When Empires Fall (26 page)

“Okay then…” She set the paperwork down on her desk and improvised, sensing he wanted to talk to her but didn’t know how to start a conversation. Well, she had never been short of ideas for conversations. “I brought in my specialty today, chicken parmesan. You gotta smell this sauce, it’s to die for, trust me.”

With a grin, she reached over into her lunch bag and pulled out a Tupperware container, which she promptly opened and held up for him to sniff.

Grant hesitated, glancing around to be sure there was no one to see before he stepped towards her and leaned in to smell the dish, his hands clasped at his back. As he hovered over her, she tilted her head up and smelled it herself, not even realizing how close she was to him until she looked up and met his eyes.

While the food smelled incredible, he found he barely noticed it. Instead all he could see was her face and all he could think about was what it would feel like to kiss her.

Quinn was frozen in place, her heart jumping up to a wild pace at the sudden intensity in his eyes. Never had she seen him look at her that way, not when he was usually so quiet and reserved, his expression never revealing anything of what he felt inside. But just then, in that moment, it was almost as if…as if he wanted her.

“It smells good, huh?” she stammered, pulling back and turning away from him, fighting to catch her breath and slow her frantic heart.

Grant straightened, a part of him curious to see just how much he had unnerved her, the other part of him criticizing himself for letting it happen at all. As interesting as it had been, it was still unprofessional, and the thought of actually kissing his goddamn secretary was nothing short of outrageous. But as much as he wanted to convince himself of its foolishness, he couldn’t deny that he felt something, a stirring, a whisper, somewhere deep within that was battling against the rules he lived so prudently by. Something about her charmed him, and while he wanted to despise her for it, he found he simply couldn’t.

“I can’t wait to try it,” he told her, waiting until she looked up to meet his eyes again. This time, his lips curved into a slow smirk, oddly arrogant and intimidating in a way she had never seen before. “Your boyfriend is a lucky man.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Quinn blinked, shaking her head in confusion.

Grant smiled again, and without saying anything more retreated back into his office, leaving her gaping at his door, wondering what had happened to her serious and impeccably professional boss.

Don’t be an idiot, Quinn, she scolded herself, rolling her shoulders and shaking off the sparks of energy that were still tingling through her system. More than likely you’re making this into more than it is.

Leaving it at that, she continued with her work, only to glance up a moment later as Madison and Carrie strolled out of the elevator, looking busy and important as usual. Since she was used to being ignored by them, Quinn simply resumed typing as the two women disappeared into Madison’s office, reemerging a few moments later, a stack of papers in Carrie’s arms.

Madison’s heels clicked over the floor briskly as she led the way back into the hallway, only to stop short as a man suddenly appeared out of the elevator, a vase filled with vivid red, black spotted tiger lilies in his arms.

“Madison Vasser?” the man asked, glancing down at the name on the card.

Madison stared dully at the blooms, her heart panging violently at the sight of them.

Instead of saying anything, she only nodded and accepted the vase, her eyes glued to the flowers as she stood in absolute silence. The man smiled politely to her and left, while Carrie looked from the arrangement and up to Madison anxiously, wondering if she should say something.

Quinn glanced up and watched curiously from her desk, holding her breath and waiting for something to happen. What in the world was going through the woman’s mind right now? Madison looked pale as a sheet and just as emotionless.

Without warning, Madison lifted the vase over her head and hurled it to the floor with a mighty crash, sending shards of glass flying into the waiting area and water and lilies pouring out onto the hardwood floor. Her expression did not waver at all, but her eyes were filled with a furious heat that smoldered dangerously as she admired the destruction she’d made.

Carrie immediately went to the broom closet to get a towel, which she draped over the pool of water, soaking up most of it so they wouldn’t slip. Quinn’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as she shot to her feet, unsure what she should do.

Just then, Grant bolted from his office, his eyes first going to Quinn, thinking she was hurt. She turned to look at him, her hands falling to her sides and her mouth opening and closing soundlessly, for once lost for words. He then noticed his sister and Carrie hovering over broken glass and flowers, and he went straight to them.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, meeting Madison’s eyes as he approached her. She was deathly pale, but her eyes were darkened with raging hate.

“It slipped,” she said simply, waving him off as she stepped over her mess, Carrie on her heels, and headed for the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator.

Grant watched her go, and then stared down at the towel and flowers, and the millions of shards of glass. A vase slipping to the floor would not break into so many pieces, he knew. But a vase smashed into the floor would.

“Call the janitor, have him clean this up,” he said to Quinn as he stepped back into the alcove, his eyes hardened to steel. “I won’t have you clean up my sister’s mess twice.”

Quinn stared after him as he shut himself back into his office, completely and utterly bewildered at what she had just witnessed. Forcing back her shock, she picked up the phone and called the janitor, feeling sorry for the poor guy who had sent the flowers.

But, for all she knew, maybe he deserved it.

