A Winter's Vow (A Winter's Tale Series Book 3)

by Kristi Tailor

  “Your kindness!” Dean yelled belligerently. Kindness! Tell me something Mr. Elliot,” he sneered. “Was it your kindness that fired me after five long years of loyal service to the magazine. I exceeded beyond the expectations appointed to me, and you fired me because the office slut didn’t like what I had to say.”

  “I fired you because you were insubordinate and lacked the necessary skills needed to be a team player.”

  “Bullshit! And you know it,” Dean spit at him, his anger boiling over. “I called you out on the unprofessional relationship shared between you and Charlotte which caused a conflict of interest for everyone at the workplace, and you fired me because of it.”

  “You were out of control and your aggressive disposition had begun to make others feel uncomfortable. You did it to yourself.”

  “No! No! You did it to me! You and that− that conniving little bitch.”

  Nicholas’ mouth twitched in agitation. “Dean watch yourself,” he warned.

  “You watch yourself,” Dean retorted, rising from his seat. “I’m pathetic? I’m wasting your time with my pitiful games? Who cares? I can think of one person who would care an awful lot if she saw those pictures, and I’m certain that her thoughts on the images would last more than a few seconds. Do you know what person I’m referring to, Mr. Elliot?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “A cheater, and a liar. Charlotte really won the jackpot,” Dean snorted indignantly.

  “Charlotte?” Nicholas frowned, forging confusion. “What does Charlotte have to do with any of this?”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know that the two of you are together−”

  “Together? You’re still living in the world of assumptions, I see.”

  “So, you didn’t spend Christmas with her family in Baltimore? And she didn’t spend New Year’s with your family in the Hamptons? You haven’t been staying in her one bed room flat on W. 26th street? That yellow diamond on her finger, you didn’t give it to her? It’s sweet how you drop her off a block away from the office so that no one assumes that you two are together, and how she waits for you at the coffee shop on 46th street at the end of the work day. Monday through Friday it’s the same routine, she buys two coffees and a cookie for you to share. Is it toffee nut or heath? I’ve been wondering that for a while now, I’m never close enough to get a good look.”

  “You’re psychotic,” Nicholas acknowledged.

  “Come now, that isn’t a nice thing to say to someone who holds your future in their hands.”

  “All this for what? To get your job back?”

  Dean laughed then, clearly amused. “Of course not. Why would I ever want to submit myself to your will? Never again in this lifetime will I work for you.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “To be you.”

  Nicholas’ thick brows drew together over stormy eyes. “Excuse me?” he said, seemingly puzzled.

  “I want to be Editor- in- Chief.”

  “I can’t just make you Editor- in- Chief . . . there’s a board that I have to answer to now. I don’t call the shots anymore. Fissicle−”

  “Could care less about what you do as long as he is making a profit . . . right? Or were those words only convenient when you used them to fire me?”

  Nicholas fought to ignore the heat that slowly spread through his body like a wildfire, his nerve endings inflamed by the potency of his anger. “So, I step down and appoint you Editor- in- Chief at Gizzelle Bridal, and then what? You get rid of the pictures? Am I supposed to trust that you won’t save copies?”

  “Stepping down is not an option. I want you out. Completely out of the magazine.”

  “And the pictures?”

  “I won’t show them to Charlotte,” Dean claimed, his tone sincere. “Though, you’d be foolish to think that I’d get rid of them . . . I have no intention of disposing of them, but you have my word that I will never show them to Charlotte. Your secret will be safe with me.”

  “You expect me to leave the company with the promise that you won’t show Charlotte the pictures?” Nicholas laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Be serious.”

  “There’s always the option of telling Charlotte the truth, and in doing so leaving me powerless,” Dean offered with a shrug of his frail shoulders, not bothering to suppress the cynical smile forming on his chapped lips.

  Nicholas’ penetrating silvers shot daggers at the shorter man. “I’ll need a few days,” he said after a moment. “Should I reach out to you on the number you texted me from earlier.”

