No, I’m sure I’ll never begin to understand that.
As for the rest, I only wish I could pretend that I don’t know anything about the dark place Nick had been that night, drunk and alone in his private office at the back of the gallery. But I do know about that. I know what it’s like to feel broken. To feel irreparably damaged. Angry and hopeless. Empty.
I know because I’ve been there too.
If Nick had never entered my life, I might still be there.
If not for him, I might still be lost, still running away from the past that nearly destroyed me. Still afraid to believe my life would ever get better, that I might ever be happy.
Or worthy of being loved.
Regardless of his motives, Nick has given me more than any man I’ve ever known. I love him with every fiber of my being, yet I’m allowing fear and insecurity drive a deeper wedge between us.
I thought time away from him would be easier for me. I should have known, it’s never easy being separated from Nick. A year’s worth of practice wasn’t enough the first time. Now that I know he still cares for me—after hearing him say that he’s still in love with me—the only place I truly want to be is back in his arms.
“God, I’m an idiot.”
Standing beside me in a glittering hotel ballroom full of Manhattan’s gowned and tuxedoed elite, my friend Lita lifts her brows as she stares at me over the rim of her champagne glass. “An idiot for bringing me as your date to this fancy shindig? Don’t say I didn’t warn you. These aren’t exactly my people.”
It’s true, she was reluctant to come with me. Complaining she had nothing suitable to wear to Kathryn Tremont’s foundation auction at the elegant five-star hotel, Lita is absolutely beautiful in a vintage-looking black tea-length dress with chiffon sleeves that veil her tattooed arms in mystery and sweet kitten heels. The outfit, she informed me when we met outside the hotel tonight, is actually a theater costume she got on loan from a designer friend who works off-Broadway.
“You’re not the problem,” I tell her. “And you look amazing, by the way. Thank you again for stepping in tonight on short notice. I really didn’t want to come alone.”
She eyes me narrowly as I take a sip from my glass. “Then what’s the matter? You having second thoughts about breaking up with Brandon?”
“No, it’s not that. Ending things with Brandon is the only smart decision I’ve made in the past several days.”
“Smart and overdue,” she says. “He seems like a nice guy and all, but the two of you didn’t make a lot of sense if you ask me.”
I concede with a small nod. “You’re right about him on both counts. He was totally accepting when I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. And since he didn’t seem surprised or upset, it only confirmed that I was making the right choice for both of us.”
Lita tilts her glass toward mine. “Here’s to making smart choices.”
We both take a drink, but she’s still looking at me expectantly. “What?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask where the idiocy part comes in.” Her ruby-red stained lips purse for an instant. “Oh, shit. Tell me this is not about Dominic-fucking-Baine.”
At that same moment, some of Kathryn’s society friends glide past Lita and me on their way to circulate with other guests. The pack of glamorous older women pause to say hello to me, temporarily stalling the lecture I’m certain is coming from my friend.
Lita smiles and politely shakes hands as I introduce her, but she doesn’t miss a beat once we’re alone again. “Have you hopped back into bed with that asshole? Because then we’re talking about idiot choices.”
“Nick’s not an asshole.” I blow out a resigned sigh. “Well, sometimes he is. But that’s beside the point. And no, I haven’t slept with him.”
“But you want to and that’s almost as bad.” She hands her empty glass to a passing waiter then folds her arms, studying me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You still love him, don’t you?”
I shrug and down the last swallow of my champagne.
“What happened to ‘I’m over him, I’ve moved on, end of story?’”
“I’m not, I haven’t, and . . . maybe it isn’t.”
“Idiot.” Lita rolls her eyes, but she’s also laughing. “And now you just cost me fifty bucks to Matt.”
My mouth drops open. “You two had money riding on whether I’d get back together with Nick?”
She holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, the money was Matt’s idea. I wanted him to clean the studio for a month if I won.”
I snort in spite of myself. “Jerks.”
Lita grins. “Yeah, but what would you do without us?”
