Permanent Marker (The Kinky Truth) Read online

  She’d never seen him again.

  Her face burned with the humiliation again, though time had dulled its impact a little. There was also another strange difference to the memory. She’d always remembered the look on Owen’s face from that moment and assumed it was revulsion. Now, she recognized it for its truth. Fear.

  There were a lot of words she could use to describe Mark Moore. Fearful was nowhere in the neighborhood of that list.

  Then why did her heart pummel at her ribs with a deafening cadence of the stuff?

  Why was this entire conversation making her body taut and her head throb…and her heart hurt?

  For an answer, she only had to think of the fact that Shane had called, period. Her brother had hunted her down across the miles to remind her of one important fact. To him, to most of the world, she was still—how did it go?— a green nymph with her knickers around her knees. God, if he only knew her “knickers” were actually a soaked blob at the bottom of the pool.

  Forget it. The point was made. Nothing had really changed, had it? She was still hardwired with the fuck-up chip, programming that didn’t magically get erased by the submissive chip. She’d fail Mark, just as she’d failed Owen. But this time, as Shane had said so damn eloquently, the playing field was muddier.

  And this time, she truly cared about the guy holding the ball. Cared? Oh God. She wished she was only at cared with Mark. With cared, the twist in her stomach wouldn’t feel like a drain snake dipped in acid. With cared, she wouldn’t be covering the sob in her mouth and the curse she longed to let fly at her brother. Why the hell had he waited to make this call? Had they done this yesterday morning, she’d never have caved to Mark’s invitation or come to the villa. She never would’ve known the ecstasy of letting him turn her body into a thousand electric raindrops, her soul into a bird that gathered those drops and flew to the moon and back with them.

  She never would’ve known the misery of now.

  She slammed her forehead to her knees. Her gulps lodged like boulders in her throat.

  “Rose? Rose, are you still there?”

  “Y-yeah. S-sorry.”

  “So we have nothing to worry about, right?”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “N-no, Shane. It’s cool. Everything’s good here.”

  “Perfect. Enjoy paradise, then.”

  As he hung up, she almost laughed. Paradise. Sure, if that’s what you called this. What the hell was this? She’d never felt anything like it before. She’d been dying to get off the call so she could release the pressure in her chest, the agony in her body. But now, while everything ached behind her ribs, nothing broke free. Her eyes stung, and her head throbbed, but the cries jammed at the base of her throat. Her bones were stiff as wood. Her lips were dry as sawdust.

  Somehow she got herself off the bed and back into her half-soggy clothes. Falling into the chair at the desk in the next room, she focused on wrapping her fingers around the pen in the holder there and pressing letters into the resort stationery. Five minutes later, most of the pad was in the wastebasket, filled with her ridiculous attempts at putting this into words.

  Everything was so lovely. Thank you for—

  I had a wonderful time. But now—

  It’s not going to work out. I think we both know it. I’m not that good at all this, and—

  It’s come to my attention that we’d best just—

  I want you to know I’ll never forget—

  Senator Moore, thank you for a most enjoyable—

  “Crap!”

  The single word pulled free the cork on her dam of emotion. As the sobs finally came and her anguish flowed, she scribbled the only message that made complete sense.

  I’m sorry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mark looked down at the paper in his hand and its two scribbled words and forced himself not to crunch it into a ball and hurl it across the training classroom. The wad was already half-destroyed from the first three times he’d done that. But continuing to vent his fury wouldn’t get him anywhere right now. It wouldn’t gain him any more clarity for the confusion that had hit when he arrived back at the villa, bearing a breakfast feast and a continuing hard-on, to find the bed empty, the trash can full, and the damn note on the table.

  He’d instantly tried her cell. And gotten the voice mail he expected. He set the line to redial and let it do that a dozen times as he dumped the trash can and sifted through her first drafts of the note. They were novels by comparison to what she did leave, but no more helpful to his anger, his bewilderment, and his determination to find out just what the hell had happened between her whispered “Yes, Sir” and her tear-stained “I’m sorry.”

