He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  She hasn’t left the dance floor since dessert.

  And I may decide to not leave this bar until it’s time to go home.

  “When in doubt, the Sparkes princess will be at the charity ball.”

  A shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m hearing Jace’s voice, period, or because of the contempt that laces it. He left me three voice messages since yesterday morning. Each of them telling me that we needed to speak and urgently.

  I never called him back.

  But I can’t very well ignore him now. So I turn around. “What are you doing here?” He’s dressed in a tailored black tux, looking every bit the classy gentleman that I now know he’s not.

  “Supporting charity, of course.” He leans in to place a kiss on my cheek, and I stiffen.

  I highly doubt he actually bought a ticket to this, which means he pulled on a tux and walked in like he owned the place for no other reason than to find me.

  “I’m sorry. Between clearing out Celine’s apartment and getting ready for tonight, I haven’t had time to call you back.”

  He nods slowly, his steely gaze rolling over the area—decked out in traditional gold and red garland—before cutting back to me.

  I see it now. The simmering rage—in his hard blue eyes, in his tense jaw.

  I wonder if it matches the rage in mine.

  “Your drink, miss.” The bartender slides my drink to me with a wink.

  I grab it, wanting to be as far away from Jace Everett as I can before I blurt out that I know he lied. That I’m on to him, and it’s only a matter of time before he screws up. “It was nice to see you, Jace.” I begin walking away, heading toward the hotel lobby lounge area, my heels clicking briskly against the tile. I can feel him trailing me. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to my—”

  A vise-like grip grabs hold of my wrist. “I think first we should find a quiet corner and talk for a bit. About what you did on Friday night.”

  I swallow the panic, school my expression as best I can. “And what did I do on Friday night?”

  He steps in, so close that his chest touches mine. I fight not to recoil. Leaning down, he whispers in my ear, “What did you put in my wine?”

  I knew this was coming and yet I’m still somehow not prepared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, my wobbly voice traitorous.

  “Oh no?” The first smile tonight stretches across his lips, but it’s in no way pleasant. “I always wondered if I really needed a security camera. Now I guess I know that I do.”

  Knowing he has my attention, Jace slides his hand down into mine, weaving our fingers together in a tight knot that I so desperately want to shake off. He guides me to a semiprivate seating area with two beige armchairs and a screen of plants.

  “So, was I ever supposed to wake up?”

  I bite my tongue, deciding whether I should admit to anything. But then I remember that he’s not the only one with video evidence. “It was just a bit of Ambien.”

  He snorts softly. “No wonder I felt so groggy when I came to.” He levels me with a glare that I know is meant to disarm me.

  I ease back into my chair and cross my legs, letting the slit break apart, feigning calm.

  Jace’s eyes wander along my exposed thigh. “You must have been looking for something pretty important, to risk ten years in jail. Because that’s what you could get if I press charges.”

  “Why haven’t you yet?”

  His lips twist with disdain. “Give me back the jump drive that you took and we’ll be square.”

  “What jump drive?”

  “Quit playing games, Maggie. It’s unbecoming,” he snaps. His eyes narrow. “The one that you stole from the box in my desk, when you searched my office.”

  “Oh . . .” I lean forward and, in a mock whisper, say, “You mean the one where the governor of Illinois’s son pays for sex with a girl who ends up dead a month later? That one?”

  He pales slightly.

  It’s my turn to smile now, though it’s with bitter satisfaction.

  It takes him a moment to compose himself. “Who else saw it?”

  I decide not to answer that yet. “Good job, pretending not to know Celine. You actually had me second-guessing myself.” I take a long sip of my drink, finally feeling like I have the upper hand here. “But you not only knew her, you’ve even been to her apartment. All this time, you’ve been pretending. Why?”

  Jace waves a passing server down and orders a Glenlivet, his eyes glued to her shoes as she makes her way to the bar. I can tell he’s weighing his options. Give me the truth, or keep lying.

  The question is, will I know what I’m getting?

  CHAPTER 27

  Celine

  July 16, 2015

  “What do you mean, you can’t come? You have to come.” Hans jerks his pencil tie straight while flashing a client a tight-lipped smile in attempt to hide his irritation. “I’ve been working on this auction for eighteen months! It’s Hollingsworth’s pièce de résistance, I’m telling you, people will be waving their blue paddles like zealots. They’ll be talking about the Fabergé pieces for years.”

  I truly do feel bad for missing my friend’s shining moment at the coming Russian Works auction—even if every moment seems to be a big shining moment for Hans—but the few vacation days I have left are going to be needed for traveling back and forth to San Diego as often as I can, until I can move. “I’m sorry, I want to, but I can’t just take a Thursday morning off of work. My boss isn’t flexible like that. I was lucky to get this morning off.” Under the guise of an urgent doctor’s appointment. It’s lunch hour now, and I’ll have to head in to the office shortly.

  “Have you not explained how big a deal this is to that slave driver?” Hans, with his hands settled firmly on his slender hips and his wing-tipped shoe tapping at a furious rate, is dead serious.

