Surrender to You (7 page)

I shouldn't have left Carlie like that.

That single thought circled my mind all afternoon and into the evening, even as Kraven discussed figures at our business dinner after work. The restaurant near the marina had the best cod and the wine flowed, but I couldn't enjoy the food.

Ever since I'd walked away from Carlie a few hours earlier, that week she mentioned weighed heavily on my mind.

While Kraven spoke about changing seasons and the decrease in guest visits since the summer was winding down, a particular summer in New York City eight years ago came to mind. A fog of humidity had blanketed the city, making anyone who ventured between buildings miserable. Those first six days, nine hours, and seven minutes had changed my life, and it all began with a phone call.

After the standard “Hey, it's Carlie,” and my moment of surprise, she went on and on about how she'd plucked my number from a crumpled-up piece of paper in her winter coat and thought about calling me. At the beginning of the summer, I was always the one who reached out to her when I got back in town from college. Ever since we'd met two years earlier near Central Park, she'd known my phone number, but this was the first time she'd called me.

This was just another game she played. She acted as if this was a casual call, and of course, I canceled the plans I had had to instead immediately pick her up. After we met up though, and found a small cafe to eat lunch at, she grew quiet, even scraping her food around her plate.

“What's on your mind?” I'd asked her. “You usually eat like you're preparing for war.”

She wrinkled her nose, an endearing sight with all that red, curling hair framing her pretty face. “Sophie and I have our own place now.”

“Sounds good.”

More food pushing. Her grip on her fork tightened. “We're going to be evicted unless we come up with the rent money.” She swallowed deeply. “I need…help.”

She refused to look at me as she delved into the facts: they had no money or anything of value to sell. When we spent time together, she'd never before asked for help or a handout. When I had money in my pocket, I paid for things.

The desire to tell her she didn't need to justify her request sat on my tongue, but for Carlie, actions spoke louder than words. I immediately picked up my phone and made arrangements with my bank to send the money to Sophie so their rent would be paid up for the next year.

That was the last time Carlie asked me for anything.

With the matter settled, we didn't bring it up again. Now that I was back home from my third year at Oxford, I wanted to enjoy my time off. To distract her, we visited our favorite places around NYC—with air-conditioning. After that, we never left the penthouse. Spending time with Carlie was easy like that. I didn't have to think about my business studies, my Portuguese aunts' expectations, or the obligations of a Goodfellow heir. It was about the time we spent, not the money spent.

As we fell deeper and deeper in love in the span of a few days, we discussed the things any couple naturally did: how she'd come with me to the U.K. How we'd make a life for ourselves instead of stealing time every summer.

Five days into the week, I'd even bought her a promise ring.

After we'd had sex that night, she rested her head on my chest while I played with her hair. Finding an opening to give her the ring eluded me so I left the box under my pillow.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” she said out of the blue.

I sighed. “You don't need to.”

“Yes. I do.” She turned over until she faced me with a smile. “It took Sophie and me months to save up money for that place. We did it
all
on our own. I just can't tell you the high I get every time I accomplish something on my own.”

She kissed my shoulder. “I will pay you back. Every cent.”

I tapped her dimple. “With interest?”

“Don't push it, Goodfellow.”

Lying naked with our limbs intertwined, we snuggled under the covers and fell asleep—until an insistent knock on the door drew me away. Carlie didn't stir as I left the bed, donned a robe, and found my butler, Saul, waiting at the door.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Goodfellow,” he began, “but there's a phone call you must answer.”

My stomach tightened. Since I was a kid, Saul had called me Tommy. Never Mr. Goodfellow.

I took the phone call in the study.

“Your father is dead, Tomas.” My aunt Lucia's empty voice filled the line.

Instead of dropping into the seat, my fist clenched. Out of all the people to call, I wanted this news from Aunt Daniela. My mother had three sisters, and only one of them really gave a damn about me. The Pereiras were a respectable, affluent family in Lisbon, but their wealth was dwarfed by the Goodfellow empire.

