Billionaire Romance Boxed Set 1(135)

“Clare. Don’t move. Clare.” He coughed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that the scene before him would change, turn into something else. The woman he loved sat next to him, dying, he was sure. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? He touched his face and brought his hand away covered in it.

Clare looked up at him, but her eyes were glazed over. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she could not speak.

“It’s okay, Clare.” Eliot reached over to take her hand. Her fingers slipped against his skin, slick with blood.

“Eliot…”

“It’s alright. You’re going to be okay.” He reassured her even as part of his mind rebelled, going into a crazed state. He saw himself in the seat as if from a distance, watching both of them sit next to each other. Watching Clare die. Would he die too? He looked down. His shirt had been torn by a tree limb, his skin opened up across his chest. His stomach turned at the sight of so much carnage.

A roar of noise from engines made his gaze turn from her to the half-opened window, still intact. In the rearview mirror he saw a half-dozen silhouettes of men on motorbikes. The rest of the photographers. He cleared his throat and cried out.

“Help!” he shouted weakly. “My wife needs help!”

A man came to the side door, his helmet still on, and took a step back when he saw Clare. Another man joined him, then another.

“Jesus,” the first man swore.

“Please,” Eliot said. “Please help.” His hand shook as he caressed Clare’s face. Her eyes stayed fastened onto his.

Then the cameras began to flash.

Clare closed her eyes, and Eliot tried to shield her face from the cameras. His hands dripped with blood.

“Stop!” he cried. “Help! We need help!”

Clare moaned, her eyes still closed. Her hand relaxed its grip on Eliot’s hand.

“Clare?”

She coughed weakly, and a spray of blood misted the deflated airbag in front of her. One hand at her chest, she drew a shallow, ragged breath. The harsh glare of the camera flashes, one after another, illuminated her face, and Eliot saw in bursts of light her head lolling back on the headrest.

“Clare? Clare, look at me. Clare!” Eliot squeezed her hand, but there was no response. He panicked, his voice rising to a scream. “Clare!”

A drop of blood slowly trickled over her lower lip and dripped down onto her chest, which had ceased to rise and fall.

The cameras kept flashing.





Dizzy with champagne, I was completely unprepared for Eliot’s breakdown, for his attack on the photographer.

My head had been swimming nicely in bubbles as Eliot danced with me, and then he kissed me, or I kissed him, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt right to be held by him, to press my lips to his, and I could feel the need inside of him as he pulled me tightly into his arms. Everything was perfect and right and good, and then he exploded and security guards swarmed around us and Eliot turned and left me alone. I remember the photographer coughing as he helped the man out of the river, his teeth chattering with cold.

I held out my hand to stop Eliot, but he was already gone. Tipsy though I was, I remembered to get my purse and coat before following him out the door. People around me stared and talked in Hungarian, and I had no idea what was going on.

I stumbled down the street, my heels slipping on the icy sidewalk, and almost passed by the bridge where Eliot sat crouched fifty feet away, huddled against the cold granite. Shaking his head, he clutched his arms around his knees.

“Eliot?” I called out to him from across the street, but he did not hear me. I waited until the cars had gone, then made my way across to him.

“Eliot?”

Eyes tightly closed, he muttered something under his breath, his head still shaking from side to side. I leaned down, but the words were Hungarian, and I could not understand. I touched him on the shoulder and he started backwards, hitting his head against the side of the bridge.

“Nem!”

I knew enough Hungarian to know what that meant—no.

“Eliot, it’s me.” Eliot’s eyes were wild, terror still written on his face.

“Clare.”

“It’s me. It’s Brynn.”

The light in his eyes dimmed to a frown. He refocused his gaze on me.

“Brynn.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Brynn, I—” He went to stand up and tottered, his arm shaking under my grasp.

“Easy, there.” I helped him stand up and looked around. A crowd had gathered at the end of the bridge, waiting. Watching us. I saw a cab turn onto the street and darted to the curb to hold my hand out. The cab pulled over.

“Come on,” I said.

Eliot looked back over the side of the bridge, to the icy river below. I came over and took his hand, and he swallowed hard. When he turned back to me, his face was glassy with sorrow, his jaw set in a hard line.