Oh no.
Pouring every ounce of indifference she could into her face, she took the magazine and cast the page it was folded open to a quick glance.
Yep. There she was, sitting beside Thomas on the grass, his hands holding one of hers, Reaper stretched out on his back beside her. She and Thomas were looking at each other, and even with the sunglasses hiding their eyes and the baseball cap pulled low over Thomas’s face, it was impossible to deny what they felt for each other.
Now it’s different. Now…
Her stomach clenched. Shaking her head, she handed the magazine back to Abernathy. “No. That’s not me.”
His frown deepened, and he held the page up beside her face. “Are you sure? I’m ninety-nine point nine percent convinced I’ve seen you wearing that same dress.”
“Graeme”—she arched an eyebrow and swiped the magazine away—“I’m an inner-city grade school teacher. Why would I be in a magazine with… who is that? Is he an actor?”
Abernathy burst out laughing. “It’s Thomas St. Clair. The horror writer. Clearly, you’re not a fan.”
She snorted. Twisted knots replaced the churning mess of her stomach. “Not a fan.” Liar. “Also not me. But thank you, I think. Whoever she is, she looks pretty.”
“Did you just give yourself a compliment, Elderkin?”
“Go collect your ten bucks, Graeme.”
He sighed, tossing the magazine on her desk. “No, I lost the bet. I said it was you.”
She flashed him a smile. “A fool and his money, eh?”
Abernathy scowled. “Ever wondered why no one comes and sits with you in the staff room, Elderkin?”
“Never.”
He stomped from the room. Because she’d insulted him or because he’d lost money because of her?
The magazine sat on her desk, mocking her. It was a celebrity gossip magazine, the kind Josie bought occasionally. Josie had told her she and Thomas had appeared together in the back pages of a few more than once, the pages dedicated to blurry paparazzi shots. She’d never looked. Never gone out and bought the ones Josie listed.
She had no desire to see her and Thomas’s interactions printed on paper. It was enough to see the links Josie sent her to tweets and Instagram posts. Links she never clicked on.
And yet…
The magazine taunted her. Called her.
“God help me.” She slid the magazine closer to her.
Damn, he looked so good. She looked good. A smile played with her lips in the image, relaxed and unforced. No frown on her face. No tension in her shoulders. So unlike any photo she’d ever seen of herself.
Did she look like this in all of them? No wonder Josie kept insisting she check them out.
Was it Thomas’s doing? Did she only look like that when she was with him? If someone took a photo of her with Josie or with a group of her fellow teachers, would she appear as relaxed? As happy?
A hot, prickling sensation crawled up the back of her neck and over her scalp.
“Shit.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Shit.”
She was in love with Thomas St. Clair.
Goddamn it, she was in love with the annoying, flippant bastard.
Except he’s not a bastard. And he’s only flippant to hide who he really is. And he hasn’t been annoying since the night you brought Reaper home to him. Not once.
“Shit.”
Great, the first time she’d ever been in love and the object of her affection most likely hated—
Her phone rang, Josie’s face appearing on its screen.
Mila connected the call. “Hi, sis. Your timing is impeccable. I’ve just realized I am in love with St. Clair, and I need you to help—”
“Mila.”
Why did Josie sound so serious? The prickling sensation turned to a thousand fire ants creeping over her scalp. “What?”
“Mila, school is over, right?”
“It is.”
“Are you at home?”
“Josie, just tell me whatever it is you called to tell me.”
Silence. Deafening silence. For a beat. “I need you to click on the link I’m about to send you.”
“Okay.”
Josie sighed. “God, I hope your…” She trailed off. A second later, Mila’s phone chirped with an incoming message.
More ants scurried over her scalp. She clicked on the link.
A website came up, an entertainment news site. On its homepage, damn near filling the whole screen of her phone was a photo of Thomas and a stunning, tall blonde wearing what was clearly meant to be a dress, but looked to Mila like a narrow strip of black material wrapped around her a couple of times.
Thomas and the blonde stood together. Close together. Like they were joined at the hip. His arm circled her waist—her freaking almost non-existent waist. The blonde’s full, pouty, ridiculously glossy lips were pressed to Thomas’s cheek. Her immaculately manicured fingers were slipped beneath his open-collared black shirt.
New Muse? the title read under the photo.
Something cold and hard punched her in the chest.
“Mila?”
Someone was calling her. Someone a long way away. She swallowed. Thomas was smiling in the photo.
“Mila?” That distant voice again. “Honey?”
Eyes burning, Mila read the lines under the photo.
International bestselling horror author and renown player, Thomas St. Clair attends a gallery opening in So-Ho with British model Toni P. When asked about the mysterious woman known only as Mila he’d been spotted with recently, he responded with ‘A muse is a muse.’”
“Mila?”
A muse is a muse.
“Mila? Please talk to me, honey.”
Closing her eyes, she closed the page.
“I’m here, Josie.” Wow, was that calm, steady voice hers? “Want to go get drunk with me tonight?”
Chapter Twenty
What was that famous quote about deadlines? About loving the sound of them whooshing by. Who said that?
