I shrugged. "It's up to you. Deal with him however you need to."

"I do believe that he has strong feelings for you. There's no doubt in my mind that he cares about you."

I held up a hand. "I don't want to talk about that. It doesn't matter to me what he feels if I can't live with what he does."

"He never threw a punch last night, never even tried, but he's apologizing to me."

I turned to meet his eyes, letting him see my resolve. "Drop it."

He leaned into me, kissing the top of my head. "Of course, b.u.t.tercup. I'll drop it."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

Mr. Celebrity It seemed like it took an eternity to make it to my house. And when I did, I pa.s.sed out for an unprecedented six hour stretch.

I had turned my phone off first thing that morning, and I left it off. I had told James that I would speak to him on monday, but that hadn't kept him from calling and texting me, over and over again.

Just thinking about reading those texts made my stomach churn, so my phone had stayed off.

When I awoke, I ate some eggs and sat down at my computer with no small amount of dread.

My computer was an old, refurbished piece of junk, but it served it's purpose. I typed the name James Cavendish into the search engine with trembling fingers.

What came up was overwhelming, and filled with even more unpleasant surprises than I was prepared for. I had been aware that he was a young but well-known billionaire. I had expected some attention from the media in his direction, just from his looks and money alone. But I couldn't have antic.i.p.ated what I found.

I was out of touch with current events, to say the least. I didn't watch the news, and you couldn't pay me to watch some of the celebrity entertainment shows that were on television, and I certainly wasn't interested in print tabloids. I'd never understood the appeal of things like that. I had just never been able to relate to anything about them. They usually centered around spoiled rich people, and I just didn't get the appeal. That could perhaps excuse the fact that I was utterly clueless about the man I'd had a brief affair with.

I clicked on the images portion first. It was mostly shots on red carpets. He seemed to have endless pictures posing with countless women, though Jules was in a sickening majority of them.

He wore tux after tux, some fashion forward, some cla.s.sic. She wore gowns in every color, always looking beyond stunning. The two of them together made a dauntingly beautiful pair. He wore suits in other pictures, to what I a.s.sumed were less formal red carpet events. I was shocked to see that I even recognized some of the other women he had dated.

I recognized a very famous actress. I hadn't realized she was so tiny until I saw her standing beside James's tall figure. She barely came to his chest. I had liked a few of her films, but I felt an unreasonable rush of dislike for her when I saw that she had attended at least three events with him.

I recognized yet another woman, a voluptuous, dead behind the eyes reality star. She was dark-haired and dark complexioned. Her curves very nearly ran to fat, I decided cattily. She was so short that they looked ridiculous side by side.

I felt sick when I saw him next to one woman who had the caption 'fetish p.o.r.n star' right under the picture.

He always looked spectacularly handsome, regardless of who he had on his arm, but I was getting a bigger and drastically different view of him now. And I didn't like what I was seeing.

Farther down on the image page I saw a picture of him and Jules dressed down in jeans. It was a rare sight, so I clicked on it. I got a larger view, with a small gossip article. They were holding hands in the picture. The article said that she was rumored to be his longtime on-again off-again girlfriend.

I turned on my phone just long enough to send James the image.

Bianca: You Liar. I'll speak to you on Monday because I said I would, but I've begun to do my research, and I'm quickly seeing that I don't know anything about you.

I didn't bother to read the dozen unread messages above the one I had sent him, but I got a response almost immediately, and I did read that.

James: Please don't believe that tabloid garbage. I'll admit I never discouraged the rumors about Jules being my girlfriend, but they were only rumors. She has never been my girlfriend. She's my best buddy's sister. I promise I will never escort her to another event for the rest of my life, but last night was not a date with her. It was a long standing social obligation. If I had tried to put myself in your shoes, I would have seen how hurtful it could look to you. I apologize for that. I would give anything if I could do it differently. But please, just try to give me the benefit of the doubt, and stop looking at tabloids. I'm still in New York working, since you won't see me, but it's killing me that I hurt you and that I can't make it right. I could be on a flight within the hour. Just say the word, love.

I turned my phone off after that. His one message almost had me softening towards him, and I just wasn't going to let that happen. Fool me once...

