by ANDREA SMITH
I wasn't about to tell anyone what I'd seen on that e-mail string. I was half-way ashamed I'd seen it. Easton clearly wasn't going to fill me in on it. Trust issues I guess.
"As far as I know," I shrugged, lying. I shimmied down deeper into my bed. "Anyway," I continued, yawning, "I think I'm going to get a little more sleep while I can."
He gave me a sympathetic smile. "Okay, sweets. I'll see you when I get home. Feel better."
If only I could . . .
~ Easton ~
Bloody hell. I'd acted like a twat going over to Darcy's place at two a.m. and causing a ruckus with her roommate. What the hell had I been thinking? I’d needed to be close to her and somehow she'd understood. This feeling of needing someone for comfort was foreign to me. It was a sign of weakness. I'd been told that over and over again as a child.
As I reflected back I realised that Trace Matthews, Sr. was a good man. His second wife, Constance, was very good to me as well, never showing favouritism amongst her children over me while I visited, always making me feel welcome and secure. God knew I'd taxed their patience on numerous occasions simply for the sport of it.
My mother had always complained upon my return that it would take months to get things with me back to normal again. She hated that I'd been given chores to do the same as Trace and Paige during what she termed was supposed to be my "summer holiday." I hadn't minded doing the chores. I respected how hard my father worked at his bottling plant and for once I felt as if I fit in somewhere. Ultimately that feeling would wear off once I returned to England and had grandparents and a host of servants fussing over me.
The first person I'd ever intentionally hurt was my younger half-brother, Trace. It was the summer before my freshman year of college. I'd wanted to spend it in Napa with my father to avoid all the matchmaking my mother was conducting with various British socialites. Trace had just turned sixteen at the time and was driving. He was also courting his first love, Brittany something-or-other. He was head-over-heels in love, though I tried to counsel him it was simply a case of lust. He'd assured me it wasn't. She was still a virgin at nearly seventeen. She'd been putting him off, telling him she wanted to wait to make sure they were really in love and committed to one another. I'd scoffed at the ludicrous notion, telling him to wise-up, it was simply a matter of him not taking charge of the relationship and being unfamiliar with the art of seduction.
I took it upon myself to show my younger brother the errors of underestimating the female mind and libido. I'd learned this lesson myself at the age of fifteen when my mother had encouraged one of her friends at the club to properly teach me how to please a woman. I'd accompanied Margaret Middleton on a long weekend to the French Riviera. It had been a very educationally charged weekend for me. So, having that in mind, I decided to pay a visit of my own to Brittany Something-Or-Other's house. Suffice it to say, her cherry didn't remain intact after my third secret visit and she was literally begging me to fuck her daily until I left. By this time, I had grown bored with the whole game and admitted as much.
Unfortunately, Brittany succumbed to a major guilt trip, confessing everything to Trace, sobbing and crying for his forgiveness. When our father returned home late that afternoon from his company, he found Trace and I in the front yard, beating each other to a pulp, whilst Paige stood nearby, screaming hysterically for both of us to stop. The rest of my summer visit was a bit strained. Before I'd left to return to Europe, my father had sat me down and asked what had motivated me to hurt my younger brother that way. I'd shrugged and said it was better he find out now she had the heart of a whore and toughen himself up for the road ahead. I recalled how he'd looked at me, not understanding how callous I'd become at eighteen . . .
Only now I knew the truth: Trace Matthews Sr. wasn't my father. He'd known that shortly after my birth. As far as I was concerned, he deserved my hatred every bit as much as my blasted mother.
When I'd phoned him at her urging to validate her story, he'd become upset, reluctant to confirm what she'd told me in her email. He'd finally realised I was relentless, so he admitted the truth telling me some shit about my not being his son by blood, but certainly being his son by love. What the fuck? Love's such a fleeting emotion, triggered by a host of temporary human cravings/desires: acceptance, security, carnal satisfaction, self-esteem, comfort, procreation, and money.
