by Lee, Nadia
“So it’s natural maybe you heard one of us—me or your parents—talk about him at some point. But you didn’t have any close personal relationship.”
“Ah, I see.” What Sam’s saying is perfectly logical. I remember my parents were big on education, always expecting me to do well in school. They could’ve talked about Tony in front of me. But my instinct—the same one that tells me when I’m totally off in my interpretation and phrasing for a composition—says Sam isn’t leveling with me completely. And the same instinct is saying he’s not going to give me any more information.
“Okay, well, thanks,” I say. “I was just wondering.”
“We should have lunch this week,” he says suddenly.
“Actually, I’m busy this week. And also tired. Still a little jet-lagged.”
“Still? It wasn’t that bad of a flight from Paris, was it?”
“Vienna, actually. And no. Just not used to the time zone here yet.”
“Well…if you’re tired. I’ll have my assistant send you a few possible dates.”
“Sure.” I hang up, then sigh. I don’t know why I turned down his lunch offer. About two to three times a year, when he and I happened to be in the same city—him on business and me on my endless travels—he asked me to lunch or dinner, depending on his schedule. I always said yes because he took the time to tell me tidbits about my past. But this time…somehow I don’t want to hear it.
I look at Tony’s text. If I ask him if we’ve known each other before, is he going to give me the same answer Sam just gave me?
Most importantly, can I believe Tony? He was evasive yesterday about Jamie. He could be that way again. Based on Sam’s reaction, there’s something he doesn’t want me know about Tony. Given that Tony didn’t bring up anything even though he had opportunities to do so during our conversation when I brought up Sam and Marty, it could very well be something Tony doesn’t want to share with me either.
I wish I had someone whose words I could take at face value. It’s exhausting to have to second-guess my own memories.
I pull up Tony’s text, then type, Sorry, had a late breakfast. My finger hovers over the send button. But I can’t bring myself to hit it.
I sigh, delete everything, then type, I had a late breakfast, so I won’t be able to eat at the normal time. You have to work today, don’t you?
There. That feels less…rejection-like. I don’t really want to say no, even if I’m afraid Tony might not be entirely honest, just like Sam. Ugh. I prop my head on my hand. Why am I so contradictory? This isn’t productive.
A text arrives. No problem. I can eat late.
Hmm. When a guy’s persistent, that means he’s definitely interested, so I can use that to get what I want. Except I’ve never been much of a femme fatale or cajoler of men, and I have no idea how to use my “feminine wiles,” as Julie put it. Instead of trying to be like her, i.e., great at that sort of thing, I should just be myself. Tell Tony point-blank that I want him to be honest with me, because otherwise there’s no point in us spending time together.
My mind made up, I reply, One thirty.
I practice the piano, recording myself and then listening to see where I’m not quite on point.
Do you know how important it is to live? Art is an expression of life! How can one play music about love if one has never loved?
The words slide into my mind. The voice is accented, gentle but slightly exasperated.
Then another voice…younger, giggly… Something’s on TV and I’m watching it with a girl about my age. A pretty Asian.
“No way that’s a real penis! It’s gotta be a special effect!” she says, throwing popcorn at the screen.
“I’m pretty sure they don’t do CGI for porn,” I say, unable to tear my eyes from the thing that looks more like an elongated watermelon than anything human.
“Don’t they audition to hire more realistic looking actors? What are we going to tell Tatiana? Sorry, the porn we watched had a very unrealistic depiction of sex?”
The Coke I’ve been sucking down gets caught in my nose, and I cough until I can’t breathe. “Holy shit,” I wheeze. “Who said we have to tell her anything?”
“I want her to know we’re trying really hard to experience life in full! We’ve already seen sixteen romantic movies and ten action flicks.”
“Just switch to a different movie.”
Who’s Tatiana?
The second the question appears in my mind, the vision vanishes. I close my eyes, willing it to come back. Something about the scene felt so familiar. And it wasn’t like remembering a movie. I was definitely a participant. It was my own memory.
“Oh, come on!” I jump to my feet and start pacing, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples…but I know it’s not going to come back. I didn’t even catch the girl’s name. So unfair!
The buzzing intercom interrupts me. It’s Tony.
It’s a little after twelve. What’s he doing here? Didn’t I say one thirty?
What does it matter? I was on the cusp of discovering something, except I blew it by thinking about Tatiana, whoever she is. Obsessing about it isn’t going to make it come back. Better to be grateful for a small breakthrough than angry I didn’t get a large one. And maybe more will come later.
I open the door, having taken a calming breath, but I might as well have not bothered. Everything stops for a moment as the impact of Tony’s presence hits me fully, and I drink him in.
He’s gorgeous, stubble covering the lower half of his face. I curl my hands, wanting to stroke that strong jaw, feel its texture, even knowing I shouldn’t. He’s in a charcoal gray, custom-tailored suit. The clothes outline the perfectly proportioned lines of his tall, strong body. I’ve seen a lot of men in suits, but until now, I’ve never met a guy I wanted to strip out of one.
And the impulse is startling. I appreciate handsome men and nice bodies, but it’s never gone beyond that. Never felt any reason to.
