The Boyfriend Collector Page 2

  Heartless bastard. He couldn’t just hear me out?

  Suddenly, I realize how alone I truly am. I stop in the hallway and cover my face with my hands, fighting off an imminent meltdown. I hate to cry. It makes me feel weak, and I don’t want to be weak anymore. But I don’t know what I’m going to do. The clock is ticking, and right now, the whole world is against me. Not hyperbole. Not a joke. Everyone I’ve ever known is against me, and I need at least one—just one goddamned person to trust.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I arrive at the rear gate of the historic Peachtree Blossom estate, located in the prestigious Vinings neighborhood of Atlanta, about four miles from that bastard of a therapist’s office, I’ve already changed out of my only nice outfit—a red sweater, jeans, and red heels I purchased at Goodwill—and into my work clothes: a white polo with the Hale family crest and khaki pants, just like the other staff here on the property.

  Yes, the estate belongs to my family, and I basically work here to earn my keep. In fact, the only difference between me and the servants is that my grandparents don’t have to pay me. And while our staff can pick up and leave at anytime, I must live and work exclusively at the estate until my twenty-first birthday. To flee to anywhere else, to find a different home, would be seen as a forfeit of my inheritance. “It was your mother’s dying wish for you to work hard at the estate, to learn the value of a dollar, and to understand the true meaning of sacrifice.” At least, that’s what I’ve been told my whole life.

  And whenever I pushed back or questioned why I couldn’t go to school with other kids or have any friends, I always got the same response from my grandparents: “Listen to yourself, Rose. You live in one of the nicest homes in the state. You have the best tutor money can buy. Your mother would have been ashamed to hear you talking like a spoiled, entitled little brat. Just look around you. Look where you live!” Then my grandmother would go on and on about the sinfulness of greed and how if I wanted to be a person my mother would have been proud of, I would do as I was told, work hard, and be grateful for everything I had. “And then,” she would always add, “when you’re twenty-one and inherit everything, you’ll be worthy of such a gift. You’ll value this home because you’ve put your own sweat and blood into it.”

  For the record, I have no problem working hard. I clean, I wash, I even help out in the kitchen, though I’m a terrible cook. I know my mother grew up dirt poor and didn’t believe in entitlement. The problem is that everything my grandparents told me was a lie. All of it.

  I still can’t believe this is happening. But it is.

  “Rose, you’re back early,” says Rhett, the guard at the rear gate. Like most who work for my grandparents, he’s always spying on me.

  I bet he texted my grandma the moment he saw me walking up.

  “Yep, all done with my errands,” I lie to Rhett, gripping my tattered gray backpack.

  Rhett eyes me suspiciously, pushes the button, and the pedestrian gate buzzes.

  I give him a nod as I go in. It’s a five-minute hike up to the house from here, but when I leave the property, I always walk. My grandparents don’t give me much money, so I’ve learned to save every dime. I used most of my savings to pay for the few semesters of college I did manage to complete, but now I’m going to need the rest to save myself.

  “Rose! Where have you been?” Right on cue, my grandmother Gertie appears at the top of the service driveway, feigning worry. The frigid November wind blows through the white oaks, which have lost their leaves. I love being outdoors, especially in the fall, except for the fact I don’t own a good jacket and my teeth are chattering. My grandmother, on the other hand, looks toasty warm in her green velour tracksuit from some new designer. It has random black spots and a bright yellow zipper. Her short iron-gray hair is covered with a matching hat.

  You look like an avocado with syphilis.

  “Remember? I told you I needed to get a few things,” I lie. I don’t want her to know where I really was. Of course, now I’m unsure what I’m going to do because things with Dr. Hughes didn’t pan out like I’d hoped.

  I need to figure something out quickly, because now I’ve read the will and learned that this twenty-five-million-dollar property, situated on seventeen acres with a thirty-five-thousand-square-foot mansion, will never be mine if I don’t fight with everything I’ve got. Doesn’t matter that this home belonged to my mother, the world-famous author Lana Hale, or that she left everything to me. Millions in annual book royalties, movie rights, merchandising, trademarks, and profits from Lana Hale Enterprises. My mother, who died giving birth to me, was worth over two hundred million dollars when she passed, and I am to inherit nothing, nada, zilch, if my grandparents, Gertie and Melvin Hale, have their way.

