Release.

  But no release.

  I fall to the bed and close my eyes. I shouldn’t. I know what I’ll see. What I’ll hear. But I’m exhausted. Always exhausted.

  * * *

  Seven months. Seven months of hated but deserved solitude. Can’t face a world where there is no Jake. I haven’t left the house. Not once. Hardly left this room. We didn’t share, not since we were fifteen, but he was always in here. Always reminding me I wasn’t all bad, because we, Jake and I, were one, and everyone has two sides.

  “We did everything we could.” His words, his grave face.

  The looks my parents gave me when the doctor uttered those dreaded words. They’ll haunt me for the rest of my miserable life

  I’m hollow. So fucking hollow.

  No Jake.

  Endless guilt.

  Parents who hate me.

  I hear a knock at the door, but I remain where I am, unmoving, unfeeling, unwilling. I hear it open. I know who it is; I heard them arrive a few hours ago. I’m surprised it took her this long to seek me out.

  “Hi,” Lauren says, closing the door and resting back against it.

  Silence.

  I don’t have the energy to tell her to fuck off. To leave me alone. She wanders over to my bed and settles on the edge. Reaches for my shoulder. Strokes it a little. My dead eyes find her, my face as blank as my mind. Then she produces a bottle of vodka from her bag. Unscrews the cap. Takes a glug. My face remains impassive, but when she holds it out, I find some strength to take it and sit up. And I down half, forcing myself not to gag. The burn in my throat is welcome. It’s something else to focus on. Something other than my unrelenting pain. I don’t hand the bottle back. I work my way through it under Lauren’s watchful eyes until it’s empty, before slumping back to my mattress and closing my eyes.

  I know what’s coming next, so I remain unmoving when her hand slips under the sheets and finds my limp cock. “Condom,” I mumble.

  “I’m on the pill.”

  I open my eyes and find her top half naked. Reaching for her hand, I yank her into the bed and climb on top of her.

  Numb.

  Nothingness.

  But it’s a fuck load better than grief and guilt, and maybe all I’m good for anyway.

  The easy lay.

  Leave your feelings at the door.

  * * *

  I blink my vision clear, shooting up on the bed. My phone is ringing again, and I sift through the sheets and pillows until I locate it. Amalie’s name glows on the screen. I drop my mobile back to the bed and head for the shower, the sound of her trying to reach me taunting me while I scrub last night’s dirt away.

  By the time I’m done, I have endless missed calls and a few voicemails. I delete them, but notice one from John. I dial him.

  “I need you in the new wing,” he says in answer.

  “What for?”

  “The beams. The carpenter wants to know if you’re happy with them.”

  “They’re beams. What could possibly be wrong with them?”

  “Just get your motherfucking arse over here.” He hangs up, and I laugh to myself. God, would I love to smash that fucker in the face from time to time. The feeling is probably mutual.

  On a heavy sigh, I start to get into one of my finest suits, my armor, a mask to hide the cracks, rough up my blond hair with some wax, slip on my Rolex and brogues, and head to the new wing.

  I find John in the farthest room, staring at the ceiling. “What’s the problem?”

  His head drops, and I get a rare glimpse of his eyes as he stares over his wraparounds at me. “Are you happy with them?” He motions to where four thick oak beams span the width at even intervals.

  “They look great.”

  John raises his arms, and I frown, wondering what the fuck he’s doing. Then he launches his big body upward and wraps his hands over the top of a beam, his huge, imposing frame dangling from the ceiling. I recoil. More so when I hear an almighty crack. “What the fuck?”

  John drops to his feet. “Still happy?”

  “There was no mention of reinforcements,” the scrawny man next to him says, sounding panicked.

  Well, fuck me. “How many of these have been installed?” I ask, mentally calculating the number of new rooms and how many beams are in each.

  “All of them,” John grunts, throwing an accusing glare the guy’s way.

