by Olivia Logan
A muscle flicked angrily in his jaw, the side lights highlighting only half of him, cloaking the other half in darkness. Waves of anger rolled from him, and she turned to face him at the silence.
“You lied to me.” The four growled words sent an icy chill down her spine, and she forced herself not to tremble under his hard, uncompromising gaze, at pride, anger, anguish in his eyes.
“How did I lie to you? About being a virgin? I think we agreed that didn’t exactly come up in conversation. And as for being who I am, or more correctly, who I was ... that just isn’t any of your damn business!”
“Like hell it isn’t! The heiress to the Stratton-Porter estates. You didn’t think to drop that into a conversation?” he thundered. “Who else knows who you are? Nasser? Rakena?”
“For your information, no one does. Because that isn’t me anymore. I, the person standing before you now, am only CJ Stratt. Radio DJ and agony aunt.”
“So the film premiere, skiing, the fluent French ...” His voice trailed off, and she eyed her suitcase across the gulf that constituted the middle of the room. If only she’d had the forethought to grab some clothes before her confessional moment.
“That’s me. I learned those things growing up. Was made to.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“Sal’s?” What did that have to do with the conversation? “I went there when I moved to London alone, without my family or their money. I don’t need those things. I never did, and though I have a feeling I might as well be talking to a wall, trust me when I say that money can’t solve the problems of nature. Period. And what’s more ...” She stopped, the words catching in her throat.
She had seen Jack angry, charming and just damn hot, but she had never seen him pale. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
“I ...” Someone in her world, his world, once said those things about her. The young man her mother wanted to befriend CJ. A guy with an American accent ...
“Nothing. Never mind.” A cold knot formed in her stomach, her already sensitive nerves tightening further.
“Finish.” The cold command made the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she shook off the feeling of dread surrounding her.
“It was a comment I overheard when I was about fifteen. It was at my parents’ party, and if I didn’t know before that I was a disappointment to my parents, I did that afternoon. I should probably confess that the ice-white hair and dyed ends are not my natural color. In fact, before the age of eighteen, I was mousy brown with these awful glasses. You definitely wouldn’t have recognized me back then if you saw me.
“Anyway. To cut a long, pretty pathetic chapter in the story of my life short, I overheard my mother and her friend talking about me and ...” sucking in a deep breath, CJ forced herself to continue. “And my mother basically told this other woman, whose name escapes me, that she couldn’t buy me a husband even if she tried and then—this is the laughable moment—this woman offered her son to take me to the summer ball that evening. To be honest, I didn’t see him, but I do remember he had a strange pseudo-American-British twang. A little like yours but more mixed. In not so nice words, he basically said forget it, and I’m sure something else, but I had decided that the phrase ‘eavesdroppers never heard good about themselves’ was true so I left. I was fifteen; it meant more than it should.
“That was definitely the straw that made me leave when I turned eighteen. My parents and I have stayed away from each other pretty much ever since.” A tight smile pulled at her lips. There. It was all out.
“What. Did. He. Say?”
CJ started at the impatient tone, her nose wrinkling as she tried to bring the comment that had once seemed so important to her to the front of her mind.
“Honestly, it’s kind of lame, but it represented everything I hated about that world. He said something like, ‘Money can’t solve the problems of nature. Period. Ducks belong in duck ponds. They shouldn’t ...’”
“Mix with the swans,” he finished for her, his hands curled into fists by his side.
“Um, yes. That was it.” Her voice was soft to her own ears, the blood thrumming through her body making her head spin. Pieces from the past she had happily forgotten came back in a rush, and she sat down heavily on the nearby chaise lounge, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Hotels with a golden orb logo, a British-American accent ... the name of her mom’s friend was Jenna Harper.
“It was you. You were the guy. I had no idea who you were, but my fifteen-year-old self hated you. You didn’t just live in that world, Jack, you symbolized everything about it I hated. Although it did make me decide that if I was a duck, I should join the other ducks, so I did. I should thank you, but right now I don’t even want to look at you.”
“It’s my hotel, CJ.” His voice was like sheets of ice cutting through her, and she gripped the cushion under her, steadying her nerves as she pushed herself up.
“Lest we ever forget. In that case, I shall find alternative accommodations.” She forced her sluggish legs to move, her eyes locked on the door, so she was unprepared when her knees bumped against the huge bed, halting her movements.
The air around them stood still and her eyes burned at the effort to stop the tears. She had done too much of that already at fifteen. She wouldn’t do it now. Not after she had given herself to him, damning the consequences, only to have given her heart, too.
She watched as he reached for his own clothes, bunching the expensive garments into a ball. Her heart pounded against her chest as he caught her gaze, his eyes dark and troubled before he turned away. The slamming door rippled through her like a seismic wave knocking the floor from under her.
Slipping down the bed, she curled her legs under her, willing away the chill that had taken hold. Memories from the past and present blurred into one, each with a new image, a new image with a dimpled smile and navy-blue eyes.
Time ticked by and eventually she rubbed the blur from her vision, focusing on the bright light of the dawn outside. Was it morning already?
