by Angel Payne
Sure you will, girlfriend. Until you get a clue and consider how many others he’s used that wave on before. Maybe even Margaux, who was dazzled by it as much as you—and then did something about it.
I allowed myself a glance toward the bar. For someone who’d finally gotten her hands—and God only knew what else—all over Killian Stone, Margaux appeared confusingly miserable.
“You need to stop working so much and get out a little bit, Claire.”
I shook myself from my ruminations to nod indulgently at Dad. “Yeah, yeah.”
After we hugged one more time, I swiped at my tears and made my way toward Margaux for the suite key. As I watched, she was approached by Michael, Chad, and Talia, our teammate who’d finally returned from her crazy assignment in New Orleans. Their smiles were full of forced politeness, though Michael actually dared a hug as well. To my shock, Margaux accepted the gesture with a little smile. I released a relieved breath. Michael and his kindness might have just eased my day somewhat.
“Sorry to break up the party, gang.” I gritted a smile of my own at my new stepsister. “Can I grab the bridal suite key and ask you to keep an eye on things for a few minutes? The new Mrs. Montgomery has a cosmetics emergency,” I explained. “I’ll be back fast.”
Margaux fished in her wristlet before extending the keycard with a heavy-lidded glare. So much for Michael and his magical hugs. Apparently they weren’t as wonderful as Killian’s.
On that morose thought, I turned to make my escape—grateful as hell that Chad grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter’s tray and quickly fitted it into my free hand.
“You can probably use this more than me right now,” he muttered.
“You’re right. Thanks.” I left out the part that I’d only had a granola bar and a banana since this morning. This would be my third glass of champagne, and I anxiously waited for the buzz to kick in so I could finally forget just one word in my head.
Like that was happening, after the flashback I’d just entertained.
Hair in the wind. Gentle smile. Dorky wave.
Killian.
I slammed the champagne back, wishing it was Patrón.
But I still had lip gloss to retrieve. I hastened my step toward the elevator after I shut the ballroom doors, hearing a sizable commotion in the room behind me. The lift opened just in time. I stepped in and mashed the button, deciding that whatever the crisis, Margaux could handle it this time.
The hallway was deserted as I arrived on the floor, made my way to the bridal suite, and slid the card through the reader. By the third unsuccessful try, I was pretty sure Margaux had given me the key to her room instead of the suite. “Shit,” I whispered, settling my forehead against the door. I barely paid attention when the elevator dinged again, but that changed when the approaching footsteps on the carpet registered. Heels. Hard and angry.
Speak of the devil, in all her Louboutin-and-Tiffany glory.
Margaux stopped, shot out a hip, and whipped out another card. As she cocked her head, her soft blonde curls contradicted her defiant green glare. “I gave you the wrong key.”
“I was just figuring that out.”
“So…what, Claire? Do you expect an apology? Because you won’t be getting one. Not from me, at least.”
Her flare-up wasn’t a stunner. Now that we were away from the guests and our parents, the woman was unleashed to let her true colors show. That was fine by me. I didn’t feel like making nicey-nice anymore, either.
“Trust me, Margaux, that’s the last thing I’d expect from you.” I edged the retort in sarcasm, but the bravado was a complete act. She was the last person I wanted to be standing here with. Just glancing at her was a piercing reminder of what I’d believed in once again and lost. Of who I’d lost. “Thank you for bringing this up. Now get the hell out of my face before I decide to crack this key in half and use it to slice yours open.”
Through the haze of my anger, I heard loud stomps in the central stairwell, back near the elevator shaft, but Margaux moved in, wedging me into the alcove in front of the door. My sights were filled only with her leering face now, though I sensed a new presence in the passage with us, getting stronger…distinctly masculine.
And smelling of Armani?
No.
Enough with the stupid mind games, Claire. Three glasses of champagne and no protein, and you expected yourself to keep thinking straight? My terrible sleep habits weren’t helping the situation, either. Rousing at three a.m. for two-hour bawling jags had made me feeling like a certified loon by now.
