“You made me into this, Father. I’m my own man, taking no orders from anyone. Aren’t you proud?” I sneer, turning to face him.
I’d grown up in a house devoid of love or adoration, and I guess for the English, that was sometimes par for the course. I didn’t weep for myself or dwell on it, but I did like to shove it in his face whenever I could. He’d created this monster, the one with the black soul and selfish, cocky attitude.
He ignores me. “How are you doing with the girl?”
A pang, so slight my heart doesn’t even register it, vibrates through me. Is it grief, unease? I push it aside.
Father conceived the plan, from a young age I’d heard details and drunken rumblings, but when he’d learned of her arrival just months earlier, the idea had planted itself and he’d shared it with me. A way to finally bury Bennett McAlister six feet under.
“It’s slow going, but I’m winning her over.” I share because deep down, I want him to be proud of something I do. Even if it is deplorable.
“Good, good. You need to gain her trust. Seduce her, use whatever means necessary to get into her good graces. And then when the time is right, we’ll strike.”
There was so much malicious animosity in his green eyes that it was often difficult to catch a glimpse of the man who he used to be. Maybe after this was done, after the guillotine had fallen, maybe he would return to his former self. Perhaps that old shine, the playful sophisticate would come back. At least that’s what I was hoping for. If I could do this for him, to bring him closure, I’d go to any lengths necessary.
“Tell me again why I must do this.”
“Getting soft on me, chap?” My father chuckled, leading me into his study. On the mantel sat dozens of framed family photos, my smiling mother shining out from each.
I needed to hear it again, needed the fuel to keep moving forward.
He clasped his hands together as he stood looking at her pictures. “Bennett McAlister ruined our family. He took your mother, turned her into a heathen. He drove her to secrets and lies, and eventually her death. And then he acts like he doesn’t even know us? Can’t even acknowledge the hand he played in her downfall? A man, no a boy, like that doesn’t deserve to be king. We must reveal who he truly is, we must avenge your mother’s death.”
As my father talks, the fury inside my bones pulses, all the way down to the marrow. His words fuel the demons that have haunted me, haunted this house, since she passed. And I realize, I’m not just doing this for him.
I grew up without a mother, I remember the horrific pictures the media printed after her death. Of the car being pulled from the river, of the twisted, mangled side of the bridge where she veered off.
It was time to get some closure, for both of us. Even if it meant sinking to the bottom, never resurfacing from the river of grief that was always nipping at my heels.
Chapter Twelve
Asher
Boats cut through the water like seamless torpedoes gliding over the surface of the Thames.
The men in them move in sync, resembling machines rather than humans. If a rowing team is the real deal, if they’re that ace, it doesn’t even take effort to out maneuver another boat. They simply work, unthinking and unfeeling.
That is how I hope my team operates today, like cogs in a well-oiled machine.
Turning back to the pre-regatta festivity, Ed is downing drinks in front of my face.
“All the Lagavulin a bloke could want.” He makes a refreshed noise as he sips the last dregs.
“Some of us are actually competing today.” I actually like having him here, though, for he distracts me from the race.
“And some of us are here for the free alcohol and pretty birds. Look at them in their floral regatta dresses. Damn, I love a good race day.”
He motions across the room, where a bunch of attractive girls in white and pink frocks stand chatting together. Ed’s right, of course, it is always uplifting to have something nice to look at before I row.
My eyes must linger too long, because before I know what’s happening, he’s snapping his fingers in my face.
“Mate, she’s not there.”
Annoyed, I pretend to pick non-existent fuzz off of my warm-up kit. “What?”
“The question you should pretend to ask is ‘who?’ And you know who you’re looking for. Nora Randolph, the family hasn’t arrived yet. Hey, did you really humiliate her in Advanced Math the other day? Classic way not to get the girl, chap.”