  “No, that phone was . . . borrowed.”

  “You don’t have a phone?” Nicholas snorted indignantly. “How am I supposed to contact you?”

  “One needs a job to have a phone . . . a struggle I’m sure you’ve never had to worry about.”

  “How am I supposed to contact you?” Nicholas repeated, ignoring Dean’s patronizing words.

  Dean’s unruly brows rose, feigning contemplation. “About how much do burner phones cost these days? One- hundred? Two- hundred dollars? Perhaps two- hundred would suffice,” he said decidedly, extending his bony hand toward Nicholas.

  “Two- hundred dollars? For a burner? Who do you think you’re speaking to? Ten dollars−”

  “Ten dollars would be enough to send a nice package to the Toutant’s. They’re such a close- knit family,” Dean smiled wickedly. “What I mean to say− is that they share more than most. This wouldn’t be the first time for Charlotte to experience heartache by way of infidelity at the hands of the one who should love and value her most? Who knows, perhaps, her parents would tell her the truth this time . . . if they happened to stumble across photos of their daughter’s future husband with another woman. Perfect chance for redemption, if you ask me . . . after keeping such a devastating secret about her sister and ex- lov−”

  “You bastard!” Nicholas growled. “Do you have any morals?”

  “Asks the man who’s willing to lie to the woman who loves him.”

  Reaching into his back-pocket Nicholas pulled out his black calfskin Cartier wallet, and without so much as a thought handed the man what he wanted . . . two crisp one- hundred- dollar bills. On the outside Nicholas exemplified a calmness unbeknownst to even himself considering the gravity of the situation, but for the life in him, he couldn’t allow for Dean to see that he was worried; he refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was moments away from having an anxiety attack, his breathing elevated, his chest tight. If it took everything in him, Nicholas was determined to put on an air of fearlessness.

  “Oh, before I forget, you’ll need this,” Dean added, taking a small folded piece of paper from his deeply creased shirt sleeve. “Our conversation has taken off in so many different directions . . . I’ve failed to mention the most important part.”

  Snatching the crinkled paper from Dean’s hand, Nicholas quickly opened it. “What is this?” he demanded, his stormy eyes glaring down at the two rows of insignificant numbers.

  “The routing and account number that you’ll be wiring money to,” Dean explained.

  “What? My job isn’t enough?” Nicholas demanded, shaking his head disdainfully.

  Dean smiled broadly. “Riveting how losing everything tends to make one who never wanted much to desire having it all, isn’t it? Let’s start off light, shall we? Let’s say you transfer five into that account within the next seventy-two hours, and−”

  “Not necessary. Give me a few hours, and I can have five- thousand in cash . . . money is of no consequence; however, this weak attempt you’re making at getting even ends here. Before I hand over a dime of my money I need your word.” Not that it’s worth much, Nicholas mused. “Your word that the Editor position, and the five thousand is the limit to this- so- called blackmail.”

  Dean shook his head adamantly, his eyes wide with resolve. “This,” Dean answered, “is only the beginning. We have barely touched the surface−”

  “The blackmail e
nds with−”

  “It ends when I’m ready for it to end. You are no longer calling the shots, and I can only imagine how difficult that notion must be for someone like you to comprehend, but you damn well better grasp this concept of reality sooner than later. Your days of calling the shots, and placing demands are over.” Standing from his seat, Dean took a step toward Nicholas, letting out an exasperated breath as he shook his head a second time. “People like you are the poison of the earth, all you do is cause pain and devastation.” Gingerly, combing his skeletal fingers through his oily hair, he continued, “You have three days to wire me the money. Five- million and not a cent less.”

