

### A Part of Me in You

Elle Davis

Copyright © 2015 Elle Davis

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

# CHAPTER ONE

I approach the witness stand, silently rubbing my chin as I gaze fixedly at the twenty-two year-old who's accusing my client of second degree rape. For the most part, her testimony is believable, and includes several episodes where she expresses her anguish through heartfelt tears that cause several female jurors to glance repulsively at my client, Mr. Connelly—a divorced software executive who manages a staff of twenty nine employees, including her. She's the latest hire and was employed with the company for eight months prior to the incident. She tells jurors that Mr. Connelly offered to give her a ride home when she told him that her car was in the shop for repairs. She claims that it was his idea to walk her to the door, and she only invited him in to be polite. Once inside, he forced her onto the couch, raped her, than left. Instead of calling the police, she called her boyfriend to come over but was too ashamed and scared to tell him what happened. It took her three months to get up enough courage to report the incident, and now I'm about to further victimize her by creating doubt about consent, a controversial defense strategy that women's rights advocates say perpetuates male violence against women.

"Miss Elliott, in the days leading up to the evening in question, you were overheard telling some co-workers that you thought Mr. Connelly had a great physique for someone in their forty's—is this true?" I begin my cross examination with an opening question that'll get the jury to think of her as a participant in the incident.

"Um yes, but it was just a compliment, I didn't mean anything by it," she blurts out with just the right amount of defensiveness to cause a few jurors to lean forward in interest.

"Just answer yes or no," I politely remind her.

"Is it true that you often stay late in the office after work?

"Yes."

"Is it true that you are often alone with Mr. Connelly after work?"

"Yes."

"Has he ever done or said anything to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable?"

"No."

"Are you typically an early morning person?" I ask, changing my approach to something more casual. I smile and she responds to the cue, relaxing her shoulders as she launches in to an autobiography of how she hates mornings and can't wake up until she's had at least two cups of coffee.

"And yet, two months after being hired, you joined the same gym where Mr. Connelly works out, often times taking the early morning cycling class, knowing full well that he typically works out before going in to work," I simply point out, laying the foundation for an infatuated young woman, stalking my client.

"His company provided membership discounts for employees and my co-worker Jane asked me to take the morning class with her," she cries, clearly becoming upset by the innuendo.

"Uh huh," I murmur looking at my notes, even though I don't need to. Now for the kill.

"Miss Elliott, did you ask Mr. Connelly to stop when he was undressing you?"

"No, at first I was too shocked, then I was too scared that he would hurt me."

"Did you say anything to indicate that you wanted him to stop?"

"No—I was terrified that he would respond with violence," she says, tearing up.

"Did you try to push him off of you?" I persist, ignoring the tears running down her face.

"I knew it wouldn't help and I just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible," she whimpers.

"When he penetrated you, did you scream out?" She shakes her head no and reaches for a tissue.

"And you didn't tell anyone, not even your boyfriend until three months later?"

"I was afraid of getting fired," she sobs.

"Afraid of getting fired or hoping for a future relationship with him?" I propose.

"Objection!" her lawyer yells.

"I have no further questions," I say smugly, confident that I successfully planted a seed of doubt.

***

After ninety minutes of deliberations, the jury returns with a not guilty verdict on day two of the trial and I silently cheer, not necessarily for the victory, which I completely expected, but for the fact that I didn't waste my whole day waiting for them to get there. I'm in a great mood, until I walk into my law firm and find a strikingly beautiful brunette waiting to talk to me. Eight months and twenty-nine days after asking Tara Schneider out on a first date, she's standing in my office handing me a box filled with a few of my personal belongings. I fight back a smile when my eye catches the light lavender electric shaver included among the items. I gave it to her after our first sexual encounter when I came face to face with Sasquatch, and thought she could use a little professional advice on keeping the hair down there groomed. If she didn't already look so miserable I'd suggest she retain it for upkeep, but one smart comment from me could cause all hell to break loose. She has an uncontrollable and sometimes violent temper that can easily be provoked when she's upset, and I have a lunch date with a pretty blonde that I don't want to be late for. Besides, I decide—I have more use for a lady's shaver than I do for the framed photograph of the two of us that's sitting on my desk. It's the only thing I have of hers in my possession, so I pick it up and hand it to her, proud of what I consider to be an expression of thoughtfulness on my part. What woman doesn't feel better after burning or tearing up a photograph of an ex-lover? When she bursts into tears, I immediately regret not just throwing the damn thing out.

"All I've ever wanted to do is make you happy Grayson. If you just give us a chance, you'll see that there's more to relationships than just sex." She spews the word sex as if the word itself is to blame for her heartbreak. I hand her a nearby box of tissue placed strategically on my desk by my office manager, Wanda who's seen me through numerous breakups in the past few years.

_No I won't,_ I think to myself as I watch her blow her nose. _I'll never assign anything other than sexual meaning to relationships with women. It's the way I'm wired, Tara. Remember? We talked about it how many goddamn times within the first three months of seeing each other?_

As much as I want to unleash my internal dialogue bringing justness to the situation, I instead launch into a self-criminating speech on how underserving I am of such an incredible woman. After pointing out all of her great qualities, and my inadequacies, I work on convincing her that I'll be the one most adversely affected by the break-up. It was Wanda's idea to try this approach—using the same acting skill that I use in the courtroom to foster a more cordial break-up. If left to me, I would simply escort her out of the office with an unsympathetic pat on the back, and an excuse that I have an important meeting to attend. As it turns out, the speech works like a charm, and by the time Wanda knocks on the door with a pre-planned interruption, Tara is providing solace to me for what she believes will be the biggest regret of my life in letting her go.

"Mr. Knight, I'm so sorry to interrupt but I have Mr. Armstrong on the phone and he says he needs to talk to you urgently," Wanda says, looking at Tara apologetically. She's a sixty-some-year-old, plump grandma of three grown grandkids, yet Tara still regards her with trepidation, turning her nose up as she marches past her, mumbling, "I was just leaving."

"How do you feel?" Wanda asks, watching me carefully, over wire-rimmed glasses that sit on the tip of her nose.

"Relieved that it's over." It's the way I always feel when I've washed my hands of a relationship that's gone from impersonal and mutually sexually gratifying to focused attention on commitment and feelings. Every woman I've ever dated eventually ends up in the discard pile because of this.

"There's nothing wrong with being relieved. She wasn't a good match for you. She was too superficial and phony," Wanda says, causing me to laugh.

"Like I'm not?" I question with a raised brow. My cell phone buzzes and I cuss under my breath when I see who the text is from. "She couldn't even wait ten minutes before sending the first text," I mutter in annoyance, not looking forward to the string of texts and phone calls that typically follow a break-up. "Pick-up some disposable cell phones the next time you're out please," I order.

"No, you just think you are. You've been influenced to adopt a belief that was never true in the first place." A once retired widow, she's been the office assistant and manager of my law firm for five years. With a PhD in Sociology, she's over qualified to manage my law firm, but has a loyalty to me that I neither deserve nor really appreciate. I suspect she'd be bored stiff if she didn't have my dysfunctional life to analyze and meddle in every day. She refers to me as her 'west coast project' and even though she's black and I'm white, she also fondly refers to me as her adopted son. Her affinity towards me is perplexing; I have nothing to offer in return aside from a generous paycheck. Her value to me has to do with job performance and the fact that I've burned through enough useless temps to know she's the best I'll ever get.

There are four people who know that I'm a sociopath and she's one of them. The others—my sister, Camille and her partner Abby, and the psychiatrist who diagnosed me at the age of sixteen. Wanda insists that it's a misdiagnosis and it has become her mission in life to prove the psychiatrist wrong, pointing out everything I do that contradicts sociopathic behavior and justifying away anything that does. Immediately following my diagnosis and years thereafter, I was so intrigued by it that I spent a considerate amount of time studying the disorder, constantly comparing my feelings and traits to the ones in the textbooks. Like Wanda, at first I was in denial—encouraged by the fact that I only possessed some of the narcissistic traits. However, over the years, my opinion's gradually shifted in definite favor of the ICD-10 criteria for sociopathy. I've designed my world to revolve around me and the people who no longer serve me, no longer stay—it's that simple.

"You have the ability to love Grayson. Deep inside you are a good man—I feel it. Once you meet the right girl you'll..."

"Wanda mind your own business and get back to work please," I cut her off mid-sentence, not in the least interested in hearing a sappy pep-talk about belief patterns and how I've become a product of my own persuasion. She's a deeply spiritual woman who is quick to dispel the term religious to those who don't know the difference between the two, and we are polar opposites when it comes to relating to people. I barely flinch when she slams the door behind her after mumbling something about teaching me a lesson in respect and appreciation.

***

The Central Bar & Grill has been my Tuesday night hangout for almost a decade, and I'm pissed when I get a voicemail from Toby letting me know it's been shut down for noncompliance with building code regulations. He and the guys are now waiting for me at the Trio Pub, less than a block away, which he is quick to reassure me that it isn't nearly as bad as its reputation. The minute I walk in and notice stained carpets, and the smell of rancid oil—I mutter "Bullshit."

"Hey Graaaayson," Miles greets me with his typical drawn out pronunciation of my name which only he thinks is comradely. He's already seated with Lucas and Toby at a table in the back and there's a pitcher of beer with four glasses full when I sit down. They should know by now how much I hate warm beer.

"That Goddamn Paul—what a moron. All he had to do was sign the damn paperwork and mail it in to get an extension. I even gave him a self-addressed, stamped envelope for Christ sake," I say, immediately expressing my annoyance. Paul Sleuter, is a second generation tavern owner whom over the years has become as close of a friend as one can be to a sociopath. He uses me as much as I use him. I give him all sorts of free legal services in exchange for information on just about anyone or anything that's within a twenty-mile radius of his establishment. His daughter Emma thinks I'm a monster when she's not trying to get her hands down my pants, and he's smart enough not to get involved in our affairs.

Toby chuckles. He's used to my temper and unlike me, nothing gets him riled up—which is why he chose a career as a high school math teacher and I went in to law.

"Look Gray—got the whole place almost to ourselves, and they serve a full menu starting at five o'clock, less than ten minutes," he responds lightly, leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head with a big grin on his face. He always has a grin on his face—and permanent red stains on his cheeks that deepen in color when he drinks. At six-three and almost three hundred pounds, the ex-linebacker is only intimidating when a football helmet covers his grown-up Gerber baby looks. I've known him since high school and if anyone has figured out how to work around me, it's him. He doesn't allow me to manipulate or control him the way others do and laughs off offensive remarks that others take personally. There's only one time that he's ever gotten angry enough to threaten me, and that's when I told his wife Helen that she needed to consider going on a diet. I've learned since then how to control the impulse to say what I'm thinking. Miles and Lucas were introduced to me by Toby about seven years ago, and now Lucas is one of my main rock climbing partners. If not for that one thing in common, I'd steer clear of him—I find him obnoxious and annoying most of the time.

"Did you stop and think that maybe the reason we have the place to ourselves is because the food and service sucks?" I respond, pouring the fourth glass of beer back into the pitcher and signaling to the bartender that I need a drink from the bar. The older woman behind the counter finishes her conversation with a customer before shuffling to our table to take my drink order. Strike one.

"No beer for you today, tiger?" she asks, smiling widely, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. Some might consider her pet name to be charming but it grates like hell on my nerves.

"What's your top Scotch?" I ask. It's a simple question. Any bartender in the nation should be able to rattle off the name, considering that the profit margins for a high-end Scotch are triple that of the house grade. The blank look on her face only heightens my agitation, and I silently get up to go find out for myself—coming back to the table with a bottle of Royal Lochnagar. Strike two.

"I'll take a glass of ice and I think we're ready to order dinner," I say stiffly, narrowing my eyes at her.

"Oh honey, we don't start serving dinner until five o'clock," she says nervously. "How about I get you that glass of ice, and—"

"It's five after five." I respond coolly, effectively causing her to fidget uncomfortably. "Well Harp—" The door next to us swings open letting a rush of warm air in, followed by a girl riding a bike into the bar. She dismounts and props it against the wall next to my chair.

"There's Harper. She's our waitress and she'll be right with you—won't you honey?"

"Sorry I'm late, Martha," she hollers in response, pulling her helmet off and clipping it on her handle bar before disappearing in a back room.

"She'll be just a few seconds and I'll be right back with your ice," Martha whispers as she backs away, looking relieved to have someone else deal with me, even though my expectations are fairly simple—just do your damn job.

"Hi, I'm Harper. I understand you fellas are ready to order dinner?" Our waitress says in way of greeting while pulling an apron over her head, which she then snuggly ties behind her waist, before she reaches up and grabs a fistful of long auburn hair twisting and securing it in a reckless knot on the back of her head.

"Are you always late for work?" I inquire, addressing my number one pet peeve with employees. She looks somewhat taken back by my question then studies me with curious hazel eyes before responding.

"Well no. No—not typically," she says slowly. "But today was an exception—something out of the ordinary happened while I was riding my bike to work. I witnessed a terrible accident, and had to stop and perform CPR on a service cat that was hit by a car while guiding a blind owner across the street. After doing mouth-to-mouth on the little feline, I got a big hair ball stuck in my throat, which took a while to cough up—delaying my call to 911." She pauses, and turns her head to the side, covering her mouth with her hand to shield a fake cough. "Then of course I had to wait for the pet ambulance to get there—which by the way, someone needs to do a better job regulating those kitty EMT's. Do you know they picked that poor little tabby calico up by the tail and just threw it in the back of their pick-up, without even checking for a pulse," she chides, her eyes wide with feigned condemnation. "I'm really a sucker for happy endings—I sure hope everything works out for the poor little fella," she says with a sigh, shaking her head. There's a moment of silence as the four of us stare at her. She doesn't even crack a smile and even manages to look melancholy while giving me a dirty look. Finally, Toby tosses his head back and roars with laughter, causing Miles and Lucas to do the same. Harper bites her lip to keep from smiling and glances triumphantly at me for her victory.

"I'm Toby, and I'll have a double cheeseburger and fries," he says, still chuckling, handing her his menu. Lucas orders the same.

"Are you ready to order Mr...?" She inquires.

"Knight—and yes. I'll have soup and a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Ah, that's what I used to order when I was a kid," she says in a condescending, reminiscing voice as her eyes dance with amusement. "Mr. Knight, I'll have you know that I make the best homemade chicken tortellini soup you'll ever have, but it's going to take a little while. Are you sure you don't want to go with our house special instead?"

"Best to give him just the soup. Are you the cook too?" Toby asks, quickly changing the subject.

"No—Martha's husband Ed is the cook," Harper replies, lowering her voice and kneeling down at the table next to me. "But on more than one occasion I've seen him accidently drop his dentures in the soup pot, so I've taken it upon myself to make the soup for my most favorite and valued customers." She winks at me after feeding us the line of sarcastic bullshit, and walks away, stopping by the bar to kiss an elderly gentleman on the cheek before ducking in the back room. I glance up at Toby with a raised brow. I doubt the place has really changed owners—it's always had a reputation for slow service and mediocre food. If it were up to me, I'd get up and go somewhere else, but with the other three smitten with the smartass waitress, I resign myself to a lousy meal at best. It's a good thing I'm not that hungry.

"Did you and Tara break it off?" Toby asks.

"Yep," I reply not going in to details.

"That explains why you're in a rotten mood," Lucas chuckles.

"I told you she was the wrong kind of girl for you Gray," Miles says, echoing Wanda's opinion.

"Why—she has a vagina doesn't she?" I reply, ignoring Toby's scowl. Miles presses on, not even acknowledging the crude comment.

"You always go for the exact same thing—beautiful, highly educated with corporate positions, and they're all phony as hell. Why not try something different?" He's the last of the three to get married and now thinks he's an expert on relationships, always trying to get me to settle down like the rest of the thirty-something generation. They refuse to accept the fact that I am unabashedly a philanderer whose main interest in women is for what's below their waist.

"Take that waitress. She's pretty, but simple and natural with a witty sense of humor."

"She's a smartass," I point out the obvious, sipping my Scotch.

"That wouldn't be a deal breaker for me," Lucas mumbles. He's been having marriage trouble for the past year, and has hinted that he wouldn't be opposed to having an extramarital affair if the right circumstances presented themselves. I think he's all talk and no action, but Toby gives him a disapproving look anyway. He's a classic family man—married almost ten years to Helen—his high school sweetheart. His Tuesday night out with the guys is about the only time he's not with her or one of his kids—or coaching some high school sports team. His lifestyle is completely opposite of mine and I find it revolting and boring. We've learned over the years to stay away from topics centered on personal relationships.

***

Three hours after entering the Trio Pub for dinner we're still here trying to sort out life's most difficult questions. Lucas Harvard may very well be going through an early mid-life crisis with the way he's carrying on about leaving a secure job that he hates.

"You're a firefighter for crying out loud. What kind of a job do you think you're going to get that pays that kind of money and gives you four days off every week?" Miles asks, getting exacerbated by his whining. Lucas launches in on his soapbox about the bullshit medical aid calls they go on every night—something we've heard him complain about more than once. The problem is he's preaching to Miles, the owner of a finance company that's struggling to stay afloat—even while putting in an average sixty-hour work week.

"The perfect job doesn't exist—does it Harper?" Miles says not missing the opportunity to drag her in to the conversation when she happens to drop our check off at the table. She's on a first name basis with everyone in our group except for me, whom she still makes a point of addressing formally as Mr. Knight or Sir. It could just be the Scotch, but in spite of a rocky start, I find myself oddly wanting her attention, like just about everyone else in the place.

"Sure it does," she says optimistically, clearing the last of the dishes from our table. A stray clump of hair falls in her face and I have the strangest urge to tuck it behind her ear like I've watched her do a half a dozen times tonight. She managed to keep up with the customer load in spite of being pulled to the kitchen to help Ed every so often, but she looks tired now.

"Alright if you could be doing anything you wanted for a career right now—what would it be?" Toby asks. She pauses and appears to give the question some serious thought.

"Well, I guess at the top of my list would be a scuba professional of some sort—maybe an underwater photographer or a scientist," she says matter-of-factly.

"Do you scuba dive?" I ask, surprising myself that I hope she'll say yes. I've been an active diver for over ten years, and would love to dive with someone who looks better in a wetsuit than the guy I normally go with.

"No, actually I don't Mr. Knight. I'm terrified of water. I'm terrified of the ocean. I'm terrified of swimming pools. I'm claustrophobic and, believe it or not, I don't even know how to swim," she confesses, laughing at herself. Not knowing how to swim is ludicrous to me, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed that she's afflicted with such a ridiculous phobia.

"Why in the hell would you choose a career doing something you hate?" Luke challenges. She'd managed to hit on the very nerve that started this conversation in the first place, and he leans forward as if she holds the key to career satisfaction. I'm surprised that she's managed to pique my interest in hearing her explanation too.

"I didn't say I hated the water—I said I was terrified of it. I would give anything to be able to dive into the ocean and play in the waves—or even jump in a swimming pool for that matter. I can't think of any quicker way of overcoming fear than to face it every day. So a perfect career choice would be to get paid for doing something that terrifies me—until it no longer does." Her response is the type of thing a seasoned applicant would say in an interview. Only with her it doesn't seem like a load of bullshit—she seems sincerely troubled by her own weakness and I like it.

"Speaking of facing your fears, I've got to go or my wife's gonna kill me," Lucas interrupts, looking at the latest text on his cell phone with dismay. He takes one last gulp of his beer and throws a ten dollar bill on the table as a tip for Harper. "You ready Miles?" Lucas's wife Sheila requires Miles to drive on Tuesday's, part of her agreement in letting him go out with us. It's precisely the sort of thing that makes me anti-relationships, but tonight I'm glad to see them both go. Predictably Toby follows five minutes later leaving me alone in the now almost empty pub.

"Mr. Knight is there anything else I can get you?" Harper asks, yawning for the third time when she brings me the receipt.

"You know you can call me Grayson," I say.

"Now I do." She sits down across from me and hesitates for a moment then quietly says, "Grayson—did you really mean to leave me a hundred-dollar tip?" I'm shocked by the question. Does someone ever do that by accident?

"It's my way of saying sorry, and the soup was great by the way." _Really it's a sociopath's way of manipulating you in to believing that I'm a nice guy so that I can deceive you in to giving me what I want._

"Thanks. All you really need to do to win me over is be nice." The irony of that statement is that I've never really had to do anything to win women over—just 'being' seems to suffice. It's all part of being graced with good looks and wealth—the male combination of traits that lure even married women away from families. She stands and pulls the apron over her head and drapes it on one of the bar stools, then reaches up and releases the rest of her hair, so that she can fit her bike helmet on. I watch it tumble down her back in a silky wave.

"Its past nine o'clock—are you going to ride in the dark?" I don't know why it bothers me that she would—but it does. Wanda would make a point of saying that a true sociopath wouldn't care about the safety of a stranger, and normally I don't—but there's something about Harper. Perhaps I just want to make sure she stays alive long enough until I've decided whether or not I want to screw her.

"Yep—I've been doing it for years. Goodnight Martha and Ed," she yells backing out the door, not giving me the chance to offer her a ride home.

# CHAPTER TWO

"Mr. Knight our two o'clock cancelled. Do you want me to see if I can get the Carter deposition pushed up on the books?" I detect a tremble in the new temp's voice over the speakerphone.

"Yes Val," I reply, keeping my tone neutral so that she doesn't have a melt-down like she did last week when she claimed I hurt her feelings with my sarcasm. I remind myself that she's only temporary, filling in for Wanda until she returns from a 'teaching me a lesson about respect' absence. Apparently, telling her to mind her own business was offensive enough to cause her to consider resigning, and she hasn't shown up to work since last week. She didn't have much bargaining power to demand an apology until I worked with her temporary replacement Val—now I'm waiting for her call, after sending her a box of chocolates with a note attached asking her to come back. There's never been a time when I've needed her more. My law firm is providing legal representation for a high profiled embezzlement case where millions of dollars are at stake, and our whole defense is riding on the Carter deposition. Two of my top attorneys have been assigned to the case, and although I have confidence in their ability, I still cancelled my Tuesday night plans so that I could unexpectedly drop in during the deposition. My innate gift for reading people's behavior was developed from years of trying to modulate my own. Last year, I won a landmark case because I noticed the way a witness played with a bobby pin in her hair, and used it to spin a seed of doubt that resulted in a hung jury. I drum my fingers on my desk, impatiently waiting for Val to call back. Fifteen minutes later, she confirms the change and I speed dial Toby.

"Deposition's been moved. Looks like I can make it tonight after all." Nothing ever comes before business, but admittedly I was a little disappointed at missing tonight's gathering with the guys at Trio Pub. I haven't been screwed in almost three weeks and it's making me irritable. I have a list of women on stand-by that I can count on to fill the need in a moment's notice but I'm dying for something new and fresh. I haven't totally made up my mind, but am leaning towards the pretty little waitress at the Trio Pub as a potential candidate. Miles is right about one thing—I need a change in scenery—something a little more au natural and simplistic.

***

I enter the Trio Pub at a quarter after six, and right away notice Harper at the table with the guys, engaged in what appears to be a fairly serious discussion.

"Well, my parents were conservative and wouldn't allow me to date until I turned sixteen," I hear Harper telling them, immediately piquing my interest as to the topic of the conversation. The guys barely acknowledge me as I approach the table, but Harper smiles and says, "You're late, Mr. Knight. Your friends have ordered without you." I remove my suit jacket and drape it over her bike which is propped against the wall, behind the empty chair that I sat in last week. It's my way of ensuring she doesn't leave unannounced.

"So, what happened when you turned sixteen?" Miles probes. Toby reaches across the table to shake my hand, but his eyes are fixed on Harper, waiting for her response.

"Let me guess—they were religious and told you that you'd be damned to hell for having premarital sex?" Miles questions.

"No—they showed you pictures of nasty venereal warts and scared you into remaining chaste?" Lucas second guesses. She tosses her head back and giggles.

"Maybe I should get Mr. Knight his drink before I continue. He looks like he could use one?" she says, smiling at me. I'm struck at just how au natural she really is. If she's wearing any make-up at all, it's very little, yet her lightly freckled cheeks have just enough sun-kissed warmth to highlight her high cheekbones. Her long red-brown hair is loosely braided and hangs over her right shoulder, giving her a sexy—just crawled out of bed look.

"Miss Ellis here is telling us how and why she's remained a virgin till the age of twenty-five. You're going to have to wait for your drink until she's finished," Lucas says flatly, pouring me a glass of beer and shoving it in front of me—in a take it or leave it gesture. Within five minutes of walking in, I've learned everything I need to know to make a firm decision on asking her out. I haven't heard the word virgin used in this context for years.

"Oh no, please don't let me interrupt your conversation. By all means carry on," I say, sipping the beer and loosening my tie, taking as much of an interest in her story as the others.

"You're both wrong. I started dating my high school sweetheart a few months after I turned sixteen and after a full year of dating, we finally made the decision that we were ready to have a sexual relationship. So, we did our research on the different birth control methods, and went to the local clinic together. We saved all our money and made dinner and room reservations at one of the nicest hotels in downtown San Diego. I went shopping and bought myself some sexy lingerie...lubricant and even a how-to book. Basically everything was ready to go." She's completely at ease candidly sharing her personal story with a bunch of guys she only recently met, which makes it all the more intriguing to hear. I hold my breath when she pauses and her face takes on a faraway expression.

"You chickened out?" Miles asks in a confused voice, cocking his head to one side. She shakes her head, and smiles sadly.

"He cheated on you and broke your heart?" Lucas snaps his finger, in an 'I got it gesture'.

"Nope," she says patiently.

"He had performance issues?" Toby cringes as he tries like the others to guess the ending to her story.

"Let her finish," I say quietly, picking up on something more.

"On the night that he was supposed to pick me up, he was hit by a drunk driver who ran a stop light. He was killed instantly," she says taking a deep breath. "So, I spent a few years grieving, then went away to college, and just about the time I started thinking about playing the V-card again, my mother passed away and I acquired a load of responsibilities that put the virginity issue at the bottom of the priority list." She shrugs as if it's no big deal, clearly underestimating the sexual nature of her audience.

"Do you realize that over seventy percent of girls lose their virginity by the time they're eighteen and that statistic drops to eighty be the time they're twenty-one?" Lucas breathes. He's staring at her like she's some sort of prodigy.

"I can't be sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing," she laughs, seemingly bemused by his reaction. "Now, Mr. Knight will you be ordering off the menu tonight?" She transitions smoothly to another topic, and playfully gives me a hard time when I order soup and a grilled cheese sandwich again.

***

"You're going to ask her out, aren't you?" Toby asks, after Miles and Lucas have left for the evening.

"Of course I am," I reply without hesitation. I've been with all sorts of women, but it's been years since a virgin's come my way.

"You know she's too good for you," he says matter-of-factly. "She needs to be with someone who can love her and treat her right—not some playboy millionaire who's only after one thing."

"I know—but I'm going out with her anyway." I don't take his comment personally. He knows me better than anyone, and has seen me ruin girls with far more worldliness. We both have a pretty good idea how things will end for a girl like Harper.

"Alright, but at least do the right thing and let her know what she's getting into before you take her out," he says patting me on the back as he gets up to leave. He has no understanding of the psychological response of single women when I tell them that I'm not seeking a long-term relationship—they're immediately challenged into thinking they'll be the one that can change me. No matter how blunt and forthright I am about my commitment issues, they act hurt and surprised when it ends differently. The only thing I have to say about Harper is that starting out the gate I have a higher level of interest in her than anyone I've dated in at least five years. She's uniquely self-assured, and incredibly charismatic, drawing people to her like a magnet. I watch her engage in a game of cats-in-the-cradle with a little girl, then turn around and make an old man blush with her innocent flirting. She seems to leave a trail of loyal admirers wherever she goes and it's intriguing watching her do it.

"Tell Helen hi for me," I say to Toby, watching him leave.

"I'm guessing you're taking care of the tab again tonight?" Harper asks, coming up behind me and dangling the check over my shoulder.

"Yeah, it's sort of expected," I say, signing it and handing it back to her. "Listen, I'd like to talk to you for a minute if you have time?"

She pulls the apron off and sits down across from me, clasping her hands on the table in front of me. "Sure—what's up?"

"I'd like you to go out with me and wondered if you were free this week," I say, studying her non-verbal reaction to gauge her receptiveness.

"Thanks Grayson, but I can't. I work Tuesday through Saturday and things are just kind of crazy right now." I'm not deterred by the refusal. I always get what I want.

"How about dinner on Sunday night? Surely you make time to eat," I persist.

"Yes, but my little sister stays with me Sunday through Tuesday."

"Harper I want you to go out with me," I say again, reaching up to brush my hand across her cheek. My psychiatrist called such spontaneous actions superficial and charming done solely to disarm women, citing that I lack social boundaries. She'd be surprised to learn today that I do it because I like the feel of a woman's skin beneath my fingers. Harper's is like porcelain.

"I can't commit to any sort of a relationship right now," she says, gently removing my hand. She has no idea that her words are music to my ears. I smile and cock my head to one side, studying her with heightened interest.

"Really? That's perfect because I'm not the committed type. I'm strictly interested in a physical relationship with you. Dinner just usually gets my foot in the door," I confess, then wait for the look of shock to wear off her face.

"You want me just for sex?" she asks bluntly. I nod. Her brows furrow, and she backs away.

"Wait—are you married?" she gasps.

"Nope—I don't believe in it." I've never been quite this direct with a woman, and yet as crazy as this conversation is, she doesn't appear to be too uptight about it. In fact, behind her serious gaze, I detect the faintest hint of excitement, which makes me all the more eager to get her in the bedroom.

"Hmm—is this the type of thing where you have a secret fetish to tie women up and hurt them?"

"I promise you that I have no fetishes and gain no pleasure what-so-ever from hurting women," I reassure her. She relaxes, and we stare at each other. A faint smile plays at the corner of her mouth and I know she's close to agreeing. For some reason I feel compelled to reiterate my proposal just to make sure she's clear on where I stand.

"Look—I just don't do commitment—that's all Harper. If you don't make any demands of me or place expectations on me, then it will be good for as long as we're sexually compatible," I say carefully.

"And you don't want someone with a little more..." she pauses biting her lower lip, then finally settles on the word "Experience?" as she looks up at me with a pair of innocent, beautiful hazel eyes.

"I would pay a small fortune to take your virginity," I admit, making her blush sweetly, and showing me for the first time just how naive and vulnerable she really is.

"Are you kids almost finished up—we're going to lock up here soon," Martha calls from behind the bar.

"It's a big decision. I'll think about it," Harper says quickly, getting up to help Martha with last minute clean up.

"Here's my card. Call me if you have any questions." I watch as she takes it and shoves it in her back pocket, and walks away. I throw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and walk out, fully anticipating a call within a day, maybe two at the most.

***

By Monday morning, almost a full week after talking with Harper, and still not hearing from her—I have the first inkling that I might have underestimated her resolve. I finally broke down over the weekend and called Hillary to take the edge off things—it was a big mistake. She's texted me ten times in the past two days, making me wish I'd asked Wanda for the disposable cell phones sooner. My office phone rings and I answer it with renewed appreciation for the assistant on the other end.

"Yes Wanda?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Knight—I have someone by the name of Harper here to see you. I know she doesn't have an appointment, but she won't leave until she sees you..." The excitement in her voice matches the quickening of my pulse.

"Yes Wanda—send her in," I quickly say. I expected a phone call, not a personal visit. Seconds later, the door to my office opens, and Wanda steps aside, making room for Harper, who pushes her dirty bike in to my office and props it against the wall.

"Are you sure I can't get you some water, dear? How about something to eat?" Wanda asks, in a fussy grandmotherly way. She's already decided that Harper's unannounced arrival is significant and is sniffing around to find out why. Harper smiles at her and warmly declines.

"So what brings you downtown Miss Ellis?" I ask once Wanda leaves the room. Sitting on the edge of my desk, I observe her as she nervously plays with the buckle on her helmet. She's wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top that showcases a long, lean, toned body, something I didn't fully appreciate until now.

"Sorry about bringing my bike up. I didn't want it to get stolen," she says apologetically. I shrug. Normally it would antagonize me, but I'm only thinking of one thing right now and it involves stained sheets not carpets. "Um I've decided that I want to take you up on your offer," she finally blurts out—what I already know.

"You could've just called. You didn't have to come all the way down here to tell me."

"I know, but I have something for you," she says, reaching in a pouch on the back of her bike and pulling out some papers. She holds them out to me and I notice her hand is trembling. "It's a contract," she says.

"A contract?" In my line of work, nothing ever really surprises me but this is a first.

"It's not as professional as something you would do, but I wanted to have something in writing."

"Well, well, Miss Ellis. Let's see what we have here. I scan through the general language and get to the specifics, reading them out loud.

"One time sexual encounter of two consenting adults. Date and time shall be pre-arranged. Meeting shall be some place other than either party's private residence. Grayson Knight will ensure proper STD protection by providing lubricated condoms or documentation of negative STD testing. Harper Ellis will ensure proper birth control protection with Depo-Provera injections. Neither party shall harass the other with phone calls, texting or unannounced visits, after the encounter. No BDSM. In exchange for Harper Ellis's virginity, Grayson Knight agrees to pay the total sum of ten thousand dollars." I laugh out loud when I read the last line, believing it's all a joke. This is exactly the type of thing the guys would put her up to.

"Alright Harper—very funny. Tell Miles and Lucas they got me on this one," I chuckle, thinking of ways I'll pay them back. One look at her face lets me know she's completely serious. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" I raise my voice as if talking to an opposing attorney behind closed doors. "You want me to pay you for this?" It has to be the most ludicrous proposal I've ever heard.

"Uhn-uhn. You said you'd be willing to pay a small fortune," she says with a wide-eyed innocence. She took my off-handed comment literally.

"You want me to pay you ten thousand dollars, just to take your virginity?" I'm incensed by the suggestion and don't know whether to laugh or toss her out of my office. "Harper that is absurd. I'll treat you to a nice dinner, and send you chocolates and maybe flowers to your work, but I'm not paying you to have sex with me."

"Okay—sorry to bother you at work," she says, shrugging, looking somewhat deflated. "I guess I'll see you around," she says, turning to leave, while I stand there trying to decipher if this is really happening to me.

"Wait—what does okay mean?" I ask.

"Okay means that I'm not going to have sex with you unless you pay me, so there's nothing more for us to talk about. Maybe I'll see you around." She reaches for the door and I want so bad to let her go—but I can't, hating myself for the momentarily lapse of weakness.

"Harper wait. Do you know what type of a reputation comes with behaving like a call girl?" I chastise, shocking myself that the idea of her with a tarnished reputation actually bothers me—after all, what the hell do I care what people think of her? She's bringing it on herself. She hesitates, and turns around to face me, looking more annoyed than hurt by the comment.

"Do you have any idea of the reputation you have?" she challenges. "I'm charging you a fair price Mr. Knight—you paid more for that desk than you'll pay to spend a night with me and I think I'm worth every cent. The way I see it—it's a win-win for both of us. You get what you want—a virgin sex partner with no emotional strings attached, and I get what I need—which is money for a new car. I have to go now." She lifts her head with pride, and I have a sinking feeling that nothing I say will change her mind—it makes me want her even more.

"Hold on." I walk over to her and grab her around the waist pulling her roughly against me. Before she has a chance to object, I have my mouth on hers, kissing her hard and deep, in the hope she'll shove me away, giving me an excuse to refuse her offer—but she doesn't. Once the surprise wears off, I feel her relax in the palm of my hands, molding her body against mine, burying her hands deep in my hair, as she allows me to freely explore the basic erogenous areas. She softly moans in such a way that I know she wants me, making the whole payment thing a complete mystery. When I pull my head back and gaze steadily in her eyes, I feel her body tremble against me. There's a depth of emotion there that catches me completely off guard—passion, hope, perhaps even fear. God I wish I knew what the hell she's thinking? The fifteen-minute necking and petting session has me more than just sufficiently turned on. It has me feeling something so out of the ordinary that I find myself agreeing to the preposterous terms.

"I will have a limo pick you up at your house this Sunday at six o'clock, and bring you to the Edgewater Hotel. Since sex for hire is illegal, and could land us both in jail, you're going to have to trust in my word," I hear myself saying, tearing her contract in half and tossing it in the trash. "Text your address to the number on my card." She nods, looking relieved more than triumphant. I watch her leave, wondering how I went from being in charge of my sex life to being charged for sex.

# CHAPTER THREE

The Penthouse Suite at the Edgewater Hotel has wall-to-wall picture bay windows with panoramic views of the San Diego Bay. I checked in at four to make sure everything was suited to my tastes and just finish up a shower when there's a light knock on the door. I secure a towel around my waist and answer it.

"Good evening Miss Ellis." She stares at my bare torso and I see the faintest flush in her cheeks—an instant turn on for me. "Please come in," I say, taking her overnight bag.

"Hello Mr. Knight," she murmurs, smiling timidly.

"Make yourself at home; I just need to finish up a few things." I had some appetizers, along with a bottle of champagne sent up to the room, not knowing if dinner was an expected part of the deal—it wasn't part of the contract but I didn't want her to go hungry—she's going to need her energy.

"Wow, this is really beautiful Grayson," she says, slowly looking around. Of course a waitress willing to sell herself for a car, can's be accustomed to the finer things in life—but I am.

"Take a tour. If you find anything unsatisfactory let me know and I'll have it fixed." A rock wall separates the kitchen and living area from the master suite in the back where I watch her disappear. Moments later she comes back out, stopping at the dining room table to help herself to some fresh fruit before sitting down on the edge of the sofa. I jot down a few more notes, then close the file I'm working on, swiveling the desk chair to face her. She's wearing a simple summer dress that's both flattering and feminine. She slips off her sandals and slides back on the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her.

"So...do you want to play a game of Monopoly?" she asks nervously.

"I want you to take your clothes off," I order watching her reaction. If she thinks I'm letting her ease in to the sex scene by doing the work for her, she's got another think coming.

"Isn't it the guy's job to undress a woman?" she asks hesitantly, biting her lower lip, in genuine modesty, making me wonder if she'll change her mind last minute.

"I'm paying you professional wages, Harper. Essentially you're my employee and I'm your boss for the night. If I tell you to go stick your head in the toilet and flush it five times then that's what I expect you to do. So take your clothes off." I'm still peeved about paying her—not because I can't afford it, but because she has the unusual ability to make me want to. She slowly stands and reaches her arms behind her, unzipping her dress. I lean back in the chair and prop a leg up on the desk, enjoying the strip show, not realizing that it may be unnerving to her until the dress slides to the floor and I see her knees wobble, as she subtly crosses her arm across her body—a gesture consistent with someone not accustomed to having someone stare at them while undressing.

"Do you want everything off?" she asks uncertainly, looking me right in the eye despite her obvious self-consciousness.

"That's typically how it works," I respond snidely. Her hands are shaking when she removes first her bra, then steps out of her panties, giving me a glimpse for the first time of that which has been on my mind constantly for the past two weeks. Nothing about her nudity disappoints, and I inhale deeply, taking in her near perfect body. "I'm a true redhead," she says sheepishly, glancing down at the small landing strip of pubic hair.

"Beautiful," I reassure her, seemingly boosting her confidence. She takes a deep breath and slowly parades by the desk, surprising me when she stops in front of me and comes up on pointe, performing a pirouette spin like a professional ballerina. "Nice," I nod, indicating I want more. Instead of heading straight for the bedroom, she goes for the balcony directly in front of me, and steps out, the breeze instantly picking her hair up and blowing it to the side. Her creamy ivory skin is the perfect contrast against a crimson sky of the setting sun. Standing on her tip toes, she leans over the balcony, looking down at the water below, giving me the most optimal view of a perfectly rounded ass. For somebody with no sexual experience, she's doing an incredible job getting me turned on. Finally she turns around, and leans against the balcony with her arms resting on the rail, in a relaxed pose that could grace the front of any magazine—making men all over the world want to masturbate while looking at it.

"You're stunning Harper," I say after several minutes of not being able to say anything. I've been with dozens of beautiful women and none of them have elicited this type of response from me. Perhaps it's her innocence and the knowing that I'm her first. Or maybe it's her intense almond shaped cat eyes that cautiously follow my moves as I slowly get up and come to her, releasing the towel from around my waist.

"So are you," she whispers, briefly glancing down, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

"Are you nervous?"

"I wasn't until just now," she swallows hard. "Are you sure you know what you're doing with that thing? I find her comments comical and grin down at her while softly cupping her breast in the palm of my hand.

"There's a reason why foreplay exists, Harper. A little lube goes a long way in making things slide."

"I've heard a lot of women fake orgasms the first time," she says, openly challenging me.

"Really? Well I'm not paying to worry about your needs Harper, however since this is your first time and I want you to come back for more I'll make sure you leave here with the best experience you'll ever have," I whisper confidently, running my lips along her neck.

"That's good Grayson, because I'm not about to fake it just so you can walk out of here singing the song of a hero," she whispers back, making me laugh out loud. I've had women attempt to put pressure on me for all sorts of things, but never this. I should be annoyed that she's managed to flip the focus of attention to her own needs, but for some reason I find it electrifying to be challenged in such a way. Harper Ellis is going to beg for more when I finish with her.

"I'm the second to know when a woman tries to fake it. Believe me you won't have a need. In fact, I'll make you a deal—if you don't have at least two tonight, I'll pay you double."

"Seriously?" she asks, her eyes widen with surprise. Instead of answering, I lower my mouth to hers and support her lower back with one hand as I move my other to the inner part of her thigh, slowly working in and around the area, taking my time to let her build up slowly. Several enjoyable minutes later she's breathing fast and hard, moaning with pleasure, but it isn't until I feel the involuntary contractions, and she collapses against me, that I swing her trembling body up in my arms.

"Are you going to make love to me now?" she purrs, stopping me in my tracks with the L word.

"No," I say slowly. "I don't make love to my sexual partners because it would imply that I have a deep committed love connection—when I don't."

"You just fuck women?"

"No—I rarely do that either. It's crude and unrefined." She looks at me questioningly as I lay her on the bed.

"Passionate intercourse, Harper," I whisper, hovering over the top of her as I don a condom with one hand. "I have P.I. with beautiful women that turn me on—that's all."

***

The next morning I wake up to find Harper already dressed, out on the balcony sipping coffee instead of in my arms where I expected her to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" I ask, a little taken back. Typically I have to practically shove girls out the door the next morning because they overstay their welcome, and she's packed and ready to go.

"Um, I didn't know how late you typically sleep and I just assumed you'd have work to do," she says looking slightly guilty when she sees my morning glory.

"Harper, I'm either going to have to take a very cold shower or you're going to have to come back to bed with me. I hope it's the latter."

"I can't. I have my little sister coming to visit this morning. I already called for a cab."

"You did what? You know I can give you a ride home."

She chuckles. "It's okay Grayson—I have no post sex expectations from you. Remember—our contractual agreement?" For some reason her businesslike, unemotional detachment to the circumstances surprises me even though it shouldn't.

"So I guess there's nothing left except the payment," I sigh, tying the bathrobe closed, and sitting down at the desk to write her a check. "Do I make it for ten or twenty?" I make a point of asking, just to get her to admit what I already know.

"Ten is good," she says shyly, confirming a double home run. I sign my name at the bottom, then add a note on the memo line— _Harper's Virginity,_ and hand the check to her. It's a reckless move on my part giving her the perfect ammunition to blackmail me, but I'm a total risk taker in that way. Well, it's not really a risk, when I'm confident of my ability to get out of just about any sticky situation. She looks at it and smiles.

"Yep—I'm officially deflowered," she says, matter-of-factly, as if to minimize the fact that she's given her virginity to a stranger who doesn't love her.

"Congratulations and welcome to the twenty first century." We silently gaze at each other, locking eyes.

"You did an amazing job Grayson. P.I. was perfect. Really—I can't imagine it getting any better. If I come across any legal aged virgins looking for someone to show them the ropes, I'll send them your way," she breaks the silence with a reassuring compliment.

