by Fiona Brand
Jerking the door closed, she walked into the sitting room and then out onto the terrace, which was also empty. She did another circuit of the rooms, looking for a note, something, anything.
Grabbing the phone she rang down to the concierge desk. She didn’t know for sure if Ben was booked in here; he could have just planned to attend the party and leave. But if he was staying the night, maybe he had simply gone to his own suite to shower and change? When she was put through to Ben’s suite, a surge of relief made her legs feel as weak as noodles.
The phone rang for a period of time, then switched to the answering service. Sophie hung up, took a deep breath and called the concierge again. Her voice was husky and a shade too flat as she asked if Ben had checked out. She had to wait while the concierge spoke to another staff member. He finally came back to the phone and apologized. Apparently, Ben had left in the early hours and, because he was a guest of Mr. Messena and no payment was required, the night staffer had failed to check him out.
Sophie thanked the concierge and fumbled the phone back into its cradle. Feeling like an automaton, she sat down on one of the comfortable couches and stared blindly at the beautiful suite. Her gaze lingered on the waiter’s trolley with its bottle of champagne and the two flutes, both barely touched. Jaw tight, she pushed to her feet and wheeled the trolley toward the door. Parking it to one side of the small foyer, she yanked the door open, only to be confronted by a bellhop carrying a huge bunch of long-stemmed red roses.
Surprise registered in the bellhop’s gaze, then he grinned and handed her the roses. Sophie stared at the lavish bouquet, feeling as if all the air had been punched from her lungs. Roses, especially red roses, were a gift of love. Had she had gotten things totally wrong. Perhaps Ben hadn’t ruthlessly ditched her, after all, for the second time.
Maybe he’d had to leave because of some emergency, and there would be a note tucked in among the flowers? Feeling utterly confused, she told the bellhop to wait. Placing the gorgeous blooms on the coffee table, she quickly found her bag and extracted cash to tip him.
After he had wheeled the champagne trolley out into the hall, she closed the door and turned to stare at the roses. Her heart was pounding, which was faintly scary because the reason Ben had sent them shouldn’t matter so much. She was used to controlling relationships, setting the boundaries and terminating them when they didn’t work out. She had thought long and hard before she had slept with Ben the first time. This time the process had been somewhat more rushed, but in the end she had stayed true to herself. She had weighed the pros and cons and made the decision to risk sleeping with him a second time.
A quick search of the roses revealed no thoughtful note that might explain why he had left in the night without a goodbye.
Checklist, she thought grimly. Ben had left before sunup without an explanation and without the courtesy of leaving either a phone number or an address. The fact that he knew that she had his phone number and probably knew where he lived didn’t count; this was about manners. This time he’d had the decency to send flowers but the roses were depressingly devoid of scent and, though beautiful, weren’t even her color. Somehow that seemed symptomatic of everything about her nonrelationship with Ben. If he had known anything about her at all it would be that she liked perfumed flowers and white roses.
Faint sounds out in the hall signaled that housekeeping was doing the rounds. Picking up the roses and holding them at arm’s length, Sophie opened the door to her suite and gave the bunch to a tired-looking woman who was collecting room service trays that had been left outside of the suite opposite. When her face lit up, it somehow took the sting out of Ben’s gesture, which was patently devoid of anything but the most caveman-like acknowledgment that they had spent a night together.
Sophie returned to her room, her gaze automatically sheering away from the rumpled bed. She took a quick shower, then wrapped herself in a thick white towel as she combed the tangles out of her hair. She froze as she noticed a pink mark on the side of her neck, as well as the one on her collarbone. Both were clearly scrapes from Ben’s stubbled jaw, testament to the fact that she had just had a night of steamy passion with...someone.
Jaw taut, she dressed quickly in white jeans and a loose, pale gray boatneck cotton sweater. She dried her hair then took care of the marks on her neck and collarbone with dabs of concealer.
When she was finished, she could no longer see the marks, although that didn’t change the fact that she knew they were there. After applying light makeup and pinning her hair up into a loose knot, she stared at herself. She looked pale but composed, and disorientingly the same, as if she hadn’t just made a second horrendous mistake with Ben.
And she was still the same, she thought a little fiercely. Sleeping with Ben—being ditched by him a second time—had not changed anything about her. She had taken a calculated risk; it hadn’t worked out. Life moved on. She would take what positives she could from the experience. Next time she would be smarter about men: she would be smarter about Ben Sabin.
She did not know what on earth had attracted her to him in the first place. She must have been stark, staring crazy. Maybe it had been some kind of hormonally driven primitive desire to mate with a strong alpha male that had temporarily hijacked her brain? And, let’s face it, she had been brought up surrounded by the ridiculous amount of testosterone from four older brothers, so it made sense that on an instinctual level she would naturally tend toward the same kind of difficult, dominating male. Or maybe it was that, at twenty-seven, her biological clock was ticking and Ben had just happened to be around at the time? Whatever the reason, her usual radar for detecting what she called URM—Untrustworthy Rat Men—had failed.
