The Redemption

by Nikki Sloane

  It was like sculpture. Flawless. Beautiful.

  For one long moment, I wanted her.

  More than three years spent lusting after Marist, despite every attempt not to, so to suddenly feel a tinge of interest for someone else . . .

  The power of it made me brace a hand on the back of my chair and grip it so ferociously, I expected it to splinter beneath my grasp. This reaction was inappropriate and unacceptable. The spell Marist held over me was broken, but I wasn’t recovered. I was merely a man weakened by starvation, eager for any morsel of food, even if it was to my detriment.

  She was just the first woman to genuinely smile at me in years. That was all this was.

  Sophia Alby wasn’t anything special.

  Yes, she’d sat across from me and tried to hold her own when few people in this world had, but she’d failed to get what she’d wanted from me, hadn’t she? I could respect how she tried, but not her failure.

  My gaze drifted down to the card on the table and her neatly printed information in black ink.

  Had she failed?

  Perhaps this had been her opening salvo, a kickstart to negotiations.

  I snatched up the card and tucked it into the interior pocket of my Brioni suit coat, intrigued at the concept this could be a game. If so, I’d change the rules to ensure we were playing on my terms and not hers. I’d make it so my win was inevitable.

  And I would learn every secret she was hiding.

  As my driver pulled up to the house, a strange sensation of wastefulness settled on me. The Hale estate had been in my family for more than a century, and each generation had put its mark on it, adding to the sprawling grounds. My grandfather’s addition was the stables, and my mother’s had been the hedge maze.

  I’d been so involved in my work, I hadn’t done much to improve the family home yet. Currently, the only legacy to my credit was that I’d likely be the last Hale to live here. I’d driven everyone else away.

  Twenty thousand feet of living space were mine, and mine alone.

  Which I despised. My son was supposed to raise his children here, but Royce didn’t trust me within a hundred yards of his wife. My youngest son, Vance, had moved out late last year, claiming the commute to Boston was eating into too much of his time. He was in his final year at Harvard Law, and although that was demanding, I suspected my impending return had been a factor.

  I exited the car and stood on the marble steps, gazing up at the dark windows of the impressive house. For the last two years, I’d wished for nothing more than to be alone. Now the vast freedom and emptiness were unsettling.

  It was cold in the entryway, but that was the way I preferred it. Sleep never came easily for me, which meant exhaustion could strike without warning, and I’d found it easier to fight it off if I wasn’t comfortable.

  The cold kept me alert and sharp.

  There was no staff to greet me at the door, which I also preferred. A man unwilling to hang his own coat was either lazy or inefficient, or both.

  It was late afternoon, and the springtime shadows were long across the inlaid hardwood floor. I climbed the grand staircase that branched halfway up in two different directions. A portrait hung there once at the split, but Alice’s actions had torn apart our family beyond repair, so I’d done the same to the painting.

  The bare space bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what to replace it with, and apparently Royce hadn’t any ideas either during the time I was away. I reached the landing when a woman appeared at the top of the steps and gave a sharp noise of surprise.

  “Macalister,” she said.

  It was infuriating the way my pulse beat erratically at the sight of her, even with her ridiculous black-green hair.

  My body began to heat, but my voice stayed cold. “Marist,” I answered.

  TWO

  MACALISTER

  Marist Hale’s tresses were the color of dark moss, although she would have preferred I compare it to Medusa’s snakes. My daughter-in-law was so taken with Greek mythology, I’d read several of her books to try to understand the fascination. She saw herself as the fearsome gorgon who could turn men to stone, which correctly applied in this moment.

  My feet were rooted to the carpet.

  “Why aren’t you at the office?” I demanded. “Are you unwell?”

  “I took a half-day.” Her gaze darted away from mine. “I didn’t think you’d be home until later.”

  Meaning she’d tried to avoid me. I disliked that, but my enjoyment at seeing her overruled it. “My lunch appointment ran long, so I canceled my other meetings.”

