by Dara Girard
“But that’s not how she left,” Ian said quietly.
Josh didn’t hear him. “She’s irresponsible, irrational and dangerous. Do you think the woman will sue?”
Ian continued to stare at the door. “Probably.”
“But you showed her who’s boss. That’s the Ian I know. He won’t let some hotheaded diva get the better of him.”
Ian didn’t hear his brother’s words of praise or feel the weight of his victory. He had won. He’d defeated, demeaned, chastised and criticized her. He’d also made her leave without her dignity. He was used to being ruthless, but this time he’d gone too far. He’d hurt her.
He wasn’t known for being a kind or considerate person and his arrogant pride was part of his reputation. But today he felt like a true SOB. He hadn’t listened when she’d offered to explain. He hadn’t softened when his words had forced her to cringe. He’d gone in for the kill as though she were one of the other models he’d grown up despising. She’d been the target of his venom and he regretted every moment.
He’d been fooled by her cool demeanor, by her chilly tone and appearance of nonchalance, but when he’d cracked through the veneer instead of treading carefully he’d rammed through. She’d never let him close now and he wouldn’t blame her. The Atlanta trip had been a complete disaster for him. He always seemed to say or do the wrong thing. He’d have to find a way to fix that.
He spun around and pulled out his laptop. “Get Angus on the phone.”
“Our attorney’s name is Anthony.”
“Just get him on the phone,” Ian snapped.
“What are you going to do with Mariella?”
“I’m going to take care of her,” he said, not caring how his brother would misinterpret his words.
Mariella didn’t slam the door when she returned to her hotel room. She didn’t throw her purse on the couch or toss her keys on the table. She went to the window and stared out thinking of how much she hated Ian Cooper. What she hated more was that she’d actually thought she could explain things to him when she never explained herself to anyone. He was the most heartless barbarian she’d ever met and she couldn’t wait until the project ended and she never had to set eyes on him again. But she could be as cold as he was and she would be.
The phone rang, jarring her out of her thoughts. She ignored it and it quieted. A few minutes later it rang again. She reluctantly picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Mariella,” her sister Isabella said, her voice full of sympathy. “I saw the paper. I’m so sorry.”
Mariella fell into a couch; a well of pain gripped her heart and filled her eyes with tears. Suddenly she wanted to be home: Home with her sisters. Home away from all the ugliness of this business. Home to people who knew and loved her.
“You know how reporters are,” she said, trying to sound flippant.
“You deserve better. I read that story and couldn’t believe it. I knew that wasn’t you. What happened?”
The tears fell. Here was someone who would be on her side, who cared about her version of the story. She told Isabella everything and her sister was appropriately outraged. “And Ian has been horrible to me. He chastised me and even threatened me.”
“What? He said he’d fire you?”
“Worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“He’d think of something. He acted as though this incident was all my fault. As though my behavior was out of line. Isabella, that woman threw a drink in my face. I think she was trying to disfigure me. You would have done the same, right?” When Isabella didn’t respond, Mariella said, “Right?”
“There are always different ways to handle a situation.”
“Are you saying that he was right?” Mariella said, offended.
“No, it’s just that…well…because you’re such a recognizable person you have to handle yourself differently. Remember when Mom scolded you for putting salt in the lemonade of Aunt Lynette because you wanted to get back at her for letting cousin Grace use your favorite hair slides?”
“Yes.”
“She said that a lady always handles herself as though the other person is behaving disgracefully.”
“I was never a perfect lady, Izzy.”
Her sister laughed. “None of us were.”
Mariella shook her head. “It just would have been nice if he’d listened….” The memory of his words pierced her again and renewed the anger she felt. She’d tried to open up to him and he’d turned her away. She soon steeled herself from the emotions. “But I don’t care what he thinks. I can’t wait until this project is over.”
“Do you want me to come down there for a few days?”
“No, we’re leaving here soon, but thanks for the offer.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.” She gripped the phone. “Izzy?”
“Yes?”
She loosened her grip. “Nothing. Bye.” Mariella hung up the phone and drew her knees to her chest, for a moment wishing she were a little child in the safety of her father’s arms. But she soon let the feelings pass and let her feet fall to the floor. She was a grown woman and both her parents were dead.
Mariella looked at her schedule for the afternoon and was about to go soak in a bath when someone knocked on the door. She answered and saw Ian. He looked at her as though their last conversation hadn’t happened. “Have your bags packed within an hour,” he said.
She rested her hip against the door frame. “So you’ve decided to fire me after all. Do you want to quickly ship me off to New York?”
“No, we’re going to Vermont.”
She straightened, suspicious. “But the shoot’s not finished. Where’s Gen?”
