Motion rustled. A key slid though the gap under the door.
In disbelief, Vera knelt to pick up the door key she had given Rowan weeks ago. He had had it all that time, including during the last horrific week of their breakup, and had not used it. He had not violated her sanctuary. He had not pushed himself, unwanted, uninvited, into her life.
The choice to admit him, to welcome him, had always been hers.
She slipped the key into her pocket. It made a thin sound as it hit the engagement ring.
Vera’s throat closed. If she put off happiness, it was her choice. Was it a fool’s choice? She didn’t know.
She drew in a deep breath and reached for her smartphone. The voice and text messages Rowan had left for her were irretrievable, but she accessed her e-mail and tapped on the Trash folder. She opened the first e-mail Rowan had sent and began to read.
Chapter 16
The cool weather and flowering trees of spring showcased Greenwich Village, New York City, to its best advantage. At noon, Washington Square Park bustled with students and employees on lunch break. They gathered in clusters around the fountains or on picnic blankets strewn on the lawn. Crisp New York accents rang in many voices, but frequently, Vera caught a Midwestern twang or a Southern drawl jumbled into the conversation.
She kept a firm grip on Allison, who was itching to explore the fountains. Vera had brought two changes of clothes for Allison, but it wouldn’t be enough if Allison decided that getting soaked was on the agenda for the day.
Vera’s gaze swept over the blur of people in the park.
A young woman, decidedly chic in a white leather coat, black leggings, and white leather boots, waved and walked up to Vera. The woman’s large blue eyes in a narrow face lent her a feline look, and her long blond hair hung loose, swishing like silk about her shoulders. “You’re Vera. I’m Maggie Ferrara.” With a warm smile, she extended her hand. “You look even prettier than your photograph.”
What photograph, Vera wondered. Maggie’s compliment, however, was offered with obvious sincerity, and Vera accepted it as high praise from a woman who was clearly destined for a contract with a top modeling agency.
“Is this your daughter?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, this is Allison. Allison, meet Maggie.”
Allison’s sulky pout reversed into a smile. Vera decided that her daughter had an eye for beauty. “Megg.” Allison reached out with a finger to trace Maggie’s aristocratic nose.
Maggie and Allison cooed over each other for a while before Maggie turned back to Vera. “So, how did you get my number?”
“I looked you up on the internet, and then called your school. They wouldn’t give me your number, but offered to convey the message. Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”
Maggie shrugged, the gesture languid and graceful. “Didn’t cost me anything. So why did you want to see me?”
“I wanted to ask you…about you and Rowan.”
“Oh, Rowan.” Maggie relaxed into a smile that stunned Vera with its beauty and affection. “He was my first, you know.”
Vera gritted her teeth. “I’m sorry to have to intrude on something so personal, but what happened?”
“We met seven years ago in Milan. I’d been modeling for several years, and Rowan just got into the business. We were both on contract to Valentino, and of course I had my eye on him.” Maggie’s long eyelashes—were they even real?—fluttered. “So did my roommate. He shot her down though when she told him she was eighteen. Apparently, eighteen was too close to jait bail for him. So I lied.”
“You…lied?”
“Of course. I told him I was twenty.”
“But you weren’t.”
Maggie shook her head. Her smile turned wicked, and she grinned at Vera as if she was a coconspirator in the crime. “I was seventeen.”
“Precocious.”
“Yes, of course.” Maggie took out her electronic tablet and showed Vera a series of fashion shoots from seven years past.
Vera inhaled sharply. “That was you, at seventeen?”
“Yes. I did lots of modeling as a child. I was a pro by fifteen. My body grew up fast, and I passed for a lot older. Rowan wasn’t the only one to get fooled by my age; he was just the first.” Maggie put the tablet back into her Gucci handbag. “Rowan found out soon after we had sex though; my roommate tattled on me. He was furious with me, and of course, we never slept together again, but we became good friends anyway—two Americans in a strange land, I suppose. We dated each other—mostly to fend other people off—for almost a year until his next contract took him to Paris. Anyway, Daddy found out that Rowan had slept with me and got pissed.”
“Really?” Vera tried not to sound sarcastic, but failed.
Maggie snorted dismissively. “He was angry with Mamma after she filed for divorce. Mamma had been with me in Italy, and he wanted to take me from her, so he had to prove that she was an incompetent parent. Rowan happened to be the most obvious target.”
Vera frowned. Those details had not made it into the report Darren had given her. Even Rowan’s details in the e-mail had been sparse, mentioning only that he had been told the girl was twenty, and the mistake was an honest one. “So, your father filed charges of sexual assault against Rowan?”
“Yes. Daddy filed the charges in the U.S. even though Rowan and I made love in Italy, and in Italy, the age of consent is fourteen.”
Vera’s eyes widened. “Fourteen?”
Maggie nodded. “And it’s thirteen if the boy is no more than three years older than the girl.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Anyway, Daddy shouldn’t have been able to charge Rowan with rape, but U.S. law is extra-terrestrial.”
