Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. And if you don’t try, you’ll never know. Right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

  “But first, you should finish your sandwich. It’s important to eat well,” he says, looking at me with concern. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Of course, but nobody was this persistent about eating.” Except for a doctor two years ago who said I was too thin and encouraged me to find food I enjoy and eat more, no one cared enough to say anything. Most people assumed I was on a diet. Julie even openly admired my self-control. But not Tony.

  “If you don’t like the sandwich, just toss it and I’ll get you something else. It’s not a problem.”

  “No, it’s fine.” There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the food.

  As soon as we finish lunch, Tony helps me with the résumé. He sits next to me on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, toying with my hair. Instead of being distracting, it’s soothing, like it’s exactly what should happen between us. Tony gives me a few pointers. It’s magic how he crammed “excellent time management,” “ability to calmly deal with chaos and unexpected last-minute changes,” “works well with people from many different backgrounds and cultures” and “highly adaptable” into the résumé using my travel experience.

  “You’re good,” I say after we’re done.

  He smiles lazily. “I impress even myself sometimes. Now send it off.”

  I email it to the foundation he mentioned, plus a few other openings just in case. Then I turn to him. “How did you know about the job opening at the foundation?”

  “My assistant mentioned it.”

  “She wants to go there?”

  Tony laughs. “He. And no, he does not. He’s very happy where he is.”

  When I open my mouth, he lets go of my hair and massages my neck. I sigh with bliss. I didn’t know I had so much tension there. Or that he was so talented with his hands.

  After a moment, he says, “There’s still got an hour or two of daylight left. Let’s go out.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere we want.” His eyes sparkle, making me excited.

  I smile. “How about a drive along the coast? I’ve heard it’s beautiful, but I’ve never had a chance to see it.”

  “That’s a crime, and we’ll fix it right now.”

  No silver Cullinan this time. Instead, we’re in an indigo Audi convertible. And no TJ. I can feel myself grinning hugely. This is the first time we’ve driven without the disapproving Visigoth.

  Tony lays his suit jacket in the trunk, and we’re off up the coastline. I inhale the Pacific’s slightly briny breeze, and all the weight of living with my imperfect memories and the anxiety of trying to settle in one place long-term float away. The wind ruffles Tony’s hair and shirt, and his mouth is curved into a faint smile. He looks utterly masculine…and at the same time charming and adorable.

  Acting purely on impulse, I press a kiss on his cheek.

  I feel his gaze sliding toward me under his dark sunglasses. The smile widens, he links his hand with mine…and I’m more content than I can ever remember. Here’s a gorgeous guy who knows about my baggage and issues but isn’t running away. He helps me, cares about my well-being, and he doesn’t judge me for being damaged. He accepts me the way I am, and I can’t believe how liberating it is to just…be me. I adore him for the sense of freedom he’s given me.

  We make our way up PCH, along the winding splendor of the California coastline, hills rising on our right and the ultramarine expanse of the Pacific to our left. I like the drive along the coast, but finally Tony pulls into a lot at a seafood shack by a beach. The exterior’s white, with paint peeling around the edges from the wind and sun. The restaurant is cute and rustic, with bright, colorful lights and a gritty, sandy floor made with wide wooden planks that squeak with every step. A cheery waiter in a white shirt, khakis and a red apron around his hips greets us.

  The place is pretty busy, but we’re seated quickly at a table with a great view of the water. Instead of looking at the menu, I turn to the waiter. “What do you recommend?”

  “For a couple like you, definitely our seafood platter for two. Comes with salad and fries. It’s got everything—shrimp, clams, crab cakes, fried fish and, um—”

  “Sounds great,” I say, stopping the waiter from listing “everything.” I turn to Tony. “What do you think?”

  “Whatever you want,” he says, shooting me a smile so easy and carefree that he looks years younger.

  My pink lemonade and Tony’s tonic water arrive quickly. As I sip my lemonade, I spot some women staring at Tony rather blatantly, taking in his chiseled features, his fine clothes and the light smile on his face.

  When they notice me, they look at me up and down, then dismiss me like I’m no competition. Maybe I’m not, in their minds. They’re taller and leggier, with bigger breasts. Not to mention they’re tanned and have the gorgeous beach-girl features that say they’re probably going to Los Angeles to try their luck with the movie business or modeling. And they’re brunettes, just the type Marty said Tony likes.

  Their blatant staring, along with the way they dismiss me, starts to get irritating. The feeling is new and surprising. Women do the same thing when Byron and I are out together, and I always just find it…amusing.

  “You all right?” Tony says.

  I tilt my chin in the women’s direction.

  He turns his head to look, and I suppress an urge to bare my teeth as they preen and shoot megawatt smiles at him. I shouldn’t have pointed them out. Instead, I should’ve put a big neon sign flashing MINE over him. It’s insane how possessive I feel about him. But I feel like I’m with someone so special, I don’t want to share him at all.