I went back to my own personal torture of sifting through gossip about James Archibald Basil Cavendish, The Third. I hadn't even known his middle names, or that he had two of them. A random gossip site had had to tell me. Of course, he didn't know mine, either.

I found articles about his parents, and even a few pictures. They were a stunning couple. His mother was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, ravishing beauty with James's golden skin and pretty mouth. His father was devastatingly handsome and blond, with beautiful turquoise eyes that made my gut clench with recognition. I could see how such a combination of people could create a masterpiece like James.

An article I found about them wrote about how they had died in a car accident. Their tragedy, and a beautiful young James, a billionaire before he was even fourteen, had quickly been propelled into the spotlight and romanticized.

I caught little snippets and even a picture of his infamous deceased guardian, and the full details of that scandal. The man was in his early thirties in the first picture. He was handsome, with light brownish-blond hair, like James, but a paler complexion. And he was slender to the point of frail, with creepy, pale green eyes. Spencer Charles Douglas Cavendish had been a predator in the skin of a lamb. I felt a hate for him that made bile rise in my throat.

I read the article about his death. Spencer Cavendish had been killed by an enraged lover. One Lowell Blankenship had been drugged and handcuffed by the frail Spencer. Lowell had commented that he had consented to have s.e.x with Spencer, but that he hadn't agreed to any of the other 'sick s.h.i.t' the man had forced upon him. Spencer had been strangled to death when he had unlocked the handcuffs of the much larger Lowell. I personally thought he deserved a far more painful death.

There were countless other articles about James's numerous business ventures. I just skimmed over these. I did learn that he was into much more than just the hotel industry, and I wasn't surprised.

I read through a three page article about his two month affair with a platinum hit singer. She was barely nineteen, and it had been less than six months since their split.

Dammit, I have some of her songs on my mp3 player, I thought in disgust. He had his hand on her nape in one of the pictures. I wanted to throw something.

There were a few articles that hinted briefly about him being a kinky s.e.x partner, but that was all that I found that was even close to touching on his BDSM lifestyle. I wondered how he'd kept it so well under wraps.

I turned off my computer, striding into my bedroom and tearing the painting of him from the wall. I tried to make myself tear it up, but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I put it into my chest of old watercolors.

I turned my phone on again. I ignored all of the new missed calls and texts from James. I texted Stephan, asking if I could come over. He answered instantly with a yes.

I went over, and we watched TV and ate too much ice cream. It helped, but as soon as we stopped watching, I started thinking again. That's how we ended up catching up on my TV until nearly two a.m on a work night. We had an early morning, but Stephan didn't complain.

"I spoke at length to James today," Stephan told me after we'd been watching TV for hours.

I just nodded.

"Want me to tell you about it?"

I shook my head.

"Okay. Let me know if you do."

"I need some time. I read up on him online. I'm feeling less inclined than ever to even speak to him again."

Stephan took a deep breath. "That's something I wanted to talk about, actually, if you're willing to hear what I think about the whole thing right now."

I just studied him for a minute. He looked nervous, which meant I wouldn't like what he was going to say. "Not right now," I said.

"I think I can at least understand now why he wanted to keep his relationship with you private."

I held a hand up. "No more. It sounds a lot like you're taking his side right now. I just can't handle that at the moment." Unwilling tears welled up as I spoke.

He pulled me against his chest, kissing the top of my head. "Never, b.u.t.tercup. I'm always on your side. Always. We'll talk about it when you're ready."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Mr. Cavendish I was grateful for busy flights at work the following day. We had full planes going both ways on our turn. I barely had time to eat, and I was avoiding thinking at all costs. I didn't even have my phone. It was still at home, by my bed, and turned off.

The Agents were present, and I felt a moment of unreasonable anger at them when I first spotted the one in my cabin. I squelched the emotion, just serving them as they alternated cabins on the return flight. I made myself brush off the implication that James still had a reason to keep an eye on me. I would set him straight on Monday, and then this nonsense would be over for good.

I was, thankfully, exhausted by the time I got back home that night. I only performed the minimum bedtime preparations before practically falling into bed.

