The Inheritance 4 Page 8

  My heart swells into my throat. “I love you,” I say.

  It slips out and the nerves in my body pack into my fingertips. I want to push him away but Neal tightens his arms around me, keeping me pinned against the wall.

  His eyes focus on mine. “I love you too, Caitlin.”

  I can’t digest everything right away. I’ve admitted to loving him and he loves me too? Really?

  These sort of things don’t happen to girls like me. Not since high school, not since Justin. But here’s Neal, handsome and successful and holding me after a quick fuck in the pool. Neal. Who loves me.

  Neal pushes his fingers beneath my chin. “Don’t overthink it,” he says, placing his mouth against mine.

  My mind’s running a mile a minute, questions flurrying into a tornado, desperate for answers. I separate them with my fingers, tucking them away for a later date.

  This time, I won’t overthink it.

  This time, I’m going to let this be.

  Twelve

  My mother wakes me up. My phone rings in my purse and I pull myself from Neal to answer it.

  There’s a mountain of noise on the other end, voices mixing with announcements over a loudspeaker.

  “I’m at the airport,” my mother says. “Where are you?”

  Shit. I check the time. It’s noon on the east coast. I’ve overslept.

  My toes curl into the carpet as I say, “I’m so sorry, I missed my flight.”

  My mother sighs. “Are you at least at Midway?”

  “No, but I’m heading there now.”

  “Caitlin…” she says.

  “I know. I overslept. I promise I’ll be home before eight.”

  Neal sleeps through me climbing out of bed and closing the bathroom door. I expect him to join me in the shower, but he doesn’t. At the sink I dry my hair and pull it into a ponytail.

  I step into the bedroom wearing nothing but my towel. Neal’s standing near the window, his back to me as he slides on his pants, left leg then right. I want to place my chin on his shoulder, to kiss the spot below his ear but something stops me. (I’m afraid of rejection.)

  We say nothing as we dress, barely looking at each other aside from glances caught out of the corner of our eyes.

  “You need to get your things from the condo, right?” Neal says.

  I nod.

  Neal calls his driver to come pick us up.

  Gilda waits with us on the round front steps of her home, smelling of expensive perfume and champagne, her breath ghosting across the top of my head as she hugs me tightly. “You’ll come visit us, won’t you?” she says, a hopeful smile tugging at her mouth.

  “Of course,” I say and not just to appease her. I’m already mentally planning my next trip to Chicago.

  Martin’s hug is brief but just as tight. “You take care of yourself,” he says.

  It’s an emotional goodbye.

  Neal’s driver pulls out of their driveway. Gilda and Martin stand shoulder-to-shoulder, waving, and I wave back like a child heading off to college. Frightened but full of the knowledge that this is all for the best.

  The ride to the city is mostly silent. The partition’s rolled up and the windows are rolled down to let in some air.

  I don’t know what to say to Neal. Last night, wrapped up in one another, we promised to keep in touch but how much weight do those words hold in the light of the day?

  I glance over at Neal. He’s staring out the window, one hand hooked beneath his chin, the other lazily resting against the middle seat.

  My hands are trembling as I lace our fingers together, clinging to his warmth and providing some of my own. His eyebrow raises as he looks at me, a smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Neal squeezes my hand. He raises it and presses his lips to my skin. A light ignites in my stomach and spins to my throat.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Thirteen

  After Chicago we don’t see each other for a while. Despite Carl’s confession the police department conducts a full investigation into Neal and my father’s business, tying him to the city until further notice. Over late night phone calls he shared stories about the police raiding Martin and Gilda’s home, and pulling his employees into offices to interrogate them for hours.

  “I told them to tell the truth,” Neal says, but he suspects they needlessly lied for his sake; they’re that loyal.

  I debate attending Lee’s funeral but Martin advises against it. “There’s still bad blood, even though they know we had nothing to do with his murder,” he says.

  Chris evades arrest by teaming with Louis and shoving all the blame on Carl.

