Page 9 of Obsession

“The building goes into lockdown at 2 a.m. every night.”

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

George smiled. “You say that now, but Mr. Carson doesn’t exactly work on the nine-to-five kind of schedule. He has clients all over the world.”

Another surprise. “I’ll remember that.” I backed away from the desk and turned to the wide expanse of windows. Boston was in full bloom. Carson Covenant Inc. was right in the middle of the busiest part of the harbor. “Will I see you tomorrow, George?”

“Afraid not. Angie will be back tomorrow.”

“Well, then nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Ms. Copeland.”

I pushed open the doors to the vestibule. It was even more impressive on the exit. The glass artist in me was enamored by the framework and the quality while the bitchy part of me wanted to leave a big ole palm print.

Too bad it was so fascinatingly resistant.

Again, I’d kill to have that kind of glass in my workshop. The glass would be quite amazing if it were done in a beveled style if the dome overhead was any indication.

I sighed and opened the door, and the life and heat of Boston slapped at me. It was October, but as usual, there were a few days that the mild weather near the water turned to an oppressive heat.

They were usually followed by a storm. My favorite kind of day.

I pulled out my phone and realized I had twenty minutes to kill before I could take the T back to where I’d parked. I wandered down the street and took the access street to the Harbor Walk. The street side access to his building was overwhelming, but the water side was breathtaking.

I tipped back my head to take it all in. The framework was almost non-existent in the late afternoon sun. Impressive didn’t even cover it. Finally, I turned and followed the older cobblestones by the water up to the smoother, updated path. The ferries were coming and going, and a fleet of personal boats bobbed in their docks. The briny scent of the harbor calmed me like nothing else.

Dealing with the cool and dispassionate Blake Carson had jangled more than my nerves.

I’d had one goal when I left Marblehead, and now I didn’t know what to do. All I wanted to do was get my house back. Nothing had gone according to plan since I woke that morning.

I wandered along the water until the breeze kicked up. By the time I looked at my phone, I’d missed two more pickups from the subway. I’d walked so long that I ended up near the aquarium. I followed the after-work crush of people onto the Blue Line and wedged myself in the corner.

This part of Boston I could do without. I’d gone to school here, so I knew my way around, but I definitely preferred Marblehead.

Lady’s Bay was one of the waterways that ran along the main highway, and it had been my home for a long time. I knew the families, went to the parties, understood the politics. Now I was the poor relation. With the small town feel of Marblehead came the same Massachusetts gossip. I hated how my grandmother had been reduced to being old money, minus the money.

Annabelle Stuart had been a proud woman—so proud that she hadn’t told me just how much trouble she was in. She’d loved that house. I wasn’t going to let it go to some suit who didn’t know how to smile, let alone enjoy the ocean.

No way, no how.

Chapter Four

Thunder shook the house at 4 a.m., driving me from my bed to the front porch. I’d been tossing and turning for hours, anyway. The heat had followed me out of Boston, and I’d felt the storm brewing all night. Lightning speared across the night sky, and the flashbulb brightness gave me a snapshot of boats bobbing and struggling against their anchors in the distance.

I moved closer to the windows, pressing my hand to the damp screen. I wanted to be outside on the beach, but the lightning was too close to a fireworks show. When the thunder rolled off the water, the house shook. This was what living by the ocean brought.

Wonder, and a little touch of magnificent fury in the face of beauty.

These were my favorite days to work in my little space on the side of the house. What used to be the maid’s quarters had become my studio right after college. That should have been my first clue to the financial strain.

My grandmother had employed a caretaker for as long as I could remember. Mrs. Stephens had been getting older, and when she’d left, I’d just assumed she’d finally retired.

A lot of things had gone over my head in the last few years. I couldn’t even use the flighty artist excuse. I was driven and always on the lookout for new work to keep me busy.

That was my sin. Working too much.

How many days had I lost with my grandmother because I’d locked myself away in my workshop?

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