by Kate Hewitt
Louise put her hands up to her burning cheeks, her mind whirling. She couldn’t care about Jaiven Rodriguez. Couldn’t let herself fall for him, couldn’t open herself up to that kind of pain—
And yet somehow it seemed she already had.
Chapter Seven
THAT NIGHT LOUISE went to have dinner with Chelsea. In the past few months they’d started meeting more regularly, and their conversation had become both easier and more intimate. Louise was incredibly grateful for the restored relationship with her sister, the forgiveness Chelsea had offered her for leaving her after their mother had died.
Louise was just starting to believe she could forgive herself. But that, she knew from experience, was a long process.
“I’m ordering something fattening and delicious,” Chelsea said as they settled into a booth at an upscale bistro on the Upper West Side. “Now that I’m no longer on TV I can afford to gain a few pounds.”
“I could afford to lose a few,” Louise said with a wry grimace. She flicked to the salad page of the menu and grimaced again.
“You don’t need to lose any weight, Lou,” Chelsea protested. “You’re beautiful.”
Louise looked up from the menu. “I know you’re wearing the rose-tinted glasses of new love, Chelsea, but that’s still spreading it pretty thick.”
Chelsea frowned. “Why do you put yourself down?”
Louise frowned back at her sister. Why was she putting herself down so much? She was usually a little wryly self-deprecating, but not quite this negative. This raw.
It was Jaiven, she acknowledged afresh with something that felt like hopelessness. It was what she had going on with Jaiven, but mainly it was really her. Her problem. Her issue. It didn’t matter who the man was, she was still the same, still needy and afraid when it came to a relationship, still unbearably conscious of her own hang-ups and shortcomings.
But you don’t even have a relationship with Jaiven.
And maybe what she did have needed to end. She couldn’t handle even that much.
“You okay, Lou?” Chelsea asked quietly, reaching over to place her hand over Louise’s.
Louise realized she’d been just staring into space for a few minutes. She shook her head, more to bring herself out of her unhappy little trance than as a response to her sister. “I’m okay. Just…” She blew out a breath. “I’ve been sort of…into a guy, and I’m not sure where it’s going.”
“Into a guy?” Chelsea squeezed her hand. “That’s new. The last time we talked you were bemoaning your lack of love life. Who is this guy?”
“No one you know,” Louise said, which wasn’t quite true. Jaiven had introduced himself, after all, as a friend of Alex’s. It stood to reason that Chelsea had met him. Yet Louise didn’t want to admit just who it was she was obsessing over.
“So tell me about him.”
“We’ve been having a fling and I think I’m starting to care too much.” She looked down, horrifyingly near tears, and took a shuddering breath. Somehow she found a smile, a light tone. “I have to say, though, I’ll miss the sex.”
She’d miss the sex, hell, yes, but Louise knew she would miss more than that if she ended it. She’d miss Jaiven, his teasing banter, his wicked smile, the way he actually seemed to know and understand her. She’d miss the fun she’d had with him. She’d enjoyed herself with him, and she missed that as much as the mind-blowing orgasms. Maybe even more.
“So why do you think you’re starting to care too much?” Chelsea asked. “What if he feels the same?”
Louise let out a shuddery laugh. “He doesn’t. Trust me, Chelsea. This guy hasn’t had a relationship that’s lasted more than a week.”
“Maybe he’ll be different with you.”
Louise arched an eyebrow. “I can change him?” she mocked. “So been there. So not doing it again.”
“That was different. You were in an abusive marriage, Louise.” Chelsea drew herself up, her frown fierce. “This guy hasn’t done anything like that, has he?”
“No, of course not.” Louise couldn’t imagine Jaiven treating her as Jack had. He’d always been funny, kind, even gentle. No wonder she was starting to care about him. “It’s not him,” she said wearily. “It’s me. I haven’t changed. Not as much as I thought I had, anyway.”
