by Jill Blake
Despite everything he’d read in the papers and heard on TV, all the speculation and innuendo by news commentators and pundits, even the knowledge he had of his sister Eva’s problems stemming from the Blackwell financial scandal, nothing could have prepared him for the gut-wrenching reality of what Grace had described.
A jumble of emotions swept through him. Anger. Remorse. And finally, grim determination.
If not for the fact that he’d acted like an idiot eight years ago, none of this would have happened. Bad enough that he had let Grace down by ignoring her struggle with family issues. Just because she hadn’t volunteered the information about her father back then, didn’t mean she would have kept him in the dark if he had paid her just a bit more attention and asked a few pointed questions. But the fact that he’d given up so easily on their relationship because of a perceived slight to his ego—that she’d chosen New York over him—was inexcusable. As a result, she’d gone off unprotected, and fallen prey to a ruthless predator who’d made her life hell.
Logan felt culpable. Sure, he wasn’t the one who’d abused her. But he hadn’t prevented that abuse from happening either. He should have kept her from getting mixed up with Harry Blackwell. Or failing that, should have at least stayed involved in her life, even peripherally. That might have enabled him to intervene when things got bad, and get her out of the situation. As it was, he’d remained completely oblivious. She had been forced to rescue herself.
Grace stirred and mumbled something, then quieted again when he stroked a slow hand down her back.
She might be out of danger physically, but emotionally she was obviously still dealing with the fallout. The least Logan could do was help her pick up the pieces and move on. A friend: that’s what she needed, and that’s what he’d be. Someone she could trust and lean on. Someone who wouldn’t pressure her into a physical intimacy she wasn’t ready for. And when the time was right, when she felt comfortable enough with the idea of sex to actually go through with it, he’d be waiting.
There was no law against two friends enjoying each other both in and out of bed, was there? It happened all the time. If anything, it was safer this way. A stranger might not be gentle or patient enough, might even hurt Grace if he took her to bed without understanding all the emotional nuances involved.
Logan frowned at the idea of some other man sleeping with Grace. Forget that. Logan was the best choice when it came to helping with every aspect of recovery, and that included sex. As for what came after that...
His brain shut down, unable to imagine a future that didn’t have Grace in his life and in his bed.
He turned on his side, edging closer to her sleeping form. Her breath fluttered softly against him. One step at a time, he decided. For now, that was enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Early morning light streamed through the sliding glass balcony doors. Grace blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. Stark white walls. Dark, utilitarian furniture—bureau, nightstand, bookcase stuffed with sci-fi and mystery novels. The pillow beside her still bore Logan’s scent and the faint indentation where his head had rested.
It flooded back—every raw, embarrassing admission that led to her presence here. She stifled the impulse to burrow deeper beneath the duvet. Nothing would be gained from hiding. And besides, she had to face him sometime.
The question was, where was he?
The sound of a toilet flushing, followed by running water, answered that.
A quick glance at her watch had her scrambling out of bed and gathering up her discarded clothing. She had an hour and a half before she was due at the hospital for inpatient rounds. Which left her precious little time to pick up her car from the parking garage on campus, rush home, shower, change, and head in to work.
Not exactly how she’d imagined the morning after.
Then again, last night hadn’t gone according to plan either. Sure, they had ended up in bed. But fully dressed, with Grace wearing Logan’s old Dodgers T-shirt and cut-off sweats, which she’d had to roll twice at the waistline so they wouldn’t fall. Not the most seductive outfit on the planet.
In the end, that was probably a good thing. Especially after she’d derailed what had started out as a perfectly fine date by having a panic attack and then blubbering all over Logan’s shirt. He’d been a good sport about it. But after all the melodrama, she suspected he might be planning to make a strategic retreat. And who could blame him? A woman who sent mixed signals and broke down in tears before even getting to third base wasn’t the best bet for a relationship.
She made quick use of the guest bathroom and was just pulling on last night’s heels when Logan exited the bedroom, a brief towel around his waist and another draped around his neck. Droplets of water glistened on his bare chest. She straightened slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from the display of muscles as he lifted the towel from his neck to vigorously rub his hair.
Wow. She’d said no to this? She really did need her head examined.
He stopped a few feet away. “I was afraid you’d left.”
“I was about to.”
“Give me a minute to get dressed, and I’ll take you home.”
“My car’s still at the hospital.”
His gaze slid down the form-fitting blouse and skirt she’d donned again. “You’re working today?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll drive you to your car. But first...”
She had about two seconds’ notice before his mouth covered hers. Soft lips contrasted with prickly stubble. His tongue licked the seam of her lips, and she opened up, welcoming him inside, heat and joy exploding like kernels of popcorn inside her belly. She could feel the moisture from his skin dampening her blouse. Raw silk and Egyptian cotton proved a poor barrier to the growing pressure of his erection. Heat pooled in her pelvis. Oh, God. She wanted more. Her fingers dug into his deltoids and she moved restlessly against him.
