by Various
“Bet there’s an interesting tale there.”
“There is.” He tugs me down to sit alongside him. “Champagne?” He points to the silver ice bucket standing to the side.
“Yes, please.”
While he pours, he continues his story. “She was quite young when she married her first husband. A man twenty years older and her Radcliffe college professor.”
I take the flute from his hand, and a spark arches between us, leaving me breathless. “Oh, my. So she was hot for teacher.”
He laughs. “Quite the opposite, actually. Teacher was hot for her. She was quite beautiful, you see. I have a picture of her ... somewhere.” He glances around, rises and grabs a photo frame from a console table. “Here.”
The black and white photo shows a smiling, dark-haired woman in the prime of her life. Sheer joy pulsed out of her.
“She was gorgeous. Was she American or British?”
“American.” He takes the frame from my hand, rests it on the coffee table.
“So how did she come to build this place?”
“Long story.” Curling his arm around my shoulders, he settles us into the couch. “Earlier in his life, her husband interned at the same law firm as Calvin Coolidge, and they became the best of friends. When Coolidge became President, he rewarded his friend by appointing him Ambassador to Great Britain. Unfortunately, he suffered a fatal heart attack soon after his appointment. After his death, she chose to make her permanent home in London, and soon she was part of the “in” crowd. You see, she possessed the three Bs—breeding, beauty and brains—as well as pots of money she inherited from her oil baron father.”
By the way he flashes his devastating grin, I can tell he’s enjoying the telling of this tale.
“Due to her period of mourning, she didn’t socialize much, but somehow she caught the eye of my great grandfather. And he caught hers. He was blonde, blue-eyed, charming. I’m told I resemble him quite a bit.” He sneaks a glance at me to make sure I’m looking before he poses in profile.
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “Was he arrogant as well?”
He barks out a laugh. “Probably. Anyhow, an indecently short time later, less than five months after her husband’s demise, they married. They couldn’t wait, you see.” He winks at me.
“Why not?” I sip the champagne.
“She was pregnant, and they needed to tie the knot before she gave birth, otherwise, the child would be illegitimate. The baby turned out to be a boy, and he became the next earl before he turned five.”
“Five? What happened?”
“My great-grandfather wrapped a car around a tree. Died instantly.”
“How sad.” I pick up the picture frame and stare at the happily smiling woman. “She must have been devastated.”
“By all accounts, she was. She truly loved her husband. But she was a strong woman, and rather than wallow in grief, she returned to an early interest of hers—architecture. Something she’d studied in college. With her solicitor’s help, she built the Brighton Hotel in the art deco style. It instantly became the place for Americans to stay when visiting London. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
I glance around the lovingly maintained space. “It is quite beautiful. Did she ever live here?”
“Yes. Until her husband’s death.”
I turn my head back to him. “Wait. Didn’t your great-grandfather die before she built the Brighton?
“Yes, but she married a third and last time.”
“Who?”
“Can’t you guess, darling Elizabeth?”
My breath whooshes out of me at his term of endearment. “The solicitor?”
He drops a kiss on my lips. “Such a clever, clever girl. His name was Harry Swift, a man of modest means. He married her even though he had quite an aversion to her wealth. He loved her quite madly, you see.”
Something tells me we’re no longer talking about Harry and Emily. “Why did he dislike her money?”
“It wasn’t her money per se, but wealth as a whole. He thought money weakened character, because it gave those who possessed it nothing to strive for.”
I stiffen in outrage. “That’s not true. You haven’t. Look at how hard you work.”
“Yes, I do. And so do my brother and sister. Would you like a tour?”
I nod eagerly. He guides me through the living room. I can’t get over the paintings on the wall. A Marc Chagall, a Degas, even a Van Gogh. They’re not imitations, but the real thing. The last item we come across is his family’s coat of arms—a shield with a bolt of lightning, a knight on a horse, a sword and the Latin words Fortes fortuna juvat.