“You need to be in London as soon as possible, before your father's mistresses smell the blood in the water,” she implored. “Those damn
putas
aren't getting—”

“How did he die?”
Right now I didn't feel like hearing her diatribe. She'd always been bitter my father neglected my mother. Even worse when he didn't continue to support my aunts financially.

She was quiet for a moment. “A heart attack. Although I wondered if he had a heart in the first place. You need to be concerned about your legacy.” She paused again. “As well as our villa in Porto.”

My hand tightened around the phone hard enough to hurt.

My father is dead and now I'm the heir to the Goodfellow fortune. Why worry about the sharks in the U.K. when one had found me already?

“Where's Aunt Daniela?” I asked.

“She's on her way to the airport. She'll be here in a few hours.”

Which meant Aunt Lucia was already in London.

“I'll be there soon,” I said after a long released breath.

“Good, good.” Afterward, the brief moment of silence felt awkward. This was where normal people would've said something to comfort the other, but I got
nothing.

“Goodbye, Aunt Lucia.”

After the call ended, I sat there for the longest time, unsure what to do. The logical thing would be to wake up Carlie and get on a plane, but that was the easy way out.

We'd made plans—now none of that meant a damn thing. I'd have to stay in London for who knew how long. Carlie had a life here. There was also no way in fucking hell I was exposing her to Aunt Lucia and the rest of the women who planned to assemble and bicker over a dead man's fortune. That night in the study, I formed a plan: settle this mess and then come back for her. I got dressed and left Carlie a note that I had a business to handle.

But I hadn't returned for over a year.

And now, eight years later, I was eating dinner with Kraven and not Carlie. I never gave her that promise ring, either. I was preparing to sell my hotel and move on to the next location and the next project.

Her words bounced around in my head:
You walk away and leave me standing there trying to figure out what's left of myself.

Yes, I had done that.

And I'd give anything to go back to that day so I could've stayed instead of leaving. For that day, I'd done the very thing that hurt her the most.

I'd abandoned her.

A few days later, my mood was buoyed. The second meeting with the team from Hong Kong was going better than expected. If everything proceeded as planned, I'd not only have a buyer for the Goodfellow Tower but I might have a partner to provide an ideal location for the additional property I was looking at.

“We're seriously considering your fine property, Mr. Goodfellow,” the lead from the team in Hong Kong said. I scanned their eager faces, assessing their interest based on their reactions. So far, so good.

This was just another meeting and another set of potential buyers, but as my gaze swept over the meeting room on the conference floor, the tension in my stomach increased a bit. Of all the hotels I'd constructed, this one in Boston was special.

So why are you selling it?
I asked myself.
Because this is just another property.

No matter how many extra touches I put into the building or how much I worked on the façade, this was only another multi-million-dollar investment that would pay off in the end.
Remember your goals,
I reminded myself.

Since I was a kid, I'd dreamed of an ideal project. A place where I could do what I wanted to whomever I pleased. I created such a place as a whim here in Boston. The goal though had always been to go bigger and higher.

I wanted the kind of investment property that could only be dreamt of and then brought to life through an architect's drawing. In my mind, my resort would have beaches, entertainment spaces, and luxury shopping spaces.

I'd thought my next project would be in Dubai or London, yet I'd ended up in Boston, even contemplated going back to NYC again.

A smile filled my face.
You always come back to the U.S. because this place is where it all began.
Maybe I knew someday she'd come back. If not for me, then for something else.

After the preliminary presentation, where I was all smiles and such, Kraven began the tour. Usually, I sat back and waited for them to finish the process, but I couldn't resist going along this time.

I told myself it wasn't to see if I ran into her again. I had no desire to see the fiery look in her eyes after what happened between us, but one glimpse today would be enough to recharge me.

During the whole tour, she hadn't shown up once.