"You were worth every cent, Miss Ellis," I murmur. "I'll see you next Sunday?" I blurt out as she's about to leave. It's not the smoothest transition in securing a second date, but then again, I'm not accustomed to being the one to ask.

She stops with her hand resting on the door knob, and slowly turns around, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Our contract was only good for one night. If you want to continue this arrangement, I'll have to revise it. I have to tell you though, that my price is still the same." I feel as if someone just kicked me in the gut—she wants me to continue paying her for something she clearly benefits from as much as me?

"Harper please tell me you're joking," I say narrowing my eyes. She shakes her head no and my temper flares. "If you think I'm going to feel sorry for you because you're just some ditsy waitress making minimum wage—think again," I seethe.

"First of all, I'm clearly not ditsy because I'm standing here with a ten thousand dollar check in my hand. Second of all, the last thing I want is your pity Knight—this is business," she says through clenched teeth, not backing down.

"As of last night, you are no longer qualified to market yourself as some elusive virgin maiden. From now on, you're like any other girl out there, and believe me there's plenty to choose from."

"Then choose someone else," she shrugs, making it seem so simple. "I have to go now." I grab her arm and swing her around.

"Why are you doing this Harper? If you need me to wine and dine you, take you on an occasional trip—then I will. But no one's worth ten thousand dollars." I'm surprised at the level of emotion in my voice. Her eyes soften.

"My dad used to say that something is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. At least you have a choice. You charge an exorbitant amount of money to vulnerable people who have no choice but to pay, and you've made millions off of them," she accuses.

"Ah so that's what this is about—a disgruntled college dropout who's going to punish any professional who happens to be successful," I step into my courtroom persona and begin whittling away at her character.

She sighs. "I don't want to fight with you Grayson. You want me strictly for sex—and I'm willing to give it to you—strictly for money. How is that a bad thing? There is no incentive for me to become involved with you otherwise—not when there are plenty of guys that would offer me so much more." She's as frustrated at my lack of understanding as I am at hers. She gets ready to walk out and I stop her with one last comment.

"If I pay you for sex—I will lose all respect for you," I finally say coldly. A brief look of surprise flashes across her face, then she reaches up and kisses me on the cheek, murmuring, "Coming from someone who has a reputation as a man whore—that's unfortunate. Take care of yourself Grayson," she says leaving me standing there without a valid response.

***

I'd already made up my mind to skip tonight's get together with the guys when I get the text from Toby that the Central Saloon had re-opened its doors. No more Trio Pub and Harper Ellis—perfect. I confirm that I'll be there and tell Wanda to block my evening schedule. I'd put in a sixteen-hour workday yesterday and could use a little break.

"Is Sleuter here?" I ask first thing, looking around the empty bar.

"No but his daughter Emma is, and she's already asked about you," Lucas says winking at me.

"She's happily married—I'm sure she just needs legal help," I remind him.

"He's asking the Ellis girl out anyway," Toby informs Lucas and Miles.

"Already did," I answer their next question, taking a big gulp of beer.

"Did you...?" they all want to know. I slowly nod.

"You lucky son-of-a-bitch," Lucas moans. "I've never been with a virgin—what was it like?" I smile at the recall. She was so tight that it took every ounce of self-control to wait for her climax, and once she did, she sent me like a rocket straight to the moon. She made me feel like a king, and it is by far the most memorable sexual encounter I've ever had.

"It was worth every cent of the ten grand that I paid her," I confess and the table goes dead silent.

"You paid her to have sex with you?" Miles stutters, looking incredulous. Toby is speechless and Lucas grins ear to ear.

"Good for her—I'm glad she didn't give it to you for nothing," he says. I figured as much from him—he's always been jealous of my active sex life.

"And she wants me to continue paying for every night that I'm with her." I sigh and rub my eyes. I haven't slept much since the night at the Penthouse, and it's starting to catch up to me.

"How much?" Toby asks.

"Ten per night," I disclose. Toby lets out a low whistle and shakes his head in disbelief.

"What'd you tell her?" Miles asks, his eyes still wide with surprise.

"I told her no. I have a cell phone full of names of girls that are more than willing to oblige me."

"Did Harper say why she wants money?" Toby asks suspiciously. Being a high-school teacher, he automatically thinks it's for drugs.

"She's clean—doesn't even drink," I eliminate the question. "She says she needs to buy a car."

"Why don't you pay her then—you have the money?" Miles asks, shrugging his shoulder.

"Oh he will. Right now she's a one owner vehicle with low miles, and knowing Knight's control issues, he's going to want to put the miles on her—aren't you Gray?" Lucas says, slugging me in the arm. "Now that she's had it, she's going to want it again, and if you aren't there to meet the demand then someone else will be." My gut tightens at the thought. "Hell maybe it'll even be me—Sheila and I..."

"You stay the hell away from her Lucas," I growl. Toby intervenes, putting a tree trunk arm between the two of us.

"Look buddy—it's clear that you like her. My advice is pay her. At least she's not going in to this with rose colored glasses on. She's smart enough to know that she's not going to get any kind of long-term commitment from you, and when you're tired of her—you can simply walk away without any guilt or drama. I guarantee you that if you pay her four or five times, maybe add a little wining and dining, then threaten to pull the plug, she'll give in and give it to you for free. You have the money—so I say why not spend it on something you enjoy." Toby is always the practical voice of reason. I change my mind about seeing her again.

"Hello Knight—how are you?" Emma comes to the table with a platter of appetizers and sets it down.

"Hi Em, did you come to town to bail your dad out?"

"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do with him—he's forgetting more and more lately." She sighs, filling my glass of beer to the top. "By the way, thanks for getting the paperwork in order for us. Do I owe you anything for that?" I smile and shake my head. She used to give me blowjobs in exchange for free legal services. A faint smile plays at the corner of her mouth as she remembers it too. "Maybe I could buy you a drink—I have someone coming in to cover the rest of the shift in an hour."

"I think your husband might have an issue with you meeting up with an ex," I say, glancing hesitantly at Toby.

"We've been separated for two months now and I'm planning on filing divorce papers as soon as I get back," she states, sounding only slightly saddened by the circumstances. I study her for a moment and shake my head.

"I can't Emma. In fact, I've got work to do and need to take off. Tell your dad to call me if he needs anything." I swallow the rest of my beer and grab my coat. There's someone else that's weighing so heavily on my mind that I'm willing to forfeit a freebie for a ten thousand dollar encounter.

# CHAPTER FOUR

I started the Knight's Legal Team (KLT) as a solo-practicing personal injury lawyer, and within two years won a high profile medical malpractice case that secured a multimillion dollar settlement for my client. The publicity I received from that case not only landed me additional noteworthy cases but also attracted the attention of a few highly gifted, rookie attorneys like myself. They had a similar drive for success and wanted something more than the low paying, entry-level position being offered at more traditional senior firms. Rather than forming a conventional equity-partnership like most established law firms, I followed a business model of operation, offering senior executive positions with high paying salaries and bonuses, in lieu of being a shareholder. Initially, they took home a higher salary than me, and worked less hours per day, but that quickly changed when we continued to win and settle multimillion dollar awards. Now KLT is considered a prestigious law firm, still shocking the legal community with the unprecedented success of a young lawyers group. Yet even with this, I still contest that the secret to financial success is investing in passive income, not working sixteen-hour days. Most people, including Harper, assume that all my fortune was obtained through building a successful law firm but it's only part of the equation. I actually got a much earlier start and made my first millions by investing in cell phone tower sites before the boom. Now a decade later, I'm still receiving hefty profits from lease agreements with wireless companies. The quarterly check I received just this morning makes paying Harper ten thousand dollars seem so trivial, that I pull up her number on my cell phone and make the call.

"Good morning, Mr. Knight," she says in a silky voice giving me flashbacks to the night we slept together.

"Miss Ellis, I'm conceding to your ridiculous and unreasonable demands. I will pick you up every Sunday at six o'clock, for the next three weeks. Forty thousand dollars is plenty of money to pay for a new car, so after three weeks, I want you to annul the contract and willingly spend time with me." There's silence on the other line as she considers the offer, then she clears her throat.

"The car that I want is sixty thousand, so five more weeks at ten thousand dollars, then if we still satisfy each other sexually we'll transition to a no-cost service maintenance program," she says matter-of-factly. I start to argue for the three weeks when she interrupts me with a bonus offer. "In addition, I will agree to be only with you during this time."

"You're damn right you'll be exclusive to me Harper—I'm paying you more for one night than I do to have a full-time maid for a month," I practically come unglued that she thinks getting laid by anyone other than me is a negotiated option.

"Maybe I should have a chat with your maid and teach her how to better negotiate her terms," she teases, then quickly ends the conversation when I fall silent on the other end of the line.

***

Charlie-Tango is a yellow lab that adopted me when I split from a five-month relationship with his neurotic owner three years ago. Now he's my daily running companion. It's how we start every morning—three miles down to the beach and then back, so when he stops at mile four, salivating and panting, I suspect something's not right. When he collapses in my arms barely breathing I call for help.

"He has a condition called Gastric Dilatation-Volvulus," the veterinarian says, giving him a twenty to thirty percent chance of survival with surgery.

"Do everything you need to in order to save him," I mumble. Wanda places a hand on my shoulder. She was the first person I thought to call on a Sunday morning and arrived to pick the two of us up from the side of the road in her pajamas. Of course she won't leave me now until I order her away, which I do when she starts lecturing me on the power of positive thinking.

"Alright—I'll stop," she says holding a hand up. "Let's talk about the pretty little redhead that paid you a visit last week. Who is she?"

"It's none of your business Wanda, and if you call in sick tomorrow I'll fire you."

"Is she someone you're dating?"

"Still none of your business."

"Are you taking her on as a client?" she continues to probe, ignoring my dis.

"Yes Wanda—I'm taking her on as a client. Could you stop asking questions?" Thankfully, the door to the back opens and a young tech comes out to give us an update.

"Dr. Johnson wants me to let you know that Charlie-Tango made it through surgery and is in recovery. Would you like to see him?"

"Yes dear we would," Wanda replies, jumping up in front of me before I have a chance to decide on whether or not I want her to join me. Seeing Charlie-Tango with a breathing tube down his throat and his entire fur coat covered in blood stops me in my tracks. The reality of losing him is suddenly very real, and I react in a way completely foreign to me—with fear and sadness.

"Hey boy, it's okay. You're going to be okay Charlie." I rub the side of his face, behind the ear, expecting him to kick his hind leg in response. My throat burns, and I swallow hard.

"He'll be in the hospital for a few days. You can come back and visit tomorrow, and of course if anything changes, I'll call you sooner," Dr. Johnson says. I stand there until Wanda gently tugs at my arm and leads me out. She doesn't say a word on the ride home, but as she pulls in to my driveway, she quietly announces, "Sociopaths don't have the capability to love an animal the way you love Charlie-Tango." For the first time ever, the voice inside my head doesn't disagree.

***

_I've had a bad day. I want you ready and waiting for me. You're going to earn every penny of that ten thousand tonight._ I send the text message to Harper as soon as the driver from the limo notifies me that she's been delivered to the hotel.

_Aye-Aye Captain—can't wait! Sorry you've had a bad day._ I receive her text ten minutes later. I'm within twenty minutes of the Edgewater Hotel, and just the anticipation of holding her has me pushing well past the speed limit.

"Knight—penthouse suite," I say, handing my car key and a twenty to the valet that's waiting when I pull in front of the hotel. I pause outside our room, and catch my breath after sprinting up three flights of stairs. Charlie-Tango died two hours after Wanda and I left the hospital. I spent the rest of the afternoon down at the beach watching waves crash over a natural rock barrier, trying to sort out the plethora of foreign feelings that still plague me, and now I'm stepping in to equally unfamiliar territory.

The first thing my hand touches upon entering the suite, is a pair of pink, lacey thong underwear draped over the door handle. I smile and look around. Her bra is hanging from the chandelier over the table, and in the hallway leading to the bedroom, I find her shorts, then a blouse. Lying across the bed in the nude is Harper. She's on her stomach, with her legs crisscrossed behind her, reading a book.

"Good evening Mr. Knight," she says, smiling without taking her eyes off the page. I slip my shirt over my head, and undo the button on my pants, not taking my eyes off of her. Her wavy auburn hair almost reaches her waist and when she finally marks her page and rolls up on her side, it falls over her shoulder, concealing taut nipples on a set of perfect breasts. She watches me undress with the same intensity I did her the first time we were together.

"Could you please..." she says, making a twirling motion with her finger.

"You're here for my entertainment, not the other way around," I remind her. "I want you to read to me."

"Out loud?"

I cock my head to the side impatiently. "Do I really need to answer that?"

"Ah, you want me to read you a bedtime story? How cute," she says teasingly.

"Now!" I order and she rolls back on her stomach, opening the book to where she left off. Her voice is shaky at first, but quickly steadies when she submerges herself in to the story. I walk around to the side of the bed, and stare down at her.

"Chapter Eighteen," she says, turning the page. Carefully, I kneel down behind her and spread her legs. She pauses and I clear my throat, prompting her to resume her narration, in a voice that's sweet and soothing. I lean over her, brushing her hair to the side and let my lips follow her spine from her neck to the hollow of her back. Taking my time, I reach underneath and slide my fingers along her inner thighs, making her squirm beneath me. I'm pleased to find her so easily turned on, and when I carefully lift her hips off the bed, she intuitively lowers herself on her forearms.

"Keep reading Harper," I scold her when the story is interrupted by a soft moan, as I enter from behind. She looks down at the pages and takes a deep breath, obediently picking up where she left off, her voice now husky with passion. I match my rhythm to the cadence of her voice and move in harmony as she reads one page after another. It's a blend of song and dance, and it's the most erotic encounter I've ever had with a woman. By the time she finally arches her back, and whispers, "Oh god," I myself am on the verge of exploding. I thrust hard and deep, holding her close as I take her with me to the pinnacle, then we collapse on the bed together, still entwined, both of us breathing hard. My forearm rests across her chest in such a way that I can feel her heart wildly beating against my skin. Several minutes pass before her breathing slows and her heart rate gradually returns to a normal rate.

"Do you want to talk about your day?" she eventually asks, looking over her shoulder at me. When I decline, she picks up her book and begins reading out loud again, causing me to doze off in a light sleep.

***

I expect a certain amount of resistance from Harper when I gently nudge her awake at eleven thirty. The night's still young, yet even she fell asleep, nestled in my arms with her hand sandwiched between the pages of her book that's lying on the bed next to her.

"You're not allowed to sleep on the job," I whisper in her ear, reminding her that I'm entitled to wake her up for as long and as often as I want. She rolls over and stretches her body against mine.

"Just waiting for you, boss," she murmurs, reaching down, touching and stroking me—surprising me with things only a seasoned woman would know to do to drive a man crazy. I have to admit there might be some perks to sex for hire—she's not a sexual slacker that's for sure, and she's done some research.

"Have you ever given a man a blowjob Harper?" I ask, as she kneels over me and looks at me with uncertainty. Her tousled hair hangs loosely around her face, giving her a wild and untamed appearance.

"I tried once with my high school boyfriend," she says.

"You tried?"

"Yeah it was before I had internet and when someone asks a naive sixteen-year-old to give them a blowjob, you take it literally."

"Please tell me you didn't try to blow it out?" I ask. She sighs and nods.

"Yep—like a candle." I work hard to keep a straight face.

"And I assume you know what you're doing now?"

She smiles prettily and says, "You tell me," then spends the next ten minutes taking me on a journey to the Land of Oz. When she's done, I lay speechless trying to catch my breath.

***

"Tell me about you Harper," I say breaking the silence as the realization hits me that I know nothing about the girl lying in my arms except for her place of employment and her phobia of water. I never thought I'd say those words, and actually have a genuine interest in hearing the response—but suddenly I'm curious as hell about her.

"Like what?" she asks cautiously, her body stiffening against me. She's the first girl that hasn't hounded me for information about my past, or volunteered her own.

"I don't know—anything. Tell me about your family. Where do your parents live? You said you had a little sister—what's her name?" I ask, throwing out some suggestions.

"Too personal," she's quick to dispel. I've never met a girl who didn't want to talk about personal stuff and I'm intrigued, but move on to a more general topic.

"Okay, how about hobbies. What kinds of things do you like to do besides swim?"

"Very funny, Knight," she mumbles. After a few seconds she raises up on her side to look at me. "I like theatre, music, singing, and dancing—basically anything that has to do with the arts. What about you?"

"I rock climb, scuba dive, surf, windsurf, skydive and paraglide—basically any adventurous sport you can think of. I play on a men's soccer team Thursday nights, and I have my pilot's license."

"So you like anything that has a certain amount of danger to it," she points out. "Aren't you afraid of getting hurt or dying?"

"Never," I smirk. For me, these adrenaline rushes keep me sane, and take the place of committing crimes for pleasure. They're a necessity. "I'd rather die falling off the side of a cliff than from a terminal illness with a bunch of strangers wiping my ass," I add, making her squirm.

"So what would you do if you were diagnosed with a terminal illness tomorrow?" she tentatively asks. I don't have to think about her question for very long—I have a plan.

"I'd keep doing everything that I do now, until my body no longer performs the necessary functions to allow me to continue doing them. Then, I'd go for a final flight in my airplane, taking a good bottle of wine with me. I'd fly out over the Pacific Ocean, watching the sun set over the water. When I run out of gas and plunge into the ocean, I'll be gone without a trace, and my death will be classified as an accidental pilot error plane crash." Her eyes widen, then she breaks out in a grin and compliments the idea saying, "That would be an awesome way to go," making me laugh that she would find such a plan acceptable.

"So why don't you want to talk about your family?" I probe, revisiting my initial inquiry now that she's lightened up a bit. She sighs.

"It's not that I don't want to talk about my family—I just don't want to talk to you about my family. I don't feel compelled to share my personal story with most people, but especially someone like you who's only going to be around temporarily—for sex," she says, yawning and closing her eyes. She rests her head in the crook of my arm with her cheek on my chest. Seconds later, she's lightly snoring and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I should be ecstatic by her devotion to keep things emotionally neutral and sexually centered—it's all I've ever wanted in any relationship—but deep inside something pulls and I can't put my finger on what it is.

***

Fifteen minutes after Harper walks out of our hotel room with a ten-thousand dollar check in her hand, I'm already thinking about the next time I'll be with her, and my thoughts aren't completely concentrated on the future sexual encounter. In fact, I'm most preoccupied with precisely the thing she's banned me from learning about—the personal aspects of her life. I hate being banned from anything. It's the type of thing that gets me slapped with misdemeanor charges for such things as rappelling down the side of an eight-hundred foot skyscraper in Bangkok, Thailand.

I make two calls before leaving the Edgewater hotel. The first is to Wanda, letting her know that Charlie-Tango died, then giving her a list of errands which includes ordering two-dozen red roses to be delivered for Harper at the Trio Pub. She goes from offering heartfelt condolences to an enthusiastic reflection on how she knew Harper was something special from the minute she met her.

"The last time you sent flowers to a woman, was three years ago when you were trying to get that psychotic blonde to give you Charlie-Tango," she reminds me. I don't bother admitting that I'm vying for something in this case as well. The second call is placed to Mitchell Harris, one of the young interns at my law firm. I give him the orders to run a comprehensive background check on Harper Ellis after providing him with information I easily retrieved from her driver's license, while she slept in the next room. I'm supposed to be immune from guilt when acting in socially deviant ways such as this, and normally I am, but when I hang up the phone with Mitchell I feel a twinge of shame for going behind her back.

# CHAPTER FIVE

My sister Camille is eleven years older than me and was in her second year of college when our mother, Charlotte, abandoned ship on the family she claimed she never wanted. Now forty-one, Camille is the Executive Chef of a five-star restaurant in Los Angeles. Her lifetime partner Abby McAdams, whom she started dating the same year that our mother left, completed ten years of college to become a physician and is now on faculty at UCLA Medical Center. It's only because of them that my psychiatrist downgraded me from a sociopath incapable of all love to someone able to feel an emotional connection with a restricted group of people. At the time, I wasn't so sure even that was true, but I went along with it because of how happy it made Camille. The very fact that I cared about Camille's happiness was significant, I just didn't know it until years later.

"Charlie-Tango passed away," I announce when I enter the kitchen of their LA home. I never come to visit without him and it'll be the first thing they ask about, so I figure I might as well get it out of the way. Of course it smells heavenly in her kitchen and having not eaten all day, I look around for appetizers which she typically has ready by the time I arrive.

"Oh no—Gray I'm so sorry," Camille says, setting her wine glass on the counter and coming over to wrap her arms around me. "What happened?" she asks tearing up immediately. What I lack in the emotional gene pool, she makes up for, and it seems to get more pronounced as she ages. I hold back telling her that I'm starved and can better deal with her display of emotion with food in my stomach. Thankfully, the announcement generates interest from Abby who's sitting in the family room, watching the football game. She comes into the kitchen almost immediately, heading straight for the refrigerator, pulling out two cold beers, and handing one to me. She's wearing jeans and an oversized 49ers sweatshirt, with her curly dark hair is pulled back in a pony-tail—typical weekend attire for her.

"He had a twist in his stomach and went into shock. By the time they did surgery it was too late."

"That's terrible. He must have been in horrible pain. Did they say what caused it?" Camille asks, her brows furrowed with concern.

"That sucks—did you cry?" Abby asks, tossing me a bottle opener, which nearly hits a crystal vase sitting on the counter. She doesn't mess around getting right to the point, and it doesn't bother me as much as it does Camille, who thinks she's a little too brass, especially when it comes to death and dying.

"Abby, leave him alone," she mutters. Why she feels the need to defend me after all these years is baffling. I get as much amusement out of Abby's undisguised boorishness as she does mine.

"Like a baby," I joke, taking a long gulp of the ice cold beer. Abby studies me with serious brown eyes, looking for clinical signs of an emotional response. Her approach to me has always been analytical in nature, and I half expect her to jot down notes as I launch in to the story of losing Charlie-Tango.

"Wow, so you did feel some sense of loss?" she asks when I finish. Her eyes are wide with surprise.

"Is that the conclusion you've come to Dr. McAdams?" I challenge, plastering a look of confusion on my face, just to make her doubt her clinical impression.

"Oh no you don't Grayber Baby," she chides, calling me a childhood name that she knows I despise. "Mr. Adrenaline, doesn't ever spend a day on the beach passively watching waves unless there's a trace of melancholy circulating in that little brain."

"I remember you crying over finding a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, when you were six," Cam interrupts taking the opportunity to point out what she believes is proof that my sociopathic tendencies began long after our mother left when I was ten.

"Alright ladies—I'll give it to you. I do have more leniency for animals than I do humanity, and yes I feel bad that Charlie-Tango is gone. There—are you satisfied?" I work my way into the family room, followed by Abby who takes a seat next to me on the large leather sofa. Always on a diet of some sort, she picks up a bowl of carrots and offers me one.

"There's something different about you Gray. What is it?" she asks waving a carrot in my direction before crunching a bite out of it. "Cam, don't you think there's something different about him? Are you still dating Miss Personality, who's jealous of even your two lesbian sisters? What is her name—it starts with a T? She snaps her fingers together trying to trigger her memory.

"Tara—and no I'm not seeing her anymore." I have mixed feelings in telling them about Harper, and I'm distracted by the plate of hors d'oeuvres placed on the coffee table by my sister. Much better than carrots.

"They're called mushroom-polenta diamonds," she immediately offers, her face lighting up when I hold one up and carefully examine it before popping it in my mouth. For her, taking an interest in the visual presentation of her food is as important as the flavor. "Do you like?" she eagerly seeks feedback before I've had a chance to even swallow.

"Delicious. Please tell me you made more than just the six on this plate?" I say and she laughs.

"No, but I have a spectacular main course that's going to knock your socks off," she brags returning to the kitchen to check on her masterpiece. The first thing most people notice about Camille is her smile. It's the one physical trait we share that links us as siblings. Everything else is opposite. I have dark brown hair with blue eyes and she's a dirty blonde with hazel eyes. Both of us are tall, I suppose taking after our mother since neither of us know who fathered us, only that we don't share the same one.

"You're seeing someone new—who is she?" Abby, who's been staring at me the whole time, finally asks. She's from New Jersey originally and still has an accent in spite of being on the west coast for the past twenty years. She and Cam couldn't be any more different when it comes to personality traits. Camille being the quiet, calm, voice of reason, is a classic people pleaser, while Abby is dominantly opinionated with a fiery temper that I can easily provoke. After being kicked out of the foster care system at age sixteen, the pair took me in nearly causing them to split up during the two years I lived with them. My altercations with Abby are partially to credit for my early interest and success in law. When I found that I could win any argument and use my words to demoralize, chastise and weaken even the most powerful—and get paid for it—I was in. Once I had a successful law practice and was able to channel my aggression in the work environment, my relationship with Abby improved dramatically.

"Yes, I'm seeing someone new. She's a waitress in the downtown district," I finally admit when the three of us are seated for dinner.

"A waitress, huh?" Camille says with surprise. "That's something different. Is she nice?" she cautiously probes for information.

"Mm—I taste cardamom and cinnamon," I reply, closing my eyes while slowly chewing my food. Saying that Camille is a talented chef is an understatement. She makes the most exquisite dishes I've ever had, and I've eaten at fine restaurants around the world.

"Yes! It's an Indian dish that I altered with my own spices," she says, pleased that I noticed.

"You out did yourself. It's delicious." She spends the next ten minutes telling us how she made the dish five different times to get the spice combination just right. Abby respectfully waits for Camille to finish, not daring to interrupt her culinary commentary, but I can see her watching me out of the corner of my eye. The moment Camille's done she pounces for information. "You've changed the subject three times now when we've asked about your new relationship and that's got me curious as to why. So what is it about this girl that has you all tongue-tied?" Abby is like a hound dog digging for a buried bone, when it comes to getting facts. For this reason I hate telling her anything, yet find myself telling her just about everything.

"Well for starters I'm paying her for sex," I blurt out. Both of them stop and stare, forks suspended in the air between their plate and their mouths.

"She's a prostitute?" Camille asks, her voice full of disappointment.

"No. Actually she was a virgin."

"How old Grayson?" she immediately hisses, her eyes wide with fear.

"Twenty-five," I squelch her concern of illegal activity.

"How much?" Abby asks.

"Ten-thousand," I reply, then add, "Per night." Camille gasps and Abby starts laughing, lightly at first than progressing until she's clutching her stomach and there are tears in her eyes.

"Oh my god—I love her. I don't even know her—but I love her anyway. We have to meet this girl. Finally someone who's taking you for a ride," she manages to get out.

"Will you tell her," I say looking at Cam, while motioning my head toward Abby, "She's not taking me for a ride."

"Will you tell him, it sure the hell sounds like it," she responds. We've reverted to conversing in the third person, like we used to years ago, using Camille as a buffer. She holds her hands up, and says "Both of you stop now," keeping us from escalating the dialogue.

"Alright. Alright. I'm sorry. This is just so good. Seriously Gray—we have to meet this chick that's holding your balls hostage. I'm going to give her an award." She breaks out in another fit of laughter as Cam and I watch and wait.

"So how did this arrangement come about? What is she hoping to get out of this and what do you get out of this?" Camille finally asks taking a more serious approach.

"She needs to buy a car, and I get a hell of a good sex partner without all of the bullshit that goes along with it. Believe it or not—I'm quite happy with the arrangement. After two months, I'll reduce the payment to a low monthly service plan and continue to screw her until I get bored." Camille takes a deep breath, her hazel eyes searching my face in concern.

"You are on crack cocaine if you think this can go on indefinitely and she won't become emotionally attached to the relationship. She's a woman for Christ's sake. The only way this could work long-term is if she's a sociopath just like you," Abby says, still chuckling as she gets up to clear the table. "Imagine that—two sociopath's procreating to make little socio babies that the rest of us can support in prison, after they murder a bunch of people," she chides, shaking a head full of dark curls in dismay.

I spend the drive home to San Diego thinking more about her words than I care to admit. Could Harper Ellis have a sociopathic disorder too?

***

The first thing that catches my eye when I walk in to the Trio Pub on Tuesday is Harper flirting with a table full of construction workers. The second thing that catches my eye is a vase sitting on the bar counter with roses for sale. Priced at three-dollars per stem, she's been selling them individually, and what once was a two-dozen rose bouquet, is nothing but a large vase with three roses left in it. I catch Toby out of the corner of my eye, waving me to our table in the back, but I wait until Harper looks up from her conversation and motion her over to me.

"Hi Grayson. I wondered if you would be coming in tonight," she pleasantly says, flashing a beautiful smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

"I see you got my roses," I reply stiffly.

"Yeah, about that. Please don't do it again. It makes it awkward and hard to explain to my customers."

"You mean the table full of testosterone over there?" I nod in their direction. She pulls back and stares deep into my eyes.

"Knock it off, Knight. If you get creepy on me—I'll end this now," she says slowly.

"We have a verbal agreement about exclusivity," I remind her for lack of nothing better to say. She smiles and reaches up to pull my head down towards hers.

"The only thing that's ever been inserted in my vagina are tampons and different parts of your body. You have my word that it'll stay that way until we annul our agreement," she whispers in my ear. "Although... I am thinking about buying a dildo since you seem to have awaken a sleeping giant in me that needs to be fed more than once a week. Is that okay with you?" she asks, a look of concern plastered on her face as she searches my eyes for approval. She's teasing me with the same level of prowess I've been known for, and once again I'm thinking about Abby's words.

"Why would you want to do that when you can have the real thing? Come home with me tonight Harper, and I'll take care of all of your needs," I offer, wanting nothing more than to sweep her in my arms and carry her out of this place. She declines with a shake of her head.

"I have to get back to work," she says, with a hint of sadness in her voice, leaving me standing there more confused than ever by her mysteriousness. I take a seat with the guys and while they figure out their fantasy football teams, my mind is busy trying to figure out Harper Ellis. I remember Dr. Victoria Shaw, my former psychiatrist say that there are two types of sociopaths—intelligent ones and stupid ones. The intelligent ones lack remorse and empathy, but since they have the ability to make a lot of money in their professions, a life of crime is unnecessary and inconvenient. I definitely fall in the latter category, wielding my way to the top by using whoever is stupid enough to get in my way. Contrary to Dr. Shaw's predictions, I don't gleam enjoyment out of hurting other people like the textbook description of the disorder says I do. Nor do I invent outrageous lies to embellish my experiences or manipulate people—I don't have to. People, especially women, are happy to bend over and give me their power.

The stupid ones lack remorse and empathy as well, but since they don't have the ability to make a lot of money, they tend to live a life filled with lies, crime, and victimization. I can't help but wonder if Harper could be a sociopath that falls in this category. After-all, a waitress illegally selling her body? If that's the case, to what extent is she willing to use me to get even more money? Is she dangerous? It's an intriguing thought but it's quickly squelched when I see her carrying a cupcake with a lighted candle over to an elderly woman sitting alone, getting everyone around to join her in singing happy birthday. Sociopath's are known for being charismatic, but not generous and even from across the room, I can tell she genuinely cares. I've never met a woman so mystifying, and I'm as hooked as everyone else. I wait until the last of the customers leave and wave her over for the check.

"How was the soup tonight?" she asks, sliding the check on the table, and sitting down next to me. She looks tired, even though there wasn't much of a dinner crowd, and when she yawns, I have the perfect excuse to offer her a ride home.

"Thanks, but I have my bike," she declines.

"I have my truck," I reply. We lock eyes, and we both have a smirk on our face.

"I'm not inviting you in, you know," she says, challengingly.

"Not even a kiss goodnight?" I tease, running my hand down her arm. She shivers, then laughs.

"Let's see—how much should I charge for a kiss?" She closes her eyes and her lips silently move as if trying to calculate the pro-rated charge. I catch her off guard when I lean forward and steal a kiss anyway. With Harper, I never know how she might react to an uninvited touch, but tonight I get lucky and when I stand to pull her close, she practically falls in to my arms, ardently wrapping her arms around my neck, confirming a desire that matches mine.

"Finish up and I'll load your bike," I murmur, when Martha hollers for her from the kitchen.

"I'll be ready in fifteen," she sighs in defeat, making me grin.

# CHAPTER SIX

Giving Harper a ride home proves to be a shitty idea for two reasons. One, she meant what she said about not inviting me in, and two, she lives in a rundown apartment duplex in one of the worst areas of town for crime. I'm reluctant to let her out of the truck and she picks up on my hesitation right away.

"See—this is exactly why I didn't want you to give me a ride home," she says haughtily, tugging at the door handle.

"Wait a minute Harper," I grab her arm stopping her from getting out. She has to know how outrageous this whole thing appears to me. "Why is it you're willing to pay sixty-thousand dollars for a luxury vehicle when you live in an area where it will be stripped clean the first night you park it on the street? You could take that money and put it towards a nice flat in a safer area of town, and buy yourself a used Ford. Is there something going on that I should know about?" I've dealt with many drug addicts and she just doesn't fit the profile. "Look, if you're in trouble maybe I can help," I offer, softening my approach.

"I am not your concern Grayson," she says, slowly enunciating each word through clenched teeth to emphasize her point.

"No you're right—you are not my concern, but the services that I'm paying you for are. At ten grand a night the only way I'm going to get my money's worth is to see this through as a long term investment."

"Grayson, it's a big mistake to assume that I'm going to be around long-term. Just stick to the contract if you want to see me again on Sunday." She gets out of the truck and slams the door, and struggles to get to her bike before I do.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I question, handing her the bike, and following her down a buckled and cracked sidewalk to the duplex on the right. She unlocks her door and opens it a crack, then turns to me, strategically positioning the bike between the two of us, blocking me from following her inside.

"It means that I'm making no promises as to how long I can do this," she says looking deep in my eyes before quickly casting her gaze down at the ground. My gut tightens as I wait for the ' _I need something more in a relationship'_ speech.

"I'm worried I might get bored with you sexually and want to experiment with other men," she blurts out, glancing up at me again through a thick veil of lashes that she flutters innocently a few times. I look down at her completely astonished. What the hell did she just say? I can't be sure if it's the thought of her having other sexual partners or the fact that she's messing with me that has me fuming, but she's playing with fire now. The sociopath in me that had been carefully governed over the years, now surfaces as I purposefully set out to emotionally manipulate and cripple her. I smile down at her and reach up to softly caress her cheek, tucking my finger under her chin to keep her from looking away.

"When I'm not paying you any longer, I won't have any problem with you seeing other people. In fact, I encourage it. I think you definitely need to expand your experiences and sleep with as many men as possible." My thumb brushes across her bottom lip and reflexively her mouth parts. "If you'd like, I can even hook you up with some acquaintances that I've heard will fuck you until you can't walk." I smile when she flinches, and I gently drop my hand to her breast lightly squeezing an already taut nipple causing her to lean closer. "You never know Harper, you might like it better than P.I.," I murmur, dipping my head to kiss her, just long enough until her chest heaves, and her fingers wrap around my neck—then I pull away. "Honestly, I'm relieved that you're open to the idea of seeing other people, so many women aren't," I say reassuringly. "Goodnight, Miss Ellis. Make sure you lock the door after you get inside. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you before I see you again on Sunday." I stare deep into her eyes one last time, and am pleased when I see the questioning look of confusion, mixed with undeniable sexual tension.

"Good night," she murmurs as I casually stroll away, not bothering to look back at her.

***

The fifty-five hundred square foot house that I call home is eerily quiet without Charlie-Tango around to incessantly lick his paw or scratch himself as part of his early morning grooming routine. He would typically start at five a.m. and continue until I'd roll out of bed at six to take him on our run. Today I woke at four a.m. and after an hour of lying in bed, I'm motivated to do something other than think about Harper Ellis. Knowing what I know about sociopathic disorders I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea that she might share the same personality disorder as me—it's much harder to manipulate a manipulator. Of course it will take a well-educated psychiatrist, like Dr. Shaw to say for sure, but everything that I've observed about her thus far makes me suspicious of an antisocial personality disorder; superficial charm with few close friends, lacking emotional attachment or guilt, and definite lying—money for a car my ass. Wanda would see Harper as my karmic debt—what goes around, comes around. She's preached the Law of Attraction to me for five years, seizing every opportunity to correlate her beliefs with my current situation. It used to bug the hell out of me, but over the years she's collected enough science-based evidence to validate her arguments that it's become harder to debate the issue. At times like this, I'm even inclined to seek her counsel on private issues—she's one of the few people that I can be ninety percent transparent with.

"Good morning, Mr. Knight. I hope you have a valid reason for calling me at five-thirty in the morning," Wanda groggily says, after answering the phone on the eighth ring. She and I both know that I don't need any excuse to call her, but sometimes she plays the role of a disapproving parent.

"I need to talk. Can you meet me for breakfast?" She naturally agrees and when I hang up with her I place a call to Mitchell Harris asking about the background check on Harper. He puts me on hold to go in the other room but not before I hear his wife bitching in the background about my early morning call. I wonder if she thinks about the fact that I pay his salary so that she can stay home with their four little brats, and another one on the way.

"Sir, the report didn't come up with any red flags. Her credit is decent—it looks like she has some student loans that she's paying off but that's about all. No arrests, and no marriages. It says that she graduated from University of San Diego last year."

"And her program of study?" I immediately ask, surprised by the finding. She didn't bat an eye when I called her a college dropout.

"Um-it didn't say, Sir," he says in such a way that at least I know he realizes he screwed up.

"Harris do I need to hold your hand and walk you through how to do a thorough background check on someone," I say coldly.

"No Sir. I'm sorry—I'll have that information before the end of the day," he quickly tries to appease me. I laugh out loud.

"If you don't have an answer for every question I could possibly ask about this girl by the time I get to work, you'll be cleaning out your desk by the end of the day." I slam the phone down in his ear, completely irritated by his lack of attention to detail.

***

Wanda looks perturbed when I walk through the doors of a downtown eatery not far from my office. "You've been waiting long?" I ask, knowing full well she's been here for at least thirty minutes. After waking her up, I decided to go for a swim to blow off steam, and fell victim to my thoughts about Harper again.

"Next time don't wake me up until you are actually walking out the door," she says stiffly. I grin and kiss her on the cheek like a son would do, which has a way of melting her like butter. She waits until we're finished ordering before asking me what's wrong.

"I'm seeing Harper Ellis and I want your advice," I say getting straight to the point. She tilts her head to the side and smiles.

"I don't give advice, I help people see their options," she reminds me. The truth is she loves talking about relationships with me, giving input on everything from gift giving, interpreting emotions, and what pleases women sexually. I've learned over the years that no topic is taboo with Wanda. If she knows the answer—she'll always give it to me straight.

"I only spent a few minutes with her, but I got a good vibrational feeling about her. She's warm and sincere," she starts in.

"I think she's a sociopath just like me," I blurt out, interrupting her interpretation of Harper. Her brows furrow in response, and she looks past me with a far-away expression as she recalls their brief encounter. She then shakes her gray head, rejecting the claim. Wanda refers to herself as a highly gifted intuitive counselor, and whereas I watch people's subtle behavior to pick up deception, she relies on sensing their overall energy fields.

"She had an energy of love and compassion," she insists.

"Oh for crying out loud Wanda, you think I have the potential for love and compassion," I roll my eyes, scorning her, even though deep down I want to believe her.

"Hey, who ended up being right in the Miller case? Or how about the Alexander murder trial—who pointed to the uncle when he wasn't even on the radar? Oh, and let's not mention the Fletch..."

"Fletcher case. Yes I know—if it weren't for you seeing past his wife's church-volunteering façade, I would have chosen to enter a guilty plea." Over the years, she's been right about a lot of people, but she's wrong about me. And if she's wrong about me, she's most likely wrong about Harper. Sociopaths are known to be deceptive—maybe the energy field thing just doesn't work on people like us.

"Do you like her?" she asks, changing the subject. We hold each other's gaze for the longest time as I consider the question, and finally I nod my head yes.

"I only know her from a sexual standpoint though. We have an agreement to keep the relationship focused below the waist, so I can't tell you much about her. When I see her shaking her head with judgement, I quickly add, "It was as much her idea as it was mine."

"Why don't the three of us go to lunch? Or make up an excuse to get her into the office. I want to read her again."

"I doubt she'll do it. She's dedicated to the idea of keeping the relationship sexually and financially focused."

"What do you mean by financially focused?" Wanda asks and I launch in to the story on how Harper came to my office that day with a contract for money. A slow smile spreads across her face. "I think that contract needs to be revised, and naturally Miss Ellis will need to come to the office, so that a notary can witness her signature," she proposes. Of course, she is the notary being referred to.

***

"She graduated with a degree in Psychology and a minor in Dance," Mitchell says, dropping the file on my desk. "She has one sibling—a sister named Josephine whose mother died while giving birth to her. I have no data on her father except that he quit a good job as a mechanical engineer the year his wife died. And by the way, I quit—you'll have my letter of resignation before the end of the day." He turns to leave not waiting for my reaction and I watch him go. I pick up the file on Harper and open it up to the background check. It has her transcript from San Diego which lists a 4.0 GPA and a position with the University Dance Company. Tucked in the back of the file are printed photos of her performing in various ballet productions showcasing a talent beyond what I ever would've imagined. She's exquisite and I have to tear myself away from looking at them to finish business. Fifteen minutes later I call Wanda in to my office.

"Draw up a contract, offering Mitchell Harris a twenty percent salary increase now, and a forty thousand dollar bonus, paid over the next year. Let me know when you're finished, and I'll dictate the revised contract to Harper." I can tell she's pleased with the assignment when she eagerly mumbles, "Yes sir," and scurries out to get started.

I pick up my cell phone and dial Harper's number. I have to hand it to the girl, she's managed to confuse, captivate and dominate my thoughts like no one has in fifteen years. Even now, my heart does a little somersault when she answers the phone.

"Why didn't you tell me you have a college degree in Psychology Miss Ellis," I say in a low voice that catches her off guard.

"How did you find out? Are you spying on me?" She doesn't sound as surprised and offended as I was expecting.

"I prefer the term investigation over spying. Spying makes me sound creepy. I do background checks on all of my employees, especially when they are as secretive as you."

"Why? What does it matter to you? Does having a college degree somehow make paying me for sex worthwhile?" she challenges, and I ignore her irrelevant questions in exchange for getting my own answered.

"Why a degree in Psychology?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. I've worked hard over the years to avoid people in the mental health field. Now I have one sharing my bed.

"I've always been interested in trying to figure out what makes people tick—why they do the things they do. I thought I could make a difference." I detect a hint of sadness in her voice.

"And have you figured out what makes me tick, Harper?" My voice sounds cold and hard even to me. There's silence on the other end of the line, and my chest tightens.

"No Grayson—I haven't because I really don't want to know what makes you tick. I'm not digging into your background like you are mine, because when this arrangement ends, I want to be able to walk away and erase you from my memory. This is strictly a below the waist relationship that has an end date." Goddamn I wish she'd quit reminding me. Her devotion to keep things emotionally neutral and sexually centered is grating on my nerves even though I should be ecstatic. Deep inside something twists when she mentions the words 'end date' with such conviction. I swallow and change tactics.

"I need you to come down to my office to sign a revised contract. I'll send a car to pick you up, and after we're finished, I'll take you out for lunch. Can you be ready by eleven-thirty?"

"I'll be ready," she says with a sigh. I hang up, and for the first time since the age of sixteen, I contemplate on whether or not I'm doing the right thing.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Behind the one way glass of my office window, I watch Wanda greet Harper at the elevator and escort her through the office. She has a way of making every client feel like an old friend, so it doesn't surprise me when she casually places a hand across Harper's shoulders and whispers something to her that causes both of them to laugh. The minute she leads her into the conference room and closes the door, the motioned sensor surveillance camera automatically activates, feeding live audio and video to my computer. I take a seat at my desk and monitor their interaction.

"Dear—Mr. Knight is running a little late. He asked that I get started in going over the contract with you," Wanda says, taking a seat next to Harper.

"Oh no—that's okay. This contract is private. I can wait for Mr. Knight," Harper quickly says, nervously shifting in her seat. Wanda smiles and peers over her glasses at Harper.

