When I caught up to her on Avenue D, I hated the slump to her shoulders, the downcast set of her mouth, the drag of her feet as she walked. I bore the responsibility for taking away some of her spark, and I had to strongly fight the urge to fix it. Doing the right thing by her shouldn’t feel this wrong.
Let her go. I continued moving forward at the same pace she did. This was torture—so close, yet so far away. Now that I’d seen her, I needed to touch her, but that was one desire that would go unmet. I was reduced to this—stalking her, as she’d playfully accused me of doing when we’d first met. It had been true then, and I couldn’t stop myself now.
I knew where she was going, but for the life of me I couldn’t guess why. I wanted to flex my hand, tell Vivian she didn’t belong here. Hell, I wanted to forbid her to be in this neighborhood. I could exhort until I was blue in the face, but that didn’t mean she’d listen. As frustrating as that was, it was one of the things I loved most about her. She was her own woman and not afraid to put me in my place. God, I missed her.
My phone chimed with a reminder that I had a meeting with a client’s daughter as a favor. Damn it, I had to go. I took one last glance at Vivian before I went in the opposite direction. Why was I driving away from her for something inconsequential? Especially when there’d come a day when I couldn’t see her at will. It’s what I had to do, or I’d fuck everything up for her.
INSIDE CIPRIANI, I spotted Giselle Larsen at the bar and was pleased she was here first. My tardiness had been intentional. She was the type of woman who waited on no one, but she would wait for me.
“Giselle,” I said smoothly.
Her back straightened and her eyes lit when she saw me. She got to her stiletto-clad feet. “Daniel,” she rasped, her arms going around my neck for a greeting that was far too personal for how well we knew one another.
Though I’d known Giselle from the time she was born, I’d only actually met her a handful of times. Her father was the ruler of a farm equipment manufacturing empire and had been a friend of mine for over twenty years. He relied on me to get information about his competition. I’d forged a alliances between him and people in Wash‐ ington who could easily be persuaded to craft favorable tax incentives, loans, and legislation. Because of my connections, Alan Larsen hadn’t paid for a single parcel of land. Politicians loved taking credit for creating jobs. We scratched their backs, they scratched ours.
Giselle had recently turned twenty-one. She had a budding modeling career, one that had started with her as the poster girl for
Larsen Equipment. What red-blooded male wouldn’t want to buy a tractor this woman was selling? I hadn’t seen her since I’d been invited to her fourteenth birthday party. Wasn’t really my bag to go to that sort of thing, but business was business. I pissed enough people off on a regular basis; I wasn’t going to do it over something as trivial as a birthday party.
She had certainly grown up since then. I recalled her being the life of the party when she was fourteen, and I got the sense that hadn’t changed. As an only child left motherless at an early age, she was the axis of her father’s world. Smart, beautiful, confident, and daddy’s little girl—it was a lethal combination, and she knew it.
Her phone call had caught me off guard, and she’d been evasive about the reason to meet, but this was Alan’s daughter. I’d oblige her.
The bartender took my order of a whiskey neat and set it down in front of me. He served Giselle another glass of champagne, lingering until I shot him a look to get lost.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked when we were alone.
She grinned, making her appear younger, more her age. “Daddy said you’d be straight to the point.”
That seemed to delight her. I took a sip of my drink and lifted one brow, effectively communicating for her to grow up. She wasn’t deterred. She leaned in, her floral scent invading my nostrils. I fought not to back away. It was the wrong flower. The wrong woman. For a moment I wondered what the hell I was doing there. I didn’t need any more money. There was nothing this girl had that I wanted.
Damn it, Vivian. Since I’d met her, she’d been the distraction that never went away. She demanded my attention, rearranged my way of thinking. She’d taught me to put another person first, showed me I was capable of that when I thought I wasn’t. Which was exactly why I’d had to force her away.
“Daniel?” Giselle asked, brow creased, sliding a manicured index finger down my forearm.
I flashed a placating smile at the same time I fired a warning look. “You didn’t answer the question.”
She shifted closer. “It’s been a long time. Let’s catch up a bit before business.”
The blood-red nail drew a lazy circle on top of my hand. Inwardly, I cringed. On the outside, I pretended I didn’t feel it. “This isn’t a social call.”
Her smile broadened as she swatted my arm. “Oh, come on. The last time we saw one another, I was fourteen. I’m all grown up now.” Her eyes darkened as they roved my body. No mistaking what she was getting at.
“So you are.”
Her bottom lip poked out, that pout just not doing it for me. When her hand moved to my thigh, it took all my self-restraint not to knock it away. I stiffened, my muscle flexing under her hand. Giselle’s eyes sparked, misinterpreting the move as progress.
“I thought you’d be pleased by my call.”
I stifled a growl. I had zero desire to deal with a child and her games, but I’d let her play a while.
“I’m sure you did,” I muttered, taking a swig of my drink.
“Of all my daddy’s friends, I’ve always found you the most interesting.” My patience was waning, especially with her invasion of my personal space. Her nail tracing a pattern on my thigh felt like a knife blade.
