Sydney had lived this nightmare more times than she could count on both hands—not with a fiancé, but with the various foster families who would take her in—some because they thought it would be nice to help a child, others because they wanted the small stipend that was supposed to cover her room and board. More often than not, in the end, it turned out that they couldn’t keep her. She was too quiet…or too noisy…or too demanding…or too much trouble…or too much of a temptation for a husband with wandering hands and no moral compass.
Whatever the case, they’d always made it her fault.
She knew from experience it wouldn’t be any consolation for Lily to hear that she was better off without the louse.
If it wasn’t the weight, it would have been another excuse as to why it was her fault that things wouldn’t work out. It was just so cruel to use her weight as the reason he couldn’t marry her, because it so horribly undermined her self-respect. It would put the blame all on her, instead of Josh’s being man enough to tell the truth—that he wanted out. That he didn’t have the guts to man up and tell the truth.
The realization made Sydney’s insides burn. And it just added fuel to the fire when she opened the front door to let herself out and saw Josh talking to of all people, Lenny.
Had this been a setup?
Had Lenny somehow gotten Josh to break up with Lily for the sake of a flipping reality-television show?
Suddenly, Sydney was seeing red and she let them both have a piece of her mind.
Chapter Fourteen
When Sydney didn’t come back to work that afternoon, Miles went to find her. He’d heard firsthand from Lenny about how she’d flown off the handle at him and Josh, who, by the way, he hadn’t paid off. Lenny had credited Sydney with coming up with a “damn good idea that he wished he would’ve thought of himself.”
He had, however, gotten Sydney’s tirade on tape and planned to use it and the footage they’d already shot of Lily to incorporate it into a new twist: Celebration’s Jilted Bride.
Miles threatened to walk off the set, leaving them high and dry if Lenny did anything so tasteless. Something told him that now was probably not the best time to tell Sydney her performance had been captured for posterity, but he did want to make sure she was okay.
He stopped by Bistro St. Germaine and got a couple of sandwiches and an order of Bananas Foster. He hoped the offering of food would help her feel better and the Bananas Foster would take her back to that day when the two of them were so happy. He needed her to know that he was on her side.
“This is how things go in this business,” he said. “Sometimes ideas work. Sometimes they don’t. You just have to bounce back.”
He had meant the comment to lighten the mood, but she was frowning.
“You’re going to bounce back from this,” he said, remembering that night of their first kiss in the kitchen.
“I know I will,” she said. “But I don’t want to bounce back to this. I don’t want to do Catering to Dallas anymore. I’m just not cut out for that kind of career. Miles, if they offer me the job in St. Michel, I’m going to take it.”
He sat back against the couch, letting all the air escape from his lungs upon impact.
“We’re going to have to figure out how to make this work,” he said, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. “Because you and I are too good together to let this get away.”
He reached out and took her hand, but there was no life in it. Just her fingers lying limply in his hand.
She looked so vulnerable sitting there.
“I swear I’ll never hurt you,” he said.
She sighed. “You can’t promise that. You don’t know what’s going to happen in the days or years to come. I still would like to believe that no one sets out with the intention of hurting anyone. But somehow things fall apart and it happens. Do you think Josh proposed to Lily with the intention of hurting her? No, but somewhere along the way things shifted and he did.”
“We are not Josh and Lily,” he said.
“I know we’re not. But if I get that job, I still don’t see how it can work for us.”
“So, you’re telling me you’re willing to walk away?”
“When we started this, I told you if we got involved it would only be short-term,” she said. “A fling. We agreed that’s all it was. That’s all it ever would be.”
He couldn’t answer her because the words were stuck in his throat, right there with his bleeding heart.
Sure. He’d agreed to a fling, but somewhere along the way he lost sight of that and had fallen in love with her. By sheer will, he found his voice.
“I may have said that, but things have turned out differently. I love you, Sydney. This is not just a fling for me. Never has been. Never will be.”
Miles had told Sydney he loved her, and she’d said she needed space to think things over. She’d even taken the next two days off from work to claim that space.
Basically, she had said that she was leaving their relationship up to fate: if they were meant to be together the St. Michel job would fall through. If she got it… That would be the end of them.
He’d not gone more than twenty-four hours without talking to her since they’d met. It was a real test of everything he had inside him to not pick up the phone or, better yet, land on her doorstep. But he stood resolute, giving her the space she asked for.
To make good on that promise to her…or was it a promise to himself? He couldn’t remember and really, it didn’t make it any easier whichever way you looked at it. All he knew right now was that he didn’t want to be alone.
So that night after work, he found himself at his parents’ house. His mom had made her famous lasagna and had insisted he come for dinner.
“Bring Sydney,” she’d insisted.
“She’s out of town,” he’d said.
That was all it took for the first round of fifty questions to begin.
“Listen, Mom,” he’d said with all the love and respect he could muster. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll come over as long as you promise not to quiz me about Sydney. Deal?”
There had been a long pause and he was prepared for what came next. “Are you two fighting?”
“Mom.”
