The house feels too large and, despite the mourners, too empty. I never realized how big the place is. Maybe it’s because my mother’s larger-than-life presence filled it so very completely.
Some people—many of my clients, for example—have a difficult relationship with their parents. Not me. My father abandoned us when he found out my mother was pregnant with me, but my mother was all the parent I needed. She’d been everything—mother, father, and friend.
She’s gone now. Dead in her sleep. A massive, unexpected heart attack. I found her body four days ago. I don’t know how to deal, how to cope, how to react. All I can do is try to find a way to move on.
There was a lunch earlier. Sandwiches, I think. The caterers have put away the food and wiped down the counters, but there’s still some stale coffee in the carafe. I pour myself a cup and take a seat at the table, looking out of the window.
Breanna Driesse was a psychiatrist, the reason I went into the profession. I have such vivid memories of sitting at the kitchen table, the two of us discussing work and life and everything in between. The moths that were eating her kale. The cases that were troubling us. It’s not fashionable to like your parents, but even as a teenager, when my friends were going through their ‘I hate my parents’ phase, I liked and respected my mom. She was smart, she was kind, and she was a great role model.
I shake my head to dispel the sadness and take a sip of the lukewarm coffee.
You’re a therapist. You teach people to cope with grief. You’re numb, and that’s a normal reaction. This feeling you’re having—like this isn’t really happening to you, but to someone else—it’ll pass. You’ll get through this.
Annette Reeves walks into the room and settles in the chair next to me. “Hunter,” she says, her voice kind. “How are you doing?”
“Do you want the clinical answer? I should be at the anger stage of grief, but I’m lagging behind the curve.”
She pats my back and leans back in her chair, surveying me with concerned eyes. “I don’t want the clinical answer, no. This isn’t something training can fix, and you know it.” She follows my gaze to the back garden, where the basil is starting to flower. My mom would religiously pinch their heads off every evening when she returned from work. I should do that. “Bree made the best pesto,” she says softly. “She’d bring jars into work to share. The hospital is going to feel emptier without her.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How are you feeling, Hunter?” she asks again. “The real answer, this time.”
“I alternate between grief and numbness.” I take a deep breath. “I know what I’m supposed to do—”
She raises her hand to cut me off. “Our training is so that we can help other people,” she murmurs. “We’re not always the best at helping ourselves. Trust me, I know this from experience. Are you sleeping?”
“With help.” My mother died in her sleep. Every time I close my eyes, that realization jolts through me, and then, rest becomes impossible.
She frowns. “You should talk to someone.”
“You?”
“No, you know that wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m too close to you, to this situation. But I can get you a referral to someone else.”
Annette is a good person. One of my mother’s best friends, she’s like family to me. Except she isn’t, really. My mom was the last of my family, and now she’s gone.
“I don’t need a therapist, Annette.”
She hears the edge in my voice and drops the matter. “Okay.” She rises to her feet and pats me on the back again. “Why don't we get coffee later this week? Or you can take me out for dinner. It’ll do my ego some good to be seen with such a handsome young man.” She winks at me, a smile creasing her lips. “I won’t tell Doug.”
I know she’s trying to be kind, but I don’t want any of it. I just want to be left alone. Talking to people, being social, all of it feels like too much effort. I can’t summon up the energy.
“I’ll call you,” I mutter noncommittally. “I’m not sure what's on my schedule. I had to cancel on my patients, and the next couple of weeks are pretty swamped.”
It’s an excuse, and Annette knows it, but again, she doesn’t push. “Okay,” she says agreeably. “Take care of yourself, Hunter. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”
I go back to my contemplation of the garden. A month ago, my mother and I had sat here, and she’d told me that she was planning to plant drifts of daffodils, thousands and thousands of bulbs, all the way down the hillside. “It’ll look like a wild meadow,” she’d said. “Can you imagine it, Hunter? It’ll be magical.”
