“Her studio? I thought she was like Patricia Reynolds. Occupied full-time by charitable work.”
“She spends a lot of time with committee work, but nothing like Patricia. Julie’s actually quite talented...with pencil drawings mostly. She has an art degree from UCLA with a dual minor in finance and early childhood development.”
Smiling, Chantel put one booted foot up against the wall. He sounded like a proud papa. And, she supposed, in some ways he was one.
In that moment, he reminded her of Max. And she told herself not to care. She was on the job.
“So you’re certain she’s okay?” she asked, getting back to breakfast the next morning. And the possibility of him asking Julie to join them.
“Of course. I knock on her door. She tells me to go away. I text. She answers.”
“But breakfast...you said that was a given.”
“I think she’s avoiding me.”
Dave Butts was back in his car. His partner had yet to return. Daniel would be back any minute. Her time was running short.
And all Chantel wanted to do was stand there and chat. “Why would she be avoiding you? Not because of that Patricia thing. Is it? Is she really that upset about it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She hasn’t told you?”
“No.”
“Have you asked?”
“Of course.”
“Do you want me to invite her to join us for breakfast?” she finally asked.
“That would please me very much. However, I think I need to have one more try at her myself. I just heard a scrape of a chair on the dining room tile. I should go.”
“Text me if you want me to call her. I’ve got her number from the library committee roster.”
“You got it. And, Chantel?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in the morning.”
It wasn’t until after she’d hung up that she realized they hadn’t said when or where.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JULIE WAS AT the dining room table—in colorful flannel pants and a cami top—a cup of tea and a plate of peanut butter toast in front of her. Colin stood back, watching her for a minute, missing his folks. They’d know more what to do with this shadow of the spirited child they’d raised—how to bring her fully back to life.
If his father had been alive, the rape would not have gone unpunished. Of that Colin felt certain.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked from the archway several feet behind her.
“I heard you leave your room, and I’m still here.”
Helping himself to a shot of warm, perfectly aged whiskey from the sideboard, Colin took a sip and sat next to her.
“What did I do?”
Ironic, considering the thoughts he’d had when he’d first seen her sitting there, that the look she gave him was reminiscent of her pubescent years, when she’d been so certain that she knew everything and he was a dork.
“You aren’t upset about Chantel, are you? You’ve been nagging me for years to open myself up to the possibility of a lasting relationship.” Her words, not his.
But he knew that sometimes you had to be careful what you wished for. That when what you thought you wanted came along, you realized you didn’t really want it at all.
Was she afraid he was going to move Chantel—or someone—into their home and obliterate the peace she’d found here?
Did she fear exposure? Guilt rose within him as he thought about what he’d already told Chantel about Julie.
Just the basics. The legal facts.
Far too much—when he considered the insular way he and Julie had decided to handle the situation.
“Do you dislike Chantel?” he asked. Trying to find his footing with her.
“To the contrary, I like her very much. She seems genuine. More down-to-earth than anyone else you’ve ever dated.”
“So what’s the problem?” She wouldn’t be out there if she wasn’t ready to talk.
“You.” Her gaze pinned him.
“Me?” Colin took a sip of whiskey, wishing his old man was sitting in the chair he now occupied. “What did I do?”
Other than disagree that Patricia Reynolds was spying on her? That Julie even thought it was a possibility concerned him. She’d had occasional instances of paranoia since the rape, but fewer now and never anything that wasn’t directly understandable.
Was Julie getting worse, not better? Was she starting to lose her grasp on reality?
“You disappointed me.”
He knew she was struggling, but her words still penetrated. Deep enough to hurt. “How did I do that?” he asked, finding the patience that had always been within him when it came to her. He’d listen, and then he’d help her see that maybe, just maybe, Patricia Reynolds had an agenda other than Julie. Maybe she had an overactive conscience and was on every committee she could find as a means of giving back to the community commensurate with what her husband took from it.
Spying on them made no sense. Julie had to see that. The commissioner and Smyth had them over a barrel. They’d all signed statements. Julie wouldn’t be charged with slander; there’d be no scandal and no behind-the-scenes or under-the-table innuendoes or backstabbing. Fairbanks and Fairbanks would not have a sudden depletion of clients. To the contrary, the firm would continue to stand strong regardless of the fact that the new CEO was so young—and Julie would never again accuse David Smyth Jr. of having raped her.
There was no way Julie could press rape charges at this point even if she wanted to.
“You say we’re different. That we aren’t users.”
The words came out of left field. Eyes narrowed, Colin studied her, trying to read her mind. Which hadn’t been easy even in easy days.
“We aren’t.”
“You’re using Chantel Johnson, Colin. She’s a decent woman. Sincere. And you’re doing to her just what others have done to us.”