She searched through her small traveling jewelry case and found the diamond studs her brothers had given her as a twenty-first birthday gift. The studs, made by her favorite designer, were deceptively simple. The stones were flawless and glowed with a pure white fire. They were a gift that signified love and thoughtfulness, because they were exactly what she would have chosen herself. More than that, they were a gift that, every time she wore them, made her feel loved and valued. It was a reassurance she desperately needed now.
With methodical precision, she fitted the gorgeous studs to her ears, then, driven by a desire to exit the suite and the hotel as quickly as possible, she threw her things into her overnight bag and checked her watch. Francesca had given her a lift because it hadn’t made sense for them both to drive out to Nick’s resort, so she was dependent on her sister or a cab for transport. It was a little early for Francesca, who hated getting up before ten on weekends, but Sophie decided to call anyway. The first call went through to voice mail, as did the second and third.
Feeling frustrated but now desperate to leave, Sophie hooked the strap of her tote over her shoulder and stepped out of the suite, wheeling her small case behind her. As she strolled toward the elevator, the doors slid open and she glimpsed a tall dark guy, his back to her as he waited for a woman with a stroller and two toddlers to exit. For a fractured moment, her mind said it was Ben, that he hadn’t left after all, but it wasn’t Ben, not even close.
The stranger’s gaze connected with hers as they descended to the lobby. She caught the flare of masculine speculation but by now totally off men, Sophie stared straight ahead. When the elevator came to a stop she stepped into the gorgeous marbled foyer, and tried Francesca’s phone again. This time she got a response. Relief at hearing her sister’s voice made her feel the tiniest bit shaky. “Good, you’re up,” she said as smoothly as she could manage. “I was hoping we could leave soon. Like now.”
“Leave?” Francesca’s voice sounded muffled, as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “I thought we’d agreed to stay for lunch with Nick.”
“Something’s come up. I need to get back to my apartment.” She had to squash the urge to confide the whole sorry story, which was weird because normally
she was the strong one and it was Francesca crying on her shoulder.
“You sound a little strange. Is everything all right? Don’t tell me you and Ben—”
“I’m fine, and it’s nothing to do with Ben.”
“I thought you and he—”
“You thought wrong. He left...last night.” Which was only the truth.
“So you’re okay, that’s good.” Francesca smothered a yawn. “Look, can you take a taxi? I’m tired. You might not have had a late night, but I did. A very late night, if you get my drift.”
Sophie caught the low timbre of a masculine voice in the background and froze inside. Francesca was with someone, and evidently, despite the fact that the sun was up, he was still there instead of skulking off under cover of darkness.
She swallowed to keep the sudden huskiness from her voice. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she had been counting on the simple, uncomplicated comfort of being with her twin. “No problem. I’ll see you later.”
Slipping her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she made her way to reception, which was now packed with tourists all wanting to check out or join a tour group that was assembling in one corner. A frustrating ten minutes later, she finally reached the desk and checked out. As she handed over her key she saw the familiar figure of John Atraeus, who was joining the adjacent queue.
He stared at her as if he was having trouble figuring out which twin she was.
“Sophie,” she said helpfully, and his face cleared.
“I know Francesca’s got blond hair, but even so, you’re...amazingly alike.”
“Apart from the hair, we’re identical. Although, in terms of personality, we’re poles apart.”
He grinned and shook his head. “The first time I ever met you both, I got that.”
Sophie hesitated. Now was the perfect time to extend the conversation and start steering it in the direction of business. Normally, that was exactly what she would do. But, after last night, all she wanted was to go home and do something—anything—to help get her balance back. With a shrug, she waved and headed for the door.
When she got outside there was a line of people waiting for taxis. Feeling more and more stressed and upset by the minute, she parked her bag and waited. Seconds later a sleek Mercedes slid to a halt by the curb. John Atraeus collected the keys from the valet and placed his bag in the back seat. He caught her gaze and lifted a brow. “I’m heading into town if you want a lift.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Why not?”
Still feeling emotionally bruised by her encounter with Ben, Sophie was happy to relax in the passenger seat and let John do the talking. He was staying in town another night because he had a crucial meeting with a high-end group of franchises that were looking for a new home after the retail chain they were with had collapsed. If he could sign them, he could extend his reach into the uppermost end of the luxury market.
He hadn’t mentioned the group’s name so when she did, and said she had heard about the trouble they were having, he gave her a startled look.
She shrugged, still feeling curiously flat and divorced from a conversation that, normally, she would find fascinating because it was part of her business.
John braked for a stoplight then accelerated smoothly through the intersection. Sophie caught the flash of what looked like a delivery van veering toward them on John’s side. She opened her mouth to warn him, although she didn’t need to because John had already braked. Even so there was a sickening thud and she was knocked back in her seat by the airbags deploying.
A little grimly, she noted this was the second accident within a year. She wondered if there was going to be a third.
