“What happened?”
“I was looking for a job—one that had fairly flexible hours, so I could still write. A friend, who worked at a publishing house, told me about a listing for a personal assistant to a well-known author. I thought it would be perfect. I went for the interview and got the job.”
“Not such a good job?”
“No, it seemed fine. Jared was working on a new book. He had finished a series of three books that were huge. All of them best sellers. Expectations were high for his next book. He needed help, not only with keeping up his schedule but proofing his work, etcetera. It was like my dream job.”
She shifted restlessly. “Jared and I became close. In fact, we began dating a few weeks after I started working for him. He was almost relentless in his pursuit.” She laughed, yet the sound was anything but humorous. “I thought he was crazy about me.”
I squeezed her hand that was beginning to tremble a little, knowing we were coming to the crux of her story. “But?” I prompted, keeping my tone gentle.
“The first week I was there, he saw me writing in my book on my lunch break.”
“Writing in your book?”
She smiled sadly. “Unlike most people who use a computer, I liked to write longhand. Old-fashioned, I know, but I could always feel the story more. I had to use a computer all day at the office and I hated it. It took longer, but the words made more sense to me when I did that way. I kept everything to do with the book in an old leather satchel, which belonged to my grandfather. I loved it—he was a teacher and it reminded me of him.”
I nodded in understanding. I also didn’t miss the past tense of “liked.”
“He saw me and asked what I was doing. I was rather shy, but told him. A couple days later, he asked if he could see it. Needless to say, I was quite excited that a successful author like Jared would ask to see my work, so I let him.”
“Did he give you an opinion?”
“He said it was somewhat trivial, not a bad idea, but it required a great deal of work. He said to let him know when it was done and he would reread it, make some suggestions, and possibly show it to his publishing company if he thought it had some merit. I was ecstatic.”
“Sounds a little condescending to me,” I muttered, suspicious of where this was going.
Megan tilted her head. “Jared was a true artist: mercurial, arrogant, rude at times, and charming at others. He had fits of anger and could be cutting, then turn around and do something kind.” Her lips turned up in a small grin. “Remind you of anyone?”
I had to chuckle at her wit.
Her face became serious. “But something he was, that you’re not, is deceitful and corrupt.”
I slid closer, my hand closing around the back of her neck, soothing the tense muscles. “Tell me.”
“Jared’s editor was very unhappy with him, which made him unhappy with me—and everything else. His new book wasn’t going well. Compared to the series he had written previously, this one seemed ‘almost juvenile—full of inaccuracies’ according to his editor. I had to agree when I read it—the story line was so disjointed, compared to the outline. Jared blamed everyone around him and became very sullen. He would hole up in his office typing, and cursing away, leaving me sitting for hours with nothing to do, and with so much time on my hands, I finished my own book.”
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said he would read it soon and asked me to leave it with him. The next day, he was back to being Jared. He would take me out to dinner, make me laugh with his stories, and seemed to be better, happier, with his writing. He told his editor it was flowing fast. I assumed he got over his slump; although he wasn’t allowing anyone to see what he was working on. He said he didn’t want to ‘jinx’ it yet.” She shrugged. “Who was I to argue? As I said, I wrote all of my stories longhand and told no one what they were about until they were done. Everyone works in a different way.”
She hesitated, then she spoke again. “A few weeks later, he insisted on going to dinner. He wanted to go to his favorite restaurant, even inviting some of his friends to join us. He was in high spirits, telling them all he was on the verge of another bestseller and how he was writing like a mad man. He was very animated.” She looked at me with the saddest eyes and took a deep breath. “When we got back to his place, we found the door kicked in. The house was ransacked. He had been robbed. ”
“Your book was still there?” I asked. “In his house?”
She nodded. “He had it for a couple weeks. We were going to discuss it when he was finished reading it, but he said he hadn’t had the chance to do so yet, because he was busy writing.”
“You didn’t have a copy of it?”
“No. I never made copies.” She sighed. “The only one who I’d ever discussed it with was him. Karen knew I was writing a new, longer story, but I never shared details with her either. I didn’t like to talk to anyone about my work—I never did. ”
“And then?”
“He became sullen again. Nasty. Withdrawn. I thought it was over the break-in. I was so upset myself, I wasn’t thinking very well. I didn’t know how to start rewriting my story, or if I even could. A couple of weeks later, he broke up with me, and let me go, stating my job position was no longer needed.”
“Let me guess,” I interjected sarcastically. “Not long after that, he submitted a brand-new-never-seen-before manuscript?”
She nodded. “About three months after we broke up, I heard about it. My friend who worked at the publishing house, and had originally told me about the job, had seen it. I was curious when she said it wasn’t at all like what his editor thought he was working on. She gave me the basic outline.”
“It was your story.”
“Yes.”
“He stole your manuscript. He set it all up.”
She nodded, her lip trembling a little.
I could feel anger stirring in my gut. “Did you go after him?”
