by Amelia Wilde
His eyes are narrowed on me. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. You must have known I would come.”
“A phone call would have worked.”
“Not when it’s my mother’s health we’re talking about.”
“We should discuss this in private.” He turns to Sutton, and his eyes somehow grow even colder. “How did she even know I would be here?”
Sutton gives a small smile, completely undisturbed by his business partner’s fury. “You didn’t tell me she was skilled in diplomacy. She already smoothed things over with the historical society.”
“For now,” I say.
He studies me, as if looking at me through fresh eyes. Almost. The speculation is gone in a second, leaving only the cold remoteness I know so well. “Follow me,” he says, turning and leaving me to trail behind him.
Sutton holds out his arm, and I realize he’s going to come with us.
Or at least he’s offering to escort me. Does he think I need backup? Looking at his face, I realize he doesn’t. It’s something far more base. Male possession, except he’s asking my permission.
One of these men sees me as competent. The other as a helpless girl. One sees me as powerful. The other as weak. I put my hand in Sutton’s arm and walk side by side out of the ballroom, confirming the suspicion of everyone at the gala. They’ll all be certain we’re together, and the crazy thing is, I’m not sure they’re wrong.
16
A Tea Party
We find a private room with a handful of old chairs and a fireplace. How many corrupt deals were forged between these four walls? How much money changed hands?
Christopher stands in the corner by the window, his back turned toward us. What does he see? Is he like some conquering warrior, looking at what he plans to take?
In contrast Sutton takes a seat near the fire, one leg slung over the other. His pose is casual, but I’m not fooled. His blue eyes are watchful. He’s a powerful adversary, but I’m not sure who he’s opposing. Christopher? Or me? Maybe the both of us.
We might be enemies, all three of us.
“You stopped payment to the hospital,” I say without preamble. He knows what he did. “I honestly thought you couldn’t sink any lower, but you proved me wrong.”
“It’s not that simple,” Christopher says, his expression grave.
“In case you’re wondering, I would have asked for Daddy’s help with this if he were alive. And you know what? He would have said yes, so don’t pretend this is the high road.”
“The instructions didn’t leave any ambiguity.”
“And you’re such a rule follower, are you? You didn’t even contact the Tanglewood Historical Society when tearing down a historical property.”
“I follow the rules when I agree with them.”
My mouth drops open. “You don’t agree with helping my mom beat cancer?”
“Hell,” he bites out. “That money wasn’t going toward medicine. You were buying a butterfly garden for the hospital. And what was that going to get her? A California king-sized hospital bed? A marble bathroom? A doctor to wait on her hand and foot like a goddamned pool boy?”
“I hate you.” Not the most logical and persuasive argument, but there’s something about Christopher that always cuts through my defenses. He turns me into the wild child that he thinks I am, no matter that years have passed since that night on the yacht.
He runs a hand over his face. “I’m not a monster. I cut off the hospital from taking any more installments from you, but I made sure there was a card on file for her medical expenses.”
“Your personal credit card.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m not letting you pay for her medicine. We don’t need your charity. It’s my responsibility, and it will be paid for with my money. As soon as you call the bank and tell them to lift the hold.”
Christopher stares at me, and I feel my stomach drop. I know determination when I see it, and it’s there in spades in his cold, black eyes. He’s not going to budge, but neither am I. We’re at an impasse, the same one we’ve been in since that night in New York City.
Sutton clears his throat. “It’s quite a moral dilemma you’ve got yourself.”
“She finds herself in those often,” Christopher says.
“I was talking to you,” Sutton says in that slow drawl that smooths his sharp words, a flowing stream over sharp rocks. “I knew you were mercenary, but this is cold even for you.”
Christopher gives him a sardonic look. “Is there any reason you’re here or do you just like seeing me at my worst?”
I’m mildly appeased to hear that I’m the reason for his worst days, but he looks remarkably composed if that’s true. Remarkably put together in his tux and shiny shoes. He fits into this room better than Sutton does, better than I do, even if he doesn’t respect the order of things.
“I have a solution to propose,” Sutton says. “Something that might appease everyone in the room. We need someone to smooth things over with the historical society. Neither you nor I have the time or the ability to make nice with them.”
Christopher barks a laugh that makes me flinch. “You’re not suggesting Harper.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I ask, stung more than I should be. Nothing he says should matter to me. It’s a weakness that it does. “That someone thinks I’m good for something more than shopping or spa days?”
Christopher blinks, looking, for maybe the first time in his life, uncertain. “Is that how you think I see you? You’re a talented artist, Harper.”
“And I’m stuck begging for my mother’s life.”
“She’s in remission.”
“How would you know that?”
Sutton leans forward, drawing my attention away from the man I want to throttle. Unlike Christopher he doesn’t look unmoved by my mother’s situation. Instead there’s a notch of concern between his eyes. “So she is in remission?”
“For now.” There’s a sense of relief, however brief, that someone other than me worries about Mom. That particular load, I’ve carried since I was six years old.
