A Winter's Seduction (A Winter's Tale Series Book 5)

by Kristi Tailor

  If someone would have told Charlotte two years ago, one year ago, that she’d be having dinner with her family on her own volition she would have deemed that person senseless. But− there she was, in her parents’ home in Maryland, sitting across from her untrustworthy sister, who she no longer hated . . . waiting for her high- spirited mother to serve Christmas dinner.

  Stealing a glance at the empty seat to the left of her, Charlotte sighed. Christmas was not going to be the same without Nicholas, just as Thanksgiving was not the same without him.

  “Are you thinking about Todd?” Marguerite asked, interrupting Charlotte from her thoughts. “I’m sure you miss him a lot around the holidays, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look really sad . . . I was just wondering if it’s because you miss Todd?”

  Thoughtfully licking her lips, Charlotte shoved a hand through her thick black hair. “Why do you feel the need to taunt me?” she asked coldly. “Am I not being the posterchild of maturity? Have I not treated you with respect since I’ve arrived? Why do you insist on antagonizing me?” she demanded coldly.

  For several seconds Marguerite stared at her sister, confusion clouding her deep brown eyes. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Laughing indignantly, Charlotte shrugged her thin shoulders. “You tell me? Asking if I am upset because I miss your husband . . . do you not find something wrong with that?” she bade. “It’s rude . . . more than that it’s just plain disgusting.”

  Marguerite shook her head, seemingly uncomfortable. Attempting a smile, she said, “Charli, I don’t understand the joke?”

  “Joke?” Charlotte sneered. “What part of this screwed up situation feels like a joke to you? Perhaps, it was when I walked in on you and Todd in my home . . . no, maybe it was sleeping with my fiancé for years all the while smiling in my face . . . no, no, I got it . . . it was allowing him to be engaged to both of us at the same time? Yes, that’s it? Am I right?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Charli. I would never−”

  “What in the world is going on in here?” Babet asked as she made her way into the dining room with two large metal pans in either of her hands. Stopping at the head of the table, she gestured for Charlotte to take the pan closest to her. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  Grabbing the pan by its ribbed edges, Charlotte cautiously set the dish on the table. “Do you need help with anything else?” she asked her mother. In that moment she needed nothing more than to be away from her sister. Standing up, she said, “I’ll help you bring in the rest of the food.”

  “No, let your father handle it,” Babet replied. “Have a seat so that we can talk out whatever issue the two of you are having. I would expect some sort of mini- drama from Marguerite and Adeline, but not from you Charli. You are the oldest, you should set a good example.”

  Charlotte let out an exasperated cry of frustration. “How can you seriously say that with a straight face? I have been beyond reasonable, beyond respectful− I’ve set my feelings toward Marguerite aside to preserve my relationship with the rest of you. I have been humble, beyond humble− but even I have a limit.”

  “Charli−” Marguerite began.

  “Marguerite, I understand that I have to be around you because you are my sister, but I will not allow you to provoke me at every turn.”

  “OHMYWORD, Charlotte,” Babet carped. “What did the poor girl do to you?”

  “I asked if she missed Todd,” Marguerite answered her mother. “Charli looked sad, lonely, and I asked if it was because she missed Todd,” she explained. “I overheard you and dad talking about Todd having to work this Christmas . . . I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  Charlotte frowned at her sister’s words. “What?”

  “Charli, your sister was only being sympathetic that your husband couldn’t be here for the holidays. There’s no need to be nasty. If you miss Todd call him, but don’t ruin Christmas because your husband has to work.”

  “Nicholas,” Charlotte corrected. “My husband’s name is Nicholas.”

  “Now, let’s end the unpleasantness here,” Babet insisted as she placed the second pan on the table. Turning to leave, she stopped abruptly. “Charli, I’m sure Todd misses you just as much as you miss him. Give him a call.”

  “Nicholas,” Charlotte called after her mother. “My husband’s name is Nicholas.”

  Babet knitted her brow. “Who?”

  Charlotte sprang up in the bed, her almond browns wide with angst, her breathing heavy and labored. Exhaling a strained breath, she raised a shaking hand to her damp face. Even in sleep she could not find a reprieve. It seemed that serenity had made a game out of evading her, the more she searched for it, reached for it− the further out of grasp it became. Nicholas. His name was a beacon, a guiding light in her mind. Tossing the heavy comforter away from her thin frame, Charlotte turned on the bedtable lamp needing to be free from the darkness. The bedside clock read 11:23 p.m. It had only been a couple of hours since the last night terror had jarred her from much needed sleep. “Ahh!” she groaned aloud. The distressed sound traveled throughout her small apartment, bouncing off the white walls and uncarpeted floor. Nicholas. Her subconscious spoke his name softly, whispered the possibility of contentment, of a stillness that she had all but forgotten existed. Licking her lower lip, she took another calming breath and then reached for her cell phone. Leaping out of bed, Charlotte quickly made her way down the narrow hallway in the direction of the kitchen. The lack of light was of no consequence as she silently maneuvered through her apartment with blind confidence.

