Sugar Daddy(208)

"Do you have anyone coming to help you?"

"Help me with what?" He closed his eyes. "I don't need anything. I can ride this out alone."

"Ride it out alone." I repeated, gently mocking. "Tell me, cowboy, when was the last time you ate anything?"

No reply. He remained still, the crescents of his lashes heavy against his pale cheeks. Either he had passed out or he was hoping I was a bad dream that would disappear if he kept his eyes closed.

I went to the kitchen and opened the cabinets methodically, finding expensive liquor, modern glassware, black plates shaped like squares instead of circles. Locating the food cabinet, I discovered a box of Wheaties of indeterminate age, a can of lobster consomme, a few jars of exotic spices. The contents of the refrigerator were just as pitiful. A bottle of orange juice, nearly empty. A white baker's box containing two dried-up kolaches. A pint of half-and-half, and a lone brown egg in a foam carton.

"Nothing fit to eat," I said. "I passed a corner grocery store a few streets away. I'll run out and get you—"

"No, I'm fine. I can't eat anything. I..." He managed to raise his head. It was clear he was trying desperately to find the magic combination of words that would make me leave. "I appreciate it, Liberty, but I just..."—his head dropped back down—"need to sleep."

"Okay." I reached for my purse and hesitated, giving a wistful thought to Angie and my friends and the chick flick we had planned to see. But Gage looked so damn helpless, his big body folded on that hard sofa, his hair messed up like a little boy's. How did the heir to an enormous fortune, a successful businessman in his own right, not to mention a highly eligible bachelor, end up sick and alone in his five-million-dollar condo? I knew he had a thousand friends. Not to mention a girlfriend.

"Where's Dawnelle?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Cosmo shoot next week," he muttered. "Doesn't want to catch this stuff."

"I don't blame her. Whatever you've got doesn't look very fun."

A shadow of a smile crossed his dry lips. "Trust me. It's not."

The brief hint of a smile seemed to wedge into some unseen fissure of my heart and widen it. Suddenly my chest felt tight and very warm.

"You need to eat something," I said decisively, "even if it's just a piece of toast. Before rigor mortis sets in." I held up my finger like a stern schoolteacher as he began to say something. "I'll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes."

His mouth turned sullen. "I'm locking the door."

"I've got a key, remember? You can't keep me out." I slung my purse over my shoulder with a nonchalance that I knew would annoy him. "And while I'm gone—I'm trying to put this diplomatically, Gage—it might not be a bad thing if you took a shower."



CHAPTER 18



I called Angie in my car and apologized for bailing on her. "I was really looking forward to this," I said. "But Churchill's son is sick, and I need to run a few errands for him."

"Which son?"

"The oldest one. Gage. He's an asshole, but he's got the worst case of flu I've ever seen. And he's Churchill's favorite. So I've got no choice. I'm so sorry. I—"

"Way to go, Liberty!"

"Huh?"

"You're thinking like a sugar baby."

"I am?"

"Now you've got a Plan B in case your main sugar daddy dumps you. But be careful.. .you don't want to lose Daddy while you're reeling in the son."

"I'm not reeling anyone in." I protested. "This is simple compassion for a fellow human being. Believe me, he's not a Plan B."

"Sure he's not. Call me, sweetie, and let me know what happens."

"Nothing's going to happen," I said. "We can't stand each other."

"You lucky girl. That's the best kind of sex."

"He's half dead. Angie."

"Call me later," she repeated, and hung up.

In about forty-five minutes I returned to the condo with two bags of groceries. Gage was nowhere in sight. As I followed a trail of wadded-up tissues toward the bedroom. I heard the sounds of a shower running, and I grinned as I realized he had taken my suggestion. I went back to the kitchen, picking up tissues along the way, and deposited them in a garbage disposal that looked as if it had never been used. That was about to change. I took the groceries out of the bags, put about half of them away, and rinsed a three-pound chicken in the sink before setting it in a pot to boil.

Finding a cable news channel on TV, I turned up the volume so I could hear while I was cooking. I was making chicken and dumplings, the best cure I knew of. My version was pretty good, although nothing came close to Miss Marva's.