by Ava Miles
Instead, she linked arms with him and started walking. “When I couldn’t reach you, I was frantic. Don’t you ever do that again.”
Inside the study, he closed the door behind him, sick at heart. Aunt Clara was right. In her own way, she still loved him. He figured it was time for them to be honest with each other. For the emotions they’d been repressing to finally come out.
“You’re speaking to me like a concerned wife,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting in the chair across from the settee she’d chosen.
She fussed with the edge of her Chanel suit. “Can’t I be concerned?”
Was she really going to beat around the bush? “Cynthia, are you really hoping this game you’re playing with me will lead to some form of a reconciliation?”
Her gaze flickered up, and he caught the stain of red flushing her cheekbones. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, darling. Perhaps all this animosity between us is the other side of a love-hate relationship? There can’t be this much emotion without it meaning something.”
Suddenly he knew the truth. “Given your parents’ relationship and how you were raised, I can see you might think that. Cynthia, there is a lot of emotion. I’ll grant you that, but this push-pull of power…this constant quest for revenge… It’s not love.”
She leaned back in the settee to better display her assets, he knew. “Perhaps it’s not, but it’s born out of love. We did love each other, Julian.”
He nodded. “Yes, but that time is past. Cynthia, it’s time for both of us to start over and find new directions apart from each other.” He’d used similar words when he’d told her he wanted a divorce.
She sat up and stared at him, her eyes hard now. “You mean my ship should go one way and yours another?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she said simply, standing up. “That’s not how it’s going to be.”
He rose as well, the familiar tension filling his body. “You’ve made my life hell for over three years now. It stops today. Let me tell you in no uncertain terms. I don’t love you anymore. I’ll never come back to you. I don’t mean to hurt you saying so, but it’s the God’s honest truth.”
Her chuckle was soft and ever so menacing. “But you have hurt me, darling, which is why I decide when it stops. Not you.”
Even though he’d expected her response, it still saddened him. “You’re wrong there.”
Fishing out his phone, he brought up the video and hit play. He held it up for her to see, but he watched her. Emotion played across her face. Shock. Fear. And then ice-cold anger, a look he knew well.
She didn’t say anything until the video ended, and neither did he. Pocketing it, he simply sat down again. She sat back down on the settee, her posture picture-perfect.
“Well, well, well, your elderly aunt and your freshly fired girlfriend have teeth,” she said in her bored voice. “I expect Trevor thought up this plan.”
“It doesn’t matter who it was,” he said. “You were indiscreet.”
She edged closer to his chair. “I was upset over you disappearing! I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“Bullshit! You knew exactly what you were saying. Cynthia, for three years, I’ve been trying to get you to call an end to this revenge quest you’re hell-bent on. This video gives me a certain leverage, and unfortunately, I don’t see any other choice than to use it.”
Her mouth parted. “You wouldn’t. One of the things I’ve always loved about you, Julian, is your sense of manners and fair play. Besides, I know your thoughts on a lot of things that wouldn’t be favorable for you—”
“But I have you on record,” he interrupted. “You can’t say the same. Once this video goes public, your reputation will be in the gutter.”
Should Trevor discover collusion at Carlyle, well, they’d pursue that too. It went beyond Cynthia, and he’d decided to stop being bullied. He’d leave it up to Connor and Flynn if they wanted to cook up some punishment for Newhouse Senior and his crony.
“No one will believe a word you say after seeing this,” he said, driving it home. “They certainly won’t want you over for dinner or hosting a charity function. And you know it.”
Her hand curled around the edge of his chair like she was a woman desperately trying to hang on in an untenable situation.
“I only want to be free of you,” he said, “so I’m here to make you a deal.”
She flounced back on the couch like an angry teenager. “Blackmail? Oh, how Borgia of you, darling. You lived in Rome way too long.”
Was it Borgia of him? Right now, he didn’t care. “I won’t publish this video if you’ll swear to leave me in peace. Forever.”
“You won’t ruin me,” she cried, pressing her fists into the settee. “It’s not in your character.”
His mouth lifted as he said, “Disappearing from everyone and everything I love wasn’t in my character either, and yet, only a few days ago, that’s what I did. Cynthia, this…horrible game has changed us both.”
“You broke my heart when you left me,” she spat.
He believed her. “And I’ve apologized. I’ve asked you to forgive me more than once. I hope in time we can forgive each other. But I promise you that I will make this video public if you so much as contact me or anyone I care about ever again.”
She made an anguished sound as he stood.
“Oh, and my brother plans to go after Carlyle and potentially your father for their involvement in your little games,” he said. “I would advise you to leave them to their own devices. They’re big boys, after all.”
He crossed to the door and turned around to face her. In that moment, sadness rolled through him. Yes, he’d once loved her and she him, but that felt like a lifetime ago. After today, he planned to never see her again, and somehow that filled him with peace, a peace he’d longed for. “Goodbye, Cynthia.”
She stood up slowly. “Julian, don’t go.”
He opened the door and walked to the foyer. Donald was there to see him out. When he was outside, he took a couple of cleansing breaths. The lights from Manhattan prevented him from seeing the stars. He thought of Dare Valley and how much he missed the endless sky.
