My Hunger, Page 3

  A problem. I suspect I’m her problem, and the variety of ways that could be true bite far more than the booze. And so does hearing her voice, all sweet and sexy with a hint of anxiety and vulnerability in its depths. The very fact I care that I might have put it there stirs even more guilt in me, when I’m already overflowing with the damn stuff. Crystal might have had a taste of BDSM, but she’s not a submissive, and she’s inside my head and too close to my family to be an escape. I need to find my escape at the club, to trust myself as Master again, and do it the way Chris Merit used to. A different submissive every visit.

  I set my phone on the nightstand by the bottle and open the drawer beneath it. Removing Rebecca’s red leather journal, the one I’d found months ago between the mattresses, I open it. Having read it cover to cover several times over, I know there’s nothing inside it that would help put Ava behind bars, and I’m not offering up more of Rebecca’s private thoughts to anyone unless I’m forced. It’s mine—like she could have been, had I let her—and somehow, I keep thinking that the answers to what I don’t understand are in these written words.

  I begin to read. . . .

  March 2011

  My father. My father . . . I can’t say those words out loud without them sounding strange. I never knew the man. I wanted to, but my mother wasn’t having that. I know this because she confessed it to me on her deathbed, when she told me everything I needed to know about him. As I’d suspected, he didn’t know I was alive. My mother had kept her pregnancy from him. I’d been furious until she’d told me his name. Then I understood, though the anger didn’t go away. Kenneth Burgendy: the notorious crime lord deeply rooted in the mob. It was a shock to digest. He was the man I’d hungered to know, who I’d been certain was the missing link in my life. The hole I could never fill.

  And then I’d met . . . him—my Master. And I started to believe he was the missing link. Only he has no desire to love me. He just . . . wants me. He has his business and his private club, where he is Master of both, as he is of me. I wonder if the coldness that allows him to be with me, but not love me, makes him like my father? But my father has hurt people, and I don’t believe my Master wants to hurt me. He thinks he’s protecting me, but while he does, I fall more in love with him. And love is as brutal as it is sweet, when you’re doing it for two people. When you’re experiencing it and living it . . . alone.

  I shut the journal, tormented by how badly I’d hurt her and how blind I’d been to it. Though the club would be an escape right now, I refill my glass, not able about to trust myself to be Master of anyone right now.

  Maybe Crystal’s real appeal is that she isn’t a damn submissive. She let me tap into the raw sexuality that I funnel all the shit in my life into, with none of the pressure to protect and guide that I’d had with Rebecca. I didn’t call her mine, and she didn’t call me Master. The way Rebecca had.

  My lashes lower, and I try to hear Rebecca’s voice and see her face, but she’s just out of reach. It’s pure torture. The harder I try to bring her to life, the more it feels like a blade is slowly slicing my throat from one side to the other, and I can’t breathe.

  My cell phone rings, jerking me from the spell of Rebecca’s words, and I see it’s Crystal’s number. Avoiding her isn’t the answer, nor is it the action of a Master. I take the call. “Ms. Smith. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “There’s always a problem.”

  “This one is named Mac Reynolds. He left a message on your mother’s voice mail, which I’m clearing for her right now.”

  At the mention of Riptide’s largest and most difficult customer, I drain my glass. “And what exactly did his message say?”

  “More than you want your mother to know right now. I deleted it to be sure she doesn’t hear it. But the jist was that you had one dead employee and another involved in counterfeit art, and he’s threatening to take it to the New York papers.”

  “Of course he did. Have you met him?”

  “Yes. Several times.”

  “Then you know he enjoys being sucked up to. He just needs to know you’re the new resident ass-kisser and that you have the power to negotiate whatever he’s after.”

  “He’s a power-play guy, Mark. That’s why he went to your mother. He’s going to want to talk to you.”

  My cell phone beeps and I say, “I have to take this call.”

  “But Mark—”

  “I’m a power-play guy, and you do just fine with me. Handle him, Ms. Smith.”

