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  He’d instantly tried her cell—and gotten the voice mail he expected. He’d 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, determinedly picking his way through the crowd. 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 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 Rouselle, 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. “Rouselle, Wright, and Treforth. That’s Tristan Rouselle’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 fulfilled her pop goddess image in a sparkly T-shirt, formfitting jeans, and stilt heels that aged him by another year just by looking at them. Nothing like ensuring she’d get a ferocious hug, which he gave as soon as she raced close enough.

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  “Well hello there, beautiful.”

  “I wanted to surprise you!”

  “You succeeded.”

  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, both gave him respectful greetings and solid handshakes. Dasha kissed his cheek again, still completely unaware of Brandt standing there in speechless puppy love.

  Mark joined a chuckle to her infectious laugh, letting her effervescence ease away the ache in his chest for a few moments. The love she always brought up in him, an eternal well of fierce emotion, was interrupted only when humor tapped. 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 was made of crystal.

  Mark 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 nodded. 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 goodbye to active politics.

  “We finally had a chance to reschedule the shows,” Dasha went on. “Then 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 crayon name. Dasha laughed again, taking Mark back to 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. Some things were 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 all business despite ditching his beloved business threads for an 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 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 locked into his soul by now. He braced himself for her beauty as the aroma wrapped around his senses, compelling his gaze toward her—

  As she slid 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 more people now occupied the room, not to hurl furniture aside and fly to her.

  “Fine, darling. See you soon.”

  No, damn it. I’m far from fine. Oh Rose…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. 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’s 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. “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 and then her next.

  It would get better. She had to believe it. 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 and 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 a brilliant man.

  Oh God, so brilliant.

  She’d miss him. 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 hair chunks 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, to 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 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. A woman and two men laughed, chased, and yelled at each other. Rose envied their carefree peace. Envied it, even though she didn’t understand it. That sort of happiness…well, she just wasn’t destined for it.

  Didn’t deserve it.

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

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

  “It’s his fault,” shouted one of the men, a 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 belonging on a movie star at Rose. “I’m really sorry. They’re usually very nice, when they haven’t spent the majority of the morning cooped up on a plane.”

  Rose extended the ball back to her with a forced smile—which suddenly dropped. “You’re Dasha Moore.”

  The pop star’s face softened with recognition too. “And you’re the one who made my dad turn to mush this morning.”

  Grief stabbed all over again. She turned away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” I never meant to hurt him. I just want him to be happy.

  “Bummer,” Dasha muttered. “Because my dad hasn’t been mushy in a really long time.” She chuckled. “Did you know I tried fixing him up with Gwen Stefani, pre-Blake? Even she wasn’t mush-worthy. My dad’s a damn finicky mush-giver.”

  “He’s a good person.” She looked Dasha in the eyes as she stated it. It succeeded in relaying her sincerity but invited in a fresh wave of heartache. The woman shared her father’s gaze, down to the yes-I’m-reading-your-mind intensity.

  After a contemplative moment, Dasha sat on the wall too. “So what’s your name?”

  “Rose. Well, Rosalind. I’m in your dad’s class. I guess you figured that out.” Funny. She hadn’t been nervous with the gorgeous pop star until now. She wished they could just talk about Gwen Stefani again. “He’s a good teacher. A good man. A really good man. He deserves…”

  Everything. So much more than me.

  “D!” The man with the tousled dark hair and the lean build shouted up the sand. “Come on, sweetheart!”

  “Or do we need to…come for you?” yelled the other.

  Rose couldn’t help joining her giggle to Dasha’s. The woman swept her luxurious gold mane from her eyes and smiled back at them. “Two more secs? Please?” She hurled the ball back, and they both dived for it, wrestling in a tangle of limbs and grunts. “There,” she muttered. “That ought to keep the puppies occupied for a bit.”

  Despite her teasing tone, Dasha gazed at the men like they were a pair of half-god gladiators. Rose couldn’t help but stare at the open adoration on her face. When the young woman caught her gaping and laughed again, Rose stuttered, “S-Sorry. Why don’t you go back to your…uh…friends. I was just—”

  “Trying to figure out a little mush of your own?”

  She took in a sharp breath and bowed her head. Crap, what else would Dasha s
ee on her features?

  Seemed the woman inherited her father’s stubbornness too.

  “Rose.” She closed their fingers together. “It’s not my place to pry, but I can tell you this. I almost let doubt and fear rope me back from having the greatest joy of my life. It took me nearly getting killed to realize it.” She coiled her grip tighter, compelling Rose to look at her again. “I’m serious. It took a gun barrel at my forehead for me to get the point.”

  Dasha tilted her face out toward the water, where a number of boats floated by on the sparkling azure expanse.

  “Life doesn’t give you a lot of chances to grab happiness, you know? When the anchor’s pulled up, then you’d better sail that ship for everything you’re worth.”

  She drew in another deep breath. She knew Dasha meant every word, and she yearned to absorb it all into her heart and make it her truth too—but one unalterable truth would never make it her own reality. As that truth roped its way around her heart again, she pulled free from Dasha and stood.

  “Not if you’re the one who can’t read the map, Dasha. Not if you’re the one who’s going to run the ship into the rocks and kill everyone.”

  Deeming the fresh-air quest a fail, she rushed back to her room and wept through another long bath. Then another attempt at a nap.

  TV, maybe?

  Sure, that turned out to be real productive. After clicking past three horrible reality shows, two bad sitcom reruns, and another showing of Titanic, she plunged the room into silence again.

  And once more decided to curl up on the floor.

  “You have to stop this.”

  She snarled it at herself, watching her fingers clutch the carpet.

  “Damn it.” She forced her hand into a fist. “You need to deal with this, Ro. You are going to deal with this. You had a life without him before. Okay, so it was half a life by comparison, but at least it was…”

  Who the hell was she kidding?