Claiming Cari (The Gilroy Clan Book 2)

by Megyn Ward

  Davey?

  “He already knows you’re here, I’m sure,” she tells him. “Now quit being rude and introduce me to your date.”

  “Silver,” He steps away from her, his hand still pressed into the small of my back. “This is my—” He stumbles but recovers quickly. “friend, Cari. Cari, this is Silver.”

  Friend? Did he just call me his friend?

  “Cari.” Silver smiles at me, reaching out to take me by the shoulders. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says warmly before pressing her cheek to mine in the kind of kiss women give in order to protect their lipstick. Releasing me, she reverts her attention back to Patrick. “Your usual table?” she asks, skirting the podium to run a perfectly manicured finger down her leather-bound ledger. “I can bump—”

  Usual table?

  “That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” he says, reaching for the belt tied around my coat. I have the insane urge to fight him off. I have no desire to embarrass myself by showing Silver the outlet special underneath. “We’re meeting people...” dipping his chin, Patrick catches my attention. “Who’s the reservation under?” he asks me while I unbutton my coat.

  “It should be under Chase,” I say, amazed that I’m able to form coherent sentences. “Everette Chase.” As soon as my jacket is open, it’s immediately taken by a valet I hadn’t noticed until his murmured, I’ll take that miss. He whisks my coat off my shoulders before disappearing into the coat room. I have ground my heels into the floor to keep myself from chasing after him.

  “Of course,” Silver flashes me a dreamy smile at the mention of Chase, and I’m relieved to see it. It makes her seem less perfect somehow. “Right this way.”

  Patrick takes my hand while she leads us down a short hallway that opens on a surprisingly large dining room. Coffered ceilings. Walnut crown molding and pillars gleam softly. Muted gold wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers. Wait staff in black slacks and starched white shirts, buzz the room, delivering room and refilling wine glasses with a dizzying mixture of solicitousness and efficiency, while wealthy diners eat their expensive meals and drink their thirty-dollar martinis with an air of expectation that I can’t even begin to comprehend.

  A year ago, I wanted nothing more than to belong in a place like this. Now, I just want to go home. Put on my yoga pants and order Chinese.

  “By the way,” Silver says, looking back at me over her shoulder while she weaves her way between tables. “I love your shoes.”

  I want to hear snark in her tone. I want to think she’s ridiculing me, but I can’t. The compliment is genuine, and so is she.

  I look down at the red, patent-leather peep-toes I’m wearing. I bought them years ago, in a vintage shop in Cambridge. Even second-hand, they cost more than any reasonable person would spend on shoes. As soon as I left the store, I regretted buying them. At home, in front of the mirror, I thought they made me look like an Amazon warrior, moonlighting as a hooker. It took me years and a moderate shoe emergency to even consider wearing them in public.

  Right now, I’m not thinking about any of that.

  Because all I can think is, Patrick fucked me in these shoes.

  Twice.

  “Thank you,” I say, returning her smile. “They’re my favorite.”

  His fingers tighten briefly around mine, his mouth curving into a wicked grin. “Mine too.”

  Fifty

  Patrick

  Chase and Miranda are waiting for us at the table. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d make it,” Chase says, standing to lean over the table to kiss Cari on the cheek and she blushes, the birthmark on her chest burning hot. Despite the warm flush on her skin, Cari visible relaxes, giving him a warm smile while I pull out her chair.

  “It’s my fault we’re late,” she says sliding into her chair. “Patrick brought me flowers and...” she looks around the restaurant, wide-eyed and a little pale, while I slide her chair into the table. “this is a really nice place.”

  “Nothing’s too good for my new favorite artist,” Miranda says, leaning back in her seat, taking her wine glass with her.

  “Hey,” Chase says, shooting her side-eye. “I’m sitting right here.”

  “There, there...” Miranda laughs and reaches over to pat his knee like he’s an over-indulged five-year-old. “As soon as you earn me a six-figure commission in one night, you’ll be my favorite again.”