  The trainees starting filing into the room. Brandt Howell was with them, picking his way through the crowd with a determined step. The young man approached with his square jaw taut, but his light blue eyes glittering in victory.

  “Senator Moore, sir.”

  Mark modulated his voice to a low, careful murmur. “Tell me you have good news, Brandt.”

  “You bet your sweet a— Yes, uhhh, I mean I do.” The security expert flashed an easygoing smile at a perky blonde who walked by as he unlocked his phone and showed the screen to Mark. “Since the call to Miss Fabian was routed through me, it was pretty easy to douse a few firewalls and trace the call. It’s the private line of Shane Fabian, out of Chicago, exactly who she told me it would be. Her brother.”

  He nodded and handed the phone back to Brandt. “Okay. And what do we know about him?”

  “He’s a senior partner at Rhodes, Wright, and Treforth. Purchased a place overlooking the river about six months ago. Likes the swag and the designers, was seen in the social column a lot until the whole bang-bang-pow of Rose’s wedding day. He’s been starting to get back into the swing of things, though; working the connections…”

  Mark held up his hand, fixing his thoughts to something in Brandt’s account. “Rhodes, Wright, and Treforth. That’s Tristan Rhodes’s firm, right?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Thank you, Brandt. Really good work.” He nodded at the phone. “Now erase all that.”

  Brandt punched a couple of keys, and the screen went black. “Done, sir.”

  Mark gave a deferential nod, universal guy code for his gratitude. He worked a finger over his bottom lip, weaving this new piece of information into the tapestry he already knew of his subbie’s psyche. Despite the circumstances, it was a heartening thread to receive. She hadn’t just bolted from the villa of her own accord as he’d originally assumed—and feared. There had been a phone call. Something had pulled at her tapestry all the way from the states and started unraveling it.

  Okay, maybe the bastard had gotten beyond started. Mark had only been gone from the villa for a half hour, tops. He’d left behind a woman with his beard burn on her cheeks, adoration in her eyes, and a confident smile on her lips. He’d come back to find that note on the table, dunked in a puddle of her tears. Whoever did that to her had done it before. Skillfully. Ruthlessly. Now he had a name for the asshole. And possibly, based on the details Brandt had just supplied, a workable reason for the call too. Not a pretty one, but right now, the only pretty thing he saw about Shane Fabian was the man’s goddamn Gucci-ad hair.

  He looked at Brandt again. “How are the other arrangements going?” he asked. “The special accommodations I requested for tonight? Any trouble?”

  The Texan slid him another grin. “Not one, Senator. Everything’ll be ready to roll by six.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Brandt.”

  “My pleasure, Sena— Holy shit!”

  For the first time in the five days he’d known the man, Brandt Howell’s veneer dissolved like the stick of butter it always seemed to be coated in. Mark watched in bemusement as the man’s jaw popped and eyes bugged. A palpable frisson hit everyone else in the room too. Since the building was still standing, Mark ruled out a sudden hurricane.

  Turned out it was a bigger force
of nature.

  His daughter.

  Dasha looked every inch the pop goddess she was as she hurried toward him in a sparkle-doused T-shirt, formfitting jeans, and stilt heels that aged him with worry just by looking at them. That increased the pressure of the ferocious hug he gave her, rejoicing in her delighted laugh. After releasing her, he shook hands with the two men who never seemed to leave her side these days: her manager, David Pennington, and her security lead, Kress Moridian. The two dark-haired men gave him respectful greetings and solid handshakes.

  Dasha kissed his cheek, still unaware of Brandt standing there in speechless puppy love. “Hi, Daddy! I wanted to surprise you!”

  “Well, you succeeded.” He returned his daughter’s grin, letting her effervescence ease away the ache in his chest for a few minutes. The love she always brought up in him, an eternal well of fierce emotion, was interrupted only when humor tapped at him. It was damn near impossible to ignore the way Moridian and Pennington turned into snarling gargoyles at poor Brandt, who now dared to inch forward, beholding Dasha like she’d just floated there in a bubble.

