by July Hall
“I can’t believe it,” Sandra said. But she did. She’d believed it from the moment he said it, and now her relationship was falling apart right before her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“Sandra—shit. You’ll be back tomorrow, right? Let me make it up to you, I’ll take you somewhere nice and we can…”
“Go to hell,” Sandra choked. “Go to hell, you—” She wouldn’t lower herself. With a gasp, she hung up on him.
Then she flopped back into the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, where the light of the chandelier cast shadows from the arms, growing longer and wider as they reached the corners of the room.
All of her relationships had ended, each for its own reason, but none of them had ever ended like this. Not with a whimper, but a bang. A loud, eardrum-shattering bang that consisted entirely of the word hooker.
It wasn’t that she had anything against sex workers per se. Everybody had to make a living. She just didn’t want them in the middle of her own fucking relationship. And Bradley had sworn he hated that kind of behavior.
She’d been beating herself up over the mistake with Mr. Magister. She should have, because she’d screwed up—but she’d never lied about who she was.
What else had Bradley lied about? How deep did it go? He’d dodged her question about how many times, and if he’d been sober and careful, he would have straight-up denied everything but the one time.
No. If he’d been sober and careful, he’d never have admitted anything at all.
He lies and lies.
Sandra put her hands over her mouth. Jesus Christ. Had Bradley been safe? When they’d started sleeping together, he’d sworn he was clean, and after dating him for two months she’d believed him. He’d seemed so open about everything.
She took a deep breath. Her last checkup at her OB-GYN had been only two weeks ago. Everything had been fine. She and Bradley had only had sex…what, twice since then? Yeah, twice. And they always used condoms, though lately he’d started complaining about it, saying that she was on birth control anyway, so what was the big deal?
And who was he with now? Some woman who called him “Braddie” and asked him to dance. No, wait. She’d asked if he wanted a dance. Was he at a strip club?
“Bastard,” she breathed. “You bastard.”
Her phone rang. Bradley. She denied the call.
A little voice in the back of her mind was whispering to her about forgiveness, about second chances—if she loved Bradley, shouldn’t she try to get past this? They could talk. She could tell him what she’d done, too. They could start over. If she loved him.
She didn’t love him enough to do that.
She didn’t love him, period.
“Oh God,” she breathed, waiting for the tears to come, but they didn’t. Maybe she was just in shock. Or maybe she was too angry to cry. She’d never felt this angry in her entire life. It wasn’t just Bradley. She’d hoped he was Prince Charming, but everything was supposed to be perfect and neat and in its place.
She’d spent her childhood being bullied and laughed at, sure that she’d never fit in, definitely not thinking she’d ever get a hot boyfriend and a great job in the city. Then, when she’d found herself with both of those things, she’d dared to hope that she would fit in somewhere after all. No more pointing and laughing, no more bullies. She’d get everything right—she’d get everything perfectly right—and Happily Ever After would come knocking on her door. Everything she’d never dared believe in might actually be hers.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “You stupid little girl.”
Time passed. She wasn’t sure how much. It didn’t seem to matter. Then her phone rang again.
This time she picked it up and decided to answer it. She’d tell Bradley everything that had just crossed her mind. She didn’t even give a damn. She’d give him hell, and then…
The display said “Charles Magister.”
Uncle Charles took care of it, he always does. I can’t believe he told you.
With a hiss, she refused his call, too. She couldn’t bear the thought of speaking to him, hearing whatever he had to say. Probably some damn thing about protecting the family name at all costs, reminding Sandra that she was just a means to an end.
Or maybe he’d just threaten her, try to shut her up. That sounded like him, too. Either way, she wasn’t going to listen to it tonight.
A few seconds later, her phone beeped with a new voice mail.
Sandra vowed to ignore it. If she didn’t want to hear him saying it live, she didn’t want to hear it on a recording either. Not tonight, maybe not ever.
In fact, she should just delete it. Then she would walk away from the whole mess with her head held high and pretend the Magisters had never happened to her. She’d get up tomorrow, tie up the loose ends from today, and then tell Warrick that someone else would have to take over from there. Maybe it would be Arnaud, maybe it would be a luckless sap from another firm, but it wouldn’t be her.
With a groan, Sandra put in her password and played the voice mail.
Mr. Magister’s voice said icily, “Miss Dane, I’m not sure why my nephew is under the impression that I told you about his former…indiscretion. He is very drunk and perhaps I misunderstood, but we should speak. Call me immediately.”
Immediately? Sandra nearly threw the phone across the room. He was still giving orders. Did he think she was some kind of puppet whose strings he could pull? Even now?
For a second, she did consider calling him. She could really lay into him, let it all out, because…he’d covered for Bradley. He’d known what Bradley had done and he’d never told her, even though he knew Bradley lied to her and it had put her at risk. It probably hadn’t even occurred to him to say anything. What could she possibly be worth to him, compared to his family’s precious reputation?
Her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped the phone. Her stomach lurched when she realized that Charles Magister’s betrayal hurt her more than Bradley’s did.
