Mad Love 2

by Colet Abedi

  I look up at his angry face. Okay. His pissed off face. Like, really really pissed off.

  “Take a bath. And just rest,” he says in a commanding voice as his gaze lowers to my mouth. His eyes get that steamy look and I think he’s going to kiss me.

  I wish he’d kiss me. He stays like that for a minute almost like he’s playing with me. And he is. Because this is pure torture. He’s so close I can smell his cologne. The Clayton smell that is singularly his and is so delicious I don’t even know what to do with myself.

  But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead he draws back.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow morning after you have the day to yourself to unwind.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow,” I tell him, furiously angry that he can dismiss me so easily. Angry that I am so turned on by him even after everything.

  But he gives me an imperious look, like my comment is meaningless.

  “You’ll be here.”

  “In your dreams, Clayton Astor Sinclair!” I say confidently. “Only in your dreams!”

  The look on Clayton’s face softens.

  “You’re right, baby,” he tells me. “You’re finally right about something.”

  3

  You’re right, baby. You’re finally right about something.

  Am I hallucinating? Is my mind playing tricks or did Clayton just say those words to me and then walk out of the bedroom and shut the door? Is he really here? Am I really here?

  Are you really still lying on the bed?

  Well, shit. Yes. Because I’m too shocked to move. Because seeing Clayton makes me not want to move. Seeing him makes me want to hold him, breathe him in, and remember all the delicious parts of our time together. Seeing him gives me hope.

  Before I can even sit up from the bed, the door bursts open and slams shut. Orie and Erik rush over to me and stare down at what I’m sure is my shell-shocked face. But they both have the same look as me.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Erik asks incredulously.

  Orie brushes a hand through his thick black hair then looks like he’s going to break into a cold sweat. “I’m seriously having a panic attack

  I stare up at them. My eyes are wide and unfortunately I’m still incapable of putting a coherent sentence together.

  “Since you’re not going to talk, I will.” Leave it to Erik to fill any uncomfortable silences.

  “Clayton, aka asshole, just walked right into the dressing room that Orie and I were busy putting together for fucking Abigail. He said one sentence to us: ‘Sophie’s in the room with the double doors, straight down the hall.’ Then he walked right out.” Erik is clearly outraged. “Do you have any idea, any idea how incredibly fucked this is? I thought I was seeing a ghost from Christmas past.”

  “It was full on,” Orie agrees. “Like the movie Shining kind of full on.”

  I start to giggle. I can’t help it. The looks on their faces are priceless. Hysterical.

  Erik does not appreciate my amusement. “Do you think this is funny? This isn’t fucking funny, Sophie. I’ll tell you what this is—it’s crazy.”

  “Talk to us,” Orie demands in a calm voice, “before Erik spontaneously combusts. And tell us what the hell you’re doing laying on this bed,” Orie’s obviously pulled it together.

  I sit up and quickly fill them in on what happened. I don’t leave anything out. I tell them everything. Every word. And when I’m done, I just sit back and wait for their reactions. I know I won’t be disappointed.

  “I feel so used,” Erik says.

  “Erik—” I begin.

  But he goes on before I can say anything else. “I can’t believe the Russian oligarchs didn’t hire me because of how amazing I am.”

  “You are amazing and they know it.” I say hurriedly, hoping to placate his bruised ego. “Abby for sure knows it now.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Erik snorts. “Apparently you’re the only one here because of her talent. I’m just a tool. A means to an end. A ying to someone’s fucking yang.”

  “Oh for God’s sake quit being so dramatique!” Orie says. “This isn’t about you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. But I’m the one with the hurt feelings here. I would hope you’d be more sensitive to my situation,” Erik says indignantly.

  I can sense a fight coming.

  “Guys—” I interject.

  Erik holds up his hand.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming,” he says. “I can usually smell a conspiracy a mile away. In retrospect it was so obvious.”

