The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella

by L. M. Halloran

  I flew home to Boston immediately after hearing the news. Sebastian was waiting for me at the airport, visibly uncomfortable and barely able to meet my eyes. I wasn’t surprised, or maybe I was too numb to care. No one knew about our brief affair two years prior, so he wouldn’t have been able to refuse picking me up on those grounds. Or any grounds, really.

  We didn’t speak on the half-hour drive to the house. I remember it being late at night, but retain few other details of the trip. What I do remember is how being near him had slowly burned through the heavy cloud of grief. His scent; his body so close, sharing air with mine.

  He carried my bag to my old bedroom for me, setting it on the bed. But when he turned to leave, I impulsively closed and locked the door. What kindled in his eyes brought me a potent wash of relief—he wasn’t immune. I was still alive, and Sebastian still wanted me.

  “What are you doing, Candace?”

  “You know exactly what I’m doing. Make me feel something besides pain, Bast.”

  He’d been on me in seconds.

  And gone before morning.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  His voice halts my walk down the lane of fucked-up memory. I shiver as his arms come around me from behind, his chin resting comfortably on my head. It’s too much, too casually intimate—I feel strangled. I pull away and walk back inside.

  Dragging hands through my hair, I stare at the rumpled bed. I’m assaulted with vivid memory. Helpless to resist the visual stimuli, my body awakens, flowering and readying itself for him.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Sebastian, you need to leave.”

  “Don’t do this,” he says softly.

  I turn, bracing myself for the impact of his eyes. “Please. Just go. I can’t…” I trail off at the sudden fierceness of his expression.

  “Is this punishment?” he asks roughly. “For what happened?”

  I don’t bother feigning ignorance. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  He lifts his hands, palms up. Perfectly, mouthwateringly naked and comfortable with it. Not that he has a damned thing to be insecure about.

  “Candace, I’m standing here because I want a chance. I want to repair the mistake I made as a dumb kid. I want to make you happy. Will you let me try?”

  I laugh—it’s a horrible and cruel response, but totally irrepressible. He flinches, hands falling. “You can’t make me happy, Sebastian,” I say in my hardest voice. Cut glass. “The only thing you do is make me crazy and give me orgasms.”

  The mask of indifference slides over his face. Even knowing I’m responsible for it, it hurts. Without another word, he walks to his clothes. He pulls on his jeans and sweater, shrugs into his jacket, then sits on the bed to tie his boots. His movements are economical, swift but without urgency.

  He pauses on the threshold of the bedroom. “Follow me out and lock the door behind me.”

  I follow him. He doesn’t look back once, doesn’t say goodbye. I close and lock the front door and lean my forehead to the wood. The Harley roars to life. I listen to the purr of its engine as it fades, then walk numbly to the second bedroom. I crawl between sheets that don’t smell like sex and Sebastian.

  I don’t cry, and as dawn takes the sky, I sleep.

  8

  I spend Sunday almost exclusively horizontal, ignoring Vera’s phone calls and watching old Westerns. Early that evening, she finds me in rare vertical form, standing like a zombie in my bedroom with crumpled bedsheets held to my nose.

  Not one of my finer moments.

  After I spill the proverbial beans—all twenty years’ worth—she orders Chinese delivery and we watch Braveheart. No lectures, tears, or man-hating commences. She knows me too well for that. I need time to process what happened last night before attempting to articulate feelings.

  Monday morning, I rejoin the human race.

  At nine thirty, I drive to UCLA to give a lecture on nonprofit work to a group of bored seminar students. It’s not something I love doing, but the potential reward keeps me coming back every semester. Although slim, there’s always a chance someone in the audience will consider giving money or time to a worthy cause.

  Jonathon Feldman, the professor whose class I’m here to hijack, is waiting for me outside the lecture hall. Already, there’s a heavy buzz of noise from within. He grins as I approach, blond head tilting to the side.

