by Kristy Tate
The door across the hall cracked open and Rose glowered at him. She looked small, rumpled, and mad. “You can bang and shout all you want, but she won’t answer. She’s gone.”
“Gone? Where? Why?”
Rose hitched an eyebrow. “That’s what we want to know.”
Posey joined her sister in the doorway. “Go away! We’re mad at you.”
Liz, wearing a housecoat, fuzzy pink slippers, and cold cream on her nose, appeared behind her daughters. “Girls, let me handle this.” She motioned for the twins to duck beneath her arm and go back into the suite. After closing the door, she glowered at Zane. “What did you do?”
Zane edged away from her hostility. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Flora left last night. Clearly upset. The girls are sure you had something to do with it.” Liz balled her fists and planted them on her hips. “So, spill it. What did you do to make the best tutor and nanny I ever had ditch our family?”
Zane sputtered for an answer.
Liz pointed her finger at his chest. “Stay away from my family. We don’t need some rich, spoiled man who thinks he can take whatever he wants without any regard for anyone else hanging around my daughters.”
“Liz! Come on.”
She went back into her suite and slammed the door.
Zane stared at it.
For seven years, he had considered himself Flora’s victim. His world shifted as he saw things from another point of view. He scrambled for his phone and called his personal assistant, Marco. “I need you to find a Sicily Hill. She recently passed the CPA and is a recent hire at a big five accounting firm. Then, when you’ve got that, I need you to book me a plane to wherever she is.” He hung up before Marco could argue or ask questions.
CHAPTER 8
Thanks to a private jet, it took less than nine hours to fly to New York. Then, because of the time difference, Zane managed to get to Sicily’s office by noon of the same day he’d left. His legs were shaky and his palms sweaty as he stared at the office building.
Little Sicily. She possibly hated him as much as Flora did. The sleek, modern building stretched into the sky. Men and women in business attire scurried across the pavement and in and out of the glass doors. Two security guards flanked the entrance.
Zane sat on a bench and waited. If Sicily had been surprised to hear from him, she hadn’t shown it. After a few moments, she emerged. Willowy with a cloud of honey-gold hair, she looked lovely yet professional in her dress pants and silky white button-down blouse. When had she started wearing glasses? He stood when she caught sight of him.
He wanted to hug her but didn’t know how she’d feel about that, so he kept his arms limply at his sides.
“Zane.” Sicily strode toward him. “How are you?”
“Sicily,” he croaked out.
“I’m sorry, but you look like hell.”
He raked his fingers through his hair.
She elbowed him. “Come on. I don’t have long.” Taking his arm, she steered him across the plaza.
“Where are we going?”
“To my favorite café. Your treat.”
He smirked. Same old Sicily. “Does Flora know I’m here?”
“No, but I do.” She guided him along the busy sidewalk.
“That’s good, because I’m not sure...”
“You want to know what happened that night.”
He nodded.
Sicily paused and studied him. “Why didn’t you ask me, or Flora, seven years ago?”
“My dad told me Flora and her mom were scam artists.”
“And you believed him?”
Ducking his head, he acknowledged his guilt.
“You’re a bonehead,” she said, sounding more amused than angry. Sicily stopped in front of a café with a bright green awning and pulled open the door. The scents of yeasty bread, cinnamon, and broiling chicken welcomed them inside.
Sicily guided him to a table near the window. He held out a chair for her and she slid into it and picked up a menu tucked between a napkin dispenser and a potted flower.
He let out a strangled breath and tried to corral his thoughts. “Do you know where she is?”
“I do.”
“But you’re not going to tell me.”
She steepled her fingers and gazed at him. “Why should I?”
“So I can apologize?”
“For what happened seven years ago, or for what happened yesterday?”
He stared at the Formica tabletop.
“You’re so clueless.” Sicily directed her comments at his bent head. “Don’t you know in today’s MeToo world she could sic the tabloids on you?”
His head jerked up and he met her gaze. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? She should.”
“But she won’t.” She was a good person. She had always been a good person. He, on the other hand... “What happened seven years ago?”
“She tied her up.”
Tied up?
“My mom,” Sicily began again. “She tied us both up. I, at least, was on my bed. Flora was left in the hall.”
Rage mingled with despair washed through him.
“It was awful,” Sicily said. “Cass was completely insane. I tried to help Flora, but Cass tied me up, too. We went to your place as soon as we could, but your dad—”
“I know. He told me,” Zane said, his voice strangled. “What happened next?”
“We ran away. My dad put us in contact with a pastor from a church in Washington State who took us in.”
“What happened to your mom?”
Sicily shook her head. “We haven’t spoken to her in years.”
A waitress in a green uniform that resembled a leprechaun’s get-up appeared at their table.
“We’ll get the grilled shrimp and steak.” Sicily looked Zane in the eye. “Unless there’s something else you want.”
“I want plenty,” Zane said, “but food isn’t high on the list.”
After the waitress left, Zane placed his hands palm-up on the table. “Tell me how I can make this right.”
