Salvage Him (Highland Park Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  I exited the car as a thunderclap exploded to my left. I jumped, looked back at Mr. O’Connell, and continued toward the house.

  I pushed the gate open. It creaked and stopped.

  "Are you sure this is the right place?" I asked. I pushed harder, but it wouldn't budge.

  "Yes, ma . . . , Brooklyn. It's the address Mr. McIntyre gave me." We both looked through the gate. "Let me get that."

  Mr. O’Connell lifted the gate and swung it open.

  A chill ran up my spine as I stepped inside. The house ended on a sharp right angle inches from an eight-foot gray stone wall, constructed out of the leftover pieces from the house.

  I scanned back to the center of my new home. The dungeon door growled opened, and Paul stepped out.

  "Brooke, my love. You made it. Welcome to Dallas." He ran up and wrapped his arms around my waist. He lifted me as he nuzzled my neck with kisses. "I'm so glad you're finally here." He set me down with a jolt.

  I grabbed his forearm to steady myself as he turned us to face the house.

  "What do you think?" He swung an arm over my shoulder.

  I stared at him out of the corner of my eye.

  His perfectly coiffed brown hair with blond highlights didn't move when he ran his hands through it. We stood the same height and were close to the same weight.

  His thousand-watt smile used to put me at ease.

  I frowned and looked back at the house, wondering when I stopped feeling it. My attraction to him ebbed and flowed, but we never stayed in the same place together long enough for it to be an issue.

  When people saw us together, they got the wrong idea.

  He was older than me, by thirteen years. He used his modest trust fund, provided by his grandmother's estate, and turned it into a thriving real estate development business. He worked hard and traveled all over the world developing projects. Dallas was another stop on the adventure.

  At least, that's what I told myself. Being with Paul McIntyre was an adventure. That was the promise anyway.

  I rubbed my hand over his and wondered when that idea had changed, too.

  I looked back and found Mr. O'Connell standing outside the gate. I gave him a nod.

  He returned with a reassuring grin but stayed standing with his hands in his pockets.

  I turned back to Paul.

  "It's interesting." I tried to smile.

  He kissed me on my cheek and grabbed my hand. He pulled me up three wobbly narrow steps to the porch. He dropped my hand and used his weight to open the front door.

  We stepped into the foyer, and my eyes fell on the high polished cement.

  It was an open-floor plan, but the ceiling hung low and straight, nothing like the pitch suggested from the outside. The walls were painted black. The designer of the house did the exact opposite of every lesson they taught me in design school.

  "What’s really great is the place doesn't need a lot of work. Maybe a touch of paint here and there and you know, furniture." Paul gestured with his hands.

  I narrowed my eyes and turned, but stopped when a screech from the second floor echoed throughout the house.

  "What was that?" I asked as I took a tentative step toward the front door.

  "Oh, you know these old houses.” Paul looked up at the ceiling. “Probably just the house settling."

  "Or the ghost of bad taste coming to say hello," I whispered.

  Paul heard me. My snide comment was met with a frown.

  "Jesus, Brooke." He held up his hands.

  I cringed. I didn't mind when he called me Brooke except when he scolded me.

  "You said you wanted a house. You were tired of living in apartments. I buy you a house, and you still give me attitude." He rolled his eyes.

  Not sure why he was surprised.

  "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be ungrateful, but Paul . . ." I looked around and raised my hands. "This place is so dark and . . . old."

  "It's a classic Highland Park Mansion."

  He said it like it was supposed to mean something to me.

  "I bet it has a great story." He walked toward a door and pushed, but it wouldn't budge.

  "Yeah, I guess." I wrapped my arms around my torso as a draft crawled across the back of my neck.

  I shuffled toward the back of the house, opened the back door, and my legs tensed. Out the back door across a two-foot wide deck of rotting wood, the landscaped dropped down into the Amazon jungle. The dense foliage made it hard to gauge the size of the backyard.

  A bush rustled on my left. I shut the door and ran back into the house.

  "I can't live here," I said as I shook my head.

  Paul had his back to me.

  I placed my arms around his waist. I laid my head on his shoulder.

  They shook. His hand covered his mouth.

  "What's so funny?" I stepped in front of him.

  He couldn't hold it in any longer. He busted out with a howl and bent over.

  "What's so funny?" I stomped my foot and pushed my hair off my neck. It suddenly grew hot and humid.

  "You really . . ." He couldn't continue. He coughed and held his hand up.

  "Paul."

  "Whoo." He inhaled and got himself under control. "You really think I would live in a place like this? It's as dirty as your first apartment." He grabbed my hand and took me back outside. Mr. O'Connell, standing in the same spot we left him, sighed in relief.

  "Why are we here?" I asked.

  Paul dragged me out the front gate. He turned me around and placed his hands on my hips. He pressed himself into my backside. His dick rubbed across my ass. I scooted away, but he pulled me firmly back with a grunt.

  "I did buy the house."

  I looked over my shoulder.

  "So we can knock it down and build our dream home."

  I turned back to the house. A smile crept on my face.

  "Dream home," I whispered.

  Paul ignored me as he practically dry humped me in broad daylight.

