“We all care about him,” Lara says, her sullen eyes full of worry and sympathy.
I don’t want them here but I understand that it’s not my place to tell them not to be. Instead, I nod and as ludicrous as it sounds, even as the words are leaving my mouth, I ask if anyone would like a cup of tea.
“I can make tea,” Sandy says, rising from the sofa.
I hold my hand up in protest. “Please. I want to.”
As the tap fills the chrome kettle, Gregory turns up at the bottom of the stairs putting the headphones of his iPhone into his ears, then pulling up the hood of his running jumper.
“You’re going for a run?” I ask, the kettle held midair.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns his glazed eyes away from me and leaves. After making everyone tea—whether they asked for it or not and in whatever colour and sweetness combination I decided upon because their requests fell on my numb brain—I busy myself cleaning the benches of the kitchen. Amy has been and gone, I assume because Gregory told her to leave, but I still clean the immaculate surfaces. When I’m done, I decide to clear out the fridge, throwing things that are close to their use-by date and shuffling others, all completely unnecessary and thankless tasks. Sandy tries to stop me but she takes one look at my face and goes back to sit next to Jackson.
The cleaning stops me from hearing the occasional words of the others but the silence is deafening and the reality of losing Gregory tonight turns my stomach and forms a lump in my throat. The prospect of prison pales into insignificance against the increasing sense of fear, the fear of losing this man, of never feeling his touch, never having a life with him, no matter how twisted. The thought of becoming his in mind and body, by law. The thought of maybe one day having a boy that looks just like the boy from my dreams. The taste of bile rises past the lump in my throat. I dart across the lounge into the bathroom and purge the unbearable reality into the toilet.
All eyes analyse my movements back into the lounge. Gregory is back from his run, his focus trained on me. He swallows hard as he pulls out his headphones, then he bounds up the stairs, three at a time, and I hear the bathroom door close.
Filling my water glass, I fumble around in kitchen drawers and cupboards until I find paracetamol and take two tablets. As the cold water strikes my chest, the phone rings. I jump and turn to face the staircase where Gregory stands freshly showered. He flicks a glance to me before retrieving the phone from its holster and putting it on speaker, then resting it on the coffee table in the middle of the five nervous faces waiting to share our news.
“Gregory Ryans,” he says. His voice is absent any conviction for the first time since I’ve known him.
“Gregory, John Harrison here.”
I walk around the breakfast bar, holding on for support until I’m on the side of the lounge. Then I close my eyes, bracing myself.
“John, have they come to a decision?”
“They have, old boy. They said the evidence was inconclusive. The ballistics reports suggest your story is off but there are discrepancies between the first and second reports that undermine their evidentiary weight. The print findings support that no other person took the shot and three witnesses say as much. Furthermore, the CPS does not perceive you to be a threat to the public. As such, it has decided it would not be in the public interest to charge.”
I don’t think I hear the words at first. But I hear them when Gregory asks John to repeat them.
“No charge, old boy, no charge.”
My stomach drops out of my body and my legs lose strength. Gregory gives thanks to John Harrison and when I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me. He’s real and he’s free. We are free. He hasn’t been charged. I didn’t confess. We did the right thing. Pearson went to hell for the lifetime of hurt he inflicted on so many people. Gregory’s alive and if he’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to fix him. I watch my hand as if it doesn’t belong to me as it reaches out for his heart.
It beats.
My chest explodes and my legs give way as uncontrollable sobs take over my body. Two weeks, three days. The agony seems to have been much longer. My knees crash against the wood floor and I break down, emotionally, physically.
Two big strong arms encase me and pull me into a firm chest. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, clinging like I’ll never let him go and give myself over to tears.
“I love you. I love you. I love you so much,” I sob into his shoulder.
He sweeps me up, one arm under my legs, the other pulling my head into his neck. “Jackson, can you—”
“Don’t worry, I got it, kid.”
I feel Gregory nod but I can’t lift my head from his shoulder. I need to hold him to me, it’s the only way he feels real. Without saying another word, he carries me up the stairs to the first spare room he comes to, where I spent last night. He kicks the door shut behind us then sinks, his back sliding down the wall and as I sob against him, his chest chugs. He holds me to him, kissing my head between sharp breaths. I lift my head back and stare into his wet eyes.
I believe. I believe that one day he’ll accept that I love him and he’ll love me back.
I push my lips against his and breathe in his freshly showered scent. “I love you, Gregory Ryans. I love you with every cell in my body. I always will.”
“Scarlett.” He holds my face between his two hands and continues to sob as if years of wanting to cry have been unleashed. I throw my arms around his neck.
“Shhh, baby, I’m here,” I tell him.
The sound of his tears is a breakthrough and heartbreaking all at once. I kiss his brow and down his jaw line and it’s my turn to take his face in my palms. “It’s over now.”
He shakes his head as his pounding heart begins to calm. “If I’d lost you...”
“You didn’t,” I say.
And then I kiss him.