We’re still laughing when I feel a strong, warm palm settle against the center of my back. A masculine hand, no doubt about it. Given Nick’s tangled, acrimonious past with Kathryn Tremont, I don’t expect to see him anywhere near this event, but that doesn’t keep my heart from leaping in surprise—in tempered hope—as I turn my head to see who’s behind me.
The tall, broad-shouldered man with the long, wavy brown hair and the slow, sexy grin that’s now trained on me isn’t Nick, but I’m still happy to see him.
“Jared! Hi.”
“Avery.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. “Always a pleasure to see you, darlin’,” he says in his smooth southern drawl. Framed in thick lashes, his molasses-brown eyes drink me in without a trace of shame. “Kathryn mentioned you were coming tonight. Unfortunately, she also mentioned that you were seeing someone. Which of these tuxedoed monkeys is the lucky guy?”
I can’t help but smile at Jared’s laid-back bad-boy charm. Looking at him it would be easy to mistake the muscular, ruggedly handsome man for a blue jeans model or a displaced cowboy out for a good time in the big city, but Jared Rush’s talent far exceeds his panty-melting looks.
A renowned painter whose edgy portraits fetch millions, Jared is also a close friend of Kathryn Tremont’s. In fact, she posed for him years ago when he painted Beauty, the unflinchingly intimate portrait of her on display at Dominion.
“I guess I’m the lucky guy,” Lita blurts. “I mean, not that I’m a guy. And not that Avery and I are dating or anything. We’re only together for tonight. But not together-together. Shit.” She winces, her teeth sinking into her lip as if to stanch the uncontrolled flow of words from pouring out of her mouth. Awkwardly, she clears her throat. “We’re friends.”
Jared chuckles. I stare at Lita wide-eyed and amused. It’s rare to see my tough friend rattled. And while Jared has that effect on most women, I suspect Lita’s awe is more professional in nature.
Still smiling, I make the introductions. “Jared Rush, this is my good friend and fellow artist Lita Frasier. We share studio space in East Harlem.”
He extends his hand to her. “Lita, honored to meet you. Aren’t you the artist commissioned to do the lobby sculpture for the Dektech building over in Brooklyn Heights?”
Her jaw goes slack. “I . . . um, yeah. I am. That is, I was. I, uh, sort of quit today.”
I gape at her. “You what?” I know how excited she was to land the high-profile job, how immersed she’s been in the original work of art she designed for Derek Kingston’s new office building. “Lita, what happened?”
“Suffice it to say the project parameters changed midstream and I can’t work like that.” She gives me a look that speaks volumes. It also warns me that she doesn’t want to discuss it in front of Jared.
“Sorry to hear it,” he says, then quirks a cocky smile. “I don’t know Kingston personally, but I’ve heard he can be a tyrant to work with.”
“When he’s not being an absolute toddler,” Lita mutters.
Jared laughs. “Remember, we’re talking about a man who’s gone from world-famous rockstar to billionaire tech CEO practically overnight. I suppose toddler and tyrant are two sides of that same coin.”
Lita huffs. “Yeah, well, Derek will have to try to cash that coin in with someone else. I’m out.”
/> “His loss, I’m sure,” Jared says. He glances my way, turning the full impact of that megawatt smile on me now. “Will you be around after the auction? I have to go play emcee for Kathryn now, but I’d love the chance to catch up. I’ll come find you.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. With typical Jared charm and swagger, he tells Lita it was a pleasure to meet her, then heads off for the stage, the clusters of auction attendees cutting a path for him as he strolls through the center of the gathered crowd.
“Wow,” Lita murmurs after he’s gone. “So, that’s Jared Rush.”
“That’s him.” I glance at her, frowning. “You want to tell me what happened between you and Derek Kingston today?”
“Not really.” She gives me an exasperated look. “You know I will. But first, the ladies’ room, okay? It’s gonna take me ten minutes just to figure out how to pee in this dress.”
We exit the ballroom and instead of turning left outside the doors where dozens of other women are headed, I take Lita in the other direction, toward a quiet hallway off the beaten path.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” she asks as we turn a corner and the din of the party grows fainter behind us.
