Guy wiped some sweat from his upper lip, his attention fully on Will now as they stared each other down. Will’s fists pumped, his jaw clenched.
Oh, God. Oh, God. “Don’t, Will, please.”
He never even looked at her. “Don’t you touch her.” Will’s voice was little more than a growl.
“You want to take me, boy?”
Will just stared.
Guy took a step closer, highlighting the fact that he was a good four inches shorter and thirty years older than his enemy. Will could kill him.
“Please, Will.” She started to stand and Guy shoved her back on the bed.
It was all Will needed. He lunged at Guy, who ducked fast and whipped out his pistol.
Jocelyn screamed. “No, no!”
Thick fingers curled around the trigger of a gun she’d seen a million times on the counter. A gun even he never had the nerve to pull out when he lost his temper.
Will froze.
“There will be no skin off my back if I shoot the boy who attacked my daughter.”
“He didn’t—”
“Shut up, you little whore!” The words echoed through the loft, so wrong in this place of safety, like a curse screamed in a church.
“Or better yet, why don’t I just put an end to that superstar baseball career of yours? One phone call.” He snorted as if he liked the idea. “One phone call from the sheriff’s office to the University of Miami and you can hang up your cleats, you little prick.” Guy broke into an evil, ugly smile. “Rapists don’t get scholarships. Rapists don’t get drafted to the big leagues. Rapists go to jail.”
Will still didn’t move. Not even his eyes. Only his chest rose and fell with slow, pained breaths as he surely realized who had the real power in this room.
That was something Jocelyn had known since the first time her dad had what she and her mother called “an episode.” But they learned that the only thing to do, the only thing, was to stay calm until it ended. And take what he dished out.
“Get out, Joss,” her father ordered.
She looked down for her T-shirt and suddenly his big hand was on her arm.
“Never mind clothes, just get out.” He yanked her off the bed.
“Hey!” Will stepped closer, inches from the gun still aimed at her. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I could say the same thing to you, Palmer.” He gave Jocelyn a solid push, still looking at Will. “And believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure than to take you off the fucking pedestal this town has you on and see you rot in jail for raping my daughter.”
“He didn’t rape me!”
The back of Guy’s hand cracked across Jocelyn’s face, his wedding ring making contact with her tooth.
Jocelyn slammed her hand over her mouth to fight a sob.
“Stop it!” Will cried. “You’re a goddamn animal!”
Guy shoved the gun right into Will’s gut, making him double forward with a grunt, his eyes popping in horror.
“No one’s gonna blame a sheriff for killing the kid who dragged his daughter into his room and forced himself on her!”
Another sob escaped Jocelyn’s mouth. “Dad, please, please.” She wept the words, her whole body trembling. “Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”
Guy’s shoulders slumped a little as he angled his head to the door. “Go. I’ll take care of you at home.”
“Please,” she cried, grabbing his arm, her near nakedness forgotten. “Don’t shoot him.”
“Go!” he bellowed.
Frightened, she stumbled to the door, turning to take one look at Will when she reached the top of the stairs. His eyes were red-rimmed in fear, his face white, his big, healthy, athletic body at the mercy of a gun six inches from his heart.
She’d done this to him. Her father could destroy Will’s life, everything he’d worked for, all his plans, his future. She loved Will—really, truly loved him—far too much for this.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered before running down the stairs, pausing halfway to grip the railing and listen.
“If you ever, ever go within five feet of my daughter again, I will ruin your name, your face, and your precious fucking arm. You get that?”
Silence.
Squeezing the rail until her knuckles turned white, Jocelyn waited, bracing for a shot, a word, anything.
But there was just silence. Of course Will couldn’t fight for her. Couldn’t risk his life for her. No girl was worth that kind of love.
As long as Guy Bloom was alive, he had the power to ruin Will’s life. The mean, miserable bastard always had the power. So there was only one thing she could do. Let Will go, forever.
She heard Guy’s footsteps and she scrambled to beat him outside, wanting to run across the lawn to their house, hoping to lock herself in the—
He caught up with her at the pool.
