Mad Love 2

by Colet Abedi

  “What?” he says against my lips. “What do you want, Sophie?”

  “You.”

  “But you left me,” he says roughly. “Why should I give you what you want?”

  Motherfucker!

  “Clayton,” I practically beg.

  “No,” he commands as he leans back. “Open. Your. Eyes.”

  I do it because I have no choice. His face has taken on a serious look. And he looks heated, almost angry.

  “You. Left. Me.”

  Holy shit. He’s going to torture me. I can’t even bear the thought of it. I shake my head.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t lie.”

  I close my eyes for a half a second then open them. I know I have to admit why.

  “I thought you didn’t want me,” I whisper.

  He thrusts right into me when I say that and I cry out in surprise and from the pleasure.

  “Does this feel like I don’t want you?” he asks me in a gruff voice against my ear. Nothing has sounded better in my life.

  He moves out and I whimper from the loss.

  “Does it?” he barely grits out.

  I shake my head from side to side.

  “No,” I say. “No.”

  His large hands grab hold of my jaw as his thumbs caress my cheeks.

  “Promise me that it will never happen again.”

  I can barely think. My body is screaming with the excruciating sweet pleasure-pain of desire but I know what he wants to hear. What he won’t give me until he gets his way. And there’s a part of me, some piece back in the recesses of my mind, that knows there must be a reason why he wants to hear me say it. He has to care. More than care. I matter to him.

  More than matter.

  “Sophie.” His thumb moves across my lips. “Promise me.”

  In my passion-induced coma I lift my hands, cup his face, and meet his gaze dead on.

  “I promise.”

  He drives into me again, so fully and completely that I never want the moment to end. I lift my hips to meet his and before I know it I ride with Clayton to heaven and back.

  I wake up in the middle of the night and feel Clayton’s arms and legs wrapped around my body, pressed up against my back. I missed this part the most—okay, maybe not most, but close. I lift his hand and kiss his palm then rub my cheek against it. I’m not surprised when he leans in closer to me and curls his arm tighter around my waist to kiss my neck.

  “What was that for?” he asks me in a sleepy voice.

  “Just because I can.”

  I feel his smile against my neck.

  “You can and so much more.”

  I laugh. “I’m sorry I woke you,” I tell him honestly.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He nuzzles my skin.

  We’re both quiet and I suddenly get a giant whiff of lavender that I’ve noticed seems to permeate the chateau.

  “Your house smells so good,” I tell him lamely.

  I feel the rumble against my back as he laughs.

  “Now that’s a first.”

  I can feel myself blush.

  “It’s true.”

  “The woman who takes care of the property puts lavender seeds with oil throughout the house,” he admits. “It definitely gives off a peaceful feeling. It’s something I miss when I’m in my other residences.”

  Clayton says this so matter-of-factly that he doesn’t make it seem like the big deal I know it is.

  “Are your other homes like this?” I ask tentatively.

  “In what way?” he asks.

  Oh, I don’t know. Huge. With crazy expensive furniture. And a vineyard. And let’s not forget the other homes on the property that your guests can stay in.

  “This big,” is what I say instead.

  “A few,” Clayton replies mysteriously.

  A few? I almost roll my eyes.

  “Well, this one is pretty incredible, so I can hardly imagine anything else comparing.”

  “Thank you,” Clayton says. “You’ll see the other properties, so you can decide which is your favorite.”

  My heart thumps against my chest. But I force myself not to get too excited or to think about what he’s saying and what it means, and instead proceed to have verbal diarrhea.

  “The home is really incredible, Clayton,” I tell him honestly. “When I was admiring the land I felt as though I was staring at a piece by Monet.”

  “That’s quite a compliment coming from you,” he says with pleasure.

  “And some of the pieces you have inside are just unreal,” I go on. “Of course some aren’t quite my style.”

  “How so?”

  “Honestly?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Always.”

  “Well, they’re a bit—“ I search for the right word.

  Clayton waits expectantly so I give him the first word that comes to mind.

  “Versaille?”

  Sophie! WTF?I can’t believe I just said that!

  He shouts out in laughter. I’m glad that he’s amused and not insulted.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask him in a mortified whisper.

  “No,” he’s still laughing against my neck. “That’s my mother’s fault. She designed some of the rooms and went with the style that she’s accustomed to, which is a bit dated, I’ll admit. My bedroom was most important to me. This one is done the way I like it.”

  I’m relieved, I’m not going to lie. And I’m touched even more because it’s the one he gave me.

  “It feels more like you.”

  “To be honest, it’s as much me as any room in any home that I own can be,” he admits slowly. “I’ve been so consumed with my work, with the success of my business, I’ve usually let other people handle decorating. Well, my mother mostly.”

  For some reason this really makes me sad. Even the wealthiest people I’ve known, my parents’ friends or just people I’ve met through school, have always taken time to make their home their own. It’s kind of a no-brainer. Your home should be your sanctuary. I can’t imagine not caring about what the place that was my own, the place I lived in, looked and felt like. For me it’s always all about energy.