I slept in late the next morning. Even after I woke up, I moved slowly. It took me nearly an hour to prepare and feed myself breakfast.

I felt like a zombie, too numb to even cry. I thought it was an improvement.

Stephan and I had a monthly lunch date with several of the other members of our flight attendant cla.s.s at eleven. I was skipping out. It was a boisterous, funny, close-knit group. The lunches were always a great time. There were twelve of us in total that went, and we usually caught up with each other over lunch. We often caught a movie afterward or even headed to Stephan's house, on occasion. I wasn't up for any of it. Stephan had promised to make my excuses. He had offered to skip out with me, but I wouldn't hear of it. I knew he was a social creature, and the lunches were always a highlight for him.

I tried to paint. One look at my canvas of a nude James changed my mind . I put the painting in my spare room with trembling hands. I just didn't have it in me to deal with it at that moment.

Finally, I went the m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic route, turning on my computer again. I set out to do more painful research on my famous ex-lover.

If I had been shocked by what my search had turned up the first time, I was utterly floored by what I found then. What a difference a few days had made.

Now, typing James Cavendish into the search engine brought up an entirely new batch of photos that the first search hadn't. Pictures of me. I had never thought of myself as a beauty. My features were even and symmetrical and my coloring was a soft natural blond, but I had always just considered myself attractive, if I was in a kind mood. I usually photographed well. I even had a picture-ready smile. If it wasn't all that sincere, it was at least polished and convincing enough at a distance. These weren't those kinds of pictures.

They had obviously been snapped as I was stumbling out of James's building. I looked disheveled, and, well, horrible. I was ghostly pale, my eyes red and bloodshot. There was mascara running down my face in dark lines. It made me look at least forty years old, instead of twenty-three.

My uniform was in shambles, the b.u.t.tons of my blouse misaligned by at least three. I hadn't even noticed at the time. My shirt was untucked, and the top was hanging low, showing an almost obscene amount of cleavage. My hair was a tangled mess.

I looked like I was drunk and about to throw up in the street. I was teetering on the edge of the sidewalk. Apparently, I had looked as awful as I had felt that night. And the pictures were everywhere. One gossip site after another had scented the story of trouble in paradise. Though they all seemed to have a slightly different slant on it.

One site named me a 'Vegas floozy' who had come between Jules and James, though the site claimed that their love would endure the scandal. I saw that they were commonly referred to on the gossip sites as J&J. It made me want to throw up.

One site called me a 'Low Cla.s.s Inflight', who had broken the heart of a distraught Jules. That one hurt, with side by side pictures of the two of us. The picture of Jules showed her in the pale gray gown she'd been wearing that night, giving a stiff smile at the camera. She looked strained, but at least she'd known she was being photographed. I saw farther down on the same article that they had indeed still attended the charity event together, in spite of the obvious strain yet another of James's affairs had caused on the beautiful couple. The article concluded that their love would prevail over James's weakness for cheap women.

I wouldn't have been surprised if Jules had written the article herself, it was so biased towards her. It made her out to be a long-suffering Saint. I'd met the woman, if only briefly. She was no Saint.

One site called me a 'Blond Sky s.l.u.t,' and claimed that I was trying to trap James with a baby. I couldn't believe all of the lies that could be concocted from a few short minutes worth of unsolicited photos, and all of a woman no one had ever heard of. It was shocking, and infuriating, and sickening.

One site resorted to drawing giant p.e.n.i.ses all over my face, saying that I 'gave the best head', and that was the only reason James would risk his long-time lover's wrath. Supposedly several of the site's sources knew it first-hand. The lies made me feel ill.

One site claimed I was part of a high-priced flight attendant prost.i.tution ring, and that James obviously needed to ask for his money back.

I was almost flattered for a moment as I read the headline of one article. It claimed I was a 'Swedish Bikini Model'. That sounded complimentary. Until I scrolled to the bottom of the article, which had a link it claimed went to a p.o.r.no, starring me. I didn't bother to click on it. I knew for a fact that it wasn't me, and I didn't want to see what it actually was.

