Last Heartbreak (2 page)

M
y chest constricts painfully
. I want to curl up in a ball on the cold, hard slate, concentrating on keeping myself in one piece. But I can't. If I move, I'll fall. My pounding heart rings in my ears, and the world spins around me. Through a veil of tears, I study those blue eyes and speak aloud the words I've been silently screaming for so long. "Help me, please!"

My surroundings shift, one location fading to another within my dream.

The waiter removes his jacket, laying it neatly on one of the padded outdoor lounge chairs reserved for hotel guests.

That's not what happened.

He removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt, then rolls his sleeves halfway up his forearms. Without his jacket, his form is long and lean. A narrow waist and flat stomach lead into strong shoulders—probably from carrying heavy platters all day long.

He didn't have time to remove anything.

Then he's there with his arms wrapping around me, pressing his torso against mine. My body is freezing in the cold gusts of wind, making his breath feel like scorching hot flames against my neck. His agile hands help me maneuver my way safely over the railing. There's no pain, no yelp.

He pulls me firmly against his chest while I sob, shushing and speaking soothing words, but even with his arms around me, my shaking doesn't stop. He releases me just long enough to retrieve his jacket from the chair and wrap it around my shoulders before enveloping me in his arms again.

His warm jacket smells of men's cologne—a bold, masculine fragrance I can't place. I slip my arms into the sleeves and pull the collar tightly around my neck, sealing his warmth inside with me. He lets me cry without asking any questions or telling me to stop.

Finally, my tears subside and cute guy brushes my hair out of my face. I must look like a train wreck, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the softness of his expression and the way his thumb gently strokes my cheekbones. My hand lingers on his chest longer than it should. The feel of his muscles underneath his shirt doesn't go unnoticed. He's made of hard, lean muscle.

As he pulls me closer to him and lifts my chin, I'm forced to look straight into his eyes. His gaze is intense. I want to look away because it feels like he can see all my deep, dark, ugly secrets. All of them. "Hear me now and I want you to believe every single word, Miss Delacroix—"

"Please, it's Kienna. Call me Kienna."

The dream fades and reality wakes me with painful precision.

My name. He knew my name.

Maybe it doesn't matter—everyone knows who I am—but something about tonight's scenario makes me wonder. A random waiter wouldn't care who I was, and wouldn't have risked his life. There's no way. I sit up in bed and look at the clock.

After everything that happened, I decided to go to Mindy's instead of going home. She took me in, no questions asked, ran me a bath and put me to bed. She's going to have a doctor here first thing in the morning to check my ribs. In the meantime, I took some of her pills to sleep. I know I shouldn't, but if any night warranted popping a Xanax, tonight is it.

She doesn't know about my father, or the ledge, or anything else. Like everyone else, she believes I'm a spoiled, rich, party girl. I told her I had hot, crazy sex with some guy in Central Park, which satisfied the majority of her questions. She was too high to notice anything beyond the obvious.

Maybe Mindy has the right idea. Maybe numbing myself to everything is the best way to cope with the life I'm living. Thinking for myself gets my ass kicked, and I can't run—I've tried. They always find me. I live a life in which my best defense is narcotics. Oh, God! What the hell am I thinking? I press my fingers to my temples and close my eyes.

I rub my face, still too dizzy to get up and walk. The walls move like boats on the water. I blink again, unable to forget everything that happened. I can't process it—not yet. I need help, and there's only one person who can talk me down when I get like this.

I lift my phone and dial his number. A moment later, he answers, "Midtown Crisis Call Center. Parker, speaking, how may I help you?"

"
P
arker
, this is Anna."

"Anna, wow!" His voice is deep and calm, broadcasting a certainty I can't manufacture on my own. "It's been a while. How are you?"

I'm a fucking mess. I can't tell him everything or he'll figure out my true identity. For now, I'm Anna with emotional issues. He doesn't know I'm Kienna Delacroix, the only daughter of the powerful New York Delacroix family. It's a relationship unlike any other. He listens, he's kind, and he doesn't get weird if I cry. Tears aren't a sign of weakness to Parker. In fact, he says they're good. I can't imagine what he'd do if my father ever found out I was talking to a crisis center. Needing help is a weakness—as are crying, whimpering, bleeding, feeling, and any other explicitly human traits.

