by Tara Wylde
I catch a couple of passers-by staring at me, and I don’t hide, even if their gazes burn against my exposed legs.
“Pick a door, any door,” I say, scanning the area.
My eyes settle on an open side-entrance to the otherwise dark museum. Every other door is firmly shut. This one is conspicuously not – almost like an invitation. I take it.
My heels click against the stone as I climb the steps out front. I halt nervously in front of the open door, wringing my hands.
“This better be worth it, Charlie,” I groan. Then step through.
What happens next is surreal. A white-jacketed waiter hands me a glass of champagne, and I enter a whole different dimension of the world. “Mrs. Thorne,” he says. “Your guest is waiting. Please follow me.”
“Um… Okay?” I say.
Mostly my mouth is open wide.
I don’t know what the hell’s going on. None of this makes any sense. Especially not the pathway of red rose petals, that stretches across the museum’s flagstones. Oh – and did I mention that the whole place is lit by freaking candlelight?
Yeah.
This is so not Charlie’s style. Sure, he likes a grand gesture as much as the next guy, but I know him. At least, I know him as well as anyone, who’s been his wife for a couple of weeks, has any right to…
The Charlie Thorne that I know is quiet and humble, even though he’s worth more than almost anyone alive. He’s aggressive and arrogant – but only in the boardroom and the bedroom, and only when I ask him to be.
So this whole set up? This doesn’t make any sense.
“Tonight’s the night,” I mutter to myself. “You can do it.”
“I’m sorry,” my guide says, squinting back at me. “I didn’t catch that.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
A few seconds later we come to a stop in front of a giant statue of a woolly mammoth. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Charlie has organized a date here. I rack my brain to try and figure out whether we’ve ever talked about this place before, but I come up short.
“Please, sit,” the waiter smiles, gesturing at a small circular dinner table.
Set for three.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Where’s Charlie?”
The waiter shrugs, crisply opens up a white cloth napkin, and lays it on my lap. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “I just do what they tell me.”
“You and everyone else,” I growl.
The waiter’s leather soles click against the museum’s stone floor. In a few seconds, he’s gone. The oppressive silence of the huge, high-ceilinged museum begins to beat down on me. My stomach falls as though I’m in a plunging, out-of-control elevator. I take short, nervous breaths.
I might not know exactly what’s going on, but I know something’s not right.
I hear something: leather on stone. My head jerks, even though it’s probably only the waiter on his way back.
Except … it’s not.
It’s Landon fucking Winchester. He’s got a smug smile on his face. He looks like he’s won the lottery.
My eyes widen, my mouth drops open, and my heartbeat doubles. I scramble backward, kicking my chair out from beneath me. It clatters against the ground.
“You!” I say in a choked, strangled voice. “What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?”
“Penny Thorne,” Landon smiles. It’s an evil, wolfish grin that distorts his features. “Or should I say, Penny Walters, born on the nineteenth of April, 1998.”
“Is –,” I croak. “Is that supposed to impress me?” You are nothing more than a stalker, you fucking creep.
“Calm down, Penny,” Landon says.
He walks over to me, passes behind me while I’m still fixed in this exact spot, unable to move as shock wallows around me. He picks up my chair, and then pushes me gently into it. The touch of his fingers – even through the silk of my dress – makes my skin crawl.
I twist my body and look up at him. “Why should I? Why should I trust anything you say?”
Another thought enters my mind. It fills me with dread. “What –,” my voice catches. “What are you planning on doing to me?”
“Penny,” Landon chuckles. “Just relax. I’m not going to do anything to you. In fact, I’m going to make you an offer.”
“An offer?”
The two words hang in the air as Landon walks around the dinner table, his heels clicking. My eyes trace his path. The chair squeaks a little as he settles into it.
“Precisely.”
The waiter returns with a single champagne flute and fills it, before handing it to Landon. He tops up mine, and disappears silently into a side door.