  Opening the refrigerator, Charlotte grabbed the first bottle of water she saw, and without hesitation downed the hydrating substance with a sense of urgency. It was hot, too hot. Could the heat be the reason for my bad dreams? She wondered. Heaving a sigh of relief, she tossed the empty plastic bottle into the trash and headed for the living room. Perhaps, a change in atmosphere will make a difference, she thought, feeling hopeful. Plopping herself down onto the couch, Charlotte reached for the thin quilt that hung over the back of the sofa and carelessly draped it across her half naked body. Tightening her grip on her Blackberry, she extended the device out in front of her. He went away with another woman, her subconscious clawed at her pride. Aren’t you going to do something? Of course, you aren’t. You’re just going to give up like you always do. You’re going to hand him over to this woman, just like you handed Todd over to Marguerite. For once in your life fight for something that you want. If you lose him, it will be your own doing. Groaning aloud, Charlotte roughly combed her fingers through her knotted hair. “I am fighting for something,” she said aloud, arguing with her inner thoughts. “I am fighting for peace.” Have you found it? Her subconscious taunted her. Text him! Biting down on her lower lip, Charlotte grazed her thin fingers across the metal keys. “Fine. At this point what do I have to lose . . . other than my pride and dignity?”

  Charlotte: Hi.

  There. I did it. He probably won’t answer . . . but at least I−

  Nicholas: Hi.

  Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. He answered! Sitting up, she sat Indian style, her long legs creating a wide pretzel. Now what? Do I just have a casual conversation with him? Do I ask him where he is and what he’s doing? No! That’s too much? Right? No! You’re his wife! You have every right to know where he is and who he’s with.

  Nicholas: How are you?

  Charlotte: I’m well. And you?

  Liar. You’re miserable, her subconscious jeered.

  Nicholas: I’m getting by.

  “Getting by?” Charlotte frowned. “What exactly does that mean?” she mumbled.

  Charlotte: I hope I didn’t wake you up . . .

  Nicholas: No. You’re good. There’s a party

  happening around me. So, I don’t see sleep happening in my immediate future.

  Charlotte: A party?

  Nicholas: My brother is having a reunion of sorts with old college friend
s . . . we drove up to New Hampshire for the weekend.

  Charlotte: Sounds like a good time.

  Nicholas: Yea, it is. It’s been years since I’ve partied with my sister and brother at the same time . . . so I’m enjoying myself.

  Rebecca! Okay, so that’s one woman . . . who is the other? She wondered.

  Charlotte: Oh wow. Rebecca went with you guys

  . . . that’s amazing

  Nicholas: Yeah. Me, Caleb, Rebecca and Menzie drove up earlier today

  Menzie, she beamed, unable to keep from smiling. The other woman is Menzie. A sense of relief spread over her. “Thank God.”

  Charlotte: . . . when you get back in town can we meet up . . . I’m ready to talk . . . if you are . . .

  Nicholas: I would like that.

  Charlotte: K. Good night. Be safe.

  Nicholas: Good night.

  ***

  Charlotte groaned aloud as she kicked the thick quilted duvet away from her toned legs, for the life of her, she could not get comfortable. Exhausted with her plight, she tossed this way and that in hopes of even the slightest relief. Covering her eyes with her left forearm, Charlotte blindly reached for one of the many throw pillows that had fallen to the floor. The room was too bright, and she needed a reprieve from the sudden sting attacking her eyes. Just then the doorbell rang causing a deep frown to form around her arched brows. Stealing a quick glance at the small grandfather clock ill- positioned on her television stand, she grimaced. 7:52 p.m. “No, that can’t be right? It’s not even eight? Really? Charli, you’ve got to do better,” she chastised herself. Standing to her feet, she stood still for several seconds as she tried to get her bearings. Her apartment was quiet, too quiet. “Nicholas,” she called out, but was answered with silence. “You’re not home yet?” she mumbled, her frown deepening. Where is my phone? Charlotte wondered, when the reoccurring sound of knocking at the door reminded her of the caller she had all but forgotten. “Sorry,” she yelled, “I’m coming.”

  Making a quick attempt to search for her phone on her way to the door, Charlotte sighed. The living room was a mess, worse even. Her clothes and shoes were tossed about the small area with little care. Empty fast food containers sat on the coffee table . . . stacks upon stacks of manila folders filled with work from the magazine lined the floor in front of the television stand− there was absolutely nothing tidy about the space, and the disorder of it all made the already small room appear cluttered and unpleasant. Making a mental note to clean the apartment before Nicholas got home, Charlotte forced her feet forward, drudgingly walking toward the door to greet her unexpected visitor.

  Peeking through the peephole, she blinked several times to get a clearer view. “Nicholas?” she exhaled, “Crap!” The thought of him walking into an unkept home after a long day’s work bothered her immensely. Opening the door, she met his cool silver gaze with a sweet smile and stepped aside to allow him entrance into their apartment. “Did you lose your key again?” she asked.

  Nicholas glanced at her sideways, his expression held confusion as he regarded her carefully from the hallway. “I’m sorry?” he returned.

  “Your key,” she said reaching out to him. “Did you lose it?”

  Taking a step back, Nicholas moved out of her grasp. “Are you okay, Ms. Toutant?”

