by July Hall
Okay. He had a point. “I-I guess not. I’m sorry. But I trust you.”
He went still.
“I always have. I ask you for what I want.” Even when it was scary or new. “Sometimes you listen.” Please stop. She shivered. Sometimes he didn’t.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “There are things I can’t give if you ask me for them. I don’t mean ‘Please pass the goddamn salt.’” He raised his head to look at her and wiped the tear from her cheek. “If you say, ‘Please let me go,’ Sandra, that is not going to happen. It is not.”
Sandra shivered. He was dead serious. “Then what…then how—”
“You say, ‘Let go of me,’ and you threaten to knee me in the balls, and I do.” She stared at him. He looked back with a bitter quirk of his lips. “Or you say, ‘Stop,’ and scratch the hell out of my scalp, and I do. That’s—” He gritted his teeth. “That is the language I understand.”
Courtesy had always been Sandra’s best armor. Please and thank you were pure reflex. “I don’t understand that language at all,” she managed.
She’d expected that might rouse him. Get him to say something like Then you’d better learn. But he didn’t. He just looked at her with something in his eyes that was…pleading. She’d seen it before. This was so familiar. Why? Why was this so…
The plane. The flight to Hong Kong.
Her eyes widened. It all fell into place. And Sandra knew exactly, exactly what she had to do.
The prospect almost made her faint with terror. How could she do it? How could she possibly pull this off?
She had to. If she didn’t do the right thing now, even if it was hard, then she would lose him. Maybe not tonight, but sometime.
He’d said he loved her. He seemed to mean it. It should have changed everything, brought sunshine into her world. It was everything she’d ever wanted to hear. But one thing remained the same—before him, she was as vulnerable as a newborn. He was powerful, rich, and he held her heart in his hand. He could still crush her in one grip or another.
He wouldn’t do it on purpose. He might not even know he was doing it at all. It was just how he was.
“Sandra—” Charles began.
“Don’t ask me,” she said.
She couldn’t blame him for going a little slack-jawed. Then he shook his head. “What?”
“Don’t ask me for what you want,” Sandra said. “I just realized I don’t want to hear it after all.”
His hands came down on her like iron again. The storm began to gather in his eyes.
Sandra choked down her own panic. Oh God, this better work. “Not here,” she added, hoping that she wasn’t going too pale, hoping that she sounded calm enough. “It’s not the best place.”
The storm receded. In its wake, Charles looked cautious. She understood why; her request made sense, but he didn’t know what this development meant. “I suppose not,” he said. “But…” He inhaled deeply. “I don’t think it should keep too long.”
“No.” Sandra sat up on the bench. He shifted over to let her. She tried not to tremble. “Um…can we just stay here tonight? Who else is going to be here? Is Rosalie staying?”
“No. She’s got Sunday brunch with a lot of women in the city. Stephen and Craig will be off to spend the night at the Plaza” —he looked chagrined— “and are no doubt wondering where the hell I am.”
Sandra refused to feel sorry for him. This whole meeting had been his idea. And he’d messed up her clothes, again. “Uh—how do we do this? I can’t go back out there.”
Charles didn’t look all that apologetic either. Too distracted. “Go to my suite. Warrick will make sure you get there without any problems. Soon.” He glanced at her again, and for a second, the fire was back in his eyes. She knew what that meant—she’d better not try to skip town before Warrick arrived. “I’ll go take care of my family, and…” He rose to his feet and frowned. “What about your boss?”
Oh shit. Arnaud. And Kristen, too. Sandra glanced at her clutch. “I’ll—I’ll text Arnaud,” she stammered. Charles nodded. “I’ll see you in your suite whenever you get there, I guess.”
“Oh,” Charles said, “I’ll get there.”
Sandra couldn’t say anything in response. It was taking all of her willpower not to hide under the bench.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He was nearly to the ballroom before he realized: they were still singing. The opera singers, the Met’s top tenor and soprano, were still performing. He hadn’t been gone that long after all. In fact…
Charles checked his pocket watch. Eighteen minutes. The singers had begun performing eighteen minutes ago; he’d slipped out of the room immediately. That was all? It felt like hours should have passed. He’d come so close to losing what he’d begun to live for. Shouldn’t that need a broader timespan?
He rubbed a hand over his mouth to make sure that he’d cleaned all of Sandra’s lip gloss off his face.
He entered the ballroom. Josephine sat next to Alice Fortescue as they watched the performance. Charles avoided her gaze. He could not trust himself to speak to her. He still had no idea why on earth she would have talked to Sandra in the first place, much less said—what was it? Not to get her hopes up?
Still less could he speak to Bradley, who apparently had flat-out told Sandra that Charles and Josephine were together again. He’d probably just been making idle gossip that she’d taken for gospel truth.
Either way, Charles had walked into that study determined to make a case for their relationship, only to be falsely accused of infidelity and nearly dumped. He might have reacted…inappropriately.
Shame ate away at him from the inside. Or he might just have lost his goddamned mind. She’d be well within her rights to leave him. Nobody could possibly blame her. How many times had he told himself? She was under no obligation to love him, just because he loved her.
