by Melissa Blue
She'd thought him capable of anything, but hadn't imagined something like this. She pressed a fist to her chest. A sob had curled there and made a home. The unbidden sorrow clawed at her. The whole time she'd told herself everything with them was real. He hadn't touched, kissed her, to get Jocelyn and Ian their home. He hadn't made sure her giggles, her blushes, were for show. He hadn't seduced her inside and out to make sure behind closed doors and in front of audiences she acted like what he needed.
But he was the pro. What better way to get the amateur to do exactly what he wanted than to make her head over heels for him?
No. He hadn't done that. Had he? No. She repeated that and some small part of her couldn't believe it. That small part sounded like logic, because wasn't she defective? What man could care for a woman who muttered about mammary glands during foreplay? She was odd and awkward and pretending to be vivacious, smart-mouthed and beautiful. He couldn't care for the real her. A man who was a people person in his sleep couldn't give a shit about someone who got nervous in a crowd of three.
She scrubbed her hands over her face, likely ruining her makeup, but that she could fix. She had to pull it together. Keri would have to face him again. She had to act like his confession didn't kill a piece of her newfound confidence. She had to act like they were nothing but sex and a short-lived thing. And last night hadn't felt right, so right it shook her bones.
She picked up the ring but wasn't ready to put it back on. She stood, calling on every single reserve she had. Facing herself in the mirror, she detailed the damage. Didn't take long to fix the tear smears she'd left in her makeup. She wouldn't cry again and ruin it. There was no reason to. Logic told her so. Her heart was an organ. It could only feel physical pain. A heart pumped blood, not emotion.
Maybe ten minutes had passed, but she'd detailed all the parts of a heart and only had to fix her makeup once more. But she pulled herself together. Enough so that she could put the ring back on. Now knowing without a doubt it was real, she could see the princess cut had such clarity.
Capable.
She just wasn't ready to consider the possibility that he was capable of real emotions, at least with her. She felt too raw, too stupid to have not known he bilked woman as his specialty. How else could he have known her every desire, how to touch her, kiss her? She was smart in an intellectual way, but how dumb was she to blithely ignore his warnings about being a shite of a man? Because he had told her more than once that he was a man who shouldn't be trusted.
Hell, he'd told her outright he was a con man. Did she take a pause? Did she think, for even a moment, that maybe what they had was real? Yes, but she skipped right past that and imagined he'd— Keri exhaled and slipped out of the bathroom. He'd finished dressing. Concern pulled his mouth into a tight line.
Was it real?
“What did Jocelyn need?” he asked.
The lie sprang to her lips. She'd only pressed a button on her phone to make it ring. “The lab results. I've sent them off, but she wanted details.”
He sighed, stuffed his hands into the slacks' pockets. His shoulders bunched high, but he didn't push. “I'll get us out of the dinner in under an hour.”
And then they'd go their separate ways. She couldn't sleep in the same bed with him tonight. Not like she had the days before. His touching her made her stomach ache. Her brain told her to reject any caress, but her body continued to hunger for his touch. Prolonging their goodbye wouldn't make his actions any clearer or easier to understand.
“Let's get to the dinner, then,” she said.
He gestured to the door and sighed. “Ladies first.”
“Do you know how ironic that is?” And much to her surprise she laughed.
His gaze softened. “Aye.” He lifted his hand and let it drop back down to his side. “I know.”
*****
The banquet hall buzzed with conversation. Her already frayed nerves started to unravel. Tristan shifted in his chair, removing his hand from the table to rest it on her knee. The pristine white napkin on her lap fell to the floor and she wouldn't pick it up, she wouldn't move.
His fingers rested above her knee and steadied the nervous leg twitch. His fingertips were an anchor, something all her focus shifted to, and whatever Montgomery droned on about transformed into a hush. She could see the man's mouth move, but a heat climbed up her thigh, filled her stomach, and she choked back the moan-like sigh.
Tristan laughed, crinkling the skin around his eyes. She noted the tension in his shoulders, but that smile came easily. Was the tension or the smile real? His hand, his long fingers and wide palm, warmed the space right above her knee. It was a thoughtless gesture that soothed and distracted her. Did he know it worked because he knew women or because he knew her?
Her head felt muddled so it took a moment to hear Montgomery say her name. Where had the other people gone? At least two other members had loitered at the table. Their plates were left untouched.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was up late the past two days. Work interceded.”
Montgomery looked troubled. Had she said the wrong thing? Tristan moved his hand and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her into him. She caught his gaze before he leaned into her ear. Her stomach clenched. The quick flash of fear and worry she'd seen dug deeper. She didn't flinch at his breath feathering her earlobe.
“Get up from the table and get your things out of the room.” His voice hardened into something that shouldn't be argued with. “Now.”
She tried to pull away but his hand tightened on her shoulder. He added, “Don't argue. Just go. Get in your car and go.”
What would put that kind of look in his eyes? He pulled away, brushing his lips against her cheek. He was smiling again, but it didn't reach his gaze. He faced Montgomery.
