Page 60 of Say Yes to the Death

“You’re the only survivor of the West Haven Widowmaker.”

“You can’t be serious.” The shock began to ebb, but her heart still pounded as though she was being chased. Was she really hearing him correctly?

“He’s right. It would really help the documentary.” He looked at her with soft eyes. “It’s not a complete story without you.”

“Is this why you brought me to Paris?” Claire whispered incredulously. “You wanted to butter me up so you could make me relive the worst night in my entire life for your personal gain?”

“No, I wanted to keep you?—”

“Safe.” She cut him off. “Yeah, sure. I know I joke about this a lot to try to cope with the trauma, but do you see this bandage?” She pointed at the mark on her chest. “This is a daily reminder of the night I was stabbed by a psychotic serial killer. I was drugged, bound, gagged, and violated, mentally and physically. I was inches from death that night, Luke. If Sawyer hadn’t shown up, Rosie probably would have been an orphan. My mother would have lost a child.”

Luke bristled. “It might be good for you to talk about it. You won’t go to therapy. You haven’t come to terms with what happened.” He reached for her.

She slapped his hand away. Considered flipping the entire table over. “It’s been two weeks. If you think for one second that I’ll find some remarkable catharsis by describing all the gory details of my almost murder to your audience of mouth-breathing couch potatoes, you never knew me at all.”

She leapt up. Her chair fell, but she didn’t pause to straighten it.

“Don’t you dare come near me.” She held her arm out, one finger pointing accusingly at Luke as he attempted to stand. “I can’t believe that I gave myself to you, and all you wanted was a fucking interview. That’s what it’s been about from the beginning, isn’t it?”

Rage was settling back in, hot and fierce like a coiled dragon.

“Should we review your track record?” she continued. “You knew I was a potential target for murder, but you never told me. Then I almost died, and you’re asking me to relive the experience on camera for your profit. You never cared about me. You only care about yourself, your career, your life.”

“You know that’s not true.” He reached for her hand, but she snatched it back.

People were staring, but she didn’t care. She’d never see them again.

“You don’t understand,” Luke said. “I already told him I couldn’t get the interview, but he knows about my relationship with you and he insisted. He says some of the backers will pull out if I can’t get it. I had to try.”

“Then find another backer. Jesus, Luke.” If Hollywood wasn’t full of rich, opportunistic middle-aged men, then everything she had ever seen on TV was a lie.

“It’s not that easy.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

Unbelievable.

“You know what? This is over. Don’t fucking follow me. I am not your pawn. I am worth more than this. I owe you nothing. I am going home, and I don’t care if I ever hear from you again. Enjoy California, you narcissistic fuckbag.”

Every tendon in her body screamed at her to plunge her fist into that arrogant face, but by some miracle she refrained. She didn’t need another lawsuit. Armed with her clutch and her dignity, she stormed out of the dining room and onto the deck of the ship. When had it started raining? That was just fucking perfect.

“Claire, wait—” Luke said from inside. He was trapped by a waiter with a huge serving tray, but not for long.

She needed to get as far away as possible. The deck was slick underfoot as she hurried down the length, tears blurring her eyes. How could he do this to her? Was every moment together just a grand scheme to get her on the documentary? Her cheeks burned. Nobody was going to take advantage of her. Not ever again.

As she rounded the stern of the ship, she hit another slippery patch. Her heel skidded, and she crashed into the metal railing. Her entire world went upside down for a moment. Rivets on the boat flashed past before she plummeted into the cold, murky water of the Seine.

She spluttered and coughed. River water went up her nose. Holy shit. She’d really done it now. Damn it, her phone! It couldn’t get wet. What if a client needed her?

Her clutch trembled above her head as she treaded water with one arm. With any luck her phone would have survived her brief aquatic touchdown. The boat puttered away from her. No one had even noticed that she had fallen overboard. At least Luke was getting farther away by the second. His betrayal had hit her like an uppercut.

Shit, speaking of wounds. Dirty river water probably wasn’t great for hers. She swam one-armed as best as she could to the bank. Thankfully, she had fallen out right at Notre Dame. She hoisted herself up a rock ledge and onto the walking path that lined the river. Her carefully chosen little black dress clung to her thighs and dripped torrents of river water onto the sidewalk. She stumbled up the stairs to the street and shivered in the chill night air. Trembling fingers unzipped her clutch and dragged her phone out. It was still dry and turned on. Thank god.

She paused under a streetlight, catching her breath. So this was it. Rock bottom. Almost murdered. Twice betrayed by the first person she had opened her heart to after breaking off her engagement. Never again.

She couldn’t call a cab in this state. There was no choice but to walk the eight blocks back to the hotel. Her shoes squelched as she walked, and if she had a dollar for every time someone gave her a funny look, she could have covered her return plane ticket by the time she pushed open the hotel door.

Half an hour later, she ran down the hallway, dragging two suitcases behind her. She had commandeered Luke’s to hold her new shoes. And when she got home, she would burn the suitcase and anything that was left of him.

She collapsed into a cab. Ugh, she didn’t speak French.

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