She stays silent for a moment and then replies in surprise. “You’re asking me out on a date?”
I screw up my face. “I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
She chuckles in a condescending tone. “You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.” She whispers, “Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
I bite my bottom lip . . . Ouch. “Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a soul-sucking cold bastard like you.” The phone clicks as she hangs up.
I stare at the phone in my hand. Adrenaline is pumping through my system at her fighting words.
I don’t know whether I’m shocked or impressed.
Perhaps a bit of both.
I’ve never been rejected before and definitely never been spoken to like that.
I turn to my computer and type into Google:
Who is Claire Anderson?
Read on for the first chapter of T L Swan’s backlist title, Mr. Masters, available to buy now!
ALINA MASTERS 1984–2013
WIFE AND BELOVED MOTHER. IN GOD’S HANDS WE TRUST.
Grief. The Grim Reaper of life.
Stealer of joy, hope, and purpose.
Some days are bearable. Other days I can hardly breathe, and I suffocate in a world of regret where good reason has no sense.
I never know when those days will hit, only that when I wake, my chest feels constricted and I need to run. I need to be anywhere but here, dealing with this life. My life.
Our life. Until you left.
The sound of a distant lawn mower brings me back to the present, and I glance over at the cemetery’s caretaker. He’s concentrating as he weaves between the tombstones, careful not to clip or damage one as he passes. It’s dusk, and the mist is rolling in for the night.
I come here often to think, to try and feel.
I can’t talk to anyone. I can’t express my true feelings.
I want to know why.
Why did you do this to us?
I clench my jaw as I stare at my late wife’s tombstone.
We could have had it all . . . but, we didn’t.
I lean down and brush the dust away from her name and rearrange the pink lilies that I have just placed in the vase. I touch her face on the small oval photo. She stares back at me, void of emotion.
Stepping back, I drop my hands in the pockets of my black overcoat.
I could stand here and stare at this headstone all day—sometimes I do—but I turn and walk to the car without looking back.
My Porsche.
Sure, I have money and two kids that love me. I’m at the top of my professional field, working as a judge. I have all the tools to be happy, but I’m not.
I’m barely surviving; holding on by a thread. Playing the facade to the world.
Dying inside.
Half an hour later, I arrive at Madison’s—my therapist.
I always leave here relaxed. I don’t have to talk, I don’t have to think, I don’t have to feel.
I walk through the front doors on autopilot.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.” Hayley, the receptionist, smiles. “Your room is waiting, sir.”
“Thank you.” I frown, feeling like I need something more today. Something to take this edginess off. A distraction.
“I’ll have someone extra today, Hayley.”
“Of course, sir. Who would you like?”
I frown and take a moment to get it right. “Hmm. Hannah.”
“So, Hannah and Belinda?”
“Yes.”
“No problem, sir. Make yourself comfortable and they will be right up.”
I take the lift to the exclusive penthouse. Once there I make myself a scotch and stare out the smoke-glass window overlooking London. I hear the door click behind me and I turn toward the sound. Hannah and Belinda stand before me smiling. Belinda has long blonde hair, while Hannah is a brunette.
There’s no denying they’re both young and beautiful. “Hello, Mr. Smith,” they say in unison.
I sip my scotch as my eyes drink them in.
“Where would you like us, sir?”
I unbuckle my belt. “On your knees.”
Chapter 1
Brielle
Customs is ridiculously slow and a man has been pulled into the office up ahead. It all looks very suspicious from my position at the back of the line. “What do you think he did?” I whisper as I crane my neck to spy the commotion up ahead.
“I don’t know, something stupid, probably,” Emerson replies. We shuffle toward the desk as the line moves a little quicker.