by Shelby Reed
Chapter Twenty-four
Sydney hesitated outside the inconspicuous red-lacquered door and smoothed the front of her leather duster. She was dressed in black from head to toe, black pencil skirt and form-fitting, off-the-shoulder sweater, black thigh-high stockings, stiletto heels. Her blond hair was slicked back, her makeup applied heavier than usual. She would see Colm’s whoredom and raise it a level of her own, because she had already sold her soul to love him.
She grasped the brass knocker and tapped lightly, her pulse thundering everywhere. Right away the door swung open, and a handsome, dark-haired man led the way inside the dimly lit lobby. “You’re Ms. Warren?”
Lifting a hand to her throat, she nodded.
“I’m Tim,” he said.
She forced a tight smile. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine. Let me get Azure for you. She’s been awaiting your arrival.”
She tried not to feel abandoned when he slipped through the vast, elegant room and disappeared down a dark corridor. Her feet felt rooted to the Persian rug as she stared at her surroundings: the Queen Anne furnishings, the brocade walls and upholstery, the massive crystal chandelier. Cherubs adorned the ceiling in swirls of pale blue skies and cotton clouds.
Across the lobby, soft voices touched her ears and she glanced sharply to the right to spot a man and woman sitting close together on an ivory, velvet-looking settee. Their lips were so close, they seemed to kiss with their low words. The woman turned her head and looked directly at Sydney, and the man followed suit, and they both smiled.
Sudden reticence crawled through Sydney. I can’t do this. She whirled toward the door and wrapped her fingers around the brass knob, yanked at it. A draft of ghostly cold air swept in, and quickly she stepped onto the threshold—
“Sydney, darling.”
Oh, God. She turned back to face Azure, who stood before her like a vision in a tight-fitting white gown with a fishtail flare at the bottom.
“Welcome to Avalon.” Reaching out to grasp Sydney’s hand in her cool, manicured fingers, she subtly shut the door at Sydney’s back. “We’re so pleased you’re joining us for New Year’s Eve. There will be a party later, if you care to attend after you meet with—”
“I won’t be attending the party,” Sydney said sharply.
Azure’s crimson lips tipped up. “I see. All right then, come sign in. Just a brief contract to dot the Is and cross the Ts of your arrangement.”
Numb, Sydney allowed herself to be led to a Chippendale reception desk, where she accepted the pen Azure handed her. She glanced briefly over the contract and scrawled her name at the bottom, and it felt as though she had signed away her very heart all over again.
Smiling at her in an oddly triumphant fashion, Azure picked up a phone and pressed a button. “Your client has arrived,” she said, and gently hung up. “Colm will be down to greet you momentarily. Would you like something to drink?”
Sydney tasted the memory of Shiraz, tasted the memory of Colm’s skin . . . and shook her head.
Her gaze was drawn to the top of the staircase, where Colm had appeared from the shadows. He descended slowly, running one hand along the banister.
She swallowed hard.
“I’ll leave you now,” Azure said when he reached the foot of the stairs. “Enjoy your visit, Sydney.”
When they were finally alone, Sydney shifted her gaze from Colm’s probing one. “Let’s get this over with.”
He held out his hand. “Will you come upstairs?”
A millennium passed before she raised her chin and met his eyes.
And finally put her fingers in his.
* * *
Colm’s apartment was elegantly decorated, all beiges and ivories, damask and suede. The king-sized bed sat high, its striped duvet adding an additional five inches of fluff.
“Want a glass of wine?” he asked, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Just water.” Her parched throat grew dryer when she noticed for the first time how he was dressed, in tailored beige pants and a white button-down shirt. She’d never seen him attired so blandly, but his beauty was excruciating. The warm light from the bedside table lamps gilded the highlights in his hair and set off his pale green eyes so that they glowed preternaturally. His shirt was opened at the throat, showing just a triangle of skin, a glimpse of the tender place her lips knew so well. It occurred to her she’d seen him naked as often as she’d seen him dressed, and the thought brought a bitter laugh rising in her chest, one she swallowed. Tonight would be the last time she ever laid eyes on his bare skin . . . on him, all of him.
