Billionaire Erotic Romance Boxed Set: 7 Steamy Full-Length Novels (6 page)

The cop ignores me as he takes my arms from the guard and pulls them behind my back. He locks the cuffs into place, the cold metal squeezing and pinching my wrists.

“I’m his attorney,” Kenneth says to the cop. “Take her to holding and I’ll come within the hour to make Mr. Stone’s statement and give you information for the booking.”

Pulling away from the cop, I lunge toward Mark’s office, hoping he can set this right. Hoping all the “submission and trust” talk wasn’t a bunch of hogwash. But as I pull away just enough to see down his side of the hallway—his door is open, his office is dark, and his desk is vacant.

When I need him the most, Mark just isn’t there.

Chapter 6

By the time they get me out of the building and into the back of their squad car, I manage to walk under my own power. However, sitting back there as they drive me to the station, hot tears pour down my cheeks.

“You ever been arrested before, Miss?” the cop driving asks while looking in the rearview mirror.

“No, Officer. I shouldn’t be arrested now. This is all—”

“…a big misunderstanding,” the other cop adds and they both chuckle.

“No, but it’s unfair. He provoked me. He assaulted me with an idea so foul I can’t even think about it without wanting to vomit. He should have been arrested too.”

“Did he hit you or touch you in any way?”

“No, but isn’t it illegal to speak in a sexual and gross way to someone who doesn’t want to hear it?”

“Lady, if it were, we’d arrest everybody on the internet!”

I turn to look out the window, trying to dry my tears on my shoulders with my hands cuffed behind me. The cop driving takes pity on me.

“Miss, if I could give you one piece of advice. You need to stop crying and clean yourself up before they put you in a holding cell. If people in there see you crying, they’re going to think you’re weak. You can be in holding for up to seventy-two hours. That’s a long time to spend with criminals who think you’re a soft piece of meat. So I know you’re sad, but you need to buck up.”

“I’m not sad, Officer,” I say, clearly stupid enough to bite any hand that tries to feed me. “I’m angry. These are tears of anger. Haven’t you ever cried when you’re mad?”

“Yes, Miss, I have. So, here’s what you should do. Instead of taking the Kleenex I was going to offer you when we uncuff you at the station, just ask the booking clerk for a sharpie and write, ‘I’m angry’ on your forehead. Because those lunk heads in holding think all tears are the same.”

“I appreciate your kindness, Officer,” I reply submissively. The tone of my voice reminds me instantly of how I feel when I’m giving myself to Mark. What’s he going to do when he finds out about this? How will I ever face him? I just need to cut that cord and move on. He is going to be so angry and there’s nothing he can do to save me now.

The booking process was fast and humiliating. The cops already had my purse from when they hauled me out in handcuffs. They checked me for any other accessories, put everything in a tagged bin, took down my name, birthdate, and address and prepared to walk me to a cell.

“Don’t I get to tell you what happened?” I ask as a female officer approaches to walk me back. She looks at the form the arresting officer submitted.

“Cop says the lawyer is coming to handle that.”

“But what about my side? Don’t I get to tell my side?”

“Honey, this is booking. Nobody cares about your side. You get to court, you can sing your song all day–but for now, get off your ass and follow me to holding or I’ll add a resistance charge so fast your head will spin.”

The words coming out of her mouth, coupled with the sardonic and snide tone set me on edge once more. No one had even listened to my side since the day that Blake Stone signed my termination papers and cheated me out of my own company. That rat better not get near my side now because I’ll do more than slap the smug off his putrid face.

The officer must see the fire ready to spew out of my eyes because her grip tightens but her tone changes to downright consoling. We approach two rows of cells, men on one side and women on the other, divided by open bars. Men are hanging over their side calling to the women, teasing and talking. I stall for just a second going in. Is this really happening? I am being put into a jail cell?

“How am I supposed to notify my lawyer? I haven’t had a phone call.”

“We need the booking statement complete before you can chat on the phone. But I wouldn’t waste your time on your lawyer unless you think you’re lucky. You get two minutes and if you get put on hold, too bad. Most people call family and they get the lawyer.”

The pneumonic door opens with a hiss, and immediately people start shouting all at once.

“Yo, I need some food!”

