Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  “Leave.” I said the single syllable in a low tone. I didn’t want Lydia to overhear. I threw in another bone–crunching squeeze for good measure. “Now.”

  Tristan turned and stomped out, leaving Lydia and Poppy staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” Poppy asked Lydia.

  Lydia glanced at me, her eyes splayed wide with fear, anger, confusion. “I think I am now.”

  A secret female look passed between the two women “If that’s the case, I’m going to go too. Bye, Lyds.” She popped a kiss on Lydia’s cheek, gave me a wink and almost sprinted across the store.

  Lydia turned to me. I inhaled a cleansing breath. How did I even begin to explain almost thirty years of family dynamics?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, deciding on the only thing I could that wouldn’t sound trite or ridiculous. Because I was sorry. Truly, deeply sorry for Tristan and what he’d already done to her. She looked me over and heaved a sigh.

  “Why don’t we get a drink?” she asked and I exhaled. She wasn’t going to rail at me. Thank the heavens. “I’m feeling like a glass of wine. Maybe even half the bottle.”

  We only had to walk a couple of blocks to find an upscale wine bar. I placed my hand on the small of her back to guide her to one of the plush, leather booths. Since it was late on a Friday, we were able to snag a good spot. I hoped they also served food because my stomach had started rumbling right after Tristan mentioned dinner. I hadn’t meant to stay the entire evening at the bookstore. But then I hadn’t expected Lydia to be there, luring me to remain close to her like a modern–day siren.

  Lydia removed the light jacket she wore and relaxed into the booth seat behind her, snuggling her ample rump into the cushion. I tried not to stare. Easy conversation had flowed during our walk, but we deliberately avoided any mention of the incident. It was as if Tristan had faded into oblivion and had never existed in the sphere of our evening’s awareness. Once the server placed the crystal wine glasses in front of us, Lydia turned toward me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said in a rush before she could speak.

  She looked at me, her eyes tired and listless. “I heard you the first time, but this isn’t your fault, you know. I don’t want you thinking I blame you for Tristan’s behavior. I didn’t invite him to the signing, and I was as surprised as you were when he arrived bearing gifts.” She raised an eyebrow. “Almost as surprised as I was to see you there. After you left my apartment the night of the accident, I didn’t expect to ever see either of you ever again.”

  I nodded, feeling the question lurking behind the statement, and feeling lucky that she had agreed to accompany me to this damn bar after my stalker behavior. After tonight’s display, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she wanted nothing else to do with the Markham boys. Either of us.

  I was three sips in before I took a step into the deep waters. Even though any relationship guru would advise not to spill your dirty secrets too soon, it felt imperative to man up with this woman. “There’s a reason I avoid talking to him.”

  “I couldn’t imagine why,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. She’d pulled her hair from the elegant top knot she’d worn it in, and it cascaded down her shoulders like a halo of chestnut silk, shot with red undertones. I sat on my hands to keep from reaching out and running my fingers through it. Just one touch. Just to feel it.

  “It’s Amelia,” I sighed. “There’s more to the story than what I’ve already told you.”

  I hadn’t talked about her this much in ages. It still hurt to talk about her. I hadn’t even wanted to tell Nolan. Now, here I was ripping open a scab on an old wound twice in recent memory to the same person. Another woman. But there was some part of me that realized Lydia deserved to know the entire story, not just the abbreviated version I’d shared with her at Grounds Zero. I wanted to tell her everything and see if I could trust her to keep the information safe.

  “You said that Tristan knew about Amelia, right?”

  I nodded. “He could have done something. But right after, he posted on social media that he thinks it’s great fodder for his future memoirs. Fodder. The love of my life is just fake emotion to draw on during a difficult scene. Like those actors that think about dead babies in order to cry on cue.” I despised the fact that my brother interpreted some of the worst days in my life as a story to tell. It wasn’t his story, and I hated the fact that he thought he had a right to even mention it. “He could have told me, stopped her. Taken it more seriously. And he refuses to apologize or even acknowledge his role in Amelia’s death. He won’t say anything. He knew. I don’t even know how he found out.”

  “But he knew about her plans?” Lydia repeated. “You’re sure?”

  I stared at her. “Not with one hundred percent certainty, but it’s how he portrayed it.”

  It was almost cathartic, saying all these things about my brother that I’d held back all these years out of respect to our bond by blood. No more. I ruminated in silence, grateful for Lydia’s silent support. Her face oozed empathy. Not judgment or censure. I could tell she understood the depth of my pain. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed until she drained her glass then leaned back into the booth, closing her eyes.

  “I should get you home,” I said and pulled my wallet out, did the math in my head and tossed some twenties on the table.

  She snorted, a cute little sound that made me smile. “Are you destined to forever be saving me from some ridiculous situation or another and gallantly seeing me home?”

  “Nah, just seems to be some recent habit I’ve acquired.”

  She shook her head, an embarrassed smile on her face. “Just so you know, I can count on two fingers how many times I’ve needed to be saved by a man. Luckily, you to be in the right place at the right time.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it wrong place, wrong time?”

  “Well, considering it was my brother who created those two situations, I’ll claim it as right.”