  Oh my God. Am I jealous? Is that what this is about? It’s such an unsettling, unpleasant sensation. The weirdest thing is I can’t decide if I’m allowed to feel it. It isn’t like Tony’s mine. We haven’t established anything. We haven’t spent enough time together to do that, even though I keep feeling like I’ve known him forever.

  I steal a quick peek at Tony. His expression is blank—mildly annoyed, if anything. The women could be plucked chickens for all the interest he’s showing.

  Tony turns back to me and takes my hand. “Unfortunately for those ladies, I like a beautiful strawberry blonde with long fingers, who can play the piano like a dream, likes to nap after practice and has a cute little mole under her mouth. I even adore the scar on her palm, and I doubt any of those ladies has one.”

  The quiet intensity of his words makes my chest constrict while hot longing pulses through me. He and I have met before, I’m sure of it. The kind of connection I feel for him is too extreme. It’s as though my mind’s decided he’s The One.

  And there’s no going back.

  He kisses my fingertips. “What I’m saying is, don’t let them upset you. I’m not here with them. I’m here with you.”

  The ugly, tight knot in my chest eases, and I stare back at him. Oh my God, I’m in deep. I should be scared at how fast this is happening, but I’m not.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Iris

  After dinner, Tony drives us back to my home, then comes with me all the way to the top floor. In front of the penthouse door, I turn and look at him. “That was fun. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, his voice warm and velvet soft. He tilts my chin up, and once again his thumb brushes over my lower lip…

  …and stops right next to the cut. My whole body stills, anticipation unfurling in my belly.

  He lowers his head. I don’t want another kiss on the forehead. As surprisingly intimate as that was, it’s time for a real one.

  I angle my jaw, my hands on his shoulders. His lips graze mine. I stretch, rising on my toes, until our mouths fit tightly. His lips are firmer than I imagined.

  He moves his mouth over me, restrained and careful of my injury but also hungry. I follow his lead and memorize the shape and t
exture of his mouth with my lips, hot excitement sizzling through my veins. The air between us grows thinner and hotter, my breathing shallower. I put a hand over his heart. It’s racing hard and fast.

  Feeling mischievously bold, I flick my tongue over his mouth. A low groan tears from his throat. He pulls me tighter, one arm wrapped around me and the other hand cradling the back of my head. His tongue glides over my mouth and pushes inside, sliding against mine in a lush, carnal kiss.

  His masculine scent and taste saturate my senses. My head spins, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing closer until there’s no space between us.

  A thick erection is pushing against my belly. It sends pure lust pumping through me, and I want him in ways I’ve never wanted anything before. I fumble with the lock, my mouth wild against his.

  Suddenly, Tony’s phone rings. He ignores it, continuing to devour me, while his hand travels along my waist and toward my breast. My nipples are aching, the flesh between my legs slick.

  The phone rings again. When it goes off a third time, I finally break the kiss. “I think you may have to get that.”

  He looks at me, his mouth glistening and his eyes burning darkly. The sight of his desire stokes my lust, making my blood hot.

  “The faster you take care of it…” I say.

  He pulls it out, his heated eyes on mine. “What?” He scowls, then takes a couple of steps backward. As the caller continues, his gaze slowly cools. “Are you sure?” He curses under his breath. “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up, exhaling heavily. He stares at me like a puzzle he can’t solve. Suddenly, I feel naked under his gaze.

  “I have to go,” he says finally.

  I swallow, confused and acutely aware of the wetness between my thighs. “Um…okay.”

  He starts to walk away, then stops and comes back. After touching the mole under my lip, he kisses me hard. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Then, before I can say anything, he vanishes into the waiting elevator.

  I stand there for a long time, residual lust shivering through me. Then, slowly, I turn and go into the vast, empty penthouse by myself, feeling bereft.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Anthony

  The second I get to my car, I stick a Bluetooth headset into my ear and dial Edgar. He picks up.

  “Tell me again,” I demand, sitting behind the wheel. I leave the engine off.

  “Iris Smith does exist. Used to live in a small town in Northern California called Almond Valley. Distantly related to Sam Peacher.”

  I hate him for telling me the same thing he told me just moments ago when I was with the woman herself, my mouth full of her taste. He should be telling me he made a mistake…that Iris is Ivy. “There have be thousands of people named Iris Smith,” I snarl.

  “And how many are related to Sam?” He lets me digest that for a moment. “She’s actually related to Mom, too, very distantly, on the Smith side of the family.”

  “Fuck!”

  “I looked into Ivy, too.”

  “Ivy? Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Because she was adopted by Uncle Perry. I thought perhaps Iris could be a twin sister, someone we didn’t know about.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Ivy never had a long-lost twin, or any sibling. Her birth mother died when Ivy was ten in a burglary gone wrong.” Edgar’s quiet for a moment, letting the news sink in. “Damn it,” he says tautly. “You need to get the hell away from that woman if you haven’t already. I know you, Tony. Regardless of your promise, you’ve probably already made a move to get to know her, to see if she’s Ivy.”

  “She is so much like Ivy. She has—”

  “Argh, I knew it!” I can practically hear Edgar pacing. “If she really was Ivy, don’t you think Sam would’ve said something? He met her, and he knew what she meant to Mom. Telling her Ivy was alive would have been the best way to get her to like him enough to want to invest, and you know how much he wanted that.”