I close my eyes, and my mind races. I feel like a circus performer up on stilts, and someone’s just kicked them out from beneath me.
“Enough,” I mutter. “You tell me what’s going on right now, or I walk out of here.”
The smile sits uneasily on Landon Winchester’s face. By any measure of the word, he’s a handsome man.
Yet handsome is the last word I’d use to describe him. He’s creepy, plain and simple. If Charlie’s the Beauty, then Landon’s definitely the Beast – and I don’t see a happy ending to this story.
He runs his fingers through his wispy blonde hair. “Fair enough,” he says, settling back into the chair. “I suppose you deserve to know.”
I twist the champagne flute anxiously in my fingers as I wait. The museum is cool, and goose bumps break out on my legs. The silence starts to weigh heavy on my shoulders.
“You see, Penny – I know you.”
“Know me?” I croak, squinting.
Landon nods. “We’re the same, you and I.”
“We’re nothing alike!”
“Tell yourself whatever you want, Penny Walters,” he says, deliberately using my maiden name. “But we both know the truth.”
I freeze. Landon’s manner is too easy, his posture too aggravatingly self-assured. He’s holding an ace in the hole – or he thinks he is. Either way, I don’t like it.
“I’ve studied your file, Penny,” he says.
“My file?”
“I had my men follow you: quite a few men, actually.”
“What?”
Landon smiles: the cold, mirthless expression creeps onto his face like a reptile. “I had to pay the best. After all, it wasn’t just me who was following you…”
“What are you talking about?”
Landon laughs: the cold, calculating sound bounces off the stone arches that surround us. I flinch as the noise echoes back. “He didn’t tell you? Of course he didn’t. Everyone thinks he’s a saint, but we know the truth, don’t we, Penny?”
I close my eyes, stunned, and whisper my lover’s name. “Charlie.”
“Charlie,” Landon confirms. “Picture-perfect Charlie Thorne,” he spits. “Although it was probably that attack dog of his: Harper whatever. I’m sure Charlie wouldn’t want to get his own hands dirty.”
“My apartment,” I gasp, jerking my head up and staring directly into Landon’s gaze. “Was that you, or –”
“Me,” Landon smiles. “My men are very… Efficient.”
I take a second to collect myself. Suddenly I feel exactly what I am – a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t know how to operate at this level. I feel like I’m battling a chess grand master, only I’m blindfolded, and I can’t even play checkers.
“So what do you want?” I ask.
My mind races through the shock. Whatever happens, I know I need to protect Charlie – and Tilly. I made the decision days ago. I created this mess by attempting to steal from Charlie. The least I can do is try to fix it.
“It’s not about what I want, Penny. It’s about what I can do for you.”
I fix him with a cold, hard – yet uncertain – stare. “What do you mean?”
“Your father, Penny; he’s a very, very sick man, isn’t he.”
My blood runs cold inside me. In fact, the whole room seems to dro
p half a dozen degrees. I leap to my feet, and for a second time the chair tumbles back behind me. “You stay away from him!” I yell.
“Relax, Penny,” Landon says, waving his hand. “Despite what you may think of me, I’m not a terrible man.”
“So you say,” I say.
“So I say. Besides, Penny, I don’t need to do anything to your father. I can just sit back. The tumor will take him soon enough.”
I stumble backward. A sick sense of dread coagulates in my stomach: like clotting, dying blood.
“Unless…” Landon whispers, dragging out the word. “There was a treatment.”
I’m locked in place. It feels like my feet are wedged in dried concrete. “There isn’t…” I mumble.
“Oh, but there is,” Landon says, letting out a short burst of the cold, mirthless laugh. “And you know there is, Penny. After all, my men found the pamphlets on your bedroom floor…”
“I’m done, Landon,” I yell. “You’re sick. I’ll go to Charlie, tell him everything –.”