  “Was it?” Orie asks. “I mean, we just thought it was a great gig.”

  “Had I known Abby’s full name we wouldn’t be in this situation because I would have Googled her, too,” he continues, ignoring Orie.

  “That’s why they didn’t give it to us,” I tell him.

  Orie switches gears and looks over at me.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “What do you want to do?” Orie asks gently.

  Erik has already made the decision. “We’re leaving,” he says, but Orie ignores him.

  “No. This isn’t about your ego. It’s about Sophie. What she wants to do,” Orie says with a wave of his hand at a visibly upset Erik. “This is her one chance to have real closure or something else.”

  “Something else?” I ask, as hope grows inside. What am I thinking? I squash it immediately.

  “Yes,” Orie says. “Sophie, think about it. Put your anger aside and just look at all the trouble he went through to get you here at his fucking unbelievable chateau. I mean, really? I had no idea how rich the son of a bitch was, but goddamn. He’s sick rich.”

  “I really don’t care about that part of him, Orie,” I say honestly. “It’s nice, obviously. But it doesn’t matter. Actually, to be frank, this kind of rich scares me.”

  “Doesn’t scare me,” Erik says without hesitation as he sits down on the bed and leans back.

  “I could definitely acclimate,” Orie agrees.

  I close my eyes and try to think rationally. What do I want to do?

  Run back into his arms and beg him to take you to bed.

  Shit.

  “Honestly, Sophie. Don’t you want to know? He wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if he didn’t give a shit about you,” Orie continues. “And maybe nothing happened between him and the whore. Maybe we all overreacted and made assumptions. You’re the one who’s always telling us about that book The Four Agreements. Isn’t never making assumptions one of the cardinal rules?”

  A nagging seed of guilt begins to grow.

  I hear Erik sigh. “Orie’s right,” he says. “We could be wrong about him. And what he’s done now is pretty damn extreme. I’m still pissed off at him for using me. I mean, he could have called, because that would have been a hell of a lot easier. But I do think you have to talk to him. Think about how miserable you’ve been. How utterly fucking rock bottom and depressing as shit—”

  “Erik—” Orie says gently.

  Leave it to Erik to sum up my behavior perfectly. I can’t blame the guy. Especially when he only speaks the truth.

  I have been pretty rock bottom.

  “And don’t forget that Abby actually wanted you for your mad skills. I’m the token hire here,” Erik reminds me sarcastically.

  “Erik’s right,” Orie says as he nods in agreement.

  “Jesus. That’s harsh,” Erik says.

  “Sorry, babe.”

  I look at both of them and think about how I will feel if I never know what really happened between Clayton and Amelia. Then I also think about the job and how much I need it for so many reasons. And then I make my decision.

  “Alright,” I say halfheartedly. “We’ll stay.”

  “And that doesn’t mean you get to hide in your room and avoid a confrontation,” Erik tells me. “It means you act like a
goddamn woman, take a nap. Unpack. Eat something and then you’ll get your ass downstairs for the cocktail party tonight.”

  “What cocktail party?” I ask.

  “The one we’re invited to, downstairs in the ballroom—have you ever? They have a goddamn ballroom in this place,” Erik says in awe, then reverts to his commanding voice. “And I’m pretty sure everyone will be there, and by everyone I mean him. So you’re coming.” He stands up and looks around at my room. “Wear the navy dress.”

  “Jesus,” he sounds outraged. “I hope our room looks like this. Look at her view.”

  “It’s probably Clayton’s room,” Orie says to placate him. “It has a master suite kind of vibe.”

  I sit up immediately and finally take in my surroundings. The four-poster antique bed is huge. Giant. And the room is extremely masculine, done simply, too simply compared to the rest of the house, in whites and dark navy blues. A navy couch sits at one end, flanked by two navy cushioned chairs. A large mahogany desk faces a window that looks out on the land and there is a hall that I think must lead to the bathroom and closet. Erik is right. The room is enormous. And incredibly masculine.

