by Linde, K. A.
Court looked like he was going to object, but he gracefully rose to his feet. He looked… stupid good in a gray Tom Ford suit. He tugged his jacket forward, pulling it taut against his broad shoulders and buttoning the top button. He grasped the martini in front of him and drained it.
“Gentlemen,” he said casually. “Business awaits.”
They laughed and said their farewells. He shook hands with the familiar-looking guy—Robert something—and then Gavin.
“Poker tomorrow?” Gavin asked.
“I’ll see you there.”
“Don’t have too much fun.”
Court shot him his inimitable grin. “Don’t I always?”
Then, he gestured for me to precede him out of the restaurant. I glanced left and right, making sure no press had flagged him down before me, and then hustled him into his awaiting black car. I didn’t relax until the rest of Manhattan fell away with the snap of the car door.
“What’s going on, English?” he asked curtly. “I thought you had planned to let me live my life how I saw fit. That was a rather important luncheon.”
“Jane,” I whispered, hating it.
He froze. His entire body stiffened. “What about Jane?”
I swallowed. Fuck, I hated this.
“She refused a plea deal. They just scheduled her trial for December 10. I’m sorry, Court. I had to get you out of there.”
11
Court
I had no words.
I couldn’t believe that Jane hadn’t taken a plea deal. She wasn’t stupid. In fact, she was incredibly smart. That was how she had swindled her way into my life and the Upper East Side. She couldn’t think that a trial was going to be more favorable to her. If they kept digging through everything she had done, it could only get worse from there.
And even though she had wrecked my life—used it and abused it and completely fucked it all up—for a moment, I wanted to protect her. Tell her not to do this. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t speak to her.
Not that I’d even know what to say to her. But it would look horrible.
I hadn’t seen her since the night of Natalie’s party when we were arrested together. Jane had gone catatonic. She hadn’t even told me what was going on.
Though she had confessed to someone at a later date that I’d had no clue about what she had been doing. I was thankful that she’d admitted the truth. And wondered why the hell she’d done it. Any of it. Why me?
“Court, say something,” English said gently.
Too gently for her. She wasn’t gentle. She was fierce and hard and determined. Not… this.
“Why didn’t she take the deal?” I asked, my eyes cold and empty as I turned to look at her.
She straightened at that look. “I don’t know. I just heard about it on the news.”
“You haven’t even heard it from a lawyer or the source or anything?”
She shook her head. “I wanted to get to you as soon as possible. I figured if we just got you out of the public eye, then we could formulate what we were going to say while we figured everything else out.”
“God,” I groaned. “Just… who the fuck is representing her? Are they even doing their fucking job if they told her not to take the plea deal?”
Her head tilted slightly. I could see something shift in her expression. This wasn’t what she had been expecting from me. After her assessment of my previous relationship at the primary victory, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I didn’t correct people’s initial judgments of me. It was easier to let them think the worst.
“Does it matter?” she finally asked.
I turned back to face forward. “I guess not.”
She opened her mouth like she was going to say something. Maybe offer me an apology. But I didn’t want to hear it.
“Let’s just get back to my place and then talk.”
She closed her mouth and didn’t say another word until we pulled up in front of my building. I couldn’t believe that there were already two or maybe three news people with cameras set up in front of my apartment. It had been months since Jane and I were arrested. Why did they even care?
“If any press approach us, just say no comment,” she said before pushing the door open.
We stepped onto the sidewalk and were immediately accosted.
“Court, we just heard that Jane Devney refused to take the plea deal. Can you comment on why she did this?” a reporter asked.
“Are you going to be at the trial?” another asked.
“Have you spoken to her about her thought process?” the first one butted back in, shoving the microphone in my face.
“Let him through,” English snarled. She was a force, walking through the press with her head held high and her gait exaggerated. “No questions. Just let us through.”
“Court, can you tell us how you feel about Jane’s impending trial?”
“No comment,” I said brusquely and then followed English into the building.
She hurried forward as if the press was going to come after us and jammed her finger on the elevator button. We stepped in together. I sighed and slumped back against the wall when the doors closed. But she was a ball of anxiety and energy, impatiently tapping her foot as we soared upward.
When the doors opened into my apartment, she marched inside like a drill sergeant. And I went straight for the wet bar.
“Can’t you do anything but drink?” she snapped irritably.
I ignored her and poured myself a double.
“I need you sober right now.”
I held the glass up to her and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
She narrowed her eyes and began to pace. “We’re going to have to figure out what the hell to do about this. We need to get our story straight. Then, we’re going to need to plan an interview with a sympathetic journalist. Probably do something drastic that puts you in the spotlight in a positive way.”
“English, could you just stop for one minute?” I asked as I sank into the couch.
