At first, he rolled his eyes in disbelief. Of course Hemi was a CEO. The only acceptable profession, apparently. And a multimillionaire. Not a billionaire? Wasn’t Faith selling him a little short?
An underwear tycoon, too—that was nothing but ridiculous. At least she could have let the bloke do software, or own a construction firm. Something remotely manly. He didn’t see how this underwear magnate could maintain the physique she was describing, either. Building a body like that took time, and Hemi seemed to spend all of his sitting at the head of conference tables, jetting around the world in his company plane, and scheming to seduce his staff. But at least it wasn’t too horrible. It was just…ridiculous. And it wasn’t him. It so very clearly wasn’t him.
By the time they got to Paris, though, he was…all right, he was interested. In fact, he had almost forgotten that Faith had written it, and why he was reading it. And when Hemi pulled out his red ribbon…
Unfortunately, that was when they got the call to board. He wished he’d thought to download the story onto his phone, but too late now. He waited impatiently as the aircraft climbed, leaving Dunedin behind and heading over the Pacific.
The announcement came at last, and he was opening his laptop again. And an hour and a half later, he wasn’t rolling his eyes anymore.
For the first few episodes, the story had been steamy enough that his eyes couldn’t have rolled, because they’d been glued to the screen. This was Faith? They said men never read the instruction manual, but they were wrong, because he was pretty sure he was reading it. He was still furious with her, of course he was, but he was turned on as hell, too, and he couldn’t help being impressed.
After that, though, he may have had to dab at his eyes a time or two. When Hope had been sitting at Karen’s bedside as she regained consciousness, trying to be strong for her sister, and then when she’d found out that Karen would recover—well, you could hardly blame him, because he had a few sisters of his own, didn’t he?
Now, his cup of tea was sitting cold and forgotten on the tray table, and he was still reading.
Hope broke off in mid-sentence at the knock, then set the book on the bed beside Karen.
“Be right back,” she promised her sister.
Karen opened her eyes and smiled. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’m good.”
And she was, Hope thought. Thank God.
She closed the bedroom door softly behind her and hurried across the sumptuous living room of the suite she hadn’t known about until Hemi’s driver had appeared at the hospital. He had clearly been alerted by somebody there of Karen’s impending release, because there he had been, ready to take them to the hotel over Hope’s protests.
“I just do my job,” he had said, his eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror when he had pulled into the Plaza’s drive and stopped beneath the fluttering flags, a uniformed bellman immediately springing forward to open the luxurious sedan’s rear door. “Mr. Te Mana said to bring you here and make sure I got you settled in the suite. He said if I didn’t, it’d be my job. I don’t think he’d really do it,” he hurried to add at her startled exclamation, “but hey. Just in case—I need my job. So, please.”
After that, she hadn’t had much choice, had she? And it had been such a relief not to have to shop, or run errands, or do anything but look after Karen, and try to recover from the sleepless nights, the fear and worry that had run her ragged. To have the butler arranging for their meals to be delivered, to be able to order anything that might tempt Karen’s fickle appetite and have it arrive just like that. To get the call from the nurse whom Hemi had hired to come stay with Karen every day so Hope could take a break. To know that he had done all that for her, and had done it in a way she’d have to accept.
It was a different kind of relief, though, to know that she’d be able to start contributing again, at least to do her job. She couldn’t afford to get out of the habit of working, or into the habit of relying on somebody else, and she knew it.
She opened the door on the thought to find Martine herself on the other side.
“Nice place,” the Publicity Director said. “Lucky you.” She looked as polished as always, in a knit suit that emphasized her willowy proportions. “Your sister’s doing better, I take it?”
“Yes,” Hope said. “Thank you,” she hastened to add. She’d had no choice but to tell Martine of the reason for her two-week absence. It wasn’t like she had vacation time, not after six months. The Director of Human Resources had called her first, when she had still been wondering and worrying about how to handle it. He’d informed her that he’d heard of her circumstances, that an unpaid leave of absence would be granted, and that she should take the time she needed. Hope had listened for an indication in his matter-of-fact tone that he’d heard it from a source that would have aroused his suspicions, but to her relief, it hadn’t been there.
Martine, though, had been another matter.
“I’d have hoped,” she’d said when Hope had once again been sitting in the conference room with her, having yet another uncomfortable conversation, “that you would have come to me first. That I wouldn’t have had to hear about this from other sources. I must say, I’m disappointed that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. But it is what it is, I suppose, so let’s figure it out. This is an awkward time for you to be gone, as you know, just when we’ll be working so hard to capitalize on the momentum from the Milan Show. But then, we all have to do what we’re told, don’t we? We all serve at the pleasure of those higher up than us, after all.”
Which all meant that Hope had been hoping that Martine would have sent Nathan with her work assignments. For Nathan, she could have invented a generous relative, maybe. A very generous relative. That wasn’t going to work with Martine, though, not anymore.
They didn’t discuss it, to her relief, while they sat at the round table in the suite’s dining area and went through what looked like far more than a week’s worth of work, but that Hope was somehow going to have to accomplish anyway.
