Until I Break (2 page)

As my stunned eyes travel away from his face,
I’m astonished to find that he’s even dressed like Mason might be
when he’s out prowling around—casual, non-threatening. Sexy.

His broad chest is covered in a white
button-up shirt that looks like it’s made of expensive brushed
cotton. His long, muscular legs are clad in faded blue jeans that
look like they were cut and sewn with his body in mind. And on his
feet? Nothing less than dusty cowboy boots.

This can’t be happening!

“Next question please.”

Temporarily, Ari’s voice distracts me from
the breathtakingly handsome man at the back of the room. I feel a
bit disoriented, like I’ve been in a daze. I look around at the
small crowd of people, trying to focus. But just before my mind can
snap back to attention, my gaze is drawn to him again, as if pulled
by a magnet.

But now the doorway is empty.

My heart sinks, so keen is my disappointment.
I suppress the urge to jump out of my seat and run through the
crowd, out the rear door to see if I can get one more glimpse of
him. I feel desperate for just one more look at my Mason.

Ari’s voice brings me back to my purpose
here. “You, sir,” he says in his authoritative voice.

Ari Nelson is my friend as well as my
publicist. He has strawberry blond hair and a no-nonsense way about
him. He makes calm out of chaos, reason out of randomness, and he
can wrangle a raucous bunch like nobody’s business. He’s a thousand
kinds of wonderful and he prefers his men much like I do—strong and
dark.

“Ms. Drake, does inspiration for your stories
stem from personal experience?” The smooth voice causes chills to
erupt down my arms. I search for the corresponding face among the
primarily-female crowd.

My eyes stop on a familiar face. His lips
aren’t moving, but I have no doubt whatsoever that the velvety
voice belongs to this man—my real-life Mason.

There are a few other men present, but his
tall frame makes him easy to spot. He stands inches above everyone
around him. I had been so focused on the doorway that seemed to
have swallowed him up that I didn’t see him hovering at the far
edge of the crowd.

But now, I can’t see anything else,
any
one
else.

His eyes are locked on mine as he waits. They
aren’t smiling or flirtatious, or even curious; they’re
just…intense.

When I don’t answer immediately, he asks
another question. “Are
you
Daire Kirby?”

As my mind spins over his words, he watches
me. I get the feeling he’s trying to see inside me, trying to find
the truth, to find the softest, most vulnerable part of me and
expose it. Just like Mason would.

The physical similarities between this man
and my fictional leading man leave me breathless. The similarities
that seem to float
just beneath the surface
leave me
terrified.

People are always curious about where I get
my inspiration, about whether or not it comes from real life. And
although I’ve answered his question dozens of times and have
memorized a nice, pat spiel to address it, my mind goes blank. It’s
as though the only thing I’m aware of is the invisible thread that
this man has, within seconds, tied around some battered part of my
soul and is using to pull me toward him like a puppet on a
string.

It’s quiet around us as the others in the
room await my answer. When I give none, “Mason” moves forward. I
watch, completely immobilized, as he fluidly weaves his way through
the bodies in the crowd until he’s within a couple of feet of
me.

He looks up at me where I sit on the stage,
his familiar green eyes stripping me bare in front of all these
people, and he asks the one question that scares me more than
anything else. “Are you looking for your Mason Strait?”

I’ve asked myself that same thing over and
over and over again. Do I want to escape my past? To forget it and
move on like it never happened, like it hasn’t affected me? Or do I
secretly want someone to take me back to it, to explore it with me?
To free me inside it?

“Your name, sir?”

I still haven’t said a word when Ari asks the
question, bringing me back from…somewhere else.

Translucent jade eyes never leave mine as the
stranger leans forward, extending his hand. It seems he’s
introducing himself to me rather than answering Ari’s question.
What I don’t think this man realizes is that he’s giving my
dreams—and my nightmares—a new name.

“Brand. Alec Brand.”

CHAPTER TWO- Alec

I make my way from the room, blending in with
the rest of the crowd. I can still picture the look Laura Drake
gave me as she was being led from the platform by the man I presume
to be her publicist.

