Unconscious Hearts Read online

  "It's not that huge," I grumble, my heart racing as we stop at the gate. The security guard struts out of his little house at the development's entrance to talk to "just Thorn." When both of their heads turn toward me, I wave like an idiot, all the while trying to keep my salad from lunch hours ago from coming back up. "And my car is already paid off, and Matt can take you to Europe."

  The Orchard.

  I hate it here.

  In fact, I hate it so much, I haven't been back once since I moved out of this hellhole almost seven years ago.

  The bike revs a few times as the gate opens, then "just Thorn" starts moving forward. The security guard just flicks his wrist at me to indicate I should follow. I keep my eyes on the back of "just Thorn's" bike--his butt really, that is. Well, what I can see of it. I refuse to look around as I drive, just in case someone who knows me sees me driving by. And let's face it, you can tell it's a really nice butt even while he's sitting on his bike. My only hope is that, if I'm noticed, they would be more shocked that I'm here than the fact I'm clearly following a man through my old streets. At least if I'm noticed, I won't have to face anyone.

  "You know, for what it's worth, I don't think he's going to kill you after he gets you to his house." I jump when Piper's voice echoes through my speakers. I had been so far in my head, I forgot she was on the phone.

  "Very funny, Pipe."

  "I can drive out there if you're still worried. I have the picture of his license on my phone. I wrote down all the information on your desk and texted it to us both. That way, if you go missing, I know where to tell the police to start looking."

  I sigh. "I'm not worried. You know how I get around attractive men."

  "He's just a man, Ari. It's not like you don't have male friends."

  "I have a few gay male friends, Pipe, but they're more like acquaintances, and you know it. Big difference. Seeing as I don't have the right equipment to attract them, there's no pressure. You know, even knowing that, I still don't have the easiest time talking to them."

  "So? Just think of Thorn Evans as a gay acquaintance who doesn't want your equipment."

  "Even his name is sexy, Pipe. Let's just say, by some small feat, I was able to convince myself he was gay and not into me, it would still be impossible not to want him. My mind would scream 'make him switch teams.' You saw him. He practically has 'I can make you forget everything you ever knew and love it' seeping from his skin. A man that lethal can do a lot of damage. God, what am I doing? I haven't felt like this in ... well, probably about the same amount of time since I've been to The freaking Orchard."

  "Don't let him ruin what could potentially be a great one-night stand, Ari." Piper's scolding voice is harsh, but the memory of the "him" she's referring to is what makes my stomach roil.

  "You just had to bring him up, didn't you?" I turn, following the bike in front of me slowly, thankful we're not turning on the street where I had lived years before.

  "Technically, you brought him up first. It's been too long for you to keep letting them take from you, and you know it. Hike that skirt up and, for once, take the bull by his horns and enjoy the ride." She's quiet, but before I can speak, she continues. "Honey, it's been almost seven years. They might still try to mess with you, but even that's slowing down. I think it would be a good thing for you to start trying to find a way to move on, so you can get on with your life and start working toward a future that doesn't include a house full of cats."

  "Easier said than done," I mumble, turning to loop up a circular drive, more thankful than ever that I stopped telling Piper about the calls years ago. "I gotta go, Pipe. We're here."

  "Hike it up, girlfriend!" she screams through the line. Disconnecting quickly, she leaves silence to fill the space around me.

  I open my door, pushing down the nerves, and climb out. My heels clip against the driveway as I walk over to where Thorn is standing at the entrance of the large--very large--modern gray home. The glow of Vegas behind it and the shadow of the mountains to the side leave the golden light shining warmly through the many windows on the house behind him.

  He doesn't speak when I stop next to him, just turns and unlocks the door with a quick succession of numbers keyed into the lock. Not expecting instructions since it's clear I'm here to follow him, I do just that. Stopping a few feet into the foyer, I wait for him to disarm his alarm, taking the time to look around what I can see of his house. Whoever decorated this place clearly had one thing on their mind--white and glass with the occasional accent of crystals and gold statues. One thing's for sure, there isn't a thing about what I can see that looks like Thorn Evans belongs here.

