Chasing Bliss

Prologue

New York City

Gemma took a deep breath as she slid the key into the door. It had taken way less time to get the motions done and filed than she’d originally thought. They were now up to date on the case, and Patrick would be able to dazzle the partners. She’d told Patrick she would be gone all night. Now she could surprise him with both a brilliant presentation, guaranteed to get her the promotion she’d deserved for the last two years, and her own dark desires. She was going to talk to him, make him understand what she wanted to try.

Hey, a guy should like a little kink in his future bride, right?

She, Gemma Wells, was a little freaky, and she was getting tired of hiding it. She needed to just walk up to Patrick and find out if this thing would really work.

“Pat?” She set down her briefcase, a Chanel bag she’d scrimped and saved for. It was big enough to carry everything. Her laptop. The files she needed. The two thumb drives she kept on her at all times because she had to download Patrick’s work or he lost it. That bag was a gateway to her future, which was bright, so bright. It had to be. She was trying to follow the old “look successful, be successful” law. “I’m home, babe.”

Gemma turned on the light, illuminating the tiny, perfectly decorated living room. For Manhattan it was livable, but Gemma had been raised by hippies who had spent way too much time at outdoor concerts. She was pretty sure she’d been conceived to a Phish song. Cramped. So cramped. Sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe, but this was the place to be, so she was here.

Gemma stretched and thought about taking off the silk shirt she was wearing. It was deeply confining, and she was always worried she would wrinkle it, but it was designer and appearances were everything. Patrick had taught her that.

She sighed. Was he already asleep? He tended to be a night owl. Maybe she should have gone back to her place, but Patrick’s was damn near perfect. She should know. She’d been the one to work with the designer. She’d hitched her wagon to Patrick’s three years before, and she hadn’t let up. Not when he’d been promoted over her. Not when he’d taken credit for her work. They were a team. She would get her reward in the end.

The only trouble was she was starting to wonder if she should really marry him.

Gemma kicked off her Jimmy Choos. The shoes were gorgeous, but god, they hurt after twelve hours. Even as tired as she was, her heart was pounding a bit. She needed to know.

Patrick would either be in or she would be out.

She walked to his bedroom door, building her courage. Up until now, their sex life had been harried and a bit circumspect. She wasn’t entirely sure what he would say when she told him what she wanted.

There was a large mirror just outside the bedroom door. Gemma caught a glimpse of herself. She wasn’t unattractive. She was fashionably slender, with a chic blonde bob she’d paid a fortune for. Sure, she’d always preferred her hair longer and less platinum, but this was truly professional looking. And her makeup was flawless. She was a designer version of the girl who had grown up eating tofu and listening to lectures on being cruelty-free. There was no such thing. The world was cruel, and it paid to understand that little fact of life.

Gemma made sure she looked cosmetically perfect. She tried to forget that just two days ago Patrick had mentioned that a lot of women her age were already getting Botox. It wasn’t bad. Not yet. Just a few lines. Shit. Maybe she should get a little. Just in between her eyes.

Deep breath. She would walk in and wake him up in a very sexy way and then she would say… Fuck. What would she say?

“Patrick, I want you to see a sex therapist with me. I’ve been reading a lot about power exchange in the bedroom, and I think we should talk about it.” There. That was perfectly reasonable. And when he asked what she meant? “I would like very much for you to take command of me in the bedroom.”

Since everyone thinks you have command of me professionally, when we both know I tell you what to do, say, and wear. Since we both damn well know that you couldn’t get your head out of your own hot ass long enough to have an actual professional thought, it might be nice for you to take charge somewhere.

Yeah. She wasn’t going to say that last part. Not out loud. But it was implied.

She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her Marc Jacobs blouse. If this worked out, then maybe she could move in. He’d said he wanted to wait for the wedding, but that was so old fashioned. And impractical. It was time they behaved like the two-income, upwardly mobile couple they were. And she wouldn’t mind leaving her craptastic, roach-motel Brooklyn studio behind.