  A plan that’s been twenty years in the making.

  My entire world has been nothing but a hoax, a picture painted by two very twisted people, created out of greed. It explains why I have always felt like a cartoon version of myself—two-dimensional, not exactly real.

  “Well, you’d better get started on your chores.” She wags a cautionary pink fingernail at me. “I need the silver polished—all of it. The party is in three days, and everything must be perfect for your big event.”

  You mean the next-to-final step in stealing everything from me.

  I nod. “Yes, Grandma.”

  Her gray eyes twitch with annoyance. “Don’t give me that attitude, young lady. By this time next month, you’ll be twenty-one, and we know what that means.”

  In the real will or the fake one you showed me?

  It takes everything I have not to tip my hand. She wants me to believe that this party is a pre-birthday celebration to mark the end of a long, arduous journey prescribed by my mother before her death. In truth, it’s a coming-out party stipulated in the will. Sadly, the letter attached only dictated that the party had to happen prior to my twenty-first birthday. “Rose should be given a formal coming-out party, with no expense spared. Should anything happen to me, I want her to feel she’s surrounded by my love and that I’m there with her. The invitees should include trustworthy young women, who will serve as role models as she enters this all-important phase of her life, and no less than fifty suitable young men. I trust you, my parents, to choose appropriately, as Rose could end up marrying one of these men someday. Hopefully before her twenty-first birthday. See Paragraph 10.”

  Delaying this party to the last possible moment has made my chances of complying with Paragraph 10 nearly impossible. If only I’d gotten my hands on that document two years ago—hell, or fifteen years ago—I could’ve done something. I could’ve come up with a better plan. Four weeks leaves me almost no time to maneuver before my twenty-first birthday.

  With a smile, I turn to my grandmother, who’s waiting with a pudgy fist parked on her plump hip. “The silver will be polished to perfection for the party,” I promise.

  “Excellent,” she says. “We want your guests to have a good impression of our family. And don’t forget, Milly will be here to do alterations at four o’clock. Teresa is allowing you to keep the dress, by the way, so you should thank her.”

  Milly is my grandma’s seamstress. Teresa is my cousin, who, like her mother—my aunt Belinda—hates me, though I’ve never understood why. Thankfully, I don’t see them often, but when I do, it’s a Rose stomp-fest. Kind of like those traditional winemakers who throw the grapes in the giant tubs and then squash them with their feet. My aunt and cousin go to town on me every chance they get with their crushing words. Stupid…ugly…useless. They hold nothing back when I leave the room, making sure they talk loud enough so I’ll hear every word.

  It’s hard to believe that anyone’s family could be so cruel, but now I’m sure it’s my grandmother’s doing.

  I force a smile. “Thank you, Grandma Gertie. I really appreciate you making sure I have a nice dress for my party.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re here for, darling, isn’t it? And we couldn’t be happier to
see this entire thing coming to an end.” She gives me one of her sugary, fake-as-hell grins. “You have no idea what we’ve sacrificed to raise you according to your mother’s wishes—I mean, shouldn’t it be every grandparent’s right to spoil their grandkids? But no. That was taken from us.” She shrugs remorsefully. She thinks I’m buying her act. “But I know our dear Lana, God rest her soul, would be proud to see what a strong, independent girl you’ve become. So worthy of all that money.”

  How can she look me in the eye and lie to me like this? My own grandmother! I was loyal to her. I trusted her and my grandfather. I fell for the biggest con from the world’s biggest con artists.

  I want to shove one of my balled fists down her turkey-skin-covered throat. “I will forever be in your gratitude.”

  “Hmph! I certainly hope so because—”

  My grandmother’s cell beeps loudly in her swamp-creature-colored pants pocket. She grabs the thing and holds it to her ear. “What? Who?” she barks at the person on the phone. “Show him to the living room.” She looks at me, shooting darts with her narrowed eyes. “Your… doctor is at the front gate.”

  I blink. “Who?”

  “Child, did you drop your brain?” she snaps, her twang more pronounced, showing she’s irritated with me. “He says you forgot your purse in his office.”

