Today, he’d lost everything.
He’d always thought of Dr. DeWitt as a mentor and a father figure. He knew the old man was a wily bastard, but he’d always admired his tenacity to get what he wanted. He’d trusted the man despite that, thinking that because Jonathan was one of his closest friends, there was a level of respect between them.
Turns out it was all bullshit. DeWitt had lied to him about Violet just to get him to stay and continue financing things, and he’d happily done so.
Meanwhile, he’d abandoned the woman he loved, who had been pregnant and afraid.
And she’d lost their baby and blamed him for it.
He threw back another glass of Scotch, then just grabbed the bottle from the bartender and started to drink.
Violet hated him. He’d been so fucking overjoyed to find out that she wasn’t married, that she’d never been married, because it meant that somewhere, somehow, he could still make Violet his.
Now, that dream was gone. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t make her love him again, not with the shadow of a miscarriage—a miscarriage that was his fault—between them.
He’d lost her for good, and this time there was nothing he could do to fix it.
Jonathan chugged the Scotch. It tasted like shit, but what did it matter?
Nothing did. Nothing mattered anymore.
The Next Day
Violet flicked off the TV in her hotel room and glanced over at the phone. She debated for a minute, then called down to the front desk. “Hello. I’m looking for Mr. Lyons. Could you patch me through to his room?”
The operator connected her. The phone rang for several minutes, just as it had last night. No one picked up. He wasn’t answering.
She was starting to get concerned. Not that Jonathan was pouting and ignoring her—she didn’t care about that—but that he wasn’t contacting her at all. She felt emotionally drained after her big confession, like a hollow shell of Violet DeWitt. She wasn’t even angry anymore, just tired. So tired. More than anything, she just wanted to be done with him and go back to her nice, quiet life.
Weren’t they supposed to be doing this stupid scavenger hunt together? Just sitting in a room in New Mexico felt like a huge waste of time, but what could she do? She was pretty sure that if she just up and went back home to Detroit, he’d withhold the money he’d dangled in front of the school and state that she’d reneged on her end of the deal. What would the school do if she cost them the money? They wouldn’t be happy, that was for sure, especially the next time that budget cuts came around.
But seriously, exactly how long was she supposed to stay in her room and watch episodes of House Hunters while waiting on him?
She clicked off the remote a moment later and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Fine. If he wasn’t going to answer her phone calls, maybe he’d answer when she showed up at his door and explain to her what the hell was going on. Violet slipped on a pair of shoes and tossed a sweater over her T-shirt, then headed down to the lobby.
She approached the front desk and gave the woman there a polite smile. “Could you please tell me which room is Mr. Lyons’s? I’m working with him on a project and can’t seem to connect with him at the moment.”
The girl at the front desk bit her lip.
“What?” Violet asked.
“I can tell you what room is his,” she said quietly, “but he’s not in it.”
Alarm pounded in Violet’s veins. “Where is he, then?”
“The bar.”
The bar? That didn’t sound like Jonathan. He wasn’t much of a drinker except in social situations. That was one of the reasons she’d fallen for him originally; he was a refreshing change from her alcoholic mother. Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten in the morning. What on earth? “You’re sure?”
The girl nodded. “He’s been there since I started my shift late last night.”
All day? Frowning, Violet thanked her and headed over to the hotel bar. The bar area was dark and atmospheric despite the early hour . . . and deserted. Chairs were flipped over on tables, and someone ran a vacuum over the carpets. Violet scanned the room and paused when she saw a booth in the far back still covered in half-drunk bottles. There was a pile of laundry on one corner of the table.
When the laundry moved, though, Violet realized that it was a person. Jonathan. Pursing her lips, Violet strode forward. She made a mental note of the empty bottles of vodka, the myriad glasses on the table with red stirring straws and residue on the rim, remnants of mixed drinks past. There were several near-empty bottles of Crown Royal, a few other liquors she didn’t recognize, and in this sea of bottles, Jonathan appeared to be asleep, his head resting on the table. His jacket had been pulled over his face as if to hide it from sunlight. Her lip curled in disgust. There was nothing worse than a drunk.
She’d had a lot of experience with sloppy drunks. Her mother had been one, and Violet had spent her childhood making excuses for her mother’s behavior. She hated seeing someone normally so vibrant and intelligent dulled by drink. It filled her with a helpless anger.
She reached over the bottles and snatched the jacket up. “Jonathan?”
He groaned and sat up with a jerk, peering at her. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his face was unshaven, and his hair was a mess. His suit was wrinkled, and it looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing when she’d last seen him. His gaze focused on her, and that stark expression returned to his face. “Ah, fuck. Violet.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed, throwing his jacket at him.
His mouth twisted to the side. “The better question might be to ask, what isn’t wrong with me?”
She ignored that. “Have you been drinking all night?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged his shoulders and reached for one of the bottles with alcohol still in it. “Don’t care.”
“Well, I care.”
He smiled thinly. “We both know that’s a lie, Violet.”
