“And how do you know that?”
“I just do,” he sighed.
“Even more secrets. When does it end? Why is it so hard for you to be upfront with me?”
“I don’t want you around him,” Nicholas repeated. Telling Charlotte about Isabelle, Dean’s younger sister who he had attempted to murder was not the best idea, at least not at that time. Dean’s past needed to stay kept until the time was right, and not a second before.
“Then fire him,” she said simply. “I already know the truth . . . all that I want to know of it anyway, so fire him. He has nothing else to hold over your head.”
“When the time is right, but for right now he doesn’t need to know that we are married . . . and he needs to be oblivious to the fact that−”
“That I know about you and Blithe? Got it. Don’t tell the sick freak that I know about my husband having an affair.”
Nicholas groaned painfully at the hurtfulness of her words. Roughly combing his fingers through his hair, he said, “I didn’t have an affair, Dimple. We weren’t married.”
“And that makes it right?”
“Nothing about this is right. I said that I was sorry, and I meant it. Honestly, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t feel comfortable with you working in the same building as him. If you want me to give you space, you have to promise you’ll quit.”
“That’s not how this works, Nicholas. You have no right to give me ultimatums. I’m not quitting my job.”
“This is impossible,” he groaned, growing agitated. “What does space entail? I can’t stay at the apartment . . . can I pick you up from work? Can I call you? Or, are we supposed to act like we aren’t husband and wife . . . just disappear from each other’s lives?” he asked bitterly. “Dimple, we are just going in circles. Let’s just go home and talk. I will tell you everything from beginning to end . . . let’s just go home, please.”
Charlotte blinked back the tears threatening to spill from her glossy eyes. “I will reach out to you when I am ready,” she said before turning away from him without so much as a backwards glance. One day at a time, her subconscious comforted her. Just get through one day at a time.
Chapter Fifteen
With an arched back and squared shoulders, Charlotte walked gracefully through the large foyer in the direction of the elevators. In her peripheral vision she caught sight of her co- workers staring at her as she passed by the receptionist desk, heard their loud snickers from behind. Their once subtle taunting was now outright blatant. Their dislike for her was barefaced and unconcealed as they took pride in behaving like mean girls. Charlotte knew that returning to work would be interesting, but the last thing she expected was to be so brazenly disrespected. With her back toward the gathering group of gossiping women she squeezed her eyes shut, inhaled and exhaled slowly as she waited for the elevators door to open. Without conscious thought, her mind drifted to Nicholas’ words of encouragement, ‘They’re jealous because they want what you have, ignore them.’
“Getting on?” a masculine voice inquired.
Quickly opening her eyes, Charlotte nodded her response as she walked into the elevator, avoiding the man’s watchful gaze. Clearing her throat, she said, “Four, please.”
“Sure thing, shoes,” the man chuckled.
Turning to face the stranger, Charlotte frowned, “Excuse me?”
“The last time we met on the elevator you were staring so passionately at your shoes you nearly missed your ride,” he laughed again. “Though, this time you were nodding off . . . so maybe, shoes won’t work.”
Charlotte regarded the man closely for several seconds before his words began to make sense. “Oh. I remember you now . . . you’re the elevator guy,” she said, forcing a smile. “You liked my peek-a-boo stilettos.”
“I liked the feet inside of your peek-a-boo stilettos. Black looks good with your complexion.”
Charlotte gave the unfamiliar man a sideways glance. “You remember what color they were?”
“Amongst other things,” he smiled, showcasing beautiful white teeth behind full lips. “Your floor.”
Exiting the elevator, Charlotte abruptly extended her arm to stop the doors from closing. “I wasn’t nodding off,” she corrected him. “I was just in deep thought . . . about something− important.”
“Oh,” he returned, not pressing the matter. There was a hint of laughter in his smile, and amusement in his chestnut brown eyes.
Charlotte’s gaze traveled down his athletic build and then back to his deeply tan face. “What’s your name?” she asked, purely out of curiosity.
“Santiago. Santiago Martìnez.”
***
Charlotte opened the large wooden doors to the conference room, stopping just short of the entry way at the sight of Dean standing there alone in the large dimly lit space. Her dark brown eyes met his icy blues inquisitively. “Did I miss the meeting?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Miss it?” Dean grinned at her. “Impossible. All things work on your time. At least− that is how Nicholas ran this place . . . every facet involved you in some way. Everything happened at times deemed convenient for you.”
“That couldn’t be further from the truth, but then you were never big on stating the truth,” she retorted, rolling her eyes at him. All day she had to deal with his snide comments and enough was enough. Between getting harassed by her colleagues and having to deal with Dean’s insolent disposition, Charlotte was at her wits end. “If there is no meeting to sit through, I’ll be on my way.”
“Please come in and close the door,” Dean said, taking a seat in the plush black leather chair at the head of the conference table. When Charlotte didn’t move, he arched an amused brow and laughed softly. The sound was grating in the empty room. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you were afraid of me.”
Charlotte’s small hands tightened into fists at her sides. Being in the same building, let alone the same room with the vile man was enough to make her stomach churn. “I’m fine where I am.”
