Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1)

by Paula Dickson

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she sat on the chair that faced her dad.

  Mr. Bennett went straight to business. “So, tell me about this special friend of yours.”

  She let out a deep breath and took a sip of the alcohol, preparing herself to speak to her father about a man for the first time in years.

  “He’s smart and intimidating but he can be sweet at the same time, though he tries to hide it. I find that I don’t have to explain myself to him because he understands me. He gives me what I need without me having to ask. He makes me excited about life and at peace with who I am.”

  “You’re in love.” He clicked glasses. Although her father said it as a statement, Abigail heard it as a question she must answer.

  “No. It’s too early for that.”

  “And who are you to set a timeline on love? You spend too much time with your mother,” he mumbled under his breath. “Abby, honey, love knows not of time. Look at Michael. He’s been with Niall for six months and they’re getting married. Is their love any lesser than your mother’s and I’s because we’ve known each other for twenty years? Definitely not. Why can’t you fall in love with a man in two or three months?”

  She shrugged, not bothering with a rebuttal because she had none.

  She wasn’t in love with anyone.

  She definitely wasn’t in love with Preston.

  She wouldn’t know how to fall for any man for that matter. Her feet could be centimeters from the top of the edifice of love, but she wouldn’t know how to take the step needed to let herself go. The fact she didn’t have a parachute didn’t make it any easier.

  The one thing she was sure of, was that she cared deeply for Preston. But she needed to know him wholly before she took that last step. There were parts of himself he hid from her.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that I’m not in love, Dad.”

  “You might not be, but this man is. No man spends $480,090 on a bottle of whiskey for his girlfriend’s father unless he’s in love with her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Judith Trice held a handkerchief to her nose as she tried her best to contain her emotions. Walking into The Mount Sinai Hospital of New York was the equivalent of a trip to Hell in her eyes. Her skin turned red and clammy with fire and sweat as she walked past nurses, doctors, and grieving families. Her body visibly shook as memories from the past threatened to flood her mind.

  She focused on the clickety-clack of her Mary Jane’s as they sprinted across the linoleum floor. If she focused on anything else, she’d burst into tears. If she were to close her eyes for merely a minute, she’d find her husband dead before her again.

  It was said time healed all wounds.

  Mrs. Trice gave the middle finger to all who praised such blasphemy. Clearly, those people had never seen their husband of thirty-six years deprived of life.

  Ten years had passed since his death and her grief was an everyday occurrence. She spent hours looking at old photographs, talking to him as if he were still skin and bones and not a distant memory of her past. She carried him with her everywhere she went like she did his favorite piece of accessory.

  She smiled, thinking of the arrogant Greek who’d stolen her heart and had ruled her world.

  It’d been hate at first sight for Judith.

  She’d hated how the girls in her class objectified Giorgio, viewing and treating him like an out-of-this world entity when in reality all he was was foreign. What boiled her blood the most was his enjoyment of the gaudy attention.

  Seeing she was immune to his seductive looks and sexy accent, his eyes soon turned to her.

  Every corny line out of his mouth was somehow geared toward her. Every smile he shot her way held a different meaning. Every wink that should’ve made her stomach turn in disgust, turned into flappy butterflies.

  Little by little Giorgio Dimitriou wooed her with his swoon-worthy accent and towering presence, and she became the girls she’d criticized. The fact only added to her hatred, which made their sex life explosive, so shattering she married him and gave him two children.

  He’d been the sun in her life for thirty-six years, filling her world with an ever-present light of happiness. Her only regret was hating him when all along she should have loved him.

  “Mom you don’t have to do this,” Beth said, bringing her back to the present.

  “I’m fine, Beth,” she reassured her as she burst through the door of room 215.

  Her heart shrunk at the image before her.

  Her son, her only son, the last human image of her husband was in a hospital bed just as Giorgio had been ten years ago.

  And that’s when the tears started.

  “Oh, Preston what happened?” She rushed to his side, leaving Beth by the door.

  “Nothing. Jacqueline here likes to make a big deal out of every fucking thing.” The same foul language as her beloved husband.

  Preston removed the IV from his arm angrily. He reached for his white shirt and started screwing each button into the slits. He looked pale and the once faint wrinkles on his forehead began to settle.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but you fainted. I had to call an ambulance.”

  “Did you have to call my mother, too?”

  “Preston, enough!” Mrs. Trice abolished. To Jackie, she said, “You did the right thing, Jackie. Don’t let Preston coerce you into thinking otherwise. Now, would you excuse us for a second?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Trice. I should get back to work.”

  The room grew quiet after Jacqueline’s departure.

  Mrs. Trice stared at her son as he nonchalantly screwed his cuff links and fixed his tie, using his reflection on the window as a mirror. Where this man thought he was going she didn’t know. Now he’d been brought to the hospital he wasn’t going to leave unless a doctor told her he didn’t have a tumor.

  To Judith’s wonder, a man wearing a white coat entered the room just as Preston was shrugging into his jacket.

  “Mr. Trice.” He shook hands with her son. “I’m Dr. Doyle Campbell. I’m the doctor assigned to your case.”

