Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13)

by Heather Wardell

  "It won't, actually," I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. "I want to keep it."

  Rhonda turned to face me directly. "Are you sure?"

  I nodded. "One hundred percent." Fifty-five at the most.

  She nodded back. "Understood. Okay, back to work, folks."

  We got up to leave and she said softly, "Hold on a minute, Alexa."

  I did, since I had to, and once the others had left and Jake had shut the door behind them she said, "Now that we're alone, are you still sure?"

  "Carly is only doing this to get the book away from me," I said, doing my best not to shout the words at her. "I am fine."

  Rhonda nodded, but said, "I'm glad to hear that, but you're wrong about Carly. She's not like that at all. Trust me. I've known her for years and she doesn't have a conniving bone in her body. She doesn't always think before she talks, but she was genuinely trying to make things better for you."

  I believed this about as much as I believed that Mike's next book would be chick lit, but Rhonda had known Carly a long time. She trusted her, and Fred had raved about her too. If those two smart people believed one thing and my tangled-up self believed the other, I was probably wrong.

  I sighed, and Rhonda said, "Look, should you maybe think about it overnight? You can text me tomorrow. Better yet, wait until Monday. Take the weekend to really think. I admire your strength in wanting to keep it, and of course you can keep it if that's your choice, but don't keep it if it's making things more painful for you. Okay?"

  Her brown eyes were full of compassion and sympathy, and I had to look away. I'd seen more than enough of that this week. "Okay. I'll think about it."

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Saturday I went to yoga and then out for lunch with Rosanna, who told me without being asked that if she'd been assigned Mike's book she'd have given it up by now. "I know I couldn't face it with my background, so I definitely wouldn't want to with yours."

  I spent the rest of the day thinking, trying to add up the opinions to help me choose mine. Rosanna and Carly obviously thought I should give up the book. Rhonda seemed to be leaning that way as well, probably because Carly had convinced her. I wondered what Jake thought, but from the other things he'd said I assumed he'd think I should keep it because it was part of becoming normal again.

  Howard and I went out for dinner Sunday and then he took me to his apartment to show me his rare first editions of Stephanie Vincent's novels. I wanted to see the books since I loved her stories but I wasn't so sure about being in his apartment. I did feel awkward when we first arrived, alone with a man in a situation I didn't control, but the books caught my attention so thoroughly that I soon lost my discomfort.

  Once we'd finished examining them, Howard carefully locked them away in their glass cabinet and turned to me. "So, what are you going to do?"

  "About?"

  He shook his head. "Come on, we all know why Rhonda kept you after the meeting. She either took the book away from you right there or gave you a chance to reconsider. Which was it?"

  "Reconsider," I admitted.

  "And have you?"

  I shrugged. "It is hard for me to read it but I feel like I should keep it too."

  "Of course you should keep it. Nothing else makes any sense."

  Funny, I'd felt giving it up made quite a bit of sense. "Why not?"

  He put his arm around me and drew me to the couch. As we settled into it, he said, "Because you're fighting a turf war and if you give this book up it's game over."

  "With Carly?"

  He patted my head. "Poor sweet gullible Alexa. Of course with Carly. She's wanted to be an editor for ages and she thinks she's seen her chance. Don't give her that chance."

  This was exactly what I'd thought, but... "Rhonda said she's not like that."

  Howard rolled his eyes. "Rhonda's got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to Carly. Carly's not a bad person, really, but she is ambitious and she's not going to let anyone get in her way." He smiled and gave me a squeeze. "You're like that too. Which is why I like you."

  "I"m like Carly?" and "so you like Carly then?" and "you don't know me at all" swirled through my head, but I didn't get a chance to say any of them.

  "I get that it's probably tough on you, but if you want to keep your career you'll keep that book." He chuckled. "And I'm shooting myself in the foot here, because that book will make your career. I'm jealous it's not mine. But it's yours and you should make sure it stays that way."