"Honey, I drafted this contract for him. I know everything that's in here and even added some bonus items that'll work in your favor," Wanda replies matter-of-factly, as she winks at her. Harper gasps, looking instantly mortified. I enjoy the moment. It's the first indication I've seen from her that suggests she might not be as sexually liberal as she wants me to believe.

"You must think I have no class or morals," she softly says lowering her head.

"Are you kidding? I worship you child. This is the smartest and classiest thing I've ever seen a woman do to Grayson. Somebody should have..."

"Thanks a lot Wanda," I mutter, swiftly getting up to break up their little powwow.

"Hello ladies. I'm sorry I'm late. I see you've started without me?" I glance sideways at Wanda, giving her a disapproving look for underrating me.

"We're just getting started with the specifics," Wanda murmurs. The two are sitting close together with their heads almost touching as they look over the contract together, leaving me with no option but to sit across the table and watch. "I kept the amount at ten-thousand dollars per encounter, and added to be paid by the next morning. Mr. Knight wanted me to also change the language from sex to a night of companionship as the former is illegal. He also wanted me to specify that the companionship will continue for free after the six encounters. Is this okay with you?" she asks, advocating on Harper's behalf.

"We'll see about that," Harper mumbles. I clear my throat and the two look up at me as if they'd forgotten I was in the room.

"Yes Wanda—Miss Ellis and I have already had this discussion," I say clenching my jaw."

"I guess we can leave it in for now," Harper agrees. "Line four says that Mr. Knight will pay for all added costs, such as hotel, dining, and any recreation expenses. I think I should pay for all dining since he's paying for the hotel, and you can cross out recreation since there won't be any extracurricular activities between the two of us," she says. Wanda glances up at me and I give a slight shake of my head. She makes a little check next to item four to pacify Harper, then quickly moves through the next five items on the contract. Harper stops her at item nine.

"Items gifted to Harper Ellis will not be made available for re-sell?" she looks up at me and scowls. "How about we change this to say that gifted items are not allowed—period." I shrug my shoulders.

"Alright, scratching out gifts," Wanda concedes. "Although that does bring me to item number ten which says that Mr. Knight will pay for any sex toys desired and approved by you. But I consider that a necessity more than a gift—don't you? I mean one night a week is hardly sufficient..."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to leave that..." Harper quickly responds, looking up at me and smiling coyly.

"I'll make the changes and have the contract ready for you by the time you get back from lunch. Is there anything else?" Wanda inquires. After Harper shakes her head no, Wanda turns to give her a warm embrace, smiling at me over her shoulder, letting me know her impression of Harper without saying a single word.

***

Bertrand at Mister A's is a pricy restaurant on the twelfth floor of a downtown high rise, with views of the harbor as well as the San Diego airport. It was a last minute decision to take Harper here for lunch. The fact that she happened to wear attire that meets the restaurants dress code requirements, and my eagerness to set things straight in regards to her financial chivalry over dining expenses, made it an easy choice.

"We're eating here?" she asks, inconspicuously looking around as we step off the elevator. I reach down and grab her hand as we approach the hostess for seating, and smile to myself when she automatically links her fingers in mine. I've had many beautiful women by my side, but none that I've wanted to shelter from the focused attention of other males. She's oblivious—not because she lacks confidence in her physical appearance, but more because she doesn't think it's important. She carries herself with the graceful poise and outstanding posture of a ballerina, making the simple black cotton dress she's wearing appear more formal than it is. With half her hair down and half pinned back in a braid, she looks feminine and classy. I slip the hostess a generous tip and she escorts us to a seat with a stunning view.

"This is really beautiful, Grayson," she says, staring out the window, before looking down at the menu. I watch her facial expression change when she notices the prices, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from smiling. This definitely isn't a place for a girl on a budget.

"So, what did you decide on Harper?" I ask when she finally closes her menu. Through casual conversation, I learn that she likes just about any type of food so she has no excuse for not ordering anything on the menu. The waiter waits patiently, then smiles when Harper orders a side salad, a common choice for women not wanting to show off a healthy appetite—although, in Harper's case, I'm quite certain it has nothing to do with calories.

"I'll take one order of the Steak Tartare, and one order of the Jumbo Black Tiger Shrimp," I say, watching Harper swallow hard. "And I would like to start with an order of the Fresh Oysters," I add.

"Wow, you must be really hungry," she murmurs.

"Starved," I reply. We hold each other's gaze long enough that I feel myself getting turned on, and have to look away.

"So what else did you find out about me in your background investigation?"

"I learned that your mother passed away while giving birth to your sister." She takes a deep breath and nods. I wait for her to elaborate, and when she doesn't, I remind her how easy it is to get information on a person.

"I was an only child up until my first year of college. My mother had preeclampsia with me and was considered high risk for having additional children. When she accidently got pregnant with Joey, the doctors and my dad wanted her to have an abortion, but she refused. She had a massive stroke on the operating table, while having a C-section, and died two days later," she says.

"And your dad?"

"He sort of went crazy. He blamed Joey for mom's death, and slowly grew to despise her. It got so bad that I eventually had to choose between the two of them, and I chose her. I haven't seen him for over three years. I heard he's up in the Los Angeles area, but I can't say for sure." She carefully folds her hands in front of her, and cocks her head to the side. "Your turn, Knight. I'm not going to hire a private investigator to dig in to your past, but fair is only fair." I nod.

"I was raised by my single mother until the age of ten, at which time she ran away with a business man, leaving me with my twenty-one year old sister, Camille, who couldn't take care of me and go to college at the same time. So I was placed in foster care until I was sixteen. I then returned to live with Camille and her wife Abby until I finished high school." I keep it as simple and direct as she does. We slowly smile at each other as the realization of how much we have in common sinks in. The silence is only interrupted when a familiar voice calls my name, and I look up to see Tara walking towards us with a drink in her hand.

"Well, well, well that didn't take you long did it Grayson? Who's the lucky girl this time?" she spews, slurring her words as she glares at Harper. She's dressed in a navy blue power suit, but I'm guessing hasn't put any time in at work today.

"Tara, this is Harper. Harper—Tara," I solemnly introduce the two. "How much have you had to drink, Tara?"

"None of your fucking business, Gray. Tell me, did you start fucking her before or after we broke up?" she accuses.

"Oh no—we're just business associates," Harper's quick to reassure. "In fact, if the two of you need some time alone to talk, I can wait downstairs? Really, I don't mind," she says sincerely, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Tara's arm. It's the type of move that could elicit a violent outburst from Tara, but it doesn't. Instead she starts to cry. The two are so opposite in their responses that I'm momentarily engrossed in their interaction, forgetting that I'm at the heart of it. Tara is one of the most unreasonably jealous lovers I've ever had, so how Harper manages to reassure her within thirty seconds is baffling. Once again, I'm reminded that the number one characteristic of a sociopath is superficial charm and magnetism, the very trait that gives me the power to lure people to me.

"You are so sweeeeet," Tara says in a high-pitched squeal. She leans toward Harper and lowers her voice as if this alone will prevent me from hearing. "Listen—don't make the mistake of getting mixed up with him. He's dangerous. He destroys everyone he dates. Destroys!" she emphasizes. I signal for the waiter. A high-end establishment always has trained staff on duty to be alert to delicate situations like this, and I'm annoyed that the disturbance hasn't already been detected and dealt with.

"You're really very beautiful Tara, and I know there's somebody who is perfectly suited for you, just waiting for you to take notice of him." Harper says in such a poetic voice that it sounds scripted. Dressed in professional business attire with her dark hair neatly pulled back in a clip, she represents the typical female executive. She's worked hard to make it as the CEO of a finance company, and now in her early thirties, is aching to add parenthood to her list of accomplishments. That's where she saw my looks, money, and status as a coveted necessity to complete her overall vision of a fortunate family. Just thinking about it now makes me queasy.

"It could even be him," Harper giggles like a little school girl, motioning to the restaurant manager who's hurrying toward us. Tara stands up, using the table to steady herself, and studies him like a breeder at a horse auction.

"He's kind of cute," Tara admits, looking at Harper to see if she agrees. Harper winks and says, "You just never know..." The manager introduces himself to us, and after getting an affirmative nod from me, diplomatically escorts Tara away. She glances back at us one last time, and blows Harper a kiss, and then flips me a birdie.

***

Harper not only finishes off her salad, but a healthy portion of the steak and shrimp that I ordered, just as I'd hoped she would. I've never met a girl not interested in previous love interests, but not only does she not question me about Tara, she refuses to let me explain, simply shrugging it off as none of her business. When she excuses herself to the bathroom, I catch her stopping on the way, to talk to our waiter, then comes back to the table and places her credit card on the table.

"Put...it...away...now," I growl, narrowing my eyes at her.

"I'm not going to dine with you anymore if you fight me on this," she warns. "We are not a dating couple, and I don't expect anything more from you than what you're already giving." Before I have a chance to respond, the waiter is at our table, handing the bill to Harper like a complete dumbass.

"You give that lady the check, and I'll have you fired by morning," I simply say, stopping him in his tracks.

"Yes sir," he says, flipping his hand with the check toward me. Harper's eyes go wide with shock, and I silence her with a look.

"I'm a little old-fashioned and have gender habits engrained in me which discourages women paying on dates, and men paying for sex," I fume as I sign the bill. She quickly pushes herself away from the table, throwing her napkin on her plate, and I grab her arm to stop her from leaving, immediately letting go when she winces. Surely that didn't hurt her, but I instantly mumble an apology as if it did. We both storm out of the restaurant pissed, and when we get outside I go off on her. This time she's gone too far, and I'm going to put a stop to her little charade.

"I've had it with the whole we're not dating shit. You and I both know that there's more going on here than sex for hire. Just because I don't want commitment and marriage, doesn't mean I can't enjoy everything else that goes along with seeing a woman. I'm not out to intentionally hurt you, Harper," I make a declaration that for the time being is true. Her eyes soften and she slowly closes the gap between us, curling her arms around me and pressing her lips to my neck. It feels so natural to have her there that my arms automatically embrace her. "Please don't let what Tara said scare you away. Contrary to what you've heard, I don't destroy women. They destroy themselves with unrealistic expectations." I attempt to explain. Harper leans back and looks up at me with something I've never seen on a woman's face before—pity.

"You just don't get it—I'm not afraid of you hurting me, Knight. I'm afraid of me hurting you. You might want everything that goes along with a dating relationship—but I don't. I'm sorry, but I just don't and even if I did—I can't. Being with you in the moment is great—the sex is amazing, and I look forward to Sunday nights," she says earnestly. "But if you continue to bring this up and pressure me for more—I'm done." The tone in her voice lets me know she's not playing around.

"You're really serious about this aren't you?" I ask, and she nods. "You're not just trying to play hard to get?" She shakes her head no and smiles. "You're really sticking to the Sunday only encounters? No luncheon dates or adding on an extra night here and there to see a movie?"

"Maybe once in a while, as long as we go Dutch," she murmurs. I glance down at her full, soft lips, aching to feel them against mine. How does a man go from being an anti-kisser to this?

"So kissing you now, would be a violation of our agreement?" I ask, placing a hand on her lower back and taking a chance on nudging her closer. As anticipated, she hesitates—which signals to me a detachment between a person's heart and brain. I act accordingly and lean down, gently pressing my lips to hers—sandwiching her bottom lip between mine and softly tugging before doing the same to her top lip. She softly exhales and duplicates my moves, only probing much deeper.

"Your kiss is my one weakness," she mumbles guiltily after I'm the one to end the fifteen-minute session. I don't admit out loud that she's my weakness. Instead, I flag down a taxi and send her on her way after getting her to agree to an early pick-up time on Sunday.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

The minute someone tells me that I can't have something—I consider it mine. Dr. Shaw referred to this type of thinking as a prime example of my narcissism. At the time, I just considered it a competitive trait that would someday account for my success, and had I known she'd use it against me, I never would have admitted it to her. Contrary to what threats Harper's made to me about ending our arrangement, I have it in my mind that she's mine. She's the girl who'll be at my side during social events, during recreational activities and when I'm horny which is way more often than once a week. She's the girl that I'll take to a dinner and a movie, and fly to Hawaii for a quick weekend getaway. She's the one girl who might get to meet Camille and Abby, giving her limited access to my past. She's the closest I'll ever come to committing to anyone. Harper Ellis joins a very restricted inner circle of people that I'm able to feel an emotional connection with, which according to Dr. Shaw makes me a special type of sociopath. For Harper, it simply means I'm offering her something I've never offered in a relationship before—a part of myself.

"No more limo picking me up?" she asks, as I open the car door for her at five o'clock on Sunday.

"Nope—I figure I can bank that money for us to use when we want to go out to eat or see a movie. That way there won't be any awkwardness about splitting the tab." She looks at me and smiles, appreciative that I'm making an attempt.

"So, you're so horny that you couldn't wait an hour?" she asks, reaching over to squeeze my inner thigh. Just having her hand resting near my crotch is enough to get me aroused, and for a brief second I consider ditching my previous plans.

"Actually, I wanted you earlier because I'm taking you on an adventure," I say matter-of-factly, trying to focus on the road and not her hand undoing the zipper on my jeans.

"A hotel room adventure I hope," she says, leaning her head towards my lap.

"Yeah—later tonight. But right now I'm taking you on a true adventure."

"Grayson," she moans sitting back up, making me wish I'd kept my mouth shut. "You didn't hear a word I said the other day, did you?"

"Hey, a contract is a contract Ellis." I pull a copy of it out and hand it to her. "Could you please read the first line?" She complies with a roll of her eyes. "Does it not say a night of companionship?" I point out. "What that means is that I can do with you what I want, and although sex is at the top of my list, I figure there's plenty of time for that later. So for the next three hours, be prepared for the biggest adrenaline rush you'll ever have in your life." I look at her and grin. "And by all means, feel free to finish what you started—it's going to take another twenty minutes to get there."

***

"We're going skydiving?" she says with a giggle as I pull into the parking lot of Pacific Coast Skydiving. I reach for her hand and notice that it's already clammy. "Holy shit! You're really taking me skydiving?" Her jaw drops when I nod my head. "You're seriously taking me skydiving? It's a joke right? I've never done this before," she talks non-stop as we get out of the car and I lead her inside.

"Ah, there's Knight!" Max Warner, the owner calls, and Felix, the pilot, comes out from the back room.

"Hey Grayson, who's the pretty lady?" Felix asks, snuffing out his cigarette before reaching over the counter to shake Harper's hand. I introduce her to both of them, and Max gets right down to business. He's a fiftyish-year-old man who's one of the best tandem jump masters in the area. I did my first jump with him ten years ago, before he was the owner, and now a thousand plus jumps later he's one of the few I will ever refer for tandem jumps. While he spends the next thirty minutes going over the brief training procedure with her, I quietly observe from the side. There's only one other girl that I tried to get to jump, and she chickened out at the last minute. So far, there's no indication that Harper is preparing to flee. In fact, if anything she's eerily calm and the lack of fear in her eyes as we board the plane, has me once again considering the possibility of antisocial personality traits. Again, I hear the voice of Dr. Shaw in my head, reminding me that thrill seeking behaviors are commonly found in sociopaths. Our eyes meet one last time as Max attaches himself to her harness and makes the final adjustments. When Felix announces that we're over the jump zone, I open the door and blow her a kiss before launching myself out the door, followed by a camera man, then Harper and Max. Ten minutes later, I watch her float to the ground, her face lit up with a wide grin that tells me we'll probably be doing it again soon. The minute she's released from the chute she leaps towards me, flinging herself in my arms with the grace of a ballerina.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she repeats over and over again, laughing and crying all at once. Something deep inside of me warms. But it quickly dissipates when a similar scene flashes in my mind—only the girl is a blonde sixteen-year-old, clinging to me on the back of a motorcycle. It catches me off guard and I stiffen, immediately detaching from Harper. I haven't had a memory of Jessica Sorenson sneak up on me like this in years—not even a thought of her actually. Without thinking, I pull Harper's arms off of me, making her take a step back.

"Are you okay?" Harper asks, studying me carefully.

"Yes of course," I lie. "We just need to get going."

***

The ride to the hotel is relatively quiet with the exception of an occasional outburst by Harper where she tosses her head back and spills a completely unprompted trail of laughter that makes me chuckle too. Since leaving Pacific Coast Skydiving she's had a faraway expression, accompanied by a smile that's common with someone reliving the jump over and over again. With the top down on the convertible and the radio softly playing, neither of us is eager to engage in conversation right now, giving me ample time to analyze the sudden pop-up memory of Jessica Sorenson. Dr. Shaw would have plenty to say about my ability to block Jessica from my thoughts all these years, as well as to why Harper Ellis could act as a trigger for remembrance. The notion that there might be a correlation between the two makes me flinch.

"We're going somewhere different tonight?" Harper asks, breaking into my thoughts as I pull up in front of the Fairmont Grand Del Mar.

"I guess I forgot to mention it," I shrug. I see her look down at her dirty jeans and sneakers and I laugh. "If you think that's bad, you should see your hair," I joke, taking a light punch in the arm, before grabbing her hand and pulling her close. I couldn't be any prouder to be seen with anyone—of course she's one of the few women that pull the wild, reckless look off with complete confidence.

"Did you bring something to wear for dinner?"

"Nope—I ate before I left," she says smugly.

"We'll be ordering room service," I announce to the receptionist behind the check-in counter after she hands us the room key and provides brief directions.

"Yes of course, enjoy your stay Mr. and Mrs. Knight," she mistakenly replies, as we're walking away. I quickly put my arm around Harper steering her towards the elevators when she sharply looks over her shoulder likely ready to clarify our relationship to the presuming clerk. Normally I'd be the one to correct the error, but in this case I let it slide.

***

I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, watching Harper shower, while singing a pop song frequently played on the radio. She teases me by backing up against the tile letting water from each shower head hit her from either side, plastering her hair to the sides of her cheeks, and pouring down the rest of her body. Given her phobia of water, I wanted to make the experience as pleasant as possible, so I booked one of the few rooms with a large walk-in-shower and no tub layout. Now, seeing her all wet covered in soap suds has me glad I'd thought to add this detail to our reservations.

"God—you're ridiculously beautiful," she's the one to say when I step in to join her. Of course I'm thinking the same thing about her. She reminds me of a shy schoolgirl when she bites her lower lip, looking slightly embarrassed for staring too long at my groin.

"I didn't know you could sing? You have a beautiful voice," I murmur, pressing my body gently against hers, as I brush a strand of wet hair away from her mouth, to make room for mine. Harper makes my job easy when it comes to foreplay. An erected penis pressing against her lower abdomen causes her to moan and spread her legs. I ignore the temptation, instead pulling away and lowering my head to her chest. Shower sex isn't the type of thing I want with just anyone. Contending with slippery surfaces and mismatched height issues can make it more trouble than its worth. But when things are right, which they mostly are with Harper, it can be unforgettable.

She tastes like the floral bouquet scent of the liquid soap residue covering her body, and as I kneel in front of her exploring with my tongue, I'm not quite ready to be finished when she cries out, arching her back as she holds on to me for support through the tremors.

"Now it's your turn," she murmurs nudging me in the chest to stand back. I'm anticipating a reciprocal performance from her, but instead she grabs her foot and in a slow, progressive move, raises her leg until its parallel with her body, and her foot is resting next to her ear, as she leans against the tile for support. It's a breathtaking, beautiful pose that temporarily mesmerizes me until she impatiently pulls my hips against her and a more primitive part of my brain takes over.

"Why yes—I do believe I'll have the ballerina tonight, if I may," I murmur with pleasure. Given the potential environmental hazards with her balancing on one leg, all moves are carefully controlled and done in slow motion which just makes the prize at the end that much sweeter for both of us. It's only after we're satisfied sexually that things get a little silly in the shower. Silliness isn't in my nature, but she has a funny way of bringing out the kid in me. While washing her hair, she talks me into singing a duet from the Sound of Music that keeps us entertained until the shower water turns cold. It's during times like this that the money I'm paying her has no relevancy what-so-ever.

***

"Do you still find time to dance?" I ask as we lay on the bed, with her still cradled in my arms.

"No," she answers quietly.

"Why not?"

"It takes money to get into ballet classes or even access a ballet studio. I do stretches and whatever else I can at home." She yawns and if I didn't have so many unanswered questions about the mystery girl, I'd let her go to sleep.

"So you typically work for the pub from four o'clock until ten o'clock in the evening. What do you do during the day?" I probe, trying to get a sense of how she spends her time when she's not with me. "Companionship is a broad term that includes conversation," I remind her when she avoids answering right away. She sighs reluctantly.

"My sister Joey is dropped off sometime in the morning and depending on which appointments or errands I have, we can spend an entire day going from one to the other before I go to work.

"Where does she stay and who drops her off?" I realize a little too late just how attorney-like my questioning sounds.

"Grayson, you're getting into personal stuff that I don't want to answer," she complains, making me instantly defensive.

"Harper believe me this is not personal stuff. This is called activities of daily living. Personal stuff is asking you what you like about shower sex," I reply irritably.

"I love everything about shower sex—let's talk about that," she eagerly says, apparently not finding it as uncomfortable of a topic as talking about her family. I widen my field and proceed to question.

"It must be challenging trying to get around with a child using public transportation?" Somewhere in the last three weeks, I discovered that she liked her hair played with and I slowly run my fingers through her damp hair now, watching her eyes flutter closed, as she relaxes against me.

"Joey loves taking the bus or the train. She's incredibly social, and will engage just about anyone in conversation," she says sleepily.

"I'd like to meet her," I announce in a soft whisper, trying to ease the request in. Predictably her eyes fly open and she attempts to sit up. I tighten my arm around her, pulling her close so that the best she can do is lift her head off my chest. Her breasts stay firmly planted in place.

"No Grayson! We have a deal. Joey is completely off limits to you. She'll become attached to you and when you're no longer around, she'll be the one to get hurt. I mean it stay away," Harper warns pointing a finger at me, becoming visibly upset by the suggestion.

"Children don't ever get attached to me—they're much smarter than adults," I smirk.

"Good. Then it serves no purpose for you to meet each other—just leave her out of this," she reiterates, this time with a pleading quality to her voice. I lay there quietly, waiting for her to calm down, then I try a different angle.

"Okay, would you like to meet my sister and sister-in-law? I've never once introduced them to someone I'm seeing, and they bug me about it every chance they get."

"Why don't you introduce the women you're dating to them?" she asks, ignoring the fact that I've made her an offer that I've never made to anyone else before.

"There's only one girl that I considered, and it was just because she was prejudiced against homosexuals. She had no idea that my sister was gay, and I wanted the entertainment value of seeing Abby rip her apart. We broke up before I ever got the chance." She looks down at me and smiles. Her eyes could be liquid pools of gold the way they seem to sparkle in the light.

"Have you ever been in love Grayson?" she suddenly asks, catching me off guard with a question that's been asked by many, but never by anyone that I'd consider giving a truthful answer to. I stare long and hard before answering.

"Yes," I finally say my voice unintentionally cracking. For the first time in fifteen years, I admit it. My heart beats wildly out of control as I wait for her reaction, wondering what I'll say when she asks for details. To my relief she doesn't.

"I thought so," she simply says leaning down to kiss me, before reaching over my shoulder and turning off the light, then grabbing the sheet and pulling it up over our bodies as she nestles down next to me again.

# CHAPTER NINE

I wake up disoriented by the early morning sun shining through the private balcony door, and the empty space next to me. It's unusually quiet, and I immediately call Harper's name, glancing at the closed bathroom door. When she doesn't answer, I fling the covers off and go to check on her.

"Harper?" I open the door and flip on the light, quickly realizing that not only is she gone, but so are all of her toiletries. I find the note on the desk a second later.

Sorry—had to get back early and didn't want to wake you. No worries about the payment—I'll get the check tomorrow if you happen to stop in the pub with the guys.

P.S.-I had the cab charged to the room, hopefully there's enough in the transportation bank to cover.

I had cancelled my morning schedule at the office in order to show her around the resort, and feel an enormous let down that she's gone without so much as a good-bye.

" _Sorry Ellis, but our contract says that you'll receive the check no later than the next morning. You leave me no option but to drop it off at your apartment",_ I think to myself, suddenly feeling better about her early departure. Thirty minutes later, I'm on the freeway heading to her house.

***

I have my checkbook in hand when I knock on Harper's door and try to distinguish the sounds coming from inside the apartment that I've never set a foot inside of. I'm caught completely off-guard by the child who answers the door and says, "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Harper's. You must be Joey?" I answer, glancing over her head for any signs of Harper.

"She's in the shower. Do you want to come in?" Joey asks, opening the door wider and stepping to the side, giving me free entry. I don't know whether to thank her or scold her, given the gravity of the potential dangerous situation she could have created. I smile and step inside. She's a mini version of Harper, with curly auburn hair and hazel eyes. The exception is the physical features that are characteristic of Down syndrome, albeit hers are mild in form. Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle start to fall together. Joey tilts her head to the side and studies me with curiosity.

"Do you know how to read?" she finally asks, then giggles when I nod yes. "Wait right here," she orders, skipping down the hallway and disappearing in to a back room. I glance uneasily around, taking a minute survey of the main living area of the apartment. For as run down and dilapidated as the outside of the building is, Harper's done an exceptional job transforming the inside. The apartment is clean and simply decorated in white shabby chic with hints of soft romantic accessories sprinkled throughout. The mock fireplace mantel is covered in family photos which I'm immediately drawn to, and get lost staring into her past, until I feel a tug on my pant leg.

"Sit right here," Joey says, pointing to the couch. I comply and she hands me the book, immediately climbing next to me, so that she's practically sitting in my lap. Harper wasn't kidding when she said the kid has no enemies. Now I know just how Harper felt when I ordered her to read out loud to me—my voice wavers as I begin reading the first line of a children's book to Joey. I get half-way through the story when we hear Harper holler from somewhere in the back of the apartment.

"Joey are you talking to someone?" Joey giggles in response, and says "Shhh," holding a finger up to her lips.

"Harper doesn't like it when I let people inside," she admits. "She probably won't take me to SeaWorld to see the dolphins next Sunday for my birthday," she announces with a sadness that's quickly shaken off. "Did you know I'm going to be six, and I love dolphins?" She asks. Harper yells again from the back room.

"Joey who's here?" she demands, this time her voice full of panic.

"No one Harper," Joey says sarcastically, rolling her eyes and taking a small pillow from the couch which she places over her face as if trying to hide, while shaking with laughter. I can't help but laugh out loud, and brace for impact when I hear a door open, followed by Harper's footsteps down the hall.

"Grayson," she hisses, trying desperately to get her robe tied while keeping the towel coiled on top of her head.

"Do you need help with that?" I ask, biting my lower lip when her face turns pink. When she doesn't answer, I turn my attention back to the book and pick up where I left off in the story, stealing Joey's full attention as we ignore Harper completely. When I'm finished, I close the book, and receive a clapping ovation from Joey, and a hard look from Harper who's sitting in a wicker rocker silently watching.

"Joey, you know how we were going to make brownies this morning? Well I'm out of eggs. Can you run next door and get two from Mica?" Harper says slowly, her voice void of emotion. Joey jumps at the chance, and is out the door with an arm load of items she thinks Mica might need in exchange, waiting at the door opposite of Harper's. A tall African American woman answers and immediately looks at Harper with concern as she greets Joey in a playful voice. Joey comfortably pushes past her, not wasting any time in bragging to Mica how I read her a story. Mica stares silently at me standing behind Harper, then says, "Take as long as you need," before quietly closing the door. I'm the first to break the silence between Harper and me.

"I stopped by to drop off the check. Do you have any idea how dangerous of a situation you and Joey could've been in, Harper? What if I was a serial rapist or murderer? Don't you have a childproof lock on that door?" From Harper, I expect a hot messy battle to ensue over such criticism, so when she bursts into tears, I'm completely caught off guard. Typically women and tears grate heavily on my nerves, but she has an entirely different effect on me. Uneasiness? Concern? Possibly even a desire to fix the problem—all foreign responses coming from me. I put my arms around her and she buries her head in my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. The minutes tick by as I wait for her to regain control. It feels kind of odd to be the one to comfort her, after causing such distress.

"I'm sorry, Harper. I had no idea that Joey would answer the door, and that you'd be in the shower. I couldn't just leave knowing that just anyone else could walk in," I finally say in an awkward attempt to justify my actions.

"Why didn't you just tell me that Joey has a disability?" I ask, assuming it's the reason behind her not wanting to introduce us. She slowly pulls away and looks up at me through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I didn't want to introduce her to you because I'm embarrassed that she has Down syndrome?" she asks with such incredulous disbelief that I realize right away my mistake. "She's a better person than you can ever hope to be, Grayson, and frankly there's not a single person on this earth that I'm prouder to be around or would rather spend my time with than her."

"Harper, that's not what I meant and you know it."

"You've crossed the line, Grayson. I want out of the contract. I'll find another way to raise the money," she says through hiccups, although doesn't make any attempt to untangle herself from my arms. "I don't want you in my heart or my head, and I've made that clear right from the beginning. I want you to stay away from me now," she says a little louder.

I choose my next words carefully. "I'm not going anywhere Harper. You've done something to me, and I can't stay away. The more I'm around you, the more I want to be with you, and I'm not talking in terms of sex. We both know that I'm already in your heart and head so quit pretending that it's strictly sexual."

"Correction—It WAS...strictly sexual," she hisses, kneeing me in the groin, which for a ballerina can mean having your testicles shoved up to your throat. I crumble to the floor groaning in pain, and she walks away. I must have briefly passed out, because the next time I look up, two Hispanic males are standing over me and they don't look sympathetic to my plight.

"Don't lay a hand on him, just get him to his car," Harper orders, from somewhere in the room. I have no choice but to let the two escort me out, hoping that I won't pass out again on the drive to my office.

***

The incident with Harper makes it easy to spend the rest of the week working sixteen-hour days, to get a case ready for trial. I once had a girl chuck a blow dryer at me, but other than that no one's dared to show physical aggression until now. Wanda peeks her head in the door at eight o'clock on a Friday night, and when I don't bother looking up, gives herself permission to enter.

"I brought us dinner," she says, plopping two large sacks on my desk, then walks over to the mini bar to pour us both a glass of red wine. I sigh and lean back in my chair, stretching my back out while she clears my desk, carefully tucking the papers I'd been working on neatly in the file, and setting it off to the side. She then sets two dinner plates on my desk and pulls up a chair opposite of me. I had no choice but to tell her a little of what happened Monday morning, when I arrived to the office still looking ashen, and she wanted to take me to the hospital. Surprisingly, she didn't bring it up again until just now.

"You've been so busy this week, that I took the liberty to purchase these," she says, holding up three pieces of paper. I roll my eyes and take a bite of Chinese food before responding.

"What are they, Wanda?"

She smiles smugly. "Tickets to the Dolphin Interaction Program at SeaWorld this Sunday. You did say that Harper was already planning on taking Joey for her birthday," she says winking at me. I hold my hand out and she places the papers in it.

"I did tell you that Harper has a water phobia, too, didn't I?" She nods.

"Yeah, I had to jump through some hoops and drop some names to get this arranged. The minimum age for this type of encounter is ten-years-old, and when they found out that Joey was not only six but had Down syndrome, they about hung up the phone on me. Luckily you've trained me well, and I found out who the board members are. It turns out you successfully defended the V.P., Joseph Kehoe, in a personal case three years ago. He was more than willing to pay back favors," she laughs.

"Oh yeah, I remember the Kehoe case. He was guilty as hell, and even I had my doubts that I could get him off."

"They worked around the whole thing by putting you in an earlier morning private slot before the encounter opens. They assured me that Harper will have premium seating as close to the water as she's comfortable with, and a personal attendant will be at her side the whole time." I can feel a slow smile spreading across my face. "I know, I'm a genius," she says, holding up her wine glass to toast me.

Up until now, I had no plans on how to handle Sunday with the exception that I'd find a way to see Harper.

"Can you order Dolphin balloons with some sort of stuffed animal, and have it ready for pick-up tomorrow night?" I ask.

"Already took care of that. I'll pick them up and drop them by your house around eight." We finish eating in silence, then she cleans up while I re-open the file.

"Wanda, I owe you in a big way," I say when she sticks her head in the door one last time to say goodnight.

"Sociopaths typically feel entitled to everything and rarely say thank-you," she replies, raising her eyebrows like she does when she's trying to make a point. She has no idea how much weight I've been giving her words lately. Perhaps she is becoming more of a surrogate parent than I'd like to admit.

***

I park down the street from Harper's apartment and wait until a couple driving a blue Ford Escape pull up with Joey and walk her to the front door to drop her off. Five minutes after they pull away, I get out and walk the short distance to Harper's front door. For fifteen years, I've been void of normal emotional responses that plague average people, validating Dr. Shaw's analysis of an antisocial personality trait—and it never bothered me. Today, not only am I apprehensive about seeing Harper which I assume is how a normal man would react in my situation, but I also really have a strong desire to show the two of them a good time. Harper answers the door on the second knock and attempts to shut it again before I have a chance to explain. It's Joey who intervenes—catching sight of the balloon bouquet and stuffed dolphin, she pushes past Harper with enough force that the door swings open as Harper uses it to catch her balance. I quickly step inside and kneel down to give Joey her gift.

"Is this for me?" she smiles widely, already reaching for the dolphin.

"Happy Birthday, Joey. I see you lost a tooth this week too," I acknowledge. She shakes her head vigorously, grinning even wider to show me the missing space on the front bottom row of teeth.

"Thank you," she says, flinging her arms around my neck before Harper quickly reaches down to pull her away.

"Can I take her with us to SeaWorld today—please Harper?" Joey immediately petitions, waving the stuffed dolphin at her.

"We'll see—can you go finish getting ready?" Harper responds quietly. Joey takes it as a yes, affirming to the stuffed dolphin that they'd be spending the day together, as she happily skips to her room, balloons bouncing against the walls behind her.

I slowly stand up and face Harper. "I want to take you and Joey to SeaWorld today. I have special tickets for a behind-the-scenes dolphin encounter for Joey this morning. If you decide afterwards that you want the rest of the day alone with her, then I'll leave. I'll pay you the ten thousand regardless of how much time we spend together today, and what type of encounters we participate in. Please let me do this, Harper." She stubbornly shakes her head no, folding her arms across her chest and my heart sinks. Unfortunately neither of us notice Joey standing there watching until she delivers a loud wail of protest that sends Harper scrambling to quiet her down before the neighbors are awakened. I let Joey take over from this point on. Judging by the way Harper is desperately trying to reason and bribe her, she's got a stronger influence over her than I ever will. Once Joey heard me mention the dolphin interaction, nothing Harper says pacifies the situation, and twenty minutes later the three of us are loaded in the car on our way to SeaWorld. Joey and I are elated—Harper not so much.

I've always considered my immunity to people's dissatisfaction towards me as an asset, but two things with Harper are true—I'm not immune from her anger and I want nothing more than to see her happy. She still hasn't spoken a word to me when we pull into the parking lot of SeaWorld, and the troubled look on her face has me wondering if the whole thing was a huge mistake.

"We only have ten minutes to get checked in. Do you mind if I carry Joey to the front gate?" I cautiously ask. Our eyes meet and I'm reassured when I see something other than anger and resentment.

"Sure," she murmurs, smiling when Joey climbs on my back, refusing to give up the dolphin for either of us to carry, even though it partially obscures my view. I reach for Harper's hand and we take off in a slow jog towards the front gate.

I have to hand it to Wanda—she coordinated this event masterfully, making sure that the staff at SeaWorld understood how important this experience is to Joey. From the moment we check in at the Dolphin Encounter, we are treated like VIP guests, and the tension between Harper and I gradually fades as we listen to the head trainer, Michael, give the brief orientation. Joey can barely contain her excitement, chattering nonstop to the two female trainers who escort her to the dressing rooms to get changed. Harper slowly trails behind, and as I make my way to the men's locker room, we cross paths.

"Am I still in the doghouse?" I murmur, grabbing her by the arm. God how I want her to say no. She looks up and smiles.

"You're giving Joey a birthday experience that is out of this world, and she'll never forget it. I've decided that it isn't really about me or how I feel about you right now. It's about her—so can we just keep it that way until it's over?" I hold my hand out, and she hesitantly places hers in it. Is she afraid to even let me touch her now? I ask myself when I feel her tremble the minute she comes in contact with me.

"It's a deal," I promise—although I'm lying through my teeth. It's more about her than I would ever admit out loud, and while I'll see to it that Joey has a great time, ultimately its Harper I want to see smiling and laughing again.

# CHAPTER TEN

Harper sits on the edge of her seat with a camera in her lap, anxiously watching as Joey and I wait in the water for the trainers to bring in the dolphins. The moment the first one swims up to us, Joey is transformed into a different kid—instantly calm and focused if not mesmerized by the creatures. Within minutes of interacting with them, the dolphins show an obvious preference for her over me, perhaps, I muse, sensing her goodness and my cruelty. Eventually I stop trying, and let her take center stage, moving off to the side to watch in fascination as she choreographs an hour long experience into something sort of magical. It's as if she's found a way to connect with them, and just as she attempts to mimic their clacking and clicking noises, they appear to copy her actions drawing interest from the trainers who claim only they are able to elicit that behavior. I glance over my shoulder at Harper and our eyes meet. She mouths the words 'thank you' with genuine appreciation, and I smile—something I do far more often when I'm around her. She looks like a fashion model perched on the chair with the breeze blowing her long hair off to the side, beneath a classy woven hat. She's wearing a bright blue patterned, mid-calf sundress that when the wind catches it just right, exposes a set of long, lean legs up to the thigh. Even the professional photographer who was hired to take pictures of Joey, periodically turns the camera in her direction, unable to resist capturing her image on film. It's only at the end of the session when he says, "Okay, it's time for some family photos," that she becomes awkward about it, quickly glancing up at me with embarrassment. Personally, it's easier to pretend that I'm a bigger player in their lives than it is to correct the situation, and deep down something warms when I step into the role. I motion for her to join us, and when she shakes her head no, I get out of the water to go get her.

"No Grayson, you'll get me soaking wet," she laughs, holding a hand up to stop me, as I approach her like a giant squid.

"I like you wet," I whisper in her ear, insinuating something else as I enclose my arms around her and half carrying her to the water's edge. In that moment, as we're laughing and posing for the camera, I'm remarkably at ease with her in my arms and Joey at my side. It's a day I'll likely never forget with or without the pictures to remind me.

***

Each time Harper suggests packing up and leaving SeaWorld, Joey pleads and negotiates for one more ride, one more exhibit or one last viewing of the dolphins. Harper gives in to her each time after looking at me for approval. I'm having the time of my life with the two, and with nothing but an empty house waiting for me, I'm more than content walking hand-in-hand with Harper as we follow Joey around.

"We still haven't gone on the Journey to Atlantis water ride, and it's right around the corner," I hint, looking over Harper's shoulder at the map.

"You're not going to let me leave here until I'm completely drenched are you, Knight?" she smirks.

"Yeah, I figure it's the only way I'm going to see those nipples tonight," I whisper in her ear, laughing.

"Shhh, Joey hears every..." We both look up at the same time, scanning the vicinity around us for Joey.

"Joey!" Harper screams, frantically looking around. "JOEY!" she screams again, this time so loud that people stop and stare. I immediately pull out my cell phone and dial the phone number listed on the top of our ticket, keeping my eye on Harper as she takes off in one direction, only to dart back, unable to commit to leaving the area.

"Harper what was she wearing?" I grab her arm and jerk her around trying to break the rising hysteria. "I need you to remember what she's wearing. This is security and they're sending people out to look for her now."

"Um, blue shorts and a yellow checkered top," she gulps, her eyes flooding with tears. "We have to find her—please," she begs me.

"We'll find her Harper. Just calm down. Can you wait right here in case she comes back, and I'll go check out the last few exhibits? I'll be on my cell phone." She nods and I take off in a sprint re-tracking our steps, hollering for Joey every ten seconds or so. Being a runner, I easily cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time and find no sign of her. I return to Harper and shake my head, immediately going in the opposite direction. How someone with such short legs could get so far away is beyond me. I feel my chest tighten when I still see no sign of her. The most horrifying thought occurs to me—that irrational fear that somehow, someone has taken her. After-all, how easy would it be given her overtly friendly nature? Harper would never forgive me if the day ended in a terrible tragedy—I have to find her.

There's only one other route she could have wandered down from where we stopped and once again I retrace my steps back to Harper. She now has a crowd gathered around her and is sobbing hysterically trying to describe Joey to the volunteers willing to help. My cell phone rings just as I'm ready to follow the last path and the woman on the other end confirms she has Joey in the lost children's center.

"They found her," I announce, pulling Harper into my arms, surprised at how relieved I am. "They're taking her to the lost children's center—we'll meet them there."

***

If it weren't for Harper still being so upset, I would definitely find the scene of Joey in the lost children's center, pretending to read a story to two volunteers—more comical. She takes one look at Harper, grins and says, "Uh oh—I'm in trouble now," making the young female volunteer giggle when she tries to hide behind the book, even though Harper is storming in their direction. Joey's not keen on abandoning any story—even if it's her own made up one—just to be showered with emotional kisses followed by emotional lectures. The intensity of feeling demonstrated by Harper mirrors that of a young mother, not a sibling. Joey squirms out of her arms coming to me for a diversion, and I'm caught in the middle of backing Harper with a reinforcing disapproval for wandering away and sparing Joey further reprimand. I pick her up and walk over to a mural covered wall of oceanic animals.

"Let's find the dolphins, Joey," I say. She immediately points to a large pod of bottle-nosed dolphins.

"What's it called when they swim together as a group?" I quiz her from this morning's lesson with the trainers.

"A pod," she proudly remembers.

"Yep, that's right. A group of dolphins is called a pod. Do you see any of the dolphins swimming outside of the pod?" She studies the mural, before she shakes her head no.

"Which one of the animals do you think is most likely to eat a dolphin?" She instantly points to a great white shark.

"Very good. Do you think that if a baby dolphin leaves the pod to swim alone that it'll be easier or harder for the shark to get it?"

"Easier!" she shouts triumphantly, and the park volunteers clap in response.

"So let's pretend that we are all dolphins in the ocean. Are you going to stay with the pod or swim away?"

"I'm a dolphin," she says laughing. "And I'm going to stay with the pod so the shark can't eat me."

"That's right—because you are a very, very smart dolphin, and smart dolphins stay with the pod," I reiterate, setting her down and watching her head over to the bookshelf to find another book. Oddly, I feel compelled to not let her out of my sight now, as if I have a personal responsibility to ensure her safety. I'm so preoccupied with watching her that I don't even realize I have an audience until I stand up and turn around catching a room full of women staring at me, including Harper who has the strangest look on her face. Did I overstep my boundaries? Say something child inappropriate? She could easily blame me for losing Joey in the first place—after all she didn't even want me to join them. It's not until she comes up and slides her arms around my waist that I consider I must have done something right. She presses herself against me for a brief moment of closeness and I relax.

"Can you take us home now?" she murmurs, sounding suddenly very tired.

"Of course," I turn toward the door, my arm still wrapped around her shoulder and holler, "Joey your pod is swimming this way," as we walk away. Joey scrambles to catch up and clutches my hand tightly.

***

"Why are you staring at me?" I say on the way home from SeaWorld. Joey fell sound asleep ten minutes after we got her in the car, and Harper hasn't taken her eyes off me since.

"I'm trying to figure you out," she says softly. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

"I thought you didn't want to know what makes me tick. What made you change your mind?"

"You," she says matter-of-factly.

"What if you uncover something that you don't like or that scares you?"

"What if I uncover something that surprises you?" she says teasingly, ignoring the foreshadowing.

"Here's what I have so far—abandonment by a parent, suffering through foster care, a teenage love interest, high IQ, high achiever, and commitment issues. Is there anything else you want to add for me?" My gut clenches into a ball and I stare straight ahead at the road.

"Sounds to me like you're taking an interest in things above the waist after all, Ellis. You better be careful or you just might find yourself falling in love with me," I taunt, hoping to dissuade her from probing any further.

