by Lia Lee
“Yes. But it got cold toward the end.”
Yeah. I got that. Feeling the shivers even now, but not from the temperature. “Mara, if this is going to work, we have to be honest with each other. You’ve been pouty and distant ever since I left to take that phone call, so out with it. What’s bothering you? I have a low tolerance level for female manipulation.”
She jerks her head toward me, her mouth part way open. “Manipulation? Well, I guess I’d know about that, wouldn’t I, since I’m sleeping with the Master.”
Whoa. Where is this coming from? She’s outside the lines. “Don’t you speak to me that way,” I caution her, my hackles threatening to rise. “You’re still my employee. That’s hardly a professional comment.”
“Your employee?” she repeats, acid creeping into her voice. “I agreed to be your fiancée; that implies at least some degree of equality, of respect for my intelligence. But I see now I’m just one of your... minions. Unworthy of being told the real truth, until I stumble over it and break my neck.”
I slow the vehicle and pull over. “What in hell are you talking about?” I demand. “You know everything. It’s a publicity stunt. I never said otherwise.”
Mara hisses out a breath and shakes her head. “Your friend Dirk had plenty to say. Your wife didn’t die of a jungle fever. He said you killed her, her and sixteen others, because of negligence. Because of greed; hiring substandard contractors to save a buck, and in the end, it cost people their lives. That’s why you holed up in France for so long, hoping it would blow over and the world would forget what you did. And it worked, especially since you invented this fairy tale romance to get the public to remember you, like you again. It’s all a giant smokescreen.”
I drum my fingers on the padded steering wheel, my teeth grinding against one another. It wasn’t so long ago I was the one upset at not knowing the truth that Mara was a virgin. Emphasis on ‘was.’ You hypocrite, Kingsley. But at least I know now what my slimy frenemy Reinhart’s game plan was.
“Dirk had no right to tell you any of that,” I say.
“He had every right, he was there! And I had a right to know, Bastian. I’m your partner too, even if only a pretend one. What if a reporter had asked me about the mine, about Celine? You know how the paparazzi are—popping out of nowhere to ambush you, catch you unprepared.”
“You say ‘no comment’ or nothing at all,” I reply sternly. “It doesn’t implicate you. In a few weeks, Liam will announce we’re no longer engaged, and you can go your merry way, a rich woman, I might add.”
“You think this doesn’t affect me?” Mara gasps. “My career could be at stake. Engaged to a murderer! I could be seen as condoning your actions, or just plain stupid to be hoodwinked by you. I might never work in this industry again, never find another job doing what I love, what I studied for. That’s more important to me than money.”
“You think that’s the worst of it? That you’re the only injured party? It’s nothing. You have no idea what injury is,” I say. “You want the truth? Then listen to me. I tried to do the right thing, hire local and all of that. You think the South Africans wanted another rich white entrepreneur raping them of their natural resources? I went to Cape Town, solicited the most notable engineering firm, got quotes, the entire thing specced out to the last detail, and signed off on it. But they didn’t follow the plan. They went behind my back to undercut materials, alter the design structure without proper change orders. They wanted it to fail, Mara. To chase GeoRock out. But I won’t be chased out again. North Cape is going to set everything right.”
I stop for breath, surprised at the extent to which I’m spewing my emotions, my anguish, and my single-minded ambition. It’s what happens when you keep the bottle corked for so long. Mara is silent, her face pale and her eyes round as two moons. But I’m not finished.
“You think I’d put people at risk, even my own wife? Is that how low your opinion of me is? For Christ’s sake, Mara—I loved her, she was at the mine every day, just as I was. We had a child to think about. We had every reason to play it safe, go by the book.”
“I’m sorry...” Mara says, barely audible, but I’m beyond apologies now.