So why Tony? Is the inexplicable attraction the same as listening to a performance and either liking it or not within a few seconds? But with concerts, I can critique them, analyze and articulate why I like or dislike them. My gaze sweeps over Tony, head to toe, then back up. How do you critique a man like this? How can I analyze and articulate when I don’t fully understand my own attraction to him?
“I thought you were coming at one thirty?” I say, hoping my face isn’t flushed from the excitement of glimpsing a sliver of my past…and now being with him.
“That’s for lunch.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
A tiny shrug. “I did.”
“You’re already finished?”
“Close enough. I’m the boss, so I can leave when I want.”
That’s nice. “What do you do?”
“I own clubs…some real estate holdings.”
“Oh. Maybe I’ve been to one of them.”
“You go clubbing often?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’ve been to a few with Julie when we were in the same city, but otherwise… It isn’t really something to do alone, you know?”
“If you want, I can take you.”
“Yeah?” I say, perking up at the offer and the possibility of seeing a totally different side of Tony. “Are you going to dance and all that too?”
“If you like.”
“Okay, it’s a date.” Hopefully when Julie’s back from her trip to Moscow, we can all go together.
He looks at the piano. “Were you practicing?”
“I’m done. I was going to nap for a few minutes.” An intense practice session in the morning always leaves me feeling like my brain’s fried. And nothing other than a catnap makes me fully recovered afterward. I’ve tried to slog through, and it’s never worked out very well.
Something shifts on his face, but it’s gone quickly.
“That’s why I asked you to come by after one thirty or so because…” I sigh. “I guess we can eat now, and I can nap later.”
“No need to change plans on my account.” He pulls me to a sofa and puts gentle pressure on my shoulders. I sit, and he settles next to me. “A focused practice session can be tiring.”
“Yes.” It’s amazing, but he’s saying exactly what I think. Even Byron laughed when I told him I needed to nap after practice. He told me I just needed more coffee—or ought to sleep more at night—because Julie doesn’t nap after practice. He doesn’t get that not everyone’s the same.
Tony tugs at my wrist and waist. My balance shifts, and my head ends up in his lap. It’s a little too intimate, the way I’m lying on him.
I should get up. With any other man, I’d move immediately. But looking up at his handsome face with that small smile on his lips, I just feel like I’ve come home.
And after a moment, the way I’m lying doesn’t feel unfamiliar or awkward. Which is weird. I would definitely feel that way if it were Byron, and he’s the closest male friend I have.
“What are you thinking?” Tony asks.
“Oh, nothing. Just about Byron and how—”
His eyebrows snap together. “Byron?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What about him?”
Here’s a chance to make a point he might not like. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Remember yesterday, when you sort of evaded my question about Jamie Thornton?”
His lips thin, but he doesn’t deny it.
“I’ll be honest if you promise to do the same with me in the future.”
He nods once, curtly. Not particularly gracious, but I’ll take it. And I feel good about that because that means I can take what he’s saying at face value. And that’s important.
“I was thinking that lying here like this doesn’t feel awkward…even though it would be with Byron.”
The tightness in his expression eases.
“See what promising to be honest gets you?” I say sweetly. “If you’d said no, I was going to say Byron was super hot.”
Tony smirks. “Were you now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So he isn’t super hot?”
“He’s handsome, but not hot. There’s a difference. He’s a good friend…but that’s it.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Iris.”
Tony massages my hands, his touch gentle and firm. He knows exactly how much force to exert to make me feel good. Nobody’s ever massaged my hands like this before. And it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
“You have beautiful fingers,” he murmurs.
“They’re like crab legs,” I say sleepily. “Too long.”
A fraction of a second’s pause before he continues to rub my hands. “Talented. Just look at what you practiced.”
“It’s just some Liszt,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Uh-huh. Talented.”
His thumb strokes the scar on my right palm. I always feel self-conscious about it, but somehow with Tony, it’s okay that he’s touching the jagged line.
“How did you get this?” His question is like a small tickle on my half-asleep mind.
Could’ve sworn I told him… “A car crash nine years ago. Almost lost the use of my pinkie.”
His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt. I feel his kisses on my fingers as I finally drift off.
But even as I do so, I can’t shake off a sense of déjà vu that makes my heart ache with a yearning I don’t understand.
Chapter Forty-Three
Anthony
I run my fingers along her silky hair, watch her chest rise and fall gently as she sleeps, her eyelashes like dark fans above her cheeks. I think back on what she said—almost an exact match of a private conversation I had with Ivy.
If she’s a setup, a plant…how could she know those things? Only Ivy and I know them.
At the same time, why did she say—again—that the scar came from the crash? I thought if I asked when she was on the edge of sleep, she might slip and tell me she hurt herself with gardening shears. So either she’s mentally much tougher than I thought, or she isn’t Ivy and really did hurt her palm in that car crash.
And if she’s Ivy, why is she calling herself Iris now? Even people with partial amnesia don’t forget their names, do they? Then there’s the thing with her musical talent. She was studying at Curtis. She wasn’t studying there so she could get a normal nine-to-five job, for fuck’s sake. She was studying there to be a concert pianist. Can losing one’s memory change both ambition and personality as well?
