by July Hall
Scruples just got in the way. Charles was a firm believer in that, in all but a few particulars.
“You said Rosalie is worried?” he asked. In spite of his frustration with her, Charles felt a pang of concern for his younger sister. Rosalie was now an ex-wife and a mother, but she had also been the seventeen-year-old girl who’d needed his help when everyone else had failed her.
“She said she’s tried to call him and he won’t answer.”
“I’ll get in touch with her,” Charles said, rubbing his forehead. “And I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Make Sandra sign something,” Stephen repeated. “If you want, I can do it. Give me her number, and I’ll call her to set something up. You shouldn’t have to manage this all by yourself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Charles said immediately. “It’s well in hand.”
Stephen sighed. “Of course it is. Good-bye, Charles.”
After Charles hung up, he took another deep, calming breath and called Rosalie. She answered on the first ring. “Charles?” she said. “Have you heard from Bradley? I’ve called him four times since yesterday and he hasn’t…”
For the third time that day, Charles found himself recounting his nephew’s stupidity; this was the most unpleasant of them all. Rosalie adored Bradley, and she’d always refused to believe the worst of him until it was thrust right beneath her nose. He’d wondered if she would cry or storm. She’d always been emotional; Stephen had said once that Charles was frost and Rosalie was fire. But instead of raging, Rosalie went very quiet, so quiet that Charles wondered if the call had been dropped.
“Hello? Rosalie?” he prodded.
“Prostitutes and strippers,” she said dully. “Oh God, not again. He swore, he promised me.”
Charles set his jaw. “I know.” He’d been there too. “I’m sorry, Rosebud.”
He rarely used her childhood nickname, but sometimes it slipped out. Today, it made her sigh deeply. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He’s been talking to his father, I know he has. This is Robert’s influence on him. Charles, I don’t know how to stop him.”
“He’s a grown man now.” Technically. “He makes his own choices. It’s no longer your responsibility to stop him.”
“Let me guess. It’s yours.”
“Well, of course,” Charles said in surprise.
“Yes, of course.” Rosalie laughed without humor. “Dear Charles, has it ever occurred to you that we don’t want you to micromanage all our lives?”
This was familiar territory. “I’m not micromanaging,” Charles said, attempting to be patient. “This is a real problem that must be dealt with. I’m going to deal with it.”
“How?”
“I’m working on it. I’ll think of something. Don’t I always?” He walked to the window again, looking out over the grounds. “I’ve always looked out for you, Rosalie.”
After a surprisingly long pause, she said, “Yes. You always have.”
“I have.” He looked again at the green grass on the lawn. From here, he could see the path that led down to the beach where he’d walked with Sandra. “I certainly hope you trust me. Anyway, we were talking about Bradley.”
“Yes. Bradley and Sandra.” At the sound of Sandra’s name, Charles felt a crackle of electricity run up and down his spine. Rosalie thought he was always in control? If she only knew. “I’ve never liked her, you know.”
Tension began to gather in Charles’s shoulders. “Would you have liked any woman Bradley brought home?”
“It’s not like that,” Rosalie rejoined, her voice sharp. “You think I didn’t want him to find a good girl who could make him happy? Sandra Dane isn’t a good girl.”
No, and thank God for that. “What do you mean?”
“She’s not what she appears to be,” Rosalie said. “Her innocent façade—that’s all it is. She wants people to think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.” Charles’s face heated as he thought about what Sandra’s mouth could do. “And most people do. But I don’t believe her. There’s something under the surface that doesn’t mesh with the outside.”
“That’s true of all of us,” Charles pointed out.
“Not you,” Rosalie said, sounding surprised. He winced. “Charles, I can’t tolerate artifice anymore. Not after this disaster.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Let’s dial down the rhetoric. I wouldn’t say that Miss Dane is artificial.”
“Then what would you say?”