  Oh. Well, that’s fucking great. “We need to fix this,” I say, looking across to the contractor who’s franticly flicking through his phone, probably searching for the email that makes no mention of reinforcements. Whatever. We’re here now and it needs sorting out. Jesus, I’ll have personal injury claims thrown at me left and right. “We need to hang things from these, mate,” I say, pointing to the ceiling.

  “What kind of things?”

  “People.”

  He recoils. “P . . . p . . . people?”

  “Yes, people.” I head for the door, smiling to myself. Poor fucker probably thinks he’s walked into a butchering house. “I’ll be in my office.”

  As I pass through the lobby, a smile on my face, I see the local florist renewing the flower arrangement on the ornate, round showpiece of a table that holds court. I stop and admire the simple spray of calla lilies.

  “Mr. Ward,” she says, pausing with the tweaking of the tall stems. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  I look at the imposing double doors that lead to the circular driveway. “I’ll take your word for it,” I say, returning my attention to her. She’s smiling, all dreamy, and I dazzle her with my knockout beam. She gets herself in a bit of a fluster, returning to the arrangement that looks pretty fucking perfect to me. “They’re beautiful,” I say, reaching for one of the lilies and stroking the velvety white head.

  She pauses again, her eyes falling to my fingers. She’s wondering what these hands are capable of. I’ll leave her with that thought. “Have a great day.” I continue to my office.

  Sarah is in the summer room when I pass through, talking to a woman I don’t recognize. It’s not unusual, what with new members joining every week. “Hi,” I say as I pass.

  “Oh, Jesse, this is Geraldine,” Sarah says, and I stop. “She’s a new member. I’m just showing her around. Geraldine, this is Jesse Ward. He owns The Manor.”

  My hand comes up as I take her in. Mid-forties, perhaps. Professional. A lawyer, most likely. She’s got an air of supremacy about her. Uptight. Finds it hard to let herself go. She’s come to the right place. “Welcome to The Manor.” I dazzle her with my signature smile, and I see her throat bulge from her poorly hidden swallow.

  She coughs, accepting my hand, and I give it just enough of a squeeze to have her mind race with curiosity. “Thank you.” She smiles coyly as I flex my grip. “I look forward to spending time here.”

  I bet she does. “You’ll never want to leave,” I assure her, backing away. “See you around.”

  Her head cocks. “You will.” She’s wondering whether I dabble. She’ll soon find out.

  I don’t have to look at Sarah to know her lips will be tight. “Let me show you the private suites,” she says, virtually pulling Geraldine away.

  I make it to my office and grab a water from the fridge, downing the lot in one fell swoop. My eyes fall to my drinks cabinet. Then to the clock. Back to my drinks cabinet. My jaw clenches. Back to the clock.

  My phone ringing is my savior, and I answer as I wander to my desk and slump down in my chair. “Cathy.”

  “I’m at your rental. You’re not here.”

  “I stayed at The Manor last night.”

  “You stay at The Manor most nights. There are only so many times I can clean the bathrooms and floors around here. I may as well be a housekeeper there.”

  I laugh. “You don’t want to be a housekeeper here, Cathy, trust me.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t suit you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I used to ride horses in Ireland, you know. I’d whip that place into shape in no time using one of those floggers of yours.”

  I fall apart laughing at my desk, imagining Cathy, my dear, wholesome housekeeper, cracking a whip in the communal room. “I know you would, Cathy. But I need you at my place.”

  “What for, boy? You’re hardly ever here for me to cook for. You drop washing off sporadically. Honestly, finding your ski equipment here the other day was the highlight of my week.”

  I smile. I knew it would be, hence I dropped it off on my way through. She’s indirectly telling me that I should be at home rather than lording it up here. I’ve tried being at home. Numerous times. It’s torture of the worst degree. I’m not good at being on my own, especially when drink is added to the lonely mix which, inevitably, it always is. That rental has been sitting there for years, mostly unlived in. But it serves as a great crash pad on the odd occasion the boys and I venture into the city on a night out. My new penthouse at Lusso can’t just be a crash pad. Not at ten million fucking quid. “Well, my new place is somewhat larger than the rental. It’ll keep you busy.”

  “And will you be living there?”

