by Lee, Nadia
When those green eyes focused on me, there was an intense fire within the depths of his gaze. My mouth dried, and a piercing ache formed in my chest.
Some men promise a fun romp in bed, while some promise trouble. This man promised glorious sex and a broken heart.
He might have said something, but I couldn’t hear it over the roaring of my blood. My vision actually blurred for a moment, like I was about to pass out.
I couldn’t imagine the humiliation of fainting dead away in front of a stranger. So I focused on his gaze as an anchor to keep me from floating away.
“You have something on your face.” His low, raspy voice slid down my spine, causing goosebumps. Then before I could process, he reached out and brushed his thumb across my lower lip.
The most intense longing pulsed through me. To my shock, my nipples beaded. In any other circumstance, I would have stepped away, but I felt hypnotized. I swallowed, wanting him to remove his hand…but at the same time loathing the notion. It was as though my body craved the physical connection he’d established.
His eyebrows drew together as he turned my left arm, then his face went bloodless as bitter despair fleeted through his eyes.
I felt that gaze like a physical touch. He stared like he was trying to see into my head. The idea gave me shivers. I don’t like having people look that closely.
Then I realized I was still on his arm, my back arched, my hips uncomfortably close to his. That was a shock, but nothing compared to the stunning realization that I didn’t want to pull away. I don’t understand how I could feel this way about a man I just bumped into. Granted, he was mesmerizing. But I’ve seen handsome, wealthy, worldly men before… None of them ever drew me like that.
Thank God Byron came to get me. Otherwise, who knows what else I might’ve done to embarrass myself?
What if he’s someone you used to know before the accident? Maybe that’s the reason you reacted that way. Maybe somehow your subconscious recognized him.
No. If he knew me before, he would’ve said something—a simple “Hi, Iris, how are you?” or “Whoa, long time no see!” Or maybe just a friendly smile in greeting.
And if—a huge if—I’d known him before in such an emotional way, surely I’d still have some sliver of memory of him. Like I have about my parents. I remember some…not all, but some.
“What are you thinking?” Byron asks.
It pulls me out of my reverie. “Nothing.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I force a smile. “Just wondering what to have for dinner.”
“It’s a bit early.”
“But I’m hungry.” I pat my belly.
Byron gives me a look. “Really?”
I nod, even though I’ll have to eat more than I really want if I don’t want to be caught in a lie. I should’ve told him I was thinking about a piece of music.
He grins. “Fine. Your stomach is my command. Want to eat out, or…?”
“How about takeout? Something light. I’m a little tired.”
“Jet-lagged?”
“Very.” I landed earlier today. Although Sam claimed his assistant “forgot” to remind him, I know he didn’t pick me up from LAX as a symbolic protest over my return. Thankfully, Byron was waiting at the airport, having heard from Julie about my flight from Vienna. “But don’t let me fall asleep too early. I have to get back into my routine as quickly as I can.”
He nods. “Thai and a movie?”
“Fantastic. Tomorrow I’m also going to work on my résumé. Well, once I figure out what to put on it.” And see who I can ask to review what I’ve written.
“I can help you with that.”
It’s like Byron read my mind. “That’d be great. Thank you. You’ll know exactly what to say.”
“You sure you want an office position, though? You can always be a concert pianist or something. If you get stage fright, you can do duets with Julie.”
My mood deflates. That used to be what I was working toward. Sam confirmed it. But I can’t pursue that anymore.
I don’t have stage fright. What I have is far worse—terrible panic attacks, which developed since the coma, according to Sam. When I tried to force it at a small recital six years ago, I fainted dead away, my heart beating hard and fast, cold sweat drenching me. It was so awful I thought I was in the middle of a heart attack.
But if you were to play with that guy from Hammers and Strings? Something for four hands, so you could sit side by side, his body close…
The question comes unbidden, and I shake my head. Ridiculous notion.
