Hidden Seams

by Alessandra Torre

  “Well—” he sighs. “Here’s the thing, Avery. You can fight anything. And they can fight anything. That’s the bitch of the matter. And I know you’ve got money, but you don’t have their kind of money. You go toe to toe with them in court, and they could stretch this into the next five years. So, it’ll be a question of—if you are his daughter—how much you want to fight. And while there’s a good chance that a judge might throw out whatever you sign, there’s also the chance that they won’t, and you have to stick with that decision. And being handed that verdict might cost you a couple mill in legal fees.”

  A couple million dollars? I don’t have a couple million dollars for legal fees. And what I do have is hidden away in an account that the IRS—and any other governing body that ever feels the need to seize my assets—doesn’t know about. Pulling out anything close to that amount to pay for legal fees would spark red flags I don’t want to be raised. I take a bite of hot dog and work the food into the side of my cheek to speak. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Well…I’m thinking it’s better to know who your father is and not get any money, than not know who your father is.” He pauses. “Am I right?”

  Yeah, he’s right. But I still hate to sign anything, to give Marco that victory. I say so, and Andrei laughs.

  “I gotta say, Avery. I’ve never seen you get this worked up. He must be an absolute dick.”

  I let the comment slide, and think about Spring Lake, wondering how much of my anger is caused by what happened, and the hateful things Marco has since said. I don’t know what I expected, but I assumed, after that night together, that there would be a small bit of affection between us, a familiarity that might smooth over our interchanges. Instead, he’s an exposed wire, hot with electricity and one step away from lighting everything on fire. “So, you’re saying I should sign this?”

  “As your attorney, I’d never advise you to sign anything like this. But as your friend… yeah. I think you should. As I told you before, we could go to the courts and get a paternity test without this. But if he’s threatening to dig into your life, I’m not sure that’s a risk you want to take. And I know how you feel about the girls. I’m not sure that’s a risk you want them to take.”

  It’s not. I pinch off a piece of bun and toss it to a pigeon who looks like he’s having a bad day. “I feel like I’m being screwed every way that I turn.” Him, standing me up, turning me around, his mouth rough against my neck, his hands knotting my hair into his fists. The bare, raw thrust of him inside of me.

  He sighs. “Just remember that a week ago, you didn’t know who your father was, and I’m pretty sure, in your search for him, his net worth wasn’t of any concern to you. Look at Vince Horace as if he’s poor. Ignore the millions, and just see if he’s your dad. ‘Cause I don’t think the millions, or billion, or whatever the fuck he’s worth, is why you’re in New York right now. You want to know who your father is. This is your chance to cross Horace off the list or circle his name. So, do it.”

  I set the hot dog on my lap and twist the cap off of the bottled water. “I’m beginning to think I don’t pay you enough.”

  “For this shit?” He laughs. “You don’t. But you overpay me for some other stuff, so we’ll let it slide.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Now, go. Go see a Broadway show and take selfies in Time Square. Do all that tourist shit that Marcia loves. And text me once you make a decision.”

  “I think you’ve convinced me.”

  “You’re signing the agreement?”

  “I am.” Two words that seem like a prison sentence.

  “Alright. Find a notary, or head back to Montreal’s office. Send me a copy once it’s executed.”

  I nod, say goodbye, and hang up the phone. At my feet, the pigeon cocks his head in confusion.

  “I know,” I tell him. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”

  Chapter 31

  MARCO

  There is no staff meeting, but I needed an escape before I yanked her forward and bent her beautiful ass over that chair. I walk quickly down the main hall and step into the powder room. I lock the door, unzip my pants, and fist my cock. Hiss out a breath as I squeeze the rigid organ that throbs to the point of pain.

  “You’re so big,” she whispers the words, and I’m lost to them, lost to everything but the feel of her body underneath my hands.

  I want her on her knees, that look back on her face, awe in those features as she grabbed me with both hands. I shuttle my hand over my shaft, resting my weight on the pedestal sink, grunting with relief as the pain leaves at the contact.