But most importantly, if this really is Ivy, whose body did the cops find in the Lexus? She was wearing Ivy’s concert dress. Had the pendant I gave her.
No matter how I turn them, the pieces don’t fit. Unless I’m just going insane and imagining the conversation I had with her. But I don’t feel crazy.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, Tony. You didn’t think you were out of line when you lashed out at your parents after the whole Lauren fuckup.
Hmm. Well, until Edgar says I’m insane, I’m going to assume I’m not.
The accident that killed Ivy was a hit-and-run. I’m convinced Sam had nothing to do with it. He’s a bottom feeder, but he doesn’t have the stomach for murder. And he certainly doesn’t have the mental fortitude and utter lack of conscience required to look a victim in the eye and lie for years.
At the same time, he knows something about the event. How else would he have ended up with her? But no matter what I say or do, that bastard won’t tell me. I wanted to backhand the oily grin off his face at the reception so bad, I had to excuse myself and step away.
But first things first. I’m going to help Iris with her résumé so she can get that job at the Pryce Family Foundation. Elizabeth runs a thorough background check on everyone. Well, her Russian hound does. If there’s even a whiff of something fishy, he’ll find it and report to Elizabeth. If it’s serious enough that she won’t hire Iris, I’ll have my answer. Otherwise, I’ll casually check in with Elizabeth later and see what she’s discovered, if anything. Maybe dangle the possibility of a reconciliation with Ryder to make her spill.
Damn, I wish Jill were back in town. I could have her look into all this rather than use Elizabeth. But I need someone extraordinary to pick Iris’s life apart, and I don’t quite trust whoever Edgar plans to hire to be as thorough as Jill.
And there’s no way I’m waiting three weeks.
Iris’s new job will come with one additional benefit: moving out of this penthouse. The fact that she lives with Byron makes me want to hit something. I don’t give a shit whether she’s actually sleeping with the bastard; he’s definitely planning on sleeping with her.
I start texting. Byron’s in Honolulu on business—a contract with some Korean firm. I know the head of the negotiation team well, and he owes me a favor. I’m sure things can be arranged to tie Byron up for a while longer.
Chapter Forty-Four
Iris
When I wake up, Tony’s still in the same position, one hand stroking my hair and the other holding his phone.
“You’re still here.” I can’t imagine someone as busy as Tony just…sitting around patiently. Or letting me use him as a pillow the entire time.
“It’s only been half an hour. Not even.”
I sit up, and he puts an arm around my shoulders as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I like having it there. I lean against him, my head resting on his shoulder and my eyes half-closed.
“Hungry?” he asks, his breath tickling my forehead.
“Not really. But if you want to eat, we can get something. I’m not picky. Just no mushrooms.”
He stiffens. “Why not?”
“I’m allergic. Nothing life-threatening, but I break out in hives and feel really itchy for about a day or so, depending on how bad it is.”
“I see.” He says it casually, as though a mushroom allergy is something he hears about every day, but his arm muscles are tighter than a piano string. He hits a few
keys on his phone. “How about roast beef sandwiches?”
“Sounds great.”
We get lunch delivered. It comes with plain baked chips, pink lemonade and Coca-Cola Classic. When Tony hands me the pink lemonade, it surprises me again. How does he know what I like to drink? And my sandwich has nothing except Dijon mustard, tomato and pickles, exactly how I prefer it. His has more—cheese, lettuce and tomato plus horseradish mayonnaise.
Tony seems to know me very well, even though Sam said we most likely didn’t know each other. But if Tony and I were close enough that he knows my food preferences, I would’ve remembered him. I recall the sense of déjà vu I had when he stayed with me after Jamie’s attack. Was that because of Tony himself? Or was it just my mind getting ready to let me have more of my memories back…?
“You said something about getting a job,” Tony says.
“Yeah. I need to work on my résumé. I listed a few things I could potentially put on it, but… I don’t know anything or have any interesting job experiences,” I say, embarrassed and discouraged. I skimmed some how-to articles on résumé writing and looked at sample résumés last night, but I don’t have anything to make mine sound as good as the samples, especially when the examples featured people with a master’s or PhDs with a bazillion skills and experiences that I can’t even dream of having.
“Everyone has a few useful skills. It’s just you aren’t used to thinking about yourself that way. What if I help you with it? There’s an opening at a charitable foundation I know. Everyone says it’s a great place to work.”
“Really?” I lean forward eagerly. “What kind of position?”
“Administrative assistant. The pay’s pretty decent, and the woman in charge is a fair boss.”
“That sounds great, but won’t there be a lot of applicants?” I nibble on my sandwich and wash it down with the lemonade. “I honestly don’t have any experience. And no college degree.” I was nineteen when I woke up. Instead of going to college, I was stuck in hospitals for rehabilitation and counseling for close to two years. A few months after my doctors declared me healthy enough, Sam sent me on a series of trips to help me get over my depression—even though I wasn’t exactly depressed—and find some joie de vivre.