She bit her nails, thinking. “Aren’t we supposed to be going on to Egypt and looking for your stele so we can continue this pointless little scavenger hunt?”
“Like you just said,” he slurred. “It’s pointless.” He raised his glass to her and then chugged it.
She drummed her fingers on her arm. This wasn’t like Jonathan. Getting excited over minor discoveries? Chasing down adventures? That was Jonathan. This miserable drunk in front of her who didn’t care? That wasn’t Jonathan. If anyone could accuse Jonathan Lyons of something, it was that he cared too much and tended to get too wrapped up.
She frowned to herself. Actually, that wasn’t always true either. He’d abandoned her . . . hadn’t he? That wasn’t the action of a man who cared too much. Unless everything she’d thought had been a lie . . .
Either way, she was his partner until they were done, for better or for worse. “Jonathan, please. We need to continue this. Not because I particularly care what little scheme my father has cooked up, but because I have students to get back to, and I can’t until you release me. You’re holding me here.”
“I wish I was holding you,” he said, and there was such bleakness in his tone that it made her suck in a breath.
“Very funny, Jonathan,” she said, hating that her voice shook. “You know what I meant. You have me here until we’re finished with this, so let’s get going.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, he traced a finger around the rim of a dirty glass and then gave her a morose, red-eyed stare. “No, Violet, I don’t think I ever had you.”
“If you’re going to be like this, I’m going back up to my room,” she warned.
He shrugged, poured himself another drink in the dirty glass, and raised it in a toast. “Bottom’s up.”
Violet stormed away, angry and confused. Why was he acting like this? What she’d told him had been no surprise . . . was
it? Even if she asked him, could she trust that what he told her was the truth?
All of a sudden, she didn’t know anymore.
—
That night, she called down to the front desk again. “Is he still in the bar?”
“He is,” the front desk clerk assured her. “We can’t get him to leave. The bartender keeps slipping him glasses of water so he doesn’t get alcohol poisoning, but we’re starting to get concerned.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Violet said. This had to stop. He was going to drink himself into kidney damage if he wasn’t careful. She hung up the phone and headed down to the lobby, then made a beeline for the bar. Sure enough, Jonathan was still there in his regular spot. The liquor from earlier had been replaced by all new bottles. Now, it seemed, he was drinking tequila. He was upright—barely—a shot glass in one hand. The front of his Superman shirt was stained with alcohol.
He didn’t even look up as she approached, just stared morosely at one of the bottles.
“Jonathan,” Violet said, moving to stand by his table and crossing her arms over her chest. It was her very best Angry Schoolteacher pose and never failed to make her students pay attention. “This has got to stop.” When he didn’t respond, she reached over and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Jonathan!”
Jonathan stared up at her, and his eyes were so wounded that she ached inside. “Violet.”
“You need to stop this. Seriously.”
His mouth drew slowly into a lazy smile. “Why?”
“Well, first of all, you’re starting to smell like a bar. And second of all, this isn’t healthy.”
“Does it matter?”
“Please,” she cajoled, changing her tone. Maybe if she tried a different tactic, she could get through to him. “You’re scaring me, Jonathan.”
“What’s it matter? You hate me, Violet.” The look in his eyes was stark. “You’ve made that clear.”
She felt a twinge of pity. “That doesn’t mean I want to watch you drink yourself to death. Now, please. Come up to bed.”
For a moment, his eyes lit up and he stood up from the table, his tall body weaving. “Your bed?”
“No!”
He sat back down again.
Violet gave him an exasperated look. “Really, Jonathan?”
He ignored her and began to pour another drink.
She reached over and grabbed the bottle out of his hand, and he glared at her. “You need to stop. This isn’t like you.”
Jonathan shook his head slowly, his messy hair sliding over his forehead. “How would you know, Violet? You haven’t seen me in ten years. Maybe I decided to drink after you left me.”
She carefully pried the glass out of his fingers. “You said it dulls the senses, and you don’t like yours dulled. I remember that.”
He shook his head, not looking at her. “I don’t want to remember anything right now.”
Another twinge of pity. Damn it. “Jonathan, just come on. Let’s get you back to your room and get you into your bed, all right?”
He simply put his head down on the table and morosely stared at one of the bottles.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” One of the waitstaff came over. “I can help you take him up to his room, if you like.”
“No, we’re fine,” she said with a small smile of appreciation. “Has he been like this the whole time?”
The man nodded. “When he’s not crying.”
“Crying?” Violet was horrified. She’d never seen Jonathan cry. She couldn’t even imagine it. Even when they’d fought, he’d just stared at her with those grim, smoldering eyes.
“Yeah. We figured someone died. Keeps saying he lost her.” The man shrugged. “You going to pay his bill? It’s a big one.”
Her heart twinged again. Someone had died. But Jonathan hadn’t cared about the baby . . . had he? She shook the thought off. “No, I’m going to get him out of here. He can pay his own bill. The girl at the front desk can add it to his room.” She pulled money out of her pocket and offered it to him as a tip. “Thank you for your help, though.”
