Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“Jo, you’re playing a dangerous game.” Walsh’s voice harbored a soft rebuke. “I know you miss Cam, but don’t drag someone else into this.”
Peter didn’t feel dangerous. Right now, he felt like her greatest comfort. Her realest friend. Some killjoy voice at the back of her mind sided with Walsh, but Jo had been through too much alone. She could use a vacation and she could use some company.
“Gotta go, Walsh. Work awaits.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
No painting this morning?”
Cam glanced up from his iPad, accepting the cup of coffee Etty offered him before she took her seat at the table.
“In a little bit.” Cam sipped the coffee, grimacing. “I don’t think I’ll get used to Greek coffee. Do we have any of the plain old leaded coffee?”
“There’s a Starbucks up the road.” Etty batted her lashes over her mug. “You’d actually have to leave the villa for that, though.”
Well played, Etty. Well played. They both knew he was not leaving this villa anytime soon. He had stuffed a few things in his saddlebag, jumped on his Harley, and rode off before Jo woke up. Etty once mentioned that her family owned a villa in Crete if he ever needed somewhere gorgeous to paint, so he’d taken her up on that offer. You could have knocked him over with a beret when Etty came sashaying through the villa doors three days into his self-imposed exile.
And she’d been here ever since.
He’d made it incredibly clear to her that he wasn’t interested, and so far, she had respected the protective wall he’d built around his cock. He’d been tempted more than once to leave and find somewhere else to crash, but he was getting so much done. He’d finished the protocol for the film. Producer—pleased. Nice. He had started new pieces for the exhibit, and they were some of his best work to date.
Also, there was something dark and sad hiding behind Etty’s bright blue eyes. Cam understood dark and sad. He had a patent pending on his own brand of dark and sad. He’d been around enough heiresses to know wealth didn’t guarantee happiness. There were times Etty reminded him of Jo. They were completely physically dissimilar, but they both had so much brass. And they could make him laugh. The scars on Etty’s wrists told him she hadn’t always been quick to laugh, and sometimes, she might laugh so she wouldn’t cry. He’d been Mr. Tears of a Clown himself on occasion. A little while longer here in Crete wouldn’t hurt.
In the meantime, God, he missed Jo. “Missed” was a tepid word for the dull, achy emptiness gnawing a hole in his heart daily. More like withdrawal. Was this what his mother had felt, willing to lay aside morals and self-respect in search of her next high? Jo was his field of poppies. A needle lodged in his arm, shooting dreams through his veins. She was sweet smoke filling his lungs with every inhale. His hallucinogen, rolled between his lips, fooling his heart that it was whole. Infiltrating his bloodstream. She was the hit he needed but would deny himself until he knew it was safe.
“Look, it’s your firecracker!” Etty swept her finger over the iPad.
“Firecracker?” Cam checked back in. Etty was always screwing English up, which usually made for a good laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“I said it wrong again?” Etty pushed her bottom lip out, which some guy would find adorable. “The one I met in New York.”
“Jo?” Just her name on his lips tasted good. “Where?”
“Pictures of her on vacation in Dubai with your friend Walsh.” Etty licked her lips, letting out a lusty little growl. “Hmmmmm. Her boyfriend is hot.”
“Boyfriend?” What the fuck? “Let me see that.”
The picture captured Jo emerging from the water, hair slicked back. Her bikini, flimsy scraps of black fabric, barely covered all the necessary parts. A belly chain gilded a golden trail down the elegant six-pack of muscles he’d painted Heinekens on just weeks ago. And there was Peter, looking like a damn Viking conqueror. He had his hand at the small of Jo’s back, like some perfect gentleman creeper copping a feel. His hand was probably mere inches away from her ass.
Cam thought of Jo standing naked in front of him with MINE scrawled across her backside. He literally felt hot under his collar. He practically saw red. All the clichés attacked him at once. He stood up from the table so abruptly, the wrought-iron chair fell and slammed against the terrace floor. Cam tossed the iPad onto the glass table, not even flinching when the screen cracked.
“Mon Dieu!” Etty divided a cautious glance between Cam and the fallen chair. “What is it?”
“Sorry. I, uh, I need to make a call.”
Cam had to dig his cell out of the saddlebag. He hadn’t turned it on in three weeks. Text and voice mail alerts crowded the screen, all of which he ignored. Moments later, Walsh’s deep voice commanded the phone line.