"I don't fall in love, Grayson," she says on a serious note.

"You—incapable of love? That seems very unlikely given your commitment to Joey," I reply.

"I didn't say that I don't love. I said I don't fall in love—meaning I don't fall to get there." She sees my look of confusion and continues. "Falling insinuates that there's been an unfortunate accident, and it excuses a person from any liability in the matter. People that fall will stay down for a while, but then they always get up—brush themselves off and move on. I choose to walk the path to love—look at all the scenery along the way, look at all the pros and cons, then make a decision about whether someone is worthy enough to occupy a space in my heart. It's a little riskier because when I love—I love deeply, and when I commit—I commit fully."

"What about Joey?" I question, wondering how it works with a sibling. She smiles dreamily.

"Joey was insta-love. There was no falling or choosing. She found a place in my heart the minute I laid eyes on her. Don't get me wrong—it's not all rosy. She drives me crazy most of the time," she laughs, glancing in the back seat, "But I still love her from the depths of my soul." I pull up in front of her apartment and she yawns. Her perspective on love is so unique that it doesn't make me immediately defensive just talking about it. In fact, it's a relief to know she's not the type to ruin a good thing by randomly throwing out amorous phrases in an attempt to guilt a person into sticking around, or even worse to manipulate an implied commitment.

"I'll carry Joey," I say quietly. I follow her into the apartment and to a back bedroom where she turns the sheets back on a twin bed. By the time she's through undressing Joey, I have a check made out for ten-thousand dollars sitting on the counter. She looks down at it, then looks up at me with guilt, and hesitantly hands it back to me.

"I can't accept this—what you did for Joey today was priceless. I can't thank you enough—especially considering what I did to you last week. I can't believe you ever came back," she shakes her head regretfully. "I didn't hurt you too bad did I?"

"Nothing that one of your blowjobs wouldn't take care of," I smile. She glances hesitantly at Joey's room and I quickly clarify, "The next time we're alone." I place the check on the counter and turn to kiss her goodnight. I've never even really liked kissing women until I met her—it was just something I did out of duty until I could move on to the good stuff. Now I don't want to let her go.

"Keep the check—a deal's a deal. Also, I hired an alarm company to come out and install an alarm system with childproof locks on this door. They'll be here tomorrow morning at nine."

***

Wanda Kennedy stares at me sharply over her wire-rimmed glasses, not budging even though I asked her to leave my office fifteen minutes ago.

"Do you know what the problem is with you, Gray? You've become so comfortable fulfilling the sociopath prophecy that you can't visualize anything else for yourself. You have control over creating any reality you want—yet you continue to hold on to the single opinion of an expert professional who you met as a sixteen-year-old. Don't you think it's time to get a second opinion?"

"This has nothing to do with my reality Wanda. I have a practice to run and everyone who works for me needs to be at the top of their game at all times. This is the second mistake Timothy's made on this case and now I have to work out an alternative defense that's going to take hours of my own time."

"His child is sick in the hospital for God's sake!" she hisses through clenched teeth.

"That's not my concern or yours. Businesses don't lock their doors every time an employee has personal challenges, and we are not running a charity service."

"Okay, well why not at least put him on probation so that he can keep his health coverage until they figure out what's going on with his daughter?" she feebly tries to negotiate on his behalf.

"Why don't you pay his Cobra premium for the next three months until he can find a new job?" I respond sarcastically, feeling my jaw tighten as my patience wears thin with her.

"You're doing this because you're scared. The feelings that you have for Harper are scaring you, aren't they Gray?" she leans toward my desk provoking me to admit it.

"Get out or I'll have security throw you out," I respond coldly.

"And your way of handling it is to prove to everyone, including yourself that you are still exempt from having feelings for anyone," she adds, getting up to leave. "Don't even think about threatening me with termination—you need me more than ever now." She doesn't bother closing the door behind her, and I'm met with passing stares from timid office workers. I cuss under my breath. Divulging the SeaWorld experience to her was a huge mistake. It has her fantasizing about all kinds of psychiatric breakthroughs and miraculous awakenings that'll jolt me to my senses. I pick up the picture of us at SeaWorld that Wanda took upon herself to get framed. I'm holding Joey in one arm and have the other wrapped tightly around Harper. Wanda readily pointed out that it's different from any other photo I've taken with a woman—in that I actually do look happy. She also pointed out that the photo captures Harper looking up at me through eyes of love not a dutiful sex partner, not realizing the impact such a comment would have on me.

I stare at the photo for the longest time as my brain tries to sort out the dichotomy of my nature. Up until recently it was very black and white—lack of guilt and empathy made it easy to use whomever I wanted to get whatever I wanted. Criticism by people like Wanda or my sister just made me tighten down harder. But Harper Ellis has opened the door to a divergent side of me—a side that is able to empathize, worry, and even put someone else first. The last person to affect me this way was Jessica Sorenson and now she's gone because of me. A light tap on the door interrupts the memory of her before it has a chance to fully resurface.

"Sir, I'd like to talk to you for a minute, if I may?" Timothy Smith clears his throat and says. I lean back in my chair and motion for him to come in and shut the door.

"I don't blame you for letting me go—I screwed up on the Lester case. I know you don't like to hear excuses but, um...my daughter's dying," he blurts out. He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns toward the window, swallowing hard. "I'm asking a lot but I want you to reconsider letting me keep my job with some time off right now. Travis has agreed to take over the Lester case until I return." For the first time I study him closely. He was hired two years ago as a promising lead attorney, graced with good looks and charisma. He looks like he's aged ten years since then. His shoulders sag with a sort of despair and I can see him fighting hard not to tear up. My thoughts swarm with justifications as to why his personal life shouldn't interfere with the practice, but then an image of Harper standing there with the same request for Joey enters my mind, and I falter. A tiny seed of compassion for his situation seeps into my system and I rethink my decision after all.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

I thought all sex was pretty much created equal until Harper Ellis came along. There's a connection between the two of us that exceeds what normally happens in the bedroom. It's as if our bodies are synchronized to move as one, in complete harmony—regardless of the rhythm, position, or even pace we've settled into. It's a force that produces utopian sexual adventures that are powerfully addicting. I'm convinced that no other woman in the world exists who can fulfill me the way she does.

"You know we only have two more weeks before the contract is satisfied and then you're going to have to make a decision," I murmur in her ear as she lies in my arms, practically purring with contentment.

"A lot can happen in two weeks. It seems futile to worry about that right now," she replies sleepily.

"I want you every single night of the week from now on," I petition.

"You'll wear me out. I'd never be able to keep up," she chuckles, pressing her lips against my neck.

"If I were getting it more than once a week, I wouldn't have to keep you up all night."

"I have Joey to consider."

"There're plenty of rooms in my house to set her up in one," I reply.

She bolts straight up in bed, looking at me as if I'm crazy. "You want us to move in with you?"

"No, not move in—just a secondary residency," I say slowly, watching her expression which changes from disbelief to indignant.

"Hell no, Knight," she blurts out, trying to climb over the top of me to get out of bed.

"Whoa, hold on Harper—you don't need to get upset, it was just a suggestion." I pull her back down and drape a leg over her body, while cupping her face in the palm of my hand. "It was just an offer—that's all," I reassure her, kissing her mouth until she's subdued once again. "Eventually I'm going to stop taking you to expensive hotels and we're going to have to decide on your place or mine. My place just seems the more practical choice." A look of sadness washes over her face and she brushes her hand across my cheek.

"There's no guarantee where either of us will be a month from now, so let's just take it one day at a time—please," she says with desperation. My heart sinks with the rejection. "Besides, what happened to me expanding my sexual experiences to other men? Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" she tests me, calling my bluff, knowing damn well I'd never allow it.

"Sorry Ellis, but I changed my mind about that—I consider you mine now," I say, trying to keep my voice light even though I'm dead serious. "Nobody can give you what I can give you—in or out of the bedroom."

"So you think, Mr. Confidence," she laughs rolling me over on my back. She straddles my hips, sitting up straight and leaning back to give me a full front view. A warm breeze gently blows through the open balcony door, swishing her hair to one side, and I catch a glimpse of a large bruise on her inner arm.

"How did that happen?" I ask, brushing my thumb across it.

"Fell on my bike," she shrugs, taking my hand and placing it over my head, then doing the same with the other. "Shh—hold perfectly still and don't say a word, Mr. Knight," she orders, bringing a finger to her lips. I raise an eyebrow at the sudden change in command, but do as I'm told, thoroughly enjoying the scene while she does all the work. I admire her take charge attitude with a position that most women lack confidence in initiating. She's a natural sex goddess and she doesn't even know it. She owns the experience from start to finish. By the time we both reach our second climax for the night, I'm unintentionally whispering her name over and over again, holding her as close as I possibly can without crushing her.

***

This time I'm the first out of bed and showered before Harper even opens her eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her sleep, something I've never been inclined to do with other sex partners. She could be posing for a portrait the way she's beautifully displayed, partially covered with her flawless ivory skin highlighted against soft green silk sheets. Her wild auburn hair frames the pillow with a few stray tendrils draped across her cheek, and her full lips are pursed in such a way, they beckon to be kissed.

"Good morning—you should have woke me up earlier," she smiles, after catching me staring down at her.

"I was just about to wake you. I need to go into the office early today."

"That's okay, I need to get going—I have an appointment in LA too," she says yawning and stretching.

"Los Angeles? What are you going up there for and how are you going to get there?" I demand even though I should know better by now. She slides out of bed and follows me into the bathroom, perching herself on the sink in front of me as she takes over tying my necktie.

"None of your business and train," she says matter-of-factly, laughing at me when I scowl.

"You know I should be done in the office by six tonight—what do you say I swing by and pick you and Joey up for dinner. Then we can head over to the auto mall and look at new cars for you?" I propose. Although subtle—she fidgets nervously and vehemently shakes her head no. If not for my experience in the courtroom, I may not have thought much of it, but I sure as hell do now.

"What the hell are you not telling me, Harper?" I say, unintentionally raising my voice. She folds her arms across her chest and defiantly sticks her chin out.

"Grayson, I don't have to answer to you or anyone else. You are overstepping your boundaries in this relationship, so stop asking questions."

"Fine, I'll hire a private investigator to follow you," I say only half joking. She explodes with anger, shoving me hard in the chest.

"You do that and I'll never speak to you again," she hisses, storming around the room to gather up her belongings. I can't recall ever yielding to someone else's fiery temper, but watching Harper fume with anger, just makes me sort of horny. Sociopaths aren't supposed to be able to apologize and normally I don't, but Harper has me doing a lot of things that are uncharacteristic for me.

"Okay, you're right. That's infringing on your privacy and I'm sorry," I confess, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "But why not the car? I'll just advance you the next two payments and you won't have to worry about taking the train anymore." It seems like a reasonable solution to me.

"I want to earn my way. I never wanted to be your charity case—the waitress dating the multimillionaire for his money," she says.

"But you are dating me for my money," I remind her.

"No—I'm providing a service for your money," she says slowly. "Just like your maid cleans your house and your landscaper takes care of your yard—I'm taking care of your sexual needs."

I sigh. There's no way I can argue with that without taking her down a dirty, degrading road of defamation and character assassination. "You're doing an amazing job too," I acknowledge. "Let's get going."

***

We pull up to Harper's duplex just as Joey is getting out of the blue Ford Escape, followed by the same middle aged couple who dropped her off last week.

"Thanks—I'll talk to you later," Harper quickly says, getting out and shutting the door. I follow suit and receive an annoyed glance from Harper for doing so. Joey sees me and immediately runs up to me, throwing herself in my arms. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't pleased to receive such an enthusiastic greeting.

"Hi, I'm Grayson Knight—a friend of Harper," I say to the couple after an awkward exchange of glances occurs between the three of them.

"This is Phyllis and Fred Olsen," Harper reluctantly introduces them. Phyllis eyes me suspiciously, as Fred reaches to shake my extended hand. She's slightly overweight with platinum dyed blond hair and thick layers of make-up. The tight leggings she's wearing under a mid-thigh frock are testimony to the fact that she's trying to pass herself off as a lot younger than she really is. Fred is tall and thin with beady eyes and a hooked nose. If he were mirroring an animal in the wild—it would definitely be a bald eagle. Something about the two feels off, but I can't put my finger on what it is.

"So, a friend of Harper's huh. How'd you two meet?" Fred does a lousy job at trying to sound casual.

"Work," I reply.

"Grayson took me to swim with the dolphins," Joey proudly announces, and I catch Harper squirming out of the corner of my eye.

"Joey, why don't you go inside and get a bowl of cereal. I got you Captain Crunch," she says enticingly. I set her down and she races down the sidewalk hollering, "I love Captain Crunch."

"Oh, so she was telling the truth. We just assumed she made it up when we saw that the minimum age requirement was ten," Phyllis quips.

"How'd you get that pushed through, must of cost a pretty..." Fred says rubbing his fingers together, as he licks his bottom lip. I hate the man already, and he's been in my presence for less than five minutes.

"I have some personal friends who work there," I shrug. I've learned to keep my explanations vague when dealing with idiots.

"So you're the reason Harper needed us to take Joey on Sunday nights too?" Phyllis blurts out in an accusing tone. Based on Harper's growing anxiety, the truth is clearly out of the question, so I smoothly interject a lie.

"Yes—Miss Ellis is a consultant for me on a legal case that I'm working on. I needed someone with a background in pychology and she was gracious enough to give up her Sunday nights with Joey to temporarily help me out." I look at Harper and smile. She looks relieved.

"Um, Mr. Knight owns Knight's Legal Team," she quickly clarifies, and I don't miss the obvious shift in Fred's demeanor. It could be fear, reverence, or both, but when he puffs his chest up and tries to engage in intellectual conversation about one of my own high profile cases, I immediately cut him off, turning to Harper to say goodbye.

"Thank you for meeting me for coffee this morning, Harper. I really appreciate the update. It was nice meeting you as well," I say, turning to shake Fred's hand one last time, noticing this time his palm is sweaty. The minute I'm in my car, I send her a text— _Call me!_

***

Wanda's already at the office when I arrive, and immediately praises me for giving Timothy Smith a second chance. She follows me into my office and waits until I set my briefcase down before questioning me about my weekend with Harper.

"I saw this article in the newspaper and thought you might be interested so I clipped it out for you," she says, handing me the paper.

"Not now Wanda. I have a lot to do." I toss the article aside and reach for a case file instead.

"No this isn't necessarily for you—it's for Harper," she says snagging my attention. "It's about a swim guru who claims he can teach anyone to swim and overcome water phobias in one day." I pick it back up and read the article in its entirety, giving it some serious thought, as she silently waits.

"He lives in Los Angeles, but travels the world giving group and private lessons. Do you want me to check his availability?" she pushes when I'm finished reading. I don't answer right away, but when she sees the slow smile spread across my face, she knows.

"Let me do some research and I'll get back to you, Mr. Knight," she says, addressing me formally as she often does when she considers the conversation professionally pertinent versus personal.

For the next four hours I immerse myself into work, periodically looking down at my cell phone to see if I missed a text or call from Harper, becoming increasingly worried when there's none. Finally, between meetings I place a call to her.

"Hi," she answers on the third ring.

"Who are they and why are you sending Joey to stay with people you don't like or trust," I say bluntly. There's a long pause of silence before she responds.

"It's complicated. Joey and I are on the train—I can't really talk right now. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?" I glance at the calendar on my computer and see that I'm jam packed with meetings, but of course I tell her yes—there's no way I'm putting off getting to the bottom of this if she's ready to talk.

"Grayson?"

"Yeah Harper?"

"Thank you for being so discreet this morning."

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow." No sooner do I hang up when Wanda comes prancing in to my office.

"I've got him booked for Sunday morning," she proudly announces, waving the article in the air. "Now how are we going to get Harper to agree?" she asks, drumming her fingers on the edge of my desk as she conveniently includes herself in the plan. "She has Joey Sunday mornings right?" she asks. I confirm with a nod of my head.

"I doubt either of them will agree to modify their daytime plans so we'll need to include Joey somehow," I sigh, wondering how I might occupy a six-year-old girl for the day.

"I'm free on Sunday and I have a ton of baking to do for the Veteran's fundraiser. I could use a little helper—mind if I use your kitchen?" she hints. We stare long and hard at each other before I acknowledge the plan.

"That'll work. I know Joey likes to bake." I find it ironic that with multimillion dollar lawsuits pending for my firm, Wanda and I are spending the morning hashing out ideas on how to get Harper and Joey to my house on Sunday for a swim lesson.

***

I don't leave the office until almost seven, working straight through lunch to reassign Timothy's case load to the rest of the team. Luckily one of Travis Oliver's biggest cases settled without going to trial, freeing him up to take on the Lester case which I was not looking forward to representing. I tend to turf any case involving molestation charges if I can help it.

I try calling Harper one last time, after the two previous calls went unanswered, and when this one goes to voicemail too, I swing the car around and head in the direction of her duplex.

"Are you checking up on me, Knight?" she asks the minute she opens the door and sees me. She's not as annoyed as I expected her to be, possibly even looking pleased to see me.

"If you'd answer my calls I wouldn't have to," I reply in a low voice. She glances over her shoulder at Joey who's glued to a Disney program, then surprises me when she slips her arms around my neck and pulls me close, kissing me more with desperation than passion.

"I'm glad you came over—I wish you could stay," she says breathlessly. "Just hold me for a minute." She stretches her body against mine and I feel her tremble—not in a turned on way, but in a fearful way.

"Harper, is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. It just feels good to have you hold me—that's all." We stand there silently embracing until Joey notices and says, "Harper is he your boyfriend?"

"I'll let you explain that one," I murmur, kissing her one last time in front of Joey, making it difficult for her to tell Joey a lie.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

In a downtown San Diego café where most of the locals go, I sit across from Harper waiting for the waiter to leave so she can tell me about Phyllis and Fred Olsen. She fiddles with her braid that hangs loosely over one shoulder, looking up at me with troubled hazel eyes.

"Up until recently Joey stayed with me full time. Mica would watch her in the evenings while I was working at the Trio Pub. Phyllis is my dad's second cousin and he ran in to her and Fred somewhere up north. She's is a social worker for the county and apparently my dad thought it would be a good idea to ask her to check in on Joey and me. At first, I thought she was just trying to be helpful, so I confided in her when I really shouldn't have. When they offered to take Joey a few nights during the week, I was relieved to have the help. They live in a safe neighborhood where there are other kids to play with, so I thought it would be a much healthier environment for Joey to be around. Well...I eventually found out that Phyllis and Fred have other motives for wanting Joey. Because she has Down syndrome, she qualifies for SSI disability income, and somehow Phyllis worked the system to show that they have temporary custody of Joey." I suppress the rising anger inside of me and wait for her to continue. She sighs and tilts her head to the side. "They've threatened to fight for full custody if I challenge them in any way, so I just keep my mouth shut." Aside from the obvious fraud which I could easily rectify in the courtroom, the main question is whether or not Joey is happy about it.

"Does Joey like staying with them?" I ask, taking a bite of sandwich. She shrugs her shoulders.

"It's hard to tell with Joey because she's mostly happy. I know she cries and begs to stay with me when they pick her up on Tuesday mornings, but they say it's only because there's no structure at my house." She stares at her salad and pushes a few vegetables around with her fork. "I'd planned on getting through a master's degree program before battling it out in court. I figure I'll have a much better chance convincing a judge that I'm capable of taking care of her, if I'm practicing as a licensed counselor. After all we both know what most people think of waitresses—ditzy college drop-outs?" she says, raising an eyebrow as she facetiously throws my words back at me.

"You know, I can easily take care of this for you Harper. All you have to do is say the word and I can crush them so that they never bother you and Joey again, and you'll have full legal custody of her."

"I think that when they found out that you were an attorney, they were a little scared," she admits with a giggle, before becoming serious again. "You're not here to rescue me, Gray," she says with determination. "Besides maybe the Olsen's really are what's best for Joey. I mean if something happens to me, she could end up in foster care and in far worse hands," she adds. The logical side of me says that it's perfectly reasonable for her to worry about Joey's future, but its odd hearing a twenty-five year old make plans based on the threat of an early demise. She must read something in my expression, because she quickly brings up skydiving as an example of how she might meet an untimely death.

"By the way, speaking of the Olsen's and Joey—they can't watch her this Sunday. We're going to have to postpone encounter number five until the following week."

"Actually, I'm glad you brought it up. I have a surprise for you and Joey on Sunday. I'll be picking you both up at eight a.m., and dropping you off when we're finished," I reply. Naturally she balks, throwing up a protective veil when it comes to including Joey.

"Come on, Harper—the cat is already out of the bag with Joey. Let's just have a good time and stop worrying so much. What else are you going to do with her besides sit around that apartment all day?" She takes a deep breath and studies me, finally nodding her head.

"Where are you taking us?"

"I'm not telling you, it's a surprise." She immediately perks up, clapping her hands together with delight.

"How about a hint? Does it involve speed?" I shake my head and laugh. "Does it involve animals?"

"Harper, I'm not telling. You're going to have to wait and see."

"Does it involve the color blue?" she laughs, continuing her questioning all the way to the car, until I stop her with a kiss. "Will I get P.I. at the end of the day?" she whispers, looking expectantly into my eyes.

"We'll have to see how we can work that in around Joey. Is she a sound sleeper?" I ask, glad she brought the subject up.

"If we wear her out enough during the day," she replies. I have no experience in how to wear out a small child, so I make a mental note to consult with Wanda.

***

By Thursday night, I'm so horny that going to bed without Harper is out of the question. Being limited to a weekly encounter no longer works—it's just a teaser, satisfying me for about a day, then I'm craving her more than ever. She's like a drug to me—the more I take of her, the more I want.

I stop by the Trio Pub at closing time just as Harper is wheeling her bike out the door, followed by a dude with a somewhat familiar face. She looks surprised, then happy to see me—the guy with her not so much. I don't like the situation I'm reading at all, and it becomes evident to the two of them when I speak.

"Where you going?" I ask in a tight voice absent of sociability. Harper immediately stiffens in defense.

"This is Drake, he was going to give me a ride home because my bike has a flat tire," she says, pointing to her rear tire.

"Why didn't you call me?" I ask. Before she answers, I turn to Drake and release him from the favor, "I'll take Miss Ellis home."

"You know, if she wanted a ride home from you she would've asked you instead of me," he says with a slow southern drawl that instantly triggers the memory of where I've seen him before. My chest tightens with anger.

"You don't recognize me do you?" I smirk, watching him squint in the dark. "I'm the attorney who cleared you of rape charges about five years ago," I say more for Harper's benefit than his.

"Oh yeah, except you didn't actually clear me. I spent six months in the slammer anyway," he sneers.

"As opposed to the twenty years you had coming you ungrateful little bastard," I growl.

"Grayson let's go—I'm really tired," Harper says, cautiously backing her bike toward my truck. About the time I'm hoping Drake will be stupid enough to take a swing at me—he does, and I unleash a violent assault using martial art skills I haven't used in years. Everything about a fight appeals to me—the adrenaline, the blood, the physical action, and even the sound of a rival moaning in pain. I used to fight for entertainment, but over the years learned to control the aggression with words instead. Now seeing Drake writhing in pain on the sidewalk makes me consider taking up cage fighting again—the legal and professional combat sport that kept me out of jail in my early twenties. He finally stumbles to his feet and I smile.

"Grayson, I'm leaving," Harper hollers, walking away. Lucky for him, I'd rather spend my time with her.

"I catch you anywhere near this pub again, and I'll stalk you until you wished you were sitting in a jail cell somewhere," I threaten, as I turn to leave. She's already struggling to load her bike in the back of my truck, and after a few minutes of trying to lift it over her head, gives up, and looks to me for help. "I just don't feel good," she mumbles, looking slightly embarrassed, when I ask her if everything's okay. Apparently she's much more sensitive to altercations than I would've expected. Even in the dim light of the car, she appears pale.

"The information disclosed back there regarding Drake's guilt was client confidential. I brought it up purely for the benefit of teaching you a lesson about accepting rides from strangers. I'd appreciate it if you keep it between the two of us," I say, and she nods, looking down at her hands.

"Why'd you defend him if you knew he was guilty of such a heinous crime?" she quietly asks.

"His wealthy father hired me to," I reply flatly, essentially admitting to the murky side of law. "Don't change the subject—you should know how dangerous and foolish it is to accept a ride from just anybody. I want you to promise me you'll never do it again," I say realizing how possessive I sound.

"And I want you to promise me that you'll stop defending scumbags like him when you know he's a risk to every woman out there," she responds haughtily.

"Harper, that's my damn job—don't you dare criticize me!" I bark, making her shrink back in her seat.

"Then stop lecturing me," she softly says, looking out the window. I bite my tongue not to argue the fact that I have an ethical obligation to ensure that I achieve the best possible outcome for every single one of my clients, regardless of my suspicions of their guilt. Neither of us says another word until we get to her apartment.

"You can set my bike against that wall," she motions once we're inside. I have no idea what her mood is. I watch as she turns and slowly walks toward her bedroom her hand is on the knob of her door before she commands, "Follow me." She slips her shirt over her head and tosses it on the floor, then reaches for the button on her jeans. I do the same.

"God I want you," she whispers longingly, moving her naked body right into my waiting arms with a fervency that matches mine. She doesn't ask for foreplay, and I don't offer. The minute I slip inside her, we both sigh with relief, and a sort of calm washes over me. She fits me like a tight glove and if I were any less experienced in control I'd prematurely ejaculate the minute I make the first move. I'm not a fan of pillow talk, but when she digs her fingernails into my back and whispers, "Harder," I'm thrilled to comply.

***

"Are you okay?" I softly inquire when my hand brushes across her cheek, picking up the moisture of a rogue tear. I hear her swallow hard in the darkness before answering yes. My first night of unplanned and unpaid sex with her was raw and reckless, and not limited to customary passionate intercourse. For two hours we transitioned between all three types of sex—self-controlled P.I., fucking hard, to eventually making love—something I've never done with any other woman. The experience has left me mystified and unsettled, and I have no idea what it's done to her.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you—I got a little carried away," I finally admit.

"It's okay—I was wondering what you meant by being fucked so hard that it'd be hard to walk. I guess I can cross that off my bucket list—no need to set me up with your colleague," she taunts. We both fall silent, and I'm hopeful she'll let the rest of the experience go, but she doesn't. "I guess I can also cross making love off my bucket list. I assumed I'd have to go elsewhere for that experience, but for someone who doesn't make love to women, you were great," she says in a day-dreamy voice. I stiffen, and roll away from her. I hate the L-word, and the last thing I want is for her to believe that I have more to offer than what I'm already giving.

"I already told you Harper—I don't make love to women," I reply bluntly, trying to minimize the experience in her mind.

"Then what would you call what just happened tonight?" she persists, putting me on the spot, inciting a level of anger that makes the situation much easier to handle.

"Making love insinuates that there's a deep committed love connection between two people—please tell me that's not how you're interpreting this, Harper?" I beseech in a dramatic condescending voice, using a technique that I typically reserve for discrediting and confusing witnesses. It works with Harper. In the dim lit room, I see her drop her head.

"Not anymore," she quietly responds. She clears her throat and mumbles something about using the bathroom, then quickly disappears. When she returns, I'm already dressed and putting my shoes on.

"I have to be at the office early and don't want to wake you," I hastily explain. "I'll see you in a few days okay?" Leaving in the middle of the night after a night of sex is one of the worst possible insults for a woman but it doesn't stop me from doing it to Harper. She smiles and nods, quickly erasing the brief look of hurt as she watches me go, making no attempt to stop me. Once in my truck, I spend several minutes trying to regulate my breathing to ease the heaviness in my chest.

***

"Ah yes—the act of making love. It's a game changer in so many ways," Toby says, taking a sip of beer. "Helen was my first and even after all these years, you'd think we'd have it down to where it happens more often than it does. Don't get me wrong, ninety percent P.I. is still incredibly satisfying," he admits, using the same term that I trained him in years earlier. "But there's something magical about hitting that zone with a woman where you've abandoned all barricades surrounding your heart and brain, allowing you to empty every ounce of love into the deed. It's a tribute to the deeper commitment and trust between two people." He holds his beer up as if to congratulate me on achieving a sacred level of manhood.

"You realize that you just used two words that make me want to barf—love and commitment," I reply feeling genuinely queasy. He laughs.

"Come on, Gray—you have feelings for the girl. The rest of us can see it, why can't you?"

"You're wrong, Toby. That's my whole point. I'm fond of Harper Ellis and the sex is dynamite, but that's all there is to it," I say, narrowing my eyes at him with pure annoyance, regretting that I brought the subject up. He smooths out his mustache, eyeing me skeptically, then slams a large hand on my arm when I get up to leave, causing me to sink back down in my chair.

"I'm going to tell you something Grayson whether you like it or not. We've been in the Trio Pub when you're not around and I've been watching Ellis. There's something very unique and special about her—she's not just any girl, and she's not lacking for male suitors by any means. She's like a bitch in heat, the way men clamor for her attention, and you're going to screw this up and drive her straight into the arms of one of them if you don't knock this shit off," he says, pointing a threatening finger at me. "And when that happens, you're going to feel like you've been hit by a Mack Truck. You'll spend the better part of your life living in regret. It's time to grow up and act like a big boy, Gray." He finishes off his beer and slaps a twenty on the table, leaving me to wrestle with the demons that prevent me from heeding his advice.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After walking out Thursday night, I half expect to get a polite cancellation to Sunday's activities, but thankfully I don't. I thought about calling her several times in the past few days, but then found a hundred reasons not to. I smile to myself when I knock on the door and hear Joey struggling to get it open, confused by the newly installed child proof locks. Harper comes to her aid, gently reminding her that only adults can open the door to visitors now.

"Good morning," she says, greeting me softly in a reserved manner as we stare awkwardly at each other for a few minutes. I can read it in her eyes that there's some residual feelings surrounding our last encounter.

"Hi Grayson," Joey says in a loud boisterous voice, grinning widely at me, and disrupting the tension between Harper and me. Where Harper holds back, she delivers a convincing 'glad to see you' greeting as she hugs me tightly around the waist. I automatically pick her up, surprising myself with how easy I've adapted to having her around.

"Where are you taking us? Are there going to be animals? Are there going to be other kids?" she begins the questioning and I laugh at how much she sounds like Harper. Harper sends her to find a book to bring along, and she races to the back bedroom more than ready to comply.

"I'm sorry about Thursday night," I say when she's out of hearing range. I figure the sooner we clear the air, the better.

"I'm the one who should apologize. It was a huge mistake straying from the contract—I have no idea what got in to me," she says shamefully covering her hand with her eyes. "I promise to be more professional in the future so I don't send you running away." My heart lurches in my chest and for the first time in two days, I regret not staying through the night. It's backfiring on me in a big way.

"Harper please don't say that. Thursday was amazing." I carefully approach her and put my arms around her, feeling her instantly tense up. "I promise you that I'll never leave like that ever again." She looks at me with surprise.

"This isn't about you leaving, Grayson. I'm glad you left, it gave me time to come to my senses, and get a handle on my feelings," she says, shaking her head in relief.

Joey comes bounding out of the bedroom, with not just one book but a stack full, causing Harper's attention to be diverted in convincing her to only bring three. It isn't until we're on the road and Joey is happily entertained watching a Disney movie that I ask her to clarify what feelings she had that made her so nervous.

"Up until that moment, all of the pleasure has always been centered around the area below the waist, but on Thursday, it was as if that pleasure or warmth spread to my heart and brain, and I felt whole afterwards," she says thoughtfully, then quickly reassures me, "I know it's stupid—let's just forget about it, and stick to straight P.I. so neither of us have freak out moments." I look at her and smile. She has a way of expressing herself authentically. I like the idea of giving her a holistic sexual experience—I just need to figure out another route to get her there that doesn't include making love.

***

"You're taking us to a bed and breakfast inn?" Harper asks, as I pull into my circular driveway at the front of my house. I can see where she might mistake the secluded black and white Colonial for commercial property. Located forty miles north of San Diego, it sits on two acres with partial ocean views, surrounded by green pastures. I fell in love with the land long before I did the house.

"No, this is my house," I reply, watching her face give way to concern.

"What are we doing here? Did you forget something?" she asks hesitantly as I take her hand and follow Joey up to the front door.

"No, this is where the surprise is," I reply, gripping her hand tighter when she slows her pace to an almost halt. "Trust me, Harper," I murmur, dragging her through the front door, after Joey.

"Hi kids," Wanda hollers bustling from the kitchen to greet us. She immediately goes to Harper and gives her a warm embrace, before turning to Joey.

"You must be Joey?" she says, kneeling down to give her a hug which works for Joey who happens to share a similar level of comfort in displaying affection to strangers.

"Are you my grandma?" Joey asks, causing Harper to scowl at her. I can tell that Wanda's delighted to see that the differences in their skin color is irrelevant to Joey's understanding of relationships.

"We'll see—if you decide you'd like me to be your grandma, then I'll be you're grandma, but for now you can just call me Wanda. I'm a friend of Grayson and Harper, and I heard you like to bake. I was wondering if you would be my little helper in the kitchen today," she says, taking her by the hand and leading her into the kitchen. Wanda showed up at my house at seven a.m. to prep everything, bringing mixing bowls, baking sheets, and sacks of groceries with her. She's wearing a chef's apron over her clothes and pulls a matching child's size one out for Joey, solidifying their partnership for the day.

"We're spending the day baking?" Harper asks, stifling a giggle, as she looks at me with disbelief.

"Not you." I pull her away from the kitchen and guide her through the great room out a pair of sliding glass doors to a covered patio that overlooks an expansive yard with an Olympic size pool. Steven Browning, the former competitive swimmer, now world renowned swim guru, is already in the water doing stretches. Harper sees him and stops short ten feet from the pool's edge.

"Grayson, what are we doing?" she asks and I can hear the fear in her voice.

"I want you to just keep an open mind Harper—he's a special kind of swim instructor who helps people with water phobias."

"Oh God I can't. Please don't Grayson..." she backs up into me, and I wrap my arms around her shoulders, preventing her from fleeing into the house. We inch forward a few more steps.

"He has a ninety percent success rate in a one-day private lesson. Today's the day, Harper. Remember what you told us the first day you met me? That you'd give anything to be able to splash in the ocean or swim in a pool? Well now you're going to make that happen," I softly encourage. She begins to hyperventilate, and her body trembles as she struggles to decide.

"What if I can't do it?" she eventually asks, turning to me and burying her head against my chest.

"What if you can do it, Harper? It'll change so many things for you—open up so many new experiences." I allow her to ponder the possibilities, and smile when she meekly says, "I didn't bring a bathing suit," in a hoarse whisper.

***

"I haven't put a bathing suit on in years. Can't I just wear bra and panties?" she questions looking down at the conservative one-piece I bought for her.

"No," I say firmly. "We don't want Mr. Browning distracted by things he shouldn't be looking at.

"How long is he here for?"

"All day—as long as it takes. You'll get two breaks to eat."

"Will you be in the water with us?" she asks surprising me with the level of hopefulness in her voice.

"Nope—he prefers no spectators. I will be right in the house though, and if you need anything I'll be here in a flash. You can do this, Ellis—I know you can." She finishes braiding her hair, and I drape my terry cotton robe over her shoulders, watching her body disappear beneath it. Wanda nods with approval when we parade past her and Joey in the kitchen.

"Good luck, Harper," she says. "Don't worry about Joey. We're going to have a great day together."

"Thanks," she murmurs. You'd think she's getting ready to walk the plank, by the solemn look on her face.

Mr. Browning is sitting on the edge of the pool when I bring Harper to him. He pats the concrete next to him and she obediently sits down.

"Mr. Knight I'll call you if I need you," he politely excuses me. With Wanda effectively occupying Joey in the kitchen, I go upstairs to my office to get some work done. There's a large balcony that adjoins my office and bedroom, looking directly out over the pool. It's the perfect spot to spy on the two below, and I get very little work done as I pace nervously back and forth, waiting for the moment that he gets her into the water. He pre-warned me that learning the mediation techniques along with psychological counseling could take up a big chunk of time, but I wasn't anticipating three hours. I hold my breath when he finally gets her to take the last step into waist high water.

***

I try to act nonchalant when Harper and Steven come in to the house for a lunch break, several hours after being in the pool. I can see by her wet hair that she's at least gone under water, but I didn't witness it from upstairs. She corners me in the kitchen for an affectionate spontaneous hug, the first indicator that she's appreciative of the gift. Her eyes dance with excitement as she tells us about the lesson, and Steven confirms that the second part of the day will be spent learning a basic swim stroke. So far, I'm satisfied with the results. If the second part of the day goes as well as the first then she'll be well on her way to overcoming her fear of the water.

"She's going to need to be in the pool with someone every single day this week, to keep up the progress," Steven says, looking to me to make sure it happens. "Repeat exposure is the key to success in conquering the fear," he then adds.

"I'm sure Miss Ellis and I can work something out," I reply, winking at her. She'll have no choice but to stay the night with me this week, and I'm already anticipating the fringe benefits that'll go along with it.

"Alright, time to get back to work, Harper. Are you ready?" he asks as soon as she takes her last bite of sandwich. Wanda and I watch from the great room as she follows him into the water and he begins his afternoon instruction by having her put her face in the water. If it weren't for Joey, I'd standby to watch the rest of their lesson, but we promised to take her to the beach after lunch. Harper hinted that wearing Joey out offered the best guarantee of her sleeping through the night, so with Wanda's help we pack up and head out.

***

Wanda and I sit on the beach watching Joey wrestle to keep a kite in the air after dive bomb crashing it three times in a row. She's so fascinated with the thing that she forgets to watch where she's going and walks right over someone's picnic site.

"You gotta watch your kid," the guy grumbles, angrily shaking sand off of his blanket. The reference to her being mine doesn't aggravate me as much as I assumed it would. There's an innocence and jubilance about her character that makes it desirable to advocate on her behalf. I gently steer her away to an open area, and Wanda follows with our own picnic belongings.

"There's a noticeable change in you when you're around these two," Wanda quietly points out, when we're seated again. "Their positive energy has a radiating effect on you."

"You know you're talking in a completely foreign language to me," I tease, not acknowledging that I understand the meaning behind her alternative perspective on relationships.

"Just admit that you have strong feelings for each other?" she asserts impatiently.

"I can't speak for Harper. Sometimes I think she does, and other times her thoughts are a complete mystery to me," I respond neutrally. "As for me—my feelings for her are strong at the moment, but you and I both know that I could easily become indifferent and bored with the two of them."

"Not this time, Grayson. I have a gut feeling that you're the one who's going to end up with a broken heart if you're not careful," she warns, getting up to help Joey untangle her kite line. I can't say that her threat makes me nervous—it's an intriguing notion to consider being on the other end of a heartbreak, and it's hard for me to imagine feeling anything so intense. Perhaps experiencing a good old-fashioned heartbreak will open my heart to feel other things—who knows.

"It's almost five o'clock. We should head back," Wanda says, handing off a very sleepy Joey, who can barely walk in the sand. She falls asleep on the ten minute car ride home despite the two of us doing our best to try and keep her awake with promises of more surprises.

***

Harper's skin is sunburned from the prolonged exposure in the pool. She's still practicing when Wanda and I come out to check on them.

"Alright Harper, let's show them what you can do," Steven says, hoisting himself out of the water to sit on the edge of the pool, giving her free clearance to demonstrate.

"Okay but don't laugh—it's far from pretty," she says. I assure her I won't and she slowly lowers her head in the water, kicking off from the side of the pool to execute an elementary breaststroke slash doggy paddle across to the other side. When she reaches the wall, she immediately looks to see my reaction.

"Excellent Harper," Steven says as Wanda claps vigorously. As for me, I just smile broadly as we lock eyes, and when she slowly climbs out of the pool, approaching me dripping wet, I hold my hand up in warning.

"You'll regret it," I laugh out loud when she flings herself in my arms anyway, wrapping her legs around my waist, ensuring she gets me as wet as possible.

"Big mistake, Ellis," I say, reaching in my pocket, grabbing my keys and cell phone and tossing them on the table.

"Oh God, you're really going to jump in with me," she panics trying to squirm from my arms. "Not the deep end, I'm not ready."

"Plug your nose, and don't let go of me. I'll keep you safe no matter what," I softly reassure her. The last thing I hear her say is, "I believe you, Knight," before I launch us into the pool.

"Hey no horse play. You don't want to trigger an event that's going to make her backslide," Steven hollers disapprovingly when I come up with Harper clinging to me for dear life. She coughs and sputters but manages to laugh anyway, reassuring him and me that I didn't undo any of her progress.

"Do you know what a tremendous achievement you made today?" I say, backing her against the side of the pool, then pinning her there with an arm on either side. She squeezes her legs around my waist until my pelvis grinds tightly against hers generating the beginnings of a hard-on that'll go unused.

"I've dreamt of doing this my whole life. I don't know how I'm ever going to pay you back."

"You will pay me back every time I see you jump in a pool, or splash in ocean waves, or snorkel over a coral reef," I shrug, watching her blink back tears. It's a statement that signifies my plans for being around for quite a long time.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Harper emerges after a shower wearing the most sexy, unsexy flannel wear I've seen on a woman. Anyone else trying to pull the look off would have me more interested in watching the evening news, but she has me fighting an urge to slide my hand beneath the baggy sweatshirt like a naughty little school boy investigating second base. Wanda and Steven left after dinner but Joey's still not showing any signs that she's tired enough to go to sleep. I bought her a tricycle and she's perfectly appeased riding it around the front circular driveway, as we observe from the front steps.

"I can't stay here the whole week, Grayson," she quietly says.

"I'm not giving you a choice. You need to be in that pool everyday if not twice. I'll pick you up from work at night and bring you back home the following day on my way to work," I respond as if it's settled.

"You know, you're like a rip current pulling me away from the safety of the shore and into the ocean. The harder I try to swim against you, the more you exhaust me," she replies teasingly, although with an undertone of defeat.

"Everyone knows that you don't try to swim against a rip current or you'll risk drowning, so why not just relax and ride the current," I advise, failing to give her any kind of reassurance. "By the way, what time does she usually go to bed?" I ask changing the subject, as Joey pedals past us.

"At nine o'clock she'll start rubbing her eyes, and fifteen to twenty minutes after that she'll be sound asleep," Harper yawns, making me question if she's talking about Joey or herself. Thirty minutes later at five after nine, Joey ditches the trike, and makes a beeline for Harper, rubbing her eyes. I chuckle softly as I follow them into the house and show them the way to the guest room.

"I'll be out in a little while," Harper says, tentatively running her hand across my chest as I stand in the doorway. I watch her struggle to get Joey to brush her teeth and comb her hair, and figure it'll be twice as long as she predicted before Joey actually does fall asleep. Rather than hover, I retreat to my bedroom and after catching up on a constant stream of emails, I take a long hot shower—expecting Harper to be waiting in my bed when I'm done. The disappointment I feel when she's not, is enough to prompt me to go check on things, and when I find the two of them sound asleep in the guestroom, I can't bring myself to wake her up. For the longest time, I stand there staring, wondering why having them here brings me such a sense of contentment—even though I'm clearly going without sex tonight. Could I get used to a house full of noise, activity and chaos? At the moment it feels incredibly right.

***

My morning wake-up call comes in the sweetest form of a light hand gently stroking me to full sexual arousal, and I open my eyes to find Harper lying naked next to me.

"We have ten minutes or less. How are you at quickies? " she asks in a hushed whisper, smiling coyly at me.

"If you keep that up, it could be over in two," I reply, rolling her on her back, and restraining her hands over her head as I take my turn fondling her until she begs me to penetrate her. I could drag this scene out indefinitely watching her squirm beneath my touch, arching her body against mine, but I believe her when she says we're in a time crunch because of Joey. When I let go of her hands, she eagerly maneuvers into position, and a few minutes later we lay limp in each other's arms. Not a bad payoff for ten minutes of my time.

"Thank you for that," I say appreciatively, thinking it's a perfect way to start a Monday morning. We get dressed just in time before Joey wander's in rubbing her eyes, and asking for breakfast.