My heartbeat sped up thinking about the moment we stole in the Darkness Suite. She'd been responsive like she always was, but the moment I expressed how I felt, she played her withdrawal act like a professional.

I sucked in a deep breath. I shouldn't have asked her to stay with me last night, but I did it anyway. As much as she liked to receive pain, I got a healthy dose of it myself.

The tour ended and I had yet to see her again. Today I would have to settle for the memory of our time together.

“So what are your initial thoughts, Mr. Phuong?” I asked my guest.

“Based on my assistant's reports, you have made a sizable investment in the construction. The architectural details are phenomenal. May I ask why you're even considering selling this property?” His expression was sincere, but this was what all of them asked. Why put so much love in and then let it go?

I swallowed deeply. I asked myself that question often. “This is what I do. I'm passionate about creating properties, not maintaining them. A piece of me went into every part of this facility. I'm ready for the next challenge. Wherever that may be.”

Going for a walk with my boss, Mr. Butts, was closer to torture than productive work. The inspections, as Mr. Butts called them, were nothing more than him looking over my shoulder on a weekly basis. As meticulous I was though, Roland Butts took things to the next level. When I browsed conference rooms for any trash or chairs out of place, he was on the floor looking for
absolutely
anything.

In the past I'd had all sorts of employers. The glassy-eyed ones were the worst. One summer I worked at a Brooklyn hair salon and half the time I wondered if the lady doing the weaves was even awake. She'd stare into space while sewing in hair the wrong way. Of course, later I learned she was up all night watching telenovelas on the local Spanish channel.

Now I had a keen-eyed barracuda who patrolled the waters for a fresh kill and I was about to be served up today.

Maybe his keen eye was the reason I got caught staring at Tomas while he spoke with a group of Asian businessmen in the lobby.

“
Ms.
Jason…” Mr. Butts's sharp comment caught my attention and sent me scampering after him. By the time we got to the Grecian baths on Dante's Second Floor, his proverbial feathers were ruffled as I checked the pools. He also had yet to let me know if I was still working on a trial basis or if I actually had a job. “I have concerns, Ms. Jason.”

“May I ask—” I began.

“I mean I have concerns about your
relationship
with Mr. Goodfellow.”

That made me stop short. He whispered the word “relationship” as if he'd said a bad word.

“Let's get something straight here.” Lying wasn't something I wanted or needed to do at this point. “I did have a prior relationship with Mr. Goodfellow, but that was a long time ago. Way back before I'd even left for the U.K. We don't fit together well. You may perceive something between us, but I see it as him irking me half of the time.”

Butts casually rearranged perfectly placed towels while he berated me. “I have a strict policy about employees fraternizing with the executives. It creates issues with nepotism.”

“Nepotism?” I picked up a tiny balled-up piece of paper someone left on the floor. “The guy is selling your workplace to the highest bidder. He has no interest in me. He's interested in passing you and me off to someone else.” I knew very well what that group of businessmen was here for.

“Who owns the hotel doesn't matter, Ms. Jason. For all you know, we could be heading toward higher pay and better benefits.”

I wanted to laugh so hard it hurt.

“Have you ever worked overseas in a hotel, Mr. Butts?”

Now that made him stop. “No, I haven't had the opportunity.”

“Try working for a company in Asia or Europe before you say ownership isn't relevant. It's a different game over there. We may have to provide the same level of service to our American customers, but the corporate structure will be different. For all you know, this kinky floor is going bye-bye if a conservative company buys the hotel.”

Butts sighed. “A fine idea actually…A guest asked me to order
butt
plugs the other day. ‘Mr. Butts, have housekeeping bring more towels and some
butt
plugs, please,' ” he grumbled in a singsong voice.

I swallowed a laugh and tried to keep going on the subject at hand. “Employees' insurance benefits will change, and possibly not for the better.”

Mr. Butts sighed. “Whether or not the new owners make changes doesn't matter in the end.”

“True.”