Colm crossed the room and retrieved a bottle of water from a small stainless steel refrigerator, poured its contents into a crystal tumbler, then returned to hand it to her.
Being careful not to touch his fingers, Sydney took it from him and sipped, her eyes avoiding his. She couldn’t stand the unhappiness etched in his features. Anger began a slow curl through her senses and she turned away from him to set her drink on a low table, a fresh surge of restlessness seizing her. Tonight’s plan seemed so smart at the time she concocted it, but now all she wanted was to get away, to leave the deception and agony behind, leave him behind and never look back.
No. She had to see this through. Garrett would be here soon, and she would take control and show Colm what it felt like to be gouged to the core.
Then she felt him close behind her, close enough that she imagined the heat of his body seeping through the leather of her coat. His hands rested briefly on her shoulders and she tensed, but he only slipped the coat from her arms and folded it over a nearby wingback chair.
She turned back to watch him, willing him to keep his distance.
When he said, “May I touch you?” she shook her head and tears burned her eyes.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked.
“No. I want . . .” She crossed to the table near the door where she’d left her purse, making a wide berth around him as she went. Inside the bag, she’d packed a small drawing pad and pencils. “I’m going to draw you.”
Surprise lifted his eyebrows. “That’s an unusual request.”
“Really?” She gave a short laugh. “I find that hard to believe in a profession like yours. Doesn’t anything go? Chains and whipped cream? Come on, Colm.”
He dropped his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I would have come to you for this, Sydney. It didn’t have to be here, where Azure—”
“Money is no issue, as you must remember, and I wanted to pay for your services, as well I should. Can we get on with this?”
Colm pressed his lips together, nodded. “Where do you want me?”
“On the bed will be fine.”
“Sitting?”
“Yes. Propped against the pillows.”
He did as she ordered, kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, where he arranged the wide pillows behind his back.
She grabbed a small gilded chair from a desk to her left and turned it to seat herself near the bed. She propped the drawing pad on her lap and began to sketch, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as her gaze flicked between Colm and the paper. All the while her heart thudded in her chest and her fingers quaked ever so slightly, enough to mar the lines so that they spread across the page in a useless scrawl.
“Are we ever going to talk again?” he asked. “Really talk?”
She stared down at the pad. “No. Never again.” When she looked up, he was staring at her. She held his gaze, chin lifted, refusing to look away until her hand began to move over the pad again, laying down a haphazard sketch that reflected the chaos within her.
A tap came at the door, and immediately Sydney’s pulse picked up a panicked speed.
Frowning, Colm climbed off the bed. “No one should disturb us. I apologize.”
She sat in silence, watching. She couldn’t see Garrett when Colm opened the door a crack, only heard the low murmur of the two men’s voices before Colm swung the doo
r open and stepped back to let Garrett in.
Colm’s expression was darker than she’d ever seen it.
Good, she thought, and rose to her feet.
* * *
What the hell was going on? Colm stood aside and Garrett cast him a passing glance as he closed the door quietly behind him and crossed to greet Sydney.
She wants both of us, Garrett had told him, and Colm’s mind shifted from confusion to denial as Sydney rose, smoothed the front of her pencil skirt, and offered a tight smile.
“Sydney.” Garrett took her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure.”
Anger scrabbled through Colm. “Get your hands off her,” he said, barely keeping his cool. For the first time, he hated his friend. He wanted him gone.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” Sydney snapped. “This is what I paid for.”
Colm gritted his teeth, his fingers curling into fists.
“Let’s get down to business, gentlemen.” She looked from one face to the other, her tone deadpan. “I started the drawing, but it’s not what I want.”