  No longer frozen in stone, I resumed my climb of the steps. She’d said I and not we. Was she here on her own?

  I asked it casually. “Where’s Royce?”

  She didn’t want to admit it. “Prague.”

  It explained why she looked so nervous. She’d visited me once a month while I was away, but we’d been surrounded by guards and prisoners and other visitors. We’d never been alone, not since that elevator ride up to the board meeting. I’d taken her hand then in a moment of weakness, and again later that day to help save her life.

  We hadn’t touched since, and I’d come to terms with it. After I’d helped Royce pull Marist to safety over the balcony, I’d had to let her go completely. She saw herself as Medusa, but I saw her as the powerful goddess Nyx, and if I continued down the dark, wrong path I’d started years ago, she’d be my destruction.

  Even if what I felt for her was love, it had to come to an end.

  “What brings you here?” I asked, joining her at the top of the stairs.

  She eyed me warily as if I might suddenly lunge at her. But then a line creased between her eyebrows. “Lucifer.”

  I paused. “Excuse me?”

  “The cat,” she clarified. “He’s been throwing up and ripping out chunks of his fur on his legs. Maybe there’s something in the carpet in our new place he doesn’t like. I don’t know for sure, but he hasn’t handled the move well at all.”

  I blinked slowly to illustrate my indifference, and it prompted her to continue.

  “I brought him back.” She lifted her chin in an attempt to look confident. “He’s already curled up on his favorite chair in the library.”

  “You brought your cat to my house for a visit?” I patronized.

  She scowled like I was the one being unreasonable. “This was his home. He wants to stay here.”

  The word cracked through my mind like a bolt of lightning. No. That cat was a constant reminder of her and Royce, and everything I couldn’t have. “I do not care what your cat wants.”

  Marist’s sigh was heavy with frustration. “I know you don’t, but Royce is hardly home as it is, and once he’s the chief operating officer, it’ll be worse.”

  I straightened. “Allen’s naming him COO?”

  “At the end of the third quarter.”

  Judging by her guarded expression, she expected me to be upset about this, but . . . I wasn’t.

  “Good,” I said. “He deserves it, and that puts us one step closer to a Hale resuming the top role at HBHC.”

  My offhanded compliment surprised her.

  As a pleased look warmed her expression, it was contagious, and when I felt the urge to soften, I railed against it.

  “But the cat leaves when you do, Marist. I hate the thing.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She put her hands on her hips, and a triumphant smile burned on her lips. “I saw you petting him once, remember?”

  Irritation coursed hotly through my system.

  “Once,” I emphasized, but it did no good. She’d caught me on one of the rare occasions when I’d decided to stroke the cat behind the ears. I’d found the animal’s rumbling purr oddly soothing.

  “You were smiling,” she said. “And you never smile.”

  I didn’t like her accusation. Everything I’d worked toward—all that I’d ever wanted in my life—had vanished in a
n instant. My entire world had fallen apart.

  “I haven’t had much to smile about recently,” my tone turned cruel, “but I’ll take your note and make sure to put it on my schedule.”

  Tension held her posture stiff. “You don’t even smile when you beat me in chess anymore.”

  “Because you let me win,” I snapped. “There’s no victory in your pity.”

  Marist shook her head. “Like I told you last time, you’re giving me too much credit.”

  We stood across from each other at an impasse, and the silence between us amplified in the tense air, building toward a breaking point. I’d lied when I said I’d been forced to cancel my afternoon meetings. I’d come home to achieve release. It meant I needed her gone from my home so I could cast her out of my thoughts, which was impossible to do while I stared at her.

  She abruptly whispered it. “I’m sorry I didn’t come that last month for our match. I tried to, but—”

  “I know.” An uncomfortable sensation, not unlike pain, gripped my chest.