  I end the call and confirm my attorney is on the line, clicking over to the other line. “Talk to me, Dean.”

  “What it boils down to is they have no body and no evidence, and it’s an election year,” he announces without preamble. “They need a fall guy.”

  “Are you suggesting that’s me?”

  “I’m suggesting it’s whoever they can get their hands on. He mentioned the club.”

  I curse and he adds, “Yeah, right there with you on that one. I don’t need my membership made public.”

  “How does he even know about the club?”

  “Ava for one, and Rebecca’s journals for another. How damning are they?”

  I glance at the one on the bed. “I’ve only read one of them and there was nothing about the club, but a lot about the lifestyle.”

  “Which an attorney would demonize. I’m going to have a conflict of interest if this gets too much further along.”

  “You think it will?”

  “It depends on what those journals say, and how convincing they are that you and the club are problems. They could get a warrant to see the club records, in which case we need another attorney on standby, to motion to have the records kept closed. I have a guy I trust. I’ll talk to him.”

  “I need to go see Ava and get her to hand over the body.”

  “No fucking way. They have no case against you now, and everything will be filmed. Ava’s defense team is already using you as her reasonable doubt. If she twists things on tape it could end up in court.”

  “I’m not going to let her twist things.”

  “They’ll find a way if they want to—not to mention how it could drag Sara further into this.”

  “Sara didn’t even know Rebecca.”

  “That won’t stop them from saying she did. It’s about reasonable doubt.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before the press gets hold of this. They already ran an article about my gallery being wrapped up in counterfeit, scandal, and murder. It won’t be long before they pull the club into it. If I can talk to her—”

  “It’s insanity, and you aren’t crazy. Just wait. I’m meeting with the detective tomorrow. Let me feel him out in person. Maybe we can get them to sign a waiver that nothing in the conversation with Ava is admissible in court. But that works two ways. If she confesses again, it’ll be off the record.”

  “Put me on the hot seat, and get everyone else but Ava out of it. I don’t care how you do it, but do it. This isn’t about me. It’s about Rebecca, and it’s about no one else getting hurt.”

  There’s a moment of silence. “I’ll call you after the meeting with the detective.”

  “Whatever we’re doing, I need to get back to New York for my family.”

  “Understood.”

  We end the call and I push to my feet. I need to clear my head and take control, and I’m not going to get it in this room. My cell phone starts ringing again and I cross to the nightstand and grab it, leaving the scotch I want no more of. When I see the caller ID that reads “Ms. Smith,” I hit the Ignore button.

  And that’s a compliment she’ll never understand. I’m offering her the reins and with them, the control I never give away—except to her, it seems.

  Part Three

  Accused

  I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing and glance at the clock. Nine in the morning. After a night of reading Rebecca’s journal and climbing the walls, I’ve slept two hours. My caller ID
says it’s my father and I sit up, my legs draped over the side of the bed. “Morning, Dad.”

  “You sound like shit.”

  “Better than looking like shit,” I answer, but I’m pretty sure I do that, too. “How’s Mom?”

  “She’s weak and not handling the pain meds—they give her a queasy stomach. They took a blood sample as a precaution. We’re waiting on the results.”

  “Can she talk?”

  “She’s knocked out, which is why I called now.” He hesitates. “How are you?”

  I stiffen, concerned he’s heard the latest bombshell. “What do you mean, how am I?”

  “I know this Mary and Ricco situation, on top of your mother’s scare, is a lot to happen at once.”

  The tension in my shoulders relaxes. “Mom’s on the mend. That’s what counts.”

  “The nurse is here. I’ll call you later.”

  “Call me when you get the test results.”

  “I will. And son, remember. Shit happens, but it only stinks as long as you keep it around.”