“Good.” He relaxes again, as if he cares about what happens to her. And maybe he does. That’s a normal trait, concern for your fellow human beings. “We have a lot poured into this reconstruction. Everything we have, in fact.”
Christopher makes a quelling motion. “This doesn’t concern her.”
“We worked out a thousand different angles with economics and real estate and legal, but we didn’t consider this. Which is probably why our permits have been tied up in city hall for weeks now. We didn’t realize the power the historical society holds—”
“Unofficial power,” Christopher adds darkly.
Sutton nods. “You saw what we missed in less than a minute.”
“Have you really put everything you have into this?” I know that Christopher doesn’t have as much money as the trust fund. Really, who does? His was a white-collar background, for all that his mother married into my family for a few seasons. But I don’t know what he has, specifically. He’s always refused to take even a nominal salary for the work in managing my inheritance. Which is annoying, really. A nice salary and bonuses for the kind of growth the fund has had should be standard. Why hasn’t he let me pay him for it, if he has limited funds?
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Christopher says, which means yes.
“We have enough for construction,” Sutton says, “which isn’t pocket change. But walking away from the library isn’t really an option with what we’ve put into it. It’s our plan A, plan B, and plan C. There’s no alternative.”
“Why didn’t you put some of the trust fund into it? Like as an investment?”
His eyes flash. “That would be unethical.”
“Like letting a sick woman suffer because you’re a pompous asshole?” He could learn a thing or two about concern for your fellow human beings. He doesn’t care about my mother
. And he definitely doesn’t care about me. Unethical. Ha!
“She’s not suffering. Her pain is manageable and her prognosis favorable.”
Surprise locks my muscles tight. There’s a healthy dose of suspicion along with it. “Favorable. That’s what her doctor told me last week. Now I want to know how the hell you know anything about her condition.”
“It’s part of my role as executor to make sure you’re safe.”
That makes me laugh. Safe, because he wants nothing more than to ride in on his damned white horse. He wants to spy on us and then call it protection. “If my mother isn’t allowed a single cent from the trust fund, then she’s not part of your stupid role. You don’t get to have it both ways.”
I turn my back on him to face Sutton, who I’m finding infinitely more reasonable to deal with. The fire burnishes his golden hair, making it seem as if he’s glowing. While Christopher is vibrating with tension and I’m flushed with frustration, he looks merely thoughtful. Those brilliant blue eyes sift through the things we’re saying... and the things we’re not saying.
“I hate to break it to you,” I tell him, “but I’m not exactly rooting for your success here. So I’m probably not the best person to help with your diplomacy problem.”
Sutton seems at ease in the tux and the Queen Anne chair and the stuffy old country club. It’s the kind of assurance that comes from being fully comfortable with who you are. He’s ambitious, but in a different way from Christopher, without the desperate, dangerous edge. His is a pure manifestation of hard work and hard play.
He’s probably good with rope. The words come back to me at this completely inappropriate moment, making my cheeks heat. I have no interest in being tied up, but there’s something about a man so intensely physical that draws me like a magnet.
Sutton leans forward and clasps his hands together, elbows on his knees. His eyes are sharp and as wide-open as a summer sky. “We put everything into this project because we can make even more back. This will change the city. You smooth this over for us, and we’ll buy a whole damn hospital wing.”
“How is that any different than Christopher giving his personal credit card?”
“Because this isn’t personal. It’s business.”
The room feels alive with sexual tension and dark undercurrents. This is intensely personal, but he’s also right in a way. It’s also business—and if I earn that money through my own work, then it’s fair game. As fair as any painting I’ve sold. “Seriously, though. You weren’t even going to call the historical society?”
“And do what?” Christopher asks. “Throw a tea party?”
“As you can see, we need your help,” Sutton says, his expression sardonic.
In that moment I know I’ll be spending some time in Tanglewood. Not only because it will help my mother. Despite what I said before, I do actually care about the company’s success. Christopher and I have too much history for me to be apathetic, no matter how much I want to be.
He could have learned every number in the textbooks at Emerson, but they didn’t prepare him to face off with the righteous Mrs. Rosemonts of the world.
And it turns out that Sutton is good with rope, at least in an abstract sense. With every word he pulls the knots a little tighter. He tugs me a little closer. I’m not sure how I let him ensnare me this way, but already it’s hard to see my way free.
17
Basically Poison
“When are you coming home?” Mom says after picking up the phone.
I cringe a little at the word home, but I’m careful not to let my feelings enter my voice. She has more things to worry about than whether her daughter, fresh out of college, wants to live in the spare bedroom. So much has changed in the four years since the will reading, but in other ways everything is the same. “It’ll take longer than I thought.”
She sighs. “Christopher isn’t going to bend, baby.”
“He might,” I say, because there’s no point in explaining the whole thing about the library. It will only stress her out. “Actually he’s being more reasonable. I think if I stay a couple more weeks, we might have it worked out.”
