Jennifer Faye - Beauty And Her Boss

Still, she had agreed to this arrangement to save her father—a father who was now more eager to know what dirt she had dug up on her boss than worrying about how she was making out in such strained circumstances. It was all he’d wanted to talk about on the phone. His full attention was on making Mr. Santoro pay for the accident.

Gaby’s gaze scanned over the croissant and steaming coffee. There was also a dish of strawberries. Okay. So maybe she had enough time to enjoy a few bites. Her stomach rumbled its approval. Perhaps some nourishment would help her deal with the stress of the day.

She couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the day that Mr. Santoro revealed himself to her. He couldn’t hide from her forever.

* * *

Deacon awoke with a jerk. His gaze sought out the clock above the door. He’d slept for more than two hours without waking. That was a new record for him, but it had come at a cost. He’d had another nightmare and, even worse, he was late.

It’d been another night spent in his office. He preferred it to staring into the dark waiting for sleep to claim him. Because with the sleep came the nightmares.

A couple of months after the accident, his nightmares had started to subside. But then Gabrielle’s father had staged his protest with a megaphone, and he’d shouted horrible accusations. It was then that the nightmares had resumed. Sometimes Deacon remembered bits and pieces. There were brutal images of fire, blood and carnage. He had to wonder how much was real and how much had been a figment of his imagination.

Other times, he was left with a blank memory but a deep, dark feeling that dogged him throughout the day. It’d gotten so bad that he dreaded falling asleep. That’s when his insomnia had set in with a vengeance. After spending one sleepless night after the next, he’d given up sleeping in his bed. In fact, he’d given up on sleep and only dozed when utter exhaustion claimed him.

It’d helped to keep his mind busy. And so he’d become a workaholic. Knowing the movie industry inside and out, he was working on starting his own production business. But being the man behind the curtain meant he had to find people he could rely on to do the legwork for him. That was proving to be a challenging task.

He’d just sat down to read over the lengthy letter that Gabrielle had typed up for him. It had been late in the night or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. He’d made it to the last page when his eyes just wouldn’t focus anymore. Blinking hadn’t helped. Rubbing them hadn’t made a difference. And so he’d closed them just for a moment.

He jumped to his feet and gathered up the papers that he’d reviewed. If he didn’t get these on Gabrielle’s desk before she arrived, it would have to wait until lunchtime. Because the mail drop in the wall only went one way. There was no way for him to deliver any documents anonymously for his assistant. He would have to see about rectifying that, but for now, he had to beat Gabrielle to the office.

He strode toward the door. When he reached out his hand for the doorknob, he couldn’t help but notice the webbed scars on the back of his hand. They were a constant reminder of the horror he might have caused that impacted so many lives—especially Gabrielle’s.

It was no secret that he’d liked his cars fast and he’d driven them like he was on a racetrack. He couldn’t remember the details of that fateful night, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d been speeding. If only the police would just release their findings. Gabrielle’s father wasn’t the only one anxious for that report.

His attorney had told him there were a number of complications. There had been an intense fire that destroyed evidence followed by a torrential downpour. Deacon didn’t care about any of it. He just needed to know—was he responsible for taking a life?

Deacon moved through the darkened hallway, past the dust-covered statues and the cobwebs lurking in the corners. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like there was anyone in the house but him. Not even Mrs. Kupps was allowed in this part of the house. She kept to the kitchen and the office suite.

He descended the stairs in rushed steps. When he reached the locked door that led to the office area, he paused. There was no light visible from under the door and no sounds coming from within. He hated sneaking around his own home, but he didn’t have any other choice. He didn’t want to startle her with his appearance.

He recalled what had happened when his friends, or rather the people he’d considered friends, had visited him in the hospital right after his accident. They were unable to hide their repulsion at seeing the scars on his face, neck and arms. And then he’d held up a mirror to see for himself. The damage was horrific. After numerous rounds of plastic surgery, his plastic surgeon insisted the swelling and red angry scars would fade. Deacon didn’t believe him. He’d already witnessed the devastating damage that had been done. It was so bad that he’d removed all the mirrors in the house as well as any reminders of how he used to look.

Deacon banished the troublesome thoughts. What was done, was done. He moved into the office and placed the stack of papers on Gabrielle’s desk. That would definitely keep her busy today and probably some of tomorrow.

He noticed that her desk was tidy. However, there were no pictures or anything to tell him a little about her. It was though she wasn’t planning to be here one minute longer than necessary to repay her father’s debt. Not that Deacon could blame her—no one wanted to be here, including him. But he couldn’t go out in the world—not until the accident was resolved and answers were provided.

Without tarrying too long, he turned to leave. He was almost to the door when he heard a key scrape in the lock. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to linger in the office and have a face-to-face conversation with Gabrielle. In that moment, he realized how much he missed human contact. Maybe if he were to stay—maybe it would be different this time. Maybe she wouldn’t look at him like he was a monster—a monster that killed her aunt.

He gave himself a mental shake. It was just a bunch of wishful thinking. He moved with lightning speed to the other door. He grasped the doorknob and, without slowing down, he gave it a yank, slipped into the outer hallway and kept moving. He needed distance from the woman who made him think about how one night—one moment—had ruined things for so many people.

CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE EPILOGUE Extract Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

DIDN’T THIS MAN SLEEP?

It was almost lunchtime and Gaby hadn’t even scratched the surface of all the tasks her boss had left for her. It didn’t help that the phone rang constantly. Most calls were from reporters wanting to speak with Deacon. She had been left strict instructions to tell them “no comment” and hang up. With business associates, she was left with explaining that Deacon didn’t take phone calls. When she explained that they would have to deal with her, it didn’t go over well. Still, Gaby persisted. She had a job to do.