Revived (Revved Series Book 2) (34 page)

And if I wasn’t sure before about retiring, then I am now. I’m making this my last season, and after this year, I am never leaving India’s side again.

MY WEEKEND OFFICIALLY SUCKED MONKEY BALLS
, aside from Leandro winning the Prix in Belgium. I was worried he wouldn’t, with the stress of everything, but that’s been the only good thing to happen this weekend.

I spent all of Saturday morning canceling my Monday appointments while Sophie canceled my Tuesday appointments. I thought it best to give myself a good window to get the office back in shape.

Kit and Jett came to the office with me. Sophie met us there, and we all spent the rest of the Saturday sorting the office back up, putting it into some semblance of normality. We got to catch parts of Leandro’s qualifying race on Jett’s iPad, which he’d brought with him. That was good, as I’d have hated to completely miss it.

The office was dirty, covered in powder from the fingerprint guy. Honestly, it just felt unclean and violated. I wanted it scrubbed back to clean. So, I came back on Sunday and scrubbed the place until it was gleaming.

Afterward, I went to the local PC World and bought new iMacs for Sophie and for myself.

When I got home, I saw the pictures of Leandro and that woman in the news. Kit had gotten the local paper, and it was on the front page, the picture of him and her. At the bottom was a small picture of him and me that was taken in Hungary.

Of course, the press knows Leandro and I are together. They know my name, what I do for a living, and that I have a son, but they don’t know anything more than that.

But this kind of story, claiming he’s cheating on his girlfriend, is the kind of fodder the press lap up.

If I hadn’t expected the picture, then I would have been devastated. The picture really does look convincing. I felt sick looking at it. I didn’t even bother reading the story beneath the headline.

I trust Leandro, and I just hate that he’s being exploited in this way.

The press was going for maximum impact, releasing the story on the morning of the Prix.

Leandro called me right before his race. I didn’t say anything about the story or picture to him. I was assuming his team and manager would keep the story away from him until the race was over, so not to affect his concentration. I was right because he didn’t mention it to me on the phone.

I was glad they hadn’t because he won, and I know he might not have, had he seen that story first. It would have knocked his concentration.

He called not long after his race, and he was happy but pissed off, too. As soon as he’d finished the race, he was told about the story circulating, so he wouldn’t be blindsided when he spoke to the press about his win.

And my phone hasn’t stopped ringing since. Journalists want a quote from me. I gave them no comment by hanging up on them, and then I started ignoring all calls from numbers I didn’t know.

Now, it’s Monday morning, and Leandro will be home tonight. I can’t wait. He just had some commitments he had to do this morning, some press interviews, and then he’s flying home.

It feels like he’s been away forever. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to get used to him being away so much. It’s a thousand times harder than I thought it would be.

My phone starts vibrating on the kitchen table with an unknown number. Sighing, I ignore it and get up from the table, pouring myself another coffee. As I sit back down, it starts vibrating again. I cancel the call and continue reading through some patient notes that I had managed to salvage from the mess in my office.

My phone starts vibrating again. Same number.

I cancel it again.

It rings back immediately.

Cancel.

Rings again.

It’s almost becoming a game.

Getting angry with the incessant caller, annoyance takes over, and I answer the call, “Stop calling me. I’m not giving you a bloody quote, so just piss off, will you?”

I hear a deep chuckle come down the line. A chuckle followed by a voice…a voice that I recognize immediately.

“Still a firecracker I see.”

A shudder runs down my spine. “P-Paul.”

“It’s been a long time, India. I’ve missed you.”

I feel myself retreating back to the girl I used to be.

“W-why are you calling me? I have a restraining order. You aren’t allowed to come near me.”

“I’m not near you, India. I’m a few hundred miles away. It never stated that I couldn’t call you.”

“It did. You are not allowed to contact me in any way. No calls. Emails. Nothing.”

He lets out another chuckle. “I must’ve overlooked that part.”

“I’m ending this call now. And don’t ever contact me again.”

“Your office was broken into a few days ago, right? Terrible. You can’t trust anyone nowadays.”

My blood freezes cold. “H-how do you know that?”

“Because I was the one who broke in—well, not me, of course. I can’t leave Manchester, thanks to that dastardly electronic tag. I had a friend help me out.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Call them and tell them what? That you’re in a relationship with a former patient.”

I gasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Leandro Silva. He was your patient, and now, you’re fucking him. Trust me, I of all people know that’s not right, India. And Silva? You’ve really gone up in the world.” He lets out a slow whistle.

“You have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do. I have your laptop. It’s all here, all the gory details on Silva’s pathetic PTSD, your treatment for him. Funny though, I must have missed the part where it said part of your treatment was to fuck him better.”