  “A commission you promptly donated to the charity we were raising money for,” Chase reminds her.

  Miranda waves her hand. “Where the money went after it was earned isn’t the point.” She looks at Cari. “The point is that your work was a hit and with the kind of buzz the benefit built, your debut opening is going to sell out.”

  Cari looks up at me with a grin, before aiming it at Miranda. “Is that the news you wanted to give me?” she says. “The charity opening when well?”

  “Well?” Miranda made a sound that, from any other person, I’d call a snort. “Darling, the entire benefit sold out, and your series was the first to go.”

  Before Cari can say anything else, a waiter arrives with a bottle of wine. “Compliments of the house,” he says to me, displaying the label on the bottle of 2007 Sassicaia he’s holding, waiting for my approval.

  Feeling like a pretentious prick, but not wanting to hurt Davey’s feelings, I nod my head. “Thank you, Mateo,” I say, watching while he pours a tasting into my glass. I take a sip, pretending to consider—it’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. There really isn’t anything to consider—before nodding again.

  “Very good sir,” Mateo says so proudly, you’d think he stomped the grapes himself. After pouring a portion of the bottle into each glass, he gathers our menus. “Chef says to inform you he’ll be ordering for the table this evening.”

  Arguing will get me nowhere. As Silver said—I must be punished. “Please tell chef we have a mushroom allergy,” I tell him. “And to be gentle.”

  Mateo flashes me a wicked smile, I’m sure no one caught but me. “Of course.”

  Gentle. Davey’s about as gentle as a wrecking ball.

  When I refocus my attention on the table, everyone is staring at me. “Davey’s a friend,” I say, offering a short explanation. “Sort of.”

  “Davey?” Miranda arches an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Davino Fiorella—the most celebrated chef on the planet—is a friend of yours? Sort of?” She picks up her glass of wine and takes a swallow. “Do tell.”

  Cari is staring at me like she doesn’t know who I am. “It’s nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Declan and I bring clients here from time to time, and he caught on to the fact that I’m an architect. We got to talking, and he asked me to submit a bid to build his new restaurant—” I reach over and slip my hand around Cari’s. Her fingers are ice cold. “No big deal.” I’m looking at Miranda, but I’m talking to Cari.

  Chase laughs into his wine glass. “Sorry to burst your bubble kid, but it’s a big deal.”

  He’s right. It is a big deal. Davey was named Chef of the Century. He’s been awarded more Michelin stars than any other chef in history. He’s also a good friend who’s been exceedingly generous to Declan and me these past several months.

  Right now, I wish I’d never met him.

  Before I can even attempt to contain the situation, the courses start. Grilled asparagus salad with crab and truffle vinaigrette. Roasted tomato gazpacho with whipped ricotta. Poached lobster. Duck leg confit. Each dish more elaborate and expensive than the last. More wine with price tags that make me break out in a rash.

  Not that I would be allowed to pay for any of it.

  Davey’s way of punishing me for not letting him know I was coming for dinner is to feed me to death.

  Finally, just as I’m about to excuse myself and hunt him down, Davey makes an appearance. With more food.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” he says in lightly accented English. Davey was born in Italy but raised in France. “Or do I need t
o pair your main course with the 2003 Latour Bordeaux?” he says, setting down the plates in his hand—New York strip steaks with pomme Duchess and market vegetables—with a small flourish.

  The 2003 Latour cost three thousand dollars a bottle.

  “Message received,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “It won’t happen again.”

  Davey snorts. “It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

  “I was invited to tag along with some friends, last minute,” I say, gesturing around the table. “I didn’t want to—”

  “My table seats four and for you, it’s always open—even if I have to toss some rich despot out on his ass,” He answers back, somehow managing to make the invitation sound like a threat. “Next time, you call me, huh?”

  “As long as you promise no more food,” I say, earning a round of laughter from Chase and Miranda while Cari remains quiet. Standing, I place a hand between Cari’s shoulder blades. She flinches slightly, like having my hands on her is making her uncomfortable. I swallow the lump in my throat and smile. “Davey, this is Cari.”