Ed is shaking his head as I think about the quiz in class last week. Who the hell knew that Nora was a genius? A full-fledged one too, as clearly she didn’t want anyone to know. She’d hid it, taking her hand down even though she’d done brilliantly on that horrific pop quiz Mullins had given. Why did she care if people knew she was smart? Clearly, she was more than your average brainiac, but who gave a piss about that?
“I know what I’m doing.” I wink at him, knowing he has no clue about my plan. “Girls like that love when you make them feel small, it gives her a chance to show me how tough she is. Gets her fired up, it’s like foreplay in a way. Outing her little Mensa moment just gives her another reason to push back at me. Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”
My friend laughs as he starts on another glass of whisky. “You’re a bloody wanker, but I love you.”
“Cheer for me, yeah?” I slap him on the back and don’t wait for an answer. I don’t need his luck, but I need to get down to the river.
As I walk through the doors and out into the garden that borders the Thames River House, a rare London sun peeks out between the clouds. The flowers and shrubbery are boasting in the rays, and I can smell the mist coming off of the water. I feel it in my bones, we’re going to win this regatta.
“Oh, excuse me, young man.”
A tall man walks past me as I step aside, the sun glinting in my eyes. As I turn, five people follow him. One of them being an elegantly dressed Nora, who is trying very hard to ignore me.
And that man? Bennett Fucking McAlister himself.
“Nora, nice to see you came to cheer me on.” I tip my head, the group turning around toward me.
Anger roils in my gut, simmering like poison around my veins. Of course he doesn’t recognize me, the arrogant prat. His smile, a polite and genuine grin, makes me want to rip his goddamn heart out.
“Oh, Nora, I didn’t realize you had a friend in the regatta?” Bennett beams down at her, his obvious adoration for his soon-to-be stepdaughter shining for everyone to see.
Nora’s face is half-hidden by a sunhat, the floral dress she wears clinging to her in all of the right places. How badly I want to unwrap the material from around her, get my fingers all over that skin. Every time I’m near her, my fingers seem to twitch with the need to move toward her body.
Nora inclines her head, those red tendrils glistening in the sun. “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call Asher and I friends, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time watching my first rowing race.”
The tall, redheaded woman standing next to her, her mother, I recognize from the papers, nudges her a bit. What she said was rude, especially at a regal event such as this.
“I’m sure my stepdaughter means no such thing, good luck today!” Bennett chuckles and whispers something in Nora’s ear as they all walk off.
She doesn’t look back at me, and it’s probably best that she didn’t. Or she would have seen how tightly my fists were clenched, the blunt nails digging half-moons into my palms.
Did I not look like her? With the same greens eyes and cheekbones. Could he not recognize the woman he betrayed and left for dead?
Adrenaline rocketed through my system, giving me even more fuel to kick some serious arse in the race. And Nora, she may not have known she was coming to watch me, but I knew that for the rest of the day I’d feel those hazel eyes on me.
Twenty minutes later and I’m sitting in my usual eight spot, commonly referred to as the stroke. Eye to eye with the coxswain, th
e seat is reserved for the most competitive, leader-driven person of the lot, and that has always been me. I set the pace, dictating to the rest of the boat how hard and fast I want them to be rowing. The position is only fit for the best, and once I’d started rowing as a child, I knew I would never let myself be anything but.
“You all ready to go?” Our coxswain, a rigid British twenty something named Peter who was as good as he was unhumorous.
We all nod in unison, and he starts his commands. My hands wrap around the oars, the polished wood firm against my clenched fists. I grip back, feeling my pulse thump steadily. Even in the toughest of races, I stayed cool as a cucumber. My adrenaline could be spiking, the need to win stronger than a ton of bricks on my back, and my pulse remained steady and normal.
“All four! Full slide!” he shouts at us, his commanding voice booming over the boat.
I don’t bother to look at the other boats next to us, with the similar rowing teams in different colored uniforms. We are going to win, I don’t need to intimidate or manipulate out here.