“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit, Lou. You’ve accomplished so many amazing things—”
“Except,” Louise filled in, “a healthy relationship.”
“It’s been ten years. Maybe it’s time.”
“Not with this guy.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, he’s not into commitment.”
“You also,” Chelsea pointed out, “said it wasn’t about him. It was about you. So which is it?”
Louise traced a coffee ring on the tabletop with one finger, her head bowed. “I still hear his voice in my head,” she said quietly. Chelsea didn’t answer for a moment.
“Whose voice?” she finally asked, and Louise took a deep breath.
“Jack’s. My ex-husband. I banished it for a decade and all of a sudden I can hear the things he used to say to me. Ugly, hateful things.”
“Oh, Louise.” Chelsea reached for her hand again, and Louise blinked back tears, her head still bowed. “That’s bound to come bite you in the butt now,” she said, and Louise let out a hiccupy laugh. “It just shows you really care. Same thing happened with me and Alex. He got closer, and I started feeling the old shame and fear. This man is stripping away your defenses, Louise, and that can be a good thing. It means you guys have something, something you shouldn’t just throw away. Who is this guy, anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Because she didn’t want her defenses stripped away. Wasn’t remotely ready to be close to someone like that. If she couldn’t handle the fantasy sex, then she’d forget the whole thing. She had to, for her own sake. Her own sanity and safety.
“Actually I wanted to talk to you about something else,” she told Chelsea, clearing her throat and trying to restore a sense of normality to their conversation. “It has to do with Jason Treffen.”
“Oh?” Chelsea raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised as well as a little wary. She’d been fired from her position as talk show host at American Media Industries after she’d taken Treffen down on her show; even though he would have been prosecuted, had he lived, her confrontation of him had violated the contract she’d signed.
Louise was pretty sure Chelsea was happier now working for a charity that supported abused children, but the fallout after the show had still been hard for her to endure.
“I have a weird connection with him,” she explained, “or at least his law firm. One of my former students went to London on an internship with his firm and she’s been missing for the last few weeks.”
Chelsea frowned. “Missing? How do you know?”
Louise explained how Nora and Addison had come to visit her, and what they were afraid of. Chelsea listened intently, her frown deepening with every word Louise spoke.
“And so you think Treffen’s prostitution ring might be in London as well as New York?”
“It’s a horrible thought, and really, I have no idea. But he was killed pretty soon after he gave that interview, right? Maybe someone wanted to silence him.”
“This isn’t a mafia movie, Louise—”
“The whole Treffen thing is pretty incredible, though, isn’t it?”
Chelsea nibbled her lip. “Yes, it is. Incredibly horrifying. And I hate the thought that Treffen might have had an even wider reach. But if this student of yours went missing weeks ago, Treffen was already dead. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“But his law firm could have. What if someone out of the London office was acting for Treffen? And who knows, maybe when Treffen died he decided to keep it going.”
“A Treffen in the making,” Chelsea said with a shudder.
“Why not?” Louise returned. “We both know how low men can sink
. What they’re capable of.”
Chelsea sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. “I know. I just hate the thought of it.” She sighed again and dropped her hand. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I thought maybe you could ask Alex to make some inquiries. He’s got connections pretty much everywhere, doesn’t he? We might be blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Harlow might have run off with a guy and just doesn’t want to tell her friends. Or she lost her phone, moved apartments without telling anyone. Who knows?” Louise lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “But Addison and Nora are really worried, and frankly I’m concerned, too. Harlow is bright, but she can also be a little reckless. If she discovered something, she might have gone charging after it.”
Chelsea paled. “I hope, for her sake, that she didn’t.”
“Me, too,” Louise answered somberly. “Me, too.”
After her dinner with Chelsea, Louise got ready to go to a faculty reception for some new star in the history department who’d had a book published. Her own thesis, Sex, Money, and Power: The Politics of Prostitution had been published three years ago to modest acclaim and had helped secure her professorship. Back then she’d been writing with a passion fueled by what she’d seen as her own prostitution: her marriage. Now, with a sinking feeling, she wondered if Harlow could possibly be involved in the real thing.
