No Rest for the Wicked

Author

Dear Readers,

I had so much fun writing Sebastian and Celeste’s story because redemption through love is one of my favorite themes. Also, I wanted to explore a little bit how one action has a huge impact on the rest of your life. I’m sure you have all experienced those moments where as soon as you do something your stomach sinks, and it’s not regret exactly but just the knowledge that you can’t undo what you’ve done.

I’m a coward so I always think, why did I take this risk? But in the end, usually my decisions have been the right ones and that is true of Celeste when she takes a chance on Sebastian.

I hope you enjoy reading No Rest For The Wicked!

Take care,

Katherine ;)

Chapter One

Celeste Beacon had seen a lot of tough cases in her years as a grief counselor, but this one was the worst. She skimmed the information the subject’s parents presented her, but honestly, she kept coming back to the photo taken last weekend on a beach off the coast of Cape Town, South Africa. He had the kind of serious muscles that she associated with a Hollywood beefcake, instead of a troubled soul.

Will you take this case? Theodore Warren asked. He was tall, and as she let her gaze move from the ripped pectorals in the photo to the square jaw, chiseled cheekbones and bright blue eyes, she realized that his son resembled him. They both looked to be tall, at least six-foot, four-inches and fit. Theo’s dark hair showed some grey at the temples whereas Sebastian’s didn’t. They both had a strong jaw . . . stubborn? Only time would tell. And the eyes were the same silvery grey color though Theodore had none of the wildness in his expression the way that Sebastian did.

I’m not sure I can help your son. My normal client is usually much younger, she said. And she had never been attracted to one based on a photo before. To be fair, she’d never felt this mixture of desire and emotion before. There was something about Sebastian Warren that fascinated her from the moment she’d seen him flashed all over the television.

She’d heard the news the same way everyone else—even his parents—had. Blasted on the 24-hour-news network as Sebastian’s high octane sports car careened off the road and into a highway stanchion, while he’d been racing with his best friend, Judd Ricken. Judd’s car had flipped end over end before landing on the roof in an explosion of flames.

Please, Marilyn Warren said. We have tried everything else. He’s thirty-one, so too old for us to restrict his trust fund—not that he needs that money—he’s got his own successful tech business. I’ve begged and his father has talked to him more times than either of us can count. We don’t know what else to do.

Celeste pulled the file back to her and flipped past the hot-guy photo that had stopped her before. She read the list of activities he’d engaged in over the past year. The counselor in her noted that there was definite evidence of an escalation of danger in the events. And, he seemed to be staying in one place for a shorter amount of time. Something she thought might be a pattern as well.

I’ll meet with him, Marilyn. Then I will let you know if I can help him or not, she said, unable to resist the mother’s plea.

Wonderful, she said, patting her hair as she glanced over at her husband. I told you talking to another therapist would work; we just need someone who can break through to him.

I haven’t said yes yet, she warned. She knew deep inside that she wasn’t going to take this case, but she wanted to meet him. Maybe if she talked to him she’d . . . what? Teenagers who’d been victims of unexpected tragedy were her normal clients. How was she going to help a thirty-one-year-old billionaire who was out of control? A man who seemed to have left every bit of the man he’d been behind in the wreckage they’d pulled him from.

Now, he was a playboy of the first order. Sleeping his way through Europe’s lesser royal baronesses, princesses and ladies. Everyone coped with grief in a different way, she reminded herself.

Theodore took his wife’s hand and squeezed it before he sat forward in his chair. It’s important that he doesn’t realize we spoke to you. He doesn’t want us to interfere.

Why not? she asked, taking her pen and jotting that information down. Most of the time when she took on a client, they were ready to move from grief to coping and then moving on.

You’re not the first professional we’ve spoken to. The last one . . . well, Seb didn’t get on well with him, and he sort of suggested that he’d never talk to us again if we meddled again, Marilyn said.

Then, I think we should respect his wishes. I know you are motivated from a place of love, but this kind of thing is best done on the schedule of the griever. Not everyone grieves in the same way.

Marilyn sighed and looked away. Theodore patted her hand and let go of it. We have tried to respect that, Celeste, but he is getting worse.

Shark diving isn’t that dangerous, she said. Her best friend, Kendra and she had taken a tour of South Africa two years ago and done it themselves.

He wasn’t in a cage, Marilyn said. He took his own yacht out there and then, after drinking with those Spanish princesses, jumped in the water and swam with them. Does that sound normal to you?

Ah, no. Not normal for a regular person. For someone who hadn’t had their heart burned out by grief. She’d lost her own way a long time ago, so she got what it was like to feel like there was nothing left to lose.

Theodore put his arm around his wife and turned back to Celeste. We are at our wit’s end. We don’t want to lose our eldest son. We sat with him in a hospital for five days while he was in a coma.

She understood they’d thought they’d gotten the answer to their prayers when Sebastian had come out of his coma, but then he’d woken as a different man. Not their son. He might never be the same again.

We don’t care. We just want him safe, Theodore said. We’re holding a party at our house in the Hamptons next weekend for our anniversary and Sebastian will be there. Will you come and meet him? Give us your answer afterward.

She pushed the papers in the file they’d brought around on her desk one more time. Saw the wrecked Bugatti, the photos of a wounded man in a hospital bed and then the one from the previous weekend. The body had healed, but the soul was still wounded and aching.

She wanted to help him. Hell, that was why she’d started doing this. After all these years, she’d hoped to get a little closer to healing herself, but she hadn’t. This case might be the one that would do what the others hadn’t been able to.

Lacing her fingers together on her desk, she leaned forward and looked at the grieving parents—they always looked the same—desperate and scared. I’ll meet him and won’t mention the fact that you have already talked to me. I’m not going to pretend to be anyone but myself. If I do take this case, I don’t want to start by lying.

Thank you. You’ve answered our prayers, Marilyn said, coming forward and hugging her.

After they left, she got on with her day, but couldn’t get the image of Sebastian Warren out of her head. What was he doing? Did he feel indestructible? Was he living fast in case next time he didn’t make it?

But, no matter how she tried to keep her thoughts on the case and potential job, she knew that she was going to the Hamptons to meet him, because she had never felt that kind of spark in her life before. The kind of need that she’d seen in his eyes in that photo had called to something long hidden in her soul.

*     *     *

Sebastian Warren hadn’t wanted to come back to the Hamptons in late October. The wind whipped around him from the sea and he stood there letting it buffet him. Everyone else was inside, as the storm was blowing fiercely, and it wasn’t a night fit for man or beast.

Yet, here he stood. Contemplating his next move. Staying home wasn’t an option. Not here in the Hamptons, but in his own luxury penthouse in Miami’s trendy South Beach area. Or even going back to work. Risky Business, his sports themed international retail chain didn’t need him at the helm. He’d hired the right people when he’d been starting out. And he’d spent ten years fixated on making it the best damned business he could. A chronic workaholic, who’d only taken breaks when his best friend had forced him out of the office.

The irony