by Geneva Lee
“No, I haven’t lost my mind,” he says in a flat tone.
“Then why?” I ask. “Are you still worried about being forced to testify against me? Because I think we’ve cleared that problem up. The FBI isn’t—”
“This has nothing to do with that. That’s our past. I’m focused on our future, Duchess.”
“Does our future have to include the words ‘till death do us part’?”
“Not if you don’t want it to,” he says fiercely. He snaps the box shut.
Crap. What have I gotten myself into this time? I grab it from his hands before he can shove it back into his pocket or toss it into the pond. There’s no telling what he’ll do.
Thinking quickly, I come up with a much more reasonable response. “I need to think about it.”
The scowl darkening his face lightens.
“That’s not a yes,” I remind him.
“It’s not a no, either,” he says, interpreting my non-answer in his favor.
He leans closer, nuzzling my neck until I’m practically putty in his hands. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you?”
“Yes,” I say, shoving him away. “Let me think about it. Also, maybe let me take a nap.”
Between two lunches, a few broken hours of sleep, and the emotional whirlwind he’s just unleashed on me, being unconscious sounds pretty good. In fact, that my reaction to his proposal is to retreat or fall asleep should say a lot to him about my overall readiness for something as important as marriage. By agreeing to consider, though, I’ve rescued our weekend holiday.
Despite that, conversation is at an all-time low in the car. When we step back into the West New York’s lobby, I’m relieved to see Mr. White waiting for us. I’m not certain he’s ever moved.
Jameson lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
“Why don’t you get some rest,” he suggests. Before I can escape, he takes out the ring box that I’d given back to him in the car. He thrusts it into my hands. Apparently, we’re going to play hot potato with it. “To help you think.”
He winks before he turns to the over-eager White.
How can something so tiny feel so heavy? I wonder as I head up to the penthouse.
Maddox is waiting in the corridor. He unlocks the door for me, and I flush when his eyes linger on the ring in my hands.
So naturally I act like an adult and hide it behind my back.
“Did you have a good afternoon?” he asks. I don’t miss the insinuation in his voice.
“It was interesting.” I leave it at that, resisting the urge to treat him like a therapist and seek sanctuary in the suite instead. Heading straight for the bedroom, I deposit the box onto the dresser. But when I climb into the bed, it looks as if it’s hovering above me. Scrambling up, I grab the box and put it on the nightstand. Then I turn over and squeeze my eyes closed. It’s no use. I know it’s there.
I had been too caught up in the insanity of the moment to even check it out before.
“You promised to think about it,” I remind myself out loud. Rolling over, I pick the box up and open the lid. It’s a whole lot of flawless. I’d seen enough diamond rings pass through the Pawnography showcase to know this one is worth a small fortune. I try not to think about that fact. If I had been the type of girl who dressed up as a princess or cried during romantic comedies, I might have pictured what my own engagement ring would look like. The truth is that the thought has never crossed my mind.
Now I know it could only ever be this ring. The square diamond in the center sparkles with a fiery brilliance that even I can’t ignore. Smaller diamonds circle its edge and adorn the band.
I pluck it out of the box, and I’m surprised that something so sparkling and delicate could be so solid. I study it more closely and that’s when I notice the inscription: To my leap of faith.
“I’m not crying. You’re crying,” I announce to the empty room. Hesitantly, I hold it over the tip of my ring finger as I blink back the moisture pooling in my eyes. It’s too much change, too soon. But would it hurt to try it on?
Before I can decide, I hear Jameson enter the suite. Shoving the ring back in the box, I abandon it on the nightstand and nearly jump out of my skin when Jameson appears in the doorway.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Duchess.”
Too late, I think, glancing at the box on the table next to me.
“I thought you were going to take a nap.” His eyes stray to where his engagement ring sits unworn.
“I’m having a hard time turning my mind off.”
“I can help you with that.” He saunters, forward tugging his t-shirt over his head. The site of his perfectly stacked abs does a lot to relieve my anxiety. “Of course, maybe I don’t want to take your mind off things.”
He plays with the button on his jean, and I can’t help licking my lips. “Maybe you could work on persuading me.”
I don’t bother to tell him that right now a few blissful moments of oblivion are exactly what I need.
“I can do that.” He lets his jeans fall to the floor before he pounces onto the bed. “Allow me to show you one of the many benefits of marrying me, Duchess.”
Chapter 12
The next morning, the siren song of New York lures me out of bed. I leave Jameson sleeping peacefully, eager to venture out on my own. It’s liberating to be in a city hundreds of miles from where you live especially given my newfound infamy in my hometown. Tugging my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head, I slip into a sun dress and sandals. I barely remember to grab my sunglasses before I head out the door. The hotel is quiet. In a few hours, the halls will be filled with people checking in and out, businessmen meeting for lunch, and the cleaning staff coming to make beds. I prefer it this way. I enjoy the relative anonymity of the crowds bustling along the street and the sense of being lost in the chaos.