He kisses me back, pressing my lips against his with his hand on the back of my head. He does love me. He pulls away, stroking my hair, my face, my body and when his lips meet mine again, his hand slides down the zip at the back of my dress. He lifts me as he stands and pulls the dress up over my arms then moves his eyes over every part of my body. I lift the hem of his T-shirt and pull it over his arms. Then he pulls me against his naked chest.
We need this. I need to feel his love the only way he can show me. Right now, he needs to know that I stood by him, that I have faith in him because he is a good man.
I unbutton his jeans as he releases the clasp of my bra. I slip the bra over my arms and roll down my stockings as he pushes down his jeans and boxers, standing before me in all his stunning glory. He lifts my legs around his hips then lowers me to the floor. His eyes are fixed on mine as he pulls down my black thong then hovers over me, his weight resting on his forearms and between my legs.
I take his face in my hands and smile. He doesn’t return my smile, he continues to look intently into the depths of me, then lifts his pelvis and, with one hand, guides himself between my legs. He swallows my groan as he presses his mouth to mine, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as if in pain.
This isn’t the relief I was expecting.
He holds still at first and I give him time to take what he needs. Then he starts to circle his hips, his mouth moving in sync. It’s slow and sensual but this isn’t love making and it isn’t relief. It’s something else, something I can’t quite describe. Something terrifying and haunting all at once. My eyes well with tears as he fills me and opens his eyes to mine. He’s not here, he’s somewhere else, without me. His empty eyes chill me to the core.
This might be the end.
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s been a strange week. Gregory has made love to me every night like it’s his last. Each time it’s been passionate and slow. Tentative, like I’m the most delicate thing h
e’s ever held. No expletives, no roughness or kinkiness, just pure unadulterated love making, beautiful in a way that’s every bit as earth shattering as the explosive orgasms he’s so good at giving me. But unnerving.
Neil Wallace flew out to Dubai the day after the decision, which means I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet and give him my answer. Or rather, tell him his assumptions are wrong. The old Scarlett wouldn’t have turned down the opportunity, nor the request of a new client. But I don’t know where she is. I don’t know exactly when she left but this Scarlett is different. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever do anything to put myself in a position to lose Gregory. I can’t, not now I know how much it scares me. He’s my anchor. The centre of the new version of me. The core of sense, the only thing that joins all the messed up pieces together. I don’t need Dubai or anything else. There’s one thing that matters to me, one person, one man. I love him and so long as I have him, I’ll always be happy in our world, as dark and twisted as it is. Whilst I’m dreading it, I will let Neil Wallace down.
I smile to myself as I apply my makeup. On Thursday, Gregory came back from an oh-so-normal run and to our oh-so-normal bedroom, sweaty and so goddamn hot, and told me that he wanted to take me somewhere on Saturday—tonight. He’s been planning a surprise for two days and I can’t wait to finally find out what it is. He sent me to Julia at Harrods and we picked out a gown. I have no idea why I need a gown but I decided to make it my surprise to him. Refusing to put it on his account, I bought it myself, the most extravagant thing I’ve ever bought. I think my first car actually cost less than this dress. Okay, so it was only a little run around but it had a purpose beyond one night. Yet, oddly, and against all my sensibility, I’d rather have this dress.
I stand back from the floor-length mirror and assess my finished look. I’ve got to admit, for me, I look fantastic, like a million dollars...a little more than the dress cost. The long, black lace sleeves are finished with an extravagant pearl and crystal cuff. The front of the dress is high and square and hugs my skin perfectly until it pools at the floor. The train at the back pulls the front against the shape of my legs, which are looking lean in high, strappy heels. Then the piece de resistance...the drooped back, cut out to just below the waist. I turn my back to the mirror and cast a glance over my shoulder, biting down on my lip. My pinned up hair perfectly shows off the open back and the necklace Julia picked out is dazzling in the light. A square cut diamond rests on top of the square neck line at the front and a platinum chain sparkles all the way down to the middle of my back where three pearls run into another square diamond. The necklace I did have to use Gregory’s account for but only as security. Julia said she’d make an exception to the rules and allow me to loan the precious stones, on the basis that Gregory’s account would back it up.
There’s a gentle tap on the dressing room door. “Scarlett, are you ready?”
I run my Chanel red over my lips one last time and open the door. “Ready, Jackson.”
“You, ah, you look lovely.”
I take a deep breath and my heart thumps in my chest. “I hope he likes it.” I loop my arm through Jackson’s and let him lead me down the staircase. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?”
“I’m under strict orders not to.”
I shake my head with a laugh. I knew the answer before I asked the question.
My stomach ties itself in knots as we drive through the city in the Mercedes. I dismiss the signs for London City Airport until there’s no alternative than the airport being our destination. Jackson drives across the tarmac surface until a private jet comes into view. On its side, GJR Enterprises. He rounds the jet in the Mercedes and a red carpet appears on the other side. He stops the car at the edge of the red carpet. I look around but don’t see Gregory.
My car door opens and Jackson offers his hand to me in his usual black suit and black tie. I take it with a nervous smile. My stomach is sick with excitement and anticipation. Jackson chuckles as my wide eyes silently thank him, my mouth incapable of releasing words.