“Extra-territorial?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. It didn’t matter where Rowan did it. Because I have an Italian-U.S. joint citizenship, and because Rowan was American, Daddy could charge him under U.S. law.”
“So what happened?”
“So Mamma called Daddy a maiale egoista—a selfish pig—and told him I wouldn’t be testifying.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t.” Maggie shrugged again. “It wasn’t about Rowan. It wasn’t even about me. It was just about Daddy being angry with Mamma. It’s stupid when parents use their children like pawns in a game of comeuppance. Anyway, Mamma won that round.”
“Really?”
“I officially changed my last name from Daddy’s to Mamma’s. I suppose Maggie Ferrara sounds more interesting than Maggie Smith anyway.” She tilted her head. “Why are you here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
“Honeymoon? You know that Rowan and I—”
“Yes, he was a guest lecturer in one of my classes on design two weeks ago—he’s got a good eye for fashion, though I suppose it’s not a surprise to anyone—and we went out for drinks after class. I had hoped to jump his bones again,” Maggie said with no hint of apology or shame in her tone. “But he showed me pictures of you and Allison and told me he was getting married in two weeks.” Her tone turned thoughtful. “He looked happy, deep-down happy. You can tell when it’s more than the smile any professional can turn on when the camera starts clicking. I told him he’d have to give me tips on how he managed to date, get engaged, and married without the paparazzi finding out.”
“We didn’t get married.”
“What?” Maggie’s eyes widened. Her mouth shaped an O. “Was it me? Did you break it off because of what happened seven years ago? It wasn’t Rowan’s fault.”
“I know that now.” Oh, God, she had made the fool’s choice, allowing the short-term fears Darren had awakened in her to trump her longer-term faith that Rowan was an inherently good man, that he loved and cherished both her and Allison, and that he would never do anything to hurt them, even if it ultimately meant walking away from the marriage and the family he wanted.
“Un momento.” Maggie held up her hand and reached for her smartphone. She dialed a number and spoke to someone
in rapid-fire Italian before hanging up. “Rowan is shooting with Versace in Central Park today. Apparently, he cancelled all his photo shoots last week—some kind of family emergency—”
Yes, me. He was trying to save our marriage before it even took place.
“—but he’s back in New York and trying to catch up on all the work that didn’t get done last week.” Maggie pressed her hands against Vera’s. Her blue eyes were wide. “Find him, please. And tell him I’m so sorry. I never meant to get in the way of his happiness with you.”
On impulse, Vera leaned over and hugged Maggie tight. “I know. And thank you.”
Heavy spring foliage and a gawking crowd out for a glimpse of male supermodel, Rowan Forrester, at a Versace photo shoot, allowed Vera and Allison to stay unnoticed even as she watched him at work.
He looked fantastic in Versace’s summer collection—casual, stunningly desirable, and absurdly expensive. He smiled on command, but his smile did not reach his eyes. He was heartbroken, and no amount of professionalism could conceal it. Casual onlookers did not seem to notice it, but the camera crew exchanged concerned glances. The producer stepped away often to confer with a well-dressed man and woman who stood beside the trailer.
Vera wandered close to eavesdrop.
“It’s not going well.” The producer raked a hand through his hair. “His heart’s not in it.”
“No, it isn’t. Do you know what the issue is?”
“Not really mine to say, but since his personal problem is spilling over into his professional life, I guess it makes it all our problem. He was supposed to get married last weekend.”
“Our Rowan? Really.” The woman arched her eyebrows. “And?”
“Apparently, the girl called it off.”
“No explanation?”
“If there is, he ain’t saying. Lauren made the mistake of taking his side and calling the girl a bitch, but Rowan snapped back and said it was his fault. That’s all anyone’s been able to get out of him. He’s notoriously private about his personal relationships, and this more than most. Still, it’s plain as day it’s hit him hard.”
“I don’t know if it’s a problem though,” the woman said. Her gaze lingered on Rowan. “I looked through the shots you took an hour ago. He’s suffering, but it translates eloquently, even beautifully in the photos. He makes every woman’s heart twist for him and sprinkles the hope that perhaps she can be the one to make him smile, truly smile again. Rowan’s added something deeper to the photographs, no question about it.” She met the producer’s eyes. “Don’t push him. It’s working just fine as it is.”
The producer looked at the other man who nodded after a long moment. “Jocelyn’s right. The photos are great, and look at the crowd; people are enchanted by him. They can sense it, even if they can’t quite put their finger on the what and why.”
The producer shrugged and returned to the camera crew, shouting out orders for a new setup and a different angle.
Tucked in the crowd, Vera watched for another half hour until the sun dipped toward dusk and the camera crew wrapped up the session. Rowan disappeared into the trailer and did not reappear until most of the crowd had dispersed. He wore a black leather jacket over his white T-shirt and denim jeans. A baseball cap cast most of his face into shadow. He did not look up or around. Unobtrusively, he slipped around the edge of the trailer. Shoulders slumped, he trekked across the park toward his condominium on the Upper East Side.