The genial expression the older man usually had couldn't be found. His gaze was hard, his jawline clenched. Oh. Oh. They were caught. Didn't take a scientist to figure that out. She started to rise.
“Sit—” Montgomery barked and she froze.
“You do not speak to her,” Tristan said, his voice low and filled with a quiet threat. He leaned on the table. The subtle action drew a line in a sand. One that made Montgomery sit back in his chair. “If you have a problem, then you talk to me. Don't even look at her again.”
The man nodded, struggling to keep his gaze on Tristan. He cleared his throat. “I had a nice conversation with a former colleague of yours. He told me your brother came into the museum. Spitting image, except his brother looks like he works outside and can lift cars.”
Shit. Shit. This was about to go nuclear. She wasn't the woman she pretended to be and she damn sure wasn't a con. She didn't have a smile or a cold, menacing tone to fall back on. Her limbs refused to obey and make a run for it. How could Tristan act like he was in the position of power?
Right. They'd ventured into his area of expertise. The only conceivable reason Tristan would tell her to run—her legs finally got the message.
Tristan said, “You're a reasonable man. Let's come to a beneficial deal for the both of us.”
She stood from the table, not bothering to turn around to see if Montgomery had any reaction to her sudden departure. Could Tristan talk them out of this? The ring felt heavy on her finger. Yeah. He could. The difference twenty minutes made. The same behavior that had twisted her gut made Keri unbelievably grateful.
The hotel continued its usual buzz that pounded at her temples, but she barely noticed. At some point she entered an elevator, packed her cousin's clothes and once again stood on an elevator. The whole process probably took fifteen minutes but then she stood at her roadster. Tristan's car was still parked next to hers. How long did it take to talk your way out of jail time?
She tossed the luggage into her car and foolishly waited, worried about him, because fifteen minutes should have been more than enough time.
Grab your clothes and run. That was going to be their goodbye. Yes, what he did still ate at her...but this was
it? Him taking the fall for something they had both willingly done. Blackmail and bribery only worked if you went along with it. Him bearing the brunt of all responsibilities... Her mind called her all kinds of harsh names, but she had to know he'd be okay.
She searched for him at the hotel's entrance for another five minutes. She was pissed, hurt, but just leaving without so much as— It wasn't polite. Her fingers shook so it took her a few tries to stuff her keys into the ignition. Ten more minutes and still no Tristan. She'd look like an idiot if she stayed, only to have him remind her they were over. They were finished the moment he told her about his past. Was that his goodbye and this just the nail in the coffin? The only thing they'd ever truly been the past few days were partners in crime, and they'd failed at that.
They were done. She could sit in the parking lot for an hour and that wouldn't change the truth. She threw the car into reverse, but her heart ached as she pulled away. “Goodbye,” she said anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
People snapped pictures with their mobiles, with a flash, on the sly despite the sign above the photograph. Tristan's eighth museum visit in the past month and that became something he could rely on. Everyone was dishonest in their own way. Should have been a salve, but he wasn't the kind of man to look for rationalizations.
“Take the picture.” Ian ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign of his impatience, but he continued to stand at his brother's side.
“What?”
Ian stuffed his hands in the jeans and the plain white T-shirt hung loose on his lean frame. “We've been standing here for fifteen minutes. This is the one. Take the picture so we can go.”
“It's not the one.”
No high, airy ceilings in this museum. Flat best described it. Whoever designed the building believed the art and relics should matter. Basically, a daft fuck designed the building, but at least the curator managed to work around it. They'd spread the European paintings, statues and clothing in a way that told a clear story—grief and loss during one plague or another.
Worry creased the skin around his brother's blue eyes. Tristan added, “It's not the one, because the painting makes me think of a funeral pyre.”
“Interesting,” Ian said. “Watching you do this to yourself feels about the same.”
“I had to cough up a few thousand dollars, kiss arse and then I lost Keri. I've every right to brood.”
Ian scoffed and looked at him as though he was mad. “You had to go and tell her the truth.”
“I don't lie, not like that anymore.” He hooked his thumbs into his jeans.
“You don't date so you wouldn't know that's something you confess at least a month or so in. Not a few days.”
“Right,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “because you know what dating is like.”
A woman turned around, interest lighting her gaze. Tristan avoided eye contact. He didn't want her. He wanted Keri. The past few weeks should have lessened the ache of her loss, but it only deepened. A few days spending every waking hour with her and it wasn't enough. He was heartsick. Sort of depressing and unlike him, but he welcomed the change.
“Joce gave me a primer,” Ian said.
He'd have made the whipping sound, but he was pining over Keri. He had no room to mock. “Newlyweds are sickening. By the way, are you settled in?”
His brother grinned. “Aye. She's throwing a housewarming party this Saturday. If I'd known you were this good at conning, I wouldn't have talked you into reform.”
“I'm still a con man,” he said darkly.
“No. You're not.” Ian's voice lowered and anger simmered in the tone. “If you weren't so stubborn, you'd take the job I offered.”
He pffted, warmed by the insistent offer. “I'm not working for my little brother.”
“Why?”
“You're an arse.”
“So?”
