Chapter 2

The harsh ringing of the phone sliced through the dark living room. Amy jerked awake. She was lying on the sofa, still wearing her clothes from the night before. Her neck was stiff.

She reached for her phone on the coffee table. It was 2:00 AM. The caller ID showed Brigham's executive assistant.

Amy swiped to answer. "Hello."

"Mrs. Myers, I am so sorry to wake you." The assistant sounded panicked. "Mr. Myers is at the private club downtown. He is heavily intoxicated. Mr. Myers is asking for you by name. He's refusing to leave with anyone else. We're concerned he might cause a scene. Could you please come get him?"

Amy closed her eyes. "I am not his babysitter. Call his driver."

"I did, ma'am. But he..." The assistant paused. Through the phone, Amy heard a low, pained groan in the background. It was Brigham.

The sound tightened her chest. She hated herself for the immediate physical reaction she had to his pain. "Fine. I am on my way."

She grabbed her trench coat and her keys. She drove through the heavy, freezing rain of late autumn in New York. The streets were slick and empty.

She pulled up to the discreet entrance of the private club. She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the VIP room. The smell hit her instantly. Stale alcohol and thick cigar smoke filled the air. She coughed, bringing a hand to her mouth.

Brigham was slumped on a dark leather sofa in the corner. His tie was gone. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone. His jaw was tight, and his eyebrows were pulled together in deep discomfort.

Amy walked over to him. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. His massive weight shifted, and she stumbled forward, almost falling onto him.

A waiter rushed over. "Let me help you, ma'am."

Together, they hauled Brigham out of the club and into the cold rain. They shoved him into the spacious backseat of the waiting Maybach. Amy climbed in after him and slammed the door, shutting out the storm.

The driver immediately raised the privacy partition. The back of the car became a small, sealed box. The only light came from the dim reading lamps. The only sound was Brigham's heavy, ragged breathing.

The car moved. Brigham's head slid sideways and landed heavily on Amy's shoulder. The heat radiating from his skin soaked right through her trench coat.

She raised her hands to push him away. But he curled inward, his large frame shrinking as a wave of nausea or a headache hit him. Her hands stopped in mid-air.

She let out a slow breath. She reached up and pressed her fingers against his temples. She rubbed the tight muscles there, trying to ease the tension of his hangover.

Brigham's breathing slowed. The deep lines on his forehead began to smooth out. Suddenly, his hand shot up. He grabbed her wrist with a crushing grip.

He pulled her hand down from his temple. He pressed her palm against his mouth. His lips were hot against her skin. He left a long, burning kiss right on her pulse point.

Amy's heart skipped a beat. The blood rushed to her ears. It had been so long since he touched her with anything resembling care. A stupid, desperate greed flared in her chest.

Brigham slowly opened his eyes. In the dim light of the car, his dark eyes looked incredibly deep and full of raw emotion.

He lifted his other hand. His rough thumb brushed against her cheekbone. He traced the line of her jaw. His gaze was entirely focused on her face.

He opened his mouth. His voice was rough and gravelly in the quiet car.

"Giselle. You finally came back to me."

The words hit Amy like a physical blow to the chest. The blood in her veins turned to ice. The air was sucked out of the car.

She yanked her hand back with violent force. Her elbow slammed hard against the reinforced glass of the car window. A loud thud echoed in the space. Pain shot up her arm, but it was nothing compared to the tearing sensation in her chest.

Brigham frowned, annoyed by the sudden loss of contact. He reached out again, his large hands trying to pull her into his chest.

"Don't touch me." Amy shoved both her hands against his shoulders. She pushed him with every ounce of strength she had.

Brigham fell back. His head cracked against the leather headrest with a heavy thud. He let out a low grunt and closed his eyes again.

The car pulled into the underground garage of their apartment building. Amy sat rigid, staring straight ahead. When the doors opened, she told the driver to carry Brigham to the elevator. Her voice was completely dead.

Up in the penthouse, the driver dropped Brigham onto the center of the bed in the master bedroom and left.

Brigham rolled onto his back. He was still restless, his hands tearing at the remaining buttons of his shirt.

Amy walked into the master bathroom. She turned on the cold water. She soaked a hand towel and wrung it out. She walked back to the bed and stood over him. She looked down at the man who had just ripped her heart out and stomped on it.

Suddenly, Brigham sat up. His hand shot out and grabbed her waist. He yanked her forward.

Amy lost her balance and fell onto the mattress. Before she could push up, his heavy body covered hers, pinning her down.

He kept his eyes closed. His mouth found her neck. He pressed wet, sloppy kisses against her skin. His hands gripped her hips tightly.

"Giselle." He mumbled against her collarbone. "Giselle."

Bile rose in Amy's throat. The humiliation was a physical weight crushing her lungs. She thrashed under him, but he was too heavy.

Her hand flailed out, hitting the nightstand. Her fingers brushed against the heavy glass base of an award trophy sitting there.

She grabbed the cold glass. She squeezed her eyes shut. She swung her arm up and brought the heavy base down hard against the side of his forehead.