Except the butterflies in my belly don’t think it’s that ridiculous.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anthony
The original plan for the day was to get Harry from LAX, then stop by Z, one of my most profitable clubs. It’s sentimental because it was my first and I built it myself—selecting everything inside, helping with the design, everything. I understand good taste, excellent liquor and the experience I want to give. I make it my routine to go there a few times every time I’m in L.A. to ensure it’s still the best, to learn who works there, get a feel for the crowd that frequents the club.
But at the moment, I can’t. I’m not in a very good headspace, and it’s impossible to oversee a business when I’m like this, obsessing about that woman.
Her delicate features. Those beautiful gray eyes. The mole underneath her plump mouth. Her scent. The hands.
That untattooed left wrist.
If I had a flower in the car, I’d rip it apart, petal by petal, while muttering, “She’s Ivy. She isn’t Ivy. She’s Ivy. She isn’t Ivy…”
So I pick the second best option—Harry. Although he can be incorrigible and irresponsible at times, he is great at auditing clubs. He understands fun and what makes people generous—even reckless—with their money. The best thing is, he’s done it before for me and pointed out areas I’d never considered or imagined were problematic. Taking his suggestions made a difference in elevating the clubs in L.A., Chicago, Rome and Paris from luxurious and exclusive to opulent and ultra-fashionable. It’s a subtle distinction, but it’s the difference between a club people think is great and a club people would give their left kidney to get into.
He answers on the third ring. “Thanks for checking up on me. I managed to get to campus in one piece,” he says, half sarcastic, but with enough humor to let me know he isn’t really upset. Nothing really upsets my younger brother.
“Uber is a boon to humanity. And especially hungover younger siblings.”
A snort, extra loud for my benefit. “So.” Harry’s voice grows serious. “Did you…uh…see her?”
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to call him. I should’ve known he would ask. “Yes,” I say.
“And?” I can hear the tension and worry in his voice.
“And nothing. She isn’t Ivy.” Her name is Rizzy. Byron called her that. I wish I’d acted faster and punched the bastard in the mouth because he dashed my hope…a small, pathetic hope, but a hope nonetheless.
Harry sighs. “I’m sorry, Tony. I shouldn’t have shown you the video. Edgar got pissed off when I told him about it.”
Damn. Now Edgar’s going to be on my case, but I can’t very well be upset with Harry. My past behavior wasn’t exactly sane when it came to Ivy, and my reaction probably freaked him out. “It wasn’t your fault. The video went viral. Somebody would’ve shown it to me at the office.” The last part is a lie. Nobody in my office would bother me with junk like that.
And Harry sees right through me. “Right.”
“So. Are you busy tonight?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on the video or the pianist. It’s the kind of wound you lick alone, in the privacy of your home.
“Nope. Why?”
“Can you go to Z? See how things look there?”
“Oh, man!” he shouts excitedly. “Free booze, right?”
“No. Put it on your credit card. I don’t want everyone there to know you’re s
pecial enough to warrant free drinks.”
“They know I’m special enough to cut the line,” Harry protests.
“Keep it up and you won’t be able to.” He shuts up so fast that I hear his teeth click. “I’ll cover your expenses.”
His good mood immediately returns. “I can bring girls, right?”
“Within reason.” Otherwise he’ll invite half the co-eds from UCLA.
“Will do. You know I’m going to give you your liquor’s worth.”
“I’m counting on it. Thanks, Harry.”
“Hey, thank you!” He hangs up.
I almost smile at his infectious enthusiasm. It’s impossible to stay morose around my younger brother.
TJ takes me to my penthouse. The second I step inside, I spot Edgar, helping himself to my best whiskey.
He hasn’t changed much. Still the same old Edgar, except now he looks even more like Father. It’s like he was born parthenogenetically, with none of Mother’s DNA.
Normally I want to be alone in this kind of mood, but Edgar is okay. Smart and levelheaded, he’s the one who pulled me out of the abyss of despair and self-destruction after Ivy’s death. He also secretly invested in Z, since our parents disowned me. That’s why he has access to all my properties around the world. And gets free booze at my clubs.