He’d told her so, said it didn’t matter if she loved him too. That was nearly true. Sandra didn’t have to love him. He’d managed so far without her love. But he could not manage without her. And for reasons he could not comprehend, she seemed willing to give him another chance, to speak to him after the way he’d treated her. He had to make this right—somehow—and it couldn’t wait.
Stephen and Craig sat at the table nearest the singers, holding hands and listening in rapt attention. Only the soprano was performing now, while the tenor stood to the side. Her voice soared above the string quintet.
Rosalie stood by herself. That would do for a way to avoid anyone else. Charles went to her side; he’d wait there until the aria came to a close and then speak to Stephen and Craig to excuse himself before the next one began. He’d say something about work—important, but not worthy of panicking his brother on his wedding night.
Rosalie smiled up at him as he arrived at her side. Then she blinked. “What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“Nothing,” he replied.
She nodded and returned her attention to the performance. The soprano’s voice rose ever higher. She seemed to think whatever she was singing about was extremely important. She kept clasping her hands to her breast and closing her eyes. Stephen and Craig appeared to be in absolute bliss listening to her.
So did Rosalie. “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
It was. Transcendent, really. Even he had to admit that. It sounded like the sort of thing Sandra would love, in fact—skillful, polished on the surface, roiling with chaos beneath. If she forgave him, he could ask her about it. “What is it?” he muttered.
“‘Mild und Leise’ from Tristan und Isolde. Isolde is rising to the ultimate rapture moments before her death.”
Going on the soprano’s ecstatic expression, it was pretty obvious what “the ultimate rapture” was, and it wasn’t anything Charles wanted to discuss with his sister. It certainly wasn’t anything he could bear to associate with Sandra until he knew where they stood.
He tugged at his collar and wished he hadn’t asked. Rosa
lie bumped him with her elbow. “You prude,” she chuckled.
Charles made it through the final measure, where the soprano ended on a high note that raised the hair on the back of his neck, and then he wound over to Stephen and Craig in the midst of the ovation.
“They’re amazing,” Stephen told him before he could speak, clapping hard while the soprano took another bow. “Thank you, Charles.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Listen, I’m sorry to do this, but I have to…step out for the rest of the evening.”
“Step out?” Stephen looked at him with wide eyes. “What’s wrong? Is it the company?”
Charles got ready to deliver the lie he’d prepared, about a work problem that was serious but not that serious, something for Charles to worry about and nobody else.
“It’s—” he began, and suddenly saw Sandra in his mind’s eye, the tears running down her face as she recoiled from him.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he blurted, and could have cut out his own tongue. “But not now. It’ll keep. It’s nothing to do with the company, it’s nothing urgent.”
Stephen looked astonished. He glanced toward the ballroom door. “Well, can’t we—”
“No. I’m off to take care of it.” Though hell if he knew how. “But we can discuss it later. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
The applause was beginning to die down. Stephen whispered, “Is it something about Jose—”
“Enjoy your evening,” Charles said through his teeth, clapped his brother on the shoulder, and headed back toward the ballroom door while the tenor stepped forward. He made his escape without speaking to anybody else, to the opening notes of “Nessun Dorma.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arnaud Diallo in the back of the ballroom, frowning down at his phone and typing something. To Sandra, probably. He wondered what excuse she was giving him. To be on the safe side, as he headed back to his suite, he reminded the nearest security guard that guests were not allowed into the private areas of the house. He couldn’t imagine that Diallo would come knocking on his bedroom door looking for Sandra, but with the way the night was going, he couldn’t totally eliminate the possibility either.
The walk seemed to take forever. This house was too big. At least Warrick would have had plenty of time to collect Sandra and escort her to Charles’s rooms.
When Charles opened the door to his suite, the first thing he noticed was the chill. He looked toward the windows to see one of them open. Sandra stood next to it, out of view from anyone outside, wrapped in a blanket against the cold. He could hear the strains of music coming from the ballroom.
He shut the door. She heard him, closed the window again, and pulled the drapes. The music faded. Then she turned to face him. Her shoulders were straight, her face perfectly composed. He couldn’t see even the slightest hint of distress. In her gown, with the blanket draped across her shoulders, she managed to look like a queen.
“They have amazing voices,” she said.
“Did you hear the aria before this one?” Charles asked. His voice sounded shockingly calm. “With the soprano?”
“Yes. I loved that one.” She began to walk toward him. Her gown rustled against the floor. “I would have liked to hear it up close.” Then she paused by the chaise longue and tossed the blanket on top of it. “But I couldn’t, because I look like this.”
He swallowed against the lump in his throat. The torn straps of her dress hung over her breasts. He could see reddened marks against her shoulders and throat, where he’d kissed her roughly and rubbed his beard against her skin. And though he didn’t want to, he looked at her left wrist to see he’d left a mark there too.
Charles didn’t know what to say, or what to think. He’d never done such a thing in his life before. There was no possible justification.
“I’m sorry,” he managed.
