by T. K. Leigh
Apparently not.
“Sir.” Creed touches my bicep, eyes narrowed, sensing my thoughts. “Don’t.”
I know it comes from a place of concern, whereas most people would accuse me of behaving like a spoiled rich kid. I can’t shake the feeling that my world is falling apart around me. If I can’t feel pleasure, I’d rather be numb.
“Fuck you.” I shrug him off, then storm toward the lounge.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nora
The sound of a slamming door stirs me from a restless sleep. As I blink my eyes open, I glance at Anderson’s side of the bed. Still empty.
Hearing a thump, followed by a curse, I sit upright, wrapping my silk robe tighter around me. Considering our suite is surrounded by a team of protection officers, there’s only one person it could be. And based on the fact it’s after two in the morning and he seems to be running into every piece of furniture, Anderson’s been drinking.
He finally manages to stumble into the bedroom, eyes slits, hair disheveled. The stench of alcohol is strong, even from a few feet away. I want to remind him of the negative effects drinking can have on his MS. I don’t want to spend the rest of our time in Paris fighting, though. Don’t want that to be the memory I take away from this magical place.
Not saying a word, he yanks his shirt over his head. When he attempts to kick off his shoes, he nearly topples over, grabbing onto the dresser. Steady once more, he refocuses on me. His lust-filled gaze causes an ache to stir deep within me. It shouldn’t. Not after the way we left things. But as he slides his jeans down his legs, revealing his rock-hard erection, my body betrays me, mouth growing dry, breathing becoming ragged.
I part my lips, words on the tip of my tongue. Words I can’t bear to say, especially when I recall the utter despair that covered every inch of him earlier.
He needs this. Needs to know he’s not the broken man he thinks he is.
And I need this, too. Need to know he won’t let this come between us.
I loosen the sash of my robe, allowing it to fall open in invitation. His eyes flame, the swirls of turquoise and sky blue becoming darker as he crawls onto the bed, spreading my legs. He brings his erection up to me, moving my slickness around before plunging inside.
I cry out at the invasion. I’d anticipated it, but didn’t expect it to be so…rough. So desperate. So anguished. There’s no other word to describe the way he buries his head in my neck and fucks me ruthlessly, each thrust more hopeless and frantic.
I should put a stop to this, make him talk to me about what’s going through his brain instead of fucking away his anger. But when he peers at me, his gaze begging me to take away the pain, I don’t have it in me.
I dig my hands through his hair, wrapping my legs around him, allowing him to take whatever he needs. I don’t know what else to do to fix this. I wish there were a magic pill that would make his body strong again. Reverse the deterioration I’ve already witnessed in just the past year. But there isn’t. I’ve seen him grow more tired and weary as he tries to balance the fate of the country on his shoulders against this debilitating disease that takes more and more from him with every breath.
His pace quickens, each thrust furious and brutal. I scrape my nails along his back, and he arches. His carnal gaze spears me as he drives into me even faster. This isn’t making love. This is fucking, pure and simple. He’s not interested in pleasure right now. Just to prove a point. Prove he can do this.
Sweat beads on my brow, my breathing labored as I attempt to keep pace with him. Finally, a roar slices through the room and he jerks, eyes scrunched closed, his orgasm coming hard and fast. He rides the waves until he physically can’t keep himself propped up any longer and collapses on top of me. His heart hammers against my chest, muscles trembling as he sucks in breath after breath.
I run a light hand up and down his sweaty back, hoping the calming motion will help him regain his faculties, snap him out of whatever trance he was in when he stepped into the hotel room.
Then a cry rips from his chest, tortured and afflicted. It stops me cold, clawing through my soul and shredding my heart.
Tears spill from my eyelids as I search for the words I need to tell him it will be okay. But I’ve come to realize we have two vastly different definitions of okay. His is being normal again. Mine is standing by his side no matter what.
Will that be enough for him?
Will I be enough for him?
In the past few hours, I’ve witnessed him go through nearly all the stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining. There’s no doubt he’s in depression right now.
All I can do is hope he makes an upward turn toward acceptance and doesn’t fall deeper.
Chapter Thirty
Nora
I stare at the Eiffel Tower as the sun heats my skin, the sounds and smells of Paris surrounding me. I hate to leave this place. Not just because I fell in love with this city, but because I fear what awaits us back home.
Since Friday night, Anderson hasn’t been the same. On the surface, he seems like the Anderson I remember from our early days. Flirtatious. Endearing. A bit cocky. But I can tell it’s all a way to make me think everything is the same.
Whenever he gazes at me, turmoil swirls in his blue eyes.
Whenever he kisses me, it’s restrained and lacking.
Whenever he tells me he loves me, the words are laden with reluctance.
As much as I want to bring up the other night, I don’t want to taint our time in Paris any more than it already has been.
Don’t want my memories of this city to be clouded with the fear that we’ve turned down a dark road neither of us will ever come back from.
Don’t want Paris to forever be associated with the beginning of our end.
Then again, I could be overreacting.