When I stopped to think about it, I realised I didn't need love to satisfy any of those cravings or desires for myself. My wealth pretty much guaranteed acceptance, security, comfort and carnal satisfaction. I didn't give a worry about self-esteem as long as I had the rest. Procreation was no longer a desire or dream for me. In light of the recent turn of events I was thankful Bianca had taken the path she had several years back. I was grateful my lineage would stop with me. It was a burden I'd wish upon no one else, bastard child or otherwise.
Once I reached the office, I was relieved Darcy wouldn't be in her adjoining office to distract me. I had the summation to put together and review, and then there were plans to be made, transitioning of resources. I was going to move my office. This game with Darcy was over.
I needed to leave and not because I didn't love her, but because I did. The sad truth was I was ill-prepared to know how to sustain a loving relationship. I didn't know how to trust it because the few times I'd allowed myself to feel love, i.e., my mother, the man I thought was my father and then Bianca (to a lesser degree) they'd all turned toxic. I didn't want that for her. Better for both of us to cut our losses now before we became too invested in one another.
I got Colin on the phone.
"How are things going in Leeds, Colin?" I asked, leaning back in my leather chair.
"Right on course, Easton."
"Brilliant," I replied. "Do you think you're still needed there or can Devon handle it with her reduced hours on site?"
"Devon's got it," he replied. "Why?"
"Here’s an early wedding present for you and Ronnie," I said, propping my feet up on my desk. "She's been quite vocal about wanting to be closer to her family in the U.S., yeah?"
I heard Colin chuckle. "You could say that, mate."
"I'm reorganizing. I'm going to be moving my office to the headquarters in New York. I want you to take the lead position here in D.C. for however long you want it. You've moved around enough. I'm sure Ronnie would like to have her husband around more often."
The silence was thick on the other end. This had to be good news for Colin. I was puzzled by his lack of immediate response.
"Colin?"
"Oh yeah, Easton, that's fabulous, though being that Ronnie's from New York I'm sure she'd much prefer my taking an office there," he chuckled.
I swiveled in my chair, laughing. "Hey, at least she's going to be on the East Coast now and not across the pond for Chrissake."
"Oh, she'll be thrilled, mate. I'm grateful as well, though a bit surprised . . ."
I knew Colin wanted more information. He knew me better than anyone but I wasn't comfortable in providing details because to be honest, I wasn't good at understanding my own actions or decisions at times. When my actions or decisions had nothing to do with business, that is.
"Splendid," I replied, not feeling nearly as enthusiastic as I sounded.
"Will you be transferring your assistant to New York as well?" Colin asked, still fishing for information.
"No. Darcy will remain here. You've already proven you can mentor her as well as I can. It's for the best I think."
"I see," he replied, I could envision the look of disapproval on his face. My own gut felt like I'd twisted a knife into it. "When do you want me there?" he asked.
"Within the next few weeks," I answered, smoothing out the silk tie I'd worn for my meeting with Martin Sheridan later. "And don't worry, Colin, this won't interrupt the cruise you've planned after the wedding."
I heard him give a relaxed chuckle. "I figured you knew about that, mate. Glad to know because the tickets are non-refundable."
&nbs
p; "Yes, well I'm meeting with Martin Sheridan this afternoon. He's back from his cruise so I'll make sure I clue him in on the transition, and confirm he'll be on-site full-time while you’re honeymooning."
"Sounds as if you've thought of everything, Easton. I'll let Ronnie know the good news straight-away. Cheers."
I sat at my desk for several moments after the call, examining my motives for this decision I'd made on my own which clearly was something new for me.
Finally, I got up and walked out into Darcy's darkened office. I noticed that one of her sweaters was hanging on the back of her chair. My fingers gently caressed the soft wool knit. I pulled it from the chair, and rubbed the sleeve up under my chin. I could smell the faint scent of Darcy's perfume.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
My driver had taken me to the address of the mortuary outside of Paris my mother had given me. It was nearly midnight by the time I'd arrived. Once inside, I immediately spotted her sitting in a dimly lit corner of the huge room, wringing her hands.