“As for Dirk’s version of the story, he has his own reasons to tar me black. We were friends, the three of us—Celine, Dirk, and me. We went to college together, and eventually into business together. But after the mine collapsed, he changed. He started drinking, behaving erratically. One day he took a swing at me, a knock-down drag-out, but he was too drunk to finish what he started, so he lashed out at me another way. Accused me of murdering Celine and the others. He’d never said a thing all those years, was even the best man at our wedding, but he was in love with her, too, since the day we both met her. He never forgave me, and clearly, still won’t. He wants to make sure I’m miserable forever, so he saw a chance to hurt me again. By turning you against me.”
I feel spent, wrung out. My midnight confessions leaving me empty and raw, except for the embers of anger at Dirk and the whole rotten saga of the last seven years of my life that still smolder. I need to get on with the real business of GeoRock. Not this stage play. And I’m pulling the curtain right now.
“Time for you to go home,” I mutter, and pull away from the curb to navigate the last few blocks to Mara’s apartment building.
“I should never have asked to go sailing,” she says after a few moments. “I should’ve let you handle the situation with Dirk. I won’t make that mistake again, putting you on the spot like that.”
“I know you won’t,” I say as we reach the front entrance and shift into park. “You won’t have to do a thing anymore or be worried about your career. I’m canceling the engagement contract, as of right now. You’re free to go.”
“What?”
“You’ll have your money by e-transfer in the morning. The whole million. Go traveling, or whatever you like. I’m sure you’ll find a new job, a better one. One that pays. Consider your internship terminated.”
“Bastian...” Mara says, her welling tears accentuating the aquamarine color of her eyes. I have to look away before I get lost in them, like I know deep down that I want to. I’ve been doing it for weeks, letting her get closer, get under my skin; allowing her to think our relationship is more than it appears. And maybe it is. I’ve really fucked up if that’s the case. I can’t let it go any further.
“I’m sorry,” Mara says. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. For your sake, as much as mine. I’ll walk you to the door.”
“Don’t bother,” she says with a sob, pulling the door handle.
I watch her storm up the walkway and slip inside the outer doors, fumbling for her keys. She doesn’t look back. Probably a good thing. Because if she did, I might find myself running up that same walkway, tossing her keys in the bushes and carrying her home with me, thrown over my shoulder, Shrek-style. As she disappears into the dark building, part of me goes with her. The best part. The part capable of loving again. And I may have just thrown away my last chance to get it back.
Chapter Sixteen
Mara
Castaway
I never realized how loud traffic noises really are. When you live in New York City, they become a constant, dull drone that you simply tune out and don’t even notice after a while. But here on Lacey’s and I’s tiny balcony, with my sorry butt parked in a ratty chair and my hands wrapped around a warm mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, the cacophony of honks, beeps, and screeching tires are somehow amplified by the walls and pavement and glass all around me.
A week ago, a limo would have been pulling up to the entrance of this building, escorting me to my lowly lab job. Bastian insisted I be seen nowhere near my junk heap of a car, and arranged for my pickup every day until I decided what kind of car I wanted. But no Cinderella coach was coming for me now. The ball is over, and the clock already struck midnight.
I’ve barely eaten or slept since the last time I saw
Bastian. My insides feel hollow, and I’m forcing down my favorite treat of chocolate and marshmallows in hopes of kick starting my digestive system. It seems like the only thing my body will accept is to see his face, to hear the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand. I groan in physical pain. I have a million dollars and don’t even want to buy food. How sad is that?
I can’t believe I let myself fall for him so deeply and completely when all along I knew better. When he knew better. Almost twice my age, wasn’t he supposed to be the wiser one? I let my hormones rule my head, and now I’m paying for that mistake—with my job, my self-esteem and if I’m not careful, my health.
“Mar!” Lacey shouts, poking her head out of the balcony doors. “Get your ass in here, now!”
I nearly drop my cup at her sudden outburst. “Jesus, don’t scare me like that. What is it?”
“You better come see what’s on TV. You gotta see it for yourself.”
“Alright, alright, I’m coming.” I hoist myself out of the chair and step back inside. The TV is tuned to some morning news talk show, and Lacey is jabbing her finger maniacally at the screen.