He lifts his glass, a warm glint in his eyes not enough to hide his worry. “Tony.”
“Edgar, good to see you,” I say, doing my best to appear normal. As long as I act like a sane individual, he won’t try to stick around to hover over me.
We exchange a quick hug, and I take the empty stool next to him. “What are you doing here?”
“A minor change in plans. I have an overnight layover in L.A. before the first flight out tomorrow, so I figured why not drop by?” He shrugs, his lips twitching with a smile. “Tu casa es mi casa.”
I laugh, but I don’t buy his overly casual explanation. He made a detour specifically to see me after Harry’s call. Feeling grateful and guilty, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey, neat. I’ve needed it since leaving Hammers and Strings.
Edgar cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “Thanks for taking care of Harry.”
“Don’t mention it. If we don’t take care of that kid, who will?”
Edgar sighs. “Who indeed? It’s like he doesn’t even want to try to be responsible.”
“Let him be. It’s good to have at least one brother who doesn’t care enough to be serious.” I down half the whiskey in my glass, the fine liquor creating a smooth burn in my throat and belly.
Edgar finishes his, then taps the rim of his glass. “I saw the video.”
“Harry said you yelled at him. You shouldn’t have.”
“Are you okay?”
I start to say, Sure, but stop. Edgar’s always been honest with me, and he deserves better than a pat answer. “No.”
“Did you see her? Harry said you went to the music store. The woman in the video does look remarkably like Ivy.”
“She looks exactly like Ivy.” I knock back the rest of my drink. “I actually ran into her. Physically. She was this far from me.” I put a palm in front of my face.
“Tony… Ivy died nine years ago.” Edgar’s quiet voice is full of compassion and worry.
“I know.” So much frustration and conflicting desire bubbles up. “I know she died, but this girl really looks like Ivy. She even has the mole.” I put an index finger on the spot right below the center point of my mouth. “The same facial bones. Her hair’s the same color. Her eyes—that bright, beautiful gray. She even plays like Ivy.”
“She plays like a recording. A really good recording, but no more special than a thousand top-level pianists out there.”
My hand tightens around the glass. I want to tell Edgar he’s wrong, that the girl played Grand Galop Chromatique exactly like Ivy, but I can’t. No artist can play music exactly the same way every time. Hell, even Ivy herself would sound slightly different if she played the same piece twice during practice.
Edgar continues, “You think this woman at the music store looks like Ivy because you’re seeing what you want to see. There are millions of strawberry blondes out there. The same for women with gray eyes. And even the mole. When we desperately want something to be true, we tend to ignore contradictory evidence.”
He looks at me like he’s bracing for an impending breakdown. And why not? I had one after Ivy died. My heart skipped a beat every time I saw a strawberry blonde with a similar build. I couldn’t accept that she was gone because I was still alive. If she’d really died, I would have, too—because my heart belongs irrevocably to her, beating only for her.
Edgar puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch as firm and solid as a battleship’s anchor. “Don’t make the same mistake twice, Tony. You don’t need a repeat of Lauren Tater.”
The old anger and mortification burn another hole in my gut, and I want to throw something. Six months after Ivy’s death, Ryder invited me to Los Angeles because he was ostensibly worried about me. It was worse in the city. There were so many damned women who reminded me of Ivy in some way. Jaunty grins. Smiling gray eyes. Hands with long fingers. Pretty tiger lily tattoos—but not on their left wrists.
But none of them had the whole package. None of them were Ivy.
Then, after a year in L.A., I met Lauren. It was striking how similar she was to Ivy—her hair, her bright gaze, her laugh and smile, her beautiful long fingers. She could even manage some serviceable Mozart sonatas. I adored her, lavished her with everything I had to give. A small voice inside said certain things didn’t add up about her, but I squashed it. Lauren felt like a chance at redemption—to be the kind of man who could’ve kept Ivy safe…
…until I discovered she and Ryder were fucking behind my back. Ryder claimed he didn’t know she was my girlfriend. Said he never saw the two of us together. He was pretty convincing, too—but then, he is a great actor.