  Nicholas’ eyes darkened and his jaw clenched tightly. “Five million?” he echoed, his tone betraying his infuriation. “We agreed on five- thousand,” Nicholas said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “We agreed on nothing. Five- million. And not a cent less,” Dean repeated as he backed away from Nicholas, his sunken eyes watching the larger man intently. “I’ll reach out to you in a day or two,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Closing his eyes, Nicholas let out a labored breath. “Shit,” he cursed, taking his phone from his Burberry Westminster trench coat. His voice was weak, strained. “Shit.” He needed resources, and fast. Quickly scrolling through his contacts, Nicholas knew of only one person who could be of assistance to him, though the idea of being a burden to another suffocated his pride. “Catherine,” he said once the line picked up. “I need your help.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Smacking the bed with his open palm, Nicholas groaned. Having a good night’s sleep was not in the cards for him. His mind was remorseless; restlessly, he tossed and turned for hours, awaiting the sweet release that only unconsciousness could provide. What wouldn’t he give for a moments peace, a respite from his vicious thoughts . . . from the torment his subconscious was being subjected to. Guilt clung to his spirit like a spider did its web. Interwoven . . . inseparable . . . inextricable, the shame he felt for his transgression was endless. Sitting up, Nicholas rolled onto his right side, his muscular frame resting on the strength of his forearm. Reaching out in the darkness, he searched for his blackberry that sat quietly on the nightstand beside his bed. He needed to hear her voice. He needed the comfort of knowing that when he called she would answer, the reassurance that nothing had changed between them. It was a pretense . . . a false sense of security, of that he was certain . . . but, for now it was enough.

  “Dimple,” he breathed into the phone when the line picked up. “I miss you,” he said, sincerely.

  Charlotte heard the longing in his voice. “I miss you, too,” she murmured, sleepily. “You haven’t called me in days. I thought something was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I’ve been busy.” The excuse was weak, and he knew it. “I’ll do better, I promise . . . how’s your mom?”

  “She’s doing better. Physically she’s weak, but aside from that she’s still as overzealous as ever, that’s for sure.”

  Nicholas laughed. “I’m sure that she’s enjoying your company.”

  “She is overjoyed at my being here, but that’s not saying much . . . she lives for the dramatics. Between her and Marguerite, I don’t know who’s worse.”

  “How is Marguerite?” he asked, knowing how difficult it must have been for Charlotte to stay in the same house with her sister for such an immense amount of time.

  “She’s the same as she’s always been. I don’t know . . . I haven’t said too much to her since I’ve been here. We watched a movie together earlier today, but that was the most time we’ve spent together since I’ve gotten to Baltimore.”

  “Well, that’s a start. I know you don’t feel particularly ecstatic about being around her, but it’s nice that you are starting to forgive her.”

  “I think that you’re giving me too much credit. At times, being in her presence annoys me. And it’s not even that I’m angry with her anymore . . . I’ve honestly gotten over what she and Todd had done, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m disgusted by her. I don’t know if what I’m saying makes sense to you . . .”

  “It does.”

  “It’s just the principle behind her actions. I don’t like being made a fool of, especially not by the people who claim to love me. I can’t trust her anymore, and there is nothing that she can do that will ever change that.”

  Nicholas closed his eyes at the promise of her words, his heart sinking further into his chest as the realization that their demise may be the inevitable. He had single handedly destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to him. Taking the phone away from his ear, Nicholas pressed the sleek black device into the mattress, hoping to muffle the sound of the painful sobs that threatened to choke him. Fighting to control his breathing, he wiped viciously at the hot tears that poured uncontrollably from his eyes. If she finds out, she’ll never forgive me, he thought, heartbroken. If she finds out, I’ll lose her . . . I was our ruin.

  “Nicholas,” Charlotte called. “Did you fall asleep?”

  Bringing the phone back to his ear, Nicholas let out a deep breath before answering, “No, Dimple. I’m here.”

  “I’m tired. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Don’t hang up,” he said anxiously, his tone weary. “Just go to sleep.”

  Yawning, Charlotte asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he lied. “I just miss you.”