My heart constricts as I see what she’s pointing at. It’s Bastian. He’s being interviewed in a network exclusive—one of those intimate, big-armchair tête à têtes that blow the ratings sky high. Lacey turns up the volume.
“Are you relieved that the world knows the truth?” the female host asks.
“Absolutely. It’s a huge relief.”
“The world probably wasn’t ready to hear it until now,” the host continues. “With those responsible having served their prison term, you’ve been cleared of all charges and culpability in the Pretoria incident. And you’re back in Africa, again. Tell us about that.”
“It’s important that everyone move on from this, including me. Re-establishing business relations with the South African government was crucial to the healing process. And I was able to visit many of the families who lost loved ones in the accident.”
“They received full and generous compensations, I understand.”
“Yes. I would’ve given more if it had brought those people back. But no amount of money can make up for that kind of loss. I’ll be the first to testify to that.”
“Of course. You lost your wife,” the host says, laying a comforting hand on his arm. “Our belated condolences. But you’ve been able to move on, haven’t you? A new life, and a new love.” She pauses to cluck her tongue in admiration. “I don’t think there’s anyone in America who hasn’t seen the face of your lovely fiancée Mara Snow. Your son must be thrilled at the idea of having a mom again. Are you going to bring him to New York for the wedding?”
Lacey clutches my arm to hold me upright as I sway a little on my feet. Oh boy. I’m not certain I’m ready to hear this.
Bastian gives the host a thoughtful smile. “I’ve kept Mica, my son, out of the spotlight his entire life. He’s been living with Celine’s family in France, and for good reason. She wanted it that way. I’m not about to break that promise to her, now. He’s never really known a mother, he was only a baby when she passed away.”
“Yes, that’s true,” the host acknowledges.
“As to the wedding, I’m not sure there’s going to be one. Thanks to my nefarious past, I think I’ve blown it with her, to be honest.”
A collective gasp rises from the studio audience. The host looks directly into the camera, her expression clearly indicating this part was not rehearsed. “Folks, I think the exclusive interview just got a little more exclusive.” She turns back to Bastian. “I’m so sorry to hear that. That must be devastating—to find love and lose it again so quickly.”
Bastian nods. “I suppose it’s hard to love someone who keeps secrets from you, especially potentially criminal ones. I should’ve told her from the beginning, but I think I was so starstruck by her beauty, and her brains, which are also beautiful by the way, I forgot everything else.” He tosses a rueful smile at the host, and I’m speechless at his words. They’re genuine and heartfelt. This is no act he’s putting on for the cameras. He’s laying his heart open for me and the rest of the world to see.
“Is there a hope of getting her back?”
Bastian inhales deeply. “You remember the saying, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone’?” he asks.
“I know it’s a song lyric.”
Bastian nods. “Yeah. Well, I know it now. And I’m an idiot to realize it too late. I had something special in my hands, and I let it go. I’ll regret it the rest of my life.”
“There’s another saying,” the host reminds him. “ ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours.’ ”
“You’re right. And I do love her—I’m finding out now exactly how much. I just hope she’s heard the same song.” The host chuckles and the audience sighs a collective “Aww.”
Lacey squeals and practically wrenches my arm off. “Oh my God, Mara. Don’t just stand there, get your ass down to the station. The man just told the entire nation on live TV that he loves you! It’s not even a mile from here, I’m calling you a cab right this second. Go get changed!”
My feet stubbornly refuse to move, my brain unable to send the proper signal. I’m still processing what I’ve just heard. I’m relieved the truth has come out about the mine but is he telling the truth about being in love with me? It doesn’t matter. Even if he hadn’t announced it to the world, I know in my heart that I love him too and that I’ll support him no matter what. I’ll stand by him because that’s what people who love each other do.