“Get in the goddamn house.”
What would he do to her? What did it matter? Nothing could hurt as much as the decision she’d just made. Nothing could hurt as much as losing Will, but she had no other choice. She loved him that much.
Chapter 1
Fifteen Years Later
The situation had gone way past dire.
Will stood in the living room of his next-door neighbor’s house and surveyed the mess, the low, dull throbbing that had pounded at the base of his skull since he’d stopped by at lunchtime rapidly escalating into a screaming mother humper of a headache.
Son of a bitch, it was like a pack of wild dogs lived here instead of one confused, pathetic, and forgotten old man who couldn’t remember his own name.
“William!”
But he knew Will’s name and used it often, in that shaky, feeble voice that threaded down the hall right now.
“William, is that you?”
“It’s me, Guy.” On a sigh that shuddered through his whole body, Will stepped over a pile of magazines that had been torn into a million pieces—the new scrapbooking project, no doubt—and picked up a basket of yarn with threads and spools stuffed inside. He put it on a table next to the remnants of the sandwich Will had made Guy for lunch, then headed down the hall.
“I decided to clean out this old closet,” Guy called from one of the extra bedrooms.
This couldn’t be good.
Shit. Clothes were strewn everywhere: men’s suit jackets, women’s dresses, kids’ shorts, and a small mountain of worn shoes. Where the hell did he get all this crap? His wife had been dead ten years now. Hadn’t he cleaned out anything?
“Guy, what are you doing?” Will fought to keep any anger out of his tone. If he so much as raised his voice by one decibel, Guy cried like a baby, and that ripped Will’s heart into pieces.
“I saw a show called Clean House and got this idea.” Guy stood in a walk-in closet holding a pile of what looked to be old blue jeans. His glasses were crooked, his white hair tufted and messy, his blue knit pullover stained from something red. Punch or Red Zinger tea, probably.
He’d made tea? “Did you remember to turn the stove off?”
“I might have. I was really enjoying this show on that decorating channel. Big black woman gettin’ all in your face about cleaning up stuff.” He grinned, his lemony teeth a testament to years of stinking up the local sheriff’s office with the stench of Marlboros. And yet he lived while his wife had been the one buried by cancer. And his daughter…
Will pushed that thought out of his head.
“I think she was named Nicey. Smart lady.”
Will just stared at him. “Who are you talking about?
“The lady on TV,” Guy said. “She says the secret to happiness is a clean house.”
Will glanced around at the piles of crap. “Looks like you’re a long way from happiness in this house.”
“That’s the thing, Will! That’s the thing about the show. This crew comes in and takes your house apart, sells your stuff in a yard sale, and cleans it so everything is perfect.”
“Everything was perfect,” Will said, p
icking up a bright-yellow dress sized for a young girl. Had he ever even seen Jocelyn in this dress? “Why do you still have this stuff?”
Guy gave him his blankest stare, and God knew he had a shitload of different blank stares. “I don’t know, son.”
Son.
Will had long ago stopped trying to convince the old man that was a misnomer. “C’mon, bud. Let’s make you some dinner and get you situated for the night.”
But Guy didn’t move, just kept looking into the closet wistfully. “Funny, I couldn’t find any of your old clothes. Just girl stuff. Your mother must have thrown them out before she died.”
His mother had moved to Bend, Oregon, with his dad. “Yeah, she must have,” he agreed.
“Do you think they’d come here, Will?”
“Who?”
“The Clean House people. They say if you want to be on the show, you just have to call them and tell them you want a clean house.” He dragged out the words, mimicking an announcer. “Would you do that for me?”
“I’ll look into it,” he said vaguely, reaching to guide Guy away from the mess. “How ’bout I heat up that leftover spaghetti for you?”
“Will you call them?”
“Like I said—”
“Will you?” Eyes the steel gray of a cloudy sky narrowed behind crooked glasses on a bulbous nose.
“Why is it so important?”