“We have enough for the Atlanta layout.” He glanced at his watch. “Meet me in the lobby in an hour.” He turned and left.
Although she wanted to argue with him about the way he commanded her, she was thrilled at the prospect of leaving Georgia, getting the Vermont shoot completed early and putting Ian out of her life for good. She quickly packed her clothes, although she was careful to make sure to pack them well. She left money for the housekeeping service and a note for Gen, to add her share, and answered the three surveys left on her desk. She was on her third one when someone pounded on her door again.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said.
The pounding continued. She swore and opened the door. “Don’t you know how to knock?”
Ian frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I said I’d be there in a minute.”
“And I said to meet me downstairs in an hour,” he said through clenched teeth. He held up his watch for her to see. “It is now an hour and fifteen minutes.”
“I’m almost done.” Mariella turned and went back to her desk. “I was never a fast writer.”
Ian paused then said in a too-quiet tone, “What are you writing?”
“My comments on the service.” She finished her last survey then placed it in the provided envelope.
He closed the door behind him. “Why?”
“Because I feel it is my duty to give my honest opinion. How can people improve if they don’t know where they are lacking? I also left money for the housekeeping of course and then had to attend to—”
Ian moved around then glanced at a suitcase on her bed, his manner quick and impatient. “I don’t care. Are you packed?”
“Of course.”
He grabbed her suitcases. “Then let’s go.”
Mariella followed Ian outside to the front where his car was parked. She watched him put her suitcases in the trunk and close it.
“Where is everyone else?” she asked.
“They’re staying.”
“But I thought you said we were leaving.”
“We are.” He opened the door. “Get in.”
“I thought you meant the team.”
“No, I meant us,” he said in clipped tones. “We’re going to Vermont before everyone else. Now g
et in.”
Mariella opened her mouth but the expression on Ian’s face stopped her. She sighed and got in the car.
Chapter 12
The flight to Vermont was uneventful after which Ian and Mariella took a small commuter plane to reach their final destination. Mariella gasped at the aerial view of Vermont’s highest mountain, Mount Mansfield, and the ending of Vermont’s famous fall season. Thankfully, Ian proved to be a quiet companion. She had no desire to speak to him. Once they touched down in the small airport, they took a taxi to a local car rental.
“You should have chosen somewhere closer to the city,” Mariella said as they walked toward a medium-size car he’d rented. It wasn’t as glamorous as the one Ian had rented in Atlanta, but at least it was spacious.
“You’ll like the location once we reach it,” he said.
After an hour, Mariella wondered if they ever would. Finally, Ian turned off a main road onto a little dirt road. Tall evergreen trees lined either side. There were no streetlights. Mariella was glad to see they would soon reach their destination. Over the radio, they had heard reports of a major change in the weather. The sky soon darkened from gathering storm clouds. Suddenly, the clouds opened up, drenching the car in heavy sheets of rain.
The downpour turned the dirt road into a muddy river and the car tires fought to grip the ground—sometimes succeeding and sometimes not—forcing the car to go up and down like a boat in the middle of an ocean. Although Ian had driven through different types of terrain all over the world, the rental car was no match for the elements and abruptly halted.
“Why are you stopping?” Mariella asked.
Ian looked at her in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘Why am I stopping?’”
“It’s a simple question. Don’t be upset if you don’t know the answer.”
“The car is stuck. Or haven’t you noticed the wheels turning?”
“Fine.” She unlatched her seat belt. “Get out then.”
“What?” His voice cracked.
“You’re going to push it, aren’t you? I’ll steer.”
“I’m not pushing anything in this weather.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to wait.”
“For what?”
“For the rain to stop.”
She threw up her hands. “But that could be hours.”
“If you feel like pushing, that’s fine with me.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I’ll steer.”
She glared at him then folded her arms. After a few moments she said, “Why did you choose this place?”
“I told you why.”
“Someone could die out here and no one would know.”
“That’s a tempting thought,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She shot him a glance. “What happened in Georgia wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course,” he said, sarcastic. “You’re completely blameless. Nothing that happens is your fault. Those pictures of you in my father’s bedroom aren’t your fault, the papers calling you ‘Mad Mariella’ or ‘Deranged Duvall,’ aren’t your fault. You’re just a victim of life.”
“I know I’m not perfect. But at least I’m not too arrogant to admit when I’m wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re lost and you made a mistake by having us come here.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“If I had been in charge of this journey we wouldn’t be stuck on a muddy road in the middle of nowhere.”
Ian sighed, trying to keep his patience. “We’re not in the middle of nowhere. I know where we are.”
“How far is the house?”