Thomas picked up his phone, opened Google, and typed in quote about deadlines.
And then shut it off, put it aside, and turned back to his computer.
The cursor flashed repeatedly at him.
Flashing. Over and over.
He hated that cursor.
Were there any famous quotes about cursors?
He reached for his phone.
“Fuck.” Shoving himself to his feet, he dragged his hands through his hair and glared out the window at the pitch-black night beyond. “Fuck.”
Not a word written in five days.
No, that wasn’t true. He’d typed a text message to Mila twice. One that said he wanted to talk to her about what had happened. Deleted it each time. No matter how much he ached for her, longed to see her again—and oh boy, did he fucking long to see her—she’d betrayed his trust. All their conversations, all the times he opened up about not letting people get to see the real him because of that damn Times article, and she’d been the author of it. That in itself was bad enough, but to never tell him? To never come clean?
And yet he ached like a part of him, a vital part, had been gouged out.
He wanted to talk to her about it all, but he couldn’t. Anger? Pride? Trust? Who the hell knew why he couldn’t, but he couldn’t.
Which pissed him off and crippled his creativity.
So when Toni Peak sent him a text letting him know she was in New York and wondering if he wanted to catch up, he replied immediately. At least it was some words written. Better than none at all.
He wished to fuck he could delete those words the second he hit send.
He and Toni had been circling each other for months, flirting whenever they were at the same parties or events. He’d known the invitation to the gallery opening hadn’t really been an invitation to a gallery opening, but he’d said yes anyway. He’d deluded himself that maybe he could booty-call Mila out of his system.
Deluded was the correct w
ord. The second Toni’s lips touched his face, he’d known meeting with her was a mistake.
The second her fingers slid over his chest… He’d had a hard time not shuddering.
And swearing.
It seemed Mila Elderkin had fucked him over a second time in his life. This time by making him want her so much, love her so fucking much, the mere touch of another woman’s fingers on his skin made him recoil.
He and Toni parted ways a few minutes after being accosted by a paparazzo on the street outside the gallery. Toni caught a taxi to a party at some singer’s house, and he’d caught one home, guilt and regret and confusion his silent traveling companions.
Home. A place that felt empty without Mila in it.
Fuck. Again.
So the life of a monk lay ahead of him.
A monk incapable of writing.
Oh joy.
“I wonder how many famous monks there are?” he muttered, turning back to his desk. Google was fast becoming his best friend. Four days without being able to write, and he’d discovered all sorts of things.
He picked up his phone.
And for some stupid reason he opened his messaging app instead of Google. For some stupid reason, he opened his conversation with Mila instead of typing famous monks in the search engine.
For some stupid reason, he read her last text message to him, sent over five days ago, instead of discovering all he could about famous clergy.
I’m sorry, St. Clair. I wanted to tell you. From the very first night. I tried. More than once. I just got caught up in everything and it robbed the words from me. Please forgive me. I hope you are writing. I hope you will one day forgive me. M.
How many times had he read it? How many times had his gut clenched at the words? How many times had he wanted to throw his phone across the room? How many times had he wanted to call her?
Call her, hear her voice, see her…
Too many times.
I just got caught up in everything.
He swallowed. Was that Mila’s way of saying she’d fallen in love with him, too? Or was he deluding himself again? Or was he a moron for even hoping she had? She’d lied to him, after all. Destroyed him the first time they’d had any interaction, and then betrayed him this time.
I hope you are writing.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t. Not without her. How goddamn irritating was that little fact? He missed her, ached for her, was angry with her, and questioned whether he could trust her. And yet…
“I still love her.” How pathetic and woeful was that?
“So what now?” He pressed his phone to his forehead, eyes scrunched tight. “The life of a monk who can’t write and doesn’t want to have sex?”
You’re being ridiculous.
It was her voice, her no-nonsense, are-you-serious voice in his head, chastising him as only Mila could.
Sit down and write. No excuses. Write.
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled at her. “You’re not here.”
Where was she? At her house? Shelby had sent him a file with every piece of discoverable information about her, including where she lived, her results at university, and for some reason, the name of her pet rabbit she had when she was eight.
Jonsey.
Was she a fan of the movie Alien? Had she named her rabbit after the cat in that?
Of course not, you idiot. She was eight. What kind of parents let their eight-year-old kid watch Alien?
“I’d watched Jaws by the time I was seven,” he muttered. “And Silence of the Lambs by the time I was nine.”
Might explain a lot, actually. That and the fact his parents were probably already unravelling their marriage and any future happiness as a family unit. Hell, had they even known what he was watching and reading half the time?
Jesus, it was no wonder he was a screwed-up mess.
A screwed-up mess with a long overdue deadline.
He had a fallen angel and a mysterious child to write about.
“So do it.”
He retrieved his desk chair from where it had slid across his office, returned it to his desk, and sat and stared at his computer and the flashing cursor.
What would happen if he sent Mila a text? Now? At two thirty-seven a.m.?