He clapped his brother on the shoulder and moved on to the next display, a brooch. He felt the shift inside him. He didn't bother to read the placard, and unlike everyone else he obeyed the warning to not use a flash.
“You're an arse who comes with me to do this,” Tristan said. “I'll consider your offer. You need a salesman. Your demeanor is shite on the best of days.”
“Are we done here? I can go home to my wife?”
“Mother Mary,” Tristan cursed. “This is why I'm on the fence about working for you. I'll have to look at your face while you talk about your wife and your dog. And then I just start to wonder if she has your balls in one of those mason jars Americans love drinking from.”
“Fuck you.” Ian laughed. “I've been meaning to ask, what did you say to Montgomery?”
Tristan smiled. “I told him the truth too.”
“The truth?” His brother sounded incredulous.
“And then I wrote him a very large check. Amazing how the man started singing my praises and didn't mind letting the two of you move in.” He stuffed his phone in his pocket and smiled at him. “Since you're leaving for that home, tell Joce I said hi.”
“Her reply as usual would be to bugger off. Give her time.”
He sighed, glancing back down at the brooch. “I have been. Hopefully she'll forgive me soon.”
“Aye,” he said. “I'm starting to fucking hate museums.”
*****
Keri pulled the earbuds out as her cousin marched up to the lab table.
Jocelyn handed over the envelope. “I want you to know, again, I'm giving you this under protest.”
As usual she ignored the grouchy preamble. “When did he give it to you?”
“An hour ago.”
“For a woman in protest, you brought it pretty fast.” She ran her hand over the wax seal. The man had flair. She could give him that. Her heart fluttered as she slit the side to spill out the contents. She'd stopped telling herself the reaction was wrong and that she should listen to her brain. Romance left little room for rational thought.
She unfolded the letter. A picture slipped out. She inspected the photographed brooch. European cut, floral design, and at a glance she remembered that a slew of them had been made in the 1950s intimating the style. This one held no diamonds but a pearl accentuated the elaborate design. Someone handcrafted the silver in such a way that no other gems were needed.
When she opened the letter she could see, as he'd done over the past month, Tristan didn't give her any of the details. He told her a story.
I know families with money usually owned pieces like this. What use would a farmer's wife have for something so highbrow? Feels right in my bones to believe this brooch was the one of two things she had left of her family. The other would be a locket—pictures of her parents inside and a lock of her baby hair. She was loved. Not abandoned, but it would feel like it because the plague took her parents, leaving her in an orphanage.
But how did she become a farmer's wife? Was she happy? When did she wear it? You tell me.
P.S. The answer to your questions are 15,000 nerve ending fibers in a woman's pelvic area, but 20,000 in the foreskin alone. It's why when we see an injury coming, we protect our dick first. Amongst other reasons, of course.
Tristan
Jocelyn sighed and leaned beside her. “I can tell from the smile you're going to answer this one too.”
He went to museums. He found artifacts and wrote her stories. He wrote her letters. For a month. The first one he'd given to Jocelyn had stopped her heart. She hadn't expected to hear from him again. Why bother to continue to woo her? They were done. They’d had their goodbye, as shitty as it was, but that letter told her in a subtle way, they weren't done. They were only starting. She had hoped it was after reading the first line. She had prayed it was after laughing out loud at his last line.
It had been:
P.S. Yes. You do giggle, especially when I kiss your arches.
Before she could think about what she was doing, she'd started to reply:
Not, yes. Aye.
And then logic had s
et in and she brushed aside the longing, the hope and praying.
She glanced up and then quickly looked away. “It's polite,” Keri argued.
“Polite? Polite?”
Keri laughed at her cousin's incredulous tone. “They're just letters.”
“It's dating.”
“Is it?” She played innocent and ripped a blank page from her workbook. “Tell me again why you hate him so much?”
“He seduced you, then made you cry.”
“I happily let him. Seduce me, that is. The crying was an unexpected byproduct of our affair.”
Joce crossed her legs and leaned in closer as though seeing the whites of the woman's eyes would somehow change Keri's mind. She frowned down at her cousin's feet. Beautiful heels. She missed wearing them but didn't have the time to go buy herself any.
Ian hadn't written her a glowing reference. He pulled strings and got her hired on at the Langston Museum. She didn't hold any guilt over the nepotism, because the quick work she'd done with the statue spoke for itself. Once her second paycheck deposited into her bank account, she'd move out of Ian and Joce's new home.
She'd have done so sooner if the home didn't have a guesthouse with its own amenities. One would think they'd get tired of sex, but way more than once Keri had made an impromptu visit only to have her cousin answer the door flushed and disheveled, while Ian looked irritated and rumpled. After that she waited until Joce came by for her daily are-you-over-Tristan-yet visit.
Worked filled most of her waking hours for the past three weeks. Crocs and big shirts filled her closet once again. She didn't go out for dates, no matter who her cousin tried to shove in her path. None of the men looked capable. Or had dark auburn hair. Or smiled despite their pasts haunting them. They didn't write her letters and give her inane sexual facts because she asked. She hadn't giggled in a month either. A ridiculous thing to miss. What adult female wanted to giggle?