Was this her way to justify the fact that she didn’t like the idea of him pursuing a relationship, after all?
It didn’t make sense. Julie might be reclusive, but just as he’d told Chantel, his sister was also savvy. Strong.
But then, it didn’t make sense that Julie thought Patricia Reynolds was spying on her.
“If you want me to stop seeing her...” He wasn’t sure he could at this point. He damned sure didn’t want to. But if it was what she needed, he’d try to find a way to meet those needs. Somehow.
Or get them both some help.
“No, I don’t want you to stop seeing her!” There was no mistaking the look of outrage in Julie’s gaze. “I want you to admit that you’re using her and apologize for it.”
“What?” Frowning, he stared at her. He was a bit off his mark since meeting Chantel the previous week, but...
“Have you told her that I’ve written some children’s books and that you’re after me to get them published?”
Shit. “No.”
“Have you told her that I’m a writer at all?”
He wanted a sip of whiskey in the worst way, but didn’t dare take it. Not right then. She’d take it as an admission of guilt. “No.”
“You didn’t tell me she was in publishing, either, but you knew, didn’t you? Before you introduced us on Saturday?”
He took that sip. “Yes.”
“And when you first heard that she was in publishing, did you think, ‘Now here’s a plan. Introduce her to Julie and maybe she can help me convince her to publish her books...’” She mimicked him.
He sipped again.
“You weren’t going to tell either one of us. You were just going to put us together and then manipulate the rest with little bugs in both of our ears
. Let her know I write. Get her to ask me if she can see one of my books. She tells me they’re really good and offers to help publish them.”
“Would that be so awful, Jules? To give yourself a chance to succeed?”
The moisture in her eyes cut him. “I am a success, Colin. Can’t you see that? Creation comes from within. You have to dig deep to hear the voices and see the visions. You have to access your core, open yourself and let what’s inside out. That’s what I do every single time I sit down in my room and go to work. Every day, I open up a little bit more. See a little more. Feel a little more. I’m not letting what happened lock me away. I’m finding ways to let myself fly.”
He felt like an idiot.
“So maybe I only fly solo these days. When I’m by myself. But it’s the way it is. For now. At least I’m flying.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She gave him that quirky tilt of her head, accompanied by a wry grin that used to be commonplace with her. “Did you get the part about going solo?”
He got something else, too.
“You aren’t solo right now.”
She didn’t blink. “I know.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. Except...I’m angry with you, and couldn’t keep it inside. I also feel a bit threatened. I don’t want my work exposed, Colin. Not until I’m ready. You need to come clean with Chantel. Tell her that you purposely kept my writing from her and that you hoped she’d be able to help me get published. Then you need to tell her that I’m not interested and that you understand why. Get it out on the table and make it go away. I can’t have this pressure, worrying about exposure. It’s stifling my process.”
Her words were filled with drama—but not the empty teenaged variety she’d exhibited so freely in high school. He felt the depths of her pain.
“Your writing is your therapy.”
“Yes.”
“It’s what’s helped you get more involved in your charity work. To branch out more.”
“I think so.”
“Will you accept my apology?”
“Yes, but it’s not just me you have to apologize to. And it’s not just this writing thing with Chantel. It’s that you tried to manipulate us, Colin. How does that make you any different from the Smyths and Paul Reynolds?”
“Because I did it for good reason? To help you?”
“If I never publish a book, that’s my right. If I never even try to do it, that’s my right. And if Chantel finds out I’m writing a series of books and wants to help, or doesn’t want to help, that’s for the two of us to find out. Not for you to orchestrate.” She shook her head. “I’m not even sure you see the difference anymore. You’re living in their world, Colin. Making your high-powered deals because your clients expect it of you. And you’re becoming more and more like them.”
He wasn’t. But he didn’t blame her for thinking so.
“I’ll come clean to Chantel in the morning,” he said. “I’m meeting her for breakfast.”
“Where?”
They’d never said. He’d heard Julie in the dining room and come running.
“I don’t know yet. But I want you to know that I not only hear what you’re saying, I understand and will make a conscious effort to tend to it. You know I’d never sell you out, Jules. Not ever. I was only trying to help.”
“Trying to help is letting me know that you met someone with ties to the publishing world. Asking me if I want you to mention my writing to her. Not taking matters into your own hands.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
She nodded and grinned at him. “Good, then invite her here for breakfast. I’ll cook. And then I get to listen to you confess your stupidity.”
The imp was back.
Colin vowed not to disappoint her again.
* * *
PARKING HER NEWLY rented luxury sedan in the roundabout outside the ornate double doors of Colin’s ancestral home Wednesday morning, Chantel noticed that one of her short but perfectly manicured acrylic nails was chipped.
Shit. Who had time to stop at a damned nail place?