Pulling herself up, she gathered her clothes. She knew now. She’d come full cycle; she had confronted her past, met her present and knew the path of her future. Grabbing her suitcase, she shoved the remains of her clothes into it, refusing to look at the bed and remember the night her world had changed. Swallowing back the boulder-sized rock that had taken up residence in her throat, CJ heaved her suitcase behind her and headed for the lift, determination and a calm sense of closure flowing through her.
Yep, a full cycle and this was the end.
Chapter 11
“I think that lady can really pack a soulful punch, don’t you, London? Welcome back to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with me, your host, CJ Stratt. It’s good to be back. And a massive thank you to you, the listeners who have also been showing your support for my brand-new advice column in Living Style, where my message always stands: It’s not who you are, but what you do that makes you special. I know that from experience, and if you have missed my um ...” She paused, forcing her face into a smile, willing the hurt to stay at bay instead of overwhelm her like it had the past week since her return from Monaco. A week that had gone by with no word from Jack. “My dating ventures under the hashtag 8dates1month, then those amazing men I have the fortune of working with have whacked it all on a script, so just pop on over to our website and the link is up there.
“You have been texting in droves, and I have been blown away by the support you guys have shown, but you have been asking why the last tweet—Monaco=amazing views, great dinner. w/ @HarperInc—ended after date seven. I have a reason and it is a very good one. You see, this venture, wager to give it its proper title, started life because Mr. Harper and I had something to prove. We both thought it would take eight dates to do that. We were both wrong.
“Against my original opinion, Mr. Harper wasn’t the silver-tongued, untrustworthy individual I thought him to be. I don’t take back my advice I gave at the time, but I will
reiterate what I said—sometimes it’s easier to hold on to something like a person or a memory than it is to let go. Hearts break, but you can learn from the experience and move on. Forgiveness is always the hardest bridge to cross, and sometimes when we do, we find the troll of doubt underneath barring our way.
“And along with the lesson I’ve learned, I think Mr. Harper has walked away wiser as well. Don’t mess with a London agony aunt!” She sat up straighter, willing the good feeling she usually felt at 1:45 a.m., but she wasn’t surprised it had gone AWOL. “Anyway, back to you, the listeners. You know what to do. Till then, sit back and relax to one of my favorite movie ballads. I think you can guess whom it’s going to be.”
Switching the button to start the track, CJ leaned back, pulling the oversized cardigan tighter around her, its sombre coloring reflecting her mood. Dropping her head back against the stiff, new headrest behind her, she breathed in deeply, reaching her hand up to rub at her dry, sleep-deprived eyes. If nothing else came out of this debacle, at least her ratings boost afforded her the office chair of her dreams, coupled with a shiny new contract for at least a few more years in it. That and the unexpected agony aunt column in one of the U.K.’s biggest monthly magazines. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Huffing gently, she flicked aside a stray wisp of hair from her face, running her fingers through it before pulling it down to the black-tipped ends. She had originally thought red, but that made her think of strawberries, which was just no, so black it had to be.
Pressing her lips together firmly, she nodded to the empty space around her, ignoring her producer’s concerned look from the other side of the glass divide. She had been right to leave Monaco. She had no other option. It wasn’t like she could have stayed. That would have been emotional suicide. Besides, the terms of the wager had been reached. Her ratings had risen, and he had the answer to the deal he so desperately craved. Not that she knew precisely whether he had bothered looking in the envelope she left at the hotel’s reception, especially since she had unfollowed the financial pages, but she had left it for him anyway.
Tapping her foot against the metal leg of the chair, she winced as it knocked the edge of the table. She pulled her toes up to rub them, only for her knee to knock a nearby box, sending stationery flying over her silver tights and grey pencil skirt. Damn it! What was wrong with her this evening? Or the evening before that or the one before that.
She yanked off the headphones, bending down to pick up the various objects. The sharp rapping on the glass forced her to leave some behind; her producer was pointing to the flashing lines in front of her. For goodness’s sake! Throwing her hands in the air, she dropped the bits of equipment, their muted banging against the desk sounding how she felt. Empty and scattered.
Pursing her lips into what she hoped passed for a smile, CJ pulled her headphones back on, her eyes scanning the lines of the text in front of her, trying to ignore her hammering heart at the knowledge it wasn’t him. Why would it be? Their business was concluded.
Her fingers worked steadily, spinning around the skull ring. She still couldn’t quite believe it. Jack had broken her heart as a teenager and then stole it when she was a woman. But ultimately, he’d put her on the path to her future.
Put her on a path, but she was in charge of her journey. She had made her life successful through her own hard work and determination. She was a person who knew what she wanted and who she was. Not who she was born to be, but who she was meant to be.
When she had left for university, it had been the last time she’d contacted her family; each side acknowledged this was for the best. Maybe it wasn’t. She wasn’t the same girl seeking approval. Despite making something of herself away from them, she had kept running from her past. It was time to stop.
She straightened up against the seat, a renewed sense of direction coursing through her. She had callers to attend to, relationships to solve. The phrase “physician heal thyself” applied here—she frowned at her brain’s attempt at self-advice. If only it were that simple.