  The line goes dead with one of my father’s many ridiculous sayings that always end up being profoundly accurate. I sit there for a moment, letting this one stir up determination, and then I dial the attorney. I can’t bring Rebecca back, but I can make sure that I don’t keep the “shit” that could hurt other people around longer than I have to. And to me, the shit is Ava, reporters, and turmoil. I’ve been down that path and it doesn’t work for me.

  I have to talk to Ava and convince her to come clean. It’s the only way to end this and end it now. I hit Redial and this time I leave a message. Taking my phone with me, I head to the bathroom to shower, determination burning through my veins. I’m ready to take action. For my family. For Rebecca.

  An hour after my insightful chat with my father, I pull my car into the nearly deserted back parking lot of the gallery. We’re closed and I’m not about to open the doors until I’m back here to prevent a three-ring circus.

  Stepping out of the car, I am dressed in my standard finely tailored gray suit with a well pressed white shirt and a gray tie. I’m also wearing my best steely “Bossman” persona, as our accounting manager, Ralph, often calls it when he thinks I don’t hear him. My cell rings and, noting Dean’s number, I lean on the car, staying outside beyond the earshot of employees to answer.

  “Did you talk to the detective?” I ask.

  “Yes. And as I suspected he’s a good guy who wants justice, but he pretty much told me the district attorney just wants a conviction. He’s going to do whatever it takes to pressure you to help him, even if that means dragging you through mud.”

  “He doesn’t have to pressure me. I want to help.”

  “I get that and I told him that, but the bottom line here is he has to deliver a conviction—and that means someone is going down. If it’s not Ava, it’s going to be someone else. You can’t let him turn that into you.”

  I curse and Dean says, “Ditto that from me. I talked to an attorney named Nick Rogers on your behalf. Many of us call him Tiger because he’ll rip your throat out if you mess with his success, which means his clients. He’s in court today, but I set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’m assuming under the circumstances you can make it?”

  “Can we make it later tonight? I need to get back to New York to deal with the backlash this causes at Riptide before it gets to my mother. I’ll double his fees. Hell, I’ll triple them. Just get me in, and now.”

  “I’ll find out and text you the answer and the address. This is going to get messy, Mark.”

  “Then let me just go talk to Ava. I can get her to talk.”

  “Not no, but hell no—and Tiger agreed.”

  “If I can end this, then I have to do it.”

  “If you go, you go with Tiger by your side. Just wait until we talk to him, Mark.”

  “I have my family, my employees, Sara, and the members of the club to think about.”

  “As a member of the club, you think I don’t know that? We’ll talk to Tiger. We’ll get a plan and we’ll attack. I’ll call Tiger now, but I might not hear back right away since he’s in court.”

  “Right. I’ll be here.”

  “Where is here?”

  “At the gallery.”

  “If the detective shows up or calls you, keep your mouth shut. Tell him to call me.”

  “Right. Hurry the fuck up with that meeting.” I end the call and head toward the door. I’m about to enter the building when a flurry of activity occurs to my left. Turning, I find myself accosted by a female reporter with a cameraman.

  “Mr. Compton,” the pretty blonde says, “I understand you have one dead employee and one arrested for counterfeiting art. I assume the two are related?”

  “You know what they say about assuming,” I comment dryly, pushing open the door. “It makes asses out of pretty reporters.”

  She grimaces. “So they’re not related and you’re just, what, unlucky?”

  “I’d say you’re the unlucky one, or just the unwise one. People who call and schedule interviews do better than people who sideswipe me.”

  “You won’t take my calls.”

  “Eventually I’ll take someone’s, and it won’t be the reporter who started my day out on the wrong side of the door.” I enter the gallery and lock the door behind me.

  Bright white floors gleam beneath my feet and a memory slams into me. It was near closing and I’d heard our salesperson Mary in a conversation with a customer. Something about the unknown female’s voice had compelled me to seek her out. Rebecca. I remember the moment I first saw her, her green eyes alight with excitement, her long brown hair windblown and sexy. I couldn’t look away, and I’d known she was special, that she belonged here. That she belonged with me. Damn it, she’s supposed to be here now.