  Davey cuts me a sharp look, his mouth twisted in surprise. “This is...” he turns to look at her, his mouth stretched in a wind smile as he reaches for her hand. “I’ve often wondered what kind of woman could prompt a man to say no to my Silver and spend a million dollars on paintings—consider me enlightened, Bellissima.” Davey presses his lips to the back of Cari’s hand while the bottom drops out of my stomach.

  While Davey moves on to introduce himself to Miranda and Chase, Cari stares at me, as white as a sheet. A few moments later, Davey is hustling off to the kitchen, spouting something about dessert. As soon as he’s gone, Cari looks at me. “What is he talking about?”

  Sighing, I sit down, placing my napkin in my lap. “Silver asked me out. I said no,” I say, even though I know that’s not what she’s asking about. Looking across the table, at Chase and Miranda for help. Neither one of them will look at me. I’m on my own.

  “I don’t care about her,” Cari says loudly, shaking her head. “I care about the million dollars you spent on paintings.” She divides a look between her mentor and her boss. “Is this the news you wanted to give me?” The birthmark below her collarbone is as dark as her dress, her voice rising in volume with each word. “The rich guy I’m fucking bought all my paintings to save me from embarrassing myself by thinking I can actually make it as an artist?” she says it loudly. So loud diners at surrounding tables stop eating and drinking to stare at her until the entire dining area is silent and still.

  “Cari—”

  She stands, throwing in her napkin on the table in front of her. “I want to go home.”

  I sigh, standing slowly. “Cari—will you let me explain?”

  “I don’t want an explanation,” she says, biting each word in half. “I want you to take me home, Patrick. Right now.”

  Fifty-one

  Cari

  Neither one of us says a word the entire way home. I sit quietly, staring out the window as lights and shadows whip past, jaw set in an angry clench, one hand fisted around the little black clutch I brought along. The other toying with the necklace Patrick gave me last night.

  He bought my paintings. All of them.

  Any other girl would see it as some grand, romantic gesture. A year ago, I would’ve been one of them. But I spent the better part of a year fighting tooth and nail for my independence—making myself believe that I’m enough. Patrick buying those paintings feels like a slap in the face.

  Like a big, fat no you aren’t.

  I half expect him to drop me off on the curb and leave, but he doesn’t. He parks and gets out. Circling the front of the car, he pulls my door open and offers me a hand, and I take it because this dress is too short and these heels are too high to make a graceful exit on my own.

  As soon as I’m out of the car, I pull my hand free and lift my chin. “Thank you,” I say because my mother raised me to have manners.

  “You’re welcome,” he answers, his tone thick with sarcasm.

  Rather than start screaming in the street, I wait quietly for him to unlock the security door and pull it open, motioning me inside. As soon as I’m in, I turn, reaching for the keys. All I want is for him to leave so I can change my clothes and go to bed.

  He makes it clear I won’t be getting what I want anytime soon when he palms the keys and slams the door shut behind us both. Without explanation, he strides down the hallway, taking the stairs, two at a time, leaving me little choice but to follow.

  When I get to the top of the stairs, I find the door standing wide open. Slamming it shut, I stomp my way through the laundry room, stopping short when I spot him in the kitchen. He’s got his jacket unbuttoned, tie yanked loose, top button on his collar undone. Leaning against the counter, he’s drinking a bottle of water, and it’s so normal, so Patrick, that for a moment, it’s like the last year and a half never happened.

  But it did happen. All of it.

  And for better or worse, it’s changed us both.

  Maybe too much.

  On the counter he’s leaning against, I see the tulips he brought me, and I have this distinct feeling of being caught in the past while being unceremoniously shoved into an unknown future. I don’t like the way it feels. Like things are happening and changing and if I don’t move fast enough, hold on tight enough, I’m going to be left behind.

  “I’d like you to leave,” I say, unbuttoning my coat.