How did women do this on a full-time basis? It had taken her an extra half hour to get ready that morning. Time she’d needed to attack the script she’d been given on Saturday and had yet to tend to.
Wayne had a copy and was in charge of finding someone to beef it up. But Chantel had to at least read it in its original form so she’d know what changes were made when she got the copy back.
And she was going to have to put gas in the car the department account had paid for her to rent. With the clothes and shoes she’d purchased, the nails and hair treatment, she was down to less than a hundred dollars of her original budget.
In cream-colored pants and a black, tapered silky cotton button-up shirt, embellished with a floral border in black stitching, she swung one stiletto black heel out of the car before remembering to exit gracefully. Her second leg followed more slowly.
The walk she had down. Two steps from the front door, it opened.
“Welcome.” Colin’s greeting might have been formal, but the glance he gave her body—all the way down and back up again—was not.
He was a tornado in her life. Spinning in unexpectedly. She was in grave danger.
Taking the hand he offered, she let him lead her—a woman capable of taking him down—up the last step.
Suddenly he stopped and turned, causing her body to knock into his. Full front to full front.
“Julie’s in the kitchen,” he said, his lips only inches from hers. “She’s serving quiche and fruit this morning and will be ready for us in about five minutes.”
Step aside, Harris commanded.
The intense look in his blue eyes captured her. Rooting her. Sounds good. Johnson’s thought couldn’t quite make it from her head through her throat.
When he lowered his head, dropping his lips to hers, caressing her mouth in the most spectacular way, she just kissed him right back. Fully. Open mouth to open mouth.
“Good morning.” He was grinning at her.
“Good morning.” Chantel didn’t even want to know what the silly grin on her face looked like.
She shouldn’t have kissed him.
But at least she’d stopped.
His hand still holding hers, he led her inside.
And she wished Chantel Johnson was real.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HE CONFESSED HIS SINS. Chantel looked pained in the brief second before she schooled her expression. He wouldn’t have seen the pain at all if he hadn’t been looking straight at her as he apologized for trying to manipulate her into helping his sister.
Julie teased him, and the moment passed. Breakfast was...reminiscent of the days when an entire family lived in that home and ate at that table.
The quiche was probably phenomenal, but Colin didn’t remember much about the food.
“So...have you tried to get your series published?” Chantel’s question came over coffee. She’d cleared her plate—not that she’d served herself all that much. He’d yet to meet a woman with a truly healthy appetite.
Still, he liked a woman who didn’t pick over her food. And would probably be just as hot for a woman who did if that woman was Chantel.
He was still waiting for Julie to answer. His sister had gone completely still and was staring at the few pieces of remaining melon on her plate. This was his fault.
Julie took a bite of fruit. He ached for her and hated feeling so helpless, so powerless to make things better for her.
He’d failed her. And, in so doing, had failed his parents, too.
Closing his eyes against the thought, Colin swore to himself that he would never again agree to settle for less than he knew
was right. The papers he’d signed with Smyth ten years before had solidified the resolve in his professional life then and there. Which had probably gone a long way toward insuring the beyond-expectation success the firm had experienced over the past decade.
It was time to apply the same resolve to his personal life. No more settling. Never again was he going to be this powerless...
“It’s okay.” Chantel broke the deafening silence just before Colin broke his promise to his sister to let her handle things her own way by opening his mouth and butting in. “I know you don’t want to use me,” she told Julie, her voice soft and sweet and about the most beautiful thing he’d heard in a while. “I’m asking because I’m genuinely interested in the answer.”
“No,” Julie said. Her shoulders straightened. A prelude to picking up her dish and leaving the table. “As I explained to Colin when I figured out what he was doing, I don’t want them published.”
Chantel nodded, as though, in the publishing world from which she’d come, not wanting to be published was perfectly normal.
“At least...not yet,” Julie said.
Colin almost spit out the sip of coffee he’d just taken. Both women looked over at him as he coughed. And covered his gaffe with another sip.
“Do you mind if I take a look at them?”
Chantel’s next question, while a natural progression, considering her business, caused him to tense up all over again. He had to stop this. Now.
“Now’s not a good time,” he said. “Jules has to be in LA this morning. She’s trying to get a proposal passed to fund a child-life position at the new Santa Raquel Children’s Hospital for patients whose families can’t be with them. Someone to work as an advocate for the families and their children. To spend quality time with the children, to be there to support them through procedures and to measure and capture age-appropriate development advancements...”
Mr. Rainmaker was putting both feet in his mouth at once.
“It’s okay, Colin.” Julie’s interruption was not the least bit timid. She turned to Chantel. “I’d like to show them to you sometime. But not because I want your opinion on if they’re publishable. I can’t think of them in those terms. I’m afraid they’d lose their current purpose, and I can’t afford to take that chance.”
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