“What does your family motto mean?”
“Fortune favors the bold.”
Wow! Just wow! “Has it?”
“It certainly favored our oldest ancestor, Sir Eduard of Stormhurst. See?” He points to a plaque containing a list of names a mile long. “William the Conqueror awarded him a baronage for his strength in battle. Along the way, another king bestowed a viscountcy, and yet a third an earldom.”
“All for services rendered?” I run my finger down the list of names. At some point, his name will be added to the illustrious list.
“Well, in one case, it was the wife of the baron who did the servicing.” He winks at me. “If you get my drift.”
My eyes widen. “You mean she slept—”
“With the king. Yes.”
I giggle. What else can I do?
He squeezes my middle and drops a kiss on my head. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes. I’m starving.”
His eyes light up. “Good.” We walk back to the couch, where he flips up the arm on the side of the sofa, revealing a set of buttons. He pushes one and, a few minutes later, a maid appears, dressed in one of those uniforms you see on TV—black dress, white apron, frilly cap on her head—carrying a tray of canapes.
My stomach growls again, and I flush with embarrassment. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. For heaven’s sakes, I ate only a few hours ago.
“Thank you,” he says to the maid. “Leave the tray. We’ll ring if we need anything.”
The maid curtsies. “Yes, my lord.”
The honorific strikes me as funny, so I tease him about it. “So should I call you Lord Storm?” I ask reaching for a mushroom cap. That’s actually kinda cool. It has a romance novel ring to it.
“It’s Viscount Ainsley actually, and don’t you dare.” He takes my free hand in his and kisses it. “I missed you.”
Finished polishing off the food, I giggle. “You saw me half an hour ago. And we spent most of the day in the sack.”
“And your point would be?” He tunnels his hand through my hair which now reaches halfway down my back. The fact he likes it that way has nothing to do with my decision to grow it long.
He nibbles my lower lip, rims the seam with his tongue. Knowing what he wants, I allow him to pull me into his lap. His lips skim the edge of my jaw, my sensitive throat. He suckles the spot where the blood flows directly beneath my skin.
But when he reaches for the zipper, I protest. “Wait. The maid.”
“She won’t come back until I ring for her.”
“Oh.”
The dress proves no challenge to him. He tips me back into the couch and his mouth latches on the tip of my breast. He breathes in. “God, I love the way you smell.” His glorious smile surfaces like a sun rising over the horizon of an ocean blue. He’s busy nibbling on my breasts when a Pink song streams from his coat.
“Excuse me.” He puts just enough distance between us to dig out his cell.
“Bri?”
I clamber off him while he talks.
“What’s wrong?” His face turns stormy. “The bastard.”” And then finally. “Come on up.”
Signing off, he turns to me. “My sister, she’s having a crisis. Do you mind?”
“No. Of course not.” I turn my back to him. “Zip me up.”
&nb
sp; Minutes later, a woman, tall, just as strikingly beautiful as he, arrives with a tear-splotched face, dragging a suitcase behind her. She falls sobbing into Gabriel’s arms.
Not knowing what to do, I try to blend into the couch, but I must have made a sound because his sister looks up, catches sight of me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her svelte figure’s sheathed in a dress that even to my untrained eye screams haute couture.
“You haven’t.” After he introduces us, he hands her a handkerchief and leads her to one of the chairs. “Come sit.”
I stand. “Maybe I should go.” Last thing I want is to intrude on something so painfully private.
“No.” Both Gabriel and Brianna object.
“Please don’t,” adds Brianna. “I don’t mind. It will be splashed all over the papers within a day or two, anyway. They love to parade our family’s dirt.”
I sit back down.
“So what happened, Bri?” Storm asks.
“I came home a day early from Monique’s wedding. Anton refused to go with me to Paris, claiming he had a commitment he couldn’t ditch. I walked into our flat to find him in bed ... with his trainer.” She wails at the last part. “How could I not have known he screwed men?”