  "Not what you expected?" he guesses, and I tip my head up--way up--to study him. I knew he was tall, but jeez, he's at least six-foot-four, if not taller. And every inch of that looks like rock-hard muscles.

  "You could say that."

  "If I gave a shit about the place, I would say take your shoes off, but I don't, so fuck it up all you want."

  I gasp, looking down and lifting each foot to make sure I wasn't tracking anything on the white stone. Of course, the second I realize he was actually being literal, my face is already turning a million shades of red. Get yourself together!

  "That's an odd thing to say about a home that obviously was put together with a hand that cared."

  "Takes a lot more than what used to fill this house to make it a home."

  "Well, still ..." I lamely add, feeling even more foolish for resorting to the actions of a little girl and not the woman I am.

  "Also, wasn't my hand."

  "So not the point I was trying to make."

  He turns his head slightly away from me, but I don't miss the small smirk playing on his full lips. I'm glad I was watching him closely too; otherwise, I would have missed it. There one second, gone the next.

  "Shit's this way," he rumbles, walking down the hallway to our left.

  What a confusing man.

  I follow behind, watching more of his backend and the way it moves when he walks than the home around me. I'm forced to take my eyes away when we reach a staircase. Not wanting to fall to my demise, I climb with a hand on the iron rail, my shoes the only noise around us as the heels hit each step. Keeping my eyes down, I take each step slowly as my heart picks a different direction, it seems, and speeds up as we go. My feet afraid of the leftover pain from the cruel twists of fate in my past ... my heart forgetting every second of that, ready for a new adventure.

  "I've got calls to make, but take as much time as you need, and trust me, you're goin' to need it." He presses his thumb on a scanner against the wall next to the door, and the door--with no knob, I might add--slides open instantly.

  Lights start popping on around the vast room, each placed over the display shelves lining the walls and even some placed over the island in the middle. My mouth drops, and I walk forward without hesitation, my palms itching to touch what is so perfectly displayed around me. My purse starts to fall from my shoulders and almost crashes to the floor. I catch it, just, but before I can hike it back up my arm, it's lifted from my hold. I look down at the large hand curled around the handles before following the arm attached to it up to Thorn's face. He tilts his head, and I follow his direction to a small table just inside the doorway, clearly meant to be the resting place of whatever purse was lucky enough to be the chosen one of use for the owner. He moves silently over to it, placing my bag down with a soft thud. Really, though, him taking care of my purse shouldn't be something that makes my body tingle. But it does because big, huge, manly Thorn Evans looks ridiculously good holding a woman's bag with care when you would assume he is incapable of showing that for something like a purse.

  "Four doors down. You finish before I come back, that's where I'll be."

  Then he's gone, moving quicker than any man his size should be able to.

  And without the distraction of him, I can let myself enjoy heaven.

  Almost two hours later with fifty-two purses, fifteen backpa
cks, thirty clutches, two huge trunks, and ninety-six small leather goods, I literally am in heaven. Well, my version of it at least.

  I place my phone down next to the notepad I had been making notes in while taking inventory of the room's contents and doing a quick check of each item's authenticity. By the time I finish, it only felt like a second, but when I glanced at the total on the calculator app, I couldn't believe I had been here long enough to have a total of that kind of number. The sheer magnitude of what this kind of haul could do for Trend making me dizzy.

  Over four million dollars of value in this room alone. If not more.

  Four. Million. Dollars.

  If I offer him just the base that we tend to use for buyouts, I'll stand to profit over a million dollars alone. We do damn good at Trend on a normal day, but I would make what typically takes us months and months to earn in just a matter of weeks with this inventory. I wouldn't struggle to resell a single thing in here.

  Piper wasn't wrong. I could probably take us on a million European vacations for what we would pull in. A. Million.

