Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

‘The thing is, Avery—’ God, I wish his voice saying my name didn’t still have the power to pull my nerve endings taut, to make me intimately aware of everything about him. ‘You’ve probably heard of them.’

Interesting. ‘Why?’ More wine. ‘Are they some kind of famous? Rock stars? Actors?’

He laughs and my skin pricks with awareness. I don’t bother to fight it any more. Sex is sex, and I love sex. Sex with Barrett is next level. But I don’t want to think about it right now—even as I accept the inevitable likelihood that our bodies might seek one another out again. I can separate that from this—and from my anger with him for keeping the truth from me for even one minute. Sex is just a transaction and he’s wrong—it can be delightfully meaningless, just as it has been with him and me.

‘Not exactly. They’re...in business.’

‘Oh?’ I run a finger over the rim of my glass. It’s empty. After a slight pause Barrett lifts the bottle and refills my glass, sitting back in the chair and studying me with eyes that are rimmed with thick black lashes. ‘Tech start-up?’

‘They dabble in it.’

I frown. ‘As investors?’ My heart speeds up. Is that what this is about? Do they want to buy into Moatsy? Is that the reason I’m hearing from their proxy out of the blue like this?

‘Yes.’

I feel like he’s hesitating, so I lean forward a little. ‘Barrett, just spit it out. Who are they?’

His grimace is self-deprecating. ‘Jagger, Theo and Holden.’ Their

names are familiar, but it takes me a second to connect the right synapses. ‘Hart,’ he supplies, when I don’t say anything.

And I can’t.

I can’t speak. I’m stupefied. And I’m enraged. I’m livid beyond description. I feel heat bursting through me, like it’s going to eat me alive. The Hart name is a household one, synonymous with extreme wealth and commercial success. From casinos to hotels to airlines to textiles and manufacturing interests.

‘Fuck.’ I shake my head, drinking all the wine in one hit then shaking my head again, standing, my legs unsteady, my eyes seeing stars courtesy of the fury that’s humming and buzzing inside me. ‘I can’t—’

‘Avery?’ He stands, his concern obvious. Anger is filling my eyes with hot tears.

‘I can’t do this.’ I reach into my clutch and pull out some cash, throwing it onto the table. But he grabs it, pushes it back at me.

‘I’ve got this.’

I’m too furious to respond. ‘I have to go.’

I stumble a little then push out of the restaurant, the warm evening air not helping my temper nor the growing sense of nausea. I drank a glass and a half of wine far too quickly and as a result the world out here, on the streets, has taken on a kind of psychedelic feeling. Too loud, too bright, too swirly.

His arm in the small of my back doesn’t surprise me but I jerk away from him anyway, wishing I hadn’t when light pierces my eyes too harshly, sharp like a blade.

‘I just need to—’

I dash at my cheeks. Angry tears are sliding down them. I gape for air and look around for a cab.

‘Come with me.’ He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together, and I don’t fight it now. I go with him, until he pulls up beside a low-to-the-ground car with black-tinted windows. He opens the front passenger door. ‘Hop in.’

I bite down on my lip and nod, too shell-shocked to say or do anything else. It’s beige leather inside with walnut grain. Everything about it screams subdued wealth. Of course my brothers have that kind of money. They sent this guy—a British earl—to snoop on me! But the Harts? They’re outrageously, ridiculously, can’t-even-imagine-it rich.

I shake my head, staring—in a state of shock—out of the window as he takes the seat beside me, clicking his seat belt in place. I feel his eyes on me, the concern of his look even when I’m not facing his direction, and then he starts the engine, pulling onto the street without another moment’s hesitation.

I barely notice the streetscape as we pass. Trees blur, houses too, children playing, couples strolling, an ice cream vendor. None of it sinks in. He takes a turn and we’re heading north on Van Ness.

The scenery changes a little, the closer we get to the Bay, the history appreciable. I used to love this area. We pass Ghirardelli Square, alive with night markets, strung with fairy lights, and then he pulls into the turning circle of one of the most exclusive hotels in the area. Of course.

I don’t even question what I’m doing here, with him. I can’t.

I turn in my seat, pieces sliding into place. ‘So you’re saying my dad was their dad. My father was... Ryan Hart?’ The name comes to me after a small delay, but of course I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? I close my eyes for a second, my stomach in knots.

‘Yes.’