“I have to get that.” Rolling off me, he grabs his discarded boxer briefs from the floor and yanks them on as he darts out of the room.
My mouth agape, I sit up, staring at the door in disbelief. What could be so important that he left me when he’s rarely answered a phone call in my presence, and certainly never during sex? He’s been adamant in his insistence that when we’re together, he wants to devote all his attention to me. What changed? And what phone was that? His cell is sitting on the nightstand.
My curiosity getting the better of me, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and grab my robe, pulling it over my body. I carefully tiptoe down the hallway, stopping shy of the open door to his study.
“Slow down. Slow down. Tell me what happened.” His tone is calm and compassionate as he pauses. I can faintly make out the voice on the other end — a female voice. “Where are you right now? … Shh. Shh. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let him get into your head.”
My heart’s caught in my throat as I listen to his conversation. A sickness forms in my stomach at the idea that he hasn’t been faithful, but my rational side screams for me to slow down and look at the situation realistically. We’ve spent practically every night together the past few months. If Julian were sleeping with someone else, I would have known about it. I would have at least smelled the perfume on him. Since he confided in me about his past, the only perfume I’ve smelled on him is my own. But the secret cell phone doesn’t ease my worries any.
Lost in my own thoughts, I almost don’t hear him end the call. When the sound of footsteps meets my ears, I hurry back toward the bedroom on light feet, tossing my robe to the floor and jumping back into bed.
When he appears in the doorway, I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Everything okay?”
He parts his lips as he steps toward me, hesitant. Then his shoulders drop. “Actually…” He worries his bottom lip and my heart deflates. “I have to go.”
“Go?” I prop myself onto my elbows, doing my best not to act dejected, but it’s impossible, especially with the knowledge that he was speaking to a woman.
“Work thing. It’s an emergency.” He heads to the closet and retrieves a pair of jeans and a sweater, pulling them over his body. “You know I’d never put work ahead of you. You’re more important than that, but this is a matter of life or death…” His voice trails off as he swallows hard. “So to speak. I don’t know how late I’ll be, but stay. You don’t need to leave just because I’m not here.”
Returning to the bed, he leans down, kissing my forehead, then steps back. In the silence, we hold each other’s gaze. Something in my expression must tell him I’m not convinced this is a work thing. Regret creases his brow.
“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” he says in a soft voice. He looks as if he’s about to say something else. Then he shakes his head, turning from me and hurrying out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I can’t shake my melancholy mood as I shuffle from the elevator toward my cubicle. The atmosphere at the magazine office usually fills me with energy, especially this time of year when Christmas lights and decorations seem to hang from every available surface. But nothing lifts my spirits.
As I lay in Julian’s bed last night, I tossed and turned, unable to shut off my mind. The smell of him on the sheets was anything but comforting as I came up with a thousand scenarios about where he was and what he was doing. They all seemed so outrageous, so out of character for him…except for the truth that he abandoned me to go see another woman.
I try not to dwell on that as I stare at my laptop screen, needing to focus on my work, but it’s impossible. I’m so consumed with what’s really going on, I almost don’t register Viv’s voice saying my name.
I glance up from my computer, doing my best to force a smile as she leans against the wall to my cubicle. “Good morning, Viv.”
“I was hoping it would be; unfortunately, I just read the rough draft of the escort piece you sent over.”
I swallow hard, my stomach rolling. To Viv, it was a rough draft. For me, it was the result of hours of writing, rewriting, revising, and editing. I wanted Viv to be so impressed by the initial draft that her suggestions were merely stylistic. Based on the displeasure on her face, that’s not the case.
“And?” My voice is shaky, hesitant. I brace for her to rip it apart, as she’s been known to do.
“It’s good. But good doesn’t sell magazines, Evie. The picture of this August Laurent character you’ve drawn is compelling, and the idea of a male escort empowering women is one that will intrigue readers. Many women will empathize with what his clients have experienced. He’s helped all kinds of women, from the single woman left in a circle of friends to women whose spouses never appreciated them. You’ve painted him in a light that will make readers think twice about judging him as merely a male escort taking advantage of women. Hell, I’ve thought twice about judging him as a male escort who takes advantage of women.”
“Thank you?” My voice lifts, waiting for the punchline.
“But it’s one-dimensional. I want more August Laurent.”
“The whole article’s about August Laurent.”
She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “No. It’s about the women who’ve hired him.”
“And through each of them, you learn something about him.”
“I learn about the man he is when he’s with each woman. That’s not who he really is. I want the real August Laurent. I want to know what makes him do what he does, what makes him want to sacrifice friends, family, love.”
“The article talks about that,” I protest, although she’s right. There’s no big insight into who August Laurent truly is, which is why I pressed to talk to some of his clients. There’s still a piece missing. The why is missing. Something must drive him to choose this path, to help the women he does. There’s a story there. I want to know what that is. And so do your readers.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns, walking away. I open my mouth to argue, but it won’t do any good. After all, this is her magazine. If I want this promotion, I need to give her the story she wants…and then some.
Mentally exhausted, I return my attention to my laptop, opening the file I’d amassed on August Laurent and the handful of women who agreed to let me interview them. My notepad in hand, I scour through everything once more, searching for something I may have overlooked or deemed unimportant. The more I review my email exchanges and phone conversations with August, the more it hits me. He seemed to evade all my questions about his younger years, often shifting the focus back on me. It almost reminds me of how Julian used to do the same thing until I convinced him to open up.
As I consider what I can do to persuade August to share what caused him to get into this line of work, Chloe flies into my cubicle, her eyes wide, expression grave. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” I peer at her, brows furrowed. This level of excitement could mean Diego in accounting finally asked out Rachel in design. Or it could be actual news.
“Sonia Moreno was murdered. She was a friend of Julian’s, wasn’t she? I thought I saw a photograph of them together at some fundraiser earlier in the year.”
Blinking repeatedly, my heart drops to the pit of my stomach as a chill rushes over me.
“Yes,” I answer in a small voice. But her connection to Julian isn’t what has me out of sorts. It’s the fact that she’s a client of August Laurent’s. And not just any client. A woman who claimed he saved her from an abusive marriage. During a few follow-up interviews, she mentioned she was getting her affairs in order before going public with her abuse and officially filing for divorce. I wonder if she finally did it.