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“Mr. West, we could do so much with your donation. There are so many women fighting this disease—”
“It’s their fight. It’s no longer mine.”
Alarmed at the lack of emotion in his voice, Ivy fumbled to recapture her train of thought. “But, you see, your wife isn’t the only victim of this—”
His head shot up, and his voice dropped to an awfully threatening whisper. “Don’t you dare talk about her. Don’t you dare.”
Ivy’s heart stopped. Fear curled inside her stomach at his tone, the beginnings of life in his eyes. But what stirred to life wasn’t merry or even welcome. It was anger. A whole shitload of it.
She tried to keep her voice soft, but she was utterly confused when she felt the same urge she’d felt ten years ago when she’d seen him in the hospital. She wanted to … she didn’t even know, but she curled her fingers into her palms. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. West.”
“You have no idea what I lost.”
There was something both pained and sexual in the way he looked at her, the way he pinned her down on the spot with that colorless gray gaze, like a predator pinned its prey, or its mate, so he could fuck her. Her body responded to the unspoken need in his eyes, and she found that she could barely get any words past her dry throat. “People lose their loved ones every day to this disease. You could save lives with whatever you could give. Any donation is most welcome.”
The mask of impassiveness had completely fallen off his face, and the look he now gave her was utterly savage. Anger and pain twisted his expression until Ivy’s insides hurt just witnessing his torment. “It’s bullshit,” he said, his lips curling into a sneer. “Everything. It doesn’t work. Chemo, operations, radiation, prayers. When your number comes up you better just hold on tight and pray it takes you fast. Save yourself a lot of fucking misery. Now there’s the damned door—and I’d take it as a personal favor if you walked your ass right through it.”
Ivy stiffened in her seat.
If the man had just physically assaulted her, she wouldn’t have felt more personally affronted than she felt this very second by his callous words. She didn’t even know how to respond to him. Never in her life had she met someone so lacking in mercy before—especially when talking about cancer.
Ivy clenched her teeth and stared unseeingly down at her lap, unable to look at him. His words had ripped something open inside her and she was sure that any second now, her anger would turn into something far, far less manageable.
Her mother’s smiling face flickered before her. Her friends’ hopeful faces, and their shattered ones when they found out they had it. She thought of all the people she’d tried to help, and how she would never, ever, repeat this man’s words to any of them.
“Some of us are actually happy to be alive, Mr. West,” she said in outraged breathlessness, her chest rising and falling with every shallow, furious breath.
And when he remained glaring at her like he loathed her with his entire being, Ivy stood on stiff legs, spun around, and flipped him the finger as she walked away, not caring how much he was hurting anymore, how many millions and billions he had, not caring about anything except getting the hell out of there.
Away from his death wish—before it started sounding good to her, too.
* * *
Cade scowled after her, fuming so hard he almost felt steam coming out of his ears. He glared at the door with such violence he almost expected to burn two holes through the wood.
His fists trembling with the urge to hit something, he grabbed the receiver on his desk and punched in an extension, snapping threateningly to his assistant, “Bring back that woman you foolishly allowed in here—and be grateful you still have a job after today, Mrs. Shears!”
He hung up before she could even offer an explanation. The woman had been with him for too long and liked to think she knew better than him. Hadn’t he clearly stipulated to never, ever give an appointment to anyone from a money-sucking charity?
Pacing behind his desk, he glared out the window to the view of the Windy City, shaking inside.
He was a dog.
He was not only a dog, but he acted like a dog aching to be put to death: rabid all the time, verbally pissing on anything he felt like. He was especially pissy on every twelfth day of the month, because on that day, Laura had died of cancer. Now the cancer was in Cade’s soul.
He’d had millions at the time. And nothing could save her. Nothing.
He’d known she was sick when they married. They didn’t even consummate their vows. She’d been his childhood sweetheart, and when she got diagnosed he’d married her, even before he finished grad school. Their marriage hadn’t lasted two months.
Today was July twelfth. Ten years, four months since her death. So when the chirpy woman who’d rapped efficiently on his door a couple of minutes ago had greeted him with a wide smile and an outstretched hand as she came forward, he just damned well hadn’t felt like taking it.
Who in the hell did she think she was?
“I’m so glad you reconsidered, Mr. West. I really won’t take much of your time,” he heard her say.
He took his time turning to get a good look at her.
Ahh, so she was angry; he could see that now. The lines of her face were tight. Even then, the woman was so blazing with life, it was like staring at a little sun up close. The heat started to burn him up once more, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and he felt himself go red with anger. Anger, and something he didn’t even want to think of right now.
