by Diana Castle
“Well, what?”
“What do you think of him now?”
Lydia glanced between the detective and her mother. Then she looked at the report that lay on the table. “I think it's horseshit.”
“Don’t use such language in my house.”
Lydia ignored her. She looked over at Mr. Rusnak. “How can something so….so fanciful be true?”
“Fanciful?” Carlotta turned to the detective. “What does she mean by fanciful?”
“Well, I have to admit, if I hadn't uncovered this information myself I would have found it rather unbelievable too.”
“But it’s true,” Carlotta cried. “It's all true.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, all of the details are true. But when you add it all up…” He shrugged. “It just doesn’t make sense. Much of what I uncovered goes back years.” He paged through his report. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this guy has been around for decades. And when I say decades, I’m talking forty, fifty, seventy years. Maybe longer. But of course that’s impossible. According to his birth certificate he’s twenty-five years old. Therefore, the only logical explanation I can come up with is that he's in some kind of witness protection program or he's a spy or he's a—”
“Terrorist,” Carlotta exclaimed, her hand at her throat.
“Terrorist? Tristan? Mother, you're joking.” Carlotta had harbored an obsession with terrorists ever since the September 11th attacks in New York.
“I most certainly am not joking. Terrorism is nothing to joke about. Anyone could be one of them. Even ordinary people. Not just…those people,” she said, her voice low.
Lydia looked away from her mother in disgust and over at the detective. “I can assure you, Mr. Rusnak, Tristan is not a terrorist. And you yourself just told us that he’s the CEO of a drug company.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Carlotta cried. “If he’s as wealthy as Mr. Rusnak states he is then he’d have the money to fund those people. Just because you're…” Her lips twisted. “…infatuated with him doesn't make him innocent.” She pressed her forefinger on the folder that lay before her. “It's right here. In black and white. If nothing else, Lydia, he’s definitely not who he says he is.”
Lydia stared at the report. Yes, it was all there. Taken together the detective's findings all pointed to a man who was not who he claimed to be, who had gone through a great deal of trouble to not only hide his background and his origins even the very nature of who he was.
Unable to reason it out, Lydia tried another tactic. “Mr. Rusnak, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Did my mother pay you to fabricate these findings of yours?”
Carlotta gasped but Lydia paid her no mind. She continued to stare intently at Mr. Rusnak. She needed to see, if she could, whether he was lying when he answered her.
“Lydia, how dare you suggest such a thing,” her mother finally sputtered.
Mr. Rusnak stared at Lydia for a long moment. “Mrs. March—” he began.
She shook her head. “Don’t call me that. I’m no longer married.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement of her request. Then he spoke, his voice low and even, “I've been in this business for twenty-seven years. My reputation is my life.” He stole a glance at Carlotta. “There is no amount of money that anyone could offer me that would make me risk that.”
He gestured with his head towards the report that lay between them. “As improbable as all that may seem to you everything in there is based on fact. And trust me, it wasn't easy to find. Your mother did pay me, but she paid me to do a thorough job. And I swear on the lives of my grandchildren that I fabricated nothing.”
Lydia gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”
He nodded, his face grave but his eyes were, she was surprised to see, sympathetic.
“Well, now that we've gotten all that rubbish out of the way,” Carlotta said, her voice tight with anger, “tell her about that woman.”
Lydia’s stomach churned sickeningly. Woman? What woman? Oh, no, not again. Tears pricked the edges of her eyes as she looked over at Mr. Rusnak.
“It's not what you think,” he said to Lydia. “The woman your mother speaks of is ninety-four years old.”
“What does that matter?” Carlotta cried. “If he's a gigolo then the older the better. Right?”
Lydia whirled on her mother. “A minute ago you said he was a terrorist. Now he's a gigolo? And if he’s a billionaire, why in heaven’s name would he need to be a gigolo?”
Carlotta shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s obvious he's not who he says he is.”
Lydia looked back at the detective. “What about this woman?”
“She’s not in the written report. I only found out about her a day ago. Her name is Rosemary Pryor. As I said, she's ninety-four years old. She resides in the Sunrise Nursing Home. She's been there the past seven years. Her husband died ten years ago and when she was no longer able to care for herself, her niece put her in the nursing home. She has no children of her own.”
“What does this have to do with Tristan?”
“Mr. Drake visits her. Regularly.”
Lydia blinked. “He does? But what is she to him?”
“I wasn’t able to find that out. No one at the nursing home would speak to me about Mr. Drake or his relationship to Mrs. Pryor. She’s not a relative. Or at least I don’t think she is. All I know is that he visits her.” He glanced at Carlotta. “I wasn’t paid to investigate her so I didn’t.”
“What does he do when he’s there,” Lydia asked.
“He just sits with her. Sometimes he reads to her. But mostly he just sits. One of the nurses did tell me that Mrs. Pryor suffers from a very advanced stage of dementia. I doubt she’s even aware he’s there.”
“Is there anything else?” Lydia asked.
“He brings her calla lilies. Every Sunday.”
