by Alexis James
Copyright ©2016 by Alexis James. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Edition First Printing
Cover: Cover To Cover Designs
Editor: Maxann Dobson, Polished Pen
Formatter: Champagne Formats
ISBN: 978-0-9980618-1-8
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books
For my parents. Thank you for your love, support, and encouragement. I love you!
The acrid smell of burning rubber wakes me. Pain hits hard and fast when I force my eyes open, and even though I’m completely disoriented and have no idea where I am or what has happened, a sick feeling of dread centers directly in my gut. Something wet drips down my face and my left leg throbs painfully, immovable. This is not good. Not good at all.
A soft moan sounds next to me. As I slowly turn my head toward the sound, reality starts to set in and the fog in my head begins to dissipate. Dark hair is matted with blood. Her face is almost unrecognizable. There’s not a spot on her untouched by either glass or metal. Slowly comprehending the magnitude of what has happened to us, I see the tree limb piercing her abdomen, holding her captive in her car seat. It’s like one of those horror movies we like to watch together late at night, huddling under a blanket in the dark. Only this horror is a living, breathing monster—all too real, too terrifying, too unfathomable to even comprehend.
Her eyes drift open and dart wildly around the car and the soft moan suddenly turns into a blood-curdling scream. I try to speak but the piercing pain in my chest makes anything other than slow, shallow breaths impossible. My hands, broken and battered, reach for the seat belt to try and disengage it and get to her. Freeing us from the wreckage has to be the priority. I’ll deal with the pain later.
The sounds of sirens permeate the cold March evening as I wrestle with the belt and try not to panic. Her screaming has intensified, a mixture of terror filled cries for help and my name over and over again. She’s wide eyed and panicking. I can tell she can’t really see me. If her blood-soaked and matted hair is any indication, the vast injuries she sustained may have impaired her eyesight completely. Be it pain or fear, her wailing increases with each small breath she takes. She screams louder and louder now. Then she begins to thrash about, which causes blood to start streaming profusely from her stomach and from the large gash on her head.
“Stop screaming,” I whisper. I don’t know why I bother. My voice is barely audible due to whatever is going on in my chest. Since the damn seat belt isn’t budging, I give up on it and reach toward her, patting her arm in what I hope is a reassuring gesture. Her shriek of pain tells me it’s not.
I hear voices, more sirens, and what I think is the sound of feet running toward us. The unpleasant smell intensifies, making my stomach roll and surge into my throat. I swallow it down because even though I have no clue how badly I am injured, I’m certain if I puke it might end up in my lungs. Staying coherent is a chore at this point, and if she wasn’t screaming her foolish head off, I might close my eyes and let the pain unfold. But I can’t do that. I sure as hell can’t do that to her. She’s my life, my reason for smiling, for breathing. She’s my entire world.
A face surrounded by a yellow helmet pops up next to me, quickly assessing the situation with one sweep of his eyes. Speaking loudly and directly to me, though his eyes remain on her, he says, “Son, hang in there. We’re going to get you out.”
“Get her. Take … take … care of her.” I have no idea if he hears me, since I’m not even sure I’m doing anything other than moving my lips. He does offer me a nod and a sympathetic look before disappearing from sight once again.
The loud howling next to me starts to wane, and when I glance sideways at her again, I can see her eyelids fluttering and the flow of blood starting to lessen. I guess that’s a good thing, right? I reach out again, this time with more caution and as light of a touch I can muster. Forcing the pain aside, I gasp. “I’m right here.”
She starts to whimper and sob, her voice as shredded as mine. “Please … help me … please … please … don’t let me die.”
My stomach rolls violently again and when the firefighter pokes his head into her window, this time I growl. “Hurry!”
“We’re just making sure the car is stabilized, and then we’ll start cutting you two out. Just hang in there son.”
She whimpers again and this time it sounds garbled, like there’s water in her throat. “Don’t leave me.”
Forcing my head to the side so I can get a better look, I whisper, “Look at me.” It takes a moment or two, but she finally lifts her eyelids just enough to glance my way. This time I’m certain she can’t see. Her eyes drift around wildly then settle in what she assumes is my direction. “I’m right here.” Reaching out, I grasp what I hope are her fingers. “I love you.”
A half-sob surges from her blood-tinged lips. “Don’t let me die.”
“I won’t let you die. Stay with me.” Her eyes meet mine, only briefly this time. Even though she can’t actually see me, I’m thankful she can still hear. “Stay with me, baby.”
She blinks once and attempts to swallow before a rush of blood pours out of her mouth and down her neck. Then she sighs once and her eyes slightly roll upward. She sighs one more time … and nothing. So I start to call her name, over and over again, and she doesn’t respond. Not once. When I squeeze her fingers, she doesn’t flinch in pain and there’s no response when I desperately smack her arm to try to wake her up.