“How could you not know?” I raged. “She looks just like Ivy!”
He looked confused for a moment, then gaped at me. “Those photos you showed me? Lauren looks nothing like that girl.”
“Fucking liar. One day I’ll show you what it’s like to be betrayed, you motherfucker. I’m gonna hurt you the same way you hurt me!”
I spiraled out of control afterward. Drank too much. Raged like a lunatic. Screamed. Picked fights. Hated everything and everyone. I wanted the world to fucking burn if Ivy wasn’t going to be in it anymore.
A few weeks later, Father showed up, ostensibly to tell me to control myself.
Fuck that shit. If I could just control myself like that, I would have, wouldn’t I? He thought he was so much better than me, but what the hell did he know? He was shit. Just like everyone.
I drunkenly told him, jabbing my finger into his chest, “Go fuck yourself, Tulane Charles Blackwood. Fuck you and everyone you cater to.” That got me publicly disowned—since Father correctly interpreted “everyone he caters to” to mean Mother. For the first and only time since I was twelve, I couldn’t contain the fury inside me—the blame, the hate—that if she’d been a little bit nicer to Ivy, just the tiniest bit merciful to me, I might not have lost Ivy so brutally.
Then I lashed out further, telling him I didn’t give a fuck if I got officially disowned, because I’d been dead to them since the day Katherine died, and Mother must’ve danced a jig when she heard Ivy was dead because she knew how much that would pain me. After all, isn’t that what she wants—to squeeze every drop of grief and misery out of me until I’m a broken shell?
It was Edgar who came to Los Angeles and pulled me out of self-destruction. “Can’t have revenge on Ryder if you’re this pathetic, can you?” he said, using my rage to drag me out of hell. “Can’t make your mark if you’re weak.”
By the time I pulled myself together, Lauren had died in a fire in Mexico—dumped by Ryder. Guess the son of a bitch decided he didn’t want her after all. Why the hell did he take her in the
first place, then?
I heard from the grapevine almost a year later than she’d been pregnant when she died. I should’ve felt something, but I didn’t. I was numb to her and everything she’d done to me because it was the only way I could function. The only thing I felt was pity for the unborn child. The kid likely wasn’t mine. Maybe that was why Ryder dumped her so fast—a pregnant girlfriend would get in the way of his hot-shit Hollywood lifestyle. I was a fool to think he and I had anything in common. He’s a shallow bastard, just like his parents.
To avoid making another monumental mistake like Lauren, I no longer allow myself to date strawberry blondes. Brunettes with dark eyes only. Ideally with zero musical talent. Normally proportioned hands, no long fingers.
“Tony. You have to let it go. This isn’t healthy.” Edgar’s voice jerks me back to the present. “Seven years ago, the draw was your friendship with Ryder Reed. Now the draw is you and your financial empire. This woman could be part of a con—they’re more sophisticated now, and you’ve made enemies. Hell, for all we know, it could be Ryder’s doing. There are a lot of actresses who would to do anything to star in a movie with him.”
Edgar is aware of how I tried to fuck with Ryder and his wife some months ago. I told him over a drink once. Told him I felt like a fucking idiot because I couldn’t even be ruthless enough to hurt a woman who’d never done anything to hurt me. Tried to paint myself as a complete loser, but my brother looked at me with some small relief instead.
Edgar continues, “Don’t let some unknown woman use you, no matter how much you wish the cops had made a mistake identifying Ivy’s body. It’ll be a thousand times worse this time.”
“I know. You don’t have to worry.” Even to my own ears, I sound unconvincing.
And Edgar isn’t stupid. “Good. Then let me handle it. I’ll look into her for you.”
“You don’t want her to be Ivy, so…”
“I won’t tell my investigator anything except to look into her background. That’s it. No bias.”