It’s nearly impossible to go unnoticed here, not when you’re walking down the halls with Jameson West. It’s a bit like being caught with the commanding general. The staff doesn’t salute him, but everyone stops what they’re doing and grovel. He’s accustomed to it having spent his whole life bouncing around between his father’s properties, shaking hands, and glad-handing; it’s second nature to him. I prefer to blend into the wallpaper. The elevator delivers me to the first floor. I’m a few steps toward the staircase that will deposit me into the main lobby when I spot Mr. White; so much for going unnoticed. While the manager’s effusive hospitality is understandable, I’m not up for it at seven in the morning.
I freeze at the top landing and begin to pivot slowly. If I take the elevator another flight down, I could exit through the bellhops’ entrance; but before I can flee, Mr. White calls my name. “Miss Southerly. Miss Southerly.” I do what any confident, well-adjusted woman would do in this situation. I pretend I don’t hear him. Scurrying back toward the elevator, I jabbed the button and pray the cars haven’t been called to higher floors. A light ding over my head, and I’m relieved when one opens just as Mr. White’s insistent call grows closer. Inside, I press the button to close the doors and head to the lower lobby. It’s empty, save for a bellhop who’s too busy tagging stored luggage to notice me.
I push the sunglasses onto the bridge of my nose and head out the side door. Despite the early hour, it’s already muggy. My forehead instantly dampens in the presence of the unfamiliar humidity. Growing up in Las Vegas I’m no stranger to heat, but desert heat isn’t like this. By the time I happen upon a little pastry shop a few blocks away, I’m swiping at the sweat collecting under the rim of my sunglasses. I can’t help but wonder as I stare into the pastry case if New Yorkers know how good they have it. Sure, back home I could choose between a gourmet champagne brunch courtesy of whatever celebrity chef has plastered his name on the local hotel or a massive buffet at all hours. There’s no such thing as quaint in Las Vegas which means there’s nothing like this there.
I order a bagful of French pastries that I can’t pronounce and cappuccino. At least growing up in the desert ha
s taught me how to drink hot coffee regardless of the temperature. I take my time heading back and watch as New York City comes to life, store fronts open, cars begin to clog the streets, and swarms of people descend on to the financial district to start the day. I try to maintain a leisurely pace but soon find myself swept along, forced to keep up with the current rushing about me. By the time I spot the familiar W emblazoned on the West New York Tower, I’ve finished my cappuccino and I’m ready for a cold shower. Zigzagging through the crowds toward the front entrance, I don’t notice anything unusual until my feet hit the small courtyard outside the door.
Instantly, the air fills with shouted questions and camera clicks.
Click, click.
“Ms. Southerly, why are you in New York?”
Click, click, click.
“Can you confirm that you eloped with Jameson West?”
Click, click, click.
“What do you think about the allegations against your stepfather?”
Click, click, click.
“Is it true that you’re pregnant with Jameson West’s baby?”
I stumble forward, trying to worm my way past them. Somewhere along the line, I lose the bag of pastry. If the paparazzi think they’re getting a photo op when I just lost my éclairs, they’ve got another thing coming. They crush forward hiding behind the cameras that they push into my face. I’m seriously considering going all Baldwin on them when a firm hand closes over my elbow.
I’m relieved to see Maddox standing in front of me. He pulls me through the crowd and whether it’s due to the sheer size of him, or the unmistakable fury rolling off his body, the crowd of reporters parts like the Red Sea before us. Security guards are stationed at each door, providing a flesh and blood barrier to any journalists intrepid enough to try to get inside the West New York.
Jameson is at the front desk barking orders in a low voice to a trembling Mr. White, who looks even paler than his name suggests. Thankfully, the other hotel guests accustomed to five star establishments, and their celebrity clientele, discreetly look past us as Maddox delivers me to his boss.
“What were you doing?” Jameson turns his wrath on me.
I give him a blank stare.
“What were you doing out there?” he repeats.
Apparently, he’s not getting the message. “I’m not on your payroll, Jameson West, so don’t talk to me like I’m one of your ass-kissing employees.”
Mr. White shrinks back behind the desk either afraid that this argument is about to go nuclear or seizing the opportunity to detach himself before Jameson can continue berating him.
“Mr. White says he tried to stop you.” Jameson jerks his head at the manager, but he’s no longer standing there. My boyfriend looks around for a moment before he gives up. “He says you ran off.”
“That might have happened.” I admit feeling a trifle sheepish for fleeing the premises earlier.
“Why would you do that?”
“Hold on.” I cut him off. “I thought he was going to ask me how the room was and if we needed anything and give me those overeager puppy-dog eyes.”
“No one stopped you on your way out?” Jameson asks. “There were no reporters?”
“I went out through the bellhops’ entrance. It seemed like a good idea.”
Jameson rubs his temples and his shoulders slowly slump into a normal position. “It was a good idea, Duchess. I’m sorry I yelled. When Mr. White called up to the room he was frantic, and to make matters worse, you weren’t answering your phone.”
I fish it out of my pocket and see several missed calls on its blank screen. “I didn’t hear it ring.”
He drops an arm around my shoulders and kisses my forehead. “It’s okay, but we should probably go and pack.”
“New York’s been breached,” I note with disdain.
“Two days of quiet are apparently the most we can hope for. Next time I’ll take you to the Mediterranean. We have a private island in the south of France.”