The man nodded and took the twenty. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He left as she knelt down next to Jonathan’s table. She studied him for a long moment, thinking about the man’s words. Crying as if he’d lost someone. Lost her. She reached out and stroked his arm with her hand, and her voice was softer this time. “Jonathan. Come on. Let’s get you up to your room, all right?”
Jonathan turned to her, propping his head up on his arm as he gazed in her direction. “You know I loved you, Violet?” His voice was soft.
“I know. But that was a long time ago.”
He shook his head, just a little. “Never changed for me,” he said, his words slurred thickly. “Never stopped. Too late now, though.”
Keeps saying he lost her.
Now she wanted to cry. She couldn’t bury ten years of festering hatred in a night, but she could pity a man who was clearly miserable. “If you love me, won’t you come up to your room?”
“Doesn’t matter if I love you or not,” he murmured. “Lost you anyhow.”
Violet thought for a moment. “If you go up to your room and get to bed, I’ll kiss you.”
Slowly, he sat up, and she felt the urge to laugh. So she’d found the carrot that would entice the donkey, had she? “But you hate me, Violet.”
“I hate you being drunk here more. The offer stands.” She got to her feet and extended him a hand. “You go up to your room and I’ll kiss you. If you don’t, you can just stay here with your bottles.”
Jonathan got up from the table so quickly he nearly knocked it over, the glassware rattling noisily. He wove unsteadily on his feet, but his intense gaze was back on her. “Come kiss me, then.”
“Uh uh,” she told him. “Up to your room, first.” When he started to slouch again, she put an arm around his waist and got a good whiff of his breath. “Up to your room, and after you have some mouthwash, that is.”
That got a drunk chuckle from him, and he wrapped his arms around her, dragging her against his front. He inhaled deeply, burying his nose in her hair. “Forgot how good you smell.” His words were almost a moan of pure joy, and it sent a shock wave through her body.
“You’re drunk,” she reminded him with a pat on the arm. “Now, let go and we’ll get you upstairs, okay?”
He leaned on her heavily as they made their way—slowly—toward the lobby elevator. The girl at the front desk gave her a grateful look as Violet passed by, and held the elevator open for them as Violet and her handsy, drunken companion continued to grab her and exclaim how wonderful her hair smelled. Eventually, though, she got him up to his room and managed to get the keycard out of his wallet and in the door.
“Almost there,” she encouraged.
“Almost to kissing?”
She stifled a laugh at the tipsy hope in his voice. “Almost.”
They wobbled their way across his suite to his bed, and he collapsed into it, flopping onto his back with a groan. Violet pulled back just in time before he dragged her down with him, though her chin-length hair went flying. “Ooof.”
“In bed,” he said, as proud as if he’d accomplished something. He raised his arms, clearly expecting her to leap into them.
She snorted. “Fat chance.” She glanced down at his legs and then gestured at his feet. “Let’s get those shoes off of you, okay?” Violet leaned in and bent over to untie his laces. For a billionaire with tons of money, he sure did have some grubby sneakers on.
“I don’t mind when you’re angry at me, you know.”
She continued to work on a knot in the laces. “That’s a good thing, then, because I’m angry at you a lot.”
“It’s when you ignore me I can’t stand it. When you give up on me and cut me out. It’
s like you’re gone again, and I hate it.”
Damn it, she needed to stop feeling sorry for the man. Pulling viciously on his shoe, she managed to tug it off and tossed it to the floor. His sock followed a moment later. “Other foot now.”
“Miss you,” he said softly.
She ignored him, prying off his other shoe, then jerked off his sock. “There we go. You should probably take off your jacket, too. And that shirt is filthy. Come on.”
He sat up slowly, and she helped him remove his clothing. When his shirt came off, he groaned and fell back on the bed, scratching his chest. “Man, that’s good.”
She gazed down at his chest in surprise. She remembered a tall, lanky Jonathan with a lean, boyish chest and nary a chest hair. He’d filled out. His arms were tanned and brawny, ripped with muscle. His pectorals were furred with a light sprinkling of dark chest hair, and there was a trail down his abdomen that just begged to be followed. Violet felt the oddest urge to run her fingers along the cords of his muscles and see if they felt as hard as they looked. Oh, Jesus. He even had a super flat abdomen and little taut ridges down at his hips. Oh, that was sexy.
God, that wasn’t fair. Ten years had passed. He should be gross and balding, not hotter than she’d ever seen him.
And he was gazing up at her with that dopey, drunken smile on his face while she was lusting over his tanned, tight abs. She saw an ugly black tattoo of skulls and money on his upper arm. “Drunken night in Rio?”
“Nope.” And he just smiled at her. “Do I get my kiss now?”
“Boy, you sure did fixate on that, didn’t you?” Violet muttered, but she considered him for a long moment. At least he was out of the damn bar. “Brush your teeth first.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s yes, Ms. DeWitt,” she corrected in a sassy voice, then wanted to slap herself for flirting with her drunken ex-lover. Terrible idea, Violet. This man was bad news. She just needed to keep reminding herself that. “Go on.” She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the bathroom. “Brush up.”