  Forcefully I shove aside the thoughts and reenter the present. Somehow I’m standing still. Out of myself. Out of control. Setting my feet back in motion, I push through the entryway to the offices and my attention turns to the reception desk where our receptionist, Amanda, is taking a message on a call while the often flippant but always efficient accounting manager, Ralph, is kneeling at a drawer to remove a file.

  I lean on the wall and watch them, wondering when they’ll notice me. Amanda groans as she finishes the call and three more lines begin to ring, shoving her hands through her long brunette hair. “This is insanity,” she wails. “They won’t stop ringing. The press and the questions are driving me nuts.”

  Ralph grabs the lines one after another and quickly takes inquiries, then puts them all on hold. “All press,” he says. “Focus on putting them on hold and getting to customers and the talent who support this place.”

  “Ralph, you’re not hearing me. They won’t stop calling.”

  “There’s an ancient Chinese saying about the press,” he tells her, referencing his heritage.

  “What is it?” she asks. “And it better be good.”

  “I don’t remember. I’ll ask my grandmother.”

  Amanda growls at him, “Ralph, this is serious.”

  “It says,” I interject, “that if you put the press on hold, leave them on hold.”

  They both whirl around to face me, all but jumping out of their skins, a feeling I understand too well right now.

  “Mr. Compton,” Ralph says, straightening fully. “We weren’t sure if we’d see you today or not.”

  “I’m hoping to get a plan of action in place here and return to New York in the next few days.”

  Amanda answers another call and puts it on hold. “Another reporter.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” I reply. “Put them on hold and leave them on hold.” Considering Mary was arrested for trying to pass off counterfeit art and Sara resigned from her job to pretend fairy tales come true with one of the richest artists on the planet, I add, “Put the phones on the answering service and just check them for important calls once an hour. I don’t want an intern in here who could say the wrong thing.
I assume I have a stack of messages?”

  “All on your desk,” she says, giving me a concerned look I really don’t need right now. “How is your mother?”

  “Recovering and hopefully going home on Thursday.” I glance at the two of them. “We’re going to keep the gallery shut for the next two weeks except for private showings, and that includes all scheduled events.”

  “Oh, good,” Amanda breathes out. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with reporters in person.”

  “We will, but not until I’m here to do it myself.” I glance at Ralph. “You’re picky and obnoxiously honest about people. Go through the sales resumes and prescreen. Send me your top ten by e-mail. I’ll look them over for the future.”

  “Obnoxiously honest,” he repeats. “I’ll try to live up to that observation.”

  “See that you do.”

  Amanda clears her throat and surprises me with, “Speaking of Sara, can we ask her to come back when she returns from Paris with Chris Merit? She’s so good with people, and, well, the questions about Mary and Rebecca are awkward.”

  I glance at Ralph expectantly and he quickly says, “I’m handling the Mary questions for Amanda.”

  “How?”

  “Nonanswers and more fortune cookie quotes.”

  I arch a brow and he happily supplies, “Confucius says there are answers in silence. Confucius says speak not, listen not.” He shrugs. “Whatever pops into my head. It works. They ask what the saying means and what I’m trying to tell them, and forget what the question was.”

  Amanda interjects, sounding distressed again. “All the regular customers want to know if Rebecca’s really dead. I keep telling them she left the country and this could all be a mistake. She could be alive.”

  Anger spirals through me and my gaze lands hard on her, and I speak from the gnawing ball of emotion in my gut. “She’s dead, Amanda.”

  She pales. “But—”

  “Her passport shows her return. Ava got to Rebecca before she got to me. So I repeat. She’s dead. We can’t bring her back by pretending otherwise.”

  Amanda sobs and Ralph makes some kind of choking sound. “Denial only drags the hurt out. I’ll be in my office.” I turn and head down the hallway, refusing to look at the office that was once Rebecca’s.