When I Fall

by Tamara Morgan

  He wouldn’t regret that one either.

  “And even now, you aren’t saying anything. You do that, you know. Listen. Watch. Wait. It’s like the other day at the Artista, when you sat and absorbed the play just long enough to pinpoint what it was you didn’t like about it.”

  “They were bad actors.”

  “They were rehearsing. Of course they didn’t have it all down yet.” She shook her head. “It’s a hell of a lot easier to critique than it is to create, to react instead of act. And that’s what you do. You let everyone else make the first few clumsy mistakes so you can swoop in and dazzle us with a checkmate.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “You do too. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing—and I’m not saying it’s good either. What I am saying is that it doesn’t give you the right to judge me. You might think it’s silly that I make decisions based on what my horoscope says, but I think it’s silly that you won’t make any decisions at all.” She straightened her shoulders, clearly proud of herself, and flashed him a wide smile. “So. Dancing at Juno tonight. It’s a yes?”

  He’d been so busy processing Becca’s striptease and obsession with star rotations that he’d forgotten the driving force of this entire conversation. It all came rushing back now—the questions, the concerns, the potential for catastrophe. Not content with having the scandals come to her, she was actively seeking them out now.

  “If I agree to this,” he said slowly, “which, by the way, I’m not at all sure I want to do—will you finally tell me what it is Dana did to spur all this aggression?”

  “Oh.” She blinked and tilted her head. “Didn’t you already know? It was Sara, of course.”

  “Hell—I didn’t even think of that.” Nothing triggered Becca quite like someone tarnishing her friend’s reputation. Trust Dana to make a dick comment at the wrong time. “If you want my advice, don’t listen to a word he says. He’s even more of an idiot than Trish Callahan.”

  Becca looked at him as though he were the idiot, and he had the sinking feeling that despite all his watching and waiting, he’d missed something huge.

  “I’m not mad because of something he said, Jake.” She spoke gently, but there was a steely undertone to her words that made her appear larger than her five feet three inches. “I’m mad because Dana is the reason she killed herself.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jake sat enjoying his third glass of scotch—neat, room temperature, top shelf, exactly the way he liked it—feeling far more relaxed than he had in a long time. It was a strange sensation, almost foreign in the way it fit, like the first time he’d slipped into a suit tailored to his measurements.

  He shouldn’t have been relaxed at all. He was living with a woman he didn’t love, but who the world thought he intended to marry. He had no money and even fewer prospects for the future. And a man he was acquainted with had just been leveled with what amounted to a murder accusation.

  Well, that last one wasn’t so bad, actually. Finding out Dana had been dating Sara Yarrowgate in the months leading up to her death had been the least shocking revelation of the past few weeks.

  From across the nightclub—which wasn’t Juno, after much persuasion on his part—Becca lifted a finger and beckoned him to join her in the series of gyrations that were equal parts striptease and dancing. He had no idea how she did it, how she turned the dark parts of her life off and found the joy in what was left, but he was doing a damn fine job of emulating her. For right now, Becca was happy and thriving—not an unstable young woman thrust too often into the spotlight. For right now, Jake was an independent man of means—not a waste of space drinking expensive liquor on his billionaire fiancée’s tab.

  Becca beckoned again, the short, green spangled dress she’d worn for the night slithering over her body like snakeskin. Since the moment she’d put the dress on and crooked her arm through his, she’d been in constant motion, reinforcing the snake metaphor so firmly in his brain he’d never be able to look at a forked tongue the same way again.

  As tempting as she was out there, Jake gave a slight shake of his head and held up his glass in a one-sided toast. He wouldn’t react to the provocation of her grinding on some douchebag in a popped collar and designer jeans. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Tonight, his plan was to sit and enjoy a bottle of scotch. His choice. His decision. Maybe it didn’t look like action from where she was standing, but she wasn’t feeling the warm, numbing creep of the thirty-year-old alcohol in her veins.

