Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  Ian grins. With a complete lack of anything resembling decorum, he asks, “Worried about what will happen when I get you on the mat?”

  My cheeks aren’t the only part of my body that is suddenly hot. Totally forgetting that my brother is present, I blurt, “That is so typical of you. Reduce everything to sex, then use it to control me. You’re--”

  Softly, with a thread of warning, he says, “I’m what, Amelia?”

  “Predictable.” Because I apparently have no sense of self-preservation, I add, “Which is dangerously close to boring.”

  Ian’s gaze on me scorches. “In that case, I’ll have to see what I can do to surprise you.”

  The muscles at my core clench. I turn and march off back toward the party without waiting for either of them. I don’t know whether I should be more excited or afraid of what Ian will do. But I do know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’m longing to find out.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The matter of my martial arts training is still undecided the following day when Adele and I join Helene and Marianne for lunch. I tried to get out of it but Adele would have none of that.

  “I’ve known Helene since she was a child,” she says in the car on the way to the restaurant where we are to meet. “She hasn’t had the easiest life but the past has made her the strong, wonderful woman that she is today.”

  It occurs to me that my grandmother may have some insight into what happened between Ian and his father. But when I ask her, she says only, “They had a terrible falling out when Ian was sixteen but beyond that I have no idea. I can only tell you that Marcus Slade was an unusual man.”

  “Unusual how?” I ask.

  Adele hesitates. “He was extremely handsome--Ian gets his looks from him--and undeniably brilliant. Starting at a very young age, he built a media empire that made him both immensely wealthy and politically powerful. He seemed to have a knack for getting people do what he wanted. Helene was younger than he, I think by about fifteen years. When she was no more than twenty, he came along and swept her off her feet. It was something of a fairy tale romance--or so it seemed.”

  I wonder how that fits with Ian’s comment about his father driving his sports car off a cliff. Surely, fairy tales never end that way.

  “What went wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” my grandmother says. “I do know that my husband, God rest his soul, avoided socializing with Marcus. He wouldn’t tell me why he thought so poorly of him but it was clear that he did.”

  “Were Marcus and Helene still married when he died?”

  “No,” Adele says. “She’d left him several years before. The terms of their divorce were kept very quiet but it was generally understood that she came out of it in a greatly reduced state. That didn’t seem to trouble her any. In fact, after the divorce, she looked much better than I’d seen her in years. Of course, since Ian took over the family holdings and completely remade them, Helene and Marianne have wanted for nothing.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve seen firsthand that Ian treats his mother and sister with impeccable courtesy and gentleness. I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to be so cared for by him.

  Not that I haven’t experienced flashes of his tenderness; I have. Nor can I regret the intense, almost brutal passion that we have shared. But a contrary part of me wishes for both. Ian the gentleman and Ian the demanding lover. Now there, I decide, is a truly tantalizing thought.

  Adele casts me a shrewd look but she says only, “I hope you and Marianne will become friends. She’s a lovely girl.” With a smile, she adds, “There may be something going on between her and Edward. I don’t know for certain yet but it’s definitely worth keeping an eye on.”

  My attention is caught. I recall the moment at the soirée when things seemed rather intense between them. But if there is anything between my brother and Ian’s sister, Marianne gives no hint of it when we join her and Helene at a table in the restaurant’s inner garden.

  Both the Slade ladies rise as we approach. Helene’s smile is warm and genuine as she embraces Adele, who hugs her in turn. Despite the twenty year or so difference in their ages, it’s clear that my grandmother and Ian’s mother are dear friends.

  “So good to see you,” Helene says. Her smile includes me. “I’m glad you could join us, Amelia. How are you finding the city?”

  Settling into my seat, I search for an answer that is both truthful and diplomatic. The city enthralls and delights me in certain ways. But on another level I’m troubled by the unrelenting display of wealth and power by the elite. Sometimes, I’m even repelled by it.

  I haven’t begun to come to terms with the brutality I witnessed but I can’t shake the sense that the beauty of the city is at best a thin veneer, hiding a far darker and more dangerous reality.

  “It’s a bit overwhelming,” I say. “I’m taking it a day at a time.”

  “That’s very wise,” Marianne replies. “This really is a paradise of sorts, at least for some. But living amid so much privilege doesn’t always have the best effect on people.”

  She speaks matter-of-factly, merely making an observation rather than judging. I like her for that and all the more so because her concern suggests that there’s a lot more to her than delicate blond beauty. Marianne clearly has both intelligence and strength of character. If Adele is right about what’s going on, I hope that Edward has the good sense to appreciate her.

  The conversation has moved on to various events that are coming up in the next few weeks when Helene laughs and says, “Marianne and I have a small wager regarding how many more social outings Ian will be able to tolerate. He’s already far exceeded his previous quota.”

  “I did notice him turning up here and there and…well, everywhere,” my grandmother says with a smile. “The lucky hosts have been delighted. He’s quite the catch.”

  “He would be if he ever considered settling down,” Marianne says. Her voice drops a notch. “If Susannah had lived…”

  Adele and I exchange a glance. I accept in that moment that my grandmother knows, not the details but still enough of the truth of my relationship with Ian to be concerned about how I will react to this. It certainly isn’t pleasant to contemplate that he and Susannah might have married. I think of what was taken from him--from them both--and feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow for all that they lost.

