FIFTY

Outside Bryan’s window, the trees looked as if they were on fire. It seemed that overnight all the deciduous trees along Hickory Dell—the maples and the oaks and, of course, the hickories—had turned bright red, orange, and gold. Autumn was upon them. There was a cold bite to the mornings now when Bryan threw off his covers, and the nights sometimes meant frost on the grass.

Maybe that was why he’d been drinking more than usual. He was trying to ward off the cold fingers of winter, which he felt were just waiting to grab hold of him. Heather had started sleeping in the guest room, unable, she said, to bear his tossing and turning. Bryan figured she just wanted to be away from him, which he didn’t mind in the least—except that meant he wasn’t getting any tail from anyone. Clare had announced she’d found a boyfriend and so she couldn’t see him anymore. And when Bryan wasn’t getting sex, he drank more. And when he drank more, he wanted more sex. It was a vicious cycle.

Plus, it had been a bad period at work. His firm was losing money; this economy was dragging everybody down. There was talk they might have to sell out to another company—possibly the very one Bryan had left, the place where that loathsome Todd Bennett ruled the roost. If so, Bryan felt certain his job would be axed. More than ever, he rued his decision to leave the old firm—and Mr. Thayer’s mentorship. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he lost his job. They had quite a mortgage on this house—plus there were the kids. Independent Day wasn’t cheap. And Heather expected them to go to the same expensive prep schools she and her brothers had attended. After that, there was college.

Bryan wished they’d never had those two brats.

He could hear them squawking in the other room. Ashton was yelling at Piper to give him back his toys, or maybe it was the other way around. If it weren’t for the red hair, Bryan would swear those brats weren’t his. Here he was, trying to unwind after a long day at the office—okay, not really so long, he’d left early—and this is what he had to put up with. Something banged against the wall. One of the kids throwing something, in the midst of a temper tantrum.

Bryan flung open the door. “Heather!” he shouted out into the hallway. “Keep those street urchins quiet! I’ve got a headache and I’m trying to sleep!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce,” came the voice of Consuela, poking her head out from the doorway of the kids’ playroom. “Heather isn’t home yet. I’m trying to break up an argument between—”

At the moment a stuffed teddy bear came flying out of the door and hit Consuela in the head.

“Between the two children,” the long-suffering housekeeper said.

“Well, tell them I said to shut up,” Bryan growled. “And don’t disturb me. I’m napping.”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”

Bryan slammed the door.

He poured himself another glass of whisky. He was pleased that Heather wasn’t home. That meant she wouldn’t be barging in on him unexpectedly. He’d been vaguely horny all day, and now, hastened by the alcohol, his dick was growing in his sweatpants. For some guys, drinking inhibited performance. For Bryan, it seemed to accelerate it.

From his secret lockbox, he withdrew the photographs of Jessie. But now he had a few other things to go along with it. His expedition the other day to her house had resulted in some considerable loot. He’d been so shrewd—slipping in through a front window by popping out the screen, then carefully replacing it once he was inside. If Jessie had thought she was secure in that house, she’d had a rude awakening after that. Bryan laughed. And when he’d left he engaged the front door lock so that it would click into place once he closed the door. Brilliant! He knew he shouldn’t have made such a mess of things—tossing Jessie’s clothes around, pulling things off hangers—but he liked the idea of freaking her out. It got him even harder knowing that she was scared.

Bryan smiled. He pressed a pair of Jessie’s blue satin panties to his face.

He knew he wouldn’t be content with photos and panties for long, however. He’d been sneaking over to Jessie’s house lately, and spying on her through her windows. But he knew sooner or later—more likely sooner—he would need Jessie herself. Why she had come to occupy nearly his every waking thought, Bryan wasn’t sure. It was true she was still hot. It was true that he carried around the feeling of unfinished business with her: she was the only chick he’d ever dated who he hadn’t gotten to fuck. But he was smart enough to know his obsession with her these past few weeks was due more to what else was going on his life: the rapid and obvious disintegration of his marriage, his loss of Clare, and his problems at work. Thinking about Jessie got his mind off all of that.

Thinking about Jessie gave him a purpose.

He lay back on his bed, Jessie’s panties on his face, the photograph on his chest, and began beating his meat.

That was when the door opened and Heather walked in.

“I come home and the kids are on the warpath and Consuela tells me you’re taking a nap—?” she said.

Then she stopped.

She saw the panties, and the photo.

Bryan sat up, looking at her with wide eyes and open mouth.

Heather couldn’t speak for a moment. Bryan didn’t even try to hide the evidence. It was pointless at this point.

Why hadn’t he locked the door?

Maybe, he realized, he’d secretly hoped she’d find him.

Heather looked at him with utter disgust. “You sick perv,” she managed to say, and turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Bryan looked down at the photograph of Jessie.

He had to have her.

Soon.