But every time I peer into Anderson’s eyes, all I see is that same remorse-filled expression he wore during our final days together on Route 66. He’d known those were our last hours together. Not because we were about to go our separate ways, but because he’d been keeping a secret from me. One that would shatter me into a million pieces.
I can’t help but feel like he’s doing the same here. Like he knows something horrible is about to happen and is protecting himself against the inevitable catastrophe.
“Are you ready?” Anderson peeks his head out of the balcony doors.
I take one last look at the Paris skyline, then nod, turning toward him. “Of course.”
He places his hand on the small of my back as I step into the suite. We don’t make it too far before the door flies open, Creed and Lieutenant Colonel Bridge hurrying inside, eyes wide with panic.
“What’s going on?” Anderson asks, his posture stiffening.
“Your Highness.” Bridge glances in my direction before returning his attention to Anderson. “Something’s happened.”
When he floats his gaze to mine yet again, I sense this has to do with me. But what could it be? I’ve done everything to follow the rules lately. The most risqué thing I’ve done has been stripping and encouraging Anderson to photograph me nude.
Oh god…
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Did somebody see me? Maybe a photographer at a nearby hotel while he was checking one of his zoom lenses? It’s a long shot, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that nothing is impossible, especially where the paparazzi is concerned.
“I can explain.” I step forward, frantic. “It was purely some innocent fun. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but those photos are just for us. I—”
“This isn’t about any photos, ma’am,” Bridge interrupts, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.
“Then what—”
“It’s your mother, ma’am.”
“What about my mother?” I ask, voice shaking slightly. After thirty years of dealing with her, I doubt whatever he’s about to tell me is happy news.
He licks his lips. �
�She was just interviewed on a popular morning show back in the States.”
My legs weaken. I gingerly lower myself into a nearby chair, dread balling tightly in my stomach.
“The focus of the interview was you, ma’am.”
“Me?” I manage to squeak out through the thickness in my throat.
“Hey.”
I peek up as Anderson sits beside me, his eyes sincere.
“I’m sure she didn’t say anything you have to worry about.”
“On the contrary, sir,” Bridge interrupts. “There’s a whole slew of photographers and reporters camped out in front of the hotel right now who believe otherwise. I’m guessing a hotel employee probably saw the interview trending on social media and decided to make a quick buck by selling your location.”
“Fuck,” Anderson hisses under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before lifting his steely gaze back to Bridge. “Well, get on with it. What newsworthy gems did that sham of a shrink drop? I hope she’s ready to be sued, because that’s exactly what I’ll do if she said one negative thing about Nora.”
I place my hand on his arm, trying to settle the fury I can feel radiating off him. The last thing I need is for him to have another flareup. Since Friday night, he’s been relatively okay, apart from an occasional finger twitch.
Then again, he’s barely touched me all weekend, as if worried he’ll have a repeat of that night and would rather remain celibate than deal with the reality. Would rather resort to prescription drugs in order to have sex, like I surmise he did on Friday night, especially when I discovered a bottle of little blue pills on the bedroom floor, obviously having fallen out of his jeans.
“It’s okay.” I smile at him, then look at Bridge. “What did she say?”
I square my shoulders, trying to appear calm, despite the fear bubbling inside of me. My mother wouldn’t go out of her way to espouse all my positive qualities. The only reason she’d do this interview was if she could publicly humiliate me, which is why I don’t want her at my wedding.
I should have realized she’d find a way to do that anyway.
“Perhaps it might be best if you show them,” Creed suggests. “That way, they’ll get the full picture.”
“Very well.” Bridge pulls a laptop out of his briefcase and sets it on the coffee table in front of us.
My nerves kick up when my eyes fall on Carly Hart, one of the most popular and well-liked morning talk show hosts, my mother sitting in a lush chair beside her. Bridge hits the spacebar, and Carly’s voice fills the room.
“Here in the US, we’ve all been wondering who exactly Nora Tremblay is, the woman who captured Prince Gabriel of Belmont’s heart. Up until now, everyone we’ve spoken with has refused to give an interview, claiming to respect her privacy. But a few days ago, the future princess’ own mother, Dr. Elaine Harcourt, finally agreed to give us an inside peek into the new American princess.”
I laugh to myself as I cross my arms over my chest. “I guess she’s back to her maiden name. Things with husband number five must not have worked out. Or maybe it was six.”
Anderson gives my leg a reassuring squeeze.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me, Doctor. I understand you’re extremely busy, so I appreciate you shifting your schedule around for us.”
“As I discussed with your producers, I’m a psychiatrist. Normally, my patients come first and I’d only reschedule on them if it were of the utmost importance. But I felt it necessary to let the world know precisely who Nora Tremblay is. Particularly the fine people of Belmont. Particularly Prince Gabriel.”
Carly tilts her head. “What makes you say that? Nora appears to have charmed people all across the globe. They’re calling her the new Princess Grace. You have to admit, she does resemble the actress. The first time I saw her photo, I had to do a double take.”
My mother grits a smile. “Yes, she does.”