  “Yes,” I reply. You’re a deluded prick, Ward. “I plan on it, yes.” I planned on staying at the rental too, but the rental is cold, sparse, and unhomely. My new place is anything but. I ignore the part of my brain that’s currently telling me Lusso will just be another discarded part on my never-ending pile of attempts to fix myself. The car, the bikes, the apartments miles away from here. They’re all supposed to help me escape. But they don’t. Nothing helps me escape. I glance across to my drinks cabinet again. Well, not really nothing. Another glance at the clock.

  “Ooh, I can’t wait to see it,” Cathy chimes. “When do you move in?”

  “A week Saturday.”

  “Great. I’m off to polish your snowboard.” She hangs up, and my eyes remain fixed on the clock, watching the second hand glide around the face. I roll my shoulders. Stretch my legs under my desk. Swipe a hand through my hair. Run. I should run. I rise from my chair to go change into my running gear just as Sarah strides in.

  “Your noon meeting will be here soon.”

  My arse falls back down to the seat. “What noon meeting?”

  “With the interior designer. I told you yesterday afternoon.” She wanders across to my desk and slaps a file down. “But you had already started on the bottle.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, glaring at her. “I have a drink most days. Is that a crime?” Listen to me, being all defensive. It’s the first sign of guilt. But Sarah and I, we handle our guilt in different ways. She whips the fuck out of men, takes out her anger and frustration on them. Punishes them. Me? I seem quite content punishing myself.

  “No crime,” she muses, sashaying out of my office.

  “Why can’t you do the meeting?” I call.

  “I’ve got memberships to deal with. When your meeting’s done, we need to go over them.” She stops at the door, looking back. “I’ll be in the communal room tonight.”

  “And?” I’m not going anywhere near Sarah or her whip. Believe it or not, I do have a conscience, even if I lose it from time to time. I never lose it with Sarah, though. I won’t make that mistake again. I flinch, and by the look on Sarah’s face, she’s read my mind.

  “Have a good day, Jesse.” She closes the door, and I clench my fists, trying to breathe through my anger, trying to keep my eyes off the bottles of drink across the room. Having them removed would be the answer. Clearing out my office and apartment of all temptation. But then, the bar is fifty paces from my office. And what would I offer mates to drink if we go back to my apartment?

  Excuses.

  I reach up and yank my tie loose, feeling suffocated. The last thing I need right now is a meeting. My head’s fuzzy. My body strung. My mood low. Shit, I need a drink.

  Glancing at my Rolex, like it might offer me a different time to the clock on the wall, I groan. Another hour, I can wait another hour. I stand, remove my jacket, and unfasten the top button of my shirt. Then I sit down and slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling as I roll my sleeves up. Another hour. Another hour. Another hour.

  There’s a knock at my office door and my limp head drops as the big guy strides in. “Jesse. Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.”

  Another hour. “Perfect. Thanks, John.” My voice is hoarse. I’ll get this meeting out the way and then, fuck it, I’m having a drink. Just one. I should’ve insisted Sarah deal with this. I’m in no mood—restless, cranky, and hot.

  I watch as John slowly shifts. What’s that look on his face? It’s impassive, as always, unreadable with or without his wraparounds shielding his eyes. But . . . I cock my head.

  And nearly choke when he reveals who’s behind him. My limp body finds life and my back straightens.

  What. The. Fuck?

  I slowly stand from my chair, fully aware that her gaze rises with me. Is this her? Is this the woman who’s filled my new place with all that Italian shit—Italian shit that inflated the price by another million quid?

  I start walking around my desk, taking her in, every gorgeous little bit of her. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. The women around here, they’re mostly mid-thirties plus. She’s, what? Mid-twenties? Too young for me. Way too young for me.

  I nibble my bottom lip, thinking, noting her eyes still firmly set on me. She looks a little . . . struck. I inwardly smile.