“And that’s it,” Martine said crisply, shoving her laptop back into its Kate Spade bag. “Shouldn’t be a problem, not with all your other needs taken care of so…thoroughly.”
Her gaze traveled around the room, from the huge arrangement of flowers on the marble coffee table to the windows overlooking the expanse of Central Park and the city beyond, not to mention the two closed doors leading to the luxuriously appointed bedrooms.
Her eyes met Hope’s again, and Hope realized she hadn’t answered. “No,” Hope hurried to say. “Of course it won’t be a problem.”
Martine hesitated, tapping an elegant fingernail against the clasp of her bag. “Can I make one more suggestion?” she asked. “A little word in your ear?”
“Of course.” Hope managed to get the words out, hoping that her galloping pulse wasn’t obvious. Her emotions were so volatile these days, rocketing from the giddiest heights to the darkest depths. From the paralyzing fear for Karen to the relief at the pathology results that had seen her huddled in the shower, the water beating down on her head, her arms wrapped around herself, finally allowing the racking sobs to overtake her once there was nobody to see, nobody to judge. Finally letting herself acknowledge the extent of her terror, now that it was over.
The lesser but still powerful anxiety about her job, her apartment, Karen’s school, both of their futures, though, still loomed. And always, underlying everything, the overwhelming need for Hemi, undeniable and irresistible as the tides, and just as dangerous.
There was desire there, of course there was, but that was the easy part. It was the tenderness that was so devastating. The sweet rightness when she was in his arms after they had made love, when his hand was stroking down her back to soothe her. The leaping pleasure she felt at every text, every phone call. The thrill she got every time she opened her apartment door, saw him standing outside, and knew that he was there for her.
She had lost the battle not to count on him, and she had long ag
o been forced to admit, to herself if nobody else, that she loved him with an intensity, an understanding, and a connection that was all the more powerful for being unspoken. She loved him for his strength, yes, but she loved him more for his weaknesses. For how hard he worked to be the best, and how deeply he feared that he wasn’t enough. And she missed him. She missed him so much.
Now, Martine smiled at her, and Hope had the uncomfortable feeling that all those thoughts were there to read in her transparent face.
“I know it’s so tempting,” her boss told her, “to think it will last. It’s a beautiful dream, isn’t it? But you know,” she sighed, running two fingers lightly over the diamond pendant at her throat, “that’s all it is. A dream. One brief shining moment. And the thing about dreams? You wake up.”
Hope swallowed, but didn’t trust herself to speak.
It’s not a dream, she wanted to say. It’s real. Because Hemi was real. He might be handsome, he might be rich, he might be powerful, and Heaven knew he was the most desirable man she’d ever met. But he was so much more than that. He was a living, breathing, caring man whose emotions were as deep and strong as they were hidden.
It wasn’t the myth she loved. It was the man, in all his shining, glorious light and all his dark, disturbing shadows. The man who thought he had to hide both of those sides from everybody, but who couldn’t hide them from her, because she saw him, and she knew him, and she loved him.
“And then you wake up,” Martine continued, and Hope forced herself to focus. “And you get a lovely present. A nice farewell gift. That’s when you know it’s over, when you get that token that you can keep to remember him by. Or that you can sell, of course, if you need the money more. If you’ve been picked up from the gutter, and you can’t stand to go back there again.”
Hope barely heard her, because Martine’s fingers were still at her throat, stroking the huge diamond solitaire on its chain that she wore every day.
No. Surely not. It couldn’t be true.
“Well.” Martine stood to go. “You’ll want to get to that work. You don’t want to go back to the gutter, I know you don’t, and for that? Work is the only solution. That’s what’s left after men leave. Because the thing about men?” She put a hand over Hope’s for just a moment, the lightest of caresses. “They always leave.”
***
He didn’t hear the announcement the first time, didn’t realize they were landing until the flight attendant stopped by his seat, whisked his teacup into her rubbish bag, put a light hand on his laptop cover and said, “Time to shut it down.”
He closed the lid hastily before she could see what he had been reading, stowed his computer away in his backpack even as his fingers itched to open it again, to learn what was going to happen next.
Faith hadn’t written porn. She hadn’t even written erotica. She had written a romance. She had written a story.
Then his thoughts took another turn, and that was worse, because he was having to entertain an entirely new idea.
He’s not you, she had said. He’s my character. And all the same…maybe it was more complicated than that.
Could she really have made all that up? Or was it possible, somehow, that some of that was…him? And her? He thought it could be. He thought it might be, and the idea was shaking him to the core. After everything that had happened, after everything he’d said to her, everything he’d thought…
The idea that she knew him. That she saw him, in all his light and all his shadow. And that despite all of that, despite everything she knew…that she loved him all the same.
Forgiveness
Faith was still sitting on the bed, still holding the phone in a nerveless hand, when the knock on the door came.
“Come in,” she called.
Talia opened it, then made as if to shut it again. “Oh! Sorry.”
“What?” Faith looked at her in surprise, then down at herself, realized she was still sitting in her bra and capris. “Oh. That’s OK.” She pulled the T-shirt over her head and tugged it into place.