  We moved so often and stayed in whichever high rise he worked on. They were beautiful apartments, but I'd lived in an apartment all my life. I wanted a home.

  I never imagined it would be in Dallas, Texas, but as I looked down the street, at the neighborhood, I got excited.

  Highland Park would be a nice place to call home.

  Three

  Brooklyn

  We wasted no time tearing the old house down and constructing its replacement. I threw myself into designing the interior. Since graduating from design school, I'd yet to design anything. The places we had lived in the past came fully furnished. I'd add my touch, but with our new house, I got to start from scratch.

  As far as the exterior of the house was concerned, Paul had some ideas, but we needed expert help.

  We had gathered in a small conference room at Fitzgerald & Kennedy Architecture. It was the third meeting with Justin Fitzgerald, the owner and creative man at F&K.

  We had agreed on the basic structure of the new house, but we couldn't move forward until we finalized all the details.

  We stood over the large dark wood conference table. I spun the model and lifted the roof off the guesthouse. I hoped to finish the construction on it first so we could move out of the clinic.

  That's what I refer to the stark white apartment Paul moved us into. It was located in the White Cielo Building, cielo as in the Spanish word for heaven. It rivaled any upscale high-rise in Manhattan.

  I couldn't help cringing at the thought that I lived in white heaven. Everyone in the building was sweet and hospitable, but the irony of the name wasn't lost on this little black girl from Brooklyn, New York.

  And now, we were moving from white heaven to white ...

  "I want it to be white," Paul said.

  "The white is going to stand out so much from the rest of the neighborhood," I said.

  "What's wrong with that?" Paul asked.

  "Pretentious," I answered.

  "It's not pretentious. It's elegant." Paul plac
ed his cold, clammy hand on my forearm. "I know you may not know the difference, but believe me, it will be perfect."

  I frowned and looked over at Justin. If he heard Paul's subtle insult, it didn't register on his face.

  Justin was a controlled individual, even toned and calm. A direct contradiction to his platinum blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Maybe his look was part of his demeanor. I had been around guys like him before, and I instantly liked him. We shared the same taste in design and aesthetics, but something else drew me to him.

  I looked at the model again. The house was huge, too huge for two people. I counted the bedrooms, all seven of them. I counted the bathrooms—eight and a half counting the one in the pool area. I shook my head, and my gaze fell on the master suite. It was two stories. We had stairs in our bedroom, another one of Paul's great ideas.

  He wanted to recreate the loft we had spent a week at in Switzerland. It had a main room and then a loft with a skylight over the bed.

  It was romantic when you were on vacation. Waking up basking in sunlight at six a.m. would get real old quick. I predicted it would be covered up within a week.

  "I want a tall fence made of white stone. I want it to look like a modern castle," Paul continued on his white house rant.

  I cut my eyes but closed my mouth.

  Justin nodded and gave me a sly grin.

  "Fine." I pushed my hair back. "Whatever you want. You take care of the outside of the house."

  "That's right, baby." Paul grabbed my hand. He squeezed it tight, but then brought it up to his lips and kissed it.

  I concentrated on not flinching from his show of possessiveness and affection. Paul didn't usually exhibit either unless he was in front of other men . . . basically when he needed to exert his inner alpha male. "You can take care of the interior." He kissed my hand again.

  I nodded and walked out of the room.

  I trusted Justin would keep Paul in line. Why I trusted him, I had no idea.

  I strolled into the lobby. Fitzgerald & Kennedy's offices were done in white and black, an understated and tasteful modern design with a comfortable vibe. It was a perfect extension of their personalities. Justin and his partner, Seth, gave us a tour when we first met.

  Justin, at six-foot-three, towered over Paul.

  Seth, while a little shorter than Justin, had the most amazing green eyes. With his brown hair and beautiful lips, he looked like a New Yorker and not a native Texan. They both were, and both grew up in the Highland Park area.

  At our first meeting, Seth had greeted me with a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  Later, Paul declared he must be gay.

  I caught Seth checking out my ass on more than one occasion. He definitely wasn't gay.

  I stood by the window in the front of their building overlooking McKinney Avenue. I flipped through my idea board on my phone when I caught movement from my left. A light brown armoire with carved detail in the doors rolled across the lobby. If the armoire wasn't impressive enough, stepping out behind it was the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on.

  His arms flexed as he adjusted the armoire in the corner. He wiped his hands on his thin t-shirt. It rode up as he picked at something on the door. He ran his hand through his shaggy light brown hair. He stood back and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  He reached out and caressed the wood.

  I felt it on my cheek.

  He leaned in and rested his forehead on the furniture.

  I leaned in too.

  His beautiful lips whispered something to the piece.

  I felt the wisp of air on my earlobe and shivered.

  He made a fist as his forearms flexed and knocked twice.

  "Come in," I whispered.

  "Ms. McIntyre, can I get you anything?" Justin's assistant, Amanda, snuck up on me.

  I jumped and gasped.

  "No. I'm fine." I turned back toward the gorgeous specimen, but he had gone. I walked toward the armoire, hoping to catch a scent of the guy who seemed reluctant to leave it behind. "This armoire. Um, it’s beautiful. Do you know where it came from?"