“Because.” Guy let out a long, sad sigh. “It’s like starting over, and when I look through this stuff it just… makes me feel sad.”
“Some memories do that,” he said.
“Oh, William, I don’t have any memories. I don’t know what half this stuff is.” He picked up a rose-patterned sweater that Will remembered seeing Mary Jo Bloom wear many years ago. “It all just reminds me that I don’t remember. I want a fresh start. A clean house.”
“I understand.” He managed to get Guy down the hall with a gentle nudge.
As he sat down in his favorite recliner, Guy reached for Will’s hand. “You’ll call those people.”
“Sure, buddy.”
In the fridge Will found the Tupperware container of spaghetti, but his mind went back to the yellow dress upstairs.
The thought of Jocelyn pulled at his heart, making him twist the burner knob too hard. He dumped the lump of cold noodles into a pan, splattering the Ragu on his T-shirt.
“Where’s the clicker?” Guy called, panic making his voice rise. “I can’t find the clicker, William! What did you do with it?”
Will pulled open the dishwasher and rolled out the top rack, spying the remote instantly. At least it wasn’t at the bottom of the trash, like last week.
“I’ve got it.” He checked the pan of noodles and took the remote out to Guy, who’d given up and turned on the TV manually, stabbing at the volume button so the strains of Entertainment Tonight blared through the living room.
Again with the crap TV? Alzheimer’s didn’t just rob him of his memories, it changed every aspect of his personality. The bastard county sheriff had turned into a little old lady obsessed with celebrities and home crafts.
Will gently set the remote on Guy’s armrest, getting a grateful smile and a pat on his hand.
“You’re a good son, Will.” Guy thumbed up the volume and the announcer’s voice shook the speaker.
“… with more on this shocking breakup of Hollywood’s happiest couple.”
God help him, couldn’t they watch ESPN for just one lousy dinner? But the trash TV blared with an excited announcer’s voice, hammering at his headache.
“TMZ has identified the ‘other woman’ in the stunning divorce of Miles Thayer and Coco Kirkman as a life coach by the name of Jocelyn Bloom.”
Will froze, then spun around to see the TV, with a “What the hell?” of disbelief trapped in his throat.
“Known as a ‘life coach to the stars,’ Jocelyn Bloom has been working for Coco Kirkman for over a year, giving her daily access and, evidently, much more, to Coco’s movie-star husband, Miles Thayer.”
Will just stared, blinked, then took a step closer. The picture was grainy, taken by a powerful lens at a long distance, but not blurry enough to cast any doubt that he was looking at the woman he’d been thinking about a few seconds ago. Ebony hair pulled tight off her delicate features, giant dark eyes, narrow shoulders taut and stiff.
Jocelyn broke up a marriage?
“TMZ has published a series of texts sent between Jocelyn Bloom and Miles Thayer,” the announcer continued, his voice full of barely restrained joy. “The most salacious texts detailed sexual acts—”
Will lurched toward the chair, grabbing the remote to thumb the Mute button.
Guy looked stunned. “That’s the good part!”
Will opened his mouth to argue, but a change in the screen snagged his attention. This shot was closer and clearer and, holy shit, she looked good. Better than ever, in fact. “You know who they’re talking about?” he asked Guy.
“Some movie stars. Who cares? I like that stuff.”
“Some movie stars and…” Your daughter. “No one you recognized?”
Guy snorted. “I don’t know those people’s names, Will. I barely know my own. What does salacious mean, anyway?” He tried to get the remote.
“It means…” Things he didn’t want to think about Jocelyn doing with anyone. “Sexy.”
“I can take the dirty stuff, pal. I’m too old for it to have any effect.” Guy managed to grab the remote and get the sound right back. Unable to help himself, Will turned back to the TV.
“Jocelyn Bloom has yet to talk to the media,” the reporter said. “Or issue a statement to deny the accusations. Right now all we know about this woman is that she is a certified life coach and counts Coco Kirkman among a long list of wealthy and well-known clients.”