Chapter Sixteen
Bastian
Coming Clean
“Thank you so much for being here today, and for your candor,” the talk show host says, shaking my hand as the audience applauds. Show’s over, folks. That’s the one and only time you’ll see the mushy, battered insides of GeoRock’s CEO. Enjoy it while it lasts.
“My pleasure,” I say. “Do I get to keep the mug?” I ask in mock seriousness, lifting the obligatory cup with the station’s call letters on it that I’d been served coffee in.
“Of course.” The host laughs. She’s sort of the Oprah Winfrey type. But not mine. I’d prefer a certain slim brunette with aquamarine eyes dressed in a lavender gown that swirls out in a violet fan as we dance the Viennese waltz. “Best of luck, Bastian. With everything,” she says meaningfully. “I hope we don’t have to wait another seven years to have you on the show again.”
“I think I’m back for good,” I say. Suddenly her head cocks to the side, off set. In my peripheral vision, I see someone waving a cue at her. My gaze follows hers over toward the main camera.
What. The. Hell?
I’m paralyzed like the proverbial deer in the headlights as my brain registers what I see. Someone’s standing next to the guy—one of the producers, I think—who is gesturing at the host. And I can’t believe my eyes.
It’s Mara.
A smile begins to spread across my face, and I can’t stop it. Because under all my denial, and rationalization and bullshit pride, it’s what I’ve hoped for. That I hadn’t completely ruined my chances. She’s all I’ve thought about since the night I dropped her off at her apartment and seeing her now is all the proof that I need. I made a mistake in letting her go; not listening to my heart when it told me to grab hold of her and take her to her real home. My home.
She waves and returns the smile, and my heart feels like it’s about to switch places with my Adam’s apple. She came back. I’d set her free, and she came back. She’s mine.
“Keep it rolling.” The host signals the crew. “Ladies and gentlemen, don’t go anywhere. We have a surprise guest on the show this morning, and I think it’s just as much of a surprise to our present guest as it is to us,” she announces. She makes a scooping motion with her hand to the producer. “Would you come on out, please? Miss Mara Snow, everyone.”
The audience claps and Mara looks left and right, as though unbelieving she’s been c
alled out on stage. The producer standing next to her gently prods her forward. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and strides on set; the confidence she’s earned in the last two months of public performance showing beautifully. A wave of pride washes over me, along with caveman lust as I watch her long, shapely legs in a mid-thigh length skirt walking toward me.
I rise from my chair and reach for her hand as she draws nearer. She looks radiant, and my tongue feels like it’s in knots. As our fingers intertwine and I feel the warmth of her palm, I know I won’t be letting her out of my grasp again.
I can’t seem to speak, so I lean in and kiss her on the cheek instead. The sighs from the audience sound like a hot air balloon deflating. Mara tilts her head and looks at me curiously.
The host seems to pick up on her vibe. “Oh, come on now, you’re on national television. You can do better than that, Bastian!” she chides, but is grinning from ear to ear.
She’s damn right I can. But what I really want to do isn’t suitable for any kind of audience, certainly not one that’s watching from coast to coast. I want to make love to Mara, every square inch of her gorgeous body and her sparkling brain and tell her what I didn’t have the sense to before. That I love her.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” the host exclaims as a clapping chant of “Kiss her, kiss her” rises from the studio audience. “You heard them. If you don’t kiss her, someone else might!”
“Not a chance,” I say as I pull Mara into my arms and kiss her properly, on the lips, in front of the show host, the camera, the crew, and the whole damn world if they’re watching this channel; and I hope they are. The audience is on their feet, their chant dissolving into a round of cheers.
Her lips are warm and forgiving, and I want to memorize the feel and taste of them against mine. It lasts for five full seconds, then Mara breaks contact, and trains her unforgettable blue eyes on me. Their brilliance holds me and pulls me in like a tractor beam, and I put up no resistance. She leans in and touches her nose to mine so that I can’t miss hearing what she’s about to say. “Mr. Kingsley, I need to tell you something. You can’t fire me.”