  “Feeling sorry for me again?” Clayton asks curiously. I can hear the amusement in his voice.

  “Maybe,” I admit.

  And then I remember Abby’s remark about his childhood and the little he told me in the Maldives and I want so badly to twenty question him, but I realize that now is not the time or place.

  “Why?” he asks as he plants a kiss on my shoulder.

  “Why what?”

  I can feel him smile.

  “Should I be insulted you don’t remember what we were talking about?”

  “No,” I rush out. “To be honest, I was just distracted by my thoughts of you as a child.”

  I feel his body tense.

  “What thoughts?”

  “How cute you must have been,” I say to placate him. I don’t want to bring up bad memories now.

  He relaxes a bit.

  “According to my mother, Michael was the one with all the looks when we were younger.”

  “She did not say that,” I’m highly offended.

  “Yes, she did,” he laughs. “I’ll show you some pictures so you can be the judge.”

  I turn around in his embrace and plant a kiss on his lips.

  “Did it hurt your feelings?”

  He smiles against my lips.

  “My ego still cries over the injustice,” he tells me sexily.

  “What can I do to make you feel better?” I tease.

  He proceeds to tell me how and I am very happy to oblige.

  Even though I didn’t get much sleep with Clayton, I’m surprisingly filled with energy. I’m in what I’m now calling my “art studio,” dressed in low-hanging grey sweats and a matching grey camisole, completely comfortable and ready to get started on Abby’s portrait. Abby knocks befo
re entering the room. I’m busy taking some pictures of the space, so I don’t immediately turn to take in her appearance. When I do, I hope my face doesn’t betray what I’m feeling inside.

  To say that she looks ridiculous is the understatement of the century.

  She is wearing a gold period costume. The period being the 1700s. No joke. She’s got a powdered wig on and her face is also powdered white, and to top off the look her lips are bright red. I think she’s even penciled on a mole. Oh, God. And that’s not all. For accessories she’s holding an open bottle of champagne and a plate of cake.

  She must have had to start drinking early to make herself put this outfit on.

  “Wow,” is the only word I can manage. I try to give her an encouraging smile.

  Abby snorts derisively and wobbles her way over to the fainting couch. She proceeds to throw herself on it, which is a feat in itself because of her enormous bustle. Once she’s settled, she takes a swig of champagne.

  “You look,” I search for the right word, “cool.”

  I half expect lightning to strike me right there.

  She shrugs her narrow shoulders and looks at me, but with all the powder on her face I can’t really tell what she’s thinking. I’m about to find out.

  “I look like a joke,” she says mockingly.

  “No,” I say to make her feel better. I can tell that she’s in a state. Of a nervous breakdown.

  She holds the bottle of champagne out to me. “Would you like some?”

  I shake my head. “I better not. I’m going to be working.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says as she takes another swig. “You might need it to get through the pains of having to paint me in this get-up.”

  I finally shake myself and put the camera down, then walk over to her and kneel down. Up close, the white powder on her face is even more ghoulish, like a Halloween costume gone bad.

  “Look at me, Sophie.” She giggles almost hysterically.

  “It is a bit extreme,” I say tentatively, glad that she’s acknowledging the giant elephant in the room.

  Abby waves her hand in the air.

  “And the sad part is this outfit is the least of my problems,” she tells me. She sounds a bit inebriated now. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it awful that I found out that Dimitri has a son—” She pauses for a second before continuing. “—just this morning?”

  Oh shit.

  “Yes,” I say honestly.

  Tears well up in Abby’s eyes.

  “That’s what I thought.” She sighs and takes another long sip, then hands me the bottle so that she can concentrate on the chocolate cake. “Dimitri wanted me to hold the cake for effect. I’m going to eat it instead.”

  I realize I’m watching a train wreck.

  “He was handpicked by my mother,” she says as she chews a bite of cake. I notice that one of her thick fake eyelashes is slowly starting to make its way off her eyelid.

  “Why him?” I ask.

  “My mum and stepfather are tired of paying for me. I have no inheritance, everything is being left to Davis, and so I’m really a burden now,” she explains to me. “It’s like a Jane Austen novel, isn’t it?”

  Yes, it definitely is, but I’m not going to tell her that. I am still trying to process the fact that they’re not leaving their daughter any money. Only that little shit Davis? The creep of all creeps? Are they crazy?

  “So my mother picked the fucking Russian oligarch for me,” Abby hiccups.

  Abby swears?

  I decide it’s okay to take a swig from the champagne bottle, and I do, then hand it back to her.

  “I’ll have more brought up,” she whispers to me. Now I’m thinking that’s probably a good idea.

  “He has a child?” I ask, trying to bring us back to the first problem at hand.

  Abby nods in disbelief.

  “That’s what’s priceless. Nicholas is seventeen. He’s just five years younger than me. He could be my brother. Dimitri called him Little Nicholas. But he’s not so little.”

  “How old is Dimitri?” I ask, shocked by all of this.

  “Forty-one.”