  Just like that, he makes me smile. He’s the only one who shares my exuberant passion for antique treasures—items that many would simply cast away as trash. Of course they wouldn’t if they had any idea what some of this “trash” is worth. “Hey, when you have a chance, can you swing by my place and check out something I picked up at a garage sale? I think it’s a high-quality Fauxbergé.”

  “Really . . .” His eyes widen with excitement; he’s temporarily distracted from his distress. “I’ll see when I can fit a house call into my calendar. It’ll have to be after my auction.”

  The auction is two-and-a-half months away, but that’s Hans. He gets so wrapped up in his work that we can go weeks at a time without talking. “If there’s any way you can work me in before then, I’d appreciate it. I want to get as much as I can for it.”

  He gasps, pulling me away from the celadon jade libation cup that I was studying intently and into the corner. “No . . . No, no, no, Celine. We agreed that you are building your collection for your future. You do not sell valuable pieces like that!”

  “I am.” The admission guts me. “I have to sell a few of them, actually.” I may end up selling most of my collection, eventually.

  Finally, the self-absorbed fog Hans normally dwells in dissipates, and his brow furrows deeply with concern. “What’s going on with you?”

  I’m not about to stand here, in the middle of a private pre-auction exhibit in Hollingsworth, and tell him that my mother’s cancer has spread to her bones. That she’s dying. I just found out on Monday, and I’m still processing the news. I actually have yet to say it out loud to anyone. Just the thought makes my eyes water. “I just need the money.”

  “Is this about tuition? I thought you had enough.”

  “No. I need it for something else.” I had a meeting with the school administration office this morning. Under the circumstances, they’re allowing me to delay my enrollment until next September. It’s hard to say where I’ll be by then—still with Mom in San Diego.

  Or back in New York . . . without her.

  I have so much to figure out.
Like, how I’m going to keep my apartment so I have something to come back to. My lease expires at the end of January and I want to renew it, but I may not be able to pay the rent. I’ll probably ask Dani if she and her fiancé want to sublet from me while they wait for the builders to finish their condo. She mentioned that she’s trying to persuade her boyfriend to move out of his parents’ place, where they live right now for free. I don’t wish ill for Dani, but I’m so happy that her future mother-in-law drives her insane.

  I was a week away from handing in my resignation to Vanderpoel so I could start school in a month. Thank God I didn’t do that. I’ll need the full-time job for the fall.

  But I’ll have to sell or store all my stuff—storing costs money, so I have to be selective—in order to put my life on pause and take care of my mother. She doesn’t know that I’m moving back to San Diego yet. She’ll never agree. She’s put a gag order on me with Maggie as it is.

  A part of me is angry with her about that. I think I’m finally ready to give in and happily accept Maggie’s money, because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, I can’t seem to get ahead.

  Maggie—and all her money that she’d so willingly give—could solve so many of our problems. Besides the cancer, of course.

  I wouldn’t have to sell my collection.

  I wouldn’t have to do the other things I do for money.

  But at least that part of my life will be over by Christmas. Maggie will come back from Africa and find out what we’ve been hiding from her, and force her money onto us. She’ll be pissed, but at least she’ll be right there with me, until the end. It’ll be kind of like the old days.

  “Hans.” A stern-sounding British woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a pinched nose sweeps past us. “Can I see you for a moment?”

  “A moment, my ass,” he hisses, low enough for only me to hear. “The shrew is going to lock me in the dungeon to catalogue again.” With a groan and air kisses, he says bye and speeds up to catch the woman, hiding his displeasure behind a polite “Yes, Gwyneth?”

  Leaving me to quietly study an antique gold mirror. It’s the last day for these items to be on display before next week’s auction. I don’t think I’ve missed a single exhibit at Hollingsworth in the past four years. I would never actually bid. But aside from reading books, it’s the best way to learn, especially if I can steal a moment of time from one of the appraisers who floats around. They know me by name now.

  “I don’t know how anyone can focus on themselves when their reflection is surrounded by this gilded brass,” a smooth, deep male voice murmurs beside me, his spicy cologne catching my nose.

  “Maybe people weren’t as vain in the eighteenth century,” I quip, turning to acknowledge the speaker.

  My heart skips a beat.

  “It’s you,” I blurt out.

  He raises a neatly groomed blond brow with curiosity. “It’s me?”

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” I feel my face burn bright. The last person I ever expected to be standing next to at Hollingsworth is Jace Everett. Smoothing my plain black pencil skirt as covertly as possible, I say, “I think you work in my office building. I’ve seen you once or twice . . . maybe.” Seven times. I’ve stood in the lobby or on the steps outside and watched him and his well-cut suit and perfect stride move past me exactly seven times. He’s never noticed me, his attention always on his phone, a newspaper, or a client.

  His eyes—blue like sapphires in sunlight—take in the mirror again, in a quiet smile touches his lips. “What are you going to bid on?”

  The question catches me off-guard. I would think the natural next question would be related to where exactly it is I work. Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe he knows that he’s somewhat of a discussion piece around our office building. “Nothing. I’m just doing research.”

  He frowns. “On gaudy mirrors?”

  I smile. “On antiques. I’ll be working here as an appraiser as soon as I’m finished my master’s.” I never speak so boldly about my future here at Hollingsworth, but I so badly want to impress him.