There was something about her expression,
about the look in her light eyes that seemed incongruous with the
sexually progressive woman I would’ve imagined Laura Drake to be.
It was only there for a second, like she let her guard down
accidentally. That or I just imagined it. Maybe I want there to be
more to her than what she seems to be. Maybe I want her to be
vulnerable, almost…frightened.

While I find Laura Drake the author
fascinating, I might find
this
Laura Drake, the person, far
more intriguing. She wouldn’t be the typical type of woman I’m
drawn to, the kind I’m attracted to, but parts of her could be.
Obviously, something about her is appealing to me or I wouldn’t
still be thinking about her this way.

Savvy author of vampire romance novels,
possessed of an intriguing mind and a more intriguing past? Or shy,
possibly repressed woman I saw staring back at me from behind those
glasses?

Which is the real Laura Drake? And how do I
get close enough to find out?

CHAPTER THREE- Samantha

Ari shuts the hotel room door behind me and I
collapse onto the sofa. I lay my head back and take a deep, calming
breath. I’m exhausted.

I close my eyes and, within seconds, two
intense drops of pale lime appear at the back of my mind to taunt
me. My heart speeds up. Curiosity and excitement course through me.
And so does a fine thread of fear. He’s so much like Mason…

How can he be real? And be so much like
someone who’s not?

Suddenly restless, I push myself to my feet
and walk into the bedroom to start peeling off the layers of Laura
Drake. I tug the black bob-cut wig from my head then remove the
non-prescription glasses and toss both onto the bed. I stand in
front of the mirror appraising myself.

The black two-piece suit is tailored to fit
my slim build. It is every inch Laura Drake—sharp, sophisticated,
educated, in control. Not at all who I am. Only when my eyes reach
my head do I begin to see bits of Samantha Jansen.

A few sprigs of dark red hair have escaped
the wig stocking. The heart shaped face is pale, making the lips
look dark pink. The gray eyes are heavy-lidded and red with
fatigue.

In this moment, I am neither Laura Drake nor
Samantha Jansen. Or am I both? I go to extraordinary lengths to
keep my identity concealed, but I sometimes wonder who the
real
me
is.

When I take one step back, away from the
mirror, I become aware of my shoes. The strappy heels are the one
bit of frivolity in my Laura Drake persona. And they’re my anchor
to the one person in the world who keeps me grounded, no matter
what happens to Laura—my sister, Chris. She designed the shoes. I
wear them with pride. I wear them in support. But mostly, I wear
them so that I never forget who I am, where I came from, and all
the pain that brought me here.

“That went well,” Ari says as he picks up my
wig and shakes it out.

“What time am I supposed to be flying
out?”

“4:20.”

I look at my watch. Thirty minutes until I
can leave. “Let’s check out early. We can get some coffee at the
airport before I change.”

Ari holds the wig out to me and bows
dramatically. “Whatever you prefer, miss.”

“Whatever I prefer?” I snort and take the
silky black hair piece from his fingers. “Where have you been
hiding this lovely version of yourself?”

Ari straightens and smiles. “The domineering,
control-freak publicist keeps him under lock and key.”

“Um, I need a copy of that key. Why don’t you
get right on that?”

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” he teases. “You’d
be a wreck if I listened to you very often.”

I sigh. “But I’d be a happy wreck.”

“No, you’d be a poor wreck who spends her
days writing with paper and pencil in a padded cell.”

“I’d be a
very
happy wreck.”

Ari shakes his head. “No appreciation.”

“Oh, you know I love you. I’d be lost without
you and your domineering ways.”

“This, I know.”

“And your humility. Let’s not forget
that.”

“Your glasses, Clark Kent,” he says, scooping
them off the bed and tossing them to me.

I slip back into my alter ego. After
adjusting my wig and straightening my jacket, I turn to the mirror.
Once again, Laura Drake is staring back at me.

Behind me, Ari smiles and wheels my single
piece of luggage to the door. With a sigh, I grab my purse and
carry-on and follow, leaving behind the hotel that’s only six
blocks from my apartment.