“Of course you do.” I slip my arm around his waist as we wait for the elevator. But any semblance of normality is dashed by the hovering presence of Maddox. Although he stays a few feet away, he is impossible to ignore. “Is he going to follow us upstairs?”
“Yes, I think it’s best that Maddox stays close by.”
“Kinky,” I whisper before sighing. “I had no idea the paparazzi was so virulent here.”
“About that.” Jameson tenses again, and I can feel the muscles in his back go rigid beneath my palm. “There have been some developments at home.”
I move away from him. “What kind of developments?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he seizes my hand as we reach the top floor. Maddox arrives and takes up watch outside the door as Jameson leads us into the penthouse.
“What’s going on?” I demand as soon as the door closes behind us.
“I already have my people on it,” he says, but in no way reassures me.
Away from the crush of reporters screaming nonsensical questions at me, I start to recall what they were asking me. “Oh my God! They think ... and…”
“Maybe you should sit down,” Jameson suggests. “I’ll fill you in in a moment.”
“Fill me in now.”
“I will, but first I’m going to order you breakfast, Duchess.”
“Oh, my pastries.” I say, remembering how the bag fell underfoot, only to be trampled by the dozen people surrounding me. In the background, Jameson orders coffee and juice, eggs and bacon. I began to lose track. “Are we in this for the long haul?”
I wonder how long it will take to arrange for us to return home.
“The plane is on standby but there’s no need to rush.” Somehow I doubt that, but I keep this opinion to myself.
Whatever new scandal we’ve found ourselves embroiled in can wait.
“Can I see your phone?” he asks me. I hand it to him, not bothering to hide my suspicion. “What do you need it for?”
“You can have it back after your breakfast.” He slides it into his pocket.
“What’s going on, West?”
“Food first.” He’s not going to budge.
Room service arrives with lightning speed, one of the perks of being here with the owner. Jameson sits across from me sipping coffee and not speaking as I pile food onto my plate.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, between bites of eggs.
He shakes his head.
“I could have sworn you worked up an appetite last night.”
He laughs, but his eyes remain distant. Swallowing my last bite, I slam the fork down on the table. “Out with it.”
“It’s on the cover of every major daily newspaper,” he says in a steady voice.
“If you’re trying to keep me calm, it’s not working.” My imagination has already kicked into overdrive. Do they have pictures of the proposal? Or, I gulp at the thought, something more personal. Maybe our late-night rendezvous on the patio last night was a bad idea.
“The FBI has arrested Hans on multiple counts of abuse, molestation, and child pornography.”
The list of allegations especially the last one make my stomach flip over. Child pornography. If that’s true, then he has pictures of Becca, and maybe even ...
I don’t finish the thought before I’m running for the bathroom. Jameson follows and kneels besides me as I wretch up breakfast.
“Maybe food was a bad idea,” he says apologetically. “I thought it would be better if you ate before.”
I shake my head to try to tell him this isn’t his fault but the next round of vomiting sends another message. When everything is up, I sit on my heels and wipe my mouth. My knees shake as Jameson helps me to my feet. He oversees the appearance of a toothbrush and a glass of water.
“What else? I rasp out, my throat scratchy from vomiting.
“I’m having my people look into it, but otherwise it’s the usual stuff.”
“Usual stuff?” I raise an eyebrow. What’s usual to J
ameson West is prime tabloid fodder for the rest of us.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.” I plant my hands on my hips, refusing to follow him into the bedroom.
“The press got wind of us being here together and they might have jumped to conclusions.”
“What kind of conclusions?” I ask slowly as I sort through the questions the paparazzi yelled at me.
“You’ve seen the cover of Us Weekly.”
I have actually seen the cover of Us Weekly. My whole life I’ve been staring at it in the line at the grocery store or gas station. It’s always plastered with news of celebrity divorces, marriages, births, and various scandals.
“Let me guess,” I say, “not only did I murder your father, I’m also pregnant with your baby.”
It takes me a second to realize that he isn’t laughing because I’m actually right.
“Oh my God, are they saying I’m pregnant? We just had sex.”
“I’ll be sure to tell them that,” he promises me dryly. “I don’t think they’re interested in the facts.”
“Give me my phone.” I hold out my hand.
“Duchess, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Give me my phone, West.” He relinquishes it reluctantly.
“It’s only rumors. We know that.” I ignore him and google my name along with his, only to discover a whole fresh crop of ridiculousness has been fed to the gossip rags in the last few days.
“They think we got married?” I shout as I scroll through. “Oh my God, does it look like I have a baby bump?” I run a hand over the plane of my abdomen as I stare at a photo that’s headline news on TMZ.
“You do not have a baby bump. It’s called Photoshop.” Jameson gently pries the phone from my fingers before I can find the next horror story. “They’ve been running stories about us for months.”
“Not like this.” Conjecture has turned into rampant, imaginative bullshit. “I should call my mom, my dad, and I don’t know, the New York Times? Somebody needs to set this record straight.”
“I already have people working on it,” he reassures me.
“Then why do we need to go home?” I ask after a long pause, “Let’s go to the Mediterranean. Let’s run away.”