CHAPTER FOUR
SUMMER had finally arrived.
No more chilly wind and soaking rain. Instead the city was wrapped in soft breezes and warm sunshine.
The weather was so spectacular that even New Yorkers smiled at each other.
Aimee didn’t notice.
Memories of what she’d done, that she’d gone to bed with a stranger, haunted her, intruded when she least expected.
Walking down the street, she’d turn a corner and see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and her heart would skip a beat.
Or she’d be in bed, asleep, and suddenly he’d materialize in her dreams.
She’d see his beautiful, hard face. His powerful body. And he’d touch her, kiss her, do things to her no one had ever done, make her feel things she’d never felt….
Until one night in a stranger’s arms.
She tried not to think about that because it seemed so wrong. Still, in her sleep, she’d moan at his touch and awake, shaken and breathless, her skin hot, her body aching for his possession even though her conscious mind knew she despised him, despised herself….
No. It was not turning out to be a good summer, she thought as she stepped from the shower on a balmy June morning. The man. The ugliness of what she’d done.
Then, that same weekend, her grandfather’s stroke.
Her mouth tightened.
Good old Bradley had rushed to the rescue. By the time she reached the hospital, her cousin was there with two of his SCB cronies. He had a piece of paper in his hand, James’s signature scrawled across it.
Something that he and his pals swore was James’s signature, anyway.
“Uncle has made me his surrogate until he recovers,” he’d told her with ill-concealed triumph.
Aimee tossed aside her bath towel and went to the closet.
She should have fought him. Hired an attorney. But she’d felt such despair that Sunday, such self-loathing, that fighting Bradley was the last thing she’d wanted to do.
Bradley settled into James’s office and immediately began making decisions that left her reeling, but there was nothing she could do. He was in charge until Grandfather recovered. She’d thought of going directly to James, but she had no way of knowing what condition he was in. He was in seclusion at his home, surrounded by doctors, nurses and therapists, and supposedly had left strict orders that he did not want to see visitors.
Hands tied, Aimee had only been able to wait. And wonder.
Yesterday, the waiting had ended.
James’s secretary—Bradley’s secretary, now—had phoned and told her she was expected at Stafford-Coleridge-Black promptly at ten this morning.
“I’m sorry, Miss Black,” the woman said crisply when Aimee started to ask questions. “I can’t tell you anything except to assure you that you’ll have all the answers tomorrow.”
As if she needed them, Aimee thought bitterly. She knew exactly what would happen this morning. Her cousin, seated behind James’s imposing desk, would flash his oily smile and tell her he was in charge, permanently.
She’d fight him, of course, just on principle. But she’d lose. Bradley had that document and witnesses. She had nothing—certainly not the money for a protracted court battle.
Lately she didn’t even have the energy.
She was tired all the time. Exhausted, really. Plagued by bouts of nausea.
Stress, she’d told herself. Over her grandfather because, despite everything, he was her blood and she loved him. Over what would become of Stafford-Coleridge-Black, because she loved it, too.
And stress over that night. What she’d done. That she’d let a strange