No Simple Sacrifice Read online

  “Oh, damn.”

  “You can say that again—but don’t.”

  After she instructed her assistant to hold all calls, we put our heads together for a couple of hours straight, strategizing an action plan for the problem—or at least a start. We agreed to keep brainstorming via instant messaging as soon as I was airborne and at cruising altitude—but right now, the key was actually getting me into the air.

  Into the air.

  I gulped back the trepidation. My uneasiness about being anywhere except planted solidly on terra firma wasn’t going to miraculously get better between here and Lindbergh. Like the heartache over Fletch and Drake, I had to simply suck it up and move on.

  As I rose, Claire restated the plan. “Okay. So while you’re en route, I’ll contact Bill Nexus at Nordstrom and the team at Macy’s.”

  “Be nice,” I exhorted.

  “Aren’t I always?”

  Coming from anyone else, I wouldn’t have taken the question rhetorically—but Claire Allyn Montgomery was in a league of her own in the killing-with-kindness department. I’d never literally seen that happen, but on a figurative level, she was a serial murderer.

  I was tempted to put that into words for the simple reward of her full laughter, but the door to her office suddenly swung wide. Correction—was nearly knocked off its hinges.

  Killian Stone filled the entryway, tall and dark and daunting, even without trying. And when the man put some effort into it, terrifying was a really good word to start with. So were looming and intimidating and forbidding.

  Immediately, he pinned every shining inch of his protective gaze on his wife. Curled up his model-perfect lips, almost as if to spit, and snarled, “Why the hell are you still here? Alfred was supposed to take you home at lunchtime.”

  Claire huffed as if the man had simply dropped her ice cream on the sidewalk. “Not this again.”

  “Claire—”

  “Killian. I told you, I feel great. And I’m not in here shopping for nursery colors. We’ve run into a major issue with the cosmetics supply chain.”

  His black brows hunched over the gaze that matched. “Fixable?”

  “With Talia’s help, yes. So stop being such a mother hen. Remember what Doctor Marshall said?”

  “Not a word beyond ‘healthy baby, healthy mommy.’” He wrapped his long arms around her middle, his hands easily clasping each other around her tiny body. “That’s why I count on you.”

  She laughed softly, yanking at his silk tie. Even at six months pregnant, she looked small and treasured in his arms.

  I turned away, suddenly feeling like an intruder on their moment. Still, Killian’s tone was bathed in welcoming warmth. “Hello, Talia.” He grinned, kissing the top of Claire’s head. “And thank you for the help.”

  “Of course, Mr. Stone.”

  “Killian. Please.”

  I shifted from foot to foot. Damn. Claire’s earlier assumption was right. Neither Fletcher nor Drake had filled him in yet. Mentally, I rammed them both against a wall and punched them. But didn’t kill them. In my twisted little fantasy, they were both naked. That ruined the whole killing part.

  “I’ll be ready for takeoff in about two hours.” Pushing forward with the plan seemed the best route.

  “I’m sure you have Lindbergh’s protocols down cold by now.” Killian flashed another grin. Poor guy. Or maybe my concern needed to lie with Fletch and Drake on this one. He was going to bust their balls when learning the truth they’d been withholding from him.

  “I—uhhh—just need to swing home and pack,” I stammered. “And call the sitter.”

  Killian’s smile faded into confusion. “The sitter?”

  “For Titus.”

  “Titus?”

  “My turtle. He gets lonely when I’m gone, so I arrange pet day care for him.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged, smiling affably again. “Okay.”

  Note to self—give the CEO bad news when his wife is in his arms. I doubted even a stock market crash could have ruffled the man right now. “I’ll be downtown by one.”

  * * * *

  On the plane, I composed three emails and two text messages—and never sent any of them. I’d longed to tell Fletcher I was airborne toward Chicago, but in the end, thought better of it. In the weeks since the gala, he’d barely made an effort to communicate. Well, not after I’d thwarted every attempt he’d made in the beginning…almost four weeks ago.

