PROLOGUE
JETT
Mayfield Realties was situated on the sixtieth floor of Trump Tower in the bourgeoning business district of New York City. A little after eight a.m. Jett Mayfield sat in his office overlooking the busy street below. The people and yellow taxis looked like ants in constant motion: always hurried, always tense. Like the city, Jett had once been abuzz with life—or his former interpretation of it: live hard, work even harder. Until he met her. There was something about Brooke Stewart that had changed something inside him. It wasn’t her beautiful chestnut eyes, nor the way she moved—confident and yet reserved. She had talked to him on a deeper level, touching something he had thought untouchable. His initial intention had been different though. His agenda had been to make her fall for him, not through words, but through actions and sex, lots of the latter, because he had wanted something she had. Not for himself, but for the man and for the company to which he owed everything. But events took a couple of turns he didn’t expect.
When the plan backfired, she disappeared.
A shadow belonging to the past: gone but not forgotten.
For the past hour he had been staring at the cell phone, leaving him a tangled mess of fury and frustration. And more pain, which caused even more anger.
How stupid of her to go and not listen to him.
How stupid of her to turn off her phone so he couldn’t reach her. And no matter how many times he called and how many messages he texted, Jett knew instinctively none reached her because if they had, she would feel his agony. She would feel just how important it was that she listen to what he had to say. It wasn’t about his feelings. Fuck them. There was something else he needed to tell her; something that had rendered him sleepless at night, always worried for her, for them, for everything he believed in. And if his suspicions were true, then they needed each other just as much as they needed air to breathe.
“Mr. Mayfield—Jett?” Emma’s head appeared in the doorway, jerking him out of his thoughts. He rewarded her with a frown. It wasn’t like him to be rude, but the girl was a receptionist temporarily promoted as his personal assistant until he could find someone more suitable. As such, she wasn’t yet accustomed to his preferences, which included not bothering him when he didn’t want to be bothered.
Wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights, she made no sign to get to the point and then fuck off again, leaving him to the darkness clouding his thoughts and the unusual soreness in his chest. He sighed impatiently. “What is it?”
Emma seemed to remember how to speak again, but her wide eyes continued to mirror her insecurity. Jett liked his employees like that. Even if they thought he was a real son-of-a-bitch, they worked harder in order to please him.
“Someone’s here to see you. I told him that you’re busy and to arrange an appointment, but he won’t go away. He’s been here for half an hour.” Emma’s words rained down on him like a waterfall. All he caught was something about a guy being here to see him when he was indisposed.
“Tell him I’m not available.”
“He said it’s important.”
They all did. “Then tell him you came to see me and I specifically told you I’m not available.”
Emma’s eyes widened just a little bit more, if that was even possible. Her frantic glance swept over him in fear. Obviously she wanted to keep her job, but the visitor seemed to frighten her even more than the possibility of displeasing Jett. He had two options: send the girl back out and risk her coming back, interrupting his obsessing about Brooke, or deal with the visitor. In the end, he decided option two was a tad more appealing.
“Show him in.”
Emma’s expression relaxed instantly and she almost bounced out of his office. Glowering, Jett sat back in his chair and began to massage his temples to get rid of the increasing throbbing behind them. If he knew where Brooke was he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap, and everything and everyone else could just go screw themselves. But as things stood, he had to maintain a façade of normalcy before things blew completely out of proportion.
“Jett, my man.” The familiar voice coming from the door jerked Jett back to reality. His attention snapped to his life-long friend, and some of the pressure weighing him down lifted. As usual, Kenny had managed to dodge any dress code and looked like he was about to step into a bar—or jail—rather than into the office of the realty business’s hotshot of the year. Ripped jeans, short sleeved black tee, tattooed upper arms, and pierced eyebrow. Then again, that had been Jett’s style, minus the piercing, for many years before he traded Kenny’s wild lifestyle for his father’s business. He still had the tattoos and the almost faded scars to prove it.
Jett closed the door, briefly registering the curious glances from his employees staring at both him and Kenny. They probably wondered what a man like Kenny was doing in one of the most successful companies in real estate, meeting with no other than the CEO. His employees didn’t know the true Jett. No one did. If they did, they’d run. But not Brooke. She had sensed his dark side and fallen in love with him nonetheless.
“You said you wanted to talk and it was urgent,” Kenny began as soon as Jett had closed the shutters, leaving them sheltered from prying eyes.
“I never said here.”
Kenny shrugged and slumped into Jett’s chair, propping his legs up on the polished oak desk, expertly ignoring the brown leather couches set up near the door, chosen for such an occasion. Jett’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t comment. “I assumed you needed me and that you knew what you were doing,” Kenny said. “You should’ve specified a place. Not my fault you’re being incautious, bro.”
Fuck it. He was right, of course, but the knowledge didn’t stop Jett from glowering. To hide his irritation, he poured two glasses of double malt whiskey from the carafe on the coffee table and pushed one toward Kenny.
“It’s barely morning,” Kenny remarked, his fingers clutching at the glass with remarkable eagerness.
“Who the fuck cares?”
“Point taken.”
The whiskey tasted like expensive honey. A bit too sweet, with smoky and earthy undertones. He hated it, but it was the beverage that went down best with his clients and as such he always had a bottle available in his office. In his five years working for Mayfield Realties he had never touched it—until today.