“I don’t believe you had an appointment today, pardon, I didn’t catch your name?” she asked.
“Detective Louis Kline, Ms. Davenport. I’m actually here on behalf of Mr. Daniel Lexington.”
Her chest seized with pain, and she didn’t know if she wanted this man to get out of her office, or it if it were she, herself, who wanted to run. She wanted to ask about Daniel, to know if he was all right, what he’d been doing, if he’d been thinking about her, if he hated her, if he would even forgive her, if he loved her. Why hadn’t he come himself?
Because he hates you for being a coward, Monica.
Because he’s angry, and wounded, and probably well on his way to forgetting you …
Instead, she signaled at one of the upholstered chairs across her mahogany desk. “Sit down, please,” she said.
“He asked me to please deliver this to you. It has to do with your parents.” He handed over a manila folder he’d been clutching to a discreet navy blue tie that perfectly matched his suit.
Monica cautiously took it from his hand. “My parents committed suicide,” she said out loud. She didn’t know why she blurted this out, but suddenly she needed to remind herself of the verdict.
“They did. There’s no question. No one committed any murder here, Miss Davenport, Mr. Lexington was merely calling in a favor from me. He had wanted me to search a particular man by the name of Roland Gustafson … and we think you might be interested in what we found.”
Monica opened the file to first see a handwritten note—and her chest seized when she recognized Daniel’s handwriting. She’d seen it only few times. Mostly, in the boardroom. He had a manly, somewhat smooth style, and the sight caused havoc to her insides.
Monica,
Make the right choice.
Daniel
Behind the note was a picture of a young Roland kneeling at her mother’s gravesite, a dozen red roses in his hand. Puzzled, she spread out the rest of the contents to realize that wasn’t the only image. There were actually more. More images of Roland. Roland and her mother coming out of the hotel. Roland and her mother kissing outside a coffee shop.
An emotion filtered through Monica’s numbness, and it was disbelief.
Roland was the man her mother had had an affair with?
Bile rose up her throat, and she stirred uneasily in her chair, suddenly unable to keep looking at the photographs. She closed the folder with uneasy hands and met the detective’s gaze with a face that was quickly burning hot. “How did you get these?”
“The private detective your father had hired to follow her had been blackmailing your mother, and apparently she’d been paying the blackmail. We believe she paid the blackmail for your sake, as it is obvious she had wanted your father to know of her romantic entanglements. Anyway, the detective died of natural causes and his cases were taken over by the son. He didn’t even know he had these until years after the trial.”
Monica swallowed hard, trying not to reveal her anger, her embarrassment, her confusion, her total shock. Worse. Daniel knew about this, too.
“Thank you, Detective. You have no idea how enlightening this is.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Lexington,” he said with a small grin, and then with a nod, he was gone, leaving Monica staring down at that old, crumpled, smelly manila folder, feeling nauseated.
Had Daniel known this all along?
Or had he just found out?
A wave of humiliation crashed over her as she imagined him knowing she was in a relationship with a man who’d been with her mother.
Feeling completely bereft and desolate over not having him nearby to talk about this, she slipped the folder into her Birkin bag and retrieved Daniel’s note, impulsively raising it to her nose. His scent washed over her, and she closed her eyes and almost moaned. ImissyouIwantyouIneedyou!
Groaning at herself, she tucked the note into her jacket pocket and went back to the photographs for the ad campaign, her chest coming alive once more. Just the sight of Daniel’s broad shoulders and her fingers digging into his muscular back made her almost feel him close. But her heart ached heavily, because that wasn’t so.
“Let’s use this one,” she whispered as Kristy came back inside, lifting the photograph in the air for her assistant to see.
The one where her eyes were on fire with heat.
Where Daniel was in her arms.
And she did not want to let go.
Where she was holding the man she loved and letting him hold her, and for that one minute in her life, nothing else had mattered but the need to be with him, to connect, to be allowed to love and be loved by him.
“It’s my favorite,” Kristy said.
“Mine, too,” Monica said. And when she was left alone in her office, with the stunning view of Chicago and it seemed that the world was at her feet, she covered her face in her hands and let herself cry for him.
* * *
On Saturday, she did what she always did before a gala. She had a long relaxing bath, then her staff come over to do her hair and makeup until she looked as perfect as a centerfold. Except tonight, she was wearing her hair down for Daniel Lexington.
Nervous at the thought of facing him, she finished getting ready, and then waited for Roland. He was supposed to arrive earlier, at seven, so they could discuss their relationship at length. Now that she thought about it, Monica realized there was really very little to discuss.
Soon, Roland Gustafson was exiting the elevators, distinguished in his tuxedo, with his deep thoughtful brow and that shock of gray in his temples. His gray eyes warmed at the sight of her, and he paused to take her in her elegant Christian Dior sapphire gown.
He lifted his arms high above. “My rose, my rose, you look stunning.”
Monica smiled coldly. He called her his rose because she had thorns, and was he ever going to feel the prick tonight.
“Come in, Roland. Sit.” She sat down in the living room and passed him the pictures, not offering him either a hug, a handshake, a kiss, or a drop of wine. She didn’t want to waste a moment more. She had been wasting too many years of her life already. “Why?” she asked him.
His usually calm demeanor broke as he flicked over the photographs, one by one, the color slowly draining from his face. “Where did you find these?”
“Apparently my father had you followed.”
He raised his head, his eyes wide and, surprisingly, tear-filled. “I loved her. I loved her, Monica.” He shook his head and glanced down at a picture where they were together, her mother and him. “I loved her. You’re a little part of her, rose.”