  Neal says Ashleigh played her part well, running to the press to recant what she said about him. (“I was afraid for my life. Carl held a gun to my head and said if I didn't lie about who killed Julian he was...he was going to...”) She’s staying with Chris in a gold coast condo they won't be able to keep for long.

  “I fired him, of course,” Neal says. “And no one wants to work with someone like him.”

  Ashleigh calls me, once. I imagine her chewing on her bottom lip, nervously tucking her blond hair behind her ear. I let it go to voicemail. Two days later I delete her message without listening to it. I know it’s an apology and I don't want to hear it.

  Neal calls between meetings, during his lunch break and before he goes to sleep. We talk for hours and fall asleep with our phones pressed to our cheeks.

  “I'm coming to visit soon,” he says every weekend. “I promise.”

  ______

  “What do you mean you can't make it?” I say into the phone.

  Neal sighs on the other end. “Something came up. It’s important.”

  I slump down on the couch. “We haven't seen each other for months.”

  “I know,” Neal says. “But I have a job, Cait, I can't forgo it for you.”

  My jaw tightens. “I remember when you said some things were more important than work.” I hang up before he can respond.

  I know I'm being unfair. The mess with Lee and Chris left Neal out of the office for days, weeks in his business. He's trying to catch up but every time he gets above water another pile of paper work comes crashing down on his desk.

  I should call him back but someone knocks on my apartment door before I get the chance. It's probably my neighbor, Miss Francis, who always has her ear pressed to the wall, listening in on my conversations.

  I swing open the door, a fake everything's-alright-smile plastered on my mouth when my eyes fall on –

  “Neal?”

  He's grinning, half his face hidden behind a bouquet of white roses.

  “I thought I'd surprise you,” he says.

  I’m breathless. “By being an asshole? I thought you were standing me up.”

  Neal smiles a little wider. “I would never do that to my girl,” he says, stepping into my place.

  I shut the door, my eyes trained on his back. I haven't seen him in months. I want to drink up the sight of him. He looks better than ever, a glow to his skin, his navy suit tailored and trim.

  It hits me as he places the flowers on my dining room table, this is the first time he's been to my apartment. Although I received a hefty inheritance, I moved into a small one bedroom with enough living space for a couch and card table, a kitchen with a stove and built-in microwave, and a bathroom a bit bigger than Gina's. It’s nothing like Neal’s home which has been restored since the burglary with all new furniture.

  “I know it’s small,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip. “But…”

  Neal turns towards me, an endearing smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t care about the size of your apartment, Cait,” he says. “As long as you’re safe.” He peers out the living room window, down towards the parking lot. “Do you feel safe here?”

  I nod. “The neighborhood’s really nice.”

  Neal holds out his hand. “That’s all that matters.”

  I take Neal’s hand and he pu
lls me into him. His arm wraps around my waist. Our chests press together. He kisses me and my bones loosen, a content and immeasurable sigh passing through my lips.

  He kisses the corner of my mouth and pulls away, leaving me lightheaded, like putty in his arms.

  “I’ve missed your mouth,” he says, pressing his forehead against mine.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say.

  We kiss until he’s backed me into the couch, my legs bumping against the arm.

  “Should we take this into the bedroom?” I say.

  “In a minute, but I have something for you, first.”

  He digs into his pocket and pulls out a white business card, a name and number printed in black on the front. Wade B. He places it in the palm of my hand and my fingers run along the stock.

  “Wade’s a good friend of mine. He lives in Washington DC and owns a few planes available at your beck and call.”

  My mouth drops. “Really?” I say, turning the card in my fingers. “What’s the catch?”

  Neal laughs. “Nothing. You just call when you need a ride and he’ll give you a time to meet your pilot at BWI.”

  I raise my eyebrow. It can’t be that easy.

  Neal smiles. “Alright, there is one thing.”

  “I knew it.”