  And he didn’t need a stupid horoscope to tell him how good it tasted.

  Unfortunately, even he had to admit a twinge of regret for not checking the National Beat about ten minutes later. A deep, rumbling voice interrupted his quiet contemplation of Becca’s writhing form, filling him with a bone-deep resignation. It would have been nice to see this one coming.

  “I see your fiancée is about to start fornicating on the dance floor.”

  The shadow his brother Monty cast as he approached was an impressive one—and Jake meant that in every possible sense of the word. He impressed by size. He impressed by stature. He impressed by the severe, funereal lines of his poorly cut suit jacket and even more severe, funereal face.

  Monty had definitely missed his calling. He shouldn’t be overseeing the family’s charitable foundation, bringing joy and light to the world. He should be burying people. Burning them to ashes and burying them.

  “I see you’re still using words like fornicating in public.” Jake motioned at the chair next to him, hoping his brother would take the hint and sit down. He didn’t. “And for chrissakes, stop hulking there and turning your death stare on everyone. These people are here to have a good time, not buy coffins.”

  Monty paused and turned that same death stare Jake’s way for an uncomfortably long twenty seconds before finally taking the proffered seat. Jake cast a look over his brother’s shoulder toward the dance floor, hoping to hint Becca far, far away from the conversation that was about to take place, but she was oblivious to anything but the music. As there weren’t any tables around for her to climb onto and subsequently fall off of, he left her to it.

  “So it’s true.”

  Jake twirled the glass in his hand, watching as the tawny liquid rose up and around, leaving viscous ripples along the edge. “Did you really ascend all the way from the depths of Hades to ascertain my relationship status? You could have saved yourself the trouble and picked up a phone.”

  Monty didn’t smile. Monty never smiled unless he could possibly help it. Although only three years separated Jake and his brother, and more than one person noted the physical similarities between the two of them—the same sweep of auburn hair, same wide shoulders, same tall form—no one had ever gotten the two of them confused. Jake was thinner, for one. For another, the sight of Monty’s lips curved in a smile was so rare most people assumed it was a myth, like unicorns riding the kraken on their way to Atlantis.

  “We’ll need to put an announcement in the Times.”

  “Go ahead,” Jake said, though his heart picked up at the thought. There were several things in this world that were reversible. Vests. The destruction of the rainforest. Vasectomies. In his experience, a formal engagement announcement in the Times wasn’t included on that list. “I’m sure Grandmama Clare would be happy to help get that written. Although I wonder...do you think I should start calling her Mother Clare now? I’m not sure what the formal etiquette is. Maybe I could call her both. My mother-grandmother. Double Mee-Maw. That’s not creepy, is it?”

  “I’m glad this is so amusing for you.”

  “It’s an engagement, not the End of Times. I’m supposed to be happy.” He fell into a mocking smile. “Or are you just upset I won the bet? That’s it, isn’t it? You always were a sore loser.”

  “I don’t count it a win yet. Last I checked, it wasn’t Janua
ry first.”

  “Oh, come on. You said I couldn’t find a way to be successful without your help or some kind of job holding me up. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got a pretty cushy address right now. And these shoes are new.” He extended a foot and admired the glossy black sheen on his Balenciagas. The shoes weren’t even remotely new, but Monty didn’t have to know that. “Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

  He made a motion to the bartender, who came prepared with the bottle of Lagavulin that was bearing him company this evening. “My brother here would like to join me in my celebration. What do you think, Monty? Single? Double?”

  “What are we celebrating?” the bartender asked, holding the bottle poised to pour. “If it’s something big, I’d go with the double. Or I could grab a bottle of the Perrier-Jouet we just got in.”

  “Water’s fine, thanks. I’m not staying long.” As soon as the bartender processed the ridiculous order and sauntered away to more promising customers, Monty turned to Jake with a frown. “Those are some costly brands, Jake. Is this who you are now? Is this how far you’ll go to avoid real life? I didn’t think even you could sink so low as to take advantage of a sweet kid like Becca.”