He pulled back, just enough to drag in a breath. “How much time do we have?”
“What?”
His lips traced their way along her jaw toward her ear. “Work. When do you need to be there?”
“Oh.” Reality trickled back, and she sighed. “Nine. I should go.”
“I’ll drive you. Just give me a minute, okay?”
More like five minutes by the time he was dressed, wallet and keys in hand, and ushering her out the door.
She made it back to the hospital just as the on-call resident was starting his sign-out.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. She tried to stay focused, but too often found her thoughts wandering back to Logan, reliving their morning kiss, wondering where they were headed.
Her phone vibrated several times while she was seeing patients. She glanced at the screen, thinking it might be Logan, or perhaps the housekeeper calling to say Grace’s grandmother had fallen again, but she didn’t recognize the number.
It was late afternoon by the time she had the chance to listen to her voicemail. A series of hang-ups, then her ex-husband’s voice: Call me.
Her hand trembled. How had he gotten her new number?
Another hang-up followed, then a second message from Harry: Please.
She vacillated over what to do.
What if he was here, in Los Angeles? She wouldn’t put it past him to violate the restraining order and show up at her grandmother’s. Or maybe he had tracked her down through the residency program, and was lying in wait for her at the office she shared with a handful of other residents. He’d done it in New York, back when she’d first filed for divorce, disrupting her work to such an extent that the residency director pulled her aside and asked if she needed some time to settle her personal life.
She glanced around surreptitiously as she entered the office, but nothing looked out of place. Just the usual faces, bent over computer keyboards and desk phones. She let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding, and made her way to the desk that had been temporarily assigned to her.
Hearing Harry
’s voice again brought back all the feelings of anxiety that had sent her fleeing in the first place. A piece of paper was flimsy protection if he decided to come after her.
Should she call the police? If she did, what could they do? Harry hadn’t actually threatened her. She didn’t even know at this point where he was. But she couldn’t just ignore the calls, either.
In the end, she called Harry’s mother. The home number was disconnected, and the cell went through to voicemail. She hesitated before leaving a message. Even back in the beginning, when things had been good, Grace and her mother-in-law hadn’t gotten along. Barbara Blackwell had been cold, arrogant, and dismissive. It had only gotten worse as Harry’s mental health deteriorated. Now, with William Blackwell in jail, Blackwell Securities undergoing liquidation, and the family’s assets frozen pending investigation, Grace doubted the woman would be any more receptive.
But calling Harry directly was out of the question.
“Barbara, this is Grace. Grace King.” She paused. “Harry called earlier today and left a message. I’m not sure what’s going on, he didn’t leave any details. You may want to call him and make sure he’s all right. And please remind him that he shouldn’t be calling me any more. Thanks.”
She hung up, and stared at the phone for a few minutes. It remained silent.
Would Barbara do as she asked? Or would she simply ignore the message, the same way she’d ignored Grace’s every appeal for help in the past?
Regardless, Grace had done her duty, alerting Harry’s mother to the issue. What Barbara chose to do with that information was no longer Grace’s concern.
But a tiny niggle of worry persisted, even as Grace tried to concentrate on finishing her charts and returning calls from patients. When she finally shut down her computer for the evening and headed home, she couldn’t help but wonder what was so important that Harry felt compelled to violate the court’s no-contact order.
It wasn’t until the following morning that she found out.
CHAPTER NINE
The phone rang just as Grace was pulling on her running shoes.
There was low murmur of voices from the dining room, and then the housekeeper appeared, holding out a cordless handset. “It’s for you. A reporter.”
Grace straightened up, a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. She’d had her fill of reporters back in New York. When the financial scandal first broke, she could hardly move without having a microphone or camera shoved in her face. The fact that she’d gone from a lavish lifestyle in the Blackwell family fold to subletting a studio apartment in the West Village made for a great human interest story—or so she was told by every bottom-feeding journalist who approached her for an interview. She didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, her private business wasn’t for public consumption. In moving to L.A., she thought she would escape not only Harry, but also the harsh scrutiny of the press.
It did not bode well that some reporter had gone to the trouble of tracking her down to Santa Monica and somehow ferreting out her grandmother’s unlisted number.
“Please,” she whispered to the housekeeper. “Tell them I’m not here. Take a message.”
She listened as Maria followed her instructions and hung up.
“Your grandma, she wants to talk to you.”
Before Grace had the chance to respond, the phone in Maria’s hand rang again. “King residence....Sorry, Miss Grace is not here. Who is calling, please?”
Grace took the opportunity to escape into the dining room.
Her grandmother looked up from the paper. “There you are, Grace. Pull up a chair. Maria will bring you some coffee. Where did she go?”
“She’s on the phone. You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down. I hate it when you hover over me.”
Grace sank into a nearby chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Same as yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I broke my hip. Lousy.”
“I’m sorry. Are you taking your pain medication?”