She stilled and looked at me, as if just realizing where we were. She hadn’t been here since the night we fucked. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.
“Can you find out what happened?”
She nodded. “I’m already on it. I was texting with a few people who could get me an in on the situation. I should have answers before we leave again.”
I blew out a breath. “Has my mother been informed?”
“Yes. I spoke with her assistant.” She frowned. “And Lark.”
“You did all that when we were in the car?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s my job.”
She’d been all high focus while I’d been silently freaking the fuck out.
“How do we fix this?” I managed to get out as I finished my drink and set it down on the table.
“The important thing is that we get ahead of it. Two, maybe three press people downstairs, we can handle. We need to get a statement out as soon as possible. Something short and sweet and sympathetic. And then we need a big splash. Something that screams golden boy.”
I snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“I can put together an interview and photo shoot. I think that will help, but it’s not enough. It’s not flashy. Like when we had the charity donation—that was flashy.”
“You want me to give away more money?”
I didn’t care about the money. The donation had been a good idea. No, a great idea. I’d played lacrosse my whole life. Had even played at Harvard. But I never would have thought of funding the rec league in the city.
“I mean… no. I don’t think that would work here.”
“Then what?”
She paused, turning slowly to face me again. She put her index finger to her lip and touched it there one, two, three times. I could see her considering. And all I could think about was how I wanted to drag that bottom lip into my mouth. Fuck, I needed to think of something else. She’d made her position perfectly clear.
“I have an idea,” she mused aloud.
“Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like it?”
“I don’t think it matters. We need something big. Something that will make people look twice.”
“My feelings don’t matter. Got it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. We’d never do anything you weren’t expressly comfortable with. But comfort is a degree when it comes to maintaining an image.”
“Okay. What’s the idea?” I asked, certain that explanation only made it worse.
“You go back to working for Kensington Corporation.”
My back stiffened. “No.”
“Just think about it. We can pitch it as the prodigal son returns to his company. A destiny or fate sort of thing. We can say that you’re on the road to taking it back over. Following in your family’s footsteps. It’s a perfect picture of the golden boy of the Upper East Side.”
English was so smart. But sometimes, she asked all the wrong questions. Always the what, but never the why. But my feelings were irrelevant. She had made that clear.
“I see the picture you’re painting. But no one will buy it. I left the company five years ago and never looked back,” I told her.
“They’ll believe whatever the fuck we tell them to believe. You a have bachelor’s in economics from Harvard. You stayed to get an MBA and worked for the company for a couple years. We’ll say you left to pursue your own endeavors, to get your own experience, and are ready to come home.”
I narrowed my eyes. “All of that is bullshit.”
She sighed. “Fine. Then give me something better. Give me something that spells golden boy. That says they don’t need to ask you about your ex-girlfriend who is going to be on trial for grand larceny!”
“I don’t know,” I grunted.
“I’ll take anything. If this were Hollywood, I could invent things that made you look good. But the Upper East Side is different than Hollywood. No one would believe a charity benefit or a trip to a third world country. We can’t spin it so that this is somehow for a role. We can’t give your mother an illness because we’re working in her favor. Court, it has to be something big.”
There was something. But it wasn’t big enough. And… I didn’t want anyone to know anyway. It belonged to me. In a way that little else did.
I set my jaw. But fuck, I didn’t want to work for the company. I could give her this thing I’d held back. Put the last piece of myself on display for the media. I just didn’t want to. It would be worse than going back to Kensington Corp. and dicking around with investments for a few months.
“There’s nothing,” I lied.
She frowned back at me. As if she could see my lie this time.
“I think this could work. If you’re willing,” she finally said.
“Fine,” I said on a sigh. Serving up my life on a silver platter. “I’ll do it.”
12
English
I knew that Court didn’t want to go back to work for Kensington Corporation. But once he was all in, he was all in.
We’d met with his mother, who had been ecstatic about the decision. She’d wanted one of her boys to take over the company ever since their father died seven years prior. But neither of them had had any interest. Leslie saw this as the first step toward that dream.
She’d even spoken to the board for us and secured him a position. I didn’t even really know what they did precisely. Something to do with investments and banking. They made a lot of money. That was for sure.
Court would have a corner office on the top floor. Apparently, it had been vacant for years, as it was reserved for a Kensington. I wondered how long it would have stayed open before they decided against that. But I was glad for it now. It would look better to do the announcement tomorrow out of his office, which I’d hired an interior designer to whip into shape.
“What do you think?” I asked Court as we walked around the space with the designer.
Court shrugged. “As long as I have an enormous desk and a full library, then I’ll be happy.”
The interior designer took notes. “I wasn’t sure about the library, but I’ll have my people in right away to begin.”
“It will all be ready by tomorrow?” I asked.
