The Satin Sash (38 page)

“Don’t say that—that’s not true!”

“I’m no match for Grey,Toni.”

“You are! You make me smile—I adore being with you, I want you in my life, and Grey adores you, damn him. I
hate
him!”

“Fucking
look
at you!” Heath roared as he gestured down at her, at this heap of clothes that she was, tear-stricken, trembling, someone she would pity. “Look at you without him! And did you get a fucking good look at
him
?”

“Well, I was a little busy at the moment!” she screamed.

“Then I can
tell
you what he looked like. I can—goddammit,
it’s killing him
!” Frustrated, his throat hoarse with agony, he smashed her body to his. Her thighs opened for closeness, their bodies fitting together, heat to heat. He ducked his head to hers, his mouth furiously nipping, biting between words. “Take me in, kitten. Take me in your body one last time.”

He kissed her rampantly, a good-bye kiss, as intense as the first but tasting of anguish and pain instead of eagerness and thirst and lust. It took all her effort to tear her lips free.

“What are you saying? Stop talking to me like this, Heath!”

“Baby.” Panting against her, he dragged his lips across her face. “Oh, baby, can’t you see? I love you too much to break you.” He dropped his head and buried his face in the softness of her breasts, releasing a low, tortured sound. “I can’t see you like this, I can’t . . . see Grey like this—
fuck
.”

She trembled, feeling very cold even as he groaned and wrapped her in arms of steel and warmth. She wanted to make love to him, to celebrate his arrival with joy. She wanted for her eyes to dry up so she wouldn’t have to cry anymore, and she wanted to marry Grey and Heath and have children together, and she wanted world peace and no one to ever die. . . . And yet all she could do was clutch Heath tight until she finished wanting and wishing and crying. Heath held her, told her he loved her, that he would understand. He was painstakingly gentle when he scooped her up in his arms and tucked her into her bed.

When seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours, and she remained alone in it, in a bed that had been warm with someone else’s heat for more than two years, she realized Heath Solis had left her, too.

Chapter Sixteen

For three days, she poured her heart into her work. She sat at her workstation and crumpled paper after paper, sketch after sketch. Balls were littered around the wastepaper basket and her pencils were at their last inch.

Viscevis.
It was all that held her together. Kept her sane. She thought about Grey and a knot formed in her throat. She remembered how she’d been stressing about this logo night after night, and he’d held her head in his hands, kissed her forehead, centering her over and over, telling her again and again, “Here’s your head. You have it in there somewhere.”

But it was not there; instead she found her answer in Mr. Preston’s words.

Staring at the two logos, she isolated each of the elements first, then began to play with them. That gray ball in motion. The vine shaped into an oval.The sleek brown cylinder.

She set the cylinder at the bottom. Unyielding, all alone. Empty. She set the ball an inch above it. It would roll and roll and roll and never stop without that cylinder to hold it. And the vine . . . she sliced it open. She made it fluid. Rather than an oval, it slithered into an
S
, and she wrapped it around both the cylinder and the top ball, so that the two other elements were embraced by it, joined by it.

For six hours she concentrated on creating a clean copy to show the clients, and by the time her neighbor took her poodle out early in the morning,Toni lifted the logo up to her admiring gaze.Yes.

Calmly, she crossed her apartment and went to her bed, pulling her sash from under her pillow. She had slept with it and cried over it, and cursed and thrown and stomped on it.

The sash had taken her places she and Grey hadn’t meant to go, and there was no undoing what had been done.

Her men were strong men, and in the most hopeful corners of her heart, she thought if they were the men she
knew
they were . . . if they were men who loved with the force and passion she did . . .

Without further thought, she recalled that vine, the solution to holding together two elements too strong to combine, and she grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced the soft, shimmering fabric in two.

Drunks.

He’d held a private distaste from them for some time. They lacked character, strength of will, an instinct to push forward no matter what blows life brought.

Drunks were fools. And Grey had never thought of himself as either until now; as he sipped more brandy, and sipped and sipped and sipped, and grasped for that numbness he’d sought for three days.Three long, never-ending days in which he warred with himself not to call her, go to her, drive past her place and spy on her. Take that freaking sash from her.

Instead he stood in the living room of his penthouse like a fixture, one of the many artifacts of this vast, lonely, cold place.There was no clutter here. No dying plants, since there weren’t any plants at all. No balled-up papers around the wastebaskets.

Things were just as he liked them.

The apartment covered the space of an entire floor—every square foot furnished by a renowned New York decorator who’d later begged to take pictures for
Architectural Digest
.The fabrics, the woods, the rugs; they were the finest money could buy.

It wasn’t home.

Not even Toni’s place was home. It was
her
—and he’d uprooted himself because he was proud and stubborn and more. So now he was alone. Waiting. Still not hopeless, but growing desperate.

A sensation he did not welcome.
At all.

He heard the loud ding of the elevators, rolling open directly onto his foyer, and it was followed by the unmistakable tap of Louisa’s high heels gradually advancing toward him. At nine p.m., he was still dressed in the suit he’d worn to work that morning. There had been no green-eyed, chestnut-haired woman to undo his tie. Rumple his hair. Slip his coat off. Kiss his throat, his jaw, his forehead.

“I’ve got your suitcase,” the feathery whisper came from behind him. “I couldn’t quite make everything fit, but I could make another round tomorrow.”

He spared a fleeting glance at the tall black suitcase sitting on the limestone floor and said, “Never mind.That’s fine.”