“It’ll be a lot of work,” I’d replied. “When are you going to find the time to do that?”
“I’m thinking of retirement.”
That had surprised me. “You are?”
“I’m burned out, Hunter. It’s hard to listen to people’s problems every single day. It gets to you if you don’t have an outlet for it.”
That, I know. That’s one of the reasons I play at Xavier’s club as frequently as I do. BDSM is a valve, designed to relieve the pressure that builds up from my work. I work with veterans suffering from PTSD—men and women who fought bravely and without complaint for our country, putting their lives on the line—and it takes a lot out of me. Club M acts as a restorative.
Not that I’ve played at the club in months. Not since Dixie Ketcham broke up Camila’s scene.
There are no daffodils on the hillside. None at all. There will never be any daffodils now, because my mother didn’t get to retire, and she didn’t get to make her insane vision come to life. She ran out of time.
So fucking unfair.
I hear footsteps again. I look up, but I don’t recognize the man who enters the kitchen and takes an uninvited seat at the table.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Driesse. My name is Mitch Donahue.” He holds out his hand to me. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I shake it out of ingrained politeness. “Thank you.”
He takes a business card out of his jacket pocket and places it on the table in front of me. “Mr. Driesse, I’m a real estate developer. I was in conversation with Mrs. Driesse about selling this house when she died.”
I frown at the man. “You were?” My mother was talking about planting daffodils, not selling the house.
“It was early in our talks,” he replies evasively. He leans forward. “Can I be honest with you, Hunter?”
Oh, it’s Hunter now, is it? I don’t like to form snap judgments about people, but I don’t trust Donahue. Too much hair gel. Too smarmy. Who the fuck invited him to the funeral?
I don’t reply, but he barrels ahead nonetheless. “It’s a difficult time for you,” he says, as if he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. “You’re probably facing many important decisions. You spend the majority of your time in DC. This house is old, and I’m sure you’ve realized it needs a lot of maintenance. Let me take something off your plate. My associates and I are willing to make you a very generous offer.”
“You want me to sell this house?” I stare at the man. “My mother was cremated today.”
He realizes he’s skating on very thin ice. “Right, right, of course. It’s far too soon. I’ll give you a call in a week or two, okay?”
I ignore him. The vegetable garden catches my attention again. Why did my mother plant six kale plants? She lived alone. How many leafy greens does one person need to eat?
Donahue reaches for his business card. He pulls a pen out of his jacket pocket and scribbles a number on the back of the card. “It might seem overwhelming,” he says. “But this is a very generous offer. You’re a psychiatrist, Hunter. You probably make a decent living, but this is a windfall.”
“A windfall.” Does he think I care? My mother’s dead, for fuck’s sake. I will never see her again, and this asshole is blathering about money?
Donahue hears the warning in my tone, loud and clear. He gets to his feet. “Thi
nk about it. Breanna wouldn’t have wanted this place to lie empty.”
He leaves before I throw him out. I take another sip of my now stone-cold coffee. I can’t hide here forever. Xavier is still in the living room, as is Eric. Nolan and Caleb are here, Kai and Maddox too. Brody and Adrian and Fiona. Even Rafael. The old gang. It would be nice if our reunions didn’t take place at gravesides.
I get to my feet, picking up the card to throw it in the trash. Then I catch sight of the number.
Six million dollars.
That can’t be right. There’s no way this house is worth that.
2
Eric
It’s a beautiful summer day. The sun is out, and the rolling hills are very green. Hunter’s mother’s driveway is lined with lavender bushes, and their scent fills the air. Butterflies flit to and fro. A flock of birds attacks the fruit in a nearby cherry tree.
It’s lovely and idyllic, and I can’t appreciate any of it. I’m feeling drained after Breanna Driesse’s funeral, and I didn’t really know her. I can’t even imagine how Hunter is feeling. My parents and I have a relationship that can best be described as ‘frostily polite,’ but my friend loved his mother.