Will looked hard at Guy once more, but the older man just stared at the TV without so much as a flicker of recognition.
“What the hell’s a life coach, anyway?” Guy asked with a soft harrumph. “Sounds like an excuse to pick rich people’s pockets and bust up their marriages.” He punched up the volume.
Was that who Jocelyn Bloom had become?
“According to an attorney for Coco Kirkman, Ms. Bloom has been a close confidante for well over a year, and during that time, she has been frequently an overnight guest of the couple.”
Will’s stomach tightened as he forced himself to leave the room.
“Fuck!” Smoke and the smell of charred food filled the kitchen, and he lunged for the pot handle to slide the scorched spaghetti off the burner. “God damn it all!”
As he shook his hand more out of sheer rage than any real pain, a string of new curses fell from his lips. Pulling it together, he stirred the spaghetti and folded the bits of black into the noodles. Guy’d never notice a burned dinner. Hell, Guy would probably never notice dinner.
Forcing the image of a girl he once loved out of his head, Will put the food on a plate and carried it into the living room, where, thank Christ, Guy had switched to a game show.
“Where’s yours?” Guy asked as he straightened his chair so he could reach the TV table. “Come and spin the wheel of fortune with me.”
When Will had returned to Mimosa Key, he’d tried to hate the old coot, he really had. But over time, well, shit, how can you hate a guy who had no memory of what a nasty prick he’d ever been? The worst thing Guy Bloom did now was start and never finish a shit-ton of craft projects.
“Not tonight, Guy. I have some work to do.”
“You worked all day.” There was a tinge of sadness in his voice, enough to tweak Will’s guilt. Guy was lonely, plain and simple, and Will was all he had.
“Just have to check my e-mail and pay some bills.” Because who else was going to pay Guy’s bills? He glanced at the TV, his mind’s eye still seeing Jocelyn’s beautiful features instead of an aging game-show hostess prancing across the screen.
“I’ll check on you later, Guy.” Meaning he’d be sure the o
ld man got in bed and had a light on and didn’t mistake his own reflection for a burglar.
Before Guy could ask him to stay, Will slipped out, crossing the patio and the small lawn that separated the houses. Inside, he dropped into a kitchen chair and stared at the pile of Guy’s mail. Doctors’ bills, insurance bills, pharmacy bills, and more doctors’ bills. All to keep Guy relatively stable. A losing battle, on every front.
And the cost of private nursing? Astronomical.
Will knew exactly how much money Guy had; he wrote out the checks every month. The account just got smaller and smaller. Stabbing his hair, he blew out a breath, imagining just how much money Jocelyn charged as a life coach. How much she’d get for selling her story about sex with Miles Thayer to some tabloid.
Didn’t matter. As far as anyone knew, Jocelyn had been home exactly three times in fifteen years after… that night. He’d heard she came home for her mother’s funeral almost ten years ago and once, about a year ago, after the hurricane wiped out Barefoot Bay, Will had seen her at a Mimosa Key town council meeting. But the minute she’d laid eyes on him she disappeared again. And although he wasn’t there, he’d heard she’d made it to Lacey and Clay Walker’s beach wedding.
Now she lived in another world, three thousand miles away, breaking up movie-star marriages. Funny, he was the one who was supposed to have become rich and famous, while she’d wanted to live in a comfy house in the country, if he recalled her childhood dreams correctly.
Fifteen years and a lot of water had passed under that burned bridge. And he couldn’t exactly blame her. Or call her for help. Or even, as much as he tried, forget her.
And God knows he’d tried.
Chapter 2
Jocelyn did everything she could to get comfortable, but it just wasn’t going to happen on a cross-country flight. She shifted in the plane seat, her back and bottom numb, her head on fire from the itchy wig, her hand throbbing from filling three notebooks for a grand total of… too many lists to count.
The lists gave her some measure of peace, but not much. Each had a title and a theme, a strategy with potential action items, and those all had priority ratings, a deadline, and, of course, her very favorite form of punctuation: the check mark.