On His Knees. Cathryn Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ it?” I really don’t like the sounds of this. I put my hand on the back of my head, apply pressure to the dull ache beginning at the base of my neck as every muscle in my body tightens, goes on alert. “That’s how you met?”

      “Yes.”

      I angle my throbbing head, my gaze raking over my grandfather’s face as I take in his body language. There’s something he’s not telling me. The grandson in me senses it, the lawyer in me knows it. “What was she doing at the clinic?”

      Granddad hesitates and I pinch the bridge of my nose, envisioning Summer Love hanging out at the geriatrics clinic, scoping out her next target. If it’s money she’s after, and obviously it has to be, she definitely scored big-time with Granddad. But Jesus, what kind of a woman would do something so reprehensible?

       A conniving one.

      “Does she work there?” I ask.

      Gnarled fingers swat the air, like I’m an annoying fly, buzzing with too many questions. “What’s with the interrogation? You’re going to love her, James. I’m sure you two will hit it off as soon as you meet,” he says, pivoting the conversation.

       Doubtful.

      Anger prowls through my blood, a hot burn that nudges my temper. In the past Granddad always had an ironclad prenuptial drawn up. Why doesn’t he want one this time? Christ, he’s not even married to the woman, yet he wants to sign half his estate over. He has to be losing his mind. What other explanation could there be?

      “How long have you known her?”

      “Long enough to know I want her to be part of the family.” He averts his eyes for a moment, glancing over my shoulder to gaze at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind me. Why the hell is he being so cagey?

      I stand, walk to the bookshelf and run my hand along the aged bindings. The musty scent of old paper, combined with its vanilla undertones, takes me back to my days spent in the Harvard library.

      “What does Dad think of this?” I ask, turning back around to square off against my grandfather. No way can I let this go.

      His bony collarbone jumps as he gives a shrug. “He thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”

      My head rears back in disbelief. No way would my father give consent to this, unless he’s losing his mind, too. Not that I can call him and have a chat to gauge his mental capacity. He’s out of reach, off to Bali on his fourth honeymoon with a girl half his age. Both Dad and Granddad have a history of marrying younger women—although this time Granddad is really widening the age bracket, horrendously so. At least Dad still had enough wits about him to draw up a prenuptial before he said I do.

      My gaze rakes over my grandfather. I take in his winter-white hair, the thinning of his face. Heavy lines bracket milky blue eyes that have dulled with age as he turns his gaze back to the Polaroid. Christ, I don’t want to burst his bubble, but no way can I let him sign over his life’s work. I’m not just his grandson, I’m his power of attorney, in charge of his affairs and sworn to keep his best interests at heart.

      “When can I meet her?” I ask.

      His head lifts, and for a brief second I catch a sparkle of something in his eyes—a reminder of the youthful man who was as sly as he was strong. He briefly shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, the sparkle is gone. His face pulls into a sad grimace when he says, “She’s on vacation, in St. Moritz. Won’t be back for a week.”

      Of course she’s on vacation in St. Moritz. Why wouldn’t she be, considering Granddad owns numerous hotels and chalets in the Alpine resort town? I spent a lot of days on the slopes during my school breaks and holidays, and a lot of nights working the bar. Like I said, Granddad wanted me to understand the value of hard work.

      “Is she staying in one of your hotels?” I ask, holding no punches.

      “Enough with the questions, son.” He climbs to his feet to refill his glass, but his nonanswer says it all. She’s staying in one of his hotels, and he likely footed the bill for the whole trip.

      I dig my phone from my front pocket and do a quick search for Summer Love. I scan all the social media sites and come up with nothing. How can a woman in her late twenties have zero online presence? I’m on Instagram and Twitter, even though I rarely post, but I at least have an account. She has nothing. I guess she’s smart enough not to leave a trail behind after she cons people out of their money.

      Agitated, I push from the bookshelf and pace. This. This is the reason I don’t get emotionally involved with women. Between my father, and my grandfather, I’ve seen enough “aunts” come and go over the years to realize it’s not the men themselves these women want. It’s what they have in their bank account. My own mother was no different.

      Christ, is there not one decent woman left in the world, one who cares about love, life and people over money? If she’s out there, she’s certainly not traveling in any of my social circles. Not that I’m looking to settle down. I prefer a revolving door, sex for sex and no commitment. Those are the rules I live by, rules that protect me. But right now I have much more important things on my plate. Things like worrying about my grandfather’s state of mental health and exposing Summer Love for the fraud she really is. I will not stand back and let her cheat my family out of millions.

      “How long will it take for you to draw the papers up?” Granddad asks, settling himself back into his leather chair, that hint of a spark back in his eyes. “I want to surprise her when she returns.”

      I scrub my chin, a stall tactic as my mind races, a plan forming in the depths of my brain. I lift my eyes to his as the idea takes shape, becomes lucid. It might be ludicrous, but extreme situations call for extreme measure. “It will take about a week,” I inform him. Just enough time for me to go to St. Moritz, seduce Summer Love and take her to her knees.

       CHAPTER TWO

      Summer

      “HERE GOES NOTHING,” I say, unable to hide the nervous edge in my voice as I look at the towering ski hill and wonder how I’ll get down it without breaking my damn neck.

      “It’s just the bunny hill,” Amber says, as she tugs at her glove with her teeth, adjusting it around the cuff of her coat. “You’ll be fine. You did great during the lessons.” She nudges me to set me into motion, and I nearly tip over in my sturdy ski boots. Oh yeah, hurtling down the mountain on two waxed-up sheets of plastic is going to be so much fun, especially when I can’t even stand in my damn boots. Amber points to the ground. “Now get those skis on so we can catch up to Cara.”

      I glance up to see Cara skiing toward the gondola, and resist the urge to throw my pole at her as she effortlessly glides across the snow. I love my girlfriends, I really do. They both grew up in the Hamptons and were best friends when I met them at Harvard. They brought me into their small circle when I arrived alone and nervous my freshman year—my first time being away from my father, and our Brooklyn apartment—and we’ve all been tight ever since. I’d do anything for them, which is why I’m currently standing at the foot of a very big ski hill in St. Moritz, one tumble away from concussion...or worse.

      I glance around at all the other mountains. “Can we go tobogganing instead?”

      “No,” СКАЧАТЬ