I don’t know who Anton is, but holy cow.
“Some men are very good at hiding things. Don’t blame yourself. Did you kick him out?”
“No. I screamed about a bit and walked out. The bastard. I wanted to surprise him. Instead he surprised me.” She bawls. Literally bawls.
Fists clenched, Storm comes to his feet. “I’m going down there.”
Brianna looks up from the handkerchief, her eyes brimming with tears. “Now?”
“Of course now. You won’t have to deal with him anymore. That much I can promise you.”
“I should go with you.” She stands as well.
“No.” He urges her back down.
“You’re not going to fight him are you?”
He snorts. “No. We’ll settle this like gentlemen.”
Sarcasm if I’ve heard it. I can see the blood lust in his eye. Anton hurt his little sister and he was going to pay.
He gets on his haunches, takes the handkerchief from his sister’s hand and wipes the tears from her face. “Stay here. Enjoy a lovely steak and potatoes dinner, have a glass of wine. Or two. Elizabeth will take care of you.”
“Of course, I will.” I’m prompt to agree.
While his sister quietly blubbers, he turns to me. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“It’s fine, Storm. I understand.”
“Please stay with her. Don’t leave.” The plea in his eyes tells me his need encompasses more than his sister’s sake.
How can I say no to him? “I won’t.”
He kisses me hard and then he’s gone, leaving me with a sister staring at me out of narrowed, inquisitive eyes.
Chapter 19
SINCE BRIANNA BROUGHT HER SUITCASE, I encourage her to slip into more comfortable clothes. Once she changes into a fleece top and bottoms that look as if they cost an entire month’s worth of my salary, we relocate to the dining room where the staff serves us the dinner meant for Storm and me.
While we eat, she restrains from discussing her situation, and we chatter about travel and our mutual jobs, but as the dinner progresses and she drinks more of the red Shiraz, details spill from Brianna, details I’m sure she’ll regret the servants overhearing so I suggest we move to the living room.
Once there she goes for the liquor, of which Storm has quite a selection—Patron tequila, Courvoisier cognac, Angostura rum, plus a myriad of other hooch displayed in expensive-looking bottles. Bri pours a generous portion of Macallan 1939 into a tulip-shaped glass. “Bottoms up, darling. May the wanker’s ballocks shrivel off.” She tosses it back in one swallow.
I barely sip the Shiraz. One of us must remain sober.
“The worst of it will be hearing Mummy say I told you so. She hated me being engaged to Anton. She had a duke’s heir all lined up for me, you see. He rather resembles a chipmunk.”
I choke on my wine.
“It’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” I say, trying hard not to imagine a chipmunk duke. When she chatters her teeth at me, I lose the battle and double over with laughter.
Initially, she does the same. But soon her face crumbles, and her laughter turns to tears.
My heart breaks for her. “I’m so sorry. Did you love him so much?”
Her head jerks up. “Hell, no. He was my ticket out, you see. But now, I’ll still be expected to heel like a bitch anytime mummy calls.”
I have no idea what she means by this, but then I don’t have a family who expects me to jump through hoops.
She pours more of the Macallan and tips it back. At the rate she’s drinking, she’ll be blind drunk in no time. Weaving on her feet, she raises her glass and points at me. “Gabe likes you.” Gabe, not Gabriel, and of course, not Storm.
“We’re business acquaintances.” I hurry to explain.
“Sure you are.” She offers a ‘lie-to-yourself-if-you-must-but-you-don’t-fool-me-for-one second’ smile. “I’m glad he found you. You’re down to earth. More interested in him than our money, his title”—she waves her hand at the living room—“all of this.”
She’s right. But what gave me away? “How do you know I’m not?”
“Because you don’t mind I dropped in. I can tell.”
“To tell you the truth, his wealth, the lordship thing, this”—I mimic her hand gesture —“overwhelm me. I know he’s rich, super rich, but this is so much more than I imagined.”
