Page 11 of Loss and Damages
What would Leo think of me meeting Jemma? He didn’t introduce me to her, didn’t mention her at all. Kept her a secret, unless this woman was going to be his date at the benefit. I bet all my money that if he were still alive, he’d never want me to meet her. He was ashamed of his family and he’d want to keep her as far away from me and our father as he possibly could.
Don’t worry, little brother, I’m not going to hurt her. You loved her and that’s enough that I’ll see she has what she needs and nothing more.
I finish my coffee, wash my mug, and rinse out the carafe. I didn’t intend to come back, but the quiet lets me think without interruption. We own this building and nothing in Leo’s apartment will be disturbed if we don’t want it to be. Mother won’t be in a hurry to clean out his things, and that may fall to me. I can’t picture her being strong enough to attempt such atask. Her favorite son, the boy she loved more than anything in the world, is gone.
Wearing one of Leo’s sweatshirts, I shove my feet into a pair of his shoes. Not one piece of my suit is salvageable, and the thought of burning it grows stronger and stronger. I don’t need a physical reminder of yesterday. I’ll never forget it. If I’m going to spend time here away from the reporters and protesters who are trying, but not quite succeeding, to turn my life into a living hell, I’ll need to send for some clothes. Of course, I could move into any property anywhere in St. Charlotte. We own more than half the city, but given that Leo’s and my poor relationship is public knowledge, me using his apartment will be the last thought on anyone’s mind and it will be the perfect hideout.
In the underground parking garage, the space where Leo parked his Aston Martin is empty and I look away. The car was a total loss, and I’ll never be able to drive mine without thinking about him.
I choose a plain black SUV that has tinted windows. Not as inconspicuous as I’d like, but Leo liked to collect cars and nothing he owned is low-key. I should catch a cab, but there’s no way in hell I could stand on the sidewalk and hail a taxi without a dozen pairs of eyes on me wondering what the fuck Dominic Milano is doing riding public transportation, and in sweatpants, no less.
I don’t need long to drive across the city to my penthouse and change into one of the variations of the black suit I always wear, and in under an hour, I’m on the highway heading south toward Hollow Lake. The day is beautiful, if I’ve ever allowed myself to notice such things. I’m not one for smelling the roses.
When I drive by the tree that took my brother’s life, I pretend I don’t see it, pretend I don’t notice the skid marks that haven’t faded from the road.
I drive the speed limit and keep an eye out for deer.
Hollow Lake, population 2,691, is a tiny town near a lake of the same name. It’s pretty. One might even call it idyllic. I plug the address of Miss Ferrell’s gallery into my phone and the flat voice directs me to a house near the lakeshore, boasting a large porch that has two rockers positioned off to the side inviting a guest to sit down and gaze across the water.
I stop on the narrow shoulder. It annoys me there isn’t a parking lot, but there’s no room, not unless she wants to pour concrete over a couple hundred feet of grass, flowers, and trees, and I’m guessing she doesn’t or she would have.
The porch stairs groan as I mount them, and I pause to study a display of painted china showcased in a large picture window.
I push into the store and a little bell jingles above my head. The gallery’s empty, and I look around, undisturbed. Elegant paintings hang on the walls, everything from small portraits to enormous landscapes, several tables feature more painted china and sculptures, and a glass display glinting in the sun showcases numerous pieces of jewelry.
There’s a scent of something in the air, honey, if I had to guess, and maybe a touch of vanilla. To my surprise, I like it, and I breathe in deeply.
The floor is made of hardwood, and the floorboards creak as I step around the large showing room. A corner table is decorated with a tea set, and little purple flowers are painted on the delicate teacups. I don’t know what kind of flowers they are, if they exist in real life or only in the mind of the artist, but the daintiness intrigues me and I pick up a cup and matching saucer. There’s service for eight, plus a teapot, and cream and sugar cups that also match. It’s lovely and may brighten my mother’s spirits. It’s something Leo would have bought her as a gift, but I don’t want to purchase it for that reason.
Well, not only for that reason.
A small, discrete price tag is attached to one of the teacups. The artist is selling the set for three thousand dollars. I don’t find it an absurd amount. I would have paid five. The time alone invested in each of these pieces is worth that.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
Her voice does funny things to my cock. I know it’s Jemma Ferrell before I turn my gaze away from the teacup, and it only took those two seconds for the words to leave her mouth for me to fantasize about fucking her. Her lips to my ear, begging for more as I’m buried so deeply inside her I can’t think about the next deal.
That would be quite an accomplishment.
Keeping my head in bed.
Slowly, I take her in, savoring her in person. Her photo didn’t do her justice. Staring at her across the room at Leo’s wake wasn’t enough.
She’s six feet away, seven, when she sees who’s in her gallery and steps backward. “Mr. Milano,” she croaks.
“Jemma Ferrell. How long were you fucking my brother?”
Her hand flies to her throat, but damn if a little smile doesn’t touch her lips before she extinguishes it.
“We didn’t have a relationship like that. Is that, I mean, is there something I can help you with? Are you here to buy something?”
“I’ll purchase the tea set in exchange for some information.”
She rubs her palms against the skirt of her white sundress. “I don’t know what I could tell you that would be worth that.”
“Just what I asked. How long were you fucking my brother? Was he paying you? Are you pregnant?”
Her mouth drops open and her gorgeous blue eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. You may think the tea set is worth it, but I certainly do not. Good day, Mr. Milano.”
