Caught Up In You 3: Designer Love and Empty Things (Edgeplay) (4 page)

 If my own mother couldn’t love me as a tiny, helpless baby, why would anyone else bother?

 I wait for a few minutes, letting him absorb what I’ve told him. It’s probably better if he leaves me now than for him to pretend he doesn’t see the undesirable coating that clings to me like a bad smell for days or even weeks before he leaves. I’m already more attached to him than I ever wanted to be. I crave being with him to an unhealthy degree. Not because he’s Connor Edge, the sexiest man on earth, or because he has more money than a third world nation. Because I’m addicted to the way he makes me feel.

 Wanted, desirable.

 For someone like me, he’s habit-forming. Better to go cold turkey now.

 Silently I get up and move into the bedroom, shutting the door between us. If he leaves while I’m in here, I’ll pretend that it never happened, that he didn’t say things to stop my heart.

 No matter if doing so breaks me. I vow he’ll never see it.

Chapter Three

 
T
he bedroom door opens and I cease staring at the clock and turn to face Connor.

 “You tired?” he asks, his brows furrowing in concern. “Still have a headache?”

 “No,” I say, unwilling to address the larger issue.

 “Will you be all right if I leave you for a little while? There’s some stuff up at the main house that I need to see to.”

 “Do what you gotta do.” My heart is cracking in two. Here it is, stage one of The Brushoff
.
It shouldn’t upset me so much. I intended to walk away from him not even twenty four hours ago. But logic and reason are conspicuously absent in the throng of hurt feelings and wounded pride.

 
Shoulda kept your mouth shut!
Snarkarella croons.

 Coulda, woulda, shoulda, but didn’t.

 He bends down, presses his lips to my forehead. “I’ll be back in a bit to fix you dinner. We’ll talk more then, okay? Try and rest.”

 I remain curled on the bed, head and heart both throbbing from recent injury. I don’t know what else there is to say. It’s obvious to me that Connor’s extracting himself from our relationship.
We’ll talk more later
is code for
I can’t deal with this shit
. I’ve been here before, with other men, but never have I been so invested in a relationship as I am in this one.

 It stings that I’ve only set myself up for a bigger fall. There’s no way I can blame Connor for deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth. No, I’m at fault because I know talking about my abandonment and Mommy issues is a relationship killer. The men I’m with never know what to say, how to respond after I detonate that bomb. Moments of comfortable silence turn awkward and they start looking at me as though my hands have turned into meat hooks and I intend to sink them in at any moment.

 Not one ever thought that maybe I wouldn’t want to be with a man who didn’t want me.

 I roll off the bed and move into the bathroom, soaking a washcloth in cold water. My blue eyes are red-rimmed from crying and my hair is a mess. There is nothing attractive about my ratty sweats or the cavefish paleness of my skin. I can’t blame him, not really.

 The ache is more about the kernel of hope being crushed. The intensity Connor focused on me actually made me think that I really could bare my soul to him and he would still want me. That he would say something like my mother’s an idiot for not wanting me, or he’s grateful to those nurses for stepping up because they saved me for him. Some sentimental garbage to make me feel desired and cherished, like only he has ever done.

 Instead, I get silence and we’ll talk more later.

 The landline rings just as I exit the bathroom. The portable is in the kitchen but I have a prehistoric corded telephone on my nightstand and reach for it. “Hello?”

 “Baily Sinclair?”

 “Speaking.”

 “It’s Ian Fletcher.” He’s brisk, to the point.

 “Hi Doctor Fletcher, what’s up?” My nerves jump a little.

 “I’m afraid your grandfather has gone missing again.”

 All the breath leaves my lungs. “Oh no.”

 “I’m on my way to Golden Oaks right now. They said they tried to call you but couldn’t get a hold of you.”

  “I lost my cell,” I say as I lunge for my dresser and a pair of socks. The phone falls of the nightstand with a clatter and I tilt my head at an awkward angle. “Why didn’t they call here? How long has he been missing?” The pitch of my voice rises higher on each syllable.

 “I don’t have any answers for you. The local police department has been brought in to help with the search.”

 “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up the phone and bolt for the kitchen. Snagging my truck keys off the key ring, I hesitate for a moment and wonder if I should take the time to call Connor. He said not to leave the estate, but this is an emergency. Not wanting to lose time arguing with him, I head for the front.

 My automotive knowledge could fit in a shot glass, but I still get on my hands and knees, checking for anything suspicious, like a brick of C4. The truck’s dripping oil, but that’s nothing unusual.

 I hop in, start the engine, then bolt out and stand inside the house while the truck idles with rumbles like distant thunder. Good enough. Doctor Fletcher already told me the police have been called in; I can’t be much more protected than that. I scramble up, buckle my seatbelt and make for the automated back gate. Very few people actually know it’s there, hidden as it is amidst a copse of pines. The road isn’t paved or even coated with gravel and the section of fence looks just like any other. Bumping along, I kick up dust behind me, make a sharp left and disappear onto the small path. I remote it open, urge my truck through and then close behind me before taking the back way to the retirement home.