A dry snort scratched at the back of his throat. “The Mila I first met would tell me to go away.”
His thumb hovered over the message app.
He sighed. “Write. Write. Write.”
He put his phone aside, placed his fingers on the keyboard and waited.
Waited.
Twenty-thousand words, St. Clair. Then you can text me.
Mila’s stern voice played with his sanity. He saw her leaning against the doorframe of his office, arms folded, her grey eyes serious and yet dancing with a deep wit he admired so much, that eyebrow of hers arched…
A smile curled at his lips and he began to write.
And didn’t stop.
Not to eat. Not to sleep. He emptied every water bottle in the bar fridge in his office. Once, possibly, he dozed on the sofa with Reaper on his chest. Maybe? It was a foggy blur of words and feverish intensity.
And then—an unknown number of days later—he typed the last two words.
“The end.”
He cracked his back, grinning.
The end.
Turning to Reaper—fast asleep in his normal spot on the sofa—he grinned wider. “The end, Reap.”
Reaper cocked his ears and thumped his tail once, but otherwise stayed the same.
Heart beating fast, Thomas saved the file, initiated a backup, emailed the file to himself, and cc’d Sebastian Hart, adding a short message. It’s done. Unedited. Haven’t read it myself, but done. Tell me what you think.
Digging his knuckles into his lower back, he straightened from his chair. His knees protested. Hell, how long had he been writing for?
By the stubble on his jaw, at least two days. Two days without real sleep, food… He lifted his right arm and sniffed. Goddamn, he needed a shower.
“But first…” He picked up his phone.
Fuck, the battery was dead.
Damn it. Way to go, idiot. Putting it on charge might have been a smart move. How are you going to text her now?
Grinding his teeth, he plugged in the power cord and then strode from the room.
Shower first, then.
Bright sunlight streamed through the window as he entered his bedroom. He frowned. What time was it? What day? Morning by the stretching shadows thrown across the floor. Was it Monday? Friday?
Shower first, a thorough cleaning of the teeth, then he’d ascertain the time and date situation, and send Mila a text.
A cold shower later, teeth and mouth minty fresh, and a finger-comb through his wet hair, he checked the time and date on his watch.
“Damn.” Three solid days and nights of writing, four days if he counted today, given it was almost noon. It had been a while since he pulled a session like that.
Almost noon. Mila would be awake.
Heart beating fast, throat tight, he yanked on a pair of jeans and hurried back to his office. He picked up his phone, grinning at the eight-percent battery charge.
“Okay.” He swiped a shaky hand over his mouth. “Okay.”
Mila. I’ve just finished. Please call me. I need to celebrate, and there’s no one else I want to do it with but you.
He hit send.
True, he probably should have put something in there about talking over what had occurred between them, but at the moment, the only thing he wanted was to see her. They’d figure out what happened next after that.
Five hours later, after taking Reaper for a walk, getting himself some lunch, and checking his phone every few minutes for a reply, he called Shelby.
“Have you finished?”
For some reason, the excitement in her voice put him on edge. “I want you to get me Josie Elderkin’s phone number.”
“I’m sorry, you what?”
He raked h
is hand through his hair. “Josie Elderkin’s phone number. I need it.”
“Who the hell is Josie Elderkin? Have you finished Blood Angel?”
“Josie is Mila’s sister. She’s an actress. Stage. Off Broadway plays. I want her number.”
“What? You’ve moved on to her sister now?” Shock cut Shelby’s voice. “Tommy, I’m beginning to get—”
He ended the call.
Five hours and Mila hadn’t replied. Was she okay? Had something happened?
Worry ate at him. And agitation.
He wanted to celebrate. How could he celebrate without her?
His phone vibrated in his hand with an incoming message. His heart smashed hard in his chest.
Just finished reading Blood Angel. It’s good, you talented bastard. One of your best. Haunting, terrifying, poignant and stirring. I’m turning it into a film and won’t take no for an answer. Hart.
“Fuck.” Not the message he wanted.
Sure. The film rights are yours for a buck, he texted back.
Another message popped up, this one from Shelby with a phone number and a request for an explanation.
Ignoring Sebastian’s reply and Shelby’s insistence, he called Josie.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Josie?” Goddamn it, his voice was a scratchy croak. “This is Thomas St. Clair. I’ve been trying to get in contact with your sister and she hasn’t answered. I’m worried. Is everything okay?”
“You’re worried?”
He blinked at the scorn in Josie’s voice, even as his gut clenched at how much she sounded like Mila. “Yes. I’m worried. Is there a problem with that?”
A dry, sarcastic laugh came through the connection. “I tell you what, I’m going to send you the link I sent Mila a few days ago. You have a look at the site it takes you to and then call me back, okay?”
She disconnected the call before he could answer. A second later, he received a message from her containing only a web address link.
Mouth dry, he clicked on it.
“Fuck.”
A paparazzi image with Toni. Taken when he was furious with himself for being there, furious with the paparazzi, furious with Shelby for messing everything up, and furious with Mila for ripping out his heart.
The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series) Page 19