“Your colognes are in a Ziploc bag. I rolled up your ties so the silk wouldn’t snag. Also, I had to leave a few shoes behind—the Guccis and two or three pairs of Prada.”

He scarcely heard her. Across the room, through the window, distant city lights began to blur, blink, flutter before his eyes. The glass in his hand felt weightless. Empty once again. “Did she send anything?”

Hope was a strange thing. It had wishes in it and it had fear, and he was bursting with it.

Louisa drew up to his side, her eyes riveted on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Did she send me a message? Anything?”

She wavered noticeably between speaking and remaining quiet; then her attention shifted to his throat, his shoulders, arms. She crawled one hand up his biceps. “Let me get this off you,” she purred. “You look tired.”

He didn’t want her to remove it, but he was powerless to stop her. He was taken by the fantasy, rashly creating a little pretend moment for himself, and he closed his eyes and imagined those were
her
hands on his chest. Small, loving hands pushing his jacket off his tired shoulders. She didn’t smell like Toni. No peachy scent fluttered about her; instead, Louisa was surrounded with the scent of a flowery perfume. He heard the slap of his jacket across the back of the couch. She tugged on his tie, first touching a finger to his Adam’s apple, and he opened his eyes, seized her chin, and forced her head up.

“Did she send anything?” he repeated.

In the dark, he could almost pretend her eyes were green, an aroused, dark forest green, with the sheen that made his heart kick into his ribs. She was staring back at him, lips parted, but even drunk he couldn’t mistake those lips for those ones he loved.These were thin red lips that gradually, distinctly, in a voice that was decidedly not
hers
, said, “No.”

No. She hadn’t sent anything.

Briskly stepping around Louisa, he wrenched off his tie and tossed it across the back of a nearby chair. “Was she alone?”

He was about to repeat the question when she said hastily, “Yes.”

The relief he felt was instant, causing a shudder to run through him. He’d never thought he’d ever feel grateful to Louisa Fairchild.

Rolling his cuffs up to his elbows, he admitted, “I was wrong about you.You have proven useful, and I apologize for misjudging you. My gratitude to you.”

“I’m . . . I’m glad I please you, Grey.”

She did not take the hint of his dismissal, and Grey wasn’t certain if she’d been standing so close two seconds ago.“I’d say it’s time you call it an evening, don’t you think?” He signaled toward the bronze elevator doors and stalked across the room to refill his glass with brandy. “I’ll be sure you’re properly compensated for your time.”

“I was just over at Mr. Solis’s hotel,” she offered, her bracelets tinkling on her wrist as she tucked her hair behind one ear.

His entire body went rigid. Glass full, he had to force his legs to walk him back to his place by the window. “Were you?”

“I had something to deliver.”

His heart hardened. It closed,
protected
what was there. He brought the brandy to his lips and gazed disinterestedly out the window. He saw nothing now. No buildings. No lights.

In a voice so balmy even he scarcely heard it, he said, “A red sash?”

“Why, yes, how did you . . . ?”

His hope was pulverized.“You delivered her red sash to Heathcliff?”

“I didn’t know his name was—”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

When the word sank into his gut, it shot up to his chest to annihilate his heart. It was a massacre. His stomach lurched, and when the impact sliced through each and every one of the walls he was struggling to maintain, the bottom fell out of his world so hard that he had to brace a hand on the window and face the floor. “Thank you, Louisa. That will be all.”

“Would you like me to fix you something?” She made her way around the place, her footsteps an unwelcome, annoying sound that made him realize just how desperate he was to lash out at someone. “I make a killer apple martini,” she said—and the cheery note grated on his nerves.

He heard her putter around the bar area, heard glass tinkling, Louisa asking him something. And then all he could hear was Toni. Sobbing in his arms. Clutching him with all her might, crying for him, for her, for Heath. He’d come
apart
holding her. Because he was afraid that was the last time he’d have her in his arms. He was afraid he couldn’t be the man she wanted him to be. She was bursting with life and passion, rebellious against the world and its rules, and he had made her stand there and be photographed . . . and he had made her smile . . . smile for all of them . . . and hold his hand while they were breaking in two.

But he’d left. Even when he adored her, even when he knew—inhis gut, his heart, his every cell—he was
adored
by her. He had landed the last blow needed to shatter them. He’d tried holding the pieces of them together, but he’d quit. He.
He
had ripped them apart. He’d left when she needed him. When she was confused and frustrated and still fighting for that stupid, foolish idea of hers. When those incredibly green eyes of hers had been flowing with tears in a way he’d never,
ever
, seen before.

He’d broken her heart for making him share it with Heath.

Now Heath would take care of her, fix her low tires, live in that annoyingly small place with all her frustrating clutter. And he would get all of her smiles. He would fight with her, make up with her, drink her lousy coffee, and wake up with her.

His throat was clogged to words. His eyes burned as if the brandy simmered inside them. His jaw wouldn’t work as he tried to speak. He struggled with it, forcing himself to form the words,“I said, that will be all, Louisa.”

He didn’t expect her to launch herself at him when he turned. The soft, dry kiss she planted on his lips came as an equal shock to the feel of her breasts pressing into his chest. “I’m here for you, Grey.” She rubbed her hands up and down the plackets of his shirt, breathing fast. “You’re a strong, vigorous, incredible man—”

His ire came so viciously, so fast and potently, the glass flew from his hand and crashed into the wood-paneled wall in a deafening explosion. Glass rained down on the floor. Drops of liquid slithered down the tapestry.The color drained from her face as she stumbled back a step, her hand at her throat.