  “Going for the naughty teacher look, I see.”

  I laugh and give him a hug. We were undergrads together, and even dated for a few weeks before realizing we were better off as friends.

  Jonathon kisses my cheek as we separate. “Candace, thank you.”

  “Anything for you.”

  He taps the contemporary, black-framed glasses on my nose. “Is this outfit for me?”

  I smack his hand away. “It’s for your students.”

  “Well, it’ll certainly keep the male population riveted.”

  I wink. “And whatever keeps the males riveted will interest the females.”

  He chuckles and takes my arm, steering me into the hall. The chaos of disjointed conversations shifts, aligning on speculation. They know who I am, of course. I attend a lot of events, which translates to my picture showing up in the tabloids. Usually back pages—I’m not high drama enough.

  Jonathon escorts me onto the stage and to the podium.

  “All right, class,” he says, his firm voice quieting the auditorium in seconds. “Many of you know her last name—or her father’s, I should say, as Hughes Hall is named for him.” Polite laughter sounds, as well as a smattering of derisive snorts. “What you might not know is that the woman beside me is one of the foremost fundraising giants in Los Angeles. What does this mean? I’ll let her tell you. Please give a warm welcome to Ms. Candace Hughes.”

  Butterflies cartwheel in my stomach, then fade as I step up to the microphone. “Hi there. Does anyone know what the word philanthropist means?”

  A few hands go up. Someone shouts, “You’re rich!”

  Everyone laughs, including me.

  “Actually, you don’t have to have money to be a philanthropist. Quite literally, the word means lover of men.”

  And… they’re mine.

  After the lecture, Jonathon takes me to an early lunch. We reminisce about college years. I tease him for never having left, and he teases me for dating like I never did.

  Mid-meal, my phone rings. I almost ignore it, but Jonathon waves nonchalantly.

  “Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” he says in a godawful accent.

  I smirk and dig my phone out of my purse. The number on the screen belongs to Charity House, an organization with several women’s recovery centers in Los Angeles. They also run a handful of other projects, all catered toward victims of domestic violence, addiction, and the affected families and children.

  “This is Candace.”

  “We have a problem,” says Bethany Wright, the head of the gala committee.

  My throat squeezes. “Tell me.”

  “The revised budget came back this morning. It’s ridiculous. The board at Franklin Theatre is going to hell. I’m so freaking pissed right now I can’t see straight. I broke my favorite pencil, Candace.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, as I think furiously. “What’s the bottom line?”

  “Seventy-five thousand.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I hiss. “That’s fifteen thousand over their initial quote.”

  “I know.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “I think they know we’re desperate since our venue fell through. We have to book and send out address corrections by the end of the week. This is a fucking nightmare.”

  My hand slams onto the table, rattling silverware. I want to do it again, but see Jonathon’s shocked face. Grimacing apologetically, I tell Bethany, “I think you hit the nail on the head. They’re going to squeeze us because they can. Vultures.”

  I don’t say it aloud, but we both know they’re skyrocketi
ng the venue costs because of me. Because of my family’s money. And they know that if all else fails, I’ll cough up the cash.

  This gala has been in the works for two years, and has the potential to secure necessary capital for Charity House to not only update several older shelters, but hire medical professionals, therapists, onsite security staff, and open two new locations.

  Bethany and the other committee members have poured their hearts and souls into it. As have I, slaving to secure the heavy hitting guest list of Los Angeles elite. I must have made a thousand badgering phone calls to personal assistants, secretaries, managers… to corporations, production companies, firms, and banks. The freaking governor is coming.

  “What are we going to do?” whispers Bethany.

  “Give me the afternoon. I’ll make some calls. And…” I take a deep breath. “Don’t worry. Nothing is going to derail this gala.”

  She heaves a grateful sigh. “Thanks, Candace. I feel terrible. You’ve already given us so much.”