“Only that she has…untapped potential.” Sandra was still learning what she was capable of. What Rosalie saw as artifice, Charles saw as an advantage. If Sandra was only as she appeared to be, then she would hold no fascination for him. He was drawn by everything that roiled beneath the smooth surface.
He realized that he needed to say something cold before his sister noticed anything amiss. “She might still be of use to us. I’m not letting her walk away just yet. I want to see how this plays out.”
“She could make trouble,” Rosalie warned.
She’d already troubled Charles more than Rosalie could imagine. Maybe he’d needed a little bit of trouble. “I’ll make her sign something. A confidentiality agreement.”
“Good.” Rosalie’s voice took on an edge. “If she tries to ruin my son, I’ll rip her apart.”
Rosalie could try. She’d get an unpleasant surprise. Charles hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
He only said, “Bradley’s capable of ruining himself.” Rosalie made a soft sound of distress, but Charles ignored it. “Let me know when he gets in touch with you. He’s bound to, with some excuse, no doubt.”
“Yes.” Rosalie took a deep, shaking breath. “No doubt.”
Perhaps they’d all finally had enough of Bradley’s excuses. Charles said his good-byes and hung up, glad to get that over with. That was plenty of drama for one day. He stuck his phone back in his pocket and turned around.
Sandra stood in the open doorway of his office, her arms crossed and her lips thin with displeasure.
“I’m curious,” she said. “What’s this thing you’re going to make me sign so I can be useful to you?”
Damn it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
This better be good, Sandra thought as she stared Charles down. Her heart pounded unpleasantly.
She’d just gotten off the phone with Kristen, who had believed her story but hadn’t approved of it. “You still want to hang around those people after the way they’ve treated you? Are you crazy?” she’d demanded.
Sandra had fought down a surge of nervousness. “Ch—I mean, not all of them. Mr. Magister’s actually been really considerate. He doesn’t approve at all of what Bradley did.”
“You said this house thing was his idea? Like, he just called you up and offered it?”
“Yeah,” Sandra lied. It gave her a hard lump in her stomach. Hadn’t there been enough lying? But what else could she do? She couldn’t tell Kristen the truth. This wasn’t like confessing to an imprudent make-out session. This was…big.
“Then it’s a bad idea,” Kristen said promptly. “He’s not doing it to be nice, Sandra, for fuck’s sake. He’s trying to shut you up. And if he thinks of a better way to do that, you need to watch out.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “What, he’ll send me swimming in concrete boots?”
“Maybe,” Kristen said darkly. “You never know with these people.”
“Good grief,” Sandra said. “Kristen, it’ll be…it’ll be fine. Really. Besides, I kind of want to keep my job in general, not just this job.”
“What are you talking about?” Kristen asked. “Arnaud wouldn’t fire you just because Bradley’s a dick.”
Sandra blinked. “And you say that because…why, exactly?”
“Because he wouldn’t,” Kristen insisted. “I mean, I just have a feeling. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d do that.”
“I bet he didn’t, during the whole ten minutes you’ve ever spent talking to him,” San
dra said in exasperation. Seriously, Kristen talked about keeping it real, but sometimes she was the dreamer. “Arnaud’s an awesome boss, but he runs a business, and I can’t chase off his biggest client if I want to keep working for him. Listen, trust me, this is for the best, okay?”
It had taken a few more soothing words, none of which seemed to convince Kristen fully, before Sandra had managed to escape the conversation. Then she’d spent a few moments trying to collect herself. Lies and more lies. How many would there be by the time this was all over?
Because it was going to be over. Right? Probably soon. Probably after this weekend. He’d said that he wanted her to stay until tomorrow afternoon, but he hadn’t said anything about after that. By now, she’d learned plenty about making stupid assumptions.
Then she’d tracked him down to his office (because where else would he be?), and overheard him saying her name. Then he’d said…all that. She was tearing her hair out over lies and emotions, and he was talking about getting her to sign some contract? No. Making her sign one.