  He really had tried—in a hundred different ways, on a thousand different occasions—but the hurt had been too raw, and my sanity beyond confused. I’d been distant. No…worse. I’d been cold. Eventually, he’d simply stopped. The calls and texts had dried up. I didn’t blame him. The ice-bitch freeze-out hadn’t been fair to him.

  Now, he was owed at least an apology.

  And maybe…

  Someday…

  Well, he did know Drake better than anyone. And while my family dynamic wouldn’t change, meaning Drake’s stance wouldn’t either, at least the three of us could reconcile enough to be friends.

  Who the hell am I kidding?

  Claire had reserved SGC’s medium-size jet for my trip. As soon as I climbed on board, memories assaulted me, sharp and sweet, of the last time I’d traveled in this plane—that trip, seemingly destined, to Las Vegas for the cosmetics show. The weekend that had changed everything. The passion I’d never forget.

  My heart hadn’t gotten the memo in time—then or now. During takeoff, I let my head fall back against the leather cushion, fighting in vain to forget exactly what had happened on the plush couch across the cabin. The way they’d touched me. Held me. Whispered to me. Their voices had been thick with illicit promise…and that night in their incredible suite, they’d delivered in ways I’d never thought possible.

  My eyes filled with tears.

  With no one here to share them with, I let them freely fall.

  With no one here to see, I let the memories bloom. Let them ache and hurt and sting…with all the painful love that remained in my heart.

  My life would never be the same.

  Yet somehow, I needed to move on.

  I only wished that somehow didn’t feel like such an impossible word.

  * * * *

  As soon as the driver dropped me at the hotel, a boutique place on a shady little street in the Gold Coast, I grabbed a glass of wine from the bar and took it to my room—but it did little to help me get to sleep. An attempt at napping on the plane had yielded fitful results. When morning came, I was still exhausted. I yanked my hair into an effortless bun, applied the bare minimum of makeup and vowed the moment my meetings were done, I’d collapse and get an entire night’s sleep.

  The day didn’t go as we’d hoped. Actually, it had been awful. Shortly after seven, I returned to the room, kicked off my pumps and flopped onto the bed. The Chicago weather gods had decided to skip spring and go straight for summer, meaning the city’s trademark humidity was in full bloom. I desperately needed a shower.

  And rest. Just for a minute…

  That minute became the entire night. I woke up at two in the morning, curled in on myself across the foot of the bed. I had hunger pains and needed to pee, but worst of all, was freezing. My skin was cool from the air conditioner, but my business suit was the poorest excuse for pajamas. All I wanted to do was crawl under the covers.

  After changing, taking care of personal needs and grabbing a small bag of nuts from the mini-bar, I eagerly slid into bed—properly this time—and pulled the covers up to my chin.

  Annnd…perfect.

  I was now wide awake.

  I reached for my phone, studying the incoming notifications, and scowled with curiosity at observing a text from Claire.

  Call me in the morning before going anywhere.

  Cryptic—but given the time stamp, she probably hadn’t wanted to wake me. Still, the hour had been late, even for her on the west coast. Why on Earth was she up? Killian’s guard-dog act in the office was starting to
make sense. She needed to be getting a full night’s sleep. I actually felt guilty that she was working so hard on this one issue. She needed to delegate. Maybe she needed another assistant, just during the remaining months she was carrying—but knowing Killian, those plans were probably already in the pipeline.

  And maybe I needed to mind my own business.

  “Helllooo, busy-body knucklehead,” I whispered—then giggled, at once thinking Fletch would say it exactly the same way.

  And maybe I needed to really focus on the ‘moving on’ stuff.

  With a huff, I threw my phone onto the mattress and concentrated on falling asleep.

