Driven By Fate(29)

But what choice did she have?

“I’ll take care of it,” she managed. “But you’re making a doctor’s appointment.”

She waited for his nod, and then she got up and made breakfast.

…

The ticking of his antique clock was driving Porter insane. It sat in the corner of his desk, torturing him simply by forcing him to acknowledge the passing of time. Time spent with his own thoughts. His doubts. And, f*cking hell, thoughts of Francesca that crowded out everything else. He’d received a call that morning from Neville, his partner in London, a reminder that his time in New York was coming to an end. He had a matter of weeks before he could seamlessly resume his position as head of the lucrative firm he’d built. Finally, his stay in purgatory was coming to a close. Finally.

And if he said the word “finally” enough, he might start to believe it.

Less than two years had passed since the operation that had nearly cost him his livelihood. His life, really. Two years since Neville had neglected to take a final sweep of the airport through which they’d been leading their client, missing the hidden explosives that had nearly killed them all, including the American naval officer they’d been hired to protect during his time in the UK. If Porter hadn’t shielded the man himself, the tragedy would have gone beyond damage control.

With a controlling interest in the firm, he’d made the decision to downgrade Neville’s position that same day. Had even considered buying him out, running the company on his own as he’d planned to do at some point in the future, anyway. Until he’d gone to the man’s home in person to deliver the news and found it filled to bursting with five children, two of which had special needs. Neville’s wife had been laid off from her job as a government employee, leaving them strapped and without care for the children. As Porter had stood in the doorway, he’d listened to Neville plead and explain that he’d merely been tired from lack of sleep and he wouldn’t make such a grave error again.

Family. It was something Porter didn’t understand. His parents had given him the bare minimum of skills to raise himself and never looked back, never attending school functions, never observing holidays. The children hovering in the hallway behind Neville had even scared him in a way, made him think of his own fears as a child.

One thing had been certain, though. He couldn’t be the final straw on the family’s already weakened back. Perhaps he hadn’t been enough for his own family, but he could keep this functioning one together. Give them the chance he’d never had. The alternative was failing them, and he’d done enough of that. It was why he was alone.

So he’d taken the fall, assumed responsibility for the oversight at the airport. He’d put himself on two years’ probation to keep the firm’s doors open. And those two years were almost over.

Porter wasn’t built for anything but what he’d been trained for. Strategy. Battle. Protection. His ridiculous side hobby of thriller writing could only be a way to keep his brain occupied while he awaited the real thing—another chance to get his hands dirty. Nothing would ever come of his scribbling. Nothing would ever come of his relationship with Francesca. His life, his everything, was in London.

Porter closed his eyes and pictured flying out of New York that very afternoon. A pain bloomed in his chest, bleeding lower until his stomach twisted in protest. How could he leave this place with a head so bloody full of her? At what point would the plaguing thoughts begin to dissipate? Never, a voice whispered.

Forcing himself to acknowledge the possibility that he felt something for her, something far beyond a fascination with her as his submissive, shook loose a dozen other repressed concerns. Did he want to return to London as much as he continually told himself? He thought of his one-bedroom flat in Camden. White walls, gray furniture, a calendar the only thing decorating his walls. Perhaps the antiques business hadn’t been a random choice. Perhaps he’d simply wanted to be around some decent furniture, for Christ sake.

His cell phone buzzed on his desk and he stared at it a moment, knowing if Francesca were on the other end, telling him she couldn’t make it to work, he would go positively mad. She didn’t seem to have the slightest clue what it took for him to spend nights apart from her. He wouldn’t tell her, either, or he’d lose any chance of making it a reality. I want to sleep with my hand cupping your *. I want to wake you up with a bite. I want to tie you to my headboard and feed you, watch your perfect mouth chew food I prepared. These wishes were bigger pipe dreams than a potential writing career. It didn’t stop him from wanting them. So yes, if she was cancelling on him, he quite feared for his sanity.

Without looking at the phone number, he snatched the phone off the desk. “Porter Evans.”

“Mr. Evans, this is Jonah Briggs from Serve.”

Porter arched an eyebrow. Now, that he hadn’t been expecting. The club owner rarely communicated with clients, let alone made personal phone calls. “Mr. Briggs.” An uncomfortable silence ensued. “My manager received your request to bring a guest to the club. Francesca De Luca, specifically.”

Jesus. He’d forgotten all about submitting the request. The night he’d met Francesca and ascertained she didn’t have a membership, he’d asked to have her cleared for an introductory session with himself as her guide. As a member of good standing, there shouldn’t have been any question about his ability to introduce a possible new member. At the time, he hadn’t anticipated the growing need to have her all to himself, wanting her in his home and nowhere else. “Yes, I made the request. Is there an issue?”