  "Oh, yeah. That's one of Harrison Crawford's pieces," Amanda answered.

  "Harrison." I admired the woodwork. The piece towered over me. I looked up, gauged how tall Harrison was in comparison. I grinned, reached out, and ran my fingers over the detail.

  "He does a lot of work with our clients. He's super talented . . . and super hot, too." Amanda pushed her strawberry blond hair behind her ear and blushed.

  "I would love for him do some work on my house," I said.

  "Sure." She nodded and grinned. "I'll let Justin know so he can hook you two up."

  I suppressed a giggle at her choice of words. I felt like a teenager looking to get the name and number of the hot guy in school.

  As attractive as he was, I wasn't about to cheat on my husband.

  I can look, though. Right?

  Four

  Brooklyn

  I drove by the house every few days and stopped at the park across the street. I stood on the sidewalk casing the joint. The same thought ran through my head each time—it was beautiful, but it was too big.

  My brain ran wild with decorating ideas, but I couldn't picture myself and Paul living in it.

  Maybe when I put my touch on the place, I would learn to like it.

  I separated each room into vision books. I sketched out each room and gathered fabric samples and images from the Internet of things I wanted. I spent countless hours in furniture stores and at the design market in Dallas. If I couldn't find what I wanted, I met with people who could build it. I put off meeting with Harrison until the house was further along.

  Paul stayed for a few weeks while we settled in our new place, but since then, he had been in Dallas for a total of twenty days.

  It didn't matter. I got a lot of work done and didn't need to check with him on every decision.

  It was unusual for him not to take me on his trips, but I didn't question it. I wanted some stability in my life. I needed to sit and be quiet for a while to awaken my dormant creativity.

  Six months from the day we tore down the old house, the new one had a roof and walls but not much else. Justin and I planned a walk-through with the contractors.

  I drove up per usual, but today, I parked on the street in front of the house. I had yet to call it my house. It felt more like a job, but I was the client.

  As I stepped out of my car, it looked bigger. I shook my head and reminded myself, one room at a time.

  I opened the trunk of my new SUV, a Lexus RX 430h. It was what women in Highland Park drove. I'd never owned a car before. In every city we lived in, we always had a car and driver. We also had a cook, which made me super uncomfortable, and a maid. I loved the maid.

  In Dallas, we didn't need a cook, but I insisted on the maid. Especially after Paul's little comment about how, since I had so much time on my hands, I could clean the house myself.

  I kept my mouth shut, but inside my head, I screamed and cursed for him to clean his own fucking 9,000 square foot house.

  When I reminded him that wives in Highland Park didn't clean their own homes, he relented. He was into appearances since we’d moved to Texas.

  I pulled my small black suitcase out of the trunk. It held my vision books. I yanked at the table the doorman had helped me load, but it wouldn't budge.

  I pulled again, and it barely moved.

  I stepped back, bent my knees, and yanked. My hands slipped off the table, and the energy hurled my body backward into a solid mass.

  It wasn't the ground.

  "Whoa. Careful." His deep voice vibrated off the back of my neck and crawled down my spine. I looked down at the hand wrapped around my bicep.

  His other hand dug into my hip and settled me upright.

  I swallowed as they lingered for a minute, but whimpered when they disappeared. I recognized those hands.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  I pushed my hair behind my ear and
turned toward the deep voice. I blinked a few times before his features came into focus. It was him, the carpenter.

  Harrison Crawford.

  I stared with no shame. I couldn't help it.

  His eyes halted me.

  Last year, Paul took me to St. Croix, and I couldn't stop looking at the water. It was the perfect blue-green hue, and it swirled and mixed and made me happy. I had searched for a photo that captured it. Scoured online to find a paint that matched the color. I thought it didn't exist anywhere else in the world until now.

  His eyes captured it and gave me the same feeling.

  I smiled but turned away.

  "Yeah. I'm fine.” I pointed. “I just can't get this damn table out of the car."

  "Here." Harrison pushed me aside. Well, not pushed, but strategically placed his hands on me and moved me with a deliberate motion. "Let me get that."

  I watched his forearms flex as he lifted the wooden folding table and pulled it out of the car. He shifted the table. It stood vertical between us.

  He peeked over the top down at me. A smile curled up the side of his mouth.

  From the look on his face, he was used to people staring at him.

  He narrowed his eyes and blinked.

  The world stopped, and I watched.

  "Following you." He nodded.

  "Oh, yeah. Sorry," I said and squeezed my eyes shut to break the spell.

  I grabbed my suitcase and rolled it up the circular driveway. I peeled back the plastic sheet covering the doorway and stepped into the house.

  It was quiet. The rest of the team wasn't due to arrive for another hour.

  "You can set it down over there." I pointed at the small space off the living room that would eventually be Paul's study.

  Harrison set up the table with little effort. I had been so busy staring at him that I didn't hear him when he spoke.

  He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed.

  "This okay?" he said with a hint of frustration.

  "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted . . . " My voice faded away as he walked toward me.