“So call Gallant.”
“I did. He said she sent him home Saturday night after the show. Told him his services weren’t required.”
He swore colorfully in Spanish. “She said she wouldn’t do that again.”
And Gallant should fucking know better, but that’s another conversation.
“But my sister doesn’t belong to you, and she doesn’t always want your goons following her around.”
“My employees keep her safe.”
“Your employees smother her independence.”
He looked at the golden clock on his desk. “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”
“Because I don’t like you, and if she took some time off to reconsider becoming your wife, then that seemed like a good thing. But now I’m worried.”
“So it’s me you turn to, because you know I will find her. You say I don’t care for her, but I am the only one taking care of her.”
“Bullshit…”
Marco hung up the phone and brought his finger to his mouth, biting down hard on the nail. He’d given Brooke everything she ever wanted and then some. He’d facilitated her fame and hired the staff who created the incomparable Brooke Barrons out of a tomboy named Olivia Grayson, who wore dirty sneakers and cut-off jeans.
That was the easy part. Making her fall in love with him had been more of a challenge. But Brooke had a weakness, an insecurity he had twisted to his advantage.
The woman hated to be alone.
He’d simply taken away the people she loved, and she had come running to him like a hungry puppy.
She was his now.
Bella hadn’t taken care of her sister! If she had, Brooke never would have agreed to marry him. He stopped biting his nails and dialed the phone. He had too much invested in Brooke to loose her now.
13
A n hour later , the dust in the cabin remained untouched as Olivia searched for memories. With Trevor gone, she was free to explore without him suspecting she was familiar with the cabin. Drawer after drawer, she rifled through generic clothing and possessions, nothing giving a clue as to its owner.
Exhausted and frustrated, she flopped face-up on the queen-sized bed and stared at the ceiling. There, in the corner of the room, was a framed-out rectangle that could only be the access to the attic.
“How did I miss this?” she mumbled, pulling down a slender handle and exposing a compact ladder. She eagerly reached up to extend it, and froze.
An image appeared in her mind, her own hand on this ladder, tucking it and the access door away. A tremendous sadness filled her spirit at the memory. What was up here that could make her feel so empty inside? She searched her mind for the answer, just as she’d done with the kitchen cupboards.
Everything.
A chill went up her spine. It was dark, and she grabbed a flashlight she’d found before venturing up the ladder with cautious footsteps. Poking her head into the attic, she shined the light in a circle. The space was small and half the height of a normal room, with a stack of boxes on one end, the smell of old newspapers and stale air making her wrinkle her nose.
Settling next to the pile, she pulled down the first box. “Pictures” was scribbled in marker across the top, and she felt her stomach tighten as she opened the box and pulled away the newspaper wrapped around a frame.
A middle-aged man had his arms around two smiling girls in their graduation caps and gowns. One of those girls was her.
She covered her mouth.
Her eyes glazed over as she remembered…
She was in a car, driving in that too-fast reckless way you always had to drive to get up Warsaw Mountain in the snow, when she suddenly feared she’d missed her turn and slowed down the slightest bit — just enough to lose momentum and the traction of her tires on the road.
Then she was stuck, cursing as she tried to push the car on the snow-covered roadway, the wind from the storm howling in her ears. That must have been when Trevor hit her. She never would have heard him coming in that storm.
He’d been
“I did. He said she sent him home Saturday night after the show. Told him his services weren’t required.”
He swore colorfully in Spanish. “She said she wouldn’t do that again.”
And Gallant should fucking know better, but that’s another conversation.
“But my sister doesn’t belong to you, and she doesn’t always want your goons following her around.”
“My employees keep her safe.”
“Your employees smother her independence.”
He looked at the golden clock on his desk. “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”
“Because I don’t like you, and if she took some time off to reconsider becoming your wife, then that seemed like a good thing. But now I’m worried.”
“So it’s me you turn to, because you know I will find her. You say I don’t care for her, but I am the only one taking care of her.”
“Bullshit…”
Marco hung up the phone and brought his finger to his mouth, biting down hard on the nail. He’d given Brooke everything she ever wanted and then some. He’d facilitated her fame and hired the staff who created the incomparable Brooke Barrons out of a tomboy named Olivia Grayson, who wore dirty sneakers and cut-off jeans.
That was the easy part. Making her fall in love with him had been more of a challenge. But Brooke had a weakness, an insecurity he had twisted to his advantage.
The woman hated to be alone.
He’d simply taken away the people she loved, and she had come running to him like a hungry puppy.
She was his now.
Bella hadn’t taken care of her sister! If she had, Brooke never would have agreed to marry him. He stopped biting his nails and dialed the phone. He had too much invested in Brooke to loose her now.
13
A n hour later , the dust in the cabin remained untouched as Olivia searched for memories. With Trevor gone, she was free to explore without him suspecting she was familiar with the cabin. Drawer after drawer, she rifled through generic clothing and possessions, nothing giving a clue as to its owner.
Exhausted and frustrated, she flopped face-up on the queen-sized bed and stared at the ceiling. There, in the corner of the room, was a framed-out rectangle that could only be the access to the attic.
“How did I miss this?” she mumbled, pulling down a slender handle and exposing a compact ladder. She eagerly reached up to extend it, and froze.
An image appeared in her mind, her own hand on this ladder, tucking it and the access door away. A tremendous sadness filled her spirit at the memory. What was up here that could make her feel so empty inside? She searched her mind for the answer, just as she’d done with the kitchen cupboards.
Everything.
A chill went up her spine. It was dark, and she grabbed a flashlight she’d found before venturing up the ladder with cautious footsteps. Poking her head into the attic, she shined the light in a circle. The space was small and half the height of a normal room, with a stack of boxes on one end, the smell of old newspapers and stale air making her wrinkle her nose.
Settling next to the pile, she pulled down the first box. “Pictures” was scribbled in marker across the top, and she felt her stomach tighten as she opened the box and pulled away the newspaper wrapped around a frame.
A middle-aged man had his arms around two smiling girls in their graduation caps and gowns. One of those girls was her.
She covered her mouth.
Her eyes glazed over as she remembered…
She was in a car, driving in that too-fast reckless way you always had to drive to get up Warsaw Mountain in the snow, when she suddenly feared she’d missed her turn and slowed down the slightest bit — just enough to lose momentum and the traction of her tires on the road.
Then she was stuck, cursing as she tried to push the car on the snow-covered roadway, the wind from the storm howling in her ears. That must have been when Trevor hit her. She never would have heard him coming in that storm.
He’d been
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