"Mother," I greeted her, bestowing a quick, stiff kiss to her cheek as expected. "I'm sorry I'm too late."
She took my arm, leaning against me for support. "Easton, I didn't expect your father to pass so quickly. I thought there'd be time. He wanted to meet you, to tell you things," she sobbed softly. I bristled at her casual use of the word "father" when describing the man who'd apparently donated his half of the chromosomes to my cause and nothing more.
"I'm here to keep my part of the deal," I clarified, as she continued nudging me towards the closed door of his viewing room in this gothic mortuary, which frankly reminded me of something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel.
"But certainly you're curious as to your royal bloodline?" she asked, pulling back from me in order to gaze up into my face. "I owe you an explanation. I want you to have it."
"What possible difference does it make, Mother?"
"It's your heritage to claim, Easton. It's your birthright. Come, follow me. The mortuary has taken considerable risk in allowing us in at this time of night. We've no time to waste. . . "
We entered the room where his body lay in state. It looked like a fucking royal wake. I wanted to scoff out loud at the absurdity of it all. Royal bloodline my ass. There was no French monarchy and hadn't been for more than two hundred years.
She hurried off to where the opened casket was at the front of the chapel. Floor candles and endless flower arrangements adorned the walls of the room. I watched as she leaned in and smoothed his coloured robes. I could only guess it was some sort of royal burial ritual.
I stood next to her, watching tears roll down her face and then drop into the casket and on to the body of this man who according to her had fathered me. I felt nothing.
"Easton," she whispered as if there were crowds of people around, "This is your father, Constantine Xavier de Conti, Marquis of the Sovereign House of Capet."
I looked at the man in the casket. He was older, much older than my mother. He still had thick hair that was graying, but I could tell it'd been dark like mine. His arms were crossed over his chest like the crossing of swords. There was a crested ring on one finger that caught my eye. It bore the royal insignia of a titled Marquis.
"Go ahead, son. Take it."
I turned abruptly, peering down at my mother. Her tears had left a wet path on both cheeks, but her eyes were brilliant as they looked up into mine, an almost pleading expression on her face.
"Take the goddam ring, Easton," she said, her voice now louder. "It's your birthright. He had no other children. Only you. He wanted you to have it. It was his last dying wish and I promised him you'd have it."
I continued watching her, wondering why it was so damn important to her that I have his ring, this symbol of royalty that no longer had significance in modern society.
She blinked several times, wringing her hands. "You're a titled Earl by blood and for thirty-five years I was nothing more than a whore to him that he claimed he loved. I'll be damned if I'll let him go six feet under still wearing it. I'm the one who earned it - for you. Now take it," she coaxed.
I reached over and slipped the ring off of his cold, stiff finger, examining it in the candlelight for a moment, before slipping it into the pocket of my trousers. I did it for her - well, maybe for me as well. The bastard owed me something, though I'd be damned if I'd ever lay claim to my royal title or wear the ring for that matter. That was about her, not about me. She smiled up at me approvingly, leaned over and kissed his cold lips.
"Jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissons à nouveau mon amour, sachez que je serai toujours vous aiment Constantine," she said to ears that couldn't hear her. She brushed her fingers against his cheek and then turned to me.
"Come, Easton. I'll ride back with you. I need to tell you how it all happened."
It was a perfect day.
That's the thought that kept running through my mind as I found myself completely sprawled out over what was becoming my favorite place in the 'Presidential Suite' at the St. Regis: the deliciously over-sized couch in the sitting room. My "stomach bug" had not made an appearance in three weeks. I felt healthy, energetic and extremely happy with the time and attention Easton had been devoting to me lately.
Yes, I decided, being right here, right now was the perfect place to be. Kicked back on this luscious sofa, an open book perched against my knees, sneaking peeks at Easton who was sitting across the room in the over-stuffed chair pecking away on his laptop.
Shirtless.