I play with the edge of my blanket, wishing I hadn't taken the Xanax. I feel weird. My words come out lazy, and half-hearted, "Not so good. Something happened tonight."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I picture Parker sitting at a desk, a paunchy, middle-aged, father-figure, staring at framed photos of his kids all day before going home to be a caring, compassionate parent. There's more concern in his voice than there should be. If he knew who I was, what I've done, he'd spit on me. I let my parents mold me into someone I never wanted to be.

"No, but I'm not sure I should keep it all in. Some things aren't meant to be secrets." I sigh, not wanting every thought in my head to spill out of my mouth, but the drug is clouding my judgment.

"You know I don't mind, Anna."

I take in a deep breath, and I tell Parker everything.

Play the part, Kienna. Wipe the emotion off your face and steel your nerves for whatever this evening holds. Every time I desensitize myself enough to do this ends the same way—tears, pain, and unimaginable guilt.

I smile graciously on the outside, but it feels like plastic to me. I bow my head to an affluent businessman calling my name. He's twice my age, with a shiny bald head and a tuxedo worth more than a car. He flaunts his wealth, but we still have more. Father wants this man under his belt, so I lightly laugh as he banters, swallowing the sour taste left in my mouth by the double entendre of his comments.

SEX, SEX, SEX drips from every word. Mr. Floroski will get what he wants soon enough if my father has his way. I'm going to have to get something from Mindy to bed this one, though. I can't stomach the thought of it, and throwing up on him would be counterproductive. The older man touches my shoulder suggestively, pretending that his finger doesn't slither beneath the shoulder strap, twisting it around his knuckle. My lips pull up slightly in the corners, creating a coy smile that suggests I like his advances.

Inside, however, my stomach heaves. I can't keep on like this. It takes a toll on me in a way my parents don't seem to understand. At one point, I thought if I explained it to them, they'd let me be, but that wasn't the case. The reputation I've earned is part of Father's plan to literally woo his clients using me.

I'm practically a whore. The thought is razor sharp and makes me gag. My skin freezes from the inside out, and I make an excuse to leave the massive ballroom for some air. "I need a cigarette. Please pardon me for a moment."

Thank God New York has laws preventing smoking in public areas. It means I have to be gone a while. I smile as I pull a pack out of my pocketbook and tap the small packet on my palm. Floroski sneers, "Disgusting habit, young lady."

I find the ability to flirt for a fleeting moment and touch his arm lightly, "I imagine you'd say something very different were it a cigar." I arch a brow and wink at him.

Nausea fills my stomach, and I need to rush out. I shove my cigarettes back into my bag as soon as I hit the outer ballroom. In my haste, I run smack into Mindy.

"Kienna! Fake smoking again?" Mindy says, laughing, knowing damn well I don't smoke. "Hit me, babe." She holds out her hand.

I roll my eyes and give her the packet. "Fine, but after you shove the entire carton in your mouth and flame up, do me a favor and grab me another pack."

Mindy is tall and thin—too thin, with once-pretty skin marred by her love affair with addiction. Dark circles shadow her eyes. "Actually, I'm headed out to have a little fun. Come with me?" Heroin and Mindy are BFFs. Sometimes I wish I could say yes, that I could let her help me forget life for a while, but I always refuse. Maybe it's pride, or maybe I know giving up that last bit of myself would be my undoing.

"Not tonight. Thanks, though."

"Kienna, come over here!" The booming voice behind me makes the hair on my neck stand on end.

"Shit." I turn on my heel, reminded of what I'm supposed to do tonight. Stephen Dougherty waves me over. This evening's party is being held in his father's honor, celebrating his retirement from the political arena. My father wants dirt on these men—desperately—and the best way to get dirt on a man is while his pants are down. Guys will say anything while having sex, and I remember everything. It's not something I look forward to doing.