“One benefit of attending these kinds of events with Nick is that I also learned where to find the best restroom options.” I wink at her as I push open the creamy door to the ladies’ room and we step inside to blessed peace and quiet spread out before us in soothing cream and gold tones. Best of all, no lines.
Lita grins. “You’re a genius. Now help me unzip this fucking dress before I burs—”
A low moan interrupts us.
It’s a faint, but anguished sound, coming from the farthest stall.
“Hello?” I call out. Lita tries to hold me back, but I shake my head and walk cautiously toward the sound as it comes again, more pained this time. On the heels of it, a thready wheeze.
The stall door is closed, no gap beneath it and the louvered shutters that make up the panel are there for privacy, showing nothing of the occupant who’s clearly in serious distress.
“Hello?” I say again. “Are you all right in there?”
A small, shaky voice answers me. “Avery?”
“Oh, my God.” I glance back at Lita in alarm. “It’s Kathryn.”
I grab for the latch on the stall door, but it’s locked from inside.
“Kathryn, what happened? Do you need your medicine?”
Lita is right beside me now, her expression looking about as anxious and helpless as I feel. I jiggle the latch again, but the damn thing doesn’t give.
“Freaking high-class bathrooms and their sturdy doors,” Lita grumbles under breath. “Do you want me to try to kick it in?”
She’s already taking off her kitten heels. I shake my head, frowning. Inside the stall, Kathryn groans again, weaker than before. Then she retches violently.
“Shit, Avery. Don’t you think we should call someone to help—”
“No.” This time it’s Kathryn who answers. Her raspy shout is full of agony, but it’s also sharp with authority. “Goddamn it, don’t call anyone.”
Behind the closed door she’s panting, still wheezing with the misery of her advancing disease. The toilet flushes. After a moment, I hear the rustle of a long silk skirt, the unsteady scrape of a high heel on the polished marble floor.
The lock snicks free, then Kathryn Tremont slowly opens the stall door. I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks, yet the woman I’m looking at now seems to have aged ten years since then. Her late-stage cancer is to blame for that. Kathryn’s lovely face is gaunt and ashen. Her steel-gray hair, still elegant in its twisted chignon, is dull beneath the soft light of the ladies’ room. Her wise, dark eyes hold me in an affectionate, if pleading, stare.
“I’m fine now,” she murmurs behind the wadded length of toilet tissue she holds to her mouth. “I just need a little drink of water . . . and some . . . air.”
She takes half a step out of the stall before her knees give out and her tall, frail body begins to sag toward the floor. Lita and I both leap into action, each of us taking an arm and carefully helping Kathryn out to one of the cushioned settees in the adjacent washroom.
I’m taken aback by the extent of her weakness. With her eyes closed and her rail-thin body slumped into the small sofa, it’s a stark reminder of just how far Kathryn’s cancer has advanced. Lita recognizes it too.
“I’ll get some water,” she says, leaving me to try to reason with our unexpected charge.
I press the back of my hand to Kathryn’s brow. Her skin is clammy, but her forehead is burning up. “How do you feel?” I ask quietly.
Her cracked, pale lips stretch into a wry smile. “Like I’m dying, dear.”
She attempts to sit up, but can barely manage to lift her shoulders off the cushioned seat. “You need rest, Kathryn. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think you need to go to the hospital.”
“For what? So they can run a bunch of tests and tell me I’m dying?” She barks out a rattling laugh. “I’m a tough old bird. I’m going to go when I damn good and ready.”
I smile sadly, shaking my head. “I think your stubbornness is what’s gotten you this far.”
“Don’t you forget it.” Her eyelids lift and I see a small spark of determination light in her weary gaze. “Help me up now. I need to get back to the ballroom.”
I’m skeptical, but I say nothing as Lita brings a disposable cup of water from the tap and hunkers down in front of Kathryn to give it to her. Kathryn’s hands shake terribly, but she succeeds in taking a few small sips.
“All right, let’s get on with it,” she says, pushing the cup back at Lita. “I feel much better now.”