********

Two hours later, after a cab ride to the
airport, a cinnamon dulce latte with Ari at the airport Starbucks
and a quick change of identity in the First Class lounge, I am
unlocking the door to my apartment as Samantha Jansen. Ari is on
his way back to New York and Laura Drake is tucked safely away in
my bag.

I don’t live a glamorous life, but the one
thing I sprung for was a great view. It’s what sold me on this
condo. From nearly every window in this unit, I can see the Battery
and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

That vista greets me when I stop just inside
the doorway. White curtains billow at each of the six tall, open
windows that line the wall in front of me. I breathe in the beauty
of the scene, the lightly scented air, and the comforting smells of
home; it’s the most soothing cocktail in the world.

Something touches my leg. I look down. It’s
my cat, Jinx.

“Hi, Jinxy!” I croon, bending to stroke his
silky body as he weaves in and around my legs. His solid black fur
glistens healthfully in the light. “Did Chris take good care of
you?” Even though I’ve only been staying a few blocks away, I dared
not risk coming back here.

He meows his answer, looks up at me with his
bright green eyes and licks his lips. “You’re hungry already?
You’re
always
hungry.” Another meow. “Men!”

I roll my suitcase into the bedroom and come
back out to feed Jinx. On the kitchen island, anchoring a note, is
a huge vase of fresh flowers.

The note reads:
Welcome back! I know you
must be EXHAUSTED from such a LONG, LONG trip. I just want you to
know that I hate your cat. If I didn’t adore you, I’d have thrown
him out the window. Love you!

I snicker and roll my eyes. Chris is so
dramatic. Just as I’m filling Jinx’s bowl with cat food that can
surely be smelled a block away, I hear the front door open. The
click-clack of heels on hardwood tells me who it is. Without
lifting my head to see her, I know the instant Chris stops in the
doorway; I smell her perfume. It’s her signature scent, sweet and
expensive.

“As I live and breathe, it’s
the
Laura
Drake! Quick! Somebody call the doctah. I’m fixin’ to succumb to
the vaypahs.”

I smile. In my mind, I can see Chris standing
on a wide veranda wearing a long, fluffy dress and white gloves,
the back of her hand pressed theatrically to her forehead—the
quintessential Southern Belle.

“The ‘vapors’ wouldn’t have had a chance to
get you if you’d killed my cat,” I respond in an equally thick
accent. I set Jinx’s food on the floor in front of him. He digs in
immediately.

“What? He’s alive, isn’t he?” I straighten
and eye Chris dubiously. “He’ll probably give me Cat Scratch Fever
or bird flu or something similarly horrific, but I suffered through
it because I know you love him.” She looks down at him and adds
with a curl of her lip, “Even though I can’t imagine why.”

I smile. “Are you ever going to tell me why
you started hating cats so much? You loved them when we were
younger.”

“That’s before I knew how nasty they
are.”

“They’re not nasty, Chris.”

“Sam, they poop in a box then walk through it
and track it all over your house.
They’re nasty!”

I laugh. “They don’t walk through their
poop.”

“You’re telling me he walks around every
buried pile of shit when he gets in and out of that contraption you
call a litter box? What-ever!”

“’Buried’ is the operative word there, Chris.
But don’t worry. I only let him get on the table when I know you’re
coming for dinner.”

“Ack!” she spits, screwing up her face. “I’m
never eating here again.”

“Fine by me. You’re impossibly messy
anyway.”

“Be nice to me or I’ll leave.”

“Um, I don’t remember inviting you in to
begin with,” I tease.

Chris holds up her keys and jingles them.
“Biggest mistake you ever made, giving me a key to your house. Just
wait until you see what I did to your underwear drawer.”

“Don’t make me tell Greg all your dirty
little secrets,” I threaten in mock seriousness.

“Don’t make me tell the world
your
dirty little secret. ‘Cause yours really
is
dirty. Very
dirty.”

Although I know it’s an empty threat made
only in jest, a shiver of panic works its way through me. She knows
that’s one of my worst fears.

It’s time to change the subject.

“So,” I begin with a quick shake of my head,
“why are you so dressed up?”