  Jake flicked an imaginary piece of dirt from his cuff. “I’m not taking advantage of her. We’re in love.”

  Monty looked like he wanted to say something scathing, but he refrained. “And are you absolutely sure this is the best place for you to be taking her? I spotted about twenty cameras on my way in. I suppose it would be asking too much for you to pick a quiet, out-of-the-way club for once.”

  Jake’s jaw tightened. He had picked a quiet, out-of-the-way club. He’d even had Liam drop them off a few blocks down the street. The paparazzi must have gotten wind of their arrival here anyway.

  “Is there a reason you came all this way? Not that your input into my life isn’t appreciated, but I know how difficult it is for you to tear yourself away from dad’s teat for any length of time. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

  As it always did, his sarcasm flew right over Monty’s head, lodging itself in the wall never to be seen again. “Yes, I am here for a reason. Dad wants you to come home.”

  “Home?” The word felt dry and starchy on his tongue.

  “Yes. Preferably with your betrothed in tow.” Monty looked up, his frost melting a touch as Becca wound her way through the tables. A gentlemanly undertaker, he pushed back from the table and stood as she approached. “Hello, Rebecca. You’re looking well, as usual.”

  Despite the chilly reception Jake had received, Monty looked almost pleased as he dropped a kiss on Becca’s cheek.

  “Thank you, Monty. It’s great to see you again.”

  He pulled out a chair for her, but she chose to sidle up closer to Jake’s side and wrap her arms around his neck instead, a show of affianced solidarity he couldn’t help but appreciate. She smelled of exertion and a deep, amber perfume he found intoxicating. And she was warm from the dancing, her skin flushed with color he could make out even under the low, intermittent lights in the club.

  “What brings you to New York?” Becca asked brightly. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Neither.” Monty frowned. “Or maybe both. I’m only here to deliver a message.”

  “Is the message written in lemon juice and/or signed in blood?”

  “Um...no? It’s verbal.”

  “Business then.” She nodded and made a motion to rise. “Should I give you two some alone time?”

  “Oh, no—it’s nothing like that. I wanted to offer my congratulations.”

  “And you came all this way? That’s sweet.” Becca spoke lightly, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of the undercurrent of tension currently enveloping the two brothers. Everyone within a ten foot radius was aware of the undercurrent of tension. Putting the Montgomery brothers in the same room was like trying to force two planets into each other’s rotation. “But you could have just called, you know.”

  “That’s exactly what I told him,” Jake grumbled.

  Becca kept her arms around Jake’s neck and leaned to press her lips against his, woodsy with the scent of scotch. He stiffened at first, as if a public display of affection in front of his brother would somehow give his foe the advantage, but she had to do something to ease the tension. They were seriously killing the vibe in here.

  “I hope you’ve come as an ambassador of goodwill,” she said to Monty. “Did I hear you say something about home?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Dad was hoping the two of you would be willing to come to the Manor to spend a few weeks with family. Give news of your engagement a chance to settle in.”

  Becca dropped her arms from around Jake’s neck and frowned. “To settle in?” She didn’t like the sound of that. It implied an unnatural fit, an element of wrongdoing—and she refused to feel bad about what she and Jake were doing. Her own mother would rather lock her up than deal with her problems, and Jake was constantly being goaded to extreme lengths by a family that didn’t understand him in the slightest. Banding together was the best thing for them both.

  “Does that mean he doesn’t approve?” she asked.

  “What? No. No, no, no. Don’t misunderstand.” Monty leaned over the table and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. He noticed the lack of a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand and raised a questioning brow at Jake. “I see you spared no expense.”

  Jake countered his brother’s look of incredulity with a carefully arched brow of his own. That was how bad the rivalry between them was—they were down to dueling eyebrows. “Why am I not surprised that the first thing you notice is attached to dollar signs?” he asked. “Do you want to head outside and discuss her dowry before we go any further?”

