, because you weren’t yet mine—and I knew that if I didn’t do something, I may never have known what it would be like if you were.”
“So you, what… commissioned this report?”
“Yes.” His gaze is unwavering. “There’s a PI I use to keep tabs on important executives at the companies we invest in. I’d never had him investigate anyone I dated before, but after that text, I had to know if you were, in fact, seeing someone—and more importantly, what I could do to win you back.” He draws in a breath, then says bluntly, “I needed to know what makes you tick, kitten, and short of outright stalking you, this was the only way.”
“Wow.” Pulling my hand out of his grasp, I get up and start to pace, my thoughts tumbling like clothes in a dryer. There’s so much to unravel here, so many layers of conflicting emotions to dig through. What Marcus did is horribly wrong, the invasion of my privacy deplorable. It’s also frightening that he could do that—both that he had the means and that he was willing to go that far to get what he wanted.
Which was me.
And that’s what complicates matters… because I can’t say I’m sorry he got his way. If he hadn’t come at me with all those perfectly selected gifts, if he hadn’t been so ruthless and persistent, I might’ve found the strength to stay away from him—and then we wouldn’t be here today.
I would’ve never known the terrifying, exhilarating high of being in love with this man.
He watches me pace with the intensity of a cat tracking a stray lizard, and I know it’s because he decided that this is the best approach, that he needs to give me time to process these revelations. Even now, his devious mind is working on a way to spin this situation, to turn it to his advantage so he can get what he wants.
Which, presumably, is still me.
“What else?” I demand, stopping in front of the bed. “Is
there more I should know?” He hesitates for a long moment, and an incredulous laugh escapes my throat. “There is, isn’t it? What is it?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “I may have delayed your plane the day you were flying to Florida. Also, I asked a realtor to speak to your landlady about putting the townhouse on the market, and more recently, I arranged for Weston Long to buy it.”
I’m so stunned I sink onto the bed, my knees buckling underneath me. “For God’s sake, why?”
His blue eyes glint fiercely. “The plane, because I was stuck in traffic and couldn’t have caught you in the airport otherwise. And the townhouse, because…” His chest rises and falls on an unsteady breath. “Because I’m crazy, madly, obsessively in love with you, kitten… to the point that I can’t bear the thought of spending a night apart. I want you with me every moment of every day. I want to fall asleep with you in my embrace and wake up to the smell of your hair on my pillow; I want to see your smile over breakfast every morning and talk to you at dinner every night. You’re my addiction, my obsession, my reason for existing—and there’s nothing I won’t do to earn your love. Emma, kitten…” He grips my hand again. “I love you, and I want you to marry me. I want you forever in my life.”
My mouth works, but no words come out, my chest feeling like it’s about to burst. The stark longing in his voice, the unconcealed vulnerability in his gaze—it undoes me completely, cutting through the tangle of conflicting emotions like scissors through a knot.
Marcus wants to marry me. He loves me. Really, truly loves me—so much so he jumped in front of a car to save me… and before that, crossed all sorts of lines to get us where we are. And in hindsight, what did I expect? Would a man as ruthless as this leave something as important as matters of the heart to chance? Did I honestly think he’d meekly hang back in the hopes that I’ll work through my insecurities before the end of the next decade?