That brought the subject perfectly back to Margaux—who still hadn’t moved. She kept glowering as if I were something she scraped off her shoe. “Well, well, well. Claire bear has claws, after all. You surprise me, sister.”
Her glare took on a gloating glint, already certain of the damage she wreaked by evoking our new family ties. As of six o’clock this evening, princess-zilla wasn’t just my blackmailer anymore. My head throbbed harder, trying and failing to downgrade the awful comprehension.
“Well, you don’t surprise me, Margaux. You’ve set this all up perfectly. You hold the sheaths to the claws today, and we both know it.” I let her have two seconds of a smirk before adding, “But enjoy that party while you can, okay? I’d tell you karma’s a scary bitch, but you beat her to that dance floor.”
A little laugh tinged her features. “Very cute, darling. So glad we got that straight, because I won’t be apologizing to you for this—or anything else, for that matter.”
“And as already stated, I’m not standing here waiting on you.”
At that, our stares locked and held. The air grew heavy with our shared knowledge of everything she referred to, especially that pivotal night in Chicago. By now, I at least knew Killian felt like shit about whatever kind of accident or chemistry they’d shared, but a thorough study of Margaux still yielded me nothing in the slightest-bit-remorseful department.
Ridiculous as it was, the discovery weighed like an anvil on my chest. But I refused to show my weakness, keeping my chin aloft and my gaze steady, no matter how painful the tears burned behind it. That didn’t stop Margaux. The witch blowtorched through my defenses, seeing straight to my soul—and going for its center with a giant knife of venom.
“Oh, God. Would you stop sulking like a wounded puppy, already? You got exactly what was coming to you, Claire. You didn’t just sleep with the boss. You did it with a man completely out of your league—and now you’re hurting about it? Oh, boo fucking hoo. Nobody cares that you’re hurting, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I wasn’t sure she expected a response. For a long moment, I didn’t have one. Wait. I did have one, but once more out of respect for my father, I couldn’t break his new stepdaughter’s face.
I went for the next best thing. My standby. A lot of sarcasm. “Wow, Margaux. Just…wow. You’re really something. You have the guy. You have…well…everything, really. So you want to even think about stopping, already?”
She licked her lips and let a berry-red smirk slide across them. “At last we’re in agreement, then. I do have the guy. There are still a few technical details to work out, but Kil’s beginning to see the light—as well as what a silly boy he was for taking up with you in the first place. You know that video conference you ducked out of? Yeah…couldn’t keep his eyes off me the whole time. Oh, I will make him happy. Claire. So much happier than you could have. I realize that you’re ignorant about the specifics of fine-tuning a relationship and keeping it exciting, which isn’t really your fault, considering that creature who raised you by himself. God, the overhaul my mother’s had to perform, training that blue-collar hunk of mindless beef, but it’s all in the past now. Onward and upward, right? You can see that Killian will be better off this way, right?”
I dropped my arms. As I did, my hands balled into fists. Taking back the moratorium on breaking this bitch’s face looked like a better option by the second. “What did you just call my father?”
>
She rolled her eyes. “At the risk of sounding trite, please, bitch. Mother says your dad is a good fuck, Claire, and not bad on the eyes for the geriatric crowd, but essentially she took pity on him. You should be grateful for that, really. As they say, the apple doesn’t fall far, so if Mother didn’t have his rock on her finger, I’d be making sure you were out of a job too, paying your price for whoring around with a client. And you can be damn sure that Mother knows everything you did with him in Chicago. She’s as disgusted by all of it, and you, as Killian now is.”
Her words impacted me like a punch to the stomach. I stumbled back, slamming against the wall with a sickening thud as her vitriol spiraled in my senses. It’s only words. I fought to rally back on that slim, stupid hope. But she was relentless, tearing ceaselessly at my self-will, her torture aided by the constant use of his name.
It was too much. So much agony.
“Enough,” I rasped. “Enough, okay?”
