Sugar (32 page)

By the time the police arrived, Martin was a bloodied, blathering mess. Piecing together his disjointed declarations, Sarah was shocked to learn that he’d harbored a secret obsession for her from the first. Deluded enough to believe she’d come to him as a lover, he’d tried expediting the process by staging a stalking. Instead the ruse had spurred her decision to leave LA and the industry. Still, he hadn’t expected her to stay away so long, let alone permanently. The wedding she’d confided she was planning had provided an ideal opportunity to leak her whereabouts to the press. He’d felt certain that being so dramatically outed would push her to come back to LA—and him. Only the desperate move backfired. When several days had passed and he still hadn’t heard from her, he’d finally accepted the reality: she wasn’t ever coming back, not to the industry and not to him. Coming across the press photos of her with Cole had pushed him over the edge—and onto a redeye flight to JFK.

Fortunately Cole had reached them in time. Despite being blackand-blue, Sarah felt ridiculously lucky. Her jaw was swollen but probably not broken, at least according to the paramedic’s probing. A split lip and minor cuts and bruises hurt like hell, but she’d always been a fast healer. It could have been so much worse! After answering the police’s questions, she and Cole were taken to the hospital ER to be examined and x-rayed.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Cole said, hours later, shuffling into her curtained exam area wearing a hospital gown and footies.

Sitting on the side of the table, Sarah laughed—and was instantly sorry. Being on the receiving end of a man’s hitting hand seriously sucked.

Cole, whatever his failings, wasn’t a hitter. Even in the midst of their heaviest role play, she’d always felt one hundred percent safe with him. An alpha man with a tender side, once he got his emotional shit together, he was going to make someone an incredible husband—and future father. Candace What’s-Her-Face or whomever he settled down with stood to be a lucky lady indeed.

“How’s the arm?” she asked.

He held it out, showing off a line of neat black stitches. “The doctor who stitched me up offered to call in someone from plastics so it wouldn’t scar, but I told her to go ahead. The whole time I was in Iraq, all seven hundred and thirty days, I never sustained so much as a scratch. I figure I’m overdue. Anyone asks I’m going to say it’s a war wound.” He grinned but his eyes looked sad.

She tried for a smile. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

“How’s the head.”

She pantomimed thumping her crown. “Still solid as a rock. The CT Scan ruled out any trauma or concussion, so they’re releasing me soon.”

“Sarah, that’s great!” He looked sincerely relieved.

She let out a laugh. “I know, right? I finally leave porn and now I’m rendered brain dead—how much would that suck?”

His smile flattened. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, c’mon it is a little.”

Meeting her gaze, he shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m so sorry . . . about . . . everything.”

Genuinely taken aback, she asked, “Sorry for what, saving my life?”

“No, of course not, but I am sorry for walking away in the first place—and then for taking so fucking long to come to my senses and turn back. If I hadn’t stopped for those flowers—”

“You brought me flowers?” Vaguely she recalled scattered petals and a strong, sweet scent when he’d broken down her door but she hadn’t given it much, any, thought until now.

He nodded. “Roses from the bodega where we met and ice cream cups. They were running low on stock but I . . . I bought every flavor they had, even Chunky Monkey, which I know has bananas in it and you hate bananas but—”

“I love bananas.”
I love you
.

Cole said, “You should come stay at my place.”

“You mean the Canning sanctum? Can this really be an invitation?”

He scowled. “Knock it off, and yes it’s an invitation.”

“Thanks but I have an apartment.”

“Yeah and it’s now a crime scene.”

He had a point. Even after the police tape was cleared, Sarah seriously doubted she’d ever be able to sleep there again.

“Then I’ll stay at Liz’s.”

“On the couch? Really, after the night you’ve had.”

“So, I’ll buy an aero bed. Or maybe I’ll check myself into the hotel—the Waldorf or better yet, The Plaza. That Eloise-themed suite sounds like a kick.”

It wasn’t a baseless bluff. She had money enough to rent every room in either hotel and never have it be missed. But she didn’t really want to go to Liz’s or a hotel, no matter how high end. She wasn’t fit to be someone’s caretaker at the moment, nor did staying by herself hold much appeal. She wanted to be cuddled and cared for. As great as her Liz and her other New York friends here were, she didn’t want just a friend right now. She wanted—needed—Cole.

Cole’s voice broke into her reverie. “You can’t avoid me forever, Sarah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously, not even my ER stall is sacrosanct.”

“I mean . . . we should talk.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Thank you for saving my life. There, we’ve talked.”

But as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. There was unfinished business still between them. She’d never got around to asking how he’d happened to be back in her apartment—or to telling him she loved him. Going forward, whatever did or didn’t happen between them, that box needed to be checked.

“Okay, you win. I’ll stay at your place . . . for tonight.”

“You live at The Majestic!” Turning to face the 72
^nd
Street entrance to Central Park, bustling with rickshaws, runners, and food carts, Sarah’s bruised face lit.

The iconic Art Deco property was one of a half dozen Upper West Side apartment buildings that boasted unimpeachable Old New York prestige and unobstructed views of the park.

Vaguely embarrassed, Cole nodded. “I’ve had the place for less than a year. My sister keeps nagging me to decorate. I still don’t have much furniture,” he added, though that might not be a concern for much longer. Assuming his mother carried out her threat, he’d be putting the pricey apartment on the market and moving above 96
^th
Street sooner rather than later.

She regarded the arched entrance manned by a liveried doorman and then looked over at him. “Are you sure there isn’t a service entrance you’d like me to use?”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him nor was the hurt it hid. Had it really taken a psychopath nearly killing her for him to open his door?