  “I’d do it a thousand times over. I’ll call when I have news.” I hang up and look across the table. “Any chance you have fifteen thousand dollars in your back pocket?”

  Jonathon snorts, knowing I’m not serious. “Why don’t you just cover it yourself?”

  The question is a valid one, but the answer is complicated and almost impossible to articulate. It’s more than the practical difficulty of writing a check of that size. There are personal reasons, too.

  I donate an ungodly amount of money each year—so much that my father annually lectures me about it. But the deepest reason for my hesitance is that philanthropy isn’t just about giving money away. It’s about encouraging and inspiring others to do the same.

  “If it comes to that, I will,” I tell Jonathon. I glance at my half-eaten sandwich. “Mind if I take this to go?”

  “Not at all,” he says gently.

  I hail the server.

  9

  Vera meets me at Rhubarb for coffee at three. When she steps onto the patio, I wave but don’t stop yammering into my phone. By the time her cappuccino arrives, though, I’ve hung up and crossed another name off my list.

  I sigh and slump back in my chair. “How was your day?”

  “Better than yours, looks like. No luck?”

  “I wrangled up a whopping two thousand.” I crumple the piece of paper with thirty names on it, all but one crossed out.

  “Time to call your brother?” she asks softly.

  I nod, dialing Alex before I can talk myself out of it. He answers on the third ring. “Little sis, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “How’s your donating this year?”

  He pauses. “Pretty maxed out, actually. What do you need?”

  “Fifteen.”

  I hear a low, indistinct voice in the background. Alex says, “Hang on, Candace.” His hand mutes sound, but I hear him speaking with someone. Maybe Thea? Thirty seconds pass, then, “Still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sebastian says he’ll handle it. He’ll drop off a check. When do you need it?”

  My scalp prickles. “Sebastian’s there right now?”

  “Yeah, he came down this morning. Do you need the money tonight?”

  I glance at Vera, who’s watching me with interest. With calm I don’t feel, I say, “Yes. Tell him I’ll be home all night. Have him make it out to Charity House.”

  Vera’s eyes narrow.

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks, Alex. Gotta go.” I hang up and immediately beg Vera, “Come over tonight.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry, hon, I can’t. I promised Serefina we’d do dinner.”

  I frown. “That name has to be fake. She’d better not be putting the moves on my best friend.”

  She laughs. “As if. She’s just a lonely model in a big city. I think of her as my personal charity case.”

  I drag a hand over my face. “Fuck.”

  “You’re really in knots about this, aren’t you?” she asks softly.

  “No,” I say, then repeat it more convincingly. “No. It's fine. He’ll drop off the check and leave.”

  Vera takes a dainty sip of her coffee. “If you say so.”

  I stall as long as I possibly can, drinking two more coffees I don’t need. Vera finally tells me I’m being a baby and need to get my ass home. I wish her a fabulous dinner and food poisoning, then do as she says.

  When I pull into my driveway, the sun is low in the sky, shadowing the front of the house. It isn’t until the automatic headlights blink on that I see the man standing on my doorstep holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses.

  Thoughts of Sebastian are momentarily banished.

  I forego the garage and park near the path connecting the driveway to the front door. Keys and purse dangling from one hand, I walk briskly toward him.

  “Robert? What are you doing here?”

  The closer I get, the clearer his conciliatory expression becomes. With his big brown eyes, he looks like a hurt puppy. A Ralph Lauren-wearing, yacht-owning puppy.

  “Can we talk?” he asks softly.

  I glance at the flowers. I should tell him to get lost, but can’t. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the genuine regret in his eyes. Or maybe the chorus of my brothers’ voiced concerns is finally breaching my hard head. I don’t like that Deacon calls me a man-eater, or that Charles thinks I’m commitment phobic.

  And I really don’t like that I slept with two men in two days.

  I nod. “Sure, come on in.”

  Robert moves out of the way so I can open the door. I step inside, turn off the beeping alarm, and drop my purse on a side table. He follows me into the kitchen, where I pull open the refrigerator.