She was going to be successful. She was going to get what she wanted because she had worked her ass off and gone to the right schools and made all the right plays. She’d picked the right man to marry because he had a plan, too. Eventually, after their careers were fully set, they would have perfectly planned children. Yes. Willpower was all that was needed.

She put a hand on the door and then heard a little squeak.

And a moan. And that huffing noise Patrick made when he was either working out or having sex. And Patrick really didn’t like to work out. She had to force him to get on the high-tech treadmill they’d bought together but kept at his place, as they did with almost every expensive purchase.

So if he wasn’t exercising, he’d better be masturbating.

Gemma opened the door and felt her blood pressure go straight through the roof. The hallway was dark enough that neither of the figures on the bed seemed to notice they were no longer alone. Patrick groaned and his naked ass clenched as he came, and then he immediately rolled off his partner.

“That was nice.” He was using his sex voice, a low growl that reminded her of a house cat with a head cold. “You’re quite good, Christina.”

Christina? Christina Schiller? The dumbass, just-out-of-law-school brunette with the fake tits and the faker brain? She’d graduated from some Podunk college on the West Coast more known for churning out film editors than lawyers. She’d gotten hired because the partners thought she was hot and her dad was loaded. Everyone knew that.

“That’s ‘junior partner Christina’ to you,” she purred. There was a slight pause and a rustling of sheets. “Have you told her yet? I want to make the announcement soon.”

Patrick groaned, though this one had nothing to do with sex. It was the sound he made when someone wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do. “Babe, you know I need a day or two. We have the presentation on the Tremon Industries trial coming up. I need her to do all that research shit for me. And you know no one writes an opening argument like Gemma.”

Yep. That was what she’d been doing. She’d been up all night working while he was fucking Christina Big Tits and apparently promising her Gemma’s job. Her heart was pounding. She knew she should move, but her feet felt stuck to the floor. It couldn’t be happening. She’d worked her ass off. She was smarter than either one of the people in that bed.

There was a self-satisfied laugh that came from Christina’s throat. “Well, luckily my father has more money than god. As soon as I get that junior partnership, Giles and Knoxbury gets the representation contract for all of Daddy’s film companies. And you get me.”

“Yeah. Maybe you should tell her,” Patrick said nervously. “She’s already like put down money for the wedding and stuff. I put her off as long as I could, but she put down ten grand to reserve some hotel for the wedding.”

Nonrefundable. That deposit was nonrefundable, as was the Vera Wang wedding dress she’d nearly killed two women over at a bridal gown sale. She still had a scar on her forearm over that dress.

Her stomach took a nosedive. She’d been an idiot. She’d worked ninety-hour weeks, slaving over reports and evidence and filing briefs. And her promotion was going to a woman who spent more time on her nails than her work.

“Patrick, I’m allowing you to head Daddy’s legal team. You can get rid of the idiot blonde.” Christina let out a long sigh. “And I want her fired. I don’t want to have to look at your ex-fiancée every day.”

Patrick’s voice came out on a little whine. She hated that whine. “Babe, I can’t fire her. She’s done nothing to get herself fired. She’s smart as hell. Do you think she couldn’t come up with a lawsuit? She was top of her class at Harvard. She’s honestly kind of slumming here.”

She wasn’t slumming. She was where she wanted to be. She’d decided long ago that she would conquer Manhattan.

Except she wasn’t conquering anything. She’d been chasing some fucking dream she’d had at the age of eight and all she had to show for it was a going-nowhere job and a lying weasel of a fiancé.

She wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute she was standing there, listening to them talk about how easily she’d been fooled and Patrick arguing that they should use her just a little longer, and the next she was being arrested by New York’s finest and hauled out of one of Midtown’s nicer apartment buildings, a good-size chunk of Christina Big Tits’ stylish brown hair still clutched in her palm.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to have to get in the car now.” The cop gave her a sympathetic nod toward the squad car.

She felt dazed. She was being arrested and her future was gone. And all she could think of was her damn bag. She wanted her bag.

“My purse?”

