“May I help you?” a nurse asked.
“I’m here to see Nicholas Chase. He’s being moved from the medical unit over to the rehab facility today.”
“And you are?”
“His brother.”
She arched a brow as she pulled a thick blue file from a slotted stand.
He exhaled an exhausted breath. “Hudson Chase.”
The nurse scanned the file with efficiency before closing it and returning it to its place. “You’ll have to wear this.” She set a visitor’s badge on the Formica counter. “It must be visible at all times.”
Hudson picked up the badge, and clipped it to the V of his cashmere sweater.
“And I’ll need your phone,” she said, holding out her hand, all business as usual. “You’ll get it back when you leave.”
He hesitated a moment.
“Protocol.” She wiggled her fingers, coaxing him to get the lead out. Reaching behind him, Hudson yanked his cell out of the ass pocket of his jeans and glanced briefly at the screen. He’d left numerous voice mails for Allie and all of them had gone unreturned. Her message was loud and clear, and waiting for the when-hell-freezes-over phone call was futile.
Feeling like he’d been popped in the chest, he shut the phone off and handed it to the nurse. A moment later a lock slid with a click. Hudson moved through the detox center not wanting to disturb the stillness. The atmosphere was just too calm and serene. And that wasn’t the reality of his life.
He pushed open the door to the lounge. Like the rest of the joint, the room was stripped down to the basic, most functional components—hospital-grade couch, chair and table.
He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch, uncertain of what to expect when Nick finally showed. He thought back to the day he’d checked him in. There’d been no promises of joy or sustainable satisfaction on Hudson’s face. Just a longing, a hope for happiness for his little brother. And the only information the doctors had given him was a fuck-ton of “he could be’s” or “he might be’s.” Bottom line, they didn’t have a clue how Nick would be once he emerged from his binge session.
The knob hitched, the heavy door opened, and Nick entered. “Hey.”
Hudson turned around and assessed Nick from head to toe. His dark hair was loose and clean; his eyes exhausted after what had undoubtedly been a rough week of DTs.
Nick shuffled into the sparse room and parked his ass on the chair. Hudson followed his lead, sitting on the tweed couch opposite him.
“How are you feeling?”
Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his eyes before refocusing on Hudson. “Like I’ve woken up from the world’s biggest fucking hangover.”
“I bet.”
The silence between them was hairsplitting. They’d always had something to bullshit about, tease each other with. Now? Not a damn thing was coming to his mind.
“Hudson.” When Nick finally spoke, his voice was low. “I don’t remember anything but some random shit. It’s all a blur. Tell me I didn’t do it.”
There was a long pause before Hudson replied. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Oh God . . . Fuck.” Nick cleared his throat as if he intended to continue, but nothing came out when he opened his mouth.
“You’re not to worry about it, clear? I’ve handled it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said don’t worry about it. Focus on getting yourself clean.”
Nick dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders began to shake. Hudson shifted over and pulled Nick against him. The feel rather than the sound of his brother weeping busted through the first layer of the walls Hudson had built up. They both had endured a lot in their lives, and this was just one more tragedy stacked up against the others.
“Everything will be fine, Nicky. You just focus on getting yourself clean. I’ll take care of the rest.” The conviction in Hudson’s words was absolute, but he felt as if his feet were planted on quicksand and he was slowly sinking.
No matter what the cost, he’d never lose his brother again.
***
Julian pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his suit, not giving a rat’s ass about the no smoking policy at the Peninsula Hotel. The Marlboros were still wrapped in cellophane and Julian slapped them on the heel of his hand. “Fils de pute!” He cursed when the last tap came in contact with the bandage on his palm. That whore had cost him twelve fucking stitches.
His mouth drew back in a sneer as he stared down at the nondescript manila envelope; a little gift from the private detective he’d hired. The guy charged a small fortune but had proved invaluable when it came to a few of his less savory business transactions, not to mention the more personal matters. Sources and silence were worth any price.
He slipped the cigarette between his lips, cupped his hand over the end, and lit it with a quick rasp of his lighter. He tossed the gold-plated torch onto the coffee table and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a complete dossier on Hudson Chase. He’d asked his guy to look into the mysterious Mr. Chase the night the SOB pledged a million dollars to dance with his fucking fiancée, but till now he hadn’t had a reason to open the file.
He had one now.
Julian thumbed through the first set of documents. Lists of property, corporate holdings, a few charitable foundations. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then he reached the surveillance photos. A few of Chase leaving his penthouse, one of him ducking into a limo outside his office, and one of him with a man who bore a striking family resemblance. Julian flipped the last photo over and read the back. Subject: Nicholas Chase. Age: 22.
A detailed report followed. It showed a few odd jobs, but nothing that lasted longer than a month or two; and if his source was correct, which he always was, the younger Mr. Chase had more than his share of run-ins with the law when he was a teenager.
Three more pictures were included, all showing Hudson’s brother exiting a dive called Anchors. A billionaire brother and that shithole is where he spends his time? Julian’s eyes narrowed as he spread the documents out on the coffee table and took a long drag from his cigarette, the end glowing orange, the soft paper crackling as it burned. There was a kink in the perfectly polished armor and he knew exactly how to exploit it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Our first group hug is for our agent, Pamela Harty. You read our “super sexy romance” the day it arrived, loved it before you even finished it, and have championed it ever since. Your patience, professionalism, and unwavering support have meant the world to us. Without you, Pinocchio would still be a puppet and for that we will be eternally grateful.
A huge thank-you to our editor, Leis Pederson. Despite the odds, and what is surely one of the most crowded mailboxes in the industry, our little love story made the cut. You saw something on the page that made you give us the chance of a lifetime, and we strive every day to write words that will make you proud. Thank you for believing in us.
To our publicist Nina Bocci, we loved you from hello. Granted, the conversation was about David Gandy, but it ended with knowing we wanted to work with you someday. Thank you for helping us spread the word. And to Craig Burke, Erin Galloway, and the team at Berkley, thank you for making us feel like gladiators. Oh and Craig, we hope you’re having red wine and popcorn while you read this!
A box of cupcakes for our pre-readers, the giant kind you need a fork to eat. Bethany Myers, Melissa Marino, Sarah Gutchall, Graham Jaenicke, Ally Hayes, Karen Carroll and Margaret Fahey: your comments and enthusiasm made us believe our words might actually be read by people who didn’t know us. And of course, Kiley Roache. No chapter was complete until we’d been “off to see the wizard.”