by Kallysten
His frown deepened.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
My fingers tightened around the notepad. I was shaking a little, and I wasn’t sure if it was from anger or fear. Strange how I always seemed to feel both things when I was around him.
“Sit,” I said in the same cool tone he’d used. “Eat. What’s next? Roll over? Beg for a treat? Don’t you think I’ve been given enough orders since I set foot in this house?”
Mr. Ward’s eyes narrowed, and he pinched his lips tightly together. What words was he holding back? Nothing nice, I supposed.
After a few seconds, he stood. I swallowed the lump of ice suddenly lodged in my throat.
“My apologies,” he said in a neutral voice. He walked around the table and drew out the chair set in front of the placemat. “Would you care to sit, Angelina?”
My mind flashed back to how he’d held my chair in the fantasy. I tried to push that image away. I had to stay in the here and now.
Which would have been a lot easier if, when I sat down and lifted the metal cover, I hadn’t found a bowl of fragrant lobster bisque in front of me.
Judging from Mr. Ward’s expression as he returned to his seat, he made the connection between what my fantasy self had had for dinner and what I was now having for lunch, but he didn’t comment. Good thing, too. I wasn’t particularly interested in talking about the more pleasant version of himself he’d showed at dinner.
He waited until I’d taken a few spoonfuls of soup before saying, still in that cool, neutral voice, “There are eight major high-society parties happening in the city between Christmas and the New Year, three of them on New Year’s Eve. I don’t think we should try to compete with them, not on such short notice. New Year’s Day might be better. What do you think?”
I thought the soup was delicious. I also thought it’d have been nice to have lunch first and work later. Mostly, I thought I didn’t like his ‘I’m trying to be nice and calm’ voice. It sounded fake. I missed my fantasy Morgan. How much of him had been real? What was it Mr. Ward had said? The fantasy was still us, just acting in a way we wouldn’t let ourselves act under normal circumstances.
Which begged the question, why wouldn’t he let himself be nice?
“Angelina?”
A shudder ran through me as he said my name. I met his eyes and had the hardest time reminding myself of where I was and especially with whom.
I thought back on his question and gave a small shrug.
“It’s your party. Whatever you think is best.”
He clucked his tongue, like I was some unruly child.
“If I’m supposed to have hired you for your expertise, ‘whatever I think is best’ is not going to cut it in front of your parents.”
“Well, they’re not here, are they?”
“But they will be. We might as well start practicing playing nice.”
He had a point. I hated that he had a point. And I wasn’t going to concede he did.
“New Year’s Day,” I said, going back to the original topic. I tore a piece of bread as I thought. “Okay. We can spin it as the first good deed of the New Year or a fresh start or something. Did you decide what charity you want it to be for?”
I knew he gave money to some art school and had a couple of scholarships in his name, on top of some occasional donations to good causes. He hadn’t come to Miss Delilah’s gala, but he had sent a nice check, and she’d announced the donation during a small speech to thank the attendees.
“I don’t care,” he said without looking up from his screen. “Do you have a preference?”
I stared at him across the table, the bread forgotten in my hand.
“That’s a lie. You care about these things. You wouldn’t give away so much money if you didn’t.”
His eyes met mine over the laptop.
“So, your idea of playing nice is to call me a liar. Interesting.”
I could feel heat creeping up in my cheeks. I pretended to myself I wasn’t blushing and spoke as levelly as I could manage.
“You know what’s interesting to me? That you claim not to care about so many things when it’s pretty clear that, in fact, you do. Like when you pretend you don’t give a damn about me and yet you’ve saved my life twice and you’re doing this thing so my parents won’t be mad or scared.”
This point went to me.
He looked away and said gruffly, “There was a women’s shelter three blocks away. They had a fire or something, and they had to close.”
I’ll admit that if I’d needed to make a list of charities Mr. Ward was most likely to support, a women’s shelter would not have been anywhere near the top. I suppose it proved how much I didn’t know about him.
“All right,” I said, pushing the empty soup bowl away and pulling the salad closer. “We can make that work with the whole fresh-start theme. Did Delilah send you that list of guests?”
As hard as I tried to keep my voice neutral, my animosity bled through when I said her name.
“She did,” was all he said before returning his attention to the computer.
There were still a thousand things to decide about the gala, but a very different topic came to my lips.
“Is she really your sister? You two don’t look anything alike.”
He didn’t even look up.
“We’re blood siblings,” he said, typing something on his computer. “It means we were turned into vampires by the same maker.”
I’d thought about that ‘maker’ since he’d mentioned her.
“In the invitation you sent Delilah, you mentioned your mother. Is that—”
“Our maker, yes,” he interrupted. “Speaking of invitations, we should probably focus on those first. We can figure out the rest of the details later.”
So, he didn’t want to talk about ‘Mother.’ Duly noted.
I finished my lunch quickly. The chocolate cake, for some reason, did not taste quite as good as when Morgan had fed it to me in our latest fantasy. The entire time I was eating it, Mr. Ward never looked at me, not even one glance. I knew, because I was looking at him. And missing Morgan.
