Chosen: Part One

by Josie Litton

  At its center stood the man I had just met yet felt in some inexplicable way that I had known forever. Without understanding how or why, I accepted that we were destined to meet again.

  The odd comfort that brought me was even more disturbing than my fear of what would happen when we did.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I was eight years old when my father took me to visit the zoo at the Tierpark Hellabrunn in Munich. He was in the city on business and had brought me along to begin the process of introducing me to our people beyond the small circle I already knew at home on Malta. I had no real appreciation of that at the time, being too young to care that the men I met in paneled boardrooms and discrete country homes would one day serve me.

  I remembered standing in front of the penguin enclosure, laughing at the birds’ antics. A few months later, my father was dead and my mother as well, the yacht they were sailing on destroyed in an explosion that left nothing of them or their guards for even the sharks to find.

  I was fifteen before I hunted down and killed the last of those responsible for orphaning me.

  To be fair, my parents’ tragic early deaths were also a kind of liberation. They freed me to become the man that I prefer to think I was always meant to be.

  None of which explained why being face-to-face with Grace Delaney made me suddenly remember the penguins.

  Much less tease her about them.

  Not that I didn’t enjoy teasing a woman, just in an entirely different way. The thought of bringing Grace to the very edge of orgasm and holding her there, watching her writhe, wet and swollen, begging for the release that was mine alone to give was all too seductive.

  I had to remember that I had only one use for her. She was a means to an end, nothing more. That being the case, there were lines I would not cross.

  Or so I thought.

  All the same, staring into the darkness, I couldn’t help but regret that I was not likely to ever hear her laugh again.

  Chapter Three

  The cab dropped me off at the entrance to the building on Fifth Avenue opposite Central Park. I got out slowly and stood looking up at the lovely Beaux Arts façade as I thought of all the places I would rather be.

  Almost anywhere else, really.

  I had never gotten along with my grandmother. As a child, I’d had the good sense to find her terrifying, an early indication that my instincts were sound. I could remember hiding behind a Queen Anne wing chair in her drawing room while on a visit with my parents, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t notice me.

  She had, of course, but she’d done no more than glance in my direction with those greenish gold eyes that some claimed to find beautiful but which I had always thought were vaguely reptilian.

  It wasn’t until some years later that I became of interest to her. A few days before my fifteenth birthday, she summoned me to tea. The memory of our encounter remained all too clear in my mind.

  “You have a role to play,” she said as she poured oolong tea from a Meissen pot that had belonged to Marie Antoinette. She was a great collector of such memorabilia. Her most prized possession was a pen used by the Empress Catherine the Great. Grandmother herself wielded it to great effect in the frequent notes she dispatched to family members pointing out omissions or transgressions on their part.

  “Do you know why?” she asked, handing me a delicate porcelain cup.

  Light from a crystal chandelier fell over her perfectly coiffed silver hair. Her face, still showing every evidence of the stunning beauty she had possessed in her youth, was almost entirely unlined. She gave no sign of ever having been touched by the emotions that leave their marks on most of us--anxiety, empathy, and the rest. In some profound way, she lacked any connection beyond herself.

  My fingers shook as I took the cup. I tried desperately to conceal my nervousness, not helped by the fact that my discomfort obviously amused her.

  Even so, I knew an answer was required. “Because I’m a Delaney?”

  My response earned a faint smile. Her teeth were small and even, except for the canines which were just a little longer and more pointed than most people’s. Some members of the family had inherited that trait. I, thankfully, had been spared it.

  “A hundred years ago,” she said, “you would have been digging potatoes out of the hard ground of west Ireland or laboring from dawn to dusk in a factory somewhere. Instead, today you are here…”

  She waved a pale, veined hand around the drawing room with its high windows fronting on the park, walls covered in brocade silk, and a fortune in antique furnishings.

  “That didn’t happen by accident. Everything you see, everything we have is the result of hard work, discipline, and the absolute certainty that we deserve it. But none of that would count for anything without the willingness to put family first, above all else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  In an instant, her mood shifted, becoming dark and angry, even enraged. “Don’t parrot answers at me, girl,” she snarled. “You can’t possibly understand, you’re still too young. But you will eventually, if I have anything to say about it.”

  I couldn’t see how she would not. My grandfather had died shortly before I was born, making my father head of the family. His authority was unquestioned but even he deferred to Grandmother. I had caught a glimpse of his true feelings for her from time to time, enough for me to know that I wasn’t alone in fearing her.

  “The public doesn’t want its leaders to be real people,” she informed me that day. “They want an image, something they can easily grasp that embodies their hopes and dreams. And they want to be entertained. So long as we give them that, we can do no wrong.”

  Again, she transformed, her rage seemingly gone as she studied me. “In this pantomime, your father is the wise authority, the one whose judgment can always be trusted. Your mother is the nurturer, always serene and loving, never mind how she really feels. Your Uncle Brian stands at their side, the trusted counselor. Your Aunt Theresa is the charming free spirit, and so on. All my children, as well as their own have their parts to play.”

