Page 21 of Wicked Fortune

But the tabloids knew nothing about any of that. They saw his life, his women, his power, and they praised him as a genius. A brilliant strategist. A player who rained pleasure upon a woman’s body while toying with her heart.

All true. And at the same time not true at all. How could it be when those reporters and gossips knew nothing about his past. Nothing about the ragged hole that marred his soul. Hell, as far as the Hollywood gossip mill knew, he was like a male Minerva, brought forth fully embodied from the sea in a giant clamshell with Hardline Entertainment borne on his shoulders.

God, he was being maudlin.

And why not?

Somebody was fucking with him.

The rage that had been on a low simmer ever since he’d realized that inescapable truth began to boil. He’d worked too hard to lose everything, but with the girl’s death, that was a very real possibility.

No.

No, no, and hell fucking no.

He’d built an entire world for himself. He wasn’t about to lose it now.

He drew in a calming breath and shifted his gaze, so that now he focused on the window, not the vista beyond. He met his reflection and silently confessed that he was no stranger to sin.

Sin and danger and pain. He knew the price for success. The body count as he’d climbed on the backs of the conquered. The corporate world was like the damn Roman Empire. Thankfully with suits instead of togas.

True, he’d made it out of the gladiator pit, but he still had to play the game. Had to fight for everything he had and cut down anyone who stood in his way. Over the years, he’d become expert at clearing a path.

Still, no matter how high he flew, those years of secret sin haunted him, and Friday night at Masque had reminded him that more and more often he felt the tug of his ghosts reaching out from their dark hiding places to grab him by the throat.

Every day, he told himself that he’d buried the mistakes of both youth and hubris. Shoved them so far down into his soul that they—and she—would never rise again.

He should have known better.

He wasn’t a believer—not really. But his mother had been. Too bad her belief hadn’t saved her, and the fact that her god had called her home before he was six years old had taught him the only thing he could truly believe in was himself.

Certainly not his father. Wasn’t he still paying for Vincent Larouche’s sins along with his own?

He closed his eyes, her image coming unbidden into his mind. The woman he should never have fallen for, much less ever met. He thought he’d gotten rid of her. Had finally, painfully, done away with the last remnant of her, then buried the guilt along with the memories.

He had, dammit. He had.

The only mistake he’d made was not anticipating her ghost.

“Goddammit.” Without any conscious intention, he turned to face the mirror and the vain and sentimental man staring back at him. Two long strides and he had the crystal glass in hand. He turned it sideways, letting the toothbrush fall to the floor. Then he took three steps away from the mirror and hauled his arm back even as his mind screamed for him to stop. Well, fuck that.

He threw it forward with all the strength he had. It rocketed toward his reflection, then shattered the mirror, destroying his visage and sending shards of glass spilling into the sink, onto the floor, everywhere.

But he remained unscathed.

He stifled a mirthless chuckle.

Once again, he’d dodged a bullet he didn’t deserve to dodge.

The pounding at the restroom door came within seconds. “Matthew! Dammit, Matthew, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Lila,” he called. “Everything’s fine.”

The doorknob rattled. “Open the door.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to tell her to go the fuck away. He glanced at his watch. Not even six a.m. “What the hell are you doing here so early?”

“Catching up.” He heard the metallic scrape of a key going into the lock. He bit back a curse, then opened the door before she could.