  “I didn’t say that. You’re always putting words in my mouth.”

  “You should be grateful. Most people prefer talking to me.”

  Poor Monty flushed red at Jake’s words—mostly because it was true. Monty was a nice guy once you got to know him, but he tread so heavily it was hard to feel comfortable around him. He was a Capricorn, of course.

  “I don’t think it’s extraordinary to wonder why she isn’t wearing a ring,” Monty grumbled. “Forget I asked.”

  “It’s too late now. And it just so happens there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it.”

  What is he doing? Becca scrambled to come up with a realistic lie as to why she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring—Jake grossly misjudged the size, she’d hated the cut and refused to wear it, it didn’t go with this outfit—and had just decided on the last one when Jake spoke up.

  “I’m planning to give her the family ring.”

  Monty sat up with a start. “You can’t mean the Montgomery sapphire?”

  “Do you know of any other family ring?” Jake asked. “Unless there’s a treasure trove you and Dad have been keeping from the rest of us, that’s the exact one I mean.”

  “But...” Monty’s forehead crinkled as he looked back and forth between Jake and Becca. “It’s not... You can’t...”

  “But...you wanted it for yourself? It’s not...my birthright as much as yours? You can’t...imagine why I might be interested in giving my future bride the same ring Mom wore?” Jake’s voice grew harder with each question, and Becca didn’t doubt for a second that he was reacting instead of acting again. Monty had pushed him into a corner, so of course Jake felt compelled to push right back. She would never understand why Jake’s family insisted on mishandling him so.

  “Now you’re deliberately misconstruing my words.”

  “Let’s face it, Monty,” Jake said. “The chances of any woman sacrificing her last name to stare at your sullen face across the breakfast table every morning are slim. I figure one of us should get some use out of it.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Dad.”

/>   “I’d be delighted,” Jake said through his teeth, clearly anything but.

  “I don’t need anything fancy—” Becca began, but Jake’s hand fell to her leg in a vise-like grip, and she clamped her mouth shut. Okay, then. She could take a hint, especially when it was cutting off her femoral artery. He wanted her to have the ring. “But I do love things that sparkle. It is sparkly, isn’t it, Snickerdoodle?”

  Jake’s hand relaxed, and blood flow returned to her leg. “Yes, Pussy-Cat. It’s very sparkly.”

  She beamed. Even though accepting a ring was not part of the plan, she would like to catch a glimpse of the infamous Montgomery sapphire. At eighteen karats and set with a dozen diamonds of impressive size, the ring was supposed to be amazing. They’d all wondered, when Serena had agreed to marry Jake’s dad, if she’d be offered the same piece of jewelry that had graced her predecessor’s hand, but Mr. Montgomery was much too wise a man to offer her sister a recycled declaration of his affection. The emerald-cut diamond Serena wore had been made specifically for her—a one-of-a-kind piece not even the most exacting collector could fault.

  “So it’s settled, then? I’ll send Ryan out to pick you up first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t have to come just because Dad whistles,” Jake said. “And I’m not going to hide my fiancée away in Connecticut like I’m ashamed of her. We’re doing just fine here in town.”

  “You can save the theatrics for another time, Jake. Given Rebecca’s recent, ah, institutionalization—” Monty looked an apology at her, “—and the way the press seems to be slamming you both, Dad thinks it might be best if we show that this engagement has the full family support. We’re going to do the changing of the seasons, traditional hayrides, the whole show. With plenty of photo opportunities and parties, of course.”

  Becca perked. “Parties?”

  Monty’s eyes crinkled in what might, in a more demonstrative man, be termed a smile. “I’m sorry if I came across as disapproving before. The truth is, Dad couldn’t be more delighted to welcome you to the family, and he wants to make sure we do it properly. Serena too.”