Mindy slaps my back and assumes I like the attention. "Go fuck him! He totally wants you."

She thinks I'm easy like the rest of them. Every pair of eyes slipping over me knows I'm beddable, that I'll always say yes. If there's one thing a guy can count on, it's a good time with Kienna Delacroix. I smile, giggling lightly to cover my feelings. "Yeah, I've been after him for weeks."

Mindy laughs and shakes her head. "Have you fucked anyone for fun lately? Or is it all about money? I mean, really! It's like you're a custom plaything for the billionaire set." She's just joking, but my chest tightens in response.

I can't do this again. I blink back the tears that are starting to form in my eyes and try to seal out any thoughts that will make me fall apart. I'm so close to losing it. A waiter in a tux passes by with a tray of champagne. I reach out and grab two. He slows, allowing me to take them. When he sees me down one glass, he stops, waiting for me to put it back on the tray. I avoid his gaze. He doesn't know me—no one does. I place the empty glass on his tray, and he hurries off without a word.

I paste a sultry smile on my lips and saunter toward my target. I throw my hip out when I stop, knowing the tightness of the bodice will pull on the neckline. I fold my arms across my chest and tip my head to the side, holding the champagne flute high, ready to sip.

I lean in and say, "Congratulations on an illustrious career, Mr. Dougherty. You are an inspiration to so many people."

He's a remarkably handsome man in a dignified way, and I always feel at ease in conversation with him. His hands and eyes never wander, and his touches are always gentlemanly. He's one of the few honest men I know. His never asking me into his bed scores more points in his favor—which is why this part makes me sick. He's a good man, and I don't want to be the one to ruin him.

If only I could say the same thing about his son. There's just something about him that doesn't sit right. Stephen shifts to stand next to me, placing a possessive hand on my lower back. My floor length designer gown is cut very low in the back, exposing more skin than it covers. I feel his palm on my back, and I try not to squirm.

Mr. Dougherty's eyes flick between the two of us, crinkling at the corners when he smiles. "You're too kind, Kienna. Thank you. Now tell me, how is my son treating you in that office of his? I was thrilled to hear he'd hired you as his attaché. If there's one person who can help him move from Manhattan Borough President to New York City Mayor, it's you. A smart man can only go so far without a smarter woman behind him."

My mother's plan was to plant me in the son's office to get to the father. The senior Mr. Dougherty is expected to become the face of a multibillion-dollar charitable organization. My mission is to attach myself to the dad and either get dirt or make it, then nail the son and follow him to the mayor's office, my arsenal loaded.

"Kienna and I make a great team, Dad. I've never had a better secretary. I'll have to thank the Delacroix's for suggesting I hire their daughter. We're getting along famously, aren't we, Kay?"

I hate it when he calls me his secretary. I hate it even more when he calls me Kay, but I don't bother to correct him anymore. It's wasted breath. He flashes his gleaming, superstar smile at me as his hand discreetly slides down my back, slipping under the low-cut fabric of my dress. My breath doesn't hitch, my eyes don't widen, and I don't tense up. I try to pretend I like it, but tonight I can't.

What's wrong with me?

His fingers inch down, lower. His touch is creeping me the hell out, but I keep my façade in place. The tip of his middle finger reaches that spot at the top of my ass, where the waistband of my lace panties rests. He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Stephen stays his course, slithering under the fabric. His fingers wander into the fold between my cheeks. Never has he been this bold—he's taking things to a whole new level of indecency.

My thoughts cut off cold as his roaming fingers search for my tiny forbidden place. Holy shit! I look over my shoulder, doing my best to contain any signs of distress, but my heart is about to explode in my chest and the room feels devoid of air.

My eyes search the room for help, my gaze finally meeting my mother's. She's sitting at a table, a couple of feet away from where I'm standing. The look I give her screams, 'Please don't make me do this!'

Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head, silently ordering me to endure this—and more, if necessary—for the sake of the family.