“Your level of insubordination is truly appalling,” he muttered coldly, clearly agitated by her noncompliance. “Do you like working here, Charlotte?” Dean asked, feigning concern. “You’ve been out quite a bit over the past month. I’ve heard rumors that you are no longer interested in your position as editor, being engaged to a multi-millionaire . . . well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first gold- digging bitch to become inefficient in the work place after being bought by a man with means.”
Charlotte glared at him. “You cannot talk to me like that.”
“I can do whatever I want to you . . . whenever I want to you, however I want to you. And you damn well better learn your place in this building, or else−”
“Or else, what? You’ll continue to watch me through bridal shop windows? Try to push me into the street the next time instead of running into on-coming traffic to get away from me?” she demanded. “You’re a freak. A disgusting freak who takes pleasure in ruining people’s lives.”
Dean smiled wolfishly; his thin lips curled into a grotesque sneer that made her chest tighten. “Those are some nasty allegations you just made, and with so little proof.”
“I saw your eyes,” she screamed at him. “On the street that day . . . I saw your eyes. I know that it was you following me . . . watching me. You’re sick. And Nicholas may have given you his position, but I promise you, I will make sure you lose everything just like you did the first time,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Careful Charlotte,” Dean whispered salaciously. “Bad things happen to people who test too many limits.”
Blinking at him, she asked, “Is that a threat, Dean?”
“Mr. Proctor,” he modified. “And no, it is simply an observation from past experiences. Now, if you would excuse me,” he said, gesturing for her to leave the room. “I have work to do.”
Chapter Sixteen
Nicholas sat at the bar in Milton’s
Bar & Grill, an establishment that he and Charlotte frequently visited. Quietly, he toyed with the straw paper, folding and tearing at the edges in deep thought. It was befuddling how he could have everything his heart desired one minute, and then have it all taken away from him the next. How was life fair? Rather, how had he been so stupid as to think that the truth could stay hidden for long? The infamous saying was true, ‘What happens in the dark will eventually come to light.’ Though, telling Charlotte the truth hadn’t proven beneficial for him, or their marriage because he was sitting at the bar, alone.
“Another one?” asked Hendrix, the head bartender.
“Make it two.”
“Where’s my girl?” Hendrix asked, speaking of Charlotte. “It’s a rare sight not seeing the two of you attached at the hip,” he laughed.
“My guess would be home . . . but, uh, she could be at work . . . jogging. Dude, I don’t know,” he answered. Closing his eyes, Nicholas brought his right hand to his forehead and began to massage the spot with the tips of his fingers. The movement was slow and intentional, as if each stroke had the responsibility of removing some unseen ache.
Hendrix placed two shots of Grey Goose on the damp napkin in front of him. “You okay, Nicky-Boy?” he asked, removing the three stacked shot glasses to the left of Nicholas and wondering if he should close the younger man’s tab.
“Yup,” Nicholas answered, lifting the first glass to his full lips, drowning the contents and then reaching for the second. “I’m great.”
“How about giving cutie pie a call? Maybe she’ll meet you and yous two can take the cab back home together?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Nicholas said, slamming the shot glass on the bar. “Besides− I’m waiting for someone.”
“Then let me get you a glass of water. Two. Better if I make it two glasses of water.”
***
Nicholas waited at the bar for an hour before Stoffer Sharp, his father’s business attorney made an appearance. The man was wearing a single- breasted custom made all- black Hamilton Sharkskin suit with a black collared shirt and a navy- blue tie. He looked to be an old man− much older than his years suggested, but his stature was solid and impressive. “Nicholas,” he said, coming up behind the younger man and clasping him on the shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
“Have a seat Stoffer,” Nicholas said, signaling the bartender over to them. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“I’ll admit that curiosity got the better of me,” the silver haired man replied. “Asking me to meet you about Plotus Cosmetics without your father being present sparked my interest.”
Nicholas laughed. “You sure it had nothing to do with the $2,500 I’m paying you to meet with me for the hour?”
“Well, of course that was an added bonus,” he answered before briefly turning his attention to the bartender. “Double scotch single malt,” he ordered. “Now, Nicholas, tell me what this is all about?”
Nicholas regarded the older man skeptically. “I’m assuming that while you’re on my dime everything I tell you will remain confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t believe you. However, I need you. So, for your silence I am willing to compensate you generously. What does my father pay you?”
“For legal documentation?”
“For you to perform beyond what the bar allows,” Nicholas said impatiently.
Stoffer took a sip of his drink. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Nicholas?”
“For your special counsel, Stoffer? How much?”
“$20,000 in addition to my hourly fee of $1,200.”
“I’ll double that,” Nicholas said, signaling for the bartender to bring the man another drink.
“You have my attention,” Stoffer smiled, visibly pleased by what he had just heard. “What can I do for you?”
Nicholas shrugged nonchalantly. “I want Plotus Cosmetics.”
Frowning, Stoffer asked, “How am I supposed to help you with that? Helping you pirate your father’s company could have me barred. Besides− you’ll need controlling interest to have a significant influence on what takes place at the company. I’m thinking at least 51%.”