Landon stands up. The champagne ripples on the table in front of us, and the three sets of cutlery rattle against one another.
“You won’t,” he growls. “Penny, listen to me. I’m offering to pay for it – all of it. Your father will be well again. I’ll pay for the best doctors: the best hospitals; get him out of that hell hole he’s in.”
Tears burn their way down my face. The salt stings my pores. Landon Winchester is offering me everything – everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ve got a choice ahead of me – a horrible, awful choice. Betray the only man who’s ever loved me – and his daughter as well…
Or let my father die.
I close my eyes, hiding in the darkness. I hope to find an escape from the guilt creeping over me, but I don’t. If anything, it’s worse.
“And what do you want in return?” I whisper.
Landon doesn't answer. Not right away, at least. He fishes a cell phone out of his suit jacket. He lifts it to his mouth and murmurs into it. “Send her in.”
There’s a pause, then a heavy wooden side door swings open, filling the quiet hall with the groaning of under-oiled hinges. A woman’s stiletto heels click against the flagstones, and she emerges from the darkness.
She smooths down a gray pencil skirt there’s no way she can afford on a public servant’s salary and smiles.
“I think, Penny, that’s where I come in.”
Landon smiles, and gestures at Ms. Winters’ seat. “Penny, Carol, I understand you’ve both met. Please, sit. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlie
It’s a few minutes past closing time, and I can tell that the Tiffany’s saleswoman just wants to close up for the night and head back home.
Her name tag reads: Susan. Susan’s probably got kids to feed and wash and get into bed, before grabbing an hour of alone-time before she needs to fall asleep. The last thing she needs is a customer like me wasting her time…
“Excuse me, Mister –?” She says.
“Thorne,” I mutter, distracted. My eyes scan the glass cabinets. Each one contains tens of thousands of dollars of glittering jewelry. Each one lies open.
“Mr. Thorne, then,” she says, sounding awkward. “I really must ask you to hurry up. Only, it’s closing –”
The woman falls silent, making a strangled noise as she cuts herself short. I glance up, and see that her expression has changed. Her face is tight and drawn, almost as though she’s scared.
I pause to wonder why, but I don’t have to wait long to find out. In a glass sheet behind her, I see her manager’s reflection. He’s a portly man, and he’s making a cutting motion at his neck.
It doesn’t take me long to piece together what’s going on. The manager has figured out who I am, even if this girl hasn’t. The last thing he wants is for one of his employees to scare me off.
In the New York retail scene, I am known as a “whale”. One visit from me, or any of the other dozen men and women – whose net worth is high enough to live in my ZIP Code in the city – and a quarterly bonus is guaranteed.
“– Time,” Susan mutters, eyes twitching left and right. “In fact, don’t worry about it, sir. Take as long as you need.”
I hold her gaze until her eyeballs finally quit dancing. I feel bad for putting her in a spot like this. My eye is drawn to movement in the pane of glass behind her, and I watch as the store manager sidles up.
“Mr. Thorne,” he simpers. His voice is high-pitched and reedy; not what I’d have expected from a gentleman of his enormous bulk. “What brings you to my store? I can help you choose, perhaps?”
I glance up, and see that Susan has a tight, pinched look on her face.
“Actually,” I say, “Susan here has been nothing but helpful.”
“Is that so?” The manager says with a disdainful look on his face. He makes a tiny, hidden shooing motion with his fingers. It’s not meant for my consumption, but I don’t miss much. “Well, I’ll be pleased to take over –”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I say firmly. “Susan and I are just finishing up, aren’t we?”
“Really, it’s no bother,” the manager says.
He has that tight, white-lipped grimace on his face that so many people get when I dismiss them. I learned long ago that most people only want to be around me because of my money.
That’s what makes Penny so special.
She never gives any indication she wants my money. I swear she doesn’t even like the high-price designer labels I keep filling her closets with. She still wears those clunky studded black leather boots that look like they once marched into Iraq during Operation Desert Storm.