A waiter walks up to us with drinks. He stops in front of Stephen and extends the tray toward him. "Champagne for you and your guest, Mister Dougherty?" Stephen's hand slides out of my dress to retrieve champagne flutes for himself and his father. I down the rest of mine and place the empty glass on his tray. With Steven's hand gone, I can breathe again.

"Shall we?" Steven holds out his arm to me, and I take it, outwardly smiling while inside I'm screaming. We proceed to our table.

The waiter pulls out one of the two remaining vacant chairs. In front of it sits a little cardboard tent with "Kienna Delacroix" elaborately printed on it in 24-karat gold ink.

I slip into my seat and pick up the napkin in front of me, shaking it out and spreading it across my lap. Something escapes from underneath, fluttering delicately to the floor. I reach down to pick it up and place it discreetly on my lap. It's cream-colored cardstock with the hotel's crest embossed at the top.

Scrawled across one side in a vibrant, teal ink is a messy, handwritten message.

The air vaporizes from my chest and I can't breathe. I glance around, searching for the author, but there are people everywhere. Someone sought me out, deliberately placing this message beneath my napkin. Not even my mother knows what I've done. How could anyone else?

Flashes of light erupt from every corner of the room, recording even the tiniest pieces of gossip for tomorrow's headlines. Near the bar, a group of men motion in my direction, openly talking about me. One of them winks, lifting his glass to me. I repress a full-body shudder. My gaze travels from table to table. Guests murmur to each other, averting their eyes when I look their way. They're all talking about me. Stephen's eyes lock with mine, hunger and lust etched across his inebriated face. He's idly rubbing a single finger across his smirking lips, his elbow propped on the table.

Somebody coughs near me, and I involuntarily squeal, jumping in my seat. The note slips from my grasp, fluttering back to the floor as I turn toward the voice.

"Kienna?" A hand rests gingerly on my shoulder. I press a hand to my chest and exhale the breath I've been holding too long.

My friend Mindy stares at me, her ridiculously long, fake eyelashes weighing down her eyelids. She wears a half-worried, half-mocking expression. It's sometimes hard to tell what emotion she's attempting. Her face is almost plastic from the cosmetic surgery she's had over the past couple of years, and it responds accordingly. Her fingers play reflexively with the cylindrical locket around her neck. "Wow, looks like somebody forgot to take her meds today. You okay there, Frenchy?"

I swallow and nod, trying to regain my composure.

"Yes, I'm fine. Sorry. What were you saying?" I bend to retrieve the note, discreetly tucking it into my clutch as I rise.

"I wasn't saying anything. You had that spaced out thing going on. But enough about you. Want to hear something absolutely spectacular? Natasha's liposuction failed miserably, poor girl." Mindy frowns in sardonic sympathy just briefly enough to ease her guilty conscience before she giggles. "I'm thinking of inviting her to the spa tomorrow, you know, to survey the extent of the damage. Want to join us?"

"Nice, Mindy. Hell, no! While you're at it, cancel Natasha's invitation, too. Don't be a bitch." My caustic tone is over the top.

Mindy blanches, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I can't breathe anymore. I tug at my necklace.

"You don't look well, Kienna. Are you sure you feel okay?" Her fingers jump to the silver cylinder locket dangling between her breasts, subconsciously stroking it. Mindy's voice lowers, and she leans in closer, making sure only I can hear her speak. "Do you need a hit?" She thinks no one knows what she keeps in her locket, but it's no secret. A tsunami of mixed emotions pulls at me, urging me to accept Mindy's offer. I just want to stop hurting.

"Miss Delacroix, Mister Dougherty asked me to give you this." A waiter appears at my side, envelope in hand. A room key.

Maybe Steven left the note. Maybe he wants me alone to do something twisted, to pry the truth out of me and relive it. Oh, God! I'm going to be sick. I stand, grabbing my clutch and rushing off with no excuse for my sudden absence.

No one follows me at first. I slam my hands into the back ballroom doors and head toward a private balcony usually reserved for private benefactors. The largest name plastered on the glass is ours—a huge, gold-lettered DELACROIX is the last thing blocking me from fresh air and freedom.