The ride up to his eleventh floor co-op was the longest of his life. Working out what he would say once he got her to his place and alone, he felt as if he stood inside a beating heart.

Entering his northeastern unit, Sarah walked over to one of several large windows overlooking the park. “Oh my God, these views are a-m-azing! And you have a terrace, too!”

“And a fireplace, wood-burning, not fake.” Despite a long, cold winter, he hadn’t yet popped the cherry on the wood burning fireplace. But, if he had someone to make a home with, he had a feeling that would change.

She glanced back at him. “How can you bring yourself to ever leave?”

He shrugged. “I basically come here to shower and sleep, or at least to shower,” he amended, thinking of his insomnia.

He wasn’t cured, he might never be, but since Sarah had come into his life, stress symptoms such as sleeplessness no longer ruled his life. Fuck the Canning “take it on the chin” approach to life, he’d even decided to work with a therapist who specialized in PTSD.

“That seems like a waste.”

Walking over to her, he admitted, “You’re right, it is.”

She shoved her hands in her back jeans’ pockets. “So do I get the tour?”

Assuming he didn’t screw things up again, there’d be plenty of time for that later—beginning and ending with his bedroom. “Sure but first...” He took her in his arms, fuck asking for permission or looking for some sort of sign from her that touching was okay again. “Yesterday you took me by surprise. That’s not an excuse, but it is a fact.”

She slanted him a look. Even shadowed with pain and weariness, her eyes were luminous, emerald orbs that beckoned him to strive for his better self, not settle for the ghost who’d slipped into his skin since Iraq. “Sorry, I guess I forgot I was supposed to stick to the script.”

More sarcasm, but this time Cole was ready for it—ready for her. He’d hurt her, he got that. He deserved whatever shit she threw at him. He wished she’d tear into him, let loose and hit him even. Instead she remained cucumber cool, her gaze watchful, her body language noncommittal.

He rested light hands on the tops of her shoulders, forcing himself to hold her at arm’s length. Assuming he didn’t screw up again, they’d have the rest of their lives to crazy on each other in bed. “This time it’s my turn to do the talking and yours to do the listening, got it?”

Until now, he’d always chosen action over words; the latter he’d considered a waste. Enlisting in the army as a noncom and then training for a specialty in ordnance disposal had felt like the closest thing to a complete break with his passionless WASP family that he could make short of swapping out his DNA. But lately he’d begun to wonder if he wasn’t just an adrenalin junkie hiding behind higher ideals to score his fix.

But the other day on Sarah’s steps, not sticking around to hash things out had been a huge mistake, one that had nearly cost her life.

“Okay.”

Cole took his time. He’d been waiting for this moment somewhere between his whole adult life and the second he’d set eyes on Sarah. He wasn’t about to rush and risk fucking it up. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through.

Gently tracing her swollen jaw and bruised cheek, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I’ve been an ass.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Shhh, I’m the only one with lines, remember?”

“Right, sorry.”

“I want all same things you do—the house, the dog, the kids—and I want them all with you.”

She sent him a trembling smile. “Thanks, that means a lot but how do you plan to cope with the fallout from your family? He shrugged, wincing at the stiffness. “My family may disinherit me—let them. I’ve always been the black sheep, and if spending the rest of my life making love with a porn star is my punishment, well then I guess I’ll just have to man up and take it.”

“And the media?”

“The reporters will have a field day for a week, maybe two, and then Lindsey Lohan will crash her car or Kim Kardashian will get knocked up with somebody else’s baby and we’ll be old news, back page history.”

“And your friends, including your army buddies who watched my movies along with you?”

Of all his inner obstacles, that was his biggest stumbling block. Smart of her to save it for last only this time Cole was prepared. “Honestly, I’ll handle it the only way I can—one step and one day at a time with you right there beside me.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I am, Sarah. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it—together.”

Together
—by the looks of her, she liked that word—a lot.

Eyes shining, Sarah reached up and took his face between her trembling hands. “I love you, Cole A. Canning. I forgot to say that yesterday.”

“I love you, too, Sarah ‘Sugar’ Halliday. And if you’ll have me, I plan on spending the rest of my life showing you just how much I love you, both in bed and out of it.”

Sarah asked, “Should we start now? I’m pretty wired, and we do have at least another seventy films to get through.”

Cole grinned. “Right now what I have in mind is more of an original screenplay, just you and me, no props, no script, the two of us on our own. Think you can handle adlibbing?”

Sarah smiled, wincing when the motion pulled at her cut mouth. “Well, I was trained as a method actress, and I’ve always believed in supporting indie films.”

“Great, we can come up with a title for our project later—a lot later. For now, I can’t think beyond taking you to bed. And heads-up, plan on getting comfortable because I’m going to keep you there a long,
long
time.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Is that so?”

Heedless of his stitches, Cole tugged her into his arms. “You bet it is.”

She wound her arms around his neck. Even with their injuries, her breasts brushing across his chest was still the very best of feelings. “Are you sure you’re not taking me to your dungeon.”

In answer, Cole reached around her, carefully lifting her into his arms. Carrying her through the living room, he couldn’t keep from grinning. “Right now I’m taking you to my bedroom—
our
bedroom. I promise to build you as many dungeon rooms as your kinky little desires—just as soon as we get you moved in.”

B
arnes & Noble Booksellers, Union Square, One Year Later

“Ms. Halliday, when does your next book come out? I’m such a Fan Girl, I can’t wait!”

“What’s it like to write fiction?”

“What was your reaction when you first heard you’d hit the
New York Times
?”

“Any regrets about retirement?”

“Sarah, baby, hold up the book and give me a smile.”