"I want to go swimming too," she whines when we set her up to eat outside near the pool to watch us. We negotiate for a later time, and she happily plays along to be on the lookout for sharks, even going as far as to stand on a chair with pretend binoculars, simulating a lifeguard on patrol. Steven Browning left us specific exercises to follow and we go through them together, until she's successfully dunked her head underwater and is ready to practice her swim stroke. An hour later, she's still swimming laps and I'm the one to interrupt her focus with a reminder that I have to go to work.

***

One of Wanda's greatest assets is her ability to organize and maintain not only my professional calendar, but often times my personal schedule as well. After years of gaining my trust, she now has complete control over who and what gets booked for an appointment, giving me the most efficient work flow possible.

"Wanda, remind me again who Dr. Eli Cisco is?" I ask, looking at my schedule trying to recall if we hired him as an expert witness or if he's a new client. "Did we hire him for the Lester case?" I drum my fingers on the desk trying to recall. There's silence on the other end of the line and I know something's amiss.

"No sir. He's a psychiatrist and it's a personal appointment that I booked for you," she confesses.

"Get in here now!" I bark, slamming the phone down. Seconds later, she steps into my office, quietly closing the door behind her.

"What in the hell are you thinking?" I seethe, incensed by the audacity of her actions.

"You owe me and I'm collecting on the debt," she calmly advises.

"I owe you for what?"

"Dolphin encounter and Steven Browning, both of which took a considerable amount of my own personal time to organize and arrange. Not to mention, I gave up all of yesterday to help you with Joey—cooking, cleaning, baking—you name it. All I'm asking in return is that you give up one hour of your time to meet with Eli. He's excellent and I think he can help you."

"Cancel the appointment and write yourself a bonus check, then we'll call it even," I order. She folds her arms across her chest letting me know she has no intention of following my orders.

"If you don't keep this appointment, I'm going to tell Harper about your little secret," she quietly announces.

"You wouldn't dare?" I inhale a deep breath and look for signs that she's bluffing. The look of anguish in her eyes lets me know that she's not.

"You're going to try and blackmail me?" I can't decide if I should be laughing or firing her. She's gone completely off her rocker, and I have half a mind to keep the booked appointment with Dr. Cisco to have a psychiatric evaluation of her, not me.

"I love you and I'm tired of standing by and watching you sabotage your life. What you have with Harper is special and it only comes along once in a while. Just keep the appointment Gray—if not for you then do it for me," she pleads. She knows damn well that I don't do things for people unless I gain something in return, and she's gambling that Harper is big enough bait to ensure I give in. If she makes good on her threat and tells her what I am, I could lose the one thing that I'm not ready to give up.

***

Dr. Eli Cisco is a one man show in his downtown, two-room office suite. He's a tall, slender, middle-aged man whose long gray ponytail and ear piercings give him the persona of youth and rebellion. He greets me with a casual palm up handshake suggesting a passive, accommodating character, then leads me to his session room. Unlike what I remember of Dr. Shaw's modern, contemporary high rise office, with a wall dedicated solely to showcase her framed accolades—his is simply decorated with photographs of nature, several that include himself engaging in outdoor activities. Dressed in loose, cotton twill pants, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt that's unbuttoned low enough that his gray chest hairs poke out, he doesn't match my idea of a doctor of anything. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he offered up some weed as part of the therapy session.

"I'm glad you could make it, Mr. Knight," he says in a low soothing voice.

"I'm convinced that I'm wasting my time being here, so I'll give you the next forty five minutes to prove me wrong," I snap, taking my chagrin for being here out on him.

"Of course—have a seat if you like," he smiles. I look at my two options—a tattered leather coach or an upholstered wingback chair—one clearly meant for the patient, and the other clearly meant for the shrink. I choose the latter, leaving him the sofa, just to mess with him a bit.

"So what can I help you discover about yourself today?" he begins the session with a typical open-ended question.

"Well, my office manager, Wanda, thinks that you can help me with my sociopathic antisocial personality disorder—is that something you have experience in dealing with?" I chuckle, suddenly amused by the sound of saying it out loud. He laughs with me and shakes his head no.

"I'm not like most therapists in that I typically don't assign labels such as sociopath, manic depressive, or schizophrenia to patients. They are often misdiagnoses that lock patients into certain belief patterns. I practice under the assumption that thoughts are creative so it makes the most sense to focus consciously on behaviors and ideas that would correct whatever deficit you're experiencing."

"How do you get reimbursed for treatment if you don't provide a mental illness diagnosis?" I challenge, preferring to keep the conversation centered on something else.

"I don't bill insurance companies—this is a fee-for-service business," he replies, looking surprised that I didn't know.

"Are you a climber?" I refer to a picture on his wall of a man lead climbing the face of a rock.

"Used to—not any more since losing my climbing buddy."

"I guess he probably died doing what he loved," I say, assuming so many things.

"Actually she—my wife—died doing what she hated which was working for corporate America," he graciously corrects me. There's a moment of silence which seems to be more awkward for me than him. "Mr. Knight, I typically don't start by talking to clients about quantum physics, but I can see that you're the type of person who appreciates getting straight to the point.

"I've already read about it," I hold up a hand stopping him. "Wanda has been supplying me with articles on the subject for the past few years," I explain.

"Good, then we'll skip right to the four main branches of energy—financial, physical, intrapersonal, and emotional or spiritual. Think of them as columns of rapid vibrating particles that run from each person's brain to a universal pool of unlimited energy. At any given time, our thoughts are focused on something that falls into one or more of these categories. Why don't you pick one and describe for me your thoughts and attitudes," he suggests.

_Perfect—before you know it, he'll drag out the color crayons and ask me to scribble my feelings on a piece of paper,_ I think to myself, ready to bolt from the room if he does. "Financial," I reluctantly play along, choosing the easiest thing to talk about. "Money comes easy to me. Everything I touch seems to turn to gold, whether I need it to or not—simple investments or stocks will unexpectedly do very well or a jury will award a higher verdict than anticipated. I don't worry about money the way most people do. I just know that I'm meant to be wealthy and I am," I divulge at the risk of sounding like a braggart. He just nods and says, "Very good. You just gave a perfect example of someone utilizing the Universal Law of Expectation," he beams. I look at him and laugh.

"The Universal Law of Expectation simply says that whatever a person confidently expects in life, it will almost always manifest itself," he shrugs. "Tell me about your physical health.

"My physical health is great. I'm strong and in great shape. My body performs exactly how I want it to in most circumstances. Exercise and being active is a way of life for me. I'm hardly ever sick."

"Okay, now tell me about your personal relationships." I take a deep breath. This is where it gets interesting. It's not often that I get to freely express my thoughts and I look forward to seeing Eli's reaction.

"For the most part I use women for sex, and I use people in general to get whatever I need or want. There're only a few people that I feel even a slight connection and loyalty to—the thoughts and feelings of everyone else doesn't really matter to me. Instead of feeling shame or guilt when someone is hurt by my actions, I feel annoyed and inconvenienced," I reply bluntly.

"And the exceptions to that...?" he asks, not even so much as raising an eyebrow at my confession.

"There are a handful of people that have managed to tap in to some core of humanity within me, but I can't say for sure how or why that is. I can't guarantee that they'll always be safe from me, but for the time being I feel like they're mine to protect."

"Does your reaction to others interfere with your happiness?"

"It wasn't until recently—when I started seeing a particular woman—that I even realized I could be affected emotionally by another human. I actually feel something new—better—when I am around her. I make every effort to see her happy, but I'm a little uneasy that I'll inevitably hurt her, even though I don't want to see that happen." I finally declare the true purpose of keeping the appointment.

"Life works from the inside out—meaning if you want to change the course of your future, you must start by changing your thoughts and beliefs. In the same way that you expect good outcomes with your finances, you need to expect good outcomes in your relationship," he alleges.

"You really believe in that shit?" I ask and he laughs good-naturedly. My temper flares.

"As a child, I didn't have thoughts and beliefs that my mom was going to abandon me, yet she did. Are you insinuating that I created those circumstances?" I hiss.

No-I don't Grayson. I think we all come to this earth with a set of blueprints of the challenges we will encounter. For some it's cancer, poverty, violence, or trauma. For you it happened to be abandonment. What I'm here to do is show you that the way you respond to these challenges is effecting your future. Now do you believe that your attitude and confidence in the area of wealth has anything to do with you being wealthy?" he quietly asks, turning the question back to me. I think about it for a minute then slowly nod my head. "Interesting enough, most of my patients that have positive outcomes in one of those areas will attribute it to their way of thinking, yet no one will correlate a negative outcome to their thoughts—why do you suppose that is?" I shrug even though I know what he's getting at. People, including myself, don't want to admit responsibility for their transgressions. He ends the session giving me an assignment to treat my relationship with Harper like I do money—affirming certain constructive expectations about our future and blocking anything that's contrary to it.

***

I've never had a girl not respond to my texts or calls in a timely manner, so when my third attempt to reach Harper goes unacknowledged, I'm frustrated as hell. This is the second time on a Monday that she's gone to L.A. with Joey, making herself unavailable to be reached by phone, and offering only vague reasons for going in the first place.

"Maybe she's got a contract going with a millionaire in L.A.," Lucas proposes taking the opportunity to antagonize me. He grins widely when I tense up, clearly enjoying the effects that the lack of control in the relationship has on me. He accepted my invitation for a late afternoon rock climb and now that we're in route to Mount Woodson, I'm trying to decide if I can tolerate three hours of his stupidity for the sake of adrenaline. "I mean who's to say if she's getting that kind of cash from you, that she won't try to get it from someone else too. I've heard high-end escorts are raking in the bucks," he continues to ramble, as we pull up to the trailhead and start to unload our gear.

"Lucas, shut the fuck up," I finally blow up, shoving him hard against the side of the pick-up. He's never given me a reason until now to show aggression toward him, and the physical advance momentarily catches him off-guard. He raises his fist in a boxing stance challenging me to a fight, and gets more ill-tempered when I ignore him and set out for the trail.

"You're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who can't stand the idea of a girl not being that in to you. Do I need to spell it out for you? If she wanted to talk to you she'd answer her damn phone," he bellows after me.

"I'm warning you," I turn pointing my finger at him. I haven't been provoked to this extent since I was in my early twenties, and I can feel the heat of rage flood my body.

"Bring it," he taunts through clenched teeth. Lucas works out a minimum of two hours, six days a week, and wasn't invited to pose on a firefighter calendar for just any reason—he's ripped from head to toe. I'm buffed but not like him. I should be nervous, but I'm not. The rule of thumb for a first strike principle is to never use force against someone unless it's absolutely justified. I'm aware of pulling my right elbow back at the exact moment I conclude he deserves it, and when I plant my knuckles into the base of his jaw, I feel instant satisfaction with the delivery of force that's sending him tumbling to the ground. As far as I'm concerned ground based fighting is my forte, and I could certainly incapacitate him for good, but a vision of explaining my actions to Harper takes the fight out of me. So against my natural instinct, I let him up—mumbling something about just going home, and in doing so make a huge mistake by letting down my guard. He clocks me in the gut so hard that it knocks the wind out of me, causing me to double over in pain, and then continues to batter me with further insults about Harper. By the time I catch my breath, I'm like a bull seeing red, and in a street fight where speed and experience have an advantage over strength he's quickly disabled. I overwhelm him with blow after blow, never giving him the chance to recover. Bystanders eventually pull me off and I reluctantly walk away from a very bloodied and battered Lucas.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I get the impression that Lucas's wife Sheila is more concerned about bringing law suit charges against me, than she is about his injuries. She wasn't thrilled about giving up her ladies bunco night to come pick him up at Mount Woodson until she saw how bad he looked. It wouldn't be the first time she's attempted to go after a big payoff with a bogus grievance, and part of her opposition to me is due to the fact that I refused to represent her on one.

"Honey you need to let the doctor know about your neck," I overhear her hint to Lucas after the ER doctor informs them that the broken nose and mild concussion will resolve without further treatment. "Oh yeah, my neck is starting to really bother me," he now awkwardly admits, clearly not as natural with lying as Sheila. Up until this point, I'd planned on trying to smooth things over with him—more or less for the convenience of not disrupting my Tuesday nights with the guys. I harbor no residual hard feelings really—perks of being a sociopath I guess. If I were to donate any emotion at all, it would be pity to him for being married to a woman like Sheila. I'm about to interrupt them when a text from Harper makes me quickly lose interest in the act on the other side of the ER curtain.

Sorry I missed your calls. I'm home now.

_Where the hell have you been?_ I text back, as I'm walking out the door.

_If you're in the neighborhood stop by or we'll talk tomorrow._ With Lucas's accusations about her still weighing on my mind, I head for her apartment ready to get some answers to the questions that I don't feel should wait until tomorrow morning.

***

Harper's eyes are red and puffy from crying. She immediately falls into my arms, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck, changing my planned role of the evening from interrogator to someone she leans on during a moment of crisis.

"My father's dying," she simply announces, dissolving every insinuating question Lucas planted in my mind regarding her whereabouts. I feel her body shake with new waves of tears, and I feel a twinge of sympathy, the foreign emotion I've always lacked.

"I'm sorry," is all I can say, as I helplessly stand by, letting her unleash the grief. It's only when I hear a light snoring sound that I realize she's cried herself to sleep while standing in my arms.

"Let's get you into bed," I whisper, startling her awake. "Is Joey here?"

"No, she stayed with the Olsens," she mumbles groggily. For the first time in our relationship I undress her for reasons that don't involve sex. Her body feels excessively hot, but it isn't until she starts shivering that I suspect she's running a fever.

"Harper, I think you have a fever. Do you have a thermometer and Tylenol?" I ask, heading for the bathroom to look for myself.

"No, it's okay." She holds her hand out beckoning me back. "I'll be better by morning. Just stay with me." It's not as if I'd leave her alone in this condition, and even though I'm not particularly tired, I slowly undress, and crawl in the bed next to her. I lay awake until one a.m. alternating between trying to warm her up or cool her down. When the fever finally breaks I fall fast asleep and don't wake up until I feel her climbing over the top of me to get out of bed.

"Swimming—remember?" she reminds me.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock in the morning."

"You ran a fever all night. You're not going swimming," I reply, pulling her back into bed.

"I have to swim... I want to swim every day. Please?" Her commitment to follow through with Steven's instructions is noble, but not the wisest as far as I'm concerned.

"What's going on with your dad?" I distract her by changing the subject. She sighs and looks out the window.

"He's dying of liver disease related to alcohol and drugs. He's becoming confused and the doctors say it's only a matter of days."

"Does the fact that you haven't seen him in years help or make things worse?" She stares at me long and hard as if debating on how to answer. Finally she says, "Wait here," and leaves the bedroom, coming back a few minutes later with several photo albums. After two months, she's finally granting me the opportunity to see into her personal past.

"You look just like your mom—she's beautiful too," I comment, turning page after page of Harper's childhood memories, listening to her fill in the little details that bring stories to life. There are memories captured of ordinary life occurrences, such as first steps and haircuts, and memories of the bigger events such as family vacations, holidays and outdoor activities.

"Were you really this happy or did you just put on a good show for the camera?" I ask.

"We were such a happy family—always laughing and looking for the next adventure. I wanted you to see that these are the memories I have of my dad. He was incredible, and we were really close for twenty years of my life. But for some people it only takes one major event to change the course of their lives, and for my dad it was losing my mom. Once he made up his mind that he couldn't live without her, he just stopped living altogether, and he sealed off his heart to everyone including me and Joey," she says, taking the albums from me.

Wanda says that there's no such thing as coincidence, that everything is the result of our own subconscious thoughts bringing us people and circumstances to give us what we need to evolve. As I gaze into Harper's troubled hazel eyes, I have a sudden urge to confess my own major life-changing event to her—to let her know that I'm just like her dad, keeping the door to my heart under lock-down at all times. I can't shake the peculiar feeling that somehow this moment is a sign of something destined.

"Grayson, are you okay?" she asks interrupting my thoughts. It's only then that I realize I've broken out in a sweat, my hands cold and clammy.

"Yeah I'm fine—it's just a little hot in here. Maybe I'm coming down with whatever you had," I suggest, trying to account for my odd reaction. She shoots me a doubtful look before scrambling to get dressed, and we're on the road to my house just as the sun comes up.

***

"I'd like you to quite your job at the Trio Pub and coming to work at my law firm," I pointedly announce to Harper as we prepare for our morning swim. She looks at me and laughs, which is only slightly better than the angry outburst I was expecting.

"First you want me to move in, and now you want me at your office every day? Sounds to me like you just want to have more control over my life."

"So what if I do? I like having you around and can offer you a better way of life—is that so wrong?" I'm offering her a level of commitment that every single woman I've ever dated has strived to obtain and she's looking at me like I've lost my mind. She walks over to where I'm sitting on the couch and straddles my lap, placing a hand on each of my shoulders as she looks directly in my eyes.

"You and I both know that you don't have what it takes to make a long-term commitment. What you see as a generous proposition, I see as a dreadful mistake with terrible consequences. Trying to control another person is a form of abuse, and it will never work on me." She smiles and kisses my lips as if to ease the harshness of her words. "Besides you have the reputation of being a tyrant boss who ruthlessly fires people for minor offenses. I would be on your chopping block within a matter of days."

"What if you're the girl who's meant to change all that?" I say, bemused by her realistic expectations of me.

"I'm not the girl who will ever make the mistake and try," she whispers, giving me that mysterious, sad expression that leaves me feeling like she's holding something back.

"I want you to be here when I get home from work, waiting with dinner ready, wearing nothing but a sexy piece of lingerie," I tease, laughing when she makes a disgusted face.

"You're sick," she says, getting up to leave.

"I could even get rid of my housekeeper because I'd have you to make sure the house was spotless," I suggest, following her outside to the pool.

"I think I'm going to barf," she replies, making fake retching noises.

"I would give you an allowance and you could go shopping with the girls—as long as I approve of them of course," I continue to push her buttons with the most controlling chauvinistic remarks I can think of.

"You need to just stop talking, Knight," she says giving me a playful shove in an attempt to push me into the pool, not expecting me to reflexively reach out and take her with me. She goes under water completely unprepared, and by the time we resurface, she is panic stricken, trying to climb on top of my head.

"Harper I've got you!" I shout as she pushes me under. I break free and swim behind her, wrapping my arms around her chest as she continues to thrash wildly. It only takes a few strokes to get her to the edge of the pool, but by the time I do she's near hysteria.

"I almost drowned," she sobs, coughing violently as she perceives her worst fear.

"No Harper. You didn't almost drown. I will never let you almost drown. Do you understand?" I grab her face and make her look into my eyes as I speak each word slowly. "You just went under water—that's all. Can you trust me on this?" She nods, blinking back tears. "Do you want to get out and postpone the lesson?" She nods again and my heart sinks. "Okay, hold on and I'll get you to the shallow end," I instruct, slowly inching my way.

"But I'm not going to," she mumbles, stopping me.

"Really?"

"No, I want to do my lesson," she confirms a tad more confidently.

"We'll take it slow, and I'll do your warm-up exercises with you," I sigh with relief.

An hour later, she's still swimming laps and I'm the one to interrupt the lesson, pulling a reluctant Harper out of the water.

***

"Aren't you a little too old to get in school yard fights over a girl?" Toby says, the minute I walk in to the Central Bar and Grill. He shakes his head disapprovingly as he scans me for injuries. "Sheila is trying to talk him in to filing a civil suit against you."

"Yeah I know. I overheard her planting the suggestion of a neck or back injury. It'll be interesting to see who if anyone will take the case against me," I muse.

"If I were you, I'd call and set things right. Lucas can be a hothead, but once he's cooled down, he's pretty reasonable."

"No Toby—if you were me, you'd do the exact opposite of calling and apologizing because it wouldn't matter to you one way or the other. You wouldn't feel any guilt about using force to silence a person if they were being verbally offensive, and you wouldn't get all hung up over ending a friendship that's based on convenience more than anything else," I say matter-of-factly. "My only concern at this point is finding a new rock climbing partner." A waiter arrives to deliver our order hindering an immediate judgmental response from Toby.

"I ordered for you since you were over a half hour late," Toby says unapologetically. I shrug it off even though I wasn't in the mood for hamburger. He hardly ever takes a day off from work so his last minute call to meet for a quick lunch was a bit of a shock. I hold back reminding him that I don't get scheduled lunch hours like high school teachers.

"So, you're down here for a doctor's appointment huh? Everything okay?" I ask, watching him as he takes three big bites from his burger, then gulps it down with beer.

"I have stage three colon cancer. I'm scheduled to start chemo and radiation in a few weeks," he announces so nonchalantly that it takes me a few minutes to figure out that he's completely serious.

"Wow, sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?" Normally I'd have to fake an act of genuine concern in a situation like this, but I'm actually sincere in my regard for him, and I can see in his eyes that he appreciates it.

"Thanks buddy. I'll let you know. Here's to health—may you never take it for granted," he says, holding up his beer for a toast. We spend the remainder of the time talking about his diagnosis and prognosis, and then he hurriedly excuses himself to get to another appointment on time. I take my time finishing my lunch, lost in deep thought over the unpredictability of life. I don't readily notice the tall, dark brunette until she slides into the chair across from me.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Emma clucks, shoving Toby's plate out of the way, then signaling to her staff to come pick it up. "I thought I lost you for good to the Trio Pub. There're all kinds of rumors about you and the pretty little waitress there—what's her name? Hillary? Hannah?" she asks, smiling craftily.

"Harper," I say. "How's it going Emma? I figured you'd gone back home to reconcile things with your husband," I redirect the topic of discussion, knowing better than to disclose any information about my personal life to her.

"Divorce will be final in two weeks. I'm taking over the business for dad, he's just not able to keep up anymore." She drums her long fingernails on the table, eyeing me like a cougar locked on to the kill.

"People are saying that you're paying her for favors—is that true?"

"That's nobody's business," I growl, feeling instantly protective.

"Come on, Gray. We share the same clientele with the Trio, and I can either embellish or squelch the story. We go back a long way—you can trust me," she purrs resting her chin on her hand.

"Have you ever known me to discuss past or current relationships with you, Emma? No—because there's nothing in it for me," I answer my own question for her.

"Alright, fair enough," she says holding up a hand when I pull out my wallet to pay the bill. "But there is something I think you should know. She's not the pretty, little innocent thing you think she is. More than one customer says she's seeing someone on the side—someone by the name of Curtis Kline. He comes down from Los Angeles and the two have been seen spending time together on more than one occasion."

"Curtis Kline is a close family friend who she's kept in contact with for years," I smoothly lie, giving the impression that I know all about him. She looks genuinely disappointed, but isn't deterred from trying to plant a seed of doubt.

"Women are most vulnerable to old childhood friends. There's something about that history that makes you feel safe in confiding and receiving physical comfort from someone who's literally like family. I guess it makes sense now that they've been seen holding hands and walking arm in arm together, deep in conversation. I'm sorry I brought it up," she says, getting up, and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Unlike a lot of people around here, I just don't want to see you being made a fool of, that's all. I'm just a phone call away if you need to talk," she says, her words heavy with sexual innuendo. In two days, I've vacillated heavily between an unquestioning, supportive boyfriend to a jealous, skeptical lover. It's time to dive in deep and discover for myself what's really going on with Harper Ellis when I'm not around.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dr. Eli Cisco quietly waits for me to gather my thoughts as we sit together in our follow up counseling session. Talking about my childhood with him was remarkably easy up until this point. He asked how I felt about my mother leaving and I answered honestly telling him that I hated her guts. Now he wants to know what happened when I was sixteen that resulted in mandatory psychiatric therapy. I stare hard at the ceiling wondering if I can bring myself to retell the story of Jessica Sorenson, after working so hard all these years to keep it buried.

"Take your time, Grayson," he murmurs patiently.

"When I was fifteen, I was sent to live with a wealthy family who owned a winery in the Napa Valley. They had eighty acres and took in foster kids to help in the vineyards and the processing plant. They had a daughter who was my age at the time and we became close friends." I swallow hard as images of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl begin infiltrating my mind. Eventually we became intimate—she was my first, and she made me believe that I was hers too, aside from her father who had been inappropriately touching her for years." I look at him and he nods in understanding. "When she became pregnant, her parents were beyond furious. They threatened to kill me and bury me in the vineyards. I tried to talk Jessica into running away with me. I knew that even though we were young, I would eventually be successful. I promised her that I would take care of her and the baby if she chose to have it."

"Did you love Jessica?" he asks. I take a deep breath.

"Yes. Even though I was young, I cared very deeply for her. I would have done anything to be with her."

"Did she ever tell you that she loved you?" he asks. I squeeze my eyes shut as the sound of her voice floods my heart.

"Yes—many times and I believed her. But she lied. On the day of the procedure..."

"What procedure?" he interrupts.

"Her parents insisted that she have an abortion, but she was four months along by that time. She was taken to Santa Rosa and was given some pills and something was injected in her uterus to make her go into labor." A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead and my stomach twists in a tight knot as I recall the sounds and smells of the small clinic where it occurred. "They made me watch for the sole purpose of punishing us both. They had somehow convinced her that I didn't want her or the baby, and that I was seeing someone else. She surprised all of us when she broadcasted that she was in love with someone else anyway—a kid from school who according to her was the father not me. I thought she was just saying it to hurt her parents and me, but her brothers later confirmed that she always thought she was too good for a foster kid. I never got the chance to talk to her again. The last time I saw her alive, she was delivering a female fetus, into a bucket as she called me every dirty name in the book, much too her parents, gratification." I loosen my tie and walk over to the only small window in his office. My hands are shaking and I shove them deep into my pockets.

"What happened after the procedure?"

"We were taken back to Napa in separate cars, me in the one driven by her brothers. They took me out in the vineyards and beat the snot out of me, probably would have killed me, except they were interrupted by the fire trucks and ambulances that were dispatched to their house. Jessica used her dad's handgun to commit suicide." I plop weakly down on the couch and bury my face in my hands. The last person to hear the story in its entirety was Dr. Shaw. I hadn't even told Camille and Abby everything that had happened at the Sorenson house.

"I know this is really difficult for you Grayson, but I need you to tell me what you did to the Sorensons after Jessica's death." I clear my throat, and he offers me a glass of water.

"They had a pot-bellied pig as a family pet. I took a butcher knife to it, and left it dying on their front porch," I confess, not looking at him. The room falls silent for what seems like an eternity before he softly confirms what he already knows.

"And you didn't feel any remorse or guilt?"

"Not even a little," I reply, glancing down at my watch. We make eye contact and I search his face for the same disgust that I saw in Dr. Shaw's face so many years ago. He smiles warmly and says, "I don't think I would have felt any either," patting me on the back as he ends the session, twenty minutes over our hour time slot.

***

"How was the counseling session?" Wanda eagerly asks when I return to the office.

"Good," I mumble, going into my office and locking the door, before she has a chance to probe me for information. I know it's killing her not to talk to me, but I need to be alone to unwind. After all these years, there it is—the big, ugly life-changing event that some argue is the direct result of who I am, while others argue that it created who I am. Wanda knocks on the door after trying to walk in first.

"I have a message from Harper," she says, tempting me to open the door.

"I'll call her later."

"She wanted me to tell you that she took the evening off and she was going to be at your house using the swimming pool this evening. I told her where she could find the spare key," Wanda announces, immediately getting my attention. I fling the door open and she backs up startled.

"Did you tell her that she can't be in the swimming pool alone yet?" I demand, not waiting for an answer when I read it in her eyes that she didn't. I pull out my cell phone and dial Harper's number.

"Naturally, no answer," I mutter irritably. "Wanda, try reaching her on my house phone—tell her to wait until I get home. Do I have any appointments this evening?" I'm already walking out the door when she confirms that I don't. It's just past five and the freeway traffic is horrific, inching along at a snail's pace. I toggle back and forth between trying to reach her on my house phone and her cell phone, my apprehension escalating each time my calls go to voicemail. By the time I pull into my driveway, I'm soaked with perspiration, with all sorts of visions of finding her at the bottom of my pool.

"Harper," I yell, bursting through the front door, stopping dead in my tracks in the kitchen. She's standing at the stove wearing a gorgeous partially see-through, black lace teddy. Her hair is curled and styled and she has just enough make-up on to compliment her already beautiful face.

"I made you dinner, honey," she smiles, handing me a beer from the refrigerator. I set my briefcase down and take a long swig, watching her as she does a half turn to show off the v-string back side of the lingerie, then I walk around the island and pull her in to my arms.

"I thought you'd drowned. Never scare me like that again," I whisper roughly in her ear.

"Sorry," she whispers back. "I wanted to surprise you." I take a deep breath. All of this feels too good—too right. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. You have time to take a shower if you want," she hints, making light of the fact that I'm a sweaty mess.

***

It turns out that Harper is a very good cook, and she spoils me not only with dinner, but clean-up— followed by sex on the kitchen island, something that's never been attempted in my kitchen before. I'll never be able sit and eat my breakfast there again without imagining her in a black teddy lying in front of me.

"What's down here?" she asks as I lead her to the bottom floor of the house that's never used. It's empty except for a few unpacked boxes shoved in the corner.

"I think the previous owners used it as a game room or great bonus room. I just haven't had time to figure out what to do with it. I flick on the light, and walk over to the windows that take up most of the west wall, opening every single shade, until the room is flooded with a brilliant light from the setting sun.

"Wow," she says looking around at the large, rectangular room.

"It needs to be cleaned, but what do you think?" I ask, kicking some dust up on the hardwood floors.

"Um, it's big. You could put a pool table down here, if you're in to playing billiards," she suggests. I set the portable, wireless speaker on a built in shelf and stream music from my phone to it, instantly filling the room with a classical music piece. Her face lights up instantly.

"What do you think about it being a dance studio?" I ask calmly. She jerks her head around, looking at me in complete astonishment, before her hand flies up to her mouth.

"Grayson, please don't do this to me," she pleads as she blinks back tears.

"Shhh—I want to see you dance for me."

"I haven't danced in years," she says, shaking her head no.

"It doesn't have to be complicated—something simple. You should already be limbered up from the stretches you did on the kitchen island," I tease, taking a seat on the floor against the wall. She begins slowly, closing her eyes as she makes small twists and turns with her body. Once she's warmed up she easily loses herself in the music, and her body seems to gracefully float around the room, performing more technical moves as she goes. When the music ends she does a deep bow in front of me. I've never seen her face look more exuberant, as she tries to catch her breath.

"Okay Knight—it's your turn," she says, holding a hand out to help me up. "You must know how to do some sort of dance." I smile mischievously, changing the music to fifties swing dance, and lead her out to the middle of the room.

"No way," she laughs as I begin moving my leg in an Elvis Presley swagger. She watches my feet, and quickly picks up the basic triple rock-step and under-arm turn. By the end of the first song, she's proficient enough to keep up with me, and begs for more.

"This is awesome, where did you learn to dance like this?"

"Abby, my sister's partner taught me. She wanted to enter a local dance contest, but they wouldn't allow homosexual couples, so she paid me to do it with her," I tell her. "I'm surprised I still remember how after all these years." I add in a few more moves, and she improvises a few of her own, showing me how to do a proper body lift. When she tosses her head back and roars with laughter, it elevates me to do the same. The faster the music gets, the crazier and more daring we become—laughing like teenagers until Harper eventually collapses in my arms, pale and diaphoretic—clutching her stomach.

"Harper-what's wrong?" My heart catches in my throat when I see her face, that only moments earlier was radiant, and now is twisted in pain.

"It's okay. I just...got...a cramp...from laugh...laughing," she gasps, trying to reassure me, as she struggles to catch her breath.

"Should I call 911 and tell them I need an ambulance for a laughing emergency?" I joke, trying to make light of the situation, and becoming somewhat relieved when she produces a weak smile. I offer to carry her upstairs, and she looks somewhat offended.

"I'm not ready to stop. How about a slow dance instead?" she suggests in a sultry voice, folding her arms around my neck and pressing her body tightly against mine as she begins rocking back and forth.

***

There's a point during a skydive jump where the absolute bliss of the freefall makes you hesitant to pull the chord to your parachute, even though you completely understand what's at stake if you don't. The same can be said about making love to Harper. The experience clouds my judgement to the point that I miss the opportunity to pull the safety chord until it's too late. I'm in the zone as Toby puts it—all barricades crumble like dust around me, and my heart is exposed like a lamb in a lion's den. It's not just about what our bodies are doing—it's about the entanglement of our spirits which I conclude is heavenly. But then the unthinkable happens. At the height of our climax she whispers the very words that I never want to hear come out of a women's mouth, and all the goodness about our relationship comes to a screeching halt.

"I'm sorry—I just wanted you to know that for better or for worse, I love you." she finally says, after we both stare silently at the ceiling for almost an hour.

"Of course you needed me to know," I reply sarcastically. It's hard not to be resentful. The switch has been flipped and there's no going back. What started out as a perfect evening—dining, sex, dancing, and more sex, has ended in catastrophe.

"I don't expect you to reciprocate, Grayson—I already know how you feel about things."

"Then why the hell did you need to say it!" I raise my voice, making her flinch next to me. "Why the hell can't women just keep their goddamn feelings to themselves? Things were perfect just the way they were Harper," I vent my frustration, expecting her to fight back, but she doesn't. Instead she quietly gets dressed and gathers up her belongings, then turns to me and says, "I'll be waiting in the car." A few seconds later, I hear the front door close.

***

Forty minutes of silence does nothing to ease the tension between us. I have a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that this is the beginning of the end but she's the first to bring it up as I pull in front of her apartment duplex.

"Thank you for everything, Grayson. I'll spare you from giving me a courtesy farewell speech since I can see it in your eyes that I've committed the unforgiveable. I just want you to know that I have no regrets about anything. You gave me a shot at a life that I otherwise wouldn't have gotten. I'll be forever grateful for the experiences you've given Joey and me." She swallows hard. "I really do wish you the best out of life," she says, opening the car door.

"Harper wait," I stop her. "Maybe we just need to take a little break until things cool down. I'm sure that once you have a chance to think about it, you'll realize that what we have is amazing without complicating it with words that have no value."

"No value to who? You or me?" she questions, her face temporarily flushing with anger. "There's nothing good or amazing about being in a relationship where you're expected to hide your true feelings or conform to someone else's ideas. I have to get some sleep. Take care of yourself," she says, smiling bravely, even though her eyes are filling with tears. She shuts the door and I watch her walk out of my life as easily as she walked into my life. No drama, no accusations or excuses, and definitely no pleading for second chances. I had been following Dr. Cisco's recommendations, focusing only on favorable outcomes for our relationship which definitely doesn't include being separated from each other.

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After conspiring with Harper to surprise me with last night's dinner, the last person Wanda expects to see in the office before her is me. I'm staring at nothingness, rocking a quill pen through my fingers—she knows something's up.

"What happened?" she immediately asks, searching my face with concern.

"Miss Ellis and I have amicably parted ways. It was as much her decision as it was mine," I say matter-of-factly, getting it out in the open.

"Bullshit," Wanda replies. "What really happened?"

"What do you think really happened?" I snap irritably.

"She admitted to being in love with you?" Wanda breathes, looking shocked. "I warned her that confessions of the heart would send you running like a cheetah," she adds with a puzzled look, then mutters under her breath, "Of course everyone knows that you love her too, but will never own it."

"You don't know a goddamn thing about how I feel, Wanda."

"Hah, I'm more attuned to your feelings than you are," she brags, as she walks out of my office. Minutes later she returns with two cups of coffee in her hand and pulls up a chair across from me, setting one of the cups down in front of me.

"I wasn't even close to being through with her," I finally blurt out, giving in to Wanda's desire to consult with me about it. "I thought she was so different—level headed and practical. We were completely on the same page when it came to sex and relationships. I have no idea what happened to change her mind," I say, shaking my head in confusion.

"Oh come on Grayson—don't you dare play innocent. You did everything you could to ensure she'd fall for you, and just when she does, you run like a coward," she says unsympathetically. I narrow my eyes at her.

"No, I did not run like a coward—she did. Granted I wasn't happy about her bedroom confession, but I wasn't exactly ready to toss her into the fire either," I reply bitterly.

"Then call her up and apologize before it's too late. Let her know that you're seeking help for your commitment issues, and ask her to be patient with you. Tell her she's the best thing that's ever happened to you and you'll be lost without her," she responds, making a desperate attempt to convince me to do something completely against my nature.

"You need to stop reading romance novels—they're distorting your perception of reality. A real man with any sense of decency wouldn't resort to such a degrading display of weakness."

"A real man would seize the opportunity to correct any situation that he was responsible for creating, to ensure the well-being of someone he cares about. Being afraid to show weakness is cowardly," she retorts, pursing her lips together as she stomps out of my office.

***

A week after my breakup with Harper I take Wanda's advice and attempt to contact her. When the call goes to voicemail, I leave a message telling her that I'm sorry and I want to work things out—just like a real man would do. Five days later, on a Sunday night when we'd normally be together, I receive a text from her stating,

I've moved on—you should too.

I immediately pick up the phone and call her back, telling myself it's only about wanting to be in control. She frustrates the hell out of me for being able to walk away so easily.

"For someone who loves deeply and commits fully, you sure don't waste any time," I say accusingly as soon as she answers her phone. There's a long pause of silence before she replies.

"I didn't confess my thoughts and feelings so that you could use my words to manipulate and confuse me," she says quietly. "I'm doing what's best for both of us."

"What's best for me is to see you again," I say insistently.

"What's best for me—and Joey—is to stay completely away from you," she says with a quiver in her voice that I interpret as indecisiveness. I seize my opportunity to negotiate one more encounter, even though something deep within, hopes she'll continue to run from the big, bad wolf.

"Alright Ellis—maybe you're right—maybe you and Joey are better off without me being a part of your life. However, we did have a contractual agreement for six encounters, and I would hate to see you come this far and not get the car of your dreams. Surely being the shrewd business woman that you are, you can dismiss your personal feelings for one last night of great sex, and a ten-thousand dollar paycheck?" Come on, we'll celebrate your birthday at the same time," I gently coax, remembering she turns twenty-six in two weeks. "I'll pick you up early Sunday morning. Pack warm clothes and something formal," I say decisively. It's always a good sign when she doesn't immediately protest. "Oh, and Harper? There's one last thing..."

"Yes?" she says barely above a whisper.

"I have something to share with you about my past. If it doesn't make you change your mind about the whole idea of falling in love with me, then I'll honor any future request you have about seeing each other," I blurt out, gambling that once she learns about my personality disorder, she'll be discouraged from mixing love with what's already proven to be a successful relationship recipe.

"I told you that I don't fall in love," she reminds me. "If your secret is really that terrible then you should tell me now before I spend another night with you."

"Not a chance—I want to tell you in person. I'll see you Sunday." I end the call before she can hassle me with a hundred questions, then I sit back and contemplate where I'll spend what might be my last weekend with Harper Ellis.

***

"You're being sued by Lucas Harvard? I thought he was your rock climbing partner?" Wanda furrows her brows as she looks over the personal notice I received from Stockdale Law Firm.

"Was till I clocked him a few times for making slanderous and damaging statements against Harper," I grin. "Should be fun—Ashley Stockdale is a new attorney. She's been in practice for less than a year and likely has no idea what she's gotten herself into. Can you call her and confirm the meeting place and time? Also, make yourself a note to be sure to reschedule it a few times just to mess with them a bit." Wanda's been with me long enough to know I don't make things easy on anyone who crosses me. Lucas has no idea how lengthy and costly I can cause this process to be for him.

"Or you could just settle and be done with the whole thing, so you can concentrate on bigger issues," she suggests, cocking her head to the side as she drums her fingertips on her coffee mug.

"Hah, they're getting off easy. Lucas and Ms. Stockdale are lucky they caught me in a good mood this morning," I say, sifting through the rest of the mail. "I have half a mind to slap them with a counter-suit," I mumble.

"Which means you must have worked things out with Harper?" she gently probes.

"Not a hundred percent, but I did talk her in to one last encounter. I'm flying her to New York City to see Phantom of the Opera, for her birthday—it's a surprise. Can you get my schedule cleared—I won't be back until Tuesday afternoon?" She nods, still watching me.

"What is it, Wanda?" She has a habit of hovering when she's got something on her mind that's bothering her.

"Um, there was a strange message on the recorder this morning, from a man who didn't leave his name or a call back number. He said that he had a score to settle with you for what happened fifteen years ago on October 29th. I'm assuming it was a wrong number but I saved it any way. Do you want to listen to it or should I just erase it? I look at her dumbfounded, and temporarily at a loss for words. Jessica Sorenson died on that date fifteen years ago next month. Is it possible after all this time that someone in her family is still harboring a grudge?

"I might as well listen to it, although I highly doubt I'll recognize a voice from that long ago," I respond, nonchalantly.

"Of course," she murmurs still loitering in my office until she can't help but ask the question, "Did something significant happen fifteen years ago?" I look up at her with a steel gaze that typically unnerves other people, but causes her to simply fold her arms across her chest and tap her foot impatiently on the carpet. I don't bother telling her that it's none of her business, because she seems to think she's entitled to know everything about me lately.

"I have an appointment with Dr. Cisco, that I'm going to be late for," I say curtly, grabbing my keys. "Save the message—I'll be back by two-thirty." The fact that I'm keeping a follow-up counseling appointment with the psychiatrist she highly recommended makes it easy for me to blow her off and nudge her out of my office.

As soon as I'm outside my mind shifts back to the mysterious caller, and I casually glance around, looking for a familiar face. I suppose even after fifteen years there could be residual resentment which would prompt a show-down, especially from one of her twin brothers. Michael and Marcus Sorenson were two years older than me, and had the reputation of being ruthless bullies as teens. I didn't stand a chance against the two the night they whipped my ass, but a lot has changed since then. A face-to-face confrontation might be gratifying after all of these years.

***

Dr. Cisco begins his counseling session with an inquiry about Harper and my relationship. I tell him about our break-up over her confession, and let him know his exercise on positive thinking did nothing for us.

"Maybe subconsciously you were thinking and sending the energy of love to her, eliciting a similar reaction from Harper. What were you doing at the time she said the words to you?" he asks.

_Having an orgasm—what the hell does it matter,_ I think to myself. "We had just finished having sex," I reply. "I really don't get it—everything was going great—it was her idea to surprise me with dinner. We danced and laughed—had amazing sex..." My voice trails off as visions of our last evening together flood my mind. I inadvertently smile at the memory, and Dr. Cisco clears his throat.

"From everything you've told me about Harper, she exercises a tremendous amount of self-control in keeping her feelings neutral about your relationship. Yet she chooses one of the most vulnerable and intimate moments to convey her deepest feelings to you. Why do you think that is?" I'm glad he doesn't wait for me to come up with my own theories because if I had the answer, I wouldn't be seeking his help. "Perhaps her bedroom confession was a purposeful attempt to drive you away. Maybe there isn't anything to it at all." He gives me a moment to consider.

"You think she lied just to get me to walk away?" I ask.

"Maybe—maybe not. The issue of whether or not she meant it is irrelevant. People hide their true feelings from their lovers all of the time. The real issue is why she expressed her feelings to you in the first place. Up until this point, she's demonstrated that she has a pretty good handle on how this relationship works. Am I right?" I nod in response. "So is it possible that the intimacy shared between the two of you triggered a fear response in her as well? It's just one of many possibilities that may explain why she did the unexpected, knowing the consequences."

I replay the events of that night again, and recall how quickly she assumed the relationship was over, even initiating the conversations herself. It doesn't take long before I conclude that he's probably right. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders—it should be easy enough to rectify the situation if that's the case.

"Grayson, why are you bothered so much by someone's expression of love for you?" he casually asks. I hold his gaze, as I consider the source of my contempt.

"I don't believe in the concept of truly loving another person—I think it's an illusion. When someone utters those words, what they're really saying is, I love you because of what you do for me—I want to manipulate and control you," I say, openly revealing my cynical opinion.

"And what about the feeling or the energy behind the word—do you think that's an illusion as well?" he softly questions. I shrug. "Describe to me how you feel when you're around other people," he prompts. I'd like to say that I don't know what he's talking about—but I do. I'm just not used to describing things in the abstract way that he does.

