Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Only that wasn’t meant to be. So lost in my own sorrow was I that the noises from within the apartment didn’t truly register until I was practically on top of them. And by them, I meant Greg and the young waitress who’d served us dinner two nights ago.
It was a strange thing, really, seeing my boyfriend’s naked ass thrusting between widespread thighs. Was that what he looked like when he was on top of me? Because I had to say he appeared rather ridiculous, pumping away like an unhinged bunny. Then again, I’d never liked that particular method of his; I’d rarely orgasmed when pounded like a piece of meat. His partner, however, didn’t seem to have that problem. Either she was faking it, or she loved it. But her rather enthusiastic squeaks of delight cut short as she caught sight of me, and all the color drained from her face.
Sadly, it took Greg a bit longer to realize she’d frozen beneath him; Greg always was a bit of a selfish lover. When he finally noticed, he was as smooth as ever, observing me from over his sweaty shoulder without making a move to get off the woman.
Silence fell like a hammer. Or maybe an ax. Why not? An ax could sever more than one thing today. Greg swallowed twice, his gaze darting over me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was there. In my own home.
His voice was somewhat shaky when he finally spoke. “You’re early.”
So many things to say. Scream, maybe? Cry? But I was numb. Completely numb. So I said the only thing I could. “Funny, I think I arrived just in time.”
And like that, the carefully constructed life I was so proud of crumbled to dust.
CHAPTER ONE
Lucian
One truth I’d learned in life: the tender care of a woman who loved you was the best refuge when your soul was broken. Of course, I hadn’t thought the woman I’d run to would be my grandmother. Yes, she loved me. And yes, her place, Rosemont, was an excellent refuge. But the sad truth was there was nothing left for me anywhere else. My fiancée was gone, my career was gone, and I was broken.
Which meant I was at Rosemont. And, apparently, at my grandmother’s beck and call. There was no such thing as privacy when you lived with her. Meddling wasn’t her middle name, but it should have been.
Her droll, musical voice managed to rise above the sound of my hammering. “They have this wonderful new invention called a nail gun, Titou. Or so I’m told.”
Suppressing a sigh, I set my hammer down and turned to find her standing at the base of my ladder, hands on wide hips, a fond but slightly reproachful smile on her thin red lips.
“I like my hammer.”
A glint lit up her glass-green eyes. “A man should not grow so fond of his tool that he closes out the rest of the world.”
I swear to God. This was my life now—having to grit my teeth through sexual quips told by my unrepentant grandmother.
“Did you need something, Mamie?”
Failing to get a rise out of me, she sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She was wearing one of her silk caftans, and when her hands flipped up in annoyance, she looked like a small head stuck atop a fluttering orange-and-blue curtain.
I bit back a grin; otherwise, she’d ferret out why I was smiling and would be in a huff for the rest of the day.
“Do you remember Cynthia Maron?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“She is a very dear friend to me. You met her once when you were five.”
It was typical Mamie, ever a social butterfly, to have perfect recall of everyone she met. I didn’t bother pointing out that not everyone had that talent. “All right.”
I also didn’t see where she was going with this, but I knew she’d get there eventually.
“Cynthia has a granddaughter. Emma.” Mamie tutted under her breath. “Poor dear has had a time of it lately and is in need of relaxation.”
“She’s coming here, isn’t she?” This wasn’t my house. Mamie could invite whomever she wanted to visit. But damn it—I’d come here to get away from everything. That included guests.
“But of course,” Mamie huffed. “What else would I be talking about?”
It was petty of me to complain.
Rosemont had always been a haven for those who needed it. The massive Spanish revival estate, complete with multiple guesthouses, lay near the base of the Santa Ynez Mountains in Montecito. Bathed in the golden California sunlight, the extensive grounds, redolent with the heady fragrance of roses and fresh lemons, overlooked the Pacific Ocean. To be at Rosemont was to be surrounded by grace and beauty. For me, it had always been a refuge. A place to heal. Over the years, others, invited by Mamie, found that same healing.