  “No.”

  No. The word, delivered in a conversational tone, stops me short. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me just fine.” He straightens himself from his slouch and turns just enough to set his half-drained water bottle on the counter. “But I’ll say it again—no. No. I’m not leaving. No. You’re not leaving.” He looks at me, his green gaze steady and unwavering. “Not this time.”

  That’s when I realize he’s just as angry as I am.

  Maybe even angrier.

  “When I asked you what you bought with the money from Sara’s father, you said stuff.” I throw my arms up, shaking my head. “Stuff!”

  “So?”

  “So?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “So, you had no right, Patrick.”

  “I had the money,” he says, shrugging casually before tipping his water bottle to his mouth again. “They were for sale.” He looks at me, his jaw tight. “That gave me the right.”

  “Those were my paintings,” I shout. “They were mine.”

  “They weren’t yours,” he shoots back. “You got rid of them.”

  My mouth hangs open for a moment, no sound coming out. How can I argue with that? To anyone looking at the situation from the outside, that’s exactly how it would look. Because when you don’t want something, that’s what you do. You sell it. Get rid of it.

  “I didn’t need you to buy them,” I say, totally ignoring what he just said. “I’m an artist, and a damn good one. I can make it on my own. I don’t need you to rescue me.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” He looks at me like he can’t believe what I just said. “That I haven’t always known that?”

  “Then why?” I ask, flinging my arms in the air. “What other reason could you have had for buying them?”

  He shrugs. “I bought them because I could,” he says, his tone calm and casual again.

  I look at him standing in front of me, in his five-thousand-dollar suit and his platinum cufflinks, leaning against the granite counter in his gourmet kitchen inside his luxury apartment and I have that feeling again. The feeling that I’m looking at a stranger.

  And that scares me.

  “Who are you?” I say, shaking my head. “What happened to you?”

  “What happened to me?” he says it on a laugh, shoving a rough hand through his hair. “You happened. And then you left.”

  “Fuck you, Patrick.” Now I do scream, my fists balled up in frustration, chest, and neck so hot, I feel like I’m on fire. “Fuck you. Fuck your car
. Fuck your fancy suit and your expensive aftershave.” I lift my hands and wave them wildly. “Fuck this apartment and your goddamn cufflinks.” I’m not making sense. I know that. A small part of me recognizes the fact that I’m teetering on the edge of hysteria. And that part of myself welcomes the insanity.

  He lifts his water bottle, taking a drink as if considering my outburst as anything other than utter nonsense. “The aftershave was a Christmas gift from my mom—” He tilts his head. “I think we can both agree it’s better than the robe.”

  “You think this is funny?” I rake a hand through my hair.

  “No,” he says, his jaw tightening around the word. “This isn’t funny at all.”

  “Finally, we agree,” I say, swiping my hand over my face, annoyed with myself when they come away wet. “You can’t buy me, Patrick. I’m not for sale.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I don’t know where that came from. What I meant by it but I can tell from the look on Patrick’s face that my words hit their mark. “Where are they?” I demand. “Where are my paintings? I want them back.”

  “They aren’t yours,” he informs me. “I bought them. They’re mine.” He comes at me. Before I can even think to move, he’s in front of me, close enough to touch. “But if you want to see them, I’m more than happy to show them to you.” His fingers close over my wrist as he moves past me, moving deeper into the apartment, pulling me along in his wake.

  “Because you’re a nice guy?” The dig slips out before I can stop it and it stiffens his shoulders.

  “I am a nice guy,” he shoots back, pulling up short in front of a door. “Until I’m not.” He pulls my keys from his pocket and jams one into the lock, giving it a vicious twist. “And you know what?” He turns the knob and pushes the door open. The room beyond it is dark. “Right now, I’m not.” He jerks on my wrist, all but tosses me inside.

  Standing there, letting my eyes adjust to the dark, shapes pull themselves from the gloom, and I feel my chest tighten. Familiar shapes. My chair. My dresser. My paintings.