“I can achieve controlling interest without having such a high number. The ownership at Plotus is proportionately substantial relative to the total voting stock. Without half of the shares I could still have influence at the company.”
“Influence, but not controlling interest. How far do you think influence is going to get you? Your father has strategically chosen the members of his board. Each of those men are vested in his business as he is in theirs. They will not vote against him. If you want Plotus Cosmetics you will need 51% of outstanding shares.”
Nicholas did the math in silence. Caleb and I hold eight shares a piece . . . that’s sixteen, plus Fissicle’s twelve makes twenty- eight. I still need twenty-three percent to have controlling interest . . . there’s always Rebecca with another eight . . . then I’ll only be short fifteen percent.
“Not so easy I know,” Stoffer chuckled. “It never is when it’s worth having.”
“If I can get the numbers will you be of use to me?” Nicholas asked.
“Nicholas, I already told you the repercussions of willingly betraying my client. It’s unethical.”
Nicholas raised an amused brow. “Oh please, unethical should be your trademark. Why do you think I sought you out? Why do you think I called you? Do not pretend to be upright for my sake . . . I know better. Of all the lawyers Spencer has working for him, you know his business best. And you’re loyal to the money not to the client, of that I am certain. So, what’s your price?”
“I’ll lose my license.”
“Your price, Stoffer?”
The white- haired man took another sip from his drink and then stood from the bar stool. “$50,000,000,” he said, his blue eyes studying Nicholas intently as he awaited his response.
“Done,” Nicholas agreed without hesitation. “Help me take over Spencer’s company and the money is yours.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas felt the heavy weight of exhaustion when he pulled in front of his SoHo condominium on Greene Street. Although the commute from Milton’s Bar & Grill was painless enough as traffic seemed to move quicker than usual, the impact of his reality was too much to bear. And so, after having what felt to be the most devastating twenty- four hours of his life, he couldn’t help the feeling of satisfaction in knowing that he had secured his father’s lawyer in his plan of retribution. A small smile touched his lips at the thought when his cell phone rang. Unclipping his Blackberry from its holder, Nicholas brought the device to his ear. “Hello,” he said, not bothering to look at the screen.
“Nicholas, how good of you to answer. I thought I would have to make an unannounced trip to Manhattan for a five- minute conversation.”
Nicholas grimaced. “Mother. How are you?”
“Well enough, considering the stunt that you pulled. To find out that you are married from Vexter Warren is just too much, Nicholas. I like to have died, fallen dead on the floor when he called and left such a hideous voicemail about my son, the rebel who ran away to Florida to get married.”
Taking the key from the ignition, Nicholas leaned back in the cream leather chair as he listened to his mother’s endless rantings without interruption.
“Oh! A scandal in all regards. Nicholas, at times I do not understand your reasoning. There are certain limits you should not cross. This family is held to a certain esteem and you have diminished the honor awarded to the mother of the groom without so much as a thought. And to think that you let that scoundrel marry you . . . it’s simply grotesque to even consider. Hello? Nicholas, are you there?”
“I’m here,” he sighed.
“I’ve decided to give you and Charlotte a wedding reception. The venue is set, along with the guest list. I thought Gotham Hall would suffice on such short notice. It’s not The Plaza, but it will do. Of course, I will need your
s and Charlotte’s input on miniscule things, but nothing beyond that.”
“There’s no need to ask our opinion. Do as you please,” he said, secretly thrilled. The thought of being away from Charlotte until she deemed otherwise was not a decision he would have made. Still, he had decided to respect her need for space, but if his mother planned an event that put them in a room together, all the better. He was all for it, even if it meant being surrounded by the very people, he had fought so hard to stay away from. “What date did you have in mind?” he asked nonchalantly, hoping that he didn’t sound too excited.
“The end of June.”
“That’s too far out,” he complained. “Make it sooner.”
Chapter Eighteen
MAY 2009
Charlotte ran a steady pace as she rounded West Central Park and 8th Avenue. Skillfully controlling her breathing, she pressed her aching body forward, stretching her long muscular legs past their limits. Arching her back for a better pose, she lifted her chin toward the bright sun filled sky, inhaling the warm spring air. The air was thick from the humidity and the multitude of street vendors grilling food along the busy sidewalks.
Ignoring all inhibitions, Charlotte forced her body onward, her feet kissing the ground with infinite resolve. The pain radiating through her toned frame was nothing compared to the never- ending agony of being separated from Nicholas. It had been nearly two weeks since they had last spoken, last touched and the reality of it all was maddening. She missed him. It was that simple, she missed him− wholly, completely, entirely and the idea of continuing her daily existence without him made her heart ache. But . . . missing him wasn’t enough. The anguish of missing him did not compete with the sting of betrayal and embarrassment she had felt when thinking about him with Blithe. The image of them on Blithe’s parents’ deck . . . his hands caressing her skin . . . his lips parting hers . . . his tongue dancing with hers . . . their moans, a falsetto heightening one another’s pleasure until climax. She envisioned the entire scene in her head every time she closed her eyes, a circadian dose of torment delivered by her subconscious.
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