  One afternoon a month, she’d drive an hour down to the correctional facility in Norfolk where I was held, and we had played our game with the prison’s chipped chess set. The first few visits were painfully uncomfortable for both of us. My pride didn’t want her to see me like that, but I couldn’t deny her. I badly needed the mental escape she provided.

  I’d confessed in an email to Royce how her visits were keeping me grounded during a difficult time. They’d become a bright spot to look forward to every month, and he’d indulged me and allowed it. He trusted me around his wife when other people were present, but Royce and Marist had moved out the day before I’d been released, taking an apartment in Boston close to HBHC headquarters.

  Either Marist hadn’t heard me, or she felt compelled to keep going. “I wasn’t allowed to wear any jewelry except my wedding ring whenever I visited. I knew that was the rule.” It was unsettling how she sounded ashamed when she had no reason to. “I thought I’d taken it all off, but—”

  My gaze slipped down to her right hand and the blue sapphire nested between two diamonds. “You forgot about Julia’s ring.” I frowned. It wasn’t my first wife’s ring anymore, it was Marist’s, and I needed to correct that. “I misspoke. The ring I gave you.”

  “I wear it all the time,” she said softly, and I appreciated it. I was intelligent enough to know she wasn’t wearing it for me. The ring meant a lot to Royce, but I was pleased, regardless. I’d made several poor decisions when it came to Marist, but this gift wasn’t one of them.

  She grasped the ring and worried it between her fingers. “They wouldn’t let me put it in my car and come back without it.” Anger swelled in her voice. “They said I was trying to bring in contraband, and I could try my visit again next month. The guard wouldn’t even let me tell you what happened, the asshole.”

  A different kind of pressure built inside me as I recalled the memory. Violent and dark. I’d waited for hours, worried something had happened when she hadn’t arrived for the visit. I’d had no way to contact her or Royce. No way to know if she’d been involved in a car accident on the drive down, or simply forgotten her promised visit. All my freedoms had been taken away, and the powerless sensation was the cruelest form of torture during my two years of incarceration.

  “You knew, though?” she asked, relief streaking across her expression.

  “One of the guards told me eventually.”

  He’d bragged about it, hoping to provoke a rise out of me. Every person in the Norfolk prison thought they knew how much I was worth, and the guards often enjoyed flexing their power or reminding me of my lack of status while I was incarcerated.

  What they didn’t understand was the amount of patience I was used to exercising. My situation was temporary, my time under their rule finite. I was built to outlast because my focus never wavered from the finish line.

  But the woman in front of me was no longer my goal. She never should have been in the first place.

  Marist subtly pulled her chin down to her chest. It was her ‘tell’ that she was considering something. Thoughts were weighed inside her mind, and it was obvious when she’d made her decision.

  “How about we play now?” she asked. “If I win, Lucifer gets to stay.”

  Satisfaction rolled through me at her offer. I thoroughly enjoyed playing chess, and winning, and it was even better when stakes were involved. We’d played nearly a hundred matches together, and by my count, Marist had bested me only five times.

  This would be easy.

  I didn’t give her an answer with words because it was unnecessary. She knew well enough I’d accept, and she followed me into the library where the mythology chess set I’d had commissioned for her was on display.

  Also on display was the black cat, coiled in a ball on the back of the leather reading chair beside the fireplace. A patch of sunlight from the window lit the creature like a spotlight, but otherwise the room was dark. The animal didn’t lift its head when we entered the room, but its vivid green eyes opened and peered at us like we were intruding in its dominion.

  Perhaps that was what bothered me so about the cat. It exuded an air of superiority, as if it tolerated my presence and it wasn’t the other way around. This was my house, and I was its master. Yes, one could argue it was just a simple animal and elitism was the general culture of cats, but this particular one seemed smart. Cunning. As if it had personally judged me and found me unworthy.

  I turned on the lamp on the desk, making light spill across the spines of the books my family had been collecting for a century, and watched as Marist strolled to the chair. She set her fingertips on the top of the cat’s head and ran them down along its back, causing the animal to stretch out its legs in contentment.