Colm couldn’t speak. He was too busy watching the way her eyes skimmed Garrett from head to toe and back. Hungry. As though she could eat him whole, Beaudoin had said once, and for the first time, Colm understood his panic when Sydney observed other men.
“What do you want, Sydney?” Garrett avoided Colm as he kicked into smooth mode.
“I want you to unbutton Colm’s shirt,” she said.
Colm’s mouth fell open.
Garrett moved before him, muttered beneath his breath, “Sorry, buddy,” and skipped his fingers down Colm’s shirt so fast, Colm barely had time to draw a shuddering breath.
Garrett tugged Colm’s shirttails from his pants, then turned to look at Sydney. “What now?”
It took everything human in Colm to keep from knocking the other man across the room.
Sydney seated herself again, crossing one long, sleek leg over the other. Colm spied the top of her black thigh-high stocking and his rage deepened. Why the hell was she dressed like that? God, had his sins completely killed off the Sydney he’d loved?
“Now Colm unbuttons your shirt,” she told Garrett. “Then he unfastens your belt.”
“No,” Colm said staunchly, but Sydney merely smiled.
“Don’t worry. I’m only going to draw you. Remember the ménage? It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No,” Garrett said, glancing at Colm. “It wasn’t bad at all, right, Colm?”
Colm just shook his head and looked down. It’s a job, just a job. But he stood icy with shock, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons on his friend’s shirt and undid them as quickly as he could.
“Now his belt,” Sydney reminded, swinging her leg, her pad poised on her lap.
For the first time Colm did as he was told without hesitation, the clink of the belt the only sound in the thick silence. When he finished, he glanced up to find Garrett watching him. Colm had never seen his friend blush before. God, this was awkward.
“Now remove the rest of your clothing and get on the bed,” Sydney ordered.
The men finished undressing in silence. Garrett was the first one done and climbed onto the bed. When Colm joined him, shivering more from nerves than the cool air, they looked at Sydney, waiting to see what kind of hell she’d put them through now.
“Sit facing each other,” she said. “Garrett, angle a little to hang your leg off this side of the bed, and put your hand on Colm’s right thigh.” She paused to watch before she added, “Higher.”
Garrett’s fingertips all but brushed Colm’s pubic hair.
And then Colm understood. Sydney was trying to humiliate him the way she had been hurt. He had torn her to shreds, and only the deepest shame on his part would satisfy her. She would have her way. He could read the determination in the set of her chin.
He opened his mouth to stop the fiasco, but Garrett flashed him a hard look and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Sydney flipped to a fresh page and began sketching again, those blue eyes moving back and forth from the pad to her models. If Colm didn’t know her, he would have thought she was an automaton. But the fire in her eyes burned with rage, and he knew she would never forgive him for what he had done, no matter his reasons.
She worked for a while, the men sitting in utter stillness until she shifted and looked up.
“I don’t like this. I want something more.”
When Colm didn’t speak, Garrett said huskily, “What do you want, Sydney?”
“Put your mouth on Colm’s.”
Colm froze. Garrett sucked in a breath. Then he leaned forward and spoke against Colm’s ear. “It doesn’t mean anything, James. You know it. It’s all an act. Everything here is a figment of our imaginations.”
Colm shook his head, but Garrett simply drew back and waited.
And Sydney waited, too, with her blank mask staring at them, gently swinging that long leg, her pencil poised above the sketch pad.
Colm closed his eyes, felt the mattress give a little as his friend leaned forward again. Garrett’s breath touched Colm’s lips. “Okay?” he whispered.
“Just get it the hell over with.” Colm’s whisper came out tortured.
Garrett carefully touched Colm’s lips with his own.
“Open mouths, please,” Sydney said lightly, and Garrett, mindless, uninhibited Garrett, obeyed.
Sparks of outrage flew behind Colm’s eyelids. The heat of humiliation too great to bear suffused his body and he jerked away, twisted and scrambled backward until his back hit the headboard with a resounding crash.