A surge of panic rises within me, overshadowing the pain. “Baby? You still with me?”
The same firefighter appears at her side again and the moment his eyes land on her face, I can see the truth. He doesn’t need to tell me she’s gone; I think I knew the first moment I opened my eyes and saw what had happened to her, to me … that this moment would change our lives forever.
When he says “I’m so sorry,” and reaches over to close her eyes, the only thing I can do is hold her hand and let the pain take over, giving in to the tears and grieving silently for the one person who was supposed to be by my side until we both grew old and frail. She was the one person I knew without a doubt I’d spend the rest of my life loving. The one person I trusted more than my entire family combined. The one and only person I would ever love this fully, this completely.
And now she’s gone.<
br />
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Lifting my head, I gaze across the large expanse of desk to my very angry, younger brother Marco. His dark expression tells me I must have tuned out for a lot longer than I assumed.
“Sorry. You were saying?”
He curses under his breath and tosses the thick pile of papers at me. “I’m not going through all that again. You can read about it.” Shooting to his feet, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “What’s with you lately?”
His question is rhetorical, sine we both know I’m not the type to air my laundry—dirty or otherwise—to anyone, even my closest relatives. That being said, he does make a good point. For someone who professes to be so in tune with every aspect of his own company, I’m sure as hell not acting like it. This stargazing or daydreaming or whatever you want to call it has got to stop. People count on me and depend on me to be on my game 24-7. Besides, I think, as I thumb through the construction bid in front of me, I have a reputation to uphold. I didn’t become one of the wealthiest commercial builders in Miami being soft-hearted, easygoing, or out of touch with everyday matters. I’m sitting here in this spacious, elegant office, surrounded by everything a man could ask for because I’ve earned it. I am ruthless when it comes to business, and I am the best at what I do.
“You all right, big brother?”
I shoot him a heated look. “I’m fine.” He knows how much I despise personal questions like this—at any time, not just in the office—so I’m not sure why he feels like I’m all of a sudden going to confess my deepest, darkest secrets to him in the middle of what should be a somewhat normal Wednesday afternoon.
Marco gives me a sheepish look and knowing smirk. “Relax, man.” He strolls to the mini fridge tucked away inside a long cabinet along one wall, takes out two water bottles and tosses one to me. Twisting off the top, he takes a healthy swig and asks, “Feel like grabbing a drink after work?”
Setting the bottle on the edge of the desk, I consider his question for as long as it takes my brain to comprehend the mountain of work waiting for me. I offer him a quick shake of my head. “Not tonight.”
Arms pulled across his chest, he leans against the wall. “How long has it been since you’ve been anywhere but here or at home?”
I throw him another hard look that would send most people running. Marco, however, is more than used to my anger. To him the annoyed looks and sneers are merely amusing.
“Your point?”
“You need to get out, man.” He offers me a grin. “And you really need to get laid.”
Since we have a version of this same conversation at least every few weeks or so, I dismiss him quickly with a finger pointed toward the door and another hard look. Ass that he is, he offers me a shrug and a muttered “your loss” before strolling across the office and out into the hall.
I wish I knew why he was so damned determined to see I have a social life. I’m not a social person. He, of all people, should know this. I work. I work a lot. The rare few hours I don’t work, I spend either with my family or occasionally the very expensive women I hire to warm my bed for a few hours. Those brief liaisons insure I have zero need to go out socially, working to get a woman in my bed, which I have neither the patience nor time for. I learned long ago that a quick exchange of cash was much easier, and in the end a whole lot less messy than the alternative.
I’m not proud of myself, but this works for me. And really that is just a small part of what my life is. My life is all about my family, my company, and the money I make. It always has been and always will be. While I might be the one sitting in the large office counting the millions, I’m still the same guy who knows every aspect of the business, the same guy who works six or seven days a week, more than twelve hours each and every day. I’m a workaholic and yes, I get off on that. Work is my passion, my mistress, and at times my only friend. It may not keep me warm at night, but we don’t always get what we want. Sometimes we have to take what we’ve been given and turn it into gold.
Glancing around my spacious office, I see an abundance of wealth that I’ve worked my ass off to obtain. There are dollar signs on every surface: the dark teak wood floors, the luxurious wool area rugs scattered throughout the room, and the sleek, leather furnishings I selected with great care. Cost was never an issue when this space was being designed, mostly because I knew going in that I’d spend the majority of my waking hours here; because of that, I needed it to feel like an extension of my body.