“Yes, but it makes me feel dopey. And the constipation—” She broke off. “Never mind, that’s not what I wanted to discuss. Did you see the news today?”
“No. Why?”
“Here.” She slid a section of the Saturday morning paper toward Grace. “Top of page three.”
Grace sucked in a sharp breath at the headline.
Son of disgraced financier William Blackwell dies in apparent suicide
May 17 | By Claudia Hopper, Los Angeles Times
New York — Harry Blackwell, former chief compliance officer of the now defunct Blackwell Securities LLC, was found dead in his Manhattan apartment on Friday night in an apparent suicide.
Harry Blackwell’s mother, Barbara Blackwell, reportedly found his body around 8 p.m. Friday. According to Deputy Police Commissioner John Brown, Barbara Blackwell went to her son’s apartment after receiving an alarming message from Harry’s ex-wife, Grace King. The couple divorced six months ago, shortly before Harry Blackwell’s father, William Blackwell, was arrested in what has been described as the biggest Ponzi scheme since Bernard Madoff. The senior Blackwell is currently at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, awaiting sentencing.
Last week, Oscar Chaiken, the court-appointed trustee tasked with recovering money for victims of the Ponzi scheme, filed lawsuits against members of the Blackwell family. The suit alleges that Harry Blackwell, 32, used proceeds from the investment scam to fund, among other things, the purchase of luxury real estate, including the upscale SoHo condominium in which he reportedly hanged himself.
Previously, Harry Blackwell had denied any knowledge of the fraud. While no charges have officially been brought against him or other family members, prosecutors continue to investigate.
Grace raised her eyes to her grandmother, to find the old woman watching her. In the background, the phone rang again.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth King finally said.
Grace nodded. She felt numb, disconnected. All she could think was that Harry had called her yesterday, and she hadn’t picked up the phone. Hadn’t returned his messages.
Yes, she’d called his mother. But by then it was probably too late.
If she had done things differently, taken his calls, or phoned him back directly, would that have changed the outcome?
Pointless to think about it now. Stupid to feel guilty. She wasn’t responsible for his actions. She’d tried to get him the help he needed. How many times, over the years, had she scheduled his appointments, accompanied him on visits to the psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, picked up his medications at the pharmacy, sounded the alarm to his parents? Had he not grown violent and unpredictable, she would likely have continued trying. But fear for her own safety and the instinct for self-preservation trumped whatever compassion and goodwill remained.
A tiny part of her felt relieved. She would never have to look over her shoulder again. Never have to worry that he would show up on her doorstep without warning and threaten her.
But no matter what, she would not have wished this fate upon him. How terrible it must have been for him to experience a despair so deep that he could see no other way out. And how awful for his mother, to lose her only child to suicide.
“Miss Grace.” The housekeeper’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
She glanced up to see Maria hovering nearby. “Yes, Maria?”
“The reporters, they are outside, asking for you to make a statement. I told them you are not available, but they won’t take no for an answer. Idiotas. You want I should call the police?”
“They’re here?” Grace rose.
The doorbell sounded. Maria offered her the portable video monitor, showing activity at the front gate. There was a blurry image of the back of someone’s head.
Grace set the monitor down on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
She took the stairs two at a time. Her bedroom was at the front of the house, overlooking La Mesa. A quick peek through the curtains had her duckin
g back out of sight. The street was lined with news vans. A crowd of cameramen and reporters milled just outside the front gates.
Oh God, not again. She could almost hear their intrusive questions. The shouted demands, aimed at provoking her response—the more outrageous, the better. Anything for a sound bite. She couldn’t deal with this, not now, not today.
She returned to the dining room.
“What is it?” her grandmother asked.
“They’re definitely out there.” Grace slumped into a chair. “I guess I’ll skip the run.”
“Good. Then you can finally join me for a normal sit-down breakfast. Maria, some eggs and toast, please.”
Grace shook her head. “I’ll just have coffee.”
Maria frowned. “You are too thin, Miss Grace. I will bring eggs, toast, and bacon.”
“You know I don’t eat meat.”
“It’s not meat,” Maria said, heading for the kitchen. “It’s turkey bacon.”
Grace raised a brow at her grandmother. “Is she for real?”
Ruth half-smiled. “She’s right. You could use a few more pounds.”
Grace sighed and changed the subject. “Did you have anywhere you needed to be today?”
“No.”
“Me neither. What do you say to a Netflix marathon? Something that takes place long ago and far away and has lots of episodes?”
Ruth folded the newspaper and set it aside. “I haven’t seen I, Claudius in quite a while.”
Grace had been thinking more along the lines of Downton Abbey, but her grandmother’s choice would do just as well. Anything to provide distraction from the spectacle outside.
###
Logan’s text came as yet another murder orchestrated by Claudius’ grandmother Livia was about to take place.
Heard about Harry. You OK?
Grace considered ignoring the message, just as she’d ignored the near-continuous ringing of the house phone.