Another said I was a c.o.c.ktail waitress, and yet another said that I was a stripper with the stage name 'Glory Hole'. The slurs went on and on, and I felt humiliated, angry, and heartsick.

This was the price I had to pay for one week of pleasure? I thought in disgust. I was going celibate for the rest of my life.

And I hated myself, for being just as upset that James and Jules had still gone out together that night as I was by all of the horrible lies being spread about me...

I got my phone out of my bedroom, finally turning it on after days in the off position. I went straight to Stephan's name in my texts, completely ignoring all of the other messages and calls that I had missed. I'd missed one from Stephan as well. It had been sent twenty minutes ago.

Stephan: b.u.t.tercup, I'll be home soon. Finishing up lunch now. We need to talk. Please don't look at anything online until I get there.

I snorted. He should have known better. If I hadn't already looked, his odd message would have sent me straight to my computer.

I heard the doorbell ring.

That was quick, I thought, as I strode directly to the door.

I wondered why he didn't just let himself in. He was rarely so formal. He even had my alarm code.

A cold shiver ran through me. I couldn't place why. Cautiously, I checked the peephole. It was covered.

By a hand, I thought. It made me angry.

I swung the door open, ready to chew Stephan a new one. "You know better than to mess with me like that, Stephan. It's a mean prank-"

I couldn't finish as a huge hand seized my throat, shoving me back into the house. I couldn't even scream as the hand tightened. I blinked, trying to focus on the coldly furious face in front of me. The familiar pale-blue, bloodshot eyes. I could do nothing as the huge blond man picked me up by the throat, and shoved me across the room, my back hitting the wall with a jarring thud.

I clawed at the giant hand that held me suspended like a rag doll. It had no effect. My throat burned, and the impact with the wall had knocked the wind out of me, but the pain was secondary to the terror that gripped me.

A question consumed my thoughts. It was an old familiar pattern for me, when this madman, who exercised so little control over his rage, held me in his grasp. The question circled my brain like a persistent cancer. Would he kill me this time? He always threatened to. Ever since I had stood, not more than four feet away, and watched in horror as he pushed the gun my mother held into her mouth, and pulled the trigger. I had watched in helpless horror as his finger covered hers on that trigger, and pulled so slowly.

Blood had splattered all three of us, but he hadn't seemed to notice.

At the moment, his words were a confusing tangle of Swedish and English, and I couldn't for the life of me understand it. I had never been fluent in Swedish, but I'd had to understand it as a child, since my father stubbornly insisted on using it at home. But, either from terror or disuse, any ability to understand it was failing me. I tried to speak, to tell him that, but his hand was still at my throat, cutting off my ability to speak.

His hand relaxed on my throat just enough for me to take a breath. I gasped, then grunted and whimpered as his fist made hard contact with my ribs. I sobbed in another breath, still desperate for air.

He spoke again. This time it was a heavily accented but understandable string of English. "Don't get the idea that a rich boyfriend will keep you safe from me. If you even think about speaking to the police, I will still kill you. Do you understand?"

I couldn't speak, but I tried. G.o.d, did I try. Finally, I just nodded, but it wasn't enough. One of those ma.s.sive fists made contact with my stomach once, and then again. I started to crumble, but he pushed my shoulder into the wall hard enough to keep me upright.

"Look at me," my father's cold voice ordered.

I did, getting a good look at him for the first time since he'd charged, like a madman, through my door. It had been six years since I'd seen him, but he'd aged twenty. He was even heavier now, his face dissipated with the signs of a life lived in excess. He was a drunk, a smoker, a chronic gambler, a murderer, and G.o.d only knew what else. It had all taken it's toll on his once handsome face.

I called myself a thousand kinds of fool. I'd known he would never leave Vegas. He had gambled to stay afloat since his parents had disowned him at least twenty-four years before. I had prayed that his destructive lifestyle would take care of him on it's own, but it had been too much to hope for.

Thinking it was Stephan at my door was no excuse. I was an idiot for letting my guard down for even a second. But he had somehow known when to strike. I was so depressed and despondent that my brain wasn't working properly. The thought of a real threat had been so far from my mind...