My whole body is cold. “You’re despicable.”

He laughs. “I saw pictures of you with him in the paper. God, India you look even more beautiful now than did thirteen years ago. But I did wonder how you’d managed to meet someone like Leandro Silva. I mean, it’s not like you spin in the same circles. I wanted to know more about you. So, I had your place broken into. It was just my good luck that Silva was there on your laptop. All his pathetic story written in black and white for me to read. Because if I hadn’t gotten anything from your office, then I was going to have your house done over properly until I found something, but I didn’t really want to upset my son with a break-in like that.”

“He’s not your son!” I yell down the phone.

“He’s mine, India, and don’t you fucking forget it. My blood runs through his veins.”

“Your blood might, but he’s not yours, and he never will be.”

He lets out a maddening laugh. “You’ve done well for yourself. I want to know all about you and Jett.”

“How do you know his name?” I whisper. I never told him. I kept Jett far away from him.

“Come on, India. It wasn’t hard to find out. He’s into football and Formula One, right? Guess it helps that you’re fucking a Formula One driver.”

“Screw you,” I bite.

He laughs again. “And you kept my book, the one I gave you. That really touched me, India.”

I freeze still, my breath catching.

“Do you remember when I gave it to you? It was right after we’d made love for the first time at my place. We were lying in front of the fire, wrapped up in that blanket you loved. I wanted to give you something of mine that I treasured because you’d just given me something important.”

“You mean, my virginity? The one you took when I was fifteen years old! I don’t need a trip down memory fucking lane, Paul. How do you know about the book?”

“My friend found it in your little box of memories while he was snooping around your house. I told him to leave it on your bed. A little reminder of me. I really don’t like being in a box, India. I’ve spent the last thirteen fucking years in a box!” He yells, losing his cool.

His anger has me recoiling away from the phone. I hear him blow out a breath.

“My time in prison…it was your fault, India. You owe me.”

“I owe you nothing. You went to prison because you like to manipulate and groom vulnerable young girls into having sex with you.”

“You were never vulnerable, and I sure as hell never groomed you. You were up for it. Couldn’t get enough of me, if I remember rightly. Always begging me to have sex with you.”

“You make me sick.”

He gives a vile sounding laugh. “God, I have missed you, India.”

“I haven’t missed you. Honestly, I haven’t thought of you since the day you were sentenced in court and I watched with relief as the police led you away. Now, tell me what you want because clearly you want something.”

There’s a slight pause before he says, “I want money.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t have any, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“Your boyfriend is loaded. Net worth around a hundred and fifty million, according to Google. I’m sure he can spare the money. It’ll pocket change to him.”

Leandro is worth a hundred and fifty million?
Of course I knew he was rich, but I didn’t realize he was
that
rich. We never talk about his money because it’s not important. I don’t want Leandro’s money. I just want him.

“I am not asking him for money.”

“You should because, even though you do pretty well with your therapy business, I’m sure that you don’t have the kind of money I want, to spare, whereas your boyfriend does. If I don’t get my money, then I’m sending your files straight to the Health and Care Professions Council along with the pictures of you and Silva together and a nice little letter telling them how you’ve been screwing your patient. You’ll be up in front of the Council board faster than you can plead your innocence, and your practicing license will be snatched out of your pretty little hands. You know how the HCPC has zero tolerance for these kinds of things. You’ll never be able to practice again, India. You’ll be blacklisted. A therapist with no license. All those years of training and hard work, time away from our son, wasted. Then, I was thinking, just for the hell of it, I might leak the documents to the press. You know how they love a good scandal.”

“Why are you doing this?” My voice breaks, betraying me.

“Why?” He sounds enraged. “Because you stole my fucking life from me, and now, I want payback!”

My eyes blur with tears. “How do I even know you have these documents? You could be lying.”

“I’m not, and you know it. But if you don’t believe me, then you can always come here and see for yourself. I would come to you, but obviously, I don’t want to break my parole conditions.”

“I’m not coming there,” I state without hesitation. “You’ll have to send them to me. Email them. I’m sure you have my email address.”

He laughs dryly. “I do. I’ll send them over in a few minutes. But, India, when you see these and know I’m telling the truth, don’t for one minute think I’m bluffing. I will destroy your life the way you destroyed mine, if you don’t give me five hundred grand.”

“Five hundred thousand pounds,” I nearly choke.

“It’s a week’s wages to your boyfriend. I’m sure he won’t miss it. And the other condition is that when you have your proof I’m not lying and you have the money, you bring it here to me. I want to see you. And my son…I want to meet him.”