  Bare patches of skin dotted the cat’s usually glossy black fur, and I didn’t care for the way that looked. Even if the thing was irritating, I could recognize it had been a beautiful creature. This version of it made a foreign sensation creep through me. Dissatisfaction?

  It grew worse as Marist continued petting the animal and gazed down at it with a smile tilting on her lips. It was a look she’d never given me. One that spoke about how much she loved the animal.

  She’d brought it to my house hoping to ease its distress, willing to put its happiness above her own. When was the last time I’d done that?

  Not since Julia died.

  My wife’s sudden death had taught me how fleeting life could be, and I realized I was in charge of my own happiness. Whatever I wanted, I’d reach for it, and take it by force if necessary. But my ambition had come with side effects and collateral damage.

  It was time to reevaluate my goals.

  I strode to the side table, retrieved the chess set, and carried it to the desk, depositing it there with a quiet thud while Marist continued to dote on her pet. The cat’s purr swelled when she scratched its cheek, and I convinced myself the sound was irritating and not at all pleasing.

  I snatched up two pawns, one white and one black, and exchanged them in my hands behind my back. “Choose,” I said.

  She lifted her gaze to mine, and although she tried to hide it from me, it was obvious how badly she wanted to win the game. It made me uneasy as I considered that outcome. I excelled at many things, but the one thing I hadn’t mastered was losing with grace. I thrived on competition, and it wasn’t in my nature to give up.

  I had on her, hadn’t I?

  Marist’s attention left the cat and focused solely on me as she walked toward the board. “Left.”

  I extended my closed left hand to her, turned my palm up, and peeled back my fingers to reveal the white pawn shaped as a satyr. The half-man, half-goat figure was carved from marble, and I was pleased with the weight of the piece. The chess set we’d played with the last time was cheap acrylic.

  Everything about this game was a higher quality and far more exciting.

  She gingerly took the pawn from my
hand as if minimizing the risk of touching me, and a sinister voice deep inside my mind whispered to make her do it. Instead, I ignored the voice. We put our pawns on their squares and took our seats across from each other, separated by rows of mythic Greek figures recreated as chess pieces.

  As white, she had the advantage of the first move, and she made it confidently. The timid chess player she’d once been in this room was gone, forgotten. I’d taught her well, and Marist had become a formidable opponent.

  We were both contemplative in our openings and didn’t talk, but as we moved into the middlegame, my competitive nature got the better of me. I looked for ways to distract.

  “You’re right,” I said. “The cat doesn’t look well.”

  “No. He’s by himself all day.” Marist’s gaze trapped mine, weighing me down with her meaning. “He’s lonely. I think it’ll do him some good to have companionship.”

  My nostrils flared, and I tightened my eyes with displeasure at her subtext. I wasn’t lonely, and even if I were, who was to blame? Everyone had left me. “You’re speaking about the cat,” I said pointedly.

  She acted like she hadn’t implied otherwise. “Yes.”

  Marist had claimed I gave her too much credit, but the opposite was true. I’d spent years underestimating her. Even now, I’d tried to distract, and she’d reversed it onto me masterfully. I clenched my teeth as she captured one of my rooks, catching me off guard.

  That should never have happened. Pay attention.

  Sometimes, one mistake was all it took to lose everything.

  Thankfully, I was able to get back on track after a few turns, and her eyebrows pulled together in dismay as I took her bishop. She recovered quickly and squared her shoulders, pretending I hadn’t undone all the plans she’d made.

  It was impossible to tell if she were making conversation, or if there was an agenda buried in her question. “Are you ready for this weekend?”

  Confidence ran through my words. “Of course.”

  I’d invited HBHC’s board of directors and their spouses to my home for a morning of skeet shooting on the grounds, followed by a luncheon where I’d announce my return to headquarters.