The car was stopped and the airbags had deflated, but that wasn’t what concerned Sophie. John appeared to be unconscious. Unfastening her belt, she leaned over to check him. Because Sophie’s mother was a trained paramedic she had made sure that both her daughters knew all the basics.
John was breathing steadily but didn’t respond to Sophie’s voice or a mild shake, so he was definitely unconscious. Not good. There was a lump forming on the side of his head, so it seemed clear he had taken a hit from something, either the airbag or the buckled driver’s side door.
Someone wrenched her door open and helped her out. She reached for her phone, but the woman who had helped her waggled her own phone at her. Emergency services were on the way.
Six
Two hours later, Sophie was still stuck waiting at the emergency room. Before she had gotten into the ambulance with John, she had collected all of their things and rung his rental car agency, which had arranged to have the car towed. While she waited for the doctor to finish with John, she had gotten out her phone and tablet and caught up on some correspondence. Since it was Sunday, there had been no use making any business calls, so she had spent the time revising the business proposal she had given Nick, and which she would now have to present to John.
As she did so, Ben’s words from last night came back to haunt her. “You’re doing business with Nick?” As if it was inconceivable that Sophie was playing with the big boys and cutting deals at the level that Ben and Nick operated.
She did not want to think about Ben, but the hours they had spent together kept pushing back into her mind, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. She kept picking through every moment of last night, trying to work out where things had gone wrong.
In retrospect, business had been the absolute wrong topic of conversation. It had not been the icebreaker she had hoped it would be. By choosing the subject, she guessed a part of her had wanted Ben to understand that she wasn’t just a pretty rich girl who strolled into her big brother’s office occasionally. She had hoped he would notice that she had aspirations and a life, and that life included a vibrant, growing business she had built from the ground up. Instead, Ben had seemed to cool. It was almost as if her business success had made her less attractive to him.
Sophie frowned. She did not want to think that Ben found intelligent, successful women unattractive, but it was a conclusion she had to consider. Especially since she had easily discovered online that the woman he had once been engaged to had been a wealthy socialite who had, by her own admission, enjoyed lunching, shopping and overseas travel.
Since then, nothing much in his dating career had changed. She knew because she had checked. When he did take time out of his busy schedule to date, the women he was photographed with were usually beautiful socialite types who did nothing more strenuous than charity work or a little modeling.
A small but significant thought struck her. They had also all been blonde, even down to his previous fiancée. Why hadn’t she seen that? Or that all he seemed to want was a pretty, decorative girlfriend who was just around at strategic times—like at night.
Speaking of blondes, it suddenly occurred to her that the reason Ben had had to leave so suddenly could be another date with Buffy. Feeling instantly annoyed by the thought, she looked up Buffy’s most trafficked social media page. She hadn’t checked it for a couple of weeks, because she had been so busy putting together the business proposal for Nick, but the instant the page opened she realized how big a mistake that had been. Buffy’s interest in Ben had escalated exponentially and suddenly her page was all about Ben.
Sophie no longer had to die wondering why Ben had left her bed in the early hours of the morning, because Buffy knew. Apparently, Ben had arrived in New York on the redeye flight that morning in order to be there for a mega-important charity event, with Buffy.
She scrolled through posts, a number of which she hadn’t seen. Ben, despite a heavy work schedule, apparently taking time out to be with Buffy at the opening of her father’s new building in Manhattan; Buffy on-site at one of Ben’s construction projects, wearing a hard hat. Buffy in a skimpy bikini that showed off a number of edgy tattoos, posing with Ben on her father’s s
uperyacht.
Sophie closed the app abruptly. She hadn’t taken the Buffy thing seriously because Ben had dated a number of women during the past few months, and Buffy with her rock-chick tattoos and piercings just hadn’t seemed to be his type. But maybe tattoos were Ben’s thing? Also, Ben had extensive business dealings with Buffy’s father, Mathew Holt, which further explained the Buffy connection. The clincher had been that Buffy had a habit of sensationalizing her social media posts, some of which had turned out to be “fake news.”
Was Buffy’s relationship with Ben fake or real? From where she was standing now, it was beginning to look disturbingly real.
Pushing to her feet, she stalked to the end of the corridor and stared down at the parking lot outside. Her heart was pounding and, as hard as she was trying to stay cool and composed, misery kept pulsing through her in waves.
She was beginning to understand just how big a mistake she had made in sleeping with Ben. She had sidelined her normal clinical approach and had allowed frustrated desire to color her decision. Using the strategy Elena had used to net Nick hadn’t worked because of one basic flaw that now seemed glaringly obvious: what had worked with Nick would not necessarily work with Ben. She knew that Ben was liked and respected by her brothers and honorable and trustworthy in ways that counted with men, but for reasons she only partially understood, he was not that way with women.
Sophie paced some more, ending up near the public restrooms. On impulse, she went into the women’s room and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Her hair, pinned in its loose knot, was so dark it was close to black. Her eyes were also dark, her features fine, bordering on delicate—except for her chin, which was firm. Even to herself she looked just a little too incisive and direct to be truly pretty, and there was not a hint of cheesecake.