“How long were you standing there?” he asked.
Nuh-uh. He didn’t get to turn the tables. Sandra shook her head. “I showed up just in time to hear you say that I’m not artificial. Thanks for that, I guess, but the rest kind of sucked.”
He held her gaze. “I was speaking to Rosalie.”
Sandra’s face heated. “Oh, great.” She’d always thought that Rosalie didn’t like her, but having it confirmed—by Charles himself—was more hurtful than she’d expected.
Charles put his hands behind his back. “Both she and Stephen are concerned that you might go to the press with a tell-all story about Bradley. They want a signed agreement that states you’ll be decorating the house in exchange for your silence. If you tattled to Page Six, we’d be able to sue you for breach of contract.” He gave her a thin, humorless smile. “Not slander, mind you, since truth is a complete defense to that.”
“Both Stephen and Rosalie are concerned?” Sandra said.
“Yes. Well, mostly Rosalie.”
“And you? Are you concerned?”
“Of course not.” His voice was firm. He didn’t sound as if he was trying to soothe or cajole her.
Sandra stuck her hands in her pockets. She took another step into the room. He never took his eyes from hers. “Why not?”
He pursed his lips and regarded her silently. He appeared to be taking the question seriously. “You mean, besides my high opinion of your character and integrity?”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Besides that.” She would never tattle to the press about Bradley—she did have too much integrity for that. But Charles wouldn’t be thinking in only those terms. He’d be looking at practical things too.
Sure enough, he said, “You don’t want to smear your own name. You’ve got plans for your career. You said it yourself—the whole mess is sordid. Why would you want anyone to associate ‘Sandra Dane’ with something like that?” She exhaled heavily and nodded. “If anyone understands that, I do. Believe me.”
Yes, he understood that—and he seemed to understand her, too. He didn’t need to trust her. He knew her. How much of that was his own insight, and how much had she let slip?
Sandra managed not to hug herself. He’d uncovered that tic already. “So you’re going to get your lawyers to draw something up?” she asked.
She didn’t know what she’d do if he said yes. It made perfect sense on a practical level, and maybe it shouldn’t bother her. But on another, deeper level, it really did.
He ground his jaw. “The thought revolts me.”
That was surprisingly strong language. “How come?”
“Putting you in a contract? That’s supposed to keep you quiet?” Charles shook his head, his eyes darkening with anger. “It insults both of us.”
His tone was so chilling that Sandra found herself defending two people who thought she was a liability. “I’m pretty sure your brother and sister didn’t mean it that way.” She swallowed. “So what do you want to do?”
In two strides, Charles was in her space and sliding his hands up her arms. As always, his touch made her flesh tingle. “I don’t want you to keep your silence because you’re worried about your reputation, and I don’t want you to redecorate that damn room as a consolation prize. I want you to do these things because…” His voice trailed off, and his brow knitted while he looked deeply into her eyes.
“Because what?” Sandra asked softly.
After a moment, he said in a rough voice, “Because of me. And only that.”
Eavesdropping on his conversation had formed a block of ice in her chest. His words melted it again. Sandra cupped his face, her mouth widening into a grin. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d already be out of here. Thunderstorm or not.”
She’d meant that to be a reassurance; for some reason, his eyes remained dark. But his tone was easy enough as he said, “You’d have stolen your keys back from Warrick?”
“Sure. I could totally ninja my way into…um, wherever he put them.” Sandra slid her arms around Charles’s neck and wondered why he felt so tense when she pressed herself against him. Not the good kind of tense, either. What was he worried about? “Charles, you don’t need to make me do anything. I’m only here because I want to be. Okay?”
His hands closed around her hips. His eyes were still narrowed and assessing. “Would you find it so easy to leave?”
Wow, he really didn’t see everything. Leaving him would be harder than running a marathon in an avalanche. She couldn’t tell him that. It was too much, way too soon, and she couldn’t bear it if he laughed in her face.