"When I'm around most women that I'm in a relationship with, I feel a heaviness—like they're an encumbrance, sucking energy from me. When I'm with Harper there's a feeling of ease and wellbeing—a lightness," I give him the best portrayal I can think of in terms of what he's looking for, and he nods in approval, then stands and rubs his hands together. I get the impression that he's going to announce something that he's not quite sure I'm ready to hear.

"Every human projects a certain energy frequency..."

"Yeah I'm not sure I really believe that," I interrupt.

"Okay, for now we'll say that hypothetically speaking—based on quantum physics and some of the theories of the greatest scientists who've ever lived," he slips in, "our thoughts and feelings emit a certain frequency that creates a certain energy frequency. Let's take two opposite emotions—love and fear, and imagine that they project a vibrational frequency—love being high and fear being low. So from now on, instead of using the words love, fear or hate—we'll simply reference them as high frequency and low frequency. Do you follow me so far?"

"Yes," I reply, somewhat bemused by the exercise.

"When we're with a person of a matching energy frequency or even slightly higher, we feel peace and harmony. Is it fair to surmise that when you're in the presence of Harper you're more attuned to the higher vibrational frequency?"

"Possibly," I respond cautiously.

"Alright—that's a good start. I have another assignment for you this week. I want you to pay attention to feelings not words. Think in terms of energy when you're around Harper—high frequencies being positive emotions, feelings, thoughts—low being negative. It's a way to trick the mind in to letting go of old belief patterns surrounding certain words and labels. Can you do that?"

It sounds a little too simple to be effective, but I agree to the homework anyway. I'm looking forward to being alone with Harper in New York City—our first real weekend getaway. I'm anticipating nothing but high energy frequencies if that's what Dr. Cisco wants me to call it—at least until I get around to telling her she's in a relationship with a sociopath. As I walk out of Dr. Cisco's office, I'm not thinking about the caller who's referenced an important date in my past history.

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It's an unusual brisk, cold morning in San Diego when I arrive at Harper's house, in route to the airport. We haven't seen each other since our break-up almost three weeks ago, and I realize what a gamble I'm taking by jumping into an entire weekend together. Maybe this will be the turning point for me, and I'll find her undesirable and boring. It's happened before with women—one minute I'm enjoying myself and the next I can't wait to end the relationship. Unfortunately the minute Harper opens the door, I know that's likely never going to be the case with her.

"Good morning Harper," I say, fighting back a smile as I'm completely caught off guard by her appearance.

"Morning," she murmurs, sucking in a deep breath and stepping to the side to let me in, as she secures the belt of a thin cotton robe around her body.

"You know you have..." I point to my head.

"Rollers in my hair—yeah," she confirms. "You said that you'd be here at six-thirty, and it's only six-fifteen," she points out. I've never dated a woman confident enough to appear in front of me without being at least partially decked out, and certainly never with curlers in their hair. Leave it to Harper to be the first. Instead of working hard to convince me that she's the perfect package, she does the exact opposite—showing me the real her with a take it or leave it attitude. I follow her to the bathroom, still smiling to myself as I watch her butt sway back and forth. I find her not only beautiful, but irresistibly sexy just the way she is right now.

"And you're telling me you can get ready in fifteen minutes?" I question her with a raised brow. My observations of women have led me to believe that a minimum of forty-five minutes is needed to do hair and makeup. But then again, Harper doesn't fit the profile of anyone I've ever dated.

"Just watch me," she replies matter-of-factly. I plan on doing just that, looking over her shoulder as she rummages through a small case, pulling out various items.

"I didn't mean literally. You can have a seat in the living room."

"That's okay, I'm fine where I'm at," I say, making no attempt to leave.

"You're really going to watch me get ready?" she laughs, looking at me strangely. I smile, and fold my arms across my chest, leaning on the door frame. Even after a break-up and weeks apart, there's no weirdness or awkwardness at all between the two of us—it's as if we've always been.

"Alright—I'll give you a make-up tutorial. First, powder," she says taking a makeup brush and dipping it in a light colored powder, then swirling it all over her face. When she's done, she looks at me for an opinion.

"And that accomplished what?" I ask, trying to discern any real difference.

"It covers all my wrinkles and blemishes," she replies, frowning at herself in the mirror.

"Your skin is like porcelain—you don't have any wrinkles or blemishes to cover up," I note. She smiles, and I see a faint blush stain her cheeks, highlighting her unusually pale skin.

"Mascara." She says, waving a tube in front of my face, then leaning over the sink to get closer to the mirror. She widens her eyes to an exaggerated surprised look, and her mouth drops open in a silent scream, as she carefully applies mascara to her lashes. For her it's a routine maneuver, but the simple action of bending over the sink just about sends me through the roof and I can't resist letting her know the effect it has. I slide behind her and rest my hands on either side of her hips, gently pressing myself against her curves, even as I teasingly mimic her expression in the mirror, oddly portraying the look of a dead fish. In spite of engaging me with slight counter pressure and inadvertently spreading her legs, she busts up laughing and says, "You better behave Knight or I'm kicking you out of here, and by the way how am I doing for time?"

"Five minutes Ellis," I murmur, thinking to myself how I could make much better use of the time.

"Last is the lipstick," she says, applying it so fast that I barely notice, then smacking her lips together. Turning to face me for a final verdict, she smiles widely and my heart skips a beat. I like the fact that she openly seeks my opinion instead of fishing for compliments by pointing out phantom flaws.

"Gorgeous before and still gorgeous," I shrug.

"Thanks, Gray. All that's left is rollers and getting dressed which will only take a few minutes," she proudly reassures me.

"Here allow me." I take over, unwinding the roller, observing a long wavy strand of hair fall down her back. One by one, I remove them all, as she watches me in the mirror. Her hair is as soft as silk, falling through my fingertips, and I catch the faintest scent of lilacs. I'm surprised at the level of intimacy the act generates for me—who would have ever guessed that sexual tension could arise out of something so unappealing as hair rollers. When I've handed her the last one, I gently brush her hair to the side and run my lips along her neck. "God I've missed you," she instantly moans, leaning back against me, and reaching up to bury a hand in my hair. Her simple response has a huge impact on me, warming me from the inside, and melting away any apprehension about our ability to pick up where we left off in our physical relationship.

"If we're late it's your fault," she murmurs, slowly turning around and wrapping her arms around my neck, doing nothing to help the situation. Three weeks of separation manifests itself in a total disregard for flight schedules and I match her kiss with equal fervency, letting my tongue tangle with hers as I slip my hands inside her robe. I can't recall appreciating the naked warmth of a woman's body more than I do hers now, and I'm struck by the thought of just how soft and delicate she feels beneath my touch. I slide the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, ready to pay any consequences of being late for our flight.

"What's this?" I ask, pausing my tour of her body when I notice a large bandage on the middle of her arm. She looks at me like she forgot it was even there.

"Oh nothing. I just cut myself. Total klutz," she admits, rolling her eyes. "We better get going—it's almost seven." she says, hastily grabbing her bra and shirt off the bed. I watch her get dressed then rush around the room in a frenzy to get last minute items packed in her suitcase.

"How do you cut yourself in the middle of your arm," I finally ask.

"It happens," she responds, brushing me off with a vague answer. I consider her response, trying to figure out why I don't believe her. I know she's a private person but not wanting to explain a simple accident makes me suspect that there's more to the story. How a woman can be so open and honest, yet so mysterious at the same time is puzzling. For the sake of making up for lost time, I let the issue drop, silently grabbing her suitcase as I follow her out the door.

***

"I can't believe you're taking me to New York City?" Harper squeals, barely able to contain her excitement as I hand our boarding passes to a flight attendant. I managed to keep it a surprise until a fellow passenger asked her if she was visiting family in New York. Now that the cat's out of the bag, I'm under interrogation as she questions me the whole way down the ramp and well after we're seated in first class.

"I'll tell you where we're staying, but that's it—and only if you confess to what really happened to your arm," I bargain.

"How about you tell me where we're staying and I'll have unlimited P.I. with you," she counters.

"You're already getting paid to have unlimited P.I with me, and I plan on getting my money's worth," I smile down at her, enjoying the banter.

"Oh I don't know about that—I feel a terrible migraine coming on," she teases, rubbing her forehead.

"That's too bad. I guess I'll have to cancel the special plans I made for tonight," I reply, shaking my head regretfully. "What plans?" she immediately perks up.

"Ellis, you are terrible at keeping surprises. I bet you were the type of kid who tore the house apart trying to find hidden Christmas presents—am I right?" She tosses her head back and laughs, looking guilty. We hold each other's gaze, until she whispers, "Okay, from now on I'll be a good girl," then excuses herself to the restroom. I sink back in my seat and close my eyes. If only every relationship was this easy—this enjoyable, and natural. Most are plagued with insecurity, accusations, and unrealistic assumptions.

"Excuse me, Mr. Knight, can I get you and your companion a drink?" a soft voice inquires. The flight attendant introduces herself as Tanya. She's a beautiful blonde with bright blue eyes and a sly smile—the type of girl I would have considered hooking up with in the past. In contrast to Harper, she's perfectly polished—not a hair out of place, manicured artificial nails, heavy makeup, and accessorized with expensive jewelry. I see her glance at my left hand, and wonder if a wedding band would make a difference to her.

"Two coffees," I reply, ignoring her when she strategically leans forward in a low cut blouse and a push-up bra. I've seen the move a hundred times if not more.

"Do you fly to New York often?" she strikes up the conversation with a question that I've also heard more than once. It's called a feeler question and it's an opener that's landed me in bed with a flight attendant on more than one occasion.

"Only for special occasions," I reply, expecting her to take the hint when I pay more attention to adding creamer to my coffee than I do her.

"Yeah this flight is a little bit of a drag for me because there's an overnight layover in New York before flying to Paris. Most of the time I just stay in my hotel—you know take a hot bubble bath and watch re-runs of Friends," she confesses, pressing her lips together in a pout. Such overtures never bothered me before; I'm used to the attention. But today for some reason I find it meaningless, and my patience wears thin. I'm about to remind her that she has other passengers waiting for their coffee, when Harper interrupts us, sparing Tanya the embarrassment. Polite smiles are exchanged between the two, but instead of getting the same personalized service that I did, Harper is completely ignored. If I thought for a second that she'd be bothered by it, I'd make a point of calling the airline manager and reporting Tanya's behavior, but Harper's not the type to concern herself with trivial rudeness.

"Did you get her number?" she jokes in a good-hearted way that doesn't make me respond defensively.

"I have everything I want sitting right here beside me," I respond, surprising myself with how sure I am of the comment. She smiles—but rather than seeming appreciative of the reassurance, she looks away and sighs heavily, leaving me once again with the impression that she's keeping something relevant from me.

"Harper I need to ask you a question and I want you to be truthful with me," I say, broaching the proposition made by Dr. Cisco regarding her bedroom confession.

"Okay," she says hesitantly, her serious hazel eyes searching my face.

"Why did you really tell me that you loved me?" I purposefully ask an open-ended question to get her explanation. She starts to look away, and I carefully put a finger under her chin and redirect her attention back to me. "The truth," I reiterate.

"Alright the truth. There're two reasons—the first is because I meant it, and the second is because I wanted to scare you away," she says bluntly, partly confirming his theory. "I keep hoping that you'll just leave and not come back." Her words have the sting of a scorpion. I've had similar thoughts about women in my past and I hope her reason for saying it is vastly different than mine ever was.

"Why?" I manage to form a one word question.

"You're so good to me, and I'm not strong enough to refuse you even though I want to. My only hope is that you'll get tired of me and walk away—At least I know I won't come after you," she admits, not at all pressuring me for anything more.

"So you're provoking me into being the bad guy?"

"You're better at it than I am—you've had lots of practice," she says, shrugging her shoulder. I study her for a moment trying not to smile at her shameless dodge of responsibility. I have to admit it's better than ultimatums.

"Well I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, so now what are you going to do?" I challenge.

"Hope that whatever you have to tell me about your past will give me an incentive to stay away from you," she says, not at all reluctant to tell the truth.

"That's not my intent and you know it, Harper," I snap. "I just want to discourage you from entertaining fairy tale ideas about a happily ever after with me—that's all," I add through clenched teeth. I can't seem to get ahead with this girl no matter what I do. Her face softens in response to my chagrin, and she unexpectedly leans over kissing me tenderly on the lips—winning yet again by easing the tension in my gut.

"Believe me, Grayson, I already know that there's never going to be a happily ever after—you have nothing to worry about," she murmurs reassuringly, kissing me again and again.

***

The Plaza Hotel in downtown Manhattan is well worth the nightly rate when I see the look on Harper's face the minute we step into the lobby. "Wow," she whispers in awe, not hiding the fact that she's unaccustomed to such elegant accommodations. Although classy, she's unworldly, and shows an appreciation for almost everything in a refreshingly unpretentious manner.

"We have to hurry if we're going to make our reservation," I say, trying not to ruin the moment by rushing her. With only one matinee showing on Sunday's, I knew it was going to be a tight itinerary, but at least she's a good sport about being prodded along up to our room.

"I hope this is appropriate attire for where we're going," she says after quickly changing into a snug-fitting black and gold sweater dress with leather boots. I stand back and survey her, rubbing my chin, then shake my head in rejection. I was going to wait to give her my birthday present tomorrow, but change my mind when I see that it's perfect for the dress she's wearing.

"You look amazing, but it's missing something. Hang on—I think I have a solution," I say, rummaging through my suitcase. "Happy early birthday," I smile, handing her a small present. With Harper, I prefer to give experiences over material gifts—because I actually like being with her—however, I wanted her to have something besides a memory to remind her of this trip. I took a chance at buying her jewelry after noticing that she never wears any. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance that she either doesn't own any or is allergic to metals.

"You've already given me the gift of this trip," she says, reluctant to open it until I order her to. Her jaw drops open when she sees the simple diamond solitaire pendant, and I hold my breath as she slowly lifts it out of the box.

"You're not allergic to gold are you?" I ask when she doesn't say anything right away. She shakes her head no and smiles. "It's beautiful and perfect—I love it." She hands it to me and turns around, lifting her hair out of the way to let me clasp it around her neck.

"Now you look perfect," I nod with approval when she turns around. "Just promise me you won't pawn it off at work," I playfully joke when I see she's a little teary-eyed.

"I'll cherish it until the day I die," she says, slowly pressing her body against mine as her lips lightly touch my neck, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down my spine. Although sincere, her thank-you is an innocent exaggeration of gratitude that coming from anyone else would sound ridiculous. I instantly forget about it when her hands move from around my neck to below my waist.

"We're going to miss the show if you keep this up," I warn when she unzips my pants and reaches inside. She's the only woman that has just the right touch and stroke to interest me in a hand job that I'd typically pass on for the real deal with anyone else. After all, why settle for something that I can easily experience on my own.

"You're taking me to a Broadway show?" she asks, pulling away. She had me so distracted that I didn't even realize my slip.

"Phantom of the Opera," I say, reluctantly reaching in my coat pocket for the tickets. Her smile takes my breath away and spurs me in to action to make sure we're not late. As hard as it is for me to admit it—making her happy is taking precedence over anything else in my life, including the very thing that brought us together. I wonder if this has ever happened to any other sociopaths in the world.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

Harper holds nothing back fulfilling her obligations on the final night of her contract. Perhaps it's my imagination or the fact that she's more experienced, but she's become an expert at anticipating what I want from her, freely using every skill conceivable to slowly build me up until I'm like a giant wave crashing on the shore. She's no longer an innocent virgin letting me show her the ropes—she's a woman on fire with passion and desire, in charge of taking both of us to a new level of intimacy. I feel almost privileged to witness the transformation. It's like watching a beautiful butterfly emerge from a chrysalis and take off in flight.

"Harper what have you done to me?" I moan, unintentionally speaking my thoughts out loud. For the third time tonight her breathing quickens to match the rhythm of her hips as she rides on top of me—our bodies rising and falling in complete synchronization, giving the illusion of one. I open my eyes just in time to watch her orgasm which in and of itself is erotic as hell, but with me inside her—is pure ecstasy. Holding on to either hip, I steady her body as I plunge hard finding my own release. The next time I open my eyes she's smiling down at me, and I'm selfishly inclined to ask her not to move so that I can stay buried inside of her.

"It's cold and I'm getting a leg cramp," she says, as if reading my mind. She lowers her chest towards mine and I rise up meeting her half way, wrapping my arms around her body and rolling her over on her back in one swift move. Our bodies are moist with perspiration and there is a slight chill in the air, but there's not a blanket or sheet left on the bed to cover up with.

"You're all I need to stay warm," she murmurs, pulling me back towards her and anchoring a leg around my waist when I attempt to get up and retrieve them. Taking a deep breath she says, "I'm ready to hear your story now," as she gazes steadily in my eyes. She's a warm, naked, exhausted mess, lying tangled in my arms, and seems much too vulnerable right now to hear such a gruesome biography. I flinch at the suggestion and turn away. "Please?" she pleads making it hard to say no.

"Her name was Jessica Sorenson, and I was fifteen years old when her family took me in as a foster kid..."

***

A single tear rolls down Harper's cheek as I finish the story that's defined my life for the past fifteen years. I withheld nothing, even giving her unnecessary details like the sounds a pot-bellied pig makes after being slashed open and left to die. I have to hand it to her, she's more stoic than I thought she'd be.

"I don't think that one incident makes you a sociopath," she softly argues. "You were as much a victim of manipulation and conspiracy as you were a perpetrator." I shake my head in opposition.

"No Harper. I had no remorse in killing their pet, and even to this day I have no remorse or guilt in hurting people. I don't feel empathy or sympathy for other people—I just use them to get what I want."

"But you said you loved Jessica, and I believe you love me too. I can feel it when I'm with you. There's no one that I feel safer with than you," she insists.

"I was just a kid when I was with Jessica. In a very limited way, I do care about you. You're only one of a handful of people that I can say that about. But that doesn't translate to the type of unconditional love that you're thinking of. You feel safe with me only because I choose to make you feel safe. I'm good at making women feel what they want to feel—saying what they want to hear—it's just good acting that's all." We both fall silent, and to my relief she finally nods her head in acknowledgement, signaling an understanding of where we stand, but it doesn't stop her from saying, "I still love you, Grayson."

"Suit yourself—but loving me will just lead you down a dead end path. I will do everything in my power to keep you happy right now—because I want you in my life right now. But when I'm finished with you—I'll move on."

"What happens if I leave before you're finished with me?" she cautiously asks.

"I'll convince you to come back," I reply matter-of-factly. A sad, slow smile spreads across her face—the same mysterious expression that for some reason makes me feel a little uneasy.

"So I get to spend time with a man I love—who'll put up a convincing façade that he's in love with me too?" she asks. I shrug. If that's the way she wants to look at it—I won't argue. "You sure are brutally honest for someone with a sociopathic personality disorder," she lightly teases before becoming serious again. "Since you've been honest with me, I think it's only fair that I'm upfront with you too. When I leave, it'll be for good. I won't give you the chance to convince me of anything," she says, giving me fair warning with another cryptic message.

"Well than I guess it's up to me to make you never want to leave," I reply, laughing as I pin her to the bed with my body, easily holding her arms out of the way as I lightly tickle her rib cage, making her immediately squeal with laughter. I don't want the night to end with her thinking about one of us leaving or me killing people's pets. I want her to fall asleep in my arms believing that she's somehow different from all the other women, and will be the one capable of changing me. As long as she believes that, she'll never ever abandon the relationship.

***

It's hard to be in a bad mood when you're with someone like Harper Ellis. I've walked through Central Park before with a lover, and it was an entirely different experience. Maybe Dr. Cisco and Wanda really do have a point with the whole people and energy frequency theory. I feel light when I'm with her. She's easy to be around—easy to talk to. She never pouts and aside from having a little bit of a temper, she's almost always in a good mood. I must not be the only one who notices because complete strangers approach her—asking for directions, asking her to take pictures, offering her suggestions for seeing wildlife. They generally avoid me, unless it happens to be an attractive female around my age. Harper is the sixth person to learn that I have a sociopathic personality disorder and only the third to know the whole story of Jessica Sorenson and how I was diagnosed. I'm glad that it's out in the open. I'm glad she knows the worst part about me, yet still wants to be at my side. Of course I really wouldn't have confessed things to her if I wasn't ninety-nine percent sure she'd stick around after. I tell her a little bit about work, leaving out the lawsuit involving Luke of course, and she eventually shares the news of her dad passing away, looking surprised when I apologize for not being there for her. It makes me realize just how low her expectations really are of me.

"So are you going to let me go with you when you buy your new car this week?" I ask, as we stroll through the park. She flinches and doesn't answer immediately. I figured she'd be thrilled to go car shopping after saving up for it all this time, but she seems disinterested talking about it. "Are you at least going to tell me what you have in mind?" I add when she shrugs her shoulders.

"I'm not sure that I really want to spend the money on a car now. It seems sort of frivolous when Joey's going to need money for special programs," she says, not looking at me.

"You're kidding right?" I grip her hand and jerk her to a stop, spinning her around to face me.

"It's my money—I can do whatever I want with it," she replies defensively after taking one look at my face.

"Yeah, but you were charging me for sex so that you could buy a car," I say loud enough to generate stares from a couple passing by.

"So what. Why does it even matter to you?" I don't really have an answer to her question—but her changing her mind about the car bugs the hell out of me just the same.

"Fine—I'll buy you the damn car. That's what you want me to say—isn't it?" I blurt out, essentially accusing her of trying to manipulate me for money. The stunned look on her face settles that question very quickly.

"You don't know me very well," she quietly announces, pulling her hand away and shoving both of them in her coat pockets. "It's getting late, we should probably get back to the hotel and pack," she says as she's walking away in the opposite direction.

"Harper, our flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning," I call after her. She stops dead in her tracks and slowly turns around to face me.

"I thought we were leaving late tonight. I have an appointment first thing Tuesday morning."

"Look, I'm sorry about what I just said. Sometimes I just can't figure you out and it bothers me. Why don't you call and reschedule your appointment for some other day this week. I'll have you back home by noon tomorrow," I say, trying to smooth things over.

"No Grayson. I can't miss this appointment. I need to go back tonight. It has nothing to do with the rude, hurtful comment you just made. I really do need to get back."

"What's so important that it can't wait one day?" I know how irrational women can be over rude, hurtful comments, so naturally I challenge the validity of her claim.

"It's a private matter, and I don't want to talk to you about it. Why don't you just stay here, and I'll take a cab to the airport and try and fly out on a stand-by flight? I'm really sorry—I never would have accepted had I known it was going to be an extended trip." I can read sincerity written all over her face, and I despise the fact that she's keeping important information from me.

"I just shared one of the most personal experiences of my life with you, and you can't talk to me about this appointment? You're accusing me of not knowing you as a person, yet you're constantly being secretive. I think I have every right to know," I say, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. I want nothing more than to fix whatever it is that's coming between us but it's invisible and I can't.

"No Gray—you don't have a right to know anything, and I didn't coerce you in to telling me about your past—you gave it up voluntarily," she snaps. "Why can't you respect my privacy?"

" _Because you're mine and you don't get to keep important information from me,"_ I think to myself as I gaze into her eyes, searching for a thread of weakness that I can use to unravel the truth. All I see is a silent pleading to not push the issue—so I don't.

"Alright, I'll call the airline as soon as we get back and see if we can fly out on a red-eye," I concede, watching her body immediately relax.

"Thank you and I really am sorry." She wraps her arms around my waist, giving me a quick squeeze, before grabbing my hand, then we pick right back up talking about everything except personal matters.

***

I'm not the most tolerant person of being placed on hold while talking on the phone, but listening to Harper in the shower singing is relaxing enough that I don't jump down the airline ticket agent's throat when she comes back on the line.

"Mr. Knight, thank you for holding. My last flight out of New York is at eleven twenty, with a layover in Minneapolis, arriving in San Diego at six forty in the morning," she advises.

"Book it," I order, glancing over at Harper's purse where her cell phone is vibrating with a call for the third time in ten minutes. I rarely see Harper use her phone so my first thought is that it's an urgent matter related to Joey, and I feel compelled to see what the caller needs. When I pick it up and see that the caller is Curtis Kline—the guy Emma accused her of seeing on the side, I have no qualms about answering it for other reasons. The minute I say "Hello," he hangs up, likely assuming he dialed the wrong number. A few minutes later he tries calling back and this time when I answer I identify that it's her phone.

"Um, is Harper available?" he asks with trepidation, in an unusually low voice that makes me think that he's trying to disguise it.

"She's in the shower. Can I give her a message?" I politely offer. There's silence on the other end, so I add, "I can get her if you need to speak to her urgently," making it clear that I have the prerogative to join her in the bathroom.

"No need to disturb her, I'll call her back later," he says, immediately hanging up on me. I stare at the phone contemplating my next action, and by habit swipe my thumb across the screen, fully expecting it to be password protected like almost everybody's cell phone is. When it's not, I justify my next actions with the ten thousand dollar check that should give me the right to guarantee her exclusivity to me. Wanda used to say, 'be careful what you go digging for—you might not like what you find,' and I definitely don't like what I'm uncovering now. There are several weeks of incoming calls from Curtis Kline, sometimes two or three in one day, each one lasting ten minutes to over an hour. The only other person that comes close to that many calls is someone by the name of Steven Tyburski. Both have Los Angeles area codes. I feel as if I've been hit with a bulldozer. I've defended clients who've committed crimes of passion and used to wonder how anyone could become so impassioned over another person—now I know. It all makes sense now, all the warning signs were there—vague answers to questions, trips to L.A for mystery appointments, unanswered phone calls. Lucas was right all along. How could I have been so blind to ignore all the signs? Something inside of me snaps and I'm shaking when I open the bathroom door to confront her.

"Grayson, what's wrong?" she says, after taking one look at me. She doesn't think I notice her unbandaged arm that she's discreetly trying to hide behind her back.

"Who is Curtis Kline?" I ask through clenched teeth, holding up her cell phone with the pages of recent calls.

"You searched through my stuff?" she predictably accuses, looking indignantly at me.

"Harper, I'm going to ask you one more time and I want the truth. Are you sleeping with Kline?"

"No."

"You fucking lying tramp—tell me the goddamn truth!" I shout, making her back up against the wall. Her eyes widen with fear and her bottom lip trembles.

"Gray, I'm telling..." I grab her arm and turn it over, exposing a bruised inner arm with puncture marks along engorged veins. "It's not what you think," she whispers, yanking her arm away and placing the bandage over it.

"What's your drug of choice Harper? Please tell me you weren't stupid enough to smuggle it in your suitcase?" I hiss, the fury simmering inside of me. "We're done," I say, tossing her cell phone in the sink.

"I can explain—please don't go," she begs following me out of the bathroom. It's the first time she's ever attempted to stop me from leaving.

"It's too late. You're a con artist, and a cheating whore. If I stay I'm going to hurt you and I don't want to hurt you. I'm going to walk out that door and I want you gone by the time I get back. Your plane ticket is on the desk." I've never threatened to physically harm a woman before, and certainly have never needed to use words like whore and tramp. I feel queasy as I walk out the door— the sound of her sobs stay with me long after I've left the hotel.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Work offers a slight reprieve from thinking about Harper Ellis. I've accepted that it's over between the two of us but she's constantly on my mind when I'm alone with my thoughts. Luckily this past week has been fourteen hour long days of chaos preparing for the Lester trial. Jury selection for the case begins tomorrow morning, and given the fact that he's a local pastor accused of molesting two teenage girls, there's going to be a moderate amount of publicity. Travis Oliver took the case from Timothy and found several holes in the defense strategy that needed to be addressed, and we spent three long days working on just that alone. He now has sufficient evidence to refute the prosecutor's assertions in the case, which could very well lead to an acquittal.

It's just past nine o'clock on a Tuesday night, and I don't particularly want to go home yet. I can't walk through my kitchen without imagining Harper standing there in a black teddy. I feel an emptiness that I've never experienced before and look to a bottle of Scotch to dull my perception of it. I'm even finding solace in talking to Wanda, letting her pitch her theories and beliefs to me without ridiculing or challenging her. She's thrilled to see the emotional impact the break-up has on me, although is completely optimistic that it's a temporary separation. Naturally, she doesn't believe that Harper's doing drugs or cheating on me, and has taken it upon herself to track down Curtis Kline, even though I ordered her to stay out of it. Both she and Dr. Cisco concur that the circumstances between Harper and I are part of a much larger process that's designed to propel me toward my true destiny, and this is what I'm thinking about as I'm walking out the door and my office phone rings. Had the caller waited another thirty seconds, I would have been gone and it would have gone to voicemail. Few people have the direct number, so I automatically assume that it's Travis, trying to catch me with a last minute question. There's a moment of silence after I answer, that almost causes me to hang up, but instead I repeat, "Hello," once again.

"Well, well, if it isn't the big shot lawyer himself," the caller sneers. I instantly recognize the voice as the same one that left the cryptic voicemail message last week. I'm still not a hundred percent certain that it belongs to one of the Sorenson brothers but I act like it does.

"Well, well, which gutless Sorenson twin am I talking to?" I retort, not wasting any time implicating them.

"Things are about to get even Knight. When you lose the person you love, you'll know how it feels to lie awake in bed at night wishing you could have done something to prevent it," he forewarns me. Whoever the person is, he doesn't know me very well if he's using words such as love.

"If you do anything to hurt my sister, I'll hunt you down like a bloodhound and make sure you never see anything outside of prison walls for the rest of your life," I growl.

"Believe me, I'm just an innocent bystander to the events that are about to take place. I'm only sticking around to watch you suffer. I'll be your reminder that true justice is in the hands of God, not contemptuous attorney bastards like yourself," he chides, making my mind reel with questions that I never get a chance to ask. He hangs up without saying another word, and I'm left trying to decipher what the hell he's talking about and what my next move is. I've had many threats against me in past years which is why I rarely give out my home address and have my mail delivered to the office. It's considered hazards of the job and almost every attorney is at risk. But I'm almost certain this has to do with Jessica Sorenson, even though I couldn't prove it right now. As I'm walking out of the office, I place a call to Samuel Bennett, one of the best private investigators in the industry. It's time to take matters into my own hands and track the Sorenson brothers down, putting an end to their prank calls and threats.

***

Every once in a while I glance at my surveillance monitor to check on Lucas and his attorney Ashley Stockdale, who are waiting for me in one of my conference rooms, as I finish with the document I've been working on. I'm purposefully late to the appointment and I can see that the delay is agitating the both of them. Lucas has a soft neck brace on, which he keeps readjusting like someone who's unaccustomed to wearing one. Ashley Stockdale should be occupied with business, but she's not. Instead, she rests her chin in her hand and drums her fingers on the table impatiently, like a bored child. She's young and beautiful, but obviously hasn't done her homework or she'd be a hell of a lot more nervous than she is now. I watch as Lucas leans over and kisses her on the mouth, answering my questions about their relationship. I figured there had to be a reason why Sheila's missing from the meeting, and he's not wearing his wedding band. The only question is whether or not he's screwing her behind Sheila's back or not—it'd make for a nice blackmail if he was. The thought of it makes me think of Harper and Curtis Kline and my chest tightens in response. I've instigated my share of breakups, but I always end one before beginning another—cheater is one thing I haven't added to my bad boy behavior list.

Finally I get up, figuring an hour long wait is sufficient to show them who has the power, and am intersected by Wanda as I'm walking out the door.

"Um, how long do you think you'll be?" she asks hesitantly.

"Shouldn't take long—maybe an hour or so. Why?"

"I have something that you need to see, but it's best to wait until you're finished with them." She has that strange look on her face that she gets when she's worried about something.

"Should I reschedule their appointment," I grin, briefly enjoying the idea of inconveniencing them even more.

"No, but don't drag it out—just settle and get it over with so you can move forward," she says sternly. She's never really cared for the passive-aggressive power plays attorneys take part in and over the years, I've cut way back because of her.

"If I'm not out by noon, come in and break it up," I reply, adjusting my tie and grabbing my suit jacket hanging on the back of the door.

I enter the conference room, just as the two of them are getting ready to leave.

"I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting Ms. Stockdale—I'm Grayson Knight," I introduce myself.

"Did you get lost?" she snaps, slamming her briefcase back down on the table. "I have another appointment in forty minutes so we need to make this quick," she says, trying to intimidate me.

"Please allow me to compensate you for your time. Just let Wanda know your billing rate, and I'll pay you for the hour," I offer, catching her completely off guard. I have no doubt that she arrived at this meeting with preconceived ideas about my reputation, which I decide to personally challenge by being nice—at least initially. I give her a warm smile and pull out her chair for her, a lost gentleman tradition that most women still find charming. I can see she's a little unnerved by my cordial behavior, and glances questioningly at Lucas who scowls at me. I fight back a smile and deliver a brief speech about how confident I am of us coming to a satisfactory agreement. It's a standard speech that I could recite in my sleep if I had to, but I smile flirtatiously to make a game out of it, causing Lucas's face to darken with anger.

"My client Lucas Harvard is suing you for personal injuries sustained during the assault you carried out on him on September 1st," she states, working hard to make it sound believable.

"And exactly what injuries did Mr. Harvard sustain?" I inquire, raising a brow at her.

"Closed head injury, broken nose, and neck injury," she replies.

"How much are you asking for in compensation?"

"One-hundred and twenty-five thousand," she answers, her voice wavering, as she avoids eye contact with me—a sure sign she doesn't really expect to get it. I almost feel compelled to counsel her on how to circumvent such non-verbal cues.

"Tell your client that I'll settle for twenty-five thousand, which is a generous offer considering that he provoked the fight and I was acting in self-defense." I purposefully refer to him in the third person to exclude his input. "Furthermore, I have compelling evidence that his claims are fraudulent and should I be provoked, will prosecute him for perjury, which could land him up to a thirty-day jail sentence. I have a written statement by a police officer who overheard Sheila encouraging him to fake a neck injury while in the ER, and he was tagged on Facebook playing basketball on Saturday," I say, folding my arms across my chest as I wait for their rebuttal.

"His wife's comments are irrelevant to his injuries, and his one attempt to resume his normal recreational activities resulted in him having numbness down his right arm," she responds, glancing at Lucas sideways in an 'I told you not to do it' manner. "In addition, he's also suffering from sinus issues because of his broken nose."

"So he thought it would be a good idea to go golfing with his wife on Monday, when he was having signs of neurological deficits in his arm?" I question, clearly catching her off guard. "I have video surveillance of the two if you'd like to review it?" I add, glancing at Lucas whose face is turning red with anger.

"You went golfing with Sheila?" she hisses, temporarily slipping into the persona of a scorned mistress.

"I can explain," he quickly says, glaring at me.

"I don't really have the patience for a lover's quarrel. It's clear that you don't have a winnable case Ms. Stockdale, and you've come to this meeting ill-prepared—so why don't you settle right now while you're ahead, and quit wasting everyone's time."

"We'll take it," she says through clenched teeth, staring at Lucas as if daring him to challenge her. She slams her briefcase shut and without another word prepares to leave.

"You know, Ms. Stockdale, if you really want to succeed in this industry, you need to stop sleeping with your married clients," I advise her as she's walking out the door.

"Fuck both of you," she murmurs, slamming the door behind her.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Lucas hisses, moving towards me like he's going to start a physical altercation.

"Careful Harvard, this room is under surveillance," I smugly warn, causing him to halt—likely because he now realizes that in addition to everything else, I also have him kissing Ashely on tape. He instantly changes his tactic.

"It must kill you to admit that I was right all along. I bet you can't stand the fact that she's packed up and moved to L.A. to be with someone else," he sneers. "If you'd just listened to me, we wouldn't be having this discussion and we'd still be friends, but instead you had to go and defend a girl that was only out for your money." I'm well known among my peers for being able to remain expressionless during any situation, but the shock of his announcement has a strange effect on me. The idea of her moving away and never seeing her again feels excruciatingly painful, and he must see it written on my face.

"Oh, I'm sorry Gray. Did you not know that Miss Ellis has fled town to be with a dude by the name of...let's see..." he snaps his fingers trying to recall. "What was that guy's name?"

"Kline and yes I knew she was moving," I recover enough to barely choke out the lie. My throat is so dry it almost makes me gag. "This meeting is over, Lucas. Unless you want Sheila to see the tape of you and Ashely, I suggest you stay the hell away from me." I storm out of the office before he has a chance to respond, trying to maintain my composure as I walk back to my office. I make eye contact with Wanda as I pass by, and can tell by the look on her face, she'd been monitoring the meeting from her computer. After making sure Lucas leaves the building she enters my office and quietly closes the door.

"I don't believe it—she wouldn't just leave Joey for a man," she says, shaking her head in denial. "I think you need to go to her apartment and see for yourself." I feel too empty inside to even argue with the suggestion, and she must sense it because she sighs heavily and shifts to another topic. "You received this package in the mail today that has me a little on edge," she says, handing me a small box. Most of the time packages arrive containing visual prop paraphernalia for current cases. Wanda is responsible for seeing that things get properly logged in and secured in file drawers so that attorneys can use them during trial. For the second time today, I receive a blow that makes my stomach twist in a tight knot.

On the day that Jessica Sorenson told me that she was pregnant, I went to a downtown department store, and purchased a silver plated white cubic zirconia 3-stone ring for $29.99. I customized it by painting the middle stone a pale lavender hue to simulate an Amethyst stone—her favorite gem, and promised her the real thing before our five-year anniversary. Now it's on the ring finger of a plastic severed bloody hand that you see for sale in Halloween stores. It was delivered to my office, addressed to me, however as with all incoming packages was opened by Wanda.

"It's probably just a practical joke. For all I know Tara could have sent it," I downplay the incident as no big deal and place the box with the hand off to the side of my desk.

"Yeah that's what I thought until I noticed this note included," she wryly says, handing it to me.

This is just a reminder of the dark cloud that will forever follow you after the trail of devastation you left behind fifteen years ago. Our Lord is sovereign and will punish Satan loving heathens like you.

Romans 2:5 "But because of your stubbornness and your unrepentant heart, you are storing up wrath against yourself for the day of God's wrath, when his righteous judgment will be revealed."

I study it for a moment, and meet Wanda's gaze. We've had our share of religious fanatics threaten us before, but somehow she knows that this is different and much more personal. She nods in understanding and tilts her head sympathetically. "Fifteen years is a long time to keep a terrible secret," she says softly. "What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. I already have Sam Bennett looking in to it." I put the note in the box and carefully close the lid, leaving the hand with the ring untouched. Thankfully she doesn't pester me for an explanation.

"It's been a long week for you. There's nothing going on for the rest of the afternoon," she hints, leaving me the decision of taking the rest of the day off. Suddenly I feel exhausted to the point of collapse, and could use a hit of adrenaline producing hormones.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning. Give anything urgent to Harris to handle," I reply, suddenly very anxious to get outdoors for thrilling and challenging recreation. It's a perfect day to go windsurfing on the ocean, and the sport itself requires complete concentration—leaving no room for thoughts of Harper or Jessica.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Harper let me in!" I yell, as I pound my fist on her door. Sometime just after ten o'clock at night and a few too many drinks, I made my way to her apartment, possibly needing to see for myself that she really is gone for good. I tried calling but her cell phone was out of service. I turn and knock on Mica's door next, desperately pleading for her to answer—when she does I hug her with relief.

"Mica, please tell me how to get a hold of her. I have to talk to her—please." She shoves me away, and crosses her arms tightly against her body, clenching her fists.

"Mr. Knight, I don't know what you did to her—but you messed her up real bad. I've never seen Harper so sad." Mica asserts, speaking in a soft, slow southern accent—her own voice full of sorrow, as she blames me for her disappearance. "She donated almost everything she owns to the Salvation Army. I saw the truck with two men haul everything from her apartment." My mind reels with denial—I'm not known for giving up easily on something that matters.

"Did she say where she was going? She must have given you her new address," I say, pulling out my wallet to pay her for information. My heart sinks when she shakes her head no.

"Harper was a very private person. She wouldn't tell me even though I begged her to," she says, refusing to take the hundred dollar bill from me. "All she said was that where she's going—she won't need all of this stuff. She hugged me real tight like she was going away for good. I miss her already."

"I miss her too, Mica," I admit, leaning against the doorframe for support. "I love her," I blurt out loud, without consciously planning to. The announcement stuns even me. It's a monumental moment—broadcasting the very thing I swore against most of my life. "I love her," I repeat more softly just to hear it spoken from my own lips once again. Somehow it all seems crystal clear—a sort of certainty that she is my destiny. An image of spending the rest of my life with her floods my mind. She's it. She's what Dr. Cisco refers to as a perfect vibrational match in terms of energy—a soul mate. I look at Mica and smile, then slide to the ground outside her door, feeling suddenly light-headed.

"I think you've had too much to drink, Mr. Knight. Harper said you'd never admit to loving anybody," she laughs, joining me on the ground.

"It's an energy thing Mica—she's breathed life into me and transformed the word love into something I can relate to. I feel it when I'm with her, even when we're mad at each other," I ramble, trying to substantiate my claim. She looks at me with a confused expression but doesn't question the idea. "I need to find her so that I can tell her," I say, running my hand through my hair in frustration. She suddenly places a hand on my arm, murmuring, "Wait here," and disappears inside, coming out a few minutes later with a piece of paper that has a phone number written on it.

"I don't think the Olsens always have Harper's or Joey's best interest in mind. I doubt they'll tell you where to find her, but it's worth a shot," she says, handing it to me. "Joey says they don't want her spending time with Harper, and often times they won't even answer the phone when Harper calls. They took away the stuffed dolphin you got her, and it nearly broke her heart." My temper flares—who would do that to a child?

"Mica, I need to know if Harper left with a man by the name of Curtis Kline," I finally inquire about the burning question on my mind. It would help to know just how serious she is about the guy, even though it won't stop me from trying to win her back.

"She might of Mr. Knight. He's been hanging around here a lot the past few weeks. Harper said they were just friends. She normally doesn't talk about private matters, but she slipped once and said that her heart belongs to only you." I quickly glance at her, my heart racing at the confession.

"She really said that?" Mica smiles and nods. I rest my head against the stucco wall and close my eyes. "I'll find her Mica, and when I do, I'll make things right—I promise you, I'll make her happy," I murmur more as a vow to myself.

***

I place a hundred dollar bill on Mica's table with a note that simply says, "Thank-you." She offered her couch as a crash pad, after rightfully insisting I not drink and drive. I fell sound asleep, just now waking up at six-thirty in the morning, and other than a slight headache I feel like a new man. I'm in love—I know it, I feel it, I declared it, and I believe it. I have no idea what triggered the revelation or conversion but I'm prepared to find Harper and give her my full commitment. I regret walking out on her in New York City, and can still hear her pleading for a chance to explain. Dr. Cisco discourages people from dwelling on guilt, shame and regret—citing that they carry a low energy quality. Dr. Shaw on the other hand believed that my lack of remorse was a reflection of a dangerous criminal mind, and I believe to this day she was actually afraid of me. I wonder how different my life would have been had I been assigned to Dr. Cisco at the age of sixteen, instead of her. My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts and I take the call from Samuel Bennett.

"Good morning, Mr. Knight. I have some news regarding the Sorenson brothers. I was able to locate both of them. Michael Sorenson is married and still lives in Napa. He took over the family's winery business and is fairly visible within the community. He has three kids and his wife is a nurse at the local hospital. Marcus however moved to Los Angeles a year ago. He works for Chase Bank in the credit card division. He's recently divorced with two daughters that he shares custody of with his ex. I think he's probably your man—I found one incident on his record where police were dispatched to his home for a domestic dispute, but there were no arrests. Would you like me to trail him for a few days and get his routine?" It doesn't surprise me that Marcus is more suspect. He always was the more rogue of the two, and had a tendency toward being self-righteous—quick to condemn other's actions while bullying anyone that got in his way. He fits the personality of a religious zealot.

"No Sam, just send me his demographics and any photos you can dig up. I'll take it from here," I reply, pleased with the information. "I need a second address though, on a Phyllis and Fred Olsen, living in the San Diego area. She's a social worker for the county."