  “I miss you more,” she whispered, already drifting off to sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charlotte woke to the sound of her mother’s boisterous laughter radiating throughout the split- level house. A small whimper escaped her dry throat before she made any attempt at moving. Letting out a short breath, she opened her eyes to the sun filled room. Morning hues of rose and gold bounced off the silk painted walls, natures canvas greeting her before any other. Stretching her long torso along the firm mattress, Charlotte yawned noisily, her thin frame easily maneuvering out of the kneaded quilt’s grasp.

  “What a surprise!” she heard her mother hoot. “If I had known that you’d be coming I would have prepared a better breakfast!” Babet chortled. “Charli is going to be thrilled that you’re here.”

  Charlotte sat up then, the sound of her name capturing her full attention. Throwing her legs over the bed, she creeped over to the closed door and opened it just enough to make out the hushed voices of the others. Squeezing her eyes shut, Charlotte pressed her ear against the small crack, focusing in on the vibration of voices coming from the kitchen, but her efforts were made in vain. The only voice that made it past the stairs was her mother’s.

  Who could I possibly be thrilled to see? . . . another one of your friends no doubt, Charlotte thought as she grabbed her morning gown from off the wooden desk chair. Old friends, neighbors, and even customers had stopped by to show their support of Babet in wake of her injury. After all, what choice did they have after she posted picture after picture of her casted leg, and too tall crutches on Facebook. Her horrendous ordeal was made public to her community of followers, which led to several frequent visits from people that Charlotte had not seen in years. Some came with cards, others with fruit baskets and balloons, and a few empty-handed stragglers stopped by for a quick visit. Regardless of their bounty, or lack thereof, Babet was in Heaven. The amount of attention she received over the weeks was more than she could have ever dreamed, and with every visitor, Charlotte was forced to make an appearance. Babet couldn’t wait to gush over the lost child who had found her way back home. Making her way down the stairs, Charlotte double tied her robe, careful that her cleavage was covered by the lush material.

  “How long do you plan on staying?” Charlotte heard Babet ask her guest as she walked down the long narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.

  “Only until tomorrow,” answered a familiar voice.

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks. Nicholas.

  “Just one day?” Babet whined. “That’s no time at al
l.”

  “I know,” Nicholas said apologetically. “I have business matters that I need to take care of, otherwise I would stay longer.”

  Charlotte exhaled slowly. He’s in the kitchen, she thought. Right there in the kitchen. It had been weeks since she had seen him, and now, without any warning, the man she had longed to embrace was just a few feet away. I can’t see him looking like this . . . bed hair and bad breath . . . I just can’t, she shook her head in silent protest. The thought of him seeing her in such a state made her stomach feel queasy. Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, Charlotte contemplated making a run for it. Perhaps I could creep back upstairs, and get presentable before they even realize I’m awake.

  “Charli, what good is it to hide around corners,” Manuel called from the kitchen table. “Come sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

  “Charli? Charli’s awake? Where is she?” Babet asked her husband, who had been silently reading his newspaper.

  “In the hallway, hiding,” Manuel answered.

  “For Heaven’s sake, hiding from who?” Babet demanded.

  Charlotte jumped back against the wall. “Ouch,” she cried when her head bounced off the beige painted plaster. Instant mortification swelled in the pit of her stomach, causing her muscles to do small flips, and her nerves to spasm out of control. Raising her hand to her throbbing head Charlotte shook her head at her ordeal. She was being ridiculous, that she knew, still, the thought of Nicholas seeing her un-kempt after not being in his presence for such a long length of time made her self- conscious.

  “Charli!” Babet squealed. “What in the world are you doing? Viens ici, idiote.” Come here, silly girl.

  “I slipped,” she lied, tapping her puffy cheeks, hoping to add color to the dull mask that was her face. Sighing inwardly, Charlotte dropped her head as she rounded the corner, her shoulders hunched from the weight of unnecessary self- loathing. Dropping her head, she continued down the hallway, her eyes on her bare feet as she made her way into the kitchen.