  But at the same time I am all too vividly aware that as much as Ian lusts after me, there has never been a hint of anything more. Neither of us has ever spoken of love. I am, as he said so explicitly when he told me how I came to be, her fantasy of the perfect woman. I don’t fool myself that I am also his.

  “I’m not sure what would have happened between them,” Helene says with a note of caution. “They certainly cared for each other but they each had their own reasons for shying away from a deeper commitment. Susannah’s was obvious--she didn’t allow herself to dwell on a future she might not have. As for Ian--”

  His mother sighs and for just a moment I get a glimpse of the shadows behind her eyes. “I’m afraid that when he was growing up, he got a warped impression of marriage and everything that goes with it.”

  Marianne lays a hand over her mother’s. Gently, she says, “That was hardly your fault.”

  “It was in a way. I should have left sooner.” Looking at her daughter, she musters a smile. “At least you seem open to the possibility of marriage, if only someday with someone. I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I have my heart set on grandchildren.”

  Adele laughs. With a nod to me, she says, “Call me greedy but I have hopes of seeing my great-grandchildren.”

  Marianne groans. “Be warned, Amelia. These two will hurry us both down the aisle if we aren’t careful.”

  Although she assumes a look of amused dismay, I have the impression that she isn’t really all that alarmed by the prospect. The corners of my mouth twitch. Edward had better watch out for himself.

  As the conversation moves on, I remain di
stracted by thoughts of Ian. Was he as gentle and protective with Susannah as he is with his mother and sister? Given what I know about her, I think he must have been.

  The woman in the portrait--beautiful, delicate, poised in an attitude of submissive waiting--is so different from me. I should be rejoicing in that but instead I can only think that he will never feel for me what he did for her.

  Determined to shake off my somber mood, I take a sip of water and refocus on my companions.

  “Of course tickets to the match are going for astronomical amounts,” Helene is saying. “But it’s for charity so that’s all to the good.”

  “What match?” I ask, trying to look interested.

  “The polo game this weekend,” Marianne explains. “Ian and Edward--” Her voice softens as she says my brother’s name. “--have a long-term rivalry going back to their polo-playing days when they were at school together. This year they’re on opposing teams. As you might imagine, there’s a great deal of interest in the outcome.”

  Ian plays polo. Another aspect of his life I know nothing about. But it does recall to my mind the powerful muscles of his thighs that I remember all too vividly thrusting between mine. They are certainly strong enough to make him a superb horseman.

  “Amelia?”

  I look up hastily at my grandmother, praying that nothing in my expression reveals my lascivious thoughts.

  “You have a ballet class this afternoon,” Adele reminds me. “We should be going.”

  I take a breath and smile at our companions. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we can do this again.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” Marianne says. “I have some friends I think you would enjoy meeting.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, thank you.” I mean it, I really would like to be friends with Marianne but the fact that she is Ian’s sister makes me cautious. Seeing her could become unbearable.

  We all walk out together. A vintage Rolls Royce from the previous century is parked at the curb. The long sleek car with its raised chrome grill, curved wheel bases, and burgundy body is nothing short of stunning. Even the blasé crowd strolling past the restaurant can’t help but gape at it. A uniformed driver jumps out to open the door for Helene and Marianne.

  Seeing my fascination with the car, Marianne says, “Ian found it in a garage in Connecticut. It had been sitting there neglected for decades. The first time I saw it, I thought he was crazy to think it could be anything other than a pile of junk. But my brother has a real gift for seeing what’s possible. Plus when he wants something, he just doesn’t give up. The restoration took him three years and he did most of the work himself.”

  Staring at the car, perfect even down to the hood ornament of a woman in flight, I nod. “It really is magnificent.”

  “He’s had extraordinary offers for it,” Marianne says. “But when Ian values something, really values it, he never lets it go.”

  I don’t know what to make of that. Ian let me go, seemingly without a qualm, yet he continues to pursue me after a fashion, if only for sex. Or at least he was doing so. I can’t help but wonder if he’s decided that he’s had enough. Or is deliberately seeing how frustrated he can make me. Or has some other purpose that I can’t fathom.

  I’m still pondering that several hours later as I complete a series of deboulé half-turns down the length of the dance studio, Sergei arches a brow.

  “You are thinking about him again,” he says. “Whoever he is.”

  I open my mouth to deny it and realize that I can’t. Ian in my mind and my heart is even more powerful and inescapable than when he is in my body.

  Softly, I acknowledge the truth that I’ve fought so hard to resist.

  “I don’t seem to have a choice.”

  Nor can I find it in myself to want one.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ian

  “Easy, girl, you’ll get what you want.”

  The gray mare lowers her head and bumps my side, sniffing at the apple in the pocket of my jacket. I dig it out and palm it, letting her velvety mouth scoop up the treat.

  I had her brought down from the stables at the palazzo with the thought that Amelia might like to ride but I’m also considering breeding the mare. If I do, I’ll have my stallion, Samson, cover her. He’s big compared to her daintiness, but he’s a gentleman.