Forget calling him. She rose from the bed and headed across the room to turn off the lights. There would be no sleep for her tonight, but at least that meant there would be no dreams, and the bed was comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than driving a shitty rental car back to Brooklyn in the middle of the night and trying to park it. A cushy mattress seemed like the least Mr. Magister owed her.
On her way back to bed, her phone rang again. Of course it was him. She had the feeling he wouldn’t give up as easily as Bradley had. She should turn off her phone.
Then she eyed the landline phone on the nightstand. Hell, would he—of course he would. And if she didn’t pick up there, he’d wake Warrick, or somebody else who would knock on her door.
She groaned and declined his call a second time. Then she climbed back into bed and forced her fingers to remain steady as she typed out a text message: I am not talking to anyone tonight. Please don’t call me again.
She hit “send,” set her phone down, and took deep breaths. When her phone pinged with an answering text, she wasn’t surprised, but she did have to muffle a scream in a pillow. She picked up the phone, ready to see an accusation, a reprimand, or a threat. Or maybe all three.
His text read, Are you all right?
Sandra kept staring at it, but it didn’t change. He couldn’t mean it. If he cared whether or not she was all right, he would have warned her away from his hooker-banging nephew. He was probably just trying to lull her into a false sense of security.
It was almost working. She wanted to believe he was sincere, wanted to accept his concern, and that infuriated her most of all.
She typed, I’m not going to make trouble for you or your stupid family. After a moment’s thought, she deleted “stupid.” Leaving tomorrow a.m. Will finish working out a plan w/ Warrick and someone else can take it from there. Please do not contact me again.
After that, she lay awake all night in the giant bed, wondering if he’d disregard her wishes. He didn’t. Both phones remained
silent as the grave.
* * *
The next day, Warrick appeared to notice nothing amiss. Apparently Mr. Magister hadn’t called and demanded that Sandra be thrown out on the curb. She tried to remain pleasant and helpful, hoping to get through the morning with a minimum of drama. None of this was Warrick’s fault, and if there was one thing Sandra Dane never did, it was leave messes behind her.
He didn’t hover around her today, but headed off to attend to the daily business of running the house. She skipped breakfast, instead hauling out all the notes and photos she’d taken yesterday, intending to give them some semblance of order.
It took longer than she’d anticipated. By the time afternoon rolled around, she thought she saw the light at the end of the tunnel, but then Warrick poked his head around the corner to tell her that the laborers had arrived to pull the carpet up, and would she please supervise the moving of the furniture?
“Oh, okay,” she said, making sure to wear a bright smile. “I’m guessing we can just dispose of the carpet?”
“Yes, I think so,” Warrick said. “It’s certainly not good for much else. They’ve got a dump truck, they can just throw it in there.”
A dump truck? Sandra’s shoulders straightened, and this time her smile was genuine. “Got it,” she said, and hurried to the study, where she saw men in overalls carrying furniture into the hallway.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m Sandra and I’ll be working with you,” she chirped. “Where did you park your truck?”
“Out back, ma’am,” one of the men said. “By the garage.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “If you’d just keep carrying stuff into the hall, I’ll direct you when I get back in a few minutes. I just have to take care of this one thing. You’re driving a dump truck, right?”
“Uh…yeah?”
“Thanks!” Sandra took Bradley’s hideous watercolor painting down from the wall. It was a little heavier than it looked, but adrenaline lent her strength as she lugged it out of the room, making her way to the back of the house.
There was the truck, all right, in screaming orange. Another man sat in the driver’s seat. “Excuse me,” Sandra called up to him, lifting the painting. “Little help here?”
She stood by the tailgate while he climbed up into the bed, which was already half full of junk. Time to add more. “Man,” the driver said as he took the painting from her and tossed it into the pile. “People will put anything up on the wall.”
“No kidding.” Sandra shivered when a blast of wind cut through her. She was only wearing her cardigan, and today’s weather was more unpleasant than yesterday’s. The sky was gray as a nail. It was supposed to rain tonight.
She returned to the study and directed the laborers on moving the furniture. Warrick had told her yesterday that most of it should be moved into the ballroom until Mr. Magister decided what would go and what would stay. He’d apparently left no instructions ahead of time. “He wants your recommendations first,” Warrick said helpfully.
Sandra had a few recommendations for Mr. Magister, but none of them involved furniture. “I’ll be sure to make a list,” she said through her teeth. Just then, her stomach growled, and she remembered she’d skipped breakfast.
“Lunch, I think,” Warrick said.
Sandra looked at her watch. “I meant to be gone by now.”
“These projects always take twice the time you think they will. You keep on working with the movers, and I’ll tell Cook to whip up something. She hasn’t left yet either.”
Sandra had never been twice behind on her schedule in her life. She didn’t like the idea of starting here and now. “Does ‘Cook’ have a name?”
Warrick just gave her a friendly smile and departed, presumably to the kitchen. Sandra sighed.
By the time the furniture was gone, and the laborers had removed the carpet, it was nearly two o’clock and Sandra was starving. No way was she turning down Warrick’s offer of lunch prepared by a professional chef.