  He pulls me closer. “This offer is only available for as long as you’re mine.”

  My smile grows and I hook my fingers around his pockets, his lips centimeters away from mine.

  “Good thing I’m letting you keep me for a while.”

  The End.

  _______

  Unmasking You: A Novel - Sneak Preview

  COMING SOON

  Dear Readers,

  If you loved Neal and Caitlin’s story, I know you’re going to fall for Natasha and Wade. (He’s the friend Neal mentions with a few planes.)

  Unmasking You will be my first full-length novel available in early 2015. For updates please sign up for my newsletter. In the meantime, enjoy this sneak preview.

  Zelda Reed

  _______

  We met because I was in the right place at the wrong time.

  Wade Barton had been out of the country for six months. His extravagant French provincial sat empty on a vast plot of land outside of D.C. with a pool out back and a front door the cleaning women always forgot to lock.

  It was almost too easy, hopping the hulking black gate and ducking behind rows of trees as I made my way towards the driveway, out of sight from the cameras hidden in the slim lampposts.

  I was cloaked in black. My sister assured me I would blend into the night but I didn’t want to take any chances. Wade was the type of man who wouldn’t hesitate to put a gun to an intruder’s head. Or so I’d been told.

  Crouched behind a cluster of trash cans my phone buzzed in my wristlet. I buried myself in my coat to answer it, blocking the fluorescent light.

  New Message: I don’t have all day.

  Message Sent: Ten more minutes.

  I stuffed my phone back into my purse and ignored the second buzz. It was only Kinsley, my very recent ex-boyfriend, impatiently waiting for me to pick up my things from what was now “his apartment”. As of that night he was no longer my number one priority, so Kinsley would have to wait.

  There was no way around being seen as I opened the front door, so I kept my head down and my back to the cameras, identifying features hidden. I snuck inside quickly, praying my sister was right about the unset alarm, and shut the door with a soft click.

  When I was seven my father taught me that the key to a successful break in was patience. You always wanted to wait at the front door upon entering, just in case someone was hidden in the shadows. Then you could get away with ease, instead of hopping from windows or sliding down roofs.

  I waited a total of three minutes before I ventured up the wide staircase and to the left. If the plans for Wade’s home were current, his bedroom and home office would be on this side, four doors down from a pair of small guest rooms.

  In his bedroom, in the back of his closet, was a hidden space carved into the wall. Behind it, a safe (combination: 22 left, 52 right, 18 left) holding a velvet bag of natural black diamonds, priced over two billion dollars. How Wade acquired them, I didn’t know, but Clover, who dealt in art out in Georgetown said he was looking for a buyer.

  A tip for those dealing on the black market: don’t let the world know what you have in your house.

  I tested the knob of his bedroom door. It was locked. Men like Wade always kept a spare key in their offices, tucked between a pile of folders or slipped in the pages of their favorite book.

  Months before, The Washington Times printed a profile on the Barton’s. A fluff piece to make them more relatable to the public. In it, Wade stated his favorite book as The Master and Margarita. When asked why he said, “Because it explores the responsibility of truth, even when those in positions of power would rather ignore it.”

  I imagined he looked at his father, Gregory Barton, mayor of D.C. and presidential hopeful, as he said it. A man plagued with corruption behind his kind eyes.

  The office door was unlocked. I moved through the darkness, striding towards the desk near the rounded window, when the tall leather chair whipped around.

  My heart leapt into my throat. A tidal wave of fear rushed beneath my skin. I would’ve screamed had I not been so focused on remaining silent.

  In the dark of the room a string of light bounced off Wade’s watch. A Patek Philippe, worth more than most people’s homes.

  I was frozen in his gaze, his grey eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers pressed together. What was he waiting for? Did he want me to move so he could pull a weapon from beneath his desk, frightening me more?

  “I ordered a blonde,” he said. His voice broke through the silence like a knife.

  My eyebrows knitted in the middle. “What?”