  She yawned and blinked sleepily. I wasn’t even feeling the effects of the wine, but Lydia must have been a lightweight. Either that or the exhaustion of her jam–packed evening had allowed the alcohol to go straight to her head. Wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders, I supported her as we walked down the street. She’d just given me her address when my phone rang, and I paused to check the screen.

  Shit. My mother. No doubt Tristan called her right after leaving the bookstore to impart his latest sob story with his usual flair for the dramatic.

  “I need to get this over with,” I told Lydia, and she nodded her understanding. I didn’t let go of Lydia as I accepted the call and pressed the phone to my ear, “Hello.”

  “Callum,” she clipped out. Her cold and imperious voice gave nothing away. My mother was the sole heiress to the Jupiter Telecommunications fortune. When my grandfather passed, he’d left her billions. She still held a place as high in NYC society as Anne Banks, even though she and my father had retired to upstate.

  “Mom, I’m standing on the street with a friend, can I call you back?” There was a pause on the other line, then some mumbling. My father probably hovered right next to her, eavesdropping.

  “I’m afraid not, Callum. It’s about Tristan,” my mother said. “It’s important.”

  I rolled my eyes. When wasn’t everything concerning Tristan of the utmost importance? Of course he had tattled, of course he had gone running to the parents the second he was alone, playing the role of victim to perfection. Too bad I no longer gave a shit about protecting him. The chickens had come home to roost. I no longer gave a shit if they cut me out of their will and pulled my trust fund.

  Time to step up and take accountability for yourself, little brother.

  “Is something wrong?” Lydia whispered.

  “Who are you with, Callum? Some work meeting again? You never stop to live your life. Always work, work, work. You don’t even need to be slaving away for Grantham and Anne Banks when you could be head counsel at Jupiter. No, never mind. We need to talk about your b
rother,” my mother said, sounding like a grade school teacher wagging her finger in my face.

  “Mom. Please, can I just call you tomorrow?”

  “You cannot, Callum,” my mother insisted. There was another pregnant pause on the line followed by more mumbling. I was so over this melodramatic shit. I wanted to throw my phone out into the street and watch a hundred cabs run it over while my mother’s superior voice faded into oblivion. Lydia watched with intensity, her eyes narrowing with concern.

  “Callum, you’re not listening to me. This is important.”

  “Mom, listen. I just want to see my friend home safely, and then I’ll call you later. I’m seriously standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the city. Now is not the time to tell me something important unless someone’s hair is on fire.”

  “It just might be. Callum, listen to us.”

  I blew out a breath. When my mother got something in her head, she turned into a Pitbull with a meaty bone. She wouldn’t leave it alone until she’d gnawed it bare.

  “It concerns your brother, but of course, you know that. He called us leaving a very cryptic message. Your father and I are very concerned.”

  I stifled a moan. “I can explain everything. I’m certain it’s not as big a deal as he’s insinuating.”

  As fucking usual.

  “Please, Callum,” my mother begged, “I need you to go to his apartment right now. I need you to check on him. There isn’t a moment to lose.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Why?”

  “His message only contained one word.” My mother’s words peppered me like sharp pebbles, and I felt my stomach sink. “Goodbye.”

  Insufferable man!

  – Elizabeth Bennet

  Chapter 9

  Lydia

  My head pounded a throbbing staccato rhythm. I knew better than to have the second glass of Merlot after my exhausting signing and the drama that James Dean Markham had caused. I’d thought it would help me unwind, but now I just needed an aspirin and some breakfast. I fought to keep my eyes shut for as long as possible, but the sun peeked through my curtains, shining across my face. White paws kneaded my stomach as Bingley made his presence known. He topped it off with a loud mewl, letting me know I was late with his kibble.

  “Shh. I know you’re hungry, I’m sorry.”

  My cat ignored my words and kept pawing at me. I petted him for as long as possible, but eventually, I sat up. Damn spoiled cat. Just what I get for indulging him since he’d been a white fluff ball at eight weeks old. I couldn’t resist him then or now.

  “Shh, baby,” I repeated.

  I hated drinking, I hated being hung over. I tried to piece together what happened the night before and remembered Callum. Ah, Callum. His pain and regret had burned straight into my memory. And my aching body. Something about the man touched me deep inside.

  The signing had been spectacular until Tristan showed up uninvited. Boy, had I been wrong about that douche. As the dating experts liked to pontificate, a woman should look closely at what a man does and not what he says. Lesson learned the hard way. I picked up my phone. Multiple messages from Poppy littered my lock screen complete with a cover photo of my latest release. I had wanted to keep up with Callum after he’d ordered a bottle of wonderful Merlot, but not make a big deal out of it.

  And in light of my new knowledge, as much as I wanted to lay in bed daydreaming about the yummy Callum Markham, he hadn’t invited me to see him again, and he hadn’t called. He’s not going to call, you dolt. He was just trying to be a strong salve for the open wounds that Tristan caused. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get myself together enough to sit up. Even the simple action felt like climbing a mountain, but I knew as soon as I hit up my Keurig and indulged in a fresh–brewed espresso, I’d be able to write.

  But right now, I needed a bottle of water.