  My body lights up at the thought of being in his personal bedroom. Sleeping in his bed.

  “Whore,” Erik interrupts my thoughts with a laugh.

  I know I’m blushing when I look up at him.

  “What?” I hope I don’t look guilty.

  “Go ahead. Imagine having sex with him in that massive bed. But be ready by six which is only a few hours from now,,” Erik says as he grabs Orie’s hand and the two walk out.

  “Wait—” I call out, suddenly unsure about it all.

  “You made your decision,” Erik calls out before leaving me alone.

  “Take a shower and definitely straighten your hair,” Orie says as he shuts the door.

  For the first time I immediately do as I’m told.

  We’re led by attendants through a massive library, through a sitting room, and toward the ballroom. Some of Abby and her fiancé, Dimitri’s posh friends are in the various rooms. They’re talking amongst each other and sipping on champagne that servants are busy passing out. They are clearly at home in these surroundings. A woman’s soulful voice echoes down the corridor. She sounds a lot like Cesaria Evora, who has always been one of my favorites. There are flowers in every room and all are white and very elegant. In fact, everything is very tastefully done.

  We stop just outside the ballroom, and my gaze searches for Clayton among the guests. But he’s nowhere to be seen. I turn to Erik, who’s on my right, and whisper under my breath.

  “How do I look?” I ask, even though it’s the third time I’ve inquired since we left my room.

  Erik looks down and gives me a huge smile and doesn’t make an issue out of it. “Gorg. Aren’t you glad I packed for you?”

  “Oh, my god, yes,” I tell him as I look down at the short, navy blue lace dress that he chose for me to wear tonight. It’s long-sleeved, with a high neck in the front that scoops low in the back. The dress fits like a glove. Because it’s cold, I chose to wear nude nylons with nude Louboutin heels. As directed, my hair has been straightened and falls way past my shoulders. Orie came and helped me with my make-up, using golden colors and thick black mascara to enhance my green eyes. I’m not going to lie, I do think I look good. I’m definitely confident enough to confront Clayton.

  Erik takes two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and hands one to me. I smile at him gratefully. He then picks one up for Orie.

  “Liquid courage,” he tells me before clinking my glass. “Bottoms up.”

  I take a healthy sip before we walk into the ballroom. I’m literally blown away by the opulent room. The walls are all frescoed with Renaissance imagery. Tall tables are set throughout the room, covered in fabulous white lace cloth and elegant white flower arrangements. The band is playing romantic French music in the corner, and I spot Abby and the man I assume is her fiancé, Dimitri, dancing to the soft ballad. There are more than fifty people in the room and it doesn’t feel remotely full. It’s big enough to fit at least another hundred people.

  “Gorgeous,” Orie says as he takes in the ambiance.

  I agree, but I’m too busy searching for Clayton to get the words out.

  And then like in a movie, the crowd moves apart and I spot him.

  My heart stops.

  He’s standing at one of the tables with a cocktail in hand, dressed in a black fitted suit with a white-collared, cuff-linked shirt underneath. The top two buttons are undone, making him look more roguishly handsome. His light brown hair is brushed back from his tanned face and his blue gaze is focused on a blonde bombshell who looks to be hanging on his every word.

  Confident, Sophie. Be confident. You are no shrinking violet, I tell myself.

  Erik and Orie spot him and immediately turn to me with worried looks, probably thinking that I’m about to have some form of a nervous breakdown because he’s talking to another woman. Given my behavior in the past, I can’t blame them.

  “I’m good,” I say with a forced smile, even though I really am not great. I’m far from it. Why did I put myself in this situation again?

  “Want another glass of champagne?” Erik asks, nodding at my empty flute.

  Wow. I didn’t even realize I drank the entire thing. Go figure.

  “Yes, please. And maybe we should hang out in one of the other rooms because it’s—” I try to finish my sentence but I’m interrupted by Orie.

