There'd been a baby.
He rubbed his forehead. He should have known there was a baby. He should have f**king guessed. It made sense, now. Why his carefree, stubborn, independent Violet had gone from enjoying the summer to demanding that he abandon college with her and start a family right away. He'd been so goddamn dumb. So wrapped up in assisting Dr. DeWitt that he'd never even considered the reasons behind why Violet had been so upset and gung ho to leave Greece and return to the States.
She'd been pregnant. And she'd wanted it . . . and wanted him.
And he'd abandoned her. Hadn't even f**king chased her down to tell her that he wanted her. He'd thought she was married and out of his reach, but that had been a lie, a lie told to him by Violet's father.
Today, he'd lost everything.
He'd always thought of Dr. DeWitt as a mentor and a father figure. He knew the old man was a wily bastard, but he'd always admired his tenacity to get what he wanted. He'd trusted the man despite that, thinking that because Jonathan was one of his closest friends, there was a level of respect between them.
Turns out it was all bullshit. DeWitt had lied to him about Violet just to get him to stay and continue financing things, and he'd happily done so.
Meanwhile, he'd abandoned the woman he loved, who had been pregnant and afraid.
And she'd lost their baby and blamed him for it.
He threw back another glass of Scotch, then just grabbed the bottle from the bartender and started to drink.
Violet hated him. He'd been so f**king overjoyed to find out that she wasn't married, that she'd never been married, because it meant that somewhere, somehow, he could still make Violet his.
Now, that dream was gone. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't make her love him again, not with the shadow of a miscarriage-a miscarriage that was his fault-between them.
He'd lost her for good, and this time there was nothing he could do to fix it.
Jonathan chugged the Scotch. It tasted like shit, but what did it matter?
Nothing did. Nothing mattered anymore.
The Next Day
Violet flicked off the TV in her hotel room and glanced over at the phone. She debated for a minute, then called down to the front desk. "Hello. I'm looking for Mr. Lyons. Could you patch me through to his room?"
The operator connected her. The phone rang for several minutes, just as it had last night. No one picked up. He wasn't answering.
She was starting to get concerned. Not that Jonathan was pouting and ignoring her-she didn't care about that-but that he wasn't contacting her at all. She felt emotionally drained after her big confession, like a hollow shell of Violet DeWitt. She wasn't even angry anymore, just tired. So tired. More than anything, she just wanted to be done with him and go back to her nice, quiet life.
Weren't they supposed to be doing this stupid scavenger hunt together? Just sitting in a room in New Mexico felt like a huge waste of time, but what could she do? She was pretty sure that if she just up and went back home to Detroit, he'd withhold the money he'd dangled in front of the school and state that she'd reneged on her end of the deal. What would the school do if she cost them the money? They wouldn't be happy, that was for sure, especially the next time that budget cuts came around.
But seriously, exactly how long was she supposed to stay in her room and watch episodes of House Hunters while waiting on him?
She clicked off the remote a moment later and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Fine. If he wasn't going to answer her phone calls, maybe he'd answer when she showed up at his door and explain to her what the hell was going on. Violet slipped on a pair of shoes and tossed a sweater over her T-shirt, then headed down to the lobby.
She approached the front desk and gave the woman there a polite smile. "Could you please tell me which room is Mr. Lyons's? I'm working with him on a project and can't seem to connect with him at the moment."
The girl at the front desk bit her lip.
"What?" Violet asked.
"I can tell you what room is his," she said quietly, "but he's not in it."
Alarm pounded in Violet's veins. "Where is he, then?"
"The bar."
The bar? That didn't sound like Jonathan. He wasn't much of a drinker except in social situations. That was one of the reasons she'd fallen for him originally; he was a refreshing change from her alcoholic mother. Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten in the morning. What on earth? "You're sure?"
The girl nodded. "He's been there since I started my shift late last night."
All day? Frowning, Violet thanked her and headed over to the hotel bar. The bar area was dark and atmospheric despite the early hour . . . and deserted. Chairs were flipped over on tables, and someone ran a vacuum over the carpets. Violet scanned the room and paused when she saw a booth in the far back still covered in half-drunk bottles. There was a pile of laundry on one corner of the table.