Or was she being ridiculously paranoid, because of the whole recent debacle with Treffen, not to mention her own sorry history? She’d learned all too well that the worst often happened.
She was still wearing the purple cashmere dress Jaiven had bought her only that morning—it felt like a lifetime ago now—and she added the only pair of heels she had and twisted her hair up into a loose chignon. She never wore more than lipstick and a little mascara, and she wasn’t about to start painting her face now. She wasn’t one of those feminists who didn’t believe in makeup or shaving, but she’d always been sparing with the war paint. She still remembered her mother’s drunken, slurred criticism: Silk purse and sow’s ear, sweetie. Why bother?
She really needed to stop these voices in her head, Louise told herself as she swept on some mascara. She’d banished them for ten years; she could banish them now. Move on, for heaven’s sake. From her childhood, from her marriage.
From Jaiven.
That, she told herself, was the only way to stay safe.
With one last rather defiant glance at her reflection, she headed outside.
The reception was, as she’d known it would be, completely boring—just a lot of smug academics talking about their miniscule specialist fields, as if Louise wanted to hear the latest analysis of fourteenth-century French poetry.
She plucked a glass of lukewarm champagne from the makeshift bar in the corner and inwardly groaned as Tom Fleiss, a boring old fart who could not be stopped once he started talking about the history of political science, made a beeline for her.
“Louise. Always good to see you at these shindigs.” She forced a smile as Tom hemmed her in against the bar. “I think I’ll have one of these myself,” he said as he hefted a glass of champagne from the table, spilling a few drops onto his tie. “Have I told you about the paper I’m presenting at the University of Chicago next month?”
“I think you may have—”
“‘The Influence of John Locke on Third World’—”
“Fascinating, I’m sure.” Louise tried to cut him off, and then sighed inwardly in weary acceptance as Tom steamrolled right over her words, launching into a lengthy description of the paper he was presenting.
Twenty excruciating minutes later, Louise finally managed to slip away. It was only a little bit after eight but she was already tired, weary in both body and soul. And Jaiven was coming over, no doubt for another bout of fantasy sex.
She’d end it tonight, Louise told herself. No matter how charming or funny or flirty Jaiven was. She’d tell him she’d had enough.
Or maybe you could tell him you’ve started to care.
The thought made her stomach curdle, and yet some contrary part of herself insisted on speaking up. Why not, Louise? Why not risk it? You’ve lived safe for ten years and it’s pretty darn boring. Maybe this is what you need to truly get over your past. Maybe you need to take a risk. Open your heart.
Her inner Superwoman was a better voice than her ex-husband’s to have inside her head, Louise decided, but she still wasn’t on board with the message.
She said her goodbyes to a few acquaintances and friends, and then headed out into the balmy spring night.
The air smelled damp and fresh, or at least as damp and fresh as city air could, and Louise decided to walk down Amsterdam Avenue to her apartment on Ninety-Fourth Street instead of cabbing the twenty-something blocks.
With every block she flip-flopped in her resolve. Tell him it’s over. Tell him you want more. Take a risk. Stay safe.
She was getting a headache from the argument playing out inside her skull. Plus her feet were killing her. She was glad to finally turn down her street and see the semidilapidated brownstone she called home.
Her apartment covered the entire top floor, a hodgepodge of narrow rooms, and she’d loved it. She’d wanted something offbeat and welcoming for her home, and with the wide sashed windows and peaked roofs, her “penthouse” certainly fit the bill.
She unlocked the front door of her building and trudged up the six flights to her place—the lack of elevator had allowed her to afford the rent—kicking off her heels by the third floor and carrying them in her hand. When would Jaiven come over, she wondered. She didn’t even have his cell number.