It felt weird to miss someone when he was sitting just a few feet away from me.
Once I was done eating, I moved to a seat closer to him. We worked on the wording of the invitation as well as the guest list. The location, much to his annoyance, was to be the mansion; I couldn’t get out, so we didn’t have much of a choice there. Within a couple of hours, we’d decided on the exact wording and main details. Unlike his birthday, there was no time for custom stationery. Mr. Ward left to go to a printing shop while I continued working, now focused on finding a caterer. So close to the event and on New Year’s day, to boot, I anticipated it wouldn’t be easy, and I was right. By the time Mr. Ward returned around four with a box of folded invitations that we needed to stuff into the already-addressed envelopes, I still hadn’t found a caterer.
The prospect of sending the invitations when so much was up in the air left me jittery. I kept telling myself that it shouldn’t matter to me. After all, Mr. Ward had told Miss Delilah he’d been ‘roped’ into having this gala, but what about me? I was, in essence, working for free for my captor. At the same time, I did want the gala to be a success. It was a matter of pride for me, but more than that, it was for the benefit of a good, worthy cause.
And of course it was all to preserve my parents’ blissful ignorance, something that seemed to become more and more important as the hour of their arrival grew nearer.
*
As I discovered, Stephen’s duties were not only those of a butler. Mr. Ward had said he didn’t have an assistant, but that’s what Stephen looked like to me. He was also Mr. Ward’s chauffeur and was tasked with going to pick up my parents at the airport. I showed him pictures of them and wrote down their names in large letters on a piece of paper for him to hold in the waiting area, but just the same, my heart tightened a little when he left.
I had tried to get them to come visit me for a coup
le of years, and now that they were finally coming to New York, I couldn’t even go to welcome them, and I wouldn’t be able to take them around the city to my favorite places. Yet again, I felt upset at how unfair this all was, but there wasn’t much I could do. If Miss Delilah had been around…
I know, very smart of me to want to have a row with a vampire. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn’t there, after all.
Before he left, Stephen prepared a suite for my parents, and he inquired if Mr. Ward and I wouldn’t be more at ease in the office or study. I guess it was his way of shooing us out of the dining room. Mr. Ward glowered and muttered unhappily—in other words, he was his usual self—but in the end he led me to a room down the hall that could have served as conference room: there was a large round table in the center of the room, surrounded by six leather armchairs. On one side, two wide windows let in plenty of sunlight—no Central Park view, alas—while opposite a white board took up a large part of the wall. We spread out our papers on the table, and I wrote a few things on the white board to make it look as though we’d been working for more than a few hours.
Other than the white board, the decor was as lavish as in the rest of the mansion, and my tongue burned with questions about the purpose of the room. Did Mr. Ward conduct business here? He had to. What else could a conference room be used for? I didn’t ask, though. He was still grumpy enough that I doubted it was worth the trouble.
I had just hung up the phone—another caterer who wouldn’t be able to work with our time constraints—when Mr. Ward’s cell phone buzzed. When he looked at the screen and thumbed over what looked like a message, I couldn’t help blurting out, “Is that Delilah?”
She’d been on my mind every time he had pulled out his cell phone. I remembered all too well the casual, even playful messages they had exchanged, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about them. In our fantasy, he’d said he was grateful to her for arranging for us to meet. Was that really how he felt, or was it one of those ‘only in a fantasy’ things?
He shook his head.
“Stephen. He found your parents, and they’re on their way. They should be here in a half hour or so.”
My stomach executed an Olympic-worthy back flip. I nodded and tried to go back to my work, but my mind was too far from this room. It was in Paris, actually.
“Have you heard from your investigator?” I asked. “The one who’s supposed to tell you who she’s with.”
“Yes. My maker was with her, if that’s what you want to know,” he replied.
It was. My mouth felt dry suddenly, my throat tight. The key to my freedom had been found.
“So… Does that mean you’re going to Paris?”
“It wouldn’t help. She was with Lilah, but not anymore. My PI followed her to the airport. She boarded her jet, and he hasn’t figured out where she went yet.”
The sweet hope that had filled me for a few seconds now deflated faster than a burst balloon.
“How are you going to find her?” I asked. I needed to be sure he was still looking for a solution.
His expression closed off, and he rose from the table. “I don’t know,” was all he said before he left the room.
It seemed like his uncharacteristically expansive explanation that morning would not be repeated any time soon. Then again, I didn’t know why I had expected anything different. Come to think of it, I might have liked it better if he had not given me all the information he had. Those two seconds of hope made the disappointment even deeper.
Working non-stop since lunch had drained me, and that bit of bad news didn’t help, but I made a last call to one more caterer. This time, I got a yes and could have cried in relief. Under normal circumstances, I’d have interviewed at least two caterers and preferably four or five. With our time crunch, I called it good enough and set up an appointment with them for the next day to decide on a menu and sign the paperwork. Then I went down to wait for my parents.
As I walked down to the lower level, I thought back on the decorations that had been in place during Mr. Ward’s birthday party and made mental notes on how to decorate for the gala. I wasn’t fooling myself. All I was doing was trying to distract myself, both from thinking about Mr. Ward’s maker and about what I’d tell my parents when they arrived.