  There had to be a Murphy’s Law about focusing on falling asleep—and all the crazy karma it brought. I tossed and turned, haunted by dreams of Drake and Fletcher. In the sequences, I watched from afar as they mended their friendship. They were smiling and joking—arms around each other’s shoulder—but as soon as they turned and saw me, their arms dropped. They walked away in opposite directions.

  I bolted upright, panting and confused.

  What had it meant?

  I felt queasy about the answer to that.

  I’d simply assumed that with me out of the picture, they’d go back to being inseparable. But did I have any proof of whether that had gone down or not? All too vividly, I recalled the final embrace I’d shared with Fletcher. He’d shuddered from the effort of reining his grief to simple tears instead of full sobs—to which he’d likely succumbed as soon as my plane had taken off. What if he’d held all that anguish against Drake? And what if Drake had closed up in return, locking his feelings like sludge in an oil drum? Neither of them had spoken a word to Killian about things, leading me to believe they’d retreated instead of reached out.

  “God.” My tearful whisper serrated the air. I couldn’t escape the sensation that I’d made a mess of everything—and saw no way to even fix it. I couldn’t change my family—or their staid hang-ups. The baggage was what it was.

  And so the misery train chugged on.

  The day flew by again, consumed with meeting after meeting, woven into a series of pop-in store checks on the products. At three out of those five stores, the visit even wound up with me demonstrating products for the stores’ sales teams. That took me by huge surprise—and not the good kind.

  Back at the hotel, I instantly called Claire, filling her in on what I’d experienced.

  “The situation has gotten bigger.”

  Her groan punched the line. “Oh, no.”

  “On top of the packaging, we’ve got serious training issues. There was little or no training from the vendors to the stores. I personally gave demos at three stores—even a couple at one of them. How did this all get overlooked?”

  “It wasn’t overlooked.” Her answer implied I knew that answer, too—and I did. We’d sunk a huge chunk of the budget into training. “But obviously, proper training still isn’t taking place. Where’s the breakdown?”

  “Not sure.”

  “What do you suggest? You’re on the front line, with the bird’s-eye view.”

  “Ideally, I need time with the training team at corporate. We’ll have to go through processes and materials, then discern if this issue is local or national.”

  Without hesitation, she returned, “Make it happen.”

  “Even if it means me staying longer? Perhaps another two weeks?”

  “Do what you need to.” Her voice clutched half a second after mine. “What is it?” she prompted. “Something else?”

  “No…not really. I just—”

  “What?”

  “I only packed for three days.”

  “Oh.” The word was extended by her laugh. “Not an issue. I’ll call over to Bloomingdale’s and have you added to our account. Let them know I sent you. They can call me directly if there is an issue.”

  “Be serious.” It was official. My friend ran in an entirely different circle now.

  “Do you want to wear the same three outfits for the next two weeks? And…what…hand wash them in the room’s sink? You be serious.”

  I chuckled. “Does anyone win an argument against you anymore?”

  “Only one person.” I could hear her smile from across the country.

  “Hey…speaking of Killian. Can I trouble you for a personal favor?”

  “Of course. Especially if it involves me owing him something back.”

  “Okay, TMI.”

  She giggled through my groan. “Okay, seriously. I owe you big time for putting out these fires, so ask and it’s yours.”

  “I’m worried that Drake and Fletcher haven’t mended their fences. There should be no reason for them not to, with me out of the picture.” Just saying the words out loud pushed a massive lump up into my throat.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I’d appreciate—what?” I interrupted myself with the charge as soon as her new gasp exploded over the line.

  “My calendar just popped up a reminder. Your birthday is in two days!”

  I groaned worse than before. “Tell your calendar to shut up.”

  “Oh, shit.” She’d either ignored me or didn’t hear me. “Do you have plans here in Cali? Your family has to be doing something, right? We can bring you back for the weekend.”

  “No.” Time to shut that one down—right away. “No plans. Not this year. Now that I think about it, it’s best that I’m here, with a solid excuse not to face any of it.” Translation—not to face them—a realization that brought on the strangest sensation. Freedom.