  She surveyed me a moment longer before appearing to come to a decision. “You will be the princess in the tower, lovely, pure, and inviolate. It’s a good part and a popular one.” She nodded, satisfied. “You will do well.”

  I thought she was mad, going on about pantomimes and people who weren’t real. But a short while later, when the media dubbed me America’s Princess and I found myself staring out of web sites and magazine covers, I wondered if she wasn’t also in some sense right.

  Six years later, I was more wary of my grandmother than ever. Her own part in the play that my family was performing on the world stage was all too clear. She was Maleficent, Ursula, and the evil queen who sent Snow White into the woods to die all rolled into one. But unlike each of them, she had never been defeated.

  My family could claim more than a few Prince Charmings, my brothers among them, but not a single one would ever raise a sword against our grandmother.

  I couldn’t lie to myself. Although it was my father and uncle whom I had overheard that night when everything changed, it was Grandmother who sat at the very heart of the web that was my family. Nothing happened without her knowledge and approval.

  Riding up in the private elevator to the penthouse, I steeled myself. I’d done as she wished and gone to the gala. Now I was there for the check. That was it. Get the check and get out. Preferably with my skin still intact. And above all, without giving her any hint that I was seeking a way to escape.

  I was a few minutes early. The drawing room was empty. Sunlight filtered through the pale silk curtains and fell against the parquet floor with its scattering of pale Aubusson carpets. I made my way around the wing-backed settees and round filigreed side tables until I was standing beside a marble-topped console set between two of the high windows. Several dozen family photographs in silver frames were arranged on it.

  Grandmother had borne nine children
, five boys and four girls. My father was the first, the others following over a dozen years. One of my uncles was in the Senate, another was the governor of a western state where we had significant business interests. The rest, including several aunts, held various positions in law and finance. Some of those carried genuine power, others were merely titles. Abilities could vary but every Delaney had to been seen and productive and responsible.

  My gaze drifted over them until I came to the youngest. I hadn’t seen Uncle Ned recently but I remembered him as tall, well-built and good looking, the same as my father and all the other men in the family. The only difference was that his features were a little softer, with a hint of adolescence clinging to them as though he had never quite grown up. He was in his late forties but all the photos showed him as a child. Grandmother still called him her baby boy so I supposed that she preferred to remember him that way. She had never made any secret that he was her favorite.

  I had just turned away from the table when a faint sound on the other side of the double doors caught my attention. Recently, Grandmother had begun using a cane. The tap-tap-tap of its steel head against the marble floor of the hallway alerted me to her approach.

  She entered grandly, the doors opened for her by the same uniformed steward who had admitted me to the apartment. I wondered vaguely when she had last opened a door for herself.

  “Dear girl,” she said, “How lovely to see you.”

  Her congeniality threw me. What could I possibly have done to merit such approval?

  Cautiously, I murmured, “Grandmother, you look well.” In fact, she looked just as she always did--elegant, unbending, and formidable.

  “When do I not?” she asked with a smile. “Sit down, dear. We’ll have tea.”

  The steward returned with a tray. At a nod from Grandmother, I poured. From long practice, I managed to not spill a drop.

  As I handed her cup to her, she smiled. “You’ve grown up quite well, Grace. Of all my grand-daughters, you show the most promise.”

  Taken aback, I responded automatically. “That’s nice of you to say, Grandmother.”

  She paused with the cup partway to her lips and looked thoughtful. “Nice? No, I don’t think so. Merely accurate.”

  Having taken a sip and set the cup back down, she said, “You’ve come for the check, I presume?”

  I nodded. “Haven House is a vital resource. The work it does--”

  With a wave of her hand, she stopped me. “I’m sure it’s marvelous.” A slight tilt of her head drew my attention to the white envelope already on the silver tray. “Go on,” she said. “Take it.”

  I did so quickly, sliding it into my purse. Once it was safely there, a small sigh of relief escaped me. So far as I was concerned, our business was done. I couldn’t wait to leave.

  But Grandmother had other plans. “Tell me about the gala,” she said. “Did you meet anyone interesting?”

  The sly look in her eyes was enough to tell me that she already knew the answer. Had Will called her directly or had he told my brother, who in turn told her? The latter, no doubt, but it didn’t matter. Grandmother was aware that I had met Adam Falzon. And she appeared determined to talk about him.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t want to do anything of the sort. Not after a night spent tossing and turning in between dreams that I blushed to remember.

  Carefully, I said, “The Mayor was there. He sent his regards.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, girl. You know perfectly well whom I’m referring to. What did you think of Adam Falzon?”

  I managed to shrug. “Oh, him. We spoke but only very briefly.”

  “What about?”

  “The gala…world historical sites. He mentioned Malta.”

  She nodded, her satisfaction evident. “His family has one of their principle estates there.”

  At my look of surprise--one of?--she continued. “The Falzons are among the oldest and noblest houses in Europe, not to mention the wealthiest.”

