Chapter Three

In the private bathroom of a penthouse in Manhattan, the water ran cold.

I was sitting on the shower floor in his coat and what was left of my sweater, shaking, while cool water poured down from the rain shower and the drug burned through my veins like a fever that wouldn't break.

Victor crouched just outside the spray, his shirtsleeves soaked to the elbow, holding my wrist to count my pulse.

"The doctor's ten minutes out," he said. "Stay under the water."

"It's too cold..." My lashes trembled. Tears mixed with the water running down my face. I reached for him blindly, my fingers catching his collar. "Please... it hurts. You said... you could..."

"I said I don't." He caught my hand and held it still against his chest. His heart was pounding just as hard as mine, but his voice didn't waver. "Not tonight. Not like this."

"Why?" I sobbed. "Is it because I'm not... because nobody ever..."

Something in his gray eyes cracked.

"Because tomorrow morning you're going to wake up," he said, low and rough, "and I want you to be able to look at me."

I didn't understand. I cried harder, and he let me, one hand steady on the back of my neck so I wouldn't slump against the marble.

Somewhere in the middle of it, there was a moment of clarity, sharp and cold as the water.

My fingers found the antique platinum necklace between my collarbones.

Eight years. He'd said he would protect me for the rest of my life. Four hours ago, he'd offered to pay the men who'd tied me up.

I closed my fist around the pendant and pulled.

The clasp bit into my neck. It held, and I pulled harder, and harder, until with a sharp snap it tore free.

Victor watched me without a word.

"I don't want it," I whispered, holding it out to him on my open palm. My hand was shaking so badly the chain slid between my fingers. "Send it back. Walker Holdings, Manhattan. Today. I never want to see it again."

He took it from me, gently, the way you'd take something sharp from a child.

"Done," he said.

My strength gave out after that. The last thing I remembered was his arms lifting me out of the water, a towel, a stranger's voice saying her vitals are fine, let her sleep, and a man's low voice right beside my ear.

"Victor Caro. That's my name. Remember it when you wake up, so you know who to be angry at."

"Victor..."

The deck of a private yacht off South Beach, Miami.

Hot sunlight spilled across the deck. Champagne bubbles burst silently in crystal glasses.

A model in a tiny bikini lay against Eric's chest, pouting that he wasn't paying attention to her, tipping up her pretty face for a kiss.

But Eric frowned and turned his head away. His eyes went coldly, once again, to the phone sitting silent on the table.

Four hours.

Since that call ended, there hadn't been a single word.

Chloe, go on. Call me again.

Just call and cry one more time, and I'll be generous and believe you.

"Four hours, and you've checked your phone at least thirty times. Since when do you care about her this much?"

His friend Lucas, stretched out on the next lounger, took off his sunglasses and shook his whiskey glass helplessly. "Back when you were sixteen in Palm Beach, you're the one who swore in front of everyone you'd never marry anyone but her. You had that girl's heart completely wrapped up. Now you're grown, all you want is to be a free-and-easy playboy, and suddenly she's too clingy and too controlling."

"Do you even know how bad your reputation in Manhattan has gotten these past few years? Your mother's using the press to pressure you into settling down. That's how parents operate. There's no way Chloe put her up to it."

Lucas scoffed, then got serious. "I'm only going to warn you once, Eric. People's hearts are made of flesh. They can go cold. A promise you made at sixteen can't take this much abuse. If you really push her into someone else's arms, don't come crying to me at three in the morning."

Eric's fingers stiffened on his glass. A flash of irritation crossed his eyes, then turned into a sneer of total contempt. "Me, regret it? That's a joke. Only an idiot bets his whole life on one woman. I can't wait for her to get out of my sight. I'm sick to death of her guilt-tripping me with that old promise."

Lucas shook his head and silently mouthed, Dead man walking.

Eric got up abruptly, popped a bottle of champagne, and sprayed it over the partying crowd, trying to drown out the strange emptiness inside him with noise.

But before he'd taken a step, the phone on the table started buzzing.

Eric spun back almost instantly, snatched it up, and snapped, "Chloe, what the hell are you..."

"Mr. Walker, it's me." His assistant sounded hesitant. "A same-day courier just delivered something to the top-floor office at the Manhattan headquarters. It was addressed to you personally."

"The sender is listed as Ms. Chloe."

A mocking smile tugged at Eric's mouth. "Ha. I knew it. She couldn't keep the act going, could she?"

"No... sir," the assistant said, his voice clearly shaking. "There's no apology letter. There's only one thing inside... the antique Cartier platinum necklace you gave her all those years ago."

The sneer on Eric's face froze. His pupils shrank sharply. "What did you say? Spell it out for me!"