  "Holy freaking cow," I breathe, taking in the room around me again.

  I have to brace myself against the center island I was working on, my arms holding my weight as I let my head drop on a roll to work the kinks out of my shoulders. My mind too busy spinning to do much else.

  It seems silly to get this worked up over stuff that is just, well, stuff. I know a large number of people see me, see Trend, and assume I'm some stuck-up snob, but that couldn't be further from the truth. For as long as I can remember, I loved everything that came with fashion. Learning the history of all the fashion houses was akin to a trip to the candy shop for most kids when I was growing up. It was a love and appreciation I shared with my mom, learning to respect the brands and hard work that goes behind their growth. I studied the history of each almost as much as I studied my schoolwork--which was something I enjoyed. Not one person was shocked when I became a licensed appraiser before I graduated med school. Most people see purses, flashy outfits, and unnecessary gems ... I just see art. When I lost my mom--and everything else that followed--the joy these "things" brought to my life pulled me out of a really dark place.

  Thorn has no idea, but by just bringing me here--on this weekend, of all weekends--he gave me the closest thing I could ever get to a phone call from my mother.

  "Done?"

  I jump when Thorn's deep voice breaks the silence around me as if my thoughts conjured him up.

  Pushing all my heavy thoughts aside, I look back around the room before addressing him. "This is quite the collection you have here, you know. I'm shocked you're willing to part with it all. It certainly was a collection built with pride for luxury." I lift my head and look over my shoulder at the imposing man standing at the mouth of the room.

  "It belonged to my grandmother. Cared more about this shit than anything else. Trust me, ain't a thing in this room I give a shit about, much less feel pride over when I have to look at it."

  His words shock me. Not because of how much conviction I hear in them, but because that's the most he's actually said to me in one go since walking into Trend earlier. Knowing when to leave well enough alone, I turn and grab my notepad in one hand and my phone in the other. Using that time to take a few deep breaths, I pray they will give me a level of professionalism toward this man.

  "I hate to ask this, and I mean no offense, but because of, well, all of this," I say, stumbling over my words and waving my arm in an arch to indicate the room as a whole. "Well, I need to see purchase receipts, as well as proof that you're the authorized owner to sell it."

  Without responding, he turns and walks away. What the heck am I supposed to do now? Do I follow or stay? Glancing around the room as if it holds all the answers, I sigh and start walking toward the door. When Thorn reappears, carrying a thick folio folder, I stop abruptly, causing my notepad and phone to slip from my hold and crash against the floor.

  Idiot.

  A thirty-two-year-old woman should not be a fumbling fool around a man just because he's attractive. As a businesswoman, I should be able to stand confidently around him and not act like I've never been around someone attractive. I should. Yet ... here I am.

  I scold myself as I bend down, but because my mind was too busy, I completely missed that Thorn was already on the move before it was too late. I cry out when our heads collide, sending me to the floor with a teeth rattling bump of my butt against the cool flooring.

  "Of course, I would fall at his feet," I mumble under my breath.

  "Babe, usually doesn't take me this long to get a woman to fall at my feet, so don't beat yourself up for taking your time."

  "Oh, my God," I all but wheeze when I realize he heard my mumbling. It takes me a second in the dress I have on, but I manage to climb back to my feet without humiliating myself further--or giving him a show. I make a mental note to buy some skirts and dresses that don't hug my curves so much.

  Not wanting to draw any more attention to my behavior, I press on. "Is that for me?" I ask, pointing toward the folio he's still holding. Of course, I realize after the fact that my brain is still working at a snail's pace because where his arm is slack at his side--placing the folio about hip level--it looks like I'm pointing at his crotch. "Kill me. Please kill me now."

  A rumble akin to thunder sounds from his chest and my cheeks heat while he enjoys himself at my expense.

