“Hey,” Debbie said, reading her look. “You dodged a bullet.”
“But it hurts.” Ginger swallowed a big lump. “Instead of feeling relieved, I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.”
“Aw, sweetie.” Debbie hugged her. “It hurts now, but it won’t hurt forever. Just give it some time. There are billions of men out there. Surely there’s one for you.”
“Yeah…you’re right.” But Ginger couldn’t help but think that the only man for her was Shane.
* * *
Source confirmed. Shane Pryce.
Shane Pryce is the one who made the photos? Is that what you’re saying?
Mailed. Don’t know who took the photos.
Do you know which Shane Pryce? There are a lot of people with that name.
Don’t know his full name, but the two middle initials are L. A.
Shane stared at the texts. Whoever had sent them to Ginger was unidentifiable. Probably a burner phone, the report had read.
It had been four days since Ginger kicked him out of her apartment, and the number of questions swirling around in his head was staggering. He didn’t understand what had been meant by “made” the photos. That was an odd way of putting it, and just added to the mystery of why she was so worried about them, and why she’d reacted the way she had three nights ago.
The hollow in his heart grew worse. An attempt at meditation—he’d remembered it was Iain’s favorite way to relax and re-center himself—hadn’t helped. Instead, it had only accentuated how empty he was inside.
If he could just reach that sanctuary… He closed his eyes. He knew it was out there somewhere, but his memory still had too many holes. He threw a book at the wall. “Damn it!”
He found his keys in the bottom drawer in his office. The housekeeper had kept his place immaculate, always dusting and vacuuming, wiping things down and putting them away. He’d looked through the photos in the albums, wondering if they contained clues. None of them were bad enough to cause that kind of reaction from Ginger.
There was one place he hadn’t looked yet. Given the rather pricey lock on the door, maybe that was where he’d stored expensive cameras and other equipment. Still, he should check.
The lock clicked, and the door opened silently. Thick curtains were drawn tightly across the windows, and the room was pitch black. He flipped the switch on.
Lights illuminated photos. Lots and lots of them that had been carefully processed and hung. Most were frameless, mounted on stiff canvas, letting the pictures stand on their own.
He traveled slowly along the walls, studying the pictures. Had he taken them all? Was she upset about one of the ones in the room?
Most of them featured Ginger. Her in the sunlight. Her in the shadows. Her gorgeous, bare back. The close up of the smooth lines of her shoulders and collarbones. The black and white shot of her smiling face with only her lips in a vivid bright rose tone. There was one with Ginger lying on a bed of diamonds, her arms crossed over her bare torso.
Every one of them showed her in various moods and states of dress—or undress. He stared at them, like he was seeing Ginger for the first time ever. This was what she’d been to him—his light, the meaning of his life.
His breath rushed out, his knees weakening like pillars of wet sand. What the hell was he doing, trying to figure everything out before approaching her again? That wasn’t fixing the problem; it was avoiding the problem because he knew he’d had something to do with her breakdown the other night. Otherwise she wouldn’t have asked him to get out.
He grabbed his car keys. It was one o’clock in the morning, but he didn’t give a damn. He was going to see Ginger now.
Chapter Twenty
Shane pounded on Ginger’s door. He’d considered calling, but he didn’t want to give her time to get her defenses up. No more walls, he thought. He was going to talk to her and they were going to get everything sorted out that night.
Finally the door opened, and a petite Asian woman glared up at him. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her arms were crossed and her jaw jutted out, but the tough routine was ruined by her yellow Winnie the Pooh pajamas. “Do you know what time it is?”
“As a matter of fa—”
“That’s right, it’s after one. Ginger just fell asleep, so I say you get the hell out of here before I call the cops for harassment and public disturbance. And I’m sure they’ll think of some other charges to tack on if I ask nicely.”
He squinted. “Are you
Debbie?”