He nips my fingers and gives me one of his charming grins that always melt me like butter. “But leave it to you to let me know when I am.”

I swallow the pills. “You can count on it.” My stomach churns and I imagine I must look green and sickly. “I haven’t been hung over in…” I catch myself before I confess the five years that is so telling, “in years. If the art world requires I drink, maybe I’m not meant for this job.”

Disapproval furrows his brow, and he leans back on his elbow, resting on his side. “The art world doesn’t require you to drink or understand wine. It does, however, need passionate people like you. I hate that Mark’s made you feel otherwise and it’s one of the reasons I’d prefer to help you get other opportunities.”

“Riptide would allow me to make a solid salary, Chris. I need that if I’m going to make art my career.”

“I can get you a solid salary elsewhere.”

Mixed emotions wash over me. If I depend on Chris now, what happens later when he’s not around? “I appreciate the help. I do. But I need to do this on my own.”

“You are, Sara. I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t believe in you.”

“Having you believe in me means more than you know, but it’s like you’re unveiling a new piece of work. Making it on my own gives me the confidence to know I can continue to make it in the future.”

“When I’m gone.”

An ache forms in my chest and it’s all I can do not to ball my fist there. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it.”

Reluctantly I concede, “I’m alone, Chris, and it was my choice, but with that choice comes the need to make smart decisions.”

“Do you know how many people would jump to use my money and resources?”

“You mean how many people would use you?” I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t have to. Michael was one of those people. “Yes. I do.”

“You continue to surprise me, Sara.” He hesitates and I think he will say more, but instead, he asks, “How’s your stomach?”

“Queasy.”

“I figured it would be.” He glances at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s already eleven. We should get up and I’ll order you some tea and biscuits to try and settle your stomach.”

“Eleven o’clock?” I twist to confirm the time on the clock, appalled at the hour. “I can’t believe we slept this late.” Regret fills me at the loss of time with Chris at this wonderful place, and all because of wine. “Wasn’t I supposed to meet the wine expert? Did I stand her, or him, up?”

“Her name is Meredith and I’ve known her for years. I woke up around eight and cancelled but she says she can see you at twelve-fifteen, if you like?”

“I do but…is tasting involved? I’m not sure I can do a tasting.”

“No,” he laughs, and rolls away from me to stand up at the end of the bed, stretching his long, muscular body, and good lord, sick or not, I am not blind to his male beauty. “No drinking is involved.”

“I’m not sure I want to learn about wine anymore.”

“Because you’re hung over. You’ll regret missing the opportunity when you recover. Besides, Meredith’s a wine expert and yet I’ve never seen her at any hotel, or gallery event with a glass in her hand. You can talk to her about how she manages that.”

“She doesn’t drink the wine she talks about?”

He crosses his arms over his broad, stellar chest. “I asked her that before I booked the training and her reply was that she can’t drink on the job and keep her professionalism.”

I’m suddenly encouraged by this meeting. “She sounds like someone I need to talk to.” Unbidden, a memory from the night before washes over me, and despite the circumstances, it hurts. “Last night...you said you shouldn’t have brought me here.”

His expression is unchanged but his reply is slow, his voice softening, “I say and do a lot of things I shouldn’t with you, Sara.”

“Then cancel the training and take me home.”

“I’m not taking you home.” He glances at the clock. “And if you want to shower and have time to eat before your training session, you should get up.”

“So we aren’t going to talk about this?”

“Why don’t we talk on the way back to the city so you don’t miss your session?”

“I’d rather talk now.” Leaving things up in the air, wondering if today is the last time I will see him, just isn’t how I’m made.

Chris relaxes his posture and sits down beside me, drawing my hand into his. “Look, baby, we were both wound tight last night. Alcohol and emotions, they don’t mix.”

I recall the image of his father’s wine card fluttering toward the pond and his taut features as he told me not to drink too much damn wine. Emotions. He was overflowing with them because of that card, and while I’ve already realized this, a new worry surfaces. Does he regret me being there during a moment of weakness?

“You told me I was making you crazy last night,” he reminds me, drawing me out of my thoughts, back to a present I’m uncertain of.

“You are, Chris.”

“Well, you’re making me crazy, too.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?”

“It’s not about making you feel better. It’s about the truth. Sara, baby,” he strokes my cheek, “this ‘crazy’ thing you’re making me feel is the best crazy I’ve felt in a long time. I’m not ready to let go of you. I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Sara, but please…don’t stop.”

Not ready to let go of me. Those are the words I latch onto, the inference he will be here with me in the future. “You’re confusing me again, Chris,” I whisper. “If this is just hot sex, then let’s have hot sex, and leave all this other stuff out of it.”

“Why don’t we just take it one day at a time and enjoy each other, Sara? We’ll figure this out together.”

One day at time. Why does that feel so impossible now? And yet, I want another day with him. I need some alone time, some time at my home, so I can think straight. Maybe then I’ll find clarity, and decide what it is I want and need.

“Yes,” I agree. “Okay.”

“Good.” He smiles and glances at the clock. “You need to get ready if you want to make your session. Wait here a second.” He walks to the bathroom and returns with a hotel robe and offers it to me. “If I see you walk na**d across this room, you won’t be making your session.”

The primal heat in his stare defies my messy, post throw-up state, and I quickly slip into the robe. I wasn’t joking about being toxic. Now is not the time for hot loving, no matter how appealing it might sound.