 The parking lot at Golden Oaks is filled with cars, police and fire trucks by the time I arrive. Not bothering with a space, I pull right up onto the scraggly front lawn and hit the ground running.

 The first face I recognize is Ian Fletcher’s and if his sharp gestures are anything to go by, he is rip-roaring mad as he lights into a woman wearing salmon scrubs. I hear the words, careless and thoughtless and push through the crowd to where he’s standing.

 “Doctor Fletcher.” I stumble to his side, slightly out of breath. “Any news?”

 He steadies me, his features transforming from wrathful to concerned. “It’s alright Baily, we’re just getting organized. There’s a K-9 unit on its way. We’ll find him.”

 “How long has he been missing?” a uniformed state trooper asks the woman Dr. Fletcher was lecturing.

 Her eyes dart around nervously. “The last time anyone saw him was at breakfast.”

 Breakfast is served at eight a.m. and it’s now after three. Seven frigging hours, Pops has been MIA. I gape at her. “Why
the hell
wasn’t I notified sooner?”

 She cringes under my furious tone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair. We thought he’d gone back to his room to lie down, so we didn’t notice he was missing immediately. We tried calling your cell phone but kept getting your voicemail. No one could find Mr. Sinclair’s file that had your home phone in it.

 And because I was wallowing in anxiety over Connor’s and my relationship, I didn’t think to call my voicemail. I feel dizzy and lean more fully against Doctor Fletcher.

 “We’ll find him, Baily,” Fletcher repeats. “Let’s go get something with his scent on it for the dogs.”

 He leads me away from the frenetic gathering out front. He dons medical gloves and trundles through the hamper. “Get a zippered plastic bag from the kitchen. We don’t want to confuse the dogs by contaminating the scent.”

 I scuttle across the room to the kitchen and hold the bag open as he pulls a white undershirt out of the bin. “You sound as though you’ve done this before.”

 “Unfortunately. Alzheimer’s patients are notorious for wandering off.” He seals the bag, then peels the gloves off. “You get used to the procedure after a while.”

 “Seven hours,” I whisper.

 “Don’t think about it.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me into the now empty dining room. “Sit down, you look pale.”

 “I don’t want to sit down. I need to go look for Pops.”

 A hand rests on my shoulder. “I understand, but the more organized we are about this, the better our chances are of finding him.”

 He’s right, I know he is, but that doesn’t affect the restlessness or my drive to do something. “Okay.”

 He nods once to me and smiles. He has a very nice smile, reassuring and friendly. “Good. Then let’s go light a fire under our volunteers.”

 ~*~

 “Pops!” I call for about the millionth time. Truthfully, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said his name. Enough that my voice is hoarse and I’m croaking more than shouting. Off to my left I see one of the men with the K-9 unit and his furry partner trying to pick up any sign of my grandfather’s scent. To the right is Doctor Fletcher and the fourth member of our group, a volunteer whose name I didn’t catch.

 We have fanned out from the parking area at Golden Oaks, covering as much territory on foot as possible. The local police have set up checkpoints along the main road and each team is equipped with a two way radio. I hold my breath every time I hear it crackle to life, hoping to hear that he’s been recovered, fearing that someone will find him unconscious or worse.

 Almost eight hours with no food or water. He must be exhausted. I worry about dehydration, about him stumbling down another hill, this time breaking a hip or cracking his skull open. No matter how hard I try to fight my fear it washes over me in great waves, the undertow of catastrophic thinking dragging me back down into madness.

 I trip over something—possibly my own feet— and go sprawling onto the ground. I swear and smack the leaf-strewn earth hard.

 “Baily!” Doctor Fletcher rushes to help me up. “You need to take a break.”

 “I’m fine,” I snarl, and immediately regret it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take your head off.”

 “Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.” His easy going demeanor smoothes my ruffled feathers. “At least have a drink.”

 I retrieve the water bottle from my backpack and stare at it. “This is going to sound nuts, but I don’t want to, because he can’t.”

 The doctor strokes my arm. “I understand. But risking your health will only slow us down, keep us from finding him sooner.”

 “You’re right.” Now is not the time for my guilt or recriminations. I take a drink and let him pull me to my feet. “Thanks, Doc.”

 “Call me Ian.” He offers me that reassuring smile again. It might be my imagination, but I see something more there, something that my fevered brain translates to an invitation.

 No way can I deal with that now.

 I move off a little closer to the K-9 unit and resume my search.

 Time passes and it dawns on me that we are heading almost directly east. Toward the Rosemont Estate.

 “Doctor Fletcher!” I call out. “Do Alzheimer’s patients typically go to familiar places?”
 The doctor jogs up to my side. “It depends. Why do you ask?”

 “We’re heading directly toward the Rosemont. Do you think he intends to go there?”

 “It’s possible. From what you’ve told me he’s spent his entire life on the estate. It would make sense he would gravitate to it.”