  “Well, we’ll do a girl’s night when you get back to celebrate.”

  “Claire. It’s a birthday. I’m not seven. I don’t need a big deal.”

  “Maybe we’ll see what Margaux thinks about that idea.”

  “Oh, swell,” I mumbled.

  “I’m going to say goodbye now. You sound ready for a good night’s sleep. Take the afternoon tomorrow and hit Bloomie’s, okay?”

  “Will do. Thanks, Mom.”

  Another cute giggle. “Hey. That sounds good on me.”

  “Yeah. It does.” I smiled, thinking how lucky my friend was—and how nobody in the world deserved that good fortune more than her.

  After hanging up, I ordered room service, then cleared emails while eating. But a full belly and a glass of wine didn’t prevent another fitful night’s sleep—and another disturbing dream. This time, the scenario was my family disowning me. Mama, Papka…even Katrina, refusing to let me see Anya. I gazed at a holiday tree with no presents beneath it. Sat alone at spring church services. Celebrated career successes with reheated leftovers. Cried alone after shitty days at work.

  Once more I started awake, sweaty and exhausted. When I got out of bed to shower, my muscles hurt and I had a terrible headache.

  At least things looked up once I got to the office. Claire had called ahead and they were ready with a temporary space for me. Despite the migraine brewing just behind my eyes, items finally started disappearing off my To-Do list.

  Dutifully, I obeyed Claire’s order and knocked off just before twelve, choosing to walk the half-dozen blocks up Michigan Avenue to Bloomingdale’s for my retail therapy. I strolled along the very busy sidewalk, barely noticing the shops and people surrounding me. I really wasn’t in the mood to shop, but the trip wasn’t optional. I had to nail down a functional wardrobe for the rest of my time in Chicago.

  But I’d underestimated the heat. By the time the distinctive art deco building came into view, my head pounded worse than ever. I ducked down a shady side street for a short break, digging a water bottle and some Tylenol from my bag before plopping down on a concrete planter.

  A welcome breeze swirled down the street. I arched my head toward the sun and dangled my shoes from my toes, letting the fragrant air flow over me…and every thought dump out of me. Tranquility. Just a tiny second of it. Around me, all kinds of motion and noises collided, but for that one moment, I was still.

  And in that moment, the bac
k of my neck tickled.

  No. Tingled.

  My breath halted—before I realized what was really happening. My perspiring body, plus a refreshing breeze—not the sensation of Fletcher coming near—equaled sneaky little skin tingle.

  But as I jammed my bottle back into my bag and scooted my feet back into my shoes, it happened again.

  Tingle.

  This time, unmistakable.

  Fletcher is nearby.

  I lurched to my feet. Scanned the street, back and forth, nearly in a panic—and came up empty.

  The prickling intensified. The universe’s force, inexorable and inescapable, seized me…leading me to him.

  I started off down the sidewalk, peeking in all the shop entrances and patios in which people were gathering for their lunch breaks. I even passed a couple of town cars and tried to peer through their tinted glass, hoping for a glance at their back seat occupants.

  And suddenly…there he was.

  Across the street, in the courtyard of a tall office building…unspeakably handsome, magnificent as a model. He wore a dark business suit, accentuating his lean and sexy form, collared shirt opened by a few buttons, sunglasses perched on his perfect Roman nose.

  He sat on a bench, fixated on his phone, scrolling feverishly from one screen to the next. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, flopping into his eyes when the wind blew. He pushed it back over and over, the motion seeming to have become an impatient habit instead of a purposeful gesture.

  I couldn’t stop watching him.

  No matter how hard my heart squeezed.

  I noticed even more details. The nervous twitch of his right knee. The slight wrinkles in his suit. He even had stubble—at least a few days’ worth. I blinked, almost confused. He was always so perfectly groomed…