He says nothing, and the question hangs in the air. He works his watch over his wrist and I fight the urge to repeat the question.
“It’s not just the money,” he finally says. “I enjoy looking at you. I enjoyed dinner last night with you. And I really—really—enjoy fucking you.”
“Oh.” This is an unexpected turn of conversation, and I feel my cheeks warm with the telltale feel of a blush.
“When you signed that contract, it was the first time I thought you might be in this for something other than money or blackmail.” He looks up at me. “That was a huge weight off my shoulders. And it changed how I felt about you. Which is ironic, since it probably made you hate me.”
“It did,” I agree. “But I got over that, sometime during last night’s dinner.”
“Look, I have a bunch of personal shit to figure out. Prior to meeting you, I thought I could continue with…” he waves a hand in the air. “All of this. But now…” He finishes with his watch and looks at me. “I’m suddenly realizing that I can’t ever have my own relationship, my own life…not unless I violate my agreement with Vince. And I don’t think that’s what he intended, but that’s how it feels. And I didn’t expect to feel this way this soon. I thought…” he rubs at his jaw. “I thought I would have five or six years before I would be in this situation.”
He shakes his head and looks away. “Just ignore what I’m saying. I’m not making any sense. Are you ready to go downstairs?”
“Yeah.” I scoot to the end of the bed and stand, following him to the door and feeling even more confused than before.
* * *
Breakfast turns out to be a production, and I quickly understand why they didn’t serve it to us in bed. The eat-in kitchen is massive, a large hearth at one end, the kitchen open to a large island that houses a cooktop on one side, and a half-dozen place settings on the opposite end. There are uniformed bodies all over the place, and I have a personal waiter, as does Marco. I feel some sort of demented obligation to justify everyone’s job, and order four things off the top of my head, each request met with a pleasant nod, as if the pantry selection is unlimited and salmon benedict can be created as easily as a bowl of Frosted Flakes.
Marco raises an eyebrow at me. “Hungry?”
“Starved,” I lie, and check the clock on the wall, dismayed to see that barely fifteen minutes have passed.
I scoot closer to the counter and receive a curious look from the chef, a dark-skinned man who flashes a smile and doesn’t ask questions. While I watch, he chops apples and skins lemons, feeding them into a juicer. “Need help?” I offer.
Marco coughs, mid-sip into a cappuccino. “They don’t need help,” he snaps. “Tell her, Frances.”
“It’s true, madam,” he says, in a cultured voice tinted in a French accent. “I have been waiting all morning to do something, and I’m afraid that you will look much better at it than I will.” He winks, and Marco grunts in response. It’s very lovable, the prickly nature he projects. I understand why Vince liked it. I feel, in watching his interactions, as if I am part of an exclusive club, one allowed to see the person behind the scowls.
His phone powers on and he picks it up, scrolling through the different apps, then shakes his head. “No news yet.”
I nod and pull out my own phone, checking, for the fifth time, my own messages. Still nothing from Andrei.
“There are a few more hours left. Try to be patient.”
Try to be patient. It should be easy. How did I manage thirty-one years so easily, yet these hours seem so interminable?
Marco wipes his mouth and stands. “I thought you could get dressed in the salon. Edward?”
The butler steps forward. “Yes, sir?”
“Take Avery to the third floor and have them help her with her dressing.”
“Certainly.” He nods, gestures to me, and I stay put on the stool.
“Help me with my dressing? Is that some code word for knocking me upside the head and burying me in the basement?”
The older man fixes me with a haughty look of admonishment. “I can assure you, Miss McKenna, that I would never be party to such things.”
The man has no understanding of sarcasm. None. If I ever hire a butler, I’m going to get one with a wicked sense of humor.
“Just take her to the third floor,” Marco says. “And try not to be a complete pain in the ass while doing it.”
Edward nods as if accustomed to such abuse. “Very well, sir. I take it that you will be dressing yourself this morning?”
“Yes.”
This is a ridiculous existence. The pendulum swings back and I almost hope Vince isn’t my father. These people need help getting dressed in the morning? I heave myself off the stool and glare in Marco’s direction and am rewarded with a smile, one that catches me off guard and reminds me how painfully good-looking he is. How could a person stay mad at a man like this? How could a woman keep her distance, protect her heart, and keep from falling under his spell?
I’ve got to get out of here—after we find out the news, and before I fall in love with him. A man like this could destroy my heart. A man like this will make every other man, every other kiss, and every other love, seem weak in comparison.
I yank myself away from that smile and follow the butler out of the kitchen.