Vera shifted her napping toddler against her shoulder and followed him from a good distance back, not that it mattered since Rowan did not think to look behind him. Her thoughts churned, reflecting emotions in turmoil. What could she say? What words could she find to close the distance that now separated them?
Her grip tightened around Allison. Hopelessness was like an icicle lodged in her heart. Even if she could find the words, nothing could change the fact that Darren held Allison’s custody like a sword over Rowan’s neck.
Chapter 17
Rowan let himself into his condominium. The final glow of dusk shone through the glass doors separating the balcony from his living room, but the rest of his home was cast in shadow.
Dark.
Quiet.
Empty.
He tried to draw in a deep breath, but it was jagged as it rubbed against the razor-sharp edge of his pain. The moments he had spent envisioning his home filled with Vera’s smiles and Allison’s giggles now came back to haunt him.
He strode through the living room. The black leather and sleek lines of B&B Italia couches and chairs contrasted against the white sheepskin rugs spread over black marble tiles. Framed modern art paintings on either side of the fireplace added splashes of color to the otherwise stark room.
He would have traded all of it in a heartbeat for Vera’s homey, perpetually cluttered living room.
Teeth gritted, Rowan walked into his bedroom, shrugged out of his jacket, and emptied his pockets of his smartphone, wallet, and keys. He glanced at the phone screen. Text and voice messages from friends invited him out to clubs and parties. He scrolled through all of them, hoping to find something from Vera, but found nothing. She was as silent as she had been for the past week.
How long would it take him to stop hoping, to stop looking for something from her? A month? Two? At some point, he would have to start getting over her. Why not today? He closed his eyes briefly, his hand trembling against the phone screen. A single touch deleted her phone number from the directory. If only his head and his heart were as easily managed.
Rowan tossed his smartphone onto his jacket and walked out of his bedroom. His destination was the kitchen, but something compelled him to stop by the room that would have been Allison’s. He flicked on the light and stared into the guest room that had been transformed into a child’s bedroom. Cubbies and shelves against the far wall overflowed with toys and books. A child’s bed, nestled within a play area designed to look like a castle, dominated the room, and a cozy reading nook tucked against the window.
He breathed through the roiling heartache. He would call the moving company tomorrow and have them pack up and ship the contents of the room to Vera. She could give them to Allison or give them away, whatever she choose. He had no need for a child’s wonderland in his home anymore.
Rowan closed the door on the room that encompassed the heart of everything he had lost—the woman he had loved and the child he had wanted—and turned away. The sooner he returned to the reality of his single life, the better. He entered his kitchen. Stainless steel equipment gleamed alongside black granite countertops. A tray of fresh fruit sat on the island. He opened the refrigerator, kept well stocked by his housekeeper, but nothing in there, not even the cold cuts of premium deli meat and artisan cheese slices appealed to him.
He hadn’t managed to work up an appetite in over a week. In a panic, the Versace design team had to alter the clothes that day to get a better fit on him. If he lost any more weight, the directors would get on his case, but not even the unappealing thought of having to explain the situation to Jocelyn and Royce was enough to stir his hunger.
Perhaps all he needed was time. Hell, time was all he had now, and in abundance since he had cut out his weekly commute to and from Fort Lauderdale. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, snatched up his iPod and headphones, and strode out to the balcony, drawing the glass doors closed behind him.
Vera rang the doorbell again. She could hear it buzz softly on the other side of the door, but the door did not open.
Where was Rowan? She had seen him walk into the condominium. She had been no further than ten minutes behind him, but she had to set Allison down on a park bench for a few minutes to rest her arms.
Why wasn’t he answering the door?
Had something happened to him? He would not hurt himself, would he?
Panic made her breath catch. Vera snatched her cell phone out of her pocket and called Rowan. The phone rang, unanswered.
Oh, God, was something wrong, or was h
e just ignoring her?
She could live with being ignored—it was no more than she deserved—but she could not take it if something had happened to him. She pounded her fists against the door. “Rowan!”
Allison, who had been napping against Vera’s shoulder, awoke with a start. She glared at her mother. Her frustration from disrupted sleep welled up within her and exploded into a furious scream. “Roan!”
His headphone blasting music into his ears, Rowan tipped his head back and drained the beer bottle. He pulled it away from his lips and stared at it. How many would it take to get drunk?
Certainly more than he had in the refrigerator. A pity he did not have any hard liquor on hand. Several shots of vodka would have dulled his thoughts to the point where he could sleep through the rawness in his heart.
Vera flicked through his mind. He hurled the image away.
He needed another beer. Or two. Or three.
Rowan pulled the headphones away from his ears, tossed them down on the chair, and pushed to his feet. He drew the glass balcony doors back.
“Roan!” The voice was muffled, but the tone of imperious command was unmistakable.
Adored: A Love Letters Novel Page 11
