Authors: Alexandrea Weis
“What makes you think I
’m out to hurt her? You know nothing about what we once were, what we had.”
“I know a lot more than you think.” He walked over to a pile of paperback books on the side of Monique’s table and grabbed a copy.
“You should read this.” Chris handed the book to Tyler. “It’s Monique’s new book.”
Tyler gleaned the cover picture of a man in a suit with dark
eyes and handsome features, standing behind a petite blonde in a skimpy red dress. Then, he read the title. “
Blind and Delirious
.” Tyler frowned at Chris. “What is reading this going to do?”
Chris glimpsed the line of waiting fans.
“Do you know any writers, Tyler?”
“No. In my business, there aren’t a lot of creative people.”
“What business is that?”
“Oil,” Tyler curtly
responded. “I run an oil and gas development company.”
Chris picked up his cup of coffee.
“Well, writers are very much like sponges; they absorb everything from the world that they see and put it into their stories. All the people they have known, emotions they have experienced, and the places they have been all go into their books. Monique is no exception, except her books are more about those emotions she has kept bottled up. All the joy, pain…and heartache she has known makes its way on to those pages.” He pointed to the book in Tyler’s hand. “I think you might find that pretty enlightening.”
Tyler decided to play along. “Sure, I’ll take a look at it later.”
Chris took a sip from his coffee. “In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you let my client do her job.”
“Are you asking me to stay away?”
Chris lowered the cup from his lips. “Yes, I believe I am.”
Tyler
hid his growing annoyance from his face. “And what if I’m not willing to do that?”
Chris put his coffee down on the table and folded his arms.
“Monique respects me, Tyler. She listens to me and always takes my advice. If I were to tell her to stay away from you, she would stay away.”
Tyler took a step closer to Chris. “I’m beginning to get the impression you don’t like me very much.”
“I don’t like anything or anyone that comes between me and a client.”
Tyler
considered his comment. “Shouldn’t a manager be more interested in Moe’s bottom line and not her heart?”
“In this business, it’s the same thing. If you mess with one, you destroy the other.”
Tyler was beginning to understand Chris Donovan’s true reasons for wanting to protect Monique. “Thank you for the book.” He held up the paperback in his hand. “I’m sure we will see each other again.”
Collecting his jacket and program from the table,
Tyler was about to walk away when Chris’s voice stopped him.
“She’s too good for you
…you realize that, don’t you?”
“She’s too good for both of us,” Tyler
countered, and then purposefully strode down the black carpet to the end of the aisle.
After leaving
the exhibit hall, he went to the nearest trashcan. Tyler pitched his program into the tall bin and was about to do the same with Monique’s book when he hesitated. Looking over the cover, he thought,
What could it hurt?
Flipping through the book, he began to read a few lines on the first page
he came to. As he continued to read, he moved off to the side of the lobby, out of the flow of traffic into the exhibit hall. Leaning his shoulder against a gray-tiled wall, Tyler soon became entranced by the words on the page.
Chapter 4
The glare of the bright lights from downtown Dallas was coming in through the bedroom window of Tyler’s suite when he finally
closed the book in his hands. Scattered about the bed were four other Monique Delome novels, all with equally racy covers of scantily clad women in the arms of brooding, tall, dark men. His gray suit jacket was strewn over the corner of the king-sized bed, and a tray of partially eaten grilled steak sat on the floor next to him.
Ever since
Tyler opened the first book, he had been glued to the pages. He had read the book while waiting for his car and driver to return to the convention center to pick him up, and continued to read it on the short drive back to the hotel. Once he had been dropped at the hotel entrance, Tyler had gone straight to the gift shop, curious to see if they had any more of her books. After purchasing the four most recent novels the hotel was selling in honor of the convention goers and writers staying there, he had returned to his room, sat down on his bed, and started reading again.
But it was not the story, or the intense burning desire of the main characters, that
captured his attention, it was the leading men Monique had written about. From the confident swagger, good looks, and deep-set brown eyes, Tyler recognized himself. He had been astounded to see various elements of his personality incorporated into each of the characters…from gestures, to his love of steak, even his former affinity for bourbon. In every book he read, there was something very familiar about each of the alpha males Monique described, including their common ruthless disregard for women. In the end of each book, the hero had been changed by the love of a good woman. It was as if Monique had written the happy ending into her novels that they had never achieved in real life.
The entire experience left Tyler feeling confused and humbled. Never before had he been confronted with all of his imperfections and idiosyncrasies in such a
n eloquent way. As he stared down at the cover of the book he was holding in his hand, he became filled with regret. Seeing his personality through someone else’s eyes had been a rude awakening.
“I have been such an idiot,” he mumbled as he perused the
collection of books.
He ran his hand over his chin, hiding his smirk, and then he remembered a few of the male characters in the books doing the exact same thing. The re
alization made him laugh out loud.
Slowly, he nod
ded his head, knowing that there was only one way to settle this. Turning for his master bathroom, he went to the sink and ran some water over his face. As the cool liquid hit his skin, he thought of Monique, and how she had written one character as an executive in the oil industry, replicating almost in detail Tyler’s position with Propel Oil and Gas.
