“David, your thoughts?”
I blinked, startled. I had been so wrapped up in my self-pity that I’d nearly forgotten that I was in a meeting. The meeting which kept me trapped, pining in London rather than arguing with my impulses in Manhattan.
“Apologies, gentlemen. What was the question?”
Thinly veiled disapproval lined the faces of the men with whom I was attempting to negotiate. My assistant, Bernard, cleared his throat and gave me a stern, yet somehow still subordinate, look.
“Monsieur Charpentier is willing to accept three million euros for the development property in Normandy, with the stipulation that he retains thirty percent ownership over the property, with an investment return minimum of ten percent per annum, and the ability to perform an annual inspection and review.”
It was tempting to simply accept the offer and catch the next plane to New York. Charpentier and I had been deadlocked in negotiations for three days, and I was fed up with it. But I was no fool. His stipulations would leave the property a hemorrhaging liability in my portfolio. I had seen the way he ran his businesses. He didn’t deserve three percent control. Thirty was asinine.
I tapped my pen on the table, calculating and projecting in my mind. Generally, I would have taken the safe route and rescinded my offer entirely, but I was feeling reckless. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was tired of living my risk-averse little life, accepting whatever I knew I could get, taking the safest path. It was time to break the mold.
“Monsieur Charpentier, I will give you ten million euros to own the property flat-out. No partnership, no inspections, no creative control, nothing. You take the money and forget the property exists.”
Bernard forgot himself. His eyes nearly popped out of his head and he opened his mouth to argue with me, but I stayed his words with a raised hand. He shuffled papers in obvious discomfort while Charpentier narrowed his eyes at me thoughtfully.
“The property isn’t worth two-thirds of that price,” he said slowly. “What am I missing, Mr. Harris?”
“My temper,” I snapped. “That property is a liability in your hands. In mine, it will be a productive bit of earth. Accept the offer or decline, but I will not negotiate any longer.”
Bernard stared at me as though I had lost my mind. Maybe I had. Frustration buzzed at the base of my skull, making the cool room feel stiflingly hot, the dry air feel thick and oppressive in my lungs. I would not be trapped in this room, in this life, for another moment.
Charpentier looked stunned. His assistant was whispering furiously in his ear in French.
Shaking my head, I rose to my feet.
“A shame we couldn’t come to an agreement,” I said, extending a hand to Charpentier.
“A moment, Mr. Harris. I accept your offer.” Charpentier’s assistant lost all of his color and swallowed hard. Bernard’s jaw dropped.
“Excellent,” I said firmly. “I shall have the papers drawn up immediately.”
Charpentier rose as well and rested a hand on my shoulder. “A celebratory lunch is in order, I believe. My treat, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to hide how little I wanted to spend another hour with the man.
I should have been elated by the closure, but I found myself still suffering the suffocating frustration which had overwhelmed me in the conference room. I barely followed the lighthearted conversation Charpentier tossed artfully around as we traveled to a nearby restaurant. Thoughts of Grace, Amelia, and my own terrible decisions haunted my every thought, distracting me from the moment.
I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anything or anybody. Amelia had been a means to an end. At the time, I hadn’t considered that there could be a better alternative. An unforgivable lack of foresight, really.
At the same time, however, I hadn’t anticipated that Amelia would turn out to be as cold and unreasonable as she was. I had been living under the immature, romantic impression that a marriage for the love of money would eventually grow to fulfill the need to be loved. I hadn’t even acknowledged the latter as reality until recently.
“Am I boring you, Mr. Harris?”
I shook myself. “My apologies. Late night, you understand. How are you enjoying your meal?”
I muddled through the remainder of our meal without insulting the man too terribly much. His good opinion was important until the papers were signed, but never after that. He had nothing else I wanted. In fact, the only thing in the world that I did want was a spunky little interior designer in New York.
“And you must visit the vineyard sometime, Mr. Harris. My wife loves to host my business partners, you see. She would simply love to have you and Mrs. Harris over for dinner. We could take a stroll, and perhaps I could interest you in purchasing something else?” He laughed, but there was a shrewd look in his eye.
Offering as much as I had may have been a mistake.
I smiled coldly. “Thank you, monsieur, but I’m afraid my wife has little time to socialize on this side of the Atlantic these days. She’s having our New York apartment remodeled and intends to keep a close eye on the project.” And on Grace, I thought bitterly.
What I wouldn’t give to trade places with her just for one night. Let her charm Charpentier while I managed the consultation with Grace. If nothing else, I could make sure that the end result was something I wouldn’t be embarrassed to live in.
But of course that was far from the only thing I wanted. I had spent months arguing with her in my head, trying to convince her to accept the situation for what it was. I had successfully convinced the fabricated Grace time and again, but I knew that the arguments I gave her were far weaker than her actual convictions. Still, I had managed to convince myself that if I could only talk to her once more, I could fix everything.