  “Mother started to invest with him anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “It would be the best way to make Dad like him, too,” Edgar continues. “Right now, Dad can’t stand him, and the only reason he hasn’t done anything to Sam is because Sam’s been scrupulous in his dealings with Mom. Besides, what about all the people Ivy knew at Curtis? Don’t you think someone would’ve said something by now? They must’ve seen that video, but nobody’s said, ‘Hey, that’s Ivy Smith, who used to study at Curtis with me!’”

  “They might not have seen it. They might not have a younger brother who’s glued to junk news sites and social media all day long,” I say, bitter and furious because Edgar’s right. My rebuttals are about as sturdy as tissue paper. It’s all I can do to not smash my phone to pieces so I don’t have to hear him anymore.

  “Tony,” Edgar says kindly, “it’s been nine years. Let. It. Go. It’s destroying you, eating you up inside. I’ve already lost a sister. I don’t want to lose a brother, too.”

  He’s lost more than a sister. He’s lost a loving home because of me. Mother was never the same after Katherine died.

  I finally understand Mother—why she could never forgive me. Why she hates me to the point she doesn’t even want me dead. Why nothing I did to atone was ever good enough.

  Nothing can bring Katherine back.

  Just like nothing can bring Ivy back.

  Did Mother feel like she was going crazy, like I do now? We both had “closure”—the funerals, the eulogies, the flowers—but none of that means anything when you can’t accept that the one you love is gone. I used to wake up thinking that God might appear in my bedroom and say, “Just kidding! Ivy isn’t really dead.” I even prayed that He would do just that—I’d give Him anything He desired. Until I became so furious one rainy day, I broke every piece of glass in my place and raged until my throat was hoarse—fuck all the gods and wishes and prayers because they’re stupid torments we inflict upon ourselves for nothing.

  I lick my lips. She even tasted like Ivy…but is that my imagination too? I press a hand against my eyes. They burn, but shed no tears. Instead, my heart grows heavier. It seems to press against my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

  Can one die from heartache? The pain is so sharp and intense, I feel like I could. Surely there’s a point where your body just gives up, preferring the oblivion of death over the agony of living.

  “Tony? Are you still there?” Edgar says hesitantly.

  I swallow the odd thickness in my throat. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”

  “Thanks. Um, I have to go.” I hang up. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the floorboards.

  Then, the back of my head pressed against the headrest and breathing harshly, I pound on my chest with a fist, as though that will fix the broken heart inside.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Iris

  Six thirty a.m. No contact from Tony after his rather abrupt departure. I want to stay in bed and wait…except that seems entirely too pathetic and needy.

  He’s probably just busy. Whatever pulled him away last night must’ve been important. And I know how high-powered business guys can be. Sam and Byron sometimes leave or cancel plans abruptly because of work.

  I force myself to get up, shower, have half a bagel and coffee. Afterward I practice, working on the “Mazeppa” étude because Cziffra’s performance put some fire in my veins. He didn’t even use the pedal and still played at tempo with amazing clarity and precision. I can play the étude pretty well, but suddenly, “pretty well” isn’t enough. I want to reach Cziffra’s level just to prove to myself that I can—the way an eagle soars just because it can.

  But that’s not all. There’s a small part of me that hopes snippets of my old memories will surface like they did before. It was such a breakthrough, and I want more.

  I stop around noon, mentally and physically exhausted. I’ve made some progress, so that’s a plus, but Go
d, whoever said that the piano is a percussion instrument and requires a lot of strength was right. And “Mazeppa” is notorious for being physically demanding. Maybe I’m just getting old and decrepit. I should start hitting the gym to build up my stamina.

  I wipe the sweat off my face and neck, then flop down on the couch, my knees over the armrest. Nothing came to me during practice. Still, it’s best not to be too impatient. I’ve never been able to force myself to remember.

  Relax. Let your mind work itself out. It’ll come.

  I close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. The memories feel like they’re getting closer to the surface every day. I just need to let them come. Even the most difficult symphonies are played one note at a time.

  The intercom buzzes, and I heave myself up off the couch. Tony.

  As I open the door, pleasure is warring with a tiny bit of exasperation that he didn’t call after he left last night. But my irritation doesn’t last when I see the haggard lines on his face, the faint circles under his eyes.

  He comes in, takes one look at me and frowns. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Just a little tired. How about you? Everything okay from last night?” I say, peering at his troubled bloodshot eyes.

  Resignation crosses his face. “Yes.”

  “If you need more time to take care of—”

  “I don’t. Not anymore. I just need to see you.”

  He hugs me tightly, and I hug him back, wishing I could take away the thing that’s bothering him. Whatever called him away last night no longer seems like business. He’s too tense, too brittle, and he doesn’t seem to be the type to get worked up over money. He’s spending a lot of time with me—lunch and the rest of the day. He was almost cavalier when he talked about his clubs, as though they aren’t the main focus of his life.