The office itself has every amenity I could ask for. There’s a full bath tucked discretely off to one side, a bar hidden away in what appears to be a bookcase, and floor to ceiling windows make up the entire wall behind my desk. This office is my sanctuary, my salvation, and the one place where I never have to guess who I am. In this space I somehow manage to actually like myself … a little anyway.
A knock sounds at the door, pulling me out of yet another bout of daydreaming. In walks my head of Human Resources, Liza Anders. Mid-thirties, Liza is polished from head to toe in expensive everything. The finest clothes, the priciest shoes, even the sweep of her long blond hair down her back screams money. She’s a walking, talking billboard for this company and on more than one occasion she’s made it abundantly clear that she’d be happy to take our relationship on a different path: from the nothing it has always been to her taking up permanent residence in my bed. As I’ve told her—repeatedly, I might add—I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever. It’s a promise I made to myself when I first went to work for my father back when this company was just a small construction firm and belonged solely to him. Back when I was nothing but a skinny teenager looking to make a buck, when my dreams were vast and filled with happily ever afters.
“Sorry to bother you, Cruz.” I give her a hard look, and she flushes and stammers. “My apologies. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Moran.”
“What do you need?”
She hesitates briefly and rolls her eyes over my body, telling me everything I don’t want to know. For some reason this woman can’t seem to get it through her head that I’m not interested. Not now, not ever.
“Ms. Anders, I’m a busy man. What do you need?”
“Yes, of course. Your assistant called earlier. She’s gone into labor.”
I wonder why my own assistant didn’t call me directly to share that information but then consider the slight wave of uneasiness rolling in my stomach, and I know exactly why I’m the last to be notified. I’m not what you’d call a people person, and I sure as hell couldn’t care less about the state of any woman’s pregnancy. I’m certain my assistant must be well aware of that. “Find me someone temporarily until she returns. How long will she be gone?”
Liza smirks then immediately corrects her expression. “She informed me that she won’t be returning.” She offers up a piece of paper. “Her resignation.”
I wave her and it off dismissively. “Find me someone.” I’ve lost count of the number of assistants I’ve gone through in the past year … the past five years. They’ve been fired for coming onto me, for doing a piss-poor job, or thinking they are in any way being paid to spend an entire day keeping up with social media. Some have quit, stating I’m too demanding, too mean, too rude. All true descriptions perhaps, but ones I expect them to deal with in exchange for the perks they receive. I pay my employees well—very, very well, but I have little tolerance for bullshit. I also have little tolerance for all their personal woes, babies, weddings, boyfriends, and the like. None of that crap has any place in my business, and I make that point very clear from the outset.
Glancing up, I briefly assess the heated look in her eye and snap, “I want someone experienced this time.” I know better than to come right out and say someone older, but we both know that’s exactly what I mean.
Liza nods and purses her lips. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“In the meantime, call the temp agency and get someone to fill in.”
She nods. “Yes,
sir.” With one final ‘do me’ look, she strides purposefully out of the office and pulls the door closed behind her.
I should fire her. I should have fired her months … years ago even. Obviously she can’t take a hint, and at this point I’m certain she’s sticking around because the chase is a turn on for her. Why the hell she continues to waste her time on me is baffling.
Rising, I stroll to the bank of windows and give my tie a slight tug, loosening the restraint around my neck that at times feels like a noose. There are days like today when I wish I could come to work like I used to years ago: dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, get the job done, and head home at a normal time. The days of casual wear are over and have been for years now. I have a reputation to uphold, people who expect me to behave and appear a certain way. After all, it would be hard to convince multi-million dollar companies to let me build their high-rises if I showed up to a meeting dressed like the construction worker I used to be.
I envy my brothers sometimes, though I’d never tell either of them that. They believe, as most people do, that I live and breathe my work because I enjoy not having any life of my own. They sure as hell don’t understand that there are days—not many mind you, but a few nonetheless—when I simply wish I could sleep in late, have few responsibilities, and leave at the end of the day with the rest of the crowd. I’ve never been like anyone else, never lived my life freely and by the seat of my pants like Marco, or with the simple joy found in everything like my youngest brother, Roman. I’ve always been the serious one, the well-educated one with the Harvard degree, born and bred to take over the family business from the day I was conceived. Little does anyone know that if I’d had a choice, or if I’d been given a do-over years ago, I’d have gathered my happiness by the balls and run with it.
“Don’t let me die.”
“Don’t let me die.”
“Don’t let me die.”
I wake with a gasp, biting back the scream and breathing so heavily I might as well have been running a sprint instead of sleeping peacefully. Not that I ever sleep peacefully. I can count on one hand when I’ve slept through the night without waking up terrified, hearing her blood-curdling screams and reliving her pain with each ragged breath.