Suddenly remembering the responsibilities he had with his company, Tyler turned off the tap. Grabbing a towel from the rack next to the dark oak vanity, he
raced out of the bathroom and went to his iPhone on the nightstand next to the bed. He blew out a long breath when he found the twenty-two voice mails and assorted text messages waiting for him. Wanting peace to read the books without the constant buzz of his cell phone, he had switched the device off and forgotten to turn it back on.
H
e cursed while scrolling through the four texts from the client he had come to the hotel to meet. Hastily typing away on the keyboard, he punched in a plausible excuse for his being unavailable, offered to reschedule at any time convenient for his client, and apologized for the confusion.
“That should placate the greedy son of a bitch.”
Tyler sat down on the edge of the bed and went through the rest of his messages and texts, deciding that none were imperative, and a few he could return later in the evening. The three voice mails from Hadley he immediately deleted.
After putting the
tray of half-eaten steak in the hallway, he returned to his bed, collected his jacket, and slipped it over his shoulders. Then, almost as a second thought, he retrieved the novel Chris Donovan had given him at the convention center and placed it under his arm. It was time to pay Monique a visit.
Down in the lobby, he exited the elevator and immediately went to the reception desk. When Missy smil
ed up at him, he knew he would have to do some fast-talking to get the young desk clerk to cooperate with his plans.
“Hello, Mr. Moore,” Missy
chirped.
“Ah
, there she is, the lovely Missy.” He rested his elbow on the desk, eyeing her snug blue blazer. “I hope you can help me.”
She held up her head, continuing to smile for him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Moore?”
“Besides dinner?”
Missy
played with a few wisps of blonde hair that had fallen from her ponytail.
He traced his long fingers over the smooth teak
-stained desk. “I need some information. Can you look something up for me?”
“
If I can,” she answered with a speck of uncertainty in her blue eyes.
“Can you tell me what room Monique Delome is staying in?” He held up the book
from under his arm. “I want to get this autographed for my daughter. She just loves her books.”
“I can’t give
out that information, Mr. Moore,” she firmly asserted.
“
Please, Missy. Besides, I know Moe won’t mind. We go way back.”
She curiously raised her eyebrows. “You do?”
“Years ago we were friends, and I promised my daughter I would get her to sign this book.”
Her blue eyes softened and she bit her lower lip, giving Tyler a glimmer of hope
. Then, she ran her fingers through her blonde ponytail and inquired, “How old is your daughter?”
He sighed, wistfully. “Fifteen going on thirty. She’s at that age where I am trying like hell just to keep up. It’s hard letting them go.”
“I never figured you to be a devoted father, Mr. Moore.”
He placed the book against his
heart. “I’m hopelessly devoted to my Tessa. She’s my world.”
Missy shook her head and the girlish smile she had given him the day before re
appeared. “Just don’t tell anyone where you got this information, or it’s my ass.”
He
ogled her round curves. “And what a lovely ass it is.”
Missy let out a short giggle, and he knew he had her.
She quickly typed in something on her computer. “Ms. Delome is in suite 833.”
He tucked the book back under his arm. “Thank you, Missy.” He
angled closer to the desk. “I hope you like Japanese.”
She nodded. “Love it.”
He stepped away from the desk as an older couple approached. “Then I owe you one Japanese dinner.”
Missy
’s flirty smile was displaced by her businesslike persona. “Of course, Mr. Moore. I will ring your room when I get that information.” She greeted the couple. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Are you checking in?”
Tyler made a hasty retreat to the
main elevators and excitedly pressed the call button several times, hoping his sense of urgency had some magical influence on the elevator car’s return to the lobby.
After several long minutes of waiting, the teak and gold doors opened and he stepped inside. A
s the car began its slow rise upward, Tyler went over the words he had practiced for their meeting. Glancing down at the expensive Italian watch Hadley had given him for their first Christmas together, he hoped that he would find Monique in for the night, perhaps preparing for bed. Even though eight o’clock was not late for many, he had remembered Monique to be an early riser. It was something that had always bothered him during their time together. He had been the night owl, anxious to party until dawn, but she had been his practical conscience, reminding him of his responsibilities and the need for a good night’s sleep. Over the years, he had often recalled her advice about tempering his wild side with some discipline. It was as if Monique’s voice still whispered in his ear day after day, advising him on the best course of action. He had not realized it until that moment, but hers had been the voice of reason in his head, the strength that had guided him through his sobriety and eventual rise up the corporate ladder.
When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, his usually resilient confidence faltered. Perhaps this was a mistake. Maybe the Monique he had built up in his head over the years would not live up to the woman she had become. She could have acquired vices or hid
den secrets that would disappoint him and eventually make him regret their reunion.
Tyler
was still vacillating between returning to his room and knocking on her door when he found himself standing before the white oak door with the number “833” painted in gold above the peephole.
“What am I doing
?” he groaned into the empty hallway.
Pulling the book from under his arm, he was about to raise his hand to knock on the door when it flew open.
She was standing in the doorway wrapped in a white hotel robe with a white towel coiled about her head like a turban. Her dark gray eyes scrunched together as she inspected him.
“Funny, you don’t look like room service,” she
jested in the intrepid Monique-style he remembered.
“I come bearing one of your books, not a plate of risotto.” He held up the paperback to her.
She frowned, drawing her pink lips together. “I hate risotto.”