  I don’t have a purse. And after the way Dr. Hughes treated me, I’m finding it hard to believe he’s the person at the gate. His dismissal was as sharp as a straight razor.

  But who else could it be? That Dr. Filbert I see once a year for my checkups? Doubtful.

  Oh no. Dr. Hughes here! It suddenly sinks in. My grandmother isn’t supposed to know about him. Nevertheless, the cat’s out of the bag. My only choice is to convince her I really went to him for therapy. I didn’t. Of course, Dr. Hughes never gave me a chance to explain that.

  “I-I meant to tell you about it,” I say. “I went to see a therapist because—”

  “A therapist!” Her tone is riddled with panic. I’m sure the last thing she wants is for me to start sharing personal details of my life with a stranger who might put ideas in my head or encourage me to take charge. The more isolated and helpless I am, the easier I am to control.

  “I didn’t tell you,” I say, “because I know how you worry—” about yourself “—but I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately. You know it’s a lot of pressure thinking about managing so much money and this place, not to mention my mother’s book estate.” I cast my gaze demurely at the ground, hoping she doesn’t suspect anything. “I’m really sorry I lied to you.”

  Her eyes twitch with animosity, but she catches herself and pastes on a concerned look. “Well, Rose, you should have said something. I’m always here for you, darlin’, so there’s no need to waste good money when you have family to lean on.”

  Lean on? They’re more likely to push me in the mud and kick repeatedly. Thankfully, she can’t prohibit me from seeing Dr. Hughes, but that’s not the point. I simply don’t want her knowing that I’m not going down without a fight. Otherwise, I’m sure she’ll find a way to stop me.

  “I didn’t get much out of the first session,” I say, “so you’re probably right.”

  “That’s why you should always confide in your grandmama,” she says sweetly. “Family is the only thing you can trust, Rose.”

  Oh, yes. Because according to her, everyone else is just after my future inheritance. Especially men, who I have been repeatedly warned against. “They’ll use you, Rose. They’ll pretend they love you and then take every last penny.” But not good old Gertie and Melvin. I can trust them. Insert angry sarcasm here.

  I nod. “Of course, Grandma.”

  “Good girl. Now don’t ever lie to me again.” She gives me the once-over and hurries off toward the house. No doubt to hide in a corner or under a couch so she can listen in on my conversation with Dr. Hughes.

  And just why the hell is he here? After what he said, I never want to see him again.

  I inhale slowly and exhale. Mom, if you’re out there listening somewhere, I could really use your help right now. I know she wasn’t exactly sane when she died, but I don’t believe she wanted me to suffer like this. It doesn’t make sense.

  I turn and head toward the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I enter the living room, the fireplace is already crackling next to the grand piano. No one hardly uses this tacky space, with its over-the-top gold curtains and furniture, but my grandmother insists that the gas fire is lit anytime guests occupy the room. Her entire world revolves around putting on a show to impress others.

  “Dr. Hughes?” I say, taking in the view of the tall man with wide shoulders standing with his back to me and looking out the window toward the garden. Our yard was featured in one of those magazines for its elaborate hedges in the shapes of swans, bears, and deer. I’d rather have real animals.

  “Rose, I’m sure you’re wondering…” His voice fades as he turns and registers my outfit. He’s likely seen Joseph, the guard at the front gate, and Gloria, the head housekeeper, who answers the door.

  “Yep. We’re all into matching outfits,” I say, planting my hands on my waist. “You come to join the club?”

  “No.”

  “Then mind explaining why you’re here?” I know I’m being extra sassy, but that’s how a Southern woman lets people know when they’re not welcome.

  For a brief moment, his mouth flaps, and I try not to notice the shape of his lips or how they’re framed by a shadow of short dark stubble. I can’t care what his lips look like. I can’t care about anything other than him leaving as quickly as possible.

  “I came to apologize,” he says.

  “For?”

  “I think you know.”

  I toggle my head from side to side. “Mmm…maybe. But I’m much more forgiving after a long cooling-off period, so if you’d leave? Immediately.” If he says anything about me looking for a husband and my grandmother overhears, I’m done for.