  He ignored all three of them, keeping his arms around Dasha in a proclamation to them all of who the first man was in her life. “Don’t tell me you were just in the neighborhood?” he quipped.

  Dasha giggled. “Sort of. Remember the concert dates I had to cancel last year in Miami?”

  Mark gave her a tight nod. Of course he remembered. The performances were postponed because of a phony stalker attempt staged by his whack-job of a chief aide, who then decided to make them not so fake after all. The incident was one of the biggest reasons he’d said good-bye to active politics.

  “We finally had a chance to reschedule the shows,” Dasha went on. “And actually added on a couple more. It was fun, but I’m wiped. We cleared a little break time, and I remembered you mentioning this training here, so…ta-da! I hope you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  The quiet interjection came from Brandt, who’d turned a shade of crimson deserving its own spot in a crayon box. Dasha giggled, taking Mark back to the days when she first learned to do that, getting him to buy her candy and hair bows at the Base Exchange. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Dasha.”

  “I know.”

  “So are you helping my dad stay in line?”

  Brandt grinned slowly. “Miss Moore, I don’t believe in lines.”

  “All right, cowboy.” Mark stepped in as he noticed the I’m-gonna-tear-his-head-off look darkening Pennington’s features. And Moridian’s. He refused to look at, or translate, either of them any further. There were some things best for a father not to know, especially if his daughter looked deliriously happy about it. “Before everyone starts pissing in each other’s cereal, you’re all dismissed. I have business to conduct here.”

  “Excellent point.” David stepped forward, managing to look his normal all-business self despite ditching his beloved business threads for a trendy open-necked shirt and jeans. “I’m sure they have our villa ready for us by now.” He tugged at Dasha’s waist, but she turned back to Mark one last time.

  “I think I’m going to get some sleep tonight, Daddy. Want to grab breakfast in the morning? Er…Dad? Dad?”

  “Yes. Sure, darling.” He remembered getting the words out. Sort of. They left him just as the awareness of Rose took over again, picking up first on that subtle scent in the air, the smell that was locked into his soul by now. He braced himself for her beauty as the aroma wrapped around his senses, compelling his gaze toward her.

  He nearly choked instead, as he finally found her sliding into a desk at the back of the room.

  “Daddy? Are you okay?” It took a conscious lock of every muscle in his body, backed by the reminder that forty other people now occupied the room, not to hurl furniture aside and fly to her.

  “Fine, darling. See you soon.”

  No. I’m far from fine, damn it. Oh Rose…oh my pet…what the hell did that bastard say to you?

  He forced himself to take it all in. Every painful inch. She’d scraped her hair back into a severe braid. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying. Her forehead was crumpled as if she were lost, yet she curled a pashmina around her shoulders as if she never wanted to be found. He was a little relieved when a few of the other women noticed her and checked on her, concern on their faces. She gave them all brave smiles, likely making up some excuse about catching a flu bug of some sort and she’d be “back to her old self” by tomorrow.

  He drew in a measured breath. Her old self? Not if he had anything to do with it.

  A touch of doubt had lingered in his mind after he set the plans in motion for tonight, asking for Brandt’s help with the logistical details. Now, staring again at his submissive in all her torn-down misery, he knew no other path was an option for her. For them.

  Bolstered by that ultimatum, he hardened his stare. “Let’s settle down and get started for the day, people. Open your study manuals to chapter fifteen. We’re going to focus on your role not only as project leaders, but project participants.” He directed his eyes right at Rose as he finished. “Specifically, about knowing when you’re supposed to listen to directions and follow orders.”

  He wasn’t surprised when all he saw for the rest of the morning was the top of her head.

  He also wasn’t surprised when they returned from the lunch break and Veronica Vernon, clad in her typical New Orleans sparkles, approached him. “Senator Moore? Rose Fabian sends her regrets. She’s not feeling well and went to her room. She wants you to know she’ll be better by Monday.”