W
in Vasser crouched in the dingy corner of the Santa Monica Police Department’s drunk tank, his head in his hands, his graying chestnut hair a wild mess and sobs gasping from his throat. He was miserably drunk, beer and liquor sloshing around pitifully inside of his head and in his gut as he swayed back and forth, feeling lost, alone and scared.

It was always this way when the drink took over and burned through the defenses in his mind to unleash the memories, vivid and frightening and horrific. He could see it so clearly now when he shut his eyes, when he gave in to the voices and remembered…

He’d been just seven years old the day he had witnessed his father commit murder. But even now at sixty he wasn’t free of the fear, of the torment that lived within him every single day. In the beginning, drinking had helped him to forget. Now all it did was enhance the horror he’d felt and further drive him into madness.

He let out a low groan, willing the images from his mind, his eyes shut tight as nausea swirled dizzyingly inside of him. But they wouldn’t leave him alone. All he could see imprinted on the walls of his mind was his father, standing over his poor grandfather as a shot rang out into the night and blood spilled in pools of rich red.

His father would come for him next. He was after him; he’d always been after him.

He knew. Somehow he knew that he had seen him, Win was sure of it. He would kill him.

Just like he had killed his own father, he would kill his own son.

Win shuddered mercilessly and cried out, sobbing uncontrollably now. He had to run, he had to get away. He was coming…he was coming…

“Win Vasser! Hey, man, how’s it going?” A man called out from beyond the bars of the cell, his grin crooked and his dark eyes sparkling with youth and curiosity.

Win chanced a glance up, his eyes red rimmed and heavy as he focused in on the man, who wore a reporter’s badge on his gray polo shirt.

“Shit.” Win winced, his head pounding as he turned away, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep and escape everything. The idea of tumbling into nothingness was so incredibly appealing at that moment.

“Win, hey Win, wake up.” The reporter jostled the bars, stirring some of the other men in the drunk tank so that they cursed at him bitterly. He ignored them and instead asked the guard to open the door and let him inside.

When the stranger approached and knelt beside him, Win shot him a despondent glare. “Go away.”

“Hey man, I just want to talk to you for a minute.” The man pulled out a recorder discreetly, but even though Win noticed it, he didn’t have the strength to care. “So tell me how it feels to be off the wagon once again? Is your family upset with you? Do you think you’re an embarrassment to them?”

Win snorted out a half laugh and shook his head wearily, despair leaking in to mix with the exhaustion he felt.

“They hate me,” he grumbled.

“Who? Your ex-wife? Your kids? Our readers want details, Win. They’re interested to know about your life. You’re very intriguing to the masses.”

“Fuck you.”

“What about your father? How does he feel about you failing to take on responsibilities in the family business?”

Win flinched as if the man had struck him, his blue eyes widening with abject horror. “Did he say something to you? Is he coming for me?”

“Maybe. Does that worry you?” the reporter asked, grinning again, wishing he could get out his cell phone and video tape the old man’s expression. It was priceless.

“He’s coming. Oh God, help me,” Win sobbed again, glancing around wildly as if for a weapon of some sort. His eyes jolted back to the reporter desperately. “You have to help me! If he gets to me, he’ll kill me! He knows I know what he did!”

“Whoa man, calm down.” The reporter stepped back a bit, suddenly wary of the man’s mental state. “What did he do?”

“He killed…he fucking killed him!” Win cried, his voice raising several octaves, his eyes wide with mortified terror.

“Killed who, Win? Who did Cyrus Vasser kill?” The reporter’s eyes sharpened as he leaned in further, his heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Who did he kill?”

“My grandpa. He shot him, I saw it…so long ago.” Win settled down, shame and misery taking over him as he curled in upon himself again, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Wow.” The reporter gaped, staring down at the recorder he held in his hand numbly. “Thanks, Win. See ya around.”

He raced from the cell and the barred door slammed shut behind him, leaving Win rocking back and forth in the corner once more.

Linc loved the
south so much more than New York. The people were friendlier, the climate warmer, the food home cooked and delicious. Not to mention his plantation house was just a stone’s throw away from a giant pond to go fishing in, a luxury he’d be hard pressed to find back home.

Yup, it just didn’t get much better than this, he mused, standing on the porch of his fixer upper estate, steaming cup of coffee in hand as he admired the work he’d done on the yard just the day before. He’d ousted all the overgrown weeds and plants and put in all new landscaping, along with a brand new stone pathway that wound up from the dirt driveway to the house.

It’d been over a week since he’d left New York, and in that time he’d poured everything he had into hashing out his entire remodel plan on the plantation house. He was still far from finished, but it was a definite improvement.

His back was pleasantly sore, his hands scarred with scrapes and cuts, his foot a bit swollen from the two by four he’d dropped on it the day before, and his hair hadn’t seen a comb in days. But he was happy as a clam and ridiculously proud of himself.