  Turning, I ask, “Want something to drink?”

  He shakes his head and offers me the flowers. I blink at them like an idiot until he sighs, laying them down on a counter.

  “I need to apologize, Candace.”

  “Really, Rob, it’s not a big deal.”

  I busy myself with pouring a glass of water. My hands are shaking. Caffeine swims fast in my blood, making me feel like I’m filled with bees. Or you’re having a panic attack, suggests my inner therapist.

  “I was trying to make you jealous.”

  I almost drop my glass. After carefully setting it down, I give him my full attention. Or try to. For some reason, it’s incredibly difficult to meet his gaze.

  “That woman, Jessica, is an old friend,” he continues. “I asked her to pretend like she was flirting with me. I wanted you to notice, to get mad. It was childish and obviously backfired. I should have called you and explained, but I was embarrassed. And hurt. I got drunk instead.”

  I try to think of something to say, and come up with, “Okay.” I’m actually incredibly impressed by his honesty.

  Robert grimaces, pulling a hand through his hair. “I know we’ve only been dating a few weeks and haven’t talked about exclusivity or anything, but I… I think you’re fantastic. You’re smart, funny, and sexy. I enjoy being around you. I want to be around you more.”

  A sick, twisted feeling takes hold of my gut. And it’s not too much coffee. He’s telling me he cares about me. And while he was hurt and drunk, I slept with Sebastian like he meant nothing.

  Does he mean nothing?

  I look hard at him, past the polished good looks, the soft eyes. I think about his sweetness and gentleness. Robert is truly Old School—chivalrous, raised to respect and adore women. He’s been nothing but solicitous, charming, and generous.

  Do I care about him? I don’t know. And then it hits me—I never tried to care about him. Because all these years, I’ve still been waiting. For Sebastian. Fucking fuck.

  Robert takes a quick step forward. “Darling, are you crying?”

  I sniff and wipe hard at my eyes. “Maybe. I guess. Thank you, Rob, for telling me that.”

  He gazes at me with concern, one hand half-raised. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”r />
  I blink past the hazy filter of tears. “I was pissed when I saw you with that woman. Jealous, I guess. But, Robert, it doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that you deserve a better woman than me. I can’t give you what you want.”

  He takes another step, expression intent. “You don’t know what I want.”

  My lips twitch. “Okay, sorry.”

  He shakes his head; the sunset glows in his eyes, turning them almost amber. “I want you, Candace Hughes. However much you’re willing to give me.”

  Alarm bells sound in my head. He wants commitment! Commitment! I begin shaking my head, but he reaches out to capture my face in his hands.

  “Do we have a good time together? Do we laugh a lot, have good conversations?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  He smiles softly. “How about we just leave it at that for now? We keep having a good time, and I keep trying to give you that elusive orgasm.” Heat floods my face and he chuckles. “You’re not as good at faking it as you think.”

  I shut my eyes in embarrassment, which is immediately compounded by memory of four recent orgasms. “I’m sorry, Rob.” And I’m apologizing for more than faked orgasms.

  His thumbs gently brush my jaw. “You’re forgiven. And unless you’re going to dump me right now, no more overnights with Sebastian Bellizzi.”

  My eyes pop open as the blood drains from my head. “What?” I whisper.

  His lips thin, but his eyes stay warm. “I might have come to your house late last night and seen his motorcycle.”

  I try to pull away but he draws me forward instead, wrapping his arms around me. I mumble into his chest, “I think I’d like to die right now…”

  To my utter shock, he chuckles. “I made my own bed, Candace. I know you wouldn’t have slept with him if I hadn’t fucked up royally on Friday.”

  He’s right—I may be a serial dater, but I’ve never cheated on anyone.

  I mumble, “Are you going for Best Boyfriend of the Year or something?”

  He leans back fast, grinning broadly. “Boyfriend?”