  Howard had proven to me in previous discussions and at work that he understood our industry, and his certainty made me certain too. "I will." I got up. "I'll do it right now."

  I found my phone in my purse by his front door and sent off an email to let Rhonda know that I had decided to keep the book and that I would not be changing my mind.

  As I hit 'send' Howard said, "Let me see it before you send it."

  I laughed and put the phone away. "Too late. It's gone."

  I walked back to the couch and he shook his head. "Too bad. I could have helped you word it perfectly."

  I stood in front of him, his comment annoying me enough that I didn't want to sit with him any more. "I didn't need help. I worded it just fine."

  He reached out and wrapped his arms around my waist. "Of course you did." He leaned in and kissed my stomach. "Just trying to help."

  He was. I knew that. I had to make myself remember it. I bent and kissed the top of his head, glad I felt comfortable enough to make that sort of contact so casually.

  He laughed and let me go. "Come here so I can kiss you properly. I'm so proud of you for keeping the book."

  I sat beside him. "Really?"

  "Of course. You're so strong." He kissed me. "And smart." Another, deeper, kiss. "And gorgeous."

  He locked his mouth to mine and I kissed him back, and as we kept kissing I felt my body beginning to come alive, heat and hunger moving through me. Achingly slowly, but they were moving. His kisses were awakening me in a way I hadn't been sure would ever happen again, and it felt wonderful both physically and emotionally. Maybe I wasn't ruined after all.

  I whimpered at the long-missed sensations and pressed myself closer against him.

  His arms tightened around me, and he ran his hands lightly over my back as he kissed me even harder.

  Then he slid one of those hands across my side and up between us to cup my breast.

  I shoved him away, shocked.

  "What?"

  "What?" I repeated. "You're seriously asking me that?"

  The confusion in his eyes said he was. "You were into it, weren't you? I thought you were ready to go a little further."

  My body was still lit up but the arousal was fading fast as frustration and anger took its place. "I was going a little further. I haven't kissed anyone but you in two years so you should already know that. Don't push me."

  "I wasn't going to try to make you have sex, I just thought it'd be okay to touch you."

  I pulled further away, moving to the farthest corner of the couch. "You weren't going to try to make me have sex?"

  He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't mean it like that. Alexa, come on. You know better than that."

  "Do I? I thought I did but now I'm not sure. How could you think I'd be okay with you touching me like that?"

  A hint of what looked like exasperation flickered over his face but his voice was calm when he said, "We've been together a few weeks now and things tend to progress. I thought you'd be okay because you were more into kissing me."

  "I was more into it," I said, feeling awkward about being explicit and confused about whether I'd really seen what I thought I'd seen in his expression, "but I'm not ready for anything else. What he did... I'm not going to be over it for a long time. I thought you understood that."

  His eyes widened. "You equate me with him? Me touching your boob is like that guy raping you?"

  I hated the word 'boob' but this didn't seem the time to bring that up. "It's not about you, it's about t
he touch. I'm not ready for that sort of thing yet."

  "Because you think I'm like him!" He shook his head, the exasperation fully visible now. "I can't believe you'd think that way. I just wanted to touch you, nothing more."

  His making the whole thing about his desire to feel me up instead of my discomfort with it outraged me. "Well, I can't believe you can't get your head around this," I said, "so I guess we're even." I got up. "I'm going home."

  He did nothing to stop me. When I got to the front door I put on my shoes and grabbed my purse then turned around to see him still sitting on the couch with his jaw set and anger clear in his eyes.

  I took a breath to say something, but then realized I had nothing to say.

  I walked out without a word.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I didn't quite know what to expect from Howard Monday morning at work, but when I arrived at the building he was waiting for me outside with a hang-dog expression. "I'm an ass," he said before I could speak. "I thought you were ready but you weren't and I'm sorry. You got home okay?"