Maybe he wouldn’t come, Louise thought with a mix of relief and disappointment. They’d seen each other that morning, after all. Maybe he’d moved on to someone else. It was bound to happen sometime, right?
Not if you told him you cared.
Although maybe that would have him running away even faster.
She rounded the landing to the top floor, her floor, her mind still churning with indecision.
And then she came to a sudden, terrifying standstill as she glimpsed the hulking shadow on the tiny landing by her front door.
Her heart felt as if it were pounding its way up her throat until the shadow moved forward, into the flickering light of the stairwell.
It was Jaiven.
Chapter Eight
HE’D BEEN WAITING for an hour, every nerve he had twanging tightly with the resolve he’d felt all afternoon to tell Louise the truth.
Not that he was going to be so stupid as to use the dreaded L-word. He wasn’t even there yet. But he was going to be up-front about what he felt. How much he felt.
The thought terrified him, and that made him feel restless. Raw.
“Where have you been?” His voice came out rough, strident, and inwardly Jaiven winced. Great way to start the conversation, Rodriguez. Really smooth.
Louise had gone still, her heels held in one hand. She was wearing the purple cashmere dress, his dress, and she looked amazing. Curvy and sexy and perfect. Jealousy, an emotion he wasn’t all that familiar with, roared inside him.
“I told you, I had an academic function tonight.” Her voice was cool. “I didn’t know you’d be waiting. How did you get into the building?”
“Someone held the door.” He took a step forward, too much emotion churning inside him. It hadn’t been a pleasant hour. He’d had too much time to think, to worry, to remember, to fear.
The guilt he’d grappled with for half of his life felt poised to strangle him; the terror he felt about admitting to any emotion gnawed at his belly. The one time he’d come clean to someone, someone he’d believed he loved, it had all blown up in his face.
And rightly so.
But he wasn’t going to tell Louise any of that. He was just going to start with what he felt for her.
He really cared about this woman.
And right now she wasn’t acting as if she cared all that much about him.
; He stood behind her as she unlocked her door, conscious that already things had changed between them. No more flirty banter. No more charged sexual chemistry. The air between them felt taut with suppressed emotion, dark emotion. It didn’t feel good.
Louise fumbled with her key. Jaiven felt everything inside him coil tighter, emotions and nerves ready to snap. He was going to tell her. Once he told her, things would get better. She’d turn to him and say—
“I wasn’t sure you were coming over tonight.”
Louise glanced back at him, her expression a strange mix of wariness and hope. Kind of how he felt, then.
“I told you I was.”
“I know, but…” She shrugged and turned back to the door. “I thought maybe you’d moved on.”
“Moved on? Why would you think that?”
Another shrug, so dismissive. “Come on, Jaiven. What’s the longest you’ve been with a woman? A week?”
“It hasn’t been a week yet,” he bit out, although that hadn’t been what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her she was different than all the other women he’d been with, that he was different with her. Somehow, though, the words didn’t come.
“So, what? We have a few more days?” She sighed wearily and opened her door. “I’m not sure I’m into that.”
“I’m not sure I am, either,” Jaiven said, and then taking a breath, forced himself to continue even though it felt all wrong. Tense and grim and even angry. “Louise, I wanted to tell you—”
“I just don’t think this—this thing between us is going to work,” Louise cut across him, her voice flat and resolute. “I think we should both get out while we can still say we had fun.”
Jaiven stared at her, his mouth still open, his heart thumping hard from what he’d been going to say—and hadn’t.
Because Louise had given him his walking papers first.
“Louise,” he managed, and hated how he sounded, almost as if he were begging.
“Don’t, Jaiven,” she said, and folded her arms, looking at him as if he were something unpleasant. Unwanted.
And wasn’t he? How the hell had Louise figured out the truth of him, when he’d been so careful to hide it? To show her he was a fun, flirty, good-time guy, not someone hiding secrets and darkness and pain?