Just as they sat down at the table in the breakfast nook, the rain began pattering against the windowpanes. By the time Sandra was done with her chicken salad, the patters had turn into a full-blown deluge.
“Oh dear, it’s here early,” Warrick sighed. “You don’t want to drive in this. Just wait until it stops. It never lasts long when it’s this fierce.”
Sandra agreed. But the rain kept on coming down, harder and harder, for hours. Sandra started to wonder if someone was going to float by in an ark with animals of every kind.
“This is nuts,” she said, looking out of the window with her tablet in her lap. She’d tried to spend the time productively, but it was now 5:45 on a Friday and most businesses and warehouses were closed.
Arnaud was still at work, but he’d told her there was no rush to leave their most lucrative client. Sandra had bitten her lip. She wanted to tell him in person that she was leaving the job.
“Surely it will stop soon,” Warrick said, peering out the window. Then thunder boomed.
Sandra rose to her feet with a sigh. “That’s it. It’s getting dark out. If I’m going to go, I have to go now.”
“You don’t have to go,” Warrick protested. “Feel free to stay another night.” He smiled at her. “After all, you’re practically one of the family now, aren’t you?”
Sandra stifled a gasp. “I really do have to go,” she said. “I mean, thanks, that’s so kind of you. But…uh, my sister is waiting for me. She’s counting on me to be home.” Sandra’s absence probably hadn’t even crossed Kristen’s mind. “And I have…things to do tomorrow morning. Really early tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I’m just going to grab my suitcase. Could you get Ronny to bring my car around? That would be so helpful. Thanks!”
She dashed up the stairs, ignoring whatever he said next. She’d packed her things right after getting dressed, anticipating that she’d hop in her car and get out as soon as possible. Now she had to drive home while it got dark, in a thunderstorm, and pray that she could get the rental car back to Park Slope before the facility closed at seven. At rush hour on a Friday. Shit. No way. Nothing ever went according to plan, did it?
She dragged her suitcase down the carpeted staircase and emerged into the foyer just in time to hear Warrick saying anxiously, “…weren’t expecting you, sir.”
Mr. Magister replied, “I wanted to get out of the city. Tomorrow’s supposed to be far more pleasant.”
Sandra froze in horror. He was standing right in front of her, his black overcoat spotted with raindrops. Through the open front door, she saw his Phantom idling with the chauffeur at the wheel.
He looked up and saw her before she could move. His eyes widened. She could barely breathe. Her whole body seemed to crackle with electricity, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with the thunderstorm.
“Miss Dane,” Mr. Magister said, and she wondered how long they’d been staring at each other. “I thought you were leaving this morning.”
Sandra looked down at her suitcase, trying to get her breath back. “Yeah. Um, there was more to do than I thought.” She looked back up to see him watching her unswervingly. She couldn’t read any particular emotion on his face, but his eyes never left hers.
“Then I insisted she stay because of the rain,” Warrick said, glancing back and forth between them. “We thought it would let up by now.”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Sandra said with all the dignity she could muster. “But I’m on my way now.” She rattled the handle of her suitcase. “As, um, as you can see. I’m going.”
Just then, through the door, she saw her rental car pull up in the driveway, driven by Ronny. She cringed at the stark contrast it made with the Phantom. “Yeah, there’s my car. So I’ll just—”
The thunder boomed again. Mr. Magister looked at her car beneath the sluicing rain. “You will do no such thing,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Sandra asked, the back of her neck prickling.
�
��It’s getting dark. The weather report said the storm won’t let up until after midnight. You’ll remain here.”
“Wh—” She lost her words at his tone, as casually imperious as if…as if nothing had ever happened, as if he’d never kissed her, or lied to her, or texted her and asked if she was okay… “I’ve got to go,” she said.
Mr. Magister didn’t even deign to reply. “Don’t give her the keys,” he told Warrick. “Park her car. I’ll take dinner in my suite.” Then, without another word to her, he strode down the hallway. He didn’t look back. As if she wasn’t there.
Sandra watched him go with her mouth hanging open. Then she whipped around to Warrick and said, “Give me my keys. I’m going home.”
Warrick shook his head, as imperturbable as when she’d arrived. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, miss. I’ll have someone take your luggage back to your room.”
“He can’t do this!” Sandra said. She curled her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “He can’t just keep me here when I need to leave!”
Warrick tilted his head to the side. She braced herself, ready for another version of the What Mr. Magister says, goes, spiel.
“Do you know how Mrs. Magister died?” Warrick asked.
Sandra felt as if she’d just been punched in the solar plexus. She lost her breath entirely. Then she managed, “Oh.”
“You won’t be driving home this evening,” Warrick said. His eyes were not without sympathy. “I suggest you get settled for the night.”
Settled. That sure wasn’t happening anytime soon.
Sandra had never felt more unsettled in her life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She was under his roof, and he was at the center of a cosmic joke.
Charles was fairly sure of this. Nobody else in the universe could make him hide in his bedroom. He’d managed to eat about half of the supper brought to him, but was making much better progress with his second glass of brandy. He’d have to put the throttle on that soon. After all, hadn’t alcohol gotten him into this mess, even if he hadn’t been the one drinking it?