“I got a cut that needs the nurse!’

“Hey, I need my phone call! My baby needs a sitter!”

“It’s a mistake!”

All the desperate voices shouting make me dizzy and my heart starts pounding, pumping up the adrenaline in my system. The officer pushes me through the opening and a buzzing sound silences everyone as the doors close again.

My jaws clamp shut. My heaving breath, and my hands balled into fists must send out huge red flags. Some of the women give me a wide space to walk through and don’t make eye contact.

I sit down on a bench in the corner, not even looking at my cellmates although they are slowly getting brave enough to check me out. Nods and whispers pass between the others. I don’t care. I am still thinking about who to call.

Paul’s a great lawyer. That means he’s really busy and there’s no chance I’m going to get straight through. I could call the hospital and ask them to tell Dad. But what would he do? He’s on oxygen, has nothing and no way to get here. All it would do is worry him. If he lives—someday we will laugh about this together. But if he passes—I’d rather let him live his last days in peace, without knowing what a crazed loser his daughter turned out to be.

There’s Greg. That would just be par for the course and ensure my humiliation is complete. I could call and say “It’s your ex-fiancé. You know, the woman you cheated out of her heart? Well, I’ve been cheated out of everything now. Could you bail me out?” No. Not Greg.

I could call Janice, and I know she would mortgage her house if she had to, but it wouldn’t be fair. Besides, if Kenneth or Blake found out she helped me, she would definitely lose her job. Plus, if I haven’t ruined every single thing Mark was trying to do, he might still need Janice on the inside.

Dammit. I spent so much time buried in my business; I’m so short of a social life that I don’t have anyone to bail me out. What a success story I’m living. I try to recall some other friend’s phone numbers but they are all in my phone, and it’s locked up. This is pretty typical for my day so far—I throw a fit about a phone call, and then discover I have no one to dial.

“Hey you,” a tattered woman says from the next bench. “I think I know you.”

“I doubt it,” I respond, trying to buff up my voice until I sound roughly like a serial killer.

“Yeah, you’re that magazine woman. My daughter worked there as an intern for a summer. I saw you when I picked her up on days she was too late for the bus. You were always yelling or instructing or shit. She missed the bus a lot.”

“I do edit a magazine,” I lie, figuring I really don’t need to give an accounting of recent history to Debbie-Down-And-Out.

“What’s your name? Oh wait… I remember… Miss Shark. You’re Miss Shark.”

“Sharp.”

“Oh. Well, Miss Shark, you’ll be happy to know my girl has done good. She is writing on the internet and making good money.”

I smile and nod. Good to know something I did in life was worthwhile, before I hang myself in my jail cell.

The door hisses again and I hear a shrill, strong voice over the din.

“SHARP, Julia Sharp!”

I stand and push my way to the door. The officer pulls me by the arm and waits for the buzzer to end before she speaks.

“The complaint is filed. You can make your call now.” She walks me to a room near the holding cell where there is a phone book, a desk and a highlighter with some paper. Guess they don’t want anyone jabbing them with a pen. The guard points at the push-button phone as if I’m some kind of time traveler who doesn’t understand what to do with the archaic device.

Slowly, hands shaking and heart hurting, I pick up the receiver and place my call.

One ring, two rings, three rings… and…

“Hello?”

I thank God for at least one favor today.

“Mark, it’s Julia. I need you.”

Chapter 7

Our conversation is short, terse and one sided. I tell him where I am and he says he already heard about it. I ask him to call Paul and he replies, “I’ll handle it.” Then he hangs up even before my two minutes are up.

Returning to my cell, I begin to drag my feet a bit, dreading going back in there. I pray Mark will be fast because the anger that was keeping me safe is dissipating into a numb acceptance of my reality. I can’t afford to leave myself unprotected. Just as I near the area, I hear the woman who had been talking to me speak to a guy on the other side of the bars.

“That Miss Shark, my daughter said she’s one stone cold bitch.”

Hours pass as I sit in my corner frowning, listening to the chattering of others and cries for help every time someone is ushered in or out. I move over near the door and the next time the guard brings someone down, I manage to call out with all the others asking if Paul Freis has arrived. She takes pity on me and speaks into her radio as a mix of jumbles and static pour through the speaker.