  She interrupted their sterile exchange. “I’m Mrs. Trice, his mother, and next-of-kin. Could you tell me what happened? Is he okay to leave now or should he stay overnight?”

  Dr. Campbell met Preston’s eyes, awaiting his approval. After a minute of staring, Judith turned her attention to her son and gave him the Mother Stare. Just as when he was little, he did as her eyes commanded.

  He nodded for the doctor to proceed.

  “Your son was brought to us because of a fainting spell. His chart shows he has low blood levels and low potassium as well, which causes lightheadedness. However, this could also be a result of dehydration, hunger, sleep deprivation, severe migraines.” The doctor looked at his chart. “It says here you’re an architect. I’d suggest you take it easy. Everything should get back to normal if you do.”

  Easy wasn’t an adjective used to describe Preston Dimitriou Trice.

  “You mentioned migraines.” Elizabeth stepped in. “He’s been having those often.”

  “How often?” Dr. Campbell asked Preston.

  “Look, I’m fine. I’m not a ‘case’ you need to be assigned to because there’s nothing wrong with me. I am leaving.”

  Why men thought it wasn’t okay for them to seek help when they obviously needed it, she would never understand. Giorgio had the same stubborn attitude and look where he ended up—in a casket six-feet under Trinity Church Cemetery.

  That was not going to be where she’d visit her son.

  “Mr. Trice you can’t leave without being discharged.”

  “Three times a week.” Blessed was Elizabeth for speaking what her brother didn’t. He shot her stabbing daggers, but she shrugged. “You need to get this checked, Preston. No more excuses.”

  “Mind your own business, Beth. I don’t tell you how to raise your kids, you don’t tell me how to live my life.”

  Mrs. Trice rolled her eyes.

  It was easy
to tune out their childish bickering.

  “My husband, his father, died of brain cancer. It started with mild headaches that developed into severe migraines. By the time we knew what was going on it was too late. I don’t want the same outcome for my son.”

  Dr. Campbell nodded sagely, understanding her worry. “Mr. Trice, due to your family history I would recommend an MRI to be on the safe side and rule things out. If it is a tumor, the faster we detect it the better.”

  Judith turned to her son with pleading eyes.

  “Please, Preston. I can’t lose you, too,” her voice cracked at the end.

  “Okay.” His murmur showed just how scared he was of the results.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes to get you.” Dr. Campbell walked out of the room, leaving the three family members alone.

  “Mom, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me,” Preston said, caging her in his powerful arms.

  “We’ll know soon,” she whispered.

  Preston excelled at many things in his life. One thing he failed at miserably was taking care of himself. If he didn’t change his lifestyle, he’d end up just like Giorgio.

  Judith refused to go through such pain again.

  Although she felt bad for having to guilt her son into getting a brain scan, she was glad he’d agreed to follow through with the procedure. Dr. Campbell was right. If he had a tumor, the earlier they caught it the higher the chances of recovery.

  Thirty minutes later had a nurse taking Preston to the Imaging Center wing of the hospital.

  Three and a half hours later had Judith pacing the small room in circles.

  “Mom, relax. You’re giving me a migraine,” Beth said.

  “They’ve been gone for almost four hours, Beth. It wouldn’t take them this long unless they found something.”

  “Stop worrying. MRIs take about two hours. Who knows if we’ll even get the results today. Joel’s uncle had to wait weeks for his results.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “Oh, Elizabeth you are not making me feel any better.”

  “Mom, there’s no need to worry about the unknown when the truth brings solace to your grim imagination.”

  “My grim imagination?” She rolled her eyes. “Please, Beth. It’s called a mother’s intuition. You’re a mother, you should know.”

  “The difference is that I—” her words got interrupted by Dr. Campbell.

  Mrs. Trice rushed to his side. “Oh, thank God. How is he? How’s my son?”

  “I have good news, Mrs. Trice,” he began as Preston followed suit. “Results usually take longer but your son was very persistent, which is why we took longer than usual. However, the scans showed a healthy brain. No tumor to worry about, which leads me to believe the migraines are caused by stress and a lack of a healthy diet. I’ve prescribed a higher dosage of ibuprofen. It’d be wise f—”

  Preston took the slip from the doctor’s hand and walked out of the room.

  “I apologize for my son’s non-existent manners. Thank you, Dr. Campbell, for your help. I believe you’ve discharged him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The two women followed behind Preston, trying their best to catch up to his long strides. Mrs. Trice was far too old for such cardio activity. She caught her breath once in the underground garage.

  Preston let out a curse, realizing ambulances brought patients, not cars. He pulled out his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Elizabeth stopped him before he dialed for Kenneth.

  “How about we get something to eat?” she tried to lighten the mood but failed. Mrs. Trice and Preston turned to her with haughty eyes. “Jeez, I’m just hungry.”

  “Let this be the last time you two pester me about tumors.”

  She wasn’t fazed by the threatful tone behind his words. Giorgio had been the only man to put her in her place. Judith, however, could put Preston in his place anytime he needed to be reminded of who his mother was.

