What had been meant as a last-ditch effort to save her marriage had turned into a guillotine instead, one that had nicked her, even as she’d released the cord and let it drop—cleaving what had been one into two and setting her free.
Travis hadn’t even blinked in the face of her rage. Probably too full of whiskey to care. He’d suggested she stick around … implied she might even want to join in the fun. Her fist had balled up tight, ready to deliver the mean right hook her brother had once taught her, before she stopped herself, realizing it would do no good.
It was over.
A wave of nausea washed up her throat.
She could call her brother and … do what exactly? It was almost midnight, and Jason was a couple of hundred miles away. Besides, he’d ask all kinds of questions. Was she really ready to publicly admit that Travis had wanted the family’s money? He certainly hadn’t wanted her. Not really. No matter how charming he’d been during their courtship. No, he’d wanted a leg up in the financial investment industry, which he’d gotten … and more.
God. She’d saved herself for him. And for what? Love sure hadn’t been any sweeter on the other side of the marriage bed.
She tried to think.
If she called Jason right now, he was liable to go all big-brotherly on her. She didn’t need defending. She needed to get away. For a while, anyway. To plan her next move—at least the one beyond filing for an actual divorce, which she planned to do first thing Monday morning.
So, until then she could just get a room at another hotel.
In her nightgown? Strains of “Pretty Woman” began playing in her head. Yeah. She knew exactly what they’d think she was with plastered hair, thigh-high coat, and no shoes. No respectable hotel would let her through the doors.
And the unrespectable ones …
That was no better solution than the first option. Her eyes went to the tangled colors on the map posted above the doors of the subway train.
As much as she hated the idea, her thoughts circled back to the one person she knew in New York: Brad Davis. She knew where he worked—the Angel Mendez Children’s Hospital—but she had no idea what part of town that was in, or where her brother’s old friend lived. Or even what subway line she should be on right now. She knew how to find Brad, though. Social media was good for at least one thing.
Bracing her feet against the sway of the train and digging out her smartphone, she took a deep breath and pulled up her friends list.
Brad paced the living room of his high-rise apartment, half irritated, half intrigued. It was Friday night, and he’d just sent his date home with a smiled apology and a smoothly worded explanation about family coming into town unexpectedly.
Which wasn’t a total lie. Chloe was practically family. In fact, he’d spent more of his teenage years at Chloe and Jason’s house than he had at his own. And despite being known more for his biker jacket, spiked wrist cuff and well-practiced sneer than for his social graces, his best friend’s folks had made it clear he was welcome any time. Had made sure he’d known they cared about him, even as he’d wondered if his own parents knew he existed.
And Chloe …
His mind sifted through images of the past, each overlapping the other until it formed a collage of memories, full of pink cheeks and adolescent banter.
No one had been more shocked than he, six years ago, to learn she was getting married, or to arrive at the wedding and realize what a gorgeous young woman she’d grown up to be. Asking her to dance had been the ultimate mistake. As they’d taken one quick spin around the dance floor, the hem of her lacy white gown swishing in time with their slow movements, he’d suddenly realized she was no longer the gawky kid who had tagged along after him and her brother. The glint of a hairpin imprisoning a long graceful curl had made his palms itch. What would happen if he reached up and …
His arms had instinctively tightened to resist the temptation, the act pulling her fully against him. His body had reacted, his pulse rate climbing dangerously. A soft gasp had left her throat, and the fingers that had been politely resting on his shoulder curled into the fabric of his suit jacket.
He’d looked down just as her eyes came up. Raw awareness had shimmered between them, and her teeth had sunk deep into her bottom lip—the lip he hadn’t been able to stop staring at. The world around him had faded away, and the self-destructive tendencies he’d thought long gone had swooped down, nearly consuming him.
As if recognizing danger, Chloe’s husband had suddenly appeared beside them, his hand outstretched, a warning frown between his brows. He’d spirited her away, a mysterious ethereal creature with huge blue eyes and slender curves. The memory of her body pressed to his had stayed with him long into the night.
Nope. No thinking about curves, racing pulses or anything else. She was his best friend’s sister. Sweet. Innocent.
Married.
Nothing like the women he dated—sophisticated women who knew exactly what the words “no strings” meant and would play by his set of rules. Women who were the opposite of Chloe Jenkins.
So what was she doing, wandering the streets of New York at midnight? By herself? She’d said there’d been a hitch in her hotel reservations. Why not just choose another place, then? Or drive home to Connecticut, if it came down to it?
He’d only seen her once since her wedding day, and she’d never attempted to contact him. Until tonight.
He should have said no. Should have reminded himself of that crazy dance and told her to steer clear of him—or told her he had company, with just enough emphasis to let her know exactly what that meant.
But there’d been something about her voice on the phone. A shaky uncertainty, as if she’d expected him to flat-out refuse to let her come up—something he would never do to Chloe, even if Jason weren’t his best friend. Even if seeing her again messed with his head and brought up thoughts better left buried.
The buzzer to his apartment rang, and he punched the button on the keypad that would release the lock on the main entry downstairs.
Doubly glad he’d sent Katrina on her way, he opened the door and waited for the elevator to arrive on the fifteenth floor.
In less than a minute the doors whirred open, and whereas his date’s four-inch heels had clacked purposefully across the space, Chloe stepped onto the cream marble floor with the grace of a dancer, not the slightest sound coming from her pale, high-arched feet.
And yep. There it was. The buzzing in his skull that signaled danger.
He blinked and looked closer, realizing what he’d first thought were some kind of flesh-colored shoes were actually nothing of the kind. Pink tipped nails glittered in the hallway light. Even as he stared, she curled her toes under her feet as if trying to hide them. His head cleared in an instant.
What the hell was going on?
Had she been robbed? Assaulted?
His gaze traveled up her slim calves and over her knees and lingered on the hem of her raincoat, a white-knuckled fist keeping the edges together.
Concern erased all traces of irritation. “Chloe, are you okay?”
“Y-yes.”
He finally met her eyes and found them bright. Too bright—the blue depths teeming with some terrible emotion.
One glance at the twin mascara tracks running down her delicate face, the swollen bottom lip, and he knew.
Chloe was in trouble. Big trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
CHLOE PERCHED ON the edge of an overstuffed leather couch and took another sip of her whiskey—her second glass—wincing as it hit the sore spot on her lip.
Sitting