I can sense her aggravation over Carly’s compliment even from halfway around the world. It’s been a sticking point with her for ages. At least since I hit puberty and people started paying more attention to me.
“Nora is quite beautiful. Unfortunately, she often uses that beauty to the detriment of others.”
“How so?”
“Perhaps it’s my fault, but during Nora’s formative years, I was a single mother. My husband, Nora’s father, died on deployment.”
Carly covers her heart with her hand. “Oh, I am so sorry.”
“Thank you.” My mother blinks back fake tears, her lower lip quivering. I must admit, it’s quite the Oscar-worthy performance. “I did the best I could at the time, but somewhere along the way, I guess I missed the signs.”
“What signs are those?”
She peers into the distance for a beat before returning her attention to Carly. “How on days she had a history test, she’d wear clothes that were slightly more revealing. I should have questioned how she could have possibly brought her C average up to an A in a matter of weeks, but I figured perhaps she buckled down. The following year, the same history teacher was dismissed for improper relations with a student. We were never told the exact details, but a mother just knows.”
I blink, my breaths coming deeper and more shallow. I can’t wrap my head around the lengths this woman will go to in order to paint me in a negative light.
I was the one who went to the principal on my own about the ongoing series of unwanted advances my teacher made on me.
I was the one who had to prove that he purposefully downgraded my papers to trick me into attending private tutoring sessions with him.
I was the one who had to stand up for myself when my own mother simply claimed I was overreacting, that a mature man of nearly forty wouldn’t want anything to do with an awkward sixteen-year-old like me.
“It started with her grades in high school. Then college. She even cost me every single one of my husbands.”
I bark out a laugh, rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of her assertion.
“Why would she do that?” Carly asks.
“Like I said, I take full responsibility. She grew up without a strong male figure in the household. That always affects a child’s development. Yes, her father’s death was tragic, but somewhere along the way, Nora started seeing his death as abandonment. As such, she’s always craved attention. And once Nora was able to gain it, she mastered the art of manipulation.”
“How so?”
“Simple. She always knew exactly what to do and say to get someone to do whatever she wanted. Hell, she manipulated me for years. Made me believe she was the perfect, well-adjusted teenager, then young woman. That’s how good she is. So what started as her manipulating her teachers in order to give her passing grades eventually turned into manipulating men for…other things.”
“Other things?”
“A job. Apartment. Money.”
Carly considers my mother’s story for a beat, then shifts through a few of the papers in her hand. “I don’t doubt you know your daughter better than anyone, but I have trouble reconciling your side of things with a story I was able to dig up from approximately seven years ago.” She slides her glasses onto her face. “Your daughter almost died in a fatal car accident on Long Island, correct?”
“She was in a fatal car accident. She was the only person to walk away.”
“And her fiancé at the time, Hunter Copeland, did die.”
“Yes.”
“And Nora was six months pregnant, but lost the baby.”
Anderson grabs my hand in his, but it does nothing to comfort me. Nothing can right now, especially with the grave expression on both Creed’s and Bridge’s faces. I may not know either men well, but I can tell when something’s about to go wrong. That everything my mother said up to this point was simply a warmup.
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” my mother replies, her tone pinched.
“What do you mean?”
“Hunter’s family was quite afflu
ent. I have no doubt she targeted him, just like she’s now targeting Prince Gabriel. I find it curious that a week before Hunter was ki— I mean, died in that crash, he took out a rather large life insurance policy. And guess who he named as the primary beneficiary.” She grins smugly.
“He was your pregnant daughter’s fiancé,” Carly argues on my behalf. “It’s entirely reasonable to make sure your family’s provided for in the event of a tragedy.”
“I’m not disagreeing with that,” my mother says sweetly, as passive-aggressive as ever. “And perhaps it was innocent. But my daughter never displayed any desire to settle down and get married. Then she’s suddenly engaged and about to have a kid?” She shakes her head. “I struggle to believe the girl who had complete disregard for everyone in her life had a change of heart overnight.”
“So what is it you’re suggesting?” Carly presses.
“I don’t know. All I do know is that when I learned about the accident, I couldn’t shake this feeling in my gut. The car erupted in flames, but Nora just so happened to be able to get out? I saw photos of the aftermath. The car was practically incinerated. Not to mention it hit a tree off the embankment with a force no one would be able to walk away from. Not without help. Yet the police were never able to corroborate Nora’s statement that a Good Samaritan had pulled her to safety. It’s just…suspicious.”
“So is it your contention that Nora…killed her former fiancé, then somehow terminated her pregnancy when she was six months along, all to collect a substantial life insurance policy?”
“I’m simply saying it’s suspicious. That’s all,” she responds, evasive as always.
“My producer discussed with you the potential ramifications for defamation, correct?”
“Yes. And like I reminded him, since Nora can now be considered a public figure, to succeed in any suit, she’d have to not only prove this is all a fabrication, which it’s not, but that I also acted with malice. That’s not my intention here. It’s simply to share the truth about the woman who’s manipulated her way into being days away from marrying one of the most powerful men in all of Europe.