“I tried. I went to him first and he denied it—refuted every accusation I made. Denied he had ever seen me write anything. Demanded proof the manuscript he’d been working on was actually mine.”
“Of which you had none,” I stated the obvious, arching my eyebrow at her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she pleaded.
“Like what?”
Her voice rose in distress, her words rapid. “I know I was an idiot! I kept my book all together, in an old torn satchel because it meant something to me! I should have made copies, kept notes separately. If I’d been smart, I would’ve told all my friends about it, and typed the damn thing on a computer. I never thought something like this would happen. Once it was finished, I planned on making a copy and then having it transcribed onto a computer, but—”
“But you never had a chance,” I finished for her, my tone a little more gentle.
“No. I went to my friend who was a lawyer, and he went to the publishing house on my behalf. They, of course, backed up Jared. It escalated and became the word of a successful, published author and his solid reputation against the word of an ex-assistant, slash, girlfriend, who had only ever published a couple light romances on her own.” She shook her head, looking frustrated. “Both he and his team came after me with a vengeance. I tried to use him to further my career. I was trying to destroy his reputation. I abused his trust. I was slammed in the papers and the publishing world. He even went so far as to allow his home to be searched for the “so-called” book folder, which, of course, they never found.”
I was sure he’d used the time he had to transcribe it, and then burned the original. It only made sense.
“So, what about proof of when it was written?”
“According to his computer files, it was started months before I came to work for him.”
I nodded. No doubt he rewrote an older file.
“Did you try to rewrite it?”
“I have been, but some of it is over two years old. An
d it’s his word against mine. He said he had shown me some of what he had written so it looks like I’m copying him.”
“There is no one you told? At all?”
She shook her head.
“But you know the ending.”
“No, that part he changed. Just enough so it’s different than what I described. He changed a few other things, too.”
“Of course,” I mused. This guy was either very clever or he did this before, and knew all the loopholes. “He’s covered all his bases, hasn’t he?”
“Do you—do you believe me?”
I looked at her as her words ran through my head. Even given my trust issues, her story rang true. “Absolutely.”
“Why?” she whispered. “Hardly anyone else does.”
I wasn’t sure how to explain something I felt with so much conviction. Maybe it was the pain in her eyes as she spoke or the sincerity of her words, but I did believe her. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I do.”
“He wants me to publicly recant my statement. His lawyer even drew up papers stating if I did he’d pay me twenty thousand to drop my ridiculous plagiarism claim and stop seeking attention.”
A cheap pay-off compared to what he stood to lose. “All with a non-disclosure of the payout, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t about money.”
Her lip began to tremble. “No. It was, is, my work. Two years of my life. He stole it.”
“Then fight it.”
“I’m pretty much out of money to keep fighting it. I won’t give him what he wants, though.”
“So you came here to try and think?”
“I came here to escape him—it—the whole situation. I was so tired of his emails, the constant barrage of press articles. People following me, calling me names. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to escape.”
I could understand that. I could also see she was growing tired of talking about this painful subject. Her eyes had begun to fill with tears, the tremble in her lip more pronounced, and her shoulders were tense.
I took the cold cup of coffee from her hand, and wrapped her in my arms. For a moment, she held herself stiff in my embrace, then melted into me, her head falling to my shoulder as quiet sobs escaped her mouth.
The desire to comfort this small woman was intense. Never had I experienced such a need to care for someone. Realistically, there was little I could do but hold her and allow her to expel her emotions. I had the feeling, that like me, she was very private and rarely allowed those around her to see her pain. Cradling her close, I stroked her back in long, soothing passes, my voice hushing and whispering comforting words I wasn’t sure she could hear.
She had been led on, lied to and a part of her had been taken away; all things I knew far too much about. She was right: she was fighting an uphill battle. The asshole had everything to fight for, and with: money, power, and success. She had nothing. It was like David and Goliath.
Only, I wasn’t sure this time David would win.
CHAPTER NINE
I hated tears. Growing up, my mother had used them like a weapon against my father; bursting into noisy sobs as she slumped onto the kitchen counter or flung herself on the sofa in some dramatic fashion. He always gave in to whatever she was demanding at the time, then the tears would dry up, until the next time—it was a never-ending cycle with them. The day I walked away from them was the first time her tears were real, but they meant nothing to me. Later in life, during my career, I watched women turn their tears on and off with no true emotion behind them, making me that much more indifferent to the sight of them. In my personal life, a woman crying meant nothing to me; even though my own behavior often was the cause. I had the ability to ignore the outburst with no effect. I was never swayed by the sound.
Holding Megan, though, and listening to her cry, was an entirely different story. Her sobs were subdued, almost silent, as her small body shook in my arms. My chest ached with some unknown emotion, the same, almost helpless feeling I experienced when I saw her fall. It was a reaction I wasn’t used to nor liked very much. It made me feel out of control, and the one thing I had mastered over the years was being in control. As she cried, I wanted to comfort and fix whatever was causing her so much pain.