“Sharp, your bail is going through now. Your bondsman is here to get you.”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Freis, my lawyer?”

“No, I mean Mr. Clank your bondsman.”

“Mr. Clank?”

“You know—from Clank and Clack Bail Bonds—those guys with the stupid commercials where people bang on the cell bars in rhythm. Don’t pretend to be high and mighty with me, girl. You ain’t got a guy like Paul Freis in your corner. But that rich bitch thing is sure looking good on you.”

I think for a second about arguing, then retreat. She’s more right than she knows. I won’t be able to afford Paul much longer. Clank and Clack are nothing but two-bit ambulance chasers. Why on earth would Paul use them to get me?

A few minutes later a guard takes me back up to the station house where a short balding man fidgeting with his hands in his pockets awaits me. I ask why he is the one bailing me out and he motions to me to be quiet and follow him out of the station.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on, Mr. Klink!”

“It’s Clank. Robert Clank, Miss Sharp. Please follow me and keep your voice down.” He takes me in an elevator to the 3rd floor of the parking garage where a black car waits. Suddenly my head fills with fear and crazy thoughts. Maybe Blake has hired the mob to make me disappear or Kenneth has paid Paul to cause me more trouble, or Valerie James is going to pop out of the back and take my picture to be her cover for Ladies World. I can see the story now: “High Strung Editor Finally Snaps!”

Just as I am about to turn and run, the door to the vehicle opens and out steps Mark.

I can’t restrain myself. I run to him and cling to him for a moment, wanting him to carry me away from this horrible place. He lets me hug him for a few seconds then pushes me off brusquely.

“Get a hold of yourself and get in the car now.”

I do as I am told, grateful that at least he’s here. Mark speaks to the diminutive, rumpled man who brought me to him.

“Thank you, Robert. I appreciate your help and your silence.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Stone,” he says as if speaking to royalty. “Good luck with her.”

Mark gets in the car and starts the engine. I don’t know whether I want to blast him for not being there when I needed him or burst out in tears over the whole sordid day. We ride in silence for a while but I can see by the prominent bone in his jaw-line from gritting his teeth that he is furious.

“Mark, I—”

“Shhh. No talking until we get to my place.”

Shuffling my shoes against the floor mat, I look down and try to imagine what exactly I am going to tell him that will make this day turn out right. When he pulls the car into the underground parking deck, I’m relieved to have a moment of darkness I can hide in while I try to collect myself and get my hair straightened out a bit. It’s ridiculous. He just bailed me out of jail, and I’m hoping he finds me attractive.

We walk quickly through the garage and into an elevator where Mark pushes the lobby button. Once there, we leave the lobby and go to a hall full of private elevators. We enter and he puts a key in the elevator making the small box move upward. Trapped in close quarters, I smell the masculine cologne he wears and feel the safe confidence he exudes. However, the small space also reminds me of how I ended up in jail in the first place.

Where has he been the past few days? Why wasn’t he there today? Why did he take so long to get me after I called? He’s Blake’s brother and his partner. Isn’t it just a little convenient he wasn’t there when it went down? Are they playing good cop, bad cop with me? What do they hope to get?

The shiny metal door opens to a panoramic view of his Upper West Side apartment. It’s beautiful, like the man himself. Done in monochromatic black and eggshell with silver highlights, everything is perfect, orderly and gleaming. A briefcase on a small stand beside a recliner in a study is the only evidence of an occupant. However, for all its linear charm, it’s not cold at all. It has the comforting warmth of embers in a fire, just enough light and heat, shining out in the darkness. A fully stocked bar with crystal carafes and sharp cut Waterford glassware.

Upper West Side, nice. I look around the spotless expansive apartment with silver Nambe sculptures and art from Paul Klee and Lyonel Feininger. I should stick with him, this life would be sweet.

I immediately chide myself. Where did that come from? I was raised to make my own way and given a liberal education that impressed on me that women weren’t required to have a man to be successful. In fact, that was one of the problems with Greg. My constant drive to succeed made him turn to some down-and-out floozy to make himself feel better. Okay, so down and out is a little strong—an opera mezzo at the start of her career. But still, he was paying her bills, and with my money.