She plops on the chair next to the couch, and, bending forward, drops her hands between her open knees. “He doesn’t care for any of it, you know. It’s more of a duty thing for him. Noblesse oblige and all that.”
Noblesse oblige. With privilege comes responsibility. “What do you mean?”
“How much do you know about Gabe? I imagine your firm compiled quite a dossier on him.” She sighs. “And so much of our lives make fodder for the tabloids.”
“I know he graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and Oxford, that he worked very hard to make Storm Industries the powerhouse company it is today.”
“Yes, but that was not what he aspired to do. When he was younger, he wanted to be a concert pianist. Once he hears a melody, he can play it note for note. And he plays like an angel.” Her mouth turns down at the corners. “Or used to, once upon a time.”
None of this information appeared on the firm’s report. “But that’s in the past?”
She throws her body back onto the roomy chair, takes another sip of whiskey. “He hasn’t touched a keyboard in fifteen years.”
“Why?” I can’t imagine loving something so much and giving it up.
“He hurt his hands.”
“How?”
She rests her head against the seat. “You’ll have to ask him, darling. It’s his story to tell.” Her voice’s slurrier, her words less pronounced.
“But his hands look fine to me.”
Her eyelids droop and so does the hand holding the glass. I catch it before it hits the rug.
“They are fine, but he can’t play the piano anymore. At least not the way he wants to. So he gave it up.” She brings her legs up and snuggles into the seat. “He bummed around Europe for a while. But Mummy soon put a stop to that. She dragged him home and demanded he enroll in business at Oxford. Graduated at the top of his class. Turned out he had quite a gift there as well. After Oxford he attended Wharton Business School. And then”—her lip curls in distaste— “she drove his nose into the grindstone and hasn’t let up ever since.”
Her glassy, far away stare tells me her reminiscing has turned inward. I think she’s almost forgotten I’m here. “Why did she do that?”
“She wasn’t the best at managing money. Spending it, yes. Managing, no. She almost drove the company into
the ground with her risky ventures. So she wanted him to help her run it. She didn’t foresee what would happen, though. If she had, she wouldn’t have been so keen on pushing Gabe into the family business.”
“What happened?”
“He reorganized the board of directors so she no longer had control. She never forgave him for that.”
Much too late I realize she’s revealing things too private to share. “Are you sure you should be telling me all of this? I’m a stranger after all.”
She directs that half vacant gaze at me. “You’re not a stranger. At least not to Gabe. He wouldn’t have brought you here unless you meant something to him.” She tries to sit up, but the strength’s gone out of her and she flops back. “And you need to know what happened. What drove him to be the man he is today.” She may not have command over her body, but her voice vibrates with a strange kind of energy. “So you can save him.”
Storm needs saving? “Save him from what?”
“Himself.”
Is this the source of his pain? The one I noticed the first night we had sex, during those midnight calls, this afternoon.
She brings her legs up to her body and curls into a ball. “We had a brother, Edward. Two years younger than Gabe. They grew up not only brothers but best of friends. He studied business, but he didn’t have the same knack Gabe does. Didn’t matter. Gabe mentored him, promoted him to Vice President of Acquisitions.”
“The position Miranda Stone now holds.”
“Yes. Well, of course, he needed to travel whenever we were negotiating for a new deal. Five years ago, we looked into building a hydroelectric power plant on the Ulua River in Honduras.”
Oh, God. I know where this is going.
“Guerillas found out where the meeting was taking place and opened fire on them. Both Gabriel and Edward were injured. Gabriel barely escaped with his life, and Edward ... Edward died.” Tears pour down her face again.
Hoping to provide some comfort, I crawl into her seat and curl my arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”
She lays her head on my shoulder and heaves out a great big sigh. “Edward died and Gabriel paid the price. Our mother never forgave him for Edward’s death. He was her favorite you see. He was so sweet, so loving. In many ways he was the best of the four of us.”