He gestured to the darkness in front of them. “Straight ahead. I’m sure it’s not far. Probably just a couple miles up the road. Look, I didn’t expect it to rain this hard.”
“You could have rented a car with front-wheel drive.”
“Oh well.” He lowered the back of his seat.
She watched him, confused. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to sleep.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when the weather clears.”
Mariella sat quietly a moment then said, “I’m cold.”
Ian kept his eyes closed. “Then get clothes from the trunk.”
She stared out the window in dismay. “But it’s raining.”
“Then see if the back seats pull down.”
She turned to him, surprised at such a clever suggestion, then climbed into the back seat. She pulled down the seat and managed to grab her bag. She pulled out a sweater and put it on. “I’m hungry too.”
“Hmm.”
With such an unhelpful response Mariella decided to busy herself with the suitcase. Ian tried to sleep, but kept hearing Mariella zipping and unzipping things. Then he heard her gasp. “I don’t believe it!”
Ian sat up and turned. “What?”
“Everything you own is black.” She lifted one of his briefs. “Except for these, they’re gray.”
“What are you doing in my suitcase?”
“I am bored,” she said, rummaging through the rest of his clothes. “What else do you expect me to do?”
“I don’t care. Close it up.”
She lifted out a cashmere sweater. “Hmm, this looks warm. I’ll wear this instead.”
His tone hardened. “Mariella.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be very gentle with it. Ooh, it feels wonderful.” She pulled it on. “Ah, much better.”
“Now close my suitcase.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“No.”
“You would look great in maroon. You’d look great in any color, but since you prefer dark colors I think it would be a nice start.”
“Close it. Now.”
“Or perhaps navy blue. Yes, that’s better. A nice navy blue would suit you. It can look like black in certain lights. I would try it.”
“Mariella,” he said in warning.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“No.”
She sighed, resigned. “Fine. Let me just fold everything back.”
“You don’t need to fold anything.”
“But I messed them up when I took out the sweater.”
“I don’t care.”
“You had everything so neat and orderly. All right, I’ll close it,” she said quickly when he began to rise from his reclined position. She stopped when she saw something metallic. “Wait, what’s this?” She reached in and pulled out a granola bar. She glared at him. “I thought you said you didn’t have any food.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I said I was hungry and you didn’t offer me anything.”
“I would have if I really thought you were hungry.”
“But I am.”
“No, you’re just bored.”
“What else do you have hidden in here?”
He scrambled into the back seat. “None of your business.”
His statement came too late. Mariella had pushed aside his other clothes and uncovered his food stash. She folded her arms and stared at him. “Did you plan this on purpose?”
He furrowed his brow, confused. “Plan what?”
“Getting us stuck.”
He looked at her for a long moment then said in a dry tone, “Of course. That was the plan all along. I wanted to get us stuck here on a dark muddy road in a place where we may freeze to death just so that I could spend time alone with you.”
She frowned. “You don’t need to be sarcastic.”
“Then don’t ask silly questions.”
She gestured to the case. “Then what’s all this? Do you usually carry this much food with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say that I have an unhappy memory of being lost in Gambia with no food or drink and don’t want to repeat the experience.”
“I see. What were you doing there?”
/>
“Taking pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Things.”
“What things?”
He shrugged.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you or is having a conversation as difficult for you as having good manners?”
He smiled.
“Fine.” She reached for another bar. “I might as well eat something.”
He snatched it from her and tossed it back in the case. “You only need one.”
“Well, I want two.”
He zipped up the case. “You’re having one. Enjoy it.”
“Is being a bastard a studied practice or a defect at birth?”
Ian took the remaining bar from her hand.
She reached for it. “Give that back.”
He blocked her by turning to the side then pulled down the wrapper. “Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“So what?” He took a bite. “I’m a bastard, remember?”
“Every minute.” She looked out the window. “If I knew the house was close by I’d walk there right now just to get away from you.”
“I have an umbrella.”
She continued to stare out the window. She felt restless and annoyed. Everything about this project seemed to be a disaster. She felt something fall into her lap and glanced down and saw a granola bar.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, looking up at him.
“Then save it for later.” His eyes met hers. “I’m sorry about Georgia.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start being nice to me. My hatred for you keeps me warm.”
He stretched his arm out the length of the seat. “There’s another way to stay warm.”
She widened her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
He shrugged. “I think it is.”
She shook her head in amazement. “How can you think about sex at a time like this?”
He raised his brows. “What else am I supposed to think about? I’ve already eaten something.”
“And that’s the stretch of your imagination. Food and sex?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“I’m glad we didn’t drink too much. Seeing all this rain would be a nightmare.”
She raised her gaze to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I asked.”