  “Please…” She groans the word and I yield, spreading her legs apart and pushing a finger inside.

  I think of her laying before me, her hair loose and wild on the floor, her eyes pinching shut as I worked in one digit, and then two.

  “I need more,” she whispers out the plea and one of her hands find my cock, her fingers wrapping around me, her grip starting to move, to squeeze and rotate and jerk.

  The pressure builds, pushing at the base of my cock, and I jerk my hand faster, the orgasm sharp, as painful as it is pleasurable. I exhale, watching another shot of come, the sensation fading, my dick already losing some of its stiffness.

  Fuck. I’m losing my mind around her. I went ten fucking years without being affected by women, ten fucking years of ignoring them and focusing on work—and now I can’t be around her for five minutes without trying to get her clothes off. I had her in Spring Lake. Wanted her in that conference room. Almost, just now, forced myself on her.

  I pushed her too far, trying to get her off in the midst of a negotiation. That was bad enough, my fingers sliding into her panties, circling her clit, pushing into her wet pussy. I went too far by assuming she’d let me do more.

  I tuck myself back inside my pants, taking my time as I zip up the material and wash my hands. I pause and look up into the mirror, drying my hands. I wonder when I’ll be able to look at myself and not feel dirty. I thought some of it would leave with Vince’s death, but it only seems to be getting worse.

  Reaching forward, I flip off the light and douse the small room into darkness.

  * * *

  Our world, without Vince Horace, continues to spin. I spend an hour with each of our Creative Directors. I walk through the design floor and watch our junior designers, check on their progress, and give spot critiques. I assess orders, analyze our quarter, and review layouts for the upcoming ad campaign. Vince once bragged that his empire earns a thousand dollars a minute. He was wrong. It earns a hundred dollars a minute on average. Still, plenty to outfit us in diamonds and gas up the jet, just not enough to buy the fucking airline.

  I sit in Vince’s chair, make his decisions and run his company. I pull open his drawer, grab his favorite pen, and scribble my own name on forms, orders, and documents. I can feel him in this office, feel his hand on my back as I walk through the design bay, feel his squeeze on my shoulder as I sign bank forms and move millions of dollars from his name into mine.

  I manage, through raw grit and determination, to not think of Avery McKenna. I don’t think about the way her body responds so easily to mine, or how, when I cut her down, she managed to look both hurt and furious. I block out any thoughts of her dark brown eyes and focus on hemlines, advertising quotes, and financial reports. I look through the most recent catalog, past the red and gold lingerie set, and don’t linger on the image, don’t imagine the way the satin clung between her legs.

  Just before five, my head a knot of tension and stress, I get a text from John. She’s here and ready to sign the contract. We’re getting the notary now.

  I stand up, typing out my response as I move to the door and call out for Edward. Keep her there. I’m on my way. I send the text, hit the button for the elevator, and try and still the pounding in my chest.

  * * *

  She’s changed clothing again, and I could design an entire collection around her unpredictability. A short cor
duroy skirt, printed stockings, and a sweater. She’s got new shoes on, platform Doc Martens, and I have to pull my eyes from her legs in order to enter the room without running into the doorframe. I step into the office and pull the door closed, nodding to the both of them and ignoring the secretary that sits to her right.

  Avery avoids eye contact, her gaze focused on the contract before her. Her frame is stiff, and I realize, in the set of her jaw and the fix of her attention on the page that she is mad at me. Maybe I should apologize, but honestly, at this point, the list of things to apologize for is getting a little long. I could have one of the houseboys type it all up, but it would cover three fucking pages.