  “Thank you, Veronica.” He smiled in return. “Tell her I relay wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  The young woman blinked thick black lashes. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her, Senator. She says she’d putting everything on Do-Not-Disturb, and she plans on sleeping the weekend away.”

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.”

  As Veronica took her seat, he looked up at the space Rose had occupied this morning, still remembering her devastated, slumped form. After tonight, she would never look that way again. He vowed it with every Dominant bone in his body, with every protective drop of blood in his veins.

  “Go ahead and run, Rose—but you can’t hide.” Though he issued the pledge beneath his breath, it was wound with the steel of his resolve. “I’m coming for you, and we’re going to fix it. We’re going to do it together.” He curved up one side of his mouth as he finished that dark, determined promise. “Go ahead and rest for now. You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It would get better. She needed to just get through the next minute; then it would get better.

  Another minute passed.

  Why wasn’t it getting better?

  Rose lay on the floor in the middle of her room, stomach down. The carpet, rough against her swollen cheek, had become a strange friend. She focused on the abrasion of the fibers, using the little scrape of pain to pull her through to her next breath, then her next.

  It would get better. She had to believe that. She was doing everything right so far. Seclusion. Bath. More seclusion. Quart of ice cream. Nap. Okay…attempt at nap. More seclusion. Lying on the floor. Crying into the carpet.

  Damn it, it had to get better.

  The rub was, she’d done this before. More than anyone on the planet, she knew the drill about making a mistake, then dealing with the self-hatred shit storm from it. This time she was even prepared. This time she’d declared herself the disaster before Mark could. Didn’t the universe give credit for that? Didn’t the agony dagger cut you a break for saving someone from yourself, when you made the decision? Wasn’t there a cauterization option for taking the high road into heartbreak, making it fast and easy, leaving behind relief of the emptiness?

  A choked laugh left her. She knew about emptiness too. That was the next joke. Empty wasn’t relief. Empty was…empty. It was black-and-white, stripped of color. Stripped
of Mark. And damn it, it was better this way. It had to be. He’d see that too. He was smart. No, forget that. He was brilliant. Oh God, so brilliant. She’d miss his laughing insights about so many things. His stories about the Iraqi kids and their simple jokes. His magical descriptions of desert sunsets. His mouth-watering accounts about how good goat cheese and dates tasted on a piece of samoon. “Shit!”

  Emptiness was hell.

  She pushed to her knees, shoving back the tendrils of hair that stuck to her soaked cheeks. A glance at the clock showed she was only a few hours into this ordeal. It felt like weeks. And she couldn’t breathe. Even that felt like a function she had to think about and wonder if she was doing the right way.

  She jammed her room key into a pocket and wrenched the door open. The afternoon’s session wasn’t due to end for forty-five more minutes, so she had some time before having to dive into her cave again. The day was coming to an idyllic end, a wash of peach already drenching the sky in preparation for a brilliant sunset. She sat on the low stone wall in front of her room and watched some people running along on the sand together. A woman and two men laughed, chased, and yelled at each other. Rose envied them their carefree peace. Envied it, even though she didn’t understand it. That sort of happiness seemed something she just wasn’t destined for. Or maybe didn’t deserve.

  She was so absorbed in watching the laughter on the trio’s faces, she didn’t realize they were tossing something around: a little soft basketball emblazoned with the Bulls logo. She knew that part of it now because the ball suddenly bonked her on the head.

  “Ohmygosh!” The woman, a stunning blonde, ran over. “We are so, so sorry!”

  “It’s his fault,” shouted one of the men, a real cutie in a Miami Dolphins T-shirt.

  “Suck my banana, fruit face,” the second retorted.

  “Sirs?” the woman called back. “A dull roar on that, please?” She flashed a grin at Rose that belonged on a movie star. “I’m really sorry. They’re usually very nice, when they haven’t spent the majority of the morning cooped up on a plane.”