“What further proof do you need?” her mother asked. “The poor woman is obviously one of his victims or dupes or whatever they're called. He’s just waiting for her to die.”
“Mother, please.”
Carlotta firmly nodded, the thin skin of her neck quivering. “Bringing her flowers. It’s probably all part of his con. More than likely he’s already had her will changed and when she dies everything she owns will belong to him.”
Lydia clenched her hands. “Stop it, Mother!”
Carlotta glared at her but Lydia barely noticed. Her mind was in turmoil. Who was this woman? Tristan had told her he had no living relatives. But Rosemary Pryor was old enough to be his grandmother. Possibly even his great-grandmother. Or was she something else. An elderly aunt? But why had he not told Lydia about her? And what other secrets was he keeping from her?
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Rusnak,” Carlotta said. “I appreciate your taking the time to come and see us personally.”
At this clear sign of dismissal Mr. Rusnak rose from his seat. He looked over at Lydia. “It was a pleasure to meet you. And….and I’m sorry.”
Lydia looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Carlotta picked up a silver bell and rang it. Lydia gritted her teeth. She'd learned over the years to hate the sound of that bell. Another of her mother's pretensions.
The maid entered the room.
“Show Mr. Rusnak out,” Carlotta said.
The maid escorted him out of the room. Once they were gone, Carlotta turned towards Lydia.
“You're going to keep seeing him, aren't you?” She didn't wait for Lydia's reply. “After all this.” She waved her hand at the two reports the detective had left on the table. “You're still going to act like an infatuated, pathetic—”
Lydia shot up from the table. She picked up her copy of the report and rolled it tightly in her hand, her fingers stiff around it. It was not lost on her that she was holding it like a weapon.
“Goodbye, Mother. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
“Lydia, surely you must now see that
he’s nothing more than a—”
She turned away and, with the detective’s report gripped in her hand, left her mother’s mansion. She had no idea what she was going to do, but she couldn’t stay there. She couldn’t remain there and listen to her mother go on about Tristan.
Once outside in her car, the detective’s report on the seat next to her, she pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. What was she supposed to do now? Ignore the report and continue to see Tristan?
No, she couldn’t do that. How could she continue to be with him with all these secrets lying between them? She started the car and headed home.
Her mother had accomplished her goal. She’d brought the seeds of doubts that had lain in Lydia’s heart regarding Tristan to fruition and she could no longer ignore them. Even if she wanted to ignore them she couldn’t. It was too late for that.
Chapter Eleven
Lydia flung her keys on the table near her front door. She leaned against the door, the detective’s report clutched in her hand. Inside it were the details about Tristan’s life that, in and of themselves, made some sense. But taken as a whole defied explanation. Like the fact he was incredibly wealthy, had a mysterious background and he brought calla lilies every Sunday to a ninety-four year old dementia patient.
But wasn't that Tristan? She frowned as she tried to remember that expression Douglass had sometimes used. Oh, yes. A riddle inside a mystery wrapped in an enigma.
She nodded. That was Tristan. An enigma. A riddle. A mystery.
She put the report on the table next to her keys. She dug her cellphone out of her bag and dialed his number.
He answered on the first ring. “Hello, sweet.” His voice swept over her like warm, sultry waves.
She closed her eyes, clinging to the sound of his voice as if it were a lifeline. Lies. All the detective had told her and Carlotta had to be lies. But what if they weren’t lies? What if what the detective had told her was the truth? If that was so then what did it all mean? Who was Tristan really? She choked on a sob.
His voice sharpened. “What's wrong, Lydia? Are you all right?”
“Tristan, I—” Tears welled in her eyes and her throat closed up. She could not speak.
“I'll be right there.” He hung up.
Lydia placed the cellphone on the table. He would come and he would explain everything. She stared at the detective's report. And everything that was a mystery would be solved and they could go back to the way things had been.
While she waited for him to arrive, she decided to clean up. She knew exactly how long it would take him to reach her house. She busied herself wiping down the counters, the kitchen sink, the stovetop, the refrigerator. She straightened out her lingerie drawer, vacuumed the carpet and tied up old magazines for the recycling bin. She did all she could to keep her mind off what the detective had said and to wait for Tristan to arrive and explain everything.
The doorbell rang.
Lydia froze, a dusting rag in her hand. She tossed it on the table she’d been cleaning and went to the door. As soon as she opened it, Tristan stepped inside, closed the door behind him and took her into his arms.
She sank against his chest and inhaled his familiar scent; his musky cologne and his underlying masculine smell that never failed to make her pussy swell and moisten. He held her close, his arms warm and strong around her. She clung to him, the tears flowing out of her eyes and wetting his shirt.
He rubbed her back, “Lydia, sweet, what's wrong? Tell me.”
She held him tight, willing herself to stop crying. But she could not.
He guided her over to the couch. They sat down, his arms still around her.
Once she felt more in control of herself, she gently pushed away from him. He took a handkerchief out of the pocket of his slacks and, as if she were a child, wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Now, tell me,” he said gently. “What's wrong? What’s happened?”