"I'll see what I can do boss," he replies and hangs up.

It's a rainy Friday morning and I'm planning my weekend as if it already includes seeing Harper. With any luck, Sam will be able to get me an address today, and I'll make a personal visit to the Olsens. I can be much more persuasive in person, and I know exactly how to put pressure on people to give up information. Then I'll head to Los Angeles tonight, and take care of Marcus, leaving the rest of the weekend devoted to repairing my relationship with Harper. I vacillate between calling Wanda with the news now or telling her in person, settling on the latter when I glance at the clock and realize she still might be asleep. She's believed in me for the past five years and will be thrilled to learn that she was right all along.

***

"I need to see you right away," I bark at Wanda as I'm walking by her office. She immediately gets up and follows me down the hall, softly closing the door behind her in my office.

"Grayson, what's going on?" she asks, her face creased with worry. As hard as I try, I can't keep a straight face.

"I love her, Wanda," I simply say, waiting for the weight of my words to sink in. She stands there with her mouth partially open, trying to decide if I'm joking. "I love Harper. I have rapid and high vibrational levels of energy toward her," I laugh, quoting jargon from her and Dr. Cisco. "I'm ready to commit to everything she needs from me. You were right—I love her." She bites her lower lip and becomes teary-eyed.

"Oh Grayson, my beautiful boy. You have finally broken your barriers," she says, coming over to give me a hug. "I knew it. I knew you had it in you to love someone—it just took the right girl to come along. Sociopath my ass, Dr. Shaw," she mutters to herself, blinking back tears. "I'd like to give that doctor a piece of my mind for all the heartache she's caused you."

"I stopped by her apartment—she's really gone," I concede, my heart heavy with a desperation to find her. "I have a phone number for the Olsens and Sam is working on getting me their address. I need a story concocted that involves a large sum of money—possibly a settlement or payment of some sort that requires a notarized signature from Harper. If the Olsens believe they're entitled to some of it, then they'll be motivated to put us in contact with Harper. Can you draw up some bogus paperwork?"

"Yes and I'll try to get a meeting with them arranged for this afternoon, so you can use the weekend to find her. Thank goodness you have this lead because I'm having a hell of a time finding anything on Curtis Kline," she says with frustration.

"You really are the best, Wanda," I respond with a rare compliment, as I hand her the number.

"I know I am," she says confidently, hurrying to get started on her assignment. "You just remember that the next time you tell me to mind my own business," she hollers over her shoulder.

***

Before I even have a chance to tell Eli Cisco about the changes that have occurred over the past twenty-four hours, he comments on how he can feel a shift in my energetic fields since my last appointment with him.

"I typically see this when a person lets go of resistance to something major in their life. Acceptance is the opposite of resistance and projects a higher vibratory resonance," he explains. I tell him about my epiphany with Harper and the certainty I have about my feelings for her. He smiles and nods.

"Every once in a while, I'll see a person have a profound 'ah ha' moment in which their old belief system is spontaneously released and replaced with a new belief system—most of the time it's more gradual. In order for the re-programming to be permanent though, you need to constantly reinforce this new idea in your own mind, regardless of the obstacles you encounter along the way."

"I've already encountered obstacles. She's packed up and moved—possibly out of town and with another man. At this point I have no idea on how to find her," I sigh. Lucas was right, the thought of another man touching her is killing me. "For all I know it may be too late. She may never forgive me for the way I treated her in New York—God I was such a jerk," I admit out loud, regretting everything I did and said to her. Eli just chuckles.

"Grayson, there's a double edge sword to the change that's happening within you. On one hand, when you believed that you were a sociopath—incapable of feeling remorse and guilt—it prevented you from dwelling on those negative emotions, and that was a good thing. The recipe for successful living involves letting go of the past, and living in the present moment, along with mastering complete control over your thoughts. I'm not saying that you shouldn't experience regret, but the minute you take the first step to correct a situation, you need to release it from your conscience and move on to positive thoughts and expectations." I study him for a moment, then ask him about his past, specifically the loss of his wife.

"She was brilliant—the CEO of a tech company, and an amazing athlete. I had just completed my doctorate and was trying to build a practice. We owed thousands in student loans, so she never felt like she could quit the job that she hated, even though I encouraged her to look for something else," he pauses, getting up to walk over to his desk, where he picks up a framed picture and hands it to me. It's of the two of them backpacking in the wilderness. She reminds me of Harper with her natural beauty and genuine smile, versus a fake courtesy smile.

"She was really attractive," I say, handing it back to him after studying it for a few seconds.

"She always claimed that one day she'd just keel over from the stress, and that's exactly what happened. Without warning she had a massive heart attack. Her death inspired me to look at how our thoughts and feelings affect future outcomes in our lives, and the science behind it. Ultimately, it led me to change my own habits of thinking, and the focus of my practice to include quantum living principles."

I walk back to my office thinking about Eli, his wife, and my future. Eli petitioned me to pay attention to all of the meaningful coincidences that have recently occurred and will occur in the future.

"While synchronicities can't be scientifically proven, I believe that when noticed they help you understand the interconnection between things, while alerting you to pay attention to certain areas in your own life," he said. Right now I'm skeptical but I find it entertaining to think about.

The Central Bar and Grill closes which results in us going to the Trio Pub, which is where I meet Harper on the day that I break up with Tara. While seeing Harper I have thoughts of Jessica—which I haven't had in years, and then from out of nowhere, one of the Sorenson brothers contacts me. I finally agree to see a psychiatrist who doesn't label me with a personality disorder, and within weeks I have a profound breakthrough in experiencing new emotions, that go against a sociopathic personality disorder.

***

"You know these things take a little time—cut me a break, Gray," Samuel Bennett says in an irritated voice, when I get on him for not uncovering the Olsens' address. So far, today's been an overall bust in getting any information on Harper's whereabouts. The Olsens never answered our calls and even Ed and Martha at the Trio Pub weren't given a forwarding address or phone number for Harper. My mood darkens as the day wears on, and by the time I leave the office, I'm looking forward to a face-to-face meeting with Marcus Sorenson.

"Are you going to tell me what happened with this guy fifteen years ago?" Wanda asks as we walk to our vehicles together.

"Nope. Trust me you don't want to hear it."

"Okay but don't be getting in any fights, you need to keep that face pretty for when you see Harper, and besides, I'm going to visit a friend and won't be around to bail you out of jail."

"If these photos are recent, he's got to be close to three-hundred pounds. I promise you a physical altercation will be the last thing on his mind. Besides, I might run for political office someday and a police record with jail time will just make me more relatable to the voters," I laugh.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Four hours after leaving San Diego I pull up in front of a small house with the address of Marcus Sorenson. I sit in my car for a moment considering what type of approach is most suitable to the situation—a hard and aggressive approach versus a let's talk this out approach. Technically when he called my office, he didn't threaten me personally, and was quick to disclaim criminal intent. He said he simply wants to see me suffer, which very well could be the opinion of thousands in San Diego. What I want most out of the confrontation is to expose him and put an end to the smoke screen. I'm fully prepared to address any residual grudge he's harboring against me regarding what happened to Jessica. I can only assume that his reference to losing someone I care about has to do with Camille or Abby, but I spoke to them on the way up and they seemed to be doing fine. The only other person he might possibly have a connection to is Toby, whom I didn't meet until the year after I left the Sorenson's house.

The lights are on and I have no qualms about disturbing him this late in the evening. I smirk to myself as I picture a morbidly obese man sitting at home alone on a Friday night—parked in front of the T.V. with a bag of potato chips, and a gallon of ice cream. Nothing could be further from the truth. The man who opens the door is a hundred pounds lighter than in the photos, looking more like the Marcus I remember. He has a grin on his face as he hollers, "No cheating girls," who are sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him to return to their board game. Now I wish I'd called first.

"Hello Sorenson—remember me?" I calmly say, watching his moves carefully. He blinks several times before his face changes with recognition.

"Grayson Knight? What are you doing here?" he stammers, looking shocked as hell.

"I came to talk to you and give you back this," I reply, handing him the package that was sent to me. I can tell instantly that he has no idea what it is or what's inside.

"Please come on in," he offers, nervously glancing over at his two daughters who stare at us with curiosity. He opens the lid to the box, and changes his mind, blocking me with his hand from stepping over the threshold. "What the hell is this?" he growls in a low voice.

"You tell me. It was sent to my office along with a note and you're one of two suspects," I reply in an equally low voice. He closes the lid and studies me for a moment, then steps aside to let me in.

"Girls, daddy has an old friend here, and we need to talk business. We'll continue the game tomorrow, but it's time for you to get ready for bed," he says. They grumble in response but obediently get up, shuffling down the hall to their bedrooms. He waits until they're gone before turning and handing the box back to me. "I didn't send it Gray, and I have no idea who did," he bluntly says, sitting down at the table and pushing the board game off to the side.

"The ring on that finger was one that I'd given to her. Only a few people could have known that, and gotten possession of it. Do you think your brother would have sent it?"

"I couldn't say. I haven't spoken to him in over a year, since my divorce. As far as I know—he keeps his nose pretty clean, and is real busy with his family and running the business." He looks down at his hands and is quiet for a moment. I've seen expressions like his before on witnesses struggling to tell a jury something difficult. Finally he says, "While I have the chance I will say that killing our pig the way you did, was reprehensible, especially after we were already suffering from the loss of Jess. My mom went crazy and had to be hospitalized." He pauses and looks up at me, I suppose to gauge my level of shame. Even with all the recent emotional breakthroughs, I still can't summon any remorse.

"Your parents ultimately were responsible for Jessica's death. They lied to her about me and separated us during a time when she needed me the most. She was distraught after the procedure and taking strong pain killers—somebody should have been there at her side. I cared a lot about your sister, and if they would have left us alone, things would have worked out much better," I say, keeping my anger in check. He shoves his hands in his pocket and stares at me as if trying to decide whose side to take.

"There were a lot of things that surfaced after the funeral. I don't know if you know this, but I guess Jessica had been with a few guys besides you. One kid in particular went berserk when he found out she was dead. He stopped by the house almost every day until my dad finally threatened to call the sheriff on him." I nod even though I still find it hard to believe that she lied to me. "There were rumors that my dad had been molesting her, and even my girlfriend at the time—Katie, came forward saying that my father had touched her inappropriately. We got in a huge fight over it and eventually broke up. They did an investigation but never had enough evidence to charge him with anything," he states, before going to the refrigerator and pulling out two bottled waters, handing one to me. "It wasn't until one of my own daughters came forward with a similar allegation that I realized Jess and Katie were probably telling the truth. I confronted him, and do you know that the little bastard never even tried to deny it—he just threatened to disinherit me," he says rolling his eyes.

"What did you do?" I ask, now intrigued by his story.

"I went to the police against my wife's wishes. I think she influenced the girls in to altering their story because the police never even talked to my dad. Rather than fight it, I just insisted that my girls never be left alone with him again, and he retaliated by writing me out of his will—which ultimately caused my wife to divorce me. My brother was so worried about the family reputation that he distanced himself from me completely. Here's to one fucked up family," he chuckles, oddly without the sort of bitterness I typically see with this sort of thing. I stare long and hard at him, seeing him in a new light. "You know he's the one who encouraged us to kick your ass that night," he confesses, after taking a long gulp of water.

"If a few more minutes had gone by, they would have been hauling me away in an ambulance," I reply unemotionally. He shakes his head remorsefully, and there's a moment of silence.

"Last year after my wife left, I did some heavy drinking, gained a bunch of weight and came close to losing custody of my girls. That's when I really hit rock bottom. I went to see a therapist who teaches something called quantum living—and it turned my life around. It changed the way I think and view the world," he tells me while my heart catches in my throat. This is what Dr. Cisco would consider a very meaningful and powerful coincidence worthy of serious consideration. I had never heard the term quantum living until I met Eli and now out of the blue someone from my dark past brings it up—even my rationale, scientific mind can't dismiss the phenomenon. The last thing I want right now is to share therapy experiences with Marcus Sorenson, so I refrain from showing any recognition on the subject. Thankfully the soft pitter-patter of approaching footsteps interrupts us, keeping him from taking the conversation any deeper.

"Daddy we want you to come and read us a story," one of his daughters appears, rubbing her eyes. He looks at her and smiles giving me a glimpse of a man completely devoted to somebody other than himself.

"Of course, sweet heart—I'll be right in," he readily replies, either anxious to end our conversation or eager to fulfill his child's wishes.

"I need to get going anyway," I say, grabbing the box. "So you don't know who might have..." He shakes his head no before I finish.

"Grayson, it was good to see you. Take care of yourself okay," he says, extending his hand to shake mine. The only thing I'm certain of when I leave his house is that; he's not the mysterious caller, he didn't send the package, and it's possible for anyone to change.

***

One of the last intimate conversations I had with Harper in New York City, she told me that when she leaves, it'll be for good. So far she's moved out of her apartment, and changed her cell phone number in an attempt to sever all ties. Had I known just how prophetic those words would be, I'm certain I would have handled things differently. I've never been more desperate to talk to someone than I am to talk to her, even as I hear her words, _"I won't give you the chance to convince me of anything,"_ echo in my mind over and over again. The weekend turned up nothing on her, the Olsens, or my stalker. Not only am I putting pressure on Samuel Bennett to get me an address for the Olsens, but Curtis Kline as well, offering him a generous bonus when he's successful. With each growing minute I don't hear back from him, my inner turmoil escalates. It's worse than waiting for a jury to come back with a verdict on a high stakes trial. I showed up for work thinking it would help, but if anything it's making things much worse. Spending forty minutes listening to a winey fifty-eight year old client complain about his hip pain, makes me want to destroy something, and it takes a consorted effort to quietly listen—keeping my sarcastic remarks to myself. I'm not at all inconvenienced and even relieved when Wanda interrupts by barging into my office waving a white envelope in front of me, giving me the throat slash signal to end the call immediately.

"A certified letter from Harper," she says breathlessly when I disconnect the call. She shoves the envelope under my nose and points to the return address that just says Ellis with a P.O Box in Los Angeles. "I knew she'd reach out to you. Open it Gray," she orders when I don't immediately react. My heart races as I stare down at it, and my hand trembles as I slowly reach for my letter opener. A plethora of unfamiliar emotions wash over me—relief, fear, hope, confusion and ambivalence. Suddenly the thought occurs to me that the unknown might just be better than the known, and it strikes me as strange that I would even entertain such an idea. It's not until I start reading the two-page hand written letter by Harper that I acknowledge the real possibility of premonitions. In the blink of an eye, my world changes in the most profoundly tragic way possible.

Dearest Grayson,

I couldn't depart from this earth and leave you without giving an explanation why. A few weeks before I met you I was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer and was told that I would be lucky to live another two months. The tumor was so large that the doctors didn't even think I would benefit from a round of chemo and radiation. Through an internet support group, I learned about a very expensive experimental treatment being used in Europe with promising results. Naturally, it wasn't covered by insurance, and I never could have come up with the money on my own. When you came along and took an interest in me, I thought we'd simply have a one night stand and I'd cross an important event off my bucket list (after all, no twenty-five year old should die a virgin—right?). It's not until you said you'd pay a small fortune to take my virginity that the thought to charge you even crossed my mind. Honestly, I never thought you'd say yes to such a ludicrous offer—but when you did, I began to have a shimmer of hope.

I started the drug therapy the day after you endorsed the first check to me and completed my final dose ten weeks later. The results were miraculous. The tumor shrunk to the size of a pea and for the first time since being diagnosed I dared to believe that there was potential for a cure. Unfortunately, as with most things in life, nothing comes without a price. In a crazy twist of fate it appears that I've traded one fatal condition for another. The combination of drugs that took down the tumor also proved to be toxic to my kidneys. Because of my underlying diagnosis, I'm not a candidate for a kidney transplant, and will only do dialysis temporarily so that I can make final arrangements for Joey's adoption.

Curtis Kline is a clergyman and grief counselor assigned to my case to help me through the final steps of the dying process. Over the last two months we've become personal friends, but I can assure you that we're definitely not physically involved. He's offered me a room in his house simply because he doesn't want me to die alone—it seemed like a wise idea to take him up on it.

There were so many times that I wanted to tell you the truth, but couldn't. More than anything, I was terrified of becoming your charity case. Even though you claim to be a sociopath, I have a feeling your response to me would have been one of pity, which would have been much worse than watching you walk out the door. At least my final memories of you are filled with passion and desire, and that's how I want you to remember me as well.

Thank you for everything. I have no regrets and hope you don't either. You gave me so much more than just a chance at life. I plan on reimbursing you the money which will come from my life insurance policy once I'm gone. The attorney handling my affairs is Steven Tyburski and he'll be in contact with you. I've pre-arranged a small funeral only for Joey's sake. Please don't feel obligated in any way to attend. If you think of me at all—I'd rather have you remember amazing sex, swimming in the ocean, or jumping out of airplanes.

As I once said, you own a piece of real estate in my heart that's non-refundable and non-transferable—I am forever yours.

Harper Ellis

I re-read the letter over and over again, looking desperately for the hole or gap that I can begin building an opposing case against. It's what I'm best at—taking someone else's testimony and twisting it in such a way that it loses its truth. More than anything in the world, I want to doubt the words in this letter. I want to hear Harper's own voice telling me that everything's fine—her kidneys are working again, and there's no trace of cancer in her body. I want it to be my tragedy not hers. I'd welcome a Dear John letter saying, 'sorry asshole you're too late, and I'm in love with someone else now'. At least I can work with that—treat it like a contest to win her back. But this? I moan and bury my face in my hands, breaking out in a light sweat as I fight off a wave of nausea. I've finally hit the pit of despair that engulfs me like a raging fire, scorching every fiber of my being.

"Son, what is it?" Wanda's voice sounds muted and faraway—like a gust of wind whispering the question in passing. I can barely breathe let alone speak, so I shake my head in agony, letting her take the letter from my fingertips.

"Oh dear God," she murmurs after a few minutes. My throat swells with a growing lump and for the first time in years I fight back tears.

"For all I know she could already be gone," I whisper in a voice heavy with emotion. The thought is inconceivable and thankfully Wanda disagrees.

"No Gray—she's not gone yet and we are going to find her. Do you understand me? I want you to put all your energy and focus of thoughts into what you're going to do and say when you see her again—visualize her alive. This story is not over—we're going to find that child if it's the last thing we do," she says with determination. For once, I relinquish authority and control, letting her take over. I can't think straight. My mind is filled with images of Harper meeting me at the hotel for the first time, doing her best to give me a good performance—all the while knowing her only chance at life hinges on me liking it enough to be willing to pay for more. I feel sick to my stomach with shame just thinking about it. Suddenly it's painfully clear who the mysterious caller was talking about—there's no loss greater than the one threatening me right now.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Olsen's ranch style house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood with several small kids playing out front just as Harper said there'd be, and yet Joey is nowhere in sight. Samuel Bennett was finally able to provide me with their address and now Wanda and I are standing at the front door on a Saturday afternoon waiting for someone to answer. Footsteps can be heard repeatedly shuffling back and forth, but whoever's inside doesn't appear to be in any hurry to open the door. I look down at Wanda, who in spite of standing in the hot sun wearing a dark three-piece suit doesn't appear bothered by the delay, whereas I raise my fist ready to pound on the door to really get their attention.

"Behave Gray—we need to charm the hell out of these two, not intimidate them," she says, gently pushing my hand down. She rings the doorbell once again, likely just to satisfy me, and a few seconds later, a young woman opens the door just enough to poke her head through, and I get a faint whiff of marijuana emanating from the house.

"Can I help you?" she asks, glancing back and forth between Wanda and me.

"We're here to see Fred and Phyllis Olsen," I respond, plastering a smile on my face.

"Um, they're not here right now," she says hesitantly.

"Do you mind if we wait? We have a two o'clock appointment with them," I lie.

"Not unless you brought your sleeping bags. They're in Europe for the next week," she blurts out, then appears guilty for disclosing the fact. We came here with a plan based on the expectation of interacting with the Olsens, and her announcement changes things, causing the two of us to improvise. I look at Wanda with a raised brow and she plays right along, pulling her schedule out of her briefcase.

"No, I confirmed the appointment with Phyllis at the beginning of the month, and she understood that we can't file paperwork until we get everyone's signature," Wanda says with just the right amount of frustration to stir up concern in the girl's face.

"I'm sorry—please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Grayson Knight with KLT Law Firm," I cue in, handing her one of my business cards. "And you are...?"

"I'm Joey's nanny—Melinda," she says, studying the card. "I can get a message to the Olsens if it's really urgent," she offers.

"By chance do you know where we can reach Harper Ellis?" I ask, trying to sound casual and not overly eager even though I'm so hungry for her to say yes that I have the urge to shake it out of her. She gives me a strange look and before she has a chance to ask why, I turn to Wanda and beef up the urgency, "If we can get her signature, then at the very least I will book a flight to Europe and meet with the Olsens the early part of next week." Wanda eagerly nods in affirmation, and we both look at the young woman as if the success of the plan weighs heavily on her ability to give us the needed information right now. She steps outside and closes the door behind her.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but Mrs. Olsen told Joey that her sister Harper passed away," she whispers carefully. I stare blankly at her, my mind silently screaming in torment. Wanda gasps, and I hear her question the girl further, but I block the conversation. Harper's gone—my worst fears realized. For once in my life I am brought to my knees as a completely broken man. In a daze, I hand Wanda my car keys and start to walk away, wanting desperately to be alone as I am swallowed with anguish.

"Grayson?" the voice of Joey stops me in my tracks and I turn to find her standing in the doorway.

"Hi Joey," I manage to choke out a greeting and force somewhat of a smile. The nanny isn't fast enough to stop her from running straight for me and without thinking, I scoop her into my arms, letting her bury her face on my shoulder. I swallow hard when I see Wanda's eyes fill with tears.

"Aunt Phyllis said that Harper went to be with our mommy and daddy—everyone's leaving and I want to go with them. When do you think it'll be my turn?" The sadness in her voice is haunting and echoes my own sense of despair.

I look over at Wanda for help. What do I say to a six-year-old who views death as more desirable than living, to the extent that being excluded seems unfair?

"Do you guys know each other?" Melinda asks, acting suddenly uneasy.

"Yes, I'm Joey's grandmother," Wanda says smiling, causing Joey's face to briefly turn up in a smile, and Melinda's to wrinkle in confusion. Wanda holds her arms out and Joey readily accepts, clinging to her like a life preserver.

"But you're black!" Melinda exclaims in the most undiplomatic way. We all look up with a 'so what' expression and she backs up to the door, calling Joey in for a nap.

"Joey, I want you to listen to me. We all get a turn to follow Harper and your parents to the other side, but until your turn comes, can you promise me that you'll do your best to try and stay happy?" Wanda whispers in her ear.

"I would be happy if I could live with you and Grayson," she says, innocently assuming that we're family. She has no idea how close I was to making her wish a reality.

"How about if we come back to visit you?" Wanda replies. It's such a simple offer but it does such wonders in cheering Joey up, that it has me reconsidering my gut reaction to stay away.

"Joey, it's time to come in and take a nap," Melinda calls again this time irritably, and Wanda reluctantly releases her to the ground, as Joey mumbles, "I already took a nap today."

***

Wanda honors my request for silence in exchange for my company on the drive home—at least until I ask a seething question on my mind that opens the door for her to speak up.

"How in the hell does this all fit in with your idea of quantum physics and the law of attraction? Do you believe that Harper was responsible for attracting sickness and death? And how about me—where did my positive thoughts about Harper and our future get us?" I challenge, directing my anger at the only target available.

"Tragedy and illness test even those of us who completely believe and honor the laws of the universe. When my son died, I thought for sure..." My eyes widen in surprise—I had no idea.

"You're son died?" I ask, temporarily distracted from my own pain. She nods and I wrack my brain trying recall if she'd ever told me. I knew she had a son because she's talked about him a lot over the years, but she never led me to believe that he wasn't alive.

"You were never interested in hearing my personal story," she quietly answers my question. "He died while serving in the military, and it was during a time when I was just starting to question many of the old beliefs that I'd been raised with, especially surrounding religion. Naturally, I thought I was being punished by an angry god, and I quickly forfeited my search for knowledge. Since then I've lost many people close to me, and have come up with my own spiritual theories to make sense of it all."

"It'll never make sense to me that she's gone—maybe I'm cursed for hurting so many people," I think out loud.

"I believe that every soul chooses specific experiences to participate in while inhabiting the earth in physical form, and this includes when and how to transition out of being in physical form, or dying," she says softly, as I pull up in front of her house. "I know it doesn't make it any easier to say goodbye, but it helped me to answer the question why." I swallow hard and nod. "I'll call you in the morning—are you sure you'll be okay?" she asks. Once again I nod. There's no purpose in telling her that my heart is so heavy it feels like a lead weight in my chest. Instead of going straight home, I stop at the first bar I happen to pass.

***

I'm barely cognizant of the loud banging on my front door, and have no intention in getting up to answer it. I haven't showered or shaved for two days, and my blood alcohol level probably hasn't changed much in the past three days either. I figure any day now, Harper's attorney will be contacting me with details of her funeral. I didn't even ask Joey's nanny when she died. Now I wonder where I was at the time of her death—what was I doing at the exact moment she took her last breath, and how could I have not known or felt it? So many questions bubble up from out of nowhere—like how come I didn't notice that she was sick? Was she in pain, and if so how did she hide it so well? Did she die alone in her sleep or was Curtis there with her? I'm not sure I could have watched her go—does that make me a coward? She suspected that I loved her, but did she really feel it? God, I hope she died knowing that I loved her.

My attention shifts back to the present moment when I hear my front door open, and hushed voices in the entryway. I suppose I should be concerned being that people are entering my house uninvited, and I'm in no condition to defend myself. It feels good to focus on something besides the endless thoughts of Harper that are being streamed into my consciousness.

"Grayson!" Camille's voice is full of concern as she calls from the kitchen. I should have known—besides Wanda and the housekeeper, she and Abby are the only ones with access to a spare key. I take a deep breath. I don't know if I'm ready to face anyone with questions about Harper, especially Abby who asks the pointed questions that most people know better than to ask.

"Up here, Cam," I finally holler from the balcony off my bedroom, when she calls again a little more panicked. Seconds later, she and Abby join me on the balcony—Abby immediately commenting on the half empty bottle of Scotch and my unkempt appearance, while Camille asks if there's anything she can do aside from cook for me. I prefer Abby's impartiality over Camille's sympathy which just makes me feel weaker.

"Wanda called us and told us what's going on," she says, her eyes full of understanding. "We tried calling but it just kept going to voicemail—are you sure you're okay?"

"I loved her," I simply announce, causing Abby's head to jerk up in surprise, and study me with interest.

"Wanda didn't tell us that," Abby says, pulling up a chair next to me. "She just said that someone you were seeing died of a terminal illness and you were having a hard time dealing with it. Was it the girl you were paying for sex?"

"Her name was Harper," I say in a tight voice, bothered by her being referenced in that way. "She was beautiful. I never even knew she was sick. The whole time I thought she needed the money for a car. We got in a fight over that car," I smirk recalling how mad I was that she changed her mind about buying one. "I was such a fool." I cover my face with my hands, trying to block out my last words to her—tramp, whore. My god what was I thinking?

"Harper? That's not a common name," she comments furrowing her brows as if trying to recall anyone else with the name. I gulp the last sip of Scotch in my glass and reach for the bottle, which Abby swiftly snatches out of my reach. "You look like shit and stink to high heaven. How about instead of killing your liver, we go windsurfing or sailing to take your mind off this girl?" she suggests.

"How about you mind your own goddamn business, Abby?" I retort, making her smile when I reach for the bottle again, and almost fall out of my chair.

"When's the last time you had a decent meal, Gray? I'm going to get started on dinner and cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, but I agree with Abby—you need to sober up. This isn't the way to honor anyone's memory," Camille says in her calm, practical manner that in spite of the words, doesn't feel judgmental. With only a few hours of sleep, I'm suddenly too tired to argue with either of them anyway. I get up and the two follow me through the bedroom, Camille stopping to pick up the framed picture of Harper, Joey, and me taken at Sea World.

"Is this Harper?" she asks. I nod. "Who's the kid with you guys?" It's only then that I realize how much has happened since I last saw these two.

"It's her sister, Joey," I quietly reply. Camille smiles and looks at me with sadness in her eyes.

"She's beautiful and you look really happy together," she says.

"Can I see that?" Abby asks, taking the picture from her. In an instant her eyes change, and if I didn't know her so well, I probably never would've even noticed the flash of recognition in her eyes. But I do notice and I react swiftly, catching the two of them off guard, when I close the distance between us and grab her by the shoulders.

"What do you know about Harper?" I demand.

"Nothing. She just looked like someone I know..."

"You're lying Abby. I can see it in your eyes. You've met Harper—was she your patient?"

"Gray that's confidential—you know damn well I can't disclose patient information," she raises her voice, trying to shake free from my grip, which only tightens.

"I don't give a shit about patient confidentiality—I loved her dammit!"

"Hey you two stop it," Camille says firmly, putting a hand on my arm. She turns to Abby and in my defense says, "Abby, really? What does it matter if she's gone and it can help bring him closure?" Abby's dark eyes flash between the two of us, and finally she lets out a big sigh.

"Alright Gray, but so help me God if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I'm going to..."

"It won't," I plead with my eyes. I don't know why but I just want to hear her being talked about by someone other than me. Abby points to the chair and orders me to sit.

"Is her last name Ellis?" she asks confirming that there's no mistake in that we're talking about the same person. I nod. "Well I met Ms. Ellis on Saturday when I was covering at the dialysis clinic.

"This past Saturday?" I interrupt.

"Yes, this past Saturday," she says slowly. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

"But Joey's nanny just told us on Saturday, and made it sound like she'd been dead for at least several days," I concentrate on trying to piece together a time line of events and none of it is making sense. It takes Abby to spell it out for me.

"Gray, I think someone lied to you. Harper isn't dead—at least she wasn't late Saturday when I saw her," she half smiles. I stare at her in disbelief, my heart pounding so loud that it even drowns out the sound of my heavy breathing.

"Are you sure?" I barely manage to choke the words out of a throat constricted with emotion. She nods and I pick her up, swinging her around in a tight embrace that she has no hope of getting out of, and surprisingly doesn't try. When I'm through with her, I do the same to Camille.

"Where is she? Can you get me her address off her chart? I need to see her tonight." I rush around my room, gathering things to throw in a suitcase.

"Whoa Sparky. Slow down," Abby says. One look at her face and I stop in my tracks holding a handful of toiletries.

Harper's living with some guy who accompanies her to dialysis," she starts to tell me.

"Yeah I know—his name is Curtis Kline and he's a grief counselor," I grimly admit.

"Yeah, well apparently, she's made up her mind to stop dialysis after Thursday, and when I questioned her about the decision, he got very protective over her—to the point of opposing any alternatives that I had to offer."

"That's why I need to talk to her," I insist.

"She has a dialysis appointment tomorrow. Why don't you sober up, get some sleep and we'll drive up in the morning. I will get you in to the patient care area, but if she finds out I'm behind this and files a complaint..."

"She won't, Abby. She's not that kind of girl. And besides, you're standing in the same room with one of the best attorney's around—you have nothing to worry about," I grunt. I don't particularly like putting off seeing Harper until tomorrow, but I know it's the best I'm going to get from Abby, so I go with it. I trade the glass of Scotch for water, scarf down the best meal I've eaten in days, and take the donated prescription sleeping pill from Abby. The last thing I hear is Abby's boisterous laughter at finding The Sound of Music DVD on my coffee table.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Camille and I wait in a coffee shop six blocks from the Dialysis Center until we get the text from Abby that Harper's arrived for her appointment. Camille looks at her phone, then gives me a thumbs up, and I practically jump from my seat, kissing her on top of the head before hastily leaving. It's almost noon and I can still feel the effects of the sleeping pill that I took the night before. Granted, I slept longer than I have in weeks and the walk does me good—gives me a chance to clear the last of the cobwebs from my mind before I face Harper. During the drive up from San Diego, Abby filled me in on what she knew of Harper's case—from now on her future consists of dialysis three times per week for four hours, and she may be considered for a transplant only after remaining cancer free for at least five years. She reminded me that pancreatic cancer is non-curable and the survival rate at five years is only four percent, as if I wasn't already aware of the grim statistics. She then went on to admit that Harper did respond remarkably well to the experimental drugs, and likely would not be alive today if she hadn't taken them. The walk doesn't take me long and before I know it, I'm standing in front of the admission desk asking to see Dr. McAdams. Abby comes right out wearing a white lab coat and escorts me down a hallway that opens into a huge patient care area. In the center of the room is a large open nursing work station, and lining the walls are brown recliners with a dialysis machine sitting to the right of it and a cardiac monitor sitting to the left of it. Almost all of the chairs are occupied with patients, yet I don't see Harper anywhere.

"I got the charge nurse to put her in the isolation room to give you some privacy," Abby murmurs as she leads me to the back where two of the only enclosed rooms are located.

"What about Kline?"

"He dropped her off, then left to run errands. I suspect he won't be back for another three hours, but I'll let Harper's nurse know not to disturb you. Good luck," she whispers, directing me to the first room, then leaving me standing outside the door trying to calm my nerves. I slowly open the door and find Harper resting in the recliner with her eyes closed, her face turned away from me, toward the only window I've seen in the area so far. I can't be sure if it's my imagination but she seems paler and thinner than when I saw her last. My eyes follow the loops of blood-filled tubing that runs from her arm to the machine, then I look up at the cardiac monitor that shows a steady heart rate of seventy-six. I take a seat next to her and gently place my hand on top of hers, watching as her eyes fly open, and she slowly turns her head in my direction. She blinks several times, then the corners of her mouth turn up in a faint smile, and her heart rate jumps to the low hundreds, boosting my confidence.

"How did you find me, Knight?"

"Believe me—you didn't make it easy. I just got lucky," I reply, bringing her hand to my lips. We stare long and hard at each other. "I love you Harper. I love you fully and unconditionally," I shamelessly blurt out my confession. A sad smile crosses her face.

"I know," she says and I give her a questioning look. "I can see it in your eyes and feel it in my soul," she explains with a whisper, brushing her hand across my cheek. "It sort of blows the whole sociopathic personality cover out of hiding behind doesn't it?" she laughs.

"I want to marry you," I say, making it clear how serious I am.

"Yeah sure, you just want my life insurance policy," she jokes, then continues on a more somber note. "Grayson, I can't let you stay here and watch me die."

"And I can't leave you here to die."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," she says, her eyes filling up with tears.

"I don't feel sorry for you—I feel sorry for me," I counter, leaning over to kiss her, overpowering her urge to argue with me further. She responds just like she has every other time I've kissed her—with absolute desire, and it makes my heart soar with relief.

"Gray, I can't live like this. They're talking about increasing my dialysis to four days a week. This isn't the quality of life that I choose, and besides, we both know that it's only a matter of time before the pancreatic cancer returns," she cries, reaching up to wrap both arms around my neck, immediately setting an alarm off on the machine. A nurse instantly comes in to investigate, politely reminding Harper to keep her arm positioned at her side. I wait until the she leaves before I make my proposal.

"We can go out of the country to get you a kidney and I'll pay for a live donor," I announce. Predictably she gasps at the idea.

"It's illegal and we'd end up going to jail. Besides, like Curtis says, there's no justice in taking a kidney from a young healthy person when I barely have a five-year survival rate," she contends, making my temper flare.

"That son-of-a-bitch better not be feeding you with those thoughts," I growl.

"He's right, Grayson," she says softly.

"No, he's not right Harper," I reply, throwing my hands up in the air in frustration. "The world is full of unknowns, and anyone can be diagnosed with cancer at any time. Who's to say that a seventy or eighty year old with multiple chronic health conditions is more deserving of a kidney than a twenty-six year old, who's in remission." She sighs and looks away. "Harper, you're coming home with me today and we'll figure this out together," I say with determination.

"No—I can't Gray."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm stopping dialysis after this week. Joey's adoption by the Olsens is final on the twenty-second of this month, and Curtis thinks it's best to do it before the holidays." I stare at her completely dumbfounded.

"You're making a decision about ending your life based on what some screwball has to say?" I raise my voice in exacerbation. I wasn't going to tell her about Joey, but one look at the resolve on her face and I feel it's only fair.

"Wanda and I stopped by the Olsens and did you know that they left Joey with a nanny after telling her that you were already dead? She's miserable Harper—she's asking when it will be her turn to die." Harper moans and closes her eyes, a single tear rolls slowly down her cheek. "Harper give me one week—just one and if you still feel the same way then I'll support you in your decision." I sit down next to her and take her hand in mine. "Please Harper. Please come home with me. I don't think the Olsens or Kline have your best interest in mind, and you owe it to Joey to make sure she's with a family who loves her—I can help make sure that happens." I hold my breath, counting the seconds as we lock eyes in a silent tug-of-war over control for her immediate future. It seems like a lifetime before she finally nods her head in agreement.

***

Harper begs me to wait in the car when we pull in to an apartment complex not far from the dialysis center. She called Curtis and told him she was getting a ride home from a friend and he asked a whole lot of questions that I didn't think he had any business in asking.

"You don't owe him squat shit, Harper. Don't explain a thing—just tell him you're going to be gone this week, and that's all he needs to know." I'm completely bothered by the fact that she feels obligated to give him an explanation, and have to bite my tongue not to tell her my suspicions. The last thing I want to do is concern her with unnecessary things from my past involving Jessica.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," she says, reaching for the door handle then stopping and leaning over to quickly kiss me on the cheek, which I take advantage of, pulling her close against me. I can feel her heart pounding as she relaxes against my chest.

"If you're not out in ten, I'm coming in to get you," I murmur, kissing her slowly and deeply. Eli once said that you know you're with the right woman when the line between reality and potentiality is unrecognizable. When I'm with Harper, there's never a ceiling on how high we can go. About the time I think it's really good, it just gets better.

"It's going to take me longer than ten minutes to pack for a week," she says, in-between kisses. I disagree, letting her know she can walk around naked most of the time, and I'll buy her anything else she might need.

"Grayson?"

"Yes Harper?"

"You make me want to live," she whispers the most coveted words I could possibly ask for. I swallow hard and bury my face in her hair.

"Say that again." I command.

"You make me want to live."

"Louder."

"You make me want to live!" she shouts, laughing in my ear.

"You're going to live, Harper. We'll get you on the transplant list one way or another. I already have people working on it." There's a glimmer of hope in her eyes that wasn't there earlier and it makes me breathe a quiet sigh of relief. After years of being hounded by Wanda in the power of beliefs, I'm leaning heavy on the notion that it can make a difference for her—after all, for fifteen years I believed I was a sociopath, and now look at me—crazy in love with someone besides myself.

***

In a long string of synchronicities Samuel Bennett calls to let me know that he has an address for Curtis Kline—ten minutes after Harper gets out of the car to walk into his apartment.

"I'm sitting outside his apartment as we speak," I enjoy telling him—letting him know in not so many words that he failed to pull through for me. I feel no obligation in letting him know how effortlessly I got the information, and he doesn't give me the opportunity to gloat over it.

"Did you know he's from Napa?" he says smugly, no doubt banking on the redeeming fact that I don't. It takes a moment to register the significance—however small it's enough to make me bolt from the car leaving him still on Bluetooth speaker waiting for my reaction.

"Harper!" I bang on Curtis's apartment door like a police officer with a 'knock and announce' warrant. Had he waited a second longer to answer I would have kicked the door in.

"Where is she?" I shove past him not bothering with introductions. At first glance he's no one I recognize from my past, however that doesn't surprise me—I ignored almost everyone who didn't make an impression on me and he doesn't strike me as someone who would have.

"She wasn't feeling good and needed to lie down," he says, trying to stop me from heading toward the bedroom.

"Bullshit—she was fine twenty minutes ago," I respond, calling her name again.

"It's not uncommon for her blood pressure to drop after dialysis. Why don't you let her rest and come back in the morning," he says in an annoyingly soft-spoken manner like someone deliberately trying to portray themselves as harmless. Regardless of whether or not he's connected to Jessica—my gut reaction is total distrust. Eli and Wanda would say I'm justified in dismissing him based on that fact alone.

"Gray?" Harper calls barely above a whisper, and something instinctual senses a weakness in her voice. In that moment Curtis becomes nothing more than a trivial pest, standing between me and that which is mine. I easily brush him aside with one swoop of my arm and enter Harper's bedroom, finding her as he said lying on the bed.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I got so lightheaded," she starts to explain. Even in the dim lighting, I can see that she's pale.

"I'll carry you to the car," I reassure her. The second I place a hand on her arm, I detect something very disturbingly wrong. Her skin is icy cold and clammy and her breathing is noticeably fast. I know enough about medicine to recognize that she needs urgent attention, and when I utter my concerns under my breath, Curtis tries to convince me that her appearance is a normal response to the dialysis treatment. I highly doubt it, but just to make sure, I pick up the phone on the nightstand and dial Abby's cell.

"Hi Dr. McAdams, this is Grayson Knight and I'm here with Harper Ellis," I say, keeping it on a professional, business-like level with my sister-in-law.

"Yes-what can I do for you, Mr. Knight?" she cautiously replies.

"As you know she had dialysis about an hour ago, and now I'm at her apartment and noticing that her skin is pale, cold and clammy. I also think she's breathing a little fast. Is this normal after dialysis?"

"Check her pulse. Is it fast or slow? Weak or strong?" she orders. I pick up Harpers wrist and find her radial pulse.

"Fast and weak," I reply, already predicting her response. I place the call on speaker and set the phone down, sliding my arms under Harper's limp body and lifting her off the bed.

"Get her to the ER now! I'll meet you at UCLA Medical," she says tightly, as I'm carrying Harper out of the room with Curtis closely following.

"This is all part of the dying process and Harper has a right to die with dignity," he stutters, attempting to stand his ground with a spiel I'm sure he's fed to her numerous times. "I'm her legal health care agent, the only one authorized to make medical decisions on her behalf," he hollers, and I mumble, "Not for long," making a mental note to get it changed as soon as Harper is stable.

***

Abby's waiting outside the ER entrance with a stretcher and emergency room personal when I pull up with a barely coherent Harper reclined in the passenger seat. I had been on the phone with her most of the way so she's prepared for the worst. The crew has Harper out of the car and on the stretcher, whisking her away within a minute or less after my arrival, and I'm left wondering if I'll ever see her alive again. The magnitude of just how fragile her life is hits me hard. When we left the dialysis center earlier today, I was on a high—seeing our future together with such clarity. Now I'm being swallowed by a feeling of powerlessness which is as unfamiliar to me as feeling love.

"I think she's in septic shock from an infected graft site," Abby quietly says, an hour later when I'm finally allowed in the back to see her. "It may have been brewing for a few days, but she probably didn't mention to the nurse that she was feeling ill."

_Of course she didn't—she hates to talk about herself,_ I think to myself as I stare through the glass window outside her room. "What are you doing to help her?" I numbly ask, even though I can see she's on a breathing machine and several IV drips are infusing through a catheter in her neck. The nurse that's in the room is busy and focused trying to save her life.

"We had to intubate her but hopefully they'll get the tube out in the next few days. The most important thing is keeping her blood pressure up which can be tricky in someone without kidney function. We'll need to get the infected AV graft out of her arm, but that'll have to wait until she's awake enough to give consent. It'll need to be relocated to the other arm." She becomes quiet but I can tell she has more to say, and I have a gut feeling that it's not good.

"How does a graft get infected? Human error?" The attorney in me half-heartedly accuses, mostly to redirect the conversation to something I'm qualified in handling, and can maybe do something about.

"AV grafts have a high incidence of complications, that's why we almost always construct an AV fistula instead. Harper refused to consent to the fistula because it takes two to three months before it can be used and she never planned to live that long," Abby says defensively. "She made it very clear to her doctor that she didn't want to live with this condition, Gray."

"That's why she needs a kidney transplant. She shouldn't have to live with this condition," I say numbly. "What if I threaten them with litigation?" I pose even though she despises lawsuits against the medical community.