I was pretending to be reading a book. I mean sure, I'd actually started out reading it but every time I heard his magical fingers tapping away on the keyboard, or heard him sigh - completely unaware he'd done it, or saw him run a hand through his gorgeously disheveled hair in my peripheral vision, I had to avert my eyes to him.
My favorite was when he stretched.
Fuuuuck.
The jury was still out as to whether he was aware of me watching him, because I made sure to oh-so-subtly glance down at my book whenever he shifted or started to turn my way . . . which seemed to be happening more frequently as this Saturday afternoon dwindled by. This time when I glanced down at the perpetual page 67 of my book, I felt his gaze linger.
Caught!
I felt my lips begin to curl up at the ends, knowing he was now staring at me. I looked up, to see those gunmetal eyes lock with my blue ones. But where I was facing away from the window, he was facing it directly, causing the 2 p.m. sunlight to reflect in his eyes, making them look like dark fireworks.
"You haven't turned the page in a while, love," he told me as if it was a secret. "What's wrong? Having trouble with the big words?"
I gave him a soft smirk, my eyes still on his and gave the page a turn for good measure. But I saw the way he was looking at me, his eyes lowering to the thin tank top I was wearing. He was aware that I was braless, because it was he that refused to give it back to me this morning after we'd played.
I was so on to him.
"Don't even think about it, Mr. Matthews," I scolded lightly, knowing what it did to him when I referred to him by that.
He let in a lazy inhale, his eyes now deepening to a yet un-named shade of gray. Resting his jaw on a propped-up fist, he replied, "Think about what, Ms. Sheridan? And you didn't answer my question."
I raised the book up in front of me, "Small font," I explained innocently. Placing the book face-down on my stomach, I languidly raised my now free hands to my hair and started to pile it up on top of my head into a knotted bun. The mid-June heat and humidity had found its way to the top floor of the St. Regis.
His eyes followed my movements.
"And you know what I meant when I said 'don't even think about it'," I told him, trying to fight back a smile as his gaze was now fastened on my exposed neck.
"I assure you, I don't," he responded softly. "Please elaborate for me."
Easton slowly stood up, leaving his laptop on the chair, open and forgotten and began a leisurely pace tow
ards the couch. Looking up at him, I watched as he knelt down next to where my head rested on some pillows. His hands made their way to my bun, and the elastic securing it, and gently released the heavy waves.
Decorating my shoulders with now freed hair, and tucking a piece behind my ear, he leaned in and whispered, "I like it better down."
He leaned back, supporting his weight on his calves, and gave my body a slow perusal. It was a different kind of perusal from what I was used to, though. Instead of the hunger that usually made a home on his face when he’d study me, this time it was like he was memorizing me - as if he was pocketing my curves, features, and errant freckles, planning on saving them for a rainy day.
His hands surveyed me next, distracting me from my thoughts. I watched as he took my book and casually tossed it to the floor. He then began to inch my shirt up, placing a soft kiss on my thankfully still-flat belly. And my nerves caught fire as his tongue followed his lips.
“That was a good book,” I tried to fake-scowl at him, but he wasn’t paying attention to my face as he quickly pushed my shirt up over my breasts, sucking in a sharp breath at my exposed nipples. Raising himself and leaning over me, he rested a hand on the back of the couch and the other on the arm. Instead of acknowledging my comment, he used his mouth to lightly lick around my hardening nipple.
“Easton,” I inhaled.
“Tell me about the book,” he replied, right before sucking hard on the tender tip.
I hissed through my teeth. “God,” I whimpered.
His mouth kept nursing on my flesh, going back and forth from hard suckles to light nips. A hand now kneading the other one, lightly pinching and rolling my nipple. I felt his denim-clad knee come up and rest between my legs.
Easton’s mouth released my nipple, making a slight sucking sound. “A book about God, Miss Sheridan? That wasn’t the bible, was it?” Both of his hands were now massaging my breasts. Watching his hands and the flesh beneath them, he continued. “Because if you’re in need of a prayer, I’d rather first give you something to confess.”