Being a writer was doing what she loved—and being able to escape reality for a while.
“Margot!” Bentley called from downstairs. “Ten minutes!”
“Crap!” She ran around her desk and into the bathroom to put on a bit of mascara.
* * *
Bentley stared up the stairway, waiting for an answer. “Margot?”
Nothing.
“Women.” Scar whined as if voicing his agreement. The doorbell rang. Shit, he was early.
“Dr. Jones!” Bentley held open the door and ushered the aging man in. The doctor had silver-speckled hair and fashionable black glasses, and though he was a bit on the short side he made up for it with his firm handshake. “Welcome!”
“Happy to be here.” Dr. Jones grinned. “This is a beautiful house you have.” His gaze lowered to a whining Scar, who was still sitting in the middle of the floor, his amputated leg bandaged up. “And who’s this little fellow?”
“Scar.” Bentley grinned with pride, though he had no freaking idea why. It wasn’t his house.
But it could be, a voice inside him whispered.
“I’ll just go get Margot.” He quickly dismissed the thought and took the stairs two at a time. “Make yourself comfortable!” he called behind him, sweeping into Margot’s room.
“Hmm.” It was empty.
“Margot?” he called again.
“Just a minute!” Her muffled voice came from the bathroom. “My hair was a wreck, you didn’t even tell me! And I looked homeless!”
Bentley stifled a laugh. “You looked beautiful.”
“You just want to get laid!”
“True!” He laughed.
“Ahh!”
“Everything okay in there?” He approached slowly, waiting for the door to open, but it stayed closed. “Margot?”
“Yup! Give me two minutes!”
“Great.” Why was it that every time he was near her he wanted—needed—to touch her? Kiss her? His body felt the wrongness of not following through with what it wanted as he turned on his heel and walked back toward the door, only to knock over a stack of papers on her desk. “Shit.”
“You okay?” she called.
“Yup.” He put the papers back in order best he could and placed them neatly by the computer.
A grin tugged the corner of his lips. Had Margot been writing dirty scenes again?
The computer wasn’t in lock mode yet. But there wasn’t a document open, just an e-mail and…
He froze.
Disbelief washed over him as he read the e-mail over again.
No. She wouldn’t.
Margot wouldn’t use him that way.
Wouldn’t she? Doubt whispered.
Because hadn’t every woman in his life wanted a piece of something? Fame? Fortune? Status?
Rejection settled like a rock in his stomach right along with anxiety and a heavy dose of anger.
“Bentley?” The door to the bathroom swung open, and he jerked back and faced her. It hurt like hell to keep the smile on his face when all he wanted to do was run over to her, shake her, and ask if it was true.
And pray she’d roll her eyes and tell him to stop being so dramatic.
“Yeah?” His voice didn’t sound right, he knew that, and so did she. Her eyes went from him to the computer then back to him.
“Were you…snooping?”
“No,” he lied. “I just knocked over this stack of papers.” He tapped the stack in question. “You ready?”
“Sure.” Her eyes narrowed once again. He held out his hand, even though he was dying to say something.
Dr. Jones was waiting in the hall, rubbing Scar’s fat belly while the dog grunted with appreciation.
“Well, he’s not going to be a very good guard dog, is he?” Margot laughed.
Dr. Jones looked up. “That’s what you have this young man for.”
Bentley almost groaned out loud when Margot said, “You’re absolutely right.” She stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Margot, and you are?”
“Dr. Steven Jones.” He pumped her hand. “I’m—”
“I know who you are.” Margot stumbled back, her face going pale. “I, uh, I think that—”
“Margot.” Bentley caught her before she tripped backward on the stairs. “He’s here to fit you for a new prosthetic, a more athletic one that moves with your body.” He cringed at the horrified look on her face. “Surprise?”
“Y-you.” Margot shook her head. “You went behind my back?”
“What?” Bentley released her like he’d been burned. “Are you serious right now? I thought it would be nice!”
“No!” She jutted a finger at his chest. “You thought it would make me look more normal by your side, admit it!”
“What are you talking about?” Bentley ran his fingers through his hair. “You said your old prosthetic made your leg sore. Fuck what people think. It’s about how you feel.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” She rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Look at yourself! Your entire life is about your image! You just want me to fit the part!” She gasped and put a hand over her mouth and mumbled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
“Yeah, you did,” Bentley croaked out. “By the way, how are book sales, Margot? Soaring?”
She paled.
“Should I come back?” Dr. Jones was already moving toward the door.
“No,” Bentley said at the same time Margot said, “Yes.”
“Maybe there’s a better time.” Dr. Jones’s hand was already on the door when Bentley pressed his hand against the wood frame to keep it from opening.
“You read my e-mail.” Margot lifted her chin. “My private e-mail.”
“I read your texts, too, and watch you sleep like a real stalker.” Bentley rolled his eyes. “I glanced at your computer. It was on.”