  She initials the bottom of a page and flips it over. Skims over the next, then does the same. The contract is a maze of words, complicated jargon designed to cover our asses five ways to Sunday. It contains, in at least three places, language about confidentiality, clauses that cover Vince’s paternity but also my fuck up at Spring Lake. There is a reason John is the best, and I watch her pen glide along the paper and know this one will be airtight in court. If she thinks she can fight this later, she’s wrong. If she thinks she can claim temporary insanity or some other feminine condition, she’s wrong. If she signs on the last page? She gives us her soul.

  Some of her hair falls loose from her ponytail and I almost reach forward and tuck it behind her ear. Instead, I pull out the chair to her left, settling into it, my legs stretching out and almost touching her. I watch her concentrate on the document. From this angle, she’s beautiful. Which isn’t to say that she isn’t beautiful from other angles, but this one… the tilt of her jaw, the slight part of her lips, the way she moves them slightly as she reads. When her eyes dart to me, it is unexpected, and I’m caught unprepared.

  She looks back at the contract and I watch as a pink hue darkens her cheeks. It reminds me of how expressive and responsive her body was, the bedroom lamp exposing every flush and tremble of her perfect porcelain skin. She turns the page and moves her pen to the signature block. Hesitating, she glances at John, and then at the secretary, who withdraws a notary stamp and places it on the table. I miss her eyes on me. I like them, even when they glare, even when they cut. I like the attention from her, and my need for it seems to grow with every interaction.

  She signs her name. Avery McKenna. Her signature is more delicate than I would have expected. Prim and proper, from a woman wild and untamed.

  She sets down the pen, slides the page over to the notary and looks at John. “Now what?”

  “Now,” John says, pulling open a side drawer and withdrawing a small box. “Now, we need to get DNA samples from you. We already have a blood sample from Mr. Horace’s autopsy.”

  Autopsy. I hate that word, hate the thought of them putting Vince on a slab and cutting him open. I had resisted it, eight months of medical tests and MRIs and CAT scans more than enough evidence of the disease that killed him. But a primary heir can only do so much balking before suspicions are raised. So, I dropped it, and an autopsy occurred, one that showed exactly what all of his doctors already knew.

  Thanks to that autopsy, we have a vial of his blood, one that may reveal an heir or shatter this issue. I glance at her and this time, she is the one watching me. She looks away.

  Chapter 32

  AVERY

  Eighteen hours, that’s all it will take. Eighteen hours, and I’ll know if Vince Horace is a stranger or my biological father. I had expected a week of waiting, maybe two. But everything in this city seems to move quickly. I swab my cheek, they pluck a few hairs, prick my finger, and then cart everything away. Marco signs the contract, I am given a copy, and then we are outside, his car idling on the curb, the New York wind whipping his sweater flat to his chest.

  He doesn’t move to his car, he only stands there, his hands in his pockets, his head down. I look down the street for a taxi, taking the moment to scratch at the back of my knee.

  “Would you like to go to dinner?” He glances over at me, the words almost lost in the growl of a passing Ferrari. That’s something you don’t see in my neighborhood. Exotic cars, or enemies playing nice.

  “Not particularly.” I see a yellow cab turn, two blocks away, and step forward, my arm raising.

  He steps closer and his body shields the wind. “Not hungry?”

  I sniff. “Not really interested in the company.”

  “I can behave.” He wraps a hand around my arm, pulling slightly to catch my attention. “Stop hailing a cab. You don’t need one.”

  I wave my hand more vigorously in the air and crane my neck around him, watching as the car comes closer.

  “Let me take you to dinner. Please. I’ll even apologize while we’re there.”

  My hand loses some of its vigor and I drop from my toes, meeting his eyes. “You’ll apologize?”

  His mouth curves. “I’ll give you the best you’ve ever had.”

  “Heartfelt?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Sincere?”

  “What apology isn’t?”

  A lot. Most. Probably every one he’s ever delivered. “You seem very confident about the quality of this apology.”

  “I’m confident about most things, Miss McKenna.”

