contract. This wedding was supposed to put her on the map. She was finally starting a real job. A career she could feel excitement about. No more juggling two or three minimum-wage jobs at makeup counters or bistros. Her aspirations of finally moving into a decent apartment, maybe traveling because she wasn’t tied down by her mother and debt, dimmed and doused like a candlewick gutting out, leaving only a wisp of smoke to sting her nostrils.
“You can’t do this,” she insisted numbly. Her mind leaped to wondering if she could start over somewhere, but as he’d pointed out, there was an investment in starting up a business like this. Without Ingrid’s payment, she was in a very deep hole. Then there was the loss of Ingrid’s circle of contacts. Starting over meant starting at the bottom, not stepping into a tony crowd with money and taste. “You’re destroying my life,” she informed him, heart beginning to tremble in her chest.
“Be sure to tell your father exactly how it feels.”
He wasn’t going to hear her on the lack of communication between her and Garner. She wouldn’t bother mentioning it again. This was happening. She could see his resolve and, if dealing with her father had taught her nothing else, she had learned to accept that there was evil in this world. The best you could do was mitigate the damage.
Exactly what was the damage?
“What...?” She was afraid to ask. “What did you say about eviction?”
He folded his arms, feet planted firmly. “I’ve made an offer to the owner of your building, one he can’t refuse. It’s on condition that your unit be made available immediately.”
Fury closed her fists into painful knots. “You can’t do that.”
He didn’t react beyond saying, “Your things are being removed as we speak.”
“To where?” she cried.
“The nearest Dumpster?” he offered with a pitiless shrug.
“You—” Her voice caught and realization began to squeeze her in its icy fingers. Fine quakes accosted her. She shook her head in convulsive denial as the buildup of emotion threatened to break the walls of her control. One thought formed and clung like a teardrop to a lash. “You’re having my mother thrown in the Dumpster. Is that what you’re saying? What the hell kind of man are you? There are laws.”
His brows jerked together, the first sign of emotion since they’d been writhing with passion. “What do you mean?”
“My mother’s ashes are in my apartment. You can’t just throw someone away like that. You can’t even—” Oh, what the hell did a man like him care about how hard it was to make the arrangements for scattering ashes?
Anxiety brought tears to her eyes, and she dashed them away, furious that she was breaking down, but this was the last straw. Losing things, starting over, having nowhere to live... Those were all problems she’d overcome before. Defiling her mother’s remains was more than she could withstand. Her breath hissed in her pinched nostrils while her mind raced through all the hours of travel it would take to get back to Virginia to save her.
“I’ll make a call,” he said.
Because the wheels were already in motion.
It hit her that he’d been making these arrangements yesterday, long before he’d kissed her in the cabana. He had set up all these horrible things, consigned her mother to the Dumpster, then had sex with her. She recoiled as she realized he’d already been filled with hatred and thoughts of revenge as he’d carried her to this bed.
Her revulsion must have shown. He reacted with a dark flinch.
“I will,” he assured her, glancing around as though he was looking for the nearest phone.
“You’ll make a call,” she repeated as she edged toward hysteria. “You’re just full of consideration, aren’t you, lover,” she spat. The word tasted like bile.
“Do you want me to do it or not?” His gaze flashed back to hers with warning.
She was ready to take him apart with her bare hands and he must have known it. He tensed with readiness, stance shifting as he balanced his weight on his planted feet, darkly watchful. His lethal air should have terrified her, but she was pulsing with the sort of protective instincts that drove people to lash out in a blind rage. Her mother’s well-being throbbed in her brain, urging her to injure and incapacitate in order to save. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. So badly.
Don’t, a voice whispered in her head. Don’t be like them.
“As if I’d trust you,” she managed, voice wavering, whole body beginning to rack with furious shakes. “I will make a call,” she said raggedly, knocking her breastbone with her knuckles. “I’ll keep her safe. I’m the only one who ever has. The only reason I went back there was for her,” she cried, throwing the truth at him like a grenade. “I swore I’d never set foot in that house again, but my father wasn’t going to let me have her ashes unless I put on a state funeral and gave him those damned photos you’re so convinced prove I’m here on his behalf. You think you’re the only person they’ve ever hurt, Roman? Don’t be so arrogant. You’re not that special!”
She spun toward the door.
“Melodie,” he ground out. “I’ll call to make sure—”
“My friends call me Melodie. You can call me Charmaine. Like they do. Because you’re just like them.”
She went through the interior of the house. It was faster and allowed her to avoid going anywhere near him as she made her exit. She ran down the hall, blind to anything but a blur of yellowed marble and red carpet, barely keeping her footing on the stairs before she shot out the front door.
She heard her name again, but didn’t look back. The paving stones were hot on her bare feet, burning her soles, but she barely felt the scorch and cut of the pebbles. Her only thought was that she needed to get away from him. Needed to get to her mother.
THREE WEEKS LATER, Roman was in New York, conscience still smarting from everything that had happened with Melodie. Her final words—you’re just like them—kept ringing in his head, growing louder as time progressed, cutting like a rope that grew tighter the more he struggled against it.
Initially, he’d thought she was merely twisting things around as she’d seen her plans falling apart. He’d had very little pity for her in those first postcoital moments, too angry with himself to hear that he might have computed things wrong.
The bit about her mother’s ashes had bothered him, though. He had nothing of his own mother except vague, poignant memories of a woman who had seemed broken and defeated, voice filled with regret as she promised to get him back. Given how hard she’d tried to turn her life around, he’d felt doubly cheated when she had died before she was able to regain custody. The fact he’d only been informed of her death as an afterthought had been insult to injury.
He quickly turned away from those painful memories, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to keep his mind plugged into work. It had always been his escape from brooding and he needed it more than ever.
