by Shelby Reed
“It’s been a long time,” Roger said, his arms relaxed at his sides.
Colm jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from punching the other man’s well-bred nose down his throat. “Long enough to change your character?”
Roger blew out a sigh and glanced down the hall. “I know I’m not welcome here.”
“You’re right, and for all the reasons you’re thinking.”
“I’m making it up to her,” Roger said. “I might have to spend the rest of my life trying, but—”
Colm grabbed his arm and directed him none-too-gently into the living room, out of Amelia’s earshot. “What does she have that you want, Hatch? Why are you even here?”
“I still love her.” His face reddened. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you want something.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Her.”
They were both breathing hard now, and Colm moved away to regain control of his emotions before he spoke again. “Get this straight. I don’t trust you. I don’t want you here. But if it’s what Amelia wants, then I’ll try my best not to kick your ass onto the street.”
“Thanks so much,” Roger said mildly. “Look, James—”
“Stay the hell out of my way,” Colm interrupted. “If I think you’re bringing anything less than a smile to her face, we’re going to have a serious problem.”
Molly appeared in the hallway and gave the men a tentative smile.
“Tell Amelia I’ll call her tomorrow,” Roger told the nurse, and without another word to Colm, let himself out the front door and closed it quietly behind him.
Colm heard the sound of the wheelchair’s electric motor but didn’t turn to look at his sister until she spoke.
“Did you kick him out?”
“Not quite,” he said. “He ran off all by himself.”
“Thank you, then.”
“Don’t thank me for this,” he replied, his shoulders stiff. “Just keep him away from me.”
“James.”
“What are you thinking, Amie?” He whirled to look at her, hands clenched. “If this doesn’t work out, do you have any idea what it could do to your recovery? You’ve been making great strides. Why would you—”
“I want a life.”
“You’ll have less of one than ever if he leaves you again.” She just stared at him, refusing to argue, so he finally threw up his hands and muttered, “I’m going out.”
* * *
Colm drove aimlessly until he found himself in downtown D.C. for the second time that day, parking a block from Avalon. He’d been so happy to get away earlier, but now he felt drawn back to that world, to his quiet room, to the escape of pleasure, even if it wouldn’t be his own tonight.
He tried not to think of Sydney as he used his key to open the employees’ door at the back of the building and stepped into warm, perfumed dimness. This was his world.
“Back so soon?” Azure’s secretary said with a curious smile when he stepped into her office.
“I forgot to check my mail.” A lame excuse, but he didn’t owe anyone explanations.
She handed him a small stack. No thank-you notes this time, not that he deserved them. He’d been on automatic pilot even before he met Sydney, and he didn’t know how to jumpstart himself again.
“We have two last-minute requests from clients,” she said. “The first one could be here in thirty minutes. Would you be interested?”
Hell, no. But something in him needed to work, to prove to himself that he hadn’t been ruined in one paltry week. He took the stairs two at a time and changed into the casual attire Azure favored for the companions, khakis and a white button-down shirt. Then he paced the room, waiting for the first dreaded phone call.
His client arrived, a repeat customer he hadn’t seen in a while. He didn’t make conversation. He pushed her up against the wall and kissed her, feeling nothing, fleeing to a place in his mind where only Sydney existed, only the last few days, only a non-reality that had ended too soon.
The woman’s touch was too brusque. Her perfume was all wrong. The color of her hair and eyes. The texture of her skin. But somewhere along the way, this had become his life.
His own private hell.
Chapter Sixteen
Trembling from the cold, Sydney made a mad dash into the gallery and shook off the rain. She’d forgotten her umbrella and her hair hung heavy and damp on the back of her neck. So much for the sleek image she’d once cultivated as an erotic artist. Fortunately the focus wouldn’t be on her; she was only one of several artists whose work was being displayed tonight.
Three weeks ago, when the gallery curator had called and asked her to participate in the show with one of her erotic paintings, she’d only hesitated a moment. She needed the continued exposure. No doubt Max would be there. They hadn’t spoken since their breakup, but she was determined there’d be no animosity on her part. As he’d suggested, she would exist on a distant but congenial level with him, and tonight, at long last, was her final foray into erotic art. Two threads of her life neatly tied in little bows . . . so why did she feel so uneasy?
Naturally Max was the first person to spot her standing in the entry, and he wheeled forward to greet her, his gray eyes alight with enthusiasm. “You look relatively drowned,” he said with an easy smile.
She slid out of her coat and smoothed her wet hair back from her face. “Do I need repairing?”
“No. You’re always beautiful. Just go like this . . .” He smoothed his fingers under his eyes and she followed suit, wiping away the mascara that had smudged beneath her lashes.
“Thanks.”
“I like the dress and pearls,” he said.
She glanced down at the navy, slim-fitting wrap dress. The pearls weren’t the ones he’d given her; she’d left those for him in the mansion foyer the night she moved out. Suddenly she became hyperaware of herself, and that the camaraderie between them was shifting into something that made her step back. She didn’t like the proprietary way he looked at her.
“I’m going to grab a quick snack,” she said, and skirted around him to head for the buffet table.