* * *
It's a trek to the third floor, down a long hallway, through a short staircase, onto an elevator, and then out on the floor. Through it all, Edward says nothing. I attempt a conversation about the weather and get nowhere. I ask how long he’s been in New York and get stony silence. He reminds me of my instructors at the prep school, an assortment of women and men who—if a knife was held to their throat—would still fail a personality test. I mention this to him, mention that I could set him up with a variety of hot young English teachers, should he have the desire for someone as dour and boring as himself. He doesn't respond, doesn't smile, doesn't engage, a reaction that only causes me to increase my efforts.
"We're going to be friends," I insist, struggling to keep up with him, his feet clipping briskly along the hall. "You don't know it yet, but we're going to be friends. People like me, you know? I'm a very likable person."
"Congratulations," he muses, his face slack with disinterest. He stops beside a double door and grips the handle, opening it with a flourish he probably practiced a gazillion times in butler schools. “Here is the salon."
I step forward and pause, genuinely impressed. There is a long mirror stretching along one side, a counter before it, stage lights present, and three male attendants, each standing at their own chair as if at attention.
The first of the group steps forward, extending his hand and introducing himself, his eyes sweeping over me with the critical gaze of a seasoned professional. I blow an erratic hair out of my face and glance back over my shoulder, but Edward is gone.
Chapter 35
MARCO
* * *
I take my time in the shower, letting the hot water hit my back and think of last night. It's unfair to put all this pressure on her. It's ridiculous to expect that she, from just a few interactions, would have any feelings for me, and I have no reason to think about a future with her in it.
* * *
Yet, I am.
* * *
Something between us started, way back in Spring Lake, and intensified when she signed that contract, something that is taking over me. It’s more than a physical connection and I’ll be damned if I’m the only one who feels it. But maybe I am. Maybe I've gone a decade without spending more than a couple of hours with a woman, and now—with my first genuine interactions with one—my heart is too exposed, too naïve and young, and I'm like a kid with his first crush. Maybe that's all this is. A crush. And, when she goes back to Detroit, I will survive it. I will go back to my life, back to my celibacy and forget she ever happened.
* * *
For right now, I have to shut off my brain. I need to back up and give her space.
She's probably freaked out by me right now. I was talking nonsense in that bedroom. I spent the night kissing and spooning with her as if we were something, as if I had a right that extended to more than two adults gaining pleasure from each other. She's probably climbing out the salon’s window and clattering down the fire escape, sprinting down the New York street in bare feet, her dark hair whipping in the wind. She'll probably run to John's office, file a restraining order against me and I'll never see her again without attorneys and security present.
* * *
"Fuck!" I pound my hand against the shower, reminded of the fact that—even if she does like me—what the fuck am I going to do? Date her? Tell New York's entire gay population that I’m straight? I’ve been on Oprah, for shit’s sake. I sat next to Vince as he discussed homosexuality and how it is not a choice and how we shouldn’t be afraid to share our feelings, to share our sexual preferences with the world. I sat on her stupid couch and was a hypocrite of the worst kind, an insult to their entire lifestyle, and I was that way with their golden boy. I did it for him, and I did it for me, and I did it for this billion-dollar fortune, and all of it seems useless right now. All of it seems like a waste.
* * *
I turn off the shower and open the door. Going to the closet, I flip through hangers and select a dark purple suit, the color almost black in its intensity. Vince had loved this suit. He'd called it the color of royalty. And it was. A color “fit for our lifestyle.” I put the suit back and grab a charcoal gray one. Something drab and absolutely ordinary, one that would have made Vince click his tongue at me in disapproval. I grab my cell phone and dial John’s number, holding it between my shoulder and my head and work the pants out of the hanger. "Tell me you've heard something."
* * *
"I haven't heard anything, but I’ll let you know when I do. We’ll be the second party to know. They’ll call her attorney first.”
* * *
“Well, she's here with me.” I step into the pants. "She stayed here last night. And yes, it's complicated."
* * *
John is quiet for a long period of time. “Do you understand what you are risking by becoming emotionally involved with her?”
* * *
“I’m trying not to.” I think of last night, my attempt to get her in pajamas, the torture of trying to be a gentleman, and the moment when she’d leaned into my body and looked up at me, her eyes begging for a kiss. In that moment, no threat could've kept me from kissing her. No risk, no assets, no life-changing situations. Her body against me, those lips upturned… I lost that battle the minute I followed her into the bedroom. Hell, I lost that battle four hours earlier when she stepped into my car.
* * *
"You're playing with fire.”
* * *
"I know." I pull out a cardinal blue tie and toss it onto the island. "But currently, I don't give a fuck."
* * *
"Not giving a fuck can be very dangerous for Vince's empire, and for his legacy," John cautions. "She's playing you. She's seducing you and you're falling right into her trap."
* * *
"I'm not." I shake my head. "She signed the contract, she's not getting anything."