  Stumbling to the kitchen, I was sidetracked by a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I said, squinting as my own voice hit my ears.

  “Delivery.”

  Sighing heavily, I headed toward the door. The doormen downstairs wouldn’t have let anyone else up without buzzing me first, but I still checked the peephole before opening the door.

  All I could see were pink and white blooms, and a thrill of excitement went through me. Roses. Then I bit my lip, and the excitement died. Probably from Tristan for acting like a jerk last night.

  I opened the door, then stumbled backward as the roses were thrust at me, and Bingley went into a full–blown chorus of angry meows that went above and beyond the average morning hunger as the man holding them stepped inside.

  Even before the door clicked closed behind him, I knew who it was. Tristan.

  “You’re beautiful even when you wake up.” He sounded so casual and even happy. What the fuck? Did he think he could barge into my apartment like a common criminal?

  “How did you get in here?” I asked and pulled my robe tighter around me. As if a thin layer of cotton could protect me from an unstable man twice my size. I used the hair elastic that was ever present on my wrist to tie my hair in a bun as I swiped at my blurry eyes. Maybe if I pretended this was all a bad dream and went back to bed, he’d go away.

  “Like I said…delivery.” He nodded at the flowers and then held out a white paper bag and a cardboard carrying tray from Grounds Zero. The allure of caffeine wafted toward my nostrils.

  “But—”

  “I wanted to watch you write today after we have breakfast,” he said as if I hadn’t opened my mouth. “To make up for not taking you to dinner last night.” No longer sensing imminent danger from the intruder, Bingley pushed his furry body against my legs, reminding me of his breakfast.

  “I rarely write here lately,” I said, trying to remain calm. Keep them talking, isn’t that what the experts say? “I usually go to a coffee shop or something, and it’s way too early. I had a late night last night. Again, why are you here?”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Tristan said, ignoring the real issue. Seems he was a master at evasion. Smoke and fucking mirrors. “We didn’t end things on a good note last night, so I wanted to make sure you were okay. That we were okay.”

  Pretty sure that we’re not okay, gutter punk.

  “You’re in my apartment.” I’d never let him into my apartment. I would never let him into my apartment. We’d always met each other in a public place. I stared at him, unable to believe the human evidence of a serious boundary violation standing right before my eyes. “You need to leave.”

  I was having trouble piecing my thoughts together. The banging in my head mixed with the panic and alarm coursing through my body produced a lethal cocktail of turbulent emotion.

  “I really want to spend time with you, Lydia,” Tristan said. “I really feel like we have a special connection.” It was the way he said it, the calm coolness of his voice that spiked fear through my body. Like a sociopath in a bad movie. Just how dangerous was this guy? My mind kept drifting to Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. My eyes drifted to Bingley as I imagined him being dropped into the boiling pot of water.

  “Look,” I began, shaking my head of the scary image, “it started with the carriage ride gone wrong and escalated last night. I get your constant desire for validation, but I’m not your girl, so you need to go. Tristan, let me make myself clear. I no longer want to see you again. Ever.”

  “Perfect,” he insisted as if he hadn’t even heard the last portion of my speech and set the flowers on the table beside the door. “Then we can both play hooky today. Watch TV, see what else we get up to?”

  “No.”

  “My show’s not until tonight. But I have the entire day off to spend with you.”

  He stepped closer, grinning like he was rather pleased with himself. My stomach lurched again. Nothing stood between Tristan and me but dead space and maybe a swipe of Bingley’s claws. Why hadn’t I listened to Callum from the beginning? But, no. I’d been blinded by traditional romanticism that now
reeked of bullshit. Maybe I could make lemonade out of lemons and use it as my next plot idea. I remembered what Callum had said the night before, that all of this would eventually become fodder for Tristan’s memoirs. Callum. It hit me that I didn’t even have his cell number so I could call and lament about his lunatic brother.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked. “Why aren’t you hearing me?”

  I felt pinned to the spot. Like one of those dreams that you know is a dream, but no matter how hard you try to force yourself to wake up, you remain suspended there between the two worlds. I pinched my leg and winced at the pain. I wasn’t dreaming.

  “Lydia, I just want to spend time with you.” He put the coffee down on the table, and held the bag out to me, “I bought croissants from that place you like.” I held one hand up and shook my head. He smiled a brilliant, white smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t match the rest of his demeanor.

  “I’m serious. You need to leave right now. This is so weird.”

  Tristan forced his lower lip out into a pout. “I was hoping you’d see it as romantic. Lydia, I really thought we had something. We’re both funny and charming and attractive. Perfect for each other. You’re a famous author. I’m a famous stage actor. It just fits.”

  Yeah, like OJ Simpson’s glove.

  “I know you, remember?” he went on, “From all the letters you wrote me. I know you’re lonely too, that you feel like you should be able to have someone in your life since you write about it. We’d be perfect together. We could give each other what the other needed. Don’t you see how perfect it could be?”

  I shut my eyes for a long second. He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than me, that just because it looked good on paper, he could force it into reality. While I had initially been flattered that a man like him wanted to be with me, this new Tristan freaked the shit out of me. The moment things didn’t go his way, he went over the edge.