Thirty minutes later, patrons filled the gallery to bursting. People had shown up despite the icy rain, milling about and chattering at a noise level that made Sydney’s ears ache. She stood in the general vicinity of her work, answering questions and offering smiles of greeting. The familiar faces provided a surprising sense of comfort, glimpses of her old life that gave her a vague pang of sentimentality.
She also noticed Max’s new novice, the one he’d hired from Chicago. The little redhead was a talented erotic artist and perfect for him, appearing to hang on his every word, wide-eyed and anxious to please. Not so very long ago, that had been Sydney, but oh, how old she felt now. How jaded.
Once or twice she imagined she saw a tall, handsome man with a black-haired companion standing among the crowd, but when she blinked, they were gone.
She glanced at the ménage à trois painting behind her. Colm in all his stunning beauty stared back at her, his green gaze as direct on canvas as it had been in person. Memories of the night she met him slipped undeterred through her force field, the way they’d stood beside each other and gazed at her erotic paintings, and how very much she’d wanted to disappear into a crack in the ground when he’d studied each one so carefully.
The urge to laugh tightened her chest at the recollection of mixed emotions she’d experienced that night. Her work hadn’t been soft enough for his taste. It’s not quite accurate, he’d said. A woman’s flesh is softer. Other than the few useless kisses they’d shared, he would never get the chance to find out how soft she really was, especially in his presence. He had stolen the starch right out of her spine and molded her into someone new, someone she liked.
She smiled sadly to herself and turned to accept a glass of champagne from a server when she saw him. Colm. For real.
Not with Azure, but with someone else. A woman about his age, ash blond,
slim and attractive, but with the odd, slightly-off features of someone who’d had too much cosmetic surgery.
As if feeling himself observed, Colm glanced around, and then his eyes collided with Sydney’s through the crowd. He looked at her forever, a dark frown playing across his features before his companion said something and he glanced down at her, breaking the connection.
A spear of agony went straight through Sydney. After three weeks the sight of him shouldn’t hurt so much, but it did. It squeezed her throat and made her want to weep.
Pulse racing, she finally averted her gaze and looked around, desperate for a friendly face. She spotted an elderly Georgetown socialite to whom she’d sold several paintings in the past, and they chatted briefly, Sydney hiding the tremble of her hands behind her back. When the socialite bid her good-bye, Sydney swallowed and looked back toward Colm. He had moved to a different painting, one dangerously close to hers, his petite date clinging to his arm as though he held her afloat.
The woman wasn’t studying the works of art; she seemed more fascinated with the crowd, craning her neck and pageant waving to people she apparently knew. Colm wore an expression of mild pain, his gaze volleying between Sydney and the ménage painting, but whenever his date spoke to him, he nodded or smiled at the comments she made behind her hand, and the irrational shrew in Sydney wanted to clobber him.
Then the woman’s attention locked onto Sydney’s painting and for a moment she simply stared at it. Instantly Sydney knew—the blonde had recognized Colm as one of the models in the work. She pointed at the ménage and tugged at his arm. A subtle sigh lifted and lowered his chest as he allowed her to tug him toward the painting.
Panicked, Sydney stepped away from her station, nearly bumped into a waiter with a tray of canapés, and took off for the restroom. She made no excuses for herself. She’d reverted to a hapless teenager whose heart was breaking at the sight of her high school crush with another girl.
Once in the ladies’ room, she braced her hands on the vanity and dragged in deep, gulping breaths. Her heart beat like a tympani in her throat. How was she going to get away from the reception? She’d promised the curator to spare a mere two hours to discuss her work with attendees. God, she needed to grow up.
She splashed cool water on her face, patted dry with a handful of paper towels, and was just heading out the door when someone pushed in from the other side. Before she could excuse herself, her words froze in her throat.
Colm’s date let the door swing closed behind her and gave a light laugh. “I nearly mowed you over. So sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Sydney tried to sidle by, but the woman touched her arm.
“Can you wait just a second? I followed you in here because I saw the painting of the ménage à trois. My friend was one of your models.”
Her friend. Why was every female in Colm’s dating life “a friend”?
“Wonderful,” Sydney hedged, her cheeks warming. She resisted the urge to bulldoze through the woman’s blockade and run for her life.
“It’s Colm Hennessy,” the woman went on. “He’s here with me tonight. Did you see him?”
“I’m afraid I missed him.” Sydney’s gaze slid toward the door. All she wanted was to get out of there, out of the gallery.
“We both love the painting,” the woman was saying. “Colm has the nicest things to say about your work.”
“He’s too kind.” The rain outside wouldn’t be so bad. She would walk in it, let its icy drops cool her heated face, if only she could escape.
But the woman braced an arm against the opposite doorjamb, effectively blocking Sydney from slipping by. “So you know Colm from where?” she asked, her hooded brown gaze sliding down to Sydney’s nude strappy heels and back before she smirked and tilted her head. “Azure?”
Surprise jolted through her. This woman knew Azure, too? “Azure Elan introduced him, yes. I needed a professional art model, and Colm was excellent.”