  My cock stirs. Great, thinking about horses doing it is getting me hard. But then why should that be a surprise? I’ve been that way more or less--usually more--for days now.

  Ever since Amelia’s receptacle remark, I’ve been stuck in hard-on purgatory, my libido running at maximum with nowhere to go. I can’t believe that as much as I’ve worked to hold old demons at bay, I still made her feel so objectified. But I also know damn well that I did.

  Way to go, buddy. Then follow that up by sending her clit flowers.

  The only bright spot in my otherwise sorry life is that we’ve established beyond any doubt that Amelia can say ‘no’ to me. Not once at any of the events I’ve attended since the soirée has she approached me or in any way hinted that she wants my company.

  Damn her.

  A bunch of hackneyed phrases keep swirling through my mind--I’m caught on the horns of a dilemma, hoisted on my own petard whatever the hell that is, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Speaking of hard--

  On the one hand, she can say ‘no’, which comes as an immense relief. On the other, she can say ‘no’, which brings me back to hard-on purgatory. But why stop there? On the other other hand--can a guy really have too many hands?--she can say ‘yes’. Except she doesn’t.

  I’m worried about being near her again and at the same time I can’t stay away. My grand strategy to set her aside for her own good was blown to smithereens at the Opera House. Ever since, I’ve been busy rationalizing.

  Since she can say ‘no’ to me, and she’s safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, and I know for a fact that however unaffected by me she wants to seem, I can make her come like the proverbial freight train…

  Then really, what’s the harm if we go at it like horny bunnies?

  I’m full of crap but I can’t manage to care. Something got out that night in the golden room and it’s damned determined to play.

  So determined that it’s going all out to convince me that it’s not so bad after all. It’s just another side of myself, and it’s controllable.

  She’s told me ‘no’, she’s keeping her distance, and look what a gentleman I’m being. I want like hell to believe that’s true but--

  If I’d ever been this frigging tied up in knots before, I’d be long since dead in some hell hole or just crossing the street. Considering that I’m about to hurl an eight hundred pound horse into a grudge match in front of spectators so avid for blood that they make the crowd at the Roman Coliseum look like vegans, I’d better get it together.

  Half-an-hour later, I come out of the locker room suited up with my helmet tucked under my arm and my game face on only to find Edward lounging against the nearby wall.

  He grins when he sees me, looking a lot more chipper than he did the previous evening when we met privately to discuss what to do about Davos.

  “You didn’t forget your hankie, did you?” he asks. “You’re going to need it when you’re crying like a little girl.”

  For all that he’s still pissed at me about Amelia, Teddy--as I like to think of him on such occasions--is also suited up and ready for a little trash talking.

  The thought occurs to me that I see a totally different side of him than Marianne does. Which is how it had damn well better stay until I’m sure that any intentions he may have are one hundred percent honorable.

  Yes, I’m a hypocrite and proud of it.

  “That’s sweet,” I say. “But I did my crying last year. This time’s different. You’re going down, McClellan.”

  He falls into step beside me and throws an arm over my shoulders. “In your dreams, Slade. Betting’s two to one against you.”

 
“Bull shit. Three to two tops and that’s only because the scumbags in the stands think Hayden’s come back too soon.”

  “He’s ready though, right?”

  “So he says.”

  Edward nods. “Good.”

  Never mind that Hayden is on my team, the three of us have been friends since before we figured out what our dicks were for.

  A year ago, Hayden almost died taking a not-quite-street-legal jet bike for a joyride in St. Moritz. For his parents, whose only child he is and who had never gotten used to the miracle of his existence, the accident was a nightmare come true. But contrary to their and everyone else’s worse fears, he pulled through.

  Watching the guy who objectively looks like a cross between a Norse god and a surfer dude jog down the hallway to join us, I can’t help marveling at his recovery. And hope like hell that he isn’t pushing himself too hard too soon.

  Because we’re there for charity, we join the meet-and-greet on the lawn in front of the clubhouse. The stables are off to one side, the fields and stands to the other. We’re at the northern end of the park that bisects the center of Manhattan.

  It’s a Goldilocks day, not too cool, not too warm, perfect for polo. The sun, bouncing off the white roof of the club house, may be a problem for the teams in the first match but by the time the star attractions--that would be my team and Edward’s--take the field, we shouldn’t have an issue.

  Hayden, who had half the women on the social register sobbing in their pillows when he was lying at death’s door, comes in for the bulk of attention. He’s grinning, fielding yet another easy lay-up from the paparazzi, when suddenly he does a classic double-take and frowns.

  I follow the direction of his gaze and who do I see? Amelia has just come out of the club house and is standing at the edge of the lawn watching the media scrum. She’s wearing a short pink dress with a frothy skirt and she looks like sin in heels. At least to me she does but I’m far from alone.

  In the days I’ve been trailing after her to every coma-inducing social event dreamed up by the vapid minds of society’s most ambitious hosts and hostesses, I’ve gotten used to the fact that she attracts way too much attention, both male and in some cases female. Used to as in gotten marginally better about wanting to smash their faces in.