“Okay. Okay. I promise. No questions. Just get yourself over here for dinner tonight.”
She kept her promise. Mostly. If you didn’t count the part where she informed Lucy and Dad to “Ix-nay on the ydney-Say.” She drew her finger across her throat in what Miles guessed was a gesture that meant silence. Then she said in a loud stage whisper, “He doesn’t want to talk about her.” Then she waved her hands like a football referee calling a foul before busying herself in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the lasagna dinner.
Lucy was sitting at the coffee table in the family room doing homework. Miles had just walked up to see if he could help her when their father asked him to come into his den,
It was a strange sensation, getting this invitation from this man who had all but excommunicated him for the past five years. But Miles entered into his father’s domain, unsure of whether he might be walking into friendly fire.
“Have a seat, son.” His father gestured to the old brown plaid sofa that had been around for as far back as Miles could remember. The springs were sprung and the upholstery was way past showing its age, but there was something comforting in its sameness.
Miles sat down and stretched his arm across the back, feeling the nappy roughness of the fabric. Stretching his arm out like this made him think of how he’d gotten used to Sydney sitting next to him, how she seemed to fit just perfectly under his arm.
He felt like a part of him was missing without her here. He thought about calling her and dismissed the idea just as fast. Besides, his father was talking. He was saying something and holding a letter in his left hand.
“I know you and I haven’t seen eye to eye over the past few years or so. I won’t get into the hows and whys of it. You have your
reasons for doing what you did, making that movie, and if you can live with it yourself, then I suppose I have no business judging you. I know you’ve been sending your mom money every month to put away for Lucy’s college and I…well, I appreciate that.”
He cleared his throat as if the thank-you had burned his esophagus.
“I’m glad I can do it.”
His dad mumbled something under his breath that Miles didn’t catch.
“What was that?” Miles asked.
His father frowned. “Your mother and I hate that we were never able to afford to send you kids to school. We never went. We couldn’t do it for all of you. So we didn’t pay for anybody. That’s just the way it was.” He punctuated the statement with a one-shoulder shrug.
“So I suppose that’s why you did what you did, quitting the army—”
“Dad, I didn’t quit. I proudly and willingly served my country for four years. Then I went to college. I may not have followed your mandate, but—”
“I know that!” his father shouted.
Miles held up both hands, signaling that he wasn’t going to argue with him. He started to stand up and walk out, but his father said, “Sit down. I’m not finished here.”
Miles hesitated, but decided to give the old man another shot at whatever it was he was trying to say.
“I…uh…I know I’ve never been supportive of your career choice, but…oh, hell, here, read this.”
He thrust the white envelope he’d been holding toward Miles.
“What is this?” Miles asked.
“Do I have it read it to you? Didn’t you learn how to do anything useful in college?”
Just ignore the barb. Don’t fight back.
Miles studied the envelope. It was addressed to Sergeant First Class Miles Mercer. That was his father. Miles had been a newly promoted E-5 sergeant when he’d fulfilled his military service after four years.
He glanced up at his father.
“Open it,” he said.
Miles picked up the envelope’s flap and slid out the letter, which was written on plain, white-lined stationery.
Dear Sergeant First Class Mercer,
We are writing to you to express our profound thanks for the video footage you shot of our son, Brian. It was among his belongings that were returned to us after he died in Afghanistan. It was a true blessing that he called you a friend and had you by his side when he died. The gift of your video keeps his memory alive for us. That footage, snapshots and our memories are all we have left of him.
We will be forever grateful to you for your service to our country and for preserving his memory for us.
Bob and Patty Yeager, parents of Brian Yeager
It took Miles until he reached the end and Brian Yeager’s name for the meaning of the letter to crystallize. And then it took him another moment to reconcile the fact that his father was the one who handed it to him—
It had been addressed to his father by mistake. Probably because they were both named Miles Mercer…
Miles flipped the envelope over again and looked at the postmark. It had been delivered nine months ago. His father had held on to it for that long without forwarding it.
He wasn’t going to fight about it with him. Whatever his reasoning for holding on to it, he was giving it to him now.
“Thank you for…” Miles looked down at the writing on the envelope at the name Yeager, written in bold black script, remembered his friend and said a silent prayer for him as the memories flooded back of that day when one soldier survived and another didn’t. “Thanks for showing me this.”
Miles stood to leave; this time his dad didn’t stop him, but before he crossed the den’s threshold, he did say, “I don’t think you’re a screwup. I’m proud of you for…your service.”
Miles turned around. His gaze snared his father’s. One corner of the old man’s mouth tilted up in the closest thing to a smile that Miles had ever seen on his father’s face.
Chapter Fifteen
Sydney got the job. The royal family of St. Michel wanted her to be their press agent. After working three days helping them prepare for the Royal Anniversary Celebration, running on very little sleep, she had emerged victorious.