Flipping the red switch to open up the airwaves, she sucked in a deep breath. “Welcome to ‘The Midnight Hour,’ caller. What can I do for you this evening?”
• • •
Scrolling back up the long e-mail, Jack slid his mouse toward the red X in the top right hand corner. Delete. Another corporate invitation to yet another event he had no interest in attending. Leaning back against the cushioned chair, he dragged a hand through his hair, catching his reflection in the large window. A man he didn’t know stared back. A man without a devil-may-care sparkle in his eye, a grimace pulling at his mouth, a five o’clock golden shadow and a disheveled suit that once would have been pristine.
Puffing his cheeks out, he blew out a long, hard breath. Long and hard. Those were his days now. Longer and harder since a week ago when he had had a golden opportunity handed to him on a plate by someone who had lied to him since the very beginning.
He reached for the glass in front of him, trying to wash away the sour taste in his mouth, he set the now empty whiskey tumbler down on the latest financial paper editions. Loud headlines screamed Rakena’s success and ruminations on what this spelled for Harper Inc. Nothing. The deal’s failure meant nothing to his business. He was no worse off without it. A strange thought considering how hard he had worked for it, sacrificed for it, and yet ... he hadn’t lost any sleep over that.
The idea and terms of the deal may have been a step too far for Brice, but it wasn’t for Jack. It was only the beginning. If only they—the press, his board, his father—knew the truth about it.
Jack drummed his fingers on the ornate desk, his eyes straying to the lights of London outside. He should be back in the States, should have gone there when he left Monaco instead of coming back to London. A city that had nothing for him anymore. Nothing but ...
Gritting his teeth, he stood up and began pacing, needing to move. He refused to think about her. She had lied to him and the whole of London. Lied and left without a word except a letter reception handed to him as he had marched out of his own hotel like the hounds of hell were after him. She thought a letter would cut it. Like hell was he going to read it.
The wager be damned. Though judging from the one article he read in the financial papers, their little bet had spiked her ratings, a spike other radio stations were trying to emulate unsuccessfully.
Camilla-Jane Stratton-Porter. She had been right about one thing. He wouldn’t have recognised her. The week before that infamous party had been when his father had thrown him out of his house. His mother had been living in their U.K. residence and had grudgingly allowed him to stay only to summon him to a garden party the day after.
He had been twenty, the bar had been free. It had been a no-brainer. He could remember very vaguely a brown-haired girl shuffling between the rooms. He sort of remembered his mother’s question before he proceeded to tell them exactly what he thought of the women at the party in general. He definitely remembered being asked to leave. And he remembered the morning after when his mother had proceeded to tell him the exact comments that had got him thrown out of the party.
He watched the man reflected in the glass with disdain. Jack hadn’t known she had overheard. Would it have mattered if he had? He doubted it. He had been angry and hurt. Deserted by the people he thought he could trust and accused of being someone he wasn’t.
Inhaling sharply, he leaned his head against the glass, his breath creating a small puff of mist upon it. He had been living in the shadows cast by others his whole life. Even the deal was about his need to prove himself to his father. He couldn’t go through with it and he knew why: because she proved to him he didn’t have to. CJ accepted him for himself.
He shook his head. No. He hadn’t been living in the shadows of others, he had been living in his own and that of his past. A past he was happy to put far behind him so he could move to his present and future. And he knew just where to start.
• • •
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Pushing the station doors open, CJ wrapped her coat closer around her, her eyes falling on the chocolate egg displays in the windows of the nearby shops. Barely a stone’s throw away from Valentine’s Day and the Easter eggs were out already! Not that she wouldn’t be glad to see the back of February. It was cold, dark and miserable. March always seemed to be full of life. It was the season of blossoms, yellow daffodils, baby animals and ... long black limos?
Stopping abruptly, she wrinkled her nose, squinting into the night. The street lamps were as bright as they had been the night before, so why was she seeing things? Okay, so she had been suffering from severe bouts of insomnia, but after trying to get back into her usual work routine, that was to be expected, right? And, okay, so she had spent most of her early morning slash daytime sleep thinking of him, but again that was only because of his connection to her former life.
She puffed out a breath as the large car swerved around the corner, its headlights pointed directly at her. Now she knew what rabbits felt like. Swiveling a speedy 180, she darted toward the direction of her bus stop, the squeal of tires making her jump. She skidded to a stop, her blood thrumming in her body, her breath shallow as if she had just run a marathon instead of a few feet.
“CJ.”
The deep timbre danced over her shattered nerves, and she curled her hands by her side, ignoring her churning stomach at his nearness. Turning slowly, she forced her mouth into a smooth smile, keeping her fingers and toes mentally crossed that it would be enough to hide the tumultuous feelings raging through her.
“Jack. This is a surprise. You look ... um ... this is just a surprise,” she said, unable to hide the rise in her voice as he stepped closer, the car’s beams highlighting his bloodshot eyes, his beard and unkempt hair.
“Crap. I look like crap, CJ,” he admitted dryly, his pained expression making her already jittery nerves dance more.