“Colm’s excellent at everything he does.” The sly humor on the woman’s lips slid away, and she extended her hand. “I’m Myrna Shea. It’s Sydney Warren, right?”
“Right.” Sydney clasped Myrna’s hand, thought about the woman touching Colm with those manicured fingertips, and once again felt a deep pang in her stomach. Suddenly, she couldn’t play the politesse game one more minute. “It’s so nice to chat with you, Myrna, but I have to get back to greet patrons. Thank you for attending the show.”
“My pleasure. It was Colm’s idea. He knows how I love these things.”
No doubt.
“In case you don’t run into him,” Myrna said, “I’ll tell Colm I caught up with you.”
“Please do.” Sydney slid by and out the door, her eyes sweeping the milling crowd for the curator. She didn’t see him, but all of a sudden Max was there, and strangely, relief at his familiar face seized her.
He took her hand. “You’re flushed. Are you sick?”
“I think I might be getting there. I’m going to slip out.”
He squeezed her hand, but as his eyes slid away from her and fixed beyond her shoulder, they narrowed and a scowl twisted his features. Sydney knew exactly who he’d spotted and fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“Max—”
Pulling her back down, he spoke against her ear. “Hennessy is here.”
“Is he?” She made a show of glancing around, purposefully avoiding Colm’s gaze, which burned into her over the heads of three men studying her canvas. “He’s probably here to see the painting. After all, he was the model.”
“Be sure to give him my best when you talk to him again.”
Sydney ignored that. “It looks like your new artist is a success, Max. Congratulations.”
She smiled a little and straightened. “Take care, Max.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
They wouldn’t have much to discuss. She forcibly withdrew her hand from his and went to retrieve her coat. Then keeping her attention fixed on nothing in particular, she maneuvered her way through the crowd and out into the blessed, frigid, lonely night.
* * *
On Thanksgiving night, Colm’s nightmares returned. Maybe it was the fact that Roger had taken Amelia out for dinner, handling her wheelchair and all her needs by himself. Despite the fact that it was a family day, Colm had to work early, but he sped out of Avalon the minute he was done, anxious to get to the house and be sure Amelia was there in one piece.
At home, everything was dim and silent. Colm wandered around Amelia’s room, the sight of her empty bed haunting something deep inside. He did a load of laundry, drank a beer, checked his cell phone fifty times, and finally propped up in bed with a book and waited for his sister to get home. The hour grew later, though, and his frustration mounted. At ten o’clock, he berated himself for not demanding Hatch’s cell number when the man had taken down Colm’s. Where the hell were they?
At eleven o’clock he drifted off, despite his determination to wait up for her return.
And that was when the nightmares began. The squeal of brakes, the world spinning out of control, his hands gripping the wheel, trying to stop the inevitable collision with the bridge’s barrier . . . Jill’s scream as the side of the car met concrete and the world exploded.
Amelia’s scream.
Colm bolted up in bed and swung his legs over the side, trembling so hard the mattress squeaked. The cold sweat had dried on his forehead, but he couldn’t shake the sounds. He couldn’t shake the reality of the agony he had caused.
After a moment, he gained control of himself and glanced at the clock. One a.m. He rose, opened his bedroom door, and glanced down the short, dark hall. Thank God the light was on in Amelia’s room. Roger Hatch had better not be in there with her.
He moved quietly to her door and peeked in. For once she was truly alone; the nurses had the night off to celebrate with their families. Roger was probably holed up in his luxury penthouse across town. How did the man manage to get her into the house so sm
oothly and quietly, back into bed, and all without waking Colm?
Maybe Hatch was better about dealing with Amelia than Colm had thought.
Amelia must have been dozing, but her eyes popped open when she heard his soft knock. “What are you doing up?” she asked, turning her head to look at the clock hanging above the closet.
“Bad dreams.”
“Come in.”
He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to sink the mattress and cause her to roll. “How was it? Did you eat enough turkey?”
“Oh my God, yes. We had a great time. The restaurant was a beautiful old mill, and the food was amazing.” Her smile faltered as she gazed at him. “I’m sorry you were alone.”
She had no idea he’d left for work at five o’clock, and that being alone was something he definitely hadn’t been.
“It didn’t bother me,” he said. “Other than worrying about you. How are you feeling after all that running around with . . .” He couldn’t quite speak Hatch’s name.
“Fine. Great.”
Colm couldn’t help himself. “Did he have an assistant or someone help you back home and into bed?”
“Nope. He did it all by his lonesome. You were dead asleep, so we were very quiet.” She smiled. “Admit it. You’re impressed, aren’t you?”
Colm just scowled.
Her green eyes studied him for a moment before she said, “And you? How are you feeling, James?”
He lowered his head, ran a hand over his face. “Amelia, I don’t understand you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t understand how you don’t blame me for . . .” To his horror, he choked up. For a long time he didn’t speak, struggling to regain his composure. Then, “You have to hate me sometimes. You have to.”
“I never hate you.” She ducked her head to meet his gaze. “You do that enough for both of us.”
He swallowed and looked away.
“It wasn’t your fault, James,” she said. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself? The roads were wet—”