  Nevertheless, he was right. For ten years, Mrs. Trice and Beth had begged him to get himself checked and he refused to do so, only adding to the stress of his migraines. Now she knew he was fine, all she wanted to do was hug him, which she did—both her children.

  The Trice’s exchanged in a warm hug that brought tears to their eyes.

  “We’re going to be fine.” Preston kissed his mother’s forehead and hugged Elizabeth tighter. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “No, we’re fine. Let’s have lunch before you go back to work. You need to eat something, Preston.”

  On their way to lunch, Mrs. Trice thought of her children—how much they’d grown and how far they’d come in life. The goals she had asked them to fulfill had exceeded her expectations. It was nothing out of the norm. All she had asked of them was to be productive citizens of society. To be respectful and eloquent with a kind heart and good head on their shoulders. And to make her proud to be their mother.

  As she entered the quaint bistro on Beekman Street, she recounted the day of Judith’s wedding. She looked so grown and elegant in her Marchesa gown as she walked down the aisle to Joel with her father guiding her every step. Now she’d been married for eleven years and had three beautiful girls.

  She only wished the same for Preston.

  As Mrs. Trice took a bite of her grilled chicken, she locked eyes with a brunette sitting on the table opposite hers.

  An older woman sat next to her with a handsome tattooed man. The two had been engaged in conversation ever since the Trices walked into the bistro.

  The woman had big round eyes that framed her heart-shaped face. She had a sophisticated glare that didn’t demand attention because her beauty stole reason.

  Judith soon found out the woman wasn’t staring at her as much as she was ogling her son. She bumped his shoulder nonchalantly, although she was screaming on the inside.

  “Preston that woman’s looking at you. Go introduce yourself.”

  “Mother, ple—” her son’s eyes looked like they wanted to bulge out of their socket when he gazed up at the woman.

  And that was when Mrs. Trice saw it.

  It was love at first sight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Aseismic wave followed Abigail’s initial shock when she first saw Preston in a domestic setting on a Wednesday afternoon. She could not comprehend what was happening. But as she watched from across the bistro, Preston was the calmest she had ever seen him.

  He ate lunch with an elderly woman who Abigail assumed was the mother of the gorgeous brunette who sat next to him.

  The similarities between the two women were endless. She’d known they were related since the moment they passed by her table.

  The two held the same petite stature, same chestnut hair, and light eyes.

  Neither looked like Preston, which left Abigail to believe the younger brunette was either his estranged wife or long-term girlfriend.

  Abigail was a woman’s woman.

  The knowledge that she had not only cheated Lauren but destroyed a potential marriage, made her skin crawl in disgust.

  All of a sudden everyone around her knew what she’d done with Preston three days ago. No longer were the two closeted sadomasochists sitting in front of their oblivious family members. The whole world knew of their sexual encounters. Their farce had come to an end.

  And then Preston locked eyes with her.

  His dark eyes depicted a cocktail of surprise with a sprinkle of delight. It wasn’t what she’d expected to see in them. She’d expected him to roar for her to get out of his sight. She’d expected him to leave the restaurant the moment he saw her.

  But he didn’t.

  He stared.

  And stared.

  At his lack of a reaction, she excused herself from the table. Neither Mrs. Sinclair nor Mike paid her any attention. The pair too engrossed in wedding venues to care she was now a low-class mistress.

  In the bathroom, Abigail splashed cold water on her face and cursed herself for not wearing waterproof mascara
. Groaning, she folded a piece of toilet paper and dabbed it under her eyes. As she tried to make herself presentable again, her mind wandered back to Preston.

  She enjoyed the kindness of others. However, she wasn’t used to receiving such a manner from him. Lately, it had been too much too soon.

  He’d forgone their usual hand-written essays for pillow talk. He’d allowed her to sleep in his bed. He’d called her Angel not once, but twice and spent almost half a million dollars on a bottle of whiskey for a man he didn’t know a thing about. All for what?

  Where was her master? And why did her chest feel compressed?

  Looking at her reflection, she calculated her next move.

  She was going to pretend like the family man sitting across from her was a stranger. If he picked her up Friday, she’d confront him and if her theories were confirmed to be true, she’d break things off.

  Simple as that.

  Except it wasn’t that simple.

  Whether Abigail was ready to admit it or not, she cared about Preston in more than just a friendly way. Their bond had evolved over time to an unbreakable alliance. One stronger, deeper than any other. She not only felt physically safe with him but emotionally. She knew she did the same for him, too.

  It’d be hard to throw it all away, especially when she’d been seeking him her whole life. Nevertheless, she had to. She refused to be the other woman.

  Pleased with her conclusion, she threw the paper in the bin and walked out of the bathroom and right into Preston’s chest.

  “Abigail.”

  She ignored the electric shiver that slithered down her spine at the mention of her name.

  “Preston.”

  “What are you—” he stopped mid-question. His brows knitted together. Wrapping his hand around her chin, he tilted her head to his. “You were crying.”

  “It’s the mascara. Excuse me.” She shook his hand off her. The farther she was from him, the easier it was to get away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my table. You should get back to yours, too.”

  He grabbed her before she took another step. He twisted her arms behind her back and her front became acquainted with the wall. “Why are you mad?”