  Okay. I know that Abby is only twenty-two.

  “How did you find out about his son?” I ask her, completely bewildered. “And did he tell you why he’s never told you about him?”

  “That’s a great question, Sophie,” Abby says with a crazy look on her face. She has definitely been nipping at the champagne for a while. “Do you want to hear how?”

  I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. I’m too afraid to say that out loud to Abby in her current state so I just nod.

  “The wedding planner was going over seating arrangements and she mentioned that Dimitri’s son had changed plans and would now be coming to the wedding. Apparently even she knew about his son. Insulting, isn’t it?”

  I take the bottle out of her hand. There are many bizarre things about this situation. One, Dimitri never told Abby he had a son. Two, his son hadn’t planned on coming to the wedding until now? Three, Abby’s right. This does have the makings of a Jane Austen novel.

  “Did you confront him?”

  “Of course I did,” Abby says with a snort. “And you know what he said?”

  “What?” I ask in a whisper. I’m almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “He told me it wasn’t a big deal and he hadn’t thought to tell me. He didn’t think it was important and he didn’t understand why I was so upset. In fact, he even told me that he was upset by the accusatory tone in my voice.”

  Wow. Okay. Talk about having some serious premarital problems. And let’s talk about what a dick Dimitri is. I have a sudden urge to punch him in the face.

  “And then he said he had business to attend to and that I could call him when I had my attitude under control.”

  Now I officially hate Dimitri. Like want to get him in a dark alley and beat the crap out of him, hate.

  “Do you love him?” I ask her.

  “That’s a silly question,” Abby laughs as she takes another bite of cake.

  “Do you?” I press on.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Holy shit. Before I figure out what to say she doubles down.

  “I’ve been in love with someone else my whole life.”

  I whisper in horror, “Then why are you marrying Dimitri?”

  “Because the man I love will never love me back. At least not the way I want. That is a fact. I thought I might as well do what a lot of other women do these days and marry for money. But this son thing has thrown me.”

  There are so many thoughts racing through my mind that I don’t even know where to begin.

  “Abby, why are you doing this?” I ask her. “There are other choices you can make. You can get a job and be independent of your family.”

  “I’ve never worked a day in my life.”she says, her lips starting to quiver. “And where would I live, Sophie?”

  I’m surprised, even though I know I shouldn’t be.

  “I don’t even know what I’m good at,” Abby goes on. “It’s so pathetic, isn’t it? I’m useless. Completely and utterly useless.”

  “That’s not true,” I say gently. “You are so young. There’s still time to find your passion.”

  “But what if that takes me years? I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a barista in a coffee shop and I don’t mean that in an entitled, privileged way. I mean it like I’ve never even made a coffee for myself way.”

  “You can learn.”

  “But that doesn’t solve the immediate problem.”

  “Well, maybe Clayton or Michael can help you until—”

  Abby lifts her hand up sharply.

  “I would never ask. Least of all Michael.”

  “You can’t marry someone you don’t love,” I tell her emphatically. “Someone who’s lied to you about having a kid. And then acts lik
e it’s not a big deal! What kind of husband will he be? That’s completely insane! Are you listening to yourself? Abby—”

  Before I can finish my thought we’re interrupted by a knock, then the door opens and there stands Michael Sinclair, looking almost as good as his brother, in jeans and a fitted navy t-shirt. His sharp gaze takes in the situation pretty quickly.

  “Hi, Michael,” I say a bit too brightly.

  I saw the flicker of shock, just a quick second of it, as he checked out Abby’s get-up, and then the look was quickly covered. I know he must be horrified, but he’s polite enough to mask it.

  “Ladies,” he says.

  I smile awkwardly then look over at Abby, who I notice is ignoring him and drinking from her bottle.

  Shit.

  I take the ball. “Can we help you with something?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt what looks to be a fantastic party but I just came by to invite you to dinner tonight, Sophie,” he tells me. “I’ve invited my brother already and he said it was up to you.”

  I can’t stop my smile.

  “That sounds really nice. But if you guys want to be alone that’s totally fine as well, I know you don’t get to see a lot of each other.”

  “No,” Michael says. “The invitation is for both of you. I don’t think my brother is keen to leave you alone for even a minute.”

  I get a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

  “Alright, then. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Perfect. I was thinking around seven,” he tells me before his gaze settles on Abby, who’s still avoiding eye contact with him.

  “Is everything alright, Abigail?” he asks gently.

  “What do you care?” she says rather childishly.

  I’m sure I’m now gawking because of her response.

  Michael Sinclair is just as intimidating as his brother. He steps closer to us and narrows his eyes at her as she continues in a haughty voice. “You told me exactly how you feel about me last night and I’d rather not relive that embarrassing moment again, thank you. Especially now that we have an audience.”

  I turn to Michael, completely riveted. He is pissed off.

  “You looked like a slut,” he tells her, then stares pointedly at her outfit. “And I’m pretty damn sure Sophie is too kind to tell you that you look utterly ridiculous right now.”