The door to the limo opened.
Aunt Clara stuck her head out. “Is your work here done?”
He nodded, shaking off the last of the sickness in his heart. Cynthia had made her bed with the choices she’d made. That chapter was officially closed finally, and he could feel excitement gathering in his heart. He’d lived with fear for so long, he barely remembered the sensation of living without it. The time had come to savor life again, to have and enjoy everything he wanted.
Trev stepped out. “You ready to blow this joint?”
He put his arm around his brother, glad for his constant rock-solid presence.
“Yes, let’s go home.”
He had a wonderful woman and a new life to claim.
Chapter 41
Arthur was waiting by the window for Clara, something very unlike himself. Watched pots and all of that.
“She’ll be here soon, sir,” Hargreaves drolled in that British accent of his. “You might seat yourself on the sofa. It would be more comfortable for you.”
“Seat myself on the sofa,” he muttered. “I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for days, Hargreaves. I’m making sure I don’t get bed sores.”
“You really should sit, sir,” the man said, worse than a mother hen.
He reached for his cane and realized he’d left it somewhere. “Is dinner ready?” he barked, stalking over to the sofa and sitting down. “I want everything to be in place when she arrives.”
“Yes, sir,” Hargreaves said, pouring him a glass of red wine and bringing it to over. “Like you requested, I have made madam’s favorite meal.”
It was more than she deserved for leaving him in that infernal hospital and dashing off to Bali. If it had been for any other reason, he might have been miffed. But she and young Trevor had done a fine job convincing J.T.
to come back home where he belonged. She was showing the spunk he remembered, thank God.
“You letting me booze it up, Hargreaves?” he asked, hoping just once his badgering would crack the man’s polite visage.
“Yes, sir,” he said again, holding out the glass.
“Dammit, Hargreaves! Stop saying that. My name is Arthur. If I know Clara, there’s more to you than your infernal manners and British snobbery. Now sit the hell down.”
“I thought I might light some candles, sir,” Hargreaves said, not sitting down, of course.
“What for? It’s plenty light in here.” Was the man dense? Or just going blind?
“Candles set a romantic atmosphere, sir,” Hargreaves said. “If you take my meaning.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Hargreaves, we’re two old guys talking about lighting candles and romantic atmospheres. Either you get yourself a drink and sit down, or I’ll take up my place at the window again.”
All he received in response was a blank stare, and then Hargreaves finally walked to the bar and poured himself a glass of water. “Since you leave me no choice,” he said, returning and sitting down awkwardly on the edge of the adjacent chair.
It wasn’t wine, but it was a capitulation somehow. “Finally.”
“May I ask what your intentions are toward Mrs. Allerton, sir?” Hargreaves asked. “Since we’re having a drink.”
Of all the things he’d expected Hargreaves to say, that question hadn’t made the list. “Like it’s any of your business.”
Back ramrod straight, the man said, “I’ve been with Mrs. Allerton longer than anyone alive—or dead—sir. Since your phone call, she’s shown a renewed interest in life. I would hate for that to change if you haven’t thought things through.”
Well, well, Arthur thought. That was telling him. “Is she that changed then?”
Sure, she’d alluded to her life—married and otherwise—but not in great detail. Even so, the picture she’d painted hadn’t sat well with him.
“If I may be bold, sir, I knew her as a bright young woman, as you did. It wasn’t easy to see that spark fade.”
That was a hell of a way to say she’d had a shitty life, but he understood. “At the risk of sounding ornery, I’d like to tell you to mind your own business, but since you’ve been good to her, I’ll say this—I don’t want her new spark to go out either, Hargreaves.” In fact, he was experiencing a similar spark himself.
“Then we’re agreed, sir,” he said, standing. “Does this meet with your conversational requirements?”
“Oh, light the damn candles,” he spat.
He’d gotten out of practice with wanting a woman. With waiting for her and missing her when she wasn’t around. Checking his watch again, he frowned. Where in the hell was she?
He drank his wine and called out to Hargreaves, “Why are you letting me drink alcohol after a heart attack? Are you trying to finish me off?”
The man looked down his nose at him, something Arthur loved to do to other people when they were talking stupid. Fair play. “Studies have shown alcohol may increase the levels of HDL or good cholesterol, sir. Additionally, it may reduce inflammation and prevent blood clots.”
“Aren’t you a font of knowledge?” Arthur exclaimed.
“Just looking after your health, sir, like madam asked me to. I’ll check on dinner now.”
As the man left, Arthur took another sip of wine. He’d bitched and moaned to her about leaving him with her bag of bones butler, sure, but he knew it meant she cared. Family was a renewed force in her life, and Arthur well knew how powerful a force it could be.
“Honey, I’m home,” a familiar voice called.
He turned on the sofa, fighting the joy sweeping through him. Grinning like an idiot was not romantic. She sailed in wearing a tailored red designer dress, her long silver hair trailing over her shoulder. He wanted to kiss her straight away, but he decided to play it cool. She got so flustered when she had to work for it.
“Oh, so soon?” he quipped. “I hadn’t realized the time.”