“We’re fine,” I say, turning away. I watch as the manager puffs out cheeks that are turning beetroot red before turning away.
“In fact,” I say, calling him back briefly. “Who’s your boss?”
“I’m the manager of this –.”
I flick my fingers dismissively, copying the man’s gesture from earlier. “No. Your boss: the CEO.”
The manager’s cheeks quiver as he processes my question. “Michael Kowalski,” he says. “Why?”
I look back at the saleswoman. She looks like she’s doing her best to shrink into the floor; as though there are a thousand other places she’d rather be, as long as they weren’t right here, right now.
“Ah, Michael,” I nod, as if I’ve got any idea who he’s talking about. “How could I forget?”
“You know him?” The manager asks, his eyes gleaming with interest.
“He knows me, anyway,” I say, flipping the question in an unnecessary power-play that doesn’t fail to bring a small smile to the corners of my lips. “I think I’ll drop him a note, commending Susan for all her hard work.”
The manager’s fists ball up at his sides as he grapples with the idea that Susan, not he, will get all the credit. The idea fills me with happiness. I don’t know why, but something about this man has me all riled up inside.
“Thank you, sir,” he says. He gives me a slight nod before turning away, bristling with irritation.
I take a second to compose myself so I don’t burst out laughing, and then turn back to Susan. “I’ll take it,” I say, pointing at a diamond necklace set into a gorgeous, thin platinum-gold setting that’s going to look stunning draped around Penny’s neck, dangling between her perfect, perfect breasts.
Susan’s fingers quiver. She clears her throat nervously. “Of course, sir.”
All of a sudden, Susan’s gone from impatient to all kinds of nervous; and I think I know why.
“Can I let you in on a secret?” I ask as she brings up the purchase. I lean forward conspiratorially.
“Of course, sir,” she says as four thousand dollars flashes up on the register.
“I’ve never met Michael Kowalski,” I grin, handing over my AMEX. “I just wanted to take that pompous ass down a peg.”
The worry seems to drain out of Susan
. Her shoulders relax forward and she lets out a deep breath she’s been holding onto.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling shyly. “It’s just – I really need this job. I’m still on probation, and Tony – the manager – is kind of,” she looks around, searching for the right word: “Creepy.”
I file the man’s name away. The thing about having friends in high places is that it’s easy to do good things in the world.
I slip the necklace box into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, pull out a small wad of notes and pick out about a thousand bucks. I don’t count it.
“Here, take this,” I say, handing it over. “Take your kids out for dinner.”
Susan’s features crinkle with disbelief. “How did you know I’ve got kids?” She gasps.
“I’m perceptive.” I grin, and turn to leave.
“Thank you…” She whispers.
I step back out into the crisp cool of a New York springtime evening. The sky is now blood-red, and glitters off the acres and acres of panel glass that stud the skyline.
I start walking, feeling upbeat. I swear, sometimes giving a gift makes the giver feel better than the receiver. That’s certainly the case for me.
Of course, it doesn’t take long for all that to come crashing down.
After less than fifty paces, I stop dead in my tracks in front of some PR agency’s offices. Hell, it might even be one that Thorne Enterprises keeps on retainer. The lobby is filled with TV screens, all displaying the same cable news channel.
The ticker at the bottom is what catches my attention. It reads, “Wincorp Merger Announcement”. I step forward until my nose is practically pressed up against the office window. I feel like someone’s sucker-punched me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s blowing up with alerts.
Landon Winchester’s holding his goddamn press conference on the steps of some fancy museum. It’s not just a press conference, either.
It’s a fucking ambush. He’s trying to take my company without even giving me the courtesy of a damn phone call.
Prick.
But if that wasn’t enough, as I watch him walk down the stairs like some minor European royal, toward the baying press pack, I see something on the screen that fills my stomach with twisting anger. It attacks my stomach lining like acid.