Charpentier was still talking. “Of course if that holds no interest for you, I could take you on a cruise. I recently purchased a commercial fleet for the purpose. You could go to your lovely wife in style.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said briskly. I pulled my wallet out and signaled for the check. “I am terribly sorry, Monsieur Charpentier. I have an early flight tomorrow and I really must be going. Give my regards to your wife.”
Charpentier frowned and gestured to my wallet. “You insult me, Mr. Harris.”
“Of course.” I put my wallet back just as the waiter appeared with the check. “Lovely doing business with you, monsieur. Have a safe trip home.”
I shook his hand and hurried away. I could feel his frown on my shoulders as I walked away, but I didn’t spare another thought for him. As far as I was concerned, our business had concluded, and it had cost me far more than ten million euros: It had cost me a face-to-face with the only person in the world I wanted to talk to.
I had left my car at the office and I was in no mood to return there. I was within walking distance of the apartment I shared with Amelia, but that held no more appeal than the office. I had always hated the place. A dressed-up warehouse still felt like a warehouse, no matter how much it cost to live there.
I strode aimlessly down the street trying to burn off the suffocating feeling.
“It’s just business,” I said to myself. “If I hadn’t stayed to nail down that deal, I would have lost out on a key piece of property.”
Key to what?
“To the vision,” I snarled. “The big picture. Owning property in Normandy opens doors to more French trades.”
Yes, but why? Don’t you have enough?
I barked a laugh. “Enough for me? Perhaps. For Amelia? Not a chance. If I stopped trading today, she would fly into a rage. And besides, why stop? This is what I do!”
And where has it gotten you?
I began to notice people skittering out of my path ahead of me. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window gave me a start. I looked completely insane, muttering to myself, glowering at the pavement, my shoulders hunched over my hands which were shoved into my pockets. She had finally done it. Amelia had finally driven me insane.
No, the small voice inside corrected. Amelia had nothing to do with this.
“Grace.” I said her name as if calling on an angel.
Tower Bridge stood tall and dark in the distance, imposing in the dwindling light. My feet were leading me toward it before I had even thought to go there.
I did not want to go there. I didn’t want to face that memory again, but my body had other ideas.
The sun was beginning to set by the time I made it to the bridge. Like a man possessed, I moved to the spot where I once stood waiting for her for so long. I couldn’t have said why I was there, only that it felt like the place I needed to be.
I need to be in New York, I realized then. I need to talk to her. She needs me. She might need me. Is that not enough?
I shoved my hands through my hair and paced. I imagined snow falling around me, her miserable, beautiful face in front of me.
“It was your fault, wasn’t it?” I said aloud. “You came into my house, and you charmed me with your wit and passion. Your joie de vivre, your spark. I couldn’t help myself, could I? If a man is condemned to live in an igloo, do you blame him for running toward the warmth of the sun?”
This was getting me nowhere. Across the bridge a concerned woman was trying not to look like she was talking into her phone. I would be carted off if I kept this up.
Growling, I moved on. I barely felt the chill in the air. I was burning up from the inside out. I kept walking along the river.
“There it is.” I gestured to no one at Shakespeare’s Globe. “And your hotel’s back there somewhere. You’re the one who invited me upstairs, aren’t you? You’re the one who flung your arms around my neck, aren’t you? You’re to blame, not me. What could I do? You were there and warm and so very alive, and you saw me. You saw me. Whose fault is that?”
My legs were sore and my lungs were burning, but I couldn’t slow my pace. I traced our steps from that day, recalling the snowball fight. I had started that.
“I’ll accept that,” I said resentfully. “I threw a snowball. Lock me up, constable, I’m guilty.”
I glowered at the pavement, furious at it for not being covered in snow. I picked up a loose rock and very nearly threw it as hard as I could but froze when I noticed where I was aiming.
It was the café where we had eaten lunch. Until that moment, my own behavior had been questionable but not condemnable. Somewhere about halfway through that conversation, there had been a moment in which I had made a decision. A very important decision. I could feel the memory of it, but I could not pinpoint what it was.
I looked at the rock in my hand and tossed it away gently. “Tea, that’s what I need,” I said quietly. “Lunch was light. And late.” I couldn’t even recall whether I had eaten or not, I had been so distracted.
I went inside and ordered. A little tea and something to eat, that was all I needed. Hunger, not heartache. That was all this was. I lied to myself even as I settled in at the same table where we had eaten together.
Bits and pieces of our conversation floated back to me as I ate. The frustration and fury had settled into a cold emptiness in my chest, and I grasped at the memories like straws to find a way to fill it.
I had been telling her how I had considered moving to New York full-time. She had been curious. Full-time? How could a decorator afford to live part-time in another country? But that had been easy. I never really lived at the New York penthouse. It hadn’t really been a lie, had it? I visited my parents. At least I did when I had time. Usually I was caught up in work the whole time I was there. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Business first, always.
I finished my meal and paid. Whatever memory had stayed my hand remained out of reach. The sun was well and truly down now. It would be cold outside. I should take a cab. But to where? Can’t very well take a cab to New York. But it was the only place I wanted to be. I wanted to be near her even if I couldn’t find a way to talk to her.
“Kensington,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
I hadn’t noticed the waitress beside me.