I blink in the sunlight, my eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness. Nolan’s car is blocking me in. I lean against my hood and wait for him.
Xavier Leforte emerges from the house. He looks at the parking situation with a grimace and then catches sight of me. His face brightens, and his stride lengthens.
Trouble. Whenever Xavier gets that look in his eyes, you’re about to be talked into something you don’t want to do.
“Eric.”
“Xavier,” I greet the man. Up close, his face is set in lines of exhaustion. He has dark circles under his eyes. The man practically owns a country—what the hell is keeping him up at night? “You doing okay?”
“I’ve had better days.” He sags against the car. “Breanna was a friend. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I didn’t realize you knew her.” I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re practically neighbors, after all. No doubt they ran into each other at town council meetings or whatever people do to pass the time in these parts.
“When Lina died, Layla didn’t take it well. Obviously. Breanna talked to her. If it wasn’t for her…” His voice trails off.
Oh. Lina died more than a decade ago. Dr. Driesse and Xavier go way back. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Is that why you look like hell?”
“Do I?” He shrugs. “That’s part of it. I have a different problem that’s keeping me up at night, and I could use your help.”
Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
“What’s up?”
“Pierre Valade no longer works for me.”
Pierre is Xavier’s COO. This is a major change. “Why not?”
His expression hardens. “Two reasons. First, he’s been sloppy for a very long time. We were at boarding school together. He was kind to me when I was a frightened boy. He’s been coasting on the basis of our childhood friendship.”
“He’s been sloppy for a long time, you said. What made you fire him now?”
“He endangered Layla. He processed some payments to her through one of my corporate accounts by accident. If it had happened once, I might have let it go. It happened six times.”
Xavier values friendship. He will walk across hot coals for the people in his life. He would have tolerated Valade’s sloppiness. But the instant Layla is threatened, in any shape or form, the gloves come off.
I wait for him to continue, already knowing where this conversation is going and not liking it one bit. “I want to make you a job offer.”
“Xavier, no.”
“Eric, I’m desperate. In addition to being the Chief Operating Officer, Pierre also headed up Mergers and Acquisitions. I have several deals in the pipeline that are on the verge of falling through.”
When things with Cecelia blew up in my face, Xavier had been there for me. He’d been supportive; he helped me pick up the pieces. He made several problems go away. When I questioned whether I should give up BDSM and reconcile myself to a lifetime of vanilla sex, Xavier had listened. He didn’t offer his opinion—I wasn’t looking for it—but he’d talked about Layla, about the crushing aftermath of Lina’s death, and about the importance of staying true to yourself.
I owe him.
I can’t ignore his appeal. Still, I make one more attempt, because the idea of working for Xavier sounds like hell. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye.
“You know I’m not cut out to be a manager.” Nolan’s finally emerged from the house, his face somber. “It isn't my thing. The work would drive me nuts.”
“I can’t handle it myself. I’m letting balls drop all over the place.”
Xavier doesn’t just spend his money on a sex club. He’s very private about his charitable foundation, but I know for a fact that they spend hundreds of millions of dollars every year. The LGS Foundation runs shelters, funds medical care for children, and so much more. Xavier keeps his name off it—he is not interested in publicity. But more than any billionaire that I know, and I know a few, Xavier does good things with his money.
I can’t let him fail. Damn it all to hell. I don’t want to do this, but I’m not going to turn him down. Xavier’s not the only one bound by loyalty and friendship.
“How about a compromise?” I suggest. “I get your house in order. I don’t know what kind of mess I’m dealing with, so let’s say it’ll take me anywhere from six months to a year to get things sorted. Meanwhile, you find a permanent replacement for Pierre. Someone who not only has the skill to do the work, but also the inclination.”
“That sounds more than fair.” He sticks out his hand. “I can work with that. Thank you, Eric.”