  That explained the people fawning over him. Yet I had trouble reconciling what she said with the man I had met. Aristocratic blood ran very thin over the generations or so I’d always heard. Marriages tended to be made within a narrow circle of similar families. The inbreeding that resulted, combined with the indulgences that always seemed to come with great wealth and privilege, took a toll. Before very long, the offspring of such pampered lines became good for very little. Inevitably, they were swept away to make room for whoever came next.

  Yet clearly none of that was true regarding Adam Falzon. On the contrary, centuries of breeding only seemed to have made him even more formidable and compelling.

  “I’m surprised that I haven’t heard of them,” I murmured. That wasn’t quite true. I dug for the memory again and this time I found it.

  With a gasp, I said, “His parents… They were major art collectors. A yacht they were on blew up. There was speculation that it wasn’t an accident. A professor I had said--”

  Grandmother’s face tightened. Before I could go on, she said, “It doesn’t do to dwell on the past. Put it from your mind. So, Falzon spoke to you of his home. Anything else?”

  Nothing I cared to mention since overwhelmingly the communication between us had been non-verbal. No power on earth, not even my Grandmother’s, could compel me to reveal that.

  “As I said, we only talked for a few minutes. May I ask why this is of such interest to you?”

  She hesitated and for a moment, I didn’t think she would respond. But finally, she said, “A trusted acquaintance came to see me a few days ago. He gave me to understand that if you attended the gala, you would be approached by a party who had expressed interest in you. He wouldn’t tell me who that was, only that a meeting between the two of you could be of great significance to the family. I think we know now that he was speaking of Adam Falzon.”

  Her smile of satisfaction sent a chill through me. In it, I saw everything that I had come to fear about our family. The devotion to intrigue and manipulation, the rapacious greed, and above all the insatiable will unhindered by any hint of conscience. Even more disturbing was the sense that she would gladly see me used in any way necessary to achieve her own ends, whatever they might be.

  “I won’t be seeing him again,” I blurted out.

  In the darkness of the previous night, the thought of what would happen if--when--our paths crossed again had filled me with thick, hot desire. But the realization that my family wanted a connection with Adam changed everything. I had to be free of them and everything that concerned them, not drawn yet further into their web.

  Grandmother swatted away my declaration as though it had no more weight than a fly. Implacably, she said, “Yes, you will, should he so choose, and furthermore you will hope that he does.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but she cut me off. “Let us be clear, girl. Whatever your little art professor thought he knew about the Falzons, he knew nothing. As high as we have risen, Adam Falzon is far above us. He comes from a world of such wealth and power that the great mass of people have no idea that it even exists.”

  Her eyes narrowed to an avaricious gleam. “Should he favor you with his attention, you will be properly grateful. You will welcome anything he wishes and you will do everything necessary to make him want a permanent connection with you. And with this family.”

  She couldn’t have been blunter if she’d told me to lie down and spread my legs for him. All but choking with disgust, I said, “Perhaps I should just be delivered to him naked. That would save some time, surely?”

  Grandmother shrugged. My spat of defiance seemed only to amuse her. “It worked for Cleopatra when she sought Caesar’s favor. You could do a great deal worse.”

  She reached over and pressed a flat white button set in the nearby table. “But a little patience is called for. Adam Falzon is by nature a hunter. Assuming he is interested, he won’t stop until he’s brought you to ground. You will keep me informed of any contact that you have with him,
understood?”

  I couldn’t trust myself to answer, not that it mattered. She took my silence as acquiescence.

  The steward, obeying her summons, opened the doors to the drawing room and stood aside. With a flick of her hand, Grandmother dismissed me.

  Chapter Four

  I was still shaking inwardly when I got to Haven House an hour later, although whether that was more from dread or anger I couldn’t have said. The refuge for homeless men and women was on Staten Island, the part of the city that visitors are least likely to see and a world away from the glittering towers of Manhattan that are visible from its shores. Coming over on the ferry, I tried to get past the revulsion I felt after my encounter with Grandmother but it hung on stubbornly, a sickness in my spirit that wasn’t going away anytime soon.

  My determination to defy her warred with desires that I was afraid to admit even to myself. I had no idea how to reconcile such opposing forces. The mere effort to do so left me drained.

  But that eased as soon as I stepped into the cheerful day room on the main floor of the Victorian-era house that had been converted into a shelter without losing its homey touch.

  Hilary Berenson saw me come in and waved through the open door of her small office. The director of Haven House was in her fifties with short, dark curls, a full mouth bracketed by deep smile lines, and a non-nonsense manner. She’d come up to me at a charity dinner three months before, listened to my polite platitudes about wanting to help, and then challenged me to actually do so.

  A week later, I was scrubbing pots in the kitchen at Haven House and feeling better than I had since Patrick’s death. Or at least a little less helpless. I could do something even if that just meant putting a hot meal in front of someone, then sitting down with them and actually talking.