But as we get into position, my gaze slides over to the shore. She’s the target and my eyes are the heat-seeking missiles, they always seem to find Nora.
She’s sitting on a chair right at the edge of the dock, where a bunch of the royals and nobles are seated. As if she can read my thoughts, an eyebrow perks, and I can see a hint of challenge beneath her hat. Next to her, Bennett sits smiling out at the water.
Rage and the dare that hangs between Nora and I swim inside my stomach, sparking and growing into something bigger. A monster, one that sits on my chest and pounds like a furious animal.
“Ready all … row!” Peter whistles and we’re off.
He barks commands at me, setting the pace, watching the others as they fall in line. I speed up, gaining momentum, my muscles already burning. I should slow down, conserve energy for the rest of the nearly four-minute race, but I can’t. The unfamiliar look he gave me, the way she sat watching me from the dock, the pictures of my mother’s car being dragged from the water … it all mixes in my head like some kind of cruel movie.
We’re miles ahead of the other boats, the water kicking up in front of us, streams of cold navy through the air. My legs burn with passion, my arms with competition.
I don’t even realize when we’re past the finish line until Peter is screaming at me in my face. “Way enough! Way enough!”
My brain snaps out of its fuzz as the guys cheer around me, raising their oars and hollering over the victory.
And to my surprise, when I finally let go of my death grip and reach down to my wrist, my pulse is hammering harder than it ever has in my life.
Chapter Thirteen
Nora
Taking a sip of tea, I listen on like a good little girl as the adults have their conversation.
“I just knew we should have planted geraniums instead of tulips in the back gardens, but Fernando would not listen to me.” The wife of some Lord rambles on, boring us all to death about her gardener and his apparently “insane” tactics.
My mother, ever the social butterfly, can feel the conversation lacking. “I know I’m just the American, but have any of you watched that new show on Netflix? The Great British Bake Off?”
One of the other women holds her hand to her heart. “Oh, my dear, that isn’t new! It’s been on for years, but I must say I absolutely adore it.”
“Ah, silly me, but I adore it as well! I just wish I could make all of those things, they look delicious.” My mom takes a sip of her tea, setting it down in just the fashion that the etiquette coach brought in to help us taught her how to do.
“I’m always fascinated by how they make their custard just the right consistency, it looks so tasty.”
I tune out as the women go on about the show, but at least it’s better than gardening and plants.
A tap on my shoulder has me snapping back, my hat hitting something as I turn.
“Oh, sorry about that, love.” A familiar voice fills my ears as my hat is put back the right way.
“Asher Frederick, what a pleasant surprise. You performed wonderfully today, bravo.” One of the women fawns over him, and he puts on that chauvinistic grin that makes me want to slap him.
“Well, thank you, madam. It was my pleasure, a real rouser today.”
“Nora, is this your friend?” Mom raises an eyebrow at me, and I know she’s trying to telepathically let me know he’s cute.
I try to telepathically tell her he’s an asshole. “Mom, this is Asher Frederick, we go to Winston together.”
He sticks out a hand, and then on second thought, bows a little. “Your highness, it’s an honor.”
Mom laughs, a real bellow. The other women look a little affronted, but they’ve become a little accustomed to her and they don’t mind her.
“Oh, honey, you do not have to say that to me … I’m not even really in the family yet. Mrs. Randolph, or better Rachel, will do just fine. That was a great race today.”
“Thank you. Nora, would you like to take a walk with me?”
Mom gives me another look, and I swear if no one else could hear or see us, she would give me a fist bump and tell me to “go girl.” I don’t want to go anywhere with him, much less for a walk. That’s some kind of innocent euphemism, and I don’t feel like dealing with the devil today. Especially after what he did to me at school, exposing me like that.
But it would be rude to rebuff him here, and I don’t want to give these busybodies any reason to discuss me further than they probably already do.
“Sure, I would like that.”