“Jesus—Garrett.” Breathing hard, he shot a glare at Sydney, who had set aside her sketch pad and was watching it all with that cool blonde impassivity. “Go downstairs and get your money back, Sydney. I won’t do this for you.” He glanced at Garrett. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Garrett said quickly. “Colm, it’s okay.” He climbed off the bed and grabbed up his clothing. “No harm done.”
But he was wrong. When he’d dressed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, Colm jerked the sheet from the bed, wrapped it around his waist, and glared at Sydney. “Humiliation gets you off?”
“Just yours.” Still no emotion, only the slightest twitch of a frown between her eyebrows.
And suddenly he was so tired. He didn’t want to fight her. He wanted the game to be over. “Are we going to fuck? If not, get out.” He’d never addressed any woman like that. He’d never wanted or despised a woman more.
“That’s not a very nice way to speak to your clients, Colm.”
“My name isn’t Colm.”
And then there it was at last—the shine of tears in her eyes. “Who are you, you lying bastard?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I want what I came for, damn you!”
“Then get on the bed and I’ll show you what I can do. Let’s make this a freebie. I’ll pull out all the stops. Will that make you happy? Then you can go downstairs, lie, tell them you want your money back, that nothing happened.”
“I’m not the one who’s so skilled at lying. You owe me the truth, Colm. Whoever you are.”
He stalked her and stopped just short of knocking her over, his hand dropping the sheet at last so he stood before her, raw and naked. “The truth? Here it is, short and sweet. I’ve been a prostitute at Avalon for three years. It started after my wife died in the accident. My sister—my twin—was in the car with us. She’s a quadriplegic now. Paralyzed from the chest down because of her injuries.”
Sydney seemed to stumble, confusion, pain, and shock crossing her features all at once, and then her expression darkened even more. “And this whorehouse is the answer to your guilt?”
“Maybe. But I needed the money for her care. Enough to accept when Max promised me double the pay if I could get you into bed.”
“Bastards!” She threw her pad and pencil at him. “He’s s
o twisted, but you’re worse. You slept with me, made me believe you cared for me, but you wouldn’t have told me the truth, would you? You would have kept it from me forever.”
“No. I would have told you. And I would have betrayed your trust, and lost you.”
“Screw you, you manipulative liar.”
He stared at her. “Keep talking, Sydney. Get it all out. I’m no better than Max, or Greg, or any of the men from your past. Maybe I’m worse.”
“You’re right. I really hate you. I want you to see it in my face before I walk out of here.” She was trembling, sobbing now. Tears burned his eyes, too, but he hardly felt them. He could only feel her rage, not his own. He was empty inside. Dulled to the pain.
“I see it,” he said. “I see that and more.”
“There’s nothing more. This is all there is. Hate. Disgust.”
“I don’t believe you. You cared for me, and it’s not over, Sydney. It’s still happening.”
She gave a harsh, choked laugh. “Oh, you are a real bastard. Were you like this in your former life? You—”
He caught her wrist in a vise grip so painful it brought a cry to her lips. “Look at us. This is exactly what Max wanted in the end. He wins.” He released her and wiped his face on his naked arm. Christ, he was destroyed. He’d destroyed himself, his wife, anything of value he could have offered Amelia in her young life. And he could have stopped it. The accident, Jill’s death, Amelia’s suffering, the games he’d played with Sydney’s heart, everything. This broken moment—none of it ever needed to happen. He’d bought into Max’s game, and Max had won.
The world between them came to a standstill except for their harsh, strident breath. Down the hall, the grandfather clock chimed ten, ticking off the silent seconds to the New Year while everything they’d built between them turned to ash and blew away.
“It was a job you needed, then?” Sydney whispered, hanging her head so that her blond hair hid her tortured features. “Even when . . . even afterward? At Christmas? And this past week? Was Max paying you then, too?”