  I nodded, surprised he was concerned about that part. Years of living in Manhattan meant Toronto's subways didn't frighten me, and it hadn't even been nine o'clock when I left so the streets were still bustling with people.

  He came closer and held out his arms to me. "I should have taken you home. Can you forgive me?"

  I didn't move into hugging range. "That's not the problem. I'm not going to be ready on your schedule. Can you understand that?"

  He started to nod then froze. "Did he tattoo you there, on your-- is that why you couldn't--"

  "It has nothing to do with the tattoos," I said, frustrated, then took a long deep breath and took hold of both his shoulders. "Howard, listen to me. I know you think I should be over it and ready to sleep with you, but I'm not. I can't tell you how long it'll take, and I need you not to push me. I'll go forward when I'm ready. That's how it has to be. Can you do that?"

  He touched my cheek gently. "I can. And I'd like to, if you'll let me."

  I knew he still didn't entirely understand, but he was trying and I appreciated it. I didn't entirely understand either. His kisses did feel good, so why couldn't I go further? If I couldn't understand it myself, how could I expect him to get it? "I'll let you. Absolutely."

  He smiled, and leaned in to kiss me. It didn't turn me on like the night before, but since we were on a busy street instead of cuddled up in his apartment that wasn't a surprise.

  When the kiss ended, he hugged me and said, "I'm saying this for your good not mine, but have you considered getting therapy? It might help you get past it all."

  His words annoyed me but I knew it was a reasonable question. "I did, after it happened. Spent about six months with weekly group meetings and one-on-one sessions with a therapist."

  He nodded and squeezed me tighter. "Worth doing it again?"

  I shook my head against his chest. I had hated every moment of it, since talking about it only made me unable to forget the events. "I think I just need time."

  He kissed my hair. "Then that's what you get. Do you maybe need coffee too? Because I do."

  I laughed and drew back. "For sure."

  We fetched our drinks, and things were fine between us for the rest of the day, but I spent a lot of time pretending to work while wondering whether I needed something more than time. I'd had two years, after all. Wasn't that long enough? How long would it take before I could be normal again?

  *****

  Howard wanted to have dinner with me that night, but I had run into Jillian when I'd returned home from my fight with him and she'd invited me to eat with her.

  She was wired when we met at the same restaurant as our last dinner out, and didn't seem able to stop talking about her day at work. "It's amazing, you know. This guy hasn't talked to his family in twenty years, and now he's been sentenced to life and all he wants is to see them. They won't come in, and so I'm in a prison visiting booth with a three-hundred-pound tattooed muscle of a guy on the other side of the glass blubbering and begging me to convince them. Craziness."

  "Why won't they talk to him?"

  She grimaced. "His first jail term was for beating up his sister-in-law. He's on his fifth one now, and this time is for an armed robbery where he killed a guard. He won't be getting out, and from the looks of it they won't be going in."

  I could understand why. "What does he want to say, do you know?"

  "I'd have to, he told me over and over. He wants to tell them he's sorry. He's always claimed the sister-in-law was cheating on his brother so he was trying to defend the family honor and it all got out of hand when she pulled a knife on him. Then when he was in prison because of that he got mixed up with a gang, and the way he'd always told it he had no choice but to end up where he is now."

  The waiter brought us our wine, and the conversation paused while Jillian took a long drink of hers.

  "Some days," she said when she'd swallowed, "make me want to fill my water bottle with vodka."

  "I can imagine. I don't know how you do that job." And I still had issues with why anyone would defend a guy like that. "But his family must know all of this stuff, right? Why is he so intent on telling them?"

  She shrugged. "Sometimes getting a sentence of life in prison wakes them up a bit. In my other meetings with him, like I said, he was all about how none of it was his fault, but today he was a totally different guy. He says he's ready to take responsibility and he wants them to know. He wants to explain his mistakes and hopes they'll understand."