  The cab passes, the driver not even glancing my way, and I drop my hand, giving up. “Fine. But I pick the place.” I almost stomp over to the car, giving a cheery hello to the old guy, who holds open the door. He ignores me, and I make a face. Here I was, thinking that we had bonded over tea and scones. Maybe, he just likes to piss Marco off.

  He closes the door, and I look around, realizing this is a different car. Same fine accents, but a rich brown leather interior instead of white. I tuck one foot under my butt and slide the seatbelt over my chest, securing it. The opposite door opens, Marco steps in, and I inhale before thinking, the scent of him as intoxicating as the first time I smelled it. Was it really only two days ago? It feels like weeks.

  I wait until the driver gets in, then lean forward and grip the seat. “Chaykhana, please. It’s in Brooklyn.”

  “Brooklyn?” Marco settles into his seat. “This’ll be interesting.”

  Yes, it will be interesting. Chaykhana is owned by some Ukrainian friends of mine, husbands of girls I once brought over, and a strong link in the chain of communication that runs to the other side of the world. It’s a place where I feel safe, one where I will have the upper hand, for one of the first times in this relationship. After signing that contract, I feel violated. It will be nice to see him in some discomfort. And if he’s buying me dinner… one of my friends might as well benefit from it.

  The Rolls pulls away from the curb and I tuck my hands under my thighs, the stockings tickling the back of my hands. “So… eighteen hours.”

  “Yep.” He looks over at me. “Nervous?”

  His tone is friendly and missing the cruel bite of before. Ever since I signed his contract, he’s been different—a reminder of the man I met that first night, back when he didn’t view me as the enemy. I miss that night, miss the playful flirtation that existed, the smiles that crossed his face. Has he smiled since? I don’t think so. Lots of scowls. Lots of muttered curses, solemn glares, and the occasional cruel smirk—but no smiles. I swallow and lift my shoulders in a shrug. “Yeah. I’m nervous. Pretty anxious.” I lean forward and turn off the closest air vent. “What about you? Contract or not, I can’t imagine that it won’t disrupt your life if the results come back positive.”

  “My life has been disrupted ever since I met Vince. I had no illusions that things would suddenly go smoothly just because he died.”

  I want to ask him so many questions. I want to know everything about Vince. Every memory. Every personality trait. Every success and failure. I swallow and keep the questions to myself.

  When we pull up to the restaurant it’s raining, a light drizzle that is completely soundless inside the car. It’s eerie, being so completely shut off from the outside world. I miss my cheap Tahoe. Right now,
the rain would be peppering the roof, each drop a ding, a thousand of them combining to create a calming cadence.

  Marco leans forward, peering out the window. “This is it?” He sounds wary, and I don’t blame him. Chaykhana is stuck in between a tailor shop and dry cleaner, the sign glowing red from the neon that surrounds it. There are dingy white curtains that hide the interior and a front display poster that advertises a Buy One, Get One Dinner Free! special. It’s a far cry from this morning’s scone, the hot tea delivered by the English butler, in the room that housed a million dollars worth of art.

  “So… we’re eating here.”

  “Yep.” My door opens and his driver extends a gloved hand, an umbrella held out, shielding me from the rain. I take his hand, stepping out and narrowly missing a puddle.

  Alex and Vasyl greet me with big hugs, each squeezing me tightly and smiling widely at Marco. They show me to a table in the back, one tucked into the corner, and light a candle in the middle of it. They seem to think this is a date, and when they bring a red rose inside a thin vase, I wave them off. “This is business, Alex. Stop that shit.”

  “Ah.” He pulls back the rose and claps a meaty hand on my shoulder. “It’s been too long. We miss your pretty face.”

  “I’ll come back soon,” I promise. “Maybe I’ll get a place in New York, come by and bug you every day.” I grin, Marco scowls, and I could spend the rest of my life making him scowl. I love the way it pinches his features, the fire it lights in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens.

  “Yes, you do that.” Alex nods enthusiastically. “You know, my sister’s selling her place. It’s just four blocks away. You should go look at it.”