A Winter's Secret (A Winter's Tale Book 4)

by Kristi Tailor

  “You resigned from the magazine weeks ago and made Dean Editor-in- Chief. Dean! Of all people, you made him editor, why?”

  Nicholas didn’t respond, only stood there with his back against the wooden frame watching her intently, unblinking.

  His quietness made her uneasy. Taking a step toward him, Charlotte said, “Nicholas, why?”

  Shaking his head, Nicholas closed his eyes, one second, two as he fought the tears just beneath the surface. This was his nightmare, his greatest horror coming to pass. “I can’t,” he answered after a long trice, his gaze once more on hers.

  “You can’t what?”

  “Lose you.”

  Charlotte’s dark browns widened at the severity of his words. “Lose me?” she whispered, suddenly nervous. Grimacing at the thought, Charlotte combed trembling fingers through her unkempt hair. Do I even want to know? She wondered. Swallowing her fears, she asked, “Do you think resigning from a job would be enough reason for me to leave you?” She wasn’t stupid, not by a long shot. She knew there was more, so much more, but suddenly, the truth, seemed viler than the lies he had been telling her. Closing what was left of the distance between them, Charlotte stared up into his molten eyes with a gaze that lacked conviction. “Is there someone else?” she asked.

  The gleam in his eyes was only there for a second, but that was enough. Charlotte backed away from him. Slowly, unstably, she moved out of his reach. “Oh, God,” she cried. “Oh, God. There’s someone else.” She couldn’t breathe. Bringing her small tan hands to her throat, Charlotte fought to catch her breath, but like reason, air escaped her. “I can’t breathe,” she sobbed.

  Nicholas quickly made his way to her side. “There’s no one else,” he murmured into her hair. “Please stop crying.” She was breaking his heart. Taking his wife into his strong arms, he held her to him as he said a silent prayer for strength. There, in the middle of their living room they stood in one another’s embrace, silently listening to the sound of their hearts breaking. “Dean was blackmailing me,” he said after what felt like an eternity. “He was in the Hamptons for the New Year.”

  Charlotte leaned away from him revealing swollen eyes and puffy lips. “Blackmailing you with what?” she asked, attempting to control her breathing through her painful sobs.

  Nicholas gazed at her through shameful eyes. “On New Year’s Eve after I saw you kissing Todd,” he began, but then stopped himself− unable to continue. Four words. That’s all he had to say, four words. I slept with Blithe. Four simple words that meant little separately but held such an immense power when spoken together. Four words, and then he would be free from the guilt threatening to destroy him. “. . . I grabbed a loose bottle and went to the back of the house to get away from everyone . . . Blithe followed me out there . . . I . . . we . . . I thought you had betrayed me . . . that you were going back to Todd . . . and I had lost you.”

  “And you kissed her, right. You told me that you kissed her when you thought−”

  Nicholas shook his head, interrupting her in mid-sentence. “I had sex with Blithe on her parents’ deck,” he said, needing to be free from the deception that was poisoning him from the inside out.

  “What?” she asked, blinking at him dumbfoundedly. Hearing his words were not enough to make them real, surely, she was dreaming, imagining the worst through a twisted nightmare of damning sentiments.

  “I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk losing you. I thought if I could put that night out of my head everything would be okay. But− Dean was there . . . that night on the beach. He took pictures of us and threatened to tell you if I didn’t pay him and resign as Editor-in- Chief . . . naming him my replacement.”

  “You cheated on me with that . . . that bitch while I was just a few feet away. Do I mean that little to you?”

  “Dimple, you know how much you mean to me. I messed up. One time. I messed up one time, and it will never happen again.”

