Page 12 of Flynn
She was supposed to be acutely sensitive to people and their varying emotions. She had been called a shark in the courtroom. She could reduce a witness to a puddle and always tell when someone was lying.
That aspect of her character and tangible work ethic has been commented on several times in various society rags. An astute prosecutor like herself had no idea what was happening under her nose.
Her self-esteem had taken a severe beating, and for a few days, she had been unsure of herself. When it was time to go back inside the courtroom, she balked, but Rosalyn and Michael had boosted her confidence. Now, it was shattered again.
Seeing Jerome had destroyed her carefully reconstructed self-confidence and reduced her to a weeping lost soul. She hated victims and had vowed that she would never become one—until now, she thought bitterly.
Pressing a hand against her stomach, she closed her eyes. If she had been uncertain about becoming a surrogate before, that was no longer the case. She wanted something outside of work, and this was it.
*****
Grounding the cigar into the ashtray, Flynn lifted the glass of bourbon to his lips and took a contemplative sip. He was on his balcony enjoying the solitude.
He had left the function a few minutes after Ryleigh, deciding that he had had enough of the crowd and forced conversation. And if truth be told, he had spent the minutes following her humiliation simmering with righteous anger.
What he felt was confusing, considering that this woman meant nothing to him. He was entering into a business relationship with her; it was that simple. What would happen between them was a business transaction that would benefit- he frowned as his thoughts went blank.
Why was she agreeing to something like this, and why did he care? Because he did not want any surprises. She has been through a hell of a lot, and he empathizes because he knows what it does when someone you care about a great deal rears up and bites you in the ass.
He had felt the pain of rejection searing through his very soul when he discovered the woman he had been planning on marrying had been screwing with his uncle.
His heart was hardened, encased by steel bars he had erected after discovering the massive betrayal. He had opened his life to a woman who had turned around and trampled on it without mercy.
His money had not prevented her from screwing around on him. She was from the society he now belonged to and had told him laughingly that it did not matter. "It's not how you begin; it's how you end. And you have proven to the world that you have it in you to make something of yourself."
He had believed her, of course, and had damned well glowed from the compliment she had paid him. He had showered his wealth on her, buying her trinkets until she had protested that it was too much. "I just want you, darling." And he had believed her. Stretching his legs out, he drew a deep breath, his expression ferocious.
This was the perfect arrangement. He was acquiring an heir this way—no emotional attachment. Ignoring the spike in his heart rate as he recalled the vulnerable look on Ryleigh's face, he took another swallow of the liquor.
He would have his lawyers draw something up and start immediately. As his mother had often pointed out, he was thirty-five and wasn't getting any younger.
Tossing back the rest of the drink, he rose and entered his bedroom.
*****
The effect of the half bottle of brandy she had imbibed had taken its toll. After lying in bed for a full hour without falling asleep, she had gotten out of bed in frustration and went for the brandy.
The alcohol had managed to dull her senses and sent her into a deep slumber. But now, her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, jammed tight with no space in between.
After the first month of drinking herself to sleep, when the disaster struck, she had vowed that she would not allow that son of a bitch to turn her into an alcoholic.
But last night had been unexpected, and her emotions were unprepared to see a blast from the past. Damn and blast fate for sending Jerome to the function last night, one that she never wanted to go to in the first place.
Sitting in bed, she grabbed her head as the room spun. Swallowing the nausea that had surged into her throat, she tentatively stretched her legs out and climbed out of bed. Clutching the headboard, she steadied herself for a few minutes before attempting to go to the bathroom.
For once, the elegant, cool green and blue room did nothing to soothe her senses. Putting the paper cup under the tap, she filled it to the brim and drank thirstily, managing to keep it down. Moving slowly to the commode, she put the seat down and sat, her head cradled between her hands.
This was punishment, she thought wearily. God was punishing her for some unknown reason. Unwittingly, she felt the tears burning the back of her eyes as self-pity seized her in its vicious and unrelenting grip. She congratulated herself on accomplishing success in her work and personal life.
People stared at her in envy whenever she stepped into a room with Glen on her arm. His smooth, handsome face, the wholesomeness of his looks, the light blue eyes, superbly cut sandy brown hair, and his tall, rangy build had made her proud to be his. But that had all been a lie.
Swallowing the bile rising to her throat, she rose slowly and made her way over to the sink to splash cold water on her face. Filling the cup again, she drank more slowly and felt the pounding inside her temples lessening.
*****
"Mother?" Flynn looked up from the blueprint he was studying as she entered his home office.
"I was hoping we would have breakfast." She looked doubtfully at the pile of documents on his desk. A pot of coffee was at his elbow, and from the looks of things, he had already gone through half of it.