“Your man,” he says, closing the car door and turning me to look towards the steps of the plane, no longer empty.
My heart explodes in my chest, my head in a spin, my legs weightless. He moves his dinner jacket covered arm to his heart. I take him in, all of him, his tall, perfect body, his immaculate dinner suit and bow tie, his slicked-back hair.
“Holy shit,” I say beneath my breath.
I can’t move. I can only stare in awe. His lips turn into a knowing half smile. He mouths something, which I think is “get here.”
I’m aware of the eyes of airport staff and Jackson on me as I find the ability to move one foot in front of the other. Lifting my dress at the side with one hand and holding onto the stair rail for strength with the other, my eyes follow two sparkling precious brown stones, lured by their magnetism.
He holds out a hand which I take as I climb the last step to him and when I stand before him, he whispers, “Aurora,” just loud enough for me to hear.
“My very own Richard Gere,” I say.
“My very own stunning woman.” He lifts my fingers to his lips and melts my heart.
“Where are we going?”
That cheeky half smile is back. “To the opera, baby. I want you to know the fairy tale.”
I suppress the irrational fear that he means for one night, before the end.
“La Traviata?” I ask.
“If it’s good enough for Julia Roberts.”
“It’s a good offer for a girl like me.”
He winks and nearly knocks me from my feet. “Shall we?”
I nod, air having escaped my lungs, and follow him into the jet. It’s just like I would’ve imagined, an almond burr and biscuit leather interior. We’re greeted by an air hostess in a beige pencil skirt, white blouse and red neck tie. Her red lips turn up as she offers two glasses of champagne from a tray. I thank her and take a sip, a huge grin rising on my face. It’s Pol Rodger 2002, the bottle Gregory ordered the first time he took me to dinner, the night of his thirtieth birthday.
He takes my hand and leads me through a channel flanked with four beds, curtains closed across each of them, then through two cream suede curtains into the main area. Four large recliner seats and two cream leather sofas sit on top of a red carpet and there’s a small bar in the corner at the far side of the room. Another air steward stands behind the bar, his hands tucked behind his back, his beige chinos, white shirt and red pocket handkerchief a match for his female colleague.
“Good evening, Miss Heath,” he says, showing his perfectly white teeth.
“Good evening.”
Gregory rotates one of the large chairs to face another and gestures for me to sit then takes the seat opposite me.
When I take my seat, I lean forward holding up my champagne flute. “To moving forward in our own little world,” I say.
For a second, the sparkle drops from his eyes and his brow furrows, then with a straight face he clinks his glass against mine.
“To the most incredible woman I’ll ever know,” he says.
Our moment is interrupted by the pilot’s voice coming over the speakers. “Good evening, Mr. Ryans, Miss Heath. It looks like we might catch the sunset over Europe. The skies are clear all the way to Rome. We should touch down in a little over two hours. Enjoy the flight.”
“Italy?”
Those devastating eyes are shining again alongside his smug smile. “It’s the only place to watch the opera without subtitles.”
I throw my head back with a giddy laugh. “You’re crazy.”
The pilot announces we’ve reached our cruise altitude then Gregory rests his champagne flute on the table attached to the side of his seat. “Get here,” he says in that way he does.
Without hesitation, I unbuckle my seat belt and cl
imb onto his lap, my arms wrapped around his neck as we fly through the burnt-orange sky to Rome.
* * *
A limousine is waiting at the airport and we’re swept away to the opera house, where we’re met at the door and escorted directly to our private box. High, because it’s Gregory. Another glass of champagne is poured and small Italian canapés are brought to the table in our box: mini caprese salads, small bruschetta, crostinis with olive tapenade.
Gregory sits with his knee pressed against mine and takes my hand as the lights fall, the band strikes up and the stage curtain rises, revealing the opening scene of the courtesan’s party. I nip his fingers in mine enthusiastically as Violetta sings for the first time.
“She has a wonderful voice,” I whisper.
Part way through the first act, I look back to him and find his eyes on me rather than the stage. They aren’t sparkling, they’re saying something else. It’s unsettling. I push the thought away and turn back to the stage but something in the way he looked at me plays on my mind as the tragic love story unfolds.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him in the interval.
“Perfect,” he says, kissing the back of my hand.
I shuffle from my own seat to his lap and rest the palm of my hand on his cheek. Then I press my lips against his and hold them there, breathing him in, soaking up the feel of his lips on mine. “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you, beautiful girl.” He strokes a rogue hair from my updo away from my face. “For showing me a new way.”
Our foreheads meet, then our eyes, then our mouths. We only stop kissing when the lights go down for the start of act two. The curtain rises and Alfredo’s country home is revealed. I watch contently as the on-stage couple find each other in a space where they can be together, where their past lives are forgotten.
I feel Gregory’s breath on my neck before I hear his words. “Ever since the day when she said, ‘I want to live only for you,’ I seem to live in heaven, unmindful of the world.”
I draw a deep breath and turn to him. “You speak Italian?”
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