  Charlotte swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “I’m going to be sick.” With shaking hands, she wiped viciously at the fresh onslaught of tears that fell freely down her red cheeks. “I don’t want to hear anymore,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Pulling out of his reach, Charlotte attempted to put needed space between them, but the act was in vain. Nicholas’ reaction to her withdraw was immediate, in sync with her movements he tightened his hold, refusing to let her go− afraid that once she was out of his grasp, he would never be able to hold her again. “Nicholas, let go of me,” she screeched.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head defiantly. “I will never let go of you. I made a mistake . . . a huge mistake and I’m sorry . . . I am so sorry, but I am not going to let you walk away from me, from us. We have a chance at happiness together. I’m not going to let one stupid mistake destroy our lives.”

  Closing her eyes to his words, Charlotte struggled against him. Mustering what little strength she had left after his heart- rending confession she fought to be free of his touch. Violently, she thrashed against him, her smaller frame forcefully shoving his larger one. “Let go of me,” she yelled, her breathing labored.

  “No,” he murmured against her hair. “Dimple, I’m sorry. Let’s talk about−”

  “I want to go to bed,” Charlotte said suddenly, interrupting him. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically exhausted. Too exhausted to fight with him− too exhausted to listen to anything else about that night. She felt as if she had been submerged into a dense darkness, an endless abyss that she was too weak to climb out of, and so, she had decided not to. “I’m tired,” she whispered defeatedly.

  Nicholas heard the brokenness in her voice, could see it in the limpness of her body. “Okay.” Lifting Charlotte in his strong arms he carried her into their bedroom, skillfully making his way through the darkness of the room with ease.

  “I can walk on my own,” she complained, but didn’t make any attempts to get out of his arms.

  “I’d prefer to carry you.” Carefully laying Charlotte on the bed, Nicholas removed her faux fur slippers before laying down beside her. With unhurried movements he wrapped his right arm around her abdomen and pulled her into his embrace. Resting his chin on her head, he groaned. “I’m sorry.” His words were whispered against her thick black waves. “I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

  His words were her undoing. Bowing into herself, Charlotte began to cry all over again. Painful sobs that rocked her core and caused her throat to ache. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do while her heart was breaking.

  Tightening his hold on her, Nicholas closed his eyes as hot tears fell down his tan face to land in her hair. The truth was out, and there was nothing he could do to reverse the damage he had done to them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicholas stretched his long torso across the queen size mattress and out of habit rolled to his left to wrap his legs around Charlotte, only this time she wasn’t there. Frowning, he opened his eyes in the still dim room and sat up. Without a thought, he got out of bed and walked through the small apartment to confirm the obvious− she was gone.

  Glancing out the living room window Nicholas’ frown deepened at the thought of Charlotte leaving out so early in the morning. Did she go for a run? He wondered. “If she did, it would only be to the park and back,” he said to himself. Sighing, he headed back to their bedroom for his Blackberry. Angry or not, leaving out by yourself isn’t the brightest idea. Not with that psycho watching our every move. Turning on the bedroom light switch, Nicholas stopped cold in the doorway, his steel gaze fixed on the bedside table.

  There on the dark oak fixture lay Charlotte’s marital rings on top of a folded piece of paper. He stood in the archway for a long minute, contemplating his next move, read the note, or ball it up . . . it didn’t matter because whatever was written on the scrap wasn’t going to change his resolve. Nevertheless, allowing curiosity to get the better of him, Nicholas made his way across the room to the nightstand and with gentle fing
ers pulled the folded paper from under the gold bands.

  Too much has happened. Please pack your things

  and be gone before I get home from work.

  She went to work. Grabbing his cell phone off the floor, Nicholas quickly turned around and headed toward the front door− balling up the note and grabbing his sneakers along the way. Their marriage wasn’t over, he refused to accept it. Wouldn’t accept it. Even if he had been the cause of their plight it didn’t matter, they made vows before God . . . for better, or for worse. This is not the end of us, he avowed. I won’t let it be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nicholas threw his Blackberry into the passenger seat out of pure frustration. Seven times he attempted to reach Charlotte and seven times he had been sent to voicemail. Turning left on Tompkins Square Park, he double parked in front of Gizzelle Bridal Magazine, ignoring the blaring horns and harsh curse words being screamed at him by fellow New Yorkers. Unbothered, he climbed out of his cream Chrysler 300 and headed for the building’s revolving door.