Instead, she lifted her chin. “I don’t know. What’s it to you? Would you try to stop me?”
Charles’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t try,” he said, sliding one hand up her back and fisting his fingers in her hair. Then he kissed her.
* * *
Dinner was another simple affair, taken at the dining room table as before, with poached salmon and roasted fall vegetables. By now, Sandra knew that Charles ate right to the point when he wasn’t hungry anymore and then put his utensils at four o’clock and stopped. That must explain why he hadn’t developed a spare tire like his brother.
As she might have expected, halfway through dinner, their conversation turned to business. Charles had wanted to know her tastes in art and music, just as she’d wanted to know his, but he seemed even more interested in her savings and investment strategies.
“Well, I don’t have to pay rent,” Sandra said, after swallowing a bite of squash. “That helps a lot. And I don’t have a car note. The only debt I’ve got is student loans. Those are pretty brutal, but I’m lucky, all things considered.”
“It’s generous of your parents to let you have the apartment. They could get a substantial income from renting it out.”
“They did, for a long time. Then I went to Pratt and they stopped. They’ll put it back out there once my brother Scott has graduated, if he goes to college in the city.” Sandra took a sip of sauvignon blanc.
Charles nodded. “So what do you do with all that money you don’t spend on rent or car payments?”
“It’s not really all that,” Sandra said with a wry smile. He probably earned her yearly salary in half a month, and that wouldn’t even touch the income he got from his investments. “I’m paying off my student loans as fast as I can. Three percent of my pay goes into retirement—”
“How much interest does your retirement plan earn?” he asked. Then he started talking about compound interest, Roth IRAs, the pros and cons of investing versus paying off her loans early, and lots of other stuff. Some of it Sandra had already learned from her mom, who was more in tune with the financials of business than her dad was. But Charles was clearly in a league of his own.
And he loved it. Talking about business put a light in his eyes. Sandra did her best to keep up, asking him questions as she thought of them; he seemed to like that. Bradley had probably never shown inter
est in any of this.
Before she knew it, the meal was over, and she was finishing her wine. It was her second glass, and she felt relaxed enough to take Charles’s hand and say, “You’re really into the finance stuff.”
He blinked. “Well, obviously.”
“No, I mean, it’s not just because you have to be. It’s not because of ‘family duty’ or whatever.” Comprehension dawned in his eyes, and he nodded. “You actually like what you do. You don’t have some secret urge to…I don’t know, throw it all away and live the simple life or something.”
Charles made a face. “God forbid.” Sandra giggled. “You laugh, but somebody’s got to love it. Somebody’s got to do what I do.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Somebody’s got to turn the gears.”
Sandra creased her brow in thought. “Some of those gears are pretty dirty, though. Right?” He nodded but looked indifferent. “Doesn’t that bother you? The bad stuff?”
Charles only shrugged. “‘Good’ and ‘bad’ don’t really mean anything, I’ve found. You do your duty, or you don’t. You take what you want, or you don’t. That’s it.”
That didn’t sound true at all, but he spoke with such certainty. Maybe he was right about some of it? She’d spent her life playing by the rules, believing that if she did, perfection would happen, and everything would be just fine. She was organized and orderly, she kept her cool, she never lit fires. She never let them see her sweat. No matter what.
And now look at her.
Puzzling her way through it, she said slowly, “You don’t think there’s such a thing as right and wrong?”
“Of course I do. But some people would call this wrong.” Charles’s fingertips drifted up and down her forearm, raising the fine hairs there. “Enough to make our lives unpleasant, even though it’s none of their damned business. Does that mean we don’t take what we want?”
Sandra looked down at his hand as it stroked her. He was only partly right. She’d thought it on the beach: this wasn’t about what she wanted, but what she needed, and it couldn’t be wrong to take what she needed. She put her hand over his. “No,” she replied.