  “Too late. He’s staring right at you and is making his way over here right now.”

  “He’s wearing Tom Ford,” Erik whispers. “The man really does have impeccable taste.”

  I know.

  My heart goes a mile a minute. Erik hands me his champagne flute and I take a sip, hoping the bubbles will work their magic. Lord, do I ever need it.

  “Gentlemen,” I hear his husky voice as he greets Erik and Orie.

  “Clayton,” Orie says.

  And then I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole because Erik literally makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see you,” Erik says, and gives him a fake smile before adding: “Clearly that’s sarcasm at its best.”

  I can’t even bring myself to look up at Clayton. I just stare at my friend with what I’m sure is an incredulous expression on my face.

  “What?? Erik says. “Do you want me to lie or tell the truth?” he asks me. “At least I didn’t say I almost threw up in my mouth when I caught sight of him. Now that would have just been rude.”

  My mouth is now hanging open.

  “Fair enough,” Clayton says smoothly. “Allow me to repair the damage to my character. But first, Sophie and I need to talk privately, if you don’t mind.”

  Before I know it he’s grabbed hold of my arm and is leading me away from the safety of my friends. His touch causes shock waves to rush through my body.

  I need a drink! I need to be drunk for this!

  As we walk, I say the first thing that comes to mind as I quickly glance up at his inscrutable face. “I thought we decided that we weren’t going to speak until tomorrow.”

  “That’s when I thought you had jet lag and would just rest in your room.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking, if he’s angry or annoyed that I’ve come down to the party.

  We walk out of the ballroom and I pull my arm from his.

  “I can follow you just fine.”

  He looks down at me and I see the icy resolve in his eyes. Now I can tell he’s pissed. I meet his gaze evenly.

  “This way,” he says as he moves his hand to the small of my back and we walk down a hall. His hand rests against my bare skin and I feel like I’m burned by fire. Before I know it we are in a room that looks like a smaller version of the giant library we walked through on the way to the ballroom.

  I hear the ominous sound of the door clicking behind
him. And now we’re all alone. He crosses his arms and lean back against the door, as if guarding it from me making an exit. As if I could outrun him? I feel like a trapped bird.

  His gaze sweeps over me.

  From our previous encounters I’m guessing he doesn’t like the length of my dress, which I’m not going to lie, is part of the reason why I wore it tonight. Yes, I was looking for a reaction from him, and yes, I did just get one.

  “Well?” I say, when it’s clear that he has no intention of breaking the awful silence. His eyes hold mine and I see the anger flash through them again.

  “I’m so furious with you I don’t even know where to begin,” Clayton says in a dangerous voice.

  I instinctively step back in fear.

  He gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And then takes a step away from the door.

  I cross my arms, too, and do my best to look irritated. And confident. I hope I’m not failing miserably. I finally say, “You’re furious with me?”

  Clayton takes another step toward me then looks at his cuff and picks off an imaginary piece of lint. He takes his time, methodically turning me into a giant piece of mush. Intentionally unnerving me. My heart is pounding so hard I don’t even know what to do. He’s so gut-wrenchingly gorgeous that I want to lose myself in him, want to believe that I made one god-awful assumption. But then there’s the other side of it, the one that makes me remember Amelia and what she looked like, and their past, and then I’m deathly afraid that I’ll believe a liar.

  He finally looks up at me.

  “Furious doesn’t even begin to fucking cut it, Sophie.”

  Shit.

  “But right now I just need to take what’s mine. What I’ve been dying to have since the moment I watched you upstairs.”

  I don’t have time to think. Or breathe. Because in less than three seconds I’m pulled into his arms and his lips capture mine. I don’t have the energy or the desire to stop him. My arms curl around his neck as I allow him to cup my bottom and pull my body up against his. I can feel how hard he is for me and I instinctively grind my hips into his.

  It’s heaven.

  It’s hell.