“I guess you could buy me another dress,” she said. “Maybe you could hire the singers to give me a private performance, too. That’s what you do. You mess stuff up and try to make it better with your money, and you can’t.” She fisted a hand in her skirt. “You can’t buy this. And don’t talk about how you wish you were poor.” Her lip curled.
“I do,” he rasped. It would be easier if she’d decided to scourge him than talk to him this way. “If it meant you—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be poor.” She stood as still as a statue. “Neither do I. But you also don’t have any idea what it’s like not to be on top. You’re always in control, aren’t you?”
“No.” What the hell had the last half hour been about to her? Did she think he’d been in control? “I didn’t mean to—the way I behaved was inexcusable. I know…” Oh, hell. Charles ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Sandra, just tell me what to do.”
He’d already told her as much. She had a point—he was used to being in charge. He said please because it was polite, not because he had to, and he could discard it whenever necessary. When it came to the big things, the important things, you had to be straightforward.
If she just told him what she needed, told him how to make things right…
She stood in front of him, proud as a goddess in her torn dress and bare feet. Minutes ago, she’d been lying beneath him, shaking and begging him to trust her, tears falling down her face. The woman in front of him looked like she’d never begged for a thing in her life.
“Would you like that?” Sandra asked coldly. “Me telling you what to do?”
“Well, I’m clearly failing to work it out on my own,” Charles said. They couldn’t go into this song and dance again, talking at cross purposes, and him somehow saying all the wrong things. He was obviously not to be trusted with this.
He took a deep, painful breath. “I meant it,” he said. “I love you.” Her expression didn’t change a bit. He set his jaw. “I don’t care if you don’t love me, too. That’s—”
“You don’t care?” Sandra asked. “Really?”
“I mean…” Charles curled his fingernails into his palms. “That is, of course I’d be happy if you did.” Christ, happy wouldn’t cover it, there wasn’t a word in the language that could convey how he’d feel. It was also, obviously, not relevant. “But I understand why you wouldn’t, and I don’t expect it.”
Sandra tilted her head to the side. He watched a lock of red hair slide over one of her shoulders. “Well,” she said. “Tonight sure is about your expectations, isn’t it?”
“Oh, for…” He stormed over to the fireplace and switched it on. The flames leapt to life, warming the air. It was still cold from when she’d opened the window. She must be freezing in that dress.
“Do you know the worst thing?” Sandra said. “You scared me half to death. I was so frightened.”
Charles swallowed hard.
“But I still want you. That’s the worst thing.”
I still want you. They were the sweetest words he’d heard all night, and he was half convinced he’d imagined them. “The worst thing?” he said.
“Yeah.” She took a single step toward him. “I’m standing right here looking at you, and I know that the only smart thing I could possibly do is walk out of here and never come back…”
There was a strange noise. It sounded strangled and painful. Charles realized it had come out of his throat.
“But I don’t want to do that,” Sandra continued, as if she hadn’t heard. Her voice was as hard as iron. “I’ll do it if I have to. If I have to save myself from you. But—”
“No,” Charles said. Then he closed his eyes and added in a more measured voice, “No, you don’t have to be afraid of—”
“But I’d rather you fucked me,” Sandra concluded.
After a second, Charles managed, “Pardon?”
“Unless you don’t want to,” she said. “But you volunteered earlier. I mean…” She touched one of her torn dress straps. “That’s what this was about, right? You wanted to use me again.�
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“No!” Using her had never once crossed his mind—only keeping her. That wasn’t the same thing.
“You were looking for my zipper. You wanted to strip me naked.” She turned and pointed to the small of her back. “There it is.”
“I get the point,” Charles said through his teeth. “My behavior was unacceptable. I know that. This isn’t necessary.”
Sandra turned back around and then walked toward him. “I don’t think you know what’s necessary,” she said. “I don’t think you know what I need. Because you don’t know what you need.”
“I need you,” Charles said. When she was close enough, he put his hands on her waist but forced himself not to pull her in. “I can’t put it plainer than that. I’ll—” The words began to tumble out of him. “I’ll be good to you. I’ll make you happy. Just tell me how—”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. At the warm touch of her lips, the dam broke. Charles seized her again, moaning when she opened her mouth for him, when she melded to him.
Then she pushed him away. “I thought about being naked when you got here,” she whispered. “But I didn’t know if you’d want that. If you’d want me.”
Before he could respond to something so ridiculous, she slid her hand between their bodies, between his legs. She found the outline of his cock beneath his pants and gently began to rub. He had already begun to stir at her kiss; at her touch, the pressure grew. He gasped.
“Wow,” Sandra said. She let go of him. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust. Sandra reached behind herself, toward the zipper of her dress. He heard the metal pull of the teeth parting. His fingers twitched.
She saw it. “You want to help?” she asked.
“What is this?” he whispered. “What are you doing?” She couldn’t really mean all was forgiven, they were going to screw, and then it would be like nothing had ever happened. As if nothing had changed, he hadn’t transgressed, and his love for her made no difference.
“I’m punishing you,” Sandra said.