  He flicked on his desk lamp. The warm brown shade drew a spotlight around him.

  I’d seen photos of Wade Barton before. His face was plastered on the Times, the Post, and the City Paper. He was, after all, Washington DC’s most eligible and mysterious bachelor. A darkness flickered behind his eyes. I should’ve been afraid when he stood up, fingers undoing the buttons of his black suit jacket, but a sense of excitement stirred in my stomach. What was going to happen next?

  A certain type of blogger – the ones with perfume bottles in their purses and a pension for checking their lipstick every few minutes – was obsessed with Wade’s height. He was an impressive six-two with broad shoulders to match his build. He was only thirty-three but a streak of grey ran through the side of his dark hair like a strip of lightening, starting from his temple and extending towards the back.

  He was beyond handsome. Wade Barton was sex personified. As he approached me, his grey eyes were cloudy with what I hoped was lust, but could’ve been a warning. Get out now or I’m going to eat you alive.

  His arm brushed against my shoulder and I audibly sucked in a breath. Out of the corner of my eye I caught his smirk.

  “The agency’s never messed up my order before,” he said, his breath ghosting across the top of my head. His fingers brushed against my waist and my breath caught in my throat.

  I felt foolish for wanting his touch to linger but I couldn’t help the throbbing sensation between my legs, set off by his smell. A masculine scent of wood and leather with a hint of spice beneath.

  He circled me, like an animal cornering his prey. He pushed my hair behind my ear and a shiver crawled up my spine.

  “But they sent you, a brunette, instead of the blonde I asked for.”

  My heart was beating in my ears, loud enough that I barely heard him. He stepped in front of me, eyes fixed on mine and his words clicked, like a snap of the fingers.

  He thought I was an escort.

  “There must’ve been a mistake,” I said. “Your blonde probably has my address and I have hers.” I turned around
. “I’ll just make a quick call and –”

  Wade stepped in front of me, blocking the door. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, his gaze trailing from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes. His tongue ran along his bottom lip and the throbbing between my legs intensified.

  “Don’t you want your blonde?” I asked.

  Wade stuffed his hand in his pocket. “Take off your coat.”

  My fingers tightened around my coat. I was going to protest, to ask why, but I already knew the answer. He wanted to size me up without a thick layer of excess clothing in the way.

  His eyes bore into mine, a hypnotic stare that caused my fingers to loosen and my coat to drop to the floor.

  Wade’s eyes widened.

  I was wearing a black dress with a sweetheart neckline and skinny straps around my shoulders. The bust was leather and curved around my breasts, framing them as the focal point of my outfit. It was form fitting, a dress that hugged my hips and dropped just below my knees. It was a dress for revenge, one last ‘fuck you’ to Kinsley. Look at what you gave up for some cheap college pussy.

  Wade moved towards me again. His hand hovered over my cheek before he dropped his finger to my shoulder. He caressed my skin, eyes fixed on my wide-eyed reaction.

  He hooked his finger beneath the left strap and lowered it over my shoulder.

  “You’re here now,” he said, lips hovering over mine. “Why don’t we make the best of it?”

  _______

  Acknowledgments

  This is my second time writing one of these things and I don’t think it ever gets easier, saying goodbye to a book. The Inheritance is a series that’s very close to my heart. Every month I was overjoyed to work on the next installment and explore more of Neal and Caitlin’s relationship. Now it’s all over and I’m not sure what to do. Cry? Dance? Start another book immediately?

  I’m going to keep this short but I first want to thank my parents. They’ve been supportive in ways I’ll never be able to pay back. Here’s to hoping The Inheritance proves that my college degree and mountain of loans are worth it. Next, here’s to my best friends, who talked me through every minute of writer’s block. Large portions of this story wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you two, my beacons of light who constantly assure me I’m going down the right path. Then there’s my brother, who tells me I’m his hero for chasing my dreams. That one line keeps me jumping out of bed every morning and parking in front of my laptop.