  My legs are moving, but I can’t feel the damn things. My mind is clean. My vision clear. My senses alert. Almost like when I finish a fifteen-mile run. I like those feelings, but I like them more when I’ve not had to nearly kill myself to achieve that sense of freedom. I reach up and feel my jaw. I should’ve shaved. Do I look older with stubble?

  I close the distance between us, taking her in. Jesus, she’s getting more beautiful the closer I get, her dark hair pinned up, her perfect little figure screaming for me to run my hands all over it. I want to remove those pins and plunge my fingers into those shiny locks. Her eyes, good God, those dark eyes.

  Jesus, Ward, pull it together.

  But . . . I’m not alone in my admiring. She’s taking me in, assessing every part of me. I’m not what she expected either. What was she expecting?

  John said Miss O’Shea, didn’t he? Miss.

  She’s sublime. Completely and utterly sublime.

  And so totally out of place around here. Lord, if any of the men of The Manor caught sight of her, they’d be fighting over who got her in the communal room first. It would be a frenzy, possibly even a bloodbath.

  Smile at her. I should smile at her, but my trusty smile is nowhere to be found. I’m being failed by my magnetic asset, feeling like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. Her gaze. It’s not pouring with longing for me, something that usually gets under my skin.

  She’s . . . unsure. Stunned into silence and stillness. I’m with her.

  I finally convince my arm to lift, offering my hand. She remains motionless. Frozen. In a trance. I’m giving her three seconds before I’m moving in.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  I slowly lean forward and grasp her shoulders, my face going straight to the smooth, olive skin of her cheek. I could get drunk on her scent alone. I feel her tensing under my touch, and I laugh on the inside. These hands, lady, will give you hours of pleasure. My mouth, my tongue, my cock.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I whisper. It really fucking is. A very unexpected pleasure.

  She moans, and I smile, easing up on my grip, lowering myself so I’m at her eye level. “Are you okay?” I can feel my lips curving into a smile as she lifts those stunning chocolate eyes to mine. I’m so fucking happy in this moment. And it’s . . . freeing, actually.

  She suddenly seems to snap out of her trance and steps back, and my hands drop to my side. I inwardly pout. “Hi.” She virtually coughs it out. “Ava, my name is Ava.” She holds her hand out to me.

  Her voice. Fuck me, I’m a goner. And I’m physically trembling. I really need to stop drinking. I take her hand and squeeze but pull away abruptly when I’m struck by an electric shock that flies up my arm and stabs at my heart, making it suddenly buck wildly.

  What the fuck was that?

  Dazed and massively confused, I repeat her name, it falling naturally from my lips, no other words coming to me. Oh Jesus, I need to be shouting that when I’m hammering into her. I want to make her scream, claw at me, bite me. She’s just staring at me—this painfully beautiful young woman is staring at me, and for once in my fucking life, I’m stumped. No words. But plenty of thoughts.

  I need to offer her a membership. She can have it for free. My heart is booming for the first time in years. Is it excitement? Anticipation? I don’t know, but I tell you what I do know . . .

  I’ve never seen a woman so clearly. Never wanted one before I’ve had a drink. This woman though? It’s instant, uncontrollable attraction, and that is so very unfamiliar to me. So unfamiliar, in fact, I have absolutely no idea how to be.

  “Yes. Ava.”

  I shake myself out of my useless state as I step away, aware I’m crowding her. I’m not dealing with the kind of woman I’m used to. I also slip my hands in my pockets, restraining them. Everything feels out of control—my mind, my mouth, my body. “Thanks, John.” I glance across to him where he’s standing by the door, giving him a look that tells him I’m in unchartered territory. But he knows that. He knew it the moment he met Ava O’Shea at the door.

  He smiles. Leaves.

  And my eyes fall back onto her, starving for more. Jesus. I shake my head to myself, searching for some direction. A seat. Offer her a seat. I motion toward the couches as I head for my drinks cabinet. “Can I get you a drink?” I stare at the endless bottles of spirits, my head totally bent. A drink? Did I just offer her an alcoholic drink in a midday meeting? I frown to myself and turn to find her.

  She’s looking at the cabinet too, her own frown in place. “No, thank you.”