Christ almighty. I clutched my tumbler so tight, I nearly cracked it. “Mr. Elliott, your table is ready,” the host said, an interruption for which I was grateful. I used the walk across the restaurant to focus on the task at hand, like how to stop her from touching me again.
We settled into our chairs at a table near the back of the restaurant, away from the other patrons. It was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner rush. The perfect time for relative privacy.
Our waiter promptly filled our glasses with bottled water, and I ordered an appetizer of imported mozzarella before dismissing him.
“Why don’t all men know how to take charge?” Giselle fingered the rim of her champagne glass.
“Because not all men are meant to be in control.”
“And women?” she prompted.
Whether this was a trap or she was genuinely interested in my opinion, I didn’t care. I’d had enough. I leaned back in my seat, toying with the napkin on the table. “Women hold all the cards.” Giselle sucked in a sharp breath, my admission unexpected. “Now tell me why you called. I don’t think it was to relive your fourteenth birthday party.”
Her nose wrinkled, the first hint of indecision in her eyes before they steeled. “Elan Dupas.” I didn’t miss the disdain in her voice. “Ever heard of him?”
“I know of him,” I returned vaguely, sipping my whiskey.
She waited on me to elaborate, but I was far too skilled at this game. It didn’t take her long to start talking again. “He has, for all intents and purposes, blackballed me in the industry. I can’t get a job. If I can get anyone to speak to me, they disappear before we seal a deal. It’s like he’s stalking me, putting a stop to any potential contract I may have. I want to change that. I want to bury him,” she finished vindictively. She had gotten that streak from her father. I’d helped him put a number of his enemies out of business.
Elan Dupas was one of the higher ups at an international modeling agency, known for scouting the best talent and being a general pain in the ass. He was the man to be aligned with if a model wanted contracts with the prestigious fashion houses. I knew him, our paths having crossed on numerous occasions over the years. I also knew the owner o
f the agency he worked for quite well. He was fond of my work. I found out shit that nobody else knew. Donato said not even God knew the things I did most of the time.
“Why has Elan put a target on your back?” If she didn’t give me a straight answer, I’d be forced to lose my tact. Giselle was the exact type Elan would want in his portfolio. Something had gone down, or he’d be salivating over her.
“I dumped his son,” she replied bluntly.
Jesus Christ. I was in the middle of a teenage drama. “I take it that it wasn’t amicable.” I struggled to hold on to what remaining patience I had left, hoping to find more in my glass of whiskey. I hadn’t intended to have another, but I was re-thinking that.
“He made fun of my family’s business. Called me the tractor queen. So I left him.” She straightened and tossed the remaining champagne down her throat.
There had to be more to it than that. “If you want my help, you have to be completely honest. I don’t think you met, went out, then he made fun of you, and you left him.” Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit what had happened, but I wasn’t going to piss off Elan Dupas for no good reason.
The waiter brought our appetizer, and we ordered another round of drinks. I was going to need it.
“Fine,” she said once he’d disappeared, letting out a huff of annoyance. “We were together for ten months.”
“Where did you meet?”
“At a party here in the city. We both go to Parsons.” Her eyes had gone soft, the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. “We hit it off right away, were inseparable practically from the second we met,” she said wistfully, the flirtatious vixen she’d been earlier nowhere to be seen.
“So everything was fine between you and Scott for ten months?”
Her lips parted, a slight gasp escaping. That’s right, sweetheart. I know my shit. Giselle’s surprise that I knew her boyfriend’s name turned into satisfaction, as if she’d confirmed I was the right person to help her.
“Yes. Perfect, really. Until I got paired with a guy in my fashion design course for a project. It’s a small class and a huge project. Scott hated that I was spending so much time working on it, especially with another guy. He’d have been fine if it had been a girl. So, anyway—” Giselle waved dismissively. “My apartment is a lot bigger than Henri’s, so we worked there. Scott came in as I tripped over a bolt of fabric and fell on top of Henri. It was totally innocent, though it looked really bad.” Our drinks arrived, and I dismissed the waiter. I wanted to hear the rest of this story before we ordered, though I had already pieced together what had happened.
“Go on,” I prompted.
“Scott was hurt, I could tell, and I didn’t blame him for that, but he called me a tractor queen and left before I had the chance to explain. Not only was it an accident, but Henri is gay. Like, just-got-married- to-another-man gay. I showed him the pictures of Henri and his husband. Then I told him to go to hell, and I’ve refused to speak to him since. I can’t be with a man who doesn’t trust me.” Giselle twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, her face sullen.
“Has he tried to contact you?”
“Not in a few days. He kept leaving messages and texts apologizing, but he hurt me.”
Shit. Her eyes glassed over with tears. I couldn’t take a crying woman. Not right now. I simply wasn’t equipped to handle it. “Do you love him?” As soon as I asked the question, I was tempted to feel my crotch and make sure my dick was still there. Vivian had softened me, but not to the point where I went around discussing feelings. What the hell was I going to say when she answered me?
“Yes,” she whispered, a tear escaping down her cheek.
My gut twisted. What was happening to me? This compassion had to stem from the shit that had gone down with Vivian. It was her I was seeing across from me, not Giselle.