  “Really? I’m intrigued.” He pauses. “What can you tell me about this one over here?” He points to the next display—a blue-and-white baluster vase.

  “Well, it’s funny. I’m actually going to do my thesis on Chinese art, but I feel quite ignorant about it right now. I can tell you that this is from the second half of the nineteenth century.” I just began a book on Kangxi period antiques last week, so I know at least that much.

  He leans forward, closing the distance, but not too much. Just enough for me to hope it’s intentionally flirtatious. “But is it really worth eighteen to twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “It’s worth whatever people are willing to pay.”

  His gaze rolls over my face as if taking in all of my features. “You sound like an appraiser already.”

  It makes me blush deeper. I scramble to keep the conversation going. “You wouldn’t believe what some people have paid for a piece of art history.” Mr. Sparkes’s collection was simply exquisite. Even as a little girl, I knew that being in his office was a rare experience to be cherished. But not until I was a lot older did I realize the true dollar value.

  “Oh, I can believe it.” He chuckles. “My parents are art collectors, so I’ve heard a story or two.”

  “Really? And what is it they collect?” I tend to gravitate toward people who appreciate my love of art.

  “Chinese art. Mainly Ming Dynasty, though they are all Chinese porcelain. I’m actually shopping for a gift for my mom’s sixtieth birthday this December.” He taps on the display price. “I love her dearly, but she’s going to bankrupt me.”

  I only smile in response. It’s no secret that Jace Everett does very well financially. While I—in my couture outfits bought on consignment—can pretend, there’s no pretending on his part. He’s not even in a suit today, and he still looks like he was dressed by a professional.

  “What about something like this?” I lead him from piece to piece at a slow pace, relishing the seemingly undivided attention he’s giving me as I test my own knowledge base and explain the significance of potential purchases.

  We’re admiring a gold sugar bowl from the early twentieth century—not Chinese in origin but exquisite all the same; estimated at five to seven thousand dollars—when his phone begins ringing.

  He glances at the screen. “I’m sorry . . . business.” He holds out a hand that I take, the feel of his palm against mine paralyzing. “I appreciate the help . . .”

  “Celine.”

  “Celine. I’m Jace Everett.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I clear my throat, silently cursing myself for adding that last part.

  He seems more amused than bothered. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe.” I stand there like an obtuse child, watching him stroll down the hallway of Hollingsworth, unable to pry my eyes away. Hoping he’ll give me another look. Some sign that I wasn’t simply a five-minute interruption in his day.

  With his hand pressed against the glass door, Jace glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with me. It’s so brief, but it’s enough to steal my breath. Then, he’s gone.

  Would a guy like Jace even talk to me, if he knew that I also work as an escort? Apparently his father is the governor of Illinois. I’m guessing he wouldn’t take too lightly to his son dating a woman who’s funding her future on her back in hotel rooms.

  I can’t even say I hate doing it. I used to hate it. Now I’ve become numb to it, because it has benefited me so much. And, most importantly, no one knows. It’s funny how easy it became to shrug off when I started to think of it for what it truly is—meaningless sex that turns my dreams into reality. I may be giving them my body, but they’re not getting me.

  Speaking of which, I’m meeting a new client tonight. All Larissa told me is that he goes by the name “Jay” and he specifically asked for a young, curvy Hispanic woman.

  I sigh.

  Back to my
reality.

  ————

  July 23, 2015

  Today may be the first time in five years that I’m late for work. I keep my head ducked as I step into the elevator, again checking the damp spot on my dress where I so desperately tried to rub out an ink stain earlier this morning. I’m not sure if I’m just paranoid or if I can still see the blue—

  “The antiques appraiser.”

  My head snaps up to find Jace Everett standing next to me, holding a tall, nondescript cup of coffee. Of course he wouldn’t drink Starbucks. I’m surprised he actually bought his own on his way into the office. Rumor has it that Natasha does everything for him.

  “Hi.” I clear the nervous shake out of my voice. I didn’t even realize he was following me in. “How are you?” It has been seven days.

  And I haven’t stopped thinking about him.

  “Good.” He flashes me a pearly white flirtatious smile. “Still hunting for that perfect gift for my mother.”

  What a sweet guy, to dedicate that much time and effort to a gift for his mother. Family is obviously important to him. “I can understand that. I spend most of my free time hunting for perfect things.”

  Intense eyes are locked on mine. “And where do you hunt?”

  “Garage sales mostly. And estate sales.” We have the elevator to ourselves, an impossible occurrence on a Thursday morning at eight a.m., which tells me these few moments with Jace must be kismet. Too bad the elevator is climbing the building so fast. For once, I wish it would just break down. He looks as incredible as usual today, in a tailored suit, his tantalizing cologne wafting through the cramped quarters, drawing me a step closer to him unintentionally. His collar is curled just a touch, and my fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and adjust it for him.

  We’re not at that stage, yet.

  He frowns with doubt. “Garage sales? Really? Isn’t that just people’s old junk?”

  “A lot of it is. But not all of it.”

  “Huh. I just thought . . .”

  “That all antiques are found in auction houses?”