She’d just come from the meeting where they had officially offered her the job. Her head was spinning as she stood under the palace portico waiting for the car to come around to pick her up, clutching a folio containing the papers that outlined the terms they’d offered. She looked at the leather case, ran her thumb over the smooth, cool grain embossed with the seal of St. Michel. Then she looked up at the grand golden mosaic design that adorned the portico’s curved ceiling. The golden tiles shimmered even in the shadows of the curved archway. The handcrafted design on this private entryway had been there for centuries and represented everything that was refined and steadfast and stable. It had stood through generations, serving the Royal House of Founteneau well, withstanding storms and shifts in political climate. It would stand in all its finery for generations to come.
Sydney shifted the folio in her clammy hands, realizing that with this employment offer—a generous package that had been in Sydney’s hands for less than fifteen minutes—she, too, could be etched into the Founteneau history.
For someone who had just been handed the chance of a lifetime, she didn’t feel as elated as she thought she should. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t get past the weighty residue of sadness and…regret?
She’d thrown her future up to fate: I lose the St. Michel job, Miles and I have a future; I get the St. Michel job, my future is in St. Michel.
Fate had spoken, and as she stood with the answer in her hands, she had to admit she didn’t like the answer it had delivered.
On a sudden whim she decided that there was one thing that could trump fate: free will. She was nothing if not willful.
She waved to get the parking captain’s attention. “I believe I’ll walk back to my hotel rather than take the car. Would you please radio the driver and cancel it for me?”
The man bowed his consent. “Certainly, madam. Is everything okay?”
A lush, warm breeze swept through the portico. It carried with it the scent of jasmine and lilacs that had been washed by a Mediterranean sea breeze. She breathed in the perfume, hoping it would calm her. But it only made her heart beat faster.
“Yes, everything is fine,” she said. “It’s a lovely day, I’d prefer to walk.”
“Very well,” he said, his perfect English colored by a French accent. “Is there any other means in which I may serve you?”
“No. Thank you,” she said. “Actually, on second thought, would you please point me in the best direction to leave the palace grounds?”
After all, most people didn’t simply walk away from the Royal Palace of St. Michel. As she tucked the leather folio into her black patent quilted Chanel tote, the irony that she was doing just that didn’t escape her.
The parking captain said something in French into his radio, presumably to the person at the next check point, and directed her to a cobblestone path running alongside the gently graded driveway that sloped downward toward the exit gate.
“Follow that path down to the guardhouse and they will let you out,” said the parking captain. “Are you sure you would not prefer to ride? The car will be here in a moment.”
“No, I’d really prefer to walk. Thank you, though.”
The uniformed man escorted her to the cobblestone walkway and offered another bow. “Good day, madam.”
Sydney nodded her thanks.
The lawn on either side of the path was lush, green and manicured. Bunches of hydrangeas in vivid deep pink lined the way, providing a cheery, scenic decoration to the walk.
The palace grounds, with its grand spouting fountain in the center and display of sister-nation flags, painted a picture of ideal life. Actually, that’s what St. Michel was best known for—the ideal life. It was a playground for the wealthy and famous. Because of the large amount of daytime tou
rist traffic, the high tariffs on lodging and money earned at the world-famous casino, the principality didn’t need to impose an income tax on residents.
However, becoming a resident without a special “in” was next to impossible. The cost of owning a home in this postage-stamp-size nation was prohibitive and availability was almost nonexistent.
One of the perks that came with the royal press secretary position was a private apartment on the palace grounds. That was in addition to a car and generous salary. Of course, the flipside was that the press secretary was on call 24/7. So, her life would never be her own. Not on holidays or weekends. Theoretically time off was part of the employment package, but having the time to use the benefit was quite another matter. But the reason she was ideal for the job was she had the freedom of movement to commit herself to such an all-consuming responsibility. She didn’t have anyone to worry about but herself.
Unless she did something to warrant her dismissal, she could be set for life.
Of course, a job like this would basically be sealing her fate as a single woman. Even if she was tempted to kid herself into believing that she would be in a position to meet heads of state and other dignitaries, as much as she would be working, there would be no time to nurture a relationship.
Miles’s words about finding a way to make the relationship work echoed in her heart and gave it a little twist. There would be no time. Even if he would be amenable to moving here, in his business, the travel he would have to do to make his movies would render them living separate lives.
That was no way to live, even if he did love her…and she was beginning to realize she loved him, too. The thought made her inhale a sudden breath of air. She gave her head a resolute shake to rid herself of the petrifying thought.
After she passed through the guard station and was off the property and back on common soil, she turned around and gave the palace and its majestic grounds another look. The Palais de St. Michel was built in the thirteenth century. The exterior of the castle still resembled the original thirteenth-century fortress that was built to protect the principality of St. Michel, but the inside had been renovated and updated with the most modern of security and conveniences. It had 210 bedrooms and 75 bathrooms. Not to mention the 95 offices and staterooms. She’d learned all the facts about the place before her interview. If she would be representing the royal family and the government, she had to be intimately familiar with all the details.
Harlequin Special Edition July 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Marooned with the MaverickHer McKnight in Shining ArmorCelebration's Bride Page 51