"I don't think that even the threat of litigation would cause the transplant team to change their minds about adding Harper to the national organ transplant waiting list—not with a recent history of pancreatic cancer, and no evidence of remission. And, even if she was accepted as a transplant candidate, she could wait for years to get a match," she replies, looking unusually sympathetic. I swallow hard. "Now if she had a living relative who was willing to be a live donor, we might be able to argue a case for her," she replies off-handedly. I slowly peel my eyes off of the beautiful woman lying unresponsive on the stretcher and look at Abby with renewed inspiration.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Timing is everything when I catch Curtis Kline unlocking his front door with a handful of fast-food, not paying any attention to his surroundings, allowing me to come up behind him completely undetected.

"Here let me get that for you," I startle him by reaching around and swinging the door open with one arm, while giving him a light shove inside with the other, quickly closing the door behind us. For the first time I take a good long look at the man who is linked to the past and doing his best to destroy my future.

He's been stirring up a commotion with the staff in the ICU over what he claims is a direct violation of Harper's advance directives wishes, even going so far as to securing an attorney who's threatening legal action if she's not removed from the ventilator by morning. For two days Harper's been unresponsive and in critical condition, requiring life support—something Kline says she made very clear in her living will that she never wanted. I'm being assured by Abby that withdrawing life-saving treatment is a lengthy, complex process that doesn't happen overnight, but nonetheless I want to get to the bottom of his true motives for pushing the issue.

"Who are you and what do you want with Harper?" I demand, before he has a chance to get a threat in about calling the police. I can see it in his face that he's scared.

"She's dying and it's my job to honor her end-of-life wishes," he carefully replies, setting his bags of food down on the table, and unloading their contents.

"She is not dying!" I shout, making him flinch. "You've coerced her in to giving up and I want to know why."

"Prolonging her life unnecessarily with worthless and costly treatments is irresponsible, not to mention wasteful," he replies as if he's personally responsible for allocation of healthcare services. My reaction is lightning fast, and I have him pinned against the wall before he has time to swallow the fistful of French fries he's shoved in his mouth.

"It's none of your goddamn business. I want you to stay away from her. Do you hear me? Stay the hell away from her. She has nothing to do with Jessica Sorenson," I finally blurt out, causing him to stiffen with surprise. "You moron—like you really didn't think I'd figure it out," I roll my eyes at his ignorance, and release my hold on him, shoving him towards the chair.

"Jessica Sorenson? Isn't she from Napa?" he asks cocking his head to the side, giving me a puzzled expression as he sits down at the table.

"The game's over, Kline. I know that you sent the ring and made the phone calls to my office, and I can have harassment charges filed against you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he shrugs, picking up his hamburger and shoving half of it in his mouth. "I played sports with the Sorenson brothers but I didn't know their sister at all. My half-brother, Jared was in to her. He was here visiting me from Chicago not too long ago and was talking to Harper about her." The minute he says the name, an image of a skinny, pimple-faced choir boy who used to take the bus home with Jessica comes to mind. I figured he had a crush on her by the way he followed her home like a lost puppy dog, but never gave it much thought. Jared Sullivan was a quirky kid who used to pass out religious pamphlets at football games. He tried to get Jessica to join the youth group at his church and when she refused, he blamed it on me—citing something about leading her astray from God. As if reading my thoughts, Curtis says, "He's now the pastor of an evangelical church and still believes if you haven't repented and become born again—you're going to hell."

"How did he know about Harper and me?" I demand, whilst acknowledging once again the seemingly vast and inseparable web of coincidences that I somehow keep attracting in my life.

"I don't know. Maybe he saw the picture of the two of you at Sea World—I can't really say for sure. Perhaps Harper shared with him," he rationalizes. I scowl at the thought of Jared getting a personal confession out of her when I had to pull teeth to get her to tell me about the most benign things. Seconds before my cell phone delivers a text from the ICU nurse, I have an overwhelming urge to return to the hospital, and already have my hand on the door handle indicating that I'm finished with the conversation. My heart does a cartwheel when I read the message.

"I believe Harper's going to beat this, and I'm not going to let you take away her hope," I warn, meeting his gaze with an unwavering conviction.

"Hope means different things to different people. For Harper it means dying with dignity and not becoming someone else's burden. Giving someone false hope is one of the most egotistical things you can do. My father was kept alive in a coma for three years following an auto accident, all because the doctors told my mother that there was a chance he'd wake up. He looked like a skeleton, weighing less than a hundred pounds when he died in a nursing home," he replies, with a residual bitterness coating his words.

"The doctors told Harper she only had two months to live and that was over six months ago. She found a resourceful way to raise enough money to pay for an experimental therapy and now is in remission from one of the most deadly cancers around. She knows how to fight and I'm willing to bet money that she'll win. Now if you'll excuse me." I open the door, and pause, unable to keep myself from smiling. "She's regained consciousness, and is asking for me."

***

One of the most distressing things for Harper about having a breathing tube down her throat is her inability to speak. She's supposed to get it out in the next hour, but for now she's scribbling all of her responses down on a notepad. She's already filled up a full page trying to convince me to accept her decisions regarding medical treatment. Just as Abby suspected, she's resisting having another AV graft or fistula placed in her other arm after the infected one was removed, essentially signing her own death certificate. I take her hand and fold my two over it, bowing my head to hide my face after I read her last note that says— _what would you do if this was happening to you?_

"I need you," I murmur, my heart twisting like a pretzel inside my chest. To tell her the truth would be to admit that I'm a complete hypocrite because if it were me, I'd likely opt for that last plane ride versus living a life that revolves around a machine. Yet I'm pleading for her to accept that very fate—to fight until the very end like I bragged that she would. Unfortunately, this event has taken the fight out of her. She reaches for my hand and gives it a light squeeze, her eyes filling with tears.

"If you were offered a kidney transplant—would you do it?" I finally ask. She gives a slight nod, then holds up a finger when I prematurely show signs of hope. She picks up the pad and writes,

Only if I was confident that I wasn't going to die of cancer anyway.

"I'll make you a deal Harper. If the CT scan shows any signs of the tumor growing back then I'll support whatever you decide to do. However, if there's no signs of growth, then promise me you'll do dialysis at least until I've had a chance to fight for a transplant." She accepts the deal but I can see the doubt in her eyes, and while the nurse prepares to remove the tube from her lungs, I retreat to the waiting room with a call already placed to Abby.

***

I sit across from Camille and Abby in the cafeteria of UCLA Medical Center, trying to convince Abby to support me in a decision to be a live kidney donor for Harper. I need her to back me before going in front of the transplant team to plead my case—asking them to make an exception regarding Harper's cancer.

"You committing an altruistic act of this magnitude is like Hitler repenting to a bunch of Jews," she quips making me smile at her artlessness, in spite of my annoyance. She justifiably believes that I have ulterior motives other than unconditional love, and she's been interrogating me to unearth the true incentive. "You'll remain anonymous until Harper gets sick of your bullshit and wants to leave you—then you'll use the kidney as a way of controlling her out of guilt," she accuses.

"At least she'll have the opportunity to get sick of my bullshit—I'll rejoice if she's alive that long," I say through clenched teeth, making eye contact with Camille in a silent plea for her to step in, as I leave the table to take a call from Wanda.

When I return twenty minutes later, Abby is on a call that doesn't take me long to figure out is about me and Harper. Camille gives a slight nod of her head and smiles. I never fully appreciated her as being a strong female character until I became intimate with Harper and learned that the strength of a woman comes in all forms. Neither of them are loud or dogmatic, yet they are highly successful in influencing the most headstrong people. Camille is to Abby what Harper is to me—the one who sets the course, without ever getting behind the steering wheel. I sigh in relief when Abby confirms that she'll order the necessary tests to see if I'm even a blood type match.

"Well I've got good news and bad news," she says when she hangs up. "The good news is that Dr. Schmidt is willing to consider a transplant if Harper's CT scan shows no evidence of a tumor, her PRA's are low, and you have well matched blood and tissue typing. The bad news is that Harper has the worst blood type to try and find a donor for. She's a blood type of O which means she can only receive a kidney by someone with a blood type of O—you don't happen to know yours do you?" she asks. I shake my head no. I've never been hospitalized or had blood work done.

"Let's just get it done and not speculate," I say holding my hand up and stopping her when she starts to tell me the probability of us both having the same blood type.

"If everything matches when's the soonest they can schedule surgery?" Camille anxiously inquires.

"If they have matching blood types, and the rest of the labs are good, we'll proceed with the rest of the tests—CT scan, EKG, chest x-ray on Gray. Then he'll need a psychiatric evaluation and then the transplant team will decide. It could be as early as two weeks, but I wouldn't count on it." Her brown eyes are serious as she studies me like a hawk, drumming her fingers on the table, which annoys me almost as much as someone repeatedly clicking the retract button on a ball point pen—unless of course it's me that's creating the distraction.

"I've changed and I know what I'm doing," I reassure her, reaching over to place a hand on top of hers to stop the movement of her fingers.

"Do you understand that if you go through with this, you'll need to modify your lifestyle and avoid high risk sports?" she challenges.

"Maybe the four of us can take up country line dancing together," I suggest, grinning when she gives me a dirty look.

"You might joke about it now—but you won't think it's funny if you end up on the transplant list yourself," she warns, getting up to leave. "By the way, would you please tell her that we're related so that I can stop worrying about slipping up—after all, if things work out she'll be our future sister-in-law."

***

Harper stares at me with a fixed gaze while I tell the biggest bold face lie I've ever told in my entire life. The very fact that her CT scan showed no evidence of a pancreatic tumor that six months ago should have killed her, has the transplant team, and the rest of the doctors regarding her as a miracle worth saving. With a compatible living donor willing to give her a kidney, they have no grounds on which to deny her a transplant.

"Wanda wants to do this," I say with a steady voice, while inside I'm still marveling that she and I are considered a perfect donor/recipient match. According to Abby, the chances of a six-antigen match between two unrelated people is about one in 100,000, which makes me seriously reconsider Wanda's unfounded theory that there's a divine decree that brought us all together.

"But why? She barely knows me," Harper stutters, shaking her head in complete disbelief.

"Because she sees the goodness in you and the happiness you bring to so many people," I reply, giving her the closest answer to what Wanda would say if she were here. If I thought there was even the slightest chance that Harper would agree to me being her kidney donor, I'd tell her the truth, but I know her all too well. Shit, she wouldn't even accept a free monitory donation and I have a hell of a lot more money than I do kidneys. Besides, my lie can't be all bad if Wanda and Camille are agreeing to go along with it, I reassure myself. Abby's the only one not a hundred percent keen on the idea, but even she concedes that I do have a right to remain anonymous.

"I don't know Gray. I need to talk to her and make sure. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to her during the surgery. What if her remaining kidney fails and she has to go on dialysis?" Harper's brows furrow with worry.

"And what if it doesn't? What if she goes on to live the rest of her life without ever having a problem, and you go on to get married, teaching me how to live a non-sociopathic life, as we raise Joey together?"

"You don't want to marry me. I'm a health-care train wreck," she softly says, biting her lip as she blinks back tears. I reach in my pocket and pull out the diamond ring I purchased earlier today, and in a hospital room with no windows, I kneel next to the bed and officially propose to Harper Ellis.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Harper takes me on a twenty-minute emotional roller-coaster ride which begins with her saying no to my marriage proposal, citing I'm much too young to be a widow, and ends with her saying yes, citing she's entitled to die being the happiest she's ever been. I don't like either justification—alluding to death as a rationale for accepting or declining, but I'm encouraged that she considers me part of her happy-ever-after. She's oblivious to the fact that she has one of the most influential smiles I've ever known, so when I slip the ring on her finger, the expression on her face causes me to break out in hearty laughter. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pulls me down on top of her, and it's like old times—except in a hospital bed where she's connected to a cardiac monitor, no matter how covert I am, sliding my hand up her hospital gown produces a response that is quickly detected by the nurses monitoring her heart rate.

"Is everything okay, Harper?" an older male nurse comes in to check on her, stifling a smile when he sees her scrambling to get it pulled down from around her waist.

"Dr. McAdams is writing your discharge orders as we speak. You should be out of here within an hour," he says, winking at me, just as Abby comes walking in carrying her chart.

"Alright young lady, you have a few days of freedom before your surgery—make the most of it," she says before turning to me. "Please don't go running off out of town with her, your sister is already planning a dinner party at our house," she says, absently inferring a certain familiarity that I hadn't gotten a chance to talk to Harper about. She realizes the slip as soon as she sees the confusion on Harper's face and the grin on mine. I still love to catch her off-guard even though this time it was completely unintentional.

"Harper, Dr. McAdams is my sister-in-law—you can call her Abby," I say nonchalantly.

"Ah, and now I know who told you where to find me," she says, in what I detect as teasing, but still makes Abby give me a nervous 'I told you so' side-way glance. She sits down on the edge of the bed, carefully formulating a response.

"Harper, I'm sorry for telling him, but I knew that what he had to say could make a difference in the decisions you were making about your health care, and as it turns out I was right," she says, picking up Harper's left hand using the ring to make a point, and becoming distracted by the diamond. "Whoa girl, you better not fall in the water with this on, you'll sink straight to the bottom," she jokes, glancing at me when Harper doesn't laugh.

"She doesn't like the water," I respond narrowing my eyes at Abby. Out of all the things to tease about...

"His sister and I have waited a long time to see a girl sweep him off his feet. Welcome to the family," Abby hurriedly carries on.

"Thanks—and we'd love to come over for dinner. I look forward to hearing some interesting stories about Gray that he'll likely never share" she says, slyly pulling Abby in as an ally. Not that Abby needs such an invitation. I can already see the gleam in her eyes over being given the opportunity to discuss me with someone whose opinion actually matters to me.

***

Harper stands in front of me with wet hair, clutching a towel around her body, waiting for me to make the first move. She wouldn't let me touch her until she showered, even though I reassured her that I'd find her sexy in spite of hairy legs and underarms. Once she was discharged from the hospital, I gave her the option of staying in LA or driving to my—soon to be her—house in San Diego, and much to my satisfaction, she chose the latter. The house no longer feels so empty and bleak with her here.

My pulse quickens as I reach for the towel, and she lets it slide from her fingers, watching my face as I smile with reverence. Nothing's changed—yet it's all so different. I'm still a sexually driven man who values everything a woman has to physically offer, except that now...I want the whole package. Harper is the only one who will ever make me feel this way, and her future is more unpredictable than the stock market.

"You're so beautiful," I murmur, feeling the heat in my groin.

Taking two steps forward, she reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck, stretching her body against mine and burying her face into my neck, as I envelop her with my arms. For the next twenty minutes neither of us says a word—we simply embrace, enjoying the feel of each other's body. It's an action that generates more emotion and arousal than I'd ever thought possible. When I finally tilt her head back to kiss her lips, her eyes are on fire with passion.

"I want you so much," she breathes, as we make our way on to the bed. I've always had an ego in the bedroom, and I can make her climax at the drop of a hat, yet tonight I'm in no hurry. My hands follow the contours of her body in slow motion, relishing the way her soft warm breasts fit perfectly in the palm of my hands, and her nipples harden under the direction of my tongue. From now on, not only am I going to make love to her, but I'm going to treat every encounter as if it might be our last time together—savoring every aspect. She seems to have the same idea, refraining from direct penetration until she's managed to bring me to the verge of eruption using a variety of other techniques. We're like explorers climbing up Mount Everest—taking our time with the ascent. It hurts, yet feels so good, and the view at the top is mind-blowing.

"Grayson?" she whispers, long after I thought she'd gone to sleep. I haven't been this relaxed since the last time I was with her in New York City. Even my tongue feels heavy.

"Hmm?"

"I completely forgot that I'm not on any sort of birth control. I didn't think I'd need it anymore, so I skipped my last Depo shot," she says with dread in her voice. "What if I get...?" she sits up, looking at me with eyes full of fear, unable to finish the sentence. I smile, surprising myself with how unconcerned I am. Such an announcement a year ago would have had me making phone calls at midnight. Now that I'm with someone that I love, pregnancy no longer holds the threat that it used to—it doesn't mean being trapped.

"We'll get emergency contraception on our way to your dialysis appointment. Don't worry about it," I say, pulling her back into my arms.

"You're not freaked out?" she questions, sitting back up, looking at me with curiosity. I stare at her trying to figure out what she wants me to say.

"No I'm not freaked out. However, we do need to take precautions—a pregnancy would kill you right now."

"What if I were healthy?" she immediately asks. I prop myself up in the bed, seriously considering the answer to her question. I've never wanted to be a father—ever, but as I gaze into her eyes, the idea doesn't repulse me as much as it used to.

"I don't know. Up until a few months ago, I had no desire to be in a committed relationship and now I want to marry you. You've affected me in ways I never dreamed possible, so hypothetically if you were healthy..." Her face lights up with surprise, and even I'm a little shocked by my concession.

"Seriously—it's up for discussion," she asks, her voice full of hope. I called Eli Cisco earlier, filling him in on everything that's happened, and he said the best thing to do for Harper is plan our future together—let her visualize and dream about the possibilities.

"Let's get you peeing on your own and see how I do with Joey first," I laugh, opening the door to the most unimaginable possibility of creating a family with her. The smile on her face makes it easy to ignore the instant knot I feel inside my gut. At this point—it's all about what makes her happy.

***

Wanda does a beautiful job dancing around Harper's questions regarding being her kidney donor and I realize as our eyes periodically meet across the table, that I will forever be bound to her like a son. Harper insisted on meeting with her before the surgery, and the three of us are sitting in a restaurant not far from my law offices having dinner to celebrate our engagement and solidify the well-intentioned untruth that I feel is the only one Harper will agree to.

"There's already a part of me in you," Wanda says. "We all are connected as one—in a giant unified field of energy and everything we do makes a ripple that affects everyone else. The positive energy generated by the two of you being in love for example, generates a wave of positive vibrations with a life force of its own. It is in everyone's best interest, including mine, to keep that love alive," she explains, answering Harper's why with one of her teachings. To my surprise, Harper nods in understanding.

"I will never be able to repay you," Harper finally blurts out, her voice thick with emotion, as she searches Wanda's face, I presume for any hint of reservation.

"I'd give both kidneys just to watch the two of you walk down the aisle," Wanda responds, reaching across the table and patting her hand in reassurance. "Now enough about the surgery—let's talk about Joey. When are you going to see her?" she smoothly redirects the conversation. I sigh in relief when Harper starts telling her about how we've decided to wait until after the surgery to see Joey. As an officially diagnosed sociopath, I should have no issues with lying to Harper, but I do. I can't wait for the day when the topic is buried for good—when the words donor and recipient are no longer relevant because she's so healthy that it no longer occupies her thoughts. The surgery takes place in just two days, however after today's final dialysis treatment I'm as anxious as Harper to get it over with. Another hypotensive episode caused them to keep her an extra three hours for observation, causing us to cancel our plans to meet Abby and Camille. Harper took it personally, apologizing profusely as if she had control over the incident. So much is riding on the success of this transplant and if it fails—I lose her no matter what.

"I won't see you again until after the holidays because I'm flying to my sister's a week after the surgery," Wanda tells her, which isn't technically a lie. We decided together that she should leave town, rather than making constant excuses to avoid seeing her. She made it clear that I'm the actor not her, and she wasn't about to hobble around, pretending to be a post-op patient in front of Harper.

"I have a very good feeling about this surgery Harper. I think you're going to breeze right through it and your body's going to accept your new kidney like one of its own. Don't you worry about me—I'll keep in touch through Grayson and we'll celebrate when I get back after the New Year," Wanda says as we're getting ready to leave. She gives her a drawn-out hug, than turns to me to do the same, taking advantage of the fact that my disposition towards displays of affection has softened considerably.

"Thank you," I murmur softly in her ear, giving her a light squeeze. For the first time in twenty years I feel a pang of regret not having this type of relationship with my own mother.

***

"Does it involve the color pink?" she asks, and I glance briefly up at the sky. As it so happens, the sunrise this morning is casting ribbons of pink and orange throughout the scattered clouds, which makes my answer true in this moment.

"Yes."

"Will it involve P.I.?" she queries me further. She always includes this in her list of questions.

"It could, but it's probably not a good idea," I laugh. She's so busy trying to guess where we're going on our mystery date that she missed the sign to Ramona Airport, the county airstrip where I keep my Cessna 182.

"Does it require walking more than a mile?"

"Definitely not," I say as I pull up to the security gate leading to the north hangars.

"You're taking me skydiving again?" she squeals, when she sees an airplane take off from the active runway.

"Warmer, but no and your time's up," I cut her off. A few minutes later I pull my airplane out of the hangar, and start my pre-flight inspection. Within the hour we're in flight to Half Moon Bay, a northern California coastal town with an airport a short distance from the marina. I wanted to do something special for her—take our minds off tomorrow's surgery. So far it seems to be working. She's completely at ease being a passenger in a small plane. There's no handle-gripping on take-off and landings, no panicked looks when we hit a little turbulence, and no complaints of motion sickness. Even when I make a steep-bank turn to the right which makes most people apprehensive, she simply points out the surfers in the water below. Not only is she interested in the spectacular scenery, but everything that I'm doing in the cockpit as well. I'm passionate about flying and pleased as hell when she asks me about taking flying lessons.

"I'll enroll you in flight school as soon as you feel up to it after the surgery," I say with complete enthusiasm, welcoming the idea of having her as a co-pilot. It isn't until we're on our way home, admiring the brilliant sunset out over the Pacific Ocean that something she says, makes me change my mind.

"Disappearing with the sunset would definitely be a great way to go," she appears to think out loud, making my chest tighten with regret for flippantly sharing with her my plan B for handling a terminal illness. It sounded much more acceptable coming from me than her.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"How's Harper?" I mumble, trying hard to keep weighted eyelids open as Camille's worried face fades in and out of focus. I vaguely recall the surgeon reassuring me that my surgery went well and that my kidney looked beautiful. I may have responded with a silly reply about it matching the beautiful body of its new owner.

"I just got off the phone with Abby and she says that Harper's been transferred to the ICU in stable condition. They'll keep her sedated with a drug that produces a short-term amnesia side effect, so even if she realizes that you're not there, she won't remember it," Camille replies. I hate the idea of Harper waking up alone with me not being there, and she addresses the concern right off the bat.

Getting her admitted to UCLA at five a.m., then rushing to get myself checked into a private hospital thirty minutes away was a little helter-skelter this morning. It was Abby's idea to have my surgery done at a different hospital—to ensure confidentiality and anonymity. I'm not a guy who dwells on the what-if's of life, but the thought of my kidney being removed from me and transported through town before being placed in Harper, had me paranoid enough that special arrangements were made by the organ procurement director to allow Abby to ride along. Now that I know it made it safely to its destination, I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, everything is going according to plan.

"How's your pain?" Camille asks.

"Hurts like hell," I admit, licking my lips that feel as dry as sandpaper.

"You did it son. You've given a part of yourself that far exceeds the physical, and I couldn't be more proud of you right now," Wanda says, getting all teary-eyed. I feel a lecture on spiritual enlightenment coming on, and I squeeze my eyes shut, resisting the urge to say something smart. I'll concede that I'm a changed man, but I'm not quite the saint she's trying to make me out to be. The pain in my belly shoots right through me like a laser—burning everything in its path, and bringing out the grumpy, intolerant side of me.

"I'll let the nurse know you need some more pain medication, and we'll let you rest. I have to take Wanda to the airport, but I'll be back this afternoon," Camille is quick to say, sparing me from saying something I'll only regret later. I nod in acknowledgement, even though I want her to stay. If something were to go wrong with Harper, she'd be the one I'd want to tell me.

***

Day three post-op and I'm going crazy. Abby enters my hospital room, just as I'm getting ready to try and call her for the third time. The last update I received on Harper was almost eight hours ago, and I'm getting more agitated by the minute.

"Why haven't you answered my calls?" I demand before she's had a chance to even say hi.

"Watch it Gray, you may have the nurses fooled in to thinking you're some sort of hot martyr worthy of worship and devotion but I'd just as soon clobber you over the head with this clipboard than put up with your bullshit." I can't help but grin. She's right about the nurses. One confessed to me just this morning that there was a fight over who was going to take care of me for the day. It was Abby's idea to have me admitted under a fictitious name, taking advantage of the hospital's alias policy to keep my identity concealed and I'm glad I did. My electronic record shows me as William Jackson instead of Grayson Knight—should there be a breach in confidentiality, it won't register as significant to Harper.

"How's Harper?"

"Well, she hasn't coughed and spit you out yet," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "She's making liquid gold with that little kidney bean, and if she continues to show no signs of rejection then she'll probably be discharged in a few days. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore, but less painful than yesterday. I need to see her. Can you pull strings to get me discharged today?" My recovery has been essentially unremarkable. I'm still amazed that I have nothing more than a band aid covering a small incision in my umbilicus where they laparoscopically removed my kidney. Harper will never even notice and I'll be spared from telling her yet another lie. This is my new beginning. I have someone whom I believe I love unconditionally, and will continue to do so for the remainder of our life together. Dr. Schmidt says my transplanted kidney in Harper should last about fifteen years, maybe longer. I plan on making them the best years of her life. Although not completely free of all sociopathic traits, I no longer define myself as a sociopath. It's a start.

"No pulling necessary—I saw your surgeon and she's already writing discharge orders. I've been up all night, so I'm going home to sleep, but Cam is on her way." She gets up to leave, and I notice her fatigue.

"Bad night, Abby?" She slowly turns and looks at me, her dark eyes wearily regarding me with surprise. I rarely inquire.

"Yeah—not everyone gets a happy ending Gray. I lost a patient who was younger than Harper—she was on the transplant list for six years." Over the years she's mentioned losses like this, but it never really made much of an impression on me. Now I recognize it for the tragedy that it is. I'm but one breath away from losing Harper, making the line between happy-endings and bleak-beginnings a short one.

"I'm sorry," I reply, and this time I mean it. She smiles, leaving it at that as she walks out the door.

***

"I still can't believe all of this is happening. You in love—donating a kidney and getting married. So much has changed. I can't wait to finally meet Harper," Camille says on the way to UCLA Medical Center.

"Camille, you can talk all day long about me being in love and getting married, but never, ever bring up me being a kidney donor again—even to me. Just eliminate it from your thoughts. Harper can never find out the truth," I say a little harshly. She's quiet for a moment, then she looks at me, and shakes her head in disbelief.

"Wow, you really have changed," she mutters. "Alright, fair enough. Then let's talk about Harper and her little sister. God, I can't imagine you raising a child. You need to think about re-decorating the guest room for Joey—you know, something a little more child themed, and Harper—she also needs a room imprinted with her personality—otherwise she'll feel like a guest and you don't want that," she babbles. "I'd love to help if you need me?" she finally hints, sounding hopeful. Interior design and remodel is right up her alley. She did most of what's in the house already. Of course I want her help.

"Dolphins for Joey and a ballet studio for Harper in the bonus room downstairs," I immediately announce off the top of my head, grinning at her. It's a perfect way to welcome them home, and Camille already has the time off from work. It'll be better for everyone if she's kept busy doing something other than fussing over us.

"What's the budget?" she asks.

"There is none. Can you have it done before Harper is discharged from the hospital in four or five days?"

"Psh—piece of cake—you're not the only one with contacts," she says, rolling her eyes. We spend the next twenty minutes talking about it, and by the time we pull into the parking garage at UCLA Medical Center, she has a meeting with a contractor all set up for this afternoon.

***

I never dreamed there'd be a day when I would regard bodily fluids with such reverence, but the first thing that catches my eye when I walk in the room, is Harper resting peacefully, and the tube draining light yellow urine from her body. It's hard to explain the feelings associated with knowing that there's a part of me in her, and it's saving her life. She catches me looking and smiles.

"It's working great and the nurse says I should get the catheter out some time today," she confirms, as she takes a hold of my outstretched hand. I sit on the edge of the bed, hesitant to pull her in my arms, for the fear of causing her pain.

"How's Wanda? I've tried calling and they can't seem to track her down," she asks immediately.

"She was discharged from the hospital and I took her to the airport already," I hastily reassure her. Her face relaxes. "How was the trip? Did you get everything taken care of?" Another white lie to explain my absence for the past two days. I simply led her to believe I was out of town taking care of an urgent business matter.

"Yes, I'm sorry I had to leave you so soon after the surgery," I murmur, leaning over to kiss her before she has a chance to probe me for the details.

"Ahem. Gray, I can come back if you'd like," Camille interrupts us a few minutes later. She was already unsure about showing up at the hospital to meet Harper for the first time, and now I can see she's really uncomfortable.

"Harper this is my sister Camille. She's the greatest chef on the west coast and brought you something delectable to eat," I introduce the two, fully anticipating the gracious response that defines Harper's personality. She has a natural ability for making people feel at ease around her, partly because she doesn't get caught up in trying to impress them. While I find her sexy as hell dressed in a hospital gown, with tousled hair and no make-up—few women would appreciate being introduced to family for the first time in this condition. Harper doesn't seem to give it a second thought.

"I've been dying to meet you and I'm starving for something good to eat—this is my double lucky day!" she exclaims with such genuine enthusiasm that Camille's face lights up too.

"It's a chicken dish that meets the guidelines for someone on a renal diet," Camille says, clearing off the night stand to make room for a picnic spread. What ensues is an hour long discussion on favorite recipes and cooking techniques between the two of them, while Harper devours everything in front of her. That's all it takes to win my sister over—an exuberant appreciation for fine food and the desire to talk spices and herbs. I realize that I'm not really that hard to please either—seeing Harper so happy, planning future events like a wedding makes me a little giddy.

***

Five days after me, Harper's discharged from the hospital with a handful of antirejection meds and a list of dos and don'ts from her transplant surgeon. I talked her into staying in LA at Camille and Abby's house last night, while the two of them were at mine, putting the finishing touches on the newly re-worked rooms, and a surprise welcome home party. I have a surprise of my own, that I half expect her to figure out when I take the Monroe exit off the freeway. We talked about the two of us getting settled in and coming back for Joey next week, but I could tell Harper was agreeing only because she thought it's what I wanted.

"I love you so much," she whispers, when I turn down the street to the Olsens house. "You really don't mind taking her with us now?"

"Not at all. I was more worried about you getting the rest you need with her around, but Abby thinks you'll recover faster with Joey keeping you busy. Besides, I'm going back to work and I don't want you to be alone all day while I'm gone." I pull into the driveway and shut off the engine. "Why don't you stay in the car, and I'll get Joey?"

"Phyllis and Fred might give you a hard time. I better go in," she replies, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"I already talked to Phyllis. She and Fred are at work today and Joey's with the nanny," I smile, recalling my conversation with her. I made it clear that fighting Harper for custody of Joey would be the biggest mistake of her life. It's not important that Harper know the details but let's just say I haven't gone completely soft and lost my ability to terrorize people. I think it's safe to say that the Olsen's won't ever bother Harper again.

"Grayson!" Joey bursts from the house as I'm walking up to the door and barrels right into me, catching her head right in my gut, as she throws her arms around my waist. I break out in a light sweat, and bite my lip not to cuss out loud. I've done a good job at hiding my post-operative physical limitations until now, and hopefully Harper won't notice me clutch my stomach as I pick Joey up with one arm.

"Hi Joey, it's good to see you too," I manage to choke out before the car door opens and Joey looks up, seeing Harper for the first time in two months.

"Harper?" she whimpers, slowly wiggling from my arms.

"She just had surgery, you need to be really gentle Joey," I warn, holding her back just enough that she doesn't run Harper over. Harper uses the car door for support and holds out a welcoming arm, and the moment they embrace she bursts into sobs.

***

All residual guilt about returning to work and leaving my girls, vanishes when I look in the review mirror at Harper in the backseat with her arms still tightly wrapped around Joey. It's odd that I should consider both of them mine, but Joey's managed to steal a piece of my heart as well. Her head rests against Harper's shoulder and every once in a while, Harper kisses the top of it indicating just how affected she was by their separation. It's evident that they need some time alone.

"Ladies—we're home," I announce, waking the two up when I pull into the driveway. My new life begins the second I step out of the car and help Harper out, grabbing what little belongings the two brought with them. Joey races ahead, suddenly full of excitement as she remembers the swimming pool in the back. She stops short when Camille and Abby open the door to greet us.

"Hi Joey—welcome home," they say in unison, meeting Joey face-to-face for the first time.

"Who are you?" she immediately questions, not at all shy about demanding an explanation.

"We are Grayson's sisters, and we have a surprise for you," Camille says, holding her hand out.

"Is it a puppy?" Joey asks, making all of us laugh as she readily takes Camille's hand and grabs Abby's in spite of it not being offered.

"No, it's not a puppy, but that's a great idea," Abby says, glancing slyly back at me.

"Please don't," I mumble, knowing full well the next time she shows up at our house, she'll have one in her possession. We follow them up the stairs to the old guest room that now has a wooden plaque on the door that says, 'Joey's Room.' Harper gasps when they open the door and Joey just stops to stare. One entire wall is painted in an ocean-themed mural much like the one at Sea World, and everything else in the room ties it together, even down to the dolphin lamp shade, that matches the comforter on the bed.

"Is this my room?" Joey asks, her eyes wide with wonder. "I love dolphins."

"So do I—they're smarter than most humans," Abby mutters.

"Yep, everything in here is yours, but don't touch the wall for a few days because the paint has to dry," Camille gently warns.

"Wow this is amazing," Harper says, giving each of them a hug before turning to me, and mouthing 'thank you'. Even I'm impressed and can hardly wait to see what they did with the ballet studio. I gave Camille an idea of what I wanted down there, but there's no doubt it won't be anything like I imagined. As Camille and Abby show Joey a closet full of clothes and toys, I grab Harper's hand and pull her away, leading her downstairs to the bonus room.

"The whole house is yours to personalize as you like, but this room is exclusively meant for you," I softly declare, flicking on the light.

"Oh my God," she stammers as soon as her eyes adjust. I smile and shake my head in amazement.

"I wish I could take credit, but this is all Camille and Abby," I humbly admit. The only remnant of the old bonus room is the wood flooring. The room has been painted a light lavender and the wall opposite of the windows is now floor to ceiling mirrors the entire length of the wall, with a mounted barre through the middle. At the far end of the rectangular room is a seating area that consists of two rows of cushioned benches covered in a deep purple velvet fabric. Behind the seating is a half wall of small cubicle shelving to hold personal belongings and above that is a hand painted inspirational quote. The wall closest to the stairs has a small desk, and there's a compact stereo system on a stand in the corner. The sign painted across the top of the wall says, 'HARPER'S BALLET STUDIO'.

"I can teach dance classes," she cries, picking up on the obvious intent of the design, as she wanders around the room with a daydreaming expression. We meet each other's gaze across the room, and her eyes smile at me—seconds before she actually produces the brilliant, infectious grin that triggers an unexpected rush of warmth throughout my body.

"I just want you to be happy," I murmur, knowing deep down that she already is.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On the side of a vertical rock, I search for the crevice that Eli Cisco used as a foothold to hoist himself the final four feet to reach the anchor or top of the route.

"Two o'clock," he shouts from above, indicating the location using the face of a clock as a reference. I look up and to my right, realizing right away that I'm further to the left than he was, and in order to capture it I need to dyno for a better hold. It's one of the riskiest climbing moves done, requiring a full body leap where for a brief moment there is no contact with the surface of the rock. I silently meditate, setting the move up in my mind, then going within to convince myself that it's possible. I tune everything out as I lock my eyes on the target hold that I'm aiming for. Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead in spite of the bandana secured around my head to prevent it. In one quick, continuous motion, I sink down, then make the leap upward, sticking the hold and swinging my leg to capture a toe hook, before hoisting myself up next to Eli. I credit Harper for my flexibility. A bet is a bet and she won. Now I'm paying off the wager with a year of morning yoga sessions in her dance studio downstairs. I laughed thinking it would be a breeze until I left the first morning lesson in a t-shirt soaked with sweat and shaking muscles.

"That was beautiful," he compliments, gripping my hand, while slapping me on the shoulder."

"Thanks!" Eight months ago, he was my therapist, teaching me to step outside of myself and challenge my beliefs, and interactions with the rest of the world from an energy standpoint. Now he's a close friend and climbing partner who continues to mentor me in the art of quantum living. To say I've changed is an understatement. We sit in silence on the summit of the rock, looking out at the valley below, each lost in our own thoughts, until a cool breeze signals the approach of a predicted afternoon thundershower. I never realized how dysfunctional Lucas and I were as rock climbing partners, until I started climbing with Eli. With Lucas, everything needed to be discussed and negotiated which often led to a battle of the wills—an argument for the sake of having a winner and a loser. It's no wonder neither of us had a catastrophic fall during that time. Eli makes the experience far more gratifying and safer. We think alike, anticipating each other's moves and decisions without the need for words, much the way Harper and I do.

"Harper doing okay?" he asks, as I follow him down the walk-off trail. I figured he'd eventually get around to asking. The few people that know about her past health challenges often do, although Wanda and I agreed not to divulge the truth to him or anyone else about our involvement in the kidney transplant. In our house, talking about Harper's health is completely off limits, so there's no worries in her bringing it up. Even Abby abstains from asking medical related questions, and although she and Camille come to visit far more frequently than they used to—it's mostly to see Joey and the yellow lab puppy she surprised us with last month.

"She's teaching ballet two days a week and her classes are full. Once we get through the reception tomorrow night, she's going to offer a third day."

Harper and I were married six weeks ago in a private ceremony at a vineyard Bed & Breakfast in Napa, with only Joey, Wanda, Abby, Camille and Eli in attendance. Although small, it was elegant nonetheless and she was completely stunning in a fitted white wedding gown that even had the staff that was waiting on us unwilling to take their eyes off of her. I offered to take her anywhere in the world for our honeymoon, and she chose Hawaii—fulfilling her dream of swimming in the ocean. What began as a self-serving proposal to take her virginity, ended with her stealing my soul, teaching me the true essence of life while prolonging hers. For a man adamantly opposed to marriage and commitment, I had no reservations about repeating the wedding vows and slipping a gold band on her finger.

"Speaking of the reception—Molly will be accompanying me," he tentatively confirms.

"Of course. Harper already included her in the count," I reassure him. Molly, is a nurse practitioner that he met on a blind date several weeks ago, and we figured things were getting serious between the two when he forfeited rock climbing to spend time with her.

The rain hits just as we get back to our cars, and we hastily say goodbye. As soon as I'm in my car, I reach under the seat for my cell phone to call Harper and let her know I'm on my way. My heart stops when I see six missed calls from her. She never calls me unless it's important. A voicemail message left almost three hours ago simply says, "Somethings happened and I need you to call me as soon as you can." Is it my imagination or is her voice shaking with emotion? I speed dial her cell and clench my jaw when it goes straight to voicemail.

"Hi sweetheart. What's up? We're done with the climb and I'm on my way home. Call me when you get this message." The fifteen minutes that it takes for her to respond feels like hours, so when my phone rings, I answer with a bark that makes her immediately apologize.

"I had my phone off because I'm at the hospital in the emergency room," she explains, the fear in her voice sending my mind racing with thoughts of pancreatic cancer. "It's Wanda. She started having chest pains while we were out shopping. They took her by ambulance to Alvarado Hospital and I'm still waiting for the doctors to tell me what's going on. I'm scared Gray."

"I'm on my way," is all I manage to say, as I peel out of the dirt parking lot, flinging pebbles and dirt on Eli's car behind me. I'm not surprised when I get an incoming call from him a few seconds later.

"Everything okay?" he asks. I relay to him what Harper told me, and see him do a U-turn in the middle of the road to follow me. He and Wanda have been friends for years, attending the same meditation classes and quantum living seminars. The ties are even stronger now that we're all spending more time together socially.

The traffic is light on a Saturday afternoon, and we make it to the hospital relatively fast, only to spend several minutes circling the parking lot for an empty space. Harper's waiting outside for us, her eyes puffy from crying, and I swallow hard, bracing myself for the worst.

"She had a massive heart attack. They took her for open-heart surgery," she sniffles, giving Eli a quick hug before falling in my arms and bursting into tears.

"What if the surgery just put too much stress on her body?" she sobs, her voice full of guilt.

"It didn't Harper—trust me. It's much easier to remove a kidney than to transplant it." I look up at Eli and pray he doesn't question our conversation. Our eyes meet, and he presses his lips together but remains silent. "I think you should go home Harper. Remember what Abby said about staying away from crowds and sick people—this place is a breeding ground for germs," I do my best to coax her in to leaving.

"No way Grayson. I'm not going anywhere until I know she's going to be okay. I'll wear a face mask and wash my hands."

"What about Joey? Camille and Abby should be bringing her back anytime."

"I already talked to Camille and she said she'd stay with Joey. Abby's going to meet us here. I'm not leaving, Gray," she says firmly, drying her eyes with her sleeve. "We can wait in the ICU waiting room for her to come out of surgery." I'm helpless to convince her otherwise when she stubbornly sets her mind on something, so when she turns to leave, I slowly follow, my heart heavy with the fear of losing Wanda and Harper finding out the truth.

***

The cardiac surgeon who performed open-heart surgery on Wanda is still wearing a surgical cap when she comes out to talk to us. She asks how we're related and I tell her I'm Wanda's son. She smiles sadly, and Harper buries her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry, but she didn't make it. People with diabetes often have silent heart attacks and judging by the blockages in her vessels, and the damage to the different areas of her heart, I suspect this wasn't her first MI. Do you recall if she's ever complained of chest pain before?" I shake my head unable to think. It doesn't make sense—she seemed so healthy.

"I don't think she had diabetes—she would have been disqualified from donating a kidney," Harper says, picking-up on the discrepancy when it didn't even cross my mind. I freeze, wracking my brain to come up with a diversion. Why in God's name would Wanda not tell me she was diabetic? Where the hell is Abby when I need her?

"Can I see her—one last time to say goodbye?" I stammer, abruptly standing up between the two, hoping like hell Harper's question goes unanswered. It doesn't work, Dr. Fuller gently nudges me to the side, and looks down at Harper's tear-stained face.

"We are talking about Wanda Jackson—right?" she clarifies, looking around at all of us. Eli and Harper nod, and I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my teeth together as I feel my world start to crumble.

"Yes-she was my kidney donor six months ago," Harper says, looking at me with confusion, and slowly standing up.

"Ms. Jackson has been a diabetic for forty years, and she's had hypertension for the past ten. I know for a fact that she still has both her kidneys," Dr. Fuller says sharply, daring any one of us to challenge her further. When none of us say anything, she continues in a softer tone. "Of course you can go in and say goodbye. I'll have one of the nurses come get you when they're finished preparing the body." I watch her leave, unable to bring myself to look in Harper's eyes. I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. The big secret that I had buried and forgotten has been resurrected. I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath. What now?

"If she wasn't my donor—who was, Grayson?" she asks in a small voice, quivering with emotion. I slowly turn and face her.

"Oh God no—It was you?" she wails, her hand flying up to her mouth. The few visitors in the waiting room stare in astonishment.

"Harper, I couldn't tell you. You know you would have refused," I say, wrapping my arms around her in a tight embrace, as I look helplessly at Eli.

"I'll never be able to repay you," she sniffles.

"You took a chance and gave a piece of your heart to a self-centered asshole, transforming my life in unimaginable ways. You don't owe me a thing Harper. Burying Wanda will be one of the hardest things I'll ever do, but burying you would have killed me." I tilt her chin up and look into her eyes, using my thumb to catch the tear rolling down her cheek. "Guess what? We were a perfect, six-antigen match—that rarely happens between two unrelated people—it was meant to be. I love you so much. I never, ever wanted you to find out about the kidney."

"What happens if the cancer..." I put a finger over her lips, stopping her from finishing the sentence.

"No matter what happens, we're going to take the last flight together—out over the Pacific Ocean, watching the most exquisite sunset ever, while we sip champagne. Do you understand me?" She smiles and nods, and rests her head against my chest. I close my eyes and feel Wanda's presence in the form of positive, loving energy, and know that a part of her also remains with me.

THE END