“I don’t need the experimental treatment,” she says for the millionth time. “I don’t want that. I only agreed because you were so adamant. My herbalist has a whole plan laid out for me, to make sure I stay in remission.”
“Mom, you know what the doctor said. A good diet can help you stay strong and healthy, but it’s not going to keep the cancer from coming back.”
“I’m convinced it was all that coffee I drank. I never realized how toxic that stuff is. You aren’t still drinking lattes, are you? It’s basically poison.”
I don’t bother arguing with her, because the poison that caused her cancer changes every week. It was whatever they put in the facials or the chlorine in the gym’s pool. I think in a weird way it helps her feel in control of what’s happening to her body, being able to place the blame on something specific.
“No lattes,” I say, ignoring the empty coffee cups strewn around the hotel room.
“Good. I never want you to go through this.”
Worry is a hand around my chest, because mostly Mom doesn’t complain about how she’s feeling. She tuts and fusses and worries but she never just yells, this fucking hurts. I wish she would actually; it seems like that would be cathartic. This is the way she tries to help me, but the doctor was very clear on her chances for staying in remission. Which are high.
“I actually need you to do me a favor,” I tell her, feeling guilty that I need this from her. There’s only so many times I can wear paint-splattered clothes to the office. “Can you throw some clothes in a box and overnight them to me? I didn’t pack enough.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding relieved. She likes it when I need her. “I can do that. What do you need, more jeans? A few bras.”
“Nicer things, if you can find them. Some evening clothes. And there’s this black skirt somewhere in the back. No pressure, don’t spend too much energy on it, okay?”
“Evening clothes,” she says, proving her mind is just as sharp as ever even if her body has wasted away to half its size. She’s always been fashionably slender, but now she’s painfully skinny. “What are you doing with Christopher that you need evening clothes?”
“I’m visiting Bea tomorrow night,” I say, glad to have some excuse. “You remember her? Beatrix Cartwright. The daughter of the famous concert pianist.”
“Of course I remember her,” Mom says. “I’ll send you a few cute dresses to pick from. But Harper, remember to be careful.”
“Beatrix doesn’t bite.”
“That’s not what I mean. Men like Christopher, they can be charming when they want to be.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. He doesn’t want to be.”
Which is probably the only reason I’m safe. In a weird way I’m almost grateful he’s such a pompous asshole. It would be so easy to fall for him again if he weren’t.
18
Penthouse
Beatrix Cartwright lives in the penthouse of L’Etoile. We met a long time ago at some party where my pink tulle itched me like crazy and the children mostly tried to stay out of sight so we didn’t get roped into reciting our life goals. Then tragedy had fallen on her family, leaving her orphaned and absent from elite society.
I found her years later on the online artist scene, where I recognized her voice and her hands and her inimitable talent with the piano. Despite her large platform and success, she had managed to stay anonymous—something that made me green with envy. There were memes about my untouchable fortune that I ended up tagged on with unnerving regularity. The Internet has a long memory.
She’s since gone public and found true love in the strangest place. I’m a fan of her boyfriend, Hugo Bellmont, even though he was a high-priced escort when they met. Or maybe because of that.
He’s the one who meets me when I arrive, devastating in his handsomeness, his hair in perfect disarray. It feels perfe
ctly natural that he should kiss me on both cheeks and take my wine offering with a groan that sounds sexual. “Chateau Leoville,” he reads. “Nineteen eighty-nine. Merci infiniment. I love a great Bordeaux.”
I breathe deep, taking in the scent of spices. “It smells delicious, and I haven’t eaten all day. Don’t tell me Bea has taken up cooking?”
“Sometimes she helps me with the vegetables, where her fingers are as efficient with a knife as they are with the piano keys, but today she has been shut into her music room.”
“A difficult piece?”
“She plays it perfectly, again and again. It is the artist temperament,” he says, teasing because he knows I paint. “Never satisfied.”
I stick out my tongue, which only makes him laugh. “Let’s call the temperamental artist to the table, because I’m ready to eat.”
“Oh, but we’re waiting for one more guest.”
“Really,” I say, flopping onto the antique couch with its bits of fluff peeking out. The penthouse is a curious mix of the old world and the new, much like the couple who inhabits it. Though Bea makes limited appearances in Tanglewood since they got together, they’re both very private. I’m curious who else has made their way into the inner circle.
“It’s an old friend,” Hugo says as he stirs some kind of soup on the small freestanding stove. He sounds almost embarrassed, as if he should not have any friends. Or maybe not any old ones.
“From Morocco?” I ask, knowing he was born there.
“Non, he came to Tanglewood around the same time I did. We shared a one-bedroom apartment before either of us could afford anything more.”
I refrain from asking whether this man also worked as a professional escort, but only barely. Maybe he still does that job. I could be persuaded to hire a ridiculously handsome man with nimble hands and an expressive mouth. Knowing Christopher would see the charge is a bonus.