She gulped, not meeting his eyes. What the hell? She wasn’t even denying it? Insecurity came over him—was she really just like everyone else? Using him? And why the hell did he suddenly care? He waited. Waited for her denial. Instead she kept her eyes downcast.
“Is it true?” Anger surged inside him. “Are you fucking me for sales?”
Dr. Jones gasped. “This really doesn’t seem like something I should be—”
“Stay!” Bentley demanded in a booming voice. “And you”—he turned to Margot—“is it true? Is that what this is? You like me? You care? Or is this all some twisted game? Get the playboy to fall for you and suddenly you get your own theme park named after you?”
Margot flinched. “If you truly think that low of me—you don’t know me at all.”
Bentley swore.
Dr. Jones cleared his throat.
“Fit her leg.” Bentley clenched his teeth together. “I’m leaving.”
He heard Margot’s protests and slammed the door behind him as he stomped down the dirt road and then took a right toward one of the old trails. Anger made him hot inside, like he was ready to explode.
She didn’t deny it.
He was willing to do anything for her.
And she didn’t deny it.
God, it hurt.
Worse than his grandfather’s rejection. Worse than his parents’ death—damn it—her words hurt.
But what did he expect?
That she’d fall in love with him? Because he had a change of heart? Because he had a nice face and money?
He was being unfair, he was jumping to conclusions, but the fact that she was acting like every other woman in his life when everything he’d shared with her had been so different—burned.
What the hell was he doing?
He was willing to stay—willing to turn down the VP position—willing to fight for her even though every time he thought about losing her he got physically sick.
For once he wasn’t walking away.
So why did it feel like he already had?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Margot felt like she was going to throw up during mos
t of the fitting, but Dr. Jones was so kind, so gentle.
Eventually, Scar hobbled over to her side and licked her hand.
Fear.
Fear made people do stupid things.
Fear made people push others away.
She clenched her eyes shut to keep the tears from falling onto her cheeks. She’d purposely hurt Bentley out of fear and anger. And he was perfect, like, literally, the most perfect guy on the planet.
Who arranged something like this for someone else as a surprise?
A surprise was flowers.
A surprise for Bentley would be taking her someplace fancy and giving her expensive jewelry.
But no, he’d given her a leg that fit.
Tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“Did I hurt you?” Dr. Jones’s concerned look only made her feel like more of a bitch.
“No.” She sniffled. “I just, I was mean to him. That’s all.”
He quickly wrote down some numbers on his notepad. “In my experience, we tend to push away those we love the most for fear that the other shoe is going to one day drop, and they’ll see us for what we really are. Weak. Scared. Insecure.”
“Sure you aren’t a shrink?” she joked through her tears.
“No.” He stood. “Thank God.”
He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “He was right, you know. Your current prosthetic was fitted a long time ago. Your body’s changed since then, causing you to put pressure on bone instead of what’s left of your muscles. I imagine once you have your new prosthetic, you’ll be able to run a marathon, if that’s your wish.”
“A marathon?” she repeated, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“If that’s what you want.” His smile was so kind she wanted to keep crying. He had a presence about him. Well, he was world renowned. Bentley didn’t do things in half measures. He’d literally gotten one of the best doctors in the world to make a freaking house call.
She groaned into her hands. She didn’t deserve him.
“It will get better. New love is always…rocky.” The doctor patted her shoulder.
“Oh no, we aren’t…I mean…” Her throat clogged. She loved him. Loved him so much it hurt.
“If you say so.” He winked. “I’ll be in touch.”
He left.
She stood in the silence of her dark house hating herself, hating the walls that had been her prison, the blinds that had made it easy for her to hide.
Hating herself for allowing it to happen.
She took a deep breath and faced the door. “Well, Scar, if I don’t come back, send out a search party.” She needed to apologize.
The door suddenly swung open. Bentley sauntered in, a look of indifference crossing his features. She backed up against the banister. “Bentley, I’m sorry.”
“Me too. No more secrets, Margot. No more games. Which means…” He dug his hand into his pocket only to come up with a folded piece of paper.
With shaking hands, she took the paper and unfolded it.
“One compliment a day? A picnic? What the hell is this?” Horror washed over her as she read through the list of assignments he’d been given. “Bentley!”
“I love you now. I do. But yes, I was pressured into making nice with you, all right? I was given suggestions on how to get through to you. Maybe this makes us even. You were using me to get ahead in business—and I wasn’t completely honest about my intentions in the beginning. But here I am.” He shrugged. “I’m being honest now. I’m standing here now. Yes, I had to stay thirty days, but do you really think I would have stayed if a part of me didn’t want to?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just know that this…this changes things.”
“How?” He reached for her. “How the hell does this change that I love you?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You were doing a job.”
“It wasn’t a job.”
“I can’t trust you,” she continued. “What else are you hiding?”
“Wow.” He shook his head. “Really? Are you really doing this right now? Making excuses, pushing me away?”