She nodded. “Definitely. I’ll have the entire staff on site, working all night to get this set up. Anything else?”
I checked my watch. “No. We’re running late. Come on, Court. We need to get to your next appointment.”
He stood in the center of the room, gazing out the enormous glass windows to the city streets below. He was in a black suit and blue tie that matched his eyes. His demeanor seemed to shift in the space. It was as if I was seeing the man who had bent me over the side of the couch and held my hair back so I’d arch into him. The commanding man who could run this business if he chose and not the one we were pretending could.
“This will do,” he finally said.
Then, he turned to face me. Strong, assertive, powerful. This was Court Kensington.
He smiled at me. My knees went weak. All my own bluster and strength fled in the wake of that smile.
“Shall we, English?”
I nodded.
But he led the way out.
* * *
Evelyn Rothschild obliged us with a second interview for her society magazine. I was pretty sure that she would do anything to get at Court again. Our first interview had been a tour of Kensington Cottage in the Hamptons. A chaste affair where I’d dressed him like a prep-school knockout. All class and charm. The video had gone viral, plastering his pretty face all over the internet.
Evelyn had wanted to see more of him. I’d cashed in that favor.
“Remember, keep it casual. Stick to the prepared questions,” I told her. “Your readers will eat him up.”
“I know how to do my job,” she said with that Cheshire cat smile that said I didn’t really want to get in bed with her.
“I’m well aware.”
“But off the record, was he really involved with his ex’s schemes?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “If you ask him that, I will pull this entire shoot and blacklist you from celebs in all of New York City.”
“You don’t have that sway,” she bit out.
“Try me,” I snarled.
Fear pricked at her. It helped that I was at least six inches taller than her and could stare down at her over my nose.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” she said hastily. “It was just a joke between two girls.”
I was saved from answering by the appearance of Court Kensington. Evelyn wasn’t the only one who stared helplessly as he stepped into the room as if straight off of the cover of GQ.
I’d hired the same hair and makeup team as his last interview. And I’d brought in a stylist who had combed through his closet and brought in a few complementary pieces. Inherently, I’d known that he was going to look good… the best. He had to look the best for this. But I hadn’t prepared myself for it.
For the dark hair that had been perfectly styled. None of his messy waves from him running his fingers through it. I couldn’t even tell that he had makeup on, but whatever they’d done highlighted all the best features. Especially those blue eyes. They were usually such a radiating ocean blue. But now, they seared me with their intensity. The dark, mysterious depths of the ocean. Waves crashed in those eyes, and I was the one pulled under by his current.
He had a few outfits, but we’d started him off in a debonair three-piece navy-blue suit that the stylist had taken one look at and actually shrieked with delight. It had been handmade from Savile Row in London, fit to his incredible form, and paired with brown oxfords that likely cost more than my parents’ house back in the Valley. The full effect was dazzling.
Neither of us spoke.
He just arched his eyebrow. “I’ll take that to mean I look all right.”
Evelyn cleared her throat. “Yes. You look wonderful.” She coughed again. “Le
t me introduce you to the photographer.”
“By all means,” he said. His attention shifted just briefly from Evelyn up to me, and he smirked.
I knew what that look meant. And it made me want to gouge his eyes out. The cheeky little shit.
I took a deep breath and then followed them over to where the photo shoot was taking place. Evelyn had whipped all of this together in two days, and it looked good. Exactly the kind of Upper East Side sophistication I’d wanted. And as he stepped into the space, he took over the room. God, when he tried, it was as if he were a different person.
The photographer, Alejandro, started in on his subject. He was a professional. The best we could get on short notice. But after only a few minutes in Alejandro’s care, all my fears evaporated. Not only was Alejandro exceptional at his job, but Court also acted like he had been in front of a camera his whole life.
It made me wonder what Court could have done with his life if he’d just cared an ounce more. If he’d planned to use his MBA. If he’d liked anything as much as drinking and partying. If he’d just tried.
I’d grown up with a whole lot of nothing. I’d had to claw my way up the social ladder. I’d faked my way into parties and meetings. My ability to lie like a pro had always come in handy. And still, even when I belonged, I kept reaching for more, more, more. I wanted everything and then some. I wasn’t content with success. I had to have it all.
And yet, I had always been attracted to these kinds of guys. The ones who were the hot fucking assholes. The gorgeous model in LA who thought his looks and cocaine habit would make him a star. The party-hard rock star who could make out only three chords but had the look. The douche actor who had been in three commercials and thought he would be the next Brad Pitt just because a few people had said he looked like him.
I’d thought it was a miracle when I met Josh. He was different. He was going places. Sure, he partied with the rest of us, but he was never out of control. And he’d made me want to rise to my full potential. I had already been working for Poise, but the years with Josh was when I hadn’t just climbed; I’d soared.