I wasted my breath. Margaux was on a huge roll. Victory glimmered in her eyes, feeding off the pain in mine. “Awww. Poor little Claire. Of course you’ve had enough, which is why you made everything so damn easy for me. Your pathetic self-esteem makes you predictable, conquerable”—she waved her hand up and down as if showing me off like a game show prize—“especially how it turned you into a panting fangirl after Killian. Ohhh, the look on your face was so priceless, sweetie. I laid the trap, and you stepped right into it, believing everything you saw that night, exactly as I intended. You were such an easy mark, playing perfectly into the scene with your sad lack of trust. I should almost thank you for the sheer perfection of it.” She moved back a little, folding her arms like a goddess of destruction who’d just decimated a city. “Let you in on a little secret, stepsister. Nothing really happened before you arrived that night, nor did it happen afterward, but you really bought into every illusion like the idiot you are.”
For two seconds, I feared bursting into tears again. Then fury rescued me, making it possible to shove past her while she giggled like a lunatic harpy. I crossed to the other side of the hall, knowing I should leave but weirdly riveted to my spot—and hating myself for it. “At least I’m an idiot who can look at myself in the mirror at night.”
“Though you’ll be alone, won’t you?” She stalked me again, slow and slinking with each step, still the victorious, violent goddess. “And I’ll be with Killian Stone. Now that you’ve satisfied his white-trash fascination, he can flush his guilt about you down the toilet. He’s performed his charity work and can do what’s he’s wanted this entire time. Me.”
She struck an exultant pose, spreading her arms wide and tossing her head back—until a voice, lethal and wrathful, scythed the air.
“Margaux.”
Three steps thundered on the carpet with determined fury.
“Enough.”
The thunder made its way to my chest as I swung my gaze in tandem with Margaux’s, responding to that unmistakable voice. Silken yet mighty. A command wrapped in a murmur.
Killian.
He stood next to the stairwell door in dark jeans and a button-front shirt he’d surely slept in. His hair was windblown, some of it tumbling into his eyes. Oh God, his eyes. They were very dark and very angry. Clearly, he’d just heard every vile word that had come from Margaux’s mouth—which now loomed as a large, shocked O in her newly pale face.
He stalked toward us. With every step, he tore my heart out—a heart I’d assumed had received its last goodbye from my head, forever forbidden to feel like this again. Bursting. Joyous. Tormented. Terrified. The throbbing thing swelled and surged into my throat, cutting off my air, making it impossible to meet his stare even as he moved up and planted himself a few inches from me. Instantly, I felt the familiar heat from his spicy-scented skin—but I knew anger generated that more than anything right now. The stuff rolled off him in palpable waves.
With shaky steps, I backed toward the elevators. “For the record, I can’t do this right now. Not anymore. Not with either of you.” I was tempted to pull the navy platforms off my feet and leave them there. I needed to bolt—faster than they could carry me.
“No. You aren’t going anywhere, goddamnit.”
That made my conclusion official. I’d never seen Killian so furious, even after all Trey’s stunts. It didn’t change my get-the-hell-out-of-here goal by one millimeter. I needed some distance and a lot of time to process the information Margaux had dumped in my lap. Where was my phone when I really needed the Record button, to keep and analyze every word?
Deducing I was insane but knowing he’d never set me free without it, I raised my gaze. His own awaited, blacker than a moonless night. He rolled his shoulders and neck, clearly trying to find relief from the tension that had mounted.
“No running, Claire.” He frantically searched my face for something. “Please. You promised.” What the hell was he seeking with that scrutiny? Possibly the connection we shared, seemingly unbreakable just a few weeks ago? That connection wasn’t lost, this entire moment proved that, but the links in our chain were so tangled and knotted right now.
“Well, promises get broken, don’t they?” My voice was strangled and raw, exactly how I felt inside. I couldn’t fathom what else to say and sure as hell refused to launch a heart-to-heart with him here in the hall, with Margaux as our greedy voyeur. “I—I really need to get back to the reception anyway. My new mother is waiting for me.”
I stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the hand he shot out, trying to hook my elbow. Why was he here, today of all days? Why was he making this so much harder on both of us? Every word I’d blurted was the truth. I really couldn’t do this. My heart couldn’t do it. If it made the wrong decision again—and the statistics clearly leaned that way—the damage would be much worse than a simple month’s worth of grief. My soul would carry the scars too. Forever.
I had to get out of here.
With a tight choke, I started running down the hall. At the end, I opted for the stairs over the torment of waiting for the old elevators. Killian’s scent lingered in the stairwell, a taunting smell that dared the tears to well back up my throat. I forced them down with a clenched jaw as I pushed into the ballroom again, though I felt like Alice through the looking glass when I arrived. Nothing felt familiar or right. I shook my head and let a bitter laugh escape. Hadn’t this been the story of my life for a whole damn month?
I forced down a deep breath. Another. When I had the strength to look back up, gratitude filled me. Talia approached across the dance floor, darting in and out of couples who boogied to the band’s bad rendition of an old Commodores tune. Since I bested the woman in height by an inch, she could officially be called little, but today, her pixie characteristics were really emphasized. She’d styled her near-black hair in a creative mix of curls and braids, which were combined with a stunning sea-foam-green dress and strappy silver heels, making her appear like a sprite among the dancers. Despite the demure appearance, her features were intense as she came close and grabbed my hands.
“Where have you been?” she demanded without preamble. “Wait. Stupid question. Andrea had you off on an errand, right?” She rambled on despite my gape at having failed the lip gloss run. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“Because Killian more-gorgeous-than-a-god Stone was here about ten minutes ago, asking for you. No, amend that. Not asking. Demanding. Incessantly. Claire…” When I responded with nothing but an evasive glance toward the bar, she seized my hands tighter. “Claire!”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? You have some explaining to do, woman. I’ve been back from New Orleans for a bloody week. When were you going to tell me—”
She cut herself short as I let my face surrender to a crush of grief and confusion. After guiding me to the wall and shielding me from the crowd, she yanked me close and crooned in my ear. “Ohhh no, girlfriend of mine. Do we need to get two quarts of ice cream after th
is and camp out for a talk?”
I wrenched my head from side to side, shaking from the effort of trying to keep it together. I could not lose it here, during Dad’s happiest day in nearly twenty years. But I couldn’t hold back the helpless anger anymore. Things were a mess, inside me as well as outside. The scene at Killian’s penthouse had all been fabricated by her. I knew that now. But what about the next time something like that happened? In so many ways, Margaux was right. I had let my trust issues rule my reactions, instead of believing in the strength of what Killian and I had built together. Maybe I’d never wanted to trust it in the first place. Maybe I was too fucked up to believe in anyone because I didn’t trust myself anymore.
Dad had believed in Mom, and she’d died. I’d believed in Nick, and he’d lied.
I clung to Talia and cried harder.
“Oh, dear. Ice cream isn’t going to help this, huh?”
“N-No,” I sobbed, feeling more obnoxious for running my makeup into the halter neck of her gorgeous dress.
“Oh, Claire,” she blurted. “What the hell did that bastard do to you? I swear to God, I’m going to kill him now. Killian Stone’s fine ass is complete grass.”
“Simmer down, spitfire,” I managed. “It’s not what you think.” I tried a watery smile. Massive fail. Talia gripped me again, rocking me back and forth so we almost looked like a lesbian couple about to swap spit. She was a great friend, just like Michael and Chad, always knowing how to make me smile when things were shitty—like now. I thanked God she was home.
My reprieve from hell lasted all of those three seconds. On cue, Margaux appeared in the doorway of the ballroom, her stance in full battle mode but her face consumed in a pure case of shell-shocked. I could only imagine what had taken place in the hallway after I’d left her there with Killian. I knew, whatever it was, I was going to need another drink. She looked just as mad, and tormented, as a junkyard dog with fleas.