She shot him a look of pure hell. Oh, yeah, that was the spark he and Hargreaves had been talking about.
“I stopped in Paris to buy what I hope is my trousseau,” she said, gesturing to her outfit, “and all you can say is that? If you can’t come up with something more original, you might be back in the hospital, my dear.”
That threat would shrivel most men’s balls, but not his. “You should be nicer to me. I just had a heart attack.”
She stalked over and sat down beside him. “Another can be arranged if you aren’t more pleasant. After all, I was instrumental in bringing J.T. home and killing the wicked witch of the West, so to speak.”
He grabbed her and kissed her full on the mouth. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Then they got to kissing for real until his heart rate started to accelerate.
“Best slow down, or I’ll blow a gasket,” he said, pulling away but taking hold of her hand. “I had Hargreaves make your favorite meal.”
“Oh, you did miss me,” she said, cozying up to his side. “Of course, I wondered while I was gone how many of your so-called female friends visited you in the hospital.”
Hadn’t he always liked a woman who claimed her territory? “A few did pop by to commiserate with me. The one I used to see visited.”
She lifted her head and stared at him. “And?”
He pushed her back in place. “I told her I was in a new relationship.” She’d been happy for him. They’d only really spent time together for companionship, and they’d both known it. He’d never had the compulsion to wait beside the window for her to arrive, or vice versa.
“That was wise of you,” she said, tapping his knee. “I don’t want to have to unleash this sly side of mine on anyone else.”
“Sin City was enough,” Arthur said. “How did it go in New York?”
“J.T. did what he had to,” she said, tracing the wrinkle in his pant leg. “He’s planning something romantic for Caroline tomorrow.”
“He’d better sweet talk her but good,” Arthur said with a harrumph. “That boy scared us all.”
Clara put her hands on both of his shoulders. “So did you.”
Her blue eyes soaked him in, taking their fill, as if she had missed him too.
“Don’t do it again,” she said softly, resting against his chest.
He put his arms around her. “We’re all going to die someday, sweetheart.”
She poked him. “Yes, but now that I’ve found you again, it had better be in twenty or so years, or you’ll regret it.”
He supposed he could live to a hundred. God knew the younger generation still needed him from time to time, and so would his great-grandchildren. Goodness, he might even live to see Jill and Meredith’s children graduate high school. He liked that thought.
“Enough of this age talk. What’s this balderdash about you buying a trousseau in Paris? Good heavens, woman, no one’s proposed to you yet.”
“I suppose I’m becoming an optimist in my old age,” she said, laughing. “Where did you think this was going?”
“I thought we’d live in sin,” he said, chuckling when she socked him again. “We’re too old to get married. Seems undignified.”
She pulled away and stood, facing him down like a termagant. “Undignified? I happen to love you, you stupid, ornery old man. And you love me. I don’t want to be sleeping in the spare room for the rest of my life.”
He didn’t want that either. “What would Hargreaves say?” He knew what the old biddies in town were saying, and it wasn’t nice. Of course, the old men he played bingo with thought his ship had come in. Frankly, he thought so too.
“As the only man I’ve trusted all these years, Hargreaves would give the bride away if I asked him,” she said, picking up his wine glass and drinking from it.
“You’ll give me your germs,” he said with a frown.
She waggled her eyebrows. “Better get use
d to it. I plan on hanging around here. Oh, and I want to travel more. There’s so much out in the world. We don’t have to live like fuddy-duddies, and now that you need to retire—”
“Who said anything about retiring?” he barked.
“Dammit, you’re nearly eighty years old,” she said with indignation in her voice. “This heart attack was a wake-up call. It’s time to let Meredith and Tanner run the paper like you planned.”
He grumbled. Andy had said his chances of living longer would improve if he cut back on his hours or outright retired. Cutting back would be impossible. Running a newspaper was a full-time job. Which meant the big R word had been churning in his gut.
“You knew the day would come,” Clara said softly, sinking onto a knee beside him on the sofa. “Did you ever think maybe I came into your life at the right time? We can start this new chapter together.”
“I called you,” he said, tapping her playfully on the nose.
“Finally, but I was the one who showed up in all my glory,” she shot back. “Arthur…”
“Yes?” he said as she cuddled up next to him again.
“I don’t want to go through this kind of worry again,” she said softly. “Not until I absolutely have to.”
She’d hidden her worry well at the hospital, but he remembered her holding his hand and crying as they waited for the ambulance to come. He didn’t want to do that to her again. The pain of watching Harriet get sicker and sicker and then die had made an imprint on him. It wasn’t something he’d wish on anyone.
“I don’t like my career ending like this,” he said, “but I’ll retire.” Of course, he’d write an Op-Ed here and there. The black ink in his veins wasn’t simply going to dry up.
She kissed his cheek. “Good, then we can get married and travel the world. Oh, and I might join a theater group too.”
“Planning to be Judi Dench?” he asked, delighted to see her so happy.
“No, silly,” she said. “Helen Mirren.”
He put his arm around her and leaned in to kiss her neck. Ah, she was wearing French perfume. How lucky could a man be?
“I always thought Helen was sexy,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “Shall we go to dinner?”