  I march past him, toward the front door, only to be stopped by a firm hand on my wrist. He jerks me to a halt.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “What the hell is going on?” he whispers, leaning in close.

  Funny, he smells exactly like I imagined. Expensive coffee, expensive cologne, and clean clothes. I smell like Windex and sweat most days, though it is clean sweat, so I do have that going for me.

  “Don’t know what you mean,” I say, trying to wriggle back control of my arm. “But I’m actually very busy at the moment, so if you’d—”

  “Not a fucking chance, Rose.” His cold blue eyes aren’t so cold any longer. In fact, they’re showing a whole hell of a lot of emotion. Most of it disturbed. I can tell he’s a stubborn sonofabitch, so he’s not going to leave until I satisfy…satisfy whateverthehell this is.

  “You can’t be here,” I whisper. “If you want to talk, I’ll come to your office tomorrow, but you have to go.”

  His jaw muscles beat with tension.

  “Dr. Hughes,” I growl through clenched teeth, “you have to go.”

  I watch those intense calculating eyes. He knows something’s not right.

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave. But only if you promise to come first thing tomorrow.”

  I nod. “I promise.”

  He tightens his grip on my wrist, almost like he’s afraid to let go. But I know that’s stupid. This asshole doesn’t care about anyone.

  “Just promise me you’re okay,” he says quietly.

  My heart almost stops. Almost. I can’t remember the last time anyone showed this much concern for me other than his late father, Murdoc. Those thirty minutes I spent on the phone with him were a lifeline—thin as spider silk—but they gave me hope that I was not alone. This man’s hand on my wrist, his fingertips digging into my skin, feels like a bridge.

  “I promise.”

  “If you don’t come, I’ll be back.” He releases my arm.

  Shit. Not that. “
I’ll be there. Eight sharp.”

  “Seven thirty. Not a minute later.” He turns to leave.

  With a pounding heart, I watch his sturdy frame exit my painting—the dark nightmare I’ve lived in for the last twenty years. But he leaves something new behind. A splash of color. Real, live, three-dimensional color.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The red dress… How to describe it other than to say it’s a metaphor for my life. It’s mine, but I didn’t buy it, nor do I own it. It’s simple and elegant, and all the things I’m not but aspire to be. It’s just a dress, yet it’s so much more than what you see. My gateway to freedom.

  Standing in what I call the “Pepto guest suite,” complete with pink curtains and pink carpet, I hold out the long flowing fabric to the sides and pivot in the full-length mirror. “This dress is…” I sigh, “gorgeous.”

  “It really is.” Milly sighs, too. She’s a short redhead in her sixties, who’s dressed a first lady, a princess or two, and almost every reigning queen of the R&B charts for the last three decades. Milly knows style, and the only reason she’s dressing me is because my grandmother feels the upcoming party is really hers—an opportunity to show off to all her rich friends.

  “Thank you, Milly.” I make one last pivot. “I’m speechless.”

  “Well now,” she reaches to unzip me, “it’s the least I can do for Lana Hale’s daughter.”

  The sentiment in Milly’s voice triggers my curiosity. “Did you know her?”

  “Yeah.” Milly quickly strips off my garment, almost like she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “How?”

  “She was a client. Long before you were born.”

  “And?” I ask.

  Milly shrugs. “And nothing.” She pushes the red dress into a white garment bag stretched across the guestroom’s bed. My room is…well, since I turned eighteen, I’ve been sharing a closet with the maid of the week. All part of Melvin and Gertie’s “You must make sacrifices to be worthy of your inheritance” boot camp. Really, they renovated the wing of the house where I used to stay and added an indoor pool. They want it all to themselves and don’t want me taking up any of their “awesome” guest rooms. As for sharing a room, it’s made me realize that the staff hates it here as much as I do. The maids come and go like lettuce in a vegetable drawer. They’re chewed up or they rot, but either way, they’re gone in seven days. Come to think of it, growing up, all of my nannies and tutors were like revolving doors, too. No one ever stayed around long enough for me to grow attached to. I have to wonder if it wasn’t part of my grandparents’ plan to keep me isolated. No one to trust—other than themselves. No one to put ideas in my head to ruin their scam.