I shake his hand, wondering what the hell I’ve done. “It’ll take me a couple of weeks to extricate myself from my current clients,” I warn him. “But if you send me a non-disclosure agreement to sign, I’ll look at your portfolio in my spare time.”
“Will do.” He looks like a giant weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “I do have a couple of candidates in mind, people on my leadership team. But…”
He doesn’t trust himself, I realize. Pierre Valade’s failure has shaken his confidence.
“Who’s on your short-list?”
“Dixie Ketcham is my General Counsel,” he replies. “She’s only been on my team since February, but she’s smart, and she’s conscientious. Pierre had the mindset of a day trader—chasing short-term gains at the expense of long-term stability. Dixie is unlikely to do that. Have you met her?”
“Yeah, once.” Xavier doesn’t know about the circumstances of our meeting, and I’m quite happy to leave it that way.
An image of the woman, her hazel eyes sparkling with fury, flashes into my mind. She was a tiny thing—her head barely coming up to my shoulder—and she’d been ready to take us on. I have a black belt in judo, she’d lied. Drop the knife, or you are going to be exceedingly sorry.
At the time, I’d been irritated beyond measure by the interruption and her snap judgment, but a few months after the incident, I can see the humor in the situation. Camila was right; Dixie had been trying to help. It was misguided, and she’d jumped to a lot of conclusions, but I can’t fault her heart.
“I have dinner with Adrian, Brody, and Fiona every month,” I continue. “They’ve mentioned her.”
That’s an understatement. They can’t stop talking about Dixie. So far, I’ve managed to avoid running into her, but it’s only a matter of time before both of us are invited to one of their movie nights, the ones they host at their Georgetown home.
Fiona and Dixie have become good friends, which irritates me no end. I’m self-aware enough to know why. It’s because it doesn’t match my first impression of Dixie Ketcham as an uptight prude. Fiona is in a relationship with two men and frequently plays at Club M. Cici would have judged her for her �
�aberrant’ lifestyle, but Dixie doesn’t seem to.
Xavier’s eyes narrow. “Hmm. That’s interesting. I didn’t realize that the two of you knew each other.”
I’ve known Xavier for fifteen years—that tone is trouble. “We don’t,” I say shortly. “Like I said, we’ve met once. You think a lawyer could do the job?”
“Dixie also has an MBA,” he replies. “She doesn’t have the right experience, but I think she has the ability. She’s extremely bright. Smart. Best of all, she’s very self-aware. She knows her strengths and her weaknesses. If I told her that she wasn't ready, she’d figure out why, and she would make a plan to fill the gap.” His expression turns serious. “It’s not only about who can do the best job. It also needs to be somebody I can trust.”
“And that’s Dixie Ketcham?” I know I sound skeptical, and it’s because I am.
“Dixie came to me very highly recommended,” Xavier says. “Adrian and Brody have nothing but good things to say about her. I can see her in the role.”
I can’t. “If you say so,” I say dubiously. The person managing Leforte needs to be innovative and flexible. The woman I met at Club M was uptight and inclined to rush to judgment. Neither of those qualities will serve her well in the role.
Still, Pierre Valade aside, Xavier is a very good judge of character, and Dixie Ketcham has been working for him since the start of the year. If he thinks she has what it takes, he’s probably not wrong. “Who’s the other candidate?”
“John Stone,” he replies. “John is the VP of Finance. John has the skill set, and he’s ambitious.”
“You don’t sound sold on Stone. Why?”
“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I can’t put my finger on it. Once you start, you can tell me what you think. When do you think that’ll be?”
I pull out my phone and check my calendar. “Three weeks.”
“Okay. I’ll have Elisa set you up with whatever you need.” He gives me a grateful smile. “Thank you, Eric. I really appreciate it.”
Nolan finishes his conversation with Annette Reeves and finally gets into his car. I loosen my tie. “No worries,” I tell Xavier. “You know I have your back.” I give him a sly grin. “I hear you’re making a lot of trips to Bangkok.”
Daring Dixie Page 2