To Giselle’s credit, she dabbed the corners of her eyes and pulled herself together quickly.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He insulted me. If I let him get away with it now, he’ll do it over and over.” That actually wasn’t a terrible assessment. Pretty smart really. But in this case, I wasn’t sure that was completely true.
“Have you ever said something you wished you could take back?” “Not to him,” she insisted petulantly, folding her arms.
“Believe me, someday you will.” “What do you mean?”
“That’s part of being in a relationship. Even when you don’t want to, inevitably you end up saying something to hurt the person you love. It’s called being human.” Who the fuck is talking? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like me.
Giselle seemed to be drinking in the advice I was dishing out. Fuck if I wasn’t speaking from the heart to a girl who was young enough to be my daughter. Maybe I needed to get this shit out. Or maybe I was hoping it would work out for her because of something I’d said.
“I still want to model for the company Elan works for. I want to secure that before I get Scott back. That way no one can ever say I got it because of him.”
I understood what she was saying. Before I discounted Giselle’s feelings as nothing more than puppy love, I had to remind myself Vivian had been only a few years older than Giselle when we met. “Think about that very carefully,” I warned, and her brow furrowed. “What’s most important to you? Scott or your career? If you wait until you get the job, the guy might not be around anymore.”
“My dad’s a pretty cool man, but when we talk, it’s nothing like this,” she commented, and I bit my tongue. Giselle hadn’t meant to insult me, but in essence she had put me in the same age group as her father. Who was ten years my senior. I shook it off, again reminded of Vivian. If she’d heard that she’d have been laughing her ass off.
“We’re having an adult conversation,” I said, a little snidely. If she was going to insinuate I was old, I’d let her know how young she was to me.
“Can you get me in?” It always came down to this—what I could do for someone else.
“It’s your lucky day. I’m tight with the owner, and he owes me a favor.” Giselle beamed. “But don’t make me look bad. You get sloppy on the job, don’t do what’s expected of you, you’ll be stuck with Tractor Queen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her calling me sir made me feel like an old man yet again. “Career first?” I asked for confirmation. She looked confused, her nose scrunched in deep thought. “You don’t have to decide now.”
“What would you do?” That caught me completely off guard.
“If I were in your shoes? And you think this thing with Scott is the real deal? As in you don’t function without him?” She nodded vigorously. Fuck, I was jealous of a kid. If Giselle played her cards right, she’d have her other half for the next sixty plus years because she was lucky enough to have found him early on. “I’d choose Scott.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected me to say that, but it was the truth. Even if Giselle had been dirt poor, I’d tell her to go for happiness. I had more than I could ever spend. It might as well be play money. There was always the possibility for more money. Love…it was as elusive a motherfucker as time.
Giselle chewed on her lip, and then her phone was out of her purse and pressed to her ear. “Scott,” she said quietly when he apparently answered. I stood and pointed toward the bar. She nodded.
I’d never been able to figure out why it was so much easier to help other people with their problems than it was to solve my own. Even in my shitty mood, I sincerely hoped it worked out for the girl. Not as much as I wished things could have worked out for me and Vivian, but I had to stop thinking like that. The sooner I accepted that she was out of my life, the better off I’d be.
Giselle practically skipped over to me, a glow on her face. “We’re going to meet. To talk.”
“That’s great,” I said, though it sounded hollow.
“I have to go, but thanks, Daniel.” Her arms went around my neck a second time, and she pressed a kiss to my cheek.
Too close. Too personal. I bristled, but she seemed oblivious. “Hey,” she said before turning to go. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Why I hadn’t seen it before didn’t matter. Giselle had just given me an idea for the next phase of my plan. “Actually, yes. There is.”
Chapter 8
VIVIAN
* * *
Present
* * *
IT WAS a little after four when I couldn’t take being cooped up in the office any longer. Five days without Daniel and I was slowly unravel‐ ing. Once I was outside, I sucked in a long breath of cleansing air before taking off down the sidewalk. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment, so I decided to wander, hoping a walk might clear my mind.
Without thinking, I took the familiar L train to a place I hadn’t been in a long time. The old neighborhood was calling me.
East Ninth Street was almost the same, though a lot less trash littered the sidewalk, and the buildings had more shine than they’d had almost eight years before. I actually smiled as I approached the door, noticing the ‘For Rent’ sign taped to the glass pane on the inside. I stared at it, for a moment considering that I was losing my mind coming back here. This was where it had all started, my first apartment in New York City. What am I doing? The door flew open and a familiar face nearly knocked me down.
“Jesus!” my old landlord uttered, remaining in my personal space, causing me to take a step backward on the stoop. If Muriella had been here with me, she would have crossed herself. I did it for her in my head. His beady little eyes narrowed. “Hey…I know you.” He shook a crooked finger at me, a greasy strand of what remained of his hair falling over his eyes. “You’re the one who paid for a whole year of rent up front. Only time that’s ever happened. I felt kinda bad when you moved out early. Not bad enough to refund the money, but you know…” He shrugged, and I pasted a polite, no- nonsense smile on my face. “You here for the apartment? It’s available again.”
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