“That’s right, Dad. It’s all about you, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
“Asher, please don’t shout,” his mother murmured, glancing in the direction of the kitchen, where the cook and the maid were. Asher had been spoon-fed the idea that only the most common, coarse people ever showed emotion in public. But he continued, undaunted.
“The Gazette only wants me because I’m your son, not because I’ve worked my ass off reporting about complicated truths and convoluted class, religious and socioeconomic realities in war-torn regions, or that I found a way to tell those truths, despite heavy censorship; not because I’ve won a Medill Medal for my writing, or because I’ve built up one of the finest networks of informants and contacts in the Middle East for a Westerner. Not because one of my pieces has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. No. They only want me because I’m your fucking son!” he bellowed.
His father looked like he’d just been stabbed, but stood proud and tall. Of course.
“If you think that you’re gaining control of your trust fund and then moving off to London to work for my rival, you’re sadly mistaken. That trust represents generations of hard work by Gaites-Granvilles. It’s meant for a man who appreciates all the blood, sweat and tears that went before him. It’s meant for a man who will add to it for future generations. A man, Asher. Not a spoiled brat who only thinks about himself.”
“Someone like Eric?” Asher asked bitterly, referring to his cousin.
His father merely stared at him, his mouth clamped tight.
“I’m glad you brought up the trust,” Asher said, matching his father’s mood and donning the well-used cloak of cool indifference he often wore in his parents’ presence. It was the only manner of communicating that they acknowledged. And to think, his parents always claimed he’d never internalized anything they’d taught him. “Because I meant to tell you: I don’t want it. I never wanted it. Keep your money, and all the strings attached to it. Eric is the perfect person to get the trust. Personally, I’m surprised you haven’t transferred it to him before now. It’s your prerogative. But me?” He tossed the napkin he’d been fisting onto the table. “I’m done with that damn trust and everything it represents. I’ll be in the city for another week or so, if you ever decide you’d like to see me for reasons besides arguing over money.”
He walked out of the dining room, feeling like his brain was boiling inside his skull.
Unfortunately, his fury hadn’t been enough to cancel out the heart-piercing sound of his mother’s single choked sob behind him as he cleared the doorway.
God, he was a heel.
No, his father had been the royal jerk, threatening Asher’s job. Would he really call in some marker with Brannigan over at Mandor, and have Asher fired from his position at the Gazette even before he reported for his first day? It was a possibility, Asher acknowledged grimly as he took the ramp into the city. He knew and respected Dick Brannigan a lot, and thought the feeling was mutual. Brannigan was a fierce individualist who came from a long line of tough, in-the-trenches reporters. A dying breed.
Brannigan wouldn’t be intimidated by his father easily. But who knew what bit of knowledge his father might hold over the Mandor CEO’s head?
Why was it such a complete impossibility to be civil to them? He didn’t want to disrespect his parents, but it was as if the die had been cast. They would never see eye to eye and he would forever disappoint them.
He would always play the role of the ungrateful, insensitive son.
• • •
By the time he entered his condo, he was exhausted all the way to his bones. He still hadn’t acclimated to the time zone. But his intense fatigue was far more than jet lag, he acknowledged as he stripped off all his clothes and fell into bed. He felt pummeled by that meeting. He was asleep within a minute, craving the blank numbness of unconsciousness.
His brain seemed to have other plans for him, though. Because his dreams were far from detached . . .
He walked along a familiar wooded path, his steps fast and eager. He listened with strained expectation . . . but for what?
For her.
She was nearby. So close. Every time he approached the secret lake and the minutes slowly ticked away to their meeting, his body grew tight with anticipation. It was as if being away from her, even for a night, made him doubt the miracle of her existence, question the very reality of something so amazing. He resented anything that kept her from him.
His hands itched to touch her. She was just ahead in the clearing, near their silent, secret inland lake. He escalated to a jog on the wooded trail, muscles straining, his teeth clenched in mounting arousal and need.
Then he heard it, the sound of her voice . . . her sweet, addictive siren song.
Yesenia? That singer from the club who held him fast in her spell? What was she doing here? In Crescent Bay?
Just as he had the confusing thoughts, the setting of his dream faded and altered. But his target somehow remained the same: that beautiful, soulful woman, that elusive creature he needed to touch. To possess.
He now rushed down a shadowed tunnel with closed doors to the right and left, his target somewhere ahead of him. Where was she? The same target—the same pull—he’d experienced in the woods, he felt again. But this time, he couldn’t hear her voice. Only a thick silence—the unbearable absence of her—pulsed in his ears.
But she was here. Somehow, he knew it, despite the fact that he couldn’t see or hear the proof of her.
His nerves prickled with anxious arousal. Something was about to happen. Something explosive.
Amazing.
There. Through that door.