Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

“Whatever,” she said in a lowered voice, still filled with plenty of vehemence. “I’m done. No way I’m going down this road again. I’m going home, to New York.”

Tossing her hair, she moved with determination toward the door, suitcase in tow. As she pushed her way out the door, Jack was right behind her.

No, no, no, no, a voice in his head screamed. Not again. This can’t be happening. How had his dream-come-true turned so suddenly and horribly into a nightmare?

He’d lost his first true love. Her life and their happiness snuffed out in an instant, and there hadn’t been a thing he could do about it. Now, when he’d finally found the will and the courage to love again, he refused to stand passively by and watch it slip away.

Out on the sidewalk, he grabbed her arm. “Stop.”

She tried to shake him off, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Cleo, damn it. I’m not going to keep you with me by force, but I’m not letting you go until you explain.” He loosened his grip on her arm, relieved she had at least stopped running.

Pulling away from him, Cleo put her hands on her hips. “You want me to explain? Me? I’m not the one writing love letters to my dead wife one month and jumping on a plane to New York to feed another woman all your bullshit lies the next. I’m not the one who thinks if he pretends he’s not still completely hung up on ‘the only one who will ever occupy my heart,’”—she made air quotes around the words, further confusing Jack—“that he can fool everyone around him.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack demanded, getting angry himself in his confusion. If you’re referring to the letter I wrote to Annette after—”

“Yes!” Cleo cried. “You lied to me, Jack. You told me you were ready to rebuild your life and start again—with me. And I—stupid, gullible, pathetic Cleo—believed your lies.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “How could you, Jack?”

She turned from him and began striding down the walk, suitcase bumping along in her wake, her long hair flying behind her.

Jack stood stock still a moment, stupefied by her accusation. What the hell was she talking about? He moved, quickly catching up to her.

By accident or design, she was heading in the direction of his apartment building. Keeping pace beside her, he said urgently, “We’ve clearly got some major wires crossed here. You need to calm down. Please. Come back home and let’s talk this through.”

“It’s not my home,” Cleo retorted.

“Okay,” Jack replied, not wanting to force the issue. “Whatever is going on, don’t you think I’m at least owed an explanation? Come back to the apartment with me, and we’ll figure this out. If you still want to leave after we’ve talked, then I’ll personally drive you to the airport and put you on a plane.”

“Hmph,” she said noncommittally, but she continued to move with him toward his building.

Ronald was at the ready when they got to the door. He swung it open with a small bow, his expression one of disinterested, dignified respect.

“Found her,” Jack said, stating the obvious. “Thanks for your help.”

“Of course, sir,” Ronald replied, his mouth lifting in a small, polite smile.

Jack tried to smile back. He wasn’t sure he quite managed it, but hopefully he’d done a reasonable approximation.

They were silent as they rode up the elevator and walked down the hall to Jack’s apartment. Once inside, Jack resisted the urge to take Cleo into his arms, slap her, or both.

Instead, he led her to the sofa in the living room and guided her down to the cushions. Taking a seat beside her, he blew out a breath. “Okay. Talk to me. Tell me what happened to upset you like this.”

“I told you,” she said, though without the vehemence she’d expressed at the café. “I found the letter. I know I shouldn’t have snooped, but I did, and I found the letter.”

“Okay,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice calm. “You found the therapy letter. I wrote that ages ago. I barely remember what’s in it.”

She gave him a withering gaze, not a trace of his submissive darling in evidence. “I rather doubt that. I saw the date, Jack. May twenty-fifth. It’s June twenty-eighth. You do the fucking math.”

And, all at once, he understood. He very nearly smiled, his relief was so profound. The universe was not conspiring to yank love away from him yet again. This was all just a stupid misunderstanding, one he could resolve.

“Okay,” he retorted. “I’ll do the math. It’s been approximately one year and one month since I wrote the damn thing. Writing that letter was one of the assignments for this grief support group my doctor convinced me to attend. It was supposed to be a kind of final farewell, acknowledging I loved her, but was ready to move on. I was supposed to burn it afterward as a kind of cathartic letting go, but I didn’t have the heart. The thing was, I wasn’t ready to move on then, not yet.”