  “Mr. Elliot,” called a familiar voice from behind him.

  “Patrick,” Nicholas said before turning around to face the building’s security guard. He knew the other man’s voice just as he had known all of his former Leisure Me Ready employees’ voices. After working with the same group of people for years it was hard not to recognize the nuances that made each of their voices distinguishably unique. “How’s it going?” he asked, once he and Patrick were face to face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Elliot,” Patrick said, shaking his head regretfully. “I’ve been given direct orders from Mr. Proctor to not let you enter the building.”

  Nicholas stared shrewdly at the shorter man. “And if I ignored those orders?” he asked, his tone curious. “Are you going to detain me. . . perhaps, call the police?”

  “I don’t want to do either, Mr. Elliot,” Patrick said, sighing at his plight. He liked Nicholas, respected him. “You’re the reason I have this job to begin with. . . you hired me even though I lacked experience . . . gave me a chance without hesitation. But− if I let you enter the building, Mr. Proctor will fire me. Mr. Elliot, I need my job,” Patrick explained.

  Nicholas considered his former employee’s ordeal for a silent second. He didn’t want to get the man fired, but he needed a word with Charlotte. Leaving was not an option. “Tell Ms. Toutant she is needed outside,” he said, deciding to spare the man’s job. It was the least he could do; Patrick had always been a loyal member of his staff.

  “Ms. Toutant left the building about fifteen minutes ago,” Patrick informed him.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  Patrick cleared his throat uncomfortably, not knowing if sharing the information would be a breach of policy with his new superior.

  “She went to get coffee for the advertising team,” Dean Proctor disclosed from the moving doorway. “Thank you,” he said to Patrick, clasping the man on his rounding shoulders. “You’ve done well.”

  “Peeking out windows, Dean?” Nicholas laughed quietly, the sound threatening.

  Stepping around Patrick, Dean faced Nicholas squarely, not in the least intimidated by the man who once left him feeling inadequate and demoralized. “Just roll out of bed, Nick?” he laughed. “. . . I know how it goes . . . not having a job can make you forget the simple things, like combing your hair for instance, but don’t let idleness get the better of you,” he advised, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

  “Shouldn’t you be hard at work?” Nicholas asked, eyeing the man hatefully.

  “Indeed. I was in the middle of something quite important when news of your arrival traveled around the building . . . quickly making its way to my office. News travels fast around here as you well know.”

  Nicholas stared at Dean disdainfully, not bothering to hide his abhorrence of him. He looked physically healthier than the last time they were in one another’s presence, his skin held color and he didn’t look as frail. Still, his outer appearance was of little consequence to Nicholas, he knew that inwardly the man was sick− a psychopath by all meanings of the word, and he didn’t want him near his wife. “Working on something ‘quite important,’ huh? Shouldn’t your Editor be working with you on such a task? Yet, you sent her out for coffee?” he asked, condescendingly.

  “The duties I give to my employees should be of no interest of yours, Nicholas. You have no say on what takes place in this building.”

  Nicholas’ jaw clenched. His silver eyes darkened at the other man’s gall. “I own this building,” he said authoritatively.

  “The building, yes, but not the business within,” Dean returned, smiling, delighted to throw the obvious in Nicholas’ face. “Look, Nick, we can argue all day if I had the time, but I don’t. You are not making things easier for yourself, or your . . . situation. We wouldn’t want that fiancé of yours finding out things that could potentially threaten your wedding plans, or do we?”

  Nicholas’ brow furrowed as if in deep thought. Silently, he contemplated if he should tell Dean that his blackmail was now a moot point, but quickly decided against it. Allowing the other man to think that he still held power cost him nothing and in fact would prove to be beneficial, considering Dean was obsessed with his new title and capable of doing a decent job at running the magazine. No, he wouldn’t take the position from the man just yet. Nicholas had more important ambitions, like taking over his father’s company, Plotus Cosmetics. Besides, when the time was right, he would take back what belonged to him and Dean would have to answer for everything he had done, past and present. “We wouldn’t want that at all,” he answered.