  Charlotte laughed uneasily. “Ms. Toutant?” she repeated. “Are we roleplaying?”

  “Uh, I came to drop off a few last- minute articles . . . we go to print tomorrow, and since you were out sick−”

  Charlotte’s mouth went dry. “Drop off? You aren’t coming in?”

  His answering smile was brief, apologetic. “I don’t think my wife would approve of that, sorry.”

  “Your wife?” Charlotte scowled.

  “Penelope. You’ve met her before . . . at the Christmas party last year, I believe.” Reaching into his black leather Loreto Messenger Bag, Nicholas pulled out a clear accordion folder filled with color coded documents. “Here you are,” he said, handing her the casing. Offering her another quick smile, he continued, “Just email any changes you think should be made. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Opening her eyes, Charlotte stared at the white ceiling as her lungs struggled for air. Her breathing was accelerated, her heart was racing. Letting out a long, calming breath, she briefly closed her eyes as her mind struggled to work through the chaos of her thoughts. Seconds passed, minutes, before she opened them again to glance around the living room. “Nicholas!” she gasped suddenly, her dark brown eyes resting upon his bright silvers.

  “Hello, Dimple,” he said from the accent chair only a few feet away from her.

  Charlotte groaned aloud. “When will they stop?” she whined, covering her face with small hands.

  “When will what stop?” Nicholas asked softly, a small frown hardening his handsome features.

  “These dreams,” she sighed. “When will they stop?”

  “Dreams?”

  “No. Not dreams. Dreams don’t break your heart . . . these are nightmares. And in every single one of them, we are not together . . . we have separate lives and no connection . . . and I’m sure this one will turn out to be the same as the others,” she said, uncovering her eyes to meet his gaze once more. “They all feel so real.”

  Nicholas smiled then. “So, right now, you think you’re dreaming?” he asked, clearly amused.

  “I know that I’m dreaming, and sure enough you’re going to tell me that you’re married to another woman, or I’m going to find out that I’m married to someone else . . . and this time it will be my mother who has passed away, I’m sure . . . since it was my dad the last time−”

  Nicholas watched her with unblinking eyes for several seconds and then standing, he crossed the room with two long strides, quickly closing the distance between them. Kneeling down in front of Charlotte, he asked, “Not being together . . . having separate lives in these dreams . . . breaks your heart?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes to the tears that were too close to the surface, too close to spilling past her long dark lashes. It had been a long night and more than anything she wanted, no needed for it to be over.

  “Dimple. Look at me,” Nicholas breathed. “I’m not a figment of your imagination.”

  Letting out a cry of disbelief, she shook her head. “Yes, you are and−”

  Lowering his head to hers, Nicholas pressed his lips against Charlotte’s− it was the softest brush of satin against silk. And it was enough to dispel any inclination that she had been stuck in the world of reverie. “I’m real,” he whispered against her slightly parted lips.

  Charlotte opened her eyes then. Staring up at him, she blinked rapidly as her mind tried to process the unimaginable. “Nicholas,” she gasped, reaching up to touch his chiseled jaw with gentle fingers. “You’re real.”

  Nicholas leaned into her embrace. His sculpted mouth held a boyish grin . . . his glittering eyes stared at her intensely. Bending his head to hers once more, he kissed the corner of her mouth, once . . . twice and then leaning away from the couch made the attempt to stand to his feet; it was an effort made in vain. Charlotte quickly grabbed hold of him, tightly wrapping her arms around his neck. She wanted no distance between them. Ignoring all inhibitions, she pulled Nicholas to her and kissed him deeply. Skillfully parting his lips with hers, Charlotte explored the warmth of his mouth with an urgency unbeknownst to even her. To her fulfillment he still tasted of mint and vanilla . . . of happier times shared between them. Their kiss was a sweet caress, soft silk bounding them together− intertwining them and whispering silent promises of love and felicity. It was Nicholas who pulled away first, an act that left them both feeling bereft. Resting his forehead against his wife’s, Nicholas let out a low groan. “We should talk . . .”

  “We can talk later,” Charlotte whispered against his full lips. “Kiss me.”

  Nicholas shook his head dejectedly. “Dimple, we tried this once before . . . we made love and I thought we we
re working to resolve our problems . . . that you were ready to forgive me, or in the least start working on our marriage. But then, you pushed me away, again. I feel like we’re in limbo and until you make a decision about what you want from me, and for us, we are going to remain in this miserable place. Dimple . . . I’m miserable,” he admitted.

  Easing her grip from around his neck, Charlotte moved her hands to either of his cheeks. With great tenderness, she caressed his high cheekbones with the inside of her thumbs. Leaning away from him, she met his intense gaze. “The night of our wedding reception meant everything to me,” she admitted. “But then, the next morning after you left, my mind started to go places . . . dark places and I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Blithe−” clearing her throat, Charlotte shook her head and forced herself to continue. The only way they were ever going to move forward was if she could speak candidly about what had transpired between them. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Blithe. The image of you making love to her literally drove me insane, still, it still drives me insane.” Sighing deeply, she licked her lips. “And so, I thought it would be best to continue on the way we had been . . . giving one another space.”