Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

She is some kind of drug and I’m in a full-blown addiction cycle. Not for the first time, I reflect on the agreement we’ve come to, on the fact we’ve decided when this will end, and I’m immeasurably glad. Glad to have a calmly decided upon stop point, glad to know it’s going to be amazing sex until we say goodbye. I’ve never been in a relationship like this but it’s clearly the way to live.

And yet there is darkness deep inside of me, right at the back of my mind. It’s a darkness born of the certainty that in a few short weeks she’ll be gone from my life, a figment of my past that I’ll think of often but never again revisit. This will be over. I’ll be free to live my life as I did before, and she’ll be...with someone else. The idea lurches through me like a tsunami, the power of that thought inwardly knocking me off balance. Because I’m some kind of masochist, I imagine Asha smiling at some other guy, putting her hand in his, pulling him towards her. I imagine him smiling back, wrapping an arm around her body and pulling her close, nestling her into his side.

Something inside me shifts. Something that sparks pain and a total lack of comprehension. Nothing in that picture is what I want. I’m not the ‘for ever’ kind of guy, but with Asha I almost could be. I learned not to believe in the power of ‘for ever’, that it’s a foolish and childish concept to ascribe to, and yet, with Asha, I could let this run for as long and as far as we could take it. I could wake up next to her every morning until it stopped being fun. I could...

But I can’t. Because Asha laid her cards on the table from the very beginning. Fun, sure, but temporary. She has two reasons, and I respect both. Nothing gets in the way of her professional obligations, so the lightness of our agreement suits her perfectly. And secondly, where I was honest about not wanting to be in a bona fide relationship, she admitted she does, some day. With someone. Right from the start I’ve known that about her, and stringing this along for six months was totally selfish.

It’s sobering and strengthening. We’re doing the right thing to end this. I want her to be happy, which means I want her to meet someone else. And as much as I’m going to hate knowing I can’t just pick up the phone and call her, that’s life. People come, people go: nothing lasts for ever.

* * *

Her fingertips trace the tattoo, her eyes heavy, her exhaustion obvious. I should go, and let her sleep. I shift a little in the bed, watching her, and she smiles, but it’s slow, lazy, her tiredness making even the simple gesture difficult.

I lift my finger to her tattoo, doing what she’s just done and following the ink lines with the top of my nail. ‘Does this make you think of your ex?’

Her blinks get longer, slower. ‘Not really.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘He was a nice guy but just a part of my life back then.’

‘In your rebellious phase,’ I prompt, knowing I need to leave; she’s tired and we both have to work tomorrow.

/> ‘Yeah.’ Another small smile. Her eyes droop lower. I shift my finger to her nipple and flick it. Her eyes lift, locking to mine, heat bursting between us. If it weren’t the middle of the night, if she wasn’t three seconds away from sleep...

‘He died,’ she says, but her eyes are closed, sleep so close at hand. ‘Drink driving. I was meant to be with him.’ Her words are heavy, slurred by exhaustion, but I’m instantly still, my whole body on alert while I contemplate what she’s just revealed. ‘We were going to a party. I got sick and had to cancel at the last minute. He tried to get me to change my mind but I had a migraine. I got them a fair bit, growing up. I don’t now though.’ Her words are so thick with tiredness I can barely make them out. I resist an urge to wake her, to get her to tell me this story properly. ‘If I hadn’t been sick, I’d probably be dead too.’

A shiver runs the length of my spine. The idea of someone like Asha—with so much vitality and vibrancy—no longer being here fills me with disgust and gratitude in equal measure—gratitude that she wasn’t with him that night, gratitude that she’s still here.

‘I’m sorry. About him.’

‘Ashes to ashes,’ she says prosaically, even as I hear the timbre of her voice and know it’s not something she can really pass off so easily.

‘Ashes to ashes,’ I repeat, letting her drift off to sleep, wondering about the teenager she was then, and the woman she is now. Wondering about the man she briefly loved, who inked her breast before dying, wondering about the impermanence of life and the cruelty of fate.

Finally, her breathing becomes deeper and more rhythmic and I know she’s fast asleep. I lie there for a moment, watching her, and then push out of bed, dressing as quietly as possible.

I take one last look at Asha as I shift through the door. In the light thrown through the window, the moon’s fine, milky blade passing over her skin, she looks sylphlike, majestic and magical, all at the same time. I don’t let myself think about what she’s said, the possibility that she could have been killed, just like her friend. A world without Asha would be significantly the poorer.

* * *

I read the report for the fourth time, thinking of Theo, thinking of the way we last made love, and my body dances with those memories, dances with need, frustration, desire and a bone-deep ache.

I lift my gaze to the window and stare out at New York. The weather is sultry and warm. His pool would be heaven today, bliss. But it’s only eleven in the morning; he won’t be finished until much later. And my body won’t wait that long. I stare out at New York and flashes of memory pierce me.

...for the next month, consider me fully at your disposal. Any time you have ‘needs’, I’m up for it.

A smile lifts my lips as an idea forms in my mind. I move to my desk quickly, slipping off my thong and spritzing my wrists with my signature fragrance—despite the fact Fleurs Sauvages has developed eleven perfumes in my lifetime, I always wear our signature brand, the one my great-grandmother and grandmother used to wear, the one that took our company from a small operation to a global powerhouse. I check my reflection and refresh my lipstick, then, still smiling, pull out of my office.

‘Kevin? I’ll be gone an hour or so. Don’t call me.’

My assistant nods. ‘Did you place your lunch order?’

‘Emailed it last night.’ I wave my hand in the air and jab the elevator button impatiently. Butterflies begin to flap their way around my belly as my car crosses Fifth.

Theo gave me a business card the first night we met. I don’t know why, probably out of habit. It has his office address but even if it hadn’t I would have known: Hart Towers are sort of a landmark in Manhattan. The limousine pulls up at the base of the steel monolith and I pause, taking in a breath, wondering for a moment if I should have texted him that I was coming, then dismissing the idea with another smile.

The surprise is part of the fun.

I scan the sign in the foyer, taking a guess he’ll be near the top floor. ‘Executive level’ is the best I can do.

Foolishly, I hadn’t anticipated the logistics of this. Surprising someone in this day and age at a high-security office block is not actually possible. There’s a row of five receptionists and security officials. I need to pass through them before I can progress. They ask my name and double check it against their day’s agenda. Obviously I’m not there.