Black Hearted - An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Complete)

Black Hearted: Chapter 11

Sleep wouldn't come. Jack threw off his weighted blanket, glared at the city twinkling below his penthouse, cars still roaming the streets at 3 am and resigned himself to find some form of distraction.

Now he regretted not answering Draven's text to go down to the club tonight, pick up a piece of ass to work out with or better yet, have her work on him. His uncle taught him how anonymous sex could take one's mind off almost any situation. James Blackhorne instructed Jack on the ins and outs of Cloud Nine, LA's most exclusive gentleman's club, its private rooms, how to use his money to influence the owners to be attuned to his preferences and the best times to visit. On Jack's initial trip to the lounge, James hand selected the woman Jack lost his virginity too, and both men toasted the event with twenty-year-old scotch from the top shelf.

Open twenty-four hours, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year, he could call up a car and ease the tension coiled inside his chest within the hour in the arms of the girl of his choice. Jack jerked on a pair of Under Armor shorts, tied his worn black runners, and headed down the hall for a different kind of workout. Not bothering to turn on the light in his private gym, the floor to ceiling window illuminating the space enough to show the equipment, Jack punched in a five-mile run and let the pounding of his feet on the rotating belt do its work.

"One, two, three." To quiet his mind, Jack counted each step. Numbers came naturally to him, better than words or artistic endeavours. James said he inherited the trait from his father, the Blackhorne's math whizzes all the way back to his great grandfather, who won enough money in a contest back in England to ship his family to the land of opportunity, America. The planned world domination had taken a few generations, but Jack's father and James established the company that took the Blackhorne family from blue collar to gold watch.

He wouldn't miss the Rolex he'd handed over to the ambulance driver as he dropped off Luc and Abraham. He had a drawer full of timepieces and an email to his assistant would replace the watch easily. However, he quite enjoyed the glare of disgust mixed with awe on Abraham's face when Jack tossed the watch to the paramedic.

Abraham, who didn't hesitate to go inside the hospital and was doubtless with Solana right now. Those hulking arms snaked around her waist. The thought made Jack's shoulder blades tighten.

"Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety." He shouted the numbers into the empty room. "Ninety-one, Ninety-two."

His private investigator would have a preliminary report on Solana in the morning. Well, later today. Then he'd know who this Abraham really was and could assess the best way to remove the obstacle from the thing he wanted.

Solana.

He'd almost made it past the reception desk at the hospital before the nausea took over. The familiar smell still causing Jack's stomach to lurch years after he'd last stepped into St. Michael's for the final time. The day his uncle died.

Solana's worried face, leaning over her grandmother, floated before Jack. He ran faster.

Ethan, the pain in the ass, refused to provide Jack with information on Ximena's condition beyond the barest of details. The man was insufferable, clinging to his code of conduct, morals, and ethics. Ethan Collins was one of the few men Jack couldn't bribe with money or blackmail with solicitous details. Not that the man was squeaky clean. Jack knew Ethan's dirty secrets and chose not to exploit them. Respected his friend too much.

Despite the fifteen-year age difference, they were friends of a sort. Ethan had been a resident doctor at St. Michaels when they met. He'd broken the news James had prostate cancer, that it was terminal and had been in the hospital room day after day as Jack sat vigil. The doctor spent countless hours with Jack as he observed the only man who cared for him waste away. Dr. Collins offered a kind word, brought him coffee and the occasional sandwich and, at the last moment, a shoulder to cry on when the end came.