“I’m not sure you can. I’ll tell her you came by, but if she doesn’t want to see you, she doesn’t want to see you.”
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, Flora hummed as she hung her latest creation, a sundress adorned with tiny silk roses and embroidered green leaves and vines, on a rack. All around her, sewing machines hummed and conversations buzzed. Dresses, blouses, and jackets on hangers blew in the breeze from the open windows. From outside came the calls of the vendors on Via La Voga.
Of course, she hadn’t been accepted into the Sciccoso School of Design—there hadn’t been time for applications or any of that nonsense—but Madame Figueroa had allowed her to work (for free) as an apprentice, and now, several weeks later, she got a measly wage for her work. But she didn’t care about the money, or the lack thereof. She loved being in the heart of the creative hub and working with the designers and the shimmery fabric.
Every once in a while, a surge of happiness would take her by surprise. Sure, she still had moments of sadness and heartbreak when she thought of Zane, but she’d recently begun to believe that she’d always carry that burden of disappointment.
When she was young, she’d loved the television show, Modern Family. To her, the characters had been as real and much more lovable than her own mother. But when she’d learned the show had been carefully constructed by a crew of writers, directors, and producers, and the people were only actors playing parts, her heart had broken a little and television had lost its magic and glimmer.
That was how she felt about Zane.
He wasn’t the person she’d thought him to be. Seven years ago, when she’d been little more than a child, she’d been dazzled by his glimmer. But now that she was older and wiser, he had no power over her. Well, at least not much.
At least, that was what she told herself.
It helped when she called him Zane the Snake.
Raised voices broke
her reverie. American voices. Most of the designers spoke decent English, but she was the only native speaker in the shop, and Madame Figueroa liked to rely on her when Brits or Americans came in. Now, Madame came scurrying into the back, her small hands fluttering in distress and waving at Flora.
Flora put down her sewing and followed Madame into the showroom, where two women stood who would have been identical if not for the obvious age difference.
“Mom, it’s my wedding,” the younger blonde moaned. She cradled a bolt of white and yellow sateen in her arms.
“I know, Alexa, and I’m sorry, but I can’t get excited about a wedding gown made in a giraffe pattern print.”
Alexa rolled her eyes. “It’s a jungle theme.”
“But why?” The mother, who had the body of a teenager and the face of a thirty-year-old, but the neck of someone her real age, looked genuinely perplexed. “Are you seriously hoping men will show up in gorilla suits? Is Anthony going to come dressed like Hemingway on a safari? Do you want to drive off in a jeep?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one who wants monkeys attending her wedding.”
Madame gently pushed Flora into the room.
She interrupted their argument. “Hi, I’m Flora.”
Both women stopped arguing long enough to consider Flora. The older woman squinted and rubbed her chin, her gaze speculative.
Madame nodded at Flora in encouragement.
“I’m sure we can find something you’ll both love,” Flora continued.
The older woman cocked her head and studied Flora. “You look familiar to me. Where are you from, dear?”
“Rose Arbor, Washington.”
“We don’t know anyone from such a place, do we?” Alexa asked.
Her mom shook her head. “Not that I know of.” She placed her hand on Flora’s arm. “You’re so lovely, you remind me of someone I saw in a magazine or on TV.”
Madame flushed as if she’d been the one paid a compliment.
“You’re right,” Alexa said. “Because she looks familiar to me, too. Didn’t Zane have a girlfriend named Flora?”
Flora’s heart froze and she shot Madame Figueroa a panicked glance, but Madame looked pleased with the turn of the conversation.
“Goodness. You’re right. But that was a long time ago.”
“I don’t think he’s ever gotten over her.”
Flora had to stop this conversation. “Tell me about your jungle-themed wedding. It’s a very unusual choice.” Of course, she desperately wanted to know how these two knew Zane and if there was any chance he would follow them into the shop.
But, of course, he wouldn’t. Right now, he was possibly safely tucked away in his laboratory in New York, brewing up concoctions that would triple his wealth and cure diseases.
“Anthony, my fiancé, has very eclectic taste,” the younger woman said.
“He’s a screenwriter,” her mom said, as if this explained everything.
“It’s a destination wedding. We’re getting married in an abandoned temple in Borneo.”
Flora wasn’t a hundred percent sure where Borneo was. “Are there giraffes there?”
The mom’s eyes sparked with hope. “No.”
“We have silk from Malaysia,” Madame said.
Alexa still clutched her bolt of sateen, but allowed herself to be led to the silk from Southeastern Asia. “It can’t be white and boring,” she said with a pout.
The mom’s phone buzzed and she reached into her purse to fish it out. “Yes, we’re still here.” She pulled away from her daughter to talk in privacy in a corner of the room among the linens and heavy cottons.
Flora held up one bolt of fabric and then another. Alexa debated between three silks.
Flora’s arms were beginning to ache. “Maybe you could use all three.” She’d meant it as a joke, but Alexa’s eyes sparked with interest.
“What do you mean?”
Madame also got excited. “I have a brilliant idea.” In her excitement, her English and Italian tumbled together. “Lo amerai, lo prometto. All three silks. Ten yards.”