“Um…” Talia said. “Mum says, can you come to the kitchen. Please,” she added.
“Sure.” Faith followed the girl downstairs, trying to force her mind back from the black hole it kept trying to fall into. From thinking about Will, and how he’d sounded. About how something that had seemed like the best thing that had ever happened in her life, being able to write a book, and having other people want to read it enough to pay money for it, had become—this. Was costing her—well, not Will, because she’d never had Will, and she never would. But was going to cost him so much, and that was just as bad. Or worse, because that was what it was. It was worse.
She tried to put on some kind of face for his mother. This would be about the lift to the airport, maybe. Emere had finally thawed a bit, but soon, it would all be worse than ever. Faith entertained the craven hope that Will’s family wouldn’t find out about the books until after she had left. Facing them would be so hard, if they heard the news while she was still here, if Will called back and told them.
Emere was standing in the middle of the kitchen, though, her body stiff, her face like iron. And it looked like it was all going to be happening now.
“I just got a call from a newspaper reporter,” Emere said without preamble as soon as Faith and Talia walked in. “Telling me that you’re writing books about your sex life with my son. Asking me if I have a comment.”
Talia’s shocked gaze flew to Faith’s. “No,” she said. “Faith wouldn’t.”
“No,” Faith said. All of a sudden, she couldn’t feel her legs, was having to reach out to the counter for support, and was stumbling over the words. “I didn’t. That is, I did, but it wasn’t that.”
Emere crossed her arms. “If you did, you did. I’ve had you in my house. I’ve fed you. And you’ve been doing that. And what I want to know is, did he know? Is this all some…joke, between the two of you? Bringing you here to be with us?”
Talia was backing away, but her mother put out an arm out for her. “No. You stay. You want to be grown up? Be grown up. Stay and face the truth. There’s nothing to be gained by lying to yourself, or by not seeing what’s in front of you. Exactly what’s in front of you.” Her hard stare let Faith know exactly what that was.
And then it got worse, because Miriama came into the room.
“What’s going on?” Will’s grandmother asked. “Something’s not good, eh.”
“No,” Emere said. “Something’s not good.”
Faith took a breath. Nothing to do but face this. Nothing left to do but tell the truth. As much of the truth as she could tell without hurting Will more, because she wasn’t doing that. “Emere has found out,” she told Miriama, “that I’ve been writing romance books, and publishing them.”
Miriama cocked her head to one side. “And? Nothing wrong with romance.”
“They’re…steamy,” Faith said. “They have sex in them.”
Will’s grandmother laughed, the sound incongruous in the midst of the tension that held the room in its grip. “And that’s got your knickers in a twist?” she asked her daughter. “Seems to me, when you were Talia’s age, I had all I could do to keep you from taking your knickers off for her dad. Have you forgotten that much? You need a man and no mistake. Nothing wrong with romance, and nothing in the world wrong with sex. And sex in a book? What could possibly be wrong with that?”
“It’s not just sex in a book,” Emere said. “It’s sex about Will.”
“No.” Faith found her courage, because this was just wrong. She might as well practice saying it. She was going to be saying it again. “No, it isn’t. It has nothing to do with Will, except that he’s the cover model. The story is about an entirely different person. A fictional character.”
“Except,” Emere said, and there was that damning, inescapable truth, “that Will’s photo is on the cover.”
“Well,” Miriama admitted, “that is a bit worse, maybe.”
“A bit w
orse?” Emere demanded. “A bit worse?”
“Yes,” Faith said. “His picture is on the cover. Of all five books,” she added. That wasn’t going to take them two minutes to find out. “Because Will posed for those pictures, and they’re available on stock photo sites. The photographer’s sold a lot of them, and I suspect that if you look around, you’ll find that they’re on quite a few other book covers, too. They’re good shots, and Will is a very good-looking man.”
“But none of those other books,” his mother said, “was written by his girlfriend.”
“That’s true,” Faith said. “At the time I started writing them, though, we weren’t dating.”
“Which excuses just about nothing,” Emere said. “You could have taken them off the market. You could have changed their covers, I’m guessing. You could have done heaps of things. But I don’t care about that, because I don’t care about you. What I care about is Will. And what I want to know is, did he know?”
“No. He didn’t.” Faith looked around at the three women, Emere’s face accusing, Miriama’s thoughtful, and Talia’s miserable. “He does now, because I just spoke to him. He’s not any happier about it than you are. For the record, I didn’t know it would get out. I have a pen name for exactly that purpose, to keep it private. But apparently it has gotten out, and that’s my fault, too. I only told one person, but that was one too many. Except that I should have told one more. I should have told Will.”
“Yes, you should have,” Miriama said. “If he mattered to you. If you care.” Her gaze was sharp, and all too knowing. “Which I think you do. Now.”
The implication was clear. “You’re right,” Faith said. Time for honesty, as much as she could manage without making things worse for Will. “Things were a little…different at the beginning, between us.” That was all she was going to say about that. “But they changed. I do care now. I care a…a lot. I was wrong, and I’m sorry, and I know that’s not enough. But I’ll do whatever I can to make this easier on him.”
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