I scoot to the side of the mattress and my gaze locks on my shoes and purse laying in the middle of the floor. Beside them is the journal which has tumbled from my unzipped purse. Unbidden, panic rushes through me and I push off the mattress and scoop up my purse and shove the journal inside.

The sound of Chris picking up the phone tells me he isn’t watching, and isn’t interested in the journal. I’m the only one obsessed with it, and Rebecca, but I can’t calm the adrenaline flooding my system. My suitcase is a few feet away and I zip it up and drag it towards the bathroom, while Chris orders from room service.

The instant I clear the door of the bathroom, I shut it and lean on the surface. What would Chris think if he knew I’d been reading Rebecca’s journal? Would he understand? Would he believe me when I told him I feared for Rebecca? And damn it, if I fear for her, why haven’t I done more to find her? I’ve gotten so caught up living her life, I’ve forgotten I’m afraid for hers. Silently, I vow to do more for Rebecca, to find out where she is, no matter what the consequence to me. And deep down, I know there will be consequences to what I discover.

***

Hours later, I long ago showered and dressed in black jeans and a cherry-red top with sequins, a feature which my personal shopper seemed to favor, and I think I might as well. I spent several hours in the dining room overlooking the gorgeous Mayacamas Mountains, while Meredith, a very likeable thirty-something woman, managed to make the vast world of wine interesting and rather simple. And thankfully, I’d recovered from my hangover enough that Chris had joined us for one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever been served.

Now though, it’s approaching five o’clock, and the time to head home has arrived. Chris helps me into the passenger seat of the Porsche and by the time he’s behind the wheel, I cannot suppress a hint of sadness at our weekend coming to a close.

I sink into my seat, the grogginess of heavy food and the aftermath of being hungover weighing down my mind and body. Chris maneuvers over the back roads to the highway and we fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence.

“I have to go to Los Angeles on Tuesday morning,” he announces fifteen minutes into the drive.

This news punches me in the chest. Chris is leaving and I knew he would, but not this soon. But this isn’t Paris, I remind myself.

“I have a charity event for the children’s hospital over the weekend, and I’ve committed to a series of events leading up to it. I won’t be back until Monday.”

Tension uncurls inside me. He’s coming back.

“Come with me, Sara.”

Chris wants me to go with him? I’m surprised and pleased by the invitation. “I’d love to, but you know I can’t. I have a job.”

“I can convince Mark--”

“No.” I sit up straight. “Chris, we talked about this. Whatever is between you and Mark can’t overflow into my job.”

“I’ll get him press for the gallery.”

“No,” I repeat. “Please, Chris. Do not talk to Mark. I’ve told you. I need to know I can earn this job on my own.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes and I can tell he’s fighting with himself. “I won’t call him.” He cuts me a sideways look. “Your car is at the gallery and I live right nearby. If you won’t go, stay with me tonight. We can stop by your apartment on the way to my place if you like, so you can get some of your things.”

I’d hoped for some alone time to process what is between us but the idea of not seeing Chris for days twists me in knots. How has he become such a part of my life in so short a time?

“Yes. I’d like to stay with you.” I don’t want to go to my apartment, though, and it’s partially because I don’t want Chris to see how humbly I live. No, I correct myself. There’s more to it. My apartment is my old life that I’ve managed to escape for days, and on some level, I fear that I will never escape fully. I glance at Chris’s profile, his masculine beauty, and a deeper fear emerges, a fear that I will never truly belong in this life, his life. But this isn’t suppose to be about me. Rebecca. Remember how this all started. I need the information I pulled from her storage unit to properly investigate her whereabouts.

I have to go by my apartment.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sun is setting by the time we pull up to my apartment building and Chris parks his 911 in the midst of much humbler vehicles I imagine he can’t help but notice.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I say, and quickly exit the 911. Chris is already rounding the trunk when I stand up. So much for my escape strategy. “You don’t have to come in.”

“But I want to.” There is no give to his voice and he slides his fingers between mine and motions me forward. “Lead the way.”

Resigned to a battle I can’t win, I head toward my red brick building with Chris by my side and quickly find my door. I tug the keys from my purse, and hesitate. The journals are laying out on the coffee table. I can’t hide them from Chris. There’s no possible way.

Chris reaches around me, his big body framing mine, and takes the keys. He turns the key and shoves open the door.

Adrenaline pours through me and I rush inside, darting for the coffee table. I start to stack the journals, and the only bright side to their location, and my present state of panic, is I have something to worry about other than my simple brown couch and my $500 dining room set.

The door shuts behind me and the jolt somehow rakes my raw nerves to the point that two of the journals tumble to the ground. Chris is there, as he always is when I drop things, picking them up.

I sink to the couch and set the three in my hands on the coffee table before accepting the ones in his hands. He sits beside me, studying me, ignoring the journals that are all I can think about. “What’s wrong, baby? Why is bringing me in making you this frazzled. I don’t care about your apartment. I care about you.”

My eyes go wide. He cares about me. It’s the closest thing to truly admitting this ‘thing’, for lack of a better term, between us is more than sex. “It’s a lot of things but no, I didn’t want you to see my little bitty apartment.”

He continues to study me with far too much scrutiny. “What else? And don’t say nothing. You already said it was more than the apartment.”

My gaze falls to the journals on the table, and suddenly I desperately want to tell Chris about them. “If I tell you, I’m not sure how you’ll react.” I glance up at him. “Call this reveal my dark secret that might send you running.”

“I won’t run, Sara.” He pulls my legs over his, holding me captive, and I wonder if he knows this. I suspect he does. Chris has a way of controlling things, controlling me. “Talk to me.”