Flora’s breath caught when she thought of the expense.
“Vieni, farò uno schizzo.” Madame Figueroa motioned the three of them to the large table in the back of the room.
The door flew open. The bell pealed a complaint. Zane stormed in, his face anxious.
Flora darted behind a sewing form and peeked at Zane. His face was flushed as if he’d been running. His eyes were wild as he scanned the small and crowded room. Relief flooded his expression when he caught sight of her.
She couldn’t help it, she let it out a small eeep! and darted for the back.
Zane vaulted over the cutting table and scrambled after Flora.
Flora ducked behind a display of threads and several spools toppled to the floor. They rolled around her feet like spinning tops.
Zane dodged them all and scooped Flora into his arms. “Thank goodness I found you.” He buried his face in her hair.
“Zane,” the woman scolded. “Let the poor girl go.”
Zane cupped Flora’s face in his hands and drank in the sight of her. “I’m so sorry.”
She wiggled out of his embrace, acutely aware of the all the women watching them. Not only had Madame Figueroa, Alexa, and her mother followed them into the back room, but all the other designers had stopped their work to watch.
Without the hum of the sewing machines, the room felt oddly silent and expectant.
“Zane,” Flora began.
He ran his hands down her arms, captured both of her hands in his, and tugged her closer so that her chest rested against his. “I can’t believe I thought the worst of you. My father...he lied. Your mother...I’ll never forgive her.”
“Zane.” Flora yanked away from him. “It was all a very long time ago. What we had, who we were...we’re not those people anymore.” She leaned forward and whispered, “You need to go. You’ll cost me my job.”
“You work here?” He glanced around the room at the women behind the line of sewing machines, the racks of clothes, and the mirrored walls that reflected the small crowd that included his cousin Lexi, his Aunt Cordie, Flora, and her co-workers. Despite his aunt and cousin—and Flora, of course—it looked like the sort of sweatshop featured in a documentary about poor working conditions. “You don’t need to work here...or anywhere you don’t want to.”
“I like it here.” Flora flashed a glance at the bristling little Italian woman at his elbow. “It’s an honor to be able to work for Madame Figueroa.”
Zane pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to the woman. “I’d like to borrow Flora for the afternoon.”
Madame Figueroa frowned at him, so Zane pulled out a fifty and handed it to her.
“We’ll buy something,” Lexi chimed in. “Won’t we, Mom?”
“That was the plan, but I have to say, I’d rather listen to Zane try and win over this girl than shop.”
“Oh, me too,” Lexi said, smiling broadly.
Zane laced his fingers through Flora’s. “Come on. We don’t want to be entertainment.”
“Aw, you’re no fun!” Lexi wailed as Zane pulled Flora out a back door and into a narrow alley.
Stone buildings towered on either side of them. Above them, laundry lines were draped from window to window, and shirts, pants, bras and socks fluttered in the breeze.
Zane held Flora’s hand in one of his and used the other to cradle the back of her head so he could kiss her long and deep. She responded and melted against him. After a long while, he pulled away so he could look into her eyes. “Let’s get married. For real this time.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re insane. We barely know each other.”
“That’s not true.”
“Okay, let’s back up. A few weeks ago, you hated me. What happened?”
He put one hand on her cheek. “I talked to my dad, who told m
e about your visit, and Sicily, who told me how your mom had tied you up. I’m so sorry those terrible things ever happened to you, but I’m mostly sorry I ever doubted you.”
She edged away from him.
“When I think we could have been married all these years, I could have saved myself so much pain.” He shook himself. “But we’re together now, so—”
“No, we’re not,” Flora interrupted him.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not together. I meant what I said. We were different people seven years ago. We’ve changed.”
“My love for you hasn’t changed. I don’t think it ever will.”
“I’m sorry, Zane.” Flora squeezed his hand and turned to walk away.
He moved to go after her, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
“Let her go, boy,” Aunt Cordie said.
“But—” he sputtered. “I can’t.”
“You have to.” Aunt Cordie tightened her hold on his arm. Lexi grabbed his other arm. If he wanted to go after Flora, he’d have to shake loose both his aunt and his cousin, and he knew they both worked out. Not that he couldn’t take them, but they’d make him miserable if he tried.
But he’d be miserable without Flora.
“She’s getting away,” Zane said. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for her?”
“Well, you found her now.” Aunt Cordie slid a glance at the open door of the dress shop. The sewing machines had resumed running as well as a steady stream of Italian conversations. The women were probably talking about him. He didn’t care. All he wanted was Flora.
“I doubt she’ll go far,” Lexi said. “If Flora’s interested in fashion, she won’t let you chase her away from Madame Figueroa’s.”
Aunt Cordie sucked in a deep breath. “‘Chase’ is not the word we’re going for.”
Lexi’s lips quirked. “Correct.”
“What word do you suggest?” Zane had never been able to stand up to his aunt and cousin.
“Woo,” Aunt Cordie said.
Lexi nodded her agreement.