* * *
"Contracts don't mean shit if the party in them is affected. You don't think she could convince you to tear that up? You don't think she can convince you to give her something?"
* * *
He's right. “If I give her anything, it will be my decision. She's not tricking me into that.”
* * *
I stop halfway through buttoning my shirt and speak clearly into the phone, making sure that he understands me. "This is my money. This is now my company and I will do what I want to do with it. Your job is to do what I ask you to do and to advise me if I need help in making a decision. I don't care if she's related to him or not, and I'll make my own decisions absent of any input from my dick. Don't tell me what my heart should do. You are not in charge of my heart. You are overseeing this estate. And you’ve known me long enough to know that I am not an impulsive or emotional individual. If I want to fuck her, I will fuck her. And if I want to fall in love with her, I'll fall in love with her. And I don't want to hear two shits of an opinion from you on it. Do you understand?"
* * *
"I'm on your side, Marco. I've been on your side from the beginning. Remember that."
* * *
"At the moment, my side feels kind of lonely."
* * *
"It's not. This … we're going to get through this together, and I'll support your decisions. I just need to know those decisions so that I can do that. Okay?"
* * *
I don't know what the fuck he's saying this for. I'm keeping him in the loop. The only one who knows more details about the activity of my cock is my hand. Still, I nod. "Yeah, okay. I know they're going to contact her, but just…” I let out a breath. “Just call me if you hear anything."
* * *
"I will."
* * *
I hang up the phone and finish buttoning up my shirt. I close my eyes and wish that Vince was here.
* * *
I sit at my desk and look over numbers. Orders have increased and I email the warehouses and forward on the figures. It's not unexpected. We knew this would come with Vince's death. We've had time to prepare, have overstocked and prepped stores, increased staffing and advertising. Death, at least in fashion, is good for business. It’s a bittersweet victory and I sigh at the compiled sales figures at the bottom of the report. It will be our best season ever and he is not here to see it and was too sick to oversee much of its implementation. At least the vision is his, the designs worked on eight months ago, back when he was obliviously healthy. The winter line, which unveils in September, that will be the last one with his stamp on it. After that, every design will be from me, and our team of designers around the world, a team who has spent more than a dozen seasons under his tutelage.
* * *
The brand will be fine, and his vision will continue, with me at the realm. I’m ready. He spent ten years grooming me for this, and when it comes to fashion, I can make Vince Horace decisions with my eyes closed. When it comes to life, I feel much more lost.
* * *
“Master Lent?” Kmart speaks and I lift my head.
* * *
“Yes.”
* * *
“Goddess Sugar Tits is waiting on the first floor.” The name causes me to smile, and I stand up, closing the report and reaching for my jacket.
* * *
I move through the house and glance at my watch. Another two hours. I skip the elevator, taking the staircase, and when I round the corner she is at the front window, peering at something out on the street. I stop.
* * *
Yves St Laurent once said that what is important in a dress is the woman wearing it. She’s not in a dress, but she’s all that I see. She's beautiful. Breathtakingly so. Not that she wasn't before, but now. Her hair is darker, fuller, a cascade of waves along her back. She turns a little and I see a strapless cream leather bodice, and a wool A-line skirt, one I recognize from a couture collection we did three years ago. As she moves, it flairs out, and my eyes lift from it and to her face. Her skin glows, her brows tamed and sculpted. Her makeup is subtle, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her wear it, and it takes her natural beauty to a level that could stop a man’s heart.
* * *
I step forward and she grins, gesturing down the front of her body. "What do you think?" She strikes a pose and I notice the peep-toe heels.
* * *
"I think I like your boots better."
* * *
"Yeah,” she stuck out her tongue. "Me, too, but I wasn't going to pass on free shoes." She giggles, then stops, concern pinching those beautiful features. “I do get to keep these, right?”
* * *
I could spend every single day of my life dressing her, every day inspired by a dozen of her quirk
s to build a hundred collections. “You can keep them.”
* * *
"I’ve got to say…” she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was making fun of the whole ‘people helping you get dressed’ thing, but…” she sways to one side and raises her hands in surrender. "That experience was pretty awesome. No wonder you look so hot. They do that for you every day?" She’s so perplexed by the concept that I laugh.
* * *
"Yes.” I wince as if injured. “To be honest, without my staff I’m a horrific elephant of a man. Please don't tell anyone."
* * *
She zips her lips and glances at her watch, a motion so quick that someone else might have missed it.
* * *
"Nervous?"
* * *
She makes a face. “It just feels like the hours are moving in slow motion."
* * *
From behind me, a phone rings, and her head snaps up. "Oh, that's my cell." She hurries forward, rummaging through her bag and pulling out her phone. She glances at it, then looks at me, her eyes wide. "It's my attorney."
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