“I went to see Mother this afternoon.” She rose from the couch and went over to the table near the door where she had left the report. She picked it up, went back to the couch and handed it to him.
He took it from her. “What’s this?”
“Read it. Please.”
He stared at her then opened the detective’s report and began to read.
She sat next to him, her hands clasped in her lap. As he read, she watched his jaw harden and his lips press together.
He snapped the folder closed. “Your mother hired him.”
It was not a question, but Lydia nodded anyway.
“He's very good,” he observed.
A laugh shattered her throat. “Mother would have only hired the best.”
He released a heavy breath and placed the report on the couch. Lydia waited. Waited for him to tell her it was all a lie. A mistake. That the detective had confused him with someone else.
He reached over and took her hand. “I know what you want me to say.” He squeezed her cold fingers, rubbing them as if to bring warmth back into them, his dark blue eyes gazing solemnly into hers.
“But it’s true, Lydia,” he said. “All of it.” He gave her a rueful smile. “As I said, he’s very good. And very thorough.”
She slowly drew her fingers away from his. He tried to hold onto her hand but she would not let him. He finally released her.
“So you really are the CEO of a multi-national pharmaceutical company?” she asked.
He nodded.
“And you’re rich?”
“Yes.” he said simply.
He was young, attractive, an amazing lover and, to top it all off, very rich. So what was he doing with someone like her when he could have any woman he wanted? Was her mother right? Was it pity? Or did he get some kind of perverse pleasure out of playing with her affections?
She rose from the couch and paced about the room. He silently watched her. Apparently he was waiting for her to make the first move. She stopped and looked over at him. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He rose from the couch, went over to her and gently put his hands around her arms. She wanted to pull away from him, but as she looked up into his eyes, which were gazing worriedly down at her, she remained still and waited.
“It's…complicated,” he said.
“Complicated? That's the understatement of the year.” She gestured at the report where it lay on the coffee table. “What does it mean? Who are you?”
His hands tightened about her arms. “Lydia, please, listen.”
“I am listening, Tristan. But you're not saying anything.”
His lips curled up into a small, sad smile. “True. Come. Sit with me.”
They went back to the couch and sat down. He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his fingers. “I want to ask something of you. Something very important.”
“What?”
He gently squeezed her hand. “I want you to be patient.”
“Patient?”
He looked deep into her eyes. “Yes.”
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding me. Regarding that.” He jerked his chin at the detective's report where it lay on the couch next to her.
“Why must I be patient? I don’t understand?”
“Because I want to explain everything to you but—” He stopped and shook his head.
Lydia leaned towards him. “But what? Tristan, please, tell me what's going on?”
“I want to, sweet. I want to so much. But I can't. Not yet.”
“Why? Why can’t you tell me now?”
“It's not the right time. When I tell you what all of that means—” He glanced at the report then back at her. “—it has to be the right time. Or I might lose you. And I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t bear losing you.”
Surprise at his words made her heart skip a beat. “Do you really mean that?”
“Of course I do.” He gently gripped her hand. “Do you still doubt it?”
“I don’t know.” She pulled her hand away fr
om his and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know what to think, Tristan. You freely admit that everything in that detective’s report is true but it doesn’t make sense. He basically came right out and said that he didn’t believe that men you claim to be your grandfather or your father don’t exist.”
A shadow crossed his eyes. “I’ve tried my best not to lie to you, Lydia.”
“But that means that you have, haven’t you? Lied to me?”
“Yes. No. What I mean is I’ve not been as forthcoming about some things.”
“Not telling me the truth is just as bad as a lie, Tristan.”
“I didn’t do it to hurt you. I swear.”
“Then tell me now, please.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I might lose you.”
“You won't lose me. I love you.”
There. She’d said it. She hadn’t meant to, but it spouted out of her like a blossom from a seed deep in the earth bursting forth from the darkness into the light.
He stroked her cheek. “Do you, Lydia? Truly? Even now?”
She placed her hand over his where it cupped her face. “Yes, I do love you and I don’t care what secrets you have. I ask only that you trust me enough to share them with me.”
He moved his hand from her cheek and ruefully shook his head. “You say that now. But if I were to tell you the truth before you're ready to hear it…” He shook his head again.
“I'm not a child, Tristan. Please don’t treat me like one. I can handle whatever it is you have to tell me.”
But even as she said the words, she wondered how true they were. She had not handled her discovery of Douglas’s adultery all that well. It had hit her like a truck. She’d spent a week holed up in her bedroom while Douglas had stayed at a hotel, leaving her alone with her grief.
“I'd do anything to keep you from ever having to suffer,” Tristan said.
“That's kind of you to say.”
“I don't speak in kindness.”
“What?”
“Kindness is a thin, shallow thing compared to how far I would go to shield you from harm.”
“Tristan, what are you saying?”
“I care for you, Lydia. More than I had intended to.” His dark blue eyes were stricken. “And I'll be honest with you, sweet. I don’t want to.”