I sat down in the salon on the first floor, the one with the Monet painting on one side and the Central Park painting on the other. Losing myself in the latter was fast becoming my favorite way to get out of my own head for a little while. Maybe it was because I’d heard the artist talk about creating this work, or maybe because I knew the park was just on the other side of the street, and somehow, to me, it meant freedom. Whatever the case, I stayed there until I heard voices out in the foyer and hurried to greet my parents.
“Lini!” my mother exclaimed as soon as she saw me. “What’s going on?”
Bundled in a thick winter coat she’d never need to wear back home, her hair dusted with a few snowflakes, she looked a little wide-eyed. I felt a pang at how much deeper the lines at the corner of her eyes seemed; even with regular video-chats, every time I saw her it always struck me that she was getting older. Next to her, my father, dressed for the weather too, was trying his best to look blasé, but he wasn’t fooling me. His eyes were darting all around, sneaking glances at the impressive decor.
Stephen walked in behind them, carrying my mother’s luggage. My father was carrying his own, and I had no trouble imagining Stephen offering to take it for him, and my father assuring him that he could do it himself. I could even picture Stephen’s expression when he was denied: the same ill-disguised annoyance as when I had told him I could prepare my own coffee.
Why, yes, I take after my father; how did you guess?
I went to them and into my mother’s open arms. As I gave her a hug, I knew she was waiting for an explanation, but my mind was blank. I couldn’t come up with anything. It felt so strange to see them here. To have them in New York would have been odd in itself—they’re really not ‘big city’ people—but to see them standing in the foyer of the Ward mansion… They looked as out of place as I felt myself. The only difference was that they, at least, were free to leave whenever they wanted.
From my mother’s arms, I passed to my father’s. When I pulled back, I noticed that Stephen, showing a cunning side I wasn’t surprised he possessed, had taken the opportunity to grab my father’s carry on. My father didn’t notice immediately, not with Mr. Ward making his grand entrance down the main staircase and approaching us.
“Mrs. Brown.” He took my mother’s hand and kissed her knuckles, drawing a quick, startled laugh from her. “Mr. Brown.” He shook my father’s hand vigorously. “Morgan Ward. A pleasure to meet you.”
I don’t know who was more shocked: my parents at this unexpected introduction to a famed millionaire or me in reaction to Mr. Ward’s frank, open smile. I’d seen that smile before, and I thought it made him look even more attractive. But every time he had smiled like that so far, we’d been in one of our shared fantasies. Suddenly, I couldn’t tell if this was real or not.
As I stood there, speechless and wary, my parents responded to his greeting in kind. Mr. Ward didn’t miss a beat as he said, “I don’t know whether to apologize for interfering with your holidays with your daughter or thank you for allowing me to put her skills and knowledge to work.”
He turned that smile to me then, and well, you won’t be shocked to hear I was dazzled. My heart stammered, and my knees felt a little bit weak. Part of me wanted to go to him, kiss him… But no. I couldn’t do that. Not even if this was a fantasy.
But was it? Why would he do it now?
“Her skills?” my mother asked. “What do you mean? I’m sorry, but Angelina hasn’t explained to us what’s going on.”
“The blame is on me,” he assured her. “I asked her to keep the event she’s helping me organize a secret, but I didn’t realize she’d keep it even from you. When she told me you were coming to visit, I thought the best way
to make up for your inconvenience would be to invite you to spend the holidays here. If that is acceptable to you?”
My parents shared a confused look, then looked at me.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” my father asked.
I shrugged.
“Honestly, I’ve been busy; that’s my only excuse. Mr. Ward’s assistant quit in the middle of planning this event, and Miss Delilah told him about my work on the gala last year, and with this event benefiting a local shelter that recently burned down almost to the ground… I didn’t feel like I could say no. I’d have visited as soon as I could, I promise.”
It was the story we’d agreed on, and I suppose it sounded believable, but I hated lying to my parents. Then again, the alternative would have been to shatter everything they thought they knew about the world we lived in and who else—what else—lived in it. Having been through that Earth-shaking realization myself, I’d just as well keep them from the same uncomfortable experience.
For a second or two, I was sure they’d call me on the lie. Before either of them could say a word, however, Mr. Ward slipped into the conversation again.
“So, Mr. Brown? Mrs. Brown? Will you accept my hospitality?”
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” my mother said. “We were going to get a hotel room.”
Mr. Ward sidled up next to her and took her arm, drawing her forward as though the matter was settled.
“Two days before Christmas, you won’t find anything decent in the city. And please, it’s no trouble at all. This old house has plenty of space, and Stephen has already prepared a suite for you. Let me show you.”
My mother glanced back, and from her expression, one thing was clear: he had her. I watched my father’s eyebrows rise as we followed them. Stephen executed a deft maneuver so that he passed by all of us and was halfway up the staircase before we reached it.
“How was your flight?” I asked my father, taking his arm like Mr. Ward had taken my mother’s.
A few steps ahead of us, she was asking about the artwork and he was answering in his most charming voice.