Lita’s glance is as dubious as mine, but we do our best to assist Kathryn to her feet. Her limbs feel boneless, uncooperative beneath her. After a couple of failed attempts to stand, she sinks back down onto the settee with a deep sigh.
“You need to be in bed resting,” I tell her. “If you won’t go to a hospital then you need to let me find someone to take you home. Where’s your driver tonight?”
“I can’t leave now,” she mumbles, already fading again. “Tell my driver I have to . . . I have to get to the hotel before . . . the auction starts . . .”
“Go find Jared,” I instruct Lita as Kathryn slips into a faint. “Explain the situation to him and let him know I’m going to make sure she gets home. He’s going to have to carry the whole event tonight and make some kind of excuse to cover Kathryn’s absence. He’ll know what to do.”
Lita nods. “You’re sure we shouldn’t call 911 or something?”
“There’s nothing any of those people can do for her.” I exhale an ironic, humorless breath. “Kathryn Tremont would rather die than create a scene with an ambulance and a stretcher carrying her out of her own soiree.” I glance back down at the woman who’s become an unlikely friend and confidante to me. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
Lita casts me a sober look. “Keep me posted. Call me if you need anything.”
I nod. “Thanks, Lita.”
After she goes, I retrieve Kathryn’s evening bag from where she dropped it in the bathroom stall. Her cell phone is locked with a passcode, so there’s no way for me to call her driver even if I could find the number in her contacts.
“Shit.” I’m not about to leave her alone to go looking for him. I walk back out to where she’s slumped on the sofa, her breathing shallow, her fever still burning under my fingertips as I gently stroke her brow.
I deliberate only for a moment before I reach into my small clutch and push the number I still know by heart.
“Nick?” I murmur as soon as I hear his deep voice answer. “I need you. Please, come now.”
Chapter 10
“Bring her around this way, Nick.” Avery glances back at me as I carry Kathryn from my car toward the palatial Fifth Avenue residence.
I had been waiting nearly four days for some wor
d from her, trying my damnedest to uphold my agreement to give Avery time and space to decide if there was still anything left between us to salvage. I would have gone to her anytime, under any condition she set, but nothing could have kept me from her once I heard her emotion-choked voice on the other end of the line.
Not even my acrimonious past with the unresponsive woman draped lifelessly in my arms.
I may have my reasons for mistrust when it comes to Kathryn Tremont, but it’s obvious that she means something to Avery. What’s also painfully obvious is the fact that Kathryn’s health is even worse than I realized. She’s little more than a bag of bones in my arms, the vibrant force of nature I met when I first arrived in New York eaten away by the cancer she’s been fighting off and on for nearly a decade.
At the mansion’s back door Avery and I are met by a couple of household staff, one of them an olive-skinned male who looks attractive enough to be a runway model and young enough to be Kathryn’s grandson. The other attendant is a sturdy middle-aged female wearing crisp nurse’s whites, her graying ginger hair scraped into an austere bun on top of her head.
The male’s eyes go wide with alarm as soon as they light on us, a small, helpless noise leaking out of him. The nurse looks equally concerned, but wastes no time getting to work.
“Stubborn woman. I tried to tell her she was in no shape to be going out tonight.” Pushing aside Kathryn’s apparent flavor-of-the-month, the nurse motions for Avery and me to follow her. “All right, let’s get her in bed and comfortable so I can stabilize her and check her vitals.”
Avery walks soberly alongside me as we follow the attendant through the sprawling residence. Instead of going upstairs to one of the ten bedrooms I know are located on the second floor, we are led past a pair of tall double doors that open into the opulent salon at the front of the house.
The art-filled chamber where Kathryn used to entertain the most elite of Manhattan’s social scene has been transformed into a private hospital suite. The fortune in paintings and sculpture still remains inside the high-ceilinged room, but the new focal point is a king-size adjustable bed draped in a champagne silk duvet and flanked by wheeled medical machines and portable IV stands. A table cluttered with enough prescription bottles and pain killers to outfit a small pharmacy sits off to the side of the bed.