  "Okay," I breathe, closing my eyes and counting to three before looking up at his handsome face. "Let's just start over." I switch my phone to my other hand, notepad pressed in my arm against my chest and stick out my hand. "I'm Ari Daniels. I'm not normally so ... clumsy. We can just blame it on this room and before that, the pictures that were just a promise of all this. I'll do my best to stop acting like a silly girl and get out of your hair as soon as I can."

  With mirth dancing in his magical eyes, one hand comes up, and the second he takes hold of mine, fingers wrapping tight, I know I've just broken my promise. I'm such a silly girl.

  "Thorn Evans, as you know, and babe, I'm thinking I like you here in my hair."

  With a jerk, I rip my hand from his hold and try my best to keep things on whatever is left of my professional standing.

  "Can you go back to short answers that don't really reveal much?" His lips twitch. "Right, never mind. Okay, Mr. Evans," I start, only to be interrupted.

  "I told you, Ari. It's just Thorn."

  "Sorry ... it's hard to break the habit," I blubber, liking the sound of my name way too much when it's coming from him and that deep rumble he calls a voice.

  He walks around me to the island and drops the folio down with a loud smack before opening it and starting to pull out paper after paper.

  "All the receipts are kept in the bottom drawer under each of the cases. You just press in on it, and it'll pop open. Took me forever to find that shit, so I didn't spend too much time fucking with what was inside. But from what little time I gave it, I figured out that all the receipts and proof of spending way too much on that shit was filed in order it's displayed. I haven't checked them all, but if you find something missing, it shouldn't be far. The bigger shit, in here." He spins around a receipt that looks fragile and old. My eyes go wide when I see it's an original receipt for one of the trunks I know is from the early 1900s. "Also, here's a copy of my grandmother's will, as well as her death certificate. You'll see on the fifteenth page that it lists these items specifically as part of her estate left to me." He stops talking, and I just stare at him, incapable of doing anything else. "What?" he asks me when I just keep blinking up at him after he's finished speaking and pushing papers in front of me.

  "I just didn't think you could say that much in one go."

  Again, those lips twitch, and I give myself a little shake before focusing on the documents in front of me. Thankfully, I finally seem to be able to shake off the way he makes me feel, and it doesn't take long for me to get ahold of myself. I start scanning each of the docu
ments he's laid out. When I finish, I look up and try to give him a sympathetic smile after reading the last--the death certificate. Even though his earlier comments made it clear he wasn't close with the woman who previously owned this collection, my manners wouldn't allow me not to express my sympathy for his loss.

  "Thank you for getting all of this. I'm sorry for your loss, Thorn. I understand some people wish to part with things after a loved one has passed, but I must ask if you're sure you want to include everything in the sale. It would hardly affect your buyout if you chose to keep a few things back. Perhaps to pass down eventually?"

  His eyes get hard for a beat before his features smooth back out. "Yeah, beyond sure. No one to pass this shit down to, and even if there was, I wouldn't be givin' someone ideas of materialistic bullshit if I did. More to life than all this shit."

  "Okay, well, in that case ..." I cough, not wanting to fight with him about our views when it comes to expensive wants versus needs. Last time I tried to argue the benefits of learning to care for and value something you work hard to buy, I had a black eye for almost two weeks. "In that case, I'm prepared to offer you a lump sum as a buyout for the whole collection, but I also want to mention, again, that consignment would be a more lucrative approach. Our buyout is just a standard percent of resale value, but consignment would allow us to mark up each to give you a larger profit."

  "Told you, babe, want it gone. I don't give a shit about making it more lucrative. Look around you, hardly hurting."

  "Still, it's my obligation to make sure you're informed."

  "Consider me informed."

  "Okay ... so I can offer a tentative amount of three million. I would need more time to inspect each item in depth for any defects that could affect the value and also to research a few pieces I feel may be limited editions so that could also affect the value. Meaning that amount could go up or down, but I wouldn't expect it to be less than two point five or more than four point seven-ish. I wouldn't need but maybe five days tops, and I can come during the day if that works better for your schedule."

  "You get this gone in two days, and I'll take one mil."