Solving my career crisis seemed like the place to start. Antoine’s sister, Renée, had been in contact and had given me these two weeks to mull over her offer before she offered it to someone else. Antoine had e-mailed me a few times over the last fourteen days, each e-mail pontificating on the delights and benefits of living in Paris. I had to admit for the last week I’d made it all up my mind that if I could get Caine to confide in me, then I’d stay in Boston. That would have meant looking around the city for a new job anyway, because there was no way I was continuing on as his PA if we were going to be in a serious relationship.

Now, however, I found myself considering Renée’s offer.

Before I even thought about Paris, though, I had to deal with my father. There were too many unresolved issues there. I could not get it out of my head that I would even contemplate that he would hurt me. Yet the thought that the person behind my attack might be him had flittered through my mind, however briefly. Of course upon reflection I was a little horrified with myself for even thinking it. In fact, it more than horrified me—it startled me into realizing that I was never going to get a fresh start anywhere until I found some kind of closure with my father. I had to talk to him, and hoped to God when I did he could make me understand his actions better. If he could, then I might be able to forgive my mother for choosing him over me. After all, the hurt my mother’s choices had inflicted on me were at the core of my issues. How could I let go and move on in Paris if I didn’t come to terms with that hurt, that rejection? I wouldn’t. I’d just take it with me.

“You’re quiet. Are you in pain?” Caine asked as we settled into the car.

“It’s a little tender but I’m okay. I really wish you’d let me go back to my own apartment, though.”

He sighed. “Not until your attacker is found.”

“And if we don’t find him?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“I’m warning you it’ll be a wooden rope bridge riddled with dry rot with a big sign that says ‘Cross at your own risk.’ ”

Caine didn’t say anything. I looked at him. He was staring out of his passenger window, wearing the ghost of an amused smile.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “You’re going to miss my smart ass.” But I knew his answer—or more likely nonanswer—would sting worse than the staples I’d just had removed.

We traveled back to Caine’s apartment in silence. Arnie and Sly walked us up to his apartment and left once I was safely ensconced inside. I was sick of the security. The lack of any leads on my attacker made me suspect I’d been stabbed by some random psycho on the street. The security and lock-down in the apartment felt like overkill.

“I have to get back to work, but Effie will be over soon,” Caine said.

“Effie doesn’t need to be here anymore.” I kicked off my shoes, holding a hand up to stop Caine coming toward me to help. “I can get around on my own now. I’m sure she has better things to do than help you keep me prisoner.”

“It’s just for a little while longer, Lexie.”

“How would you feel?” I scowled, leaning against the wall for support. “Wouldn’t this be killing you?”

Instead of answering—not that he needed to, because I knew it would be killing him—Caine reminded me to call if I needed him and then he was gone.

I didn’t call him, because I was determined to never need the handsome son of a bitch ever again.

Perhaps in my frustration I moved around the apartment that night more than I should have. Now that I was resolute in my decision to go see my father before accepting Renée’s offer, I wanted to do it as soon as I could. The choice was made and I wanted to start living by it, for many reasons, including the fact that it distracted me from thinking about leaving Caine behind for good. Anytime I let myself dwell on the idea of not getting to see him every day, dread and utter desolation crept over me.

Anything was better than that feeling.

To not feel it I’d spent the rest of the day and early evening planning. I’d e-mailed Renée instead of calling—the six-hour time difference meant it was late in Paris. I had my fingers crossed I’d hear something back from her in the morning. From there I’d gone online and started apartment-hunting. Feeling out of my depth, I’d e-mailed Antoine for help and received an enthusiastic response saying he’d start making inquiries for me in the morning.

I’d then done a lot of pacing before heading up to bed early to avoid Caine.

The pacing and the jitteriness were the culprits behind why I’d woken up in the middle of the night in pain. Groaning at my own stupidity, I got up and headed slowly and quietly downstairs, where I’d left my Percocet. I reached the kitchen counter, where I was sure I’d put the pills. No luck.

To my annoyance I spent the next five minutes opening cupboards and drawers, aggravating the pain in my stomach. No luck. I glowered in exasperation around the low-lit room, trying to think where the hell I had put the pills. My eyes alighted on the side table near the dining area. I never used it because it matched the dining table exactly and looked more like a piece of art than a usable piece of furniture, but I wondered if perhaps Effie had put my pills away when she dropped by after Caine left. As soon as she’d appeared I’d told her in frustration that I appreciated her taking so much time for me, but I didn’t need a babysitter any longer. Apparently she agreed, because after she made me coffee and pottered around a little she left.