The cop’s partner, a solid woman, held up the bag. “I have it, honey. I’ll take care of it until you go through processing. Do you have someone you could call?”

They had been so sympathetic after they’d managed to pull her off Christina and had the whole story. Cops, it seemed, sometimes got the shaft, too.

Who could she call? God. She couldn’t call anyone at the law firm. Everyone hated her. She’d been kind of a bitch because it was the only way to get taken seriously. She had no friends. She had no fiancé. She only had one person in the entire world who might care that she was in trouble.

“My mom.” Tears started to fall. How was she going to tell her mother she’d ruined everything?

Tallahassee, Florida

Jesse McCann looked over the map. They had days of open road ahead of them. Just him and Cade. Normally he would be looking forward to the trip. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d jumped on the backs of their custom-built bikes and spent weeks exploring the country and picking up women.

They wouldn’t be doing that this time.

This trip wasn’t about fun times with the man he thought of as his brother. This trip was about revenge.

Cade strode in, stuffing a gun into his backpack. They had spent the last year learning what they needed to know. They’d learned how to track a man, and they’d damn straight learned how to kill one.

“You ready?” Cade looked up, a dark look in his eyes. Guilt weighed heavily on his face. Jesse would never forget the dark hole Cade slipped into when they’d learned how their foster mother died. Cade had been with their mother the longest. Jesse only had five years with Nancy Gibbs. Cade had come to their foster mother when he’d been barely nine, spending more time with her than his own mom.

Maybe if Jesse had spent more time with Nancy Gibbs, he wouldn’t have a juvenile rap sheet.

He just hoped he didn’t get an actual adult arrest when they finally took down the man who caused his foster mother’s death. It didn’t matter. One way or another, Christian Grady would pay for what he’d done.

“I’m ready.” Jesse had been ready from the moment he realized that Christian Grady was responsible for Nancy Gibbs’s misery and her eventual death. Grady bilked an elderly lady out of her life savings and left her to die in a rat-infested nursing home. Guilt burned at Jesse’s gut. He’d been partying with Cade while she was dying. He’d called every other day, but he should have visited. He should have made sure. He should have fucking stayed at home and taken care of her.

And his heartache was nothing compared to what Cade must be feeling. Cade didn’t know it, but Jesse had figured out Cade’s past long ago. He’d heard Cade’s nightmares. He’d put together the puzzle. What happened to Nancy Gibbs differed vastly from the way Cade’s parents and sister died, but the guilt would feel the same. Cade’s face was bleak as he pulled his gloves on.

“Stop it.” Jesse stared at him, a frown on his face. “I know what you’re thinking. We didn’t kill her. Grady did, and Hope McLean is going to lead us straight to him.”

Cade nodded but didn’t reply. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t gone over a hundred times. He hoped Cade actually listened to logic this time. They needed to concentrate on the plan. Christian Grady wasn’t dead. They knew damn well he was alive, and he couldn’t be allowed to get away with what he’d done. Grady would go after his wife. He would figure out Hope McLean was living in Bliss, Colorado, so Bliss, Colorado, was going to be their home for a while.

They had jobs. They had a place to live. They had a plan.

Jesse climbed on the back of his bike and slid a long look at his best friend. He couldn’t imagine what he would have done if he hadn’t met Cade Sinclair. Died, he suspected. Gone to jail. Something very bad. Cade might be fucked up beyond all recognition, but Jesse was his friend. Cade had taught him something important. Cade had taught him that there was something way more important than himself. Family. Family was everything. Not blood. Blood meant shit, but family, the people who loved a man, they were everything.

“What do we do after this?” Jesse asked.

Cade sighed, the sound deep and low in his chest. “I don’t know, man. I guess we come back to Florida and try to start our lives.”

Jesse nodded and gunned the engine. He wasn’t sure where the hell his life was going, but he knew one thing. Wherever the road took him, it was going to go through Bliss.

Cade took off, his bike revving before he hit the road. Jesse did what he’d done for the last ten years. He followed his brother and hoped for the best.