  I considered this. Christophe would be sentenced in a few weeks. I had decided not to attend, since building my new life wouldn't be helped by going back to court, but the victim's advocate had promised to phone me with the results. If he got life, would he want to explain himself to me?

  "Do you think it would help them, if they were willing to listen to him?" I said, trying to hide how interested I was in her response.

  She shrugged again. "They've heard most of the stuff before. What they haven't heard, because he's never said it before, is him accepting responsibility for what he's done. I've seen guys do that in the past and it does sometimes help the family and friends. It means you weren't totally wrong in thinking he was a good guy once, because now he's trying to be one again. Yeah, it might help. But they won't do it. They told me he's dead to them."

  Christophe wasn't dead to me. Not even close. If he did want to talk to me, want to accept responsibility, would that allow me to put my past to rest?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two and a half weeks later, my coworkers and I were on a plane about to land at New York's LaGuardia airport. Officially we were there for an author conference the next day which would be followed by Fred's lavish party, but I was spending far more time thinking, obsessing, about my plan for the day after that.

  My plan to see Christophe at Rikers Island.

  Since Jillian had mentioned that some prisoners end up wanting to tell their stories I'd been thinking constantly about whether Christophe might want to tell me his. His sentencing wouldn't happen until next week, but I was in New York this week, with my Friday free since Fred had kindly paid for us all to stay until Saturday morning so we could enjoy the city after the conference, and that felt like a sign. I'd spent most of the flight scribbling in my notebook, working through my plan and making sure I did want to go, and I was almost positive now. I couldn't pass up this chance to understand.

  I hadn't told anyone what I was considering. Howard had suggested we spend the day roaming the city, so I'd told him I planned to hang out with a friend I hadn't seen for ages. He'd pouted a little but then pulled himself together and said he could come too but I'd nipped that in the bud, saying she was shy and it wouldn't work.

  While we'd waited in Toronto's airport Rhonda had asked us all how we'd be spending our Friday and I'd given the same story. She and Rosanna had encouraged me to have fun, and Carly had done one of her gushing 'you're so brave' speeches that al
ways made me feel like she thought I was pathetic even though they shouldn't because her words said just the opposite. Jake hadn't spoken, but I'd felt his eyes on me and I hadn't been able to look at him in case he somehow guessed my real plan.

  I didn't want anyone to know. If they did, there'd be questions after my visit that I didn't want to have to answer.

  Jake now sat in front of me with Carly beside him, and I surprised myself by not being keen on that. I knew I should trust Carly, since Rhonda and Fred did, but there was something about her that made that difficult. If she found out about Jake's past, I felt sure she'd make it even harder on him.

  Yet again I felt the confusion Jake caused in me. If he'd done what he'd been accused of, he deserved to have his life made harder, but I couldn't quite believe he had.

  Howard squeezed my hand. "Nervous?"

  I shook my head. "Why?"

  "No reason. Except that you're making this face." He gave me a grotesque grimace.

  "Just thinking, I guess."

  He leaned in and kissed me. When our lips parted he said, "Think about that instead. Maybe it'll help."

  I smiled, glad of the distraction, then tried to look hopelessly overwhelmed by passion.

  He chuckled. "I like that face. Make it whenever you want."

  We landed then, and were soon walking through LaGuardia heading for the luggage carousel and then to the taxi pickup area. Howard put his arm around me and said, "It all looks familiar to you, I guess. You're lucky. I have no idea where I'm going."

  I made myself smile, but it was tough. Lucky? Hardly. Yes, it all looked familiar. Christophe and I had flown many times, since he loved watching for low-price last-minute flights to Florida during the cold winter months, and everywhere I looked something reminded me of him. A set of three seats off on their own, where he'd stretched out and pretended to sleep while I stood over him laughing and complaining that I wanted to sit down. How he always threatened to ride the luggage carousel into the back area and fetch our suitcases when they took too long to arrive. The piece of gray-tiled wall where he once took a picture of me, saying I was the only bright spot in his day.