I can practically hear the pants being charmed off of the women sitting around the table. I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from rolling my eyes.
Once we’re far enough away from the group, I round on him. “What’s this all about, Asher?”
Those green eyes grin, and I swear if he ever fully turned his efforts on, I’d be a goner. I was half-gone as it was.
“I want to show you something. And you look absolutely smashing today, might I add.” His biceps flex in that rowing uniform, and instead of being gross, the smell of his sweat is so enticing my tongue actually darts out.
But I don’t feel like playing his games. “No, you can’t add that. What is it?”
Asher smiles again, and I hate, but also love, this teasing. “I like you when you’re cheeky. Just follow me, alright?”
I shouldn’t, because of all of the reasons he’s given me not to thus far, but I can’t help it. There is something so magnetizing about Asher; he has that perfect mix of English gentleman and British bad boy. In that rowing uniform, the tight shorts and shirt plastered to his body, I can see every muscle, every bulge. It has unwanted heat licking at my neck, and I want to yell at my traitorous body.
Asher leads me up a flight of stairs in the dockyard’s big glass event space, where the after-regatta celebrations are being held. The space is all old wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass sprayed with the mist from the Thames so close by. It smells like the river, and all of the furniture is comfortable and antique. To be honest, I’d like to come back here with a book and curl up beneath one of the windows overlooking the beautiful view.
Asher pushes open a door, and we walk into a room where pictures, plaques and trophies adorn every wall.
“This is one of my favorite places.” He almost whispers it, and I’m kind of shocked that he would tell me something that seems so personal.
“Because it’s filled with medals and trophies?” There is an edge to my voice, a mocking sarcasm. I feel like a bitch, but I can’t trust myself around him. Especially when he seems to be letting me in.
Looking at me, he shakes his head slightly and gives me a small smile. “No, although I do love winning. That’s not why though. See, this room is steeped in history. We in England love our history, and the history of my sport is my favorite kind.”
He walks slowly around the room, pointing out what are likely hi
s favorite articles or memorabilia in here. Then to the window, which overlooks the Thames from an almost aerial view. The room is circular, almost as if we’re at the top of a lighthouse.
"You can also see every facet of the water from up here, study it."
I'm looking at one of the photos, getting lost in his voice, when I feel a sizzling warmth at my back.
"I couldn't help but see you admiring my stroke out there."
Velvet, hot electricity fills me from head to toe, and I'm scared to turn around. To see the expression those eyes hold. He was this close to me once before, in the club in Paris. I'd stopped it then, blaming it on the music and alcohol.
But here, I have nowhere to hide. Asher is so close I can practically taste the mist on his body, smell the autumn water in his ink black hair.
“That’s my position, you know. The stroke. I command the motion of the boat, make sure everyone falls in line and picks up on my rhythm.”
I flush a hot pink under the collar, his conversation so dirty and thinly veiled that I think I hear myself start to pant.
“I saw that challenge in your eyes, by the way. And I’m here to collect my prize.”
Hands, rough and weathered from the wood of the oars, gently circle my waist. I can’t help the tremble that starts from the balls of my feet and sweeps over my skin, an audible groan escaping my lips. I know what is coming, what he’s going to do. I don’t want it.
But I do. I want it so badly that I’ve never wanted anything so desperately before. This is a feeling I’ve read about in books, the moment when the need to connect physically with another person is so strong that your brain snaps off and nothing but your heart fuels every decision. I never believed in the theory, feeling with your heart instead of thinking with your brain. It’s too emotional, and science was a proven fact, something tangible that I could memorize and repeat over and over again in the same way.
Slowly I turn, Asher coming into view. He’s bristling with arousal, the electricity of it buzzing all over his skin. Those green eyes are so dark, like the forest after a thunder storm. They’re filled with a mixture of desire and hatred, and I know that they mirror my own. His jaw tics, like he’s been holding back the urge to kiss me ever since we met.
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