It was a peculiar sensation.
Slowly, she grew still and the muffled, pain-filled sobs ceased. Without a word, I handed her some tissues, allowing her a moment to gather herself as she wiped away the wetness from her face.
“I got your shirt wet,” she whispered, her voice gruff with emotion. “I’m sorry.”
“I have other ones. It isn’t a problem.”
Her eyes met mine, the dark gaze wide and confused. We were so close; I could see the flecks of gold that surrounded her pupils like small sunbursts. Her auburn hair, glowing almost copper, glinted in the late afternoon sun that filled the room. Without thinking, I lifted a hand, trailing my fingers through the thickness of her tresses, admiring the colors spilling over my hand. “I’d like to capture you, exactly like this,” I murmured. “You’re so lovely in this light, with the sun surrounding you, highlighting your hair.”
“Do you do that? Paint, ah, portraits?”
I shook my head in wonder. Once again, she was making me feel and say things that were out of character. “I’ve done a few. I use photography with those. It helps sometimes when the moment is right and I need to capture something to use later.” Teasing, I tapped the end of her nose, wanting her to smile. “Like now. Would you let me take your picture, Megan, if I asked? Paint your portrait?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her cheeks flooding with color.
Her sudden shyness and simple answer warmed my chest. I wanted that camera in my hands immediately.
“Maybe later this week we will. I want this light behind you when I do. It’s fading now, so when I see it again, we’ll act on it.”
“All right.”
Neither of us acknowledged the fact we both assumed she would be here.
Somehow, though, we both knew it.
Elliott stood up, stretching, shaking his head. “I need to take him for a walk.” Easing Megan off my lap, I got off the sofa. “I’ll take Dixie, too.”
“Are you going in the woods?”
“No. I’ll take them on the beach.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You shouldn’t be on your foot.” I frowned.
“You wrapped it so well, it feels fine. It’ll be good to stretch my legs.”
The thought of walking on the beach with her appealed to me, so I didn’t argue. It was better than me worrying about her sitting here alone, perhaps crying again. I paused, wondering when the last time I had worried about another person had been, or why worrying about Megan seemed so natural. Offering her my hand, I helped her off the sofa, watching her as she walked in front of me. Her limp was still there, but it seemed manageable. Still, it was probably a good idea to walk in front of her down the steps. They seemed to be her weakness.
Despite the sun, it was still cold outside. Megan grimaced as she observed my usual habit of walking barefoot on the sand. “Do your feet not get cold?”
“Not anymore. I’ve been walking this beach for so long it feels strange to have shoes on. I do when it snows, but even then, not all the time. I like the cold.”
She shivered, and I chuckled at her dramatics. I wrapped my arm around her waist, drawing her close as we walked the hard sand. She fit so well under my arm, her head tucked against my shoulder as we strolled. I kept back from the water, knowing she had no desire to feel its icy fingers wrapping around her ankles, soaking into her skin.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Almost ten years. I’ve owned the house longer than that but only used it for vacations before—”
“Before?” she prompted.
“Before I came to live here permanently,” I finished. I wasn’t ready to tell her my story yet; I hoped she wouldn’t push me on it today.
She nodded, bending down to pick up a small piece of driftwood, tossing it for the dogs. We spent the next while smiling and laughing as we threw the stick. They bounded up and down the beach chasing it, bringing it back, wanting it thrown again. It felt very strange to be sharing the beach with her, and to be laughing and almost carefree. Done with throwing the stick, the dogs ran around, chasing each other. Leaning against an outcrop of boulders, I looked down at our clasped hands—my scarred flesh wrapped around her perfect, smooth skin—wondering why she allowed me to touch her with such ease. Glancing up, I met her gaze, finding only warmth looking at me. She smiled, understanding in her expression. “Your scars don’t bother me, Zachary.”
“They should,” I answered tersely, feeling the same anxious undercurrent I had whenever anyone brought up my scars or got too close.
“Why?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “Because someone told you they should?”
“Because they're hideous.”
She shook her head as she planted herself in front of me. “They’re marks. They tell me you survived something terrible. They don’t define you.”
“They’re a pretty good fucking indicator,” I sneered. “You don’t know me, Megan. Stop trying to romanticize me in your head. I’m not some sort of hero.”
She didn’t respond to my anger. It didn’t have the usual effect of pushing someone away. Instead, she inched closer. Her voice was gentle when she spoke, its soothing cadence comforting to my jumbled nerves. “We all have scars. The only difference is some of them are easier to see. Yours are visible and appear painful, I know. They hurt you physically and emotionally. They hurt me to look at because I know they cause you pain, but they don’t make you less in my eyes.” She drew in a deep breath as she lifted her hand to my face, cupping my scarred cheek, ignoring my stiffening posture. “I don’t see you as a hero, Zachary. I see you as a human being. A man in pain and alone.” She stepped closer, her chest leaning into mine. “I don’t want you to be alone. Let me in.” A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. “Please.”
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