“Oh, nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Would you like me to call you a cab to Kensington?”
“No, I—” I was going to say that I would walk, but I was suddenly dead tired. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
I hadn’t stepped foot in the Kensington house since Grace left. It had been too filled with memories, and every wall, furnishing, and fixture held a taste of her touch. Amelia had hosted grand parties every week since the renovation, but I had managed to arrange a valid excuse to bow out of each one. I could not bear to be there when she was, to be confronted by the stark contrast of their personalities.
Now, alone, I was finally ready to feel the full force of my loss.
The dark, silent house was a welcoming change from the busy world I had been stifling in all day. Breathing deeply, I ripped my tie and jacket off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. My shoes followed, then my shirt and belt. In spite of the chill I was burning up, and in spite of that I wanted nothing more than to build a fire.
Following my impulses mindlessly, I stoked a fire in the living room. Every motion reminded me of the night we had spent curled up on the floor together. Impulsively, I went to my room and found the same pile of blankets and pillows, then brought them downstairs with me.
“Mad, I’ve gone mad,” I muttered as I arranged the pillows and blankets in front of the fire.
There was nothing to be done but to give in to this. Curled up in the nest alone, I dialed the number I had been resisting for weeks.
It rang three times. Hi, you’ve reached Grace Baker. I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message, I will return your call as soon as possible.
I hung up. I didn’t know how long I lay staring at the fire before I tried again, but it felt like hours.
This time it rang twice before going to voicemail. Frowning, I called again. Three times. Then one. I sighed, forced to confront the obvious. She was ignoring my calls.
“And why shouldn’t she? I deceived her, didn’t I? Why should she want to confront all of those terrible feelings again?”
I buried my face in a pillow and sighed heavily. I wanted to scream like a child that it wasn't fair. That I shouldn’t have to suffer alone. But I could finally see the flaw in that. She had done nothing wrong. Amelia had done nothing at all. The burden of this whole mess was mine to bear, and I would have to bear it alone.
As a child, I was told again and again that I couldn’t have everything I wanted. I had built my life as a defiant statement against that. I could have the mansion with the view, the flashy penthouses, and the fast cars. I could buy whatever I wanted, and nobody could tell me otherwise.
I was only now realizing that even money had its limits, and the things most worth wanting weren’t available for purchase. Nor should they be. Transactional romance was what put me in this position in the first place, and I had never regretted a trade more in my life.
I took the night to mourn the loss. By the next morning I was myself again, at least externally. I had suppressed my pain along with my feelings for Grace, stuffed them away into a secret box so that I could go on with my rational, logical, ruthless life. Internally, I knew I would be wrestling with these feelings for as long as my heart continued to beat.
Chapter 21
Grace
April 29
Relief. That was a new emotion for finishing a job, I mused as I climbed into my car and pulled away from the penthouse for the last time. It wasn’t very surprising, though. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, this would have been the first job I ever walked out on. Even without the emotional component, Amelia’s ideas for the perfect New York penthouse—not to mention her idea of a reasonable time frame—were just this side of impossible.
But if there was one thing I was good at, it was performing the impossible. I deserved to celebrate, I decided. I’d call Mom and
see if she wanted to go somewhere fun for dinner. I hit the Bluetooth button on my stereo. Nothing happened.
“What?” I hit it again. It told me that there were no devices in range.
I cursed internally. I must have left it at Amelia’s.
Hoping that the doorman who recognized me was still working the lobby, I turned the car around. I had left my key in the apartment, per Amelia’s instructions, and I knew that she was gone for the evening, so unless I was prepared to be phoneless overnight, I had to hurry. It was quarter to five and the doorman’s shift would be ending.
Traffic didn’t do me any favors, though, and it was five past when I found a parking space. Crossing my fingers and wishing for his replacement to run late, I hurried into the lobby.
The doorman was just on his way out, wearing street clothes. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry, could you let your replacement know who I am, please? I already gave the key back, but I left my phone upstairs.”
“No need, miss. The owner’s at home, so you can go right on up.” He reached to tip his cap at me, but it wasn’t there. In the wake of our mutual fluster, we hurried away opposite directions with polite nods.
There was no attendant in the elevator this evening. I was grateful for the moment alone as I jabbed the appropriate button.
I leaned against the side of the elevator car with a heavy sigh. I wasn’t looking forward to admitting to Amelia that I’d left my phone behind; since my confession about David and the baby she had shown herself to be cold, judgmental, and suspicious. Not in front of company or crew, of course. Her friendly façade was impenetrable. She pulled strings subtly and firmly, making things happen around her without ever lifting a finger.
Her power continued to astound me. She had somehow managed to orchestrate it so that David and I were never in the apartment at the same time, though I knew he had been in New York several times since I started the project. Somehow, he always happened to have gone out just as I arrived.
“Oh gosh, I hope she hasn’t brought home company,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about my baggy, paint-spattered coveralls. I smoothed the front out of habit, which did nothing, then twisted my hands together nervously as I waited for the car to reach the top of the building.
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