  “What are you doing here?” Charlotte asked, disrupting their pissing match. The two men were so engrossed in their banter that neither had noticed her presence. She figured that Nicholas would find a way to reach her, considering how she had left things, but she didn’t expect him to make a scene at the magazine.

  Nicholas turned to face her. “What do you think?” he asked. “Did you think I wouldn’t come looking for you?”

  Raising a thin hand in the air, Dean clicked his teeth disapprovingly− a clear reprimand. “Bringing personal affairs to the workplace is highly unprofessional.”

  Charlotte’s almond browns narrowed. “Duly noted Dean.”

  “Mr. Proctor,” Dean corrected snidely.

  “Mr. Proctor,” she said with a forced smile and practiced patience. Being in such close proximity to Dean made her skin crawl. Knowing that he had once spread disgusting rumors about her was bad enough, but to find out that he had been stalking them . . . had followed them to the Hamptons and was close enough to take pictures . . . Charlotte blinked away the thought as quickly as it came. She was at work and would behave as a professional, anyway, the time for weeping at her painful heartbreak was in the privacy of her home. She would not break, not on the sidewalk of W. 96th Street, not in front of Nicholas, and definitely not in front of Dean. “You need to leave,” she said to Nicholas, attempting to walk past him.

  Nicholas grabbed hold of her free hand in a vise like grip. “We need to have a conversation."

  “A simple task took far longer than necessary,” Dean chastised, snatching the over filled, fiber cup holder from her small hands. “You have thirty seconds to handle whatever quarrel is keeping him in front of my magazine company and then I want you in the conference room.”

  “Sure thing,” Charlotte said to the back of his greasy head of hair before turning her attention back to Nicholas. “This is not the time, nor the place,” she snapped, pulling away from him.

  Nicholas looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, his silver gaze holding her captive. Then nodding at her left hand, he said, “You took off your wedding rings.”

  “I don’t see a reason for me to wear them anymore,” she answered, matter- of- factly. Outwardly, Charlotte was the epitome of calm, but secretly, where no one could see, she was a tumultuous wr
eck.

  “Oh, really?” he asked, his voice was low. “One mistake and you’re willing to turn your back on what we have? For you it’s that easy to walk away from me?”

  No! Charlotte’s subconscious screamed, but she ignored the small voice and remained silent. Afraid that if she had spoken her will would be broken. He had betrayed her, lied to her for months . . . kept her in the dark− made a fool of her just as Todd had done.

  “You can write as many notes as you want . . . stop wearing your rings . . . and do whatever else you can think of to hurt me, but I am not letting you divorce me.”

  “I am not trying to hurt you, Nicholas. I just need space.”

  “Space?” Nicholas frowned. “Do you really think we are going to work through this by being apart from one another?”

  Charlotte shook her head at his words. He was getting in her head, twisting her thoughts and crippling her resolve. “I don’t know what to think,” she answered honestly. “But− I do know that I cannot look at you and not think about you being with her. I have images in my head that I cannot escape from and the thought of you touching another woman makes me sick to my stomach. I know that much. So, I am asking you to leave and I am asking you to please not be home when I get there this evening. That is the least you can do after what you have done.”

  Nicholas’ eyes clouded over, but the intensity of his gaze never faltered. Running a hand through his uncombed hair, he sighed. “Dimple, I don’t want to wake up and not be next to you.”

  “And I don’t want to hate waking up next to you. I need space.”

  Nodding his head, he said, “Okay. I will give you space . . . but I want you to quit working here.”

  “No. I’m not quitting my job.”

  “Dean is dangerous, and I don’t want you around him. The man stalked us for God knows how long. He is capable of far more than stalking and blackmail . . . he is capable of more than you could ever imagine.”