“I just think—” She licked her lips and held out her hand to keep him from touching her—hugging her. “You’re going to return to the real world and forget about me. It’s not even like any of these things were your ideas, you did it”—she sucked in a breath—“you did it because you had no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” He breezed past her toward his room. “Unbelievable.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m doing what you expect me to do, Margot. What you want me to do. What you won’t even admit out loud. I’m leaving.”
“But—”
The door slammed.
With tear-filled eyes she read through the list, her stomach dropping more and more as realization dawned.
So that was why.
None of it had been real.
The compliments. The flowers. The outings.
He’d done it for himself.
Not her.
Oh God! She covered her mouth as a sob escaped between her lips. She’d slept with him! Hot tears ran down her cheeks. He’d seen her scars! He’d called her beautiful.
Memories assaulted her over and over again until she had to lean against the wall. She was going to puke.
Just when she thought she was going to pass out, Bentley returned with his suitcase, stomping by her.
“You sick bastard!” Margot balled up the paper and threw it at him. “How dare you take advantage of me like that? You used me!”
Bentley froze and turned, his eyes flashing. “I used you?” Nostrils flared. “I used you? That’s rich, you know that, right?”
“I would never—”
“Yeah, but you did, Margot, you did.” He sneered. “Not only did you use me to sell your little romance books—but you used my body for sex…isn’t that what you said? ‘It’s just sex.’ So basically, I was like a paid whore, isn’t that right?”
“You have no right to be upset!” she yelled. “You had a fucking list! Pay me compliments? Get me to go outside? What was the plan? Get me so deliriously happy”—her voice cracked as more tears escaped—“then sleep with me and leave? It’s like I was the test job before you got the real thing!” Throat clogged, she looked down at the piece of paper. And shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Bentley said in a hoarse voice. “I tried. It doesn’t matter if it was real or not, because you never had any intentions of leaving with me, did you? Of moving to the city? On making this more than it was? I tell you I love you and you’re still pushing me away, still making excuses.”
Margot refused to give him the words that would mend what had been broken. She didn’t trust him. And he didn’t trust her.
“And that right there.” Bentley shook his head. “The silence, the stubbornness. You can blame me all you want. Blame the list. Blame our grandparents. But all you have to blame is yourself. You know, I always thought I’d be the one that was afraid of commitment. But I guess the joke’s on me. You’ll never trust me enough to be what you need—I’ll always be the guy you fucked in order to stop being sad. And you’ll always be the girl I wanted too much to have.”
The door slammed behind him.
Margot slid to the floor and sobbed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was the right thing to do.
The right thing to do.
Bentley tipped back the expensive Black Label whiskey and winced as it burned down his throat.
He was well on his way to being drunk.
And it wasn’t doing anything except giving him heartburn.
“Damn it!” He slammed his fist against the table and groaned as he hung his head in his hands, his throat clogged. He refused to acknowledge the sadness, the utter despair.
He’d done the right thing.
He’d left her.
And shown her the stupid list. Because it was the only
way to push her away. She was angry—good, she’d get over it.
But he was heartbroken.
Because every single time he tried to do something that showed her how he felt—she reacted.
Out of fear.
Mistrust.
And he couldn’t fight it—wasn’t sure he knew how—so he released her. Wasn’t that what you did when you loved someone? You let them go?
He did the right thing.
The door opened and closed, footsteps sounded, keys slid across the counter by Bentley’s hand, and then a chair pulled out. “You look like hell.”
“What are you doing here?” Bentley reached for the bottle again, but it was pulled away from him and lifted to his brother’s mouth. “And since when do you ever drink whiskey straight?”
“Plan a wedding with our grandfather involved, and you’ll understand. Hell, if I could be perpetually drunk and still function as a human being, I’d be absolutely thrilled.”
Bentley turned his head toward his eldest brother. The mature one. The sober and serious one.
Brock always wore a scowl. He barked. He yelled.
But Brock ever since being engaged to Jane?
He was an entirely different man, always smiling, laughing. Bentley’s chest tightened. Brock was like their father.
With a curse, Bentley jerked the bottle away from Brock and took another long swallow.
“It won’t help, you know,” Brock added in his deep voice.
“Shut the hell up,” Bentley muttered.
“It’s okay to feel sad.” Brock just had to keep talking, didn’t he? “Sadness helps you deal. And that’s something you suck at…dealing with feelings. You’d rather just grin and bear it—and then when you can’t take it anymore, you break down.”
“Go. Away,” Bentley said through clenched teeth.
“It’s why you ended up in the hospital,” Brock continued. “It’s why you stay up all night partying with Brant—not only to watch over him but to drink away all of the feelings until you’re numb.”
Bentley was quiet, mainly because Brock was right and arguing would only get him in a shouting match.
“All I’m saying is, it’s okay.”
“It won’t ever be okay. Trust me.” Bentley gripped the bottle with his right hand as visions of Margot’s smile haunted him. She would never trust him—not completely. First she needed to be brave enough to trust herself, to love herself.
The Playboy Bachelor Page 22
