Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

He turned to head back toward the beach, then stopped cold, realizing the import of his words. Somewhere along the way, his thinking had shifted. He was truly seeing Colin as guilty now. As one half of a team.

The possibility made him queasy, not just because Colin had become a friend. But because he knew that if he was right, he'd end up putting a bullet through the head of the man that Jane once called Daddy.

Reality Bites

Despite the fact that I've parked myself in front of my computer, I am completely incapable of getting any work done.

I tell myself that I understand why Dallas wanted me to go. It isn't my fault--not really. It's not that I pushed too hard. Instead, it's that he needs space to get his head around everything he's feeling. To battle with everything he is fighting.

I tell myself all that, and maybe I even believe it. But that doesn't soothe my hurt. For seventeen years we'd separately battled

our past, and I'd let myself believe that we'd conquered the hard part. That we were together now, and whatever came next we would face as a couple, holding tight to each other and sharing our strength.

I was wrong. I didn't really know what the hard part was. Not for Dallas, anyway. And now I'm here and Dallas is there, and I'm going crazy wondering what he's doing, what he's thinking, what he's feeling.

I sigh, wishing I could turn off my churning thoughts. I'd arrived back at my townhouse over an hour ago, and I'd thought that diving back into work would help, but clearly I'm insane. The scene on my computer screen is intense and full of action, and I think it's one of the best scenes in the screenplay. It's unfinished, however. All that drama and angst and roiling emotions coming to a dead stop because I don't know what to do next.

Honestly, it's a metaphor for my life.

I push back from the kitchen table where I've set up my laptop, and for what must be the hundredth time that morning, I pour myself another cup of coffee and start to pace the kitchen, back and forth in front of the table.

I'm antsy and out of sorts, and all I want is for things to be right between me and Dallas. I'd thought we were moving in that direction--hell, I'd thought we'd arrived--but then he'd sideswiped me, and now I feel as if he'd physically knocked me off the planet and I'm tumbling wild and out of control and off into space.

Out of control.

That's the real kicker, isn't it?

Because as much as I want to hold on to control, I've let it slip with Dallas. I'd surrendered every ounce of control that I'd held so tightly to for years. Now I'm at loose ends, and don't know what to do, because I don't know how to fight, much less how to help.

I glance at my phone, toying with the idea of calling him like the needy, insecure woman I am.

But then I realize that as much as I need to hear his voice, what I really need is to feel in control again. For the last seventeen years I've religiously studied everything from kickboxing to various martial arts to police certified self-defense classes. I've even hired an ex-cop to teach me how to shoot and got my dad to pull strings so that I could get a New York City license to carry a handgun.

But it's been forever since I've taken one of my self-defense classes or gone to the range. I've let my training slide. It's as if in surrendering to my need for Dallas, I let go of my grip on everything else. And now I have to get it back.

I glance at the clock on the mantel. I'm pretty sure the studio on Eighty-Fourth has a class at four today, and if I go change right now, I can easily make it.

I'm about to do just that when my gaze catches my phone, and I hesitate. Because the one thing that will make me feel even more in control is if I can help Dallas. And seeing the phone makes me remember how I can.

I snatch it up, ecstatic to be doing rather than waiting.

And what I'm doing is calling Henry Darcy.

It takes me a few minutes to track down Darcy's number, but he's done business with my father on and off for years, so I end up calling Dallas's assistant.

"Ms. Martin," she says. "How lovely to hear from you."

"Sorry to interrupt your day. I'm sure you're swamped what with Dallas back in the office after a week's vacation, but I need a favor."

"No interruption. Dallas took today off, too, so I'm catching up on filing."

"Oh." I frown, because he'd told me he was coming into the city and to his office.

"I'm sorry, what did you say you needed?"

"What?" It takes a moment for her words to penetrate my numb brain, then I rattle off my plan to interview Henry Darcy for my book and ask her to text me his number.

I'm frowning when we end the call, and still frowning when the number comes across my phone's screen. Did Dallas think that he had to pretend that he was going to the office in order to get rid of me? Did he want me gone so badly that he had to make up excuses?