If you're smart, Carlie, you'll uncover your parents and get out of here before you do something with Tomas that you'll regret.
No more hotel drama, no more Tomas, just making money in London where I wanted to be. Where I had a life.

An ocean between us would definitely put me back on track.

Later that afternoon, I spotted Carver sitting in his usual spot by the pool.

“Hey, Jason!” he called out.

He always made me smile. I placed a fresh green smoothie next to his old one. His smile faded. “How are you, Carver?”

“Feeling good. Two hot models just made out on the other side of the pool.”

This man is too much.
The guy was attractive enough to have at least a few models hanging all over him, but as usual, he was sitting by himself.

“Should I get you some binoculars?” I asked.

“Naw.” He took a long drink from the fresh glass. “My vision is perfect…when I watch my sugar anyway.”

“Do you have diabetes?”

“Yeah, I got Type 2.” He chuckled. “I'm not the most compliant patient either, according to my doc.”

“Don't feel bad. I'm not, either.”

“What you got?”

I picked up his old drink and considered the door I'd just opened. Talking to Carver was too easy. Discussing my personal business with guests wasn't wise, but just looking at him relaxed against his seat, not a single line of stress on his face, set me at ease.

“I have celiac disease and I'm not dealing with it well…”

He briefly threw a smile my way. “Is that the disease where you can't eat things like wheat?”

“Pretty much. I'd kill for a cheap bottle of beer right about now with a huge plate of deep-dish lasagna.”

“Aren't there gluten-free options now? You don't have much to complain about. Have you tried sugar-free apple pie?” He shook his head as if disgusted. “It's like a culinary murder scene during my family dinners. My aunt makes this
a-mazing
brown-sugar baked sweet potato dish that everyone loves and I'm the knucklehead stuck eating a plain baked potato.”

“It could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could be allergic to potatoes.”

He rolled his eyes. “Does your family cook something different for you?”

I sucked in a deep breath. “I'm an orphan.”

“Damn, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I have friends who I consider my family…and I'm here in Boston to find my biological parents.” There I went again, but talking like this felt good. It was like I was hanging out with Griffin. Both of them were fine as hell and had an ease about them.

He slowly nodded. “How's the search going?”

“I have a feeling I have a better chance finding you a
tasty
piece of sugar-free apple pie in our kitchen than finding my parents.”

He grunted. “Have you ever tasted sugar-free apple pie before? Thanks, but no thanks. Even at my company meetings they serve me that shit.”

I'd kill for a piece of apple pie with a delicate flaky crust, too. Even the pancakes I ate with Tomas. “Company meetings? I've yet to see you do
any
work.”

“That's what underlings are for. I got a bunch of managers.”

With an amused grin, I watched him tilt his head to better observe Millicent as she went by with Mr. Frasier. Their timing was flawless.

“What kind of company do you own?” I asked.

“A private investigation firm out of the Midwest.”

“Sounds pretty cool.”

“How come you haven't hired an investigator to find your parents?”

I shrugged. “No money. Even I know how much you guys cost.”

He gave me the kind of smile that would melt the iciest of hearts. “What if you had a good friend who gave you the homegirl hookup?”

I made a face. “I'd thank him, but I'd have to decline the offer. I'm doing pretty well on my own.”

One of his eyebrows went up. “How long have you been looking?”

“Not long…” The muscle in my cheek twitched with the beginnings of irritation. His offer seemed sincere, but I didn't want to owe a new friend—let alone a hotel guest—such a huge debt.

Maybe he read the doubt in my expression since he was quiet for a bit, but he wasn't quiet for too long. “You might not want my help, but the least you could do is hook a brother up with a
real
smoothie every once in a while.”

I snorted. “I don't mind being your apple pie supplier, but I'll feel guilty after I have to call the paramedics when your blood sugar spikes.”

“See, Jason! That's what I like about you.” He winked at me, his gray-blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Always thinking ahead.”

How I wished thinking ahead solved all my problems. Especially those involving Tomas.